Fancying a tattoo for ages, I mentioned it to my then boyfriend and house-mates at university. Boyfriend was far from amused and completely dismissed the idea saying he didn’t find them attractive and wasn’t supportive at all. My house-mate was turning 21 and fancied an eagle on his backside to celebrate.
The next day, while boyfriend and most of the house were at lectures, me and C went into Liverpool city centre looking for a tattoo parlour. We found a rickety old building off Bold Street and followed the signposts up the three flights of stairs. Each of the floors we past were eerily empty and hesitantly, we found our way into to the tattooist.
C went first.
The room was intimidating. Lots of pictures and photographs covering every scrap of wall and the tattooist who resembled a Hell’s Angel asked which design he wanted. I sat silently on a chair as my house-mate lay face down on a weights bench with his backside uncovered. Scary tattooist used a Bic razor to shave his ass then inked the tattoo.
My turn came. I explained nervously what I wanted and where. My plan was to get a small tattoo just above my pubic triangle. Low enough to hide under knickers and not to be affected if I ever got pregnant. (Didn’t want nasty stretch marks running though a picture.) He told C to leave.
“What?” I cried, “I was allowed to watch him getting his tattoo!”
As I walked over to the tattooing area, I noticed the vibrators chained to a chair. I looked anxiously over to C, who was halfway out of the door. The tattooist locked the door behind him and told me to remove my jeans. Trying to be brave, I stood in front of a mirror as he masking taped my knickers to one side and traced the design onto my skin.
I lay on the weights bench and he began.
Giggling with nerves I stupidly asked about the vibrators. He responded with explanations about tattooing penises and how they need to be erect, so he used sex toys for stimulation. I was 18 and very naive, the whole experience was terrifying me. Particularly as I was completely helpless and locked in a building.
When I get nervous, my mouth runs wild before my brain engages. I babble.
I babble about inappropriate things. My colleagues call it sex tourettes. I remember a big boss getting me into a giddy tizz one day playing a guessing game and I blurted out “anal fisting” under pressure.
I talked more and more about genital tattooing and piercings (which he also performed.) He abandoned my tattoo midway through and got out a folder of photos. A tiger tail disappearing into a girl’s anus and a cock covered in snake scales are the only ones I can remember. Followed by his portfolio of piercings. He was unsuccessful in talking me into having my clitoris pierced.
He was incredibly vulgar and very flirty, I was giggling like a maniac. As he continued with the tattoo, I started to talk about my boyfriend after he quizzed me on my availability, telling him of how angry my boyfriend (control freak) would be when I went home with a tattoo. I then openly babbled about my relationship.
He told me that I should dump my boyfriend. He was sincere in pointing out all his faults, highlighting my youth and lack of experience in relationships, convincing me that I should be treated better.
My thoughts had turned from fear to appreciation. He actually seemed a sweetheart.
That’s when he asked for a blowjob.
Looking around the room, remembering the locked door, the giant black veined replica cock on a chain, the fact I was wearing a tee-shirt and knickers, which were taped to one side exposing most of my lady bits, I wondered how to escape.
But then I would only have half a tattoo?
I pretended not to hear so the tattooist repeated his request. Instead of payment for the tattoo he asked for a blowjob.
There had been much rude banter between us and I convinced myself he was joking. I retorted with remarks of how unhappy my boyfriend would be if I performed fellatio for a service and refrained from running from the building.
Luckily my friend C had arrived back and was knocking on the door. My tattoo was complete, I paid cash in full and made my way home.
Boyfriend was NOT happy. He refused to converse with me for the remainder of the day/evening. He frequently told me it looked ugly and couldn’t believe how stupid I had been.
Next morning, I returned to the tattooist for a second tattoo, purely out of rebellion. If boyfriend was going to strop over one tattoo, he would throw a fit over two. Hairy scary Hell’s Angel was chuffed to see me. I gave a full and frank account of how much a twat my boyfriend was and received the second tattoo (teeny tiny drawing on my shoulder) for half the price. Tattooist asked me on date before I left.
I wasn’t with the boyfriend for much longer either.
Oh and the tattoo? In the place that wouldn’t be affected by a baby bump? Mr Tattooist was correct, my bump expanded and didn’t stretch the skin anywhere near my tattoo, however, the emergency caesarian needed with my first daughter, resulted in a scar cutting the tattoo perfectly in half. The clown who sewed my back up, didn’t think to match the picture back together 🙂