My son's tattoo hurt me deeply

The Something Awful Forums > Main > General Bullshit > My son's tattoo hurt me deeply

Black Leaf: Nov 19, 2016; by Smythe

IronicDongz posted:

Put out the bunting, crack open the beers, stand there in the kitchen smiling from ear to ear, because he�s home � our student son is home and the family is together again. And after supper, after the washing up is done, the others � his younger siblings � drift off to watch television, and he says: �Would you like to see my tattoo?�

I say, �You�re joking.�

He says, �No, I�m not.�

But still I wait. Any minute he�s going to laugh and say, �You should see your faces� because this has been a running joke for years, this idea of getting a tattoo � the hard man act, iron muscles, shaved head, Jason Statham, Ross Kemp. He�s a clever boy. Maybe during his school years he thought a tattoo would balance the geeky glory of academic achievement.

His father says, �Where?�

�On my arm,� he says, and touches his bicep through his shirt.

His lovely shoulder.

In the silence, he says, �I didn�t think you�d be this upset.�

After a while, he says, �It wasn�t just a drunken whim. I thought about it. I went to a professional. It cost �150.�

�150? I think, briefly, of all the things I could buy with �150.

�It�s just a tattoo,� he says, when the silence goes on so long that we have nearly fallen over the edge of it into a pit of black nothingness. �It�s not as if I came home and said I�d got someone pregnant.�

It seems to me, unhinged by shock, that this might have been the better option.

His father asks, �Does it hurt?�

�Yes,� I say, cutting across this male bonding. �It does. Very much.�

For three days, I can�t speak to my son. I can hardly bear to look at him. I decide this is rational. The last thing we need, I think, is an explosion of white-hot words that everyone carries around for the rest of their lives, engraved on their hearts. In any case, I�m not even sure what it is I want to say. In my mind�s eye I stand there, a bitter old woman with pursed lips wringing my black-gloved hands. He�s done the one thing that I�ve said for years, please don�t do this. It would really upset me if you did this. And now it�s happened. So there�s nothing left to say.

I know you can�t control what your children do. Why would you want to, anyway? If you controlled what they did, you�d just pass on your own rubbish tip of imperfections. You hope the next generation will be better, stronger, more generous. I know all you can do as a parent is to pack their bags and wave as you watch them go.

So I cry instead. I have a lump in my throat that stops me from eating. I feel as if someone has died. I keep thinking of his skin, his precious skin, inked like a pig carcass.

My neighbour says, �There�s a lot of it about. So many teenagers are doing it.� I stare at pictures of David Beckham with his flowery sleeves, Angelina Jolie all veins and scrawls. Tattoos are everywhere. They seem no more alternative than piercings these days. But I still don�t understand. Sam Cam with her smudgy dolphin, the heavily tattooed at Royal Ascot � these people are role models?

�My niece had doves tattooed on her breasts,� says a friend, �And her father said, you wait, in a few years� time they�ll be vultures.�

It�s the permanence that makes me weep. As if the Joker had made face paints from acid. Your youthful passion for ever on display, like a CD of the Smiths stapled to your forehead. The British Association of Dermatologists recently surveyed just under 600 patients with visible tattoos. Nearly half of them had been inked between the ages of 18 and 25, and nearly a third of them regretted it.

I look up laser removal. Which is a possibility, I think miserably, that only works if you want a tattoo removed. And I�m not in charge here. My son is.

My husband asks, �Have you seen it yet?�

I shake my head. Like a child, I am hoping that if I keep my eyes tightly shut the whole thing will disappear.

�It�s his body,� he says gently. �His choice.�

�But what if he wants to be a lawyer?�

�A lawyer?�

�Or an accountant.�

�He�ll be wearing a suit. No one will ever know. And he doesn�t want to be a lawyer. Or an accountant.�

I know. I know.

I meet a colleague for lunch. �He knew how much it would hurt me,� I say, tears running down my face. �For years I�ve said, don�t do it. It�s there for ever, even after you�ve changed your mind about who you are and what you want to look like. You�re branded, like meat. It can damage your work prospects. It can turn people against you before you�ve even opened your mouth.�

She says, �Tell him how you feel.�

But I can�t. For a start, I know I�m being completely unreasonable. This level of grief is absurd. He�s not dying, he hasn�t killed anyone, he hasn�t volunteered to fight on behalf of a military dictatorship. But I feel as though a knife is twisting in my guts.

