Does anyone actually call her “Philadelphia” in entirety? It seems everyone I know who has any sort of relationship with her just calls her by her nickname, “Philly.” It seems so casual, so intimate, especially with the “y” ending, but the five-syllable name is sometimes such a mouthful.
It was a few months back when I was, on a whim, looking up the most populated metro regions in the United States, that I realized just how huge Philly is: the fourth largest metro area in the US, after New York, LA, and Chicago.
But it doesn’t feel so gigantic when I visit—the downtown “gayborhood,” as they call it, is so sweet and low to the ground and filled with vintage shops, tea houses, and restaurants of every flavor. They have a fabulous Philly AIDS thrift store to benefit people living with HIV, a fantastic queer and feminist bookstore, Giovanni’s Room, and the fabulous Infinite Piercing Studio—which was the main focus of this particular visit to Philly.
You see, somewhere along the way, a few months ago, Kristen decided she wanted to get her nipples pierced. We were talking about piercings and how the purpose—aside from adornment—is to draw attention to a particular body part, especially ones that you want to receive more attention, praise, or touch than it does already. Like a tattoo, a piercing draws someone’s eye to that particular area of your body and more so than a tattoo, a piercing is like an invitation to feel it, touch it, pull on it, lick it.
And hey, this works for Kristen. She’s a breast gal if ever there was a breast gal, always eager to have someone pay attention to and play with her tits.
Right away, I’ve noticed a difference in my interest—not that I was uninterested before, not in the slightest, but even on the drive home from Philadelphia right on the heels of saying, “How do they feel?” I asked, “Do you want to take your shirt off?”
To give them some breathing room, you see. And show them off, and air them out, and look at them—all to help with getting used to this major body modification she’d just done.
She has other piercings, and I’m no stranger to them myself. I had eleven at one point, though now I only wear an orbital ring through two holes in one ear and a stud in my tongue. I’ve taken the tongue bar out and put it back in twice now, I keep thinking it is getting in the way of speaking or performing, holding my tongue back from full-on enunciation of certain words or phrases, but when it’s gone for a while I miss the feeling of the metal connecting to certain points inside my mouth, providing a connecting rod between my brain and my jaw in this interesting way. The energy must move along metal differently than it moves through flesh, don’t you think? Sometimes I can really feel that.
It was only recently I reinserted it for the second time, and since then I’ve noticed myself using my tongue in ways I didn’t usually. Sticking it far out of my mouth and moving my head out of the way so Kristen can see my tongue connecting to her nipple or thigh or cunt; using my teeth and the ball of the piercing to hold some sensitive bit in place and then thrumming the pointed blade of my tongue back and forth; pressing it hard and deep into her mouth or cunt when we play—it all feels a little different, more impactful, more noticeable, now that I’ve put the bar back into my tongue.
I like the extra attention it brings to my mouth. I like using my mouth, I am eager and willing and I think the tongue, lips, and teeth are beautifully effective built-in sex toys that we all get to experiment with, and there is no shortage of new ways to use them and explore.
I like the extra attention it’s bringing to Kristen’s nipples, too. The past few days since she got them pierced, I keep asking, “How are they now?” “How are they this morning?” “How are they after being in that bra all day?” It’s my way of taking the temperature of her healing process, too, so that I know when I can play hard with them again. So far, they are healing well and she likes how they feel.
I like how they look, though I haven’t much felt them yet. Just the lightest, feathery-est of touches, the slight brush through her shirt, the slight awareness of her extra sensitivity when we hug each other close.
The day after she got them done, she went to get her pussy waxed—which, for the record, she reports as much more painful and much less fun than getting her nipples pierced. It’s another body modification ritual she engages in on occasion, also for the same purpose: enhanced sensation and more attention to that particular body part. Every time after she gets waxed I have trouble keeping my hands —and my mouth—off of her, and sometimes she has to turn me down for the first day or so because her pussy is still a bit sore from, well, ripping all the hair out by the roots with hot wax. Which, obviously, I can understand being a little sore after that! But the sensitivity and the tenderness and her turning me down makes me want it even more—not to mention that her skin is so smooth and soft, and I can feel and see every fold of skin, every contour, every drop of wetness.
It’s not something I expect, and I certainly don’t think it’s the only option. If she wanted to grow it and sculpt it (a la Map of Tasmania, perhaps) that’d be great. I support a wide variety of options in exploring one’s own body hair and the sensations it can bring to grow it long, cut it short, buzz it off, wax it, shave it, whatever. Just like I support adding decorations, taking hormones, adding color and pictures and words, or slipping needles through our flesh to make room for metal adornments.
