Incest

I've alluded to yet another gym employee that I've started "hanging out" with, so I figured now would be as good a time as any to introduce you--dear blog reader--to George. (Again, not his real name, but appropriate given he's from Atlanta, Georgia.)

George is what Miss Independent would call a "bro," except his southern roots make him a little more than that. Adopted by the Western culture, he has several tattoos and piercings, drives a 4runner, and works as a bartender on Mill Avenue over the weekends. His teeth are as straight and white as they come, and his eyes are big and blue. Immediately Miss Ind. picked him out as my type, but the truth was his personality made that so.

After feeling used and abused by a lot of other penises, *cough* McClimber, Boulder, Alejandro, David, and others that still haven't made the blog, etc. *cough*, what I wanted more than anything was a guy who could be a friend: someone who would spend platonic time with me, enjoy it, and not need more. George may be defying the odds with his timing and conduct.

That southern part of him made all the difference I needed. He seemed perfectly content just talking with me, climbing with me, and hanging with me. He paid for my lunch before I even ordered, and was actually excited to experience karaoke with me when he discovered I was a fan. To top it off, when we had the WORST date ever--ever, he behaved like something out of a chick flick.

(Let's sum up that bad date by saying he held back my hair several times.)

I titled this post "Incest"--not as some rude, obscure criticism of his southern upbringing, nor as a reference to a morally reprehensible secret affair of his--but as a comment on my own habits within the rock-climbing community: George makes the fourth employee of this one rock-climbing gym to know my kiss. (For those of you keeping count, there is one employee I still have not mentioned--Red--for the simple fact that our date was back in September and was the only date we have had or will have. We remain friends.) Let me state for the record that I find this behavior to be both risky and excessive. As my brother would put it, "LT, don't tempt fate."

Incest is a bad idea, no matter to which context it belongs. My only safety is in each of their word to not tell anyone. I've made both Boulder and George promise not to share. Even McClimber has sworn to keep our first day of "friendship" confidential. They don't understand why, but they're content believing it's simply for basic privacy.

Who knows how long I have before the proverbial shit hits the fan? Especially if I continue spending time with them. (Did I mention Boulder and I have since met for lunch, exchanged countless sexts--i.e. 'sexual texts,' and fooled around a little just this last Monday afternoon?)

Ah, yes.

George was crazy enough to swear up and down that he had a blast on our karaoke fiasco of a drunken date, and actually agreed to another date! We cooked dinner together, watched the better part of the classic move Legend, kissed a little, drank zero alcohol, and passed out. He even dropped me off at the airport the next morning (dark and early), guarded my car for a week, and offered to pick me up when I returned. Did I mention he kissed me goodbye at the airport?

We also agreed upon our next date for after I came back home: tonight I'm having him over for dinner. It's my turn to cook since the Thai food was mostly his doing.

Still no idea what I'm making. God knows that could easily be another disaster...

Anyway, the point is George seems pretty healthy so far. McClimber, it turned out, was far more abusive than positive, so I have since stopped speaking with him completely, despite seeing him at the gym and having consistent nightmares and whatnot. Boulder wasn't actively destructive like McClimber, but my reason for keeping him around came to not much beyond boredom and loneliness. That wasn't fair to him or me. So, I have since told Boulder we are not hanging out anymore for a while... yes, a while at least. I'm pretty sure he didn't care.

And George? Now, at this moment, he is the only one there I am currently focusing on romantically, but the irony of all ironies is that I'm not interested in romance. I'm not interested in dating. I'm not interested in fooling around. I'm not interested in commitment.

So what the hell am I doing exactly?

The truth is I'm not crazy about George. I adore him, find him attractive, enjoy his company, think he's a fantastic catch, but... I'm not crazy about him. I'm not interested.

Or, maybe, I'm not interested in disappointment. I'm not interested in hurting. I'm not interested in losing time or energy or effort or faith. I'm not interested in being wrong, again, about someone.

I'm not interested in being interested.

