Getting inked.

Yes, it has been that busy.


So we left you at an ambiguously homosexual moment. The air is fraught with tension. Charged with the sort of palpable electricity that scientists who never get shagged refuse to acknowledge the existence of. Myself. Charles. Two decent-looking young blokes sort of alternating between foot-shuffling and playing spot-the-non-existent-spider-on-the-wall.

The moment passes, of course. We handle it in our stride, as men of our stature are wont. Which is to say, we pretend it never happened. So was I thinking of getting a tattoo, he asks. No, I wasn't. It was just that my fountain pen had run dry, you see.

'Course, I wasn't going to risk a steamrolled-squirrel-type joke on someone who would be standing over me with an instrument of torture. Yes, I say. I was thinking about it. Not sure how far it was going to take me but thinking, definitely.

On more even footing now, we perform the dance of the expert salesman and the customer who was probably going to buy something, anyway. He hesitantly brings up the stigma associated with having a tattoo and we laugh about my being used to it with my lack of education. And though I'd briefly entertained something screaming loud down the length of my arm, by now I'd figured that my primary concern with getting any sort of tattoo was going to be the screaming, period.

We talk a little about it, inevitably getting around to me pointing out that Charles had nothing visible on him. He grins a little and turns around, whipping his singlet off.

...yes, that was all that came off.

Starting a little below the shoulder blades, a sword. That was all. Done in shades of black, with a single flare of blue from the one sapphire in the hilt. Angled slightly to the right, it was a little East, a little West, a quiet power more than the sum of its parts. Exquisite, elegant and halfway erotic, it was the sort of thing you could properly use the word, "fusion" for.

Half the blade slides into his spine, with a play of shadow and dimensions so skillful I reached out to examine it before I realized what I was doing. Feel free, he says, and I start a little. No mirrors, so how the... . Of course, he must get that sort of reaction a lot. I slide the fingers of my right hand down the blade, watching it ripple down to the end. It was a real urge, to somehow take hold of the hilt and wrench the thing free.

I snap out of it. It was splendid work and I say so. Shrugging back into the singlet, he smiles. Dianne's work, he says. She has a rose similarly embedded, done by him. Depending on what sort of person you were, you get a tattoo for different reasons. The flamboyant go for any old thing, anywhere. The wannabes get your usual skulls and dragons. Sometimes other reasons are involved, like the remembrance of a person, or to be marked. He tells me I should see some of the Japanese Yakuza without their shirts. Literally, there is no bit of skin un-inked.

For tattooists like himself and Dianne, there were also many ways of going about it. Charles says he knows some who just get their bodies covered for the image - that a tattooist should have tattoos. It was different for himself and Dianne. They weren't in this for the money, but for the art. No matter how skilled your were, you cannot do anything on your own back. So it was the ultimate expression of surrender for them to turn their backs and say, "Yes, you may paint me.

Though I absorbed all of it and found it beautifully fascinating, I will confess to have had two primary thoughts override all else at the time:

1. You rich, good looking bastard.

2. In accordance with the grand scheme of things, Dianne had to be smart, funny and drop-dead gorgeous. With that and the tattoo thing going, one could only begin to imagine the sort of sex they must have. Quite probably on the tattoo chairs. Both. Several times. A night.

Some people.

We get a little smarter this time. Charles flows smoothly on to ask me if I wanted a look at the sort of designs they had, or if I had something in mind already. With the tiny, law-abiding and more importantly, pain-fearing bit of my consciousness banging on the back of my head and asking if I was fucking nuts, I chew my lip thoughtfully.

Oh wot the hell. No obligations yet at this stage, eh? I glance up from examining the carpet.


"Got a pen?"



Getting lateish. Sodding off. No hopes on next opportunity to write being soon, but yes, prolly not this long.