The needle feels aggressively hot on my skin, and it looks huge too, like a skewer. Sara must be pushing hard. It feels about to tear through my dermis, plunge into my blood, hit my bone and scratch my soul (whatever that is). I can just about feel the warmth of her latex-gloved hand, keeping my wrist still. This is a long line though, and the more it continues, the deeper it feels like she penetrates. I close my eyes and will whatever makes this sensation intolerable, whatever part of me that turns something into feeling, to retreat to a welcoming corner inside the darkness of my body. 

“This is my second tattoo” I say to Sara. I open my eyes to see if she hears. The tattoo is on the back of my forearm, which means I am laying on my front, arm stuck out on a plastic-covered cushion, Sara working close to my face. 

She doesn’t hear me, so she leans even closer. I shout above the white noise of other tattoo needles. She hears me this time.

This tattoo hurts more than my first, though. It was done by a man. This one, of the banned portrait of Ms Ruby May showing her pubic hair. I chose it because it is an unapologetic image, about reclaiming desire. It’s a coming-out present to myself. I felt like a woman should do it to me. She should penetrate me. Each part of the outline feels like it is tattooed not only on my skin, but on every part of my body, and the very thing that makes my body a body. Could be the soul. 

“It really fucking hurts!” I say, one foot in my perfunctory mind-refuge and the other on the table. She laughs. Parts of my arm feel numb, which is a sensation that makes me panic. What if she is tearing apart my nerves with that needle?

The ends of my fingers find the softness of her black T-shirt, since she is right in front of me, no doubt sketching Ruby’s legs into me. My mind intrudes on me with a slippery gift: what if you touch one of Sara’s breasts by accident? I know I won’t, because I just won’t, but then my mind is right, what if.  Shut up.

Sara begins talking about her experiences in the kink scene, and so do I. It is as though we are sending offerings of body lines back and forth. Some of her words tickle and make my chest feel warm.  

The sensations relax me, and before I know it, she switches to a smaller needle to do the shading. It feels almost pleasant. I want to laugh at the relief. 

A week later, as Ruby begins to heal into me,  I notice an imperfection. It is a stray line coming out from the nape of her neck. It is a wonky line, which looks right to my body, but wrong to my eye. Sara told me I could go back if there was something wrong, but I’ve decided to keep my slanty line. It’s why I got tattooed in the first place.