“That’s why I got into it,” said Dasha. “It’s a calling.”
“Maybe then we can be more public,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. I eagerly stole a kiss from her. But I didn’t have to steal. Dasha was keen to give me the affection I longed for.
“Definitely,” Dasha said softly. We kissed once more, lovingly, longingly, the desire between us growing stronger with each sweet pucker.
Dasha’s beautiful face gave me hope. It made me believe that I was good enough, that I could win, that I could achieve all of these things I’d set out to accomplish for myself. That must have been the coach part of her shining through. But my feelings for her had grown far larger than just our professional relationship. In fact, I was thinking less of her as my coach and more of her as my girlfriend. We hadn’t exactly qualified that relationship yet, but it’s how I felt.
“Should we get moving?” asked Dasha gingerly. I could see a bit of mischief peeking out from her eyes. Those brown eyes flickering with the subtleness of the sun beaming in from the car windows. I was coming to know the real Dasha, not just the taskmaster, and I was enjoying the education.
“Sure,” I said, sitting back into the leather of the passenger seat. I sighed happily, feeling safe next to Dasha. I was ready to take on anything with her. Ready for all the experiences that were to come for the two of us. Together.
Dasha brought the engine back to life and we slowly pulled away from my house. It was time to leave that part of my life behind and accept the next chapter. I really felt like I could do it.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, alone in my dorm room, having just folded and put away my laundry. I didn’t have very much with me. Mostly athletic clothing and a handful of swimsuits. I could basically fit it all in one medium-sized backpack, which is exactly what I did when I traveled through Asia after my parents died. I enjoyed living such a spartan lifestyle. When you own less stuff, you definitely have less to worry about. I didn’t even plan on going back to Chicago before the trip to Rio. Just pack up my bag, struggle a bit to get that zipper closed, and hop on the plane.
I tried to imagine what life might be like after the Games. Would Dasha go back to Baltimore, where she had been living? Would I go back to Chicago? I owned a condo in Chicago but I just wasn’t quite feeling it anymore. And besides, with the growing relationship between Dasha and I, I knew we would have to work something out with our locales if we wanted to keep it all going.
Funny enough, life just seemed so up in the air. I had nothing to tie me down. Nothing that really mattered apart from my immediate swimming goals. And soon, those would be gone from my life. It was a strange feeling. I was on the cusp of achievement, yet I didn’t quite feel how I had predicted I might feel. Maybe you can understand. You think it’s going to feel one way, but then you get to the goalpost and it just sort of feels like another day.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for everything I’ve achieved and proud of myself for putting in the effort, taking the risk, working hard. But achievement of your goals, as I was coming to learn, wasn’t the answer. You think it is. You think it’s going to be like all your problems are solved, or at least it’ll feel like you’re standing on a new platform or something. But you’re still you. Hopes and dreams, your fears, all that, they don’t just disappear when you have a big win.
What am I even talking about? I haven’t had my “big win.” But I was close. It sort of felt like a foregone conclusion. And that mentality is toxic. Confidence is one thing, but overconfidence can give you tunnel vision. That can lead to failure before you even see it.
As I dwelled on all these haphazard inner thoughts, back and forth in my brain, I heard a soft knock at my door. I broke from my daydream, hands on my knees, and spoke up.
“Come in!” I called. “It’s unlocked.”
My door slowly opened and Abigail peeked her head in.
“Yo,” she said with a grin on her face. “Can I come in?”
“Totally,” I said, patting my bed to let her know to have a seat. Abigail pushed in further to my room and shut the door behind her. She trotted over to my bed and sat down next to me, one leg crossed and the other hanging off the side.
Abigail was our designated backstroker in the medley relay. She was first generation Chinese-American and at only 20 years old, she was an extremely talented swimmer. I thought she had the opportunity to take a few of the other events she was competing in. Really a great girl. I was excited to see her race.
“Wow,” she said, looking around my room. “You brought way less stuff than me.”
“We’re here less than a month before Rio,” I said. “This is just, like, a hotel room for me.”
