A year ago, I traded 11 needles for 3 Cheddar Bay Biscuits at dinner. Due to circumstances beyond our control (and even our imagination), those needles were not paid. During the past year, he kept teasing me about the interest I was accruing, depsite my various offers to pay that never quite panned out. We never did settle on a firm rate of interest. Now, needles were planned, and my debt would come due.
He had three of us sitting side-by-side, all there for different reasons. He looked at me, a wide grin on his face. So, your interest will be paid like this, you choose the gauge, and you will get that many needles. What gauges do you have, I ask, knowing part of the answer, in the 16s he had bought earlier. 25, 22, 20, 18, 16. I ponder, and math, and fidget, and freak, and ponder. NOT doing 18 or 16. 25 sounds like way too many. 20 isn’t really worth only getting two less. Alright, 22, I tell him. That’s not so bad, the one on my right comments. I’ve only ever done 8 before, I reply, trying to stay calm. My feet are kicking, like a little kid, I can’t stop them, nervous energy running high.
He comments on my having an awful lot of orgasms, since he counts out breathing to 3 as he puts them in. No, I can’t, I really can’t with this. He looks at me, and nods. I’m terrified, and terrified that I’ll move while he’s stabbing me. I just can’t. He has accepted it, but I feel a bit disappointed in myself. I’ll forget this quickly, however, as the needles begin.
We each pick our body parts. He prepares the skin with alcohol then iodine. Thighs for me, careful to choose the swaths that are clearest of bruising.
He starts on my left. I stop my feet, don’t rock the table. 1.2.3. Then to me. You ready? I clench my hands behind my back, tears forming. No. Breathe in. 1. Breathe in. 2. Breathe in. 3. It slides in easily, I whimper. Not so bad, I think, as he goes to my right. Then my left. And back to me. The tears are falling, but dry up shortly after the second one as I begin to fly.
We go one by one. He counts, we breathe. Sometimes we scream. Sometimes we yip. Sometimes we grumble or growl. Always we are joking and making each other laugh. All of us flying high. He is bouncing, dancing, and giddy. I am complaining about how close together the needles are, there’s plenty of space on my thighs. But he needs practice keeping them close because of the design work he’s doing to the left. Somewhere around ten, he takes a different strategy. Finishing off the one on my left all in one go, to let her settle in before the lacing. Then he comes to me.
My 11th. Counts, and I scream. That one hurt three times! Ready? He moves to the next row. What? No? He counts quickly and slides it it. You have to wait for me to breathe! I whimper. No, I don’t. I’m crying again. And another. And another. And another. Counting a little slower each time. He’s done five before he pauses. More? No! Please. He moves to my right, finishing her 18s. As I regain control and start flying again.
Back to me. Four more? Three, I counter. He counts three. Breathe in, 1, breathe in, 2, breathe in 3. And again, and again. Then back to my right to start the 16s. We tease her about them not hurting, because she said bigger ones hurt less. Hurt Less, she insists, not don’t hurt.
Back to me. Breathe in, 1, breathe in, 2, breathe in 3. Pain. Breathe in, 1, breathe in, 2, breathe in, 3. Pain. More? No, getting light headed. He goes back right. Back to me. Last two? Yes. Breathe in, 1, breathe in 2, breathe in 3. Pain. Breathe in, 1, breathe in 2, breathe in, 3. Pain. They clap for me. 22 needles, and I am done.
He finishes the left one’s pattern. I rest my head on the right one’s shoulder. Takes a picture on the left, then takes a picture of mine. Then goes back for the last few 16s on the right. And takes a picture for her, too. I ask him to run his finger along the flesh over my needles, it feels cool, but I can’t bring myself to touch them. He does. The others find me odd, but it’s a really interesting feeling. But now they hurt. I am rocking, flying on the pain.
He takes out the ones on the left first. You next? He asks me. No, still flying. So he goes to my right. Then back to me. Handing me gauze. You have to do this part yourself, no one else can touch your blood. He has changed gloves between each person. I know. He pulls them out a few at a time, and I plop down gauze pads. I can barely feel them coming out. I just breathe and cover the holes with gauze. All out. We all clean up, alcohol pads and gauze. When the bleeding stops, I wash the iodine off in the bathroom. Such a great scene, maybe I do like needles, after all.
🙂