GETMETOCA
Can't Wait For Tuesdays
- Mar 17, 2002
- 4,765
- 0
"Jerry is very particular about his piercings," she tells me. "She" was Amber, the girl behind the counter at Diversity Tattoo and Body Piercing located on the Las Vegas Strip. It was 11 p.m.
Amber was discouraging me from the blingy-looking belly rings I was ogling in the display. Since this was my initial piercing, I would have to settle for the surgical steel hoop she pulled from the cabinet of sterilized packages. The bling would have to wait.
Soon enough, Jerry emerges from the depths of the establishment. Amber tells me that Jerry wants to look at my belly button. After three cocktails, I have no issues baring my midriff and smile as I do so. I ask Jerry what he looks for when analyzing a potential belly button and he answers, rather scientifically, that he was analyzing the shape.
Jerry has a shaved head and his scalp, neck and arms are all covered with tats. He also has numerous body piercings. Without the ink and the metal, I could picture Jerry as a Mortgage Lender or maybe even a Big-O Tires Manager. He has a kind face under all the artwork. Jerry leaves Amber and I to attend to his booth in preparation for the piercing of my navel.
Amber asked me to fill out some paperwork, provide my driver's license and answer a short list of health questions pertaining to my status as a hemophiliac or HIV patient. I pay the $41.50 for the procedure and the belly ring and the sterilized one-time use needle. That done, I was free to roam.
I take the time to wander around Diversity. I've never been inside an actual "Tattoo Parlor" and always thought they were supposed to be dark, gothic dungeons. This one was more like a well-lit 7-11. There were displays smoking paraphernalia, images of tattoo artwork, lots and lots of piercing materials and other such decoration. On the other side of the room were numerous cubicles where each of the artists performed their handiwork.
"Your victim's right over there," I heard Amber say. I turned to see that Jerry was back and ready for me. Jerry led me to his cubicle and asked me to have a seat on what appeard to be the same type of table one would sit on at the Doctor's Office when seeking comfort for strep throat or a sinus infection. The cube was decorated with various heavy metal, avant garde, alternative, and otherwise colorful flyers, stickers, and signs. I noticed an announcement on the wall in front of me that expounded the virtues of tipping your technician.
Jerry asked me to stand up on a small foot stool in front of him. He pulled out a Sharpie and explained that he was now going to "mark" me. He asked me to tuck my top up into my bra and to fold the top of my pants inside to better expose my navel. I felt like I was starring in an episode of "Dr. 90210" while standing there with Jerry closely analyzing and marking. Except that instead of a tummy tuck or breast augmentation, Jerry was only going to perform one simple navel piercing. Two dots of the Sharpie later, I was asked to lay on the table with one arm beneath me and one by my side.
After some antibacterial sanitizing of my navel and the surrounding skin, Jerry explained that he would first "clamp" the area and then perform the quick and painless piercing. He said the clamping would probably be more uncomfortable than the piercing itself. Jerry was very efficient and methodical with his descriptions.
I worried a little that my "clamping" would exaggerate the extra inch or two of adipose tissue that had somehow built up around my midsection over the last 10 years. I bet it was gross. I didn't look down. I'd been doing 25 situps each morning for the past week while I waited for the hot water in the shower to warm up. I don't think it helped any, but somehow, I didn't think Jerry really cared.
Jerry clamped. Then Pierced.
Jerry gently assisted me back up to a sitting position. Since I was bleeding a little, he patched me up with a bit of sterile gauze and bandages. Jerry handed me a photocopied sheet of after-care instructions and then, like a well-trained Flight Attendant describing how to exit in an emergency situation, Jerry rattled off the thrice daily Bactine sprays, the turning of the hoop, the antibacterial soaping, and the 15-minutes-a-day salt-water soaking. Then I hear the crushing blow of what he says next..."No swimming in the pool for four months."
He might as well have stuck me in the gut with a samarai sword. Ugggg!!!!!
Jerry stops the dissertation on aftercare when he sees the look of dissapointment on my face (or maybe when my jaw dropped on the "no pool" rule). The good news is, I can get into the ocean because salt water is okay. I feel a lot better. I look down at my fresh piercing and I smile again because this is something I've been wanting to do for the past two years.
I remember the virtues of tipping and hand Jerry a ten dollar bill, thank him, and head back out to the main parlor of Diversity. Amber sees me coming and gets a smile on her face. "Well??" she asks, "How'd it go??" She's waiting on two others at the counter and they all turn to see who just got pierced.
I smile wide and raise my arms over my head, triumphantly. I'm glad I got it done.
I hit the hot night air outside on Las Vegas Boulevard and hail a cab back to the MGM Grand. I tell the cabbie, the hotel bellman, and four people I meet in line to get into Rum Jungle about my piercing. There is a slight piercing pain when I sit, move, groove, or laugh really hard, but it's not so bad.
