The Sexual Monologues: I – Slippery Nipple

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she takes a long, hard look at where she is and what she’s doing and she realises things have gone off-kilter. Obviously you’ve become well aware by now of the sad but funny fact that I do not do things by halves and in this precise instance things had sunk to a low so deep it wasn’t just ‘off-kilter’…it was out of the stratosphere. To be perfectly candid, the realisation hit me late last year, while I was naked, showering off my stink-of-the-night and I looked down to find my left nipple hanging on by a thread.

I’d made a promise to myself, subconsciously, that I’d never settle for someone who wasn’t right for me after the catastrophic crash of 2015 with Wasteman Wes. My tick list of aptitudes Mr Right must have was significant and I was more than happy to be on my own until I found him. Last year I thought that man presented himself to me and I was gutted when it turned out that he and I were moving in the same direction, but at different speeds. I gave up and decided licking my wounds (and nursing broken ribs back to health) would be the safest way to close out the year. But then a second opportunity randomly threw itself in my path. It was unexpected but it felt good to be wanted so I threw caution to the wind and let it happen.

The story of my poor hanging nip starts with the Christmas party (bloody Christmas has a lot to answer for). Sam and I had worked together for quite a few years and we had always got on really well. I liked working with Sam – he reminded me in many ways of Robert with whom I had long since lost contact. He was funny and quirky with a touch of geekiness which he wore with pride.

In the lead up to the Christmas party, Sam and I had become closer. Tasked with planning the shindig, I had brought Sam onto the planning committee because he worked in Marketing so I could shove all the shitty poster making and advertising onto his empty plate and, to be fair, I respected his work. Sam had a long-term girlfriend and I had assumed all was completely rosy behind that closed door; in fairness, I had never looked at him romantically other than to hypothetically assume he must be a lovely boyfriend. Turned out things were not quite as wonderful as they appeared.

Sam was a respectful guy. He never slated his girlfriend, not even when it became clear during our numerous late night planning and preparing meetings that he had fallen out of love with her. He was honest about the depths to which their relationship had sunk but he spoke of her with the upmost regard. It seemed the relationship had fizzled to a natural, nonplussed conclusion and he was ready to end things though he seemed reluctant to hurt aforementioned beau.

Though I cannot convey the despair I hear at the noun ‘banter,’ that is exactly how we communicated; we had the same dry sense of humour and could both dish it out and take it back in equal measure. In talking him through his relationship problems I genuinely had no idea he was moving his metaphorical chess pieces in my direction. It seems obvious now, looking back…but at the time I thought I was being a good friend to a nice work colleague who I got on with very well. When the end of the working day came and I put my spectacles down and left, I didn’t think about Sam at all. But if someone asked me if I liked him, I would have said I had a lot of time for that guy.

My boss is also a close friend and I think, looking on from the side-lines at the developing closeness between Sam and I, she detected there may be something more bubbling beneath the surface – certainly it was clear from Sam’s side but she has since divulged she saw I was comfortable with him in a way she had not seen me relax around most of the other men at work. At the staff party she played Cupid to startlingly successful effect, moving my well-planned seating arrangement to accommodate an extra place beside me for Sam at the head table. I would have tolerated nobody but her messing up my meticulous planning but, as my boss, I had to just allow her to meddle and I didn’t have much of a problem with it as Sam would be nice company for the evening.

We chatted the entire night and I think the mixture of being in a relaxed setting and the copious amounts of alcohol consumed loosened Sam’s tongue to the point he sat before me, spoon shaking in the soup bowl, and confessed his undying love for me. He told me he was ‘blown away’ by me and that he had harboured feelings for me for a very long time. He felt it was his feelings of ‘awe’ towards me that had marked the beginning of the end for his girlfriend and him.

