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When Tattoos Take Over


There are one hundred and one things I'd like to say about this picture, but let's start with the obvious: that second fellow in line looks a whole damn lot like Daniel Radcliffe, right? What is that boy doing with ink all over his body and a fetus in his britches?

I want to stop there--I really do. But it'd be hard to move on without noting that the guy up front must feel weird about his bare leg. And if he doesn't, I do. Could that explain his awkward posture? Perhaps he's explaining to Daniel that he can't afford to finish his leg because he spends so much money on women's razors to keep his armpit hair shaved--so you can get the full effect of his underarm ink.

I'll admit, I've bought a few shirts and dresses based primarily on the fact that they showcase my tattoo--a pomegranate tree on the left side of my chest. Nothing too low cut, too revealing. But still. When I got it, I wanted it in a place people would see; otherwise, what was the point? Such are the thoughts of a twenty-two year old.

But these men? One has to wonder if they have those skimpy underpants just because, or if they were purchased especially for this event. Which, by the way, is what? What exactly have they all signed up for that affords them the chance to stand in a line of men wearing string bikinis? I can't help but wonder how the next convention's guests would feel if they could only see the butts that occupied the seats just hours before. Hepatitis comes to mind...

I'll be honest--I like my ink. I think it's artistic and charming and I don't really give a damn if you don't agree. But there's something uncomfortable about the thought that my little tattoo affords me some kinship with these gentlemen. A mural starts with one brushstroke, and that makes me in for a penny.

Am I in for a pound? Does the pencil drawing I carry in my purse--a silhouette of myself in tree pose that I intend to have inked on my spine--get me one dangerous step closer to a drawer full of banana hammocks? Can girls even wear banana hammocks?

Which begs this final question: where are the girls? Consider it, men. Consider it wisely. 


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