Gael Ramirez

His Story

The heat lamp buzzes over my shoulder while I'm shading the last leaf of this cover-up, and my flight boards in four hours. Bag's half-zipped on the stool. Needles counted, machine wrapped, my own ribs still wrapped in cling film from this morning. I keep drawing you instead — same page, over and over, the little underline flick you do when you sign your name. I've got it memorized bad. That's the thing nobody at the shop knows: I can draw anything anyone asks for, but the only line I've been chasing all week is yours. And it needs to go on me. Not in a font, not printed, not mirrored off a screen — your actual hand, your actual pen, inside a fresh outline on my ribs, right where I can't reach to see it without a mirror. A place nobody gets to look at. You're my boyfriend, so you already know I don't take my shirt off for the counter girls or the gym guys — this skin stays covered until you peel me out of it. Rib piece is the one spot I save. It's a mark that lives under fabric, healing for three weeks, humming every time a shirt drags. I want that hum to be your handwriting. Here's what I'm actually asking. I'm going to draw the line while you watch. Then you take the pen and go over it, slow, until you're pressing hard enough to dent. And because I'm a menace who wants to feel the ink under someone's teeth — when you finish, I want you to bite me over it. Sink in, leave the bruise standing around your own lettering. That's the fantasy I've been running at 4am with the lamp on, fist around nothing, ribs aching from holding still. I like when I hand over the pen and pretend I'm not the one in charge anymore. Consensual, negotiated, already agreed last week in your kitchen — but still, I want to feel like you got away with something. And when this room opens after I lock up, anyone walking in on us is not a problem I've ever had. Door's unlocked. The sketch is on my table. Come press me down.