“Silly!” For a while I thought he said cutie again. “Sorry I didn’t have time to change anymore. I just got in too. I was still in the office when you called," he said with a cute little pout. Then he added, "Come on in.”
His apartment wasn't so big as the ones I've seen before in the same area. But it wasn't small either for a single man. It had three rooms --- his bedroom, the changing-slash-storage room, and the office. He had very few pieces of furniture, most of them wood and chunky. In the living area there were no couches, only a big daybed in the middle, which stood out not for its solitude but for its metallic composition. Under it, was a furry area rug that was spotlessly white and comfortably soft (where I would be lying naked with my arms and legs around him in a few minutes. Oh god! I hope I don't get this stained. He might never invite me again.) . It faced a huge Samsung plasma TV that hung on the wall, which was sandwiched by two 2 ft. x 5 ft. paintings, obviously of the same series by the same artist. To the right of the TV was an old Chinese village at noon, to the left was the same village at night. On top of the TV was a single-layered wooden shelf where a tall, slender and empty vase stood and where about a dozen books on art rested.
I was standing in front of the TV, examining his books when he came out of the kitchen without his jacket on, and his sleeves rolled up. A dark grey apron, almost in the same shade as his dress pants, was wrapped around his waist. He had in his hands two wineglasses and some place mats.
"Need a hand?", I courteously offered.
"No, thanks. Just make yourself comfortable. We'll need your hands more later." He placed the mats on the table then gave me a devillish grin and a sly wink.
About 10 minutes later, we were already devouring on his grilled salmon and steamed veggies, and drinking white wine. We have already talked about a few unmalicious subjects too, without any sexual innuendos. He asked how long I had been here and I told him the story of my diaspora, which he listened to intently.
"How 'bout you? How long have you been here?" I threw him back the question.
"9 years. 10 in August."
"Wow! How do you intend to celebrate your 10th anniversary?"
"I don't know. I wanna get a tattoo in Chinese calligraphy."
"Do you have any?"
"Yes. You've never seen it?" He acted puzzled. After seeing me shook my head, he rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt until it reached its limit a few inches just above his elbow. The tip of the tattoo on the inner part of his bicep peeked and he repeated the question. "Are you sure you've never seen it?"
"Never. What is it?"
Without saying a word, he unrolled his sleeve, unbuttoned his shirt and took out his right arm from the sleeve. How he did it, and at what pace he did, I don't remember. Everything is now a blur to me, but for his nipple that sat tall & proud on his firm, slightly hairy chest. He turned out his arm, thus half-flexing his bicep to show the tattoo. It was an inscription in arabic calligraphy.
"Nice. Very nice.", I said, not pertaining to the tattoo, but to the sexy armpit that he had exposed. "Can I touch it?" I asked shyly, almost in a whisper.
His head was titlted down and he looked at me from under his brows. In the same intensity that I delivered my question, he said, "Suit yourself."
I ran my fingers on his tattoo and examined it like an intricately-carved antique, glancing sporadically at the semi-blonde strands of hair on his chest and those that peeped out from his armpit.
"Why are your fingers cold?" he asked.
"I have iron deficiency," I said, trying to be funny. Trying to conceal my tension.
"You're nervous, child!" he teased me.
"A little bit."
"Don't be. I'm gonna ask to touch your tattoos as well anyway."
"How did you know I had them?"
"Propaganda. Long time ago. I saw you dancing topless and without a belt on the pole."
"Oh!" I blushed a bit. Then continued, "I have two new ones."
I lifted my shirt and showed him the chinese calligraphy on my right oblique.
"Three characters. What does it say?" he asked while slowly running the back of his middle and forefinger through it.
"I don't remember."
"Well, make something up."
With the most courage I could muster and the least nervousness I could show, I looked in his eyes and said, "I want you."
...will be conitnued. promise.