Summer. The sun strong, but the Washington shade cold like autumn. The scene: a family-friendly park in Shoreline. Unsuspecting. Safe, supposedly. But something in the air is wrong. Something touches my skin and tells me, You should not be here.
I had fallen asleep, vulnerable, shirtless, shoeless, half naked, unguarded beneath the shade of a large tree, the green grass keeping my back cool as the sun crept up 
close to my toes and threatened to burn my dermis. I was unaware I had fallen asleep. Suddenly, as if thunder from the clouds, I heard the jolting voice of the Skin Magician.
“Aren’t you cold?” it boomed.
“What?! Huh, uhhh, uhh, no no no, I’m not cold…” I jumped up as quickly as if I were trying to walk across a bed of fiery coals.
“Were you asleep?”
“No, I was just relaxing.” I rubbed my eyes and opened them wide as if to prove I hadn’t even been close to sleep. The Skin Magician smiled. Creepy.
“Well it sure is a nice day out here, huh?” His conversation was brimming with all the awkwardness of a cold pot of water forced to boil against its will.
“Yeah, pretty remarkable for Washington,” I said.
“Ahhhh, yes. Mmmmmmmmmm.”
About this point I began to question his motives. My drowsiness was vacating quickly, my senses coming to me. I looked at him with heightened suspicion and he returned my gaze with wondrous eyes like stars. Creepy. And the noises, the incessant grumbling and moaning noises. When he had no words he simply grabbed the handrail he stood next to and turned his head to the left and up, staring into the sky, moving the clouds about it with his magic eyes. Silence ensued for seconds. Seconds longer than minutes.
“Mmmmmm. Wow. Yes.”
I lay in uncomfortable silence, unsure whether to bolt or experience whatever was happening, as awkward as it may be. But mostly, I was unsure what to do. I was about 90% sure the Skin Magician was hitting on me, 10% of me still thought it possible he simply sought pleasant conversation.
The Skin Magician wore no cap, no gloves, no cape, no tuxedo. A t-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, a bald and shining head; a very unassuming outfit for a magician of such caliber.
“Wow, do you see that?” he asked me inquisitively, with tremendous conviction. He could obviously make the silliest things glow with interest. “Watch this pole,” he said, shaking the railing he held tightly in his grip. The railing stretched out for at least a hundred feet, all the way down a long cement walkway through the park. “When I shake this bit here you can see it still shaking all the way down to the end.” He dropped his head very close to the rail, cheek almost against it, and continued to make it quiver beneath him.
I was in awe. I was now 100% sure that he was hitting on me. If it is ever unclear whether a man is hitting on you, ask yourself this question: Does he direct your attention to a phallic symbol and proceed to manhandle said symbol as if it is the body of another human? If you answer yes to this question, you, friends are being hit on by, perhaps even, the Skin Magician himself.
“That’s crazy,” I replied. Anyone who knows me would’ve known my interest was completely feigned. What rested in me was merely fear. Fear alone. I reached for my socks and began to pull them on slowly.
“So, you like to ride bikes, huh?” he asked me, nodding his head toward my bicycle. Shit, yes I do, I thought. I’m riding a bike and he most certainly drove his car here. How ever will I escape if the Skin Magician decides not only to turn me gay, but cut me in half and have two parts of me to do as he pleases? I know his assistant would not be some lovely lady either, no, the manssistant would be wearing a Speedo tuxedo and bunny ears. I’m fucked, though I wish I weren’t.
“Yeah, I like to ride. Especially on days like this, you’ve really got to take advantage of the weather.”
“Absolutely,” he said, too smoothly.
I pulled my shoes slowly over my feet, being cautious not to make it deathly apparent I was clothing myself. The Skin Magician, rest assured, would pull his wand from his back pocket and force the clothes high up into the trees. I must move as a snake through the underbrush and make no sudden movements, only stealthy, boneless ones. The Skin Magician, no doubt, knew only of sudden, bone-full ones. He was moving the clouds about the sky once more with his eyes. My heart beat a pitter patter that could rival any Led Zeppelin jam. Terror does not describe what the Skin Magician had strapped me with. A more appropriate likening would be chains and leather straps, whips lined up on the walls. Weird shaped tools, strange circular objects, many things laid out on table which had no obvious utility but would very clearly become obvious once near any of my body’s few orifices. I reached down and grabbed my shirt. This would be difficult to do stealthily.
