R RATED!!!!
I have a secret. I have a secret and I'll share it with you. Some rights of passage are only worth the experience. This one though, this one is worth a thousand words. I swear. My little secret. So its like this. Boy meets Girl. They plan their future. Life is good. Girl goes to China for a month. Boy fucks Girl's best friend after three years of dating, while she's away. Picks Girl up at the airport, tells her he is no longer in love with her. Girl finds out all sorts of interesting things from Live Journal. Like how the had sex. How they went on double dates. How everyone but Girl knew that Boy was fucking around.
This is not that story.
I said I have a secret and I will not disappoint you. But once I tell you, it won't be much of a secret will it. Oh well. You can keep a secret, right? A small, sky blue, titanium secret. (Pause) So Boy fucks around and Girl...me...I'm devastated, right? Pretty fucked up. I hate myself, my body, I'm stupid, ugly, fat, uninteresting, and absolutely miserable. And now suddenly I am painfully aware of just how much of myself I invested in this one person. This stupid boy! Its just unacceptable than any woman in her right mind you be so invested in one stupid man. Then came the itch, you know the one. The little whisper that starts as sort of a dream and then grows into a definite idea. I knew what I needed.
I'm a very firm believer in the powers of body modification. Ritual modification has been a right of passage since man was man, right? There are some things that only fresh metal can fix. Some things only pain can cleanse. I've always been a fan. But what? You'd think 8 would have been enough. What could I possibly have pierced as an ultimate expression of my femininity, my self-worth, my freedom, my independence? Then came the other voice, the bad one—What would be most shocking?
Tongue? All well and good, but as a singer its just impractical. Navel? I already had two, where would I put a third? Ears? Naw, its been done. Besides, it wouldn't hurt enough. Nipples? The thought only crossed my mind once.
I stumbled upon it quite by accident while browsing for piercings on the internet. It was perfect. Beautiful, stunning, sexy. Hidden when clothed. It looked painful, but absolutely one-hundred-percent perfection.
VCH. Vertical clitoral hood.
Yes.
A little barbell through the flesh that covers the clitoris. One ball on top, the other resting gleefully on top of the little soft knob of flesh that is oh so sensitive. It sounded delicious. Just what I needed. What better way to celebrate the wonders of my body then to decorate the area most women are afraid to even look at. To even touch. My body is sacred and I neglect the most sacred of places. Why? Because this stupid phallocentric society tells me that its dirty? Untouchable. So little respect for the place where all life begins. Cunt, poontang, box, cooch, pussy, beaver, cooter, slit, poonaner, cock slot, twat, gaping wound of the Christian fathers...I could go on. Why not crown my glory with a jewel all her own?
It was decided then. I picked a date and put the money away, just for this special occasion. Dressing up the dainties. And let me tell you, I've never been more terrified in my life!
The night before I had to trim, to make things nice and easy for the piercer. I cut myself. Sweet Mother! Did anything every hurt so bad?? I get there, and am promptly greeted by a male piercer. Male piercer. They didn't have a woman on board, either. At first I thought—are you shitting me? But then, maybe it would be kind of erotic, having some man I'd never met checking out my womanhood and freeing me of pain caused by a man in the first place. I was shaking. From excitement, from fear...and frankly...I was a little turned on. No matter. We go to the back room, and he asks me to drop trow. I get up on the chair and he tells me to spread 'em “Just like the gyno.” Ha. Funny. Now I was scared. What am I doing? Am I insane? What the hell is my problem, anyway? This is fucking nuts. There are a few uncomfortable pricks when he slides the needle up under my hood. “Ready when you are.” I nod, holding my breath. One. Two. Three. I tense, all of me goes rigid. Pain explodes through my groin and up into my spine. I want to curl into the fetal position and weep. I want to scream. And then?
Its over.
Goddess help me, its over.
Two words escaped my mouth then. HOLY SHIT. I take a deep breath. It's over. Over. I did it. I fucking did it!
The rest is not so important. Really. It healed. A week, maybe. And I never looked back. Something beautiful. A way to reclaim my self. A way to represent my new freedom. A way to assert my independence. A way to throw caution to the wind. A way to enjoy myself when I'm lonely. How much happier would women be if we could begin to lay claim once again to our bodies? To declare in one large voice “We are beautiful!” and then ceremonially celebrate it? I don't know if I'm qualified to say, but I think much happier. Then my secret would be everyone's secret. Every woman would have the same, little, metallic secret I do. (Pause) I think everyone could appreciate that. I really do.
Gender:
Points: 890
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