I mentally pencil a masturbatory session with a sock into my evening plans.
I don’t judge the requests I get. Often times, the videos are simple. Me jerking off for them, maybe tossing in a name they want to hear or stringing together obscenities in whatever degrading or praising way they get off on. I get repeat customers frequently, and word of mouth takes care of the rest.
All because of one guy I hooked up with years ago who asked for a video to remember my cock by. Not me. Just my dick. I didn’t take offense, and I sent him that video. What it led to is a fairly lucrative gig and a steady stream of requests I can accept or deny as I see fit.
Fucking a sock certainly isn’t the strangest thing I’ve done these past few years.
The chicken is on the stove cooking when my uncle walks in. He tosses me a nod before scenting the air. “Do I smell achiote and cumin?”
“You do,” I answer, clearing some of my schoolwork off the kitchen table. “It’s not ready yet, so don’t go getting any ideas.”
“Did you get more olives? Because—”
“Yes, I got olives,” I tell him with a chuckle.
He sighs contentedly before heading for the short hall that leads to our respective bedrooms. “Ace is with his last customer now. Shop’s ready whenever you are.”
“After dinner,” I call back, checking the time. If I hurry, I can get this paper done before we eat.
Fifteen minutes later, my laptop and books are put away, and my uncle is joining me at the table, stew perfuming the air around us. He groans as he digs into the chicken dish full of potatoes, olives, and spices in a rich tomato sauce.
“This is one of my favorites, you know. You make it just as well as your ma.”
My chest pings at the mention of my mom. I never knew her, not really. But my uncle keeps her memory alive. Not only by talking about her frequently, but inside this apartment, as well. Her picture is on the wall in the living room, another set atop a cabinet holding the expensive dishware we never use.
I think out of the two of us, Rafael misses his sister more than I miss the mom I can’t remember.
I clear my throat. “Did she use the good achiote powder, too?”
My uncle scoffs. “You bet your ass she did. And if I ever see another brand enter this kitchen, you and I are gonna have words.”
I chuckle, knowing better than to mess with my uncle’s spice cabinet. “Do any good ink today?”
“My ink is always good,” he shoots back somewhat indignantly.
“You know what I mean, Raf.”
“Yeah, yeah. A piece for a client’s half-finished sleeve. You ready for your next one yet?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Not sure I have any space left.”
“There’s always space for more ink. You’ve got some room on your back.”
Not much, but I don’t argue it. “I’m good for now.”
My uncle waves his hand. “You just let me know once you’re ready.”
I hum noncommittally, and the two of us get back to our food. Once we’re done, my uncle takes over the task of cleaning the stock pot while I head downstairs to the tattoo shop. Ace must have finished with his client because the place is empty. I set to work doing the nightly disinfecting, just one of the jobs I’m juggling. The time goes by fast, the music piping through my earphones keeping me company.
When I get back upstairs, it’s nearly nine. My uncle is in the living room, watching the television.
“Turning in,” I tell him.
He holds his hand up in acknowledgement. “Night, peque.”
I huff lightly as I head down the hall. I’m far from a child at twenty-five, but my uncle has called melittle onefor as long as I can remember. I suppose some habits don’t change.
After washing up, I cross the hall into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. It’s not that I don’t trust my uncle. But some things necessitate privacy. This is one of them.
