Caleb Boyles Doesn’t Work, They Werk: Tattoos as a Site of Queer Connection

On a clear Friday morning off of Hunter and Santa Fe, Caleb Boyles, known as @cutedirtydog on Instagram, prepares their tattoo station for the day’s work ahead. They’re kicking off the morning by stick-and-poking a custom chandelier on my shin.

“Do you usually work this early?” I ask, thinking back to previous tattoos I’ve gotten in the middle of the day, often bordering on evening.

“No!” They let out a hearty laugh and usher me to the waiting area, where I’m to sign my life away on a consent form.

Because it is so early—9 a.m., that is—they are the first artist to arrive, which means they get to pick the music, a rare treat. Plugging in their phone behind a multicolored couch, Victoria Monet’s “We Might Even Be Falling In Love (Interlude)” begins to play, softly at first but gradually increasing in volume as the beat picks up and Monet’s silky vocals glide in like butter.
Founded in November 2021 by international artists Dima, Katya Krasnova, and Gusak, Puppy Studio L.A. rests on the third floor of a warehouse building in the Arts District of Los Angeles. The studio air is crisp, a wide-open space; the walls are brick, and the floors hardwood. A spiral staircase disappears into the open ceiling; a geometric neon light sitting in one corner while a bulbous lampshade emitting a soft light hangs from the ceiling beneath exposed air ducts that give the studio a hip, rustic look.

Caleb is meticulous about their setup as they silently sterilize the table, wrap their supplies, and layer the table in paper for my session. They are wearing bright orange pants, and the back of their shirt reads “ABSOLUTELY NO REGRETS.”

When they finish, they return to the waiting area and sit beside me with a sample stencil of the design that will soon be transferred to my skin. “This is what I drew.”

It is a replica of a chandelier that belonged to my mother. It used to hang from the ceiling in the corner of my childhood bedrooms until the final one with its two-toned purple walls and dried flowers hung upside down with pushpins, alongside Fiona Apple CDs and battered copies of the Twilight trilogy. I haven’t lived in that room in years, but it was finally being retired, painted over white for my little sister to start from scratch. I wanted the chandelier to commemorate that chapter of my life. It was the room I was living in when I finally came out; it was the room where I hung my first pride flag.

This is not my first time meeting Caleb. Just a few weeks prior, I got a design from their flash tattooed on my forearm—two tiny stars intertwined with one another. I was with my girlfriend, who got a tiny glow-in-the-dark Aries symbol. Caleb told them they were very much an Aries.

When I contacted Caleb a second time, asking if I could interview them while they gave me another tattoo, they agreed. “I remember you.”

When I got my first tattoo in July of 2022, it was at the kitchen table in my friend’s Brooklyn apartment with a headlamp and a pair of latex gloves. Stripped down, bare-bones, nothing special. I had my second one booked before the weekend was over, followed by two more just a month into the new year. It just sort of snowballed after that.

Two years later, I’m at 23 and counting. When people say getting tattooed is like an addiction, I understand where they’re coming from. I can only describe it as a nearly unstoppable impulse when I see a design I connect with and DM the artist asking for a slot. I never envisioned myself as someone with tattoos, but once I got started, I couldn’t stop.

Caleb’s first tattoo was an envelope sealed with a heart on their forearm arm. Their most recent one at the time of this interview—a dancing devil from their own flash sheet.

“I did it on myself,” they say. “I just had a day where I had one client, and I really wanted a tattoo, and I didn’t want to ask anyone (in the studio) to tattoo me—I just felt like getting one. I was, like, ‘I could use a stab.’”

I hoist myself onto the freshly prepared table, swinging one leg up at a time, trying to avoid ripping the paper. It’s reminiscent of getting on the table at a doctor’s office.

“It’s gay here,” Caleb tells me about LA. “Everyone’s gay.”

Born in North Carolina, Caleb has not always lived in a city so accepting of who they are, and creativity has always been their access point for self-expression and identity exploration. After graduating high school in 2012, they received a BFA in illustration from Savannah College of Art and Design. Here, they found a welcoming community in other queer students, but once Caleb got a taste of what the South had to offer gay people, it was hard to see it any differently. So they headed to LA.

The history of tattoos spans thousands of years, commonly seen on sailors, sex workers, and other outcasted groups to mark themselves as part of a group. The first piercing shop in California was opened by Jim Ward, a gay man heavily invested in the BDSM and leather community. As the shop rose in popularity amongst the punk and kink communities, it became a place where queer people could demonstrate their bodily autonomy in a time when gay sex was illegal.

