What makes me a piercing freak? Hell, I was born one. There’s always been something in my genes making me turn on to piercings. This is the story of my adventures. All of my piercings are for a purpose. They enhance my sexual equipment or, at least, call attention to my sexual desires. Some people get pierced for different reasons-vanity, bravado, symbols. Not me; and none of my piercings have been stretched as some piercing freaks do. My holes are what they call “sleeper size” which serves my purposes just fine.

These are permissive times. Wear an earring (or two or three) if you feel like it. To hell with convention! This is the Aquarian Age. Recently there has been lots of evidence that piercing freaks do exist and plenty of them. Maybe this article will turn more of you on.

When I was about three years old I first noticed that some people had unusual ornaments in their earlobes. I was so fascinated that I asked a lady visiting our house to remove her earrings and put them on me. My mother was horrified and told me to keep my mouth shut and never think, much less say, such awful things again.

In my pre-adolescent days I spent many evenings at the local library looking through old volumes of National Geographic to find examples of native piercings. I carried around a little notebook for quick access to my favorite piercing styles. Of course all natives were draped for the photographer, but in my fantasies I mentally undressed them.

About that time I found a glass-headed corsage pin that I stuck through the skin of my balls. Wow, that was a thrill, and it really didn’t hurt much. Besides, it looked good on my skin. Saturday night was bath night, and my corsage pin got the same workout I did. My mother couldn’t understand why it took me so long to take a bath.

When I was twelve years old we moved to a very small town. We lived next door to my mother’s older sister, a dominant, strong-willed woman. Her son, Lloyd, six years older than I, had had a terrible case of measles at age three or four which affected his eyes. Aunt Bertha was determined that her only son would have normal eyesight. There has always been an old wives tale that putting gold rings in the earlobes “strengthens weak eyes.” Aunt Bertha ordered a pair of gold ear sleepers for Lloyd from the Sears Roebuck catalog. The local lady “ear piercer” arrived on Saturday afternoon. Of course, I was there to watch the act. Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. Lloyd was perched on the kitchen stool and the lady went to work on his ears. As my eighteen-year old, hairy-chested cousin was forced to submit to such “indignities,” I was getting such a tremendous thrill from the whole experience that I shot my little wad.

I was disappointed that Mrs. Stevenson (the piercing lady) did not immediately insert the gold rings. Instead she used a darning needle to make the hole, then followed that with a broom-straw “as a retainer,” as she called it. The following Saturday Mrs. Stevenson came to check her handiwork. She apparently was satisfied, so the retainers were extracted, leaving little holes in Lloyd’s earlobes. Pleased with Lloyd’s healed ear piercings, the gold sleepers were permanently put in the holes. What a thrill I got out of that experience. I wished I had been the one with weak eyes.

After Lloyd’s experience I got in the habit of looking at the earlobes of people I met, even before looking into their faces. Usually the earlobes told me more than the face. If the lobes had been tampered with, I wanted to know them better.

My high school days passed slowly. I continued to dream of piercings and other forms of body adornment but was too timid or shy to do anything except to fantasize. One of my high school classmates went to the city and got a tattoo. I’d have had one also, but there were no tattoo artists operating in my small town.

My world suddenly expanded when I went away to the state university with the intention of becoming a marine biologist. Being a good student, I got along well in the dorm and with other roommates. I was physically big, muscular and strong, even rugged, and had been a championship swimmer in my high school days. At the end of my freshman year, one of the professors who liked me arranged for me to be on his team of shallow-water divers for the three summer months. We were to examine harbor pilings for marine worms which were eating the docks. We were also supposedly planting seed oysters shipped from Japan to start new oyster beds.

I was assigned to an area to be surveyed where regular divers were working, and they issued my diving gear: woolen underwear, rubberized canvas, dry-diving suit and helmet. I was to learn much before that summer was out.

The pay was a fabulous $2.50 per hour “down time” which means when you are actually under water. “Up time” doesn’t count. I was a reasonably good diver, but I didn’t realize that the gurgling of the water around my suit would make me want to piss constantly. Maybe it was psychological, but the first week I was up more than I was down. In that old style dry-suit diving, it’s a terrible thing to foul your diving suit. You have to flush it out and it takes a couple of days to dry it, so any error would cost you money.

One of the regular divers, Kurt, only a few years older than I helped me out. He told me to send to the city for a man’s rubber urinal which holds the cock and balls and attaches to a rubber tube down your leg to a bladder strapped to the calf of your leg. It came and it also worked. I was able to stay down for longer periods and enjoyed my work for the first week. However, the thing irritated my cock and balls so much they became a bloody mess. I used all the Vaseline I could find, but the oil base dissolved the rubber sheath that encloses the whole genital area. I became very discouraged. My world seemed to collapse. It had seemed like such a good job, not to mention the fantastic pay.

