...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...


Yesterday, after a whole lot of "writer's" block, all the pieces finally fell into place for my half-sleeve tattoo.

Now I just need to sit down and sketch it out in completeness and figure out the small details of how/where I would like it begin/end at the top and bottom of my upper arm. (I want to work with the contours of my ENORMOUS biceps. Snicker.)

Amazing though how just sitting here, thinking about the prospect of getting tattooed, calls up such very visceral and sensual memories of tattoos past.

For those of you who've never been inked, you are seriously missing out.

It is a very primal, awesome experience... enough so that there is no metaphor or simile I can offer up that will help you to understand the experience.

Just thinking about the tattoo has got that earthy scent of inks swirling in my nostrils. The tinny guttural hum of the needle burrowing into the conch-shells of my ears. The edgy excitement vibrating inside me like the high-note of the perfume of sex. The pain laced with endorphin-rush fevering its way up into my veins. The skin stretched taut beneath fingers. The cotton rub and smear of excess ink. The snap and stink of rubber gloves. The blood beaded up on skin like dew on a spider's web.

Those of you who've been tattooed are surely sitting back right now getting OFF on that previous paragraph, no doubt. That's the magic of tattoos.

Now all I have to do is save up some money.



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