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Nipples and Ice

I have always had a terrific fondness for men’s nipples. As spring gives way to summer heat and shirtless guy season commences, I become a full-fledged nipple watcher. The variety of nipples simply boggles the mind. At one end of the spectrum are the minute ones who flirtatioulys sit atop the pecs like a Hershey’s kiss; at the other end we have the distinct and prominent ones who demand attention – the ‘I’m here, look at me, let’s have sex this instant’ kind of fellows. And then we have the smooth ones that glisten off a sweaty chest like the diamonds in a tiara or the hairy variety who are coddled in fur like Joan Crawford in the opening scenes of Mildred Pierce. Miss Crawford is reputed to have said she iced her nipples – a practice I have adopted for those special occasions where I just don’t feel quite perky enough.  A little dash of ice and hot breath on a nipple can be scintillating especially if the ice is plucked from a bourbon on the rocks. My most memorable nipple play was with R, a Latino waiter I met at a pizza joint.  His skin was smooth – his nipples almost butterscotch in color and just as sweet. They were also were extremely sensitive – they quivered like a souffle fresh from a hot oven each time I nibbled on them. He encouraged me to escalate from a soft nuzzle to a full on Dracula-esque bite; I obliged R accordingly. I went back and forth across his chest, going from left nipple to right nipple. With each visitation of my mouth, R’s nipples became harder and taller until they became like talons. I felt like a scientist – my creation rising from the heat of R’s chest. Dian Fossey had gorillas; there are nipples in my midst.

After an afternoon on nipple tasting or for nipple watching, I like to kick it Golden Girls style and have a pitcher of iced tea. I recommend Stash Peach tea. Add a sprig of basil to mix things up a bit – it plays nicely with the peach notes of the tea. And basil, like nipples, are in abundant supply this time of year.

 

 

 

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