I am pretty much a positive person. I believe everyone shits rainbows and only melodic symphonies spew from their mouths. That is sarcasm, folks, which I dish out in excess. Of course, I think that is bullshit, since more often than not people can be real cunts. But, I do live on the everything is fucking awesome even when it is not side of the road. I don't look at the glass as half full or half empty. I look at the glass as a fucking opportunity to add more to it, or if there is way too much pour it out (unless it is alcohol - never waste alcohol!). Most of the time something positive can be gleaned from certain situations, and my breast cancer situation is no exception. There were a lot of fucked up situations before, during, and after treatment, but 3D nipple tattoos were definitely in the pro column for sure.
I already knew that the tattoo artist would come to my doctor's office, so my imagination didn't take over on what kind of establishment I would be sitting topless in to get all tatted up. However, I did let my imagination wander about the tattoo artist. I envisioned him to have long, black or brown hair with a bit of wavy, volume to it, almost on the greasy side, but still groomed. Of course, he would be covered in tattoos (face, neck, and arms) and like all the tattoo artists I think of he would have a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a chain wallet draping from the back of his pants. To my surprise, he was not as I envisioned at all, he did have some tattoos on his arms, but he was very well groomed: thin, silver-gray neatly manicured hair with a hint of a boofont (very rock-a-belly style), horn-rimmed glasses, and a doctor's lab coat.
When I entered the room he got right to the point. "Take your shirt off", he said. There was no warm up, no foreplay, just a good ole'fashion take your shirt off. Modesty has left me after having a kid and knowing that the mons pubis (if you don't know what this is go back and read my Post-treatment Frustrations blog!) mounds hanging from my chest were no longer my breasts, so I did as the good-tattoo-doctor advised. I took my pants off! No, I didn't, but I would have loved to see his face. What do you think he would have said? "I'm not that kind of tattoo artist" or "lips aren't my specialty" or "whoa, it will be hard to tattoo roast beef".
I stood there for a moment and I guess he could tell I was trying to process something, so he just smiled and looked at me awkwardly. A little overwhelmed, I blurted out that I was nervous about getting the tattoo, not because I thought it would hurt, but what if I was allergic to the ink. There I go again with the what-if questions. In his hippy-dippy, very Wooderson (see Dazed and Confused) or Chong voice, he said "Well, tell your body not to have an allergic reaction." I laughed and thought who can argue with that kind of logic to mentally compel my body not to do something that it may do? I think I will try this approach next time I am about to start my period. "Now, don't you do it body. Don't you go starting your period and bleeding every where." As I type this I think it is actually working, because I have not started my period! Maybe, I am finally turning into a man.
He directs me to the corner of the room where I am standing shirtless as he stares at my chest. "Ok, lean forward really slowly like you are going to touch your toes", he said and I begin to look around for the camera that is filming this shit, but I don't see it so I do as I am told. "Ok, back up. Now squeeze your chest together. Ok, now release. Lean forward again. Back up. Squeeze again." Now he gets out his pen, holding up like Michelangelo would as he sculpted David's penis, and closes one eye. "Squeeze again", he said. "Now, lean forward one more time. Ok, thank you."
He motions for me to get on the reclined chair-bed, and as I am lying back I see in all its glorious splendor my previous cancer-laden tits staring back at me on a digital picture frame. How many digital tits do you think there are in that frame? I know I was not the only tattoo patient of the day.
He begins to draw the outline of the areola and nipples on my tubbies (tummy boobies), and as he is drawing he is glancing back to my picture. I don't think anything of it at first, but when he finishes drawing I am directed to look in the mirror to approve his outlined creation I realize why he was looking back. He was attempting to give me the same size nipples I had before, to which I begin to scream in my head, "NOOOOOOOOO". My previous nipples were huge like genoa salami size nipples huge, since my new tits were smaller he gave me pepperonis which were still too large for my liking. So, I told him, "before I came here I held up quarters to my breast, so just give me 50 cents and call it a day."
Look I was toting around Airbus A380s (largest airplane) on my chest and I had the nipples to match, but what I have now are nice X-15 fighter jet titties that require sleeker and faster nipples. Pepperoni doesn't scream fast; it screams stomach ache and gas. But shiny quarters gracefully whisper "I am beautiful and everyone loves me." It is rare to find a quarter on the ground, but extremely common to find a penny. Back to the drawing board for the tattoo-doc to downsize my pepperonis to quarters.
As the buzzing of the tattoo machine begins, I am left contemplating how do you make nipples look 3D. I assumed it was shades of pink and brown with some shadow areas, but I just could not wrap my head around flickable-looking nipples. He gets half way through and orders me back in the corner again for another round of strip-tease directing - lean forward, now squeeze, now back up.
Then returning to the reclined chair-bed for some more ink, he said, "You know you will have to answer yes now when asked if you have tattoos." To which I respond, "well, of course, because I am a badass now!" Keep in mind that due to my surgeries I cannot feel anything on my chest except for pressure, now there was some mild discomfort on my left breast, but nothing like I would imagine a tattoo would feel on my arm, back, or leg.
He finishes up and says, "Take a look." I step in front of the mirror and just stare at my new 50 cent nipples. It was amazing. They looked like they were real. When you look down you have the same optical illusion as if there are eraser tips that you can flick just sitting perky on your quarter sized areolas. They are brilliant. No more worrying about a cold breeze or a sheer shirt, because these things look hard but don't point at people from under your shirt. So, if you ever get a hankering to cut your tits off and have them rebuilt into a fighter jet make sure to get you some adequate denomination 3D nipples!!
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