I guess what I'm "doing exactly" is playing with fucking fire. I was right to stop talking with McClimber, and right to stop seeing Boulder, and now I must be careful with George. Incest can, after all, produce some hideous offspring. I must stay protected. Tread softly.

When you're 20-something you don't have much beyond your relationships and dreams.

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams"
--W. B. Yeats

... Please... tread softly...

I'll keep you posted.

The Last Hurrah

Once McClimber and I decided officially that we were over for good, he expressed interest in maintaining a friendship.

"I'm going to need time," I said. Time to pretend you don't exist. Time to forget you. Time to fool around with other people. Time to move on. Because the time would come when McClimber would suddenly be spending an awful lot of time with another girl, and I needed to be the friend who had no problem with such a thing.

I'm not a glutton for punishment.

A month seemed like a generous amount of space for me to take, in my opinion, and it turned out Boulder jumped me up to ready-in-two-weeks. Two weeks of not seeing McClimber, talking to him, texting him, checking his facebook--nothing--and I felt I had successfully achieved "out of sight, out of mind." Ready for friendship.

So I contacted him.

We began talking and it seemed as though he was genuinely interested in being a friend. He asked what was happening in life and actually listened to the answers. It was easy to find stories to swap and laughs to share. So far, so good.

But then I saw him.

The gym is an unavoidable place for run-ins. McClimber was working out with his shirt off, as he often does, and it seemed he had lost another five pounds. The guy can't possibly get leaner. It didn't phase me at first.

He was hesitant around me. I wasn't sure why until I asked if he wanted to grab a smoothie with me after climbing.

"Yeah sure. Sounds good," he said.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Yeah." --cue long pause-- "I've been having lots of dreams about you."

ARGHHHH!!!!

Suddenly the change in his behavior made sense, and suddenly I felt it too--like someone had reached inside my chest, sped up my heart, and squeezed my lungs. Only feet away from the front of the gym--feet away from two other gym employees who had taken me out on a date, Boulder not included--and inches away from each other, shirtless McClimber confessed he was still extremely attracted to me. I still wanted to be friends and to hang out but... this was going to be a problem.

The end of the night came and I told McClimber I was ready for a smoothie. He agreed and went upstairs to get his shirt and shoes and stuff. I followed him, bored and hungry at this point, and then I saw Boulder upstairs too. He and I hadn't really spoken much since we hung out, and I assumed he was bored with me after satisfying some curiosity, but when I turned to leave with McClimber he called me back.

"Go say goodbye," McClimber said, as we both looked at Boulder waiting, his arms outstretched for me.

As Boulder and I pulled away from our hug he asked, "So when are we hanging out again?"

McClimber was too far away to hear.

"Whenever you'd like," I said. I mean it too. He wasn't bored with me yet after all...

Finally McClimber and I made it to the smoothie place and all of his facial expressions became familiar again: frustration being his favorite look. He rolled his eyes at me. Laughed to himself.

"What?!" I asked, finally.

He rolled his eyes again. "It's just... You're here giving me those looks of yours..."

Suddenly I realized he is frustrated--sexually frustrated.

"Are you dating anyone?" he asked, like it's any of his business.

"No. But I've gone on a couple dates, yes." Four dates in one week with four different men, to be exact. One of those men being Boulder, and a second man being another employee at the climbing gym. (I'm not proud--no judging.)

"Oh Tessie," he shook his head.

"You?" I asked, taking the bait.

"Nope. Just lots of climbing. I haven't had time for a girl."

If I said that didn't give me a huge sense of relief, I might be totally lying.

We left and I offered to drive him home rather than make him ride his bike. We got to his house and I decided to come inside, without his asking. We continued talking a little bit more and I lifted up the very bottom of my shirt to explain some story I was telling (don't ask what story--I certainly don't remember and I'm sure lifting my shirt was not actually a necessary part of the telling). McClimber rolled his eyes again and threw a look of exasperation my way.

"Tess, why are you showing me your stomach when you know I'm dying to kiss you?"

I pulled my shirt back down. He really wasn't kidding about being attracted to me.

