Twenty-Nine
Even though I regularly fantasizied about getting out of going to Sadie and Aaron’s wedding, I never imagined I’d spend the day giving the incredible William Brooks his first tattoo. It was my first official tattoo, making it doubly special.
It did take mass amounts of convincing on my part and a rather hefty “tip” on Brooks’s part, as well as signing a legally binding waiver, to get the guys to let me tattoo him, but I’d say it was worth it.
I led Brooks to the small room in the back of the shop that I considered my spot. As I pulled the heavy black curtain shut, I couldn’t help but think about how bizarre it was to see him in a tattoo parlor. The neon lights, the constant buzzing sound, and the eclectic clientele were not things I’d ever associate Brooks with.
“Be honest, did you really want ink before you met me?” While I appreciated the attempt to distract me from what I was missing, I didn’t want him to make a hasty decision he’d regret forever.
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He whipped his sweater off over his head and tossed it on the floor with such determination I could tell he was nervous. Luckily for him, I wasn’t.
“Okay, I didn’t. But I’ve wanted you to do me ever since I met you.”
I raised my eyebrow at his intentionally dirty play on words but went on preparing the machine.
“And you feel confident in your choice of tattoo?”
“Ollie.” He slumped down on the leather chair, trying to make himself fit. “I love you, this tattoo will represent that, and I think it’ll look awesome. I’m too clean cut anyway.”
“I love you,” I told him with a kiss and a smile, “but just the fact that I’m doing it will make it represent me.”
My feelings for him were disgusting they were so intense, but I was old enough to know that I was too young to be positive we would be together forever. If I learned one lesson recently, it was how stupid it is to rush into marriage. But, with that being said, if he asked me to marry him that second we’d be at City Hall before I could say “Call me Mrs. Brooks.” And I’d be confident in that decision.
Besides, I had a surprise for Brooks when his tat was finished. I knew what I wanted my first tattoo to be and I’d already drawn it up.
When Brooks and I were both finally all prepped, he asked, “Will it hurt?”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’ll feel weird. Kinda good, even.”
“How would you know?” he said as he rubbed his soon-to-be tattooed rib cage.
“Because you can use the machine without any ink. I’ve done it on myself plenty of times.”
“Sounds pretty weird,” he said with a skeptical pitch in his voice.
“Look, do you want to do this or not?” I was getting a bit testy at his attempts to delay the inevitable.
“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “I’m ready. Tat me up, baby.”
After I laughed, I took a deep breath, brought the machine to life, steadied my hand, and made first contact with his skin. The rush I felt at bringing the simple design that represented me to life permanently on his beautiful skin was probably just as strong as the rush he was feeling.
The spot he chose for the ink was on his right side, and I made sure to make the black ink hug the curve of his torso. He couldn’t exactly see what I was doing because of the position, but I could feel his eyes watching me in the mirror propped up against the wall for just that reason.
It didn’t take long, but that’s not to say I wasn’t diligent in my work. I kept it on the smaller side because it made me feel better to think it could easily be covered if we ever broke up. It was hard for me to not default to the negative, and it was something I was going to have to work on, but my new goal in life was to be a realist with an optimistic slant.
When it was all finished, I couldn’t have been more pleased with the end result.
“There,” I said after I had wiped the spot clean.
“Can’t wait to see it,” he said as he sat up dramatically like he just had surgery.
I’d found something else that wasn’t perfect about Brooks—his tolerance for pain. He did keep things stoic as the needle pricked his skin, but I could tell he wasn’t crazy about it, like most people.
We have to stay together now; he’d never be able to bear a cover-up.
“Wait.” I placed my hand on his forearm to stop him. “How’d it feel?”
“Weird.” He shook his head. “It felt kind of good”—lies!—“and you look so sexy when you concentrate like that.” He swiped his thumb across his bottom lip, so I kissed it. At least he was trying to be brave.
“Don’t look yet, okay?”
“Why not?” I had to pull the plastic hand mirror out of his grasp.
“Because I want a tattoo now.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked with that sort of smile. “Of what?”
“You’ll see,” I said in a sing-songy voice as I prepared the machine to give myself a tattoo.
I didn’t tell the guys this part of my plan and could only hope they wouldn’t kill me for it, but it was something I had to do. If Brooks was getting a tattoo that represented me, I was getting one that represented him.
We weren’t stupid enough to get each other’s names, but we might as well have been with how personal they were to us. I didn’t care.
Just like Brooks’s design, I kept mine clean and simple, only using minimal lines and black ink. I knew the location I wanted my first tattoo to be in since I first got my scar; it just took me until now to know what I wanted it to be of.
I placed my left arm on my lap while Brooks sat and watched me with an intent face. Because of how odd and abstract the design was, and the angle he was looking at it from, I knew he was struggling to figure it out, but that was part of the fun.
As the needles kissed my skin, I reveled in the addictive feeling of being tattooed. I already knew what to expect because I really had tattooed myself plenty of times in the past without using ink, but just like everything else in life, the real thing was much different. I was leaving a trail of art behind.
If I wasn’t the one controlling the needles, I know I would’ve lost myself in the rhythmic pattern. I did get the euphoric feeling of an artist bringing a design to completion, and the fact that it was, in a way, tying me to Brooks made it that much better.
“Here,” I said, pausing the needle. “Put your hand here.”
“Okay,” he said hesitantly.
I placed his hand on the base of the machine and grasped it around him, as much as I could. I saved the last few strokes for him to do. He wasn’t so steady, as I knew he wouldn’t be, so it was more like a gesture. I loved him, but I didn’t trust him that much.
Brooks remained silent the whole time until an “Ohhhh” escaped his lips when we were just about finished. “I never realized you liked them that much.”
“I do, and these represent you as well as those represent me.” I pointed to my and his new ink respectively.
“All right. I’m all finished.”
I stood up and ran through the ASL alphabet a couple times to stretch out my fingers while Brooks climbed out of the chair. He was trying to cast stealthy glances at his side, but the position wasn’t easily visible without the mirror I was standing in front of.
Cleaning up and putting the machine away was a top priority of mine, but Brooks couldn’t wait a second longer to see my work. Sometimes it was hard to remember which one of us was older.
“Can I see it yet?”
“Yes,” I told him, feeling anxious and excited and happy and wonderful all at the same time. “Close your eyes,” I instructed as I steered us both toward the mirror. He did as he was told.
Positioning Brooks to my left so I could hold my arm right next to his ribs, I was a bit selfish and studied our sort of matching tattoos before he even saw his.
“Open your eyes,” I whispered. I wasn’t looking at our reddened flesh anymore because all I wanted to see was his reaction.
His eyes widened, then focused to study his ink before a megawatt smile made its way to his lips.
“It’s exactly what I wanted. Thank you, Ollie.”
It was undeniable how sexy he looked, standing shirtless and recently branded by me in my shop. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled my stare from the mirror, then reached up on my tiptoes to claim his mouth.
“Love you,” I told him as I carefully traced his side.
“Love you more,” he told me back.
Brooks’s shiny dork shoes were the first thing I noticed about him the night we met and were something I found myself sketching any time I let my mind wonder. I knew how odd it would seem to everyone else that I have a pair of men’s shoes tattooed a few inches above my wrist, but to me and him it made perfect sense.
He wouldn’t be free from curious glances either, though, when he was shirtless now, because his exquisitely toned torso proudly boasts a set of false eyelashes.
The End