Clamps.

May 14, 2011 at 10:22 am (Sex) (, , , )

I have one boyfriend in particular to thank for my nipple clamps. We spent several weekends in a row visiting “novelty” shops. He persisted in buying me pair after pair until we found the ones that were just right – fine-tuned to provide the exact level of pain. Ugly things, they are – large, shiny and complicated-looking. But he succeeded in finding the ones that are perfect for me.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

He was tall, dark and handsome – Italian. He had the social skills of a squirrel – skittish and apt to run away. He also loved trees as much as a squirrel, and on our first date, he stroked and embraced the tree in my front yard.

On our second date, he filled a bathtub with scalding hot water and invited me in. I let it cool down first, then floated my assets across the water. Perhaps it was that scene – my buoyant breasts on the surface – that made him decide my nipples were begging for clamps.

He was the kind of man who was always prepared, and he had a new waterproof vibrator waiting for me. It had a smiley face on it, and one thing I’ve always regretted (not the only thing, in this case) is that he didn’t actually give me that vibrator. Maybe it was how he used it, but I loved that vibrator. It was good to me.

He was clumsy and apt to hurting me without realizing it – slamming me around or squeezing me too hard. But he was patient – oh, was he beautifully, remarkably patient. A rainy Saturday morning with nothing else to do, we decided to get out of bed and sprawl naked in his living room instead. The vibrator came along, and he got into a comfortable position, and worked me over until I came. Never a hint of frustration, never a twitch; no words of encouragement, either, that I recall, but just steady, continual focus until the task was accomplished. When I was through, he declared, in his dry yet peppy way, “Girls are fun.”

That was the thing – girls were physical puzzles to be figured out, challenges to overcome, nice toys with a surprise inside. But that was his limit; venturing into an emotional engagement with a girl was beyond him. He couldn’t carry a conversation even if it were as light as a feather. His most common verbal output was reading a sign or billboard aloud. I was frustrated – in a way, furious – to discover he moderated a very active online messageboard with thousands of posts to his name. He was conducting discussions on topics we could potentially have in common and share over coffee, tea, pipes and cigarettes; but it had never occurred to him that I might like to be talked to, or with, on any of those subjects. He loved playing with me, but relating to me? Wasn’t possible.

I was torn. He could make me come, and not just with the vibrator. That became the priority – walk in my door, or I in his, and orgasm was imminent. Laying on my back on the sofa, my hips up on the armrest, he folded himself down to me and ran his tongue into those wet, hungry folds and I came. In bed, he pulled me on top of him, both of us upright and tangled together with just enough room for a finger to reach my clit as he fucked me, and I came. But I didn’t care about him, because he couldn’t give me anything to care about – nothing revealed, no history, no dreams, no opinions. We lived in different cities, and the distance kept the sex chemicals bubbling, but that was all there was.

I broke up with him by email.

He asked if we could stay friends, and I said no.

The nipple clamps he gave me are stored in a suitcase with other rarely-used toys. But every time I get that ache in my nipples that only clamps can satisfy, I think of him.

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