7: The Squirrel Tattoo

I was afraid I’d be blocked for eternity, but the revelation had the opposite effect. I wrote every day, feverishly. I barely noticed the time passing. I tried out new angles, yet I was still dissatisfied with most of it. My inner critic sat on my shoulder and trash-talked every sentence I composed.

My dreams had remained blissfully Christian-free, so I was stunned when he turned up at my place a few days later. I opened the door expecting Jehovah’s Witnesses again, but there he stood. Except it wasn’t him.

Had he decided to kill me? Shock me into catatonia?

Christian smiled coyly. He’d cut his hair, but only on one side of his head. Or to be specific, half of his head was buzzed über-short, kind of diagonally, and the rest of his golden hair hung over his left ear. His right ear… Oh, that evil devil down below! His right ear was pierced; a sharp barbell stuck high from his earlobe, malevolently accentuated by the shaved skin around it.

And now he was grinning at me.

“Hi, Alex. Close your mouth and let me in. Can we order pizza? I have beer.”

He lifted the plastic bag high to swing it in front of my face.

I stepped aside, and he sashayed into the room like on any other day.

“Christian, what have you done?”

He put the beers in the fridge and turned, frowning.

“I have a new haircut and a piercing. You want to comment on that in any way?” He was baiting me; I saw the evil glint in his eyes.

I cleared my throat. My mind did these things sometimes to frighten me. It was like my imagination set minefields for me to dance through—as if my brain needed more junk to entertain itself with. And at that moment, I imagined a beauty pageant, and Christian standing there in the spotlights with a diamond tiara tangled in his golden hair, glitter shimmering in the hot air. He’d blow kisses to the adoring crowd and blink into the flashing cameras, emanating pure joy. Otherworldly beautiful, tantalizing…untouchable.

I had to speak through the craziness. I cleared my throat again. It didn’t help. “It is…adventurous, for you.”

Christian’s teeth glinted in the late sunlight that snuck in through the window. “I have a tattoo, too. Want to see?”

Oh, hell. “No!” I squealed, but he was already rolling up his left pant leg. There, just above his ankle, was a tiny furry animal. Just black ink on pale skin, a precise, detailed drawing resembling a vintage zoology poster, tattooed onto Christian’s skin forever.

A running squirrel.

Christian cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “I think you need that beer now.”

***

A few minutes later, I was seated on the couch, a beer in my hand.

“Why did you do this?”

“You don’t like it?”

“That is not what I said. Why the makeover? Why the tattoo?”

“What can I say? I am a young, irresponsible, hormonal male. Impulsive. People like me do things like that.”

I snorted. “Bullshit.”

He grinned, shrugged, and gulped his beer. “There’s an LGBT-friendly party at the Vier pub on Friday. Come with me?”

What was he trying to do to me with that subject change? Was I supposed to go and watch him dance? Now, when he looked like that?

He looked…older. And as soon as I thought that, all the orange lights in my head started blaring, the sirens shrieking. Danger! Danger! Retreat!

“I’m not sure—”

“I’m going either way,” he interrupted me. “Andres is in Spain for a week. So, if you wish to keep an eye on me and continue to protect my virtue, you have to join me.”

I rolled my eyes but it was forced, and he quite possibly saw through it. I no longer believed I could hide anything from Christian.

“Alex.” The tone of his voice tugged at my consciousness, and I turned toward him. He said my name in all seriousness, subtly letting me know that what he was going to say next was important to him. His eyes held mine; there was a significance to the moment that I did not miss. He took a deep breath. I expected a confession of sorts. A secret. Something. What he said instead had me reeling. “Alex, you are my best friend.” Another deep inhale. “I want you to stop treating me like a child.”

He said it calmly, kindly, earnestly. He was right. Shit. The adult-teenager dynamic we had when we first met was now just a crutch for me to lean on when I floundered. Christian didn’t need a mentor or an overseer.

But being equals? In what sense? Don’t go there, Alex. Close your eyes, turn around, and walk away. There are only traps and monsters this way.

“That’s why you did this?” I waved my beer in his direction and almost spilled it on my couch. “So I would consider you a grown-up? Because—newsflash—this is a childish way to prove something.”

Christian raised one perfect, golden eyebrow at me and stated calmly, “I changed a few details about my appearance because I like it this way. There’s no drama involved, no huge statements to be made. Get over yourself. You’re coming on Friday?”

Still, like a fool, I tried to keep the house of cards from flying away in the wind.

“Maybe. And what about the squirrel?” I asked in a smaller voice. Who’s the child now?

