82: Tattoo

If I thought the end of basketball season would mean my schedule would start to relax, I was sadly mistaken. It was a relief to have a break from filming as I'd managed to get ahead over mid-winter break, but as soon as there was no more basketball practice, play rehearsals started. I only appeared as the stage manager in the third act, but the first week Ms. Streeter wanted the whole cast together as we did read-throughs. After four days of rehearsal, I still couldn't figure out what the play was about. I was going to have a long talk with Elaine sometime soon.

Added to that, the professor in Nicki's and my English Comp class at IU apparently decided that she hadn't covered enough material to stay on schedule and we had a two-to-five-page paper due every Tuesday. I have to admit that having the computer was turning out to be a big benefit in preparing the volume of homework I had, though the professor had remarked that she didn't like the printouts and would prefer that our papers be typewritten. Nicki, of course, managed to talk her parents into getting her a much more expensive version of my little Mac and a laser printer. The prof grudgingly told us the print quality was acceptable. Each Monday, I gave Nicki a floppy disk with my paper for the week on it and she printed it. We rode to class together Tuesday evenings.

Nicki and I were becoming really good friends and I was determined to do something special for her when she demoed with me on the eighth of April. This was going to take some serious preparation. We talked a lot about English and writing while we were together and I could see she had a real passion for words. She constantly challenged my vocabulary and even drilled me on spelling things correctly. I was glad on a couple occasions that she'd proofread my paper before she printed it.

"Let's get physical, physical. I want to get physical," Whitney sang to me as we worked out on a Wednesday morning before school. Soon, we'd move back outside for our sparring at home, but we'd been limited while working out at school. We both wore pads, helmets, and gloves whenever we sparred under Coach Hancock's observation. Whitney's song was punctuated by a roundhouse kick that almost took my head off. There wasn't time for cute words after that. She put on a press that took all my energy to defend against. I managed to return a few blows as well. There were times when the world disappeared and all that existed was the violent dance the two of us were engaged in. And violent as it was, it was also building intimacy between us. As we sparred, we locked eyes and learned to anticipate each other's moves, sometimes defending and sometimes attacking.

Coach's whistle pierced through our consciousness and we parted and bowed to each other.

"Time to hit the showers. You two should do a demo for the school. No one would believe me if I told them what I watch each morning," he said.

"No, Coach," Whitney said firmly. "I don't even like doing this in front of you. The fewer people who know what we are capable of, the less we'll be challenged and the more effective we will be if we are. And if I may say so, sir, I don't want to have foreplay in front of the whole school." Whitney walked off to the shower and Coach and I stared after her with our mouths open.

"Foreplay?" I asked when we came out of the locker rooms and met to go to class. "You said 'foreplay' to Coach?"

Whitney didn't answer. She turned to me and bent to kiss me. We'd been practicing a lot lately. Kissing that is. We both knew that Whitney would be seventeen in a month and we were both preparing to make love. I kind of had a twinge of sympathy for what my sister went through before she got married. We didn't know the exact night we were going to lose our virginity yet, but we both knew it was fast approaching. In addition to our workouts, Whitney and I had been spending quality time with each other every weekend. Usually, she'd hang around for a while after our study group on Saturday and we'd go to the barn to make out. It was funny in a way. After an hour kissing and fondling each other and talking about what we liked and didn't like, we'd separate and often go out with one or more others in our group. I found that I was frequently taking two girls at a time on dates Saturday night.

"I suppose you want me in some kind of little homemaker dress Saturday," Nicki sighed. "I don't know if I can do this, Brian. Everyone will see me."

"I don't want you in a homemaker dress, Nicki. I want you to be you. Just school clothes. Look what I got myself. I'm going to wear it through the whole show." I pulled the black beret out of my bag and placed it jauntily on my head. Nicki frowned at me and shook her head.

"No good. Pick me up early for class tonight. We have a stop to make." Shit! I thought she'd like my effort to match her style.

