Long ago, I was in one of my peculiar moods. I wanted something different. Something out of the usual for me. I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted tattoos, piercings, ink writ large on a hot body and an angel's face. I wanted a crazy time with an alt girl.
I found what I was looking for right away. She had bright, unnaturally red hair and creamy white skin. And of course, she had many tattoos and piercings. I dug deeper, and found her posts showing her spirited and spunky side. I read on into the night and knew I had to meet her. She would be my walk on the wild side, a suicide grrl that would give my the fun fun fun times I was looking for.
But when I finally walked through her door, it was fun of a slightly different flavor. Oh, I wasn't quite as anonymous to her as I had thought I would be. She had read me like a book, as soon as she set eyes on me. She knew what I really wanted even better than I did. And without a word, she slipped that pierced tongue into my mouth, and we kissed tenderly like long-lost lovers.
I hesitated for a moment, then changed gears. I was gentle, undressing her slowly, kissing every inch of that inked skin. I discovered her paint, read her personal credos, explored every piercing delicately with my fingertips and tongue. When I finally entered her, it was the homecoming for a place I never knew I missed.
We lay back, afterwards, nestled snuggly between her sheets. I intertwined my fingers with hers and we chatted for a time. I looked at her tattoos one at a time, touching each one for emphasis as we talked. They told the story of her life, vignettes rendered in multicolored ink, and every one had a special meaning. She was genial and good natured, until I reached *the* tattoo. I felt her tense up as I ran my fingertips over it and I felt the tiny ripple of scar tissue. I saw the uncomfortable flicker in her eyes and changed the subject then, in the best way I knew how. I kissed her, softly, sensually.
Too soon, it was time for me to go. I thought about her for days afterwards, closing my eyes and remembering her soft touch, her gentle kiss, the feel of her hard metal on my tongue. I called her and she was glad to hear from me. And soon enough I was in her arms, tasting those kisses, stroking her fine fine inked skin. We lay back afterwards. Her tattoos fascinated me, and I stroked and kissed each one of them in turn.
I glanced down at the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. The tiny ripple of scar tissue it covered was barely visible in the dim light. I looked at her for a moment, then took her hand in mine. I traced her fingertip on the ridges of scar tissue barely visible on the suntanned skin on the inside of the wrist. My own wrist.
"I have one too." She looked at me in surprise, then opened her mouth to say something and thought better of it. "I was young."
I tensed as she ran her fingers along the scar and looked more closely. It was a little souvenir from the lowest point of the most trying years of my life. It was a small scar, barely visible. The plastic surgeon was a good one and most people didn't notice it unless I pointed it out. I remembered the blood, the wild ambulance ride, waking up bandaged with my family and friends around me. But that was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg. Sometimes the scars and the tales that are most meaningful are on the inside, not scattered in Technicolor memories on your skin.
She watched me for a moment. I could tell she was thinking. She held me close then, soft kisses, her warmth and gentle perfume wafting close. She reached down and started to stroke my cock and in spite of the intensity of the moment I started to get hard. She climbed aboard, slipping me inside her. She was warm and she was tight, and she held me down as she started to ride me hard. I forgot about.. well whatever it was I was thinking about. I was getting close. I rolled her off of me, mounted her doggie. I rammed her hard, again and again. My eyes were squinched tight not only in the mad fury of the moment but also to hold back the tears. I pulled out and sprayed my fear, my pain, my years of regret all over the elaborate tattoo on the small of her back.
I looked up to see her watching me. She mumbled something in that cute accent of hers and ran off, returning with a towel. Huh. It's funny, I thought. This is what I thought I was looking for at the beginning of all this, and yet it came when I was least expecting it.
Sometimes true intimacy starts in this world, not with a gentle kiss and caress but with something wild and rough. For it's only when you trust, that you truly let go. And sometimes what awaits you is not quite what you expected. Something special happened then. We shared not just the good, but the worst that had happened with each other. Our stories spilled out of each other. Every wonderful, sordid, evil detail. We held each other close, each wanting to shield the other from the world. We met into the fall and winter, sharing our lives, our love, our little tales.
But sometimes you can become too close. Sometimes you can share too much. And in the end, the hurt and the pain that we had shared with each other defined our relationship and pushed us apart. Because some secrets are too big, too horrible to be contained in more than one heart.
I think about her sometimes, my inked beauty, and wonder where she is and how she is doing. But she left me one gift I'll always treasure. Sometimes when I'm feeling lonely or sad I'll feel the faint white scars on my wrist with my fingertips and it'll make me think of her. She had taken away the bad memories and shame that those lines meant to me and replaced them with memories of her instead. I dream then of her smile, her pale creamy skin, her pierced tongue on mine. I smile back at her memory. And everything is alright in the world again.