It finally dawned on me that the other divers must have had the same problem, thus there must be a solution. Fortunately I found it, the hard way. I told Kurt about my problem, and he assured me there was a solution if I was willing to submit to a small operation. He called me into his bedroom in the bunkhouse, undressed, and showed me the gold ring he wore through the underside of the head of his cock. It went through the urethra and angled back toward the frenulum. It was a thick ring about 5/8” in diameter. The regular divers didn’t use the typical rubber male genital bag requiring straps and buckles. Instead, they pierced their cocks with the gold ring and attached a very small rubber nipple over the tip of the cock, with the ring inside. The nipple was internally secured to the gold ring. The nipple cup fit snugly and was attached to the rubber tube making it urine-proof. The entire scrotum and cock were kept free and ventilated without constant chafing.

Kurt told me all about the piercing procedure used by so many of the sea-divers of Scandinavian parentage. His father also wore a gold ring, and Kurt got his piercing when he was only sixteen years old.

The piercing is from the inside through the piss-hole and down, where at the base of the glans there is a natural place for the hole, thick tissue, not very sensitive, and able to take considerable abuse before tearing. They use a small curved sail needle, typical of the salt-water sailors.

My head was in a whirl. I was groggy with delight. To be pierced for a useful purpose was too good to be true. My fondest dream seemed to be coming true. I asked Kurt if he would do the piercing for me. He said he would, but he would prefer to have me ask Ole, and older Swede who had more experience. He was sort of the elder statesman of the group, and Kurt felt it would be politic if I asked him.

Ole was away from our base of operation on another assignment but was due back in four or five days. Those four or five days seemed like a month as I anticipated the thrilling prospect of my first piercing.

The afternoon Ole came home, I popped the question to him. “Ya, I’d pierce your cock,” he said in his thick Swedish accent, “tonight, if you want it.” I said, “Ya, tonight, I’m sure I’ll be a better man for it.”

During dinner in the mess hall I hardly ate. Ole puffed on his pipe, one pipe full after another. How could I stand it any longer? Finally he stood up, knocked out the ashes from his pipe and said, “Come on, kid,” and I followed him to his room.

In my enthusiasm I had not realized that Ole had been drinking all day. Ole motioned for me to sit on the only chair, and he sat on the bed. I took my cock out for him to look over. I’ve always been big for my age (then nineteen). I was reasonably well-hung and circumcised at birth. Most of the Swedes went uncut with their ring keeping their foreskins retracted.

Kurt wandered in and saw Ole examining me, and they discussed the placement and procedure. I wasn’t afraid of the pain of the piercing, but Ole’s breathe about knocked me out anyway without any anesthesia. Each time he exhaled I had to hold my breath.

After considerable deliberation and discussion Ole went to his dresser and brought out a tin tobacco box. Out came a medium sized, curved sail needle threaded with heavy black thread. Kurt held my cock while Ole went at it. I was on cloud nine and shot my wad before Ole actually touched me. I had to excuse myself and get cleaned up before continuing.

The next few minutes were sheer disaster. Ole’s hand had the shakes and his vision was blurry. The first point of contact with the needle was a long way from target. There were several misdirected jabs, and I got less and less enthusiastic about the whole idea. Finally Kurt stepped in and offered Ole a beer. Ole gladly accepted and stood aside while Kurt went about the business of piercing my cock. With Kurt’s steady hand and expertise, the whole project was neatly finished within a few minutes. There was no great pain, just a steady pressure from inside, and soon the point of the needle was visible, at the perfect place for it. Pushing a little more, the whole needle came through, and Kurt “rattled” it (worked it back and forth) to stretch the newly-pierced hole.

After the “rattling” process the needle slipped through easily and brought with it the doubled thread. Kurt made a large loop and knotted the ends. He told me to move the thread from end to end several times a day. The only discomfort was a slight sting when I pissed. It was amazing how quickly the piercing healed. It seemed like it was less than a week.

About ten days after the piercing, and the next chance we had to get into town and visit the jeweler, Kurt went with me and bought the gold ring to fit me. It was a little ring that I wore for many years. It really became a part of me. Since then I’ve replaced it with a new ring, but there will always be a ring of some sort down there.

In the meantime Kurt modified my rubber urinal. He cut it down to use just the very end of it, just enough to cover the end of my cock. From the inside of the rubber cup he attached a rubber band to hold the head of the cock in the cup with a small hook inside my newly-installed ring. It was all very, very, clever and a delightful sensation.

