TheLakaluvaLibrary
02-15-2011, 12:32 AM
And I have some more exciting news. Inspired by the outstanding success of "Lakaluva's Guide to Getting Fat Chicks," Koriwhat has decided to undertake a similar literary ambition and write a book himself! His book is not a guide, however, but an autobiography. He hopes that his exciting life filled with calf tats, Boddington's, boxing at the gym, meeting Roger Mason, longhair, working as a secretary, and hanging out with guys who wear beanies will be a captivating read. As he said to me, "I wanna give the people with "ordinary' lives an insight into the Bitches and Blunts lifestyle."
Here's an excerpt from the draft he sent me (which is now being edited and hopefully will be on the shelves within two months).
...it was a natural decision, really. I've liked the Spurs since I was a little kid, so getting their logo tatted on my calves seemed a logical thing to do.
The tattoo artist was named Jerry. He was a big dude with a beard who smelled like menthols. He led me to a chair where I took a seat. I was wearing shorts, but had to roll down my tube socks to give him access to the blank artistic canvass that are my calves. After I was ready, I lied down face first on the reclining chair, like something you would find in a dentist's office, and held my breath. These were my first tattoos, so I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. I've heard the procedure hurts. Although I'm no stranger to pain from all the beatings my dad gave me, I wasn't sure what to expect.
Jerry fired up the needle. A buzzing filled my ears. Jerry's hand embraced my calf and he applied the needle.
But I didn't feel pain. On the contrary.
The buzzing, the voices in the shop, the music, the pain, every conceivable external stimulus was drowned out. However, one sensation did remain: Jerry's light touch on my calf.
It was a unique moment in my life. This was the first time another human being touched me in a way that wasn't with the intention of beating my ass. And it felt good. Real good.
But, I ain't no fag. Okay? Yes, I was getting an erection from Jerry touching my calves, but it wasn't on purpose. Only a fresa Mav fan would get turned on by something like that. Still, the fact that I was getting a boner from being touched by a biker gave me pause. Lying there in a chair, I had to ask myself: Am I fag?
And the answer I gave myself was fuck no! I ain't no fag. But on the other hand, I had to accept these physical reactions I was having to another man touching my legs and promptly deal with them--kill them before they have a chance to take a hold of my psyche and turn me into what I hate the most: A fag.
So I paid Jerry, duck walked out of the tattoo shop, and went home.
I stood in front of the mirror, gave myself the hardest look I could muster, and yelled, "Fag!"
Over and over I screamed this at myself, until every trace of fresa was scared out of my body and mind. I was successful. I felt like a man again. Whole and nothing like a Mavfan, who are all fags!. Afterward, I took a few moments to enjoy the Spurs tattoos that Jerry so elegantly etched into my calves.
Here's an excerpt from the draft he sent me (which is now being edited and hopefully will be on the shelves within two months).
...it was a natural decision, really. I've liked the Spurs since I was a little kid, so getting their logo tatted on my calves seemed a logical thing to do.
The tattoo artist was named Jerry. He was a big dude with a beard who smelled like menthols. He led me to a chair where I took a seat. I was wearing shorts, but had to roll down my tube socks to give him access to the blank artistic canvass that are my calves. After I was ready, I lied down face first on the reclining chair, like something you would find in a dentist's office, and held my breath. These were my first tattoos, so I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. I've heard the procedure hurts. Although I'm no stranger to pain from all the beatings my dad gave me, I wasn't sure what to expect.
Jerry fired up the needle. A buzzing filled my ears. Jerry's hand embraced my calf and he applied the needle.
But I didn't feel pain. On the contrary.
The buzzing, the voices in the shop, the music, the pain, every conceivable external stimulus was drowned out. However, one sensation did remain: Jerry's light touch on my calf.
It was a unique moment in my life. This was the first time another human being touched me in a way that wasn't with the intention of beating my ass. And it felt good. Real good.
But, I ain't no fag. Okay? Yes, I was getting an erection from Jerry touching my calves, but it wasn't on purpose. Only a fresa Mav fan would get turned on by something like that. Still, the fact that I was getting a boner from being touched by a biker gave me pause. Lying there in a chair, I had to ask myself: Am I fag?
And the answer I gave myself was fuck no! I ain't no fag. But on the other hand, I had to accept these physical reactions I was having to another man touching my legs and promptly deal with them--kill them before they have a chance to take a hold of my psyche and turn me into what I hate the most: A fag.
So I paid Jerry, duck walked out of the tattoo shop, and went home.
I stood in front of the mirror, gave myself the hardest look I could muster, and yelled, "Fag!"
Over and over I screamed this at myself, until every trace of fresa was scared out of my body and mind. I was successful. I felt like a man again. Whole and nothing like a Mavfan, who are all fags!. Afterward, I took a few moments to enjoy the Spurs tattoos that Jerry so elegantly etched into my calves.