Saturday, January 29, 2005
PUTA MADRE!
"Are you ready?", he said, as I placed myself bare-assed on the big chair in front of him, one leg dangling off of each side of it, my shoes barely touching the floor. If the chair would have had elevated leg rests, I would have felt like I was in a doctor's office, for my harmless bi-annual pap. No leg rests here, though. Instead Mike: a heavily pierced and tattooed guy with a split tongue, sterile latex gloves, and a number of scary looking instruments on a small table beside him. I avoided looking at them. I looked at The Fiancé instead, who stood next to me, looking a little bit lost, and offering his hand for me to squeeze, which I could stand doing for the better part of maybe 2 seconds, before my attention focused back onto myself. I smiled insecurely into Mike's direction, and gave a little shrug.
"As ready as one can be, huh?", he smiled. "Yeah.", I said, sparkling with wit. I took a deep breath.
Latex-clad fingers examining my clit hood thoroughly, flipping it inside out and back, measuring it, making little blue felt-pen marks here and there. The flipping, oh the flipping... my heartbeat must have accelerated to 180 already then, and every muscle in my body tensed, only barely kept from squirming. There is nothing more uncomfortable to me than exposing my clit from under its secure fleshy roof, and by the time he touched it directly with a desinfecting q-tip I was ready to bolt out of there. A q-tip! What, then, would a needle do to me? I sucked my breath in hard and tried to relax. And sure enough, soon after I was explained on how the clamps that would soon be used on me to hold the skin in place would be the thing that would bother me most in the whole process - and on they went, and adjusted they were, and then readjusted. That's supposed to be bad? The worst? Okay... relief started to shyly approach my chaotic set of present emotions, and I looked up at The Fiancé again, smiling in a way that I hoped would look reassuring.
Reassuring whom, anyway? He, for his part, was busy focusing on Mike handling my most private parts, and... was there a slight grin on his face?
I didn't have time to find out, however, as I caught the first glimpse of the torture device: the 14 gauge needle, with some sort of clear jelly on it. My heart was about to burst in my chest, and I felt the onset of a slight tremor going through my body. Why was I doing this, again?
"Okay... when I tell you to, take a very deep breath and hold it until I tell you to let it go... ready?"
"Mmmhpmmpf." There, wit again.
"Okay... take a deep breath now."
I filled my lungs to the rim. Determined not to make one peep, to take it like a woman. Oh, I was so brave. I'll show them all! *thumps chest*
"Ok... let it out!"
And out it went. And in the needle went. And doomed to 6-8 weeks of total sexual abstinence I was. And away all thoughts of determination went. I yelped, jerked forward, decided on some subconscious level and within the same millisecond that out of all languages I know Spanish would probably be the best one to display my intense displeasure, and gave a heartfelt:
"PUTA MADRE!!!"*
Mike let go of me, The Fiancé stared at me... and then Mike inquired as to the nature of the language I just cursed in, in relation to the accent he previously heard me speak with.
"Spanish...", from a flabbergasted Fiancé.
Then the tension dropped off of me like a heavy weight, and hysterical giggling got the best of me, and I giggled something about how I don't even speak Spanish, but German, cut short by when I looked down on myself and saw that thick needle still wedged into my hood, decorated by a few drops of blood on the paper towel beneath it. And I didn't feel a thing! Of course that changed the second the needle went out, and the jewelry went in. You'd think it can't get any worse than getting a sharp needle stuck through your clit hood? Think again. Now the squirming and trembling really began, and when Mike asked me about what made me want to get an HCH done in the first place, I was so nervous and concentrating on not screaming, that all I could come up with in the spur of the moment was the lamest thing anyone could ever say when it comes to body modification and the reasons thereof:
"Because I think they are really pretty."
And while it is true, at the same time it couldn't be further from the truth. I did not get my HCH done simply because I think they are pretty. I have very specific reasons... and most of them are revolving around the fact that I can finally admit to and openly live out my bisexuality without trying to be what I am not, or fitting into a mold that wasn't made for me. I have redefined myself, and re-set my boundaries, and I am feeling very good about it. In fact, I am now feeling better about myself than I ever have in my life before, and what better way to celebrate this than to decorate the very part of me that this revolution of self revolves around, and therefore accentuating and showing off its importance to me?
But come on... this is a rather hard speech to give while someone is busy squeezing a piece of jewelry through a fresh puncture wound in your privates... lol.
After that we had a party to show up to. The adrenaline and the endorphines running rampant through my system put me into a weird state of mellow hyped-up-ness, which turned the drive from Hollywood to Glendale into a potential treacherous death trap, not unsimilar to driving under the influence of pot. Interestingly enough though I was in no pain whatsoever for the rest of the evening and night, and even today all I can feel is a slight soreness that is nowhere near "pain". I have been in much worse conditions after nights of relentless fucking, I can tell you that. Of course, cleaning it is an entire different story, and I am not looking forward to doing that again. :/
Needless to say, I can't walk by a mirror anymore without pulling my pants down and admiring myself (- much to The Fiancé's delight, of course). I am really proud of myself for having gone through with it and not having chickened out. And from now on, squeezing my thighs together and feeling the ring there between my legs shall always remind me of who I am, and why I took this step in the first place.