There was no further discomfort. It was a perfect solution to the problem. There is also another happy side to this encounter. I like to fuck as well as the next guy, and on Saturday evenings when we went into town, the girls were very anxious to meet us. The divers had a reputation for being great sex, we fellows with gold rings that tickled. I’d get laid three times a Saturday night without half trying. That gold ring was wild!

Later I learned that such a piercing was called a “Prince Albert” - named after the husband of Queen Victoria. The historians say that Albert wore one to retract his foreskin to keep it from becoming “foul-smelling” when he visited the Queen. True or otherwise, it makes an interesting story.

Before I knew it, it was Labor Day and time to start back to school. My sophomore year was uneventful but academically productive. At college the gold ring was a sensation even though I don’t usually show it off. Somehow or other the word got around, and literally dozens of fellows asked me to see it; and I’m sure they were envious. Several asked me for instruction on how to do it, and there must have been some who tried the same thing.

The following summer I got an even better paying diving job. By now I was more experienced, and on Saturday nights I was capable of a least five girls now. The same gold ring was still working wonders.

Around Labor Day I was offered a full scholarship to one of the most prestigious eastern universities. It was the time for a change, and I was ready for a new adventure. My professor, who had gotten me the diving job, suggested that I would be happier as an anthropologist than a marine biologist, and he arranged for the transfer at the eastern university. It’s a big jump from a small state university to one of the most sophisticated American universities of the east. Somehow I bridged the gap and was soon accepted.

My roommate, Jake, was a senior, and I was a junior. He kept me from making any big social mistakes, and we got along fine. Sometime during the first semester Jake mentioned a meeting that was going to be held in one of the frat houses with a representative from the Cyprian Society. I agreed to go with Jake who, I should add, was Jewish.

There were about thirty who attended this meeting. The speaker outlined the objectives of the Cyprian Society. It was formed right after World War I to offset the indiscriminate circumcision of male babies who didn’t have a choice or a chance to fight back. I hadn’t realized there was such strong feelings on this subject, especially among the Jews. They bitterly resented that they had been ceremoniously circumcised, and they were out to change the prevailing attitudes about it. “Okay,” I thought, “I’ll buy that, but it is too late for me also. If I have sons, I’ll give them a choice.”

Then the speaker dropped a bombshell. He advocated piercing the sides of the glans of the head of the cock to put in special little studs. These studs would heighten the sexual pleasure by increasing the friction during intercourse and offset the thickened and less sensitive skin of the cockhead which came with the loss of the foreskin. Was I hearing right? I broke out in a sweat. Could it be real? Yes, it was true, and of the thirty attending, none of them walked out on the suggestion. Me, I’d have unbuttoned my fly on the spot. Later that evening Doctor Rosenthal (a very young M.D., and the representative who spoke) privately showed me his glans piercing and, not to be outdone, I showed him my own piercing. That was a switch! The young doctor creamed his jeans, and I took it in good stride. After all, I had had some previous experience in such matters, more than he realized.

There were several more meetings. Some guys stopped attending, and some new ones joined. About thirty of us were still signed up. I was the leader, naturally, and first one to sign up for the piercing. Jake signed up also, and we were given an appointment for ten p.m. the following night. Jake was sorry he had ever suggested going to the first meeting, but I wouldn’t let him forget it. It was his idea at the start, and I wouldn’t let him back down. I was thrilled beyond words. Jake was worried, so I calmed his fears and told him that I’d go first.

The piercing wasn’t as painful as some may think. It might be, if it’s done slowly, exerting a steady pressure. The “operator” who worked on me was a medical student I had never seen before or after. He was an expert and knew what he was doing and went right ahead with it. The most important part of such a piercing is the placement. To achieve the maximum sensation, the wearer (me, in this case) holds his cock in his hand and rotates it ninety degrees to the right exposing the left side of the shaft. The piercings are done with hollow needles which have a flattened side like a hypodermic needle without the syringe attachment. The operator selects the exact center of the side of the shaft, then pierces it through the glans edge, at exactly ninety degrees to the edge of the glans, with the needle entering from the bottom groove. The needle is pressured from the surface of the shaft until the needle emerges on the top side. It requires several minutes for it to travel through the spongy material of the glans. Both the left and right side of the glans are done together with the needles forced through at exactly parallel lines of travel so the piercings on each side are at exactly the same angle. Both piercings then result in a matched pair.

