For a while I lay there, unsure what to think.
It's been over an hour since I said goodnight to my parents and slid in bed. Despite the enduring exhaustion from all the gardening work and from unloading the rest of the moving boxes, I can't seem to fall asleep.
I try to focus on my new bedroom, which is fully decked out with all my belongings, just the way I like it. My clear lights are strung from each corner of the room, coming to bloom in the center. My plasma screen TV sits across from my bed, perfect for future scary movie sleepover viewings, and my desk is placed across from the window, adorned with my computer and camera.
Yet all I can do is think about Paris' gorgeous face, his intoxicating deep brown eyes, his seductive cherry red lips, and his alluring black curls which I so desperately want to run my hands through. Freckles are dotted all over his pale face, and he has a frail figure that makes me worry about him a little. His arms and legs are so thin, but I can't see the outline of his bones, so that makes his figure a little less alarming. I know some people don't eat as much food as I do because I eat like a horse. Except he's only about a year younger than me - he should look a little less like a prisoner.
I had so much fun with him this afternoon, and already hate the thought that his adorable face has suffered. He has this intoxicating laugh that's softer than whipped cream and melted into me when I unexpectedly hugged him. Surprisingly, Paris practically collapsed into my arms when we embraced, and my heart ached to let go of him. We only held onto each other for a few seconds, yet every inch of our bodies felt like they fit into place.
He smells like fresh jasmine, and I have no idea if it's his shampoo or cologne, but I have to keep myself from getting aroused when I smell it. It doesn't help that my mom has vases of jasmines on the dinner table. All through our dinner of lasagna, I couldn't think about anything but him. My cheeks turned a harsh auburn and my Mom asked me if I was feeling alright. I assured her I was fine but refused to sit up from the dinner table for the next fifteen minutes, even though both my parents had already finished eating. Usually, I'm on my second serving when my parents are still working on their first, but I told my parents I wasn't all that hungry and slowly nibbled on my food, too afraid to stand up without revealing the unfortunate predicament residing in my joggers.
The feelings I have for Paris are stronger than anything I've ever felt before and it scares me. I've had plenty of crushes in my life, but never anything like this. It was like, right away, I wanted to kiss those cherry lips and pull at his black curls, getting intoxicated in the smell of jasmine that radiated off his neck and chest and-
My heart speeds up, uncontrollable in the heat of the night. My body longs to feel Paris' touch, to let his image dance in my mind, to crave him like never before-
Restlessly I stop myself. I can't bring myself to think about him like this. My imagination is starting to take control over my rationale, and there are a number of reasons I need to wave his beautiful image away:
#1 - I hardly even know him.
#2 - I just moved here and have to get settled in first.
#3 – I am majorly in the closet. It took me years before I told Maya and Tommy, and they're the only ones who know.
#4 - I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF HE'S GAY!
I am sure there are plenty of more reasons for me to try and give up my illicit desires for the boy next door, but four are more than enough. In a perfect world, where all gay people had a gaydar that told them who was gay and who wasn't and where I wasn't terrified my parents would have a stroke if they knew I was gay, I would be more than happy to jump on the Paris train and stick my tongue down his throat.
There I go, thinking about Paris again, in compromising positions, with me.
If I could just shift my focus on something, anything else besides him, maybe I could fall asleep. Yet all I do is lay there, rubbing the pink triangle tattoo on my bicep, the one Paris said he loved so very much, the one that made me think that maybe he's playing for my team. Or maybe he had no fucking clue what the pink triangle represents. Maybe he thought it looked nice like my parents eventually did when they saw it after I got it on a drunken whim on my seventeenth birthday.
I still remember that night so vividly. Tommy snuck out a bottle of vodka from her parent's bar, which was loaded with all sorts of alcohol and fancy liqueur I'd never heard of. He said they had so many parties with their drunken neighbors that they would never notice it was gone. I remember begging them to not make me do it, but Tommy and Maya said they had been holding out on their first shot for me. They were both already seventeen, and we had promised years ago we would try our first shot after we all turned seventeen. It was a silly pact, but we were seven years younger and giggled at the thought of pinky promising about shots.
