Posted by: theboyfromsmallville | February 29, 2008

While waiting at Makati Med

He stared at her and pressed the start button on his remote control keychain, gunning the SUV to life. They slowly felt the air take on a cooler temperature as the air-conditioner’s breeze crept into the backseat, where they both sat. The soft glow of lights from the dashboard dials and a blue hue coming from a long strip of light that lined the corners of the roof provided sufficient illumination for him to notice every fine detail of her body.

He kissed her lips. She kissed back. He gently lifted her off the seat and sat her on his lap, facing him. He run his hands across her smooth back, slowly slipping one strap of her gown off her shoulder before working off the other.

“You should allow me to draw something on your back someday,” he whispered, in a smoky voice, peeling off the nipple covers she used in lieu of a bra. He kissed her firm, bare breast softy while gently kneading the other with one hand.

“They say ordinary people can’t afford your services,” she shot back as she slowly rocked her hips, grinding herself hard against him.

“I’d do it for free,” he said, hurriedly undoing his zipper and unbuttoning the front of his boxers.

“With what we’re about to do, I don’t think you can say anything you’ll do for me in the future will be free,” she said huskily, her eyes slowly shutting as she stroked him.

He ran a hand up her stockinged legs, feeling a few bumps at the garter, like something was tucked in it. Impatient, he continued running his hand upward until it nestled softly on her lace panties. Feeling something primal overcome him, he ripped them off, smiling as he heard her gasp.

They kissed, rocking hard against each other until finally, he entered her with a gentle ferocity he didn’t know he was capable of.

Oh, but that was just one of the things he didn’t know.

The rocking grew more frenzied and heat intense. He reached for her hand. He smiled. He took a finger and sucked on it as they pumped into each other. The experience of it all—the sound of her moaning, the sight of her face in shut-eyed ecstasy, the sweet smell of her, the taste of her finger and the feel of her entirety wrapped around him—pushed him to the edge.

He felt lost. He just didn’t know yet how much of a loss he would end up feeling.

* * *

“IF only I could see her hands,” he thought, staring intently at the lady who had caught his attention in a party that was fast losing its appeal—at least, as far as he was concerned.

Hands, Miguel had always believed, told a lot about women. Whatever was behind smoldering gazes, behind free-flowing jet-black hair, behind curves that begged to be traced delicately beneath crumpled sheets, the hands would reveal.

But he could not see the lady’s hands. They were tucked inside a pair of black gloves. He had marveled at her movements at first. As an artist, the most celebrated tattoo artist in the country, Miguel knew that beauty starts with that which cannot be captured by artwork. And as the lady sashayed her way through the crowd and to the bar to fetch a glass of wine, Miguel could not help but stare.

Everything else followed: The way her hair fell to her shoulder, the way the V-cut on her black gown exposed a firm but smooth back and settled teasingly just above the outward curves of her butt, the way her smile contrasted with the snobbish arch of her eyebrow, the way her neck delicately turned into to shoulders that tantalizingly turned into arms, and the way her gloved fingers held the glass of wine.

Perfect, Miguel smiled. Every bit of her was built to attract men and drive them to insane fits of pledging their undying love for her. But until Miguel saw her hands, he would not know what he was stuck with. Hands were like fine print. He had to see them to make sure.

It may sound insane but Miguel had watched several relationships fade because the hands turned him off. He hated callused palms. He hated short fingers. He wanted to feel nails ripping his back in primal responses to lovemaking. He simply had to know what a girl’s hands looked like before he took her seriously.

So he strode up to her. When she finally noticed him nearing, she gave him a wary smile.

“Not good for a woman to be alone, especially in parties like this, where one could easily die of boredom,” he opened up.

“That’s why you decided to walk over here, to rescue me?” she replied, still smiling.

He smiled back. “Miguel Giacomo,” he said, extending a hand.

“I know. In fact, being alone is not good for you, Mr. Big Shot Tattoo Artist of Socialites, especially in these times,” she replied. “Especially with a lot of girls you don’t recognize.”

The woman saw the perplexed look on Miguel’s face.

“Oh, I take it haven’t you been reading the papers?” she added.

