Nip Quips, or Now You Know Way Too Much About My Nipples

          As an angsty, inordinately horny fifteen-year-old, I was horribly ashamed of my nipples. I was sure they were the reason I wasn’t getting any. Somehow, boys’ eyes were penetrating through my shirt and compensatingly lacey bra and discovering the pink monstrosity within. That was obviously why none of them liked it when I wouldn’t stop talking to them during class. My nipples were the rub.

            And so, I spent my naked life staring at them in the mirror at odd angles. My breasts had somewhat overgrown the Kim Possible stage but my nipples still seemed unacceptably puffy to me, jutting forward like large, fleshy bows on a reluctant boob ship. 

            They looked nothing like the luscious rosy discs closely hugging the breasts in magazines, topped by an eternally erect pencil eraser of nipple, perfectly centered, grab-able, grope-able, love-able.

            My nipples were, and remain, a dusty pink, emerging almost by surprise from the lucid tones of my skin. Even when hard, they are mounds of soft flesh with a pinprick on the end.

            And I couldn’t find them anywhere. If they weren’t diseased, they were at the very least unloved, for no men’s magazine, let alone any magazine, seemed to represent them.

            Then, despondently flipping through a men’s magazine at my friend’s house, I came across an article about the most beautiful women these men had ever seen. I can’t seem to find the article online right now, but it had this image in it:

I also forget to shave my armpits sometimes!

            Aside from a slight size difference, those were my breasts. And this man waxed poetic about the nipples for practically an entire paragraph! He swooned over her nipples, and I swooned over mine. Suddenly, they were voluptuous pink goddesses, and as I grew older and ---well, frankly, watched more porn, I saw an incredible variety of breasts and realized that mine weren’t a god-forsaken anomaly. They were a beautiful testament to the variety of human form. And I love them. Because they will never escape a pinch or a bite or a suck. They will never hide respectably without a bra. Please, pink monstrosities? Nuh-uh. These suckers beg to be touched. 

Delicious Dishes

         I asked you readers about your experiences with food in the bedroom, without even contributing my own! I thought about it, and I realized that they are few and far between. In fact, the only time food has factored into foreplay has been via my Russian tongue. Lemme tell y'all, people dig it when you speak a foreign language.
         In the heat of the moment, one dude asked me to talk dirty to him in Russian. I hardly know any dirty words in Russian, so trying to sound naughty did little more than crack me up.
         So, I settled on a more gastronomic approach.
         "Speak Russian to me," he whispered.
         "What a delicious sandwich, piled high with deli meat and cheese," I replied in husky Russian. 

         ... I chose not to translate for him.

"Russian sandwich" should really be a sex term like "Cincinnati bowtie" or "Abe Lincoln."

Growing Up (Un)Sexy

Dear readers, I’ve mentioned previously that I’m going through a bout of loneliness at the moment. Here, I begin the process of putting together the story of my sexuality in an effort to understand myself. It will come in as many parts as I can fumble together from my backwards awakening. I hope you enjoy --- let me know what you think, and what you went through yourself! 

            You know that beautiful tale of blossoming sexuality, unveiled with a tender kiss, completed with a gentle, sheepish boyfriend fumbling for the right angle amidst silken sheets? Scrap it. I had my first kiss nearly three years after the first time I was felt up. Before you tense up, this is not a story of abuse or pain. Rather, it is a story of rebellion.

            Or, truly, perceived rebellion. In my tender heart of hearts I was an unkissed high school freshman and I was unmarked. Everyone shared stories of awkward middle school romances while my fondest kissing partner was my left hand (balled up in a fist--- a girl’s gotta practice, right?).

 I was tired of being wholesome. wholesome wasn't getting any. 

At that time I befriended my opposite. She had had the curves of a full-grown woman practically since birth, and an exhaustive list of boyfriends to match. She did yoga and would always bum a cigarette and smolderingly wrap her chapped lips around its curves. She discussed politics and smoked hash and fooled around with girls. This woman made acne scars look sexy.

            May I reiterate that I am describing a fourteen year old?

            I felt like an infant next to her. So we became best friends, I out of admiration, she out of being admired. She talked and I listened.

            Cigarette in mouth, long list of lovers a constant monologue rolling off her lips, she volunteered to take me to meet her best friends --- who were, of course, a sitcom-worthy trio of men’s men, beers, beanies, beards, and all. I eyed the most wholesome looking one to flirt with and casually laid my toes upon his in the hot tub. To my surprise, this turned into an intense game of footsie, the sort which is only seen at the magical intersection of youth and desperation.

The Dom/Sub Dance

I'm imagining something like a high school dance, only much, much naughtier.

            A reader recently asked me about dominance in couples in which both partners are submissive.

            Well, somebody’s gotta take the reins, eh?

            I commiserate, friends, as I personally have gotten into many an awkward dominance dance with a paramour. I struggle when he holds me down --- he eases off. I get off on the struggle so now it’s no fun. I droop so that he may hold me down again --- but now he thinks I don’t want it or that I’m about to flip on top and make him call me “mommy.”

