Claw is Wink’s erotica section …Here you will find mature content with a dark side… Enter at your own risk! over 18 please*
Misadventures In Body Piercing
-By Preston Peet
“Free piercing with every pair of ear rings,” said the sign outside the garish store in Sarasota Square Mall. As yet a virgin when it came to piercing, I’d been long intrigued by the idea of wearing jewelry stuck through my flesh. “If I’m paying for a pair of ear rings, I should get two holes, no?” I asked the sales girl. It was 1987 and I was seventeen living on my own in conservative Sarasota, Florida. It was inevitable that I never heard the end of commentary from the many red necks and small town people surrounding me daily. “Why you got them two ear rings boy? That’s the wrong ear too, the right ear pierced means you’re gay.” I could only laugh in response, and plan on moving away as soon as I could afford to do so.
A few months passed, until ten days after my eighteenth birthday, I moved to Paris, France, where upon meeting many goths and punk rockers (a seriously lacking lifestyle in my hometown), I knew I had to pierce my nose. Taking a piercing post one morning in my apartment in the 13th arrondissement, the type of stud generally used in a piercing gun, I twisted the point into the flesh of my nostril until I got the post to stay embedded, then put thumb up nose and pressed finger and thumb together on each end of the post. The resulting stabbing of my thumb hurt more than my newly pierced nose. “You’re never going to get a real woman with that thing in your nose,” my then-roommate told me upon arriving home that night from work. To show how little I cared about his opinion, and to satisfy my own desire, I did it again, giving myself a second nose ring within days.
Then came the obligatory experiments with safety pin piercing, giving myself a series of holes up each ear. Ice, often used by folk to help numb their ears never did anything but add to any discomfort I might experience, so I would simply shove the pins through and leave them in until the holes healed.
It never ceases to amaze me how many things I’ve said I’ll never do over the years, like try LSD, use needles to mainline hard drugs, or more to the point, get this or that part of my body pierced, just to find myself not only eventually doing exactly that, but doing a lot of it. I swore for a long time I was never getting my nipples pierced, but as soon as the first opportunity presented itself, living back in Florida, I leapt at the chance for a nipple ring.
Of course, being cheap, I got what I paid for. Being the “piercer’s” second nipple piercee ever, the first victim still hanging about in the little hippy shop behind my ramshackle home on the wrong side of the tracks in Ybor City when I sat down for my turn under the piercing gun, it was both a surprisingly painless operation but slightly awkward piercing. She kept grabbing my nipple with her fingernails and pulling it through the space in the gun so she could shoot the post through, taking a few tries before finally getting a good enough grip for my nipple to remain targeted long enough to fire the post. In the end though, I was the happy owner of a new nipple piercing, once I’d managed, with some difficulty, to pry the back of the post off the stud, as it was causing serious discomfort.
My second nipple piercing was done with a real needle by a professional piercer, and was incredibly painless. So when a chance arose when a girlfriend was herself getting her nipples pierced and made no complaint during the process, I decided what the hell, a second ring under the first, somewhat off center ring already in my left nipple would be cool. If my girl could take it through both her nipples without concern, I certainly could too. That piercing was my most painful piercing ever. The tattooist/piercer clamped my nipple, then shoved in the 14 gauge needle. I make no bones about it, I got very vocal about how much it hurt. I was in so much pain, I remember thinking to myself, “if this guy takes the needle out for any reason I’m not letting him continue,” while he was busy pulling the needle out and greasing it up to help it get through the flesh. I never felt him remove the thing, only when he reinserted it did I become aware. Still, after lying there recovering for a bit, I was satisfied with the third nipple ring now hanging from my chest, though promising myself that was the last nipple piercing I was ever getting done.
Soon fleeing cop land Florida for cop land Atlanta, I moved in with a roommate who’d just acquired her own piercing gun. Another place I’d sworn up and down I’d never get pierced was my penis. But I realized, when hearing about the new, as yet unused gun, that I’d never actually said I’d never pierce it myself. Therefore, to commemorate my move to Atlanta and a fresh start, I decided immediately that a dydoe piercing was not only possible using a gun, so long as I didn’t use the back of the post, but that it was a great idea.