Tattoos and piercings in certain places or depicting certain imagery can cue queer people in on others that may be part of their community. Some lesbians in the 1950s would tattoo a star on their inner wrist to be concealed under a watch band until they might subtly reveal it to inform another woman that they were also queer.

Aesthetic indicators can also be important for queer safety; one might decide it’s safe to come out to someone based on the way they present themselves. Having recognizable aesthetics can point queer people toward others in their community. The upside-down pink triangle tattoo, for one, is a symbol queer people were forced to wear by Nazis, but it has become common again, reclaimed as a symbol of resistance and acceptance of identity.

Tattoos may serve as a token of self-love, a sort of reclamation of the body for how it has previously been restricted. Marking queer skin allows us to take ownership of a body controlled and made to feel unworthy by power structures far greater than us.

In the City of Angels, Caleb was able to freelance illustrative work for companies like Them, Refinery29 and TMRW Magazine.

“The biggest and my most favorite one was probably one I got to do for a subway ad campaign for the LGBT Center in New York,” they say. “It was in, like, every subway train in New York.”

“Oh, my God, that’s so cool. Did you get to see it?” I ask.

“No. I was broke. I couldn’t go to New York.” They paused. “Are you OK if I begin tattooing?”

“Of course.” I’m lying fully horizontal, staring at the ceiling, when they begin poking me. “I’ve heard so many bad things about shin tattooing, and it’s really not too bad.”

“It’s fine. I have both of mine done, and I don’t think it hurts like people think it does,” Caleb says. “What made you want to be someone who interviews people?”

I’m taken aback by their forwardness for a moment, not used to having my interview subject return the favor. Caleb is soft-spoken yet intense, a friendly presence I feel comfortable speaking with.

“Actually, the interviewing is not usually my favorite part,” I admit. “I try to make it conversational and natural because I hate the sterile interview environment. I like to observe.”

“Sounds like my worst nightmare,” Caleb laughs. “I’m not good at writing.”

“It’s always been my favorite. It’s so weird how people are so different,” I say. “Like my girlfriend is a bio major, and that’s so scary to me—oh my God.”

“That sounds better than writing,” they say. “How do you say getting your shin tattooed feels?”

It’s fine, I tell them. Fun, even. Growing up, I always wondered about the pain. I didn’t even get my ears pierced until I was 19. But when I got my first tattoo, I couldn’t help but immediately wonder, “OK, when’s the next one?”

“Gosh, yeah, tattoo addiction is so real.”

I tell them about my first overlapping tattoo. “I worry about filling everything up so quickly.”

“I feel like that’s my end goal. For them to all touch each other.”

Another artist finally arrives at the studio to start working. “Hi!” she greets Caleb. “Oh, my God, I’m gonna be right here!” She points to the table directly next to us.

“Yay! Neighbors!” Caleb smiles.

“I love that. Wow, is that custom?” she asks, pointing to my shin. “That’s so cool.”

I admit I never know if I should be the one to say “thank you” when I’m complimented on a tattoo in the middle of an appointment. “Technically, it’s yours,” I tell Caleb.

“I think we’re collabing,” Caleb says. “I feel like it’s more yours than it is mine. I feel like a drawing is mine when I draw it. And then once I start tattooing it, it’s like the giving away. It’s on you, so it’s for sure yours. Sometimes, I’ll do a tattoo I really love, and it’ll be a really cute thing, and I get so sad when the person leaves.”

Just around a year and a half ago, Caleb got into tattooing. By a sort of “blessing,” they skipped right over an apprenticeship and got straight to the real deal, learning the art of tattoos through a friend who lived in LA in exchange for flash pages to attract new clients.

“I did it in a very DIY (way),” they say. “(My friend) was paying people for them, and then I was like, ‘OK, don’t pay me. Can you just, like, answer all my questions? Can I exchange for tattoo knowledge instead of money?”

Puppy was one of the first studios that let Caleb work as a guest artist, among others, like Jelly Studios and The Sunroom. After some persistence and practice on friends, Puppy Studios made them a permanent resident where they take on average two to three appointments a day, unless its a “Teeny Tiny Flash Day”—a day designated for small and cheap flash tattoos. This not only attracts a crowd, but several clients come back for regular-sized tattoos, including myself.

“It’s a really fun way to kind of introduce myself to people too because one tattoo that’s a little bit smaller and cheaper is pretty low-risk. It’s like, ‘OK, well, if this guy sucks or this tattoo sucks,; it’s an inch big.’”