“And what do the papers say I should know about?” Miguel asked.

“The lady La Rosa, you haven’t read of her?” the woman replied.

“Oh. Her. The serial killer who has been cyanide-poisoning owners of tattoo stalls all over the city.”

“Yup, her,” she replied.

” Frankly, I don’t worry about those things much. I mean, I look at it this way, she eliminates my competition and therefore I should thank her,” Miguel said, hand still held out.

“Small-time skin artists are not your competition,” she said, sipping from her glass anew.

“Hey, you’ll never know when this tattooing fad will start boring the already-bored-anyway rich brats of this country and I will have to settle for drawing henna paintings on pockmarked backs of trying-hard college students,” Miguel said. “Which I would probably have a hard time doing because I am about to develop shaky hands from having to wait for a handshake that doesn’t seem like it’s coming.”

She laughed. “Luna Flores,” she said, finally taking his hand.

Miguel grasped her hand. Soft, he thought. He brought it up to his lips, inhaled and planted a soft kiss on the back of her palm. Intoxicating smell. Perfumed, but just enough so as not to hide her natural scent.

“You have a thing for hands?”

“No,” Miguel said, smiling impishly, finally finding a way to hover a magnifying glass over the fine print.

In an exaggeratedly conspiratorial voice, he whispered:  “But the papers, in case you haven’t read them, say that this La Rosa lady has a scar the shape of a flower on the back of her hand. They say she shows it to her drugged victims before they die. And that somehow, they live long enough to tell responding medics about the floral design just before passing out.”

“And you wanted to make sure I’m not this La Rosa person?” she said, in mock whisper. “Shouldn’t you have done that before introducing yourself?”

“It would’ve been moot, introducing myself. You already know me, apparently,” he said.

She handed over her glass to him and tugged at the fingers of her gloves tantalizingly, taking her sweet time pulling them off.

Miguel smiled. Worked like a charm. He watched as she bit her lower lip and undid the other glove. Soon both hands were bare and Miguel could not help but marvel at them. Smooth, long-fingered and looking as fragile as the thin stem of an expensive wine glass.

“Satisfied?” Luna asked. “No floral tattoos.”

“I was just kidding. I really have a thing for hands,” he replied.

He took one hand, stared at her before dipping his head just above her shoulder and whispering: “Do you want to leave this party? There’s this place I know.”

“Men. There’s always a place you guys know,” she said, eyes squinting mischievously.

He gripped her hand firmly and led her past the crowd, to the exit.

They walked silently to the parking lot until they came to a tinted SUV parked in a quiet, dimly-lit corner. He pressed the unlock button on his remote-control keychain. He opened the back door and ushered her in. And, just before she could react, he quickly slid beside her and shut the door.

“Now, how are we going to this place you know if you sit here instead of there at the driver’s seat?” Luna asked.

“This is the place I know,” Miguel said.

* * *

The sex was fantastic.

Miguel felt a little light-headed when it was all over. A dizzy spell that made him smile. Luna was still on his lap. Still facing him. Only she was slumped on him, her head perched on his shoulder. He could feel her breasts on his chest every time she inhaled.

For a while, they said nothing.

Miguel picked Luna’s hand up and kissed it.

She laughed.

“You really have a thing for hands,” Luna murmured.

“Mmm…” he answered, drowsily. “You have great hands.”

Miguel licked at a finger again and suddenly, he stopped.

“Your nails,” he said. “they’re short.”

“You prefer them long?” Luna asked.

“Yes… No… I mean, yes, but that’s not why I noticed,” he said, his eyes closed now. “I thought I earned a few battle scars on my back. A few scratches and jabs that hurt so good a while back, that’s why I thought you had long nails.”

Luna laughed. It sounded a bit derisive this time, but Miguel was too light-headed to notice.

“But they’re great hands, nevertheless,” said Miguel, almost mumbling.

“Then I have a treat for you,” Luna said straightening up.

Miguel struggled to open his eyelids and stared at her. He watched as Luna lifted her right hand in front of him. He could see her trying to peel off something from her forearm with her other hand. He blinked several times, trying to shake away post-sex cobwebs that made her look vapory.