I apologized and got to rambling about how excited I was that we were going to be friends. I told him all of the fun things we could do because we miraculously have a ton of interests in common. As I went on and on, he walked back to his room and started undressing because he was meeting up with a friend after I left. Time to get out of his gym clothes. I foolishly followed him and continued talking, and not even a minute later he stripped down to his boxer-briefs.

The hallway outside of his bedroom is narrow, and I was leaning against the wall opposite his door. He turned the light off in his room, so only the light from the kitchen barely illuminated the tight space we now occupied, and unabashedly pressed his boxers-only body against mine and the wall.

I froze.

Wow had I missed him.

He began kissing my neck. I still couldn't move. Trapped between him and the wall in this narrow hallway, and trapped between doing what I know is smart and giving in to the way it felt, I really couldn't move. But when he went to kiss my mouth, I pulled away.

What do I want??? What do I really want right now?

Have you ever had moments in your life when you ask yourself those questions? McClimber didn't want to date me, care for me, love me--he wanted to screw me. It's crass to say, but honest too. I knew that. I knew that then, frankly he told me so more or less, but the problem was I couldn't decide how important all that was. A part of me--a loud part--wanted to kiss him back anyway.

The Last Hurrah is a common, almost essential part of the dating process. It's the encounter post-break-up when you're still not sure if you don't want what you had. The allure is stronger, and the desire for familiarity is suddenly coated in the desire for the unattainable. What could be harder to resist than that?

Did McClimber and I resist the temptation for a final hurrah?

A good author never tells.

Keep you posted.

Those men a girl can just have "fun" with too...

One might call it a "rebound," but I think a more appropriate name is simply some fun. In all the time McClimber and I were seeing each other, he never doubted my affection for him. Nor did I doubt his trustworthiness. He established in the beginning he didn't want to see anyone else, and so neither of us did. I saw him practically all the time anyway, but even when I didn't, I still was content just being with him.

Only ONCE did McClimber get jealous--three days before we were over.

Another climber at our gym, Boulder, provoked lust-inspiring thoughts since the moment we met. Unfortunately we had a difficult time exchanging more than a couple words with one another. He was quiet in a dark-and-twisty sort of way, with a constant, blank, evaluating expression. I guess it's somewhat fair to call him shy.

Aesthetically he wasn't too impressive, but there certainly wasn't anything wrong with him. He's shorter, borderline handsome, perfect T-shape body, and strong. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a murky demeanor; you're never too sure what the hell is going on behind his perpetual poker face. Boulder found his way to my darker fantasies with his subtle, mysterious intensity... And the more he discovered, the more it began to annoy McClimber.

Although Boulder and I often had nothing to say to each other, and possessed a mutual sentiment that the other was plain-old weird, there was an odd thing that kept happening between us in private company: we cuddled.

Um, weird? Ha. Yeah.

The two times we were at a mutual friend's house, with Miss Ind. in tow, he and I seemed unable to keep our hands and bodies to ourselves. No one said anything about it, certainly not Boulder or I, but there it was.

After a bit of whiskey with McClimber, I confessed that the last time Boulder and I were hanging out he spoke openly and sexually with me. (Keep in mind this last encounter with Boulder had happened when McClimber and I were in our first week together.) Boulder even demonstrated a particular activity he found erotic--using me to assist the demonstration. How I conveyed this to McClimber is still a little murky to me, but McClimber's response was loud and clear: "Well, Boulder is single now. You should go out with him."

Bitter much?

At the time, I of course had no interest in anyone but McClimber, so his worries were unnecessary. But, once I was single again, things changed.

Before I knew it, Boulder and I had each others' phone numbers. We texted randomly and promised to hang out. We were even a little less awkward at the gym together. Then, two nights ago, Boulder decided he was bored and wanted to hang out... alone.

Dun dun duuuunn.