I get angry with myself. This is nothing but snobbery, I think � latent anxiety about the trappings of class. As if my son had deliberately turned his back on a light Victoria sponge and stuffed his face with cheap doughnuts. I am aware, too, that I associate tattoos on men with aggression, the kind of arrogant swagger that goes with vest tops, dogs on chains, broken beer glasses.

Is this what other women feel? Or perhaps, I think, with an uncomfortable lurch of realisation, just what older women feel. I stand, a lone tyrannosaurus, bellowing at a world I don�t understand.

Tattoos used to be the preserve of criminals and toffs. And sailors. In the 1850s, the corpses of seamen washed up on the coast of north Cornwall were �strangely decorated� with blue, according to Robert Hawker, the vicar of Morwenstow � initials, or drawings of anchors, flowers or religious symbols (�Our blessed Saviour on His Cross, with on the one hand His mother, and on the other St John the Evangelist�). �It is their object and intent, when they assume these signs,� says Hawker, �to secure identity for their bodies if their lives are lost at sea.�

Tattoos, then, were intensely practical, like brightly coloured smit marks on sheep.

Perhaps even then this was a fashion statement, a badge of belonging. Or just what you did after too much rum. Later, the aristocracy flirted with body art. According to the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich (they know a lot about tattoos), Edward VII had a Jerusalem cross on his arm while both his sons, the Duke of Clarence and the Duke of York (later George V), had dragon tattoos. Lady Randolph Churchill, Winston�s mum, had a snake on her wrist.

But you can do what you like if you�re rich.

On day three, still in a fog of misery, I say to him, �Shall we talk?�

We sit down with cups of coffee. I open my mouth to speak and end up crying instead. I say, �You couldn�t have done anything to hurt me more.�

He is cool and detached. He says, �I think you need to re-examine your prejudices.�

I think, but I have! I�ve done nothing else for three days! But I don�t say that because we aren�t really talking to each other. These are rehearsed lines, clever insults flung across the dispatch box. (This is what comes of not exploding in anger in the heat of the moment.)

I say, �Why couldn�t you have waited until you�d left home? Why now when you�re living here half the year?�

�It�s something I�ve been thinking about for a long time. There didn�t seem any reason to wait.�

Which makes it worse.

�I�m an adult,� he says. �I paid for it with my own money. Money I earned.�

But we�re supporting you as well, I think. As far as I know, you don�t have separate bank accounts for your various income streams. So who knows? Maybe we paid for it. �If you don�t want to see it, that�s fine,� he says. �When I�m at home, I�ll cover it up. Your house, your rules.�

In my head, I think, I thought it was your house, too.

He says, �I�m upset that you�re upset. But I�m not going to apologise.�

�I don�t want you to apologise,� I say. (A lie. Grovelling self-abasement might help.)

He says, �I�m still the same person.�

I look at him, sitting there, my 21-year-old son. I feel I�m being interviewed for a job I don�t even want. I say, �But you�re not. You�re different. I will never look at you in the same way again. It�s a visceral feeling. Maybe because I�m your mother. All those years of looking after your body � taking you to the dentist and making you drink milk and worrying about green leafy vegetables and sunscreen and cancer from mobile phones. And then you let some stranger inject ink under your skin. To me, it seems like self-mutilation. If you�d lost your arm in a car accident, I would have understood. I would have done everything to make you feel better. But this � this is desecration. And I hate it.�

We look at each other. There seems nothing left to say.

Over the next few days, my son � always covered up � talks to me as if the row had never happened. I talk to him, too, but warily. Because I�m no longer sure I know him.

