Sinead O'Connor: My new beloved Jesus tattoo was three hours of agony... but worth it
Being in Hollywood for a gala dinner brings back a lot of memories, writes Sinead O'Connor from Los Angeles
Pictures: Independent Woman
• amfAR cinema against AIDS
• Celebration of the Arts Gala
• What to expect premiere London
• Billboard Music Awards Red Carpet
• Men In Black 3 London Premiere
Sunday Oct 30 2011
As I write it's 6am Los Angeles time on Friday, October 28. My little brother John's birthday. I've been here performing at a dinner honouring the work of Elizabeth Taylor for AIDS awareness, which she did through a foundation she started called Amfar.
A posh dinner at the Chateau Marmont hotel. Red carpet, etc.
So I arrive excited to see two friends I haven't seen for five years in one case and 10 in the other. Joseph Vitarelli and Sean Penn respectively. Both I know through my manager for 12 years, Steve Fargnoli, who died of cancer in the W hotel in Los Angeles on September 10, 2001.
He had been comatose for two weeks on morphine but on the night before September 11, the night he died, he jumped out of bed in a panic. Pulling on trousers he kept saying, "call the president. Quickly, quickly, call the fire squad, something terrible is about to happen".
The W had a long glass case on the floor behind the reception desk, in which a beautiful woman lay stretched out in a miniscule bikini all day and all night. Different women, obviously. Very weird to be passing that going up to your manager's death chamber. When his best friend stepped into the lift after saying goodbye there was immediately a small but appropriate earthquake.
Steve didn't like to have a home. He liked hotels. And "the underworld" as he called it. He had no wife or responsibilities. He actually ran legal brothels. The legality at the time was in London you could have one working woman and one receptionist. So as I would be onstage in America, mostly at the outer edges of fun fairs which was really weird... in the background quietly I could hear people screaming on the petrifying rides as I was singing.
I'd be like "nothing compares to..." And thinking, "Steve's 20 per cent of this gig is gonna give a lot of men a lot of pleasure." It was quaint to me because at the time the music business was owned in some part by arms dealers so at least if it's gonna be owned by someone let it be for love and consensual safe adult sex instead of land mines.
One Friday Steve said to me "we're having a crucifix installed this weekend in one of my places". I met a dominatrix once, whose agent he was. She showed me a letter from a 'client' saying he'd miss her as it was Christmas, but he'd be practising his barking techniques so as to resume calling her every Monday to Friday from his office in stockbroker land at 5pm, as was his daily habit.
She broke a big myth for me too. She said legal brothels have two rooms. One for 'regular' sex and one for the guys who like to get hurt. We all think, as I did, that those guys are into pain for sexual pleasure, but she said they weren't at all. She said it was nothing to do with sex. They don't fantasise after or during, etc. They just have a need to be hurt and humiliated.
Anyway. That was Steve and I can't be in LA without feeling his presence. Needless to say, I never pass the W hotel. At one point when Steve was comatose a hospice nurse came and passed a funeral information leaflet over Steve's body to his girlfriend. I was so glad his eyes were closed because he was so frightened of dying.
He woke once in the night when it was just me with him and panicked, asking me 'am I dead yet?' I said: "Steven, if you were dead you wouldn't be cursed with looking at me, there'd be an angel here with you."
Also I am excited as I went to see a Dr David Matlock, who administers a thing called a G-shot. . . into a woman's G-spot. . . which is supposed to intensify orgasms by 10 per cent. So selflessly, as I have taken it upon myself to explore all things sexual on behalf of all Irish women, I had it done. Very funny experience but too graphic for Sunday breakfast reading. Suffice to say it's done and will have been 'tried' out by the time this paper goes to print. So if happy screamings are heard from Bray you will know it was a success.
So then. The Jesus tattoo. Desired for years and LA is where you have to get Jesus or Mary. It was three hours of unremitting agony from start to finish. No other tattoo I had ever hurt much but this was all on the breast bone so, oh my God, I nearly died. I had no idea it would hurt so much.
The guy doing it had no sympathy either, which was probably good or I would have cried and ran. As it is, I ran out every 10 minutes resisting the urge to leave and got talking to a lovely bunch of people running a retro clothes shop next door.
So I told them I really needed to hold someone's hand. And... you know what? I love America. American people are the kindest people you could meet. This man, and he wasn't being 'passy', offered to come and sit with me. He sat for two hours and held my hand. I nearly broke it. As if we were having a baby.
Nash was his name and I want to thank him profusely. This man took off my shoes even, and rubbed my hideous feet and toes. And didn't mind me breaking his bones. Amazing. So. I have my love on my chest. Happy woman coming home.
Originally published in
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