Page 1 of Playboy

CALLIOPE’S COLUMN

The Real Heroes: Men Who Get Pierced for Their Woman’s Pleasure

I’m going to berealreal this week, ladies. I’m riding the struggle bus lately. While all my friends are riding their significant others. Being single has never bothered me. I’ve done the marriage thing; it’s not for me. Until recently, I truly believed monogamy was a fable. How could one person truly commit to spending their life with another when I can’t commit to wearing the same denim style for more than a season? In high school, it was the widest bell that dragged on the ground, tearing at the seams. Then there was the low-rise style, the pants that barely covered my pubic bone. A year later we were wearing jeggings. I’m sure I’m not the only person who packed on a few pounds because I didn’t have to worry about a button or a zipper. Then jeans were gone completely, replaced by black leggings. The jeans have returned, and currently, not only do we need one button, but apparently, we need an entire row to do up the high-waisted style that comes up to our boobs.

My point being, if my taste in denim is continuously changing, how am I expected to commit to one man who may not change with me?

Until recently, I stood fully behind that sentiment. Then my best friends met men who are pierced, and I’ve completely changed my mind. Let’s be clear, ladies: if a man gets himself pierced, he’s proven that not only will he be good in bed, but he’s willing to do the hard work. Because a pierced penis is for our pleasure, not theirs.

And there is nothing hotter than a man who is willing to do the work, am I right? Now let me tell you about each piercing, and what they tell us about the man adorned with them…

ONE

DANIEL

“Calliope, guys.”I shake my head as I close out of Calliope’s article. I pulled it up on my phone ten minutes ago, and already I’ve read the entire thing. If not for practice, I’d read it again and take notes.

Calliope is a genius. Her articles changed my dating game and my sex life. The woman is honest and direct, and though her column is catered to an audience of women, I find that, time and again, it gives me direct insight into how to please the opposite sex. As a man who’s determined to give 110 percent to every task, I take her word as gospel.

So far, she hasn’t steered me wrong.

Our captain, Tyler Warren—War to his teammates and Bolts fans—groans. “Could you at least try to make it one day without mentioning her name?”

Brooks, our goalie, chuckles as he laces up his skates. “Leave him be. What was the article about today?”

Here’s the tricky part. Calliope is absolutely a genius, but if I tell them about what she’s pushing, they’ll be on my case again.

War, Brooks, and our center, Aiden—who’s one of Brooks’s brothers—all have blinged-out dicks. It’s been a bit of a sore subject for me—no pun intended—because though I really wantone, I chicken out every time we walk into the tattoo shop to get it done.

The three guys got their piercings before I was drafted to the team. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s like the event bonded them, and I feel left out. But I can’t quite get past the idea of a man sticking a needle through my precious jewels.

Before I can decide whether to tell them about the article or make something up, our coach walks in, all business.

All chatter dies at the expression on his face. Gavin Langfield isn’t a hard-ass coach. He’s a genuinely nice guy and we respect the shit out of him. He and my dad have been best friends for years, and since he married my twin sister last year, we’re exceptionally close. So the formal expression on his face throws every one of us. Especially knowing that the trade deadline hits at midnight. Is he coming in here to break some bad news?

I scan the locker room, studying my teammates. Our team is good, though there’s always room to be better. This season especially. Something has been off, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned. I’ve played on the first line since I was drafted during college. While War is known for protecting the guys on the ice, taking the hits when a fight breaks out and instigating them when necessary, I have a different set of skills. As the other winger, I have to anticipate War’s moves, as well as those of our center, Aiden. I’ve got to be ready to make the play or put Aiden or War in position to make it. It’s why the guys started calling me Playboy—despite the other obvious connotation. I always find a way to make a play work. Essentially, my goal has been to be good at everything. In turn, though, that means I’m not particularly fantastic at one specific skill.

War, Aiden, and I are one hell of a line, but I’ve heard the rumors about Noah Harrison, and if they’re true, they won’t lead to anything good for me.

Harrison is one of the best snipers in the league. He’s a winger like I am, but he’s just as adept at scoring as his center. The whole league knows it. If he gets the biscuit, the man somehow finds the back of the net, even from the most improbable angle.

He’s a coach’s dream and is well-liked by everyone he’s ever played with. His college team called him Beauty, and that name stuck when he was drafted to the NHL.

In hockey, that’s the gold standard. A player who is talented and well-liked.

His nickname is the kind a player should be proud of. The kind that commentators can’t make jokes about. He’s hall-of-fame worthy.

If I wasn’t already playing with two of the best guys in hockey, I’d be pumped about the possibility that the guy has been traded to the Bolts. Passing the puck to a player like Noah Harrison would be a dream.

But I am playing with two of the greats.Iam the weakest link.

And if I were Gavin Langfield and I had the opportunity to trade for Noah Harrison, I wouldn’t hesitate.

“I’ve got some exciting news,” Gavin says. He glances in my direction, a quick acknowledgment. He doesn’t look ashamed or guilty. And he shouldn’t, whether he’s done what I’m pretty sure he did or not. I may be his wife’s twin and his best friend’s son, but he’s never shown favoritism to anyone in this locker room, including his own brothers. Outside this arena, the dynamics between all of us are different, but here, we are his players and he’s our coach. And he’s a damn fair one. He decides who plays and how hard we practice. And we listen. Every one of us wantsto please him, since it’s up to him whether we do the one thing we love the most—play hockey.

“Noah Harrison?—”

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