I’m a mom. A lover. A professional @ something. I’m so much more than I sometimes think I am. I’m worth more than I give myself credit for.

I’m bloody near perfect in an imperfect way – ala John Legend style.

As my kids get older and I get wiser (or not – it’s all about perspective) I spend an absurd amount of time inside my head pondering the meaning of life, which brings me to the BUCKETLIST.

We all have one… whether it’s just a series of thoughts floating around.  Some have meaning, some are just there. You know. JUST THERE.  No more no less. I’m a jump now, think later type. I get addicted to highs and to lows. Rock-bottom lows. Cry yourself to sleep lows. Hate yourself low. But the highs… oh the highs.

I recently ticked a BL item. I blog about it because my FB is a family friendly environment. Yeah… keeping it that way is a chore but it’s a sacrifice I make but it also means that I can’t share what I want to share, simply because I either don’t want the people I know, to know. And maybe I don’t want to have my mother read how I got my nipples pierced at 38.

Which brings me to the post…

If you haven’t tried it – go for it. Live a little. LIVE A LOT.

It’s been almost a week since I took the plunge. It wasn’t a light-hearted decision though. I’ve been toying with the idea for the longest time… years… but being a pussy I’ve always found a reason not to, opting to go down the Tattoo route… which was a roaring success. But it’s always there… the quiet “go get it” whisper…

I asked my partner what his views were – he’s the Ying to my Yang, just as a matter of interest, he replied with a very open “I’m not apposed…” neutral. Like Sweden. Essentially, he’s figured me out. He knows me. He knows my soul. He calls me Pretty Tits. I value his opinion, but I’m not bound by it, i just happen to know he’s a boob man, cheeky bastard copped a feel on our very first date…

I googled – as one does – and found a piercing studio I liked, I called, got the basics and committed to a moment of clarity/insanity. I went over lunch, nervous as fuck but seeing it through (no pun) even if it kills me. The studio was super cool in a really zen way. The artist was just as cool, pierced and tattooed with a funky laid back vibe.

Male or female… I’d be okay with both. Push comes to shove and I’d swing both ways. Turns out its’s a guy. But its fine because it’s his job and let’s face it, tits are tits. I walk in, sit on the bed and he positions himself – as one does – within my personal bubble.  I strip of my top and bra as graciously possible, trying desperately to be okay with a total (non-medical) stranger fondling my sagging breasts. He cups and strokes, measures and marks them, has me drop to the floor so he can gauge the view “from the top” all the while smiling sweetly and making idle chit chat. I’m so nervous my mouth has gone dry and when I aim to utter a word I manage a groan.

 

Finally we’re ready – he’s got all his kit and I have my nerves under some control. I lie back, breathe like he told me to and await the mutilation. At this point I still want to leave… I actually don’t know why I’m here. It seems like a terrible idea. A really shitty idea. And not the shitty ones that have potential. No, this is a clusterfuck of shitty ideas rolled into one.

It doesn’t help that in all this I’ve managed to get turned on either. Purely in reaction to all the stimulation.  Naughty but nice. In a very very very weird way. Self-conscious doesn’t begin to give context to what I felt. But at the same time I felt immense pride. That pride tripled when he leaned in a little closer and said “you have gorgeous breasts”

Not tits. Boobs or bits… breasts. Whom won’t take that compliment and run with it?  Floating on a haze I breathe in one more time and the needle plunges through my nipple.  Jesus Christ… It burns like fire and throbs like bitch. But it’s over quickly and only a dull ache remains. Of course that’s one down… the other nipple still has to go… I want to chicken out so badly and just leave with just one done… but cleverly paid for both… so… we get the second one done… not as sore. Its manageable.

I’m handed a mirror and observe his handy work… and I am impressed. I love it. I want to walk tits out and send naked pics and just hang loose. I am chuffed beyond self-satisfaction. High. I am high.

Now ladies, I’ve never understood how nipple play can lead to orgasms, but now I do. For an incredible 24 hours I rocked, lol, rock hard nipples, the throb was a turn on and I swear I came a little just walking to catch my cattle class train.

For the first time in my life I have amazing tits. How strange is it that I needed this, NEEDED it, to assign value? I never said I’m not damaged. We all are. Some more than others, some like me, cope. Because cope is all we can do. Never moving past, just pushing it back. Keeping it back.

BUT somehow… these piercings offer liberation. A sense of freedom. Weightlessness. And every time my piercings cause that delightful, full sensation I am reminded of how I choose to celebrate life.

Because I am me, and i have come so very far.