Tres Guiche

At A Glance Author Iron Jacques Artist Meliss Studio Tie Me Down Location Milwaukee Wisconsin

Tres Guiche

By Iron Jacques

As a 55-year-old business and family man, you'd think I would have sorted this out long ago. But when the urge to have my genitals pierced came upon me suddenly not too long ago, I knew I had to follow through. Something I read triggered it, and I was suddenly obsessed with the notion. I cautiously introduced the idea to my wife, whose initial response was, "Do what you want." Thinking to have her buy into it a little more than that, I printed some information from the Internet. Explaining that I had already chosen the two positions I liked best, I asked her to pick the ones that appealed to her. She selected the basic scrotum piercing, as I had, but also chose the guiche, which I had thought too scary. She didn't like the idea of the pubic ring I had first selected. She thought it was too visible and, just as when I trim my pubic hair, she was worried that I would feel embarrassed in the locker room or somewhere. In any event, I was happy to accede to her choices if that meant her buy-in.

Going to the yellow pages, I selected a place at random, that advertised "anything is possible." I liked that attitude. However when I talked to the artist, I discovered that he thought that the Guiche was gauche. I guess it wierded him out, or maybe he just didn't feel competent. But he'd be happy to do my hafada in front. Reflecting on the logic of this, I decided that if the back of my scrotum is weird than maybe the front is too. At any rate he sounded like a garage mechanic. I almost lost my resolve.

Back to the yellow pages, I selected another studio. "Tie Me Down" on Milwaukee's East Side claimed to be voted the best in our city four years running by a local alternative newspaper. Calling, I got Melissa on the line who informed me that she did them all, from Prince Albert on down. I made an appointment for the next day, before I had time to think.

Getting back to my wife on this, I casually threw out the invitation for her to tag along. Of course she wanted too! Twenty years together; I ought to know her better by now. She wanted to be part of something so intimate and special. (She also wanted to protect me from Melissa.) So we agreed to meet at the shop.

I arrived early. A couple of young girls were giggling over the tattoo books, and I swear they looked at me and laughed knowingly as they turned back to each other and giggled more. Good grief, does everyone in the place know that I've come here to have my sexual organs prettied up with shiny silver rings? Afterall, for all the reasons a man might want to have stainless steel jangles attached to his genitals, sexual fantasy and stimulation have got to be way out ahead of what ever is in second place. It's hardly an exposed fashion statement or public glamour accent like an earring. But I wasn't about to be cowed by a couple of kids. Later the one girl asked me for fatherly advice on what type of tattoo she should get. I was lost for a response. I had always forbidden my 18-year-old daughter to get a tattoo. Suddenly the hypocrisy hit me.

But there was little time to dwell on it. The young woman who met me at the counter, Teri (not her real name, because I never got her real name) knew I was coming. Indeed, as she was an apprentice piercing person, she asked if I would mind if she watched the procedure. Now that made a total of three women who were going to watch or administer pain to my most vulnerable exposed body parts. What would my men's group say? But I could see that there was no way three could be more embarrassing than two, and she was so cute after all. The ring in her upper lip made her look so petulant, and her eyes were so soft and kind. How could I turn her down? As I heard myself say, "Anything for the advancement of science," I filled out the consent forms, and turned over my MasterCard like a gold sovereign to the headsman.

At this point Melissa arrived. I had expected someone heavy duty, a middle-aged woman with burly arms and tattoos like Bluto. But no, Melissa was also an attractive young woman, as wholesome and sweet as the girl next door. This was no seedy tattoo parlor scene like I had imagined. After some cordial introductions, including her husband who was the tattoo artist, she began with Teri to set up for the session. My wife appeared at length, and together we picked out captive-bead rings from the very few Melissa recommended. I didn't want to stray to far from her judgement. I was more concerned with pain than aesthetics at the moment.

She promised me it would not hurt much.

So now I'm in a little room, albeit medically clean, well lit and neat, stark naked from the navel down, with three women looming over on my penis and scrotum, with an eye to ringing me to submission like a bull in the chute. What a perfect poetic ending to the day! The gals, at my wife's initiation, laughed a bit about the justice of it all, how it was time we men were on the receiving end of such intimate professional attention. My wife joked about the stirrups on the table.

Seriously, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Melissa and Teri were angels. They were both highly professional in demeanor, respectful yet personable and able to appreciate the subtle intellect behind my lame nervous jokes. They made me feel like I was center stage, holding their complete attention. No distractions or ancillary conversation. There was just enough polite humor to keep me calm without being overly familiar. Their exam-tableside manner was impeccable.

They had me stand with my legs spread, and Melissa dabbed at my skin with a little marker pen, mapping out her path of savagery, I thought. I had shaved the area ahead of time, and she said it helped position things. But I don't think it would be necessary if one didn't want too.

The scrotum ring was a snap. Melissa did indeed have me put my feet in the stirrups. She clamped some loose skin in a forceps thing. I leaned back and she asked me to take a few deep breaths. "Cleansing breaths," my wife piped in. I caught the La Maz reference. I hardly felt

anything but a sharp stab and suddenly I was looking in the mirror at the shiny new ring impaled in my quivering sack. It wasn't bad at all!

But next was the Guiche which truly scared me. I knew from reading on the Internet that I had to get up on the table on my knees, and if that didn't expose enough of my parts, Mellisa directed me to rest my head on my arms. I guess that rotated everything to the right attitude. Was there every a more vulnerable position for a man naked in front of three women? It felt strangely biblical. Would they afterwards anoint my body with perfumes and wrap me in clean white linen?

Again, I was told to take a deep breath. My wife said I flinched quite a bit when Melissa stuck it through me. This one hurt a bit more, I agree. The ring went in right behind the needle. A quick clinch with the tightening tool (not painful) and I was finished. I got up and took the mirror to view my new condition. Baubles, bangles, bright shiny beads. I felt...well...attractive.

I took the mirror and peered at my genitals. Girly mann? Sure, I felt pretty, oh so pretty. Would I in future still be capable of boorishly macho outbursts when the moment called for it? Regrettably yes. But there would be just a little more (secret) bounce in my step.

I dressed and then Teri read me the directions for keeping my self clean and infection free for the next few months until my skin healed. She traded cautions with Melissa, and I turned from one to the other, nodding in concurrence. They were so dear; I could have melted on the spot.

Afterwards, as my wife and I left to go our separate ways, she said "I'm proud of you." I guess I was too. Then she said what I feared most, "You know that now you're going to have to let your daughter get that tattoo." Struck by the potential hypocrisy, I acceded with alacrity. I'd learned a lesson.