Ann Bauer, writing for Salon, describes her manic descent into a maelstrom of dionysian frenzy by, of all things, getting a tattoo when she was just shy of her 40th birthday.
Like an initiate in a tribal ceremony, she is whisked from the safety of her pre-dusk home, and transported through a labrynth of mercury vapor street lamps, down a darkened concrete tunnel and finally into the 'inner sanctum' of the village medicine man, er - woman.
There she is seated and the tattoo artist weaves her magic spell of buzzing needles, searing luxurious pain, and undertones of smoldering sexual tension.
As I read the story, I kept picturing that Ann looked like this :
[hat tip: Tonya.me.uk] ....
....The fantasy was far from the reality. It turns out that this mother of 3 is just a frumpy, middle-aged, divorced loser looking to prop up her boring existence and thin feminine ego, with a "dangerous liaison".
Rats! Fooled again.