A Ys Cock

The Uncensored Truth Behind The Greatest Tattoo There Almost Was

By Paul Peters © 2020

It almost drew itself. At precisely 4:03 AM on a Tuesday. The perfect gift for my goddess (who shall hereafter simply be referred to as "my wife"). Because it's shorter. Well, not if you count the space between "my" and "wife", but fuck it. Besides, as many times as I refer to her, "my goddess" would get really annoying fast and probably cheapen it. So...

My wife had gone out of town to visit her parents. She would be back in a week, arriving on her birthday. My mind was a mess, tangled with ideas ranging from the majestic to the obscene, grasping for the perfect tawdry, but touching gift. Then I saw it. Or I guess, it revealed itself to me.

A divine flash of genius from sweet mother Venus! I would shave my pubic region balder than a Persian hairless. And upon my naked flesh, I would tattoo:

A--y's

COCK

Big proud letters. I started looking at the script on my wife's website. Surely, there I would find the perfect font. Something as bold as this declaration of my love! But, you know, classy.

I did realize there might be a few holes in the erotic dam my mind was feverishly constructing despite the perfect sensuality of its blueprint, so I decided to sleep on the idea.

In the morning (or later that same morning, I guess) I awoke with the most glorious and, let's face it, sexy vision of my wife. Her voluptuous female form blessing our bed sheets as she drank me in with boudoir eyes. I could almost taste her in her birthday suit. Lliterally. Because this would be on her birthday.

Then would come (really, really wanted to write "cum", but resisted the urge. Nope, I didn't.)

Then would cum...

"The Big Reveal".

My wife would be overwhelmed with an intoxicating mix of love, lust and infatuation all at the same time. Her heart and vulva would call out to me in beautiful two-part harmony like a pair of saucy sirens seductively summoning their salty sailor.

"Marry me! Fuck me! Wait, we're already married. But fuck me! Then let's get married again and FUCK some more!".

I'd stand there, my hands and arms muscled, manly and boldly gesturing towards this Picasso atop my penis. A piece of artwork worthy of Michelangelo, on candid display above my manhood, proudly declaring, "This is YOUR cock, baby! Do with it what you will."

...

Later that day, after some very exhaustive internet research (I looked at two websites and at least one Yelp review), I decided that the worthiest place to have this virtually irreversible deed done was the tattoo parlor about four minutes from my house.

Because I'd spent so much time researching, I didn't get to the place until about 12 minutes to close. But that was okay, I reasoned. I was still in the "exploratory stages" of this, even though I knew this would need to be consummated pretty fucking soon if it was going to be ready for her birthday an...

"The Big Reveal".

I don't have any tattoos. Not because I've ever been philosophically or morally opposed to them. I've just never found the right thing. But destiny had finally shown me the right thing. Venus had shined a light of erotic inspiration illuminating the divine writing destined to be written on my closely shaven wall. It was clearly ordained to be:

A--y's

COCK

How could there be any doubt?

Anyway, 12 minutes to close. I knew this would probably annoy whoever was in there, but I just figured that once I told the artist about the master plan to immortalize my undying love for my wife, it wouldn't even matter. Hell, they might even do it for free. Plus, I was planning to open with, "Hey! I know you're about to close..." and then explain how I just wanted a quick consultation. She or he would relax into an easy smile and kindly reply, "No problem. What can I do for you?" Flawless victory.

The first person I saw as I pushed through the door was a cutely chubby Goth girl in her twenties who immediately looked like she wished she'd picked a different 15 seconds to walk up front and grab her Orange Fanta. I gave her my best, "I promise this is going to be quick - I'm cognizant and respectful of your time, etc..." speech. I'm paraphrasing of course but that was definitely the subtext.

She asked which artist I wanted a consult with. I told her I didn't know, but that I'd looked at their website (for at least a solid two minutes before I drove to the parlor, but she didn't need all the details). Yet, despite all of my heavy online lifting, I still wasn't sure who was right for discussing the plot to project my commitment on my crotch.

Truth is, I really wanted a lady artist. I just figured that a tattoo artist of the fairer sex would naturally have a keener eye and perhaps a gentler touch. But I also didn't want to sound like a creep.

After an almost tolerable amount of uncomfortable silence she looked at me and said, "I'll go get Steve".

Dammit.

