Back in the day, I had a nose ring—small one, nothing crazy. Tupac was my guy growing up, and he rocked one, so I thought it was dope. At the time, I was fresh off a divorce, a single dude wasting way too much energy chasing tail. I was on those dating apps like an NBA player jacking up threes—nonstop.
Thing is, the nose ring didn’t always land well. A bunch of women I’d chat up would assume I was bisexual just because of it, before we even met up. And at work? Man, I was still an electrician, doing construction, and the guys on the job site would mess with me, calling me gay as a “joke,” you know how it goes.
I only kept it for like eight months anyway. One day, I was digging a trench to lay some pipe, and the damn thing fell out, lost in the dirt somewhere. Couldn’t find it, and honestly, I was over it—kept having issues with the inside healing up right. By the time I got home, the hole had already closed up, so I never bothered getting it re-pierced.
