Scary Mary

  The chair next to me was covered in a Chinese dragon design and hard, shiny
plastic. “For ‘clitty’ piercings,” Scary informs me. I’m sitting half naked in a
tattoo parlor and a 40ish woman with flowers tattooed on her face named “Scary
Mary” has me by the nipples. It’s times like these I wonder how exactly I’ve
gotten here…
   
  Its two days before Christmas, and I’ve decided to add another hole, or rather,
holes, to my ever-growing self-mutilating collection. Allan had always refused to
let me get my nipples pierced. “Mine,” he’d growl before covering them covetously
with his hands or warm lips. Well, I thought, now that he’s probably doing the
same to Kathy’s concave chest, it’s time I claimed my breasts.
   
  I made small talk with a Marine waiting for a tattoo. I told him I’d been engaged
to someone in the navy. This was how I often talked about it, in passing, as if it
were merely an interesting anecdote I wished to share, not the single most painful
experience of my life. Until recently anyway. He winced when I told him why I was
there. I reminded him that he was preparing for a sizable tattoo on his bicep. To
each his own I guess.
   
   Before escorting me to the area of the parlor sectioned off by a cheap Japanese
screen, Scary tried to tempt me with novelty jewelry. I glanced at the rotating
shelf: nipple shields and little figures that would hang off the barbells. While
they would make great conversation starters, and also doubled as conversation
stoppers, I decided I would wait.
   
  This wasn’t the first time I’d patronized Scary. She was my enabler, my dealer;
she knew all about my need for pain. She knew that I was willing to shell out the
cash for a sharp stab, a little gasp of surprise, and a warm rush of endorphins.
It wasn’t sexual or anything like that. I was a junkie for the endorphin rush.
   
  I took off my shirt and lucky orange bra. My boldness shocked me. I vaguely
noticed I’d forgone deodorant that morning. I’d only been this frank with my body
on a few occasions with men, when speed was more crucial than modesty. She handed
me an ice pack as she readied her supplies. I tried not to look at her tools. They
reminded me too much of medieval remedies for arrow punctures. She wrapped a thick
rubber band around her clamps. Again I wondered where I’d gone wrong in my life.
   
  I had more motives for garnishing my breasts. I’d recently gotten my heart broken
by the latest psychopath I let into my weird little world. In my twisted logic I’d
decided that since he’d never dated anyone with pierced nipples, a girl with
pierced nipples couldn’t miss him. Whatever, it got me off the floor, and for now,
that was all I needed.
   
  I held my breath as the first needle went in. Not so bad. The second one was
worse, probably because I was ready for it. She bandaged up my chest and I
redressed. I walked out from behind the curtain and flashed the Marine a
thumbs-up. “All done? I didn’t hear any screaming. Didn’t it hurt?” Scary looked
like a proud mother. “No. Not today,” I replied, paid my bill, and walked back
into my life.