Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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now playing: "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette
Aaliyah
Nothing ever compared to the first touch.
The first prick.
The first line scored by the sharpened point of a needle across the virgin flesh of a once-untainted body.
In the same way that the first breath was life-giving, the first ever bite of the needle's tip on my face was an awakening of euphoria I had never before experienced. The sensation was a purifying baptism that opened the floodgates, and the angelic choir was singing its celestial hymn through my blood.
My vision became a haze, and my ears filled with the rushing of my pulse, beating, pounding, drumming in perfect rhythm to the deepest depths of the heavens and the highest notes of the devil's forte. My entire body hummed with a vibrancy I could not control, and my breath hitched at the sensual overload that coursed through my veins like an overdose of adrenaline.
"Stay still before I fuck this up," she murmured, her concentration on the design she was etching into my back.
I closed my eyes and focused on the rhythm of the needle, a staccato beat that synced with the racing of my heart. She moved with the precision of a professional, but to me, each puncture feels like a lover's touch—intimate and direct. I craved the sensation, the way it anchored me firmly to the present, to the very essence of being alive.
We mostly remained quiet throughout the session, both in a place where words could never reach us. I understood what drew her to the craft; she enjoyed the creative expression and the ability to make something beautiful from an ordinary canvas.
In the same way, I got to be the medium. There was something special about that, about knowing this art would become a permanent part of me, an extension of the person I was, was now, and would become.
With the last stroke, the needle ceased its bewitching music.
As she withdrew, the intensity of the moment began to softly ebb away. The room eased into focus, and with it, the warm undertones and rhythm of Fiona Apple's "Criminal" floated through the air from the corner speakers. The coolness of the disinfectant on my freshly marked skin made me shiver, and I found myself absently singing along to the chorus, my voice low and relaxed.
I missed the throb of its dance on my skin already.
"Give me a second, and I'll get you cleaned up," she said as she disappeared behind me. "Don't move."
I turned my head as far as I could to face her as she opened a drawer behind her desk in search of something. She pulled out a small tin container of salve and skated and swiveled back with her chair to my body moments later, using some fresh paper towels to gently wipe away the fluid that had begun to dry on my skin. She was close enough that I could hear the soft caress of her breath against my ear.
