She’d been talking about doing it for a long time. Any time the conversation came up at a party, Molly would join in, talking about where she was going to do it, even the guy that she’d picked out. But it was one of those things that she never really thought would ever happen.
Until last night.
She’d had a few drinks and been on her way home, when she’d passed a small, dingy shop with a sign on the window: “Bubba’s Late Night Specials”
“Screw it,” had Molly thought to herself. It was time to stop dreaming about the day when she finally summoned up the courage to take a risk like that. It was time to stop pretending that she was just waiting for the perfect guy to do it at the perfect time in the perfect place. It was time to go for it.
And so last night, Molly had gotten a tattoo.
She had awoken with two pains—one in her head, from the drinks, and one on the small of her back, just above her arse. Within a few seconds, everything had come flooding back to her—the neon “tattoo” sign that had lured her in, the brief explanation of the tattoo that she’d been planning of for half her life, and the pain of getting the tattoo applied.
The tattoo “artist”, if one was feeling generous enough to call him that, had been called Bubba, and he put one more in mind of a gorilla than someone to be trusted with a needle and the ability to permanently mark one’s skin. He was short and hairy, but he’d seemed to perfectly understand her description of what she wanted for the tattoo, and had set to work on it immediately.
Molly worked in graphic design, which had been an obsession of hers for years, and she’d wanted a tattoo to celebrate her passion. It had started as a discussion when she was a teenager—“What tattoo would you get to sum you up?”—Molly had thought about it for months, and when she’d found the answer she knew she had to make it a reality. She had to have it.
When Milton Glaser designed the “I Love New York” logo in 1977, ten years before Molly’s birth, he’d only expected it to be used for a few months. He could never have foreseen the design becoming an internationally-recognised symbol for New York, and he would never have guessed that anyone would use it as the basis of a tattoo.
But Molly did love New York—she’d moved there as soon as she’d finished high-school. She’d studied there, she worked there, she’d lived there for years. New York was where she’d met her boyfriend, John, and when John inevitably proposed, New York was where she wanted to get married.
She didn’t want to get the entire logo, just the distinctive love heart. To anyone who didn’t understand graphic design, it would just look like Molly’s tattoo was celebrating love, and that was fine with her too. It was ideal—to the untrained eye, it represented love, but to her it was a tribute to the city she lived in, and the field she worked in. It was the perfect tattoo.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t what Bubba had given her.
Molly had a glass of water and some aspirin before she thought to check out her new ink in the mirror; she lifted her shirt, swivelled to get a good view, and dropped the glass in shock when she saw her new tattoo.
It was printed in a font that wasn’t easy to read in the mirror, designed to look like spray-painted graffiti, but after a few seconds of squinting, Molly saw what her new “tramp stamp” read.
“Big Butt Slut”
Molly’s apartment was suddenly a flurry of activity as she grabbed her bag and her keys, got dressed (her headache forgotten, flushed away by her fury) and left. She was going to find “Bubba”, and she was going to give him a piece of her mind. How dare he? How dare he deface her body like this?
It was…well, it was definitely illegal, she knew that. It was a breach of contract, false advertising…libel! Bubba wouldn’t know what hit him.
As Molly stormed down the street, retracing her steps from last night, she attracted more than a few glances. She was an attractive woman—standing just over five feet, she had generous curves and a face that was impossible to ignore. When she smiled, she could light up a room, but even with her face in a scowl and her eyes shooting daggers, she was still attractive, in a dangerous kind of way. Dressed up, she could stop traffic, but even with her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing whatever casual clothes had been closest as she’d stormed out of her apartment, guys noticed her. Hell, girls noticed her.
After half an hour of stomping around New York, trying to recall where her and the girls had stopped for a drink and how she’d found her way home from there, Molly found the place. It was simply called “Bubba’s”, but when she entered, the gorilla-like man of the previous night wasn’t there. A tall, well-dressed man man with glasses smiled at her as she entered.
“Hello! Welcome to Bubba’s. My name is Mitchell—how can I help you today?”
Molly stared at his glasses. There was something slightly strange about them—the glass was slightly too thin, or too thick. Light didn’t reflect off them the way that it should. When she stared at his glasses, it looked…it almost looked like she could see rain behind them.
Mitchell didn’t say a word as the busty young lady entered his shop and stared at him. He knew that she would speak when she was ready, and that whatever problem she had, he would be able to solve it.
After staring at the rain for a few minutes, Molly remembered why she was here. It was odd…she wasn’t angry any more. It was if all her anger had simply been washed away.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she started apologetically. “I was here last night, and the man…”
“Ah yes, you must be one of Bubba’s late-night specials. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was here to get a tattoo of a love-heart, and…instead, he gave me this.”
Molly turned around, and pulled up her shirt. To make sure that he could see the results of Bubba’s work, she wiggled slightly and lowered her pants as well. Not a lot, just so that the top of her crack was showing. She wanted to make sure that he could read what that fool of a man had done to her.
