The first thing that struck me as odd, when I was taken behind the screen to get my Prince Albert done, was when they asked whether the apprentice could watch. Unnerved already by the thought of hammering a metal spike through my manhood, the added terror of someone extra watching me do this was unbearable. The terror, naturally, increased when I realised that this apprentice was a girl. And approximately thirteen years old.
I turned to leave, but was solidly kicked back behind the curtain by my loyal friends, having joined me to offer encouragement, support, and in the event of a disaster, a tourniquet. They had kindly offered to keep watch at the door. Good people, I remember thinking to myself.
So, with the warm, good natured jeers of my compadre's ringing in my ears, and clutching my bruised buttocks, I walked back behind the curtain, and with a deft touch dropped my pants gloriously to the floor. A shadow seemed to pass across the room as the piercer, now holding a three-inch needle, frowned at my groin area. It passed, however, when she started laughing; a lovely, carefree giggle, which soon had the apprentice in fits too. Obviously a parlour 'in-joke', I joined in, not wanting to seem a novice at this sort of thing.
Climbing up onto the table, I had about two seconds to appreciate the lovely ceiling art before the piercer plunged her needle deep into the nether regions of my urethra. I took this in my stride, although I do remember feeling somewhat faint from the experience; I recall saying something like: "Hmmm, pretty cold in here. But you can tell, right? Your nipples are probably like grapefruit, right? Do you guys do bikini waxes?"
Luckily, I started feeling all floaty then. Cold hands (or steel) were placed around my flaccid manhood, and then withdrawn. Strange, sticky sensations were felt. The Theme from Harry's Game played. Somewhere, a raven called.
And then it was over. I stood up, not wanting to look at the ring until I was home. I pulled up my pants and handed over the necessary cash, all the while thinking about all the hot nude lesbian action I would get to watch with my new accessory. Finally, in breathy tones befitting the occasion, I questioned the lady who, not two minutes ago, had been quite intimate with my organ:
"Is there anything I should know about this piercing?"
Her answer was simple, short, and quite astonishing.
"Well, we've had to tape a surgical glove around your penis to catch all the blood. It may fill up, at which point you'll have to remove it and hope the bleeding stops. Secondly, you'll have to dip your penis in salt water twice a day for the next month or two. Do not be tempted to do this in front of your friends, they will not like it. And finally, you will now need to sit down to pee."
"For how long?"
"Forever."
And so it was that I walked off into the sunset, surrounded by my most excellent friends, some of whom were crying from laughter, with my dick in a surgeon's glove. And I realised that I had lost my last weapon in the gender war.
I have to sit down to pee.