He came over at midnight and all that sexual tension that had been building in the last half-year couldn't contain itself for long. I put the movie on that he brought over and I went to sit down next to him. He put his arm out. I wasn't sure what he meant at first but then he grabbed my hand, pulled me down next to him, and wrapped his arm around me. Our bodies immediately intertwined with legs wrapped around and between. I had one hand resting on his rock-hard chest, the other on the inside of his lean thigh. Mmmmm yummy. Probably not even fifteen minutes into the movie he lifted my chin toward him and kissed me.

You must understand it is not like me to go and kiss every guy I meet, particularly every guy I meet in one particular venue (both McClimber and Boulder work at the same gym I attend), but something odd is happening in my life.

It's the curiosity of 20-somethings. We have the freedom, we have the time, we lack the ties, and we have the drive. It's the perfect set-up for disaster.

The problem lies in societal and social standards--although I have a squeaky-clean past, my recent activity may provoke an unflattering label. And, why? Does my kissing Boulder devalue me? Does it make me less loving? Less desirable? Less worthy? Less... me? Or does it not really change a damn thing?

I still live with the aim of bringing joy, and not destruction. I still abide by rules of common courtesy, respect, and integrity. I still mean well, and still love. So is it possible for a girl to have a fun experience with a boy and let it remain just fun?

Passion is hard to come by, and those moments when we lose ourselves entirely in the moment are valuable too. Kissing Boulder let me do that. When I was winding down from holiday stress, winding down from a failed relationship, winding down from a new job hunt, and winding down from my own unmet expectations, there was this guy kissing me with his eyes closed. Kissing me slowly, passionately, intensely. Oscillating between dangerous roughness and heartbreaking tenderness. Physically there, and saying hardly anything at all.

It was better than chocolate.

Although I understand the concept of "slut," I have a question: If my "secret" encounter with Boulder hurts no one, is it bad?

Or, just fun?

Waiting...

There's this fantasy I have: I'm attending a family dinner--dressed well, clean, potentially in heels and earrings--and the doorbell rings.

I've just been chatting with someone about my recent relationship, a lovely look of melancholy on my face, describing briefly how it ended merely a day or two ago. At the ring, I set down my wineglass and offer to see who could possibly be at the door. Heels click across the wood floor, laughter echoes behind me from the kitchen, and a small door lamp illuminates the familiar figure beyond the beveled leaded glass of the sidelight window. My breath catches in my throat and my chest tightens as I turn the handle and pull back the door.

There he is.

The now-ex stands with white knuckles around a bouquet of flowers and bags under his agape and waiting eyes. His free arm hangs at his side as though failing hope for another embrace drags it down. He hasn't fallen apart by any means, but something meaningful has happened to him.

I ask, "What are you doing here?"

"Here," he hands me the flowers, "These are for you."

"McClimber, what are you doing here?" I ask him again. He looks away, searching for words and courage.

I come outside and close the door behind me. The noises from my family inside cease, and night's twinkling silence takes its place. "Tess," he starts, "I've... I've been thinking... Listen, I don't want to go back to life without you in it."

I'm finally beginning to accept that he is in fact here, asking if I'll let him care for me again.

"I messed up," he continues, "I was scared. I don't want to be scared anymore." My eyes water as a wave of unimagined relief washes over me.

He came back.

This fantasy of mine, colorfully articulated for dramatic effect, is filled with details that change for every new failed relationship, but remains essentially the same nonetheless. The basic premise is always: girl gets left, girl begins to let go, boy comes back like the frickin' prodigal boyfriend.

I've become strong enough, finally, to give things a chance. I fight for a try--a real try--to create and nurture a connection between myself and another person. This is why I've been in so many damn relationships this year. The problem has been I am the only one willing to try. So, inevitably, I am left because the other has given up.

There was a time when I would have criticized this fantasy and called it a childish and disgustingly inappropriate desire, but these days I understand it with more compassion.

When I was a little girl my father left my mother for another woman. He left us. Sure he was there Wednesday nights and every other weekend, but he left. Do I blame my father or hold any of this against him? Hell no. Why would I? I love my life. BUT the fact still remains--one of the first things I learned as a little girl was how a man leaves.

