Nipple Clamp Stories

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Nipple Clamp Stories
I am divorced, so with that comes some sort of weird socialized thing to A, hate your ex, and B, believe that anytime you see your ex, you’re supposed to be doing better than your ex. It’s supposed to be exactly like First Wives’ Club, where Goldie Hawn loses 30 pounds and takes all of his money and rises to stardom while the husband eats cold pasta because his too young for him wife can’t cook and then he gets an ulcer and has that gross thing where the stomach fat hangs over his belt like like a sad Panda. This is all ultimately to teach the ex a lesson, like, “Well geewhizz you are the best thing since sliced bread. It couldn’t possibly be that the combination of our two personal dysfunctions could not healthfully coexist. YOU ARE AMAZING AND I WAS SCUM TO LET YOU GO! YOU ARE PERFECT I SUCK, PLEASE DON’T EVER CONSIDER ANY PERSONAL GROWTH FROM OUR RELATIONSHIP, IT WAS ALL MEEEEE!” Besides being totally untrue (unlike everything else in movies, because it’s 2013 and Marty McFly promised me a hoverboard), that’s what the movies have told us we are supposed to achieve. We are to run into our ex and hair flip and say, “YEAH I’M A DOCTOR NOW AND MEGAN FOX PROPOSITIONED ME THIS ONE TIME, BUT I TURNED HER DOWN BECAUSE I HAVE STANDARDS.” (You don’t). So anyway, we all grow up with our failed relationships, thinking we will run into our ex and hoping it is when our ex is fat and sad and our asses look good enough to wear those yoga pants with words across the butt and like — ACTUALLY look good in them. And the sickest part about this social idea is that we are supposed to still think this no matter how happy we are in our current relationship (and let me tell you, I found gold in them thar hills in this department). But it never actually happens like that. It happens when you are having a period break out and you’re at the grocery store to get three things you forgot from your real grocery store trip (which was totally normal and sane), and you have this basket with eggs, white wine, and box of tampons and you skipped a shower because “oh who cares that it’s been three days and my hair sticks up like Cameron Diaz in ‘There’s Something About Mary’? It’s just the grocery store.” And your ex is there with a cart full of craft beer and kale and no he did not see you just stand and debate whether buying an entire tube of salami was a good idea (because you’d probably eat it in 15 minutes) for what seemed longer than reading a Harry Potter book. OR DID HE? This, however, is merely an example. There are worse ways to run into your ex. How, might you ask? WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE WORSE!? I know. I know, and it’s true. You can go out to celebrate a birthday party with your friend at an all 90s themed night at a local bar. ANOTHER friend can get you to dress up as Ginger Spice because NINETIES DANCE PARTY DUH and you make the Spice Girl entourage complete. You will literally walk into a crowded bar with a miracle push up bra and a sparkly mini dress that you stuffed yourself into like a sausage in a defective casing, complete with Snooki hair bump because Ginger Spice was apparently a seer and wore that hair HIGH. You. Look. Like. An. Asshole. You look kind of like what a hooker looks like if a 17 year old screenplay writer had written the part of “hooker” into a script after watching 400 hours of 80s movies (I know this is too many decades to keep track of). Do you run into your ex at the 90s themed bar dance party after four Moscow Mules that you downed in quick succession so you could try to dance (you can’t) because your friends WON’T STOP ASKING? NO. NO, you do not. The birthday boy is bored with listening to Blackstreet because we all got pretty bored with listening to Blackstreet by 1999, and wants to go do what every red blooded American grown up wants to do. Go look at boobs. You’re an accommodating friend. You oblige. Yes! Let’s go look at boobs. The boobs purveyed to you, however, are not of a proper caliber (just because you personally live in a hovel doesn’t mean you don’t want to see the palace at Versailles when you visit Paris, if you know what I mean), so you get bored, go outside, bum a cigarette from someone because by now you’ve had six drinks to forget the horror of how you look. And what do you say upon entering the strip club, to