At A Glance Author Aiobheann Contact Aiobheann@bme.anon When It just happened Artist Robin Baker Studio Alien Ink Location Bullhead City, AZ My personal journey into body modification was prompted by beginning to deal with, and heal from, being the victim of incest as a child. I have previously written an experience dealing with trying to turn my self-injury -- a pattern of superficial self-wounding that is usually practiced in an attempt to release and externalize intolerable panic and pain -- into something positive by performing a scarification that held a lot of meaning for me.
Getting a vertical hood piercing was done in the same spirit of reclamation and healing.
After two months of intense therapy and a lot of consideration, I decided that getting a hood piercing would be an appropriate and healthy way for me to reclaim my mixed feelings about a part of myself that had been harmed and defiled, long before I had a chance to learn about sex and how magical and intense the feelings my body could give me would be. As a result of the incest, I shut down sexually, numbing out and distancing myself from making love and feeling. My genitals were just another piece of me -- a piece I barely thought about at all, and when I did spare a thought, it was with conflicted hatred and confusion.
The intensity of the piercing experience and the aftercare involved, I decided, were what I needed, at this moment in my life, to spark a new relationship between me and my most precious, sacred center.
For this piercing, I chose Robin Baker, the owner and piercer of Alien Ink, in Bullhead City, AZ. I have had most of my other piercing done by Robin, and even though he was a man, I felt safe enough, and comfortable enough, with him that he was my first and pretty much only choice for something so personal.
The day before the piercing, I took a long, hot shower, concentrating on letting my negative feelings about my body wash away, and shaved carefully, with the intent of being as loving and gentle with my cunt as possible. I trimmed up the hair on my mound as well, making the time spent into a little ritual of love and affection for myself, preparing my body's temple for the ornamentation to come.
(A note here: I use, and will use throughout this experience, the word "cunt" to describe my genitals. I do this not because it's rude, or because it's a demeaning way of referring to them, but because I have been profoundly influenced by a wonderful book called Cunt: a Declaration of Independence, by the fabulous Inga Muscio. I recommend that every woman on earth -- and every man, for that matter -- read this book and learn about the ways that formerly positive terms like cunt and whore, which were once terms of respect for women who worshipped the Goddess, have been turned against us.)
The next day, I wore a dress, which I usually cannot be convinced by threat or bribe to do, because I knew that I would feel less exposed and uncomfortable when it came time to bare my cunt for the piercing. On my arrival at the shop, I had to wait around a bit while Robin dealt with three women who were waffling over getting identical, teeny butterfly tattoos. I let Robin know that my husband and I were there, filled out the forms -- which I'm an old pro at by now -- and went outside for a nerve-soothing smoke.
By the time the three women were done, I was ready, if still nervous, and went back inside to face the piercing itself. Robin was aware of my past, and my reasons for the piercing, so he made sure that the shop was empty and that the door to the piercing room was pulled mostly shut for my privacy.
My husband accompanied me in, and we waited while Robin spread out a sheet of paper -- the kind you find on exam tables in your doctor's office -- over the piercing bench, adding a generous padding of paper towel underneath the spot where my hips would lie. When everything was ready, I stepped out of my sandals and panties, handing them off to my husband, who was henceforth known as the Bearer of the Knickers.
I lay down on the table, and Robin directed me to lie back with my knees apart, braced against the side edges of the table, feet hanging down towards the floor. He said he did that mostly for his own safety, after having been whacked in the temples by a woman who slammed her knees shut as the needle went through.
By this time, I was still nervous, but talking and laughing with Robin and my husband was relaxing me a bit, so I was able to not flinch or sink into a painful flashback at the feel and sensation of being so spread open and vulnerable in front of a man. Robin probed around a bit, making sure that I was anatomically suited for a vertical hood, and then said that I was.
He used a pair of clamps with a guide through the center instead of a receiving tube, which was almost totally painless -- just a feeling of pressure. I've had worse pain at the gynecologist's office, to be honest. He asked me if I was okay, and was I ready? -- and after taking a deep, deep breath, I said I was.
"Just a little pin-prick, sweetheart," Robin said, and before I could laugh and say Yeah, that's what the nurse always says before she gets you with a big-ass needle, it was done and the needle was through.
There was a moment of excruciating pain that seemed to spread throughout my entire being, radiating outward from my cunt, and then the pain receded and I was left with a beautiful rush of endorphins. I made no noise except for a sharp intake of breath, but I do remember making an awful face.
I happily babbled, I think, while Robin finished up, inserting the jewelry -- a beautiful 14ga Ti curved barbell, with a rainbow of colors spreading from blue to gold along its length -- and then cleaned me up with some paper towels to stop the little bit of bleeding that followed the piercing.
After all was said and done, I hopped off the table with no pain, retrieved my unmentionables from my husband, the aforementioned Bearer of the Knickers, and went over the aftercare routine with Robin. Antibacterial soap twice a day in the shower, being careful not to get it inside my vagina, "as it do sting a bit," Robin said, and to abstain from sex for at least 30 days.
To my surprise, I was able to ask with no embarrassment if the 30 days included my taking matters into my own hands, and he said no -- as long as I was careful and mindful of the healing process, I could pretty much wank all I wanted to. I replied that this was a relief, since I was taking a break from partnered sex with anyone -- my husband and I are poly, and I have, besides my husband, another primary partner who is female and a secondary, occasional partner who is female as well -- and am concentrating on masturbation and on staying present in the sensations my body can give instead of numbing out and retreating.
We paid and left, waving cheerily goodbye to Robin, and it wasn't until we got into the car and I sat down that I realized I still had my toes curled up from the intensity of the experience. I uncurled my toes, did a quick bodily inventory -- hands shaking; cunt stings a little, but no real pain; and oh Goddess am I thirsty! -- and demanded that my husband stop at the nearest gas station and get a great huge fountain Dr Pepper for me. I lit another calming smoke with my still-shaking hands while he fetched my drink for me, and then it was off for home.
For the record: no, I did not have an orgasm whilst climbing the stairs to the apartment, although I must admit it did feel a little warm and tingly. About thirty minutes after arriving home, my endorphin rush left me with a resounding crash, and I took some Tylenol and headed off to bed, where my hubby tucked me in with my teddy bear. It's been several hours since the piercing, and I've had next to no pain whatsoever, not even while peeing.
At the moment, I can't even tell I had anything done today. It's very comfortable, and the jewelry already feels like a part of me. Despite the pain -- which was, I cannot stress enough, momentary and fleeting, for all its intensity -- I've been extremely glad and proud of myself that I went through with the experience, and I would recommend it to any woman, not just women seeking to reclaim their cunts.
As for me, I'm still high off the feeling of having done something so powerful and positive for myself, and I'm grinning as I type this, thinking of my own private rainbow between my thighs.