Getting a tattoo is a deeply personal experience, often intertwined with identity, self-expression, and significant life moments. For many, it’s a way to reclaim their bodies and narratives. This was the case when I decided to get an octopus tattoo, not just any octopus tattoo, but one placed on my side-butt. This wasn’t a whimsical choice; it was a deliberate act of empowerment, drawing inspiration from mythology and challenging patriarchal beauty standards.
The day of the tattoo appointment began with a slightly vulnerable realization: the placement required going pants-less for the entire session. There’s an inherent vulnerability in being naked from the waist down in front of someone you don’t know well. However, my tattoo artist was incredibly professional and easy to talk to. We found common ground in shared locations, academic backgrounds, and hobbies. It struck me how tattoo artists, like other professionals who work closely with bodies such as beauty therapists, massage therapists, hairdressers, and nurses, possess a unique understanding and comfort with the human form, a perspective often lost in professions with less physical contact. As the hours passed and the sun began to set, the skin became increasingly sensitive, and the hip bone I had been resting on started to ache. The final stage, the application of the suckers, was intricate and repetitive. I commented on the tiring nature of their profession, and the tattoo artist readily agreed.
‘The sea-witch is an older woman of dubious morality, or in Ursula’s case, genuine evil.’ (Design: Tina Tiller)
Alt text: Ursula the sea witch tattoo design by Tina Tiller, illustrating the essay’s reference to sea witch symbolism and female power.
The octopus adorning my side-butt isn’t a direct nod to Hans Christian Andersen’s sea-witch or Disney’s Ursula, though they are familiar representations that come to mind when considering sea witches. While mermaid tales are abundant, stories centering the sea hag as the protagonist are rare. I was drawn to the sea hag as a potent symbol of female power. Unlike the idealized mermaid, an object of male desire, the sea hag stands as an independent figure, a potion maker, an entity to be feared and respected. The octopus itself carries rich mythological weight, often linked to monstrous figures. Folklorist F.T. Elworthy drew parallels between the octopus and the Gorgons, specifically Medusa and her sisters. Analyzing ancient pottery, he suggested that the writhing tentacles resembled “what must have been as familiar as they were dreadful to the ancients living on the coast; not snakes, but the writhing tentacles of the horrible Octopus.” He vividly described the octopus’s “awfully fascinating glance, in the baleful eye of that odious creature, an eye in itself conveying the most frightfully malignant expression of any living thing upon which I have ever looked.” Sigmund Freud interpreted Medusa as representing the mother’s genitalia, evoking castration anxiety. He noted, “This symbol of horror is worn on her dress by the virgin goddess Athene…and rightly so, for thus she becomes a woman who is unapproachable and repels all sexual desires.” This complex symbolism resonated with my intention for the tattoo.
Even in the wake of four waves of feminism, traditional patriarchal values persist. The hetero-patriarchal ideal woman remains young, virginal, compliant, and selfless, possessing a “neat and tidy vulva” untouched and childless. This impossible standard necessitates a cycle of replacement, as a woman cannot simultaneously maintain this state while fulfilling roles as sexual provider and mother. Within this system, the body of a woman deemed “promiscuous” is considered ruined, and the post-partum body is viewed as undesirable, pressured to revert to a maidenly state through weight loss, weaning, and even surgery. It’s a no-win situation for women; the body’s “divinely appointed job” is childbearing, yet the reward is often renewed disgust and self-hatred. This internalized disgust is sadly prevalent, even among feminist women who lament weight gain or express begrudging self-acceptance with a caveat of future weight loss goals.
The inspiration for the octopus tattoo struck during a walk on South Beach in Whanganui. While our children and dog played nearby, a friend and I discussed our love lives, a frequent topic of conversation. I was experiencing another episode of being ghosted by an on-again-off-again boyfriend after pointing out misogynistic tropes in his writing. I was, for what felt like the hundredth time, done. I wanted a symbolic marker to prevent backsliding, both with him and similar individuals. Once, on another beach, he had made a joke about accidentally seeing my genitalia and being “frightened for his life.” Embracing this Freudian fear seemed a fitting response. Writhing tentacles on my leg, a Medusa’s head on my butt, would serve as a filter, repelling anyone terrified of vulvas and female power.
Alt text: Two-panel image showing an octopus butt tattoo in progress on the left and fully healed on the right, illustrating tattoo healing and placement.
The sea-witch and the mermaid represent contrasting archetypes of femininity. The sea-witch is often depicted as an older woman of questionable morality, even outright evil like Ursula. In contrast, the nameless Little Mermaid and Ariel are portrayed as young and pure. However, this dichotomy is not absolute. They are all creatures of the mythical ocean, part of a diverse family of characters. They transcend simplistic binaries of beautiful versus ugly, good versus bad, appealing versus terrifying. The mermaid, sea-witch, and their mythological kin complicate the virgin/whore dichotomy. The fishtail itself can be viewed as a sexual fetish. The absence of legs and human genitalia (a mermaid logically having a cloaca) can symbolize unattainability. Alternatively, sea creatures can represent female sexual agency and the potential to “destroy” men through desire. They can also embody darker, more monstrous aspects, like Grendel’s mother. More broadly, aquatic beings can symbolize any sexuality or gender identity that deviates from patriarchal, heterosexual norms.
Like Medusa and Grendel’s mother, figures like the Sirens and Lorelei, depictions of water creatures over the last two centuries encompass a much wider spectrum than the romanticized portrayals of Andersen and Disney. Nineteenth-century “fake mermaids” constructed from monkeys and fish, displayed in museum collections, underscore the mermaid’s potential as a creature of horror. Annie Sprinkle, in her film Herstory of Porn, portrays an older mermaid engaging in sexual encounters with a younger mermaid and a male diver. New Zealand filmmaker Adam Stevens’s 2003 short film Delores depicts a fishing crew who accidentally catch an injured, angry, and foul-mouthed mermaid whose pungent odor induces vomiting. Harry Styles, in his music video for “Music for a Sushi Restaurant,” plays a singing squid-man discovered washed ashore. Even WWE wrestler John Cena made a cameo as “Kenmaid” in the 2023 Barbie movie, a merman with flowing blond hair.
Alt text: Still image from the film Dolores, depicting a grotesque mermaid, highlighting the film’s portrayal of mermaids as monstrous and challenging romanticized depictions.
Stories offer us possibilities. Repetitive narratives, devoid of alternatives, solidify power structures. The simplistic evil witch versus beautiful princess narrative is particularly damaging, reinforcing the tendency to categorize women as attractive or unattractive, “fuckable” or “unfuckable,” undermining their inherent humanity. While I cannot rewrite my childhood and replace these limiting narratives, I can actively seek out and embrace alternative stories. I cannot control how others perceive my body, but I can dictate my response to those perceptions.
As the tattoo artist cleaned and bandaged my new Octopus Butt Tattoo, a sense of completion washed over me. Driving back to the airport, boarding the plane, and settling into the cramped seat with a slightly aching hip was all part of the process. It wasn’t painful, but a pleasant soreness, akin to the satisfying ache after a day of gardening. Endorphins coursed through me. I felt happy. Back home, peeling away the wrap and washing away the excess ink in the shower revealed my body: naked, human, alive, and imperfect. Tentacles writhed around my hip, as if the octopus had truly attached itself to me. I am a woman, a mother, and no longer young. I vowed to never again seek validation from anyone who dislikes any part of who I am, who finds me disgusting, or who objectifies me. The octopus’s eye on my side-butt now looks outward, keen, watchful, and powerful – a constant reminder of my self-defined narrative.
