SINCE tattoo shops were illegal in South Carolina, where I was living at the time, I drove to Savannah, Ga., to get my first ink. I was 22, drunk on Jack Daniels, and I chose the image from a display at the shop based on what I could afford. Thirty dollars bought me a tiny black flower. Brash and audacious, I lifted my skirt and hopped onto the table. I can't remember the name of the boy who offered to hold my hand, but he was the baby of the group, each of them smooth-faced, pretty and vacuous -- all swagger and ridiculously transparent. It was almost embarrassing to be with them. Almost, because I knew that unlike my tattoo, they were temporary. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]