Pins & Needles

I was digging through a metal suitcase full of original publications containing the wisdom and wit of one Melissa Sullivan when I happened upon my old tattoo portfolio. Did I ever tell you how happy I am not to be tattooing anymore? No? I am so happy not to be tattooing anymore. There are a couple of reasons why. There's the Sponge Bob smoking a joint reason why. There is the Tasmanian Devil in a baseball cap with the Puerto Rican flag on it reason why. There's the fairy clown on a sagging breast reason why. And, the I don't really like people much but somehow always find myself in the position of working with the public and it kills me slowly reason why.

Here's a little explanation of the how it happened as posted on my website portfolio (names of the not so innocent have been deleted as not to provide anyone looking for glory an ounce more of notoriety):

An Urban Legend

As I was on my way home from a 5-year freelance illustrator/comic artist party in Chicago, tattooist (person) appeared like vision of loveliness at the Erie, PA exit of I-90. Like something out of a dream, you know? And as luck would have it he was moving to Philadelphia and needed an apprentice to take his place at his shop, (shop). Along with tapping the (person)-style, I've also been able to study some coloring and shading techniques with (person). I've worked my way through lots of Kanji and Old English lettering toward the custom light at the end of the tunnel. But, I'll ALWAYS keep working on just about anything a little heart could desire. It's just a matter of getting better and better for my clients' and my peace of mind by drawing off a fine arts education and an unrivaled appetite for artistic reference-- anything from Guy Aithison publications to old 70's t-shirt catalogues. And, I'm still ALWAYS willing to work on any freelance illustration/comic projects thrown my way.

I'm dedicated to 100% customer satisfaction. This begins from the moment a client walks through the door, the design stages, the actual physical set-up of my station, execution of the piece, and any client concerns with the healing process. I'm more than game to help a client find or create the perfect piece. And, if I'm unable to find the piece within my own style or replication of another's, I can direct a client to the appropriate artist. I'll answer any client question and address any client concern along the way. I will also forward an image from my portfolios for closer inspection upon request.

Sounds nice, eh? It wasn't. I always found it amazing how shocked and dismayed people seemed to be that I would walk away from all the glamour and the hardcore rock'n'rolliness of the tattoo world. The blood didn't bother me as much as the constant yapping. I realize getting a tattoo is cathartic, but it is not an excuse to take an emotional and psychological dump on me. And, things only got weirder and weirder when guys started sending me uninvited Snapple and sandwiches from local pizza joints. Not even sandwiches I liked! And, then there was the guy who wanted me to slowly tattoo is his whole body while pining away, telling me I looked like Trinity from the Matrix. Ugh.

That was not the first time I had ever been courted to please, please, please inflict some pain on a doting individual. But, my favorites were Alina, a blond buxom dominatrix and her attentive, cross-dressing brother Arthur. They first showed up when I was working at a place in Chicago called Earwax. I was a night manager, book keeper, waitress, cook, and video clerk. In general, a run your ass off type of gal. Sometimes, during the running of the ass, I would get a bit, umm, curt. Maybe even hostile. Regular customers like "Ol' Hole in the Ankle" (huge holes between his ankle bones and tendons perfect for hooking one's self upside down) would show up for his daily bottle of cherry soda and cower in the corner. However, Alina and Arthur would beam up at me. Waiting patiently for their beverage and a few words. She would show me the latest photos of herself, would complain about the slob of a boss she had, would tell me where I could find her if I ever needed to find her, and would ultimately end the visit by begging me to take the twenty dollar tip for her double latte. And, Arthur would just nod his head and finger his freshly waxed eyebrows.

Eventually, I left Earwax to go work at a record shop selling used vinyl. Alina and Arthur found me. They asked around and asked around until they got the answers they wanted. And, to show how much they missed me they promised to bring German chocolate cake and Orangina whenever visiting. The record store proved to be a far better arena for Alina and Arthur. They didn't have to share my attention with other customers. I would price records and Alina would tell me stories about sticking chocolate bars up her ass to shit out on a customer while Arthur shuffled through the used porn we had for sale. "Hmmm", I'd say. She would show me more photos. "Hmmm, " I would say. She even brought one of her little Eastern European gangster boyfriends in to met me. "Hmmm, " I would say.

One day, I up and quit the record store because the owner was a liar and a crook. And, liars make me turn beat red in the face and almost stroke out... so, I left. I lost any contact with Alina and Arthur because I never kept her phone number. I am sure my ex-heroin addict, ten years my senior, Jewish boyfriend at the time would have loved to see what would happen if I ever gave Alina a call. But, I don't like to as Tom Colley would say "rub donuts".

The other night, I was talking with a friend about boxer and wrestler stories. Mine happened to be about a guy who liked to wrestle women and give commentary the whole time. The ladies would put him in a head lock and he would report the series of events, ending with, "Can he do it? Can he do it?" I discussed my overall in ability to show dominance over anyone per request. But, I also shared I had figured out a while ago that if I didn't have respect for the person, I could very easily smash a twisting boot sole into some worm's mouth and beat his ass into a blood blistered frenzy. Fortunately, I only like to pursue sexual activities with people I respect. You know, like my husband. And, if I ever tried to smash a boot in his face, he'd probably put me face down into a pillow and give me the what for. Ooooooh.

I'll end this with a funny bondage story. Years ago, before Sean "Carnage" Carney fell into the arms of Hustler and LACA, he went to a Black and Blue ball in Cleveland for a US Rocker article. Or maybe since he was already there, he decide to do a US Rocker article for it. Anyway, he tells me the bits and piece... the knots and bolts. "Hmmm," I said, until we relived the Birthday party in our minds. Apparently, some gentleman stretched out in a barber's chair was having his ball sac stretched out and pinned to a foam core board. Once the pins were all in place, candles were jammed onto the pin heads and lit. A crowd circled around to sing "Happy Birthday to You". And, then, he blew out the candles between his legs akimbo. "Hmmm, " I said. Sean went on to describe the man: pasty white, mustache, red vinyl tank top, and dirty tube socks. "Jesus Christ! That is disgusting," I exclaimed. Sean was dumbfounded. "The socks", I explained, "the socks! Dirty tube socks!" So, it was known for years if you wanted to give me the willies, just mention the dirty tube socks.

- Melissa Sullivan