I found what I was looking for right away. She had bright, unnaturally red hair and creamy white skin. And of course, she had many tattoos and piercings. I dug deeper, and found her posts showing her spirited and spunky side. I read on into the night and knew I had to meet her. She would be my walk on the wild side, a suicide grrl that would give my the fun fun fun times I was looking for.
But when I finally walked through her door, it was fun of a slightly different flavor. Oh, I wasn't quite as anonymous to her as I had thought I would be. She had read me like a book, as soon as she set eyes on me. She knew what I really wanted even better than I did. And without a word, she slipped that pierced tongue into my mouth, and we kissed tenderly like long-lost lovers.
I hesitated for a moment, then changed gears. I was gentle, undressing her slowly, kissing every inch of that inked skin. I discovered her paint, read her personal credos, explored every piercing delicately with my fingertips and tongue. When I finally entered her, it was the homecoming for a place I never knew I missed.
We lay back, afterwards, nestled snuggly between her sheets. I intertwined my fingers with hers and we chatted for a time. I looked at her tattoos one at a time, touching each one for emphasis as we talked. They told the story of her life, vignettes rendered in multicolored ink, and every one had a special meaning. She was genial and good natured, until I reached *the* tattoo. I felt her tense up as I ran my fingertips over it and I felt the tiny ripple of scar tissue. I saw the uncomfortable flicker in her eyes and changed the subject then, in the best way I knew how. I kissed her, softly, sensually.
Too soon, it was time for me to go. I thought about her for days afterwards, closing my eyes and remembering her soft touch, her gentle kiss, the feel of her hard metal on my tongue. I called her and she was glad to hear from me. And soon enough I was in her arms, tasting those kisses, stroking her fine fine inked skin. We lay back afterwards. Her tattoos fascinated me, and I stroked and kissed each one of them in turn.
I glanced down at the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. The tiny ripple of scar tissue it covered was barely visible in the dim light. I looked at her for a moment, then took her hand in mine. I traced her fingertip on the ridges of scar tissue barely visible on the suntanned skin on the inside of the wrist. My own wrist.
"I have one too." She looked at me in surprise, then opened her mouth to say something and thought better of it. "I was young."
I tensed as she ran her fingers along the scar and looked more closely. It was a little souvenir from the lowest point of the most trying years of my life. It was a small scar, barely visible. The plastic surgeon was a good one and most people didn't notice it unless I pointed it out. I remembered the blood, the wild ambulance ride, waking up bandaged with my family and friends around me. But that was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg. Sometimes the scars and the tales that are most meaningful are on the inside, not scattered in Technicolor memories on your skin.
She watched me for a moment. I could tell she was thinking. She held me close then, soft kisses, her warmth and gentle perfume wafting close. She reached down and started to stroke my cock and in spite of the intensity of the moment I started to get hard. She climbed aboard, slipping me inside her. She was warm and she was tight, and she held me down as she started to ride me hard. I forgot about.. well whatever it was I was thinking about. I was getting close. I rolled her off of me, mounted her doggie. I rammed her hard, again and again. My eyes were squinched tight not only in the mad fury of the moment but also to hold back the tears. I pulled out and sprayed my fear, my pain, my years of regret all over the elaborate tattoo on the small of her back.
I looked up to see her watching me. She mumbled something in that cute accent of hers and ran off, returning with a towel. Huh. It's funny, I thought. This is what I thought I was looking for at the beginning of all this, and yet it came when I was least expecting it.
Sometimes true intimacy starts in this world, not with a gentle kiss and caress but with something wild and rough. For it's only when you trust, that you truly let go. And sometimes what awaits you is not quite what you expected. Something special happened then. We shared not just the good, but the worst that had happened with each other. Our stories spilled out of each other. Every wonderful, sordid, evil detail. We held each other close, each wanting to shield the other from the world. We met into the fall and winter, sharing our lives, our love, our little tales.
But sometimes you can become too close. Sometimes you can share too much. And in the end, the hurt and the pain that we had shared with each other defined our relationship and pushed us apart. Because some secrets are too big, too horrible to be contained in more than one heart.
I think about her sometimes, my inked beauty, and wonder where she is and how she is doing. But she left me one gift I'll always treasure. Sometimes when I'm feeling lonely or sad I'll feel the faint white scars on my wrist with my fingertips and it'll make me think of her. She had taken away the bad memories and shame that those lines meant to me and replaced them with memories of her instead. I dream then of her smile, her pale creamy skin, her pierced tongue on mine. I smile back at her memory. And everything is alright in the world again.
