TKOG Whose body is your canvas

NTKOG #234: The kind of friendly — over-friendly — stranger who, at the slightest provocation, encourages strangers to treat her body like the hands-on kinetics display in a friggin’ children’s museum.

I am: getting much better about my fear slash revulsion for physical contact but, fundamentally…

I am not: a touch-and-be-touched-er.

The Scene: Yesterday, on the B-Line headed home from an unsuccessful evening’s writing at the library. I’m not well: over-loud music has left me with a migraine that’s making me cry aimlessly out of my left eye; every few seconds, my body’s getting zapped with inexplicable internal electricity. Not a pretty sight. I’m basically sitting there staving off a panic attack.

Then, as more passengers crush on at Hynes, l stare uncomprehendingly at the dude whose meaty forearm is pressed against my chest. He doesn’t look like much of anything — not like someone you’d look twice at. Early thirties, maybe; red trucker cap, blue Sox T-shirt cut off into a facsimile tank top, reddish porn ‘stache of questionable irony. And peeking out of one of his arm holes, a masterpiece.

A tattoo of a squid lying on top of an antique clockface, its tentacles wrapped around. The squid is translucent, and the curves of its body distort the numbers and scrollwork below it in a way that is both whimsical and faithful to physics. Black and white etching, about the size of a man’s palm, wrapping around the left side of his ribcage.

After the train thins out a bit at the end of the underground line, I turn to him (after surreptitiously wiping away my migraine tears): “Sorry to be nosy, but your tattoo, dude, it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.” He smiles, genuinely but in a nothing-to-see-here way. “Can I ask? Did the tattoo artist come up with that design, or…?”

He looks at me again, for longer this time.

“I came up with the idea, but my friend made the design. He’s a real artist.”

“Dude, anyone who could come up with an idea like that is an artist. You’re an artist.” A fleeting, ridiculous thought that — why not? — I go with. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

I tell him that I’ve occasionally toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo but know in my heart I will never get one. But maybe if I found the right design! Would he mind — taking the Sharpie out of my bag and drawing one on me?

I’ve actually asked people to do this a very few times, under the influence of alcohol, and never has anyone said yet. Maybe it was our tattoo bond, though, or surprise at the request, but dude accepted the Sharpie I put in his hand, with a warning that his stop was coming up soon. I started to raise my forearm for him, but he leaned in toward my neck, so I pressed my collar bone toward him.

A few moments of scraping against my skin, then, as the train began to pull into the next stop, he stepped away and capped the marker, squinting at his work. “Dude, dude, what is it?!” I asked, but he just shook his head. “You’ll see.” So I pulled out my phone and took a few snaps to see:

…no, seriously, what is it? He rolled his eyes like, dude, there are none so blind as who will not see, and sighed: “It’s a ninja eye.”

Oh. Duh.

The Verdict: Other people can be fun. That’s all I’ve got today. Give me a break — I’m beginning to suspect I’m serious-sick and not just complain-on-Twitter-sick.

In lieu of a heartening, masterful conclusion from me today, let’s talk about you. Specifically, let’s talk about your tattoos. What are they of? Where are they? Do you have regrets? Do you have better ideas for your next one than a ninja eye? Spill.

Tagged as: boston, copley, i like it when people can just tell you aren't hitting on them, i truly have no words, somebody get this man a reality show, tattoo, tattoo artist, the "draw a tattoo on me!" thing actually comes from a game Justice & Kiss-Ducker and I used to play in San Francisco (said game was the inspiration for NTKOG), the t, train