Lick Love Teen

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Whether you have large areolas or bumps on your nipple, read how one woman learned to love hers.
The first time I hooked up with another girl, she paused in the middle of taking off my bra, laughed, and said, “I’d wondered what color your nipples would be.”
I pushed her hands away and held my bra to my chest. Her hands held the straps outward like wings. I wished, temporarily, that I could fly away and escape the overwhelming embarrassment I felt. I wasn’t the type to get embarrassed about sex, or about my body, but now I was nervous. Like, seriously, if she thought my nipples were a bizarre color, what would she think when she saw the rest of me? “What?”
She shrugged, still smiling, unaware of the spiral of panic she’d started. “I didn’t know if they’d be, like, brown, or pink.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t correct her, or call her out. We made out and I kissed away the anxiety taking over my entire body. I didn’t think about the implications of her curiosity, not then. It wasn’t until later down the road when she said a few other strange things about race that I forced myself to reckon with her question: what did it mean that she’d wondered about the color of my nipples? As a mixed girl who’s half black, and half white, I guess that she’d been wondering if my nipples would be brown, or pink, or some combination of the two. It made me angry. And it made me feel ashamed.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know that there was something different about my nipples. The girls in porn didn’t have boobs that looked anything like mine; for one, they were huge, super symmetrical, and round in a way just weren’t. But, too, their nipples were very, very pink. My relationship with that first white girl ended, and I hooked up with yet another white girl with pink nipples, and another, and then realized I’d never seen another black girl’s nipples before.
That’s when I got a little obsessive about nipples.
Or, well, finding nipples that looked like mine.
In a way, I needed representation, needed to see nipples like mine, to feel less alien. Especially because I was hooking up with other girls, it was hard not to compare my body to theirs, and, as a result, not to compare my nipples to theirs. Male and female nipples are held to totally different standards; men just have nipples, the body part. Women are expected to have some sort of metaphor for flawless, delicate femininity blossoming from their body — hairless, just the right size, and a pretty, soft pink.
Back when I’d been exclusively hooking up with guys, it was easier not to worry about what my boobs looked like because I wasn't being directly confronted with "better" nipples than mine. But when I was hooking up with women, I had the nipples I aspired to have right there. I was existing in this bizarre space where I was so happy to be with another girl, and yet so, so jealous of her, of her body, of her ability to fit this racialized beauty standard better than I’d ever be able to.
It became a quest, a way to the nipple confidence I so desperately craved. I knew I wasn’t going to find it in the girls I was hooking up with. The college I was going to was about as straight and white as it gets, so it was hard enough finding a queer girl who wanted to kiss me, let alone a queer woman of color.
Like a good millennial, I took to the internet—and that’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. I came across message boards filled with women freaking out about their brown nipples. I learned about nipple bleaching, a process that seeks to lighten brown nipples like mine and make them “normal.” Similarly to how some people bleach their labia, some seek fairer nipples by investing in products like hydroquinone to lighten the skin. Documented to be most popular in Asian countries like Thailand, women bleaching their nipples is more common than I would have guessed. But instead of pushing me to make the purchase that would finally solve my problem, learning about the mass amounts of women who hate their bodies because of unrealistic, racist, colorist beauty standards just pissed me off. It wasn’t fair that we were expected to be ashamed. It wasn’t fair that we were expected to put our bodies at risk just to be a shade or two lighter. It just didn’t make any sense, not to me. I quit researching bleaching products, stepped away from the message boards, and never went back.
Instead, I continued seeking the representation I imagined would make me more confident in my body. But the black and brown girls I could find in porn were all turned into exotic fetishes, and using them for my own benefit just didn’t feel right. The photos I could find online of women’s nipples often felt medicalized in a way that creeped me out. I didn’t want science, or porn, or even art. I wanted to see my nipples on real, live, imperfect brown and black girls, just like me.
It wasn’t until the #FreeTheNipple movement took over that I was able to find this representation. Women of all shapes and sizes and, most important to me, colors, removed their crop tops and bralettes and flannels in the name of feminism. They weren’t doing it to be sexy, or to benefit any sort of male gaze; they were doing it for themselves, for each other, and, maybe accidentally, for us, the girls who wanted the sort of nipple confidence that it takes to bare nipples proudly on the internet, or even just in the mirror.
For the first time, I could easily find girl after girl with nipples that looked maybe not exactly like mine, but not nothing like mine, either. Their nipples were asymmetrical, one big, one small, protruding or inverted, so similar in color to their breasts that they practically blended in, so strongly contrasted that they seemed to announce themselves. I could find queer girls, too, with breasts like mine. And they weren’t apologetic. They were excited, laughing, flipping off a camera that expected them to feel any sort of shame.
I didn’t start posting photos of my own nipples online (I’m not that brave, not yet, anyway). But I did stop avoiding eye contact with my boobs in the mirror. I did stop freaking out when I noticed my girlfriend checking out my boobs. And I did stop feeling like I owed every person who saw my nipples and their brownness some sort of apology for not being the right kind of pretty. Because my nipples were pretty all along. And like the thousands of girls who’ve bared their nipples without giving a damn about what women’s nipples are “supposed” to look like, I have no reason to be ashamed.
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