There’s letdown. There’s bliss. And then there’s this ugly, yet somehow consensual, physically terrorizing, though oddly moist, please-I’m-begging-you-to-fucking-cum in between. In 2009 I allowed a dude I was lightly dating—we’ll call him Disgusto— to serve me up with far too many minutes of the latter. Yep, I as in Tracy Garraud, aspiring shero, assassin of hyper-masculinity, gave a man permission to petrify my bed sheets. The minute I saw that fuzzyass gut, my female intuition started wailing. And nah, not because of the gut (I’m actually a bit of a chubby chaser), it was something much deeper. But instead of upping the volume, I silenced myself with “Shut up and chill son, you like this kid, remember?” And of course whenever you slight your intuition, consequences follow.
Although Disgusto was spitting the most sour of nothings into my ear and grabbing my skin like there was chicken underneath, I couldn’t push him off me. Instead I lay paralyzed, my bed now a dinner plate. Why? Hmm, how to put this… because that fucker was physiologically in tune with my body. Hella confusing statement si, but I promise you that although I was disgusted with Disgusto, he magically had my me lubricated with no plastic tube in sight. It’s really difficult to explain, even to myself. Usually when I’m turned off, my nether region shuts down like a closed off road. But this time my brain and body were on two different wave lengths. And not on that you know you want it, bullshit. It was something like when your asshole friend knocks at your knee from behind and you have no choice but to crouch over… If you’re confused, then you’re feeling exactly half of what I felt that night. I’m actually willing to bet everything that D comes from a past life as a nasty, olympic gynecologist, because that shit he did to my floral region was paranormal I tell ya. It puzzled me and cuffed my emasculation skills. I was scared. Scared and wet, what an unforgettable combo. But soon it ended.
Almost. There are no words to explain going to bed in muted emotion and waking up to an unwanted man flicking his penis against your ass. None. Thank God, I’m not that lenient with sin during daylight. Disgusto was out my house before he could knot his kicks.
(And yeah, we’re getting up to the nippy part of this tale, chilllll.)
I’ll never forget the sixty-minute shower I took, nor the twenty minutes I spent staring at an unfamiliar face in the mirror. Unfortunately, I’ve collected a small basket of sexual woes in my twenty-six years, but this one made me want to disown myself. However, it also led to one of my most prized experiences and possessions.
I can’t remember how many months (FYI, a couple days later I explained this very story to Disgusto himself for two reasons 1. I owed it to his daughter 2. I no longer wanted to date him) went by where I still felt dude’s palms stuck on my skin. It made me tense, itchy. It made me not trust myself. I needed purging. The solution? A nipple piercing.
I’ve always been a fan of tattoos, the cathartic pain, sadistic pleasure, physical commitment, but piercings… not so much my cup of beer. So why my left nip? Man, I was in desperate need of reclaiming my sexuality in some pseudo tangible form. Plus, tatting my areola hot pink just wasn’t an option. Every time a man unhooked my bra I wanted a reminder that this fucking body of mine is just that… MINE. A memo of sorts that would trigger my conscious to ask: “Yo Tracy, are you really feeling this dude that’s pulling at your boobs right now? Huh? Huh?”
And sons that shit was genius for me. Genius, I tell ya! I was reunited with my femininity and damn did it feel good.
Oh yes, but…
You see, I soon learned that the intentions of a bisexual Scorpio with her nipple pierced just doesn’t quite translate as “ladylike” to much of the opposite sex. Hump-happy jezebel is more like it.
Let me give you a real-life example of what happens when a bisexual Scorpio with a nipple piercing comes over for the first night…
We lock lips, little dry humping here, little dry humping there, bra unhooks, he stares at my left boob in awe and beastliness. I SMH inside. He gets up. I lay topless, confused. He returns with a condom.
Yes yo, yes! A fatherfucking condom! My dude can you at least make out with the twins for a half? And let’s not even get into the politics of oral sex. Needless to say, no intercourse went down that first night at my future boyfriend’s crib. Not because he ruined it for himself, but because it was never going down in the first place! For monthsssssss he denied running past all the bases because there was a topless, nipple-pierced, bisexual Scorpio laying under his covers that night. But, eventually I received my confirmation on top of similar experiences with other folks that didn’t add up to coincidence.
So when I accidentally snagged my barbell out one night and woke up to a sealed hole, it wasn’t so necessary for me to sprint back to the needle man. My piercing personified the bit of autonomy I felt I was missing, but soon regained in mind and spirit. Plus the pain, although worth the gain, was just on some wild shit. As far as Disgusto goes, our conversations fell dead soon after that awkward talk happened, although I do have to commend him for how he handled that aftermath. No ill will is being harbored here. He meant no intentional harm and was the kindle for my new sense of self, not to mention an ill piece of steel.
What you just read is one of my truest forgive, but never ever fucking forget stories. Let’s flash to that.
Much x and o,
PS: Here’s a riddle for ya, me and D never had sex. Thank. you. God.