ReginaldWitherspoon
02-05-2019, 01:16 AM
Greetings to everyone. My name is Reginald Witherspoon. I was informed that the proprietor of Mannly Tattoos, who goes by the moniker koriwhat, is a frequent contributor and valued member of this online community, so I thought it might be a fine idea to share my very intriguing and eventually wonderful experience as a customer. I now shall digress (to note, this was my first time ever getting a tattoo, so I wasn't sure what to expect).
As I walked into the dwelling, I was immediately disconcerted by the behavior of the young man behind the counter, who at first I assumed was the establishment's receptionist. There he was, hair wild and stringy, with a tensed visage that somehow reminded me of an irritable feral weasel even though I have never witnessed an irritable feral weasel in reality. Complementing his bothered appearance were a string of invective that emerged from his yellow toothed mouth in not so unlike a manner as discharged ammunition from a machine gun. "Faggot, homo, bitch, motherfucker, punkass, cocksucker..." I wondered what could be bothering this young man so much as to compel him to unleash such a rigmarole?
I peeked in further and saw that he was typing on a laptop, apparently engaged in an online argument. He then sensed my presence and looked up at me, his bloodshot eyes consuming me with their crimson intensity. "What the fuck do you want, nerd?"
Egad. Never has such abhorrent customer service greeted me in this way. Rather than leave, my curiosity and undying support for the American small business community in such confused economic times obliged me to stay. I asked to see the owner about a tattoo. The receptionist closed his laptop, stood up, and said, "I'm the owner. Whatchu want?"
Oh my, I thought. This is the man I'll have to entrust with the task of steering a very sharp needle across the canvass of my skin? My nerves immediately displaced, but I soldiered on.
In the next moment, a firm blond co-ed of about 20 years old stumbled in, obviously imbibed on drink. She slurred out to the receptionist-cum-owner, "I wanna tattoo on my tit!"
I took a step toward the door, as I knew the relatively young, red-blooded American owner would definitely prioritize tattooing the supple regions of a young American co-ed over those of a 55 year old Englishman. I didn't have the time this evening to be second in line, unfortunately. But what the owner did surprised me.
"He was here first. After I get done with him, I'll get to you."
The co-ed blew a raspberry at him and stumbled out. But my, what impressive integrity! My perspective on the competence of the owner definitely shifted toward the positive.
And so the process began. He asked what I wanted, which was the Union Jack flag with the script "Made in England" above. He asked where do I want it. I blushed up and lost the words for a moment, but managed to regain the old English stiff upper lip.
"On the right buttock."
I expected the owner to recoil in horror at the prospect of handling another man's buttock. I looked carefully for any signs of the irritable weasel faced expression returning or invective crawling across his lips. But no such signs were on the horizon. His professionalism impressed me as he said, "No problem. Pull your pants down and go lay over there." Happily, I complied.
He snapped on some latex gloves and began tapping my buttocks. Curious, I asked why. "Checking for viability. The ink takes easier on soft skin." I asked him if I'm passing the test. "It's a bit leathery, man. Gonna have to get the cream."
The cream? That sounded quite pleasant I suppose, at least before the process begins in earnest with needles penetrating skin. He returned, doled out some cream on his gloved hands, and applied. The coldness of the cream was indeed a salve for the arse of this old Englishman who's spent the better part of 30 years parked in a university desk chair translating the classics of French literature.
But more medicating than the cream itself was the way the owner applied the cream, gently massaging it on, tenderly kneading it into the skin, taking care not too squeeze nor pull. The owner's frontal area suddenly filled my sight as he circled around. I think I might've noticed a slight tenting of the jeans. Ah, the way he summarily brushed away the co-ed started to make sense.
Speaking of the co-ed. She returned at that moment and saw the sight I just described.
"Wooohooo. Gay fuckin' pride ya all!"
And with that, she was gone once more.
"Dumbass college kids from Austin. Daddy was probably a cuck and a faggot."
I felt it ironic that this man was using yet another homophobic slur as he was massaging a rose scented cream into the buttocks of another man. But the armchair psychologist in me knew he was using such slurs to mask a latency he hasn't fully come to terms with.
And so the massaging period was over with. I apologize for not being able to describe in detail the actual tattooing procedure as I drifted in-and-out of consciousness from the pain. But suffice to say, when the owner revealed his work to me, I had no complaints. There it was, the glory of the Union Jack spanning the right buttock, with "Made in England" deftly written in old English script just above. Colour accuracy was stellar. And proportions were spot on.
I limped along with the owner to the front desk to make payment. A more than reasonable price of 89.00 US. I shook hands with the owner and as I took a shaky step toward the exit, he called to me:
"You know, um, this is kind of embarrassing to say, but I kind of have a tat like yours."
"Really? Do tell."
"I have Made in America."
"You do! Where, if I may ask?"
The owner blushed more red than his eyes were bloodshot. He tilted his head toward his nether regions.
"Ah, I see. What we across the pond call the Bell End."
He said, "I dunno, man. Just felt you having a Made in England tat on your ass while I have a Made in America tat down there was interesting. Like fate or something. I dunno. What am I saying?"
