Summary
Ever wondered how painful it is to get your nipples pierced? Here's a long recap of my attempt to have a cool story for Valentine's Day, which resulted in the most painful 20 seconds of my life so far.
After my first breakup, I feared Valentine’s Day. But I expected to be watching Hugh Grant movies in the dark with my stuffed animals taking up half the bed as I ate my way through a pint of ice cream. What I did not expect was to be looking after fresh nipple piercings at the same time.
After breakups, maybe women feel obliged to have a drastic change in appearance. I did at least, not that it was very successful. As a chubby girl, I booked pilates classes like there was no tomorrow in an attempt to get my life together. Obviously, I can’t attend them for now, as if an instructor tells me to lie flat on my belly and hit a cobra pose, I will start crying with no hesitation.
But I cast my mind back to many conversations I’d had when I was definitely too drunk to make drastic decisions, and one of them was an insistence that I wanted nipple piercings. I’d even put it in my Apple reminders app, but without giving too much away, having a boyfriend made them a bit too impractical. But I didn’t have a boyfriend now. And I’ve never felt worse about myself after a piercing, so why not?
I decided to bite the bullet. I nervously messaged the piercer that had already pierced my friend, and nearly stopped myself from getting anything done because the idea of telling a stranger that I wanted titanium tits via an Instagram Direct Message nearly killed me from embarrasment. But, completely out of character, I powered on. I craved the piercing needle too much.
My pierced pal came along to the studio with me. The plan was to hopefully find a slot on Friday, because I thought it’d be a really cool story to tell that I spent my first Valentine’s Day without a boyfriend since I was eighteen getting my nipples pierced, and considering it was 11am on a Wednesday, I hoped with a mixture of fear and mischief, that this was an achievable dream.
“Right, ok, are you available now?”
That’s how my Wednesday morning self found out that she was about to get the most painful piercings of her life so far, because stupid me could only blurt out the words “Aye, that’s ok”, as I shook more than a bobblehead during an earthquake. I had taken ibuprofen and a bag to keep my bra in just in case, but I thought I was being overly optimistic. Nope. The piercings were happening, and they were happening now.
I walked past a woman getting a really cool arm tattoo to get to the piecing room, and figured, if she can cope with all those tiny wee needles so well, I can cope with two big ones for a few seconds, right? Wrong. I was not a strong woman, I was just on an adrenaline high.
I stood before the mirror with two tiny black dots on each boob, saying “sure” as soon as my piercer asked if the positioning was ok. What do I know? I don’t know anything about how these work, did she expect me to say “no, draw them again”? She then proceeded to tell me pros and cons, but my boobs were already out and I had already made my mind up in my head. The only part I remember was “pro: they look really really cool”.
She then told me a story about a woman who ran into a door, nipples first, and knocked her nipple off. My jaw dropped, and I lay down on the table. I was told, “You’re brave getting this done, I wouldn’t get them done by someone” by the lovely piercer. This was meant to be encouraging, but all I could think was “why the fuck would you tell me that right now?”
With my friend holding my hand, and a clamp on my nipple, I felt a twinge of discomfort, then immediately thought, “Oh, is that it? I can so do that again”. Dear friends, my lovely piercer hadn’t picked up the needle yet. That was just the clamp.
“Right, deep breath in, and slowly out. Or hold it, if it’s easier”.
The breath went in just fine, but I don’t think it ever left. The first second involved me thinking, “it’s only a second; it’s nearly over”. No it wasn’t. The second second reminded me that nipples are in fact made up of muscles, and arent just a tiny wee circle on your boobs. The third second was Chappelle Roan singing, “God, what have you done?” in her song Pink Pony Club, even though my situation had nothing to do with a gay bar in Santa Monica. The next seven seconds were just me trying not to scream, and involved the needle leaving my body, and being replaced by a bar, which was more just nippy than soul-destroyingly sore.
“You did it!”
“Aya FUCKER!”
Not to sound like a walking cliche, but the second one was obviously worse because my body knew what was coming. In every piercing I’ve gotten, I’ve always been hyper-aware that if I don’t relax my body, it’ll only hurt more. This has never actually made my body relax. The first three seconds of this piercing were the same as the last, then the next four were the same, just a repeat of please be done soon, ooh this is a muscle, Pink Pony Club, and prayers to God that I wouldn’t cry.
But this time, during the last three I realised that both my piercer and my friend could actually see my facial expressions. My neck was tensed, my eyes scrunched but not completely shut, and I was gnawing on my bottom lip like I was trying to bite it off. This realisation was more embarrassing than the fact that they’d seen my boobs. Maybe that says something about emotional vulnerability, or insecurities, or sexuality, or maybe I’d just rather show my boobs than my funny facial expressions.
When I woke up from the trance I was in that started the minute I said “Aye, that’s ok”, I was behind the wheel of my car playing LoveGame by Lady Gaga, driving at a measly 16 miles per hour because my friend had advised that this is one of the only times that wearing a seatbelt would be a bad thing. Not wearing a bra either made going over speed bumps a scream-worthy moment, and I would advise against this. I’d also advise against not eating beforehand because you’re scared that you’ll throw up out of nervousness, and I’d absolutely advise against getting your nipples pierced in February and only bringing a t shirt. For post-break-up nipple piercings, I prescribe a day off of uni, a fat Nando’s with as many carbs as possible, a clean and comfortable padded bra, and either Charli XCX or Lady Gaga. And of course, your toughest friend to share it all with.
Featured Image Credit: Pexels
