Blurred Lines: Tattoo Romance (Bodies Ink and Steel)

by Scott Hildreth

  I opened my eyes, pulled the gloves over my sweaty hands, and turned to face her.

  Sitting in the chair smiling, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and her black glasses perched high on her nose, she stared innocently in my direction.

  They told me the program for recovery was simple.

  They lied.

  RILEY

  I expected the process to be painful, but the pain I felt during the procedure was more of a hypnotic feeling, something I not only quickly became used to, but actually had developed a fondness for. My glances over my shoulder and into the mirror, the amount of time that had passed, and Blake’s updates let me know he was close to being finished; something I really wasn’t prepared for.

  I wanted him to continue. The sharp needle caused a dull predictable pain - something I felt much deeper than my skin. It seemed to be pounding into my very soul. Although I couldn’t speak for anyone else, it became apparent why so many people were covered with tattoos. The feeling, in itself, was addictive.

  I realized as sure as I was sitting there having him grind the needle into my flesh that not only was this my first tattoo, but it was far from the last I would ever receive. The five and a half hours which had passed had done so rather quickly, and as I considered having him continue with another tattoo on my opposite shoulder, the buzzing stopped as he dipped the needle into the ink again.

  “You’re a fucking trooper,” he said as the machine began to buzz again.

  Craning my neck over my shoulder and watching him focus on his work was interesting. Although I realized it was necessary for him to study his work and maintain focus, his intensity was apparent. With his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed slightly, and the muscles in his forearm flexed, he gazed past the buzzing machine and focused on the tip of the needle almost as if he was looking beyond where it made contact with my skin. At times, I felt as if he was peering into my very soul.

  And his eyes.

  His eyes were an unidentifiable color. At times they appeared to be as green as translucent grass. Moments later, they were a glowing bronze. But they were always mysterious.

  “What do you mean?” I asked as I pried my eyes away from him.

  “Been sitting here for six fucking hours letting me drill on ya without saying a word, that’s what I mean. Most people would have thrown in the towel. You’re a trooper. Looks pretty damned good, too,” he said.

  I nodded my head and bit my lip as he continued to work toward completion. Another song I didn’t recognize filled the room. I wondered if the music he had playing was some special tattoo music that outsiders weren’t able to hear otherwise.

  “Who’s this?” I asked as the woman’s voice softly sang of solitude.

  “Who’s what?” he asked over the buzzing of the tattoo machine.

  “The music, who is this?” I asked.

  “Oh, this?”

  The buzzing stopped momentarily, and I heard him sigh. After a short pause, the buzzing continued and he pressed the needle into my skin again.

  “Del Bel. Name of the song is In My Solitude,” he said.

  I nodded my head lightly. “I like it.”

  Losing myself in the next two or three songs was easy. The music seemed to sooth me and slowly took my mind well beyond the oddly comforting pain. After what seemed like a matter of minutes, his speaking broke the silence.

  “About fifteen minutes,” he said as he paused to dip the needle in the ink well again.

  I wet my lips and peered over my shoulder. “Have time to get started on the snake?”

  “Not today. Six hours is about the limit. You’ll go into shock if we continue,” he responded.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “You might think you are, but you’re not,” he said.

  “No really…”

  “We can make an appointment for this weekend, or here in a few days, but not today, believe me, you’ll need to recover from this,” he said.

  I really wanted the tattoo, but I hoped to come back and see him even more so. I realized he knew more about the process than I, and responded reluctantly.

  “Okay.”

  During the final minutes of the tattoo, I somehow found a peaceful place for my mind to reside. Visions of a new me - one who was carefree, living an uncomplicated life free to make choices filled my mind. Within what seemed like a matter of minutes, the dull drone of the machine stopped.

  Blake lifted the needle from my skin.

  “I’m going to wipe this, it’ll be tender,” he said.

  “Okay,” I responded.

  As he wiped across the freshly tattooed area, I winced. The predictable pain from the needle piercing my skin turned to a dull throb covering my entire right shoulder. Again he wiped the cold paper towel across my shoulder, causing me to close my eyes and shrug my shoulders from the pain.

  “Take a look at that,” he said as he slid his stool in front of me.

  I stood from my seat and immediately felt lightheaded. Blake was right, although I was mentally eager to continue with another tattoo, I was far from being physically ready for another session. I walked to the mirror, turned around, and pulled the neck of my shirt down.