Within a few minutes both penetrations were accomplished, and I was none the worse for the wear. I had exactly parallel surgical needles sticking through the sides of my cock, somewhat like a man-size pickle fork.

Jake took it all in and said not one word, probably expecting me to make some outcry, but it was not forthcoming. I thought Jake would be a problem, but he wasn’t, and I really didn’t give him an alternative. I suggested to the “operator” that we do Jake’s next and keep my needles in place before the retainers were installed, but Jake would have none of that. He wanted to see the finished product before any needles touched his skin.

Tiny fourteen-carat wire retainer rings were fitted down inside the hollow needles, and withdrawing the needles pulled the retainers into the piercings. The withdrawal procedure sometimes brings a flow of blood. The operator shakes some alum powder on the holes to stem the flow. Usually the bleeding is of very short duration.

The operator bathed my cock and dusted it with some antiseptic powder and put several layers of gauze around the cock. I put my pants on and watched Jake get his turn. He took it like a man, maybe because I had set a good example. Me, I’d have had it done every day if I’d had the chance because I’m a piercing freak, and I admit it. Total time, for both of us, was about forty minutes.

The piercing usually takes three to four weeks to fully heal. After six to eight days it forms a hard spot around each penetration and becomes somewhat thicker than normal but never particularly painful.

The operator said, “After the piercing, forget it for a month. However be sure to bath it daily and dust it with antiseptic powder.”

Within three to four weeks the lumps slowly dissolved, and when the area of the glans was normal again it was time to think about some kind of studs. Doctor Rosenthal had some gold studs with solid screw ends, available in various lengths to fit the individuals. Both ends were the same diameter and really very handsome. At this writing it’s years since this happened, and I still treasure those little gold Dydoes (as they are called by aficionados of the art of piercing). I’ve removed them many times but always put them back where they belong. As someone once said of them, they are my “constant companions, and always give that added sensation, a little something extra in my sex life, that delicious little something for the many who had everything.” A pair of Dydoes will heighten the sensation and increase your pleasure.

During my senior year in college there were several meetings of the Cyprian Society. I was very involved and did some of the lecture meetings. Also I developed a skillful hand for the little operation, of which I performed quite a few.

I graduated just before the outbreak of World War II, and our age group was one of the first to be called up: The Cyprian Society got lost in the shuffle. It was too difficult to maintain contact. Several years after the end of the war I tried to track down Dr. Horowitz of New York city who was the major spokesman of the Society. I discovered he had died of a heart attack a year before. I met the widow and she gave me a box of old meeting records and correspondence which made fascinating reading. Maybe we should rejuvenate the Cyprian Society and start it functioning again. It served a good purpose, especially for me.

For my graduation present my aunt gave me a gift of cash. I went to Hawaii as a beach bum. In those days, just before Pearl Harbor, we beach bums wore knit wool swim trunks, rather tight-fitting. If you rub your palms down your hips, the knit swim trunks roll up and, with one motion, expose as much of your body as you wish to display-your navel or further, depending on what you had in mind. One of my beach bum friends, Moki, was the first person I’d ever seen with a navel piercing. Wow, that was a whole new dimension in the scheme of sexual attractions.

My two previous piercing encounters were for useful purposes, but this one was strictly advertising. It let the opposite sex know you were interested and man, how it worked! Rolling down your trunks was like pulling down her panties! Many beach bums wore these navel piercings. Tattooing was also part of the required image to be accepted socially, even with the girls.

When I had a little cash windfall I went into a tattoo parlor and asked the prices at the best-known establishment in Honolulu. I was shocked at how much it cost for a modest size design, too rich for my blood. One of my beach bum friends had a mail-order tattooing machine. It was in constant use, but the quality of work was awful. If I got a tattoo, at least it would be artistically acceptable. I couldn’t see getting one of those tattoos, and I couldn’t afford the good ones. Unfortunately I never had gotten one. Moki did take me to a Chinese jewelry shop on River Street where they got their navel piercings, however.

A navel piercing is quick and easy if your navel is formed that way, so you can get behind, at, or into the opening. Some people cannot be pierced there because there is no real opening. After a little Chinese negotiation we agreed on a complete navel piercing job for $2.50, and I laid the cash on the counter. I looked around for a “back room with a curtain”, but there was none, so I stood there at the end of the counter. The little Chinese merchant squatted down on a small stool and with a very dull, old-fashioned straight razor, scraped off the hairs from my belly, without benefit of shaving cream or lather. He then took a length of straight gold wire and filed it to a fine point. He put his left little finger up into my navel opening and found the center spot and slowly pushed the pointed wire through the fleshy overhang. Soon he felt the point touching his finger. With a pair of fine jewelers’ pliers he fashioned a nice little gold ring just the right scale for my belly button. It was all done in about ten to fifteen minutes and at very little cost. It was sore for a few days, but the salt water was a natural cleansing agent.

