My dick is a decent size. It fits comfortably in one hand, and I haven’t heard any complaints since I started using it. Still, I used to feel pretty self-conscious about the meat and two veg—enough to think a piercing might give it some extra character.

A thumb’s length seemed kind of sad—minuscule, even—next to the thunder cocks I’d seen online. ’What is a micropenis, and do I have one?’ I’d often wonder during my periods of self-reflection.

At some point, I had gotten it in my head that a piercing was what I needed. Piercings were inherently badass. It was like a badge of alpha toughness to pierce your skin with a little piece of metal; everyone who saw it would know you had the balls to sit through the procedure without bitching out. To get my dick pierced would be so alpha.

My mom was a crack whore, and in my young age (and well into adulthood), I’d find myself seeking a mommy in the most unlikely places. One such mommy - who remains mommy even to this day - was Daisy.

Daisy worked at the tattoo shop down the street from the ghetto crack house I grew up in. When I got my first paycheck from my first job at the hookah lounge, I wanted to do something memorable, so I got my ears pierced. Daisy was my piercer, and we got along well. I started visiting her whenever I had the chance. Daisy had never had any kids of her own, and my mom was on crack, so we became each other’s surrogate family. Over time, I even started calling her mom.

Eventually, I left the ghetto, but Daisy and I kept in touch. It was years before we saw each other again, but when we did, I knew I had to mark the occasion. After a delicious lunch at her favorite Mexican restaurant, I decided it was time.

"Mom, I want you to pierce my cock."

The procedure went much quicker than I’d expected, and Daisy held my dick the entire time. I didn’t want to do anything too crazy, so I just went with the classic Prince Albert - right down the peehole. The piercing itself wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be; I didn’t even feel the needle as it tore through my dick meat. But when Daisy stuck a Q-tip down my shaft—that was like dragging sandpaper through a paper straw. I could feel the edges of the hole stretching, straining, like it was about to split open. It stung, sharp and electric, but it also turned me on. Before long, I was crabwalking out of there with a nice little stud on both ends of my tip.

I thought I was pretty tough with the Prince Albert. I didn’t know anyone else with a pierced penis, so I felt like the manliest of men, like my piercing was proof of my bravery and alpha toughness. I’d show my dick to anyone interested, and before long, the piercing was becoming my whole personality. But as the novelty wore off and I started to become just ’that guy who shows his dick to everyone,’ I knew I had to up the ante. So, on a whim, I wandered into a random piercing shop to get a Jacob’s Ladder and reestablish my alpha toughness.

Daisy had been the only one I’d trust with my dick, and it should have stayed that way, but I couldn’t wait to mutilate my penis further. I was trusting a strange man with my prized cock. He didn’t know my dick like Daisy did; he just started punching holes like he was filing papers on a deadline. As he worked his way down the shaft, each piercing felt like he was carelessly slapping staples into a poster for the school dance, and the weight of the heavy barbells tugged down, the jewelry sagging to the side like dumbbells on a bloody noodle.

My dick was starting to look like a mechanical scorpion, with the three barbells forming the legs, and the PA as the stinger. Its utility had waned as it became more of a decorative piece, the stream of urine spraying from each hole like a wacky garden sprinkler. Even now, despite the jewelry being long removed, I struggle to pee standing up. I’m forced to twist my meat, holding it sideways like a gangster so the stream flows upside down, controlling it with utmost care lest it spray out of the pierced hole and in the wrong direction.

I only ever came close to fucking with my piercings once, but I had to stop mid-coitus when the girl wouldn’t stop talking and I couldn’t keep it up. I also put my pierced dick into a glory hole; that ended about two seconds in when I felt my meat slide out of their mouth, down their chin, and against their stubble. The piercings weren’t utilitarian; the only purpose they served was to demonstrate my alpha toughness.

A few months after getting the Jacob’s Ladder, I lost it. The barbells in my shaft weren’t the right size; the piercer hadn’t considered that I’m a grower, not a shower. As a consequence of the uncomfortable fit, they’d often slide back and forth like a pair of preschoolers on a teeter-totter.

One day, as I was cleaning my apartment, I failed to notice that the piercing had become caught on my zipper. I lifted a heavy box and felt a searing, white-hot pain in the dick, like someone pressing a lit match onto my shaft. The burn was instant, but as the immediate pain subsided, a raw, stinging ache took over, radiating outward like a sonic boom.

Dropping my trousers, I inspected the piercing and discovered the middle rung of the Jacob’s Ladder hanging by a bloody thread of skin like a hangnail. ’Oh dear,’ I said to myself. The air felt sharp and cool against the jagged skin, each slight movement sending fresh waves of pain, as if someone were grinding salt into the wound. The sting was deep and throbbing, pulsing with every beat of my hardened cock as it vibrated with pleasure through the pain.

I managed to detach the jewelry from the mangled skin without any surgical assistance. The missing barbell had left an awkward placement between the top and bottom rungs, leaving an empty space like the missing ingredient on a spice rack. It was not aesthetically pleasing to look at, so I removed the remaining rungs and let my dick heal. For a while, it looked like a zombie penis, but in time, the dick skin grew back, and the holes closed up.

I hadn’t learned my lesson as I continued messing with my meat, even after pulling the skin off it like a chicken wing. After being adorned with so much metal, my penis was starting to look bare now that I was back to just the PA, so I decided to change out the barbell for a more impressive-looking ring. It was a fresh new look that gave my cock some extra character, but the ring was bulkier than what I was used to. The discomfort was constant as it pulled down at the lip of my peehole, causing it to droop like a pouty toddler.

One evening as I was grocery shopping, I leaned over my cart to grab some Silly Putty when I felt something strange. It was a sharp, prickling discomfort, like an itch I couldn’t scratch. Almost like an eyelash-in-the-eye feeling, but instead of my eye it was my dick. An ant had crawled down my peehole when I was a kid, and this was a similar feeling, but different. My body stiffened reflexively as it went on high alert to identify the source of my discomfort. Of course, it had to be the piercing.

I crabwalked to my car, whipped my meat out, and inspected my junk. The ball that had closed the ring’s loop and held it securely in place had come loose and fallen down my peehole. I carefully squeezed my penis like a tube of toothpaste, starting from the base and moving up the shaft as I tried to locate and extract the ball. It was nice. I could see it as I gazed down into the singular eye, its silver luster shining faintly in the dim light of my car. It reminded me of a coin at the bottom of a well—close enough to see, but just out of reach. I wondered if I’d have to make a wish.

Unable to squeeze the ball free, I realized I’d have to push it out. I drove home with one hand, keeping a firm grip on my cock as I squeezed it to prevent the ball from slipping in any further. When I was ready, I began to pee. The stream started slow and hesitant as I braced myself, but the ball barely budged, lodged stubbornly in my urethra. As my flow started to run dry, I knew it was now or never. Taking a deep breath, I peed as hard as I could.

It was like shooting a spitball through a straw as the ball fell out, landing in the toilet with a delicate ’plop.’ My whole body shivered, as you do when you take a good piss, but this was euphoric. The lingering sting, mixed with the relief of knowing I hadn’t lost it inside my dick, was overwhelmingly satisfying. The fact that there was no blood made it even sweeter.

After my experiences, I never pierced my dick again. There was a time when I considered getting my ballsack pierced, but with my history it would probably get caught and pulled off like the tab on a soda can. I no longer need piercings to feel good about my meat; all I need is my monthly manzilian wax.

Next Chapter: Hot Aunt Stacy