The kanji symbol for the word “monk” consists of thirteen unique strokes. Dancer’s hand pressed a scalpel across the exposed skin of my chest for each of them. Laying my naked form in front of the fireplace, she would consult the design, a drawing of the kanji provided by Kitten (complete with copious notes as to the various nuances of each stroke), and turn her attention to me. My chest was already awash with marks and bruises from our previous lovemaking, save one spot about the size of a book of matches… in “the sweet spot” as she called it. High on the muscle and close to my heart.



When I got my first tattoo the artist, one of my wild-eyed surfing buddies, paused just before pressing the ink to my flesh and said this. “Remember this moment. This ink is not just art but it also serves as a marker. A reminder of who you are at this moment, remember this moment.” I can still look at the ink on my bicep, faded from years of sun and misadventure, and recall that rainy afternoon and who I was when it happened. Our bodies are roadmaps littered with such markers. Scars from childhood misadventures, scars from the narrow misses with any number of swords, daggers and even a critical piece of armor failure. Makes sense that I should mark this moment, remember it with a scar of my choice. A scar given to me by a lover.