When does body modification go to far? I've said before I don't mind scars and tattoos (and I don't, because each one has a story behind it that makes for an interesting tell), and I don't mind piercings, either. I'm an old hand at the tattoo game: I have six, and all of them I consider to be tasteful and neutral. With the exception of one, they really don't show, so I don't get a lot of strange looks from passers-by who have none.
My inventory:
- A crystal, moon, and scroll bearing my fraternity letters on my left shoulder blade.
- A bear paw on my right pectoral (actually a cover-up of a panther's head).
- The Chinese character for "believe" on my left pelvic bone (covered by most underwear choices).
- A large Maori pattern on my right thigh that reaches my onto my lower back and buttock (Google "Frederic Michalak tattoo").
- The Chinese character for "strength" on my upper right arm, with my daughter's name and birth date.
- A sleeve on my left arm stretching on to my left pectoral consisting of tribal banding (Google "Johnny Hazzard tattoo") and a Taurus symbol.
Anyone who has gotten a tattoo knows they're addictive and is always going for more. I always intended to stop at one, but doesn't look like that happened, does it?
Then we get to piercing. I, like most males growing up in the eighties, took the plunge and got my left ear pierced. (Dad was less than pleased.) I eventually ended up getting three in the left and one in the right, but only two in the left are currently open. I sport nice, generic, sterling silver hoops that snap shut, because they're the only earrings my fingers can accommodate. (There should be some kind of training class for the clasps that are found on earrings ... I'd love to wear "captured ball" hoops, but my fingers are way too big to screw those little f***ers in.)
Last November 30, I took the plunge and got my nipples pierced. It was something that was born out of something else, and I knew that if I didn't do it then, I never would. The guy who did the piercing (Tyler) was an expert and sported quite a bit of body art and jewelry himself (don't they all?), and I must have quizzed him into the ground about what I was getting into.
You see, what I was really trying to get up the nerve to do was a Prince Albert. Nice, big fat ring dangling from my equipment. Basically, my own door knocker. I'd seen pictures on the Internet; I'd even watched someone's YouTube posting of their procedure, and it looked easy. The guy didn't scream, cry out ... just a flinch at the magic moment, a wide-eyed look of surprise and done. (Keep in mind that the camera was always on his face. They mentioned that at the beginning, that there would be no photography of junk. I have to assume it was authentic, since it was done inside an actual business with rubber gloves, drapes and the whole business.) I had even read a hilarious chapter in Bob Smith's Openly Bob about a co-worker who flashed his piece for his buddies. So, based on my scanty research, I had determined that Prince Alberts looked really cool, were relatively pain-free with the exception of say, the first 48 hours, were incredibly erogenous (let's face it: the prime reason for getting one), and would heal more quickly than normal if I was responsive to diligent.
I was sold, although Tom had made it clear he'll divorce me and burn the remains if I get one. He doesn't want to be intimate with someone who has one. I hadn't thought about it from a partner's point of view, of course, because I was relying on everything I'd read, and was relying on the heightening of my pleasure. Tom put it into more basic terms: "There's going to be a heavy, metal ring knocking on my teeth. What if I lose a filling or chip a tooth?"
He had a point, so I had buried the desire to get a Prince Albert, secretly nursing it from time to time by discreetly asking friends and acquaintances (my tattoo artists, Dave and Brent), my massage therapist (Luke), and even Tyler himself if they had one. You mention a Prince Albert to guys and they have one of two reactions: they either smile proudly and grasp their junk with a satisfied smirk ... or, they gasp audibly and grasp their junk in an effort to block out imaginary pain identical to having bamboo shoved under the fingernails. (I'd say 0.1% of the former; 99.9% of the latter.)
Tyler, a professional whose job it is to keep both straight and gay men firmly anchored to Earth when it comes to expressing themselves while in their mid-life crises, calmly explained to me that a Prince Albert was something he would never do. "Unlike most pierces, this one never goes away. You're always gonna have a second hole in your urethra, for starters. And for another, it's prone to infection and takes forever to heal. It's only comfortable once it is healed, and that's different on everyone." He also leaned in to confide what I discovered would be the coup de grâce to my primitive male urges: "And you'll never pee standing up again. You have to sit all the time, or you dribble and spray."
Ouch.
Since this is the basic difference between men and women, it didn't seem like much of a sell to a prospective partner, having him walk nonchalantly into the bathroom to brush his teeth and find me plopped on the throne. I attempted a weak foray into re-taking my mental territory: "But the Internet said ..."
Tyler held up a hand. "You can't believe the Internet. Everyone's story is different. Every body and every piercing heals differently regardless of how hygienically it's done. I would never recommend a P.A. They're just not worth it."
Since Tyler was obviously not a man's man, my next comment could have been construed as a come-on. "What about my nips? Do you do those?" I lifted my sweatshirt, assuming he would need to do a visual inspection.
"Sure." We walked into the studio and he pointed out various gauges, explaining the process as he did so. Then came the clincher. "I normally do these at $50.00 a pair or $35.00 apiece, but it's slow today, so I'll do 'em both for thirty-five right now."
Tom loves a bargain. He is the Coupon Cutter Champion and although I'm not, I also enjoy a discount on certain things. Tom keeps hoping his love for getting groceries on sale will transfer to me lock, stock, and barrel, but it hasn't. However, Tyler had hit a soft spot, and apparently my face showed it. I couldn't back out now, I realized, or I would be showing how wishy-washy I could be. Quickly I ran the information through my head: two nipples, on sale, hygienic, easier to take care of, don't have to sit to pee.
"Sold."
And so began the most excruciating fifteen minutes of my life. I give Tyler a hand, because he's obviously a professional, but nothing prepares you for this. (Childbirth may be up there, but being a man, I can't be sure.) The most surreal thing I remember about the procedure wasn't the extremely tight D-clamps he latched onto the very tip of nipples and slightly twisting to get the positioning he needed, or the needle the size of a swizzle stick he jammed through the skin. It was the small knot of tattoo groupies sitting outside the open door of the piercing room, having a conversation while I was getting stuck, who weren't in the least bit dismayed about hearing my twin screams of, "Jesus Christ, motherf***er, son of a b****!" at the top of my lungs.
"Okay, you're done." Breathing heavily, I look down and sure enough, two matching rings of surgical stainless steel now adorn my nips. I might have been wrong, but I could swear I could see blood pulsing underneath the skin, which was red, extremely tight, and creepy-in-a-good-way painful.
I am now a piercing veteran. I have still debated getting a Prince Albert from time to time, horror stories and Tom's point-blank refusal of ever sleeping with me again notwithstanding. It still sounds fascinating to me, a throwback to the Victorian age when men were men, wearing twenty pounds of clothing - waistcoats, breeches, vests, top hats, the works. And although the pain of getting my nipples pierced has more than faded, I have to think about what would happen if I let a needle that size near my junk on purpose.
Then, I found the photo below, posted on our old friend the Internet, with the caption, "My underwear after I got my Prince Albert." And it has effectively put a (D-)clamp on any further desire for undergoing any more piercing. I mean, really - there are better and much more enjoyable ways to ruin a pair of underwear. So, when I think of to pierce or not to pierce, I think of this. If you're a guy who can do it, more power to you (and let me know how that works for you). For me, twinges of regret aside, I think I'll stick to what I have and finish my tattoo sleeve ... I am, after all, 44 years old, and anyone that would truly be interested in my having a Prince Albert would be young enough to be my son.
So, when you debate to pierce or not to pierce: keep this image in your head. And of having to sit down to pee with the ladies.
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