Chapter Text
A buff gym himbo walks in with a giggling blonde about thirty minutes before closing. I roll my eyes in spite of myself. I’m sure he’s here for his annual retooling of his gross tattoo body count – why is that a thing? – and there’s no way I’m going to be a part of that bullshit.
"Be with ye’ in a few," I call out to them, hoping they’ll get bored and leave. Marcia, one of my best friends, is filling in at the front desk until I can sort out the mess Dan left when he walked out. She’s doing me a solid. She welcomes them in kindly and encourages them to look at my portfolio and check out the wall.
She’s a better person than I am. I would’ve told them we were closed forever.
Which might not be too far from the truth, as the shop is on the verge of shutting down any day now.
I have about two minutes left with Rusty, one of my regular clients. He’s been slowly building a sleeve over the past two years, and the two of us are having the best time with it. Rusty was a nerdy classics professor at UCL, but got fed up with the undeserved pretention, heteronormativity, and insincerity of academia, so he quit in a blaze of mic drop gusto. He’s been down here in Rochester for several years now, and you’d never know from looking at him that he’s on his way to a full sleeve tattoo. He’s quite buttoned up: short hair cut, no beard to speak of, wears loafers and linen shorts and teaches chess to schoolchildren on Thursdays. He teaches English at the senior centre, and is apparently learning to throw pottery.
I glance over at the unwelcome intruders and heave a resigned sigh. Marcia has come out from behind the desk and is standing quite close to the blonde.
"Charles, don’t be a dick." Rusty is one of only five people that are allowed to call me Charles. He's more than thirty years older than me, yet we get along swimmingly because we have so much in common. But occasionally he says things like this and I’m tempted to punch him. Metaphorically.
"Don’t give me that look, like you want to punch me," he says. "You’re judging again. It’s tiresome."
"I’d never," I tell him, waving my hand innocently. "And I’m not. Look at him: he’s dressed like he just came from the gym."
"Charles, you are literally wearing the same outfit: dark vest, shorts, thongs. It’s thirty-four degrees in the shade. Give him a break."
"Leave me alone with my prejudices, old man."
The himbo is looking at the photographs on the wall now, and I look him up and down critically. He’s got a well trimmed beard, is disturbingly fit, and seems to have a lot of freckles across his skin. Otherwise he’s just dirty. I see him point out a few things to the (likely vapid) blonde, and then I see him freeze and focus in, as if something has mesmerised him.
"He’s staring at your nipple." Rusty tells me, as if I hadn't just realised which photograph he stopped on.
"Will you stop? He’s not. He probably just assumes it’s some girl’s tit." I wipe the last bit of ink from the section I’ve just finished: the shield of Achilles. God, it’s gorgeous. Rusty and I designed this bit together; we used some photographs of old artifacts from his thesis to make a design that integrates ancient Greek with entwined male gender signs.
"Jesus, Charles. You’re being a twat."
"Takes one to know one." Another lie. Rusty is the polar opposite of a twat. "Stop judging me and look at this gorgeous shield," I tell him proudly before I clean it.
We both grin at each other and I allow myself a little swell of pride. I really don’t want to lose this shop.
I cut and shape a piece of saniderm and affix it over the newest bit of Rusty’s sleeve, then pat him to let him know he can stand up. "All done. You remember the care instructions, yeah?"
"Yup." Rusty slips a few too many quid into my tip jar, and I frown at him, grudgingly grateful. I can use all the cash I can get right now.
"Nice wall, huh?" Rusty says to the wanker walk-ins as he walks to the front desk so Marcia can check him out.
"Yeah," the auburn himbo says. "This one is just… mesmerising."
"All of Charlie’s work is," Rusty says. "Both his work and all the art on his body."
"Rusty, shut your gob," I call out as I drop used needles into the sharps bin. Pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, I spray the chair and tray, then wipe down my tattoo gun with a cavicide wipe. Twice.
I hear the ginger talking to Rusty, exclaiming enthusiastically about something and I see him examining different sections that Rusty points out on his sleeve. They’re having quite an animated conversation about it. Trickling annoyance fills me when I glance up and see that the gym bro has put on a pair of glasses and squints down at something on Rusty’s sleeve. It’s clear he’s excited about some of the designs and symbols on the tattoo and I turn away before I grow a metaphorical tail and start wagging it. He’s the perfect mix of not quite my type and god I would climb that like a tree, and I just don’t have time for any of that.
Not after Dickhead Dan. Christ, you can never trust a man with a single syllable name. When will I learn?
"Okay, show me, Tom!" Marcia says enthusiastically, handing Rusty his receipt before she comes out from behind the counter to look at his arm, too. The blonde moves to make room and they all crowd around. Rusty’s real name is Tom, but who really enjoys being called Tom? Plus, like I said, you can’t trust a man with a one syllable name. He’s always just Rusty to me. Marcia exclaims over Tom’s newest sleeve addition, adding to the rising voices, until it’s all just white noise and I zone out as I finish cleaning up the tattoo space.
"Charlie, nipple piercing walk in," Marcia calls to me and I inwardly groan. Not that boobs aren’t a perfectly cromulent part of the body, I’m just not in the mood for an insipid conversation with blondie while Redbeard tells her how brave she is and grows a wild chub from watching me fondle her tits. "I’ll get the jewelry into the sanitiser, but I’ve closed out the till otherwise."
"Thanks, Marsh," I tell her. "You’re good to go. I just need a few minutes to set up here and I can take her."
"Him." Marcia corrects.
"What?"
