I meet the most fucked-up, beautiful people in my line of work. It's one of the main reasons why I'm not in a hurry to quit my job and enlist in the university system. This business is an island of misfit toys to say the least- but it's my island.
People want strange parts of their body pierced... they want ugly tattoos permanently inked into their raggedy skin; and they pay me top dollar to make their imagined abominations a reality. But I can't blame them for their odd tastes because I myself have a dark streak as wide as a Dallas highway- and what can I say? My work turns me on because there is something sexy about the common denominator of art that involves pain.
Awhile back, I encountered a new customer that may well change my outlook on life and sex forever. Her name is Amanda. She is everything I aspire to be: rich, poised, attractive, charismatic, eccentric... she has personality to spare. I can tell she is older than me, but she has one of those womanly bodies that is so fucking perfectly curvy and feminine; she could be anywhere from 31 to 45; nothing about her suggests: 'girl'... she is all 'woman.'
She has those perfect genetics: skin like a Roman statue: curves like an anime vixen. If a Hollywood producer were to chance upon her mesmerizing face, he would instantly cast her as the leading woman in his next big film- she could be the next Renee Russo or Angelina Jolie or Meryl Streep... but she couldn't be the next Maggie Gylenhal- she's much too polarized in the other direction.
So naturally, when she made my acquaintance, my breath got all caught-up in my throat- and my heart pounded- and I could feel my cheeks flushing for no apparent reason. She started in on me with a personal remark right off the bat: she noticed that I had no visible tattoos and she pointed out the irony because of what I purport to do for a living.
"Actually, I don't have any tattoos at all... yet. It's not that I'm too good for them, I just can't decide on something so permanent to have on me for the rest of my life. I guess I'm kind of indecisive," I admitted too much too soon to her.
She told me that she would likely be making an appointment with me in the future. She was very interested to know my knowledge of the intimate details of one obscure piercing- a very strange one that hardly anybody ever wants known as a "Prince Albert."
"It's kind of perverted, if you ask me," I said. What I withheld from her then was that my current boyfriend just happened to have that exact piercing himself, and it was a huge source of excitement for me... every time his piercing hit my G-spot, it made me feel like he had the special key to my lock. Such personal information... didn't seem appropriate to share with a new customer... but I felt like she could sense that I had more truth I was holding back just beyond my obfuscations.
"But it's actually a very straight-forward procedure on my end... the PENIS is a delicate- but-forgiving- organ... and as long as I hit fairly close to the target, permanent damage is virtually impossible... There are a couple different varieties of that piercing and MEN have been experimenting with such piercings for a long time for various reasons- I don't really ask 'why' usually... but I know some men think it will help them pleasure their partner better... some have reasons that are too strange for me to understand- or I wouldn't want to understand. I've only studied the mechanics of this particular procedure enough to guarantee my patient's safety..." I white lied.
She listened to me with a mysteriously calculating intensity- like I was interviewing for a job... She smiled at my use of the word 'patient' -she seemed to approve of my precociousness, but her air was anything- but-conversational. She seemed to listen to me as if she had some deep dark obsession that should be frightening; but I wasn't frightened. Instead, I was deeply intrigued by her.
She left me with a generous tip for doing nothing but answer her questions. She stopped in a few more times... always with a knew question about my tattoo designs- or a piercing she's thinking about. She never scheduled to have one of my services done. She just came in, made small talk, tipped me well for my time and then left.
The last time she came in, she wanted to look through my little catalog of intimate jewelry. She studied it longer than I expected, tipped me, and left. Then I didn't see her again for a long two weeks. That's not to say she didn't occupy my thoughts in the interim. I dreamed of the mysteriously charismatic woman- who called herself Amanda- nearly every night. If I'm completely honest, I have to admit that the very thought of her face aroused me sexually in a way that no woman ever has. I could feel the unmistakable sensation of moisture condensing between my thighs whenever I pondered the realistic possibility that I could be performing a clitoral or a vulva piercing on her own regal genitalia soon; and what an exhilarating project that would be for me. Even the thought of having to hide my arousal from her compounded my arousal.
However, in my waking moments of reflection, I found myself wondering what interest such a beautiful woman could have in the logistics of a strictly male piercing. She never inquired about any type of pussy piercing... odd.
Then one random, rainy day, she called me up and asked if it would be possible to book an exclusive appointment.
"What do you mean exclusive, Ms. Amanda?" I asked.
"Are there any other customers at your shop right now?" She asked.
"Nope," I answered her matter-of-factly.
