Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
JAKE
Late April, 2013
We’d only been awake for a few minutes, basking in the morning sunlight streaming through the hotel room window. Shelby was on her back staring up at the ceiling.
“Tell me what it is about pain,” she said.
“What?”
She rolled over onto her stomach and met my eyes. “I want to know how you find pleasure in pain.”
“Oh…well, I’m sure some people would be eager to dissect that, assuming it’s some way of compensating for affection I never got as a child…blah, blah, blah. But for me it’s pretty superficial. It’s all about the sensory experience. Or at least it had been until last night.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, I’d only been with one partner where I’d explored that part of my sexuality. And it was mostly…experimental. It was like ‘let’s try this,’ and ‘let’s try that.’ Obviously, there was a significant element of control, but it was never about full domination or full submission. But last night, an entirely different component clicked with me.” I reached over and cupped Shelby’s cheek. “I loved being dominated by you. The pain was a gift. Like I would gladly beg on my hands and knees for any scrap of physical touch from you. Any way you’d serve it, it would be perfect, and I would lap it up and beg for more.”
Shelby blushed and pressed her face into the pillow. She was still unsure about exploring this side of herself, but I vowed then and there to move mountains to help her own it.
“So, the woman you experimented with, she would ask you... you communicated?”
“Oh, absolutely. Communication and implicit trust are the most important things in a relationship like that. I had safe words. We stuck with the basics. If I was okay but didn’t want her to ramp it up, or to make sure she continued to check in with me, it’d be yellow. Red was obviously a hard stop. Chloe was also very conscientious about aftercare.” I didn’t feel the need to go deeper into detail about the aftercare falling off when Chloe and I spiraled into murkier territory.
Shelby was quiet, turning something over and over in her head while flicking at her index finger with her thumbnail. “Aftercare,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question as much as a wistful observation.
“Yes. It’s a huge part of this kind of relationship. Physical aftercare involves things you might expect like ice, massage, sometimes even antibiotic ointment. But the emotional aftercare is even more important. Praise, gentle affection, cuddling. If not for that, the relationship could be horribly unbalanced. I could see how it could have completely worn me down otherwise.”
Shelby looked down at her hands and took a deep breath, her exhale ragged and loaded. “I bet I’d be good at aftercare,” she said quietly.
I leaned over and pressed my lips to her forehead. “I know you would be.”
Early in the afternoon after I’d parked the SUV in an uncomfortably tight spot in a pay lot, I offered my hand to Shelby as we walked. I’d been tightlipped about what the plan was for today.
We rounded the corner and I slowed to a stop when we got to a zebra striped storefront with a pink neon sign in the window advertising the shop’s specialty.
Shelby looked at me with wide eyes. “Oh my God. Are you about to get your first tattoo?”
I smiled. “Yup.”
She clapped her hands and jumped up and down in giddy approval, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Part of her kaleidoscope included this jubilance bubbling out of her like fountain soda fizz. It was infectious as hell.
As we walked in we met Mike, the artist I’d been messaging back and forth with for a few weeks. I’d been thinking about getting a tattoo for years but could never seem to pull the trigger. Spending time with Shelby and her beautiful inked body had finally inspired me, and I was so grateful to have her with me when I got my tattoo cherry popped..
Shelby put her lips close to my ear. “So, are you going to get turned on a little by this?” She pulled her head away and smiled, teasingly poking my side.
I laughed. “I doubt it. It’s all about context. Like, I don’t get a hard-on at the dentist. Now, if you were naked and had the tattoo gun in your hand, that’d be a different story.” I grabbed her by the waist and kissed her cheek.
Shelby giggled and laid her head on my shoulder as we walked through the shop.
Mike led us to his private cubicle and wheeled in an extra stool for Shelby. I took off my shirt and Mike pulled out the stencil and positioned it on my left side.
“Ribs for your first time? Damn, that’s hardcore.” Shelby said.
“Shit. Now you tell me.”
“Mike should have told you.” She laughed. “No, you’ll be fine.”
I was starting to get a little nervous. “So, what? You just get used to the needle after a while, right?”
Mike and Shelby looked at each other and laughed some more. I shrugged, guessing I would be finding out soon enough.
I knew I wanted a Depeche Mode inspired tattoo, so I settled on an image of the rose on the front of the Violator album with lyrics from my favorite song. Although after last night, “World in My Eyes” had risen in the ranks enough to tie it.