seal your fate? “Oh man. I hope I don’t run into my ex. He luuuurbs the boobies, and he lives around here.” And THAT, my dears, is when it happens. Your ex isn’t even supposed to know you smoke when you’re drunk and you bum cigarettes from well meaning gentlemen who are about to witness a terribly painful interaction and have their OWN story. He walks onto the back patio, lights up his OWN cigarette, makes eye contact, and says: “Well, this is awkward.” This is not just an ex ex. This is the ex I coparent with and have three children with. So someday, when my children are grown, the only bonus to this story is that I get to tell them this with while they yell at me how gross and awkward of a human being I am and I am the new family embarrassment and they are off the hook for the next 5 years. The conversation in our heads silently was probably this: “DO THE CHILDREN KNOW YOU SMOKE? HOW OFTEN DO YOU GO OUT DRINKING LIKE SOME KIND OF HEATHEN? SHOULD I BE WORRIED? ARE YOU AN ALCOHOLIC? ARE YOU A SEX ADDICT? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? ARE WE ABOUT TO HAVE A HUMAN INTERACTION? I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN HANDLE THAT!” But we didn’t say any of that. He was gracious as I stumbled all over the patio like a comic book character with the hiccups drawn around her, we had a laugh, I threw in a jab about knowing our run in HAD to be at a strip club (and I said it about 6 times, one for each drink), and we parted our merry ways, never to speak about it again. Worth noting is that I tried miserably to do the Goldie Hawn thing (“I write a BLOG! I SHOUULSHD WRITES ABOUT THISSH!”) and learned my fucking lesson, so I’ll be unsocializing myself from now on, thankyouverymuch. I was feeling pretty good about the exchange, thinking, “Look at us! How mature! How friendly! How adult! Who needs sweatpants with words on em and a 17 year old butt? And hahahaHAAAA he was alone at a strip club!” Until I got home, looked in the mirror, and realized….. Oh fuck. 
My big brother used to work at a fancy hotel chain in downtown Portland. Once I got word that he got a personal/friends/and family discount on these $250 rooms for $50 a night, as a young, dick 20 year old kid, I decided to take full and total advantage of him. “BUT I’M FAMILY, GODDAMNIT. YOU WERE NEVER THERE FOR MEEEEE. WHINE WHINE WHINE.”
So occasionally I would guilt him into booking me a room on his discount, never really fully realizing the extent of his favor like a wildly self absorbed asshole, and cause shenanigans in downtown Portland with my college friends.
One time, me and sixish (I’m sorry, I don’t remember all of you) piled into this room for a wild Portland party night, packing beer and Boone’s Farm supplied from my bestie’s of- age boyfriend, pretending to be like a bunch of spoiled rich kids who were really going to just go bum smokes on the street and walk around and ooh and ahh and the city, since we were a gaggle of kids from the capital college town with NOTHING to do.
So out of all the things to do in Portland, before Voodoo Doughnuts existed? We decided we would all get married at the Church of Elvis. The Church of Elvis is an iconic Portland landmark in which resides doll heads, Elvis memorabilia to the hilt, and where you can get married. Not in any wedding ceremony, but in a non-legal ceremony where you marry as many people as you want and are forced to carry a huge “JUST MARRIED” sign around the block while people honk and wave at you. I was about to be Mrs. Rhodes Darrah Jewett Bowen, and that kind soul who supplied all of our booze. But that still has a nice ring to it.
We trudged down there, slightly wasted, arriving to find that the owner had headed up to Mary’s, another iconic Portland spot for a drink (and BOOBIES!). We hedged on waiting, but asking drunk people to wait around a building at 1 a.m. is like asking someone with epilepsy to walk a tightrope. We walked back to the hotel, slightly disappointed, until….
It was like John Waters had appeared from a corner and started stroking his mustache with a glimmer in his eye. First thoughts: “Well, it’s his dick, probably stuck in a donut (FORESHADOWING OF THE PORTLAND TO COME. WE ARE PSYCHIC).”
We realized that there were like 6-7 of us (GEEZ I’M SO SORRY! I FORGOT!) and only one of him, so there would be no James Madio rape scene (OMG TELL ME YOU READ ALL OF THIS BLOG), and decide, “Yeah screw it.”
