I text Ginny: “I think we should consider expanding our business model to include a line of customizable photo cards so you can send your loved ones pictures of your nipple tattoos.”
We’ve both been reading about this guy, Vinnie Myers, who is based in Maryland and New Orleans. He’s apparently the grandmaster of nipple tattooing. He used to be a regular tattoo artist, but now his website says: Many things have changed over the past few years and now I spend most of my time tattooing nipple areola tattoos on breast cancer warriors.
His work is extraordinary, and women flock to him like pilgrims: nothing frou-frou. No flowers or dragons covering the scar. Just nipples of all varieties: pink and pubescent, dark and post-breastfeeding, large, small, one that even contains an artificial piercing. They look 3-dimensional and completely real.
We’ve watched videos of Vinny working. He wears hipster glasses, a tie, and a straw porkpie hat. “He is clearly our guy,” I write.
“Road trip down the nipple highway,” texts Ginny. “That’s our reward.”
Right now I don’t even have a breast. The whole idea feels like an abstraction. “A kind of updated Thelma and Louise,” I text back. “We’re gonna need to get a convertible.”