And this is when I realise that all my endless self-examination was completely pointless. What I think, or don�t think, about tattoos is irrelevant. Because this is the point. Tattoos are fashionable. They may even be beautiful. (Just because I hate them doesn�t mean I�m right.) But by deciding to have a tattoo, my son took a meat cleaver to my apron strings. He may not have wanted to hurt me. I hope he didn�t. But my feelings, as he made his decision, were completely unimportant.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

I am redundant. And that�s a legitimate cause for grief, I think.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/aug/11/devastated-by-my-sons-tattoo

im gay

(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)

# ? Jul 6, 2017 09:36

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ? Jun 8, 2024 07:07

Black Leaf: Nov 19, 2016; by Smythe

Murray Mantoinette posted:

More like the Tardian.

lol cool av

# ? Jul 6, 2017 09:36

Robbie Fowler: May 31, 2011

voted 1

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:10

Lord Frankenstyle: Dec 3, 2005; Mmmm,
You smell like Lysol Wipes.

I read the first couple sentences and went to all the trouble of scrolling to the end expecting to fine out it was a tat of the son doing anal with the mother, and a banner that says "Mom Rocks!"

Thanks for goddamn nothing.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:14

Murray Mantoinette: Jun 11, 2005; ＴＨＥＰＯＳＴＳＭＵＳＴＦＬＯＷ; Clapping Larry

Black Leaf posted:

lol cool av

Thanks! It's from one of those Jack Chick tracts, may he burn in hell for eternity.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:16

super sweet best pal: Nov 18, 2009

Outside religious reasons or the tattoo being the dumbest thing ever, there's no excuse for all this hand wringing.

Also, why the hell did this dumbass tell his parents about the tattoo?

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:20

bitmap: Aug 8, 2006

"b-b-but what if he wants to be an accountant"

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:31

Drunk & Ugly: Feb 10, 2003; GIMME GIMME GIMME, DON'T ASK WHAT FOR

bitmap posted:

"b-b-but what if he wants to be an accountant"

that part made me laugh

im pretty sure accountants never remove their clothing anyway, they just sleep in their horrible khakis and button downs and then wake up and go back to work

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:38

The Dennis System: Aug 4, 2014; Nothing in Jurassic World is natural, we have always filled gaps in the genome with the DNA of other animals. And if the genetic code was pure, many of them would look quite different. But you didn't ask for reality, you asked for more teeth.

Probably an Overwatch tattoo.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:40

Big Centipede: Mar 20, 2009; it tingles

His precious skin

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:43

flesh dance: May 6, 2009

doves < vultures

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:46

bitmap: Aug 8, 2006

Drunk & Ugly posted:

that part made me laugh

im pretty sure accountants never remove their clothing anyway, they just sleep in their horrible khakis and button downs and then wake up and go back to work

motherfucker I don't ever want to see my accountant

# ? Jul 6, 2017 10:53

Tinfoil Papercut: Jul 27, 2016; by Athanatos

In the last 500 years, the Fourth Stimpire has dominated four systems, which it has united into one starzone, Stimsis. The Fourth Stimpire has origins from the Ten Empire War in which 10 of the United Stimpires revolted against each rules. All empires except for the fourth swore freedom upon their citizens. There is no free speech in the Fourth Stimpire, and all self-controlled transportation has been made illegal without undergoing painful medical verification methods, in which arteries are severed without pain resistant, operated entirely by machines. The way they work claim to be the most hygenic and healthy way possible, but these machines often rub against pain points, causing great deals of pain to patients. The heart is then extracted from the body and placed into a glass grinding machine. Various energy centers are also dissected and replaced with dangerous transplants. After the painful, 52 hour surgical procedure, patients will then have to use a fused guidance tool, which pumps painful resistors into the body every 2 hours. The pain they have caused is so bad, the victim would freeze in a tense position. They would then collapse afterwards.

Sexual stimulation in any way within the grounds of the Fourth Stimpire is strictly prohibited, and anyone detected even touching their sexual organs will be subjected to a penectomy or if the offender was a female, they would then have a razor inserted into their ovaries. They would pump a blue solution into the womb until the stitchings burst. Offenders would also be forced to show their operated areas in public, and they would always harass and punch them to a pulp, against their will.

Otherwise, offenders would be tazed with the worst type of electricity in the systematic district, causing so much pain, the victim would scream and flail in madness. The pain would also triple every second, but no death would be incurred. This is also used in combat against enemy units, which is why all UEE forces must wear the upgraded suit to block this effect.

