Tattoo'd Guy

Monday, that really hot day when I went out early and did my errands, I saw a guy yesterday walking towards me in the street in blue shorts, baggy soccer shorts, and a wife blue beater. He wasn't terribly attractive and he wasn't terribly athletic, he had pasty white skin and limp blond hair, kind of long, which didn't help, but certainly was only a minor part of the look. On his side, was he was young, in his early twenties, but this didn't really help either.

He had tattoos, not especially elaborate tattoos, no sleeve, not an eagle on his back, but lots of small tattoos, seemingly, all over him. When I first looked up, and took the view of him in, he was about 50 metres away from me, he honestly looked like he'd been scribbled over, much like a toddler might draw on himself with his crayons. He looked so bizarre, I blinked, as if to reboot, as though my cache memory was malfunctioning. He looked so weird in that moment of focus. I wanted to rub my eyes with my hand.

What possess some one to do that? I thought. I’ll graffiti myself, like the mindless wall art that plagues the city. It is as if graffiti has now transformed itself into a medical condition. I’m going to scribble all over myself? Every where. All over. Cover myself. The world’s most tattoo’d man was a side show at the circus when I was a kid.

As he got closer, the effect just got more bizarre, as though some lover had taken a pen and drawn all over him in some mindless crystal meth sex session, or drunken buddies had stripped him to his jocks and scribbled on him in some straight boy bonding ritual. (Oh sorry, that might just be my fantasy) Or, perhaps he just loathed himself that much.

Admittedly, I am no fan of tattoos. Funny, I think you can pick the people who are really into tattoos, as opposed to those people who are just following the latest trend. Those people who are really into them, I think, are the ones who look great with tattoos. You know, some tattoos look really sexy on some people. But the multiple tattoo in the hands of a Pauline Hanson supporter, it is one of my just-want-to-point-and-laugh life moments, when I see someone with tattoos, you just know that a huge proportion of them, some day, at some time, will want to have them all taken off again.

“Oyi wished I’d never dunit.” (We’ll get to judgement a bit later)

If our greasy-haired blonde, in the monotone ensemble, spent all that money on a gym membership, or a good set of running shoes, he could quite possibly look equally as good, as he does bad with his body ink, I thought. Instead of covering it up, he could show it off. He could get a pair of tighter work shorts, you know, a pair that gives him a lunch, and a booty, get his hair cut, stand up straight, use some shampoo.

I some times wonder if someone covered in tattoos has dysmorphic body condition?

Both Arms. Both thighs. Ankles. Feet. He hadn’t got to his neck yet, which I hate more than any other tattoo, it just makes people look really odd. I wanted to turn around and check out his calves. I wondered if he would think I was checking out his arse? You can look at any guy, you can look at any part of any guy you want to, its an inalienable right, but you can never look back, life mantra.

If you want to check out some hot guy’s arse, you should change direction really subtly and go have a look. Follow him a bit, to fully appreciate the peach that he possess.

I laughed to myself and thought, no judgment, isn't that one of life's mantras? Pity, I thought. I chuckled, still judging. Our blonde-haired friend got with in touching distance and I couldn't help but smile.

He smiled.

He passed by.