That was my third piercing encounter, not as thrilling to me as the earlier ones, and not nearly as sexually stimulating. The navel piercing is not really related to the sex equipment, just sort of window dressing for other things to happen, sort of a prelude to the big act. I got good mileage from my navel piercing and, there in Hawaii, it was one of the sex symbols, sort of an unspoken indication of your intentions without having to blurt it out loud.

After V-E Day, I went back into anthropology to work at a Ph. D. The subject I selected (naturally) was “male initiation rites in Borneo” which gave me a wonderful opportunity for further study of piercings. In those parts of the world I saw some amazing and somewhat terrifying “mutilations.” Even I had to have a strong stomach for some of it.

On my return from Borneo and New Guinea, I stopped off in Tahiti to compile the data I had collected. It was there that I met Reggie Jones, a delightful soul who greatly enriched my life. Reggie, an Australian, was a seaman on tramp steamers in the copra trade when he was young. Reggie had jumped ship and stayed in Tahiti. He married a native girl, and they had seven sons. When I knew him he was sixty, and I was thirty. Reggie taught me about Tahitian sex lore. The natives wear a pareo, a square of cotton fabric draped around their hips and never in such a way to bind or constrict the genital area. They wear no cloth between the legs since it would prevent the cooling breezes needed for comfort.

Many males at the age of twelve to fourteen, pierce the thin web of skin behind the balls and halfway between the legs, sort of an equidistant triangle seen from the floor looking up. The hole is usually large enough for a pencil, and the purpose is to hang a leather thong through it. Hanging on the thong is a shell or rock, or anything heavy enough to dangle from a three or four-inch thong. Even a lead sinker did very well in a pinch. The French colonists called this unique piercing a Guiche (pronounced geesh) meaning “opening in something.”

When Reggie told me this, I started panting. Here we go again! Reggie showed me his adornment. I had to have one to “keep up with the Joneses.” The following day after our night of fishing, we went into the Chinese general store, and Reggie bought a ring for me. That afternoon Reggie looked me over and was amazed at my other piercings.

Then he showed me where the guiche would be most practical for my purpose. I slipped off my pareo, leaned over, hands on thighs, and Reggie, from the rear, did the honors. He placed the ring in its proper placement and just squeezed it gently but firmly. So quick and easy, no aftercare, no real preparation for its installation.

Today my guiche piercing is permanently placed and the bangle removed if not being used. It’s not pencil size but a modest 5/8” interlocking ring. I never remove my guiche ring because it never interferes with tight underwear. One of the real pleasures of life is a guiche if you’re able to wear the tropical clothing for which it is intended. Walking the bangle bangs against my balls and legs and gives me an added delight, a constant reminder that I’m a fully developed, sexually adequate man.

In the course of the years I’ve been involved in some exciting experiments. Once in Florida we decided to extend my original through-the-end “Prince Albert” to connect it at the same angle to a hole coming out the top of the cockhead. The trans-piercing was no problem and healed soon, but it was never a pleasure to wear a stud or a ring through it. There was a constant irritation so the piercing was abandoned. However, it is still “on call” if wanted for later action.

Early in the game I had my nipples pierced, but the chap who did it was inexperienced and nervous. His work was sloppy, one ring slanted to the left, ant the other cocked to the right. The following day when I looked in the mirror I removed them and never had them repierced. I admire these men with big round, fully-developed nipples, but mine were such little pimples that I really had little to work with. Some men want their piercings at the base, the surface next to the nipple shield, while others want it at the center, midway between the tip and the shield. To each his own, I’ve seen them both ways, including top to bottom variations. Usually a piercing buff wants his nipples pierced as a starter, right after his left ear is pierced, but most beginners are inexperienced, and today I see the bad result of many impulsive piercings.

It seems so simple and easy to poke a hole in the side of the scrotum, but to what purpose? Yes, you can hang an earring there, but what will that gain you? The hole will spread and heal eventually, but it will be no real pleasure sexually. Scrotum piercing can be done by real experts who know their trade. But be sure that’s what you really want.

In closing, once a piercing freak, always a piercing freak. I pity the poor lonesome sonofabitch who locks himself in his closet. He is missing so much. Piercing can be a real joy to do and have done by another who appreciates it. The loners are short-changing themselves. Under the right conditions piercing is one of the greatest of the indoor sports.