However, enertainment is also questionable in UEE grounds. Sporting events end with the losing team being rounded into a grinder and shredded on live television, boxing matches end with the loser having their hands removed without anasthesia, flight races would end with the losers having their arms and legs removed, then being injected with insanity, for entertainment. People are also forced into these events, by undergoing a painful 127 hour procedure which involves tweaking the muscles so they will not listen to brain commands, and then having a painful drug injected which also causes madness if the player is not sporting. This is all for entertainment, and anyone not watching any of it during sporting times and cheering for the winning team, they will be imprisoned into galactic camps.

Snuff films are also broadcast, and actors are actually murdered just for entertainment. Stealth droids also guide these forced actors into behaving exactly as the director dreams, otherwise they will be punished by being placed into a macerator and having their execution written into the film. Any film that does not feature someone being murdered will be burned and the entire crew behind it will be executed in the most grotesque way possible - vivisection.

All executions are broadcast, and anyone who misses even a millisecond, even by blinking, will be executed. All citizens must boo to the person being executed, and the family is gathered to be injected with eternators, which cause pain forever, making them immoral but feeling the pain tenfold every millisecond. They cannot pass out, but they will feel like it forever.

Conquests by this Stimpire end in the planet being razed, and all the citizens being executed in the same way as their citizens are. The planet is then destroyed and all remnants of it are removed, and any memories of it will be erased instantly from civil minds. People who are also killed are also erased from memories, and all memories of them, including toys and pictures, are destroyed.

Prisoners undergo 40,000 years of relentless and endless labor, and anyone not complying is sentenced to the eternator injection. All prisoners injected with eternators are placed into capsules and launched into far space, then the room is closed tight to ensure maximum insanity. Some prisoners are also subjected to the removal of blood, the lungs, the liver, the genitals, the skeleton, the muscles, the eyes, and even the injection of pressure. Prisoners sentenced to pressure chambers are locked in until they are inflated to a high level. The decompression is then stopped to make sure they are inflated and uncomfortable.

Children born on the 14th of July are subjected to the removal of their skeleton and an implant of a silver liquid to replace it. The nervous sysem is also injected in various parts to ensure it is five times more sensitive than the average.

Restaurants also are ordered to serve civil meat, and anyone attending must give themself up to be cooked into a grotesque meal. They are cooked alive, undergoing extreme pain, and are then subjected to industrial grinders and blenders. The Stimpire orders at least 1 million citizens to be dispatched every day, as they are afraid the population may overthrow them. But only one planet is cared for, and the rest are banned from eating, drinking, talking, using technology, touching anyone, wearing unauthorized clothes, touching buildings, or walking a centimeter out of designated routes. Civil enforcers are on every planet, and they are engineered so that they are 40 times larger than the 300 quadrillion population. At least 7 billion die every 12 hours under this rule.

Thoughts are also surveyed, and anyone who does not think anything to loving the Stimpire with more than their capabilities will be sentenced to a prison. Prisoners who are punished for this violation will meet their greatest fear, only to have it amplified so they will turn insane as they imagine it exactly as they fear it. They then undergo a painful extraction of all fluids, to be replaced by a toxin which causes permanent irritation. The unknown substance keeps the subject aging normally, except they will never die. Prisoners punished in this way are unable to be reverted, despite many efforts, and they will never be able to be disposed.

The sickening truths have been revealed only today, and invigilation teams are still investigating the truths without setting foot in the galactic space of this sickening empire.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 11:30

Night Pay: Nov 22, 2016; by Smythe

Burn this weak-minded hag for energy

# ? Jul 6, 2017 11:40

Inexplicable Humblebrag: Sep 20, 2003

christ, what an rear end in a top hat

# ? Jul 6, 2017 12:33

STABASS: Apr 18, 2009; Fun Shoe

my guess is soccer team or internet meme

# ? Jul 6, 2017 12:37

8-Bit Scholar: Jan 23, 2016; by FactsAreUseless

IronicDongz posted:

Put out the bunting, crack open the beers, stand there in the kitchen smiling from ear to ear, because he�s home � our student son is home and the family is together again. And after supper, after the washing up is done, the others � his younger siblings � drift off to watch television, and he says: �Would you like to see my tattoo?�

I say, �You�re joking.�

He says, �No, I�m not.�

But still I wait. Any minute he�s going to laugh and say, �You should see your faces� because this has been a running joke for years, this idea of getting a tattoo � the hard man act, iron muscles, shaved head, Jason Statham, Ross Kemp. He�s a clever boy. Maybe during his school years he thought a tattoo would balance the geeky glory of academic achievement.

