Leather and Hyde: Identity: Of Reason and Ritual

Leather and Hyde

Odysseys and Observations
Of Reason and Ritual
by Debra Hyde

First Contact

Quite some time ago, a young lady brushed passed my son and I as we left a restaurant. Once outside, my son, with all the curiosity a nine-year-old can muster, said, "Mom, that girl. She had a ring in her... in her..."

"She had an eyebrow piercing," I stated, matter-of-factly.

"You can pierce that?" he asked, with quiet awe.

"You can pierce just about anything," I returned.

Then, in pure juvenile glee, my son blurted, "You mean I could get my wiener pierced?"

Sheesh. And here I thought I had a few more years before he figured that out. As it was, I muttered something along the lines of "not until you're Ben's age," Ben being my son's adult cousin.

Not long afterwards, my ever-imaginative son told me he wants to someday get his butt pierced.

I count myself among the many who poured over National Geographics in my childhood. I found wonderous magic in those many photographs of primitive body mods.

I kid you not. It gets worse: he wants wind chimes for jewelry so "every time I let one, I can hear music." Folks, I'm giving you fair warning: start designing the jewelry. He's approaching his thirteenth, with the next several years guaranteed to whiz right by.

All humor aside, primitive piercing and tattooing have brought me some of my greatest fascinations and musings through the years. Yes, I count myself among the many who poured over National Geographics in my childhood. I found wonderous magic in those many photographs of primitive body mods, and the awe I felt was so profound that, looking back, I'm convinced the camera did indeed capture the earthy souls of its elaborately adorned subjects.

Yet today I sport only a modest number of body modifications and it took years to get this far. Why? Lack of connection. I saw, I marveled, but I couldn't relate. In childhood, I marveled over a culture that was not mine; I was a civilized, youthful voyeur at best. In my pre- and adolescent years, tattoos were the things of merchant marines, Pacific war veterans, and bikers. None of which related to the bookish tomboy that I was. I did not see myself in any of those American culture images.

In college, I resisted fads left and right, and that included the fad to sport numerous ear lobe piercings and tattooed spot motifs. The ear piercings were attractive -- I liked those -- but I rejected the idea of doing it just to follow my many peers. And I hated the ultra-fem or ultra-biker-bitch tattoos which typified those years. They seemed to generalize women into good girl/bad girl categories. On the whole, the entire trend seemed a shallow rage against authority -- and I wasn't attracted to that kind of temper tantrum. I needed to feel a pull towards something, something with the depth of my National Geographics fascination.

In other words, a piercing or a tattoo had to have meaning -- significant meaning at that -- for me to desire one for myself. Turns out, I'd wait until I was forty until I found that reason.

Making Sense

In the last several years, the right reasons slowly began to unfold. Primitive tattoos and facial piercing became evident and on the rise. I found myself not only attracted to these adornments but even fetishizing the stuff to some degree; my guy-watching habits switched from eye candy to dudes with tongue piercings and labrets. Then, when SM entered into my life, it all began to mean something in earnest.

Early in our relationship, Master asked me how I felt about piercings and tattoos. It was easy to admit I was attracted to them, but would I accept marks as signs of ownership? I hesitated, sensing a threshold approaching. Would I be able to step over it? Master suggested I read Story of O, even though he disliked Sir Stephen's cold distance.

I looked at myself. Adorned. Marked. His. I found my look forever changed. Constantly, I was reminded of my owned status. And I loved it.

I did -- far more captively than I had expected -- and all the images connected for me. Finally, I had reason enough to build a history, to commemorate life events, to become marked and adorned.

Almost two years ago, on a hot August afternoon, I underwent my first labia piercings. I sat in the tattoo parlor's waiting room, trying to calm my nerves so my excitement wouldn't get out of hand. (Fear play, it wasn't meant to be.) Master sensed my anxiety and reminded me that if I couldn't go through with it, he'd understand. We could always postpone it until I felt more capable. (Postpone mind you, not cancel.) No, I told him, I'm ready.

The needle slipped through my right outer labia -- painfully, yes, but over within the time it took to write this phrase -- the ring slid into place, tugging while the captive bead was fitted into place. I knew I could make it through a second piercing. The pain seemed greater when the needle pushed through my left labia. Most likely, I knew what was coming and that intensified my sense of it.

I looked at myself. Adorned. Marked. His.

The rings sat as low on my labia as they could go. You can see them only when I spread my legs. And when I spread them in those early days, I found my look forever changed.

A Changed Existence

That sense of change stayed with me because my daily routine changed to accommodate the piercings. Twice daily, I bathed in sea-salted water and washed the piercings with antibacterial soap. I couldn't wear pants or underwear for a good two weeks because the piercings were so sensitive, and I was in a constant funky, low-level masochistic pain space. I couldn't even go to the bathroom without touching the rings. Constantly, I was reminded of my owned status. And I loved it.

Then, trouble. No, not infection. But we realized one of the piercings was skewed and poorly placed. While it might heal, it would be a constant problem. It had to come out, Master decided.

The experiences are transforming in many ways. Your appearance changes. Your sense of the seasons change. Your body's functionality changes. With each element of transformation, I built a history of living with my piercings.

