IMAGO

Anna Sky

The hypnotic buzz of the gun before it touches me is enough to send flickers of need shooting through me. It’s a Pavlovian response; my nipples harden, my cunt pulses and flutters, and dammit if I don’t nearly salivate.

You might think I’m a slave to the tattoo gun, but you’d be wrong. The loops and swirls, whorls and shading, the colors and monochromes are reminders of who I am but they do not define me.

It’s the process that does: a multifaceted reflection of everything I am and want to be. The injection of ink into my dermis is cathartic. The pain as the needle pierces my outer shell hundreds if not thousands of times a minute takes all thought away, leaving just me and my breath. And I do breathe; I breathe to physically still my body and to explore the echoing emptiness of my mind. Later on, I’ll masturbate hard, allowing the heaviness in my cunt the release it so desperately craves.

I’m careful now, choosing a new tattooist if I feel my desires have become too obvious. In my head, they’re always Master or Mistress of my flesh as I submit but I want to keep it pure, not marred by their discomfort as my lips slightly part and my cheeks take on a pink flush.

My body has become a canvas, a riotous carnival of ink. It’s an homage to the pain I endure and showcases my ultimate, unquestionable submission. Every time I go under the needle, it refreshes my fervor and what started as a small, butterfly-shaped challenge between friends is now the story of my life.

I’m the quiet girl, the introvert. Cocooned and cosseted, I was brought up to think tattoos would damage my job chances and were an ominous thing that “other” people did. Somehow though, before we went our separate ways to university, my best friend persuaded me to get something small, easy to hide. It would be our secret connection, a reminder of having known each other since before either of us could remember.

I still remember that first time, walking into the shop with Kel. She was suave and confident next to my awkward jumpiness. We scanned the boards trying to find “our” design, sure that we could bond over a stock image. In my naïveté, I didn’t know a whole world of custom design work existed. I know better now; I understand the pride of a tattoo artist, the culmination of honed artistry and the application of pigment to create a permanent piece of art. Unique images combining on my flesh in a living, breathing canvas.

The shop smelled odd to me that day. Now it’s comforting, like coming home. Disinfectant and other, unidentifiable, unpleasant scents assaulted my nasal passages. I winced as I first heard the gun, its mosquitolike buzz emanating from behind a curtain. My signature on the consent form was shaky and distorted, a clear indication of my nerves.

Kel went first; I nearly turned and ran when I saw how much it hurt. Her previously cool demeanor drained from her face to leave her with a gray, sickly pallor. A grim curiosity kept me there; perhaps it was the guy doing the work. I guess he’d be described as a hipster now: beard, full sleeve of ink, checked shirt. Yeah, the whole damn clichéd package that Kel and I would giggle over afterward and take turns in making ever more lewd suggestions. The look of concentration on his face captured my imagination and for those few minutes that I really watched him, Kel was his entire world and everything else fell away. He had slender, precise hands that inked and wiped and inked and wiped and that’s why I stayed, fascinated.

I wanted to be the center of his universe. I wanted him to treat me so tenderly yet have the power to alter me at my very core. My rising primal urge shocked me. And thankfully, he didn’t disappoint. From the way he applied the stencil, his eyes boring into me as I nodded my assent, to the warmth from his fingers seeping through to my skin as he stretched it outward, I was hooked. “Ready?” he asked.

I took a deep breath, then said, “Yes.”

It hurt. It hurt like fuck but all I could think of was how he cherished me in those moments and so I endured, instinctively breathing hard and deep to counteract the deep gouging scratch of the needle. Inside, I was in turmoil. Pulse quickening, the pain taking me to somewhere I’d never been before. Everything seemed slower and quieter until it was just me, the needle, and the deep concentration of the tattooist.

It pierced deeper than sex; in spiritual overtones it whispered to my very soul and I knew I was forever changed, purged of the old and blessed with clarity and purity of thought. My lungs moved in and out to keep the oxygen flowing but I was unaware, riding a divine wave of ecstasy.

Later that night, I peeled off the film to rub balm into my injured flesh. It was hot to the touch, bruised and sensitive, but I didn’t care, I lovingly caressed it anyway. And deep into the night, I furiously rubbed at my clit, imagining each stroke of my fingers the push of the needle. When I came it was hard and relentless, my cunt clenching like it had never done before. But it wasn’t enough and, soaking wet, I came again and again until I fell asleep, sated.

The healing process was metamorphic. Dead layers of skin sloughing off to reveal shiny, new, permanent ink. With multiple daily applications of moisturizer the sheen disappeared until the tattoo was just another part of me. It was an outward reflection of my transition, a chrysalis evolved.

My body is filling up and I know the day will come when I can no longer have the satisfaction I still crave so very badly. There are only so many cover-ups and gaps. Now they’re fewer and fewer. Every single piece of ink tells a story, my story, and I cannot distort or destroy my body’s narrative. My bright façade will remain, but on the inside I’m sure I’ll shrivel and fade away.