Fuck Buddy

by Scott Hildreth

  As he reached for the receipt, a pin-up girl on his bicep crept from underneath the sleeve of his tee shirt. I wondered as he glanced down at the piece of paper just what he had tattooed on the parts of his body that weren’t exposed. Some things, I guessed, were best left to the imagination.

  I shrugged my shoulders as he handed me the card and my receipt. I considered the benefits of having the tattoo last until closing time, and potentially finishing it late or after hours. If nothing else, maybe we could sit and talk, getting to know each other a little bit more. It was nice to talk to someone and not have them constantly forcing themselves upon me or beating the shit out of me later.

  The fact he was smoking hot made being in his presence that much more enjoyable.

  “Same time really doesn’t work. I forgot, I’ve got a lunch date with a girlfriend on Friday,” I lied.

  He twisted his mouth to the side and stared at the monitor.

  “When do you close?” I asked.

  “Nine,” he said.

  Assuming the snake tattoo would take the same amount of time as the koi, I counted backward from the time he closed.

  “How’s three o’clock sound? Three or four?” I asked.

  He glanced at the computer screen.

  “Sounds good,” he shrugged.

  “Let’s make it four. Just to be safe,” I said.

  “Done,” he said as he leaned away from the monitor.

  I signed the receipt and handed it to him. “Thank you, I love it.”

  “You look good as fuck,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Your tattoo looks good as fuck,” he said as he turned away.

  “See you Friday,” he said.

  I nodded my head and turned away.

  I wanted more. Maybe all tattoo artists were slightly pretentious and kind of skittish. I had no idea and no experience to make comparisons. As I made my way toward the door, I realized my shoulder was in severe pain, and it was only a little after three in the afternoon.

  As I stepped through the door, I glanced over my shoulder and into the shop. Blake stood in front of his work area rubbing his hands together and talking to himself. I paused, watched him for a moment, and became even more intrigued by his oddly interesting nature. Eventually I turned toward the car, realized it was half a mile away, and wished I had parked a little bit closer.

  As the afternoon sun beat down on my bare stomach, I realized I was walking down the street in my bra. And, although I hadn’t intended to do so, I left my shirt draped over the back of Blake’s chair.

  I considered going back to get it for about half a second. If nothing else, it would give me a reason to go and see him the next day.

  And that was exactly what I intended to do.

  BLAKE

  Trying to decide which direction to take my life wasn’t easy, but I had finally reached a point where it was necessary. Three stints in jail for driving under the influence of alcohol, losing my license for almost a decade, and dealing drugs to pay my legal fees weren’t the best decisions I ever made, but they were part of who I was, regardless. In being honest, they were all the proof I needed to convince myself I had a problem that needed to be addressed, but addressing it was still difficult.

  Finally, an intervention of sorts convinced me.

  More like a revelation.

  Or an awakening.

  Whatever it was, the cab fare associated with it was expensive, and I viewed the event, in its entirety, as the last straw.

  I had somehow ended up in a bathtub in someone’s home I didn’t know. I had no recollection of going there, or even considering it, but nonetheless, I was there, naked, and confused. I came out of my unconscious state of being blacked out - something I normally did after a few dozen drinks - and looked around the bathroom. Covered in soap suds and as naked as the day I was born, I was shocked, scared, and for some reason, sexually aroused beyond compare.

  As I sat in the warm tub with a raging hard on, trying to figure out how I got there and what I was doing, an unfamiliar voice from the other room caused me to wonder even more. I should have been relieved that I was in a stranger’s tub and a woman was involved, but I wasn’t.

  After all, matters could have been much worse.

  She walked into the bathroom carrying two flutes of champagne, humming an unfamiliar and rather annoying off-key tune. I glanced over the edge of the tub and around the bathroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of where I had dropped my clothes, but the room was void of any of my attire.

  Frustrated with myself, disgusted with her, and ready to leave, I stood from the tub and grabbed one of the flutes of champagne. After downing it in one gulp, I proudly walked past her, placed the empty glass on the vanity, and stepped into the adjoining room.

  Nothing.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  I gazed out the window and into the driveway.

  My bike wasn’t anywhere to be found, and the neighborhood didn’t look at all familiar.

  With no clothes, no cellphone, no bike, and no recollection of where I had been prior to arriving in the tub, I sat naked on her couch and searched my mind for even the vaguest of answers.

  And I drew a blank.

  “Where am I?” I asked as she walked into the room.

  I was barely thirty. She appeared to be in her mid-sixties.

  And she was still naked.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I must have blacked out. What happened? Where am I?” I asked as I looked around the room.

  “Well, you left the bar with me, we came here, and we ended up in the tub. After a while I decided to get us some champagne. You said it sounded like a good idea. You don’t remember any of it?” she asked.

  I shook my head. I didn’t even want to know why my cock was hard or what transpired between our having arrived in the tub and “after a while.” Completely disgusted with her, my drunken behavior, and the fact I still had no idea of what city I was in, I took inventory of the room one more time in hopes of seeing my jeans, phone, wallet, or shoes.

