Sharps are a Hard Limit

Long-time readers of INA know that my anonymity in the lifestyle is critical. For that reason I’m not out to … well … anyone really. If I don’t meet you through a lifestyle activity or event, then I look like a soccer mom and anything else would never be suspected. Because I am hypersensitive to being exposed, I don’t share much about myself to my fellow lifestylers and, for that reason, I don’t have friends in the community. I have many, many acquaintances but no one who genuinely knows me.

As a result, this week when I go get all of my bits pierced, I’ll be alone. So you, my readers of the blogosphere, you will be my wingmen, my virtual hand holders. I’m going to write about it and I’m going to pretend you all are waiting on the next riveting installment, composing your oh-so-supportive comments mentally, if only I would post again so you would have a place to put them. Since this world is not INAcentric, I know that isn’t the reality of it but I’m going to pretend it is.

What seems like a very long time ago, my Master and I began talking about nipple piercings. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea when it was broached but, as is most often the case when I am faced with new things, it didn’t take me too long to warm up to it. It was not long after that, that the idea became an obsession. I thought of those piercings as a permanent mark that would remain when the marks from play faded. A permanent collar of sorts – one that I would not have to remove when returning to my vanilla environs.

For a variety of reasons, those piercings didn’t happen. Here we are now. Seemingly a lifetime has passed. It feels that the entire world is different. (And I suppose it is, though not in the way I mean.) I understand, I am the one who has changed. My perspective is altered now. If the old me passed this me on the street, we would not recognize each other.

Last week, during a conversation with my Boy, I was sharing with him that I had saved enough to get the VCH I wanted so much and then, as so often happens, motherhood intervened and the money had to go elsewhere. My Boy, who is an amazing man that I cannot believe I’m lucky enough to call mine, offered to gift them to me, If you still want them, get the nipples done, too, while you’re there. I had only to call and make the appointment.

In just a few short days, when I’m having pointy things shoved through my most sensitive bits, I will physically be alone. My Boy will be with me in spirit as I affix him to my physical body, and for every day thereafter I will carry symbols of our relationship that need not be removed to preserve anonymity.

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