After the first shot, which tasted like utter shit, the three of us couldn't help but make an incredibly irrational decision and take another.
"Maybe it'll taste better the second time?" Maya suggested, knowing that was bullshit.
So we took another shot and winced at it. Tommy almost vomited in my lap, but I steadied him and threw him back on the carpet of my bedroom, which was all to us. My parents had gone out for a date night, letting my friends and I have the apartment to ourselves.
"How about one more?" He asked, burping at the disgusting taste of sour vomit mixed with burning vodka.
We laughed and took another, making all sorts of weird and goofy faces before finally agreeing to put the bottle down.
Maya and Tommy both gave me a birthday kiss on the cheek before leading me into the kitchen. Maya perused my fridge with an audacious attitude – she was desperately searching for something even though she certainly came over enough to know where we kept everything.
"Ooooooo," Maya wailed, opening up a box of cherry popsicles.
Each of us snatched one and numbed our teeth, biting with icy impatience.
After having another round of popsicles, Tommy looked me right in the eyes with the stupidest look on his pale face, slurring his words as he said, "You should get a tattoo."
His eyes peered into me, their color an electric ice blue. My head was spinning, but I felt great, the chilly mushy popsicles trailing down my throat, slickening it and freezing my entire body.
"Ah, what the hell," I replied, not even thinking clearly as Maya's face lit up, dimples forming on her mahogany skin. She played with her frizzy black curls as she dialed a number on her cell phone.
"Hey, Cam, I have a friend here who wants to get a tattoo. You think you could work your magic?"
She smiled, showing off her glittering white teeth which were the only thing I could focus on as she called an Uber and we hopped inside. The drive took about twenty-five minutes, but it felt like no time at all as the three of us screeched to the music on the radio and laughed like uncontrollable baboons.
When the car stopped, Maya led us into a colossal apartment building, similar to mine a few blocks down. The inside was nice, with fancy upholstered couches and a receptionist desk where a woman sat wearing a black blazer and matching skirt. She looked like a fancy hotel concierge, and we all felt underdressed.
"Who are you and who do you wish to see?" The woman asked in an uppity tone, squinting her eyes at us in bitter annoyance as we loused around like the drunkards we were.
"My name is Maya Hathaway and my friends and I are here to see Cameron Billings," Maya said in her HBIC tone that Tommy and I both knew very well. She used it whenever she was destined to get what she wanted – like whenever she convinced a teacher to raise her grade or when she called out an asshole on the street catcalling her.
The woman at the front desk scoffed when she heard Maya mention his name.
"Okay," the concierge scoffed, her lips dripping with sarcasm.
The woman dialed a four-digit code on the phone resting at her desk, getting an answer on the first ring.
"Dr. Billings, I have a...Maya Hathaway asking to see you. Oh-you were expecting her? Right, I'm so sorry, sir. Yes, I'm putting her on the list right now. I'll send her and her lovely friends right up."
The woman hung up the phone, her cheeks burning as she stared up at us, her eyes bulging wide.
"I apologi-"
"Save it," Maya replied, holding up her finger to shush the bitchy concierge as she directed us to the elevator, pressing the button for the twentieth floor. In an instant, we were there, and there were only two doors, one to the left of the elevator, and another to the right. Maya veered to the door on the left, which had been left ajar. Maya waved us inside and I shut the door behind me as a tall man with broad shoulders and ebony skin came walking up to us, an array of finely-inked tattoos on his strapping arms, which were peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his undershirt. His gray blazer was resting on the coat rack at the door and he was wearing matching dress pants. There was a caring smile on his face as he welcomed Maya, wrapping her up in a tight, comforting embrace.
"Maya, such a pleasure to see you! My apologies for the concierge. Who are these handsome friends of yours?"
I felt my cheeks redden slightly, already flushed from the alcohol surging through my veins and flattered by his compliment. Dizziness clouded my head as he shook my hand, rattling my bones with his firm grip. I'd never met Maya's uncle before and it was hard to deny how attractive he was, the outline of his toned muscles showing through his undershirt. With the taste of vodka still on my tongue, I found it difficult to take my eyes off of him.