I picked her up at five, thinking we'd be able to grab a bite to eat before class. We did that sometimes. Instead, she directed me to an army surplus store. We went down rows of military paraphernalia that included everything from uniforms to backpacks to knives and guns. Nicki knew the guy behind the counter and he took us directly to his collection of formed and unformed military berets.

"We want unformed. We won't use the military look. We're guerillas."

"Another protest, Nicolette? You're going to get in trouble one of these days. Who's the new recruit?" the guy asked.

"Boyfriend." The guy was surprised.

"I'd never have thought..." He led us to a box full of berets. "Here's what you want. Basic black, unformed, but shaved." He looked at me critically. "Short, ain't he?"

"Just get us matching t-shirts and camo jackets," Nicki said as she started pawing through the box of berets. I couldn't tell the difference from one to another, but the difference between these berets and the one I'd bought at Penney's was obvious. Mine looked like a sissy hat. These were serious. She handed me one and then pulled another out for herself. I watched how she put it on and copied her. She made a couple corrections and I looked in a mirror. Dang! This looked sharp! The guy brought a couple t-shirts and jackets to us and motioned me to a dressing room. Apparently he knew the sizes for Nicki.

The shirt was a little tight. He got me a small. I usually wear a medium.

"Hmm. I didn't peg you to have so much muscle under that oxford," he said when I came out. "I'd better get you a bigger shirt."

"Are you kidding?" Nicki asked. "Look at those pecs and abs. If I was doing a video, I'd rip the shirt high enough that his stomach was bare." She laughed and I looked at her in shock. She dragged me to the counter and paid with a credit card.

"Nicki, you don't have to buy me clothes." I could write a check to cover this. It wasn't that expensive.

"Considering the fact that I'm still thinking of ripping that shirt off of you, I'll pay for it," she snickered.

What the hell got into her all of a sudden?

Most of my friends thought I had a pretty easy gig to make a lot of money for doing a fifteen minute cooking demo once a week. Even when they discovered that we averaged three to four hours of studio time for each segment, they still figured that was fifty or sixty bucks an hour. The truth was that I spent at least an hour on the phone with Miss Polly and Harvey each week as we planned out the menu and demo. I didn't just have a free rein to do whatever I wanted. They had to approve the menu and the concept for the demo and Miss Polly wanted to be prepared for the type of guest I would have so she could ask appropriate questions while we cooked. When I explained what I wanted with Nicki and why, they were hesitant, but when Mr. Duval went in to sign the release for Nicki to be on the show, he nodded and said it sounded like the only way to get his daughter on set. Mrs. Duval rolled her eyes.

Nicki and I had a blast.

Me: This is my girlfriend, X.

Miss P: That is an unusual name, Brian. X?

Me: X is a revolutionary and we want to protect her real identity.

Miss P: It's nice to meet you, X. The camouflage paint on your face should serve to keep your identity a secret. Brian, what are we cooking today?

Me: Revolutionary food, Miss Polly. You see, X is a vegetarian.

Miss P: Oh. That would limit what we can serve.

Me: When my sister got married a couple years ago she was in a panic when I suggested her in-laws might be vegetarians. She wanted to know what she'd ever feed them and I said, "Lots of salad." But what we are serving today is an entire vegetarian meal and I promise the most devoted carnivore would be happy to eat it.

The meal and demo were a success. I served marinated Portobello mushrooms, wild rice pilaf, and sautéed green beans with Asian five spice. They were impressed that most of the cooking was accomplished on the show. I had the rice cooking before we started and the mushrooms marinating, but it's a really fast meal to prepare and serve. I'm not sure if Miss Polly or Harvey noticed, but I'd placed a black rose at Nicki's setting. She noticed. It is really weird to see a face in battle camouflage paint break into a megawatt smile.

"Well, what would you like to do now, Nicki? By tradition, today is your date with Brian."

"Take me home, please," she said quietly.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry if I did something..."