“I brought two big suitcases,” said Abigail. “And I couldn’t live without my lamp.”
“You brought your own lamp?” I said, softly laughing. “Oh Abigail.”
“Yeah, silly, I know!” she said. “But I bring it with me everywhere. I love to read by it at night.”
“Ah, it’s your thing,” I said with a smile. “I’m not trying to hate on it. I just live a bit more sparse.”
“Sure,” she said. “Hey, listen, talking about my favorite lamp isn’t my reason for visiting.”
“All right,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I overheard Amber talking some heavy gossip about you and I just thought, hmm, maybe Marie should know what’s going around,” said Abigail. She looked a little nervous as she spoke, not sure if she was overstepping her bounds, maybe feeling awkward about what she was trying to get out.
“Of course,” I intoned, rolling my eyes. “What’s she saying now?”
“She said that you and Coach Dasha have something going on,” Abigail said sheepishly. “Like, you know, something a little bit outside of the acceptable relationship between coach and swimmer.”
“Amber will say anything to slander me,” I said. I shook my head, starting to feel upset. Amber was so good at triggering me. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. “She’s just trying to take me down, Abigail,” I said. “She thinks I stand a better chance at the Gold in the 400 meter freestyle than her and she’s trying to mess with my mind.”
“Really?” said Abigail. “So nothing’s going on with you and Dasha?”
This question gave me a pause. Obviously, as you’re well aware, there certainly was something going on between Dasha and I. Amber was right. And while lying to someone I considered a friend, not to mention a close teammate of mine, wasn’t something I was eager to do, I had to hold my cards close or otherwise this whole little affair with Dasha could cause us both a serious headache.
“I’m just trying to focus on swimming,” I said, looking Abigail in the eyes. “That’s what I’m here to do. I’m determined, I want to win for the team and for myself, and I want you and I, Amber and Rachel, the four of us, to all stand on that podium together and accept the Gold for the medley relay.”
As I was speaking, Abigail’s face was serious but when my little speech came to an end she relaxed into a smile.
“You’re a leader, Marie,” she said, seeming content with my answer. “I’m really glad that you’re on the team.”
“Thanks Abigail,” I said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her.
“I didn’t mean to imply anything, um, unsavory,” she said. I laughed at her word choice.
“Everything is very savory,” I replied. Savory and sweet. No lies there.
“Another thing,” said Abigail. I could tell there was something else worrisome on her mind.
“Shoot.”
“Are you, like, scared of going to Rio?” she asked. “Isn’t there a lot of crime?”
“No way,” I said. “Not scared at all. I mean, first, we’re going to be pretty well protected in the Olympic Village because we’re the stars of the show. And second, I just imagine Brazil will have cops and military everywhere to protect the tourists. You can’t host something like the Olympics and not protect all the tourists.
It would be a huge black eye for them.”
“Thanks,” grinned Abigail. “I mean, I wasn’t really worried. Just wondering. I’m excited!”
“Well, me too!” I said. “It’s my first Olympics as well. But it probably won’t be your last.”
“I sure hope not!” said Abigail. She hugged me tightly and then stood up from my bed. “Thanks Marie. You’re seriously awesome.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad to finally get some recognition.” The two of us laughed.
“Okay, see you tomorrow at practice?” she said, making her move toward my door.
“Definitely,” I said. “Take it easy, Abigail!”
With a curt wave Abigail exited my room, pulling the door tightly behind her with a soft click. I sighed to myself and fell back on my bed, stretching out my legs and looking up the ceiling. I could tell that keeping what was going on with Dasha and I a secret could get increasingly harder. I wasn’t a bad liar, but I didn’t really like the taste it left in my mouth. Still, I didn’t want to get in trouble and I certainly didn’t want Dasha to get any guff from Mitch. It was going to be a balancing act, I was sure of that.
“Oh my God,” I said, squinting my eyes and pushing my face harder into the hole of the headrest in the leather chair. “I’m not ready. Give me just one more second.”