I knew he was right, but I had invested two weeks of after-care in that piercing. Now, I had to let go of it, and I'd have to be re-pierced.

It seemed overwhelming at the time, but the ring slid out without incident and the piercing healed quickly. Soon I was laying on the table of a new-to-us piercer who was in the SM scene. We personalized the event by adding bondage to the mix.

And the ritual of piercing, of after-care, of transformation happened all over again.

Yes, the experiences are transforming in many ways. Your appearance changes. Your sense of the seasons change; in my case, summer means new piercings for me. Your body's functionality changes; the rings enhanced my arousal, they even jiggle during spankings, and, for months, I couldn't wear heavy denim. With each element of transformation, I built a history of living with my piercings.

Even when you have to abandon one of them. After Master removed the troubled ring, I looked at it, sad to part with it. But did I have to? Maybe not. "Please save it," I requested. "If you want, please put it in my right ear piercing someday, so I can remember that piercing."

Last summer, Master put a blunt needle through that existing piercing and slipped the ring in place. It remains there, a birthday present that pays tribute to my failed piercing. Then, this past Christmas, he upgraded the gauge on my labia piercings, keeping the original rings for, I hope, yet another birthday commemoration. Which is fast approaching. And I have three left ear piercings for him to adorn.

Three ear piercings? Yes, I did eventually go multi-pierced in one ear, but with reason and ritual to it. With Master's permission, I had my lobe pierced twice when my daughter got her ears pierced. Part of my strategy ensured we'd care for our ears together, mother/daughter style. But, truth be told, I wanted to commemorate her first piercings. Some mothers wear "family rings." I get pierced.

A Major Marking

Last January, another turning point arrived, something more permanent: Master chose to celebrate our second anniversary by having me tattooed. The time had finally arrived to bear his mark. Laying on the table, I pulled my pants down a bit. Master and the tattoo artist conferred over the mark's placement, near my right hip bone. The pattern -- unknown to me -- was transferred and the needle gun buzzed into action.

When the needle first touched me, I grimaced but held my own. It felt like an odd combination of a violet wand and a dentist's drill. I hate both and wondered if I'd manage to get through the procedure. Fortunately, the tattoo artist's pace matched the rise and fall of my pain threshold. He would pause, wipe me down, then resume his work, in perfect step with my tolerance level. Some minutes into the procedure, the pain turned an endorphin corner and I began to enjoy the sensations.

The tattooing was over all too soon and I found myself yet again modified, this time with a Celtic interlocking pattern, in green and yellow. (Master pointed out, "No red. You're not entitled to red anymore." Moments all good slaves dream of!) after-care -- a matter of applying moisturizer several times daily to keep the scabbing soft -- lasted two weeks, far shorter than my labia experiences, but every bit as reinforcing. I became connected to the tattoo by virtue of caring for it. I wanted it to heal right and be part of me.

Frankly, I'm glad that Master controls all modifications. I'm glad I don't have the freedom to adorn myself at will because if I did, I'd be down at the tattoo parlor every time I had a C note in my pocket. In fact, my post-procedure enthusiasm was so high that Master needed to forcefully remind me just whose mark it was. He imposed a gag order and prohibited me from talking about it. I could, of course, share it with immediate family members, but mum was the word, otherwise. Talk about putting me in my place! In the end, I had to wait four months before he awarded me the privilege to talk about the tattoo. The tattoo, not my tattoo. The tattoo, his mark. Seems more than my body changed with the experience.

A Work in Progress

And so it goes. Summer is fast approaching. I suspect another set of labia piercings might come my way. Perhaps my ear piercings will see those modifications as well. A tattoo? Probably not, and not for a long time. Master sees no pressing need for another one. Yes, my body is a thing to adorn, but it's not mine to adorn as I see fit. Still, I look forward to seeing what unfolds in the future.

In the future... you know, I bet someday my son and I will have a good laugh over that initial body piercing talk we had when he was nine. We'll laugh over the fact that I learned about genital piercings only a couple of years ahead of him. We'll reminisce about his current "my body is a temple" outlook, which comes complete with a "piercing and tattooing is defilement" belief. If he holds fast to his beliefs, we'll probably even laugh over how different he is, his unadorned, virgin skin in a world of pierced and tatted peers.

But I'm sure we won't laugh over the meaning behind our decisions. I know I won't; it took too long for me to find it. And it means too much to me to make light of. Now and forever.

About the Author

Debra Hyde is a mostly submissive switch who lives in New England with her husband, two children, three cats, and a dog. She says she is "well-owned and well-loved" by a very special Master, and shares a unique triangle with him and her somewhat submissive husband.

"When England Calls," one of Debra's short stories, graces the pages of the recently published Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica. She is currently working on a number of others, as well as the Great American Leather Novel. Her BDSM work has been previously published on the Internet by Leather Online and Section 12, but Leather and Hyde was her first regular column, originally hosted by About.com's BDSM site and relocated here with her kind permission.

Debra also maintains a personal Weblog called Pursed Lips and can be reached at 75222.2150@compuserve.com... but no junk mail or "Wannas," please.