Ink.
“Hey, Nick, why don’t you have any tattoos?”
It’s a question I get a lot, and it’s not an altogether unwelcome or invalid one considering. I shrug, even though he can’t see me with his back turned as it is as I rub the stencil of a raven in flight against the back of his shoulder. “I haven’t found something I would want to have on my body forever. I’m very envious of people who come in here knowing exactly what they want because I haven’t yet figured that out.”
Joe’s shoulders curve, and I’ve had him in here seven times before, so I know his mannerisms well enough. He’s thinking. “So why did you decide to become a tattoo artist? I mean, don’t most tattoo artists choose this profession because they enjoy tattoos?”
“Well. I’m an artist.” I shrug, setting my gun buzzing, dipping it into the ink. His muscles tense, and I rub his spine to help him relax again. He’s one of those people that never lose that nervousness before the first press of needle. “It doesn’t matter what my canvas is, as long as I get to create or to help other people create. And really there aren’t many mediums as beautiful as human skin.”
“That’s a nice thought.” He sucks in a sharp breath as I begin the process of inking over the stencil. Last time he was here, he described to a watching friend that it was like having a thousand bees stinging all at once. I wouldn’t know, but I can imagine that’s somewhere near correct. “Have you ever come close to wanting something?”
“Yeah, a few times, but I kind of wish I could do my own, you know? I don’t know if I trust anyone else enough to do a good job. I guess I’m a bit of an elitist.”
“Well, you own the most expensive and most-renowned parlor in the county. I don’t blame you. What have you come close to getting?”
I hesitate, taking the moment to wipe away some of the blood bubbling on his skin. “It’s kind of stupid…”
“I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
“Okay, well… I kind of wanted my mom’s name on the inside of my wrist.” No response, and I’m glad he’s facing away from me since I’m blushing. “I told you it was stupid.”
“No, it’s not. It’s kind of sweet actually.” He shifts slightly when the gun pauses as I dip it into the cup of ink I have sitting on the table beside me. “I wouldn’t have taken you as someone who’s close to your mom.”
“What a weird thing to say.”
“I know. Some people just seem really independent, and I can never imagine them having close relationships with their parents.”
“Ah.” I nod. “That makes more sense. Yeah, we’re unusually close, but she’s supported me in everything I want to do, so I owe her a lot.”
“Do you ever think you might want to actually, you know, paint or draw or something? Instead of doing tattoos?”
I don’t know why I shrug. I know he can’t see me. “Maybe someday. I’m making good money at this. And I still get to draw and stuff; I design more tattoos for people than I don’t design. And most of the idea books around here are my sketchbooks, so it’s not like I don’t get a good deal of drawing done. Someday, I’d like to actually do a real art show.”
He’s quiet, thoughtfully so. Usually, when I ink him, he doesn’t stop talking; I know it’s his way of staving off the pain, which is fine. Everyone does something different. I actually prefer Joe’s method; it’s a little less painful for me than sitting in silence, which isn’t something I’m very good at. It tends to make me nervous. I would play music, but that often makes clients jumpy. Finally, his breathing changes, signifies that he’s going to speak. “You’ve never designed my tats. I’ve always brought pictures in for you.”
“Well, that’s okay. Like I said, I admire that. You know exactly what you want when you come in, which means you’ll be less likely to regret your tattoo later, you know? I know I’ve had people not like what I’ve designed for them, but they wouldn’t tell me because they didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Luckily, I’m getting better at reading the signs of that, so I have fewer people leaving in tears.”
He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “You said earlier that I’m your last appointment today. Do you think when this one’s done, I could look through your idea books, and you could give me one that you designed?”
I smile and squeeze his shoulder because he wants to do something that’ll make me happy, and maybe we have been together talking in this intimate setting long enough that we’re probably friends. “That would be really awesome. I could order some Chinese food. Don’t want you to lose too much blood without some nourishment.”
“Thanks for reminding me of the more grotesque part of this.” Joe chuckles, shaking his head.
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
------
“You’re kidding.”
He clicks his chopsticks at me. “No, it’s gorgeous and simple, and that’s the one I want, so get used to the idea.”
“I drew that, like, four years ago.”
