“Alrighty, you let me know if you start to feel uncomfortable or woozy or any stuff like that, okay? I brought you a bottle of water, too, in case you get thirsty.”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” I rest my head against my bent-up arm and bite my lip nervously, eyeing him and all his apparatus. I feel like I’m at a strange doctor’s appointment.
As he brings the gun to my flesh, I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the unknown.
The first few seconds, I want to scream and kick him in the face. It burns. It’s noisy. And holy shit, it hurts. How the hell do people do this? WHY do people do this? I try not to move my leg, and wonder how safe this is. It feels like he is literally digging a hole straight through my leg.
He stops and looks up at me, peeking out from under the hair that has fallen across his face, and once again, I’m overcome by that bizarre feeling. My heart just seems to freeze . . . and then jolts back to its rhythm again. I blink at him, trying to bring myself back to normalcy.
“Ivy . . . you doing okay there, doll?” Laying the gun down, he hands me the water bottle, eyeing me with concern. I take it from him and drink slowly. He called me doll. I should be offended, but I’m not. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. Jesus. “You’re all tensed up.” A gentle squeeze of my leg meant to comfort me sends a jolt of heat straight up my thighs. “You’re doing great. I know it feels kinda strange, kinda like a bee is attacking you non-stop, but just try to relax, okay? It’s really not as bad as it feels, and it’s not as deep as it feels either.”
I laugh nervously and sip the water again. “I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect. It does hurt.” I look at the first part of the vine that he’s started. Even this tiny bit looks really great, and the excitement of seeing it helps distract me from the pain.
“You have to just put your mind elsewhere,” he says. “Separate yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I know you’re probably not used to older women in here being all scared and jumpy.” I ease my body back down, giving him the ‘go-ahead’ to continue.
He picks up his gun and starts again, but it feels like he is being gentler and lighter now. “Old?” he repeats with narrowed eyes, wiping at my leg with a paper towel. “You’re not old.”
“I’m pretty sure I am not your average customer.”
“I have no average customers. How old are you, thirty? That’s not old.”
“Try thirty-six.”
He scoffs and re-positions my leg. “Shit, that’s not old either, and you look great. I see some young girls in here that look awful from doing drugs, abusing their bodies, baking in the sun. Hell, most of them have fake body parts. I don’t know what I’m touching half the time, and what might break off or pop.” He smiles up at me. “You have a really sweet natural beauty.”
Heat rises to my cheeks again, and I quickly look away from him and focus on the far wall. “Thank you for saying that. I guess I’m just starting to feel old. My daughter is almost eighteen, I’m recently separated, and I feel like all the women I see around me are young and thin, with these amazing bodies, looking like they just stepped off the runway.”
“Eh, trust me. Underneath all the makeup and the clothes, they ain’t all that. In fact, they’re pretty fuckin’ boring, too. Most of them can’t even carry a decent conversation, unless it’s about themselves.”
His soft humming to the music as he works his gun back and forth over my leg distracts and lulls me, putting me more at ease. “So how come you wanted to get a tattoo?”
I decide to just be honest rather than tell a silly lie. “I’ve always wanted one, but my ex-husband said they were ugly. He wouldn’t let me get one because he thought I would look like a slutty stripper.”
He wheels closer to his bench and changes something on his gun. “Ugly, huh?” He pushes his hair out of his eyes, his arm muscles flexing and rippling while he does whatever he’s doing, and I have to tear my eyes away before he catches me. “I guess there’s a ton of slutty strippers walking around then. But I don’t see you as one of them.” He wheels back over to me and places his hand on my thigh, once again sending a slight tingle travelling up between my legs. Good Lord! When was the last time I was touched there? Or the last time I felt butterflies?
His voice interrupts my butterfly moment. “And your body is yours—you can do whatever you want with it. No one should ever tell you what you should think, do, wear, or anything else.”