Everything You’re Too Shy To Ask About My Nipples
An update, 48 hours post-piercing
Obviously, the world needs to know about the adventures of my boobs. As you may already know, I got them pierced this past weekend:
Check out my naughty media accounts (including Twitter!) if you simply must see them — suffice it to say they’re gorgeous, and entirely unhealed.
Every photo is from a bit of a distance, so you can’t see the crusty bloody bits. I know, sexy, right? Once or twice a day, I clean them with sterile saline on a Q-tip, but mostly I practice the age-old LITFA method: Leave It The F@#& Alone.
I’ve healed more than a dozen piercings by now, and LITFA is the law of the land. If you must mess with the body’s natural healing process, wash your damn hands first, minimize touching and twisting, and maybe do a saline soak.
(Dissolve 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon in a cup of warm — NOT SCALDING — water and immerse the piercing in it. If we’re talking nipples, I recommend tucking shot glasses full of saline solution in your bra, and walking around the house like a bizarre robo-madame. Ten to twenty minutes is all you need.)
The first time I got my nipples pierced, back when I was a svelte young 18 year old — damn, I wish I realized just how hot I was — the piercings bled if you bumped them or snagged them. This time, I’m protecting them within a supportive sports bra, and I whack the Dear Husband if he gets too close. They’ve hardly bled at all! I still keep a piece of cotton padding over my nipple, since I like this bra too much to get bloodstains on it.
Alright, alright, I owe you something sexy by now, to make up for the icky bits:
Since about 2:15 PM Sunday afternoon (my appointment was for 2, and there was a bit of paperwork and confirming my ID and whatnot), I have not forgotten that my nipples exist. Not for a moment, not even when I’m asleep.
Even when they don’t hurt, actively, they — well, they just let me know they still exist. It’s like when you wear a thong and wind up thinking about sex all day — no? Is that just me? — or get high and suddenly notice your tongue, existing.
In a weird, sexual way, I feel like a pair of pierced nipples and their support system. I feel like I enter a room pierced-nipple-first, followed by my breasts, and a beat later, the rest of me. It’s not a bad sensation to have. I’m not even wearing a push-up bra, and I’m extra-aware of that part of my body.
Mr. Roosevelt and myself have had sex every single day so far, since the piercing. It’s tricky, though — I forgot to keep my chest off the sheet during doggy style, and he forgot not to grab them after I flipped over.
But the pain is not entirely unwelcome.
In fact, I’ve always been the sort of girl who responded to a firm touch. My nipples aren’t particularly sensitive, on their own. With a piercing, though… oh, my. I feel like there’s an electrical connection between my nipple and my spine, almost like a guitar string connecting the two that can be plucked and strum.
Even protecting my tender nips in a sports bra, I dreamed about partners playing with my breasts. I never noticed faces, just delightful sensations. I woke up rarin’ to go, but Teddy is working in the office this week, so no daytime delights for us. I plan to jump him as soon as he changes after he gets home. (TMI: Teddy gets upset if I jump him while he’s still wearing office clothes, which he still believes he can keep pet hair off of.)
Any day now, my nipples will be far enough into the initial healing process that I forget they exist. I’m ready to sing Taylor Swift, once that happens: I forgot that you existed… it isn’t love, it isn’t hate, it’s just indifference…
Man, nothing gets me singing to my own nipples like a fresh piercing.
Since Teddy and I are fluid-bonded (we have condomless sex), I don’t need to wait more than a month or two to get his bodily fluids on me. Rough touch or biting, though, should probably wait until I’m fully healed, which might be long as nine months. On the other hand, I plan to have these piercings until the day I die, so they’re worth healing properly.
In other news, we often talk about body dysmorphia as though it were something only trans people experience. Nope! I spent enough years with pierced tits that I truly became to identify as a person with pierced tits. It sounds ridiculous to say out loud, but for the recent years with the piercings healed over, I never felt like I looked like myself.
And now I do again.
Everyone deserves a bit of body euphoria, now and again.
Alright! What questions did I fail to answer?
Hit me up in the comments, and I’ll make sure the world has the answers it demands on this vital subject!
