March 15, 2004

Pretend you don’t want to do it and come up with endless excuses delaying the inevitable, none of them too convincing. She will look at you imploringly, and persuade you to arm wrestle with her — if you lose you have to do what she asks.

You lose. She smiles relieved and tells you to get your nipples rested for Monday.

On Sunday afternoon you let out a deep sigh of relief when you realize that most reputable piercing parlours are closed Mondays. But she’s persistent, and makes arrangements at Stray Katz Tattoos, the only place that’s open.

This gives you 24 hours to worry about the piercing. Sometimes piercings are rejected by the body, and you always dreaded rejection, especially when it involves a metal ring eating its way through your nipple.

Talking to your friends is not too reassuring, either.

“Piercings tend to get caught in the other person’s hair while doing … stuff.” Chris tell you. “It’s hard to laugh it off.”

Talking to Jackson doesn’t ease your anxiety either. He is the most fantastically tattooed man you know and his piercings are profound. You’re secretly in awe of him. He used to be a piercer before he became an academic, and asks to see your nipples. You lift your shirt, and he pinches them gently to get them erect, apologizing for doing so.

“Your nipples are very small,” he says. “I’d hesitate to pierce nipples like yours.”

You too would hesitate to pierce nipples like yours. But it’s too late to turn back when she shows up with a friend to take you to the piercing parlour.

You walk briskly — it’s cold outside and you just want to get it over with. You also hope that they won’t be able to keep up with you, and by the time you turn the corner her friend is already out of breath.

A newspaper photographer joins your procession, and you arrive at the parlour before you know it. A large sign welcomes you as soon as you enter the store. “CASH ONLY. PAY IN ADVANCE and it’s going to be less likely we’ll make mistakes. We don’t pierce cocks or balls.”

You feel better instantly — this place has some standards! The owner’s abrupt style also inspires confidence. You tell him what you want.

“I have small nipples,” you add, lifting up your shirt.

He assures you there’ll be no problem and after finishing talking on the phone he takes you in the back room with the photographer. He’s surprised when he finds out you’re working on a story.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say this beforehand?” he asks. You fumble with your words.

“Usually you ask people before you take their fucking picture,” he says.

“He’s here to take my picture,” you explain. “You don’t have to be in it. If you mind we won’t take any pictures.”

“I don’t fucking mind,” he replies, “you only live once, you might as well be an asshole.”

He starts preparing his instruments.

“What gage are you using?”

“14 gage. I could give you a zero gage but I’d have to use a 22 calibre.”

Everything is happening too fast. He tells you to stand straight up as he marks the place where the needle will go in.

“Of course it hurts,” He reassures you. “It’s supposed to — don’t let anyone say otherwise.”

Somehow, you don’t find honesty too reassuring. You want him to lie.

“Feel any pain yet?” He asks as he readies the clamp that will hold your nipple in place. “If not I can kick you in the shins.”

He tells you that the clamp is probably the most painful part as he roughly constricts your nipple. You think he’s right until the needle goes through your skin.

There is no jolt of erotic pleasure, just unadulterated pain. The searing sensation beneath your skin feels like an itch you can’t quite scratch. You’re still standing, white as a ghost, trying to explain the itch.

“You mean it hurts,” he says. “An itch is what you get in your ass when you want to scratch it. If your ass hurts you’re doing something you shouldn’t.”

He sees you’re livid and disoriented and asks you to sit in a chair by the TV. You’re profoundly aware of your nipple and the burning sensation inside.

“I don’t want you to stumble out of here and fall on your face. See what happens when you keep falling on your face?” He asks pointing to his nose.

“I got mine done in the 1980’s when they didn’t have all this stuff. I was leaning against the bar and my friend grabbed a needle and jabbed it into my nipple. I sobered up pretty quickly.”

He’s trying to be amusing, but you are just hurting. And you also want to know how to make the wound in your chest go away.

“Wash your fucking hands before you touch it,” He says, explaining how to wash the nipple by twisting the ring.

You pay him $34.98 on the way out, and he writes you a card with the balms you should buy — it reads like poetry.

“When you whoopi — you know what whoopi is, yeah, yeah, the good stuff — put a Band-Aid on it,” he says.

You’ll stumble out of the store and she’ll grab your arm happily. For a moment you forget your pain — she’s better than medicine. Her arm in yours, you wonder whether all this craziness is for her.

Once home, you take two aspirins to numb the pain and step into the shower for a half-hour of agony as you wash your ring.

That’s what you get for piercing your nipple.

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