* "Motherfucker!!!"
"As ready as one can be, huh?", he smiled. "Yeah.", I said, sparkling with wit. I took a deep breath.
Latex-clad fingers examining my clit hood thoroughly, flipping it inside out and back, measuring it, making little blue felt-pen marks here and there. The flipping, oh the flipping... my heartbeat must have accelerated to 180 already then, and every muscle in my body tensed, only barely kept from squirming. There is nothing more uncomfortable to me than exposing my clit from under its secure fleshy roof, and by the time he touched it directly with a desinfecting q-tip I was ready to bolt out of there. A q-tip! What, then, would a needle do to me? I sucked my breath in hard and tried to relax. And sure enough, soon after I was explained on how the clamps that would soon be used on me to hold the skin in place would be the thing that would bother me most in the whole process - and on they went, and adjusted they were, and then readjusted. That's supposed to be bad? The worst? Okay... relief started to shyly approach my chaotic set of present emotions, and I looked up at The Fiancé again, smiling in a way that I hoped would look reassuring.
Reassuring whom, anyway? He, for his part, was busy focusing on Mike handling my most private parts, and... was there a slight grin on his face?
I didn't have time to find out, however, as I caught the first glimpse of the torture device: the 14 gauge needle, with some sort of clear jelly on it. My heart was about to burst in my chest, and I felt the onset of a slight tremor going through my body. Why was I doing this, again?
"Okay... when I tell you to, take a very deep breath and hold it until I tell you to let it go... ready?"
"Mmmhpmmpf." There, wit again.
"Okay... take a deep breath now."
I filled my lungs to the rim. Determined not to make one peep, to take it like a woman. Oh, I was so brave. I'll show them all! *thumps chest*
"Ok... let it out!"
And out it went. And in the needle went. And doomed to 6-8 weeks of total sexual abstinence I was. And away all thoughts of determination went. I yelped, jerked forward, decided on some subconscious level and within the same millisecond that out of all languages I know Spanish would probably be the best one to display my intense displeasure, and gave a heartfelt:
"PUTA MADRE!!!"*
Mike let go of me, The Fiancé stared at me... and then Mike inquired as to the nature of the language I just cursed in, in relation to the accent he previously heard me speak with.
"Spanish...", from a flabbergasted Fiancé.
Then the tension dropped off of me like a heavy weight, and hysterical giggling got the best of me, and I giggled something about how I don't even speak Spanish, but German, cut short by when I looked down on myself and saw that thick needle still wedged into my hood, decorated by a few drops of blood on the paper towel beneath it. And I didn't feel a thing! Of course that changed the second the needle went out, and the jewelry went in. You'd think it can't get any worse than getting a sharp needle stuck through your clit hood? Think again. Now the squirming and trembling really began, and when Mike asked me about what made me want to get an HCH done in the first place, I was so nervous and concentrating on not screaming, that all I could come up with in the spur of the moment was the lamest thing anyone could ever say when it comes to body modification and the reasons thereof:
"Because I think they are really pretty."
And while it is true, at the same time it couldn't be further from the truth. I did not get my HCH done simply because I think they are pretty. I have very specific reasons... and most of them are revolving around the fact that I can finally admit to and openly live out my bisexuality without trying to be what I am not, or fitting into a mold that wasn't made for me. I have redefined myself, and re-set my boundaries, and I am feeling very good about it. In fact, I am now feeling better about myself than I ever have in my life before, and what better way to celebrate this than to decorate the very part of me that this revolution of self revolves around, and therefore accentuating and showing off its importance to me?
But come on... this is a rather hard speech to give while someone is busy squeezing a piece of jewelry through a fresh puncture wound in your privates... lol.
After that we had a party to show up to. The adrenaline and the endorphines running rampant through my system put me into a weird state of mellow hyped-up-ness, which turned the drive from Hollywood to Glendale into a potential treacherous death trap, not unsimilar to driving under the influence of pot. Interestingly enough though I was in no pain whatsoever for the rest of the evening and night, and even today all I can feel is a slight soreness that is nowhere near "pain". I have been in much worse conditions after nights of relentless fucking, I can tell you that. Of course, cleaning it is an entire different story, and I am not looking forward to doing that again. :/
Needless to say, I can't walk by a mirror anymore without pulling my pants down and admiring myself (- much to The Fiancé's delight, of course). I am really proud of myself for having gone through with it and not having chickened out. And from now on, squeezing my thighs together and feeling the ring there between my legs shall always remind me of who I am, and why I took this step in the first place.
* "Motherfucker!!!"
