What a long strange trip its been...
Nipple me, Elmo...
There is a fundamental question at the root of every act of stupidity ever committed by the male members of the human species. Now, I’m not sure if its become hard wired into our brains over the centuries of walking across the face of the planet with our knuckles dragging in the dirt or if it actually is as our female counterparts keep insisting, ”Honey, you just don’t learn very quick, do you?”
Well, whatever the origin, brain disorder or rudimentary learning disability responsible for it the question that plagues us as every-day-men is the very same one George W. Bush surely asked himself just after the invasion of Afghanistan and right before entering Iraq; How much worse could things get? Friends, it is my firm belief that these words should be etched upon the gates of Hell directly above the phrase, “Abandon all hope ye who enter within.” Yes indeed, once this question formulates itself in the mind of a man it is best to get out of his way and run for cover because disaster is surely in the making.
Until recently my worst experience with the question occurred a number of years ago when I decided to get my first body piercing. As with most cases of male inspiration I got the idea for my pierce during an inebriated viewing of an adult film. The male star of the movie we were watching sported the coolest pierce I’d ever seen, down there. Now, before you go getting all crazy and start thinking to yourself that not only is this DirkStar guy stupid, he’s freaking insane too let me assure that I did not get that one.
Mine was one small hoop at the base of business just in front of the boys. Yeah, it was cool and you couldn’t even see it until my Chaney stood up to salute Old Glory. Now, as everyone gathered around to watch the crazy man get his Chaney pierced my buddies were busy taking bets on whether or not I’d pass out, scream or perhaps even some combination of the two with an involuntary wetting of myself thrown in for the extra laugh.
The grand moment arrived and the hooked needle took its bite. The hoop was inserted into the flange at the top end of the needle which was then pulled through to set the hoop subsequently closed with a small metal ball snapped into place on each end of the open ring. The process had been so swift I didn’t even realize he’d started before it was over. It did not hurt in the least. Friends, Romans and countrymen, let me tell you that no one in the parlor was more surprised at the complete lack of pain and reaction than yours truly, the DirkStar. Lesser men ran from the room with hands held over their mouths. Those who remained looked at each other in shock and amazement.
“Dude, he didn’t even flinch.”
“Man, he must have a Chaney made of iron with pubic hair of steel wool.”
“I’ve got to admit it, if that had been me I’d have first pooped then peed myself, cried at least for a minute or two and maybe even have passed out.”
There was even one girl who stared at me with a strange-wicked-look in her eye and asked if I might want to get together some time. As god is my witness I looked right back at her and said, “Give me your phone number, maybe I’ll give you a ring.”
Now, what neither I nor any of the other awestruck members of the audience had taken into account about the proceedings which had just transpired was the physical logistics of the event. You see, where I had chosen to get my first piercing was not the actual Chaney where all of the millions of nerve endings are located making the thing such a wonderful part of the male anatomy. No, my pierce was through a mass of nearly insensitive skin designed to stretch with miraculous elasticity while experiencing little to no physical discomfort.
“Is that it?” I asked.
“That’s it, you’re finished. While you’re here, is there any other piercing you need done?”
“No, I think I’m finished for today.”
Of course that is what I should have said but that would not have been in character at all with the intellectual thought processes of a red-blooded-All-American-blowhard-male now would it?
“Well, I have always wanted to get a nipple ring.”
“I can do that for you if you want. I’ll even take twenty percent off the price if you let my assistant perform the procedure. She’s getting ready to take her board certification and could really use the last minute practice.”
Twenty percent off the price, a blond hottie of an assistant running a needle through my left nipple and the continued adulation of my new tattoo parlor friends, how could I possibly resist? I carefully weighed the pros and cons of the decision over the course of the next few seconds and wound up asking myself the fatal question; I just survived the Chaney experience with no major consequences how much worse could a nipple pierce be?
As the lovely assistant gently held my nipple between her thumb and forefinger in preparation of performing the pierce things seemed pretty groovy. My little brown nub was responding favorably and swelled with enjoyment. When she applied the alcohol swabbing to my tiny pleasure button it further swelled with happiness until it stood perky and proud with excitement.
Under the watchful scrutiny of the piercing master she applied a tiny black dot to each side of the base of the nipple with a fine-tip-magic-marker to indicate the path of the upcoming pierce. At this point I had nothing but the highest confidence in this girl’s abilities and was smiling with enjoyment to the once again assembled crowd of onlookers. With one final glance towards the piercing master she picked up the hooked needle and started the procedure.
As she s-l-o-w-l-y began working the needle through my nipple, making sure not to miss the mark on the other side, I quickly learned just how many nerve endings are contained in this tiny bud of human flesh.
“You need to pick up the pace a bit, hon. The quicker you are with the needle the less pain the client will experience.”
“Well, I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t want to miss my marks either.”
Until that moment I had no idea what real pain was all about. If she had given the needle one or two good twists I’d have confessed to the Lindberg baby kidnapping and I’d have provided minute details of how I managed to fire the fatal shot into Kennedy from the grassy knoll.
It took her at least ten minutes to figure out the ring she had chosen was too big for the needle flange she’d selected. Those twists I was talking about a minute ago? I was getting ready to declare Mel Gibson in error and confess that it was me alone and not the Jews who’d killed Christ.
Finally the piercing master stepped in and began trying to figure out what had gone wrong. After what seemed an eternity of flaming-anguish he grabbed the proper ring and in seconds the metal ball snapped into place and the nightmare was over. No one in the room uttered a single word, except for that one girl with the strange-wicked-look in her eye. She just smiled and asked if I needed a ride home.
The tattoo parlor owner apologized and offered to do the other nipple for free because of the snafu. Having already learned just how much worse things could get at any given moment I declined his generous offer. With the help of friends I was loaded into the car and driven home where I spent the rest of the night curled up in a fetal ball around a bottle of tequila with a rubber-nipple on its top.
Well, I guess I’ve taken up an awful lot of your quality computer time with this sordid tale and you could probably use a break right about now. Yes, I know you still have lots of questions remaining such as, what does Elmo have to do with all of this, what is the meaning of this story and is there a moral to any of these ramblings? Let me assure you that there is indeed a purpose to the set up here today and the story to follow tomorrow will clear up any loose ends and provide a sense of closure to this adventure in learning.
And yes, after a yarn of this length about nipples, needles and human suffering how could things possibly get any worse?
You just had to ask, didn’t you?
To be continued...