Have you seen the YouTube video of a woman having her boyfriend’s name tattooed on her butt? We all do crazy things for love, but some of them never fade.
It’s a question that I’m asked at least once a day–on days I forget my sweater, anyway.
Even if you’ve never met me, or seen a picture of me beyond the small one next to my bio at the bottom of this column, it’s probably not a stretch for you to believe that I have a few tattoos. After all, it’s not as if the things I write are particularly conservative. In fact, you may be surprised at how few tattoos I actually do have. Spoiler alert: just four.
But, in addition to the generic flower, the tribute to my favorite band, and the giant super hero I’ve got forever preserved on my physical being, my epidermis is also home to the one thing you should never, ever, have permanently engraved on yourself: the name of a romantic attachment.
I was married, very briefly, to a Steven. Before we married and, indeed, before we’d even met in person (oh internet, is there nothing you can’t do?) he surprised me by having my name tattooed over his heart. “Surprised” might not be strong enough a word there. Try “caused me to reconsider our two years of correspondence and, essentially, everything I’d ever known to be true and right.” I mean, promises of never ending love and junk were one thing, but this guy was making declarations with his body when he’d not yet seen mine.
When we finally did get together in person, we had no chemistry. Zero. Zilch. Sure, we still had tons in common–loving all of the same books, movies, and television shows. And sure, we still lived our lives according to similar philosophies and had nearly identical ideas about how to make the world a better place. What we didn’t have, however, is an overwhelming urge to matress dance. Or, for that matter, even make out.
But we gave it a go, this man with the “Jennifer” badge and I. After all, wasn’t his tattoo already more commitment than I’d gotten from anyone in a long, long time? I was convinced that since nearly everything was exactly right, save for that pesky passion, the rest would come together. Or, maybe I wasn’t convinced, but I was hopeful.
I was so hopeful, in fact, that one night I got more than a little tipsy and made a commitment of my own. In what was, even then, an obvious attempt to convince myself to stay with him, I had “Steven” tattooed on my left forearm. The poor tattoo artist tried mightily to change my mind. He explained how a name tattoo is the kiss of death for even the most fervent relationship. He said that it wasn’t just superstition, he had seen it with with his own eyes. He told stories of couple after couple that came in to get each other’s names covered up.
But I was undeterred. I knew that if I were going to make this marriage work, I would need insurance. What better insurance than using my body as a billboard for our relationship?
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This week, video of a mystery woman having her anus tattooed with her boyfriend’s name (NSFW, obviously) has been making the internet rounds . The footage was shot and posted by the Broward Palm Beach New Times, a weekly Florida newspaper located in Ft. Lauderdale. The video has over four million hits.
Now, the star of the video, or the woman who carries it around, anyway, has come forward for an interview with the same paper (also NSFW). The twenty-two-year-old (or, as she says, “deuce-deuces) Maria Louise Del Rosario gives some insights into why a young lady would do something like let a man repeatedly stick a needle into her backdoor, willingly.
My dad was born on June 12, at 6:12. If you divide it by two, that’s 666. I believe I was born from Satan’s spawn.
My dad had a drug problem and I was left alone with him. Something happened that nobody has ever told me, but my hip was dislocated, my skull was fractured. How do you do something like that to an infant?
I paid my debts by suffering when I couldn’t even walk or talk. He gave me a free pass to live however I want and have fun.
He went away for 7 years for that. And seven is my lucky number, for what he did to me. There’s a reason I was hurt, a reason I survived, and all it did was make me stronger.
The reporter also asked Maria about the notoriety she has received because of the video.
I love it. I’m famous overnight. And I’m already all healed up and ready to go. It heals fast because the cheeks are squeezed together. No oxygen gets through. I had ten shots of Jager in me (you can see her drinking in the video), and they’re calling me a crackhead, or a meth-head. I took a drug test that morning for probation. I’m totally against man-made drugs.
And what’s next for the girl who has showed the internet the fruity of her booty?
I ain’t gonna stop till I reach the top. What I wanna do with all the fame is pursue my modelling shit. I wanna show off my ink, butt naked, not clothes and crap like that.
While it would be easy to judge Ms. Del Rosario by first the video, then the interview, and, boy howdy, have people done just that as the comments on both are brutal, it’s obvious she’s got things going on that most of us, luckily, will never have to deal with. Plus, we were all deuce-dueces once, and goodness knows, I was making some of the most interesting decisions of my life at that time also ten shots of Jager in.
I went ahead with the “Steven” tattoo, but not the marriage. Not for long, anyway. In fact, it couldn’t have been more than two or three months after I’d been inked that I gave up the ghost. It was a difficult decision because, by this time, Steven had become my best friend and, frankly, was the best roommate ever. Sunrise, sunset.
I have never once regretted my Steven tattoo. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a visual reminder of something that is a real part of me and a great conversation starter. Who knows, maybe years from now Maria will feel the same way. If not, I guess she can just put on underpants and call it a day.
Photo via Facebook