I’ve got a few moles, not enough to be called freckles, but enough that I don’t

I’ve got a few moles, not enough to be called freckles, but enough that I don’t think I’ve got more than a square foot on me without one. That’s ok, breeds individuality, or at least I think that’s what I was always told as a child.  All I knew was that, with a marker in hand, I could turn myself into a night’s sky, each mole a star, each cluster a constellation. I’d chart out my own personal zodiac, name each one something that sounds like a half remembered title to a Ballard short story.  The Ending Man. Timeless Alcove. Elbow’s Retreat. The Neck of Gods. I’ve always entertained the idea of performing a similar (albeit more uniform) exercise with piercings. Get a series of delicate, pretty little chains, and link up the dots. Or rings, as they might be here. Start with the nose, moving round to the ears, then looping in a graceful arc down towards the nipples, which, naturally, are chained together with another loop. Which itself has a ring in the centre which suddenly heads south, stopping at the belly button before sinking further still. Then the Dominant kicks in and makes every chain about five times tighter. A woman in constant tension. I salivate. -- source link

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