Hitting Send

I have had a love and appreciation for body art since I was young. I remember being fascinated by the henna and permanent tattoos I saw on foreigners passing through my mom’s place of business in Amsterdam when I was a young child. It all seemed so exotic to have these multicolored pieces of artwork displayed across various body parts.

When I got my first tattoo I was 19 years old. I attended University and resided on campus. Despite wanting a tattoo really badly, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be the first female in our large circle of friends to get one. That changed one night at a party when I, perhaps a touch toasted, declared my intent to brand my backside. My hottie gay neighbor was the one who turned my declaration into a dare, which was all the incentive I needed to fulfill my desire.

The next day, worse for the wear, I was still going through with this “dare”. My three roommates drove me to the closest big town and my first tattoo artist, a Hell’s Angel named Bubba. I may have drunk a fifth of vodka on the way. You know? For the pain. This is a very bad idea, by the way, because alcohol intensifies the pain and increases bleeding. It’s illegal, too. Additionally, the alcohol only added to my need for reassurance. It was Bubba’s “Old Lady”, who tried to comfort me with these words, “First time? Don’t worry! You’re gonna love ‘em and you’ll end up keep gettin’ ‘em ‘til you look like me!” I stared down at all of the tattoos on her arms and tits. I was not comforted.

When it was time to get my tattoo, Bubba stared through me, and said in a deep voice, “Drop your pants and bend over.” My roommates tightly held my legs to keep me from moving. And that was how I ended up with a small, slightly crooked heart on my ass. (Didn’t know this was a cautionary tale, did ya? Pick your artist carefully, boys and girls!)

My second tattoo was done on a bunk bed in an unofficial youth hostel in Amsterdam. (And yes, I know how bad that sounds! It gets worse.) I can’t remember the name of the artist, but he was traveling from….ummmm…well, it was a Spanish-speaking country. I remember because he spoke no English. Yes. Inconceivably, we actually planned the tattoo out using my high school Spanish. I was having him fix my heart and add a dove and two stars to it. Okay, I may have been a little stoned…I’m not saying…but it was Amsterdam. What am I saying? It was Amsterdam and I was stoned off my ass. And I wouldn’t recommend it at all, because it amplifies pain like a… The only place we could find an electrical outlet to use was next to the bunk beds upstairs. A fellow traveler from South Africa held my hips for me. I was told that my screams carried down the five flights of stairs into the hostel activity room below. Then, ignoring my warnings that it was permanent, the South African proceeded to get a pot leaf tattooed on his ankle. (Dude! Would love to know how that worked out for ya!)

It wasn’t until five years later that I was ready for my third tattoo. I am hesitant to admit that up until the night before, my intention was to get a pink flamingo on my ankle. (Don’t hold it against me. I didn’t. Thank God I got something much cooler.) I was stopped from this poor choice by very vivid dreams. One was that a female tattoo artist screwed up my tattoo. The second was that I was supposed to get my power animal tattooed on my hip.

The next day, my fantastic girlfriend drove me across the Golden Gate Bridge to a tattoo shop in San Francisco. The only available artist was a female. Of course I freaked out (because of the dream the previous night, duh) and left the shop, and called another tattoo parlor. I asked the guy who answered the phone if he could take me now if I came in. “Yeah. Where do you want me to take you?” he answered in a ridiculously sexy voice. I had found my third tattoo artist, the incomparable and incredibly sexy Paco.

Upon arriving at the shop, I scanned the walls for the perfect version of what I was looking for, but it wasn’t there. When I told Paco what I was seeking, he said he had just seen a picture in a children’s magazine that would be perfect. (A children’s magazine? I couldn’t picture Paco with a kid’s rag in hand, but I suppose inspiration can come from anywhere.) Sure enough, the picture in the magazine was perfect, and he freehanded my piece from the photograph.

We went into the back room so I could take off my pants (I know! Again?) and lie down. For three and a half hours Paco tattooed a gorgeous tiger across my hip. I think it took so long because of all of the colors and detail. I’m sure the fact that some innocent flirting was occurring helped slow the process down a touch. And this I do recommend. To have the person placing permanent artwork on your body while mutual lusting is occurring is definitely something to experience.

Will I add to this limited collection? Absolutely! There is plenty more ink in my future. A friend of mine led me to an incredibly talented artist he found on myspace whom I would consider using. If that sounds sketchy, it’s not. There are many legitimate, wonderful tattoo artists on myspace. But when I do get my next tat, I promise to write about it!