Maya redirected my attention, introducing us to her uncle and telling him it was my birthday. Although she didn't enjoy sharing stuff about her personal life – especially when it came to her parents – Maya had told Tommy and me all about her uncle. He was the sweetest person she knew, always buying her clothes and making her delicious dinners. When he was not busy saving lives as one of New York City's most respected trauma surgeons, he acted as Maya's surrogate father. Maya never told her mother about her visits to see him, however. He was gay, and Maya's mother cut off all contact with him when he came out in college. I didn't know much about Maya's mother, but once or twice she shared stories about the bipolar woman who resisted treatment and spent many nights with men she met on the street, hopelessly attempting to replace the man who walked out on her and Maya years ago. On the good days, Maya and her mother sustained somewhat of a pleasant relationship. On the bad days, Maya sometimes feared even returning home. She spent plenty of nights at her uncle's apartment. Various times she called me from his apartment, sobbing and just begging for me to distract her with mindless conversation. There were many evenings when I feared for Maya's safety. I was thankful that Maya had her uncle to escape to, a place of comfort even in her darkest moments.
"So, birthday boy, what kind of tattoo do you want?" Dr. Billings asked with a kindness that managed to calm me down a little. When I'd agreed to Tommy's idea of getting a tattoo, I hadn't really thought it through. In the heat of the moment, and the haze of alcohol, I'd been quick to say yes, but now I was regretting my decision. It wasn't even the pain that scared me the most. What would my parents say when they saw it? Would they be disappointed in me for making such a rash decision?
I tried to push my nerves aside and consider his question. Besides, I couldn't back out now. We had already come here and I didn't want to waste any more of Dr. Billings' time. I wasn't going to let worry and fear get in my way. Everyone asserted I was the most courageous person they knew. I was a popular kid at my school in New York City – not like "football player dating the cheerleader" popular, more like "charismatic dude who gets good grades and is going to be an entertainer" popular. Not to mention, Maya had at least three tattoos, all of which I presumed her uncle etched, and nobody seemed to care all that much.
Taking in one last breath, I asked Dr. Billings for a blank piece of paper and a pencil. He gladly complied, handing me the supplies from his big ass shiny kitchen, letting me doodle away while he conversed with Maya and Tommy about school and shit.
From the moment we arrived at Dr. Billings' apartment, I had this feeling that I knew the perfect tattoo for me. I needed to see it first, visualize it on paper before I agreed to have it etched onto my skin. I already knew where I wanted it – on the side of my left bicep. I originally just wanted the upside-down pink triangle. I recalled seeing it all across New York City during Pride Month on jackets, tees, and jewelry. The LGBT+ community had reclaimed the emblem, once used to shamefully mark gay men in concentration camps during World War II, as a symbol of queer love and self-expression. The idea of branding my skin with something meaningful, something that represented such an intimate and important part of my soul, illuminated a burning flame in my heart. And yeah, maybe I was a little drunk from the vodka or perhaps I am just optimistic, but suddenly I could not wait to get my first tattoo.
Except, I realized the pink triangle was not enough. And so, I drew a beautiful black and white rose, with shading and everything, using drawing techniques I had learned from a sketchbook guide my parents bought me for Christmas a few years back. To this day I think it is the most beautiful sketch I have ever drawn. Maybe it was because I knew I would have it on my body for the rest of my life, or maybe I had struck inspiration. Either way, I drew the upside-down pink triangle behind the rose, coloring it in with a pink pen sitting on the granite countertop of Dr. Billing's kitchen. As soon as he and my friends saw it, they loved it. Maya gasped and her big brown eyes lit up with excitement.
"Gray, that's absolutely gorgeous!"
Gray was a pet name I adored. Only my closest friends used it. It made me feel less like an old, stuffy businessman and more like a young, aspiring artist. I felt that way then, knowing I was about to receive a tattoo I designed myself, a tattoo that meant so much to me and carried such a valuable meaning.
"I'm stunned!" Dr. Billings cried, waving his hands theatrically in the air as he showed me into one of the many rooms down the glossy blue painted hallway.
