Keep in mind that I grew up in the deep south of the United States, in the heart of Dixie as it were. The most rebellious thing I had done in my first 23 years of life was buzz cutting my hair on a dare from University chums. This caused great distress to my parents, especially my mother, who lamented the loss of my wavy blond tresses. I liked the way it made my head feel like a mink coat. This then was my first body modification. Well, excluding the ritual circumcision...

When I started graduate school at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill, in the mid-1980s, I had lived abroad for a year and a half in Europe, so I had been exposed to difference, and had begun to appreciate the various ways that individuals expressed their individuality, in dress, manner, etc. Piercing wasn't a part of that vocabulary for me. Until I met the man I'll call Dan, a colleague student in the same graduate program as me. Dan had also lived abroad, but had grown up in the north, in Rochester, NY to be specific. he had an ear piercing... I think he was the first male I knew who had one.

We became good friends, and the truth to tell, I developed a not-so-little crush on him, with his long hair on one side and buzz cut on the other... which he would let me rub to my heart's content. Naturally I wanted to have my ear pierced. I was definitely not into the whole self-piercing option. Dan had pierced his own ears, or a friend had done his, with a safety pin and a cork I believe... Dan had volunteered to pierce my ear, but he could tell from our conversation that I was too skittish to handle that. Hell, I hadn't even come out of the closet at that point. To illustrate this skittishness, witness my childhood trip en famille out west to the Grand Canyon, where of course I wanted to ride the donkey down to the bottom of the Canyon. But my parents, knowing my fear of insect bites, bees and wasps, rightly guessed that if anything could drive a donkey off the path into the canyon it would be me, flailing about at a stinging bug like a banshee.

So, after some discussion Dan agreed to drive me to the mall to get my first piercing. It was at a small jewelry shop in the University Mall in Chapel Hill, and we hovered about a bit, while the attendant was attending to someone else in the store. When she got to me, I was excited to be able to pick my earring out. This led to the FIRST GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT of my piercing experience. You don't get to wear the pretty and wild stuff from the start! I could only choose between two or three different "starter" studs. They were mostly boring... dots and half spheres, but there was one lovely chunky triangular looking one in gold that called out to me. It looked sophisticated and referenced the triangle that homosexuals were forced to wear in some cases in Nazi camps. (Hey, I was a student of semiotics... can you blame me for focusing on the sign and signifier?)

Speaking of signs, this was the period when folks would discuss which was the right ear to get pierced... I don't think I knew anything about this until after my piercing though. I had chosen my left ear, because I was a Marxist at the time. So of course, it was disappointing to learn later that "left was right and right was wrong"... but I allowed myself to fantasize about my iconoclastic tendencies instead of thinking I might have subconsciously been hiding a sign of queerness. Back to the experience at hand...

The piercer was a tall, thin middle-aged store manager with a thick southern accent. She cleaned my ear with a cotton swab and rubbing alcohol, loaded the piercing gun and let her rip. Literally. This would come to be known as the SECOND GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT of my piercing experience. It did hurt. For the briefest of seconds, it was the most painful experience of my life -- remember that I had never even broken a bone up to that point in my life. Once pierced, I let the instructions for after care fly in and out my head (new hole help with that?), basically twist 3x a day and swab generously with isopropyl alcohol, maybe peroxide too. It was a blur. Dan and I casually walked throughout the mall, and I felt like I could confess to him that I had felt 'violated' or 'raped' in the piercing experience. He seemed non-plussed.

The healing was mostly uneventful, with a few painful twists, and some crusties. No infection if I recall correctly... maybe a little whitish discharge, but what's a little whitish discharge in the bathroom, eh? Twist, swab, wince, Repeat often. Oh and earring shop like mad. For outrageous things that I could wear to shock and awe! I collected studs, posts, lots of silver twisty drops and some lovely trompe-l'oeil insect earrings... bees especially. Ironic or Napoleonic, quid est veritas? twist, swab, wince. A month later the healing had sealed and I was ready to start my new, pierced life. A turning point. A piercing point.