“Ben was… Ben could have been so perfect. I met him at basketball camp before junior year. I thought he was cute, but… he was very shy, neither of us was out, and it just… wasn’t really meant to be. I saw him again before senior year. Basketball camp again. We had so much fun that summer. We just bonded. But then he told me he had a boyfriend and that we couldn’t be a thing. So I did something that I will always be a little ashamed about and I kissed him anyway. It wasn’t… It wasn’t a forced kiss or anything like that, but it was still a bit of a shitty move.”

“See… I expected more romance. And a more logical timeline.”

“That’s just the beginning of the story, you idiot. During my second year of college, I transferred to Columbia for a while.”

“No boyfriend freshman year?”

“A couple. Nothing important enough to make it to the alphabet. Glorified friends with benefits, really. But anyway. My third day in New York, boom, Ben. Who was single and apparently ready to move on. We started hanging out a lot. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, until… Out of all my first kisses, I think that was my favorite one. Anyway. Ben and I were both academic, sporty… but it was more than that. We really got along. I took him to the opera, he introduced me to some great literature…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. Perfect boy, nerdy past times, probably hot sex… what went wrong?”

“Hum… first of all, no sex, we were taking things slow. I mean… we’ve done some stuff, but no penetration of any kind. Although there had been some release, so… maybe a bit of sex?”

“Foreplay doesn’t count.”

“Is it just foreplay if you orgasm?”

“Did you want more?”

“Yeah.”

“It was foreplay, then.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“Anyway. What went wrong with you and Perfect Mr. B? Was it because of the sex or lack thereof?”

“No. The sex, no doubt, would have been amazing. But… I was just the rebound. His heart was still with his ex-boyfriend so we decided to part ways. We weren’t in the same mindset. I found out later that they eventually got back together.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that after every story! Plus… I don’t know. Ben sort of felt like the one who got away, but… he never felt like the one who used me. I still think that what we shared was real. And it was intense and good. I was in love with him and he was nearly there. I know he was. Part of me thinks that if I had tried harder to keep him instead of telling him to follow his heart, he would have stayed. But that wouldn’t have been fair on any of us.”

“You sound softer when you talk about him than the other ones.”

“Because the circumstances hurt me. But Ben didn’t.”

“Is he the one you’d want back?”

I don’t know why my heart decides to skip a bit right now. Perhaps to tell me that I don’t want anyone back. I want to move forward. Preferably with someone hot, caring, funny, understanding, real… I take a deep breath. Not what Scott wants.

“I don’t want any of them back.”

“Not even Damian?”

“I… that’s actually a hard question.”

“Fine. Let’s keep it for the last story.” Then he sighs and stands up. Almost heartbreakingly, he doesn’t unbuckle his belt this time. but he lifts the bottom of his sweater until it’s just higher than his belly button. In all honesty, the first thing I look at is the smooth skin, the thin line of hair, the lean but well-defined abs… and then I see them.

I come closer and sit on the coffee table to be able to observe the details more closely.

On the right and left parts of his lower abdomen are two Día de Los Muertos characters, a man and a woman. Although there are only faces, those aren’t just sugar skulls. Those are realistic faces with the traditional (or maybe just stereotypical, actually, I know next to nothing about the actual celebration) make-up on. The tattoos are in black and white, apart from said make-up and the flowers in the lady’s hair.

“Can I touch?” I ask.

“You know it’s just skin under, right? They won’t be 3D.”

“I know that. Sorry, I’m just… drawn to it, I guess.”

“You can touch,” he replies softly and my fingers fly up to touch the girl’s lips, her hair, the flower, the guy’s mustache, his eyes… I stop when I realize that my hand really wants to move up, up, up, until it’s under his clothes.

Repeat after me, Andrew: You will not treat your friend like a piece of meat.

“Is there a story behind them?” I ask.

“Kind of. There was this tattoo artist I liked, I wanted him to do something on me, I had zero inspiration, and I told him to surprise me. He did this little guy.” He taps on the man with his finger. “And when he was done I asked him to give him a pretty wife. Some people have said that I shouldn’t have a tattoo from a celebration that means nothing to me, and I completely hear them, but… it’s art. This artist made that for me and I love it.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” I tell him. I do understand the issues with cultural appropriation, but I don’t really think that falls into that. Making profits from another culture is definitely not okay, but loving another culture’s art, even if it then loses a spiritual dimension… I think that’s different. But then again, I’m between cultures, so what do I know? “Anything Japanese on your body?” I ask, looking up.

He looks down at me with mischievous eyes and replies: “Not yet.”

“Are we still talking tattoos?”

“Absolutely.”

This is becoming dangerous territory. He can apparently feel it too because he lets go of his jumper, which falls back, covering his skin again, breaking the moment slightly. I go back to the armchair and he sits back down. But this time, he sits up, leaning slightly forward, staring at me. “Alright, Andrew Scott. How on Earth did you fall in love with Clark?”