Oh I know I'm getting all dramatic on you, but hear me out.

The thing is I developed this fantasy that one day one of those men who made a false promise would come back and hand over his white flag. I'm waiting for the guy who will stick around and grant me a sense of temporary permanence.

McClimber was my most recent relationship, and it was a flimsy one at best. We started at a sprint and burned out in a similar fashion without beginning to know each other. But there was potential. There were these little things he did that put him a couple notches above the rest--particularly Alejandro.

One night several weeks ago I felt the oncoming rush of senseless feminine emotional insanity. McClimber could tell I was angry, but didn't seem up for a conversation about it. More than anything he was frustrated, and even more frustrated that I couldn't talk to him about it. When he left me in the dark bedroom to go play video games with his roommates for a couple hours, my feelings of cheapness and vulnerability sky-rocketed. Suddenly the tears flowed like the Mississippi as I sobbed to my girlfriend about the indifference McClimber afforded me in the face of metaphoric and literal nakedness. Didn't he understand I was worth the effort he wasn't showing?

As I wiped my face with a roll of toilet paper, I thought this was surely the end. This was the same way Alejandro ended, and these were the same feelings. This was the point where my efforts weren't going to make any damn difference. This was when I had to face that McClimber didn't really give a shit.

Suddenly, in the middle of a loud irrational complaint, the door opened. From the light of the hallway he entered the room, closed the door behind him, and sat on the bed behind me. He wrapped his arms around me.

"I don't know what to do. I wish there was something I could do to make it better."

"You came back," I said in relieved disbelief.

And that was all I needed.

A few weeks later McClimber and I did in fact stop seeing each other, but that night was the first and last time I cried during our relationship. That simple, unexpected reassurance was in fact all I needed.

When we were officially said and done though, the doorbell didn't ring. No one came to the door with flowers and said "I need you." No one asked me to care for him again. No one said, "Hey Tess, I was scared--let's give it another try."

I said, "We're not seeing each other," and McClimber said "Let's take a step back." Then he ran for the door to never return.

That's the reality.

But is the fantasy so bad?

As long as I know it's a fantasy, and not the reality, I can understand something about myself I didn't before: I'm waiting to love someone.

McClimber wasn't the guy--and love was never part of the equation--but I guess it's possible someone will stick around. Someone will be ready. For some reason I am waiting for the man who will let me, simply, love him.

I can wait for that. It doesn't rule my life or consume my thoughts--it's merely a gentle breeze blowing through the back of my mind. So I'll keep on going and enjoying every day. There are always those men a girl can just have "fun" with too.

But when it comes to love, I'll be waiting...

Because life isn't about the ones that go, but about the ones that come back.

Who Am I?

"I feel like I'm falling apart." Miss Independent (a previously-mentioned friend of mine) earned her name by being a solid individual, so experiencing a serious bout of self- uncertainty was beyond unnerving. "Everything I once wanted, everything I thought was important... I don't care about any of it anymore," she said through an onset of tears.

But what was more upsetting was the realization that embracing anything radically new or different inevitably meant leaving some things behind... including some people. Including some of the more important people.

Being 20-something means a crash-course with reality. All the dreams and aspirations of our youth now have to intersect the effort and resources it requires to bring it to fruition. That idea you held onto of your identity is suddenly put on stage under a blinding light and forced to prove itself. It is forced to be more than a mere idea.

When we make a commitment to our true self--to the person we wish to become--we have to break up with old things: old dreams, old notions, old habits, old friends, and old lovers. A disparate existence chafes against the soul, as communal as we are, so a sense of Self, Identity, and Unity is imperative. Your relationship with YOU is one truly monogamous relationship we all must embrace for the sake of joy.

As Miss Independent struggled to climb a 5.10c at our gym through doubt and frustration, she slowly began the essential purging process of her individual dwelling.

"¹¹ When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. ¹² For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known." (Corinthians 13). That part of the famous love passage was always lost on me. I hoped one day I would understand better what it meant. I think now I just might.

