have to huff all that paint thinner while she was pregnant?
I had to ask, again trying to mask my horror, as I pointed to his right shoulder, “Tell me about this one.”
He smiled his sweet, innocent there-is-absolutely-nothing-to-be-humiliated-about smile again and said, “Oh, that’s my tribal piece.”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Choking down the percolating hysterics was agony. Agony!
As I bit my lip and tried in vain to suppress my giggles, Ding-Dong absentmindedly went about collecting the rest of his clothes, continuing, “Yeah, it’s not totally done, but I ran out of money before it was finished, and you know…whatever.”
It’s not totally done?? It’s not halfway done! It’s a fucking Y, you knuckle-dragging mouth-breather!
That was it. The mood had sufficiently been demolished, and I was in need of a turpentine douche, stat.
I politely made my exit and enjoyed the view as Ding-Dong walked me out to my car. From the back, he was all leather pants, studded belt, no shirt, just-fucked messy blond hair…
Mmm…what was I so upset about again?
Oh, yes, scabies and mental retardation.
But…but he was so cute and sweet and dumb and hung .
I decided that maybe, as long as he continued to wear shirts with some regularity, these tats could just join the long list of Shit About Harley I’m Overlooking for the Sake of Making Knight Both Jealous and Afraid to Murder Me.
Nobody has to know about the tats , I thought. I can pretend like they don’t exist , I thought.
That was before I saw the one on his head.
Although I knew Harley also had a tattoo of some asinine sci-fi I-wasn’t-listening-when-he-told-me-but-I-think-it-involved-a-spaceship thing on the top of his head, I thought it was a nonissue since the entire piece was buried under that oh-so adorable shock of rockabilly blond hair. The operant word in that sentence being was. It was buried—up until the day he was scheduled to meet my parents.
Before my parents ever met Harley, they hated him. I had already been busted after lying to them about where I was spending the night a couple of times. Obviously, I had been curled up with Harley in his twin-size bed, next to his also adult-aged brother in his own twin-size bed in their mom’s mildewed basement. So, I’d lost my driving privileges for a month.
For some reason, it was during this particular bout of punishment that I decided having Harley over for dinner would make my parents more sympathetic to my cause? That question mark was intentional. I have no idea what I was thinking. It must have been the contact high I’d gotten from swapping body fluids with Harley so often.
Since Ding-Dong didn’t have a car at the time and my car had been confiscated, I volunteered my parents to take me to pick him up in my mom’s Band-Aid–colored Ford Taurus station wagon. I was unflappable, cavalier even, from the backseat of that rolling eyesore of festering tension. When we pulled up in front of Harley’s mom’s place, I was actually giddy. I’d been grounded for a week, and I was dying to see my sexy Billy Idol look-alike (while his mouth was closed and shirt was on, at least) come barreling down the stairs of his mom’s rickety termite-infested front porch and into my waiting arms.
My mom honked the horn.
Real classy, Mom .
When Harley emerged, my giddiness was replaced by something else. Confusion? Disappointment? He looked different. Something was very wrong. It wasn’t until he’d confidently stridden all the way across the driveway and pulled open the car door that my brain finally acknowledged what was going on.
Harley had shaved his head…completely bald…right before meeting my parents.
And…there it went. My consciousness bolted like a caged animal the moment Harley stepped into the car. It clung to the roof and watched upside down through the back windshield as he slid over to me, beaming from ear to ear, and gave my rigid, abandoned body a nuzzle.
From my
I had to ask, again trying to mask my horror, as I pointed to his right shoulder, “Tell me about this one.”
He smiled his sweet, innocent there-is-absolutely-nothing-to-be-humiliated-about smile again and said, “Oh, that’s my tribal piece.”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Choking down the percolating hysterics was agony. Agony!
As I bit my lip and tried in vain to suppress my giggles, Ding-Dong absentmindedly went about collecting the rest of his clothes, continuing, “Yeah, it’s not totally done, but I ran out of money before it was finished, and you know…whatever.”
It’s not totally done?? It’s not halfway done! It’s a fucking Y, you knuckle-dragging mouth-breather!
That was it. The mood had sufficiently been demolished, and I was in need of a turpentine douche, stat.
I politely made my exit and enjoyed the view as Ding-Dong walked me out to my car. From the back, he was all leather pants, studded belt, no shirt, just-fucked messy blond hair…
Mmm…what was I so upset about again?
Oh, yes, scabies and mental retardation.
But…but he was so cute and sweet and dumb and hung .
I decided that maybe, as long as he continued to wear shirts with some regularity, these tats could just join the long list of Shit About Harley I’m Overlooking for the Sake of Making Knight Both Jealous and Afraid to Murder Me.
Nobody has to know about the tats , I thought. I can pretend like they don’t exist , I thought.
That was before I saw the one on his head.
Although I knew Harley also had a tattoo of some asinine sci-fi I-wasn’t-listening-when-he-told-me-but-I-think-it-involved-a-spaceship thing on the top of his head, I thought it was a nonissue since the entire piece was buried under that oh-so adorable shock of rockabilly blond hair. The operant word in that sentence being was. It was buried—up until the day he was scheduled to meet my parents.
Before my parents ever met Harley, they hated him. I had already been busted after lying to them about where I was spending the night a couple of times. Obviously, I had been curled up with Harley in his twin-size bed, next to his also adult-aged brother in his own twin-size bed in their mom’s mildewed basement. So, I’d lost my driving privileges for a month.
For some reason, it was during this particular bout of punishment that I decided having Harley over for dinner would make my parents more sympathetic to my cause? That question mark was intentional. I have no idea what I was thinking. It must have been the contact high I’d gotten from swapping body fluids with Harley so often.
Since Ding-Dong didn’t have a car at the time and my car had been confiscated, I volunteered my parents to take me to pick him up in my mom’s Band-Aid–colored Ford Taurus station wagon. I was unflappable, cavalier even, from the backseat of that rolling eyesore of festering tension. When we pulled up in front of Harley’s mom’s place, I was actually giddy. I’d been grounded for a week, and I was dying to see my sexy Billy Idol look-alike (while his mouth was closed and shirt was on, at least) come barreling down the stairs of his mom’s rickety termite-infested front porch and into my waiting arms.
My mom honked the horn.
Real classy, Mom .
When Harley emerged, my giddiness was replaced by something else. Confusion? Disappointment? He looked different. Something was very wrong. It wasn’t until he’d confidently stridden all the way across the driveway and pulled open the car door that my brain finally acknowledged what was going on.
Harley had shaved his head…completely bald…right before meeting my parents.
And…there it went. My consciousness bolted like a caged animal the moment Harley stepped into the car. It clung to the roof and watched upside down through the back windshield as he slid over to me, beaming from ear to ear, and gave my rigid, abandoned body a nuzzle.
From my
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