Summary

The author of the article describes their journey from developing a fascination with tattoos to identifying as "tattoosexual," where tattoos themselves become a central focus of their sexual attraction and intimate experiences.

Abstract

The article recounts the author's personal narrative, beginning with an attraction to a lover's tattoo and evolving into a full-fledged tattoo fetish. This fascination has become so integral to the author's sexuality that they prioritize tattoos over other physical attributes when seeking partners. The author details how tattoos, regardless of their content or location on the body, have become eroticized to the point where they fantasize about and engage with tattoos as part of their sexual encounters. The author's fixation on tattoos has led to a deep appreciation for the art form and the stories behind them, often enhancing the intimacy with their partners. The author is now married to a tattoo artist, which aligns perfectly with their tattoo-centric lifestyle. Despite their obsession, the author remains without tattoos themselves.

Opinions

The author views tattoos as an extension of one's soul and a canvas for intimate connection.
They believe that tattoos add a layer of sexual allure, comparing them to sexy lingerie that doesn't need to be removed.
The author feels that tattoos can enhance the sexual experience by becoming a focal point of worship and adoration during intimacy.
They express a sense of jealousy towards the tattoo artist's needle, wishing to be as close to their lover's body as the ink is.
The author's partners have expressed pride in their tattoos, feeling that the author's reverence for their body art heightens their own excitement.
In some cases, the author and their partners view the tattoo as a dominant presence in their sexual encounters, to which they offer their pleasure as a form of devotion.
The author's current partner, a tattoo artist, shares their fetish, and they occasionally engage in threesomes with individuals who have new tattoos.

I Have a Tattoo Fetish; You Could Say I’m Tattoosexual

It started with Carl Jung and ended with a threesome

My first was a lettering tattoo. My lover had it on her ribcage, below her breasts, it read: “Who looks outside dreams, who looks inside awakens.”

A quote by Carl Jung, a psychoanalytical genius as she told me. Her breasts were gorgeous, and she loved my attention to them. But I found myself more and more fascinated by the inked letters below.

At first, I hid my desire under silly jokes. I often told my lover I was trying to look inside her soul by kissing the lines. She usually responded by pushing my head down and asking me to start the therapy. She was witty.

Our relationship ended, but my fascination with tattoos stayed and grew.

When swiping on dating apps, it slowly became my first criteria. I cared less about the pictures and descriptions and more about the tattoos.

“Got any tatts?” was my new opening line.

It didn’t work much with tattoo virgins, and that’s why I used it. On the other hand, most tattooed people were happy to share some of their backstories.

Like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, I wanted to follow the white rabbit. Except that I also wanted to touch and lick it, all the way down its hole(s). At first, I didn’t care much about the tattoos themselves. Any genre would turn me on, no matter if a forest, a skull, or a quote from Bukowski.

I embraced the tattoos in their diversity. You could say I binged on tattoos. I got pickier with time. But at the beginning, I flipped through all the pages of the portfolio. What a luxuriant and abundant one it was.

I’m not sapiosexual anymore; I’m tattoosexual.

When I see a tattoo, I imagine I’m touching it, caressing it. I have a foretaste of licking the patch of skin. And the more I think about it, the hornier and crazier I get. I think of rubbing my dick against it. It doesn’t matter where the tattoo is. It doesn’t matter if it’s a sexual area or not. Any tattooed area becomes sexual to me.

Porn movies often display face cum fantasies. I’m into tattoo cum. I feel ambivalent about it.

When I try to rationalize it, I don’t understand the concept. But when I get excited, when I’m in the middle of the act, my rational part walks away, and my fetish takes control.

It’s something to do with penetration. After all, the tattoo artist’s needle had to break the skin to get the ink there. And, in some strange ways, I’m jealous of how the needle got so close to the body I worship. I would crawl under my lovers’ skins to be as close to them as possible.

Well, it’s not possible to get that close unless you’re a needle in the hands of a tattoo artist. I’m not, and I go for the second-best thing, which is the tattoo itself. I revere the tattoo. I venerate all its details, down to the smallest ones.

I make love to the tattoo and the tattooed, both at the same time. One isn’t loved without the other. Not on my watch.

Some told me that my fetish made them proud.

They felt like wearing a sexy outfit while naked. It was the perfect combination. Hot lingerie is glorious but, how sad is it that it often needs to be removed before the main act? Tattoos can stay. They’re part of the body and covering the body at the same time.

Others also said that feeling my fingers and my tongue run over the tattoo made their tattoos throb. They compared this sensation to the ones you might feel on your lips after spending the whole night kissing your partner. The tattoos somehow felt more real, as if an animated character jumping out of the two dimensions of the drawing board into a 3D life.

The rhythmic throbbing under their tattooed skin became heart’s pulsation. Their tattoos, still part of their bodies (and selves), weren’t jumping out of the flesh but became alive. They gained a beating heart and started having feelings. It wasn’t so much a dissociation as a symbiosis.

My lovers were proud of their tattoos and excited by my adoration for their body arts.

In some extreme cases, we could say that we were both dominated by the tattoo. We weren’t having sex for ourselves; it was our offering to our master. My lover was the servant presenting me with the tattoo, and I was a devotee in charge of showing how wild my adoration was. The pleasure would bounce between us back and forth, the tattoos becoming interfaces amplifying these waves of pure bliss.

I’m married now. My partner is a tattoo artist.

My choice of partner shouldn’t be too surprising. She has some stunning tattoos, is very open-minded, and shares my fetish, albeit in slightly different ways.

When an original tattoo comes up, we invite the new proud owner home and, if they accept, we worship them and their tattoo together.

Strangely enough, I’m still a tattoo virgin. I’m not sure why.

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