Marisa’s Little Sissy

It’s Sunday, and that means I get to wake up somewhere between my boyfriend’s thighs and a state of self-adoration.

After a long bout of tongue-fu—my only discipline outside of tattooing—I’m feeling mighty appreciated.

There’s a dirty old bong on my windowsill that’s mostly an art piece, but today we’re putting it to work. A sweet, earthy cloud trades places with the drizzle outside as Carter and I pass the glass monster back and forth, sprawled out naked on my bed in the East LA Arts District. This is as civilized as my bedroom gets.

Tatty, postmodern couch? Sure. Relics of latex gone by? Meh…maybe. But Carter’s my first boyfriend to use blue latex gloves, and he’s always bringing me fresh boxes.

Right now, I’m lying on my side next to All-American Carter, a classic pop-culture cherub with muscles, with one leg thrown over him like I’m his devil on shoulder. He’s in nothing but plaid boxers in the sunshine streaming through the half-drawn blackout curtains. As in, there’s no towel on display, which is good, because I might be incapable of keeping my hands off him if this was a towel-on-head situation. Not that towels hang out here long.

First thing I do with new towels is drop them in olive-green buckets filled with purple dye. You might say I don’t like to play by the rules. That’s why you can see my Queen T-shirt and black booty shorts in the reflection of the mirrored ceilings I installed.

My black hair is streaked with purple highlights and sits above my inked-up biceps. I’m a little tipsy on the surf of a Queen-inspired high.

A Queen high is a hair away from a sexual high. I’m laundering a lifestyle.

My seams are so tight, you can see the elastic on my side tattoos. I’m sure some girls use my shirt as a way to collect spunk, but my cut-outs are just for leering at my biceps.

I brush my ringed fingers through his hair.

He mumbles in contentment, blue eyes drifting shut. The “lazy” part of this Sunday is wrapped around him like a contented kitten. My kitten. Which is one hundred percent why I’m not wearing any nip-flavored undies. My ass is on display to reward his performance, earning me brownie points with the gods of…well, brownies.

Times like this are the reason I went straight from high school to tattoo apprenticeship. Screw nine-to-fives. They don’t come with this kind of noose between the legs and behind the eyes. Whether he knows it or not, Carter is in the best hands he’ll ever have.

On my living room wall, hanging above my giant antique black-and-gold stereo, is a poster of Bruce Lee that I picked up at a Venice Beach flea market. The legend is doing a flying kick, and below in Sharpie I’ve written, “Self-control is strength.Right thought is mastery. Calmness is power.” (Or I did, until someone pointed out that those lines are from James Allen.)

“Control is great, but lack of inhibition is better. Think. Speak. Do. All will triumph.”

There’s a roasted flavor on my tongue from the bong, mixing with the aftertaste of Carter’s morning wood. He doesn’t know how close he’s come to getting an encore, courtesy of my inability to resist his All-American package.

No offense to the Queen soundtrack winding down at our feet, but I’m tasting the most coveted breakfast sausage…and, damn, what a circumstan