The guy leads us to a small store front that has been cleared out with artwork. OF COURSE! AN ART GALLERY SHOW. Because….PORTLAND.
There was a bunch of really weird artwork on the wall that I barely remember (because I don’t remember all of the names of the people I was even with, plus…Boones), and I mostly just remember my favorite was some painting that was overtly sexual and involved two ponies, but there was also a weird room protected by black curtains. He only allowed two of us to go in that room at a time, and gave everyone 3D glasses to enter. I refused to go first, and everyone who emerged just said…“I don’t even know what happened to me in there, but you have to go in there.”
As me and my friend Chloe enter, full of trepidation, we find a room with CDS hanging from the walls, Jesus flashing on the wall, lazer lights, and a talking Barney the dinosaur moving back and forth while “Christmas, Christmas” by Alvin and the Chipmunks played in the background. It was the closest to acid I’ve ever come in my life, and I had only like 2 bottles of Boone’s in me.
Art indeed. I had no idea what kind of statement this guy was trying to make, but I felt like I had taken mushrooms when I put on those glasses and started screeching in half delight and half terror. I remember I spent most of the time in that “art installation room” clutching Chloe’s neck and being a jackass. We did manage to score a picture inside of that Clockwork Orange Christmas Card, and I have now dedicated my life to finding it.
The lady from the Church of Elvis never did return, either entranced by her glass of Jameson or the boobies of the evening, so we walked back to our hotel room (not without a few pictures of me sitting on a beer box of butterflies and giving the most Honey Boo Boo pageant performance you have ever seen IN YOUR LIFE) and watched a Kobe Tai soft porn and acted like the MST3000 robots during the entire thing (CAUSE HOW DOES A NEWS REPORTER END UP BONING HER SUBJECT WITHIN THE SPAN OF TWENTY MINUTES!?!?), and realized we would have all made the best spouses ever. Especially since they all had someone like me to take the blame for the porn charge in the morning.
As an aside, the Church of Elvis STILL EXISTS, and you should all click this link and understand its glory right now: http://www.24hourchurchofelvis.com/
The year was 1991 – ish. Because it happened either a couple years before, or a couple years after, and I can’t remember exactly when now. So technically, this does not qualify as a 100% true story, because I cannot remember exactly what age I was. You got me. BUT, barring that fact, from here on out….100% true.
I was a kid who loved sweets. You take me to the candy shop, or the bakery, all I saw was the equivalent of an adult being taken to Tiffany’s and having some asshole go, “LOOK AT ALL THE SPLENDOR - YOU CAN’T HAVE IT BECAUSE YOUR TEETH SUCK.”
BUT, on one fine day, my mom let us get gingerbread men. They were the perfect gingerbread men. My brother and I each gone one, with their little frosted faces, complete with little frosting clothes – a shirt, striped pants, a face, buttons. Someone went out of their way to anthropomorphize this baked good, just for me. 
I took it home and ate it slowly. The sugar! The holidays! The baked treat from the grocery store! I ate his head, I ate his shirt – I nom nom nomed my way into holiday bliss like a Taiwanese hooker.
My mom was laying on the couch, tired as any mom would be from taking two shithead kids to the store during Xmastime, and I decided to be a good kid and go, “Hey mom, you want a piece of my gingerbread man?” I wasn’t a TOTAL shithead kid.
She was silent for a bit, so I took another bite of his perfectly groomed frosting shirt, then another into his striped frosting pants. What was that I tasted? Walnuts? 
It is that this point, I tell my mom, “OH and hey! He has nuts in him! I didn’t know he had nuts in him until I got down to his pants.”
 I was about 10. ABOUT 10. My mother’s face becomes beet red, and as a precocious kid who just realized what I just said, we both start laughing hysterically, I spit the nuts onto the table and start convulsing with humor and horror and embarrassment, because the fact that you ate out a fairy tale at 10 is creepy and disgusting, and I didn’t touch a gingerbread man for 10 whole years after that. I still can’t eat one without thinking I need to go to confession. Happy Holidays!
I have been hurting for material lately, so I present an old blog post from years past, but just as true a story as the rest, with a picture for proof!
