Tattooed Asian Girls and A Snippet of My New Work
All right, I’ll admit it, I’ve got a thing for Asian girls and tattoos, so it’s only natural that tatted up Asian girls end up in my work. In my newest novel, the heroine changes bodies often. Such is the way of post-humanity in my vision. I picture our lives as fluid and changeable as we rush head long for the Singularity. Like the book Jasmine by Bharati Mukherjee, where the heroine changes names, reflecting her inner change and turmoil, my characters change bodies as easily as names. In one sequence my protagonist decides to choose the body of a small Asian girl with cute mediatronic tattoos. It’s a ruse to make people think she’s delicate and fragile when she is anything but fragile.
People used to have to go to the library to do research. Sometime you still do, but mostly you just surf the net and find instantaneously what you need for inspiration and uplift. And the net lets find things you never would have found in the library. When I decided to search for tattooed Asian girls, I thought I would find lots of scattered pictures. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I found a whole Flickr group dedicated to the fetish. I love the internet.
Here’s a snippet from a novel in progress called The Age of Transcendence:
He remembered when he first saw Jovanna coming out of the sea, her hair all around her, her body dripping, her mediatronic tattoos fiery, flaring off her skin.
They’d all chosen their own bodies. They were all wounded people or they wouldn’t be here. He knew that. They’d all chosen the biggest, strongest bodies they could find. And yet Jovanna had chosen – that.
She wore a tiny body, a small Asian girl with the most intricate mediatronic tattoos he’d ever seen, covering her back, her arms and legs, snaking onto her small but perfectly sculpted breasts, undulating, whispering, winking, calling him to come. Cute bears and tiny playful animals moved and danced all over her skin. In between them were mountains and rivers and sakura trees straining for the sun streaming through the clouds in shafts of soft light, all of them a riot of color and seething brilliance.
Everything about her was small, her lips, her face. Everything about her was delicious and sumptuous. She could be a little girl, if it wasn’t for the hardness of her features, etched and striking. This was no little girl. This was a woman. He could sense the power in her radiating, scintillating.
He knew not to take her size at face value. This was a posthuman woman, packed with superhuman strength. Even though her muscles were long and sinuous, sensuous and delicate, she was a predator. Her body was a ruse, a sucker’s play to draw in fools. Don’t take her seriously and see what happens. She’d sneak up on someone and then they’d be sorry. She could crush bone just by squeezing her hand around a man’s wrist.
She glared at him. He smiled.