“So, what do you do?” he asked. “Are you a student?”
“Yeah, I go to the University of Washington.”
“Oh very nice. What are you studying?”
“English. Creative writing.”
“Ahh, a fellow artist. I studied the visual arts. Painting and acting, mostly. Yes, yes, I’m definitely an artist too. Very cool to run into another.” No no no, we are fellow NOTHINGS, Skin Magician, your life is one complete illusion. Free me, NOW!
My shirt was a tight fitting orange v-neck. I carefully unrolled it from its balled up shape. One hand in the bottom, up, slowly to the right arm of the shirt; the other arm in the other side up, slowly, to the left arm; my head bowed down and slipped into the bottom hole. Everything goes black. My shirt covers my vision as I try to slip it on quickly, but never quick enough, and my fear grows. Inside my shirt I can see nothing. I know not where the Skin Magician is, nor what he’s doing. My heart. Pound. Pound. Pounding.
In my mind I pictured the Skin Magician dancing in dubious circles around me, waving his wand in wild motions, smiling up to his ears and jumping five feet in the air, somehow silently. He was casting the wickedest of all his spells and all because I tried to get dressed, to cover up this skin of mine. All because I wanted to remain a straight, woman-loving, man. I wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but in the middle of the Skin Magician’s wicked dance. I pulled my shirt down and there he stood, not dancing in circles, but closer than before. He was on the grass now, not holding the railing. Only five feet from me, maybe. I stood up.
“Well, I really should get going,” I said nervously.
“Where do you live?” he asked. I felt five again. Do not talk to strangers. Do not talk to Skin Magicians.
“Oh, you know, just over by 145th, kind of near Central Market.”
“Ahh, really? I was just about to do some grocery shopping there, maybe we’ll run into each other.” He smiled the smile I had imagined moments earlier, except he was not dancing, only figuratively. It was so far from an evil smile that it was worse than evil.
“Yeah, so I should get going,” I said, grabbing my bike and standing it up. I was mostly clothed now, the only skin showing being my arms, my face, and my shins beneath my rolled up brown corduroy pants and still, I felt acutely exposed. Even if he did not come near to touching me, his eyes, his disposition, his magic, was molesting me with every moment his presence persisted.
“Haha, maybe,” I forced, trying to be cordial. Do not let your captors know you suspect their evil. If anything, convince them you have succumb to Stockholm Syndrome and when they least expect it, run. Run for your fucking life. For the health of your body’s orifices. I straddled my bike between my legs. He walked closer, right next to me.
“My name is Dana, by the way,” he said, offering his hand. I quivered inside, contemplated my next move.
“Daniel,” I said, offering mine. We shook hands. I imagined him shaking that pole in his hands. My brain gagged.
“Oh, funny,” he said. “Both D names. That’s very funny. People used to make fun of me for mine. But very funny we’re both D’s.” Shut. The. Fuck. Up. And free me, Skin Magician. Stop this horrible torture. “Do you email?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied. “I don’t have one of my cards on me though,” I lied.
“Oh, me neither,” he said to me. “But here, I’ll just tell you. It’s,” he began to speak very very slowly, and very very surely, “‘Skin Magician’.” He enunciated each letter carefully. My blood curdled, my veins twisted, my eyes twitched, I got a pilo-erection and froze.
“Spelt as it sounds?” I asked stupidly.
“Yes, except with an underscore between ‘Skin’ and ‘Magician,’ at yahoo dot com.”
“Okay, very neat,” I said. I slipped my foot into one pedal of my bike, then the other. Mounted it, barely moving, standing still on the pedals as if frozen in time; he was holding me there, still as stone with his eyes. I could almost make out the wand in his eyes. Then, with a sudden second of mercy, he freed me. He gave me a moment to run, and I capitalized.
I pushed my legs as hard as they would go, already out of breath before I’d even begun, I hit a stone and nearly crashed the bike, but pedaled with excessive ferocity. Down the hill, to the left, away, far far
away from
The
skin_magician@yahoo dot com.