  My shoulder was swollen, but the detail, color, and quality of his artistry were apparent. The orange koi was highlighted with a few white and black specs, surrounded with blue water, deeper blue and waves that faded into purple, and the entire tattooed area was speckled with a few pink cherry blossoms. As a symbol of my rebirth or simply as a tattoo of an orange fish, it was beautiful.

  “I love it. Can I uhhm. Can I take off my shirt? I have a sports bra on. I mean, people jog in them and stuff,” I said as I continued to admire the tattoo in the mirror.

  “Sure. Let me help you,” he responded.

  He stood from his seat, removed his gloves, and stepped in front of me. As he reached for the waist of my shirt, he nodded his head toward the other side of the shop.

  “Grab the back of her shirt and help me out,” he said.

  I reached down and grabbed the waist of my shirt.

  Blake shook his head. “No, you stand still. You stretch that tattoo out and it’ll be painful. Sorry, I was thinking Tyler was still here, but he must have slipped out. I’ll get it.”

  He turned his head to the side and leaned forward, almost touching his chest to mine. As he shifted his hands to the sides of my shirt, he lifted carefully, pulling it rearward, and away from the tattoo. I closed my eyes and inhaled a shallow breath through my nose, hoping to catch a hint of something memorable about his scent. All I got was a faint smell of my own perfume.

  “Raise your arms,” he said.

  Once again, his breath against my neck caused goosebumps to rise along my upper arms. As I felt the shirt being pulled over my head, I opened my eyes and turned toward the mirror.

  “Much better,” I said.

  “I agree,” he responded.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders as he hung my shirt over the back of the chair I had been sitting in. “I didn’t say anything.”

  After stretching plastic wrap over the tattooed area, taping it into place, and going over the required aftercare with me, I realized it was time for me to pay for the tattoo and leave. I didn’t mind paying, but the leaving wasn’t something I was really prepared to do, at least not just yet.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked.

  “Six hours at one-thirty an hour would normally be seven-eighty. Let’s call it six hundred,” he responded.

  “Are tips customary?” I asked.

  “If you’re pleased.”

  I was pleased. Even though I realized he needed to concentrate on his work, I did talk to him quite a bit during the beginning of the session. He reluctantly responded to each question, offering quick explanations to my tattoo related ignorance, and was rather polite throughout the entire procedure.

  The last few hours of the tattoo had been rather quiet, my having obviously fallen
into a state of semi-hypnosis attributing to at least a portion of my silence. I did, however, learn a little about Blake during the first few hours.

  He was single, he owned the tattoo shop, and he rode a motorcycle even when it was raining outside.

  In short, I was interested in knowing much more about him.

  “Here’s my card for the six hundred, and here’s two hundred for a tip,” I said as I handed him two one hundred dollar bills and my debit card.

  “Damn, you sure?” he asked as he accepted the money.

  I shifted my eyes from my hand to his face. His narrow eyes, the short growth of beard, and his heavily tattooed body was more than tempting. The way his shirt now hung from his perfectly defined chest was too much. I glanced down at his feet.

  Old school Vans.

  Cute.

  As he walked away I glanced in his direction. A perfectly round man ass was hiding beneath his jeans. In admiration of his discipline, I nodded my head. Most men chose to work out their arms and chest and neglected the legs and butt. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t one of those men, and as I filled my eyes with the backside of his faded jeans, I was grateful.

  “I’m very happy with it. And I’m glad you didn’t let me get the other one,” I said.

  “I’m glad you didn’t get it,” he said over his shoulder.

  I slowly walked in his direction, admiring him the entire way.

  “Make me an appointment for my other shoulder, too. While we’re up here,” I said.

  “Snake?” he asked.

  “Mmmhhhmmm,” I responded.

  “Saturday’s full, let’s see…” he said as he fumbled with the mouse and stared at the screen of his computer.

  “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  He tilted his head to the side. “You off work tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about Friday? That’ll give you a day to recover. We can at least do the outline and see how you feel.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Same time?” he asked as he rubbed his hands together.

  Something I was sure he didn’t even realize he did, but was somewhat of a nervous tick, his rubbing his hands together was enjoyable to watch. He did it with such ferocity; it was almost as if he was attempting to start a fire. And, as he did it, the muscles on his upper arms and chest flared, making the entire process even more enjoyable to me. As I studied his chest and admired the tattoo of a dragon which covered his forearm, the credit card machine spit out my receipt.

  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.