Even better when the modifications we make to our bodies can enhance our sex lives, hmm? My body is my major tool for my exploration of sex, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the primary reason to enhance, adorn, and modify it at all—to feel good about how it looks and feels, to myself first, and also to the people with whom I play.
It was a few months back when I was, on a whim, looking up the most populated metro regions in the United States, that I realized just how huge Philly is: the fourth largest metro area in the US, after New York, LA, and Chicago.
But it doesn’t feel so gigantic when I visit—the downtown “gayborhood,” as they call it, is so sweet and low to the ground and filled with vintage shops, tea houses, and restaurants of every flavor. They have a fabulous Philly AIDS thrift store to benefit people living with HIV, a fantastic queer and feminist bookstore, Giovanni’s Room, and the fabulous Infinite Piercing Studio—which was the main focus of this particular visit to Philly.
You see, somewhere along the way, a few months ago, Kristen decided she wanted to get her nipples pierced. We were talking about piercings and how the purpose—aside from adornment—is to draw attention to a particular body part, especially ones that you want to receive more attention, praise, or touch than it does already. Like a tattoo, a piercing draws someone’s eye to that particular area of your body and more so than a tattoo, a piercing is like an invitation to feel it, touch it, pull on it, lick it.
And hey, this works for Kristen. She’s a breast gal if ever there was a breast gal, always eager to have someone pay attention to and play with her tits.
Right away, I’ve noticed a difference in my interest—not that I was uninterested before, not in the slightest, but even on the drive home from Philadelphia right on the heels of saying, “How do they feel?” I asked, “Do you want to take your shirt off?”
To give them some breathing room, you see. And show them off, and air them out, and look at them—all to help with getting used to this major body modification she’d just done.
She has other piercings, and I’m no stranger to them myself. I had eleven at one point, though now I only wear an orbital ring through two holes in one ear and a stud in my tongue. I’ve taken the tongue bar out and put it back in twice now, I keep thinking it is getting in the way of speaking or performing, holding my tongue back from full-on enunciation of certain words or phrases, but when it’s gone for a while I miss the feeling of the metal connecting to certain points inside my mouth, providing a connecting rod between my brain and my jaw in this interesting way. The energy must move along metal differently than it moves through flesh, don’t you think? Sometimes I can really feel that.
It was only recently I reinserted it for the second time, and since then I’ve noticed myself using my tongue in ways I didn’t usually. Sticking it far out of my mouth and moving my head out of the way so Kristen can see my tongue connecting to her nipple or thigh or cunt; using my teeth and the ball of the piercing to hold some sensitive bit in place and then thrumming the pointed blade of my tongue back and forth; pressing it hard and deep into her mouth or cunt when we play—it all feels a little different, more impactful, more noticeable, now that I’ve put the bar back into my tongue.
I like the extra attention it brings to my mouth. I like using my mouth, I am eager and willing and I think the tongue, lips, and teeth are beautifully effective built-in sex toys that we all get to experiment with, and there is no shortage of new ways to use them and explore.
I like the extra attention it’s bringing to Kristen’s nipples, too. The past few days since she got them pierced, I keep asking, “How are they now?” “How are they this morning?” “How are they after being in that bra all day?” It’s my way of taking the temperature of her healing process, too, so that I know when I can play hard with them again. So far, they are healing well and she likes how they feel.
I like how they look, though I haven’t much felt them yet. Just the lightest, feathery-est of touches, the slight brush through her shirt, the slight awareness of her extra sensitivity when we hug each other close.
The day after she got them done, she went to get her pussy waxed—which, for the record, she reports as much more painful and much less fun than getting her nipples pierced. It’s another body modification ritual she engages in on occasion, also for the same purpose: enhanced sensation and more attention to that particular body part. Every time after she gets waxed I have trouble keeping my hands —and my mouth—off of her, and sometimes she has to turn me down for the first day or so because her pussy is still a bit sore from, well, ripping all the hair out by the roots with hot wax. Which, obviously, I can understand being a little sore after that! But the sensitivity and the tenderness and her turning me down makes me want it even more—not to mention that her skin is so smooth and soft, and I can feel and see every fold of skin, every contour, every drop of wetness.
It’s not something I expect, and I certainly don’t think it’s the only option. If she wanted to grow it and sculpt it (a la Map of Tasmania, perhaps) that’d be great. I support a wide variety of options in exploring one’s own body hair and the sensations it can bring to grow it long, cut it short, buzz it off, wax it, shave it, whatever. Just like I support adding decorations, taking hormones, adding color and pictures and words, or slipping needles through our flesh to make room for metal adornments.
Even better when the modifications we make to our bodies can enhance our sex lives, hmm? My body is my major tool for my exploration of sex, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the primary reason to enhance, adorn, and modify it at all—to feel good about how it looks and feels, to myself first, and also to the people with whom I play.
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