“Halo” was my savior anthem. My theme song. I interpret it as a man telling his lover he sees her; he sees her guilt, her shame, and her pain and implores her to lay it all at his feet. In return, he will give her misery the company it craves and offers to soothe her with his sex. And finally, when it all comes crashing down, even as doomed as they are, it will have all been worth it.
Looking at the lyrics I knew by heart facing me backwards in the mirror, I felt a ripple of guilt in my gut. For the first time I considered that I wouldn’t be able to handle it if it all ended in disaster with Shelby.
Mike had me lie on my right side on the table while he set up his station. He put on his gloves with a snap and loaded his needle into the machine. For as advanced as most technology was, tattoo guns still looked so old school—almost a steampunk aesthetic.
“We’ll start with the rose, okay? Here we go.” Mike said.
The low-pitched buzz started, and I braced myself. Shelby was sitting close and offered her hand for when the needle hit. I held my breath, but thankfully it was much more irritating than it was painful. “That’s not so bad. I can handle this.”
Shelby gave me an encouraging smile. “You’ll do great. I’m so excited for you.”
An hour and a half in I fully understood what Mike and Shelby were laughing about when I’d foolishly asked if you get used to the needle.
You don’t.
In fact, it gets worse.
Just when you think he’s done with one spot, he swings back around and hits the raw flesh again and again. You want to crawl out of your skin. I found myself conjuring all kinds of creative thoughts about the needle wielding demon.
In my imagination I had Mike naked and strung up by his ankles. My loud, maniacal laughter echoing through the room as I repeatedly poked at his dick with a white-hot spike.
Shelby was working so hard to try and distract me. She’d animatedly engage with Mike about her artists and tattoo experiences and asked to hear his stories. She’d tell me how much I was going to love it when it was done, and how much I’d want to get another one.
I highly doubted that.
Beads of sweat started to form on my forehead. I felt cold and clammy, and subtle waves of nausea began to creep in. I started some box breathing to try and control it. Inhale for one, two, three, four. Hold one, two, three, four. Exhale one, two…
Shelby squeezed my hand. “Hey, where’s your restroom?” she asked Mike.
“Around the corner to the right.”
She bent down to look me in the eye and put her hand on my cheek. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Mmhmm.” I managed a weak smile before she turned to walk away.
“She’s gone. You can scream now if you want to,” Mike offered.
I shook my head. It was better if I didn’t open my mouth at all.
“Do you need a break?” Mike asked.
I shook my head again. A break meant I’d be here longer. Enduring this longer. No thanks. The minutes already dragged. Where is Shelby?
After what seemed like a lifetime, she came back in making a beeline toward me with two cans of orange soda. “Good thing there’s a pharmacy next door. Mike, let him have a minute.” She helped me sit up and cracked open one of the cans. “Here, drink this. It will help.”
After the first few sips of the cold sweet fizz that transported me to childhood summer, I started to feel better. I had a wave of embarrassment realizing that Shelby had been fully aware I was about to pass out,but I rationalized that it had been her own experiences that taught her what to do, and now we just had one more thing in common. She held the other cold can to the back of my neck. Yes, Shelby, you’d be good at aftercare. Brilliant, in fact.
When the torture was finally done, Mike cautioned me to stand up slowly and go check out my new tattoo in the mirror. It looked badass. The lyrics were in black in a cool gothic font, the rose itself red and intermixed with negative space. It was perfect.
“Fuck, that’s hot.” Shelby stood behind me running her hands over my back as we both looked in the mirror. Something clicked in my brain, like the shutter of a camera.
Mike walked over with a sheet of cellophane. “We’ll put this wrap on for now, then in an hour or so, you’ll take it off and wash it with soap and water.” He looked at Shelby. “Can you give him a rundown of everything he needs to do?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
When he was done wrapping me, I shook his hand and gave him a generous tip. “This is my apology for all the names I called you and how badly I wanted to bash your head in during that whole thing.”
He laughed. “It’s all good, man. Everyone hates me when they’re on the table. They all love me when they see the finished product, though.” He leaned in closer and said, “And you’re gonna love me a lot later when she shows you what she thinks of this ink.”
