I’d like to preface this post by noting that I am not easily offended.
I grew up in a tattoo shop — not because my parents were getting sleeves and forgot me but because of my stepfather’s career choice.
Take a moment and think of a type of tattoo. Any type — from butterfly to swastika to Satan vomiting Jesus — and think of the potential locale for said tattoo, from chest to breast to inner-lip. Consider the types of people who might get those tattoos — and I’ve seen them, first hand, from age 3. Even the Jesus one.
Up close, personal, from the seat of a Harley: I’ve seen it.
Now I have nothing against tattoos or the people that get them. I have three (which is four more than I swore I’d ever get) and my stepdad's tattoo shop helped pay for my college experience.
It also taught me from a very early age that there are as many types of people in this world as there are tattoos, words really are just words, and AOL and Skinemax baby-sit for free. You probably can’t offend me.
Annoying me, however, is another story entirely.
An (obviously closeted) co-worker of mine recently saw a picture of my boyfriend, which sits atop my desk just like a picture of any mid-20s guy or gal's significant other might. It’s there to help me get through my tedious work day. And I like looking at him.
Now, this co-worker, not a work-friend or even a break-room buddy, saw the picture and immediately began commenting on how good-looking my boyfriend was.
Well, thanks! That’s fine. I know he is. It’s been six years, and attraction was clearly a part of the equation.
But something inside of him (though obviously not what he wants) told him that it was okay to keep going.
This article appears in Mar 17-23, 2010.