"Don't bother yourself, young man. I know what you're saying."
He then handed me his card. "I'm always open, bro."
As I exited, I felt this might be the beginnings of a "Special Relationship."
Mannly Tattoos: ***** out *****
As I walked into the dwelling, I was immediately disconcerted by the behavior of the young man behind the counter, who at first I assumed was the establishment's receptionist. There he was, hair wild and stringy, with a tensed visage that somehow reminded me of an irritable feral weasel even though I have never witnessed an irritable feral weasel in reality. Complementing his bothered appearance were a string of invective that emerged from his yellow toothed mouth in not so unlike a manner as discharged ammunition from a machine gun. "Faggot, homo, bitch, motherfucker, punkass, cocksucker..." I wondered what could be bothering this young man so much as to compel him to unleash such a rigmarole?
I peeked in further and saw that he was typing on a laptop, apparently engaged in an online argument. He then sensed my presence and looked up at me, his bloodshot eyes consuming me with their crimson intensity. "What the fuck do you want, nerd?"
Egad. Never has such abhorrent customer service greeted me in this way. Rather than leave, my curiosity and undying support for the American small business community in such confused economic times obliged me to stay. I asked to see the owner about a tattoo. The receptionist closed his laptop, stood up, and said, "I'm the owner. Whatchu want?"
Oh my, I thought. This is the man I'll have to entrust with the task of steering a very sharp needle across the canvass of my skin? My nerves immediately displaced, but I soldiered on.
In the next moment, a firm blond co-ed of about 20 years old stumbled in, obviously imbibed on drink. She slurred out to the receptionist-cum-owner, "I wanna tattoo on my tit!"
I took a step toward the door, as I knew the relatively young, red-blooded American owner would definitely prioritize tattooing the supple regions of a young American co-ed over those of a 55 year old Englishman. I didn't have the time this evening to be second in line, unfortunately. But what the owner did surprised me.
"He was here first. After I get done with him, I'll get to you."
The co-ed blew a raspberry at him and stumbled out. But my, what impressive integrity! My perspective on the competence of the owner definitely shifted toward the positive.
And so the process began. He asked what I wanted, which was the Union Jack flag with the script "Made in England" above. He asked where do I want it. I blushed up and lost the words for a moment, but managed to regain the old English stiff upper lip.
"On the right buttock."
I expected the owner to recoil in horror at the prospect of handling another man's buttock. I looked carefully for any signs of the irritable weasel faced expression returning or invective crawling across his lips. But no such signs were on the horizon. His professionalism impressed me as he said, "No problem. Pull your pants down and go lay over there." Happily, I complied.
He snapped on some latex gloves and began tapping my buttocks. Curious, I asked why. "Checking for viability. The ink takes easier on soft skin." I asked him if I'm passing the test. "It's a bit leathery, man. Gonna have to get the cream."
The cream? That sounded quite pleasant I suppose, at least before the process begins in earnest with needles penetrating skin. He returned, doled out some cream on his gloved hands, and applied. The coldness of the cream was indeed a salve for the arse of this old Englishman who's spent the better part of 30 years parked in a university desk chair translating the classics of French literature.
But more medicating than the cream itself was the way the owner applied the cream, gently massaging it on, tenderly kneading it into the skin, taking care not too squeeze nor pull. The owner's frontal area suddenly filled my sight as he circled around. I think I might've noticed a slight tenting of the jeans. Ah, the way he summarily brushed away the co-ed started to make sense.
Speaking of the co-ed. She returned at that moment and saw the sight I just described.
"Wooohooo. Gay fuckin' pride ya all!"
And with that, she was gone once more.
"Dumbass college kids from Austin. Daddy was probably a cuck and a faggot."
I felt it ironic that this man was using yet another homophobic slur as he was massaging a rose scented cream into the buttocks of another man. But the armchair psychologist in me knew he was using such slurs to mask a latency he hasn't fully come to terms with.
And so the massaging period was over with. I apologize for not being able to describe in detail the actual tattooing procedure as I drifted in-and-out of consciousness from the pain. But suffice to say, when the owner revealed his work to me, I had no complaints. There it was, the glory of the Union Jack spanning the right buttock, with "Made in England" deftly written in old English script just above. Colour accuracy was stellar. And proportions were spot on.
I limped along with the owner to the front desk to make payment. A more than reasonable price of 89.00 US. I shook hands with the owner and as I took a shaky step toward the exit, he called to me:
"You know, um, this is kind of embarrassing to say, but I kind of have a tat like yours."
"Really? Do tell."
"I have Made in America."
"You do! Where, if I may ask?"
The owner blushed more red than his eyes were bloodshot. He tilted his head toward his nether regions.
"Ah, I see. What we across the pond call the Bell End."
He said, "I dunno, man. Just felt you having a Made in England tat on your ass while I have a Made in America tat down there was interesting. Like fate or something. I dunno. What am I saying?"
"Don't bother yourself, young man. I know what you're saying."
He then handed me his card. "I'm always open, bro."
As I exited, I felt this might be the beginnings of a "Special Relationship."
Mannly Tattoos: ***** out *****