“I don’t care.” He laughs at me, setting his carton of chicken aside and unbuttoning his jeans. He takes them off and folds them, setting them on a nearby chair. “I want it on my hip. Let’s get crackin’. We’re not getting any younger.”
I roll my eyes and make the stencil. “What color?”
“Well, what’s your favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Red it is, then.” He flashes me a grin and hops up on the table, pushing his boxers down far enough to expose his hips, one of which has a line of stars on it. I try, as always, to ignore the beginnings of the dark hair that creep out of the waistband that joins the trail of hair up to his navel. “Not like fire-engine red though. How about maroon?”
“Maroon I can work with.” I confirm, carefully pressing the stencil to his skin once I’ve shaved him. “How’s your back holding up?”
“It’s better now that it’s been cleaned a couple times and has medicine on it. Thank you for doing that for me, by the way. My back pieces are always the hardest to keep clean.”
“No problem.” I get a clean needle ready, letting the gun buzz to life as it dips into the maroon ink I have waiting out for me. “Are you sure you want this tattoo?”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up, and ink me.” His teeth slide over his lip and bite down like he’s hesitating. “Would you mind, like, rubbing my stomach every once in a while, while you’re doing it? It helps calm me.”
I soften. For a boy covered in tattoos, it’s a surprisingly sweet thing to ask for. I wonder absently if his boyfriend does that for him when he’s anxious. Then I wonder why I even think he has a boyfriend. “Sure, I’d be glad to.”
He relaxes. I settle my hand against the soft skin of his stomach, smiling when his muscles jump, a sign of slight ticklishness, palming it gently as I begin with my other hand to ink in the tattoo.
The tattoo is a heart, designed to look like it’s formed out of stars shooting out in different directions. I’m not sure why he chose this one in particular, which seems positively juvenile compared to other designs I’ve done and other tattoos that he has. I drew it originally as a doodle when I was in college, while bored in a senior-year art class. I perfected later but never actually thought of it as a viable option for a client.
Now, seeing it settling into the skin of someone I feel very close to, since he has been my canvas on so many occasions, causes a strange reaction in me. I notice it first as a warmth in the pit of my stomach and then, with an embarrassment that I really don’t want to acknowledge, a stirring in my boxers, and I shift slightly. I would really prefer to not get a boner while I’m giving one of my regular clients a tattoo, please and thank you. Of course, wishful thinking doesn’t really do anything, so by the time I have it outlined thinly in black, I’m sporting a rather raging hard-on, and he must notice that I’m quieter than normal because he asks if I’m okay.
“Oh, yeah, just thinking.”
“About my tattoo, I hope.” He jokes, and I find it endearing and distracting, and those are good things.
“Oh, of course.” It’s not quite a lie. Realizing I have a fetish for pressing needles into my friend’s skin is technically thinking about his tattoo. Maybe I’m a sadist. No, that can’t really be it. If it was, I would probably get a boner for everyone who comes in. This is the first time it’s happened. Maybe it’s just Joe.
It takes just over an hour, and I’m in something akin to pain by the time I’ve cleaned him up with a hot patch and bandaged him and he’s pulled his pants and shirt back on. As always, I go over with him the aftercare procedures, and he pays me for the bird tattoo on his back. “How much do you want for the heart?”
“Nothing.” I smile, lift my hand when I sense his oncoming protest. “Consider it a… Buy nine, get one free thing.”
He laughs at that and graces me with a one-armed hug and an “I’ll talk to you soon” before he’s gone.
I sink into my desk chair after locking the door and slide my hand into my pants. I think about the black ink sinking into his skin and pull my cock out, slowly stroking myself. I think about the soft curls of hair below his navel and rub my thumb over the tip. I think about his laugh and his face and the perfect merge olive flesh and colored ink that make up his body and cup my balls, rolling them in my hand, thrusting up into my fist as I pant and mewl more shamelessly than I probably should, considering I’m in my office. When I come and slide down in my chair and shakily reach for a tissue to clean myself up, I can’t really be bothered to care about any of that.
The next day, I call Joe to ask him out. He doesn’t hesitate to say yes, and I’m surprised. There’s a cheeky grin in his voice when he says, “Well, I figure that I shouldn’t turn down an artist who gets a stiffy from making me his canvas.”