Taking the gun and a marker into the bathroom, I very carefully inked a spot on the side of my head, and lined up the gun to give myself this new groovy piercing. I couldn’t press the damned trigger. I continued to line it up, try to fire, then would remove the gun again to breathe and give myself more prep talk. Then came the moment where I was lined up yet again, trying to pull that damned trigger and feeling unable to go through with it, when “snap.” I’d applied just enough pressure for the gun to shoot the stud through and that was that, a shiny new piece of jewelry through the side of the head of my penis. While definitely high from the endorphins, it was again, a surprisingly painless procedure, with no bleeding whatsoever.
I soon met and fell head over heels for the gorgeous young Jennifer, who, living just up the street from me in Atlanta, was into the same sorts of interests I was, and am: dark, heavy music, collecting as many illicit molecules as possible, strange and interesting experiments with sex, blood and magick, and tattoos and piercings. Beyond being the catalyst for our picking up needles to poke as many holes in ourselves for other reasons besides piercing, her desire for a hood piercing lead to my own interest in going ahead with a recently contemplated Prince Albert piercing as well.
Asking our Satanist dope connection Karen if she knew of a good piercer, thinking it a good idea considering the huge number of holes she herself had everywhere, we were turned on to a self-styled warlock who made his own jewelry and had done many of Karen’s piercings. On Jennifer’s birthday, in the dead of winter, we made our way to his home, a huge, dilapidated Victorian manor near Little Five Points. As it was Jennifer’s birthday, I’d bought us a bunch of mescaline tabs, a couple of which we ate in the car on our way over to see the guy, then Jennifer placed the rest, about eight tabs, in her poison ring. By the time the piercer was ready to shove the needle through her clitoris hood, she and I both were tripping out of our gourds. Luckily for Jennifer, the mescaline we split between us, the piercer, his girlfriend and their roommate had not yet taken effect, so he was able to do what appeared to be a very good job on her, leaving her very happy with the ring resting gently on her clit. Then she for some reason got up to wash her hands, not remembering all the mescaline still in her ring until after she’s completely soaked it all into mush within the ring. Thinking that it must have been seriously diluted, we split up the goop between ourselves and the others in the house. This lead eventually to such behavior as the piercer and his roommate waging a sword fight with real swords in the living room, inches from our heads. That in turn lead to our watching our first ever private stitching job, the piercer using a quarter to push a sewing needle and thread through the severe gash to the bone sliced during said sword fight into the roommate’s thumb.
Ordering a Prince Albert ring from him that same day, it took just a few more days of waiting to get the call from him, letting me know the ring was ready. “Come on over please, let’s do this,” I told him. He didn’t tell me until he arrived that while the ring itself was ready, he didn’t actually have a ball ready to close it yet. After all my anticipation, I told him to go ahead anyway, we could always put the ball on later. Lying down on my back on the floor, he pushed a q-tip into my urethra, then lanced the flesh and pulled the 12 gauge ring through and out the front of my head. While I won’t deny it hurt, it was nothing compared to the next step in the process. Answering the phone a few days later, he told me to come on over, that the ball was ready. “But I don’t have the right tool to open the ring, so bring some pliers,” he told me. Ok, no problem, I had pliers, so brought them along when Jennifer and I drive over. Upon arrival, it turned out he himself didn’t even have pliers, he only had a set of wire cutters. We wrapped duct tape around and around the blades of the cutters to dull their edge. I would not allow him to do the prying open of the ring, understandably nervous at this extremely unprofessional operation. But the idiocy of using these tools didn’t stop me from making a go of it. Grasping the ring with the cutters in right hand, the pliers in left, I began to try and pry open the ring just enough to get the ball into the gap in the ring. Suddenly, the pliers slipped and flew off to the left, while the cutter blades dug deeply into the ring through the duct tape, so I yanked as hard as I could on the ring embedded in the flesh of my poor, still tender member. Directly onto the floor I dropped, my legs instantly giving out from the shock. Blood was flowing copiously from the head of my dick, and I was sure I’d done serious, permanent damage to myself. When I was finally able to gather my wits and examine myself, I found the damage to be minimal, at least to my own body. The ring though had two deep, razor sharp gouges cut into one edge which I had to file down with a metal nail file to avoid filleting myself. I ended up wearing that open Prince Albert and having sex with it for months, before finally getting up the nerve to visit a professional piercer who had the proper tools, who put in a ball and closed the ring in mere seconds, once I finally visited him.
