The first time I looked at you, I noticed everything … your stylish clothing, your hard-bottomed shoes, your pretty smile, those bedroom eyes … but it wasn’t until I took a gander at your ink that I fell in love. There they were, covering your arms, your back … your chest. I wondered, “what do these mean?” I wanted to know more. I wanted you to tell me who designed them, where the ideas came from, who inked you. I wanted you to point out your first one to me so I could marvel at your tatt-volution. I wanted to trace my fingers over the intricate details embedded in your skin, in public. And take you home so I could see if the ink made your skin taste sweeter. I wanted to play a game of “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” so that you could see that I was a daredevil too! I wanted you to tell me where you desired to see sublime designs on my flesh and make plans to take parlor trips together. I wanted to hold your hand when the pain got too hot, and prove to you that I wouldn’t punk out! I wanted to see your eyes get tight as the needle danced on your bicep, creating dot by dot of living artwork. I wanted to undress you so that we could be skin to skin, ink to ink. I wanted to be the one who rubbed lotion on the scars you couldn’t reach. I wanted to have a surprise for you, intimate ink for your eyes only. I wanted to dream up new designs while you put pencil to paper and embark on new tattooing adventures in your presence. I wanted to be your tantalizing tattooed goddess, your enticing inked up Barbie doll. I wanted to be all the inspiration you needed for a lifetime of ink. I wanted to be the memory behind every puncture, the motive behind every vibration in the needle. I wanted to … but first … I needed your name.