I can’t really argue with that one.
It’s a question I get a lot, and it’s not an altogether unwelcome or invalid one considering. I shrug, even though he can’t see me with his back turned as it is as I rub the stencil of a raven in flight against the back of his shoulder. “I haven’t found something I would want to have on my body forever. I’m very envious of people who come in here knowing exactly what they want because I haven’t yet figured that out.”
Joe’s shoulders curve, and I’ve had him in here seven times before, so I know his mannerisms well enough. He’s thinking. “So why did you decide to become a tattoo artist? I mean, don’t most tattoo artists choose this profession because they enjoy tattoos?”
“Well. I’m an artist.” I shrug, setting my gun buzzing, dipping it into the ink. His muscles tense, and I rub his spine to help him relax again. He’s one of those people that never lose that nervousness before the first press of needle. “It doesn’t matter what my canvas is, as long as I get to create or to help other people create. And really there aren’t many mediums as beautiful as human skin.”
“That’s a nice thought.” He sucks in a sharp breath as I begin the process of inking over the stencil. Last time he was here, he described to a watching friend that it was like having a thousand bees stinging all at once. I wouldn’t know, but I can imagine that’s somewhere near correct. “Have you ever come close to wanting something?”
“Yeah, a few times, but I kind of wish I could do my own, you know? I don’t know if I trust anyone else enough to do a good job. I guess I’m a bit of an elitist.”
“Well, you own the most expensive and most-renowned parlor in the county. I don’t blame you. What have you come close to getting?”
I hesitate, taking the moment to wipe away some of the blood bubbling on his skin. “It’s kind of stupid…”
“I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
“Okay, well… I kind of wanted my mom’s name on the inside of my wrist.” No response, and I’m glad he’s facing away from me since I’m blushing. “I told you it was stupid.”
“No, it’s not. It’s kind of sweet actually.” He shifts slightly when the gun pauses as I dip it into the cup of ink I have sitting on the table beside me. “I wouldn’t have taken you as someone who’s close to your mom.”
“What a weird thing to say.”
“I know. Some people just seem really independent, and I can never imagine them having close relationships with their parents.”
“Ah.” I nod. “That makes more sense. Yeah, we’re unusually close, but she’s supported me in everything I want to do, so I owe her a lot.”
“Do you ever think you might want to actually, you know, paint or draw or something? Instead of doing tattoos?”
I don’t know why I shrug. I know he can’t see me. “Maybe someday. I’m making good money at this. And I still get to draw and stuff; I design more tattoos for people than I don’t design. And most of the idea books around here are my sketchbooks, so it’s not like I don’t get a good deal of drawing done. Someday, I’d like to actually do a real art show.”
He’s quiet, thoughtfully so. Usually, when I ink him, he doesn’t stop talking; I know it’s his way of staving off the pain, which is fine. Everyone does something different. I actually prefer Joe’s method; it’s a little less painful for me than sitting in silence, which isn’t something I’m very good at. It tends to make me nervous. I would play music, but that often makes clients jumpy. Finally, his breathing changes, signifies that he’s going to speak. “You’ve never designed my tats. I’ve always brought pictures in for you.”
“Well, that’s okay. Like I said, I admire that. You know exactly what you want when you come in, which means you’ll be less likely to regret your tattoo later, you know? I know I’ve had people not like what I’ve designed for them, but they wouldn’t tell me because they didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Luckily, I’m getting better at reading the signs of that, so I have fewer people leaving in tears.”
He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “You said earlier that I’m your last appointment today. Do you think when this one’s done, I could look through your idea books, and you could give me one that you designed?”
I smile and squeeze his shoulder because he wants to do something that’ll make me happy, and maybe we have been together talking in this intimate setting long enough that we’re probably friends. “That would be really awesome. I could order some Chinese food. Don’t want you to lose too much blood without some nourishment.”
“Thanks for reminding me of the more grotesque part of this.” Joe chuckles, shaking his head.
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
------
“You’re kidding.”
He clicks his chopsticks at me. “No, it’s gorgeous and simple, and that’s the one I want, so get used to the idea.”
“I drew that, like, four years ago.”
