You’ll notice that I’ve changed the title slightly, so that it now mentions that Raylene was submissive. When I started to tell this I was worried that it was unsubtle, and it gave away too much of the story, but I’ve decided that it’s more schlocky this way.
But it’s a milder story than that, as true stories generally are. And it’s slower-moving than a Three-fisted Tabloid Tale. It’ll be a few posts before we get to the public humiliations, but I think it’ll be worth the journey.
Anyway, the previous posts tell the start of this story. I was interviewing Raylene, who’d spent a year with a neo-Nazi gang, for what she now thought were pretty stupid reasons.
And somehow we shifted the focus from extreme politics to lust. She’d decided to move things along, while still pretending I was doing research for an article, by showing me her gang tattoo. Now read on.
Raylene pulled the jersey up to her rib cage and waited. There was her belly, lightly browned in winter sun, a little soft, and prettily curved. I said, “Ahhh,” appreciatively, because she was waiting. If called upon to do the judgement of Paris, the thing is to make your feedback positive and give it fast. I added, “waa-ey”, and she smiled, reassured
But I meant her belly, not the tattoo.
I like skin a lot, but I’m less interested in coloured scars. And tattoos tend to be about as stylish as those paintings on velvet of a naked woman and a puma, that glow when you turn on the ultra-violet light. Tattoos are like hanging fluffy dice on your body and sticking speed stripes, with flames, on your sides.
Still, while I’ve never seen a tattoo that looked as good as the skin would have looked if the tattoo wasn’t there, they’re not a major drawback. I just ignore them and look at the woman. It’s not as if my own body’s so bloody perfect.
So I’d been gazing at Raylene’s bare belly, not flat but perfectly yummy, with genuine appreciation for several seconds, and several seconds is quite a long time under those circumstances. And I hadn’t even bothered to glance at the tattoo yet.
It turned out to be a swirly thing, mostly in green with some red details, with three whorls. The lowest of the whorls disappeared below her jeans, though her jeans were worn exceptionally low. I wondered if it was lost under pubic hair, or if she’d be shaven. Shaven, was my bet.
“Huh? What is?”
“The tattoo.” Oh, that. “It’s Celtic. It’s, um, strength, balance, love.”
I thought that the symbol probably was Celtic but that her gang had chosen it because it visually echoed the three-legged symbol that fascists often use in countries where the swastika is banned.
Raylene probably didn’t know about that. I decided not to tell her, one reason being that it would turn our conversation in a direction that meant that we wouldn’t have sex.
I thought, seriously, about kissing that belly. Raylene kept her jersey pulled up.