The girls painted my toenails one night. Anna on the right foot with a vial of pink polish, and Chelsea on the left with neon green. It was a stinking mess that made us light-headed. But the little girls were happy. And I could always wear socks.

The next day I decorated my left arm at the tattoo parlor. Two little sparrow skeletons with my daughter’s names spelled out in their ribs — The birds can fly if I flex right.

The tattoos encourage me to go to the gym. To build some muscle to maintain my semblance of toughness.  I figure, a father needs more than tattoos to scare away the boys.

So I do my pull-ups. Free weights. A little blood seeps from the fresh ink. I suck in and puff up each time I think someone might be watching — but all the moms have already left. Its just the robo-queer, eyeing me from leg-press. He’s built like a bronze cyborg and cruises the gym for stay-at-home dads like myself; as if one of us might actually get bored enough to become curious.

I skip the last of my workout and head to the shower. The locker room is empty. I dry off and slip on my boxers.  The cyborg comes in. His locker is close to mine. He strips and wraps himself in a towel.

I flex as I reach for my shirt, hoping he’ll notice the ink and the blood. Scare away the boys.

“Pink’s not your color,” he says.

I look down at my colorful toes.

He grabs his toiletry bag and saunters to the shower. If he had long hair he would have flipped it over his shoulder.

Ego leveled, I put on my socks and shoes and leave without combing my hair.

I didn’t bother with any nail polish remover. A form of penance for my prejudice.

And it took nearly six months for the color to grow out.