FoodSexLit

I haven’t been this turned on in a long time.

I’m sitting on one of those examination-type beds—the kind you find in a doctor’s office—the kind that’s covered in a vinyl-y, plastic-y material, then draped from head to foot in white paper for sterility.

In fact, this tiny room in the back of the tattoo parlor kind of reminds me of my doctor’s office—except my doctor hasn’t hung framed drawings of naked girls and guns and flowers and dragons all over the walls. Nor does my doctor have a cabinet consisting of hundreds of tiny drawers, each one containing rings and bars of different gauges. My doctor definitely does not blast Deltron 3030 in his waiting room.

My doctor does have antiseptic in his office, and cotton balls, and although I’ve never seen it, I’m willing to bet he might have a gigantic clamp just like the one lying on the silver tray covered with a white paper towel. And of course, my doctor has needles. Lots and lots of needles.   Just like this man does—the piercer with a gentle voice, kind blue eyes, and a tattoo winding around his neck.

I’ve never stood in front of my doctor and waited for his command to undress. I’ve never pulled my dress down to bare both my breasts to him. I’ve never sat on his examination table, buttocks pressed against white butcher paper, both nipples hard, my flesh covered with goosebumps, and watched as he carefully prepared his tools to penetrate me.

And that’s what makes this—getting my nipples re-pierced— so fucking exciting.

*          *          *

I had both my nipples pierced in 2000, but with rings.  I don’t remember a lot about the first piercing.  What I do remember, however, is that I was not expecting to be so turned on.  My nipples were hard for two weeks straight.  I was suddenly aware of them in a whole new way.

Perhaps the best way to explain this is a brief digression: I clearly remember the first time, in high school, again at Hamilton viewpoint, the first time a boy put his mouth on my breasts.  He leaned my seat back, slid my shirt off over my head, took off my bra, and then took my nipple gently in his teeth.  I was blown away.  Once that newness wore off, however, men playing with my breasts didn’t interest me much.

So getting my nipples pierced was like getting a whole new set of breasts.  Once the endorphins hit, I spent the night in an erotic heat, flushed with my own sexuality.  My nipples felt incredible, hard and charged in a way that no man’s tongue, teeth, or fingers had been able to stimulate them.  I was aware of my breasts under my clothes in a way I had never been before.  I loved the sexiness of the surprise when a new lover first undressed me.

And then, about five years ago, one of the beads came out when I was on a camping trip, so I had to take out the ring.  We were far enough into the mountains that there was no way to get back in time to civilization (note that for me, civilization now means a city large enough to have a reputable, clean, experienced piercer) to put another ring in the hole before it closed.

*          *          *

And now, this sticky hot August Seattle day, is the time.

I didn’t know that today would be the day when I woke up this morning.  But school is about to start and this always happen right before I return to the classroom—I start thinking about ink and needles.

One year I got a tattoo of a butterfly on my foot.  Another year I got my tongue pierced, which resulted in so much swelling that my new students thought I had a lisp for the first few weeks of class.

It started in the shower, just after the stud in my nose slipped down the drain with the soap suds.  I called Admiral Tattoo to see if they sold body jewelry.   While I’m there, I thought, I’ll ask the piercer to check out my breasts.

Standing in front of my closet, naked, I choose my outfit carefully, knowing the piercer will need easy access to my boobs.  I choose a dress—orange, Juicy, strapless—that I can pull down easily and quickly.

The idea of being literally half naked with a stranger, of undressing before him, of showing him my breasts, is titillating.

If the piercer is sexy, I think, I’ll do it.

*        *          *

Turns out the piercer is sexy.

He wears baggy shorts and a t-shirt and has a LOT of tattoos: his upper arms wear full sleeves and of course, there’s that tattoo that wraps around his neck.  And his eyes are very, very blue.   His voice is so gentle—when he speaks to me, I feel like he’s given me a hug.  I want to curl up in his arms.  Needless to say, I trust him instantly.

The piercer and I have decided to redo both nipples with a deeper piercing.  We will use bars this time—and a bigger gage than what I had before—from a 12 to a 14.

So I’m sitting on this table, my dress pulled down, while the piercer flicks my nipples to keep them erect.  He stares intently at my breasts– to gauge their shape, their particular roundness, their lift– to be sure to find the perfect placement for the holes.  He carefully marks each side of both nipples with black ink to indicate the entry and exit points for the needle.

Then has me stand up so he can see if the marks were even, and now, just like I envisioned it, I’m standing in front of this complete stranger half-naked.  Plus he’s still flicking my nipples to keep them as hard as possible.