I was dumbfounded by the confession to the point of speechlessness which, for anyone who knows me, is quite unlike me. In those situations though I can never quite get my words out – I don’t say what I mean because I can’t wrap the right words around my emotions. I was certainly open to the idea of getting to know Sam on a more romantic level; he was, on paper, everything I felt I was looking for in a man and he could not have been much more different to any of the men I had thought I could settle down with before. I told him I would not be a rebound and if he felt finishing things with his girlfriend was the right thing then another woman should not be the impetus to do so. Furthermore, he would need a significant amount of time alone to ensure his feelings towards his partner of seven years were truly gone and the loss was based on something more than a floozy in heels at work.

To cut a long story short, Sam ended things with his partner the following week. He had taken annual leave so I was at work pondering the surprising developments, discussing with my colleagues Sam’s admission from the Christmas party and they smiled like knowledgeable Old Mother Hens as though they had seen this written in the stars. The longer it was left that I didn’t see or hear from Sam, the more I began to feel that he might just be someone I could really see myself with. I had never thought of him as anything other than the nice guy from work but now, as a prospective suitor who had already professed his undying love for me, he had taken on a new identity. Did I fancy him though? This was the niggling doubt buried deep in my mind. I thought I could grow to, even if I didn’t at first. I also really liked the fact that he wasn’t too keen. He had not bombarded me with a deluge of messages pushing our fledgling romance through the stages at lightning speed.

By chance, the final Friday of the working year was to be spent at a local pub, enjoying a few beverages with some much loved colleagues before the festive period commenced. For me, Christmas is bittersweet. It’s a time for family and I have none. So the festive outings and parties are where I get my fill of cheer…that and a lovely day spent with the best of friends on Christmas Day but I have digressed enough on that subject – back to the nipple story!

I knew there was a chance Sam would be at the Christmas drinks even though he was technically on leave. Of course, I changed out of my work attire and made slightly more effort than I ordinarily would have done (which is absolutely none) had I not had a romantic prelude on the horizon. And goodness me was I glad I did because whom should be sitting at the reserved bar table waiting for our arrival, pint of beer in hand? Sam.

Unfortunately, Sam was wearing what can only be described as a mustard coloured Fishermans jumper. On the right person, this could have been edgy and a little bit low-key sexy. On him, it just looked like he grabbed the first thing to fall from his wardrobe. I was also disgusted to see he had one of those beanie hats on his head that doesn’t come down far enough to cover the ears; a sort of shrunken skull-cap. I told myself to stop being so bloody fussy and give the poor boy a chance. By Jove was I awkward though! I couldn’t look at him, I couldn’t speak to him. Every time he left the room to vape with colleagues (a habit I hate more than smoking) the remaining group asked me why I was so quiet and I couldn’t even answer. I didn’t know why.

What’s a girl to do in that situation? Does she make her excuses and leave? Gather her thoughts in the toilet and feign comfort until she genuinely feels it? Stop giving herself a hard time by overthinking and just relax? All sensible options. Of course, I chose to hit the bottle. HARD. Cocktails, gin and tonics, wine…it flowed like the Rivers of Babylon. The drunker I got, the more comfortable I got and the more comfortable I got the louder I got. Sam worked his way round to be seated beside me at some point in the night and, let’s just say, the drinks flowed even more freely from then.

I’m a puker by nature. I don’t even have to mix the drinks, they simply seem to hit my stomach lining where they’re promptly given their marching orders. ‘Get back the way you came!’ my oesophageal spasms order and the alcohol listens – every time. It’s actually getting worse as I get older. So I knew without a shadow of doubt that all I had consumed would emerge from my heaving mouth before morning was nigh.

At that point I had two choices. I could curtail the night and go home to my awaiting toilet bowl or I could carry on drinking until I was sick and then I would hope to God I rallied enough to finger the chunks out of my hair and pop a mint before continuing the night. While I’m delighted to say that in my significantly inebriated state I did decide to do the sensible thing and go home unfortunately, the pressure of the puppy-dog eyes from the flirtatious male to my right induced me to invite him back with me.