“Big…butt…slut.” Mitchell read the tattoo slowly, letting each word roll around his mouth before continuing onto the next one. His words seemed to echo around the small shop, bouncing off the walls until they settled firmly into Molly’s head.
“What seems to be the problem?” he continued.
Molly turned around sharply, prepared to snap back and tell the man exactly what the problem was, but before she could, she caught a glimpse of his glasses again. Her entire body went slack, and when she remembered what she was saying, she noticed some drool had dried on the side of her mouth. How long had she been standing there?
“Well,” Molly replied, suddenly demure once more. “You must see…that’s not what I was after. I wanted the heart from the New York logo. The one that…if you put it upside-down, it looks a bit like a butt.”
Why had she described it like that? Everyone knew what the logo looked like. Before she could apologise for her strange choice of words, Mitchell had replied, and she found herself staring at his glasses once more as he did.
“And that’s how you put it to Bubba.”
Molly couldn’t remember, but she supposed that made sense. She’d been drunk, and it had probably seemed like the most obvious way to describe the symbol. She nodded, wondering how the man’s glasses seemed to reflect the bright, glaring sun, even though it was overcast outside.
“Well, that’s probably the problem. Bubba is an amazing artist, but he sometimes gets confused about words. When you told him it looked like a butt, he must have thought you wanted it to say the word ‘butt’.”
That didn’t seem to make much sense to Molly, but she nodded along, not wanting to be rude and interrupt. Mitchell continued.
“And you probably told him that you wanted a large tattoo, a big heart that took up half of your back. Is that right?”
Molly’s dream tattoo was about the size of a quarter, so that it could easily be hidden in the workplace. The tattoo was for her and anyone she wanted to share it with, not for the world to see. She started to disagree, but Mitchell kept talking before she could.
“We have a unique pricing system here—we price based not on size, but on design. Bubba would probably have mentioned that, maybe he would have convinced you to get a big one.”
That made a lot of sense. Molly wasn’t a scrooge, but she didn’t make a huge amount of money, and she knew a bargain when she saw it. Once Bubba explained the pricing scheme, of course she would have wanted a big tattoo. Why wouldn’t she?
“So when you said ‘big’, Bubba probably added that to the tattoo.”
Molly nodded once more. Poor Bubba, she must have really confused him, saying ‘big’ and ‘butt’ like that, over and over again. That explained the…wait, no.
“Then why does it say ‘slut’?” she asked, frowning slightly.
The man lowered his glasses, and Molly had to take a step backwards when the full force of his gaze hit her. It wasn’t the glasses reflecting light, it was the man’s eyes—it was as if there was a storm inside his head, and his eyes were windows, protecting the world from the rain and the lighting and the thunder…
After what could have been seconds or years, the man spoke.
“What were you wearing when you visited?”
Molly felt her cheeks burn up as she realised what he was saying. She thought she’d been dressed quite conservatively, having just gone out with some friends from work, but now she remembered—she’d been wearing a miniskirt that she didn’t even realise she owned, no bra…her tits had probably been on the verge of falling out the entire time she’d been talking to Bubba.
She’d been dressed like a complete slut. She’d probably been coming onto him, begging him for sex, trying to show off her tight little arse, her big round tits. She’d probably been boasting about how much cock she could take down her throat, and how many guys she’d slept with. She’d probably told him about her earlier conquest, the guy she’d blown in the bar that night…
It was all coming flooding back to her. It had been her turn to buy a round of drinks, and she’d been standing at the bar, considering lifting up her shirt just to attract the bartender’s attention. There had been a guy standing next to her, checking her out.
After a few drinks, Molly didn’t just find it hard to say no, she found it hard to resist sucking every cock within a few feet of her. She’d grabbed the man’s tie, dragged him into the men’s bathroom, and practically ripped his pants off.
When she’d emerged a few minutes later and sat back down with her friends, her lipstick smeared, they hadn’t said anything. Molly’s friends knew that she was incapable of going out for a few drinks without forgetting she had a boyfriend and gobbling down at least one cock for each bar they went to. They’d just laughed, and reminded her that it was still her turn to get drinks.
Fortunately, that time there hadn’t been anyone else waiting to be served.
No wonder Bubba’s tattoo had contained the word ‘slut’—it had probably been every second word out of Molly’s mouth.
Mitchell raised his glasses again, and Molly felt like she’d just escaped a cyclone, and come inside to a calm, secure building. What had they been talking about?
“Now, I understand that you’re not happy with the tattoo you got…” Mitchell continued, as Molly caught up with the conversation. They’d been saying something about her tattoo. “So of course, I’ll issue you a complete refund.
“The register is empty at the moment, but if you come back in—oh, let’s say two week’s time—I’ll be able to give you the cash then.”
“Thank you,” Molly replied, slightly dazed. She felt as though she’d just won, but she wasn’t quite sure what, or how. She started to leave, but turned back as soon as the man resumed speaking.
“And besides,” the man replied, “now that you’ve got a new tattoo, you may as well enjoy it.”
He lowered his glasses once more, and looked Molly straight in the eyes.
“Embrace it.”
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