Pierce The Nip

The best thing I’ve ever done for myself, and I say this with absolute certainty, was to push a 16-gauge needle through my boobs. That’s right—nipple piercings changed my life.

For my first 20 years on Earth, I was insecure about my nipples. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that mine varied drastically from the apparently culturally agreed upon “perfect nipple” (which also, what?). Whereas others’ were pink, mine were brown-ish. While some boasted small, perfectly circular areolas, mine were larger and lacked any particular shape. While it seemed like almost all the hottest tits had protruding nipples that struck the ideal chord between understated and sexy and had men drooling, mine were… inverted.

My insecurity was deep-rooted and constant, but as I got older, its specifics shifted. In middle school, when I became aware of the real logistics of chestfeeding, I feared that I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. Soon, I was fretting that if I couldn’t even feed my hypothetical child, what was I doing to fulfill my biological purpose as a woman? Forget that I didn’t (and still don’t) want children—by age 13, I had internalized that perfectly functioning, perfectly formed breasts were essential to my value as a person.

As I got older, my friends and I all continued to change outfits in front of each other, even as our bodies were developing. Puberty sparks bodily insecurity for everyone, and I learned I wasn’t alone in my nipple-specific anxiety. My friends were worried about whether their boobs looked normal, too, but none of them shared my inverted nipples. If they think theirs are weird… they better not see mine, I thought while I huddled in the corner and changed my shirt. Even though these conversations amongst my friends could’ve served as an affirming outlet, I was so worried that none of them would even understand what inverted nipples were (shoutout to American sex ed!), much less quell my concerns, that I kept to myself. While I hardly loved being the only one uncomfortable about being topless amongst friends, I loved the idea of letting the world see my boobs even less.

All through high school, my insecurity festered. Once I started hooking up with people, my fear escalated. If I thought my nipples looked weird, my partner definitely would, too. Surely, they’d never seen boobs like mine in porn, movies, and certainly not sex ed and biology textbooks. I worried about having to answer questions about my nipples, or even worse, watching confusion and disappointment wash over my partner’s face after taking off my bra. Even though none of my worries ever came to fruition, I never moved past my insecurity—and the casual hookup culture I encountered once I got to college only added to my anxiety. Each time I was with a new partner, I not only had pre-hookup jitters, but also will-they-think-my-nipples-areweird-are-they-weird-I-don’t-know jitters. It was not a fun way to live. Possibly because of my niche insecurity, I always kept an eye on the nipple-piercing trend. The concept of people being so confident in their nipples that they chose to actively draw attention to them was foreign and enticing to me. I longed to be like Kendall Jenner in the pages of People magazine, bravely going braless and flaunting her jewelry. Nipple piercings always seemed, to me, like a powerful statement on bodily autonomy and sexuality. When I got a message in my inbox from my favorite Ann Arbor piercing studio about discounted prices to help a piercing apprentice gain experience, I realized my time had come. I was ready to join the ranks of the barbelled-up celebrities I’d been admiring for years. I quickly booked my appointment for my very own nipple piercings.

For obvious reasons, getting the actual piercings was one of the most nerve-wracking things I’ve ever done. Not only was I finally face-to-face with the seemingly huge needle that would be piercing me, but before that, I had to let my piercer and apprentice examine my ta-tas to make sure they were able to pierce me in the healthiest way possible. While both the piercer and the apprentice were professionals who had done this (and far racier piercings) hundreds of times, I worried that I would earn the title of “Weirdest Nips Ever”, even if only behind closed doors. I nervously revealed my chest to my piercer, who nonchalantly explained to his apprentice that my nipples were inverted, so the piercing process would have a couple additional steps. For once, instead of being ashamed of my body, I actually felt like it was normalized. Not only was my piercer knowledgeable about my anatomy, but he confidently reassured me that it wasn’t better or worse than the “norm” in any way. I was ready to tackle the challenge ahead.

The piercing hurt like a bitch, but afterwards, I felt on top of the world. For the first time in my twenty years, I was completely confident in my body; I actually wanted people to notice my nipples. The weeks following my piercing, I spent what felt like hours standing in front of the mirror, admiring the tiny titanium barbells and giving myself the body-positive love and praise that I should have all along. I was so excited about my new jewelry and thought I looked so badass that suddenly, I couldn’t even fathom feeling insecure about taking off my shirt in front of a partner. Instead, I actually looked forward to it! I started going braless more often not just for comfort or convenience, but as a deliberate stylistic choice. To this day, they’re my favorite accessory—and an ever-present reminder to myself that if I could survive a needle through my nips, I can do anything.

by Claire Bletsas