"It’s me," the bespectacled, confusing, muscled hottie says. "I’m the one getting pierced."
"You good, Nicky?" The blonde says absently, standing obscenely close to Marcia, deep in flirtatious conversation. Oh. I missed that bit completely. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Marcia was about to abandon me to go fuck one of my customers. The traitor.
Ginger pockets his glasses, though I’m not sure how he can fit glasses in those tight shorts, and waves her off. "Go on," he says. "Have… fun."
I think I can hear a hint of amusement in his voice and I’m annoyed all over again. Blokes like that are supposed to be one dimensional porkswords, not clever lads getting nipple piercings. According to only my own anecdotal data – years of it, so kindly shut the fuck up – very few straight boys get their nipples pierced. Not to mention he's good friends with the lesbian hitting on one of my oldest friends.
Rusty calls out his own goodbye as I go to the sink to wash my hands and I call back a little too enthusiastically. Dammit. Rusty winks at me as he walks out, fully clocking that I'd almost forgotten he was still here. I set out a tray with the piercing tools I'll need and then walk to the front. I glance out the window and catch Marcia with her arm around the blonde, whose head is nuzzled right into Marcia’s neck.
Damn, lesbians work fast.
"Alright," I say, taking the clipboard with the consent form and information Marcia gathered and turning my reluctant attention toward the auburn tall-drink-of-water with the well kept beard. "Nicky, was it?"
"It’s Nick."
Never trust a man with a one syllable name.
"Nicky it is," I say grumpily, but for some reason his eyes sparkle instead of narrow. "I’ve sanitised the chair. Go ahead and have a seat in the one by the mirror whenever you’re ready. The jewelry should be ready in a few more minutes."
"Sure," he says easily. "This all your work? It’s gorgeous." He gestures at the walls covered in previous clients’ tattoos.
"Some of it’s my work, some of it’s on my body and done by other artists. I’m a confounding and complicated mix of talent and canvas."
He glances over at the framed black and white close up of my right nipple. "Well, it’s not confounding to me. I think it’s impressive."
Oh.
I, well... I'm sort of speechless, so I do what any self-respecting gay thirty-four year old should do: I walk away.
"Gotta get your jewelry!" I toss the words behind me so he doesn't see my face and whatever betrayal it's doing at the moment.
When I get back, he's made it into the piercing chair, looking around at the mural my friend Elle painted back when the shop first opened and before she moved to Paris.
"Everything here is beautiful," he tells me. "I can't believe I've never been here before."
"Alright," I tell him, steering the conversation away from any more niceties. "First I’ll tell you exactly what I’m going to do so you know what to expect."
He nods, looking at me intently.
"Have you had a body piercing before?"
"No, this is my first."
"Got it. First I’ll disinfect your nipple and surrounding area thoroughly with some alcohol wipes. After we decide on placement, I’ll mark the agreed on spot with a single use surgical skin marker." I show him the jewelry tray with the marker and the strip to show it’s been sanitised. "When you’re ready, I’ll hold your nipple between two of my fingers to stabilise. I’ll tell you to take a deep breath and let it out. As you breathe out, I’ll pierce through with the needle. It should sting a bit, but not too much. As long as you’re okay, I’ll have you take another deep breath and let it out. On that exhale, I’ll pull the jewelry through. On your next okay, I’ll close the bar, check everything, and spray with bottled saline. At any time, you can ask me to stop, to pause, to abandon the entire thing, and I’ll stop immediately, no questions asked. This is your body and you’re in charge of when and how I penetrate it."
He swallows at that and I see a low spread of blush-pink under his freckles. Good. I have a practiced speech I give to all of my clients, but that last phrase was all for him.
Most straight men aren't good friends with lesbians unless they're some measure of fruity themselves.
"Any questions?"
He swallows again, throat working enough that I want to reach out and trace the neatly trimmed stubble that gives way to a long, inviting neck that probably smells amazing. Then he looks right into my eyes and shakes his head confidently. "No. No questions. I'm ready for you."
Jesus.
I wonder if he's playing with me now, too.
There's a crackle moment where we look at each other, miles of possibility in the eighteen inches between us and I try not to think about a path where he looks at me like that on purpose. He licks his lower lip, the inviting coral-shine reminds me of syrupy, summer-ripe peaches.
"Can you–" I say quietly.
"Yeah?" His voice is quieter than mine, and I swear to fucking god he just inched closer to me.
I gesture wordlessly to his shirt and he blinks, his blush darkening into a dark coral to match his lips.
"Yeah," he laughs. "Guess it's hard to do it through my shirt."
"I'm always up for a little extra… challenge."
His flush darkens, but he reaches down and pulls off his vest, lifting one hefty arm overhead to drape it over the back of the chair, giving me an eyeful of a dark thatch of hair under his arm. My brain takes an immediate screenshot for later mental wank-pornographic perusal, and then I glance down at the fucking dreamboat in front of me and I amend my previous assessment. He is exactly my type and god I would climb that like a tree, and apparently I have to make time for all of it.
The man clearly knows his way around a gym, but also doesn't live there. On his chest is a tangle of auburn-dark hair, and two perfect nipples, pebbled and pointing accusingly at me. The hair tapers, then streams downward to his navel and darkens as it teases into his waistband. His muscles are defined, but invitingly so.
This man couldn't be more my type if he tattooed Property of Charlie Spring on his dick. Which, admittedly, would be the place for it. I don't share. His expression contains a mix of confusion and levity, and I wonder if he can see all the filthy things I'd like him to do to me.
Fuck me, I am so doomed.