I cannot convey how unlike me this behaviour is. I have never invited someone back to my apartment whom I have not forced to date me for a long time first. I suppose, somewhere in the drunken corners of my mind I justified this behaviour by convincing myself that I had known the guy for years and he had broken up with his girlfriend for me…that week. If I could employ the facepalm-emoji at this moment to portray my shame, I would.

I knew it had been a mistake to invite him back before we even got into the taxi. We didn’t speak the entire journey home (which was quite some way, let me tell you). I was sobering up and staring intently out of the windscreen in front of me, hoping Sam, in the fucking mustard knitwear, would roll the door open and just throw himself out at the mercy of the curb beneath. Memories of THR gently caressing my palms in the back of a taxi years before floated through my mind and I prayed to God Sam would not follow suit. Lost in my thoughts, I paid little attention to Sam as he intermittently wound down his electric window.

Telltale heavy breathing soon interrupted my silent considerations and I realised with empathetic embarrassment that Sam was clearly going to be sick. I turned my head to pretend I was staring at the view of the beauties of the M40 by night, politely pretending to be unaware of him chundering audibly out of his window. I only returned back to centre when the sound of the ripping of a new chewing gum packet pierced the air. We both awkwardly pretended that hadn’t happened…and would continue to do so on the further three occasions on which this punctuated the longest journey home ever.

When we got back to my flat Sam made a huge fuss of my cat while I silently deliberated how I could keep him away from my fanny flaps . I remember thinking he was cooing over my little kitty to try to get me to sleep with him; being the doting father-figure to my most beloved possession. Aloof diva the he is, my little Prince wasn’t falling for this facade, much to Sam’s general chagrin – I think he might actually have scratched Sam but Sam, of course, tried to hide this. He stumbled forth into my living room like a mustard nerd and flopped drunkenly onto the sofa. Sickened, I appraised him with eyes now completely sober and a mind that was tired from working all day and wanted to be allowed to rest peacefully in the knowledge that a man was not waiting patiently for a blow job.

And so I made the same mistake I had done for my entire life; distraction would get me out of this, surely. I made polite conversation. I put the TV on. I even admitted that I got nosebleeds the first time I slept with people, all in an attempt to kill his boner or at least postpone proceedings until it was too late to have the bang he so wanted. At one point, while I pretended to be engrossed in an episode of Friends on Netflix, Sam left the room and attempted to find the bathroom. Hatefully glaring at his ochre coloured back, I refused to help him by directing him – he could find it by himself.

But while he was in the bathroom I caught myself. Why was I being such a bitch? He had done absolutely nothing – no wrong had been done to me. In fact, he was being really nice. He hadn’t even made a move, clearly waiting for me to be the one to do this. I didn’t understand how the excitement I had felt at potentially seeing him at the start of the night had turned to crippling disgust mere hours later. I thought perhaps I was grumpy because I was tired but I needed to snap out of it or Sam would sober up and realise this was truly one of the worst experiences of both our adult lives.

When he returned from the bathroom and sunk back into the comfortable confines of the silver, crushed velvet sofa I made a conscious effort to be kind and polite. I didn’t want to, but I kissed him. I can’t say I forced myself to do this because that would be doing Sam a major disservice; I had wanted to kiss him…earlier that day. Except now the feel of his thin lips sliding on mine filled my throat with bilge. His tongue poked into my mouth, jerking around aggressively and I was reminded of octopus tentacles as he ran his tongue all around my own. It wasn’t an unpleasant kiss but I felt unpleasant with it.

I pulled away to end the interaction but Sam mistook this for a sign I wanted to progress things further and he eagerly pulled at the waistband of his mustard jumper, tugging it quickly over his head and knocking his spectacles to the floor into the bargain. I can’t say why but I found it inexplicable that he had nothing on under the jumper. As he reached across to grab my head and pull me back toward him in his topless splendour, all I could think about was how that polyblend must have been so itchy on his body for the whole night. It sickened me. He was really thin and covered in colourful tattoos and I was regretting everything about this night. But I was in deep…too deep. I’d invited him back, I’d encouraged him to break up with his girlfriend, I’d given him all the signals that had led him to get his Mr Muscle body out in my living room right here, right now. I had to live with this decision.