In our 20-somethings we are finally faced with the task of "putting away childish things," and of seeing "in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face." We finally have to create our Self, and see our Self. It doesn't always feel good, but love--even (or especially) self-love--is much more than a feeling. And this universal struggle is as unique as the individuals experiencing it. Saying goodbye to her ex and finally accepting him as a childish thing is a task far more difficult for Miss Independent than I can really understand. But, perhaps, it will actually mean saying "hello" to much more.

For me, your author, I have to say goodbye too. Nervousness impedes my process of accepting responsibilities beyond serving liquor, answering phones, avoiding writing, flirting, shallow relationships, and doubt. But the time has come to dispel doubt, to reject nerves and (dare I say it) fear. Miss Independent has realized an overwhelming sense of isolation. And, as extroverted as she is, there is perhaps nothing more upsetting. She feels alone, separated by her differences and by those desires and ambitions that no longer fit the norm. The irony, and perhaps greatest comfort, is that she is not actually alone at all. I am right there with her.

And if you're twenty or thirty-something, chances are you are with her too.

Who am I?

While the answer for all of will certainly be different, the question is still the same.

Truly Frightening

Cold cement below your feet is splattered with some unrecognizable dark liquid. You inch slowly forward, senses fully alert, palms holding a cold sweat, and heart pounding so loud you're sure the person next to you will hear. Something surely will jump out at you, might grab you, might scream, might pretend to threaten your life with a chainsaw or other torturous contraption. You just know it. You just know that when you take this next step it's there. It's there. It's coming. You close in on the corner. Waiting. Here it comes.

Here it comes...

AHHHHH!!

And that's when you jump toward the friend standing next to you, who convinced you to attend this haunted house in the first place. If you were moderately attracted to this "friend" before, now you're two seconds away from finding an even darker corner and ripping some clothes off. What is it about being terrified that arouses us? And what's the difference between sexy-scary and truly frightening?

Haunted Houses, scary movies, and even creepy carnivals make great dates for a reason. Just think of all the similarities between Scary and Sexy:
1.) sweating
2.) alert senses
3.) things that go bump in the night...
4.) blood rushing
5.) carnal, instinctual behavior
and the list goes on!
Heightened adrenaline encourages borderline insane behavior. Something about it is thrilling. Something about it is exciting. And something about it is distinctly erotic. (Iconic example: Vampires.) It's no wonder the Halloween costume trend has been somewhere between terrifying and scandalous. It's one day out of the year when propriety has no place. The tradition of dressing up is an excuse to indulge in an unapologetic expression of two of the most primal functions of human existence: procreation and death.

But when things are truly frightening it changes everything. You feel nauseous, despondent, and paralyzed. Not only do you feel the opposite of sexy in moments like these, but the thought of being touched is generally lost somewhere far, far away. In some extreme cases the thought of being touched aggravates the existing problem. So this begs the question: what is truly frightening? And what's the real difference?

Slasher movies mimic the sensation of fear, just as romantic movies mimic the sensation of love--but real love is far more than a sensation, just as real fear is more. Sexy-scary, or the sensation of fear, is as shallow as infatuation and lust. True fear (just like true love) isn't an emotion, but something much deeper. I suppose genuine fear is one of those sentiments that is both universal and extremely personal. It is at the core of who we are and who we want to be; this great obstacle binding us to somewhere on the wrong side of the finish line.

Halloween laughs at frightening things and evokes the sensation without any actual danger. Suddenly a "fun" holiday is born. But no one dresses up as Failure, or Loneliness, Isolation, or Brutal Violence and Pain. Indifference and Abandonment weren't popular costumes last I checked either. Things we truly fear, things that pull us far within ourselves and deplete our power are not as easy to laugh at or twist into something exciting.

But what if we could laugh at it all?

The only thing to fear is fear itself.

True fear is our worst enemy: an Achilles heel of the human race. But fear in and of itself is nothing. Nothing at all. Perhaps we should laugh at such a preposterous notion. Perhaps we would be better if we could realize reality contains only everything else.

