In 1993, I was facing a midlife crisis. My marriage of 11 years with the father of my children was all but over and for the first time since we'd met 16 years earlier, I was looking forward to being ok on my own. I found myself antsy about making some changes, making some statements, facing some fears, and having a little fun in the process. So, the conclusion I came to was that it was time for a tattoo. The fact that I was a needle phobic did cross my mind. For a few minutes. But my mind was pretty much made up. I was going to get a tattoo. It was my way of reclaiming myself. This was my body! This was my breast! No one could make me take it off. No one could make me change it. It was mine, all mine, to share or not as I saw fit.

I decided that I wanted my tattoo not only to be attractive, but also meaningful. If I was going to have to explain my breasts to my grandchildren, I wanted them to be wowed by the significance of the design. While the butterflies, roses, and winged hearts were certainly beautiful, they didn't "speak" to me. After hours of going through 3 millions pieces of flash art, I decided on a design. It filled all of the requirements I had defined: beauty, style, meaning, uniqueness, and most of all, it was licky. Very licky. All that was left to do was put down my deposit and make an appointment to finish "the deed." I made a date with "Max" for later that week.

The world of Max was a wonder of dye jars, Vaseline, antiseptic spray bottles, rubber gloves, and individually bagged sterilized needles. The walls of his cubicle were a shrine to his work, with framed pictures and posters of various victims of his needle, including a man who indulged in a full-body tattoo. Also evident were numerous awards for "Most Realistic Tattoo", "Most Original Tattoo Design", "Most Creative Use of Color", and "Most Pain Inflicted." Actually, that last one was not there, but I imagined that it probably belonged there. Donning surgical gloves, he ritualistically set up his area, first by spraying the table with an antiseptic, then spraying a paper towel to wipe off the bottle. He repeated this procedure using three different types of disinfectant, discarded his gloves, washed his hands, and put on a new pair.

He worked silently, setting up little cups of dye, sticking them to the germ-free table with dabs of Vaseline, which was retrieved from the jar using a sterile tongue depressor. He then extracted several bagged needles from a drawer, opened each individually, and inspected them carefully for God knows what. He attached the first to the tattoo apparatus, which looked like a math compass wired to an electrical box. The needle was inserted, and the vibration adjusted with a screw weighted with a dime and a rubber band. My confidence wavered just a bit.

It was then time to apply the design transfer, and to expose the delicate canvas. I decided that I was going to not be a mousy sap by revealing only a small portion of flesh in an attempt to maintain an air of modesty, so I threw my shirt open and announced that I was bra-less (just in case he hadn't recognized the hanging shapeless flesh bags in front of him as breasts). An encouraging (or sympathetic?) smile from him acknowledged his awareness of my rambling fright. The germ-warfare then began on my breast, and I felt like I was being deloused. Finally, I was sterile. He shaved my breast with a straight razor, and answered my lame joke about now having to shave my breasts regularly with a rehearsed assertion that hair growth does not occur from shaving or bald men would use the technique.

The medium used for the transfer of the design was a thin application of Mennen Speed Stick Deodorant. Between the Mennen and the rigged tattoo gun, my confidence was starting to dwindle.

After admiring the transfer in a hand held mirror for several minutes, I gave the okay to make it a permanent fixture. Just in case Max was a blind idiot, I confessed to him that I was afraid; I was specifically concerned that I might jump or pull away, considerably altering the original intended design. To reassure me, he agreed to draw a line without ink so that I'd know what to expect. I leaned back, drew in a breath, sighed my sigh, and awaited the sample line.

I pride myself on the breadth of my vocabulary, but I do not have the words to describe the feelings that ran through me. Paralytic terror, horrific misbelief, malicious deception, and premeditated criminal fabrication spring to mind, but don't adequately identify the depth of disbelief that overcame me. What happened to "irritating", "slight burning", "mildly uncomfortable", and "piece of cake?" What the hell kind of cake were they referring to? As a large sweat ring formed under each armpit, I tilted my head back to gaze at the ceiling, and to appeal to the Gods above to wrench the tongue out of every individual who said this wouldn't hurt. I think Max sensed my apprehension.

"How ya doin' there?"

"Super. Fine. Burn me, baby." Shit. Deep sigh.

I continued to sweat for twenty minutes, until the perspiration rings reached my waist, before the torture came to an end. During that time span, we discussed the topics of body piercing, total body tattoos, childbirth (tattooing is NOT quite as bad as childbirth although Lamaze breathing helps during both ordeals), women, men, sex, marriage, affairs, and satanic rituals - all in just twenty minutes.

Finally, Max gave my breast one last spray from the disinfected bottle, one last swipe with a sterile tissue, and handed me the mirror to gaze at my new adornment. The pain had been worth it, and I smiled deeply from within. It was beautiful, and I couldn't wait to show my breast off to the world.

Having survived without fainting or calling out (silent screaming does not count), I felt brave, proud even, that I had withstood the test and passed. And because for once I had been so early, I was finished before my appointment had officially begun. I strutted to the front desk to pay an anxiously awaiting receptionist who just had to see it. I confidently pulled back my blouse to show off my deep red heart with a swish of purple and blue pixie dust piercing through the top and emerging from the bottom. I explained to her that the pixie dust pattern reminded me of positive flow: life, love, energy, hope, and that what went in also came out. I pointed out my sweat rings to her (as if she didn't notice!), and she laughingly shrugged them off. It was if I had entered a secret club, I was one of "them" whoever "they" were. I had a tattoo, dammit, out of my way!

I was proud and exhilarated. It was terrifying to face a fear. The fear now seemed rather small and frail, and I was no longer afraid of it. In fact, I already had thoughts of what my next tattoo might look like, should I decide to do it again. My breast was just how I wanted it to be: branded with my own design, and no one could remove it or take it from me. Along with the design, memories of people were burned into me, to remain forever: Shaun, for inspiring me to get it to begin with; Artie, for verifying how hot it would be to have one and for being the first to lick it; JES, for not trying to talk me out of it, for helping me pick it out, and for ultimately bringing me along with her when she underwent the same procedure. Along with memories of people, my tattoo constantly would remind me of the first of hundreds of fears I knowingly chose to face, one in which I came out of relatively unscathed. In times of uncertainty, I need only look down to my own heart, to see the proof of how facing a fear can lead to many good things. I loved my tattoo, all of the many things it stood for, and never regretted it for a moment.

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