Corado decided he was finally going to take the tattoo plunge. We had somehow met this house full of folks over on the Mesa in Santa Barbara and one of them was a tattoo artist. I was a little reticent in going over there as the weekend before I had gotten so high that I sat for what seemed like an hour “talking with” this cute little androgynous girl, but it was really mostly her talking and me sitting there with that stoney, self-conscious grin that feels like your saliva is drying and caking on your teeth. I couldn’t remember a thing that she had said, but I did remember Dave going off on the evils of White Zinfandel, loudly and annoyingly.
But I went, and we were led upstairs to the guy’s room. The guy was big and soft spoken, the kind of guy that immediately puts you at ease. His tattoo gun was homemade, constructed from sewing machine parts. The guy’s girlfriend invited me to sit on the bed with her where we split a bowl. I occasionally passed it to Corado who would partake, but the artist declined, focusing on tracing Corado’s design.
Corado had drawn out this design that sort of resembled a question mark with arrows coming off of it North, South, East and West. In the center were the initials C.O.C. He was getting his design put on his back below his neck and between his shoulder blades.
I remember listening to a bootleg of a Jane’s Addiction show where at some point Perry Farrell said something to the effect of, “there’s nothing like looking at L.A. on acid”. The girlfriend mentioned that that was probably true and smiled; her smile was remarkable. I leaned back and got lost inside the mix of live Mountain Song and the buzzing tattoo gun.
I felt like a witness to something being born; moments, stretched and heavy and wonderful.
The artist sat and leaned over Corado, who sat backwards and shirtless on a chair. The artist’s long hair fell over Corado’s shoulder. Corado’s feet moved with the pressure of the gun and the artist’s feet moved to his own internal rhythm. The two were locked in like lovers, and I remember thinking how erotic it all was. All this skin, all this touching, all of this penetration and concentration and touching and artistry.
I asked Corado if it hurt and he said in a dreamy voice: “Not it all, feels like a massage.” He let his head slowly drop back down.
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6 comments:
Smart answers for dumb questions.
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Interesting that you mention the eroticism of tattooing. I have been pondering this over the hours I spent in various chairs.
There are a number of mildly strange disparities with tattooing (which I will now proceed to outline, since my work is less than stimulating at this particular time).
1. Artistry -- How often do you hear of a painter "working with his client" to come up with a piece? Of having to work with his canvas in a certain position to best saturate it with paint? Of having to build his own paintbrush? Of making a masterpiece within minutes?
The true artistry of tattooing is in client relations. The fine mesh of what you want and what they want, within an allotted timeframe.
2. Sterility -- There is blood involved. There is ink involved. And most people who do this are drop-out artists. You are letting someone who might not have finished high-school, cut into you with sharp homemade objects. Yet, of the artists I have worked with/met are anal-retentive in their process. Just think about the types of people who usually obsess on cleanliness... now think of any artist you have met.
3. Macho-ness -- Big, burly men being shaven, lubed, and wiped by other scary, burly men. You probably wouldn't want to meet them in a dark alley, but you spend between 1 and.. let's say 40 hours with that same burly man, resting your arm on his thigh while he glides his hand gently across your skin.
4. Pain -- Beautiful imagery, from sheer pain. In order to do this job, you have to hurt people. Every day, you go to work knowing that in order to get your job done, you need to make people bleed, wince, and/or cry.
Tattooing is unique unto itself, and the erotism is true. Not sexual (usually), but not quite casual either. This is probably one of the reasons why you can't just get one.
Please note: I have never had an erotic experience in a tattoo chair, but during one of the many sessions, I did hear some stories.
You don't have to lie man, you get wood. It's cool...
You know what I did get wood from? Thinking about all this while I was getting tattooed. Totally surreal, man.
(...well, not quite wood per se... maybe it was just the endorphins talking...)
Sitting there thinking "this is the only place in the world, where a straight man, can shave another straight man, and it is considered totally macho".
i got my bad ink in the ladies' clink down in coachella. what i would have given to have a burly man shave me. instead it was this bearded lady named shirley who won a couple of awards in a "draw garfield" contest at the LA county fair. damn. i do have the best garfield tattoo you've ever seen, however. garfield with a tear drop.
Ladies shaving ladies is so 1980.
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