Afterall, in four months, I can get back in the pool.
Amber was discouraging me from the blingy-looking belly rings I was ogling in the display. Since this was my initial piercing, I would have to settle for the surgical steel hoop she pulled from the cabinet of sterilized packages. The bling would have to wait.
Soon enough, Jerry emerges from the depths of the establishment. Amber tells me that Jerry wants to look at my belly button. After three cocktails, I have no issues baring my midriff and smile as I do so. I ask Jerry what he looks for when analyzing a potential belly button and he answers, rather scientifically, that he was analyzing the shape.
Jerry has a shaved head and his scalp, neck and arms are all covered with tats. He also has numerous body piercings. Without the ink and the metal, I could picture Jerry as a Mortgage Lender or maybe even a Big-O Tires Manager. He has a kind face under all the artwork. Jerry leaves Amber and I to attend to his booth in preparation for the piercing of my navel.
Amber asked me to fill out some paperwork, provide my driver's license and answer a short list of health questions pertaining to my status as a hemophiliac or HIV patient. I pay the $41.50 for the procedure and the belly ring and the sterilized one-time use needle. That done, I was free to roam.
I take the time to wander around Diversity. I've never been inside an actual "Tattoo Parlor" and always thought they were supposed to be dark, gothic dungeons. This one was more like a well-lit 7-11. There were displays smoking paraphernalia, images of tattoo artwork, lots and lots of piercing materials and other such decoration. On the other side of the room were numerous cubicles where each of the artists performed their handiwork.
"Your victim's right over there," I heard Amber say. I turned to see that Jerry was back and ready for me. Jerry led me to his cubicle and asked me to have a seat on what appeard to be the same type of table one would sit on at the Doctor's Office when seeking comfort for strep throat or a sinus infection. The cube was decorated with various heavy metal, avant garde, alternative, and otherwise colorful flyers, stickers, and signs. I noticed an announcement on the wall in front of me that expounded the virtues of tipping your technician.
Jerry asked me to stand up on a small foot stool in front of him. He pulled out a Sharpie and explained that he was now going to "mark" me. He asked me to tuck my top up into my bra and to fold the top of my pants inside to better expose my navel. I felt like I was starring in an episode of "Dr. 90210" while standing there with Jerry closely analyzing and marking. Except that instead of a tummy tuck or breast augmentation, Jerry was only going to perform one simple navel piercing. Two dots of the Sharpie later, I was asked to lay on the table with one arm beneath me and one by my side.
After some antibacterial sanitizing of my navel and the surrounding skin, Jerry explained that he would first "clamp" the area and then perform the quick and painless piercing. He said the clamping would probably be more uncomfortable than the piercing itself. Jerry was very efficient and methodical with his descriptions.
I worried a little that my "clamping" would exaggerate the extra inch or two of adipose tissue that had somehow built up around my midsection over the last 10 years. I bet it was gross. I didn't look down. I'd been doing 25 situps each morning for the past week while I waited for the hot water in the shower to warm up. I don't think it helped any, but somehow, I didn't think Jerry really cared.
Jerry clamped. Then Pierced.
Jerry gently assisted me back up to a sitting position. Since I was bleeding a little, he patched me up with a bit of sterile gauze and bandages. Jerry handed me a photocopied sheet of after-care instructions and then, like a well-trained Flight Attendant describing how to exit in an emergency situation, Jerry rattled off the thrice daily Bactine sprays, the turning of the hoop, the antibacterial soaping, and the 15-minutes-a-day salt-water soaking. Then I hear the crushing blow of what he says next..."No swimming in the pool for four months."
He might as well have stuck me in the gut with a samarai sword. Ugggg!!!!!
Jerry stops the dissertation on aftercare when he sees the look of dissapointment on my face (or maybe when my jaw dropped on the "no pool" rule). The good news is, I can get into the ocean because salt water is okay. I feel a lot better. I look down at my fresh piercing and I smile again because this is something I've been wanting to do for the past two years.
I remember the virtues of tipping and hand Jerry a ten dollar bill, thank him, and head back out to the main parlor of Diversity. Amber sees me coming and gets a smile on her face. "Well??" she asks, "How'd it go??" She's waiting on two others at the counter and they all turn to see who just got pierced.
I smile wide and raise my arms over my head, triumphantly. I'm glad I got it done.
I hit the hot night air outside on Las Vegas Boulevard and hail a cab back to the MGM Grand. I tell the cabbie, the hotel bellman, and four people I meet in line to get into Rum Jungle about my piercing. There is a slight piercing pain when I sit, move, groove, or laugh really hard, but it's not so bad.
Afterall, in four months, I can get back in the pool.
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