"I want to wash my face!" she laughed. "This paint itches."

"Oh!" Well, hell. With Nicolette Duval you never knew for sure. We got to her house and she invited me to her room. There was no sign of her parents anywhere. "Your mom and dad aren't home?"

"Off in Chicago at some lodge event. Won't be back until tomorrow night." She walked into the bathroom adjoining her room. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to shower." I heard the water start in her bathroom and also heard the door lock. Taking no chances. I wandered around her room just looking to see what kind of girl Nicki really was inside.

It wasn't girly feminine—certainly not like Brenda's room—but it wasn't all draped in black with big revolution posters, either. What it was, really surprised me. She'd written on the walls. I don't mean like graffiti. In random places on the walls were snippets of poetry. This wasn't her poetry. The entirety of Noyes' "The Highwayman" was neatly penned along one side of her door.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

The whole thing was there. And it's a long poem. It went from near the ceiling almost to the floor, neatly penned in black marker. It was an echo of her own poetry. Love, betrayal, suicide, death, vengeance, and the long lingering of the ghostly presence. On other walls, shorter bits of poetry ranging from Poe to Billy Joel. Song lyrics, classic poetry, and pieces I'd never heard of. Sometimes a verse and sometimes a whole poem—all penned in her precise handwriting. I stopped in front of one, a song I'd heard and could almost hear the tune as I read the final stanza.

Just remember in the winter far beneath the winter snow
Lies the seed that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose.

I'd never thought of Nicki as being such a romantic.

"There aren't many lyrics about roses that aren't so sappy you want to gag," she said behind me. "I put that one up there after you gave me a black rose. The first time." I turned to her. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and another was wrapped around her breasts and middle. It just barely hid both her nipples and her pussy. I stared. "You have a dozen girlfriends, Brian. Don't tell me you haven't seen any of them come out of the shower."

"Um ... it's not that, Nicki. It's that I've never seen you come out of the shower. Like that. With just a towel. I mean, do you want me to give you some privacy so you can get dressed?"

"You know what Monday was?"

"Um ... April third?"

"Mmmhmm. My birthday."

"I didn't know that. Happy birthday, Nicki!"

"My seventeenth birthday." Those words just hung in the air between us. Oh shit! How could I tell Nicki that I couldn't have sex with her? Wouldn't have sex with her? How could I tell her and still live? "I can't wait another year. I want it now."

"Nicki, I can't..."

"I know you can't really do it, but you could fake it." Huh? How the hell did she think I could fake having sex with her?

"I ... um ... Nicki?"

"I've got those pens all over. I printed out a stencil. I can't do it myself." She was tearing up. Oh shit, shit, shit!

"I don't know what you want, Nicki."

"I want you to tattoo me, dummy." Tattoo? "I can't go to a tattoo studio and have it done until I'm eighteen. It's some stupid state law. But I want my black rose. I know you can't run a tattoo needle but I thought ... I thought you'd do this for me." Pens. Stencil. Tattoo. Oh, holy shit. She wanted me to draw a black rose on her. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"I can do that!"

"What did you think... ? Oh, fuck!"

"Yeah. That's what I thought. I mean you come out of the shower in just a towel and tell me you're seventeen and can't wait. Christ, Nicki! What did you think I'd think?"

"But everybody knows you're going to fuck Whitney. Why would I try to spoil things for her?"

"Everybody knows?"

"Duh!"

"Oh, crap! I suppose I just made an ass of myself again."

"Whitney's so excited she's like a walking fountain. And I'm sure as hell not ready to do that. It's all I could do to do this." By this, apparently she meant dropping her towel and standing in front of me stark naked. Come on! I'm only a guy. I knew she was pretty under all that army fatigue and ripped tights crap. But this was almost too much to bear. I've decided it is simply a universal law or something that the most beautiful woman in the world is the one standing naked in front of you.

"Why are you naked, Nicki? I'm a guy, you know? I respond to certain stimuli and damn it, you are stimulating."