An hour later we were back at the hotel getting ready to go to dinner. I casually took off my T-shirt the same way I do every single day and I was shocked by a ripping sensation on my side. Shelby noticed my wincing as she walked into the bathroom.
“Yeah, that’s going to be tender for a while. You don’t realize how much you move your ribs doing normal things. Just wait until you forget and roll onto your side in the middle of the night.
“Oof, yeah. Not looking forward to that.”
“Here, let me help you.” She pulled at the edges of the tape with quick movements. It reminded me of when she showed me how to wax.
She peeled away the cellophane and inspected the tattoo. “God, this line work is incredible. You found a really good guy.”
“Yeah, Portland is like the tattoo capital of the US. I knew I wanted to get it done here.” I swallowed hard. “How bad is this going to hurt?”
“Nothing is as bad as the needle. But I’ll be gentle. Promise.”
Shelby washed her hands. She brought some of the warm water to dampen my left side, then lathered her hands and began to gently wash my sore, sensitive skin.
As I watched her in the mirror, I considered her having worked so hard to both encourage me and distract me. Her touching my face, making jokes. Knowing exactly when it was all going to shit and how she had so quickly and instinctively come to my rescue.
And now, tending to my aftercare.
She was so inextricably woven into this experience I may as well have been tattooed with a picture of her face.
I thought of the question Shelby asked me on the day we met—if my love for Depeche Mode had to do with a girl. The answer was still yes, but the girl was no longer Chloe.
“How old were you when you got your first tattoo?” I asked Shelby after the waiter had taken our order. We were keeping it casual—Mexican food and margaritas.
“I wanted one so badly, I got my first one when I was eighteen.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, you can’t see it anymore,” she laughed. “It was so bad.”
“What, was it like dolphins frolicking or hearts and rainbows?” I knew it wasn’t a regretful tramp stamp. The only tattoos on her back were a peacock surrounding her right shoulder blade and an anchor with yellow roses on the back of her neck.
“No. God. It’s still kind of embarrassing though. I was obsessed with Twin Peaks. Obsessed. I got a little owl framed by the owl petroglyph on my left hip.”
I thought of the pinup girl cradled in the crescent moon piece that lives there now. Poor little owl buried underneath. “So, you got over your obsession with Twin Peaks and covered it up?”
“It wasn’t that. It was so bad. Terrible line work and he went too deep, and it got all blown out and blurry. I didn’t know enough to ask to see his portfolio, and this was before the internet. He was not a good tattoo artist, and I was so disappointed. I waited a long time to cover it up though, and when I met Ari, he teased me about it all the time.”
Ah, an opportunity to get in. “Did he have any tattoos?”
“He did. Half sleeves when we met. A few on his chest. It was all well and good for a chef, but before that he was in school for finance to get into business with his dad. The tattoos had never gone over well with his parents. And once the wheels were in motion for him to go to culinary school, he got his neck done. There was no going back to suits and ties after that.”
Bad boy chef with tattoos; I could see the appeal for her. After she had told me his name, of course I couldn’t help myself—I looked him up online. I knew full well that he was well inked.
There were one or two pictures where Chef Aristotle Ristow was smiling, but in most of them, he was serious and brooding. Butcher knives held in crossed arms, daring to be fucked with. He smoldered with an intensity that intimidated me a little, and to be honest, kind of made my skin crawl. My curiosity was bubbling over. “How did you meet?”
“You know what? I’m done talking about him now.” She was curt.
“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just that you never do, and I want you to know that you could. Talk to me about him, that is. I don’t mind.”
“Well, I mind.” Shelby busied herself straightening her knife and fork at her place setting. Nervously looking around at everyone but me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m here with you. That means I just want to be here,” she pointed down at her seat, representing both the restaurant and the present moment. “I don’t want to talk about my husband, my son, my past. This is supposed to be fun. And right now, I’m not having fun.”
Fun? Is that all this is for her? I was surprised at how much that stung. What I was doing here was not exactly pure and noble, but I was in way beyond fun.
I put my hands up in a subtle surrender, “Okay, got it.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw two women walking cautiously toward our table. Crap.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but you’re Jake Ford.”
No shit, Sherlock. “Yes, hi. How are you?” She was in her forties and had a warm smile. I was immediately grateful I hadn’t snapped at her. She turned her attention to Shelby.
“And… you. You’re the woman from the episode. The waxing lady.”
