I got my first stick and poke on the last day of summer before senior year. My best friend Rebecca inked a little UFO on each of our right ankles (on account of my twisting my left ankle three separate times that summer). That day, we waited at a bus stop a few minutes away from my her house, melting in the heat and smoking cigarettes. I remember my sweaty palms forcing a damp one-dollar bill into the money slot on the bus while I dreamed of having a license and a car. The bus took us to Michael’s, where Rebecca bought India ink for our stick and pokes. We left and boiled on the sidewalk waiting for the next bus back towards her house.
Rebecca took every precaution she could think of, the first of which was making sure the design looked perfect on my skin before actually inking it. Twice a UFO was drawn on my ankle and then wiped away before she drew the best one. On her roof, wielding a sterilized needle taped to the end of a pencil, flanked by ramekins containing India ink and hydrogen peroxide, she started stick and poking.
For us, the best part about stick and pokes is the meaningfulness in the circumstances and situations surrounding a stick and poke. Most of my love for my UFO comes from the fact that my best friend did it right before our first day of senior year. Stick and pokes are pretty personal, usually done by a friend or a friend of a friend. That’s what makes them special.
I have another stick and poke on my left side-boob of a hazard light button. Rebecca inked it while we were on a cruise to Bermuda. We were at sea — I remember lying on my right side, watching the waves, feeling the ship bounce on the water. Dot by dot by dot, the pressure from the ink-coated needle sunk into my skin.
I forget sometimes that the finished product is there — I’ll catch it in the mirror every now and then and admire it for a few seconds. I love telling people about my stick and pokes; it’s like taking inventory of them, reminding myself that they’re on my body. Some take two or more sessions to complete — an alien head on my hip was poked and re-poked throughout an entire summer. The first poke session happened on the roof of a New Haven parking garage, and the second happened at Hammonasset Beach.
Attached to each stick and poke is the story of how I got it, with who and where, and that’s half the fun of them. I’m still filled with joy every time I appreciate my finished stick and pokes — the fresher the ink, the prouder I am, and the longer I stare.