            It’s a tough dance to dance when both partners want to do the same part. 

Almost as tough as the sprinkler.

            But fear not! Your sex life has many a dance in store!

            For most people, domination/submission is primarily a mind-game. You must actually feel safe with your partner (or else you’re a domestic abuse case). However, in the life of the game you are vulnerable and helpless, even if one fell tug could set you free from that makeshift scarf binding. Or you’re powerful beyond control, and your victim is your lover, though a snap of the whip later they are merely your husband whom you need to remind for the third time to water the plants.

            So, while I’m primarily submissive, I sometimes need to engage a submissive partner to get the dynamic to work for both of us. They may be holding me down, but I’m the one yelling the orders --- tie me up! Tighter! --- or calling them demeaning names in a desperate (but failed, in my elaborate fantasy) attempt at escape – you little fucker! You think you can control me? (less swearing or more dirty talk per your discerning taste).

            Another way to work the dynamic is to take positions of power and make them submissive (this may be obvious to you, who knows? I don’t exactly scream my kinks from the non-internet hills).  I love girl on top for its sweet g-spot action but not for its unyielding reins. But if I’m in that position and I lean forward and my lover holds my hands behind my back, I’m suddenly both powerful and submissive. I can bite and scream and hold down, but am held down myself. Same thing for sitting on a guy’s face --- I’m in control until he holds my thighs down (or even ties me down in the position) and suddenly we’re both helpless (just make sure the guy can breathe!). 

That's one way to go about it I suppose.

            In the end, BDSM is nothing without your mindset. Why not take control over BDSM by taking control of your mindset? After all, the only way to be helpless is not to be strapped to a bed with a leather-clad mistress atop of you. Rev up your imagination --- remember that the scene in your mind can be different than that in your partner’s mind --- and get off.

CONTEST: Now With More Chocolate!

            First of all, I’d like to thank my brave little commenters for making my day. Every one of your comments is like a dildo wrapped in a hug wrapped in a handsome man (which, coincidentally, is what I want for my birthday this year). I love you all and am fascinated by your sexy, sweaty, slippery rainbow of sexuality, so keep it coming (heh). 

This is what my vomit looks like after too many Starburst.

            To facilitate your participation in the discussion, or at least to award you for reading my lowly blog, I have a little gift.

            If it wasn’t pathetically obvious in my last whinefest of a post, I’m going through a bit of a dry spell. Not to worry --- I will wait it out, giant purple dildo in hand, but there is a wee problem. You see, I have an unopened 1 oz. container of Babeland edible body chocolate mocking me every time I open my naughty drawer. It’s telling me, ‘what are you gonna do? Lick chocolate off your own nipples?’

            Well, dear readers, my breasts just aren’t big enough for that. And being a young, liberal, waste-conscious young lady, I want to get rid of this stuff before it goes bad.  (In about 6 months. I'm predicting a long dry spell, friends.)

I've heard great things about the taste of this stuff. But I still feel weird opening it and spreading it on toast.

            So please! Those of you with bodies ready for the lickin’, those of you with access to eager tongues, leave a comment below! Tell me about your experiences (or lack thereof) with food in the bedroom. Tell me about that one time you ate chow mein off your partner’s bosom. Whatever works!

            Feel free to be anonymous in the comments, just email me a copy of your comment at ulterior.banana (at) gmail (dot) com so I know who you are.

            Another entry will go to anybody who mentions this contest on their blog. Just comment again below with the link to your mention. I want a slew of smut in my comments, people! 

only applicable to US readers. Sorry, guys, I can't afford international shipping! 

Love and Dependency

            The strong woman chants, “I don’t need a man to make me feel complete.”

            This mantra is powerful. It speaks of self-sufficiency and sexuality. I hear its cries everywhere, confirmed by feminists wielding vibrators, or children, or simply their own selves.

            Certainly, I am a feminist. And I am a woman. And I don’t need a man to feel “complete.” But I find this mantra dangerous because it generates women averse to loneliness. Fearful of admitting it, lest it make them seem weak.

            If it’s true to you, then you can say it: “I would love a boyfriend right now.” “I could use someone to cuddle with tonight.” “I wish I were in a long-term relationship.”  

            “I feel lonely.”

            Because sometimes, it’s true. I consider myself a strong women but I don’t believe that my desire to love and be loved makes me any less so. A few weeks back, I was content with innocent flirtation and a good self-bang once in a while. But now I want a man to gaze at me with all the black-and-white feeling of an old Hollywood romance.

So right now, I do need a man to make me feel complete. Because for me a life without love is incomplete. What makes me still a feminist is not that I don’t need a man but that I choose what sort of man I need. I don’t take just anyone who will have me. I control who has access to my heart. And though currently I do “need” someone to have access to it, I retain the self-respect that tells me to wait for somebody who is worth it. I am not condemning those who seek casual hook-ups --- I encourage the woman’s power to make that choice, as much as I wish to be empowered in my choice to have a gorgeous, pathetic, googly-eyed romance.

I’ll admit it, and I will not be ashamed: I’m lonely.