I walk into a small storefront, in a seedy area of a fair-sized city. Inside, it is brighter and more spacious than seems possible from outside. The counter has curtains, to shield the back area from public view, and a cozy waiting area has bookshelves full of photographs and sketches between very comfortable overstuffed black leather couches. A small table contains two ashtrays, and a crate by one couch is full of old copies of *Maxim.* I know what I want, and I look through the pictures on the walls and in the albums until I find it.
I sign some papers and give them identification--yes, I'm an adult and here of my own free will, thanks for asking--and settle in. The shop is small, and I must wait while strangers, and then a friend who came with me, have their turns. Watching and waiting, anticipation and fear can only grow within me. The hours of waiting steel my resolve; they quicken my breath and my heartbeat.
Finally, my turn comes. I bare my chest and settle into the blue vinyl chair, as suited to a doctor's or dentist's office as to this environment. She shows me her proof that all is well, that all is clean, and safe, and I grip the arms of my chair and swallow hard, full of excitement and fear.