The case is often made that body piercing is just another fad of the late Twentieth Century, destined some day to be sitting sadly on the nostalgia shelf right beside wing tip shoes, pet rocks, afro's, and Mr. T cereal. And though it will surely earn me the scorn of the vast majority of the bod mod community, I must agree. Now before you start to look for my e-mail address so that you can mail bomb me, let me say that I count myself among the ranks of the die hard Piercing Freaks. (As opposed to the dreaded Belly Button Brigade)
So why would an otherwise proper and perforated Piercing Freak dare to utter such an heretical comment? How can he so blasphemously desecrate the hallowed halls of BME? Well, I reply with characteristic arrogance, because it is true that piercing has become a fad among growing segments of the youth population here in the good old western hemisphere. Try watching MTV for more than ten minutes and you are bound to encounter multitudes of mind-numbed, nearly naked, hopelessly dated fashion victims sporting all of the currently acceptable piercings. In fact many a man has met his ruin playing a rather diabolical drinking game based on this phenomenon.
It's everywhere around us, from shopping malls to restaurants to over- priced movie theatres. There's no end, in many cities, to the parade of barely pubescent piercing enthusiasts, who, with very little forethought (or afterthought, judging by the blinding array of red, swollen appendages) rushed out to get their whatever pierced because a dozen friends bear the same striking mark of individuality which makes them part of the "club". When I see them in the malls I can't help but recall that old Saturday Night Live skit where the chanting Moonies are breaking down the windows and doors of some poor unsuspecting couple.
So, with one fell swoop, I cast all of these hopelessly indoctrinated, media believing, eventually sure to do a 180 and become over-protective parents, future Limbaugh listeners out of this article and into the "Hall of the Embarrassing Photo Album Hiders", where they are welcomed to help themselves to a delicious bowl of Mr. T cereal. (Yes, the complex sentence is a lost art.)
Now, with that ugly bit of business taken care of, the rest of us serious piercing freaks can continue on unhindered. But who in god's name does that leave behind? Well, chances are that if you've gotten this far without grabbing for Wesbter's Pocket Guide to English Grammar, you're the people I want to talk to. If you did have to grab for it, then just go ahead and dismiss yourself because it's likely to get worse.
The people who I consider true Piercing Freaks are the ones that, more often than not, conceived of body piercing completely independently of the current media treatment. This includes those old enough to remember when nipple piercing was unheard of outside of their own shirts; those who, as children, fantasised about it, never believing that anyone else in the world could possibly be into it; and finally those who, even if they were living in the 1940's and had never heard of anyone piercing anything other than their ears, would still go ahead with that 000g trans-scrotal piercing and then wonder why they were waking up in a hospital with such nice soft walls.
That's right, the true Piercing Freak is the person who prays at the altars of true self-awareness and unborrowed beliefs. We are the True Believers whose faith will not falter when the piercing craze is eventually dethroned and replaced by an inexplicable rise in popularity of clothing made from scratch resistant Teflon. No, my fellow Freaks, we shall never deny our calling, even when interrogated by the self-righteous fashion police of the future. We will again band together in those dark days to preserve the ancient art for the yet unborn Freaks who will need fellowship and guidance. We will keep for them sacred Table of Gauges and the revered R.A.B. FAQ. So be strong, my brothers and sisters, for the day will come when you are white haired and long bearded (hopefully not the sisters, if they ever manage to perfect those post-menopause hormone replacements), and that young Freak will approach you, and you will know that he or she is the one by the disturbingly infected red marks on their bodies, and they will assume a respectful, almost awed tone, and say, "Teach me, Old One." Embrace them, for they are the chosen. Amen!
When I was much younger, about nine or ten years old I'd guess, is when I "invented", for the first time in all the history of the human race, the nipple piercing. I say that because in my little old world I had never known of such a thing until the moment that I thought it up. I'm sure that many of you had similar experiences "inventing" the nipple piercing, or the frenum piercing, or the labia piercing. This is not to say that all of you went ahead and attempted to perform your new creation on yourself, though I for one did manage to get that nasty old safety pin through. The important thing is that you invented it, and as such, you were one day shocked to find either a reference to it somewhere, or, if you were luckier, pictures!
I remember that day well, standing in the local newstand, crouched down so that the old man working there wouldn't see me thumbing through the abundant offering of "Adult Literature". I was paging through, just as any healthy 13 year old boy would if given the opportunity, and there she was! The buck-toothed, cross-eyed, cargo weight exceeding recommended limits, pimpled, wrinkled girl of my dreams, for there in her nipples were (Dear God Almighty) gold rings! Who cared if she was the ugliest woman ever to be allowed to be naked? She was pierced, and my lonely vigil was at an end. I was no longer alone in my secret little Freak's world. There was another. And if she was pierced, then by golly, there must surely be others too. All that remained was to seek them out and be welcomed into the brotherhood.
I ripped the page out of the magazine, and for two years it remained my most treasured possession. In moments of doubt I could turn to her and her one good eye staring back at me was enough to strengthen my faith. She was my hope and my salvation, and for two long, long years, she was the only other person I ever saw who was pierced.
I began to fear that she was a fluke, a one of a kind, and that maybe there were no others, when, at the tender young age of fifteen, working as a grocery store bagger, my prophet came to me. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life, with perfect eyes, perfect teeth, perfect skin, and a thick old ring in her left eyebrow. Oh, dear Freaks, my heart flutters even now when I think of her buying those maxi-pads (with wings) and frozen pizzas. I must have been staring too intently at her, for she smiled and returned my gaze, connecting with me at some outwardly impercievable level, joining me in the Vulcan mind meld of the true Freaks, and then she said, in the most beautiful voice I had ever heard in my short life, "What the fuck are you looking at?"
Ahhh. Memories.
In her was the truth which I had so yearned for, for in those two long years there had always been, near the back of my mind, the lurking spectre of disbelief. It was, after all, possible that the hideously beautiful woman in my ragged dirty rag picture had ingeniously pulled off an illusion, gluing the rings in such a way as to trick the audience. Never consciously entertained, it nonetheless loomed ever-present in my subconscience. Here though, in the check out lane was a real girl, with an unmistakably real ring in her eyebrow.
Needless to say that things have grown better in these recent years, and the improvements and innovations in the art would make those historical Freaks of yesteryear cry out in bursts of Hallelujah's. This is the golden (or rather stainless steel) age of Body Piercing, and just as was the case with the Romans, the glory will not remain ours forever. One day the barbarian invaders will come screaming through the gates riding elephants and savagely hack us into itty bitty little pieces (or at the very least laugh at us.) So enjoy it while it's here, Piercing Freaks, for this is Pax Pierceana, and one day they will sing songs about us. Bad country and western songs to be sure, but we won't care. Hell, we'll be dead.