He pulled off the black top I had been wearing as I reluctantly sat, not helping him undress me in any way. It was basically like he was removing the clothing from a floppy mannequin – I was the least sexy I had ever been, truly. Inside, I was torn between feeling really bad for the poor guy and being physically repulsed by him. He gave me pretty intense eye contact as he moved his hand down, followed by his dropping head, to pull my 32As out of their teeny bra. Such hardcore eye contact served only to cringe me out more. Slowly, slowly – still holding my gaze he smiled and then took my left breast in his mouth.

This does nothing for me – my nipples are basically numb udders protruding very slightly from my underdeveloped mammories. His little brunette head worked from side to side, trying and failing to coerce me into feeling some semblance of arousal was irritating and nothing more. As if he knew I was basically dead inside and void of all sexual feeling toward him, he began nibbling playfully at me. He clasped first the entire areola between his teeth and then ran his pegs of cream down the length of my nipple until he tugged at the end as if to draw it outward, ready for suckling. I’m not even going to lie when I say I actually became bored with his advancements – he did this for so long. It became tiresome and my little boob was becoming sore as he toothed me over and over again. In the end I had to forcibly take his useless head and pull it back up to my face. I acted as if I couldn’t wait another second to kiss him but I actually wanted to allow my little nip time to recover from the toothy assault.

Periodically throughout the topless kissing session he nodded back down to one or other of my breasts and nuzzled at them with his mouth. Had he headed further south and nuzzled between my legs he may have had more joy with turning me on but staying above board did nothing but dry me up. All libido diminished (not that it was actually there in the first place) I had to cave my chest inward and away from him in the end to give him the signal that his mouth was no longer permitted near my teats. Shocked and, perhaps a little hurt, he once again engaged me in that riveting gaze and whispered breathily ‘wooooow…how’d I get so lucky?’

Oh my god. These words actually made my toes curl. I tore my eyes away from him and concealed my simultaneous gag and giggle with a cough. I pushed him off of me and, without even answering him or the question I can very definitely confirm is the very worst thing anyone has ever uttered to me in the sexual environment, I turned my body away from him, lay my head on the pillow and shut my eyes. Alcohol and repugnance congealing like a ball in the pit of my stomach I ignored the heat of his breath on my neck as he nibbled and suckled at my nape. Finally, what felt like light-years later, he gave up, shifted himself into big spoon position and sunk into slumber.

Needless to say, things were awkward the next morning. I made it quite clear his morning glory would go unsatisfied and as the sun rose his erection retracted away from me, blue balls dangling sadly within his straight-leg jeans. I was the vision of friendliness and politeness, telling him that last night was so unlike me. Again, he reassured me with nuggets of cringe I can hardly bear to repeat. ‘You blow me away.’ ‘How did a guy like me get a girl like you?’ ‘I’ll wait as long as it takes to be your man.’

The ‘ick’ was so real. So very real. It had never been more real. His presence, the air he breathed, offended me. The sooner he and that mustard woollen pullover he felt had been a good outfit choice the day before took their leave of my little apartment, the better. He was now an irritant, watching in admiration as I dressed myself. Aware of him staring in love struck awe at me, I ignored the soreness in my breast when I pulled on my bra. Damn him and his fucking overzealous teeth. Finally, reluctantly, he ordered a taxi and I held my breath as we both watched that tiny black image of a car travelling from ‘6 mins away’ to the sweet bliss of arrival on his phone screen. He hammered my face with an eager kiss before he left and, as soon as he did, I removed all my clothing and ran for the bathroom.

In the harsh morning light I now saw what I had not detected the evening before.

