George Carter
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Ouch! – PA Re-Piercing

| Wednesday 22nd November, 2023

I just got my Prince Albert re-pierced today, and on my bus ride home I realised something…

Those who understand piercing don’t need anything explaining. Those who don’t understand piercing will probably never understand it, no matter how much explaining you do.

If you get it, you get it. If you don’t, you can’t fathom why someone would have themselves stabbed, whether in the name of vanity, art or self-expression.

The piercing itself was an interesting—and sweary—experience today.

I’ve been stabbed eight times now. The first time, my first Prince Albert many, many years ago, was under local anaesthetic. That’s considered “not best practice” these days (especially because the anaesthetic messes with the blood flow to the area to be pierced and can therefore change its constitution and lead the piercer to mis-pierce).

The next ones have all had various degrees of spiciness, but nothing I couldn’t handle with expertly mindful breathing.

But today. Wow.

The 5mm needle hurts a little more than the 3.2mm needle I was pierced with last time. But the key factor was that they were piercing on relatively fresh scar tissue (around a year old). Apparently that makes it A LOT more sensitive.

In short, it hurt like a supernova of searing regret.

The head piercer didn’t explain this to me in advance, and when I asked about it after he said “I didn’t tell you because you would have worried.”

And he’s right.

A piercing is always (if done properly) over within less than a minute. And my philosophy has always been “You won’t know how much it hurts until it’s done. But then it’s done anyway!”.

It was, for sure, spicy though. I’ve laid still for all of my piercings so far, but not today. I was so taken aback by the searing pain that my leg shot in the air and everything else tensed as I held on to the edges of the couch for dear life.

“BREATHE!” they reminded me. And I remembered that this was probably much less painful than childbirth. And I knew it would be over real soon.

“You can swear”, they said.

“Fucking shitbags!”, I said.

“And he’s in his happy place…”, they said. And they were right. The endorphins kicked in and I went into my usual post-piercing brain-fog, chat-too-much, weird kinda chill-out mode.

And then got my piece of cake (thanks, Kat – Happy Birthday!) and went home.

And the result? It looks great. Worth every bit of it.

Yeah. I think most people will never understand.


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