The Nipple Sleeps Tonight

“I think I’ll wear the studded collar,” I said to my girlfriend, Kailey, as I held it up against my neck. “Are the spikes too much?” She ran her fingers along the pointed tips in delight and shook her head no. I held the collar against her neck to get a better eyeful of this accessory I coveted, but found myself considering what she would look like wearing nothing but this. Mmm…delicious. Tonight’s modeling gig promised to ignite our regular sexual combustion into a full-on inferno.

The Human Rights Campaign was throwing a fundraiser bash at a local lesbian bar and needed models for live figure drawing, as part of the entertainment. So Kailey and I volunteered. But, Denver law prohibited us from posing nude in a bar–and even naked nips were strictly off limits. Ah, yes, the “evil” female nipple—the beginning of society’s demise, it would seem, according to some. Yawn, how boring. I think I feel a wardrobe malfunction coming on. Mike, a leather artist we knew, agreed to loan us all the free paraphernalia we desired and we went all out–bondage chest pieces, harnesses, eye masks, wrist cuffs, riding crops and cat o’ nine tails for some playful flogging.

That night, we reclined in black lingerie and leather on a custom boudoir built by an interior designer who donated his time and talent to the event. Our personal entourage of creative friends surrounded and attended to us–makeup artist, photographer and painters. The champagne flowed, on the house, and our glasses never emptied. The women stared and mingled all around us. One older lesbian even dared to lay a hand on Kailey’s mostly naked ass. Her quick apology followed, “My friend bet me $25 to do that.” I wasn’t surprised–of course my girlfriend was hot enough to encourage silly dares from people old enough to know better.

After the artists stopped gazing up at us at regular intervals and began focusing on their canvases for the detail work, Kailey and I decided to take the evening up a notch. We slipped backstage and made a costume commitment toward minimalism: hers–a lacy, white thong; mine–white boy shorts. Nothing more. Hmm…but then again there was that pesky no-nipple law. What were we to do? We were quite fond of our simple outfits and rued the idea of putting on more clothing. A stack of HRC stickers sat on a table. We looked at each other in silent agreement. Four stickers later, all nipples were covered. We walked back out through the crowd, the sea of people parting for equality–let’s hope for both the gays and the feminine nipple.


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