He had a phoenix tattoo
He had a phoenix tattoo on his upper back, or maybe it was of an eagle? At some point the space between his shoulder blades was the only thing I could focus on and I still can’t remember what that tattoo was. His face is even more of a mystery to me now, I wouldn’t be able to recognise him in a line up. Not unless he was naked, or at the very least topless. I think his name was Jairo. At least that’s what he told me.
***
Putting your fingers in someone’s mouth feels more intimate than fucking. Specially if they beg you to do it. Need you to do it.
He loves it. He’s loving it. He needs this. He needs this more than breathing. He’s loving it. He loves it. It’s obvious that he’s had dreams just like this. He’s had fantasies like this, this very scene right here.
The lights were dim and red- hiding a multitude of sins and enabling new ones. I lowered my eyes, I looked down at his eagle tattoo and I prayed.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
***
I didn’t even bother looking in his direction at first. Why shoot my shot with this absolutely beautiful, telenovela-quality Mexican man when I’m me and this god of a man is who he is. I was taught quite the lesson in it being in the eye of the beholder.
My brain screams: “well, this is less to do with you and more just luck or chance. Desperate people will do anything. You are anything.”
But he was the one that followed me. He didn’t look at me, he inhaled me. He followed me here, to this place. He didn’t seem desperate (not until later and for different reasons). Self loathing, like the devil, lies.
“I didn’t think you were keen on me. That was amazing!” He says.
“I thought the same. I’m glad. I met you” I say. I’m not lying. It’s an eye-of-the-beholder lesson, that’s for sure.
I did see him again, he walked past me a couple of times that night. Both times he smiled at me, I smiled a smile that was polite more than one of recognition. I didn’t recognise him until of course, I could see the tattoo on his back.
Actually, I think it might be a phoenix . I’m sure of it.