His father says, �Where?�

�On my arm,� he says, and touches his bicep through his shirt.

His lovely shoulder.

In the silence, he says, �I didn�t think you�d be this upset.�

After a while, he says, �It wasn�t just a drunken whim. I thought about it. I went to a professional. It cost �150.�

�150? I think, briefly, of all the things I could buy with �150.

�It�s just a tattoo,� he says, when the silence goes on so long that we have nearly fallen over the edge of it into a pit of black nothingness. �It�s not as if I came home and said I�d got someone pregnant.�

It seems to me, unhinged by shock, that this might have been the better option.

His father asks, �Does it hurt?�

�Yes,� I say, cutting across this male bonding. �It does. Very much.�

For three days, I can�t speak to my son. I can hardly bear to look at him. I decide this is rational. The last thing we need, I think, is an explosion of white-hot words that everyone carries around for the rest of their lives, engraved on their hearts. In any case, I�m not even sure what it is I want to say. In my mind�s eye I stand there, a bitter old woman with pursed lips wringing my black-gloved hands. He�s done the one thing that I�ve said for years, please don�t do this. It would really upset me if you did this. And now it�s happened. So there�s nothing left to say.

I know you can�t control what your children do. Why would you want to, anyway? If you controlled what they did, you�d just pass on your own rubbish tip of imperfections. You hope the next generation will be better, stronger, more generous. I know all you can do as a parent is to pack their bags and wave as you watch them go.

So I cry instead. I have a lump in my throat that stops me from eating. I feel as if someone has died. I keep thinking of his skin, his precious skin, inked like a pig carcass.

My neighbour says, �There�s a lot of it about. So many teenagers are doing it.� I stare at pictures of David Beckham with his flowery sleeves, Angelina Jolie all veins and scrawls. Tattoos are everywhere. They seem no more alternative than piercings these days. But I still don�t understand. Sam Cam with her smudgy dolphin, the heavily tattooed at Royal Ascot � these people are role models?

�My niece had doves tattooed on her breasts,� says a friend, �And her father said, you wait, in a few years� time they�ll be vultures.�

It�s the permanence that makes me weep. As if the Joker had made face paints from acid. Your youthful passion for ever on display, like a CD of the Smiths stapled to your forehead. The British Association of Dermatologists recently surveyed just under 600 patients with visible tattoos. Nearly half of them had been inked between the ages of 18 and 25, and nearly a third of them regretted it.

I look up laser removal. Which is a possibility, I think miserably, that only works if you want a tattoo removed. And I�m not in charge here. My son is.

My husband asks, �Have you seen it yet?�

I shake my head. Like a child, I am hoping that if I keep my eyes tightly shut the whole thing will disappear.

�It�s his body,� he says gently. �His choice.�

�But what if he wants to be a lawyer?�

�A lawyer?�

�Or an accountant.�

�He�ll be wearing a suit. No one will ever know. And he doesn�t want to be a lawyer. Or an accountant.�

I know. I know.

I meet a colleague for lunch. �He knew how much it would hurt me,� I say, tears running down my face. �For years I�ve said, don�t do it. It�s there for ever, even after you�ve changed your mind about who you are and what you want to look like. You�re branded, like meat. It can damage your work prospects. It can turn people against you before you�ve even opened your mouth.�

She says, �Tell him how you feel.�

But I can�t. For a start, I know I�m being completely unreasonable. This level of grief is absurd. He�s not dying, he hasn�t killed anyone, he hasn�t volunteered to fight on behalf of a military dictatorship. But I feel as though a knife is twisting in my guts.

I get angry with myself. This is nothing but snobbery, I think � latent anxiety about the trappings of class. As if my son had deliberately turned his back on a light Victoria sponge and stuffed his face with cheap doughnuts. I am aware, too, that I associate tattoos on men with aggression, the kind of arrogant swagger that goes with vest tops, dogs on chains, broken beer glasses.

Is this what other women feel? Or perhaps, I think, with an uncomfortable lurch of realisation, just what older women feel. I stand, a lone tyrannosaurus, bellowing at a world I don�t understand.