Laying out on my stomach, the chair splayed flat, my shorts and panties were pulled halfway down my rear, crack showing, my hands gripped tightly onto the chair. Next to me sat a heavily-tattooed woman who looked like a cross between a biker and a pinup model, her hair dyed black with severe bangs, her skin adorned with colorful inked images reminiscent of a 40s nautical styling. She had anchors and roses and even Betty Boop. Her waist was small and her chest was large. Holding the tattoo gun in her hand, she sat back in her chair with a slightly annoyed look on her face.
Standing next to this tattooist, Monika was her name, was Dasha and she had an amused smirk on her face. Dasha crossed her arms as she looked on, positioning herself as though she was siding with Monika.
“Is she always this big a baby?” asked Monika jokingly.
“No,” said Dasha. “It’s a shame really. She’s probably going to win a Medal at the Olympics.”
“I’m not a baby,” I said, feeling a bit cornered and even more embarrassed with my butt hanging out. “I just didn’t realize it would feel like that.” Dasha and Monika laughed together.
“Dollface,” said Monika. “Your butt is like the easiest place to get a tattoo. It’s got the most padding.” With that, Monika gave my rear a slap. “Well, yours is pretty firm but I guess that’s why you’re getting the Olympic tattoo and not a butterfly.”
“C’mon Marie,” said Dasha. “It’s not bad. It won’t take very long at all.”
“Fine,” I said. “Fine, fine, fine. Just do it.” I gritted my teeth and steadied myself on the chair, focusing on my breathing and trying to relax. I felt Monika push the needle against my skin, each quick poke like a low buzz of electricity. The hum of the gun filled my ears. I was excited for the tattoo, a little nervous, but I had always known it was something I wanted to do.
“That’s looking good,” remarked Dasha.
“Yep,” said Monika, pulling the gun back momentarily and wiping at my rear with a towel to blot out the blood.
“She’s got a nice butt, doesn’t she?” asked Dasha, giving off a little chuckle.
“It’s a fine ass,” said Monika. “You should be very proud, dear,” she said to me.
“Have you done any Olympic tattoos in the past?” asked Dasha as Monika returned the gun to my butt. I couldn’t talk. Rather, I just concentrated on each inhale, each exhale, telling myself that it wasn’t that bad.
“Oh yeah,” said Monika. “I actually did another swimmer’s. Paul Drake. That was about 4 years ago. Dude’s a hunk.”
“Ah yes,” said Dasha. “He’s still on our team. Very talented.”
“I told him I didn’t do dick tattoos,” said Monika. “But for him, I’d make an exception.” I felt myself blush as Monika said this, nervousness and embarrassment brimming up inside of me. I knew Paul had his tattoo on his chest and Monika’s joke made me feel a bit bashful in my exposed state.
“You’re pretty brash, huh?” I gritted out.
“Trying to lighten the mood,” she said, lowering her face down and looking at me. “Not everybody who gets a tattoo on their ass acts like they’re having a bullet removed.”
“Ignore her,” said Dasha.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I was talking to Monika,” said Dasha, causing the two of them to again laugh at my expense.
“You tell her, Coach,” said Monika.
“C’mon!” I whined.
“You’re a pretty girl,” said Monika. “But not when you bitch and moan.”
I knew the two of them were just giving me a playful ribbing to distract me from the tattoo. And to be honest, by that point, I wasn’t really feeling it all that much anymore. That’s not totally true. It felt like a near-numbed stinging, a subtle throbbing. But it wasn’t like it was in the beginning. I think it was the anticipation and the novelty of it that scared me. I was starting to truly relax into the light pain.
“Let me see yours again,” said Monika. Dasha nodded, turned around, and pulled the waistband of her own shorts down to show off her tattoo. Monika nodded and returned to my rear.
“It’s really looking great,” said Dasha, bending down slightly to talk to me.
“It’s a bit small,” said Monika. “Maybe we should also do the Olympic Torch on your forearm.
“Funny,” I said.
“She’s almost done, Marie,” said Dasha. “See, it really wasn’t all that bad.”
“She’s almost done?” I asked, unable to believe it.
