It’s my turn to hesitate because the visual of Bram walking through the front door and pulling me into a deep kiss has me sidetracked. God, I bet he loves like crazy. I bet whoever he ends up with will feel so protected and…never mind.
I can protect myself, of course. But I’m learning there’s a difference between being able to throw a punch and being safe in your thoughts around someone else, to feel safe with them emotionally, mentally.
Needing to shake off the visualandfeeling a little mischievous, I take off my T-shirt and take a selfie with the RV park framed in the window behind me. The con who did most of my tattoos loved flowers and Mexican history, and his work on my chest is a gorgeous black and gray Aztec collar piece adorned with roses that wind up my neck. Those same roses encircle the Aztec warrior that adorns one arm and the Mayan skull and headpiece which adorn the other. Each series of tattoos trails from the top of my shoulders down the back of my hands and onto my fingers.
I traded him regular blowjobs for his work and have zero regrets. I suppose some people would find that distasteful, but considering he was a genius with a rigged tattoo machine and had a hair trigger, I think I got the better end of the deal.
And his artwork makes for a damn good picture.
Me:Yes, because I have so much to give someone.
Me:
Dr. Barlowe:Put your shirt on.
Me:But it’s hot.
Dr. Barlowe:Right now, Ignacio.
I do as asked and then send him a clothed selfie to prove I complied.
Dr. Barlowe:Thank you.
I crack up, knowing he’s gotta be dying to call me agood boyat this point.
Me:Oops, I lost my boxers. Looks like I’ve got a one-piece-of-clothing limit this afternoon.
Dr. Barlowe:Ignacio, that’s inappropriate.
Me:Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll put my boxers back on.
My boxers were never off, of course, but this little back-and-forth has me in a state of half-chub, a fact that the thin material does little to conceal. At all. I fire off another selfie.
Me:
Me:What are you wearing, Dr. Barlowe?
A minute later, he texts me a selfie. He’s sweaty and unshaven, and it looks like he might be in a hospital. Most important, though, is his displeased expression. His eyebrow is cocked sky-high, and he’s giving me his bestif-we-were-in-lockup-I’d-belt-your-ass-to-the-chairlook.
I wanna lick the sweat from his neck.
Me:Somebody needs a shower.
Dr. Barlowe:Somebody needs a reminder to behave.
Me:I am so forgetful sometimes, Dr. Barlowe. What would you suggest to help me remember?
I stare at the screen for several minutes, but he doesn’t text back. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or pleased that I got to him. Either way, I can’t wait to see how he handles me at Friday dinner.
8
BRAM
When we told our friends back in Waco we were moving into a bunkhouse to save money and pay down our college loans, we were met with, at best, skepticism.
“Aren’t bunkhouses full of dark wood paneling, long musty hallways, and uncomfortable bunk beds?”
Levy sent them pictures of our setup, and all that nonsense went away.