Tattoos used to be the preserve of criminals and toffs. And sailors. In the 1850s, the corpses of seamen washed up on the coast of north Cornwall were �strangely decorated� with blue, according to Robert Hawker, the vicar of Morwenstow � initials, or drawings of anchors, flowers or religious symbols (�Our blessed Saviour on His Cross, with on the one hand His mother, and on the other St John the Evangelist�). �It is their object and intent, when they assume these signs,� says Hawker, �to secure identity for their bodies if their lives are lost at sea.�

Tattoos, then, were intensely practical, like brightly coloured smit marks on sheep.

Perhaps even then this was a fashion statement, a badge of belonging. Or just what you did after too much rum. Later, the aristocracy flirted with body art. According to the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich (they know a lot about tattoos), Edward VII had a Jerusalem cross on his arm while both his sons, the Duke of Clarence and the Duke of York (later George V), had dragon tattoos. Lady Randolph Churchill, Winston�s mum, had a snake on her wrist.

But you can do what you like if you�re rich.

On day three, still in a fog of misery, I say to him, �Shall we talk?�

We sit down with cups of coffee. I open my mouth to speak and end up crying instead. I say, �You couldn�t have done anything to hurt me more.�

He is cool and detached. He says, �I think you need to re-examine your prejudices.�

I think, but I have! I�ve done nothing else for three days! But I don�t say that because we aren�t really talking to each other. These are rehearsed lines, clever insults flung across the dispatch box. (This is what comes of not exploding in anger in the heat of the moment.)

I say, �Why couldn�t you have waited until you�d left home? Why now when you�re living here half the year?�

�It�s something I�ve been thinking about for a long time. There didn�t seem any reason to wait.�

Which makes it worse.

�I�m an adult,� he says. �I paid for it with my own money. Money I earned.�

But we�re supporting you as well, I think. As far as I know, you don�t have separate bank accounts for your various income streams. So who knows? Maybe we paid for it. �If you don�t want to see it, that�s fine,� he says. �When I�m at home, I�ll cover it up. Your house, your rules.�

In my head, I think, I thought it was your house, too.

He says, �I�m upset that you�re upset. But I�m not going to apologise.�

�I don�t want you to apologise,� I say. (A lie. Grovelling self-abasement might help.)

He says, �I�m still the same person.�

I look at him, sitting there, my 21-year-old son. I feel I�m being interviewed for a job I don�t even want. I say, �But you�re not. You�re different. I will never look at you in the same way again. It�s a visceral feeling. Maybe because I�m your mother. All those years of looking after your body � taking you to the dentist and making you drink milk and worrying about green leafy vegetables and sunscreen and cancer from mobile phones. And then you let some stranger inject ink under your skin. To me, it seems like self-mutilation. If you�d lost your arm in a car accident, I would have understood. I would have done everything to make you feel better. But this � this is desecration. And I hate it.�

We look at each other. There seems nothing left to say.

Over the next few days, my son � always covered up � talks to me as if the row had never happened. I talk to him, too, but warily. Because I�m no longer sure I know him.

And this is when I realise that all my endless self-examination was completely pointless. What I think, or don�t think, about tattoos is irrelevant. Because this is the point. Tattoos are fashionable. They may even be beautiful. (Just because I hate them doesn�t mean I�m right.) But by deciding to have a tattoo, my son took a meat cleaver to my apron strings. He may not have wanted to hurt me. I hope he didn�t. But my feelings, as he made his decision, were completely unimportant.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

I am redundant. And that�s a legitimate cause for grief, I think.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/aug/11/devastated-by-my-sons-tattoo

tldr

# ? Jul 6, 2017 12:45

my kinda ape: Sep 15, 2008; Everything's gonna be A-OK; Oven Wrangler

HAT FETISH posted:

narcissistic personality disorder is extremely good

This is absolutely what we are dealing with here.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 12:49

Sono: Apr 9, 2008

Black Leaf posted:

im gay

Is what the tattoo says.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 13:15

turn off the TV: Aug 4, 2010; moderately annoying

She should just pray that he never gets a piercing.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 13:24

sassassin: Apr 3, 2010; by Azathoth

Tattoos are so basic

# ? Jul 6, 2017 13:34

Captain Yossarian: Feb 24, 2011; All new" Rings of Fire"

drilldo squirt posted:

