My tattoos make some people uncomfortable. It’s only recently that I’ve been really comfortable letting them all hang out. I never really thought one of them through, though…. I got it in utter defiance to the mortification I was feeling.
It was January of last year, and my blog had been sent out to people I went to high school with for YEARS. My ass was verbally hanging out. Hey there, hi there… how do you do? My favorite bartender knew about my worst dates. The bitches that hated me in high school were laughing over my self proclaimed heartache and bad taste in men. I was in shock. I really am incredibly private otherwise. I don’t like men talking about having sex with me in public. I’m not a piece of ass, I’m a lady, regardless of my penchant for bad boys.
A lady who happens to be in touch with her sexual side… so shoot me.
It was chatting with my friends online that my dear friend Miss Creative coined me the Blogoddess. I was in hiding, wearing dark glasses to the grocery store and constantly faced with people approaching me about it.
I died a million deaths that month… and still it continues. Whatev.
I learned to hold my head up. I learned to fail. I perfected the art of falling prey to sweet talkers. Jesus… if I didn’t earn a gold medal in naivete this year, I pity the poor girl that did. I like falling in love- enough that I don’t mind the sledgehammer to the heart when it goes wrong. I’m happy when I’m in love. I glow… ask anybody.
I thought they’d removed my douche bag magnet but apparently they removed my common sense instead. I’m scheduled for the reversal, but beyond that- I’ve come light years in having more faith in myself and continuing to have faith in humanity in spite of the constant proof I’m given to the contrary.
I met my favorite tattoo darling that week, with my nickname carved into my arm and a friendship forged in confidence. But since then I’ve learned to be a little self conscious about it because I don’t want anyone else I know to read this crap, lol… and it requires an explanation that I’m generally hesitant to give.
“It’s a long story” is my canned answer.
But fighting back tears missing him, ordering burgers around 11, our very flamboyant cashier leans forward and smiles at me.
C- I love your tattoos. What does that say? That’s beautiful!
I’m delighted, because no compliment counts so much as one from a gay man.
He speaks up and says “She writes a lot online, thank you senor.”
J- It says Blogoddess…
and this adorable boy smiles at me and sets it all straight…
C- You are and those letters are beautiful- and I am a little boy, not a man, Senor.
We laughed all the way out… and it was absolutely the funniest tattoo experience I’ve had so far. I usually wrap something around myself. I love them, but some people judge you for them. I’m sensy. 
But being with someone that wanted me present in the moment made me leave the wrappy thing in the car. I love them, that should be enough for everyone and if it’s not, well then… fuck off- don’t get a tattoo. I left it in the car, only to have the sweetest of compliments paid to me.
It was one of many cool moments in a whirlwind of chaos.
Some fires burn too brightly to burn for long… this experience has been a flash fire in my life, and I’m damn proud I can take away the good moments because it really was fun.
Just one more lesson in a very long line…
I dropped my entire suitcase off at the thrift store, happy to never see any of it again; closing a painful chapter in my life, once and for all.
Ordering a pizza, while breaking out my little black book and ordering some new panties. Misery loves company, and why not be wrapped in cute little red lace panties when I greet him at the door?



