S/Alexander Wants You To DO YOU, and DO YOU WELL!
S/Alexander interviews Sophie Shackleton:
S/Alexander
S/Alexander
For those of you acquainted with my nether regions as a result of reading “MM/Tate: SO HOOD.” (or any of the other articles about my vag) I don’t have to explain that I recently had my clitoral hood pierced at Virtue & Vice in Atlanta. But some of you readers who just jumped aboard the vehicle driving Old Airport Road might be initiated. This is the follow-up to the story of being pierced; it’s the reason I was pierced I the first place: to see what all the sexual fuss was about for women with VCH piercings.
The Friday that followed the Sunday of the piercing brought with it several rapid-fire steps along the path of healing for my ladyparts. The first thing I noticed was that I didn’t notice anything when I woke up. I didn’t even remember I had hardware down there until I went to the bathroom, and let me tell you, it is startling to say the least to wake up at 3:45 a.m. and go to pee only to find a ring in your monkey. The second thing that was evident was the random waves of pleasure I felt from doing mundane things–like walking down the hall to my office at work. The first time this happened, I blushed. I was convinced that everyone–even the majority of my coworkers who were oblivious to my new accessory–could tell that I was having way too good a time. This, of course, was irrational and ridiculous. No one looking at me could tell the wondrous things going on under my skirt. But I knew, and knowing and feeling were a huge turn-on. Finally, the third thing was that I felt perfectly capable of masturbating with direct clitoral contact–only five days after being pierced!
I shot A. a message. This was not uncommon; there is an ongoing sexual badinage between us that ebbs and flows in and out of days and weeks.
MMT: Jesus, it’s so hard not to get in the car right now [to come to Atlanta.]
A.: …you could come tonight.
We’d agreed to see each other the following week, allowing some time for Goldie Hawn (my sweet new ride, y’all remember) to cool off from all the driving–and to allow for my sex to heal. And that’s part of our thing, too: the distance, the yearning, the etc. etc. etc. of impossibility.
I thought about it. It was 6:30p. on a Friday. One one hand, I had less than no money (seriously, kids, the roommate and I could tell you at that moment how many Triscuits we had in the house; earlier in the week I’d bribed an unsuspecting boy to make us both dinner.) On the other hand, I had no obligations. Why not go to Atlanta to fuck this man? I’m 23, and 2009 was deemed the Year of the Bad Decision in MM/Tate astrology on January 1.
An hour later, my car reached 80MPH on I-85 South. I was on my way to try out my newest toy. And when I arrived at 10p., I could tell as soon as I walked in his house that I was in over my head.
You should know that A. is, for lack of a more verbose or eloquent description, one sexy motherfucker. Being around him (Hell, even just thinking about him) electrifies me. So while it didn’t surprise me that I could feel a distinct intensification of arousal because of the ring, it did unnerve me: I could feel my heartbeat–always rapid in his presence–knocking in my pants like a pair of 10s in a Geo Metro. I had to make a special effort to concentrate on the video he was trying to show me, or on the delicious meal he’d prepared.
After several hours of this tension (something he loves to do, by the way, which is crazymaking; if you want to drive your bitch truly wild, don’t fuck her) he led me to the bedroom. I thought about reminding him that he should be gentle, considering that we were waiting a mere 20% of the total recommended recuperation time after test-driving this thing. I didn’t; he has good sense and I actually didn’t want to that to be the first thing said about the ring. Besides, if nothing was said at all, I’d need to take note of that for the purpose of this article.
A. pushed me onto the bed and tore off my jeans, eyeing me in that fixated way that I love, that makes me feel like I’m of no concern to him–he’ll get what he wants with or without my permission. When he put his mouth near me I was shocked to discover that the simple physics of heat and metal applied universally, even to my pussy. And when his tongue finally met the ring, I thought to myself, Get it, girl. Best. Decision. Ever.
My personal experience with the VCH is this: the simultaneous hot and cold of fever, of dread, of anticipation–on a constant basis. Prior multiple orgasms with A. notwithstanding, I have found the orgasms I do have with the ring to be more full-bodied and tongue-twisting than any before (and I mean that last bit literally: arguably one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire sex life has been because of the ring: realizing in the middle of great sex with A. that I’ve been speaking total gibberish for a hot minute…and then being totally unable to stop even after that realization)
As for the male reaction, I can only tell you what mine said: “I feel like someone bought me a guitar and I can’t stop playing with it.”
Moral of the story: Did the piercing hurt? For a minute, yeah. Did it bleed after? FUCK YES, so much that it was a little alarming. Did it heal quickly? Yep. And are the results worth the very negligible amount of healing time and aftercare? Yes. YES. Yesss.
When I was approached about having my clitoral hood pierced, I jumped on the opportunity without taking even a second to think about what agreeing to this project would entail. My blind ambition to be a takes-no-prisoners sex writer took me completely over and I emphatically replied, “Fuck yes!”
Four weeks later and still no hole in my hood.
I was waiting for the right time. Yeah! Yeah, that’s it…and the Right Piercer. Oh, and the cash! But when the chips all fell into place and all of that was graciously provided to me, I was left in a glass case of emotion and nowhere to go but Virtue & Vice in Atlanta, Georgia.