Working up the nerve to allow some stranger to handle my Prince Albert took me a good eight months, time spent having sex with Jennifer constantly, leading to awkward and at times painful situations with the open ring. While tripping on early morning, her ring has come open during sex. The warlock piercer had used a tiny ring, ball attacked to but one end, and has piercer her hood at way to shallow a point.
As she was preparing to reinsert the ring, me, while tripping very hard, asked if I could have the pleasure. Agreeing, she lay back upon the sofa, and I starting running the ring through the hole in the flesh of her hood. She at one point felt a tug, and tripping, reacted without thought, pulling her pussy away from me, my hand and the fingers still clutching her ring. Rip went the ring, and SHRIEK went Jennifer, as the jewelry remained tightly clutched in my fingers as her ring pulled completely through the flesh of her hood, spraying blood and basically putting a real downer mood on the rest of the trip. Trying to enjoy LSD with the feelings of deep regret and sorrow at having contributed to such pain for her, sucked. I would have preferred not having ripped out her beautiful piercing.
It took her just three days to locate another piercer, who came to our home on South Boulevard, directly across the street from Grant Park and the Atlanta Zoo. He re-pierced her still healing hood with a slightly larger gauge, more deeply within the hood, closer still to her clitoris underneath. That piercing went smoothly and without any stress whatsoever, but she was still left with a small scar on her hood from where the original ring was ripped out.
Karma might not be always instant, but does get me most every time. If she’s not pulled away, I’d never have torn out the ring. A week after that unpleasant experience (as sexy as blood can be, that wasn’t one of those times), we were, while once again tripping brains to the walls, having sex at a very fragile time. My open Prince Albert jewelry slipped into a position where the open ends caught the tendon running up the bottom of my shaft and ripped right through a piece of it, leaving me with a scar exactly matching Jennifer’s new scar acquisition.
It was while living in Atlanta that I first found and read the seminal book from ReSearch, Modern Primitives. Buried in that brilliant collection of articles, interviews, and more about a vast number of freaks, musicians and artists, and other outsiders, such as Fakir Musafar (“the original Modern Primitive” as Scott Treleaven wrote in his article “Modern Primitives” for disinfo.com), I discovered both Psychic TV and the Temple of Psychic Youth. In an article describing what their goals were in the numerous musical and art projects they’d both been involved with over the years (COUM Transmissions, Throbbing Gristle, PTV) there were a variety of photos of Genesis P-Orridge, and his then Paula P-Orridge wife proudly showing off their many tattoos and more interestingly for me, their piercings. In that article, I discovered one of the first professional piercers, the London artist Mr. Sebastian (Alan Oversby- b. Feb. 20, 1933, d. May 8, 1996- R.I.P.), who did many if not most of the P-Orridge’s piercings. When Jennifer and I decided to leave Atlanta for an indefinite stay in Europe, we had two missions we wanted to accomplish. First was to meet and hang out with Genesis and PTV, and the second was to get pierced by Mr. Sebastian.
Ending up living six months together in Rotterdam, where we both got hooked on strong, brown Asian heroin, she eventually sort of cleaned up, or at least got her habit to a manageable level. I went the other way, working diligently on getting yet more strung out instead. This lead to a heartbreaking separation and serious change in my life’s path. We broke up New Year’s morning and I left with a shoulder bag and nothing else. I ended up fleeing to Amsterdam with the intent purpose of losing myself there, getting as Amsterdamned as I could manage. I went New Years day with no passport, no money, no friends in Amsterdam and no guitar to even busk with. Of course, after convincing my ‘rents to send me a money order for $300 upon arriving, the first thing I did was immediately visit the one piercing store I knew of in old Amsterdam, near the train station, and pay a good $100 bucks to get my tongue pierced. I’m a firm believer in using piercings, and these days tattoos even more so, to mark the changes on the spiral path of my life I make every so often, the ones that lead off in totally new directions, into suddenly, completely new possible futures.
