I was 18 or so, the first time I was tattooed, by a guy with a homemade machine and horrible India ink.  I did not know any better.  All I knew was that I wanted a tattoo and had ever since I was old enough to point at the gumball style machine and ask my Mom for the lick and stick tattoos that you got a plastic bubble full of for a dime.  As a little girl, I drew on myself to the point that Mom and Dad hid all markers and pens from me, lest they have to once again scrub off the childish drawings of flowers, hearts, and anything else that drew my attention.

I remember in kindergarten, the teachers sent home a note stating that the lick and stick tattoos could possibly be laced with LSD and not to allow your child to use them.  I was devastated.  Sure, we all know now that that is an Urban Legend, but 23 years ago, when the school sent home something like that, parents listened.

I took to sneaking pens out of my Mom's purse, hiding behind furniture and drawing on my skin, only under my clothes.  As if my Mom wouldn't see them when she helped her 5 year old daughter bath or dress.  The mind of a child is definitely not a logical thing. 

Eventually I grew to the point where no one had to help me bath or dress, the fears over the lick and stick tattoos had ceased and I was allowed to spend my small allowance on them.  And I did.  Every week I bought another round plastic bubble filled with silly flowers, anchors, birds, or other common tattoo styles.  My parents shook their heads at me, but figured it was just a stage.  Little did they know.  Daddy had a few friends who were former sailors, you could see some faded, blue green ink peeking from underneath a shirt sleeve or out of the neckline of a low cut shirt. 

Whenever I saw this, I would approach them and ask to touch their tattoo. All of them would oblige, many pulling the cloth out of the way so I could see the anchors and skulls, daggers and roses better.  I was mesmerized.  I couldn't believe how much I loved looking at them. 

I'd follow people in stores, when I'd see a tattoo sticking out, I couldn't help myself, I had to see every tattoo I could.  The obsession wasn't going away.  The older I became the more intense the my obsession became.

I would buy magazines of tattooed people and examine them over and over, until eventually the tattered pages would crumble to bits.  I'd draw relentlessly the designs that filled my head, even my horrid drawings became dreams of ink under my skin. 

Then one day, a friend of mine had a homemade tattoo machine.  Oh, yes, the old tape player (or was it razor motor) machine he had rigged with a Bic pen tube, sewing needle (that he could change out) and India Ink.  I wasn't going to do it, but my then significant other, Michael, sat for him and had a tattoo etched on his lower forearm.  After watching the drawing appear under his skin and his goading, I agreed.

Looking back now, I know better.  Homemade machines and that horrible ink aren't meant for tattoos, but that day all I could see was that my obsession would finally be fulfilled.  I pulled up my left pant leg, laid my leg across his, and Robert began.

Holy shit, as the needle first hit my leg, I thought I was going to vomit.  Intense waves of pain flung themselves across my body and into my brain.  Michael's hand turned bright red from the death grip I had on him.

Yet, I didn't tell him to stop.  Through the more than an hour of drilling, and drilling it was, into my leg, I sat there.  Of course looking back now, several tattoos later, I know that the pain should not have been like that.  Real tattoo needles aren't as dull, nor is there only one needle slowly placing ink in your flesh.  Not to mention how hard Robert was bearing down on my leg.

I was sure then that I would never have any more tattoos and I had better take all of this in.  I tried to remember all of the feelings, the sounds, the emotions, but couldn't.  As soon as he was done and had bandaged my leg, I got up and we left.

It wasn't until an hour later, that I looked down at my leg and saw the bruising.  He had dug so hard into me that I was a black and blue bloody mess.  Again, young, stupid, I thought that was part of the process.

We went about our normal evening, going to the pool hall to shoot pool, sing karaoke and have a couple of drinks.  By the end of the evening, the intense throbbing was getting to me, I went home to wash my leg and put bacitracin on it (hey, I told y'all I did not know what I was doing.)

The fascination was dulled for awhile.  When it was finally healed I saw the horrid design that was on my leg.  A yin-yang that not only was too deep and scarred but not evenly done.  It was pretty bad, but I refused to admit it to myself or anyone else.

I still have that tattoo, although I do have the plans for having it covered.  It's the lone piece on my left leg, a testament to youthful stupidity.  Someday the boulders underneath a lighthouse will hide it from view and I'll only have the memories and a few horrifying pictures of it.

The oddest thing is that it didn't stop me from my fascination.  A couple years later, I had a small piece of stars done, which renewed my interest.  There was no pain with that tattoo, in fact I talked to a friend through the whole thing and didn't realize the tattooist was done.  I'm up to four pieces now, all of which have to be retouched following an illness last year.  I had a severe infection in my legs (entirely unrelated to my tattoos) that caused scar tissue and odd distortion of my tattoos. 

The rework on all those pieces still has to wait a few more months, as the scars have to settle completely first.  I have researched artists and actually found a fairly new one close to us, who does good work.

Sometimes it's hard to believe that after my first experience I was willing to go back for more, yet I can't imagine not being tattooed nor can I imagine not knowing the people I have met through my interest in body modification.  It's a lifelong journey in which I've only taken the first few steps.