I didn't even read the op.

gently caress you OP

# ? Jul 6, 2017 13:56

Black Leaf: Nov 19, 2016; by Smythe

Murray Mantoinette posted:

Thanks! It's from one of those Jack Chick tracts, may he burn in hell for eternity.

haw haw mine's from the same comic

# ? Jul 6, 2017 14:03

Gay Weed Dad: Jul 12, 2016; cool dude, flyin' high

The son sounds totally hot and cut, I can see why the mom was so bummed. I am looking up to the followup article "My son's Prince Albert sent me reeling through space and time".

# ? Jul 6, 2017 14:21

ScRoTo TuRbOtUrD: Jan 21, 2007

Gay Weed Dad posted:

The son sounds totally hot and cut, I can see why the mom was so bummed. I am looking up to the followup article "My son's Prince Albert sent me reeling through space and time".

Lol

# ? Jul 6, 2017 14:26

Blurry Gray Thing: Jun 3, 2009

Gay Weed Dad posted:

The son sounds totally hot and cut, I can see why the mom was so bummed. I am looking up to the followup article "My son's Prince Albert sent me reeling through space and time".

I stand, a sexual tyrannosaurus, bellowing at the world to suck my pierced cock.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 14:37

bitmap: Aug 8, 2006

Gay Weed Dad posted:

The son sounds totally hot and cut, I can see why the mom was so bummed. I am looking up to the followup article "My son's Prince Albert sent me reeling through space and time".

our sons future in accounting...run through like the head of his great dick :qq:

# ? Jul 6, 2017 14:41

Black Leaf: Nov 19, 2016; by Smythe

Blurry Gray Thing posted:

I stand, a sexual tyrannosaurus, bellowing at the world to suck my pierced cock.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 16:17

MaxPowers: Dec 29, 2004

drilldo squirt posted:

I didn't even read the op.

I cant even read

# ? Jul 6, 2017 16:48

berth ell pup: Mar 20, 2017; I am a business magnet.

lmbo gently caress England (and this thread)

# ? Jul 6, 2017 17:06

Beefeater: May 17, 2003; I'm hungry.; Hair Elf

At least he didn't get it on his penis.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 17:10

Nathilus: Apr 4, 2002; I alone can see through the media bias.

I'm also stupid on a scale that can only be measured in Reddits.

" Or perhaps, I think, with an uncomfortable lurch of realisation, just what older women feel. I stand, a lone tyrannosaurus, bellowing at a world I don�t understand."

Tiny bit of self awareness discovered, immediately discarded. lol

# ? Jul 6, 2017 17:16

ruddiger: Jun 3, 2004

You could tell by the way she writes that momma used to be a sex freak when she was younger.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 17:16

nobodygetshurt: Dec 11, 2007

Gay Weed Dad posted:

The son sounds totally hot and cut, I can see why the mom was so bummed. I am looking up to the followup article "My son's Prince Albert sent me reeling through space and time".

My Son's Lovely Dong.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 17:34

ruddiger: Jun 3, 2004

nobodygetshurt posted:

My Son's Lovely Dong.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrtxsNCihIg

# ? Jul 6, 2017 17:40

nobodygetshurt: Dec 11, 2007

Good comment.

# ? Jul 6, 2017 17:56

Dreddout: Oct 1, 2015; You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

Love to fetishise my son's body

# ? Jul 6, 2017 18:20

unpleasantly turgid: Jul 6, 2016; u lightweights couldn't even feed my shadow ;*

Good talk, anonymous british grandmother.

we hope to hear from you again.

Signed,

The PR Department

# ? Jul 6, 2017 18:21

bag em and tag em: Nov 4, 2008

lol getting mad about tattoos is still a thing?

# ? Jul 6, 2017 18:25

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ? Jun 8, 2024 07:07

ditty bout my clitty: May 28, 2011; by FactsAreUseless; Fun Shoe

Mom wants to gently caress her son. Good thing all those genuine videos on pornhub prepared me for this

# ? Jul 6, 2017 18:50

The Something Awful Forums > Main > General Bullshit > My son's tattoo hurt me deeply

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