It happened fast. By the time I got back to my car, I wasn’t sure if it had even happened. When I walked into the store, all I wanted was a pack of band-aids, some smokes, a roll of antacids, and some Neosporin. That’s it. Let me get back…
My guisa has been hell-bent on the tattoo idea for months. I’m not sure if it was really her idea or it was the fucking waste of reality TV that bored into her head over the past five years. Every goddamned tramp I see on television’s got Sharpie eyebrows, a dye job, lips like balloons, and two or three tattoos. “This one means happy. And this one is my journey through college. And this one…” Ok, right.
Kaye started watching The Housewives of Orange County last year. I don’t know nothing about the show other than all the women have dyed hair and never seem happy. I mean never. They’re always pissy and arguing about some other stupid bitch, and I can’t stay in the room for more than ten minutes when it’s on. I go run on the treadmill. Kaye likes the show, so I exercise.
This fall she told me, “I would like a tattoo.” Wow, talk about a hard on. Here was my girl asking me to go downtown and watch her get inked! I told her I’d pay, and she liked that. For the rest of the day, I got to hear about Miami’s Ink and some other show in Las Vegas. Like I cared. Kaye was excited. I was excited. I might get laid.
So, on that Friday we went to a parlor near our house and one of the owners was open for business. Kaye looked over all the wall jobs and then went into the books. I started asking the owner what he thought was new and he told me that he had been looking for new flesh to try a pair of handcuffs on.
“Handcuffs?” I asked. He said to me, “Yeah, with some animal fur around it. You know, those handcuffs that have fur on them but are still real? You and your old lady ever party?”
Kaye turned around and twisted her nose at me, like I stunk or something. I said to her, “Let’s go for something cute and fuzzy.” Kaye went for it. We decided to make a pair of fuzzy handcuffs across the back of her ass.
She yelped when he started drawing out of dramatics. She really yelled when he started outlining. The guy was going all to town, and she started asking me to hold her hand. I said, “Ok, baby.” I grabbed a chair from the foyer and took it back to her station and sat in front of her. She was leaning over the back of the chair. I thought it was great and romantic and wonderful. All of a sudden, she started to cry.
”I have to go now!” She stood up with a few lines on her upper ass still leaking and started walking out to our car. I didn’t understand it. The tattooist said that I had ten minutes, because there were other customers. When I found Kaye, she was crouching beside my car. She said to me, “I feel sick, and I need to smoke. We need some Neosporin, too. He says it will help my tattoo heal.”
“What tattoo? All you have on your ass is a few lines.”
”They might get infected! I have to go now!”
She got up and got into the car. I slammed the door and tried to think of where I could find a Rite Aid or some place that would have Rol-Aids or something. She looked real sick.
I found a Rite Aid and went in to get everything on her list, because I thought she was going to sit in the car. She ran past me for some reason to the back of the store, and that’s when I saw the mess on her back. It was nasty. I had half of the list, (Neosporin and Band-Aids) and was thinking about how the front register might have antacids; but there she was, scooting to the restrooms with white bandages on her back and something looking like wet brownies squeezing out between the seams of her jeans near her butt. Her back side was brown and wet, and she was crying. I couldn’t help myself but ask after her, “Is there any of that in the bucket seat? Do I need to buy some Armour All?” She didn’t answer.
I waited outside for fifteen minutes, but she never came out. I didn’t want to leave her, so I went back in and asked a cashier to go into the Ladies’ Room to see if Kaye was in there. Long story short, no. Kaye must have snuck out the back way. I didn’t see her for four days.
The seat in my car was messed up pretty bad. When you have leather seats, you know that stuff gets into the stitching. Poop was in my stitching. I had to use Murphy’s Oil Soap to clean the seat, and that’s not good. I saw Kaye a month later at the apple festival, but she didn’t talk to me. It took six weeks before she would talk about the poop on the seat, and by that time, she was dating another guy. I tried to kiss her once and bought her lunch, but it was a no go.
I don’t think there’s a lesson to my story. I ended up paying for the part of the tattoo she started, she crapped on my leather bucket seat, and she ditched me in the middle of a date. She started dating some guy with a bald spot, and I have a car seat that still smells like crap. My advice? Make sure you have towels and Tumms in the trunk when you’re on a date.
