My Slutty Valentine
I started Valentine’s Day this year with a round of confectionary musical chairs, taking two fancy rolled-up chocolate frosted cake delights from said bakery over to Williamsburg for Brad and Christian, then stopping at Pennylicks for vegan chocolate-covered strawberries to haul back to Bushwick for Jes. (Like this was such a selfless gift; the thing about buying your roommate a dozen chocolate strawberries is that, should the urgent need to eat a chocolate strawberry arise in the middle of the night, you have access and limited guilt.)
I’ve never done anything romantic-like on Valentine’s Day because I’ve never had a boyfriend for the holiday. This is a corollary to the larger life theorem of never having had an actual boyfriend per se, but this is neither here nor cool. But I think this is the reason I like Valentine’s Day so much—when your holiday plans are fundamentally filed under “contingency,” it’s pretty difficult to be disappointed by them. Last year Jes and I went for a vegan platonidate extraordinaire and, since we’re valentines two years running and thus needed to up the ante, this year we decided to hit up Sacred Tattoo’s Valentine’s day deal before ingesting faux drumsticks of love.
The shop had exactly the Valentine’s bargain flash of my dreams: an anatomical heart shot full of arrows. Since they were also running a deal on script, I decided to finish off one of the pieces on my chest with the word I’ve wanted to add since I had the first part done. Jes added three big pieces to her nearly finished sleeve and our friend Brett did the same, but I’m still deciding what’s going where on my arm, so I didn’t want to put the heart anywhere it might futz up future tattoo placement. I was wearing tights so shit wasn’t going on my legs anywhere; I’ve been warned that feet hurt too much to even consider tattooing; the shop wasn’t doing hands or necks. This left the very funny option of putting a bargain Valentine’s Day tattoo on my hip and, ascribing to the great philosophical school of fuck it, I did.
Except my tattooer placed the stencil while I was laying down, and I took a look at it with a hand mirror and didn’t realize exactly where it was on my body until he’d already started. What I ended up with is a bargain Valentine’s Day tattoo encroaching upon pornographic territory. It’s on my extreme lower abdomen and very nearly covered by your standard pair of underwear, and therefore exponentially, accidentally, and hysterically sluttier than intended.
Somehow this seems fitting. If my Valentine’s Days are terminally free from making out and candlelit dinners and maple flavored Russell Stover chocolates jettisoned half-chewed from gifted heart-shaped boxes, they might as well end with me eating vegan mac and cheese with my friend, my pants surreptitiously unbuttoned under the table to keep them from messing with my aching heart. My totally slutty heart.