The Netherlands has plus in terms of my lifestyle. An avid smoker or herbs and hashish, and psychonaut of the first order, as well as there being plenty of heroin for someone like me, with my rewired brain, it seemed a good place to be. In terms of our two missions, since breaking up mine alone, I wasn’t going to meet either PTV or Mr. Sebastian living in Amsterdam. By this time I had obtained a guitar so didn’t have to spange but could offer something in the return for the money I was seeking on the freezing winter streets and alleys of Amsterdam. So when Emma Speed, quickly a close friend, asked me if I could score horse while busking, I didn’t hesitate. Emma eventually invited me to come to London where I could perhaps get back on my feet. I cheerfully accepted her kind offer.
After being in London a few months, Emma and I were no longer an item, but still good friends. She was even inspired by all my piercings to go ahead and get her nipples done while we were together. I was still living in her father’s nice, big Kennington apartment, and busking in the Elephant and Castle pedestrian tunnels to make my money. One night I saw a gorgeous, extremely sexy gothed-out young woman walk past, with a long knot of dreadlocks, miniskirt and fishnets, the heels on her thigh high boots so tall I was amazed at how skillfully she was striding along.She was walking erotica to me. I spoke up, telling her how beautiful she was, and she turned and flashed me a big, bright smile. The beggar junkie sitting next to me then shouted out some crude comment or two at her, so she
instantly spun away without a second look back.
A mere week or so later, again busking in the same tunnel leading to and from Elephant and Castle, I spotted a pretty young woman walking past me, wearing a conservative blue skirt and white button up blouse, pretty but not particularly the type that usually draws my attention. Still, there was something about her, not just her looks but something familiar, that lead to my cheerfully saying hello as she passed. She gave me a smile but said nothing, continuing on towards Elephant and Castle and its numerous shops and groceries. Within twenty minutes I spotted her coming back my direction, a few bags of food in her hands. As she got to where I sat playing, I again said hello, and she stopped to reply. We spoke about pleasantries for a few minutes, until I asked if she’d care to smoke a bit of hashish with me.
“I don’t really want to smoke here, but if you’d like you could walk me home and we could smoke in peace,” she told me. I didn’t need a second invite. I was on my feet in a second, guitar strapped across my back and her grocery bags in my hands. We arrived at her apartment, where she handed me a photo book and told me she needed to change clothes, that she only looked like she did for her job. Off she went to change as I began perusing her photos. A page or two in, there were photos of the girl I’d seen a week or so earlier, the dream girl I’d instantly fallen in lust with. Turned out the dreads were a hair piece, but otherwise her piercings, tats and style were naturally hers. After smoking the joint I’d offered, the conversation quickly turned to my two missions while in London, meeting PTV and getting a piercing by Mr. Sebastian.
“PTV is no longer in the UK,” she told me, “they got kicked out of the country basically, or didn’t return to avoid prosecution, something like that. That said, I’m very good friends with Mr. Sebastian. Would you like me to give him a call and see if I can get you in to see him?”
“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “If you’re serious, please, call him immediately, thanks.” She dug out her little black book, and sure enough, on page one, there was the private number for Mr. Sebastian. Mr. Sebastian answered the phone personally, so my new friend Suzi told her about her new friend, me, who had this years long desire to get pierced by him. “What sort of piercing do you want?” she asked me upon his inquiry over the phone. “Oh, please tell him I want an apadravya, no question.” After discovering I already had multiple piercings, particularly a Prince Albert, not only was Mr. Sebastian completely agreeable to giving me the piercing, but also was willing to give me a good price, and to give me an appointment three days later, skipping ahead of a three month waiting list of others waiting for their turn.
