(a story of tattoo love)

My first tattoo, that is to say my only tattoo, except that I’ve already given my first tattoo a complete face lift and a bit of a body tightening and then added a flaming wing, so my first tattoo also gets to be my second tattoo, my third tattoo, my fourth and soon-to-be my fifth, but let’s not get too carried away here shall we, you see my first tattoo is a lion.

Tattoos were illegal in New York City when Leo was inked on my left shoulder blade. The Purists will tell you that that was when getting inked really counted for something. It was an honor to have your skin permanently adorned by a renegade artist making his or her living giving a hearty “screw you” to the law.

These artists ( yes artists....not the un-ending group of yahoos driving cheap graffiti into the arms of 16 year olds)worked in their lofts, living rooms, in the back of shoe stores, the basements of a bodegas, anyplace they could plug in their tattoo guns. They did what they could to keep plying their trade, much the same way painters set up their aisles helter skelter, only this was a tad more hygienic…. hopefully.

Most folks falling under the tag affectionately known as “normal” probably wonder why anyone would like having their body scrawled on with an ink dabbed needle that feels a bit like your skin is being pulled under a sewing machine.

In and out, in and out, that needle stabs at you, like some crazy woodpecker on high speed. Your brain starts screaming from the constant etching pain and all the while you’re biting your lip and telling yourself that...it’s okay...yeah...no...it’s ooooookaaaaay....until finally it is...okay again…although your jaw feels like it’s wired shut for a week from all the clenching.

It’s not fun but it can be a real rush and most tattoo folks will admit to it being a bit on the addictive side.

Anything that leaves you that high no matter how rough the process can be addictive. Just ask your average heroin addict.

I saw getting tattooed as a right of passage, my way of moving from the wandering to the wondering.

My first tattoo was done by “Fine-line Mike,” an ex-hippie who worked out of his make-shift loft on The Bowery. While most people I knew found their chosen tattoo-ist from the usual lot of bikers, misfits and other bad-boy types, it was my hairdresser who suggested Fine-line to me, right after Mike inked a shark on his bicep. It was the manicurist who told the hairdresser about Mike, while showing off her newly flowered ankle. The receptionist told the manicurist although she confided that her tattoo could only be viewed in private.

So basically, “Fine-line Mike” was passed down to me by the beauty-parlor referral system. There was nothing beautiful about Fine-line Mike. He was a badly aging 50 something-year-old, long-haired, long bearded ex-hippy who peaked out from underneath thick eye-brows and gave you a look that said, “If you could see where I’ve been you’d be kissing my ass.” He was probably right.

I felt being born on July 31st gave me a god given right to wear a lion. If that wasn’t reason enough, the wild, reckless head of curly mayhem, I called my hair, seemed to add to that right. I had spent my life shaking around an un-ruly bunch of frizzy curls I called my mane and now aimed to honor that mane in a lion’s portrait inked on my shoulder. But to sport the main my lion had to be a boy and further I wanted him to have wings. I had no wish to emulate one of the heavy, bulky beasts that just sits around the jungle while the wife goes out and does all the hunting. I did not want the emblem of some great king who would be overthrown by his 10th birthday, if he lived that long. No my ruler needed to have flight and fancy and under-stated but extreme power.

Basically I wanted him to be a goddess.

I envisioned a cave drawing left by some ancient tribe in tribute to a magical cat they had seen defend its lair and then fly off into the sky like a great furry bird. I wanted none of this bright color and perkiness, either.

I am not the type of girl who asks for a small rose on her left breast.

This was going to be more than my tattoo, it was going to be my symbol and constant reminder not only to defend my turf but to never keep from dreaming. My symbol was going to be my secret place to plug into whenever I needed a little boost, my own private electrical outlet.

I got down-right biblical about the whole tattoo thing.

Fine-line gave me several books filled with mythological symbols and zodiac signs to look through. He handed me plastic coated sheets covered with every imaginable kind of lion; lions that looked like they’d been drawn for a “Conan the Barbarian” comic book with fangs dripping blood, lions that looked like they belonged in an animated musical; dancing and smiling. Finally, after my heart had shrunk in disappointment, I saw a drawing of a half lion, half eagle creature called a griffin. “That’s it!” I yelled, “Well sort of I mean except for the face.” The creature was nothing like a cave drawing but it was a lion with wings. Mike changed the face from bird to cat and copied the image on my back with tracing paper. When I glanced at myself in the mirror, a pink flying lion was roaring on the back of my left shoulder.

Heidi my 6 foot tall, German girlfriend who I brought along to make sure I didn’t chicken out, squeaked like a two-year-old, “Now that is cool!” I was sold. What can I say, I valued her opinion…or her legs…not sure which.

I sat topless, straddling the chair with Heidi holding my hands while Mike set up his palette. “Now I want to give you an idea of what you’re in for,” Mike said in his, I’ve been here a hundred thousand times before voice,” It’s gonna feel like this.” I felt a sharp, hot pain stab my back and wondered for a moment whether Mike thought I had asked for a branding instead of a tattoo. I had been told by the beauty parlor referral system that it really didn’t hurt that much and figured, naturally, that if a manicurist wasn’t fazed, a tough little street kid like myself surely could sleep through the tattooing process. It was about the time I was figuring out just how much this thing was gonna hurt that I realized what all that giggling had been about in the shampoo section. The girls had been lying through their bleached teeth. “It always hurts more when it’s right on the bone like yours, “Mike said as if to give me an excuse to whine, which I really didn’t need since I had started whining like a valley girl anyway.

Heidi grabbed my hands and my thighs grabbed the chair, I dug in and Mike plowed into my shoulder for the next hour or so. It felt like decade. I imagined the ocean, me floating in the rocky water. Each time he pressed the needle down the waves would go up, up, up, and then when he took it away with a deep breath of release the waves would crash into the surf. I shut up, floated down and swirled in the cool ocean to wash away the hot pain. Heidi held my gaze with her eyes, looking over my back to watch Mike cut into me and back again to my eyes. I crumbled over the chair in relief when it was finally, decades later, done and there, like a newborn baby, was my reward. My black outlined flying Leo, etched in blood, there to keep me from being alone for the rest of my life.

My lion did save me, or remind me to save myself many times, perhaps constantly since that day. He dragged me through the break-up with Heidi, propped me up on 15 hour kitchen shifts in my first real chef job, kicked me in the ass when I slept late and prodded me out into the night when staying home alone forever sounded just fine to me. It was my Leo who held my hand and led me down the aisle to the front row of velvet lined bleachers at my mother’s funeral. He kept me sitting there in my seat, sitting up tall and proud when everything inside was falling.

My religion, Judaism, doesn’t believe in tattoos. I’ve even heard people say that my flying friend might keep me from being buried in a Jewish cemetery. I don’t believe that. After all, what about all the tattooed victims of the Holocaust? Also there’s another little thing. After Mike was done, he looked at me, smiled and said, “You got yourself a Lion of Judah.”

My mom always used to say that was our tribe and I know history buffs will tell you there’s no way to know all these years later what tribe you’re really from. But I’m sticking with what mom said and therefore I figure Leo is something of a family emblem. What could be more Jewish than honoring your family?

I think of my Leo as a king with female energy. It’s a good mix since I sometimes think of myself as a queen with a little boy running through me.

I promised Leo I’d never get another tattoo and I haven’t, although, like I said, I’ve added to him/her several times. I think it’s fair that he keeps growing, just I keep growing.

The two of us, evolving forward into whatever this world has in store for us.

We make a great team.