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It was Saturday night in a crowded Manchester bar and the party was in full swing. The music was blaring and the room was full of spinning bodies, but finding a guy was the last thing I thought about. Then I spotted him standing by the bar in a black T-shirt and jeans. A million miles from my usual type, he had tattoos in almost every visible spot, from the spider web that started on his neck and circled his left cheek to the incomprehensible words on his sleeve; far from the men dressed and in boots, neat that I frequented at the time.
I drank my drink and went to order another, not so subtly positioning myself next to him. As soon as we chatted I knew I wanted to, but my friends called me back.
An hour and many drinks later, I felt someone’s gaze on me: it was him. At 5 a.m. Michael * and I left the club hand in hand. He took me to a run down building nearby, which had a tattoo parlor on the ground floor. Thought we would have it that night, but we ended up chatting – Michael had work in four hours and we talked for so long that I fell asleep on the couch.
The next morning I woke up confused. It took me a few seconds to figure out why I could hear the hum of a tattoo gun. Soon after, Michael reappeared. We looked at each other and within seconds we kissed passionately. As he walked away, I assumed he needed to come back down to work, but instead he slowly took off his top and pants, revealing his toned, tattooed body. Every inch of his torso was heavily inked in delicately crafted artwork, and his arms were almost completely covered. I had never seen anything like it – but the novelty excited me.
He pulled me forward by my legs, pushed my underwear to the side and started to descend on me – deftly. As I cried out in pleasure, he put a hand over my mouth. âThere is someone downstairs; we must be quiet. The danger of the situation triggered my riskier side. – I don’t care, I moan.
After a few minutes, I pulled down his boxers and guided him inside me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he pushed hard. Then he turned me around and entered me from behind. Suddenly we heard footsteps: someone was coming up.
Somehow, we managed to make ourselves look presentable at lightning speed, just as her equally heavily tattooed colleague opened the door. Obviously he could see what had happened and I motioned to leave, apologizing, gathering my things and heading for the door. As I left, I saw the tattoo guns lying around beside adjustable leatherette chairs. It was my first time entering a studio – and the last.
I never saw Michael again, but I think about our date all the time. While it was cut short, our affair brought out a side of me that I had long forgotten and showed me that I had the confidence to be daring in the bedroom – or the back room.
* Names have been changed
This feature originally appeared in the March 2020 issue of Cosmopolitan UK.
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