"Am I really? Are you getting turned on looking at me?"

"Fuck, yes!"

"That's so cool."

"But..."

"I'm naked so you can decide where the best place would be to have the tattoo. I know I said right here where the rose you gave me left a mark on my breast, but then I got to thinking maybe it should be more hidden like here on the inside of my thigh. Or do you think it would be better on my butt? I need you to help me decide where it's going to be."

"Nicki, to do any drawing on you and all, you know I have to touch you, right?"

"Yeah. Oh. I get it. Touching equals sex. So, if you'll do it, I'll let you ... um ... touch me. Okay? I'll touch you, too, and won't send you away with blue balls. Brian ... am I one of your girlfriends?"

"Nicki, you are definitely one of my girlfriends. Here's the deal. You don't owe me sex or touching. I'll draw the roses where you want and I won't touch you any other way unless you really want me to. Just understand that I'm going to have an erection and I'm really, really going to enjoy touching you."

"Brian, I give you explicit permission to enjoy touching me while you put tattoos all over my body. Okay?" I grinned. This was not how I expected our date to go.

Nicki gave me a bunch of pens and stencils that she'd printed and carefully cut out. We agreed that first I'd do just an outline in the various places that she wanted to try it with a washable pen. When she decided which one she wanted for real, we'd wash the others off and I'd use a permanent marker to fill in the tattoo. I offered to let her cover up while I worked on her ankle first.

"It took all the courage I had to get naked. If I cover up, I'll lose it. Uh ... is it okay? I mean, do you like looking at me?" I looked up at her from where I was working on her ankle. Between me and her eyes was her pussy. And her breasts. She had dark pubic hair, but nowhere near as dark as the hair on her head. I guess dying your hair black was part of being an anarchist.

"Hell, yes I like it!"

"It would be easier on me if you didn't have so many clothes on," she whispered as I finished the first outline. "Brian? I love the way that t-shirt fits you, but would you show me what's under it?" I pulled off my shirt and she ran her hand over my chest and abs. "Nice. Now the one here on my tit." We worked on the position for a while. I ran my hand all over her breast and squeezed it a little in the name of figuring out where the stencil would fit best. The whole time I was touching her, she was running her hand over my chest and when she flicked my nipple with her thumb, I leaned over and gently kissed her little brown points. She moaned a little.

I finished that drawing and she rolled onto her stomach and pointed to the spot on her butt. I started working on her butt with my fingers, just stroking and kneading the soft flesh. I can't resist a girl's butt. I just can't.

"I'll give you the rest of the night to stop that, but then you still have to do the drawing," she sighed. I finally found the right place where I thought it would look good and started to ink in the rose. Her hip twitched. "Do you think there's a correlation between how much the pen tickles and how much the needle will hurt?" she giggled.

"I don't know. What tickled most so far?"

"My ankle." Well, maybe that was a good sign. I couldn't imagine that she'd go for the one on her ankle.

"I've seen a lot of tattoos on the calf. Do you want to give that one a try?"

"I don't think so. Do this one next." She rolled onto her back and pointed at the spot right next to her unruly pussy hair. In this position, her soft breasts flattened a little but the nipples stayed erect. There was a flush on her torso that mounted toward her face as I manipulated the stencil to see how it would fit. She drew her right leg up a little and let her knee fall to the side "to give me more room." This opened her pussy to my eyes, even through the thick forest. Her lips were glistening and her scent became more pungent.

I started drawing. In order to hold the stencil in place, my left hand was pressed against her mound. I could feel her heat but didn't try to rub her or touch her more than was required by holding the stencil. When the outline was finished, I pulled away and she looked down at me. My hand was still resting on the inside of her thigh and she looked from the sketch to my hand and then up to my eyes. Uh-oh. I wasn't that good at reading Nicki, but she looked dangerous. I started to move my hand but she shook her head. She reached for the box of Sharpies and handed me two permanent markers.