When Sam had left me in the Living Room soon after arriving the evening before and gone in search of the bathroom he had, unbeknown to me, exploded all over the place. Not penally, you understand, but stomachally… There were streaks of brown crusty vomit cascading down the white porcelain of the toilet, down the walls, pooled in semi-dried patches on the lino flooring. A fury the depth of which I had seldom felt before rose in my diaphragm. Not only had that little mustardo-loser fallen in love with me and broken off his long-term relationship for a slice of all this good cookie (which he didn’t get), but he’d had the audacity to try to pleasure me through the night without asking for anything in return and NOW he had tried, poorly, in his drunken state to cover up the backlash of a night spent drinking too much? I was appalled. Indignant. Furious. I scrubbed and I scrubbed and as I wiped away the layers of food and shots encrusted to the various surfaces I felt once more that aching pain in my left breast. I wished all manner of awfulness on Sam as I swiped, left breast rubbing on my bra painfully. He must have mauled at me so ferociously with those gnashers my little peach bud was now rustled into a frenzied state of hyper-sensitivity. It probably didn’t know what had hit it; being flat chested I think that was probably the first time my boobs had had any attention whatsoever.

I craved the feeling of cleanliness. I wanted to wash Sam’s body heat and sleep off of me, his dried dribble from off my chest. Still naked from my earlier endeavour to wash pre-vomit discovery, I turned on the shower and stepped into the heavenly feeling of scolding water.

How had life come to this? Once again I’d allowed myself to be in an intimate position with a man I didn’t want to be intimate with. And I couldn’t blame poor Sam, how was he to know that inside my body writhed with repulsion at his touch? The sad reality of the situation was that I had been on my own for years now and the first guy who had liked me, properly liked me, had given me the ick because he wore a mustard jumper with no T-Shirt underneath and told me he was ‘blown away’ by me. Was I crazy?

The water and the soap suds washed away the dreadful memories of the night before; the feeling of calcium on nip, sweaty forehead resting thoughtfully on the nape of my neck, ball bag gently grazing an avoidant thigh. The heat made me feel clean…but I noted it also really hurt my little left breast. What was that pain!?

I looked down; my boob was a little swollen but that was actually a joy to see – anything adding volume to the chest was welcome. But the swelling couldn’t be causing that discomfort? It was coming from my nipple, the very tip of my nipple. I turned my head down to inspect further and saw a tiny stream of pinkish, diluted blood running down my ribs and pooling in my belly button before sliding its final descent to the drain below. Where was that coming from?

Gently, ever so gently, I cupped the underside of my breast and tilted it upward toward my eye but could see nothing. I took my index finger and lightly ran it from bottom to top of my boob, starting at the ribs and working up to the areola, feeling for gashes or knicks in the smooth, wet envelope of the shower. There were none. But as my index got closer to the tip of my nipple the stinging became excruciating. Taking a deep breath, I continued to push my finger up my tiny teat, meaning to drag the entire thing upward but as my digits made contact with the sticky-out flesh the little round bit simply folded upward, away from the peach circumference beneath. It revealed the pink, raw flesh from inside my nipple! It was quite literally hanging on by the peach nipple-skin at the top of my areola. Like a little semi-circular smile, Sam had taken out the bond of flesh holding the underside of my nipple in place. Looking at the rotten gore on my chest, I felt the gin and tonics from last night rising back up to my throat.

It was at that very moment I realised everything had gone to shit. I looked down at my naked body, water falling over me from the shower head above. Blood pooling in diluted strings around my feet. Sam had almost bitten my nipple completely off.

So the moral of the story is this: It’s totally OK to get the ick, even when someone is perfect for you. Lord knows, I’m pretty prefect, though a little fucked up, and I’ve definitely given guys the ick before. Let’s face it, Sam was a little bit icky in a mustard top wearing, overly-keen kind of sweet way. Should I have put myself in a sexual scenario with him? Probably not. Should I have ended proceedings when I realised we were both far too drunk and I would regret any choices I made. Definitely. But if you do get into this situation, let this be a warning and a lesson: do not assume the men in your apartment can be trusted to undertake correct and proper nipple etiquette or you may end up with a detached nip, scrubbing someone else’s vomit from your toilet.

Needless to say, Sam and I no longer speak. #awks

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: