She had never called him by name before.
He looked at her, his dark eyes like pewter in the fading evening light. “Yes, Missus?”
“I’ve been thinking—your shape. The way you really are—it’s beautiful. Why did you want to change it? Have me cover it up?”
There was a long pause before he answered. Why had she asked him this aloud, instead of waiting until they were touching? She could find out anything she wanted to know when she touched him.
Maybe I’m afraid to know, she thought.
“I am in love, Missus,” Hadrian said, and went into the back.
Her heart pounding, Claren rearranged her needles. He was in love. Who with?
He came all the way from Montana to have me tattoo him. But that doesn’t mean—
She thought of daisies. He loves me, he loves me not.
Claren wasn’t certain she was ready to find out. But she could hardly wait to touch him again.
She ended up tattooing the entire underside of his penis in that session.
When she came in at midnight, Terry was still up. She could tell by the way he was looking at her that he was going to insist on making love. He watched her hungrily, and with a certain bitterness.
Claren’s jaw clenched. Don’t even bother, Terry, she thought. It’s not going to happen.
But later, as he labored over her breasts and laved her with his tongue, doing everything he could to stimulate her, she thought of Hadrian. As she summoned the memory of his resilient, smooth skin, his strangeness, her thighs started to quiver.
What is happening to me? she wondered. Is this the seven year itch, starting five years late?
But the tremble in her inner thighs didn’t dissipate, and as Terry entered her, she fantasized about touching Hadrian, the silky different feel of him under her fingers. She imagined it was his penis pushing into her; she pictured him penetrating her from behind. But in her fantasy, his penis looked as it had when she first saw it, before she ever touched it with a needle.
For the first time in weeks, she came. She came spectacularly, with a spasm that arched her against Terry’s hips hard enough to leave bruises along the inside of her thighs.
The next session with Hadrian was the last they had scheduled. It was set for early December, the checkup on the finished design, to make sure Hadrian’s skin had healed properly and do any touch-ups needed.
Claren waited until he was in the chair, then told him she needed to see him with an erection to make sure the tat’s coverage was complete.
She expected him to touch himself and turned away to afford him a little privacy, but watched from the corner of her eye. His big hands didn’t move.
His penis flowered instantly, like a time-lapsed photograph, a big satiny movement of muscle that made her nipples tighten.
“You must examine me, I understand,” he said.
So she had his permission.
She looked at his prick without touching him. The design showed excellent detail. She had stretched the skin carefully as she did the work, and very few places needed touching up. Her mouth was dry and her skin was damp as she reached for him. No gloves this time. She was anticipating the erotic image that would form in her brain at the contact. When they touched, she would discover what excited him.
And, she realized, he will know how much he excites me. Daisy chain, he loves me—
His skin was hot, and even silkier than she remembered. The second she touched him, the image leaped across the gap between their minds like a high-voltage spark—instant and whole before her.
A woman. Human. Of course, what had she expected? One of his own kind would not have been disturbed by his shape, his differences. But the woman—
Her face was angular, a sculpted narrow pixie face. She had skin like milk and hair the color of maple leaves in the fall. The color of burning, Claren thought as she burned. She was nude, slim-bodied; with flame at the crown and between her legs, and all that smooth moon white skin.
—shivering allure—forbidden fruit—an outsider—
Claren pulled her hand away from Hadrian only with great difficulty. It was as if her muscles had convulsed from an electric shock. But it was an orgasm convulsing her, and she was breathing in gasps as the spasms pulsed through her belly. She thought of the woman’s skin and hair, and licked her lips. Instantly, she came again, a climax so powerful that she couldn’t help groaning aloud.
She leaned against the cabinet, legs trembling. Her hand was wet. She stared at it stupidly. A silvery gel was thick on her fingers.
Claren looked at him.
He seemed unembarrassed.
Of course, she thought, I’m the one who was so horny I came. I came first.
He clambered down from the chair, looped the big towel around his waist, and went to the bathroom.
Claren grabbed a paper towel and wiped off her hand. She was still trembling, and her crotch felt pulpy.
When he came out later—dressed again—she said, “One session of touch-ups should do it. Tomorrow evening, same time, okay?”
He gave her a nod before he went to the door.
But the connection was still open between them—a faint and static-y afterimage, already fading—and she knew she would never see him again.
He was ready for his lover—his human lover—now.
When she got home, Terry was setting the table. He was wearing cutoffs and nothing else, in spite of the early winter chill. The hardwood floors were cold and drafts flowed from the warped window frames. Gooseflesh pricked his arms.
“Aren’t you cold?” she said.
He looked up, then away from her.
What was he thinking?
“Nah. Might as well enjoy going bare as long as I can. It’s almost winter.” He brought two bowls of stew to the table.
She could see him shivering. I don’t even know him, she thought. Look at all that hair on his chest—it even makes him smell funny.
She averted her gaze. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips, and was struck by a flash-image of the woman—Hadrian’s lover—pure white skin and flaming hair—
Claren sat down at the table and unfolded her bandanna napkin with fingers that shook.
Terry pulled out his chair and started to join her. His nipples were pale brown bare spots in the forest of dark hair on his chest. It was nauseating.
“For Christ’s sake,” she said. “Put on a shirt, will you? We’re at the dinner table.”
[Author’s note: The barbed wire and flying crows tattoo described in this story is the work of tattooist, Henri, of Electric Expressions in New Orleans.]
There’s something inherently fascinating about tattoos. And I’ve always been interested in trompe l’oeil effects. When I got the idea for this story, combining the two seemed natural.
After I did the first draft, there was a lot of discussion among my writing friends about what Hadrian’s unretouched penis should look like. Lots of discussion, but no consensus. Then one morning, I got phone calls from two friends—one of them from Oklahoma City, because my friend was traveling—who said the same thing: “Susan, I think I’ve solved your penis problem!”
I’m still hoping the agency I work for doesn’t record my incoming phone calls.