  “Are we in Wichita?” I asked after my search produced nothing.

  “Hutchinson. You really don’t remember?”

  Hutchison was sixty miles from my home, and not a place I had ever been short of one drunken trip to the state fair to see lobster boy and the man with snake scales for skin.

  I shook my head. “Where are my clothes?”

  “In my bedroom? You don’t remember that either?”

  “I don’t remember anything. Can you point me in that direction?” I asked.

  After getting dressed, finding my wallet, phone, and shoes, I called a cab. I told the cab driver after paying a $300 fare that I was never going to take another drink.

  And I had yet to break my promise.

  “Hi, my name’s Blake, and I’m addicted to everything,” I said.

  “Hi Blake,” a handful of people said in response.

  “What is sobriety? Was that it? The topic?” I asked.

  Several people nodded their heads.

  I nodded mine in confirmation and began speaking.

  “Well, I think it’s much more than abstaining from taking the first drink. It’s a state of mind as well. Sobriety, at least to me, is the art of being sober, not the act. I think it comes over the course of time, roughly at the time when we become comfortable that what it is we’re doing is exactly what we should be doing when we should be doing it. In the beginning I was abstaining, and as a matter of definition I suppose I was sober, but I wasn’t living a life of sobriety. I was a drunken idiot without a bottle in my hand. ”

  I paused and thought for a moment.

  “Now, I really think I am sober. But, to be honest, I’m a sober idiot. You know, I hoped sobering up would cause me to make more intelligent decisions, but it didn’t. Now, I’m sober, but I’m still a fucking idiot. Blake the sober idiot since September 11th. Tell me that isn’t fucking ironic, huh? A sobriet
y date of nine-eleven. Well, at least I’ll never forget it. And, like I said, I’m addicted to everything, so I’m struggling with trying not to bone this gorgeous chick that came in for a tattoo the other day. For right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll keep away from my first drink, but I’m not making any promises about staying out of her pants. That’s all I’ve got,” I said.

  “Thanks Blake, glad you’re here,” a woman from across the table said.

  I nodded my head in her direction.

  She stared.

  I glanced away from her, stood, and walked to the coffee bar. As I turned away from the pot, I almost ran into her.

  “Oh shit. Sorry, I didn’t even see you,” I said.

  “I was sneaking up on you,” she said.

  “Well, you did a good job,” I said as I attempted to step around her.

  “So, want to get a cup of coffee after the meeting?” she asked as she stepped to the side.

  She was in her early forties and attractive in her own way, but not someone I would ever be interested in. Although she was probably someone I needed to be hanging out with, and also a person I could spend plenty of time with without trying to fuck her, I shook my head.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to get back to work,” I responded.

  “Well, anytime you want to, just say the word,” she said.

  “Bet on it,” I said as I stepped past her.

  Truth be known, I’d sign up for a keg stand contest before I’d have a cup of coffee with her.

  If I was going to be talking to anyone, it was going to be Riley, and for some damned reason getting her off of my mind was proving to be impossible. I’d only done one tattoo on her, and in the grand scheme of things, it was nothing. I’d done three times as many on hundreds of women without thinking about them after they had walked out of the shop.

  Riley seemed to be searching for something, but I had my doubts she even knew what it was she was trying to find. I glanced at my watch. Less than twenty-four hours and I’d see her again.

  If Tyler wasn’t going to tell me anything about her, I intended to press her hard for answers during her next session. Not fucking her was the key to maintaining my peace of mind, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t get to know her.

  I sat in my seat and sipped my cup of coffee while some old timer explained what sobriety meant to him. As I listened to him talk, but make absolutely no sense whatsoever, I wished I could live a normal life.

  But anyone who survived what I had survived would never live a normal life.

  I simply needed to find a way to accept my parent’s death as being something completely out of reach for me to resolve.

  Doing so, however, was a different story.

  RILEY

  I parked my car in the same spot, checked myself in the mirror, and glanced down at my bare legs. At the time it seemed like a great idea, but now that I was sitting in my car down the street from the tattoo shop in my neon pink boy shorts and sports bra, I felt like a slightly arrogant slut.

  I was better than this.

  Much better.

  I convinced myself it was alright to stop by because I had been at the YMCA, and the gym was in the neighborhood. In my way of thinking, it was alright to stop and pick up my shirt from Blake; in fact, it just made good sense to do it while I was in the neighborhood. Realistically, I could have easily picked it up when I came in four hours later for him to do my tattoo.

  As I fought with myself regarding what I should do, a figure in the distance caught my attention. Blake stood outside the tattoo shop, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.

  Shit.

  If I drove away, I’d have to drive past him, and would risk him seeing me and wondering why I was doing a drive by. And, if I got out and walked his direction, I would risk him thinking I was a dumb underdressed slut with a high sex drive. As I told myself never to fall victim to my mindless ways of thinking again, he leaned forward and peered down the block and through the windshield.

  His eyesight must be much better than mine.

  Within a few seconds, he was waving his arm as if to guide me in. I shifted the car into gear and slowly rolled his direction. As the car pulled in front of the shop, I parked and reluctantly opened the door.

