Tattoos (Spring 2009)

(Ok it's Fri, lets go crazy w/ some prose. This is longer than I'd like... but I can't help it. May be my favorite prose piece I've ever written, if you want the rest holler at me...)

And tattoos are sexy. Or they should be. There are days when I think my tattoos are the sexiest thing about me. This forbidden, subversive art form has always had a touch of danger and mystery. And its permanence lends it immediate recognition as important. My tattoos are illustrations of my life story. They exist only in the context of my history. They are part of what makes me unique because they are not just words or images or melodies, they are moments. When a person sees me undress for the first time, they are looking at symbols that can reveal to them major events in my life, and bare the feelings I had in the minutes and hours surrounding my visits to the parlors. If you really look at them, and if you take pause to ask, you could learn everything you need to know about me. When I’m naked, I am even more exposed than if my skin was unmarked. Vulnerable, but also powerful in my expression. It’s not just that I let my guard down, it’s also that I command you to see.

This contradiction is necessary in a world where my naked body is never detached from a political state of being. When claiming sexual assertiveness you run the risk of claiming labels like bitch, slut, dyke and whore. Independence is not always lauded or encouraged. Adding art to my skin is a way to assert my ownership over it. To make it even more valuable, more of a sight to drink in. I politicize in on my own terms. I get a rush when I see another person’s eyes light up with surprise and discovery. Nothing nourishes intimacy like the possession of a secret. A women’s body has always been said to possess secrets, and by adding tattoos I have added more secrets. Asserted more control. Declared myself beautiful.