A Transmasculine Tattoo Tale

I can’t quite recall when I crossed the threshold from “guy with tattoos” to “tattooed guy”. There is a distinction, a sort of vague initiation into someone who is more defined by their ink because they simply have more of it than most people do. My body is decorated with ancient deities, esoteric symbols, and a menagerie of animals; in mostly black ink. The crowning jewel of my tattoo collection would go to the biggest and most colourful though. Covering my torso from chest to hip is a phoenix in vivid reds and yellows. It’s certainly eye catching, and my collection of crop tops increased 10 fold after getting it. My mother used to tell me, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it”, but I don’t think this was what she intended.

My phoenix tattoo certainly defines me. It’s the most recognizable tattoo I have, and so people will remember it more than they remember my name or my face. It was a gift to myself as a trans man and is integral to how I see myself as a man. Within 1 year of coming out as trans I went under the knife to have my chest sculpted and formed into its current appearance. In a little under 3 hours, my breasts were cut away and a small amount of liposuction was done so that I would wake up with a clearly defined pectoral line right away. The guys I would work out with would call me a cheater for this, but honestly they would do the same if they had the option. I was undeniably over the moon with my results, I went from a DD cup to chiseled in a day. I also earned some large and very telling scars spanning from one armpit to the other, a very clear neon sign that says without mincing words that I am trans.

During the year it took for the scar tissue to settle, I began to think of a way to cover it. I had a dream catcher tattoo from when I was 18, the quintessential white girl tattoo for that era, and as I grew older and learned more about cultural appropriation I became less attached to this tattoo and figured I should incorporate it into my cover up. Go big or go home. This youthful mistake became the perfect base to work with. My artist came back to me after our consultation with a proud fire bird with talons and wings outstretched, gazing ahead fiercely. It was exactly what I wanted, and over the course of 12 hours it was painstakingly drilled into my skin. The agony of having a deep scar tattooed over is indescribable, I sat clenched for hours as the gun rattled on my rib cage sending sharp pain through the semi healed nerves to my spine. No other tattoo I have ever received has hurt that much, I was sweat soaked and shaking by the end of our sessions. The pain of the surgery itself was immense. I recall having a mild complication with hematoma, where blood pools underneath the skin post surgery, and feeling like my chest was about to burst open from the pressure. This was reliving the pain all over again. A few times throughout I questioned to myself, “You’re good with half a tattoo right? It looks good as it is, we can stop here?” But I forced myself to continue, if I survived the pain of the initial surgery I could survive one tattoo. One very large, detailed tattoo.

When I initially had my surgery I had promised all my friends I would never wear a shirt again. I would live out my days as a show pony, chest out on display as often as was allowed. But now I was a part of a specific subset of people, people with gut tattoos. My torso had been elevated, I no longer needed the strain of having to maintain a personality. I could just wear a crop top and be “that gut tattoo guy”. I had arrived. If there was an opportunity to do so, I was showing it off. On trips to the beach, my shirt came off halfway through the drive there. At bars, the second I was inside it was whipped off (gay bars really do operate on different rules than straight bars). Any costume I needed for whatever event I was going to was pretty much just pants and accessories. I began to collect crop tops and would cycle through several bearing sassy slogans for the summer, and then switch to my “winter crop tops” for the colder months. Long sleeves, bare midriff; because really only your extremities get cold.

People often ask me the meaning of all my tattoos, and honestly I have enough now that it’s a burden to explain them. So oftentimes the conversation gets brushed off. I explain a particular tattoo simply means I had a few extra hundred in savings at the time and no self control. It’s not often that I will go into the details of what my phoenix means to me, but I also often don’t open up about my experiences as a trans man to people I don’t know. I’ve been wounded. My trust in people has been shaken. People haven’t always been kind, and more often will choose to be cruel. But my phoenix protects me, ironically hiding a clear indicator that I am different by marking my skin with its own unique emblem. Another trans man might recognize the positioning and symbolism of the tattoo and recognize me as one of them. My phoenix is like a secret handshake to a club of rare humans, if you know you know.

My father used to ask what I was going to do when I was older and didn’t want my tattoos anymore. He himself had a few small ones when he was younger, my mother had made him remove them. After the phoenix he stopped asking, it became apparent that there was never going to be a laser in my future and my solution to tattoos I didn’t like anymore was to just get a bigger one on top. My father had accepted me as his son the day I came out to him, the phoenix was an acceptance of who I was outside my gender. I’m someone who walks to the beat of my own drum, and during my life I’m going to go after what I want without fear of judgement from others. Love or hate my tattoos, I chose them, and they mark my body as my own and no one else’s.