Your Headlights are On

This might be Too Much Information, and I know I run the risk of getting attention from all those fetishists for large nipples when I say this, but my nipples are huge. How huge are they, you ask? Well, you know those fembots from the Austin Powers movies? Y'know, the evil robots whose boobs were actually machine guns and whose nipples were actually shotgun barrels? Well, like that, only TEN TIMES BIGGER. If my nipples were detachable, my nursing 6-month-old would be choking on nipple pellets the size of gumballs when she eats. Put it this way, "nipple play" has taken on a whole new meaning for my husband and me. It is now an Olympic event.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the large nipples. I've always wanted larger nipples and, of course, my husband (ahem) enjoys them. It's just that, if this were winter and 30 degrees colder than it is now, I could double as a coat rack and hang purses and shit from my mammary protrusions. I think it has to do with pumping. As in pumping breastmilk. That god-forsaken contraption called the breast pump has quite the suction, and by the time I'm done, woooo-hooo! Watch out world! Watch out anyone in my direct path! Watch out people with two functioning eyeballs! It's rather scary, if you ask me.

I always fantasized that larger nipples would signal the beginning of a whole new arena of sex play for my husband and me. (Imagine cupless bras, nipple clamps and, I dunno, lots of tit-fucking, maybe?) Unfortunately, the only reason I have these larger nipples is because of The Child, who we've subsequently nicknamed "The Coitus Interrupter." I secretly think she realizes how she got here in the first place and has vowed to never let mommy and daddy do that ever again.

So, I have unusually large nipples, virtually no opportunity to enjoy them (save for the few occasions where I sit and stare in amazement), and a sex life that is overshadowed by the wonderful world of Parenthood. Perhaps I should just take photos of The Nipples and sell them on the Internet. There's a market there, right? The Child (or C.I., as I call her) will never have to know how I funded her college education. If I can't enjoy them, someone should. Right?

Happy Hump Day, everybody!