Thursday, November 15, 2007

College Call Girl has a fun rant regarding tattoos. I’ll cheer her on, as I dislike tattoos, don’t have one, never will.

The closest I ever got was when I was sixteen and under peer influence found myself standing in the lobby of the local tattoo parlor nervously fingering Leah’s drivers license in my pocket, which I stolen from her purse.

It was a one-man shop out on the state highway, next to a junkyard and a gypsy trucking company. The artist was a stereotype, a big, bearded man wearing a Harley-Davidson t-shirt with the sleeves torn off with lots of silver jewelry and piercings to go with his own tattoos. He seemed old but he was only in his thirties. He leered at me and gruffly snarled “Watta ya want.” I was sure he was going to rape me; maybe I wanted him to, in some twisted adolescent fantasy. In retrospect the leer was just his smile and the snarl was simply a matter of fact manner.

I told him I wanted a tattoo and he asked what and where. I didn’t have an answer to that as I completely forgot the plan that I formulated before coming out there. He looked at the clock and told me that he had a couple of appointments and it would be about an hour and a half. I could hang around or come back but he suggested that I look through the sample books and find something I liked.

The rumble of a pair of motorcycles announced the arrival of his customers. I went back to the bench that had the books and began looking through them. Two older men came in, though again only in their thirties, who already sported multiple tattoos. They greeted the owner and checked me out and I wished I were invisible. The first guy went behind the curtain and the second picked up a magazine and sat down. He’d glance over at me and then began to chat me up. I was uncomfortable and after a few minutes I called to the owner that I’d come back, but never did.

My next brush with tattoos occurred when I was a college senior. I was hanging out at Christine’s and we were discussing breast implants. At the time I was seriously considering artificial cleavage, in fact I was obsessing about it. Chris’ counsel was don’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure and that erring on the small side was better than too big. After all I didn’t want to look like Marnie.

Marnie was another dancer at the club where Chris worked. Chris contends that prior to her implants Marnie was one of the most beautiful nudes she had ever seen. Her proportions were that of the classic artist’s nudes, but without the fat of those models. She dug out a picture, six women, topless, in g-strings, flanking a guy holding a trophy. Marnie stood next to Christine; she had a smooth pear shape, the flow of the shape over her hips to her thighs hinted at the wonderful bum that she had. Her breasts were small, maybe even 34 A’s. “Butch nagged her to get the implants,” Christine continued, “he loves them, she hates them” talking about the 38 DD’s. “They’re grotesque,” she finished.

“Butch,” I questioned, “that’s her boyfriend and his name’s on the tattoo? On Marnie’s ass, just above the waistband of a bikini there was a tattoo in the shape and size of a meat stamp, the words ‘
Inspected” had been replaced with “Property of" and "Department of Agriculture," had been replaced with "Butch.”

I’d commented on that tattoo before and Christine took notice and knew that being property appealed to my inner submissive. The following evening we were going dancing, when I got her place I found my collar hanging from the door of her apartment. I knew that meant she wanted to play and I was excited. I put it on, and then rang the bell. Chris had me sit in the kitchen, a work light had been set up and her paints were arrayed on the table. She worked quickly on my face and when she gave me a mirror I had my own stamp, saying ‘
Property of Christine.’



Anonymous VJ said...

Interesting. I heard of a recent survey today that 45% of people under the age of 30 have tats. That's just astonishing, really. It's gone from mostly Marines & bikers & prisoners & other 'marginal'/outsider folks not too long ago to a mainstream expression of personal artistic desires & personality. And it's a booming business too.

Still, kids that can ill afford it, think nothing about paying many 1000's of dollars to be done up as they like. And yes, for many they're certain it's a true expression of their artistic desires & a statement of who they are or where they see themselves presently. But hey, so is writing , painting, poetry, singing, playing & composing music etc.

So I think it's a way of expressing 'Hey, I'm different, look at me!', or something similar in many cases, and this seems like a bit of a short cut to me for many reasons. Instead of being known as that girl that 'sings like an angel' or who 'plays the flute like a rock star' or 'writes like a modern day E. Wharton/Dickinson' or 'can play soccer better than any 12 year old in the district', she's also got to be known as 'the kid with that cute butt-stache' that peeks out when she plays hard. Or for some it's just about the only thing they think they'll be 'notable' for for many years, if ever.

I recently ran into a friendly gent at a local gas station who was just covered in tats. He had both complete sleeves, and you could see that his entire back was covered as well. Doing some quick calculations, I suggested to him that he was going to be wearing his retirement on his body fairly soon. He readily agreed. He looked at it as one of the only ways he had control of his life. It was sort of an addiction, he enjoyed the drama & the art, planned it in detail, and it did indeed cost him well in excess of 10K, and was expected to be 20K by the end of the year. He looked rough & dirty enough to be pure tailer park, and yet he saw this as a good use of his 'disposable income'. Not better housing. Not more education, or helping out his momma or kin, just focusing on his skin instead.

It's indeed a strange world. People know me for who I am, not what I wear. But then again I was never into high fashion all that much.

Cheers & Good Luck! 'VJ'

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