  “I just got done working out, and was thinking about stopping and getting my shirt. Then I realized I was in workout gear, and I thought maybe I’d just wait. Gonna be in here in a few hours anyway,” I said over the top of the car.

  “Nice car, it’s on my bucket list,” he said as he flicked his cigarette into the street.

  A few dozen cigarette butts slightly beyond the curb acted as camouflage to the new addition.

  “It’s fun to drive,” I said as I shifted my eyes from the pile of cigarette butts.

  “Zero to sixty in less than four seconds is more than fun. Exhilarating is what Road and Track said when they tested it,” he said.

  “You know your cars,” I said.

  “I know a little bit about a lot of things. Come on in, we’re not prejudiced about clothing,” he said as he turned toward the door.

  I inhaled a shallow breath of courage, exhaled, and began walking toward the shop as soon as he was through the door. As I approached the entrance, I felt naked and exposed. I never realized what it was about working out, but I rarely felt uncomfortable in boy shorts and a sports bra while I was at the gym, but being anywhere else in public with the same attire caused me to feel naked.

  Being with Stephen from the time I was seventeen until I was twenty-one left me with very little experience in communicating or interacting with men. I wasn’t a fool by any means, but walking through the door of Blake’s shop with my ass cheeks hanging out of my shorts, I sure felt like one.

  “Here you go,” he said as he turned around.

  He held my shirt in front of his chest with both hands. Neatly folded, it appeared that he may have washed it.

  “You didn’t wash it did you?” I asked.

  He nodded his head. “Sure did.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I said as I reached for the shirt.

  I carefully held the shirt no differently than he did, being cautious not to wrinkle it.

  “Turn around, let me have a look at that new piece,” he said.

  “It’s doing really good. Got a few comments at the gym. I don’t know how long it usually takes, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. I think it’s healed.”

  “It’s far from healed,” he said with a laugh. “Turn around.”

  I turned around and faced the entrance as he stepped behind me. Although it had only been two days, the tattoo was no longer painful, and seemed to be more colorful than the day he did the work.

  His presence behind me caused me to feel nervous and as if I was in high school again, feeling nervously sick when I was near a boy I felt affectionate about. He lifted my ponytail, held it in his hand, and mumbled to himself as he inspected the tattoo. I stood holding the shirt in my hands, waiting for him to critique my tattoo maintenance procedures. I lowered my head, peered down at my oversized feet, and wished I had worn my other shoes.

  “Just keep it lubricated,” he breathed against the back of my neck.

  My knees all but buckled as I inhaled sharply.

  “Is it okay?” I asked as I turned around.

  “Looks fucking awesome,” he responded.

  He stood in front of me in similar tattered tee shirt to what he was wearing when I met him, rubbing his hands together frantically. The outline of the large cross that hung in the center of his chest was well-defined as the shirt he was wearing fit him all too well. His nervous nature was cute, and I wondered what went through his mind while he was rubbing his palms together, if anything. I believed there was far more to Blake the tattoo artist than what I was seeing, and I wanted to take as much time as necessary to find out everything I could about him.

  “So, not too busy today?” I asked as I looked around the empty shop.

  “No, Tyler went to get us a sandwich or somet
hing. I just got done with my second little piece. You’re my next appointment,” he responded. “Want to just get started now?”

  My previous notions regarding tattooed men was that they were all former military, bikers, or sailors my father’s age or older. I never really considered a man covered in tattoos to be “normal” looking or attractive. Blake was both. His body was attractive, tattooed or not, and his face was handsome yet slightly boyish. His hair was a perfect mess, much longer on top than the sides - and had just the right amount of product in it, assuring that it was always the same amount of messed up.

  In my mind, he was perfect, or at least he appeared to be on the surface.

  I really would have rather stayed, but staying would have meant he would be done with my tattoo at about six o’clock, not at closing time. I really hoped to be there when he closed, and maybe he’d invite me to stay and talk. I had no real intention of doing anything more, and getting to know him would be nice.

  No doubt a luxury I had yet to enjoy.

  I found it quite sad that I was twenty-one years old, and really hadn’t spent any time talking to or getting to know another man. Since my junior year in high school, the only man I ever spoke to was Stephen. It was no wonder I wore my boy shorts to try and entice Blake to talk to me.

  “No, I need to get home and take a shower. I’ll probably be right on time, four o’clock, right?” I asked, knowing full well what time the appointment was.

  “Yep, four. Well,” he paused and glanced down at my feet.

  He slowly shifted his gaze up and along my body, and grinned when his eyes met mine. Feeling like I was being peeked at through a hole in the girl’s shower room, I nervously pulled my shirt to my chest and attempted to cover myself as best as I was able.

  “What?” I breathed.

  “Damn shame Tyler isn’t here, he’d have something to say about that outfit,” he said.

  “Think so?” I asked.

  “Know so. That fucking Tyler, he loves boy shorts. Those are boy shorts, right? That’s what you call ‘em?” he asked as he tilted his head downward.