“Do you know there was once this girl who had really great hands, too?”

“Nope,” Miguel said, his heart starting to beat rapidly. “Anticipation?” he thought.

“One day, she attended a wild party and hooked up with a tattoo artist. They liked each other in an instant, enough to decide to spend the night together.”

“Then as a remembrance, the tattoo artist drew a flower portrait on the back of her hand,” Luna said. Miguel blinked twice. Was she peeling her skin off? “The funny thing was, the tattoo soon turned into an infection. And then it burned into her skin and left a permanent scar there.”

“And you know what was worse?” Luna asked.

Miguel shook his head. Damn, he thought, she is peeling her skin off!

“It turned out the tattoo needle was infected in more ways than one. I mean, it wasn’t just the scar that was permanent. The tattoo made her permanently sick.”

“And guess what?”

What? Miguel thought, but he was too drowsy to actually speak.

“He didn’t even leave his name. The girl woke up the next morning and he was gone. It was just her and the morning. And a tattoo she couldn’t rub off. The mark burned her every day until she decided to see a doctor. And, like I mentioned earlier, the itch and the allergies were the least of her worries. Incurable diseases, the docs said, travel by needle too, you know.”

Miguel tried to figure out why he was hearing all these. He wanted to ask but he found himself too weak to even speak. He noticed his breathing getting labored. He watched her pull off an entire spread of skin from her hand. Miguel gasped, partly due to surprise and partly because he needed to gulp down air fast.

“Body glove. Fits on you like real skin. Hard to tell the difference, really,” Luna said.

Miguel felt hot and sweaty. He wanted to push Luna off him. He wanted to pop the doors and stumble out so he could breathe more freely. The world around him started to spin.

Luna got off him.

“Don’t worry,” she said, pulling a cellphone tucked in his pocket and scrolling down the first name on his phone book. She pressed dial. A male voice answered—“Hello? Miguel?”

“I always make sure the bodies are found,” she said, flipping the phone to the seat.

Miguel?”

Miguel flopped to his side, his head landing inches away from the phone. He tried to scream for help, but all he could muster was a weak cry. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t scream. All he could do was sob.

Miguel? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

Luna lowered her head and kissed Miguel on the lips. She whispered the parking lot address and then slammed the phone shut. She fished for her shoes and put them on.

“They weren’t nails,” Luna said as she pulled the door latch. She showed him a syringe, which she then proceeded to tuck in the garter of her stocking. One, two, three. Miguel didn’t know how many. He couldn’t count through the blur. “Don’t worry, They always live long enough to describe this–”

Luna shoved the back of her hand in front of his face. As blurry as his vision was, Miguel could see the image very clearly. In fact, he was pretty sure that it would be the last image he would remember just before he passed out.

A tattoo of a rose, with tendrils curling elegantly outward to her forearm and to each of her fingers, except that the lines were marked by fiery red welts where the ink should have been.

With what was left of his eyesight, Miguel watched as Luna opened the door and stepped out of the SUV. Even through the purr of the engine, the hum of the air-conditioner, Miguel could make out the sound of her stepping out, and the sound of her gown as its hem fell to the ground.

It was, Miguel thought, like the sound of a thousand wilted rose buds falling on the pavement.
 

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Responses

  1. W-O-W! Galing!

  2. yey! thanks po… :)

  3. freaky and steamy. my favorite combination :) should hang around in hospitals often. hehe :)

  4. but then, even if i do hang around in hosptials without a certain girl having her henna-infected hand checked, i don’t think i can come up with something like this. hehehehehehehe

  5. di ko alam kung malulungkot ba ako o matutuwa sa itinakbo ng kunwetong to… pero astig… lalo na ito:

    “This is the place I know,” Miguel said.

    magaling. sana ganito rin ako magsulat… hehehehe… pis.

  6. Magaling, magaling! *claps*

  7. sanmig: salamat po. nasa cebu pala ako past five days. vacationing. hope everything’s going okay in your part of the world. If not, well, the inquirer is always an option. peace.

    tel: at sana magsulat ka rin ulet


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