Sometimes I look up women from my past. Not in a stalking sense, just a occasionally a pleasant recollection drifts by, and I wonder where that person has been and what they have been doing. 

Some sixteen years ago, I met a young lady when I lived in Atlanta. She was going away to college, but before she went I tattooed her; a large and elaborate swirl of flowers around her very full left breast. She was quite the wild thing, and I hooked up with her a few years later and visited her in Denver. She knew damn well why she got herself tattooed there, and knew how to shake that ink as she ground her hips into mine. We spoke a few times after that, but that was the end of it. The memories linger.

On a whim I looked her up today. She is now in her thirties. And I see that the former wild child went to seminary school, and is now a reverend at an Episcopal Church in New Hampshire. In her diocese website photo her hair is now cut in a conservative short little bob, and she is wearing a black jacket, and a clerical collar.

I wonder how many in the parish know just how colorful their minister is beneath that collar?

   Two dice. Ask any gambler, especially one who plays craps, what numbers do two dice yield. Two through twelve.

    "Pick three numbers between two and twelve," I instructed her before our session.

She hesitated, and eventually replied with "Three, five and nine."

   So she wouldn't forget, I tattooed the numbers onto her ankle in big, fancy red letters.

   The next session, a week or so later, she was blindfolded. She was always blindfolded. She craved the excitement. She craved the ink. She craved the uncertainty.

   But she had these pesky limits. I worked her edges and boundaries. And she understood that, sometimes, things come down to chance.

   I settled in next to her bound, blindfolded body. She was trembling ever so slightly as I pushed the stray hairs from the side of her neck and pinned them up.

   Ever so gently, I dusted her neck with the transfer solution. She continued to tremble, but said nothing, as I pressed the stencil to the side of her neck. It all but filled the space between her jaw and collarbone.

   While that dried, I pressed another stencil, a Japanese inspired floral piece, to the inside of her forearm.

   I sat back, and let her think about it a little. Both designs were fetching, and suited her well. I wanted to do them both, but there was one I wanted to do just a little bit more.

   "Which to do..." I said, but didn't really ask.

   "Please not the neck," she replied to by non-question.

   She had previously told me she would go home in tears if I claimed her neck. More than part of me was curious to see how true that would be.

   I shook the dice in the cup.

   "Three, five or nine," I said. And with a loud clatter I set the dice loose.

   The room was silent for a moment, as if she could hear what the dice read if she strained her ears hard enough.

   I moved my chair even closer, and took up the machine. I brought both hands up, and pushed her head to the side, exposing her neck. With my left hand I stretched her skin.

   She never said a word, but she was nearly in shock. He lower lip quivered with emotion and tears welled from under the blindfold.

   I brought the machine closer to her neck, and pressed the pedal. The buzz sounded nearly in her ear and she reacted with a yelp.

   Then I quickly shifted and grasped her her arm as she let out a long, relieved sigh.

   "Eight," I said, as I put the first line in her arm.

I am going to hurt you; but I am not a sadist.  Certainly, those who enjoy needles and pain enjoy the time they spend with me, more than one tattoo-play partner I have had enjoyed strings of orgasms, "You could not do better with a tube of KY and an instruction manual" I was gratefully informed.  (..and that was on her forearm...  No wonder she has lots of tattoos..)

I am often asked if I enjoy causing pain.

I don't.

I enjoy making the mark.  I enjoy the artistry.  I love the process and the result.

I enjoy the raw rush of driving glistening black ink forever into blank skin. The thrill of carving a fresh line where there was none before.  The careful shading of a woman's very flesh.  Of making her into my art.

I love watching a tattooed woman bathe.  The water, the soap, the bubbles, the scrubbing; and despite it all the art remains.

If I could do it painlessly I would, but I can't.

So, I am going to hurt you.

..Just returned from a long-ish weekend.  On somewhat of a whim I drove up to Western North Carolina for some mountain biking and light climbing.  The weather was perfect.  It is surprising that, in nearly June, you can leave the steamy tropics and enjoy temperate days and nights in the 40s and 50s without too much driving.  My friend took somewhat ill; a sore throat and cold perhaps, so we called it a day early.  I swore I would go to bed early, but still find myself awake and catching up with things.

Interesting seeming site; and with it comes a learning curve.  Not merely the technical how-to's and mastering the search system, message boards and the like.  That is easy.  (Although if it prints this entry in bright green I will be irritated..)  One would not think it, but every place has its own culture, whether it is Alt.com, , or any similar place I have haunted in the past.

So, greetings to you all, and I look forward to making your acquaintance.