Tit For Tat

(On my 21st birthday, I go to a tattoo/piercing parlor run by a husband and wife to get my first tattoo. Having participated in theatre all through high school, it has become a habit to wear a plain black tank top underneath my regular shirts. Note that I’m also a rather well-endowed woman.)

Artist: “So where did you say you wanted this done?”

Me: “Somewhere along here, on my clavicle.”

Artist: “Well if it’s that far up, then you won’t be able to wear a bra for the healing duration. With the, ah, weight it bears, it could stretch your skin and distort the tattoo.”

(I indicate lower down toward my breasts.)

Me: “Well, how about here?”

Artist: “Ah, that’ll work. Now… hmm…”

(He fusses with my shirt a bit, which is getting in the way, and finally he just tugs the collar down and rests his hand on my breast for a moment while trying to figure out if that would work.)

Me: “Oh, right, I’m sorry.”

(I sit up and start pulling my shirt over my head.)

Artist: “Whoa missy, whoa there!”

(I am sitting there with my tank top on, and my t-shirt off.)

Me: “Oh. I maybe should have warned you, huh?”

Artist: “Oh my god, give me a heart attack! I’m like, ‘My wife’s right here and you already paid.’ I appreciate the show and all, but, you know. Wait until the missus is gone.”

(His wife, the piercing artist, just sits back and laughs. I leave him a $10 tip.)