“Are you nervous?” the tattoo artist asked me, voice low.
“A little bit, I guess” I postured.
I laid flat on my back, naked from the waist up, nipples covered only by glittery blue pasties in the shape of a star. I got to pick them out.
I continued to stare at the ceiling, ignoring the sounds from the street just on the other side of the windowed facade. I wondered how clearly a pedestrian could see inside the studio, catching a glimpse.
Her needle pointed centimeters away from my bare sternum, vibrating as black ink pooled at its end.
“I can see your little heart beating so fast,” she joked. I blushed in response.
I chose a bold placement for my first tattoo in years, and I had forgotten what the sensation felt like, all the while this stranger held the skin between my breasts taut.
Not to mention the artist herself. A butterfly landed on her neck and a centipede crawled into her white tank top. A flower grew from her ear onto the side of her face, her kneecap shaded black. One of her canine teeth was missing, the gap briefly exposed when she spoke.
“Oh, one second. Almost forgot something.”
She moved throughout her studio like she had nowhere to be, proceeding to shuffle through a drawer for an extra needle. I scanned the room as I waited. The interior of her studio was surprisingly inviting, painted white and decorated with a pastel rainbow and fuzzy neon pink accents.
And yet, my intimidation of her and eagerness to impress were muffled by the rebellion of a fresh start. It had only been a couple months since I moved to San Francisco, my first independence since graduating college. No friend group or regular stomping grounds, only seemingly infinite configurations of the type of person I could be, how I could decorate my body, how I could spend my time. The ornate stamp on my chest was a corny trophy, a marker of my budding self-assurance. But it’s also hot, so that made me feel cool too.
Once the buzz of the tattoo gun stopped, I peered down, chest expanded so I could admire her finished work.
“I’m obsessed with it,” I beamed, my voice mirroring hers.
“It’s super cute. I’m hosting an art show here tomorrow night, you should stop by. Bring a friend or something,” she replied.
“Oh cool,” my pitch went up an octave. “I’ll definitely be there.”
Was this my invitation? My opportunity to maneuver myself into a scene that captured my intrigue and respect? Something counter to the stale version of San Francisco displayed along the I-80 – what was sold to transplants (me included), what I mocked in college sociology classes. Perhaps I’d soon be part of a network for those more creative and unorthodox, interesting and deviant from the Silicon Valley tech culture that I vowed to keep at arm's length as I moved to the city.
I was thrilled to text my then-partner as I walked to the bus line. I couldn’t wait to tell them of the invitation I received, or what we received. What could maybe be the start of something for me, maybe for both of us, too soon to tell whether their and my futures were intertwined. But between a new relationship and an invitation from the tattoo artist, I felt pretty damn good.
We returned to the studio the following night. I held my partner’s soft, lanky hand. Mine was clammy, but I attempted to keep an air of nonchalance as we walked past the windows. Someone could have definitely seen my tits.
The studio was now filled with people who looked like the artist – covered in art, rough around the edges. Beers and joints were held between fingers with the stable delicacy that only comes from experience. The air held the reminisce of a spliff that had been shared just outside the front door.
Black and white skate photography hung from the walls, some fisheyed and from long angles, backdropped by graffitied public spaces. Another was a portrait, colored, of a woman with tired eyes and bright pink hair in a tutu hunched on a stool, holding a Modelo. I recognized her at the opposite end of the room. Her hair was hard to miss.
It became clear this was a gathering of a more-or-less well connected social circle, not necessarily intimate, but nevertheless, my presence felt obvious. At least to me. My dark wash jeans, black tank top, and loafers felt bland in comparison. My new tattoo was hidden from view, still with the second skin adhesive that held a pool of ink and plasma. I wish those in the room could see it. Instead I was clothed, my skin porcelain and pristine.
Wearing a calf-length white fur jacket and fishnet tights, the tattoo artist approached to welcome us to the show. I introduced my partner, who spoke timidly and slightly swayed their arms and hips, a nervous habit of theirs I learned early on. Their light wash jeans, pink shirt, and pink shoes stood out among the baggy black sweatshirts in the crowd. I found their style generally cool and interesting, and its contrast in the room was kind of endearing, genuine at least. The artist thanked us for coming, then quickly carried on with hosting.
We slowly paced through the studio, looking at the art and commenting on each of the photos, Gwen Stephanie’s “Rich Girl” playing overhead. Our first date was at a Nam June Paik exhibit, so this wasn’t new to us – that was the best thing about the relationship – but there was still the lingering awkwardness of date nine.
As we approached the entrance, ready to leave, we passed a group of men slouched on cheetah print and pink velvet couches. The chains on their belts rattled as they laughed and stirred in conversation, shifting in their seats, faces and hair greasy. A leashed pitbull laid at their feet on a shag rug, panting from the humid room. My partner suddenly stopped, pulling me back from the doorframe.
“Is this your dog?” they asked.
“Nah, it’s his,” one of the guys replied, nodding his head to the left.
“Oh, cool. Is the dog nice? Can I pet it?”
“Sure,” he replied with no eye contact, distracted by the conversation on his right.
My partner proceeded to kneel to the floor, then sit on the ground with legs cornering the pitbull and stroking its head. I watched the scene standing over my partner, cheeks red and eyes darting around my peripheral. Read the goddamn room, I thought.
“You ready to head out?” I added quickly.
“Yeah. Thanks, guys,” they said to the men, who gave a slight nod in response. I tugged at their hand with one foot out the door.
“That was cool. I’m glad we stopped by,” they said as we walked west towards Mission Street.
“Yeah, totally,” I paused.
“Do you think we could ever actually be friends with these people?”
“I mean sure, why not?”
“I don’t know, what do you think we actually have in common with everyone there? I feel like we live in a different world than them. I bet we spend our days so differently.”
“Maybe? I’m not sure what they do everyday.”
I was annoyed by their innocent response, unreceptive to my mental spiral unraveling in front of us. I was even more disappointed that they didn’t see how their behavior would reflect on me, or even the weight that I placed on the night, a social proprioception I thought we would have at this point.
I was hoping for an agreeance from them, that the tattoo artist was actually a little aloof and her friends not as friendly as I had anticipated and that I didn’t need to be friends with these people and that there were actually other social scenes to explore even if this one seemed really cool and that scenes don’t really mean anything anyways so why did this even matter.
“But I’m sure we operate on different social cues, right? Different references and norms that we relate to. Like, culturally, what are our actual similarities?” I questioned.
“I don’t think you have to necessarily be similar to be friends. I think you just need to be nice.”
Am I the asshole here?
My gut, like a prophecy foretold, or rather an unnerving twitch, told me that I would have liked hanging out at the tattoo studio. And now, my once unsuspecting daydream was covered in ash from the spliffs outside.
“No, you’re right. I’m not really sure what I’m really getting at here.” I eventually responded.
“Ok. Should we stop for a burrito?”
“Sure.”
I broke up with this partner not long after, the attraction just wasn’t there. I also stopped going to the tattoo artist. She was rude to me when I went to her for another tattoo. What once felt so promising began to unbound, like ships in the night, but something new always seems to take its place.