Maya and Tommy followed as Dr. Billings opened a door leading into a small room about the size of a walk-in closet. There was a cushiony chair in the middle of the room that reminded me of the ones at the dentist. A granite countertop with fresh white cabinets adorned the side of the wall, covered in a neatly organized array of tools and a shiny sink. A window at the end of the room looked out on the beautiful Manhattan night sky. Glittering skyscrapers beamed with shimmering lights, calming my nerves. I adored the city lights, the sparkling array of colors that speckled each and every building across town. It was truly breathtaking – I wanted to get my camera and take a dozen photos.
I took in a deep breath before sitting down on the cushiony chair. Maya and Tommy stood by the window, where Maya opened her cell phone and connected it by Bluetooth to the speaker sitting on the granite countertop, which I assumed was used to help calm the tattoo recipient down. Maya smirked as she scrolled through her phone, looking for the perfect song for my tattooing. I couldn't help but wonder when and how Dr. Billings operated a makeshift tattoo parlor in his apartment. Was it for family and friends only, or was it a Craigslist thing? Certainly not, he would need permits to solicit his services online. I just hoped he was qualified enough to give me some ink.
Maya started playing "Shallow" by Lady Gaga from her cell phone, knowing it was one of my absolute favorites. Maya was not as big of a Gaga fan as I was, but she and I had seen A Star is Born on opening week and both balled our eyes out. She laughed as I sang along with the words, the clear nervousness of the entire process pouring out of me in a flow of trembling lyrics that went along with Gaga's stunning vocals.
"Take off your shirt," Dr. Billings instructed, making my heart jump. The thought of taking off my shirt in front of him made me a little nervous. Nevertheless, I understood he needed to get a good look at my bicep, so I tried to just do what I was told and stop dwelling on it.
Hastily I removed my tee, eliciting cheers from Maya and Tommy. Maya even pretended to throw money at me, fanning out imaginary dollar bills with her hand. I laughed, taking away some of the anxiety coursing through my veins.
Once everything was ready, Dr. Billings sat down on a stool and rolled up to me with the tattoo needle, ready to etch the beautiful design on my skin.
***
"Gray, it's fantastic! I think this is Cam's best work!" Maya exclaimed, she and Tommy engrossed in the fresh ink still burning on my skin. The whole process hurt like shit, but Maya shuffled all my favorite Lady Gaga songs and I tearfully sang along, bearing the pain for the dazzling result. And I couldn't be happier with how it turned out.
I thanked Dr. Billings profusely and offered to pay but he insisted it was a birthday gift, free of charge. As we left the building, Maya and Tommy held my hands, relieving some of the awful soreness shooting through my left bicep.
***
It took a little over two weeks for the tattoo to heal. My parents grounded me for making such an "irresponsible" decision, but my dad secretly told me he thought it was cool how kickass I was for getting a tattoo at seventeen, which made me laugh. He even snuck me back my phone, telling me he used to all sorts of crazy shit, and if getting a tattoo was the worst thing I did, then I was doing much better than he was at my age.
Despite how calm and collected my parents are about almost everything (even my mom gave up on grounding me after the first few days, her boiling anger turning to a simmer), I still know coming out to them will be difficult. They've always assumed I'm straight, and they'd probably think I'm jeopardizing any chance at a "happy" life. Yet whenever I imagine my future self, I see myself married to an affectionate husband, our adopted daughters prancing around our feet. It all seems exceptional. Giving that up would be jeopardizing my chance at a happy life.
I'm just relieved they never looked up the meaning behind the pink triangle, which I wouldn't have gotten tattooed if I wasn't drunk. Thankfully, they interpreted it as nothing more than a beautiful, artsy design, relieved I hadn't gotten something vulgar tattooed on my body. I wasn't ready to come out to them then, and I'm not ready to come out to them now. Hopefully someday I will, but until then, I'll try to separate myself from my sexuality, no matter how impossible that may seem.
Finally, I manage to drift to sleep. My hand rests on my tattoo and my mind dwells on those black curls and cherry lips.
Below is Grayson's tattoo designed by the very talented and lovely ThisIsZanz ! A big thank you to them for such a gorgeous design that perfectly encapsulates how Grayson's tattoo looked in my mind when I first wrote this chapter.