Free the Nipple Ring! Why One Vogue Writer Got Pierced

Lately, the nipple ring has seemed like nearly as much a social media phenomenon as the nipple itself. My Facebook feed is filled with Kylie Jenner’s Snapchatted, zoomed-in view of her sister Kendall’s hardware, peeking out of a lace bralet during Coachella. Then there are the shots of Bella Hadid, who has been known to flash her shiny jewelry through some see-through getups from time to time. And, of course, there’s the almighty queen of the style, Rihanna, who openly flaunts her accessory through outré sheer looks, all the better to reflect the flash of paparazzi cameras.

Was all this social media chatter the reason why I recently ended up at Noho piercing salon Venus by Maria Tash getting a needle jabbed through my left nipple? Actually, it wasn’t the bejeweled breasts of models or pop stars that sparked my deep-seated yearning to get a piercing. My obsession with the look hails from my teenage obsession with the OG models of areola adornments, like Freja Beha Erichsen and Catherine McNeil, who first came on the scene almost a decade ago. They slinked around, braless and flawless in all their tomboy glory, their nipple rings making a slight devil-may-care imprint against their thin white tank tops. It was a time before the social media explosion, when piercing was less out in the open: Instead of being a liked-by-the-thousands image, it was a personal statement that became a coy whisper to anyone who caught notice—a proverbial smirk of freakiness.

Back then, the look was reserved for rebels, those badass, androgynously cool catwalker types. But now that the Jenners and Hadids have hopped on the nipple-piercing train, the idea feels more mainstream—and more attainable. Plus, it’s not just celebrities or models who are doing it. I’ve discovered that more and more people secretly sport the piercings—and are open to talking about them, as well as showing them. There’s my best friend, a hardworking member of corporate America, who just last week on FaceTime opened up her classic button-down, flashed me a double-whammy view as she pointed to the metal hoops—two shiny bull’s-eyes—and asked me if I liked them. A model I recently worked with described her piercing experience as “euphoric.” And I even found out that a coworker has not one, but two nipple piercings. “It’s a nice thing to know that you have it,” she says. “It’s like wearing really nice lingerie under clothes. It’s just for you . . . most of the time.”

As for me? Before surrendering to the cold needle, I spent my last unpierced seconds staring up at the fluorescent-lit ceiling, bare-chested and squeezing the hand of my coworker. As the moment approached, I entered a sort of transcendental state in which I began to wonder about my purpose in life. There were the short-term questions: Would my family be able to see the barbell poking through my blouse at Friday’s Passover Seder? And then there were the lasting issues: If my byline appears on this article, would I ever be able to, say, run for office? What if my formula-raised, child-averse self wanted to eventually breastfeed? (Nothing to worry about, my piercer told me: Milk finds its way out). But hell, what would my future husband think? I don’t know. But for now, I think a white tank will look great.

 

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