By the time I get to my car and slam my door shut, my hands are shaking so hard it takes me two attempts to start the ignition. It’s not the ink that got to me. Not the roses or thorns. Not the swallow, the moon, the stars, or even the shocking realism of the serpent coiled up his spine that’s affected me like this. It’s the fact that, against my better judgment, before I left the shower, I looked down. And Ant Decker was rock-hard.
