The prospect of nipple clamps scares me. I like my nipples. I respect my nipples. Therefore, I don’t want my nipples to turn into two saucer-sized, purple bruises where my nipples used to be. Is that too much to ask? That my nipples remain unharmed during the human act of sex making? Apparently these days it is.
Now don’t get me wrong, I do not mean to rouse on anybody that is a fan of nipple clamps, butt plugs or any other act of fetishism. If wearing an adult nappy and crying, “Mummy, mummy!” while a woman in a leather scuba suit whips you with a cat-o’-nine-tails gets you off, then by all means go for it. If you enjoy having your hair fed through a pasta maker during the act while your dog watches, that’s your business. And if what really gets you going is having your partner urinate in your shoes and then wearing them to work without socks, that is totally cool. To each their own, it takes all kinds etc etc. That just ain’t my style.
I don’t enjoy physical pain very much in real life, and as a result I also don’t enjoy it when sex is occurring. Never have I stubbed my toe, slammed my finger in a drawer or fallen face first down a flight of stairs and thought to myself Hmm, this is oddly arousing. I once dated a guy who used to slap me during sex, and not just on the PC areas like the butt and the butt (I intended to make a list here, but I’m pretty sure the butt is the only PC area for slapping). He slapped me on the chest. He slapped me on the legs. And least attractive at all, he slapped me in the face. In the face! Instead of being instilled with the usual calm sense of sleepy satisfaction after sex, I felt like I had been in a drunken bar fight. I was smacked and choked and bitten and pinched until I finally realised that this wasn’t sex after all, this was naked Mexican wrestling, prison rules edition.
While at first I feigned enthusiasm for this kind of rough play, thinking that any other girl in my position would be excited by the prospect of being strangled with her own underwear, eventually I had to put my foot down. No longer could I stand (lie, kneel?) idly by as my delicate feminine sensibilities were offended time and time again by this pigheaded brute whose idea of a good time involved having me press down hard on his bruises until he would scream in either pleasure or agony or both. Because when it comes down to it, my tastes in sexual activity are probably considered to be fairly conventional and dull.
I like kissing, and not the kind of “kissing” you see in porn where the “actors” frantically and somewhat violently mash their mouths together, their tongues flailing about wildly as they make the sorts of guttural sounds I usually reserve for vomiting. I like the kind of soft, gentle kissing you might see in a movie starring Anne Hathaway. I don’t want you to bite my lip, or suck on it, or pinch it or burp into my mouth (that really happened one time).
I like sexual acts that give me the kinds of warm, fuzzy feelings I might get from eating apple pie and ice-cream or watching YouTube clips of a puppy spooning a kitten. I like to be stroked. I like fingers being run through my hair. I like the face cup, which does not mean having suction cups attached to my face and then slowly and torturously pulled off; instead, it’s when a person takes your jaw in their hands and cups it, as if your face were a teeny tiny newborn baby or a teacup pig.
Now, please don’t get me wrong again: the fact that I enjoy attentive and respectful sex does not mean that I want somebody to lie on top of me and make creepy, intense eye contact the entire time and say things like, “You smell like a summer breeze!” or “I feel like I’m having sex with your soul.” Just make it normal. No special “tricks” up your sleeve. No ropes, harnesses, chains or handcuffs (fluffy or otherwise). And no slapping, particularly not of the turkey variety. Just good old fashioned, regular, vanilla intercourse for me, thanks. And unless you’re going to be nice to them, leave my nipples out of it.