But he just smiled. “That’s for you. Because I love you. What do you want on your pizza? Four kinds of cheese again?”

I love you. Hearing it from him, like that, so casually, so friendly…I wanted to dump the beer over my head and beat myself to death with the empty bottle. Christian was smiling innocently and holding the phone ready.

“Four kinds of cheese sound good.”

Damn him.

***

A few days later, I stood in the corner of the Vier pub, holding my beer like a pole to the last white flag on the battlefield, giving up. Christian danced, and I, like a dirty old man, despicable, watched.

He looked so…decadent. Unexpected. Wild, beautiful, strong, and not mine. No, he was not a child anymore. I missed that child. The child was safe. Christian, the man, was deadly dangerous. And I was a sitting duck.

Of course, I’d known before then. But that night, clutching yet another beer bottle, watching Christian move on the dance floor, I verbalized the subtle knowledge in my mind.

I loved him. Shamefully and hopelessly.

I tried to talk myself out of it. It’s not like there is a definition. They can’t take your blood sample, run a test and give you the results. It’s all vague, subjective, prone to manipulation, hypochondria. You wake up one day thinking you’re in love with someone and the following week, you’re not. All that drama, the cultural pressure. The epitome of so-called happiness sold to us by the media. They say it can last a year, the honeymoon phase. Two at best. In love… It was just a chemical process, imagination, internalization of recycled clichés, and a hefty dose of delusion.

But it didn’t hurt any less. I wanted him, craved him, couldn’t bear anyone else to touch him just as I needed him to be content and sheltered—yes, even if it meant he’d be with someone else. Happy and safe. He was the single, most important being in the whole universe. If Christian was hopeful and joyous as ever, my life had a purpose, the world had a meaning.

It was not just an emotion. There was reason, too. By the time I’d finished my third beer, I could say, with some relief, loving Christian was an entirely logical, reasonable thing to do. I’d never met anyone who deserved love as much as him. Suddenly, it wasn’t a curse. I felt privileged, proud even. I decided then; I’d give him whatever he needed for as long as he’d let me. I’d do anything to make him happy. My desires didn’t matter.

At least, that was what I tried to tell myself.

***

I recognized the song a little later than I would at any other time, any other place. It didn’t fit the club, so I’d have never expected it. Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds—“Into My Arms.” It felt like there was a conspiracy to get me to my knees tonight.

Christian grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dance floor without a word, and I, being stupid, let him.

He was warm and a little sweaty. White roses dipped in honey. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw against the feel of Christian’s head on my shoulder, his breath on my collarbone. It was an innocent embrace, two old friends dancing. The thoughts in my head were laced with guilt. I craved to kiss his forehead and let my lips linger, skim them over his temple, a featherlight touch, down his cheek, behind his ear. I would kiss him there, softly, breathe in his scent. Maybe my desires did matter. A lot.

Christian lifted his head and leaned into me some more, pressing his cheek against my jaw. I couldn’t push him away. I felt his thumb on the bare skin of my neck, not moving, just resting there, scaring me like a coiled rattlesnake.

The song ended, and he stepped away first, meeting my eyes as if I hadn’t just died a hundred deaths. He didn’t say anything as he studied me, his expression giving nothing away. There were no questions, and I realized, with some horror, he was waiting me out. He was calmly waiting for me to crumble. And I had to run before I…

Alex, stop staring. Go. Away. Now. I nodded to myself like a lunatic and squeezed Christian’s hand quickly.

“I need to…go… Restroom,” I mumbled in his ear and took off. There was cold water somewhere waiting to meet my face.

***

That was the night when I lost my ability to write. I woke up the next day knowing I wouldn’t be able to write a thing. I postponed it to the day after. And the day after that. It went on for the following two weeks. I did not write a single word. I just…couldn’t.

Every time I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a fictional someone having sex with another fictional someone, there were freckles and blond hair, and my thoughts slipped, and I freaked out. And do not even get me started on masturbation fantasies. I couldn’t touch my dick for three days. Like the most pathetic, blue-balled martyr there was, one night, in the early hours, I caved and came to the image of a naked Christian lying on his side next to me, touching my lips with his fingertips. My eyes burned.

In a pathetic attempt to get myself on track again, I tried to re-read some of my newer stuff. It was either empty, fake shit, or there were traces of Christian everywhere. Every character who meant something to me was like him. Every scene that felt genuine had me thinking of him, as if he’d made a hostile takeover of my brain before I even realized it.

Andres was back in Freiburg; Christian was dating and partying happily. After a seminar I led, one of my students approached and asked if I was ill because I looked pale.

To sum it all up, I was in trouble.