I am in love with tattoos. I like for my men to have a few. I myself have some and would get more if my funds weren’t so tight. That being said I refuse to get a cheap tattoo from a guy who owns a tattoo gun and will give you one for 3 or 4 Dilaudid. I want them to look nice. I want to have a drawing or photo and for that to be transferred skillfully onto my skin by a talented artist in an establishment the health department does visit. I am sure their needles are not infested with Hepatitis C (I’d rather have sex with Tommy Lee to get that).
Fortunately, there are plenty of people who get really bad tattoos. A lot of them seem to trademark certain cultural groups. Strippers like to get cherries. Rednecks like to get Native American chiefs, feathers and wolves. Bikers get naked chicks while their old lady gets the boob tattoo of a rose. Bros get Japanese symbols and koi fish. Thugs get words on the neck or stomach and usually one dead person’s portrait. Eighteen year old girls get butterflies and their name which mom spelled phonetically “Krystyle”, “Aimee” or “Rebekkah”
My personal favorites were covered on the arms of this guy at my apartment pool. He was called, by people who were about his age and only two teenage boys, “Uncle Mike.” He wore jorts to swim in (the cut off jeans that are transformed into trendy, yet practical shorts). He had decadent blue ink tattoos of words and pictures all over his browned and leathery skin, a complexion that is appealing to me because I find melanoma sexy. The tattoos were faded and became more of a Rorschach test on his body than homage to whatever state penal system he visited.
As he smoked, and said goddamn in front of small children, I observed him. I began to imagine his dirty nail beds touching me and fondling me. I wanted to run my hands through his sporadically washed, unkempt hair. I could not discern whether he was actually paying rent at my apartment complex, indigent, or sleeping on a buddies’ couch after his unappreciative girlfriend kicked him out. His, I assume nephews because he was Uncle Mike, were a reflection of selective breeding and good genetics. They were delightfully thin to the point of emaciated, and the skin between their acne was quite nice. The fact that they were very loud with their charming prepubescent voices and running wildly around the pool was an absolute delight to me as I found them to be so funny! I felt almost dirty because I wanted to touch these boys like I was a school teacher.
Eventually Uncle Mike stumbled towards me. I was so nervous I pretended to ignore him and appeared to be enthralled by the book I was reading because I like to play really, really hard to get. To my dismay I played it too cool when I did not respond to his comment about myself being totally hot and he’s not too old for me. He walked off and I think he called me a cunt, which turned my attraction for him into a longing. I was broken-hearted when he decided to leave and go to the local bar. I wanted to tell my son, “Put your floats on, I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” I know that after some counseling and loss of respect for women he would understand. I had one chance to spend the night with this Adonis.
Well I collected myself and thought better of leaving with Uncle Mike. He would only break my heart after leaving me abandoned and smelling like motor oil. I will always be left to wonder what would have could have been. I am guessing it would be similar to having sex with a rock star, and maybe I could still get Hepatitis C! Despite the fact I wanted to use my tongue to explore his gums where teeth were missing, I went home. No doubt I fantasized endlessly, but I was proud of myself. I am not enough of a woman for Uncle Mike and those sexy tattoos.