I used to not be a fan of tattoos. Of course, I also used to condemn smoking, alcohol, swearing, and the entire concept of female sexuality as well, so get out your grains of salt.
As with all of those other things, of course, I eventually changed my mind.
I mean, how could you not be even the slightest bit attracted to this one, is in my eye (to quote a certain art history teacher I had in high school) "a work of art ON a work of art."
And if nothing else, look down at the top of the speedo in this picture of one of my two hugest celeb/athlete obsessions (I'm not admitting to the other one unless you guess it). First of all, yum. Secondly, how much I would have given to be that tattoo artist.
And hey, I even staged my own (silent, several years late, non-confrontational) rebellion over one hot Fourth of July weekend in Santa Barbara about five years ago, as you can see from this mortifying old shot which was nevertheless the most recent one I could find that shows my little permanent decoration. I may have one, but that doesn't mean I'm at all ostentatious. (Notice that instead of elevating my visage alongside these professional heart-throbs,
(This was entirely unposed and spontaneous. No, really! What, you don't believe I lie around in corn field with my belt buckle undone leaning backwards in a skin-tight black undershirt that just happens to be pulled up barely enough to reveal my tattoo?)
OK, now back to the real hunks. Actually, let's see this one again (my favorite).
Oh yes. Me likey.
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