Regan is telling me about the place she’s going for tattoo removal. She, like me, has a teenage bad judgment tattoo, but unlike me has done the research on getting it removed and is in the process of this. She has seen me in action enough to know I’ll be interested.
Hiding in the poker room (the warmest room in the club, with the most comfortable chairs) reading a textbook (The Jews, which I later find out has started a rumour that I am a religious zealot. Ok.)
A finger pokes into my chest. “What is that?”
Do not look up, do not respond to provocation.
“It’s my birthmark.”
“Pfaw, no it’s not! What is it really?”
“It really is.”
“Well… What are you reading?”
“Yeah but what book?”
“A printed one.”
I can hear Regan, playing poker and cleverly hidden by the back of a chair, snickering. I can fix that.
“You know what? She has tattoos!”
Regan sucks in her breath but it is too late! Too birds one stone, the guy has wandered off.
“You got tattoos? I got a tattoo! Here, lemme show you.”
“So, how much is it?”
“It’s 1,500 down and then I pay–” whatever, I forget how much she said she paid, “per session. And it hurts like a motherfucker. But yours will be easy because it’s all blurry thick black lines!”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No! That’s supposed to be the easiest. But until then, Red, Kat Von Dee has some amazing tattoo hiding make-up you can use!”
“Kat Von Dee could do me and tattooed girls everywhere a bigger favour and tell the men of the world how deeply we don’t appreciate talking about our tattoos and how it’s fucking dumb as shit and also annoying and I hate it.”
1- only hers is a fairy and between a blurry Louise Brooks with guns and a fairy I will take my tattoo any day. But mine does make customers (weak-willed things!) think that I am angry and cost me extra effort for lap dances–which honestly just makes me more irritable, so yes, removal looks appealing, esp if in so doing I remove the inevitable future countless fucking pointless conversations about it.