Tattooed Moon (2 page)

Like Julian, we can’t live for other people, because if we do, then we’ve died for them, too. The next reason is far simpler. It’s a matter of personal attraction: If I don’t personally find my characters alluring, no one else will, either. I have to be convincing, thus, I must be enamored with the men that run amok all over the pages of my books. And who would I be to always color within the lines? That was never my style, so why start now?

I have been asked many times by readers, especially ladies who didn’t find the art of tattooing and/or tattoo artists particularly appealing until they read this book: why do SOME women seem to lose their minds around these male tattoo professionals? Yes…many have a cult following, groupies if you will. (Evident in the popularity of reality-based TV tattoo parlor shows.) This is my answer:

If a tattoo artist is gifted at what he does, if you connect with him and he understands your goals, then your consultation is, believe it or not, a replica of foreplay. Now, before you dismiss my notion and color me crazy, let me break this down a bit further. Typically when a person, a woman in this case (Milan Parker—the heroine), goes to get a tattoo, she first talks the artist. They meet, discuss things, have a conversation. This conversation can last anywhere from ten minutes to several months, depending on many variables. Regardless, it is a conversation, for no one just walks into a tattoo parlor, flops down in the chair or on the bench and doesn’t share what they want, why they are there, etc.

So, the client is asking the artist to put something on her body – her temple… She is trusting him to do what she asks, to fill in the blanks of what she did not articulate and if he is a skilled artist, he will be able to ask the proper questions and meet her expectations. There is a difference however between good and great. The
great
tattoo artists surpasses those expectations, thus, his clientele increases and he has dedicated, loyal customers. The client is putting her faith into the hands of another human being to change her flesh, mark it permanently. She has an understanding in advance that it may be an uncomfortable experience, and for some, even downright painful. She recognizes that it is PERMANENT. Thus, this mimics one’s loss of virginity, especially if they are a ‘tattoo virgin’, so to speak. Once that cherry/hymen is popped…it’s a wrap. No one else can duplicate that.

That artist is penetrating that person’s skin, leaving a trace of their craft on that person FOREVER. No other creature on the planet is going to generate the exact same tattoo, the exact same way. You can give two talented tattoo artists identical photos to duplicate. For example, let’s pretend it is a black rose. Like all art, it will be subjective and up to the artist to interpret it. There will be differences in shading, technique, possibly size, too. The artist may very well ‘get off’ knowing they have left something behind that is forever, for their art is in a way like their fingerprint.

The artist becomes timeless, immortal. The artist can perish, pass away, but his or her art is STILL ALIVE on the flesh of their former clients, and even when those clients die as well, they take that art to their grave. Additionally, there will be pictures documenting their body art long after they took their last breath. It will go on and on. These men and women who skin tag for a living ‘live on’ through their ink…

So, you see, when a client allows this to happen to her, she has on some level, had foreplay, and then intercourse, with her artist. He/she has penetrated them and now, they (the client and artist) will always be connected. They have an intimate relationship, whether they interpret it as such or not. So, this is why some women (and men) gravitate towards stories, books, movies, etc. featuring tattoo artists and the art they leave behind. It is one of the reasons that some women become literally addicted to being tattooed as well. The act of getting a tattoo becomes BIGGER than hanging wall art – because it is married to an experience and two people being connected and that virtuosity becomes LIVING ART…

…Because she, the Queen canvas, walks and talks…

She breathes.

She lives

… and she wears his work across her heart like, well, a tattoo…

‡

–Anne Wilson Schaef

‡

J
ulian sank low
in his white chair, the noisy pleather crunching under his dark, loose-fitting jeans. The heat from the work lamps made his skin dewy with a thin layer of sweat. Buoyant, seductive swirls of Nang Champa incense eddied past his face, causing his nostrils to flare as he inhaled the scent. The intoxicating fragrance intermingled with the previous cherry stick aroma he’d lit sometime earlier in the evening. He removed his rubber ink-stained gloves with a snap, then tossed them haphazardly in the nearby steel trashcan as he waved a lazy goodbye to his last customer for the day.

‘Soul Inscriptions’, a tattoo salon wedged between the reddened brick walls of a tall and skinny historic building, was his baby, the tattooed child he’d created with his own ink-covered hands. It flaunted an attached new age store filled with his unique blend of healthy energy beverages, assorted scented candles, spiritual what-nots, a few ‘naughty’ toys for the sensually adventurous, and one-of-a-kind massage oils, blended on site. The place was now empty, the patrons long gone. The old LP records from yesteryear and a plethora of holistic healing remedies were getting more business than he’d ever anticipated with the influx of new college students and transplants from larger cities moving into Athens, Georgia. Matter of fact, business had never been so good, and his clientele was building by long leaps and bountiful bounds. It fast became apparent that he was constructing a substantial status, and he’d been completely taken off guard in the whirlwind.