“Well yeah,” said Monika. “I mean, it’s just five colored rings barely two inches across. Did you think I was gonna have to cancel my vacation to get this done?”
Once she finished, Monika cleaned my still stinging skin up, wiped off any blood, and placed a piece of cellophane over the tattoo, taping it onto my skin. She pulled my shorts back up and placed the elastic waist higher up on me, almost hiking the shorts up too high, so that the tight band wouldn’t touch the tattoo.
“When you get home,” said Monika. “Seriously, just take your shorts and panties off and let that thing breathe. It won’t take long to heal, it’s so small. Leave the cellophane on for a couple hours. Keep it clean. Pick up a balm at the counter to keep it moisturized.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling the throbbing. Pushing myself up from the outstretched chair, I stood up.
“A real trooper,” said Monika with a devilish grin. “I was just teasing you, girl. Congratulations on being an Olympian. I can’t wait to watch you on TV and say, ‘hey! I tattooed that chick!’” I laughed. It felt good. That is, both the congratulations from Monika as well as the dull sting of the tattoo on my butt.
“Thanks,” I said sheepishly. “Sorry I was a brat.”
“Not the worst I’ve seen,” said Monika. “When you win Gold, make sure to come back in and we’ll tattoo a little Gold Medal under your Olympic Rings.”
As Dasha and I sauntered out of the tattoo parlor, I quietly slipped my hand into hers and gave it a squeeze. I was glad she was there with me for the inking. I had harbored a bit of fear for the experience but Dasha’s accompaniment really assuaged my worries. I gave her a thankful smile.
Later on at Dasha’s apartment, I stood in the bathroom and turned my backside toward the vanity mirror, standing up slightly on my heels to get a better view. I folded down the waistband of my shorts to look at my new tattoo, still covered in the cellophane put there by Monika. Carefully removing the protective covering, I tossed it haphazardly toward the small trash bin and continued to gaze on at my new marking.
I felt cool. I know that’s probably a bit silly because tattoos aren’t really rebellious or counterculture or anything anymore. Th
ey’re pretty commonplace. But I felt cool nonetheless. I felt like I was part of some elite group as I looked onto those five colorful rings. Then I laughed to myself. I was part of some elite group. I was an Olympian, after all.
The color on my tattoo was so bright, as was the skin around it. Pink and tender. Reaching over to the sink, I took up the little tin of balm, twisted it open, and liberally applied the solid wax to my skin which immediately melted it. I could feel relief almost immediately. I massaged some more into the tattoo for good measure. I didn’t really know what I was doing, having never cared for a tattoo before, but I was trying.
After another moment of looking into the mirror to peek onto my tattoo, my eyes darted upward in the mirror to catch Dasha watching me with interested dark eyes and a curious smile. I almost felt caught, but in a good way, like a happy embarrassment. Dasha made a kissy face at me and I looked away, unable to repress the smile on my own lips.
“Hey,” she said sweetly. I left my shorts pulled halfway down so as to not upset my tender skin and turned away from the mirror, now facing Dasha.
“Hi,” I said.
“I like that tattoo,” she said, slinking toward me. As Dasha closed in on me, she hung her hands at my hips and grinned. “Makes me feel like I’m involved with a bad girl.”
“Stop it,” I said, feeling a giggle leave my lips.
“A real outlaw,” she said. “B-b-b-bad!”
“C’mon!” I protested, letting my head fall backwards, my eyes rolling. Dasha laughed at me. As I straightened my neck back out, bringing our eyes together, Dasha leaned forward and kissed me sweetly. I sighed gently as I eagerly returned her affection.
“Mmm,” mused Dasha. “I can see your cute little crack in the mirror.” She stood on her toes and craned her head, looking in the mirror to see my backside.
“Hey!” I said, shifting where I stood to attempt to obscure my partial nudity. But inside I loved it. I was roiling with excitement at Dasha’s provocations. It really burned an arousing flame within me.
“Maybe I just…” said Dasha, threading her arm around me, dropping her hand, and dragging a single finger lightly through my exposed crack.
Freestyle Flirting: A Sweet Lesbian Romance Page 7
