thirty-five, I would be getting a tattoo.
My desire was sparked as a child; I was somehow attuned to inkage on other people and my dad confessed he’d always wanted one. My mom, who was raised Ortho, never would have gone for it, but my Reform dad wore her down a bit, and by the time my brother moved to L.A. and got a bunch, they were fine with it. So fine, in fact, that on one trip, about ten years prior, we all spontaneously decided to get K s on our asses.
The four of us—Mom, Dad, bro, and I—wandered into Body Electric, home of Tommy Lee and the gang’s tattooists, and the dude was just unwrapping a huge foil-encased steaming burrito.
“Aw, man, I just got lunch. If you come back in twenty, I can do ya.”
“Okay, great, we’ll come back in twenty!” my dad said enthusiastically.
And then . . .
Bok bok bok bok bok!
The Kopelman Klan chickened out in that mini time period.
Fast-forward to my thirty-fifth birthday and my brother and I decided it was time to fulfill my dream of being a BAMF. And that he would accompany me to the needle. But not on my butt or above my ass crack, tramp-stamp-style—rather on my back, like where Angelina Jolie has the coordinates of where her adopted Mohawk children were conceived or something. Above bra strap so that when I wore a black-tie dress it would show and I’d be all naughty and nice. Sugar and spice. Leather and lace. Velvet and ink.
Even though I am a grown-up, my mom vetoed it. But not how you think, throwing some kind of hissy fit; she announced that back tattoos were cheese and instead I should get it on my wrist . I explained to her that the back was kind of semi-sinful because I could cover it up when I chose to, but the very public wrist was a full-on plummet into scumbaggery for all the world and their country club pals to see. No matter, she said! Wrist somehow felt more dainty and delicate and feminine and sexy. Done. I would get a thread-thin ethereal, swirling letter K, for my last initial, both married and maiden.
Willie, my brother, came with me to Saved Tattoo in Williamsburg, where celeb tattoo artist Scott Campbell talked me down from freakage over potential pain. My heart had been pounding out of my chest all damn day in sonic booms that were so deafening I almost uncorked some vino, but I was informed that alcohol thins the blood and can cause a gusher. So yeah, no wine. Fuck me. How was I gonna get through this?
I followed Scott across the studio, passing huge ripped muscle guys lying on gurneys wincing in pain as their blood was dabbed away with gauze. Motherfuckercocksucker, I was so dead. Toast. These megabeefcakes were buggin’ and li’l ol’ me was getting my little wrist stabbed? Oh, jeez. I watched one (whose tat was snakes crawling in and then out of the two eye sockets of a skull) actually get up and walk it off, he was in such tortured agony. I almost shat. I somehow suspected that I would be one of those losers who end up with just a small dot because I wouldn’t be able to take the pain and would give up. Willie looked me in the eye and told me that I could do this. I’ll never forget it. I took a deep breath. My brother took my hand in his as Scott injected me. And . . .
“That’s it ?!” I marveled.
“Yeah, not so bad, right?” Scott said.
“Oh my god, these guys are all a bunch of lame-ass pussies,” I said, jutting my chin toward the dudes weeping at the other stations. “This is nothing next to childbirth!”
Allow me to say right here and now that it’s a good thing men don’t have vaginas, because having a bowling ball cruise through a straw that barely holds a Playtex slender regular tamp is so much worse than some ink shot under your skin!
One word to all ye considering a tattoo but fear the stick: cake. It didn’t hurt at all! Okay, maybe that’s a lie; I mean, of course it hurt, but nothing like babies trashing your vag wall, so yay! Now I want more.
The preppy Lilly Pulitzer set shat twice on
My desire was sparked as a child; I was somehow attuned to inkage on other people and my dad confessed he’d always wanted one. My mom, who was raised Ortho, never would have gone for it, but my Reform dad wore her down a bit, and by the time my brother moved to L.A. and got a bunch, they were fine with it. So fine, in fact, that on one trip, about ten years prior, we all spontaneously decided to get K s on our asses.
The four of us—Mom, Dad, bro, and I—wandered into Body Electric, home of Tommy Lee and the gang’s tattooists, and the dude was just unwrapping a huge foil-encased steaming burrito.
“Aw, man, I just got lunch. If you come back in twenty, I can do ya.”
“Okay, great, we’ll come back in twenty!” my dad said enthusiastically.
And then . . .
Bok bok bok bok bok!
The Kopelman Klan chickened out in that mini time period.
Fast-forward to my thirty-fifth birthday and my brother and I decided it was time to fulfill my dream of being a BAMF. And that he would accompany me to the needle. But not on my butt or above my ass crack, tramp-stamp-style—rather on my back, like where Angelina Jolie has the coordinates of where her adopted Mohawk children were conceived or something. Above bra strap so that when I wore a black-tie dress it would show and I’d be all naughty and nice. Sugar and spice. Leather and lace. Velvet and ink.
Even though I am a grown-up, my mom vetoed it. But not how you think, throwing some kind of hissy fit; she announced that back tattoos were cheese and instead I should get it on my wrist . I explained to her that the back was kind of semi-sinful because I could cover it up when I chose to, but the very public wrist was a full-on plummet into scumbaggery for all the world and their country club pals to see. No matter, she said! Wrist somehow felt more dainty and delicate and feminine and sexy. Done. I would get a thread-thin ethereal, swirling letter K, for my last initial, both married and maiden.
Willie, my brother, came with me to Saved Tattoo in Williamsburg, where celeb tattoo artist Scott Campbell talked me down from freakage over potential pain. My heart had been pounding out of my chest all damn day in sonic booms that were so deafening I almost uncorked some vino, but I was informed that alcohol thins the blood and can cause a gusher. So yeah, no wine. Fuck me. How was I gonna get through this?
I followed Scott across the studio, passing huge ripped muscle guys lying on gurneys wincing in pain as their blood was dabbed away with gauze. Motherfuckercocksucker, I was so dead. Toast. These megabeefcakes were buggin’ and li’l ol’ me was getting my little wrist stabbed? Oh, jeez. I watched one (whose tat was snakes crawling in and then out of the two eye sockets of a skull) actually get up and walk it off, he was in such tortured agony. I almost shat. I somehow suspected that I would be one of those losers who end up with just a small dot because I wouldn’t be able to take the pain and would give up. Willie looked me in the eye and told me that I could do this. I’ll never forget it. I took a deep breath. My brother took my hand in his as Scott injected me. And . . .
“That’s it ?!” I marveled.
“Yeah, not so bad, right?” Scott said.
“Oh my god, these guys are all a bunch of lame-ass pussies,” I said, jutting my chin toward the dudes weeping at the other stations. “This is nothing next to childbirth!”
Allow me to say right here and now that it’s a good thing men don’t have vaginas, because having a bowling ball cruise through a straw that barely holds a Playtex slender regular tamp is so much worse than some ink shot under your skin!
One word to all ye considering a tattoo but fear the stick: cake. It didn’t hurt at all! Okay, maybe that’s a lie; I mean, of course it hurt, but nothing like babies trashing your vag wall, so yay! Now I want more.
The preppy Lilly Pulitzer set shat twice on
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