Tattoos were my calling, my one and only lust. It was freedom in the form of flesh, pleasure in the form of pain.
There was nothing better than getting tagged by a needle or watching a permanent picture get stenciled across skin.
And when I would wipe away the final smear of ink, it was an orgasm for my eyes. My body would become electrified, every hair standing on end with a galvanic torch.
Seeing my work, watching the expression glow on the face of my client; there was nothing in my life that ever matched it.
Ever.
Passion and need were two different things, I didn't need to tattoo, but I loved it.
Pussy was gratifying, the feel of hot wet lips riding the ridges of my cock; it was incredible, the heat was explosive.
But it never compared to the rush I felt after seeing my work set in skin forever.
Rolling the graphite tip of my pencil smoothly over the transfer paper, the first lines of my imagination came to life.
I worked the paper, treating it like the blank flesh it would eventually capture. Every line was an emotion, every contour and curve was a piece of my inner mind.
Getting lost in what I loved was easy, it was living outside the page that had been a challenge. For years I walked the planet as a lost soul, an empty shell without a purpose.
That all changed when I found tattoos. After getting my first one, I was hooked.
Tattoos and pussy are one in the same, created from the same mold. A taste was all it took, and the rest of your life was spent chasing that high.
But women... They'd never last a lifetime. That was a ride for the weak, a high that only ended in heartbreak and loneliness.
Screw that, I'm all set.
I liked being solo. No one to answer to, no one to question what I'm doing, where I'm going, who I'm going with. I'd be just fine without that leash.
My face was locked onto the page, eyes glued to the creation in my hands, when the jingle of the front door hit my ears.
Really? Of course someone had to show up now.
How could I forget that the earliest hours of the next morning was the waking hour of the sleepless around here.
Glancing up at the security monitor fastened to the wall, two young girls were standing in the front like frozen statues.
Shit, I was hoping the night was over. I really need to start this piece.
I had a huge back piece scheduled for the next day, and my client had changed their mind so many fucking times I finally gave up, eventually telling them to just let me do what I did best; envision, and tattoo.
All I needed was to know the basics. Tell me what you like, tell me what or who the tattoo is supposed to represent. And from that my fingers could manifest an image that would capture it all.
Leaning back in my chair, I tapped the pencil against my chin, watching them for a moment. It was amazing what you could learn from just observing.
One of the girls started to flaunt herself around the front, hips swinging out with more exaggeration than necessary.
Her lips were moving rapidly, brows shifting like small critters holding on for dear life.
But the other girl, she caught my attention. Standing back, her eyes wildly scanned around the room. The nerves riding her spine were visible with no more than one glance.
Even the small screen couldn't hide her fingers twining around each other, foot twisting awkwardly into the floor.
God I hope this is quick. Turn them away and tell them you're busy.
That's all you have to do.
Grunting, I pushed away from the desk, and walked out front. “What can I do for you?” The words felt as cold as ice. No emotion, no curiosity, only the letters that formed them built the tone.
The enthusiasm I branded on a typical day was locked inside my deadline, I didn't have room for games tonight.
Normally I was excited to have an unplanned visit, they were always fun.
Some of my best work was done on the fly. The excitement and energy of a person living life in the moment, breathing for time as it stood right in front of their face, it gave my fingers strength.
For a lot of people a tattoo held meaning, a special place in their world that was only for them and their memories. And I was the lucky one to brand them with it.
But tonight I had shit to take care of. I didn't have time to babysit two girls who seemed so out of place. I didn't have time to hold their hand and tell them how amazing and life changing a tattoo could be.
Sure, I could have just closed down shop, turned the open light off and locked myself away inside. Except I'd never been able to do that.
The lights stayed on till three in the morning, and it was only one. That wouldn't make for good business, your reputation was everything around here.
And I held my reputation high, my name had weight, people knew who I was and respected me.
Respect was what ran this city, it gave me everything I needed. Everything I'd ever wanted and missed in the life I held before.
Getting into the habit of closing the doors early would only mean I'd lose everything I'd built, and I'd end up hitting the bottle at some point.
My life would spiral back down into the abyss I had worked so hard to crawl out of. The darkness would grab hold of my ankle, swooping me off my feet, and back into its endless hole.
I couldn't let that happen. That would destroy me, just like it had so many times before, just like it stole my family.
The life before I found my voice; my words in skin.
I'd been sober for over two years; two long, hard, worth every minute years. The more time I spend doing shit, the less trouble I got into.
I put too much effort into this place to let it dissipate into dust right in front of my eyes. Everything I had, everything I built around my name; it cemented my place in this city, gave me authority and leverage to have anything and everything I'd ever wanted.
And I took it, claimed it, called it mine.
Because that's what it was, it was all mine.
Looking the girls over, I could tell exactly who the ring leader was.
The girl with reddish hair had a smile gleaming across her jaw, fingers dancing excitedly as she flipped through my portfolio on the front desk.
Definitely the driver of this little pop in.
She didn't look shy or nervous, but she did look a bit tipsy. Her feet wobbled slightly in her heels, legs anchoring down into the carpet to keep steady.
Yeah, this is what I need. Two drunk girls, who probably want matching tattoos.
Red was cute, but not my type; she was too tall, and lanky. There was no meat on her bones, and I swear if I had a drumstick I would've been able to play chopsticks across her ribs.
Her makeup was as bright as her dress, the gold dusting meant to coat her lids was thick and pasty. Fake lashes expanded like long fingers over her eyes, spreading like wings of a raven instead of the sexy wisps of wind-blown flowers.
Instinctively my eyes were drawn to the motionless girl set in the background. With bright blonde hair, a body to die for, and the face of an angel; she was easy to get lost in.
There was no packed clay across her skin, no magnified color to steal her perfection. Small breasts sat high upon her chest like perfect raindrops. Just the right size to lick up in one slurp, sucking them deep into my mouth.
I hated anything fake and made of plastic; it was unnatural. A cheap way to divert the eyes from the ugliness hidden beneath the surface.
And if you asked me... A complete waste of money.
Now, I'm not talking about reconstructive surgery for an accident of deformity that needs correction, and is out of that person's control. No, I'm talking about ordinary people who just demand to have what they think is better, or needed.