From Ashtray To Art: A Reclamation Story

My tattoo goes deeper than skin and healed more than just flesh

Across the room, the man had his back to me, making his little machine buzz and purr like an angry cat. If there were a stereotype of a tattoo artist, this guy was it. Cut-off shirt, bushy beard, tattoos covering everything — even his face. He blinked during our brief consultation. There was another eyeball tattooed on his left eyelid.

After making ready his inks and gun, Three-Eyes (whose real name was Bob) turned around and smiled broadly. His teeth were oddly perfect. He plopped himself down on a little throne stool, placing his gun and a few small vats of ink on a blue piece of paper towel.

Within moments I was removing my left tit from my shirt and bra. Bob would be imprinting a bold, black heart on my left breast, carefully placed to hide a blobby scar.

With more tenderness than I had expected, Bob applied the pale purple stencil and a hearty glob of greenish goo. After pressing on the stencil paper for a moment, he peeled the backing away.

“That where you want it, doll?” gesturing at my exposed breast. I bristled at his use of the cutesy pet name, but held my tongue. I looked down; if the outline stayed true, the ink would hide the scar.