Sexy sunny South Beach is a tiny stretch of land on the island of Miami Beach. Some people call Miami the "Magic City". It's where you can go and make anything happen. If you live there long enough, you'll see anything and everything from bearded homeless nut jobs in string bikinis to over-sized hood rats drunk on Vespas. However, you can't live here if you don't love it... and dammit I LOVE IT here.
You can imagine how insane it could get at a tattoo shop late at night. Most of my days and nights at the shop consist of educating tattoo novices what not to tattoo, why it's either a health and safety issue or just flat out not a good art design. Although, there ARE times when someone throws a shitload of money on the counter, somehow totally sober, and perhaps their requests are within the realm of doable.
This is one of few those instances.
One hot ass Summer's evening, they walked into doorway of my tattoo lounge as if it was a runway. An older woman graced the shop with the best features of Sofia Vegara and Monica Bellucci combined. She had a see through gold and burgundy velvety dress, a short black leather motorcycle jacket and walked with heels higher than Snoop Dogg. The man with her strutted in with a ridiculously long beige scarf donned over a dark grey Armani suit that was so crispy clean, I could've sworn he never sat down after he put the damn thing on. His suave shoes and stylish fedora were a matching crocodile/carbon fiber pattern or something like that. I smoked too much back then so some of these details are a little hazy. Although, what I remember for certain was that the man had salt and pepper hair slicker than , clean cut face with a strong jaw line, tall as freakin' Lurch, and oozed more confidence than Pacino himself . I believe you millennials call that "swagger". I didn't know if I wanted to be him or fuck him. It's was super confusing.
So there they are standing in front of me, this older Italian looking couple that seemed like they just stepped out of Dancing With the Stars: Porn Edition. In a deep voice, the first thing this guy says in his best English is: "Yiiii-ess, I like-ah make-ah Ta-tu." I smiled. For some reason I love Italian accents and the more this man spoke, the more I felt like I was helping a distinguished mob boss get his wife an anniversary gift. You see, love in South Beach pulls on my heart strings because you hardly ever witness it. It's usually quick vacation hook-ups and early morning regrets around here but these two... These two were DROOLING over each other. This was love forged years ago. She's standing there rubbing his chest as he was trying to describe to me exactly how he wanted the tattoo to be. For some reason, a "wave" came over me and I had this feeling that the rest of this night is not going to be normal. Then again, what IS normal when you live in South Beach? Armed with my iPad mini and setup with google translate, I tried to get him to type what he needed specifically but he was super insistent on letting me know that this tattoo was indeed, "Es simple. Es simple". From out of his coat pocket he pulls out a small silver pen reminiscent of an astronaut pen and draws on one of his hands the letter: "T" and then on the per hand, the letter "M". I'm confused as hell at this point but I go with it and say "Ok, where?" The lady laughs. It was a weird laugh though, like she was drunk or on Molly but she clearly wasn't either. With a straight face this man cups his hands as if to receive water from a fountain and puts them together by his head and pulls them apart like he's playing peekaboo with a baby. In all my years running a tattoo shop I had no idea what the hell that meant. I mean, it's not freakin' sign language but hey I played it cool and once again, I went with it. "Yes," I nodded, "but where?" As if they where dying for me to ask that question, she turns around, bends over slightly, and then he points to her ass with a smile on his face like "ah! Check it out!" Thinking I understood him correctly, and thankful for the booty shot, I laughed and replied, "on each butt cheek? That's easy, no problem" It really wasn't a big deal so I felt like I had a handle on the situation and didn't hesitate to call up the next artist available. 3 artists were on deck that night and 2 of them were working on the appointments.
"Big B" had just finished his last appointment of the day and was just hanging out, drawing some amazing action scene of Master Chief with colored pencils, you know, a usual Tuesday night. This guy, Big B, was a sleeper hit. He came into the shop as a beginner with a couple years in the game and by this time consistent daily appointments and he was doing huge art pieces on people. His great attitude and calm demeanor made him my go to guy for night time weirdos and craziness. I strut up to his booth with a cocky ass smile, "Dude, Big B, butt cheek tattoo. $150. You in?" Without looking up, he continues to color his masterpiece and laughs, "on him?" For a brief second, I thought about it: this whole situation would be entirely different if it was a tattoo for Mr. GQ over there. "No bro, it's 2 letters on HER butt cheeks" Big B drops the pencil, looks at me, leans back in his chair, arms behind his head, stretches and smiles, "OK I'm in". Of course you are.
