In (gosh, now I need to think) early January 2006, I got my 4th tattoo. It was on my right ankle, while on holiday in Australia. I got a silver fern – New Zealand’s national emblem – ironic really, considering I got it in Australia.
Anyway, at the time I remember thinking that the tattooist was hot and soon after acknowledging that, I began having very inappropriate thoughts. I imagined there was no one else in the tattoo stuido and we ended up having sex – lots of it – all over the studio. On the chair, on the benches, on a couch in the waiting area, against the wall, on the floor. You get the gist, if there was a surface that was stable enough to hold the body weight of two people, sex would be had on/against/in/under it.
I got a tattoo in April 2007, again, I was lucky enough to come across a hot tattooist (maybe it’s to do with the fact I think tattoos are damn sexy?) and again, during all the ‘bzzzzzzzz’ing’ and the pain-that-isn’t-really-pain, my brain wandered and I made up a naughty little tattooist and tattoo-ee scenario. From memory that one involved him taking me from behind, up against the bench in front of a mirror that was the width of the wall.
Not long after my wife and I got married (legally it was a ‘civil union’, but fuck that, to us it was our wedding and our upgrade from civil union to marriage five months later was more of a technicality than celebration) we got matching tattoos. Now, that time the tattooist didn’t really do anything for me (though I did like dem tats!), but by that point I was writing erotica on a regular basis and rather than imagining I was having sex, I wrote a story in my head.
I never got around to writing that story, but ever since it has been lingering in the very back of my mind. Every now and then, usually upon seeing photos of deliciously tattooed men, I go back into that little trance and the story plays out in my mind. It’s been close to two years since that last tattoo and I have never mentioned a word of it to my wife. She had no idea about my little fucking-the-tattooist fantasy.
Until tonight. The bitch (and I say that in the most loving, adoring way) read my mind.
We were watching the NRL 9’s (a rugby league tournament that I’m sure 99.9% of you won’t have heard of, and will be thinking ‘wtf?’) and I reacted rather strongly to a particular player who, as you might guess, had tattoos. He was very easy on the eye with many visible tattoos (and upon researching, many that are hidden beneath his footy jumper), what else was I going to do? Yawn?
My wife, in all her wisdom pipes up with:
YOU SHOULD WRITE A STORY ABOUT A WOMAN GETTING A TATTOO WHO HAS SEX WITH THE TATTOOIST
I shook my head and asked her if she was a mind reader, then went on to explain the ongoing tattooist/tattoo-ee fantasy that has been living in the back of my mind.
Being one that believes in signs, I now have a strong feeling that the time has arrived to bring that fantasy to life, in the written form anyway.
Unless my wife becomes a tattooist. I’d totally tap that!