nicholasI was going to get a tattoo from a famous artist somewhere in the city. When I walked into the Tattoo parlor there was a long handicapped ramp down into the main space. The floors, walls, and ceiling were covered in a clinically spotless white tile. There was one barber-style chair in the center of the room upholstered in red velvet. The artist had a very pristine, almost Aryan, rockabilly quality about him. He was a mix between an SS officer and a Kenneth Angre character with a massive white-blonde pompadour. I sat down in the chair, gave him a brief description of what I wanted, and promptly passed out in a sort of narcotic torpor.
I woke up several times during the tattooing process but was largely unable to move or even see what was happening He was working on the front of my torso mostly as far as I could tell and I attempted to ask him for a mirror before I pass out again. I awoke one more time and realized that a group of my male friends from New York were crowded around the chair and were eagerly collaborating on the design. They were chuckling and pointing at my body and shouting random ideas at the artist. I was still paralyzed and completely unable to protest. I passed out again. When I awoke completely, I stepped out of the chair and attempted to discern what had been scrawled on my body. I realized that something horrible must have happened but there were no mirrors available.
I remember that I was supposed to attend a wedding that day so I sped out of the tattoo parlor and made my way. I arrived next to the wedding reception. The music had started and people were milling about and getting gradually more inebriated. I felt uncomfortable and out of place and was quite anxious about my tattoo. I went into the bathroom during a lull and unbuttoned my shirt immediately. On my chest was a massive tarantula rendered in exquisitely hairy and horrific detail. Its legs extended down my arms and I could grotesquely animate its limbs by moving my own arms. By the far, the most disturbing detail was that it had two fully erect human penises one of which was fully inserted into its own body.
If I moved or adjusted my torso in any way it would appear as if the tarantula was fucking itself in spasmodic fits. At the realization that this image was emblazoned on my chest, I burst into tears. I remembered that I was in the restroom of the wedding reception and attempted to get a hold of myself. I buttoned my shirt back up and made my way back into the party. The guests were even more drunk and rowdy than before and the party was steadily devolving into a total debauch. I was completely detached from the raucous activity around me and all I could think about was the image on my chest.
I returned to the bathroom and unbuttoned my shirt and wept at the sight of my new tattoo.
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