I’ve entertained the idea of getting my nipples pierced for a little while now, but there have always been reasons why I just wouldn’t do it: I didn’t want to experience the pain, I didn’t want to spend the money, I didn’t want another man fondling my nipples, I didn’t want to get an infection, I didn’t want to feel like I wasted money if I had to remove them, and I just didn’t see the point in getting my nipples pierced if not even my husband seemed interested in the idea.
I thought about these reasons and came up with a “pros column” to counter the “cons”: pain is temporary, money can be made the next day, I’ll follow the aftercare instructions religiously and my husband was actually very interested in seeing me with my nipples pierced, but for whatever reason, we never talked about it. He even went as far as suggesting that the piercing would naturally leave my nipples more erect and I could start wearing hot tank tops, showing off my hard nipples. Ohhh, how this made my inner thigh senses tingle. I am not an exhibitionist (blog coming soon: “WTF, I’M nude modeling???”), or at least I thought I wasn’t, but the idea of my nipples and the barbells poking through a cute tank top, really turned me on. The idea of me being turned on by that, really turned on Ryan.
We go to a tattoo shop that also does piercing (most usually do). We’ve been here before so when we get there, I tell the girl up front that I’m here to get my nipples pierced. She tells me the piercer is at their other store location, she will call her and let her know she has customers waiting. She then suggested we have a seat.
I guess it just wasn’t meant to be, I think. If this isn’t a sign that I shouldn’t get these piercings, I don’t know what is. I look at Ryan and say, “Well, okay we tried. Maybe we should go to the mall and look for a cute hat for me to wear in my next photo shoot (blog coming soon: “WTF, I’m nude modeling???”). I figured mentioning the next photo shoot would turn on my husband’s man switch, and he would forget all about the nipple piercing. Little did I estimate, the man switch was already on overdrive, with the idea of him seeing his wife with her nipples pierced.
Ryan, half way looks at me laughing, and says, “Not. That. Fast. Missy. Plus the piercer is a girl!”
That’s true, I think. I love the idea of the piercer being another woman, but that doesn’t alleviate the fear of pain. Ryan walks up to the counter and asks the receptionist, “Don’t we have to fill out the paperwork?” He is a smarty for sure. He was reeling me in, knowing that once I give up my information and signature, I’m staying put. He brings me back the forms with a pen, and whispers, “Try to relax.” He rubs my back softly and continues, “Did you hear that though? The piercer is a girl, she will take care of you.”
I nod and fill out the forms. When I’m through, I walk up to the counter and hand the receptionist the sheets of paper and she stares at it for a few seconds before giving me a look of constipation.
“I’m sorry,” she tells me. “I had you fill out the wrong form.”
That’s it! I tell myself. Another sign! I look over at Ryan and he immediately grabs the new forms. “Go over and sit down baby, I will fill these out for you.”
I begrudgingly walk back to my seat. I know I’m just nervous. I’m worried about my nipples becoming numb after the piercings, which is going to suck because I like for my husband to play with them during sex. I’m worried about suddenly becoming an uncontrollable hemophiliac and bleeding all over the place.
I sit in the waiting area and wait for the piercer to arrive. The walls are filled with local artists’ paintings and drawings. I like that. The candy machines are half empty (or half full) and I wonder if they’ll fill them up soon. A lady with hair dyed black spiked bracelets pulls up in the parking lot. I hope it’s not her because she looks like she’s 14, and today is NOT the day I want to be someone’s “first customer.” A third sign! She comes in and the Ms. You-Filled-Out-the-Wrong-Form says to her, “Hey, how you doin’? Can I help you?” Thank goodness.
Soon I hear another voice from a lady behind the counter ask, “You ready, sweetie?” I looked up, and saw my piercer was a cute little woman, with a southern accent, not quite what I was expecting. She had no visible tattoos or excessive piercings other than a tiny diamond nose ring. I follow her to a little cubby of a room with black curtains held together by two pins. I sit on the examining table and set my purse and jacket to the side. She starts to talk about how to take care of my piercings, what to expect the first few hours, days, weeks, etc. She lays out all the tools she needs and explains what each one does. She’s a tiny little thing about six inches shorter than me, but she is confident in what she says and does. And that makes me a little less nervous.
She tells me to take off my top and bra so she can clean and mark me. I sit up and relax both my arms to my side so she can get a straight line. She uses a purple marking pen and marks under my nipple (not through it as I originally thought), into what feels more like a more “meaty” area. I look in the full length mirror behind me and point to my left nipple and tell her, “The mark on this side is not straight.”
“No problem,” she says and brings a Q-Tip to my right nipple to re-do the line.
I panic. “Wait!” She freezes. “Wrong side.”
“Sorry about that.”
A fourth sign?! It’s not too late to back out! But I don’t.
I lay on the table and she tells me she’s only putting the forceps on my nipples, which she suggests may hurt more than the actual piercing. I find out soon enough that this is a fucking lie. “Try not to jerk up into this hand; this is my piercing hand.” I put both my hands under my butt.
I don’t hear a countdown or a “1, 2, 3.” She may have said it, but the electricity that ran from the nape of my neck to my feet probably drowned out the screaming I was doing in my head. This was not like getting your tongue pierced where you feel a quick pierce followed by a dull pain that subsides over the course of a minute or so. No, no. The pain of the initial pierce pain remained for well over five minutes. In fact, by the time my second nipple was pierced, the overlapping pain that coursed through my entire body paralyzed me.
Ryan is taking pictures the entire time, and I guess the stoic look on my face with absolutely no blinking, no moving, no breathing, no sound, he asks, trying to hold his laughter in but FAILING, “Are you okay?”
“…shhhh…” I whisper in pain. I want to be still. I want to close my eyes and rest. This must be what it feels like to be dying.
Ryan says, “Oh baby, look how good it looks.”
I respond with, ‘I cannot see.” The pain has blinded me and I couldn’t move my head down to look at my chest.
Hysterical blindness causes patients to suffer apparently neurological symptoms, such as numbness, blindness, paralysis, or fits, but without a neurological cause.
The piercer reassures me I’m not bleeding, which is a good thing. I sit up as quickly as I can because I don’t want to look like a wuss. She goes over the aftercare instructions and answers any last questions I have. After my husband leaves the room, she tells me, “Once you’re fully healed, they’re going to feel really good – trust me.” She points to both of her own boobs. We smile devilishly.