“I don’t care.” He laughs at me, setting his carton of chicken aside and unbuttoning his jeans. He takes them off and folds them, setting them on a nearby chair. “I want it on my hip. Let’s get crackin’. We’re not getting any younger.”
I roll my eyes and make the stencil. “What color?”
“Well, what’s your favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Red it is, then.” He flashes me a grin and hops up on the table, pushing his boxers down far enough to expose his hips, one of which has a line of stars on it. I try, as always, to ignore the beginnings of the dark hair that creep out of the waistband that joins the trail of hair up to his navel. “Not like fire-engine red though. How about maroon?”
“Maroon I can work with.” I confirm, carefully pressing the stencil to his skin once I’ve shaved him. “How’s your back holding up?”
“It’s better now that it’s been cleaned a couple times and has medicine on it. Thank you for doing that for me, by the way. My back pieces are always the hardest to keep clean.”
“No problem.” I get a clean needle ready, letting the gun buzz to life as it dips into the maroon ink I have waiting out for me. “Are you sure you want this tattoo?”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up, and ink me.” His teeth slide over his lip and bite down like he’s hesitating. “Would you mind, like, rubbing my stomach every once in a while, while you’re doing it? It helps calm me.”
I soften. For a boy covered in tattoos, it’s a surprisingly sweet thing to ask for. I wonder absently if his boyfriend does that for him when he’s anxious. Then I wonder why I even think he has a boyfriend. “Sure, I’d be glad to.”
He relaxes. I settle my hand against the soft skin of his stomach, smiling when his muscles jump, a sign of slight ticklishness, palming it gently as I begin with my other hand to ink in the tattoo.
The tattoo is a heart, designed to look like it’s formed out of stars shooting out in different directions. I’m not sure why he chose this one in particular, which seems positively juvenile compared to other designs I’ve done and other tattoos that he has. I drew it originally as a doodle when I was in college, while bored in a senior-year art class. I perfected later but never actually thought of it as a viable option for a client.
Now, seeing it settling into the skin of someone I feel very close to, since he has been my canvas on so many occasions, causes a strange reaction in me. I notice it first as a warmth in the pit of my stomach and then, with an embarrassment that I really don’t want to acknowledge, a stirring in my boxers, and I shift slightly. I would really prefer to not get a boner while I’m giving one of my regular clients a tattoo, please and thank you. Of course, wishful thinking doesn’t really do anything, so by the time I have it outlined thinly in black, I’m sporting a rather raging hard-on, and he must notice that I’m quieter than normal because he asks if I’m okay.
“Oh, yeah, just thinking.”
“About my tattoo, I hope.” He jokes, and I find it endearing and distracting, and those are good things.
“Oh, of course.” It’s not quite a lie. Realizing I have a fetish for pressing needles into my friend’s skin is technically thinking about his tattoo. Maybe I’m a sadist. No, that can’t really be it. If it was, I would probably get a boner for everyone who comes in. This is the first time it’s happened. Maybe it’s just Joe.
It takes just over an hour, and I’m in something akin to pain by the time I’ve cleaned him up with a hot patch and bandaged him and he’s pulled his pants and shirt back on. As always, I go over with him the aftercare procedures, and he pays me for the bird tattoo on his back. “How much do you want for the heart?”
“Nothing.” I smile, lift my hand when I sense his oncoming protest. “Consider it a… Buy nine, get one free thing.”
He laughs at that and graces me with a one-armed hug and an “I’ll talk to you soon” before he’s gone.
I sink into my desk chair after locking the door and slide my hand into my pants. I think about the black ink sinking into his skin and pull my cock out, slowly stroking myself. I think about the soft curls of hair below his navel and rub my thumb over the tip. I think about his laugh and his face and the perfect merge olive flesh and colored ink that make up his body and cup my balls, rolling them in my hand, thrusting up into my fist as I pant and mewl more shamelessly than I probably should, considering I’m in my office. When I come and slide down in my chair and shakily reach for a tissue to clean myself up, I can’t really be bothered to care about any of that.
The next day, I call Joe to ask him out. He doesn’t hesitate to say yes, and I’m surprised. There’s a cheeky grin in his voice when he says, “Well, I figure that I shouldn’t turn down an artist who gets a stiffy from making me his canvas.”
I can’t really argue with that one.