Some of you in the Twitter realm may have seen me infrequently mention A. (formerly of “Rockerboy fame), the code name for the gentleman who has the pleasure of proudly but quietly claiming me for the next however-long. Because A. lives in Atlanta, I was delighted to find out that the closest of the five piercers highly recommended by Elayne Angel (the premier genital piercer in the world) worked in a shop called Virtue & Vice in town. I could use the piercing (and some other friends) as a decent excuse to get down there and mess around with him; the way I figured it, if I’m going to be out of commission entirely for at least two weeks, my crazy hornball self needed to get some good lovin’ in beforehand to prepare.
I stayed the night in town on Friday and barely thought about getting pierced the next day. It occurred to me while in the embrace of my hot musician that he’d be the last to see m’lady sans jewelry, but that was it. Cool as an unsuspecting cucumber. After sleeping for three hours and grabbing coffee and a muffin, I woke up the boy. I hadn’t planned on asking him to come with me. I mean, I was supposed to be a badass. This was supposed to be a breeze. And he had shit to attend to anyway in preparation for a gig that night. Still, I realized that I was a) in a city with which I am relatively unfamiliar, b) prone to fainting and c) fucking anxious as all hell, so I asked. He obliged. I’m not sure why this surprised me.
We hopped in the car and drove the five minutes Virtue & Vice. When we walked in, the shop was clean, quiet and uncrowded. Glass cases of jewelry lined the walls and there were church pews for seating the in foyer. I walked to the center desk. “I’m here to get a VCH done by Bethra.”
Now’s the time to tell you exactly what I was having done. Forgive me if I have not done a good job educating you about vulvular anatomy, or perhaps try to forgive yourself for never bothering to learn on your own, but look this shit up in you’re uninitiated. VCH, or Vertical Clitoral Hood, means that I was going to have one piercing entry through the front and center of my clitoral hood, the flap that covers the clitoris and protects it. A barbell or ring could be inserted, and the friction of the jewelry would provide more intense sexual stimulation. Aesthetically, it’s a love-it-hate-it sort of thing, although you may be surprised to find that this turns you on ven if you’re not “into” piercings. Which, I might add, I’m not. Tattoos are my thing.
I’d spent the last four weeks reading and reading and reading: horror stories, message board responses, aftercare directions, true tales of Hoodie Club members. And despite having read about eight hundred times that the piercing hurt intensely for a few seconds, then subsided and healed INSANELY quickly, I was understandably nervous. So when the girl behind the counter said, “Oh, Bethra doesn’t work on Saturdays. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Of course, there is a guest piercer here today if you want to consider that.”
I panicked. I’d driven 150 miles, waited four weeks, and summoned the courage–and I was going to have to come back. Who knew when I’d be able to get back down to Atlanta?
A. piped up quickly: “Stay another night.” He made the excellent point that I’d come this far to be pierced by someone recommended by someone I trust, someone whom the entire body modification world trusts. And what was another night? What did I have to get back to Greenville for, really?
I stopped to think. On the other hand, he was playing a show in another state that night, and the thought of staying at his house while he went to play was unnerving. “If I stay here, I want to go with you to the gig.”
“Done,” he said, and we headed for the door.
Hours later I was en route to Alabama (by the by, that’s a different time zone. Yep. Seriously. I didn’t figure that out until I’d been in the state for like five hours.) After a whirlwind of firecrackers, booze, and guitar solos, we headed back to Atlanta, arriving home exactly twelve hours after we’d departed. Three more hours of spine-cracking sex later and I was asleep. This is a good time to mention that, in the forty-eight hours I was in ATL, I spent more time fucking this man that I spent sleeping, and I highly recommend this. Sleep depravation, I believe, is what made me so calm the day of the piercing. Don’t get me wrong–it’s “unhealthy” and all, but I think I manage to make the hazy punch-drunk of sleep deprivation look damn fine.
As we returned to Virtue & Vice, I noticed that I was starting to become anxious again. I tried to rationalize it aloud to A.. “OK let me talk through this. I’m going to punch a hole in my clitoral hood. This is comparable to an earlobe piercing, but it is even less tissue to pierce. You can see through the shit. Why am I so freaked out? Is it purely because of placement?” A. was quiet and let me talk at him without trying to get me to calm down. He knew I was calming myself down by rambling, like a baby whining herself to sleep. He also knew he’d take over when we actually got there and felt the pressure. So I talked.
I was so relieved upon seeing Bethra behind the counter when we walked back into Virtue & Vice. I’d seen her photo on the shop’s website and I could’ve kissed her I was so happy she was there. I told her what I was there for and she told me that I would need to have a consultation to discuss whether or not I was piercable. If my clitoral hood was not anatomically suitable to the piercing I would not be able to go through with it. She led me into an enclosed room with a table. A. followed and sort of assisted both of us: “Hold my shoes?”/”Can you hand Margaret that mirror?” etc. Bethra explained to me that while I was “little,” meaning that I have a relatively small clitoral hood, I was piercable. She asked A. to hand me a mirror and I held it between my legs so she could show me what she was talking about as she told me the details of the piercing , the effects, aesthetics, etc. She then recommended a ring as opposed to a curved barbell, something I had not once considered. I thought the rings looked clunky, but when she explained the physics of what would happen specifically to my anatomy, I was sold.