Now here's where it gets fun.
As Big B and I walk up to the couple at the counter, I whisper to him, "$150 for 5 minutes isn't too bad, man! By the way they speak Italian so help me out ok?" Big B doesn't speak Italian. He speaks Spanish. My Puerto Rican ass doesn't speak a lick of Spanish. Hell I barely know English. I just know that the Italian and Spanish languages are sort of similar and I'm a dick for pawning off the logistics of this tattoo all on him.
"OK, guys, this is Big B, he's going to be your tattoo artist tonight." The couple looks at him and the gentleman points and asks, "you make-ah the ta-tu?" "Yes" Big B replies. From out of nowhere the sultry woman asks if Big B spoke Spanish and then she miraculously proceeds to tell him specifics about the butt cheek tattoo. Envious that I don't speak more than one language, however I instantly feel better about making him talk to them. After a couple swirly twirly hand gestures and a few chuckles, Big B glances at me with a bewildered look on his face.
"She uhhh," he's trying to look at me with a straight face, I can tell it's difficult, "she wants the letters like... On the inside. You know what I mean?"
"On the inside?"
"Yeah, like each letter on the inside of the... Of the cheek you know?" There it was, like a light bulb, the peekaboo gestures finally made sense. Now I know what you're thinking: By the butthole? WHAT? Is that even sanitary? Can the poor woman sit down afterwards? Surely you wouldn't say yes that. Who the hell gets a butt hole tattoo?! Well surely this lady wants that tattoo and HELL YES I said yes! I do have a job to do however and also a reputation on the line so I made sure I informed them about the health issues and complications. This is a very unique tattoo that could potentially go really wrong. They should really think about this. I mean seriously, how in the hell would you wipe after a decent meal without experiencing a burning sensation? It's one hell of a mystery to me.
After 10 mins of Big B and I standing at the counter trying to convince these kinky little sex freaks not to go forward with this, I finally cave in and look at Big B, "Ok bro... Think you can do it?" He grins with a piece of gum in his mouth and rubs his hand back and forth on his watch, a classic Big B trait. "Yeah man," he laughs, "it's simple. Let me just setup in the back while you do the paperwork" An orgasmic scream of joy came from the Italian woman. With her eyes lit up and the biggest smile on her face, she managed to say, "Dis es for our love. Es powerful, no?" Part of me wanted to say in a sarcastic voice: Sure lady! But there she was, making out with Mr. GQ-suave, hands all over each other... It was beautiful. THEY were beautiful. I hope I'm that sexy, passionate and free when I'm their age. To them, this was more than two black letters on the anus, this was pure unadulterated love. How often do you get to say that?
As I get South Beach's freakiest couple to digitally sign the paperwork, I mosey up to the private back room where Big B is setting up. A typical setup is a clean and sterile tattoo chair/massage table wiped with madacide next to a sanitary section of the booth where the tattoo machines, ink caps, ink, green soap, A&D and everything else that's necessary to accomplish a flawless tattoo session. Big B is super calm while setting up which is actually standard in any given situation. "Dude, you got this?" I ask, "Yeah man, no sweat." He's still grinning. Till this very day, I WISH I knew what he was thinking. What thoughts would be running through YOUR head in this situation? Seeing as though as I could not be present in the room, my first immediate thought after I escorted the couple to the back room was: I sure could go for some Cheeseburger Baby. Hey what can I say? All of this butt talk made me super hungry. I'm sure I read somewhere that sexual thoughts can trigger hunger pangs. Are you hungry yet?
By the time it took me to walk 2 blocks, order a double bacon cheeseburger, devour it and walk back into the shop, the private back door opens. Emerging from the room were 3 people with smiles and a hell of a shared experience. Envious that I wasn't in the room, I begged Big B to tell me what happened. He told me to wait after they pay the $150 and leave.
Only two things bothered me about that,
1: They didn't pay yet and
2: it's only a $150 tattoo.
It's not a big deal in most shops but it's not the way I run mine. You pay before you sit and for specialty tattoos such as this one, I could've charged anything I wanted. I could've said $300 and they would've done it. Some people would say that's why tattoo shops in Miami have a bad reputation for being expensive. However, you aren't paying for a quick butthole tattoo, you are paying for that artists' years of knowledge and training up to that very second. I bleed for art and all that encompasses it. Understanding that makes me ensure that all my artists get what they deserve. Your college football tattoo may be worth $50 to you, but it's worth so much more in the eyes of the artist gliding the machine across your skin making it look flawless. So when an accomplished artist quotes you an inexpensive price for your tattoo, please consider that to be a gift.