Word was spreading around town that he was damn good, and competitively priced for his advanced skillset. This brought a new dilemma to his wind chimed covered doorstep. He couldn’t handle the new demand, so he elicited help. He’d hired an additional artist—Alex, another sought after skin tagger—to help with the overwhelming workload, and decided to use some of the additional revenue to spruce up the place. His original hand-drawn signage, though magnificent if he said so himself, just weren’t cutting it anymore.

They had been replaced with a professional sign boasting of bright vermillion and neon clover radiant letters, right along with his favorite trio of goopy, hypnotic orange lava lamps, set atop a bookshelf housing a hard-bound book collection on the history of body modification. He ran his hand down his slightly scruffy face then glanced at a nearby mirror, watching himself twirl about in the client chair as he stole precious breaths and slippery moments of serene peace. He sized up what he saw before him as if he’d never seen his very own reflection before.

As he glared into his cerulean eyes, a bit duller than usual as his tiresome body became more complacent, he could see that his face reflected the turmoil inside—he was severely sleep deprived. His typically vibrant eyes were full of shadows, his mouth dry, and he’d rarely been so self-negligent. But business had been fierce, and he had important things to tend to. Matter of fact, this was the first day in weeks that the shop was quiet, and only because they were now closed and he’d sat down for a long needed breather.

I better get home…

He stood to his feet, snuffed out the incense with wetted fingers, turned off the sleepy ceiling fan and lava lights, and made his way to the money safe in the back of the place, hidden away in a slender closet to remove the nightly deposit. After he turned the lock on the storeroom and placed his fingers against the cold, chrome, ridged dial, the phone rang, chilling him as the shrillness interrupted his tranquility. He stepped out of the enclosure and glanced at the turtle shaped clock on the wall, its little avocado-colored legs moving back and forth and its long neck swinging a tiny head with a silly, hand-painted grin on its emerald face.

The damn thing is still slow… What a coincidence.

He smirked at the paradox and looked at the other side of the room, noting his very first hire’s station, Cedrick’s work area. There, atop a thickly bound mountain of tattoo books and illustration magazines, stood a digital clock with vibrant red numbers. It read 11:03 P.M. It was Thursday evening, and they officially closed at 9:30 P.M. on weekdays. He slumped his shoulders, sighed, then marched towards the ringing siren, his facial muscles taut with annoyance.

“Soul Inscriptions, Julian speaking…” The lack of enthusiasm in his tone delivered loud and clear to the caller, no doubt. He’d half attempted to put some life into it, some oomph, but he simply didn’t have the strength.

“Um, yes, I was thinking of getting a tattoo. I’d like to know if—”

“Ma’am, we’re closed.” He cut her off at the pass, loath to waste her time, or
his
, with a long drawn out story. “Call back at nine tomorrow, and I can talk to you about it.” He stifled a yawn.

“Oh, I thought you guys were open all night.” The disappointment was clear in her tone.

“It
has
been all night.”

“No, I mean like, twenty-four hours.”

“No ma’am. I’m the owner, and I definitely wouldn’t want any of my employees working hours like that. It would interfere with the quality of their labor. I’m the only one allowed to have a shaky hand,” he joked, feeling like talking a bit after all. He was met with stony silence. “I don’t
really
have a shaky hand. I was just…well, never mind.” He huffed and ran his palm across his forehead, now eager again to put the awkward conversation to rest. “What’s your name? I can write it down and set you up an appointment tomorrow.”

The woman hesitated, as if unsure. Julian was accustomed to this sort of thing. It was kind of like someone calling a rehabilitation center for drug intervention. They knew they wanted it, they knew they
needed
it, but the fear was overwhelming nevertheless.

“Let me guess, this is your first tattoo?” He tucked the phone in between his shoulder and neck and crossed his arms as he resigned himself to once again engage the caller.

“Yes.” She laughed lightly, a sound paired with what seemed like a sigh of relief.

“Okay, look.” He waved his hand around, as if she were actually standing in front of him, face to face. “Like I said, I’m the owner, and I’ve had this shop for three years. I’ve been doing tattoos professionally for eight years though. We do quality work here. We’ve received a lot of awards and recognitions, I’m not really into all of that, but hey, that’s something folks like to know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No one has tried to sue me,” he said with a grin. “Knock on wood, and that should put you at ease.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s good…” He could hear the beam in her tone.

“And I promise to be gentle, and give you exactly what you want.” He found himself morphing into his inner salesman, despite being dead on his feet.