Christ, what a spotty picture of me! Someone with picture knowledge know how to clarify it? Looks like I got beat with a rubber hose. Again.
Okay, another piercing story from everyones favorite Floridian piercer:
Here in Tampa there are very few cool clubs to hang out at. One that I do frequent is called The Castle, which basically caters to the goth/industrial crowd but is also called home by many of us that don't have the intestinal-fortitude to go to regular, Top-40 kinda clubs. Basically, tattooed, pierced, interesting indevegetables like meself. Heh. That's a joke, Speedy.
Anyway, as I've stated in previous posts, if you wanted to label me as part of any scene, I'm pretty much a greaser kid; that's rockabilly to you, son. There's a small contingent of us around, we all know each other, we all [mostly] drink together, we all back each other.
Fine and dandy.
With me so far?
Try to keep up.
A few weeks back, I'm sitting at the tattoo shop where I work, probably examining the crud at the bottom of my shoe or reading an old magazine, or possibly even flinging about my own feces in much the manner that a monkey does -- point beng, I was doing pretty much nothing.
In walks one of my buddies, a fucking tank of an individual. 6'-3", 240, all burns and pomp. We exhange the typical, "How are ya? My Mom's great. Oh, you know that already?" kinda banter and I ask him what he's there for. Tells me he has an appointment and keeps checking out the flash [that's the purty pictures used as tattoo stencils on the wall for you none inked types], so my assumption was that he was there for more tattoo work.
Chrsit, I should know better then to assume by now, I know.
In walks Chuck, the Master Piercer/boss and says, "Scooter [fuck you, only my boss can call me that-- don't even think it!], I want you to assist on this, got a double frenum piercing."
Anataomy time, kids. The frenum is the skin that runs from just beneath the head to the base of the penis.
I adopted the typical, "who-gives-a-flying-farm-animal" shrug. Alright, whatever, it pays the bills.
"So, " says idiot-me, "when they coming in?"
He points to my behemoth buddy, who's still eyeing the flash.
"He's here now."
Can you say, "Fuck on a popsicle stick, what a disgusting feeling?" Try it. I did.
The LAST thing I was to do is stare at the genitalia of one of my buddies. Oh, NO, couldn't be one of the cute Bettie Page girlies getting her chest or hood pierced, NO, it has to be one of my pals.
And the funny part? I was at the club a few nights later, he walked up. The first words outta my mouth were, "So, how we doing down there? Great. You owe me a drink ... lots of drinks."
Oh, yeah. He's coming back for a Prince Albert soon.
We've already decided it'll be on my day off.
-Scotty
Okay, another piercing story from everyones favorite Floridian piercer:
Here in Tampa there are very few cool clubs to hang out at. One that I do frequent is called The Castle, which basically caters to the goth/industrial crowd but is also called home by many of us that don't have the intestinal-fortitude to go to regular, Top-40 kinda clubs. Basically, tattooed, pierced, interesting indevegetables like meself. Heh. That's a joke, Speedy.
Anyway, as I've stated in previous posts, if you wanted to label me as part of any scene, I'm pretty much a greaser kid; that's rockabilly to you, son. There's a small contingent of us around, we all know each other, we all [mostly] drink together, we all back each other.
Fine and dandy.
With me so far?
Try to keep up.
A few weeks back, I'm sitting at the tattoo shop where I work, probably examining the crud at the bottom of my shoe or reading an old magazine, or possibly even flinging about my own feces in much the manner that a monkey does -- point beng, I was doing pretty much nothing.
In walks one of my buddies, a fucking tank of an individual. 6'-3", 240, all burns and pomp. We exhange the typical, "How are ya? My Mom's great. Oh, you know that already?" kinda banter and I ask him what he's there for. Tells me he has an appointment and keeps checking out the flash [that's the purty pictures used as tattoo stencils on the wall for you none inked types], so my assumption was that he was there for more tattoo work.
Chrsit, I should know better then to assume by now, I know.
In walks Chuck, the Master Piercer/boss and says, "Scooter [fuck you, only my boss can call me that-- don't even think it!], I want you to assist on this, got a double frenum piercing."
Anataomy time, kids. The frenum is the skin that runs from just beneath the head to the base of the penis.
I adopted the typical, "who-gives-a-flying-farm-animal" shrug. Alright, whatever, it pays the bills.
"So, " says idiot-me, "when they coming in?"
He points to my behemoth buddy, who's still eyeing the flash.
"He's here now."
Can you say, "Fuck on a popsicle stick, what a disgusting feeling?" Try it. I did.
The LAST thing I was to do is stare at the genitalia of one of my buddies. Oh, NO, couldn't be one of the cute Bettie Page girlies getting her chest or hood pierced, NO, it has to be one of my pals.
And the funny part? I was at the club a few nights later, he walked up. The first words outta my mouth were, "So, how we doing down there? Great. You owe me a drink ... lots of drinks."
Oh, yeah. He's coming back for a Prince Albert soon.
We've already decided it'll be on my day off.
-Scotty
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
i'm pressing submit, over and over again...
i'm stammering out my words....
i've been hit!
Granted, all I have at hand is a PBR, but, damn, I'm all sortsa toasting Miss B.
How can you not love her?
She also likes biting AND the Indiana Jones trilogy!
Now, I'M the speechless one.
Move to Tampa.
Now.
Wuv, true wuv.
-Scotty