At A Glance
Author	Kuffic
Contact	kuffic@aol.com
When	N/A
Artist	A big guy, very polite
Studio	The Underground
Location	Olean, NY

This is the story of my lowbret and the stainless steal spike that went through it. Well, I was feeling rather suicidal one October afternoon, it was a Thursday, and opted to have a piece of steel shoved through my chin as opposed to driving off the highway. But I can't sensibly tell you about the piercing until you understand the impetus to this my grand experiment: whether physical pain is equal to emotional pain. The shortened version is no, scars ad piercings heal but a tongue lashing or an evil eye run deeper than you can imagine, especially if it is from someone you love.
I got really drunk earlier in the week and offended the most beautiful woman in the world, modified of course (even a member of this community). Then after a space of five days without her, my insides were rotting and I had this intense need to hurt myself. I cut myself, I usually do to relieve stress, but it was to no avail. My black mood reigned. So I opted for professional pain. I had always considered body piercing, my ears have been done since junior high and I had my tongue done, but I wanted something more. So I headed toward the Underground, the local clean place to get pierced or tattooed.
I climbed up a flight of stairs, more depressed than nervous, because what if it didn't work out? What if the experiment in pain was a waste of $60 and an afternoon? I didn't care though, because nothing really mattered at this point in time, it was steal or suicide. I came to the top of the stairs and read the door, NO ONE UNDER 18 PERMITTED!! NO CHILDREN PLEASE OR WE WILL EAT THEM< SERIOUSLY! I laughed; this wasn't going to be so bad. I went in and was met by a couple, both suitably modified (he had 00 earplugs and she was sporting a septum ring). We chatted about what we were getting done, he wasn't getting anything and she was getting her nipples done, again. I waited my turn, checking out the body art displayed on the wall like a living index of pain and pleasure.
Finally, it was my turn. I pushed my way through the bat wing doors and sat down in the chair, it was like being at the dentist, except some how cleaner. The room was stark white, just his certificate from the health inspector and his credits on the wall behind his tools. He had me rinse out my mouth with Listerine, twice, before we began. Then I was back in the chair. He asked me how I was doing, I said shitty, he said ok. Then he dotted my chin with a felt tip maker, a little higher than I wanted, so I had him lower it a little so it was in the center of my chin. Then he clamped me, pulled out my lip so that I could see it, swabbed me ever so gently and then thrust it through with a quick, steady hand. There was a light pinch, but then it was over. He told me to rinse again, twice, and I looked as the blood-tinted water swirled down the nether hole in that second floor-piercing studio. He handed me a care sheet and told me that I was a damn good customer, an d then told me to rinse my mouth after ever meal, drink, and cigarette (though he recommended I lay off these for a day or two). Then he shook my hand.
I drove home in silence, no one to talk to and I was afraid that I might catch my bottom teeth on my back-plate, again, like when I went to say good-bye to the guy. I eventually arrived home, after I bought a big bottle of regular Listerine--it is strange, you crave the brand you are baptized with--so I walk in the door with my mouth wash in hand to find a party going on. I didn't talk to anyone, just showed off my silver ball by pushing my tongue against my back-plate, and went to rinse just cause that caustic taste was all I cared about.
"Does it hurt?" this partygoer asked.
I nodded yes, but she didn't see me. So, I looked down at her with my eyebrow raised bitterly and though plenty of unpleasant thoughts.
"My lip didn't," she replied cheerily. "I went out and ate a cheeseburger at Friendly's afterwards."
It wasn't intended to burn, but it did so I flipped her off and walked away. I was so hungry, but had yet to relearn the ability to chew without catching my back plate. So, I wasn't angry with her, I was just hungry and in the most exquisite pain. But it didn't last, the memory of what I did to my ladylove washed over the dull throb and I had found my answer. The experiment was at a close, but I gained a new image of myself and a fondness for Listerine.