There were several surprises to it. The first was the clamo. My tits 
are pretty small, so it took some effort for Mark, the man who pierced 
me, to get enough skin up into the clamp.  ("They're so tiny, you 
should bite them more," he said to my partner. "Yes dear," she said 
back, which gave him a good laugh.)

>From my viewpoint, it was like one of those patient's eye view shots 
where the doctors are bent over. It was like he was rooting around, 
trying to lift up the sod and look at the dirt below, an odd sensation 
to experience in something I always thought of as flat.

Tightening the clamp was the second surprise. It didn't hurt as much as 
I thought it would. I gasped, but remembered to keep breathing. On the 
way there, I had practiced breathing and distributing sensation, waking 
up every part of my body so that no feeling and no fear was 
concentrated any one place. So when the clamp was tightened I regained 
my breathing and exhaled slowly, imagining the pain run through my 
body, to my legs, feet, stomach, chest, arms.

Mark reached behind himself for the cork and needle, then asked how it 
felt as he leaned back over me. He said he would do it on a count of 
three. His hands surrounded my left tit, his thumbs flat against my 
ribs, his fingers holding  the cork and needle against my skin. Mark 
was smiling, nice to see someone enjoy his work. My partner Jane and 
two of our friends watched. I think it was more traumatic to watch than 
to have done. (I wish we had brought a camera, though).

On one, I inhaled; on two, I held my breath; on three, I exhaled and he 
shoved a 14 gauge needle through my tit.

There was a rending feeling, it definitely felt like a veil had been 
torn. And there was an almost inaudible sound to it, of something 
roaring through a tunnel far underground. Maybe this was synesthesia 
brought on to avoid screaming. Once it was in, I blinked, relaxed and 
looked at the ceiling. "I'm still me," I thought. Lately I'm surprised 
by how much I can change with the core still remaining essentially the 
same; both how malleable and how inflexible I am. In the words of the 
Chinese proverb, "I am moving all day and not moving at all. I am like 
the moon under the waves that ever go rolling."

When he removed the clamp, it rubbed against the needle briefly.  
Another odd sensation: Like stroking a piano wire to set up a vibration.

Then Mark said he was going to put the ring on the needle, which 
brought on another surprising feeling: a large steel needle wiggling in 
my tit. I looked down to see the needle sticking through both ends of 
my nipple, and stuck on the right end the ring that would be left 
behind, twisted into a semispiral to get through the nipple hole. There 
was Vaseline or some lubricant gooped all around, but no blood that I 
could see.

The continued sensation there was starting to wear me out. Probably the 
last couple things were, overall, less traumatic than the actual 
piercing, but because it kept on happening the pain was starting to 
seep in a little more. As Mark made his final adjustments, I had to 
clench and release my breathing, grasp my partners hand.

The needle was withdrawn and the ring pulled through; then the ring was 
straightened out and the bead (a tiger's eye) affixed. Seven major 
shocks, all together. That's not too many.

I did this for a lot of reasons. For the transformation, thinking that 
I would feel empowered for being able to prove to myself that I could 
withstand this shock. To recognize a developing change in my sexuality. 
To be a boot through another doorway in my life. But whatever the 
reason, it's still up to me to act on the transformation, empowerment, 
recognition; still up to me to step through the doorway.

It continues to shock me. Not the pain, but seeing it there. When I got 
my tattoo, I owned it and enjoyed it as soon as the outline stencil was 
put on my arm. But the nipple ring is different. I've thought I didn't 
deserve it for some reason. (Kind of scary, because the things I 
usually think I "deserve" are things I envy.) A couple time I've wanted 
to pull it out. On the other hand, I like the way it shapes my breast.

In fact, far from feeling macho for having my tit poked, I feel 
effeminized for having paid attention to THAT part of my body in THAT 
way. For spreading my sensations from hands and feet, penis and lips to 
a place where men aren't "supposed" to feel. The aftercare (cleaning to 
keep it from getting infected and to have it heal properly) requires 
basically that I fondly my left breast a couple times a day, something 
men don't normally do (well, het-identified men, at least). But I 
*like* the feeling, and the first time I cleaned it in the shower, when 
I touched it in some way that felt like it reached out and gripped my 
spine, I said "Oh, that's why they do this."

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Minifictions 11: "On Getting Pierced" (May, 1993)

This has appeared in the following zines: Fucktooth, Farm Pulp, Spent 
Brass, Pinto, and others.

By:
Luke McGuff

For more information on Minifictions series, or to get a hardcopy of 
this zine for two 29 cent stamps, write to:

Makeupaname Press
P.O. Box 31848
Seattle, WA 98103

Copyleftt, 1993. Reproduction/redistribution/reforwarding  permitted. 
(please keep everything above intact).