Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

“Mom? What’s in your hand?”

“Bolt cutters.”

“I can see that.”

I give my child my best mother glare and not state the obvious.

“Why’d you buy those? There’s a pair in the garage.”

“Hand-size?”

“No. They’re twice as long.”

“Too big.”

“For what?”

I’ve got to cut the bar on my piercing.”

“What?”

“The ball won’t come off and I need to cut the bar.”

“Just be careful and don’t cut yourself.”

As I headed upstairs to my bathroom, I recalled what led me to buy the small bolt cutter in my hand. At the end of November, I sat on my bed anticipating finally changing my nipple jewelry. I’d purchased a set with a bar, horseshoe-shaped shield, and dangles. Sir was going to love the look.

Excited, I took off the right piercing, replaced it, and then moved to my left breast. It wouldn’t unscrew. After almost a year, I couldn’t remember which side had the threaded bead. I gripped the balls and twisted. First, the left then the right. Neither side budged. After thirty minutes and tearing some tissue in my nipple, I gave up. With disappointment and losing that sexy feeling, I took a picture and sent it to Sir.

Through December, I soaked the bar, put oil on it. I twisted and turned it. Neither bead was coming off.

“Maybe you should try WD-40,” Sir said, joking.

After thinking about his comment for a week, I tried. It didn’t work.

The tattoo shop where I got the piercing had closed its doors and none of the other shops did body piercings.

“It just needs to be unscrewed. Leave it alone, we’ll get it off soon,” Sir said, the first week in January.

I knew better. Secretly, I plotted. I needed a locksmith. They have bolt cutters. I sat in front of the computer, staring at the phone number, debating. I could hold my breast and he’d snip off an end. But he’d see my breast. So what. Lots of men have seen them. I’m not embarrassed.

But what about him?

I played the scene out in my head.

“What do you need cutting?” he’d ask.

I take a deep breath. “I need you to cut off the bead on the end of my nipple piercing.”

He’d look at my chest then back at me.

I’d raise the left side of my top exposing my breast.

He’d stand there speechless, my nipples beading in the cold January air beneath his surprised gaze.

He’d lift his hand then let it fall back to his side. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No.” I lift my left breast. “See these beads?”

“Yeah.” He steps close and leans in. Mist fills the air from his hot breath, hitting my skin, warming me just a bit.

Now, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, working out just how to proceed, I recall the rest of my imagined exchange with the locksmith. “I need you to cut right next to the ball.”

“Have you tried to unscrew it?”

I refrain from giving him a sarcastic remark and say, “Yes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called you.”

He nods his head, glancing at me, and then looks back at my breast. “Can I…try unscrewing it first?”

“Sure,” I tell him one side has a fixed bead, and the other unscrews. I couldn’t remember which.

“Hold your breast up high. I’ll get a good grip and give it a twist.”

Worry fills me as his shaking, thick fingers and thumbs latch onto the tiny balls. His fingers slip. He tries again. I welcome the warmth of his hands as he presses them into the soft flesh of my breast. He rubs back and forth.

“Stop. This isn’t working.”

After several seconds, he lets his hands drop.

“Do you have bolt cutters?” I ask.

“You told me you needed something cut.” He nods.

Again, I want to ask why he wasted my time. Probably to charge more money. “Please get them, I really want this taken care of.”

He rummages in the back for a few seconds, pulls out his tool, and turns.

“It’s a bit big, but I think…” He holds up the bolt cutters.

Letting go of my imagined scene, I stared at the short cutter in my hand. I shuddered that I thought hiring a guy with uncontrollable shaking hands could cut a 1/8 inch bar with a three-foot bolt cutter right next to my breast. No Thank. You.

Looking in the mirror, I was ready.

In less than a minute I had cut the bar, cleaned off any slivers of metal, and took it out. Tension drained from my body. I then hurried into my bedroom and put in the matching bar and horseshoe shield.

I took a picture and emailed it to Sir.

So far I’ve had no more issues. I love that I can change my jewelry to fit my mood or when Sir and I play or when I see clients.

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