Shelby smiled kindly and nodded.
“My husband and I loved that episode,” the woman gushed. “We both said how cute you guys were together and we wondered if there was something there. And now you’re actually together?” She clasped her hands together excitedly.
One look at Shelby’s fallen face told me everything I needed to know. She was terrified of this getting out—she hadn’t told anyone about us. It was likely Kendra was still the only one who knew. Maybe Darius. But certainly not her family. I wanted to explain to her that I was nowhere near famous enough that any of this would make it to the internet or the tabloids, that our secret would be safe. But here on the precarious ledge where we were already losing our footing, I knew it’d be useless.
“Oh, no we’re just friends,” I told the woman. Then I shot a look straight at Shelby and said, “We’re just having fun.” It was petty bullshit, but I was rubbed a little raw.
Shelby heaved a sigh and looked down at her hands.
“Oh.” The woman looked disappointed, but it was no match for the hollow ache that seemed to be blooming in my chest. “Sorry to bother you, have a good night,” she said.
Shelby and I both stayed quiet, barely looking at each other, neither of us knowing what to do or say next.
I broke the silence. “I’m gonna run to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”
I stared at myself in the mirror and thought about what I could say or do to put this evening back on track. Shelby was leaving the next day and I needed to salvage what little time we had left. I could sort through the maelstrom of emotion I was experiencing after she’d gone back home.
I’d decided it’d be best to apologize again and try to appeal to her with affection.
I made my way back to the table and I stopped dead in my tracks about ten feet away from Shelby. I was on her periphery but could still see most of her face. Her eyes were glassy, and she was staring straight ahead. I followed her gaze to an older couple with what looked to be their adult son sitting at a table a few feet away. They were all laughing, and the dad was squeezing the son’s shoulder while the mom looked on in adoration.
This was a mirror image of her family in the not-so-distant future. Only on her side, one of them was gone.
I was certain I was finally witnessing her grief.
I couldn’t get her to admit it or talk to me about it, but here I had stumbled upon it. I felt a pang of guilt at spying on her in such a private moment, but I couldn’t tear myself away. As the tears began to run down her face, I was more mesmerized than ever.
I felt compelled to stand there and stare through this window because I wasn’t sure she’d ever let me in.
After I’d dropped Shelby off at the airport, I headed back to my mom’s. I’d pushed back my flight another day; I needed some time somewhere safe and familiar to decompress.
She still lived in the house we grew up in, and as soon as I opened the door, I could smell the arepas , my ultimate comfort food. I guessed that she had heard the angst in my voice when I’d asked to stay one more night.
I nearly stepped on the orange tabby that had wound its way between my legs as soon as I walked in. I picked up the loaf of a cat and nuzzled my face in his fur. “Hi, Kenny.”
“Is that you, Cari?o ?” I heard my mother call loudly from the kitchen.
“It’s me, Mamá .” Trevor and I had grown up with our father speaking to us in English and our mother speaking to us in Spanish. I’d had someone comment once that my Spanish had a hint of an Australian accent as they’d likely fused together in those early developmental years.
As I walked in the kitchen, she dropped the spatula she was holding and rushed to gather me in her arms. I could hide a lot from my mother. She certainly didn’t know about my predilection for unhealthy heroism, or really anything about my relationships, but she always seemed to know when I was lost or when I was hurting, like only a mother could.
“Where’s Don?” I asked her. My mother had found love again over twenty years ago with a widower from church. She hadn’t been interested in remarrying and I often jokingly gave her a hard time about “shacking up” with her boyfriend. He was good for her and good to her, and he’d won me over easily.
“I told him to go spend time with his friends today. I feel like you need to talk.”
She gestured for me to sit at the table. She filled a plate, placed it in front of me and petted my hair just like she had when I was a little boy. The simple gesture nearly leveled me. I’d never been so grateful to be home.
She sat across from me, her elbow on the table and a hand on her cheek, wordlessly inviting me to unburden myself in any way that I needed to. I took a deep breath and told her about Shelby. I didn’t get into anything about my motivations, and I spared her most of the details of our intimate moments, but as I was winding through our brief history, realization was hitting me square between the eyes. My mother saw it too.
“Oh my, Cari?o .” She offered a smile of maternal compassion with just a hint of mischief in her eyes. “It sounds like you’re in love.”