Arriving, we were greeted by one of the nicest, most laid back older gentleman I’ve yet had the pleasure of meeting. Wasting no time, he asked me to drop my pants and lie back on a padded table underneath some very bright lights. While I wasn’t expecting it, he pulled out a syringe and proceeded to inject the head of my penis with Novocain. I didn’t argue, figuring that first, he knew what he was doing, and if he felt I should use Novocain, who was I to argue. I was already extremely nervous about the pain, and admit the actual injection of the numbing agent hurt like a bitch. I lay there for a few minutes while he prepared his tools, and Suzi looked on in rapt attention. Mr. Sebastian then approached me with a pointed wooden kebab stick in his hand. I was stiff as board and was so incredibly tensed up as he prodded my penis with the pointed end. “Can you feel that?” I told him no, not even daring look down at my penis, so he did it again. “How about that?” he asked. Again I replied in the negative. “Well, take a look at what I’m doing,” so I finally looked down. There embedded in the flesh of my prick was this stick, with a thick, red rivulet of blood flowing down the side of the head, yet no pain, no sensation at all. Immediately I felt my body’s muscles relax, completely uncramp, leaving me without fear at all. The procedure went smoothly, with him shoving the needle into my urethra through the hole already there from the now removed Prince Albert, and out through the top of my head, like a tongue post, only through the meat of my cock. Though I felt no pain, Mr. Sebastian insisted I lay there for a good ten minutes before attempting to stand. I realized again he knew of what he spoke, as I did indeed feel dizzy even after the initial ten minutes rest, due to the endorphins coursing through my system. I felt high as a kite walking down the stairs, then through the city streets to the tube so I could return to Suzi’s.
Stupidly, we tried to experiment with the piercing that first night. Entering her was easy, but when she and I began to draw away from one another after that first gentle entrance, I grabbed a hold of her thighs so tightly I put fingerprints in her flesh. “Ouch, Holy Shit! Don’t MOVE!” I yelped. It took a few minutes of very slow, very careful movement to work myself back out of her. The lesson was painfully made clear it is a good idea to wait a while, allow such a piercing to heal a bit, before trying to have deeply satisfying sex. A little pain is one thing, but excruciating fire through the head of my cock is completely different.
This brings us to the end of my varied adventures and sometimes misadventures with piercings professionally done, but more often self-inflicted or done in extremely unprofessional settings. Other than for the two eyebrow piercings I once had, one that tore out while sleeping one night and the other growing out on its own, all my jewelry has remained in my body since inserted, other than for those few times when I was living in some county correctional “resort,” where the fascist guards would always insist I remove all rings and studs, as though I might use them as weapons or for escaping perhaps. Always worried I’d have trouble getting the jewelry back in, depending on the length serving on the correctional tit, I was always lucky that all holes remained open, even if at times I had to force a ring or three through holes that, while not closed, had shrunk.
Piercing for me is not and never was an addiction, as I’ve heard some describe both piercing and tattooing, but it most certainly has always appealed to my slightly masochistic nature. I never have felt the urge to pierce myself solely to experience pain, but have always simply accepted whatever pain may occur as part of the process of decorating and modifying my body. It’s the jewelry I’m after, not the brief but occasionally extreme pain. Perhaps not the best person to give such advice considering my own predilection for doing my own piercings, I would suggest you all visit pros when getting pierced, especially for serious genital piercings or nipple rings, simply for the relative ease and uncomplicated nature of the whole process. Otherwise, do as you will, have a lot of fun, but be safe and clean about it. I’ve seen some nasty infections in people who didn’t take care of their new piercings, or used incredibly dirty tools to poke holes in themselves (though I myself have always been very attentive to my holes, and never have suffered the infections I’ve seen in others). Be smart, but be inventive and explore. The benefits for me have long made all my piercings worth getting, and having, whether for simple aesthetics or for more utilitarian reasons.
http://prestonpeet.wordpress.com/, and can be reached at FB, http://www.facebook.com/preston.peet, or email@example.com. A strict anti-prohibitionist and proponent of legalizing ALL molecules without exception across the board, Preston works tirelessly to help educate people of the dire need to end the evil, destructive yet uber-profitable War on Some Drugs and Users.