She walked into the shop, all eyes upon her. We were riveted. And I don't mean that in a good way. She was clearly mid-to-late forties, her wavy black hair a matted mess. She wore black bicycle shorts which revealed her cellulite in high, spandex-gloss relief. Her legs were unshaven, VERY unshaven, and a pair of dirty, worn flip-flops proudly displayed her gnarled hammertoes, bunions and way-too long toenails. The piece-de-resistance of the ensemble was her white half-shirt, stained many times over, under which hung her jiggly, stretch-marked belly.
She wanted to cover a name on her ass. And lucky me, she singled me out because I looked "nice". I think my co-workers would beg to differ. She chose a decently sized vine with full, red roses. "I don't want nothin' tacky," she said, grinning, displaying a gaping hole where her front right incisor had once been.
"Nothing tacky, of course," I consented in astonishment, wondering how I could possibly assume she were less than a member of the upper eschelon going about dressed like that.
I got her back into my room and when she dropped trou, I was treated to the sight of what resembled a hefty bag full of cottage cheese. To make matters worse, the dimpled, dented skin was also striped with stretch marks that would make a tiger envious. I stared in horror at all that before I even began to look at the name to be covered, I was shaken free from the spell by the sound of her voice.
"Make me pretty, baby, make me look sexy," She cooed in a smoker's gravelly, low tone.
"Sure thing, mama," I said absent-mindedly, spraying her rocky-road ass with green soap. Sheesh, it's a tattoo machine, not a magic wand, I told myself glumly.
I got the stencil on and she squealed in delight when she turned away from me to look in the mirror, treating me to the full-onslaught of that deflated-balloon belly and her wild, untrimmed bush. Oh, for the love of God, I'm going to need years of therapy to get that image out of my head, I thought, my eyes fighting to close against the affront.
Well, I did the tattoo to the fullest of my abilities and she was delighted with the results. I'd have to say, considering the conditions I was working under (something akin to trying to paint a delicate watercolor on a hunk of broken concrete) it turned out quite nice. "Ohhh! Look! I'm so pretty! Look how sexy!" she declared, shaking her ass back and forth as she looked over her shoulder into the mirror. Oh, please, stop that, I thought. I don't want to have to replace the mirror....
Despite my protestations, she insisted on giving me a big hug after I bandaged her up and she put her bicycle shorts back on, not that that was any salvation. Glad to be rid of the name of her rotten Ex, she sashayed out the door, head held high, every inch of her exposed flesh jiggling joyfully. I had to hear about it from the rest of the crew all night about my new 'girlfriend', and I did my best to laugh it off. Even though I have to work under some horrifying conditions, when I make someone that happy, it makes me feel good, though I am loath to admit it. I kind of pride myself on being a crab-ass, so I can't get too chipper about that stuff. I'd rather crab about the gross stuff. It makes for much more interesting reading. I figured if anyone wanted uplifting stories, they wouldn't be here.
So, despite doing a good deed, I still want to gag when I think about that ass.
