Speaking for myself, there is also a "cool" factor involved. When I was younger, I also swore I'd never get one and I would dismiss others who did as white trash or posers or the "scary kids" etc. "Others" in other words, that weren't like me and that I judged accordingly, but also secretly thought, "Wow, they're cool. I would never have the balls to do that. It's got to
hurt and what will others think and why did that do that to their bodies" etc., etc., etc.
So for me, my first one at least, was definitely a rite of passage; of seeing what the deal was and why others did such things. Basically an attempt to account for my younger judgemental self. I went through a whole period in my late twenties trying to reconcile my middle class upbringing and all the judgements that this entailed in regard to others (primarily the result of having moved from the suburbs of St. Louis to Eugene, Oregon when I was ten in 1976; it was quite a culture shock and I was scared of the new, very different environment in Eugene, so I withdrew into a judgemental self in order to put some distance between what scared me in this new place).
St Louis was a place of manners and rules and "good boy" expectations and the like, whereas Eugene was hippy central (like,
real hippies, not the posers in San Francisco and elsewhere), where everyone did their own thing and questioned authority and so on.
Then I got my first one and discovered it's not really that painful. It is, but not what you think it's going to be; basically (and depending on where you get one), it's like a hundred bee stings. My issue actually isn't with the pain so much as it is my blood sugar from the trauma to the skin, so there's always a moment after about five minutes into one that I have to stop and eat something or else I feel like I'm going to puke or pass out.
That passes and then I'm good to go for the remainder.
It's definitely personal. It fundamentally changes you and your personality, either by bringing it out more or just giving you something that you know has a particular meaning to you and maybe others will "get it" too. So far only ONE person knew what my forearms indicated. Most think it's a fraternity thing, which really annoys me because I hate frat boys, but hey, you buy the ticket, you ride the ride.
I guess it's the fact that it's there for life that really appeals to me, because it means you really need to think about its meaning and whether or not it's something that could last for your whole life. There is one I definitely want to cover up. It was the second one I got and it's on my back (just below the neckline). It's the Monopoly guy from the "Pay Poor Tax of $15" card (not a picture of the actual tat):
At the time, it was perfect for me, because I was a struggling artist in New York and considered myself a millionaire just with no money and he had my back (literally). Now, some thirty years later, I still like the irony/duality, but it's too small and turning into an indistinct blob and generally too cutesy/immature for my 53 year old tastes. BUT, it still has significance, just more in the sense that old photographs have significance.
So, yes, one definitely needs to think about what they are doing and why they are doing it and even then, years later, it can be regretful.
But, as I said, as a ritual? As a rite of passage?
When I was seventeen I did the whole backpacking through Europe thing and at that time I had only the year before lost my virginity. So when my buddy and I got to Amsterdam, I was determined to go to a prostitute. She would teach me the ways of pleasing a woman like no other fumbling teenage encounter could possibly do and I would then become a great lover. Etc.
To do so, I had to get some "Dutch courage" (drink and smoke pot). I chose a beautiful woman--like Playboy centerfold beautiful--and worked up the courage for about fifteen minutes (thinking of what I would say and what it would be like and should I really do this, I'm not that kind of guy, etc., etc., etc.) and finally I found myself walking across the street straight up to the door like I was in an adrenaline dream. I grasped the door knob, had a moment of panic and then opened the door and went in. Boom.
After that? It was pretty much, "Ok, honey, over here and I'll wash your dick and put on this condom and you can't do this and you can't do that and money now, and go." Iow, very clinical; a job. She didn't give a fuck about me, I didn't know what the hell I was doing (and she was clearly annoyed by that) and the whole idea that I was in a Cinemax soft-core
Emmanuelle Teaches Teenager The Art of Making Love movie was starkly crushed.
It was all very surgical and impersonal (of course) and just generally nothing like I had ever fantasized it would be in my adolescent thoughts--or even in the thoughts I had in those fifteen minutes before finally deciding to go in.
What I realized after it was all over, was that, the transformative act wasn't the sex or really anything to do with this other human being who clearly didn't give a shit about me and just wanted me to come and go; it was opening the door.