I often refer to the fact that I’m mostly missing one nipple. I tend to leave it pretty cryptic; but since this happened almost 20 years ago, plenty of people know the story now. I figured I ought to post it somewhere permanently so I wouldn’t have to rewrite the whole thing every time someone asks for details.
Thus, here is the story of how I ended up with, essentially, one and one-third nipples instead of the typical two. Warning: Graphic (but hilarious) injury described ahead.)
I stepped into the shower on a particularly crisp and cool October morn. Unbeknownst to me beforehand, my roommate had fully opened (rather than cracked) the bathroom window. Hence, it was nipply: so said my nips!
I set about my regular hygiene routine. I shampooed and rinsed, washed my body, etc. Then it was time to shave my ‘pits.
I soaped up my hands, then dabbed my underarms. Then I proceeded to shave, using a razor with a brand-new (replaceable) blade. Shaving under my left armpit while using my right hand was fine and trouble-free.
Then tragedy struck.
As I tried to transition the razor from my right hand to my left, my grip slipped due to the slipperiness of the soap and the shower and the water. I freaked out for a split second, envisioning the brand-new blade neatly slicing off a tiny, terribly cute toe on my foot on its descent down. (Oh, what could have been!)
Operating purely on instinct, my right hand grasped wildly for the razor’s handle—thinking only of saving my terrific toes. (Look, I’m short and chubby—but I have nice feet. That’s not something with which one gambles.) I didn’t count, unfortunately, on the fact that the cool, wafting breeze from the open window had put me in peril.
So, yeah. My nipples were at full attention—as if they were in a life-or-death drill down at band camp—but I wasn’t at that point fully aware of my body’s autonomic responses.
My right hand continued its reach for and successfully grasped the razor, but a split second too late! I sliced right through that erect left nipple—and that was all she wrote.
Well, you know, except for the fact that “she wrote” torrents of blood in the shower stall. Turns out there must be some sort of huge artery or vein or something beneath the mammary glands, because the wound poured blood for fuckin’ ever. In fact, it didn’t even pour initially: it shot like a machine gun: PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA.
And in the meantime I had the unique and shiver-inducing privilege of seeing that meaty sliver of niplet I’d accidentally excised swivel around, around, around the drain until it disappeared into the depths of some unholy receptacle reserved for piss and turds.
I know you think I’m making this shit up: Everybody does. But I have two measures of defense.
First, you can ask anyone who’s seen me in person in the last 20 or so years.
Second, take a good, hard look at my physique if we ever meet. I have PHENOMENAL BOOBS, but the nip slit mars their magnificence. It’s particularly noticeable when it’s cold, but if there’s even the hint of a breeze you can usually tell I suffered “an accident” because one nip points north and the other points south—much like Hagdalena Magdalena Hoopasteina Walkadeina Hogan Logan Mogan’s teeth.
And that? Really was all she wrote.
I swear. (Because who would lie about this shit?)