This piercer is good.  He knows what he is doing.

While it’s clinical for him, it’s intensely sexual for me: it feels so much like foreplay.  Feeling turned on makes me feel guilty, and, being Catholic, years of feeling guilt during any and all sexual activity has hardwired me to feel even more turned on.

*        *          *

We kind of talk about it.

Just before I walked back to this room with the piercer, two extremely young girls come in with their mother.  All three are beautiful, thin, with long hair and even longer legs, although the mother is starting to show her age– she’s super-tanned, with even darker cleavage.  Her blond, languorous daughters fold themselves onto the black leather couch and start thumbing through portfolios while she heads to the counter. “Is the bellybutton piercer here?” she trills.   “I’ve got a girl here who wants to get her bellybutton pierced!”

Turns out her older daughter is sixteen— but mother will sign the waiver.  The piercer is in the back room at the time with another client, a girl who was here before me, but one of the tattoo artists tells them to wait for him.

When he comes out to get me, the piercer barely looks at the trio, ushers me back to the little room.

Now behind the closed door, he tells me he’s not going to pierce the girl.  In LA, where he worked previously, being underage was a big deal.  “You have to have both parents there,” he says.

“Like if the parents are divorced and one parent is the bad cop and the other one is the cool friend?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.  “And if she gets all flirty-flirty with you and then makes a move and you reject her and she gets mad and then makes something up.  That happened to a friend of mine.  He almost had to spend time in jail.”

I definitely understand his point of view.

And I definitely understand what happens to a woman, especially a young woman, when she gets a piercing.  She’s drunk, almost high, both in anticipation and her own sexuality.  There’s the endorphins, of course, that get released afterward, but there’s also that sudden understanding of her own power and sexiness.  It’s a hard-edged kind of sexiness, with an S&M feel to it.  Sex and pain.  Pleasure and piercings.  But all that’s for the piercee.

For the piercer, it’s a job, and he does this every day, like a doctor.

Like I said, I get it.

And then he has me lie down on the table, half naked, while he gets out his tools.

*        *          *

I know at this point it’s going to hurt, but that it’s also going to feel like nothing else, because really, I don’t get to (or want to) use needles or pliers in my sex life normally.  But a little pain feels good.

And this pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt, but I remember it, clearly, from almost ten years ago.  It’s kind of like sex, because I’m going to be penetrated, but no lover can do this to me or to my body.

You know the kind of orgasms you have where you have aftershocks?

That’s what the first piercing was like, except the aftershocks lasted two weeks.  So it’s kind of like I’m going to have sex with someone I had ONE really mind-blowing orgasm with ten years ago (did I mention the aftershocks that lasted for two weeks?) and now we’re going to have sex one more time and my orgasm is guaranteed—with aftershocks—and then that’s it.  Forever.

So I was totally excited to have the experience of that kind of pleasure again, but also nervous for the pain too.

I lay down on my back, my dress still pulled down, my breasts bare, my nipples pointed straight up in the air.  He comes to stand beside me—to pierce the first nipple.

First, he swabs the nipple and the areola with a sterile solution on a white gauze pad, then clamps my nipple to stretch the skin taut.  “Are you ready?” he asks.

Then he pushes the piercing needle through.

I scream.

A sex scream.  You’ve heard it.

He pushes the barbell in, the jewelry pushing out the hollow needle, and then he takes the clamp to hold the end in place while he screws in the ball.

And the first nipple is done.

*        *          *

The two girls and their mother, along with the tattoo artist and the guy getting a tat redone on his arm, hear two screams, each one about three minutes apart.

Two long, luxurious, throat-ripping screams that speak of pleasure and pain.

In between piercings, I lie on my back, focusing on my breathing, the white paper crinkling under my body, endorphins rushing through me while the piercer prepares the next nipple.  He says something to me about it being a particular kind of release.

I look over at the picture right next to my head: a black and white drawing of a girl, her hair bound in a bun on top of her head, her round legs in baddha konasana, cobbler’s pose, my favorite yoga position.

If she were to lie down, it would be supta baddha konasana, reclining cobbler’s pose—also known as goddess pose.

*        *          *

I love the idea of jewelry in my body.  Which is weird, because I’m not a ring or bracelet or necklace or earrings kind of  girl.  When I was married, my engagement and my wedding rings drove me nuts.

But for years, I have loved the stud in my nose, the rod through my bellybutton, and the bars through my nipples.  It’s a tough kind of jewelry, the way a tattoo is a tough kind of art.  It speaks to your stamina, your ability to bear pain.

And it’s as erotic as hell.