This is a true story… of my tattoos.

Borrowing from Alexa today, the stories of my three tattoos.

I have only three tattoos. I used to be the type of person that would get like full arm sleeves, but somehow I distanced myself from the industry.

My very first tattoo was done here:

That’s old school, fuckers — Geneva-on-the-Lake biker shop. A guy named Sarge inked me up. Three of my high school friends (Gin, Juice & Malt — I was Mad Dog, but that’s an entirely different post) and I — all between the ages of 15-17 — joined forces to get “friendship” tattoos. Yeah, things were so much easier and cooler in our teenage years. Thankfully, we each got our own design. I actually borrowed $20 from my sister to get a couple of hearts drawn in on the inside of my right ankle. Another friend had Mickey Mouse (at least it was a tribute to her recently passed father) painted on her belly and another had a tiny, tiny heart within the boob region of her bra line (her mom would kill her). I don’t remember what the third chick got. Maybe something on the back of her shoulder? Damn, can’t remember. Not surprisingly, our friendships grew apart that summer.

Next morning, my mom asked if someone threw up on my slouchy-slouch sock (I guess there was some ink spray on it). I folded, ahem… slouched down my sock and was like, “No, LOOOOK!” Of course, she rolled her eyes and told me I would regret it (I don’t).

Number two, is the prime location for any sexy hottie tattoo — the lower back (oh, don’t you dare Tramp Stamp me, asshole!). My HSS and I went into Legendary Images in Mentor. I had a black butterfly done, but I don’t even remember liking butterflies that much, but whatever, it was done. Again, I have no clue what HSS got. Maybe he had his shitty sun fixed from the tattoo he had done when we were in high school… or maybe it was that No Use For a Name bio-man caricature. Or his own punk band’s logo? My memory sucks. And while I’m completely rambling, I cannot for the life of me remember where I had my tongue pierced. I just remember it was in the basement (professional shop, not my uncle’s basement or anything) somewhere around Cleveland (that helps, right). I used to think it was Body Revolution. Did that place exist ten years ago?

Anyway, my third was an addition to the butterfly on my lower back — a purple petunia. At least, I think it’s a petunia. It could be a campanulas, but what do I know? I love that Freddie (the tat guy at Medicine Man — seriously, does ANYONE know where he went?) fused the black tribal-ness that already existed in the butterfly into the stem of the flower. Because I worked in bar, Freddie comped my tattoo, for means of “advertising” his artistry. He was so awesome. He was also very patient with me, as it pretty much felt as though somebody was CARVING into my tail bone and I was super squirmy. Oh, holy hell that was painful. I want him to complete the tattoo around my hips.

It has almost been TEN YEARS since that third tattoo. I really, really, really want another one. Three more actually. I am just a big pussy now for some reason. I want inside of both of my wrists inked and a quote on the back of my ribcage. One day, I will grow some balls.

Shit, maybe I’ll tattoo those too.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.