i'm not a prisoner of my skin.

let me start by saying that if anyone ever tells you that tattoos don't really hurt, they are lying. having said that, they're also really not that bad. by way of comparison: i'd rather get another tattoo than take a flight to japan (seventeen hours) unaided by a sedative. but, the endorphin rush that many people purport to feel that masks all pain simply does not kick in when your tatt only takes forty minutes to complete. so yes. it hurt. but it doesn't crack the top twenty most traumatic experiences of my life list. not even close.

of course, that might also have something to do with the fact that i absolutely adore my tattoo.
i've been wanting it for years, but always found a reason to put it off. it is much to dom's credit that he finally got me to do it. our tattooist was a swede working at bowery tattoo--his name is henrik, and he does excellent work; just ask dom, whose green man is painfully gorgeous (and painfully won, with more than two hours in henrik's chair). the only time he managed to alarm me was when he asked me to hold my breath and brace for the most painful part, which he declined to detail. so i braced myself. i waited for the feeling of the needle scraping over my spine (or something similarly distressing)...and instead of evil needle vibrations, got a slick of vitamin e ointment to soothe the aching skin and a covering to protect it from the rest of the evening.

we had a funnyman on our hands.

sleeping was interesting, as i was attempting to keep my wiggling at a minimum so as not to displace the bandage, and i couldn't take my appointed place on dom's left shoulder out of deference to the green man...but the sleep was deep and the dreams were sweet, and i woke up more certain than ever that i'd picked the right marker for my skin.