Some names have been changed
*
Several years ago, I decided to finally have the sleeve on my right arm completed.
I went to my favorite shop to make an appointment with Erika, the woman who had inked all my tattoos for the past three years. Essentially, she'd used my arm and my back as a blank canvas. Yes, I trust her tattooing skills
that
much. Rather than tattooing something I picked off the wall or out of a notebook, Erika asked questions about my life, my likes, and other things which enabled her to create unique pieces that said something about me. All but a few of my tats have been done by women. The preference isn't sexual in nature at all; I'm just more comfortable in the hands of a female tattooist. Usually, I'll tell Erika what I'm wanting in the most basic way, and then let her imagination run wild. She takes a great deal of pride in her work and the results have been incredible. However, on this day, I was told that Erika's increasingly painful back condition led her to take a leave of absence for surgery and rehabilitation. I didn't know.
"It'll be about three months," said Chris, the owner. "But her cousin has taken her place until she gets back. Her name is Jeri and she's really, really good. A natural. I tell you, if any of my other people quit, I'd hire her in a heartbeat."
I knew Chris to be a straight shooter. He's a perfectionist and his shop was named one of the top ones in America. Thus I was confident in Jeri's skills; if Chris praised her and hired her to replace a great tattooist like Erika, she had to be good.
"She'll be back in a few minutes; her portfolio's the blue one if you want to see her work."
I sat down and flipped through it. Jeri was good!
As I neared the end of the portfolio, a smoking hot dark-haired girl with full sleeves wearing a simple frilly top and figure-accenting faded jeans walked into the shop. She went directly into Chris' office. I thought she was his wife at first, but then I remembered I'd already been introduced to his wife, who was a much shorter blonde. This girl looked to be nearly as tall as I am, about 5'10".
I was surprised when she exited the office and immediately called out to me.
"So you're George?" she said. "Erika's talked about so much about you. It's so good to finally meet you. I'm Jeri."
She extended her hand.
"A pleasure," I said standing, shaking her hand and looking at her arms. "I love your work."
"Thank you," she said.
I asked her how Erika was doing and asked her if she could give me her address so I could send her a get well soon gift.
"Aw, that's sweet," Jeri said. "I'll get it for you in a little bit. Erika's doing okay. She starts therapy next week."
She looked over my nearly completely inked arm approvingly.
"Erika's done an amazing job as usual," she said. "She's the one who inspired me to become a tattooist. My first tattoo was that butterfly on her shoulder. And she did a lot of my work."
I guess I should've been nervous in front of this beauty. But I wasn't. Jeri had a great personality and was very easy to talk to.
"You know, my schedule's actually open the rest of the day," she said. "I'd love to complete that. I can do it all today no problem," she said.
"Okay," I said.
She invited me into her studio and I described my idea: a closeup of my right hand playing a bass guitar. Jeri added her own ideas and created a sketch freehand on thin paper. She skewed it to fit in the available space.
"Perfect," I said.
"Just give me five minutes, okay?" said Jeri.
After a few minutes, her work area was ready. With my right palm up on the armrest, Jeri prepared my skin with a mild moisturizer. The combination of her soft, gloved hands and her model looks had my penis hardening. I silently grimaced, closed my eyes, and tried to concentrate on other things. I surreptitiously placed my free arm over my crotch and prayed she didn't notice.
I hope she doesn't get offended... God, she's beautiful... This is strictly business... You're too old for her... She's a professional... Forget it...
She bent over my arm and her right breast fully touched my palm. My eyes opened immediately and I jerked my arm away.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" Jeri immediately exclaimed and turned the color of a tomato. "That was an accident!"
At the same time, I said, "Oh, good Lord! Oh, Jeri, I am sorry! That was not intentional!"
We broke out laughing.
"My fault," we said at the same time.
We laughed again.
"Luckily your boyfriend or your husband wasn't here," I said.
"Oh, I'm not married. And I don't have a boyfriend," she said. "Not for almost a year."
She looked sad and angry at the same time. I didn't want to intrude.
"He cheated with another woman," she said.
"Jeri, I didn't mean to..." I began to say.
"It's alright," she said.
I stifled a comment that it was a shame and a sin that a beautiful woman like her was alone and her former boyfriend would cheat on her, but I didn't want Jeri to think I was hitting on her. The work took about two hours or so and turned out beautifully. As I was about to pay her, Jeri said, "Tell you what. You take me to dinner tomorrow night and it's just half."
My heart practically stopped.
"Are you asking me out on a date?" I asked, surprised. I'd never had a woman ask me out. I wasn't complaining, mind you.
"Yeah!" said Jeri. "Erika said you weren't married and thought maybe you could use a friend. You know, she really likes you. She says you're one of her favorite clients and that I'd love working on you."
"I'm flattered," I said genuinely. "Erika's a wonderful lady. But look, Jeri, I'm God knows how many years older than you; there are thousands of guys closer to your age who are way better..."
"Shhh..." she said, putting a finger to my lips and chiding me. "Enough of that!"
"Well, Jeri," I said. "I'll pick you up here at say, five?"
"I'll be ready," she said.
And she gave me a kiss on the cheek. That was unexpected. I had to have blushed. I left the shop in a daze. We had a wonderful date. And we had more over the next few weeks. Pretty soon, we were a pair.
One day, I knocked on her apartment door.
"Come on in, George," she said. "It's open."
I opened the door and Jeri was dressed in her normal attire: jeans, tee-shirt, and sneakers.
"Uh, I thought we were going out," I said confused.
We'd planned to go to a club. The music they normally played at those places wasn't my cup of tea. But Jeri had somehow survived the indoor driving range and came out unscathed.
Quid pro quo.
