Rhythm and Rum, Vintage

Face Metal and Ink

This post originally appeared on the previous Tequila and Ink Blogspot page on April 25, 2011

Sometimes I use this phrase to describe things.

Face metal and ink.

I’ll say a face metal and ink kind of crowd, I’ll say a song just had a real face metal and ink feel to it, I’ll say it’s a face metal and ink type of bar.

This is the part where my friends give me that “What the fuck are you talking about? Please speak English” glare.

And I go “You know… like guitars and shit.”

I’m so descriptive.

Face metal and ink is putting on the kinds of clothes you would never wear in front of your normal friends, it’s having your dominatrix ex-girlfriend style your hair in a wild way you would never wear in front of your normal friends. She snaps clip-on earrings over your ears, wraps a tight bracelet around your wrist, slides a pill onto your tongue.

Face metal and ink is not asking what that pill is.

It’s going to the bar that people in expensive suits shake their head at as they walk past. It’s entering the bar with one hand intertwined with the fingers of a bald, muscle-bound man while the other hand pulls along the dominatrix ex-girlfriend. It’s feeling the floor shake from the stomping of feet, the thrashing of guitars, the beating of drums, and, for a moment, feeling a trace of fear. It’s embracing that fear, and can in hand, diving into the crowd.

Face metal and ink is a combination of sexual energy and pure aggression that is hard to explain without sounding like a totally fucked-up freak. It’s taking a few hours to shed the awkward mannerisms and traits of your normal self to become a totally fucked-up freak.

It’s surfing through a crowd of people that are sexy in the most androgynous of ways. It’s passing a beautiful arm, a handsome face, a flat-stomached torso, and simply appreciating them without taking the time to assign them a gender. It’s pushing and shoving. It’s the scent of sweat and the taste of alcohol. It’s flesh pierced with metal and artwork stretched across skin.

Face metal and ink is that common cliché of feeling at peace in the carnal chaos.

It’s waking up the next morning, trying to figure out if the bruises came from the violence of the crowd or sex with your boyfriend. It’s realizing you’ve lost your dominatrix ex-girlfriend’s earrings and bracelet. It’s going to brunch with your normal friends, and when asked what you did the night before, simply answering, “Just went to a bar and then bed, nothing exciting.”

Face metal and ink was a hidden secret in my life for almost three years that only a select few were privy to, a secret affair traced only by fumbling lies and lingering scents. But all romances come to an end, and after developing a preference for quiet and balance, I separated myself from the head-rattling madness of it all.

I’ve moved on without face metal and ink, but sometimes I listen to one of those vicious, sensual songs and wonder what could have been. Sometimes I feel guilty for leaving it when it did nothing wrong, but if face metal and ink has taught me anything, it’s that cuts and bruises heal.

Face metal and ink understands.

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