by Leslie Joyce
(06/12/02)
Like so many of her lovers, Maurice will likely be put off by Gisela's tattoo. She is used to this reaction, expects it even. She has deliberately not warned him, wanting to witness his initial honest response. It's really the best way of judging him. The tattoo is an illustration of who she once was, who she has become, who she will always be. If Maurice cannot accept this without reservation, she has little use for him.
Their clothes, except their underwear, form the outline of an uneven trail leading from door to bed. They had flung off their shoes in the other room moments after entering her apartment. Gisela straddles Maurice and lowers herself enough to swing her breasts and brush his dark nipples. His body is softer, less defined than most of the men who pose as artists' models. It took a while for her to get used to this, but now she likes to draw him, to seek out the armature hidden by his pale flesh.
"You artists," he says. "Is sex all you ever think about?"
"Practically," she answers.
"Lucky me." He reaches behind her to hook his thumbs inside the elastic, and pull her panties as far as he can without her help.
This is where it gets tricky. She is not as anxious to get naked as he is. She likes what they are doing now. It is possible he might leave her once he sees the tattoo. This has happened more often than she likes to admit. "Not yet," she says, rubbing her bottom over him.
She has been attracted to him since the first time she saw him in class. He is wonderful to draw, never striking the same pose twice in a session, unless asked. He does not complain about the cold, never asks for extra break time. He does not object to holding props. She hopes Maurice is as thoughtful a lover as he is a model. She moves to sit beside him, bending her knees so he can slide the panties down her legs.
He turns on one side to watch. His grin fades as he looks down at her. "Wow," he says. "That's some tattoo."
"Isn't it?"
He frowns, looks confused, points to her crotch. "Oh, I get it. A book. It's supposed to be a book."
"That's right," she says. "The story of my life." The tattoo that stretches from crotch to ass is an open book.
"Kind of cool," he says. "I like the cover, especially."
"Thank you," she says. The cover is formed by her outer labia. The tattooist used an ink that was a rich cherry brown edged in gold. Because she has borne a child since, it is now wrinkled leather, but still doeskin soft.
"I mean, usually tattoos are smaller. This one is quite a statement," he says. He scratches his chin.
"I have a lot to say," she tells him. Her story is still being written. Who knows? Later, she might even want to revise it.
"Did it hurt?"
"Which part?"
"The needles."
"Yes," she says. "It hurt." There is nothing wrong with hurt, it's how you handle it that matters.
"How bad?"
"More than childbirth, less than heartache."
"Are you, like, a masochist?"
"I can be."
"I guess that in a way, we all are," he says, and she nods.
He points to a photograph on her bedside stand. It is of a little girl, all smiles, hair, and lavender ruffles. "Is that your daughter?" he asks.
"Yes."
He waits as if expecting her to go on. When she doesn't, he asks, "Does she live here?"
"No," she says. "Her father has custody." She tries to make it obvious that she does not want to talk about it.
"Oh," he says. "That's too bad. I'll bet you were a good mother."
She smiles, forgiving his naiveté for now. He is young. He barely knows her. "Not really," she says. "Don't be shocked. It wasn't my thing."
"Does it say anything?" he asks. He is stroking her labia with one finger, as if trying to read the title in Braille. "It tells all," she says. "Just not in words."
The pages of the book are her inner labia. Soft vellum. Worn from use.
"I like to read," he says with a laugh. He walks his fingers inside to rifle through the pages. "I see you've marked your favorite place," he says, stroking her clitoris.
"Funny how many lovers misplace the bookmark."
"Not me," he says. "I'm not like that." Maurice turns on his belly and crawls down the bed. He thrusts his nose between her thighs and breathes her fragrant story. "Mmmm," he murmurs. "Smells like cinnamon."
His voice becomes melodramatic. "I know!" he screams. "It's a cookbook!" He tickles the hair beneath her arm and despite herself, she laughs.
One hand strokes her belly while the other slips around her waist to grasp her bum.
Too often, her lovers have wanted to begin the story at a place where she wants it to end. Too often, their stories have left her crying. She's so used to it that she finds sad tales comforting, because she knows them by heart. Maurice, though, knows how to tell a tale, how to keep the tension mounting. Maurice knows not to end a thing before its time.
He sucks in air, blows out a steady cool stream as if to dry moist ink.
She opens her legs wide.
His tongue is a paintbrush; he begins his brushstroke gently like he's painting a watercolor, then progresses to the light dabbing of oil on canvas. He makes his tongue into an eraser, but does not erase what he has started, only adds to it. Her grip around his head relaxes after her orgasm.
"Sorry," she says.
He comes up for air, wipes his mouth against his arm. "That's okay," he says. "That was one delicious story."
"Not all stories end as happily as this one," Gisela says.
"That was only Chapter One," answers Maurice.
