Dario huffs out an awkward breath. “I only meant that you should be as dressed or as…undressed as you would like to be.” He attempts to keep his eyes above the water line so as to not seem like some overeager creep.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Charlie angles away.
Dead puppies. Car crashes. The heat death of the universe.
Dario narrowly avoids popping a boner right there.
“I’m comfortable if you’re comfortable,” Dario says, regaining control of his words and his hormones. The last thing Charlieneeds is an eyeful of Dario’s uncut cock straining against the clinging, black spandex. “You have a lot of tattoos,” Dario observes, hoping to lead the conversation into safer territory. Normal territory. Not ‘shouting “Naked!” at his house guest’ territory.
“I do,” Charlie says, smiling with pride and extending his arms.
“How many do you have?” Dario asks after clearing his throat.
“Over the years, I’ve lost count,” Charlie says in a way that almost invites Dario to do the dirty work of searching him head to toe and taking a formal tally.
“What are they of exactly?” Dario asks instead of fantasizing about playing connect the dots along Charlie’s skin with his newly quivering fingers.
“They’re mostly bastardizations of idioms or phrases I find funny,” he says. “I like the interplay of words and illustration.”
There are flames and animals and ghosts parading up and down his body parts. None of which should go together. But on Charlie, somehow, they all tell a twisted, interesting story of an uninhibited mind allowed to run amuck with creativity.
“Which tattoo is your favorite?” Dario asks.
Charlie turns his head a bit to reveal the area right behind his left ear. There at the edge of his buzz cut is a tearful eyeball cartoon. It holds up a hand and in its palm is a lowercase letteri. There’s a bow on top of the dot, as if the letter were a gift.
“Maybe this one?” he says.
“Anifor an eye,” says Dario with a low chuckle. It is clever and grotesquely cute at the same time.
“People don’t usually get them,” Charlie says, brushing his hand over the art. Dario imagines what it might be like to run his tongue over the very same spot and how Charlie might react.
“Does that bother you?” Dario asks.
“Not really. They’re not for other people. They amuse me. I think there is this misconception about tattoos that they are meant for the viewer. I could not disagree more. My tattoos are for me, a mode of growing my artistry.”
“These are all your art?” Dario asks.
“Most. Some are collaborations with my local tattoo artist,” Charlie explains. “Every artist has their medium. Some choose canvas or clay, I chose my own skin. Don’t ask me why. I’m no psychiatrist.”
“When do you have time to make your drawings?” Dario asks, desiring a peek behind the curtain of creativity. While his job requires ingenuity and quick thinking, it is not the same as making art. He’s always wished he had a more visual mind.
“I’m bored at work a lot since I do the overnight shift. I’ve had to become a bit of a night owl because of it. We’re not supposed to use our phones—the owner has cameras set up after some former coworkers got greasy-fingered—so I play around in my sketchbook,” Charlie says. “The one you saw back at the factory. All my best ideas come late at night, which is probably why I’m still awake right now. My mind thinks it’s playtime.”
Dario skirts around thoughts of a different sort ofplaytimewith Charlie Moore. “That makes sense.”
“What are you doing up?” Charlie asks.
Dario says, “My routine has been thrown off. I don’t think my body knows what time it is unless we’re eating a meal.”
Charlie nods and waves his hands along the water’s surface, creating small ripples. “D’ya know I’ve never swum in a private pool before?”
“Non esiste! No way. How is that possible?” Dario asks, though he feels like a jerk after doing so. Charlie has already expressed that he doesn’t come from means.
“None of my friends had pools growing up. The only time I got to swim was at the YMCA or at a public pool every nowand then, but they get so crowded that there’s no room to really swim. You just stand there, cool from the waist down, sweating from the waist up,” Charlie says. He cups his hand and splashes some water across his chest. The beads cling and glisten, sluicing down his torso in tantalizing trails, creating micro magnifying glasses over his ink.
“That sounds…” Dario begins, “different.” He cringes over the word choice, afraid it underlines something he should care less about. Just because Charlie comes from humble beginnings, and Dario was born into generational wealth, doesn’t mean they are not both human beings who need companionship and care.
“Do you know what else I’ve never done?” Charlie asks. Dario’s mind fills suddenly with filthy fantasies, of first times and fresh experiences. He widens his eyes in lieu of a response, trying to breathe and reroute his traitorous blood flow. “Had a swimming race!”