Tattoos truly are becoming much more casual with popup events and flash days that are much more about community and sharing art with like-minded people than about representing any deep-rooted, intimate design. Oftentimes, the design might mean “nothing,” but the connection shared with others is irreplaceable and equally meaningful.

“I think tattoos still mean stuff, but it might just be the positive experience,” Caleb posits. “And wanting to express yourself by being tattooed (rather) than express yourself by what you’re getting.”

Many popup events are catered toward specific groups of people, like Thick Thrift, which brings together the plus-sized community in a positive and welcoming shopping space. Tats N Babes LA and Manic Pixie Dream Market both market themselves as queer and woman-friendly, often featuring tattoo artists, piercers, thrifting, handmade jewelry, and food pop-ups.

“I feel like more people are getting tattoos because a person already drew it than something like, ‘I have this big idea I’ve been sitting on,’” Caleb offers.

Many people leave their tattoo appointments with a sense of lasting connection with their artist. The ink is permanent, and a glance down at their skin is a reminder of the artist, the day, and the experience as a whole. This can lead to future visits with some artists as well as a more positive perception of the tattoo itself. Caleb does their best to infuse the tattoo experience with comfort and joy so that clients leave without regrets.

“Just like connecting to them in a way where it’s like, ‘Yes, I did sit on that table and let you stab me for a few hours, and now I kinda do want to know what you’re doing,’ you know?” Caleb elaborates. “The guy that tattooed my stomach was probably the first tattoo artist (where) during the appointment, he was like, ‘It’s important to me that you’re having a good time,’ and wanted to engage with me and wanted to know about who I was, not asking, ‘Why are you getting this tattoo?’ He was curious about his clients, and that also stuck out with me as a super positive experience. I love my stomach tattoo because he did that.”

Caleb is dedicated to making sure their clients have a good time while on their table. They enjoy connecting with their clients while they work to understand and get to know the person in front of them.

“I like to talk to people,” they say. “One of my favorite parts about tattooing is how most of the time, I don’t know who I’m tattooing. But in about two hours, there can be a friendship made in a brief moment. It’s just a really fun way to share art and time with a person you just met.”

Talking to clients also makes the day go by faster for Caleb.

“I make them (talk to me). I’m like, ‘OK, also, what’s your zodiac sign? Like, who are you?’” they say. “Not that it’s ever boring. I have fun doing it every time, but sometimes, if one takes a really long time, and it’s silent, I feel every second of the time I’m working.”

Their daily job hardly feels like work for Caleb because not only do they enjoy and admire the artists who work alongside them, but they simply love to draw.

“It’s not a job, really. It’s like craft time,” they say. “I love menial tasks. I can sit and do a craft for, like, five hours and not look up once. This is just one of those things where it’s like, I don’t care how long this chandelier takes—It’s so much fun to just do, you know? … Really, the only reason I want to tattoo is so I can keep drawing as a job.”

Another artist walks by their table, and Caleb stops stick-and-poking to ask, “Did you see the little dog?”

“Yes. Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know,” they shrug playfully before breaking into a loud laugh that draws the attention of another artist, “Did you see the little doggie? Open your thingy right there.”

They point to the rows of lockers each artist uses for their personal belongings. A tiny toy dog sits in each one.

“I wonder who it was,” she says playfully, knowing fully well it could be none other than the owner of the @cutedirtydog Instagram handle.

Caleb shrugs and jumps back into my chandelier tattoo for some finishing touches. “It wasn’t me. I’m not talking about it at all,” they say before breaking into another cackle the whole room can’t help but join them in.

Emmeline Clein writes in her debut novel Dead Weight of gay girls growing up in the patriarchy, “The spores of sickness get planted in our brains early, by the magazines on our mom’s bedside tables and the billboards we see out car windows,” and research has found that LGBTQ+ people are more likely to suffer from eating disorders and inflict self-harm.

Clein writes that “a 2020 paper reported that fully 82 percent of lesbians interviewed ‘based their self-worth on their weight,’” pointing to a pattern of the lengths queer people will go to fit in with the greater societal population. Tattoos act as a combatant, in a sense, to the regulatory devices used to restrict queer expression and self-acceptance. Getting tattoos as a queer person can make a body go from feeling like the enemy to feeling like home.

When I stand up to look at my new ink in the mirror, I found I couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t there.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “I love it.”

Caleb was right—It does belong to me.

Photo courtesy of Nico Marie