In the meantime, we can revel in the tradition of converting "fear" into an active energy. Adrenaline pumping, awareness heightening, and heart pounding sensations are much more useful than paralytic self-abomination. Sexy-scary is a healthier habit. Ridiculous amounts of candy aside, Halloween in general may be healthier than we thought after all. It turns a light on in the dark, illuminates those creepy demons, and in the process eradicates darkness itself. Don't you see?

Bad things do happen, and we are better off being aware of them, but awareness does not have to mean fear. True fear produces nothing positive.

Sexy-scary, on the other hand, could mean a great make-out session with your Haunted House partner in a dark corner.

Just one word of advice with that one though: make sure whoever you feel up (or let feel you up) isn't wearing a mask. Now THAT could be truly frightening...

What's Love Got to Do with It?

Yes, those are piercings. Don't be afraid--that's not me. :-D Is it someone I know? Oh, yes, my brother's girlfriend actually. This gorgeous work of art elicits two rather conflicting responses: "Wow, that's fucking COOL," and "AH! God that must have hurt! Oh why would you do that to yourself??"

Good question.

Every time I hear someone ask it, I face the fact that my opinion on the matter has drastically changed from what it once was. Initially such "physical abuse" was jarring and unsettling to view. I was both disgusted and fascinated by such a mutilation of the human body, finding it simultaneously repulsive and compelling. Over time, as I grew more and more use to this lovely canvas Kassie (brother's girlfriend in pic), I realized my initial reaction shot beyond the surface of the skin, and saw through to the art. Kassie and her piercer, Dan Braily (as printed on the photo itself), know the time, effort, pain, creativity, and dedication that goes into every piece. They see the art. They see the limits they push with their creative endeavors. Their commitment to the art and each other is inspiring.

Thus the title, What's love got to do with it?

Imagine laying on a table for hours, and hours, while someone tries to pinch enough skin on your skinny, bony chest to shove a metal bar through it. He does this so many times you're not sure you can make it through the whole design. You're sweating and experiencing the same physical exhaustion that follows a day at boot-camp, but Dan has only finished half of the piercings. Do you keep going? Do you stop now? It's a last-minute idea and you weren't sure you'd ever do something like this again, but Dan is a good friend and there's something else... something else that makes you endure the final piercings. What is it?

What's love got to do with it?

Piercings for the sake of art, such as these pieces shown here, are expressions of love--as all art created through blood, sweat, and tears is. Why should piercing be viewed as a horrific mutilation when those doing it feel it's an expression of the most selfless, enduring love?

Not everyone involved in these tattoo conventions does what they do for love. In fact, many definitely don't. But a certain level of dedication and love involved in such an endeavor is hardly deniable. There is more to it that ink and metal. There is more to the people involved too.

For example, piercer Dan Braily is one of the friendliest people I know. He's pleasant and outgoing, with a laid back disposition and great sense of humor. His art gallery in Phoenix, displaying many of these same designs recreated on an actual painted canvas, captures the attention of many. Several individuals will walk by, look in, seem interested, and then spot Dan and his friends and walk away. Fear of the unknown and misunderstood keeps them from experiencing this art that compels their better senses. Truth about pain and beauty lies on Dan's canvases--both the cotton and the flesh--which grabs the viewer. It's Dan in the flesh (as shown on the left with Kassie), this sweetly dispositioned individual, that keeps them from fully embracing the truth.

Trust me, Dan up close is far from scary. Just ask his adorable, blonde five-year-old.

I have three piercings; one in each ear that I got at one month old, and another in my ear from a year ago. I have no tattoos, nor do I plan on ever having one. I find intense beauty in the unmarked canvas as well. But I'm thankful for Kassie, my brother, and Dan who broaden my perspective on the matter. It's not for my body, but it is another shade of beauty worth appreciating. When it comes to art, beauty, truth, and all of those other Bohemian concepts reborn in the metal and ink of our generation you ask, "What's love got to do with it?"

Everything.