My Nipples Hate You
It's not personal. They hate everyone.
They know that you want to touch them, to play with them, to lick and suck them, and you're not going to do it right. And if you do it right one time, in one moment, you're immediately going to forget and go back to how you touch everyone else's nipples, and it's going to feel really BAD and they're going to hate you again.
My breasts and I have a long and complicated history. I developed earlier than many of my friends in elementary school and by age 12 in Grade 7, I was teased a lot for having big boobs. This was also the year that bra-snapping was a favourite pastime of classmates, regardless of gender, so wearing the thing that reined in the source of all the teasing was misery in itself. By Grade 9, almost all the girls had developed and surpassed me, and my small breasts were a source of mockery until I graduated high school.
When I became sexually active at 15 I remember vividly being on the scratchy navy blue couch downstairs in the family room (the couch on which I lost my virginity), my boyfriend's mouth on my breasts and how it felt. How awful it felt. Not painful. Just. Really. Bad. Like every nerve ending was saying NOPE! I don't remember if I said anything–probably not, because I was nervous and figured it was just a thing I needed to endure. I took my discomfort on as something wrong with me and didn't want to admit that flaw to him, since my small breasts were already a source of shame.
I discovered as time went on that if I was crazy horny and extremely turned-on, it would override the Ugh feeling that makes me arch my back like a cat away from the touch and wish my nipples would invert on command (rather than randomly). In exactly the right state I would ask my partners to lick and suck away, and it felt really good and I didn't understand why it couldn't feel that way all the time.
When I first started non-monogamy, the thrill of the newness and the transgressive nature of sleeping with people other than my spouse had me turned on enough that I was able to have happy nipples in most encounters. I could suggest the best ways to touch me to people but I didn't have to be on guard against the bad touch. As well, I got to see a lot of other breasts and discovered that, far from the anomaly I considered my boobs to be, they were incredibly normal, and attractive, even.
As time has gone on and the thrill has worn off–don't get me wrong, it continues to be a wonderful thing but doesn't have that same, stomach-flip zing it once did–my breasts have gone back to their old tricks. I have to explain in detail to each partner how to treat my nipples, usually multiple times as their focus lapses. Even the sheet rubbing against them the wrong way is sheer misery. When fucked doggy-style and they're bouncing away I have to make sure I'm either fully away from the sheet or lying flat on it so none of the horrible scraping happens.
The over-sensitivity is so strong that I have a very hard time seeing things done to other people's nipples that would be hell for me. My poor boobs want to draw back into my body when I watch someone who likes tit torture having it done to them, and I usually have to go elsewhere if I can. I feel it in my own body like it's happening to me and it's incredibly difficult to switch that off. Watching my friends breastfeed their children has been quite a process, and one of the many, many reasons I opted out of motherhood. I barely trust responsible adults with my boobs.
One of my biggest fears in public nudity spaces is that someone will touch my nipples without consent. Every time I go into a new space, the fear and anxiety go straight to my breasts. I had a lot of concern the first year I went to Swingset Takes Over Desire, the idea of being in the hot tub and in such close proximity to grabby hands, but 99.9% of people were incredibly respectful. The one time someone did touch me without asking, I was wearing pasties at the time, so it was less awful than it would have been otherwise, and I yelled at him.
Pasties and thin bras have become my go-to armour if I'm feeling tender enough that any direct contact is unwelcome. That thin layer of material is enough to filter out the oversensitive Ugh nerve endings and I can enjoy touch. I have to remind people that they can touch my nipples when I'm wearing my armour, that it's one of the few safe times to have at ‘er, but most take it as a no-fly zone when I'm covered up.
When I'm with people who know how to treat my breasts (and remember the rules through the fog of passion or between hook-ups), it can feel amazing. I've had squirt orgasms from someone sucking on my tits the right way. I tweak my own nipples when I masturbate– through a layer of fabric like thin t-shirt–and it feels really good. It's definitely a drawback that I don't have partners other than Flick that I see frequently and consistently enough to have my body's rules scored into their brains. It's rare that someone I see intermittently is able to remember, and my trust has been scorched enough times that I've been leaving my bra on in more and more sexual encounters.
A lot of girls envied Barbie(™) her figure, but I've always envied her nipple-free boobs. Since I'm stuck with what I got, and wishing them different hasn't worked wonders, I'll be over here. The one in the super-cute pasties. ‘Cuz no offence, but my nipples hate you.