Confession: I have a tramp stamp!

Yup, I have a tattoo.

And I didn’t get it during Spring Break in college, on a drunken trip to Las Vegas or because of a dare.

I got it in my 30’s, two days after Christmas, while the neighbor girl watched my kids and my husband wondered what the hell had possessed his wife.

My thirties have brought about a revolution of sorts. Like the old women who wear purple, I have finally adopted the man’s attitude of ‘fuck you anyway!’ whenever people disagree with me. Not that I enjoy people not liking me or disagreeing with me or refusing to invite me to their get-togethers. That still doesn’t feel good. But I no longer lose sleep over it.

With this revolution has come the realization that it’s stupid to not do the things I want, when I want them—and right then I wanted a tattoo-- just because I fear the judgment of people I don’t like anyway. Quite the revolution for a Type-A, socially-neurotic former Prom Queen and captain of the cheerleading squad.

So far, my only revolutionary act is to have a line of naughty Latin poetry inked 1 inch above my ass crack.

But for a mother of two who is married to a cop and teaches high school in a small, conservative Nevadan town, a tramp stamp may be just revolutionary enough.

I had always wanted a tattoo. I had also always said I would never get one, ‘what in the world would I want on my body permanently?!?” But I’ve always been fascinated by them. Tattoos on men are SEXY. Oops, qualification: tattoos on sexy men make them sexier. There is NOTHING like a nice tat on a well-developed arm or back to proclaim ‘well-built, strong, sexy bad ass’. Mmmmm. Tattoos on skinny, strung-out, ill-groomed, hollow-chested drug-addict-looking men is just creepy. And all tattoos of naked ladies are out.

Tats on women are also alluring. They proclaim a bit of a rebellious, a rocker-chick vibe. They’re fascinating, sexy, dangerous. Again, disclaimer: a tat on your breasts or tummy or bikini line may not be at all sexy later in life, girls: childbirth and gravity are a BITCH! You don’t want that pretty little butterfly to have stretch marks that match the ones on your ass. Not sexy.

But I don’t really know why I wanted one. Probably for all the same reasons most people (minus those who feel the need to ‘ink’ their entire bodies) want one. A form a self-expression. A way to decorate your body. A neat accessory (that never goes away). A minor act of rebellion.

For me, I also wanted to accentuate my butt.

I know, not an area many women want to draw attention to. But, for me, it is my best asset. Ha ha. In the years before my friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon kindly gave me silicone curves, the sweet dip of my lower back into the taut, round contour of my ass was my only curve in an otherwise 12-year-old-boy body. Now that I have large breasts and the hips to go with them (although the hips are real, courtesy of childbirth x2), the curve of my ass is still something I’m proud of.

So Stuart dropped me off in the minivan (he had to get home to the girls—the neighbor couldn’t stay long) and I entered the tattoo parlor. Wow did I NOT fit in. My hair was (close) to its—or any—natural color. My tee-shirt actually covered my body from breasts to the waistband of my jeans. My shoes and handbag matched. I was carrying a handbag! My jeans didn’t have any unidentified stains on them only a few rips in the knees that I actually paid for (instead of earning at the skate park. Or in some back alley). Only my ears are pierced.

Still, the heavily pierced-and-inked people who helped me—all of whom I would have immediately profiled as TROUBLE were they my students—were unfailingly polite and complimentary. The owner—with gages in his ears the size of a baby’s fist and ‘bad ass’ tattooed on his knuckles-- engaged me in a lovely conversation about the cross-town rivalry basketball tournament. The female artist with violently purple hair and what appeared to be multiple nipple piercings showing through her black-mesh shirt complimented my shoes and matching handbag and asked where I work out. And my artist, a nice man named Sean whose facial features were unidentifiable due to all the metal spikes protruding from each orifice, talked to me about the trials and tribulations of raising kids (he has two daughters himself) in between the in-depth debate about how high above my ass crack we should place my tattoo.

There I was, cute Buckle jeans unbuckled, perched on a barstool with my arms draped over a counter in order to place my ass eye-level with Sean. I tossed my hair out of my eyes and looked back at him as he touched what we will call my ‘lower back’ and anyone else would call my ‘bottom’ and traced out letters while discussing whether I wanted the ‘l’ to trail into my crack or not and if I wanted the tat to show in jeans, a bathing-suit, underwear.

Yes, I pulled down my pants for another man, bent over and discussed my preference for lacy low-rise thongs.

And then he poked me. Several times. And it HURT.

OK, actually, it didn’t hurt. More of a constant burn. Honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I gave birth. Naturally. That fucking hurt. This was uncomfortable. True, it was a bit disconcerting when he went over my spinal cord and my left pinkie toe twitched uncontrollably. I did a bit of Lamaze breathing then. But still, nothing compared to even the first phase of back labor.

And in an hour, I had a tattoo. A sexy, fairly-tasteful tramp stamp that highlights the sweet swell from my lower back to my firm ass. A beautiful statement swirling tantalizingly just above my panties. An imperative demand in Latin poetry for my husband to obey.

And you don’t get to know what it says. You’ll just have to look for yourself. And learn Latin.

Because from here on out, my husband's the only one who will be bending me over and poking me repeatedly.