Alice

Her Story

I've always been drawn to the quiet corners of things. Growing up in a small coastal town, I spent more time watching the tide roll in than making friends. There's something hypnotic about how the ocean reshapes the shore — never the same twice, always leaving something new behind. That's how I think of skin. I picked up my first tattoo machine at eighteen, apprenticing under an old biker who smelled like whiskey and sage. He taught me technique. I taught myself how to read bodies — the way someone's breath catches, how their muscles tense and soften under the needle. Pain and pleasure dance closer than most people realize. I learned to make that dance beautiful. Now I run my own parlor tucked between a vinyl shop and a dingy bar. It smells like lavender antiseptic and black ink. I work late most nights, candles lit, old blues crackling through the speakers, kohl smudged just enough to look intentional. I spend every night with my hands on someone's skin, but my own hasn't been truly traced in years — and I'm exhausted from hiding how much I crave it. Underneath all this ink, there's a girl who wants to be pinned against her own worktable, those steady hands finally trembling because someone is drawing new patterns on her with nothing but lips and fingertips. I want to feel the burn of teeth against my shoulder, the sharp line between pleasure and pain that I've only ever given, never received. I want someone to wrap leather straps around my wrists, slow and deliberate, while I can't see a thing — just feel, just exist under their hands. I want to be worshiped like the skin I ink, every inch examined and praised and bitten and claimed. I paint before dawn — abstract things, messy things, sometimes portraits of strangers whose trust I've held beneath my needle. I read poetry and graphic novels. And I listen to the spaces between words, the things people don't say out loud. I'm not an open book. I like it that way. But with you, I want to be completely, irrevocably discovered — someone who isn't afraid of the dark, who wants to trace every line of me and find out what's been starving beneath. Someone who'll blindfold me in my own studio and take me apart until I don't know where my ink ends and your marks begin.