Well, I didn’t do it to appoint my conservative relatives — or whatever the opposite of ‘disappoint’ is.
I got the tattoo in December 2024. I’ve lived the last year as someone who has stupid slut tattooed onto themselves. Despite plenty of hindsight and a few sit-down sessions to reflect on it, only one thing startles me: how mundane it feels.
It didn’t make me think less of myself. The people I want to see me naked don’t think less of me for it. The skin in that area didn’t melt off, and I doubt it will. In fact, as someone who spends most of my time looking away from my pelvis, I forget its existence until I’m nude or it’s pointed out to me. It became refreshingly ordinary after the initial excitement that accompanies any new tattoo.
Why’d I do it though?
Skin-deep motivations
When I first got the idea, my main thought was that I like flirtation and symmetry on my body. I have several so-called ‘hot girl’ tattoos. Stocking bows on my hamstrings. My areolas are shaped into hearts. The words good girl trail the curve of my breast with a brace of flowers. Something overtly sexual like stupid slut would be an escalation, but not completely out of left field. And symmetry? That matters to me. I don’t know if it’s my brand of neurodivergence talking, but I need the shapes of my body to line up. The good girl piece was lovely, but follows the curve of one breast. In my regimented mind, that had to be balanced by another two-word text tattoo following a shape on the opposite side of my body. It just made sense that way.
People who don’t know how viciously detail-oriented I am would be forgiven for thinking that it was about the content of the text. I think it began with a desire for symmetry and conformity. Visual symmetry to complement the good girl tattoo. Syllabic and linguistic symmetry; both tattoos are two-syllable adjective-noun pairs. The least important factor was that it fit the flirtatious image I’d spent years cultivating.
When I mentioned this idea to my trusted circle, the response was (paraphrased), ‘I can see how this is appealing to you, but give it some thought.’ That was good advice. I’d rather hear something diplomatic but honest than put up with feigned enthusiasm. I chose loved ones who aren’t ‘Yeeeeesss hun do it!’ people for a reason. Besides, I’d only be able to see a reputable artist months later. The ones around me had remarkably questionable workmanship for work that is both personal and risky. I mean, one guy in my town only started using disposable gloves after he posted a promotional photo of himself tattooing with used dishwashing gloves and got roasted on social media.
I waited three months, which is at the short end of my tattoo deliberation periods. I’m not an impulsive person about anything, much less body modding. My quickest time from idea to ink was one month (the good girl tattoo). The longest time I spent deliberating on a tattoo? Over eight years. My mind is an orderly and restrained place. Even the malfunctions I experience — like anorexia — are rooted in restraint.
After three months passed and I still wanted this tattoo, I went for it.
What lies beneath
I find it impossible to know what a tattoo will mean for me until I’ve lived with it in my skin. None of my body modifications went exactly how I expected. Hell, I had my nipples pierced simultaneously by two piercers and I found that less painful than my navel piercing. The nipples healed with fewer complaints, too. That didn’t show up in any of the Reddit threads I perused in preparation for the ordeal. A disconnection between expectations and reality is strenuous for my anxious and rigid mind. I need to be in command of my present and future at all times, but body modification has taught me that no plan survives contact with reality.
So I must admit something out of character for me: I didn’t think about what would happen once I had stupid slut etched into my skin. I drafted designs, deliberated for three months, and had it done. In the ways that matter to me, this is the most impulsive tattoo I’ve ever gotten. Everyone acts at a different pace, so I don’t think a tattoo can be declared ‘impulsive’ based solely on the speed of the decision to get it. Impulse also speaks to a mindset that resides in the present and doesn’t worry itself with future possibilities. I think I was in the mental space to do something ‘in the moment’ by my standards.
Don’t mistake my sudden passion for a lack of thought, though. It has a lot of additional meaning stitched into layers below. It’s an expression of my sexual interests. It’s a playful gift for those unwrapping my clothes. It’s a note of pride for me to feel enough agency over my body to do this. When I look back on it with the benefit of hindsight, it reminds me of the moment I decided to fret less about the future. It makes my body feel like home.
There’s also a contingency plan. Being the person I am, there’s always a contingency plan.
If I really regret it, I can just get a cover-up. My lukewarm take of the day is that I think the risks posed by the permanence of tattoos is overblown. Tattoos are permanent, but they’re not impervious. Laser removal and cover-up tattoos are available. Even natural processes like skin aging and the life-giving fireball in the sky cause tattoos to fall apart. Actually, I wish tattoos were as indestructible as my conservative relatives think they are. I’d save a lifetime of cash on touch-ups.