Speaking of gifts, my ears couldn't wait to hear what the hell went on in that room. After the transaction and some unorthodox aftercare advice, we watched the sex pots walk out of my shop and into the Miami sunset. As they walked out, they said thank you and she strutted in those heels as if nothing ever happened. Impressive. Women are some tough creatures, let me tell you.
"B!!! What the hell dude? $150?" The shop manager in me came out for a second but I really did care. I mean come on, this guy has a story to tell. As he started to clean up his station the back room, he ran through the chain of events... with a huge grin of course.
"So they come in here, and I'm like, take off your underwear and lay on the table. She takes off her heels, slides her panties off, then throws them to her husband, and he puts them in his jacket pocket as she jumps on the table. I'm all setup so I tell her that I have to pull the butt cheeks apart to wipe, shave and then wipe again before I do the first part of the tattoo, the 'T' ya know?" Big B is so calm when he tells me this. If was sitting down I would be at the edge of my seat, but by this time, I'm slowly smoking a cigarette underneath the streetlight outside of the shop. There's drunken insanity in the middle of the streets and I'm oblivious because a woman's butt cheeks are more important. So damn typical, now that I think about it. He continued, "So I asked her to spread the cheeks apart and get ready for the first line, and as she holds her ass, I use my two fingers" referring to his thumb and middle finger, "to spread the skin tighter and I make the first line of the 'T'." With wide eyes, his voice gets higher and he shouts in disbelief, "BRO! She moans, like a... like a orgasm!"
This is turning out to be the best damn smoke break ever. "What did you do?" I asked.
"I asked her if she was ok, she said yes and then I looked at her husband." He paused. "Bro," he whispered, "He was LOVING IT! Eyes wide with a smile and everything. They loved this shit. It was weird. I kept going and finished the tattoo but the whole time it was orgasm sounds." I'm laughing my ass off. Big B's accent is hilarious when he's excited. "So I'm finished right? I ask her if she's ok again and then I wipe her ass but is time slowly, cuz you know... Why not?" He grins, "I'm trying not to laugh while I explain aftercare with them but she's shaking her butt on the table and her husband is twirling her panties around on his finger. He flings the panties back to her and I start cleaning up. That was pretty much it, bro. These guys were freaks!"
As I'm laughing and trying not to choke on my cigarette smoke, I see the couple from the corner of my eye. They had just walked out of the 7-Eleven and started heading down the street. "Holy shit, Big B! It's them!" To my surprise, the impressive woman walks down the street as if nothing ever happened to her ass fifteen minutes ago. We both watched her hold on to her man arms as she struts across the road with a switch in her hips. Amazing. "Wow," I said, "She took that like a champ! It doesn't even look like it phased her!" No sooner than those words had poured from out of my mouth, she stepped up onto the curb, does a weird wiggle dance that you normally do when you have an itchy butthole, her body then jolts up as if she got slapped in the ass really hard. I'm pretty sure we saw the butt cheeks clamp up in that tight dress. That poor kinky woman. She definitely felt it that time.
I went home that night and told my whole crew. They laughed at my story but weren't too surprised. It's not that they are jaded, it's just that they've been doing this for years and South Beach has a lot of interesting people walking into tattoo shops at any given moment. Some of the artists in the circle shared their nasty taint and penis tattoo horror stories. "Just wait till Spring Break, bro" they told me. "It's going to be absolutely insane. Most of them aren't even on drugs, they're just off their fucking rocker." Perfect. I used to have a predictable cookie cutter life when I lived back in DC and now every day and night here in South Beach, almost every freakin second something completely random happens. Maybe it's because I surround myself with artistic pirates in a tropical setting or perhaps my energy just attracts the crazies of the world. Either way, life on this beach is never boring.
The next morning I opened up the shop excited like most days and awaited for more sun kissed lunatics to fuel me up with endless whacked out stories. As I set out the candles by the classy purple velvet lounge chair, I catch a glimpse of what seemed to look like a fat hairy dude walking down the sidewalk dragging a small carry-on suitcase wearing a green bikini. A teenie weenie in a green bikini. How does that not bring a smile to your face? This city never disappoints. Shaking my head, I get ready to grab some coffee next door to witness the reactions of the people walking by this guy. Then the phone rings... it's the owner of the shop, "What the hell man?" He yells. "What's this shit I heard, that you sold a butthole tattoo for $150?!"