So, she sauntered off. Although "sauntered" is probably too generous a word for her passive aggressive strides. But maybe they just seemed angry because of the taunting way the loose pleats of her tight black skirt seemed to massage her God-given rear curves into a continuous disapproving shrug directed (I felt very strongly) at me... I watched as her rapidly retreating angel's cheeks moved rhythmically below the small of her back. Left, then right. Up left, right down...

Damn.

I wanted to see my wife in that dress.

But then out comes Steve. He seemed like a pretty cool guy. Lots of tattoos. And those are obviously cool. I mean, that's exactly why I wanted one right above my penis. It would automatically make my cock cooler by association.

Also, his head was shaved, but I couldn't tell if that was because he was balding or if he was just that fucking cool.

I told Steve what I was looking to do. His thoughtful reply floated across thin lips that were upstaged by a carefully dyed jet-black goatee, "Hmm. That'll probably run you around $500".

$500??!!

Talk about sticker shock. But believe it or not, I'm not a total idiot. So I nodded knowingly and asked, "Is it because of the... area of the tattoo?".

Steve then gave me a mini-shrug, syncopated in perfect 4/4 time with that thing guy's that like Tony Soprano do with their face. You know, like their cheek muscles are having some half-ass battle over whether to smile or frown. The grand finale of this annoying display was him saying, "Yeah, man. I don't want to be down there around your junk."

We both laughed. This was all very good-natured conversation, you understand. Lots of self-deprecating humor from me. Lots of laughter from Steve. Most of it probably "at" rather than "with" me.

Fucking Steve.

"No offense," I remarked, my confidence building, "but even if you hadn't just given me a price tag, I was thinking that I'd like to have a female artist at least help me with the design." I really wanted a strong, but tender woman to do the deed above my dick. In my mind, she would be Rosie the Riveter with a velvet touch. And even though bringing a feminine sensibility to the project was key, I wasn't blind to the truth that the conundrum driving the price up was not defined by gender.

I looked at Steve and said, "Yeah, I guess a woman is probably not going to be psyched about having to spend an hour on top of a stranger's junk with an ink pen either." Steve gleefully joined the chorus of my acknowledgement, saying "junk" at the same time as me.

Fucking Steve.

He gave me his card and told me to give me a call when I was ready. As I turned the card over in my hand, I looked at it as if I was going to somehow absorb all of his contact information in 3 seconds. It was then I noticed that he had given me two cards. One for me, and one for a friend who I would presumably refer to Steve after he had so selflessly brought himself to create incredible inkwork, despite having to be around "my junk".

He stretched out a tattooed hand in a gesture of spontaneous brotherly friendship and said, "Did I give you two cards? Can I just...?"

"Oh yeah, man. Here, here you go."

Fucking Steve.

At that point, Steve and I parted ways. As I opened the door and stepped into the newly twilighted evening, the humidity of the thick outside air suddenly felt like a blanket of shame. I had walked into that place balls blazing. Searing with an attitude of, "I don't give a fuck!" emanating from somewhere deep inside. Probably near my crotch.

But then a feeling started stealing its way into my once-proud and sexy thought-forms, replacing them with regret. The new thoughts sounded more like, "I can't believe I just told this total fucking stranger I wanted to do this. And that smug, albeit artfully inked asshole is back there right now laughing at me with all his other smug inked asshole friends. Including the girl who saunters!".

So my shame was channeled healthfully into mild irritation and anger directed at Steve. And if he'd heard the verbal smack-down I gave him on the 4 minute ride home, he. would have regretted every single shred of thinly gauzed condescending superiority he projected my way through his inked ethos.

But, I'm over it. Can't you tell?

The next night on the phone, I told my wife the story. I decided it was probably best to involve her in any decision regarding that area. It was HER cock, after all.

She listened with loving ears and laughter and after I finished the story said, "I'm so glad you didn't do that. I would have been mortified."

"I know, right!? That's why I didn't go through with it". I almost think I sold her on the idea that I'd totally ruled it out. But she probably knew better. She always does.

"Someday though," I sighed, "if I can just find the right thing, I'm getting a tattoo."

"That's fine, babe. But just don't ever, ever, ever get a tattoo with my name in it."

I promised her I wouldn't. Because I love her. And to this day I've kept that promise. Now I just have one beautifully honest tattoo sitting proudly above my penis. It simply says:

COCK