We went back to the front to select my jewelry. I assumed I would be selecting the plain, silver captive bead ring, but Bethra encouraged me to look at some on sale. I immediately locked eyes on a pink ring with a silver bead. I looked at A., he grinned, and Bethra took it back to the sterilized. We sat down in the foyer and she explained aftercare and told me a little about what to expect. We asked about sexual precautions (wear a condom, no oral sex, stop if it hurts. Which we’re choosing to translate to “Wear a condom most of the time, no oral without Listerine first, and if it hurts and you don’t LIKE it, stop.)*** and healing time (officially 6-8 weeks, but I’ve never heard or read about anyone taking longer than two.)
After we were satisfied that we’d asked all our questions, Bethra led us back into the room from my earlier consultation. I took my shoes off, lay down on the table, and braced my feet against her thighs. She asked me to start breathing deeply. I did, but I had to close my eyes. (Those of you who read me regularly know that I have a predisposition to closing my eyes in moments of intensity, especially if my pussy is involved.) I could feel her placing the needle receiving tube under my clitoral hood. I didn’t ask A. to hold my hand. Feeling him grab it anyway was a genuinely startling sensation, the kindest comfort. He stroked my wrist and Bethra told me to breathe very deeply in, and then exhale very hard. In that breath, she pushed the needle through. I don’t know what I said, I’m sure I cursed, probably took the Lord’s name in vain, etc. The pain was intense but brief, and ended shortly after the jewelry was inserted. When she was finished, Bethra had A. hand me the mirror again and I saw it.
I immediately loved it.
I paid Bethra and thanked her, and we went to drive home. I’ve hear several people say the same thing about immediate post-piercing, and I very much identified: I wasn’t sure how to walk! It sounds ridiculous, but I was timid walking because I was fearful of the possibility that the ring would somehow get caught. It didn’t…because that wouldn’t make any sense. So after the walk to the car I was normal. On the ride home, I could feel a lot of sensation. It was pleasurable discomfort; I could feel my heartbeat, and the warmth of contact was still quite powerful. And…OK fine, I’ll admit it. I was a bit of a bitch. I really thought I was going to pass out in the car. Luckily, I had serious motivation to hold my shit together; aside from sleep deprivation, I also highly recommend going with someone for whom you have a huge hard-on. It makes you a lot less likely to show your ass.
I’m not sure how the little pink ring in my hood will serve me sexually, but I do know that it’s cute, I like it, and it was worth it so far.
Fear not, sweeties, I’ll report back as soon as I know more about the impact.
***DISCLAIMER: I am, under no circumstances, encouraging anyone to ignore or disregard aftercare instructions from the APP or other reputable piercers. Drive Old Airport Road safely, kids. Do as I say, not as a I do.
MM/Tate
S/Alexander Discusses Manhunt.net and Craigslist with D.A.B. and BFF Erin
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S/Alexander discusses Blaine and prays for God to send him a good man.
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S/Alexander discusses his thesis and shows a little skin before a presentation
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S/Alexander did this video months ago…and he told you then
S/Alexander
Little Boots – Rich Boys (The Virgins Cover)
The Black Keys – Lies
The Cave Singers – Dancing On Our Graves
Chiddy Bang – Kids (MGMT Remix/Sample!)
White Lies – Death
You should also download these gems, which aren’t available on YouTube yet….
Sonos – White Winter Hymnal (Fleet Foxes Cover)
S/Alexander
I need it to rain.
Every site online says that it won’t rain today. Every site tells me I have to endure another day of sun, but I honestly don’t know if I can. I haven’t had a thought in days. I haven’t been able to think. To process. The sun and the heat and the humidity have drained me of any ambition. Any energy. I still function and I still sit and talk and laugh. But I need a moment to myself. I need a moment where I can feel whatever it is that the sun has kept me from feeling. It’s random and it doesn’t make sense, but I know that rain would make everything better. I know that there is something that I need to deal with – some problem I’ve kept tucked away and hidden – that will show itself in the shadows thats clouds create.
I would clean my room, and watch through my windows and people leap over puddles and muddle through the rain water – running, having forgotten their umbrellas. I would walk down Thayer Street and feel the water pound my skull and hear the cars honk, their lights on in the middle of the day. The water would run down the street, picking up bits of trash and dirt and liter before depositing it down drains – clearing the way, I suppose. I would sit on my bed with my window cracked and smell Spring. I would listen to the water hit pavement and nap for a few hours. I would wake up and feel my bones ache and know, for a moment, that I exist.
But best of all, I’d have a moment to myself. It is too hard to be alone when the weather is as nice as it has been. It is too easy to get trapped in the feelings of jubilation that the sun brings forth, and rain would take care of that for me. I would finally have the time and energy to understand what I am doing.
S/Alexander Discusses The Best Revenge