I’m a fair cook and a total cooking snob, only I won’t make fun of your lack of cooking ability if I like you. There was that one time the oven turned off during Thanksgiving and the turkey wasn’t ready, a shame I’m still attempting to live down because when things go wrong in the kitchen, I beat myself up over it like I locked a baby in a car and forgot about him. So there I was, back on my little Weight Watchers saddle, needing to lose a few sacks of potatoes off of my ass. Holidays, stress, etcetera. It’s not fun, but a girl’s gotta do.
I arrive at the internet, ready to find delectable recipes for my semi vegetarian, semi-can’t-eat-anything-fun-and-fried enjoyment. I look for Weight Watchers recipes, because it’s an easy as pie program for me. We are “home vegetarians,” so it’s hard to find something respectable. Someone always wants to throw a pork chop into the mix.
So I find this “Herbed Vegetable Enchilada” recipe from I’m sure a gal with good intentions named Karen. You can always tell which recipes are from Middle America – lots of dairy, lots of sauce, lots of canned ingredients and vegetables all kind of mish mashed together for the sake of cleaning out your fridge, because you don’t have enough ingredients to make Aunt Maude’s meatloaf – you’re fresh out of the bucket of ketchup from Costco anyway, right? So I figure “what the heck” and we’re going to try it anyway.
I get to cooking, pulling my cans out of the pantry, chopping random vegetables. I’m looking at the quantities, thinking our dear Karen is out of her damn mind, but plug along. Then I get to “dip the corn tortillas in tomato sauce to make them soft and roll them up.” *Sigh.* Karen, Karen, Karen. I don’t know who you are, or from where you’ve come – or even where you’ve been, but it’s never been far into a kitchen. Why I agreed to LISTEN to you in the first place, despite my reservations, I will never know. That’s makes two of us with not the most innovative of minds. So I do it. And as I roll each tortilla, they turn into cracked/spongey mush. No, I didn’t mess it up. I checked the directions three, four times. So did my then husband. So now I have this vegetable sour cream glop (no one needs to eat that much sour cream, Karen! I had to half that crap! I don’t care how fat free it is, I am not a Jersey cow! We are not bears! WE DO NOT HIBERNATE!) that is just mushing into these corn tortillas soaked in tomato juice that is supposed to be a wonderful new discovery for my taste buds.
And for the grand finale, lovely Karen, who is a fan of sauce, (I’m guessing she’s a fan of the figurative sauce as well, because the woman had to be drunk when inventing this piece of Mexican history), requests of me FOUR CUPS of enchilada sauce. Poor soggy tortillas. They never knew a better life, and were drowned so prematurely in their young little corn based lives.
 So I’m guessing Karen was desperately searching for a recipe to serve to the one weird vegetarian cousin coming over for dinner, since vegetable based entrees are obviously not our dear Karen’s forte. Our Herbed Vegetable Enchiladas, which would have been more appropriately named “Afterbirth Sauce,” displayed here for you to imagine the mindblowing culinary feast. Mmmm… Karen, you saucy bitch. I will never forgive you the experience of eating, neigh, looking at these things, and you are hereby banned from submitting recipes to the internet:
The wine and beer company I worked for had a really weird office building set up. You shared a bathroom with an adjoining business, and the bathroom was in this tiny little hallway that was about 8 feet high and 4 feet wide. I was driving around town after picking up my two year old son and I really had to pee one day. You know the feeling: an epic pee to end all pees. I happened to be close to my work, have a work key, so I figured I would zip in and go to the bathroom.
Luckily, while I failed everything else in my pre-child life, I have turned into a pretty rational and responsible mother. When we pulled in, I grabbed my son, and we went inside to use the bathroom. We go potty, he plays with the dangerous chemicals under the sink, no big deal.
Upon exiting the room, I realized that I had closed the door that led to my office building. The door that led to the OTHER office building was also closed. They both closed and locked from the opposite side from which I was on. So here we were. Me and my son, stuck in a tiny 8 by 4 foot space with no windows, no opened doors, no cell phone (I had left it in the car), and 15 hours before the office building opened again when someone arrived to unlock everything. I was trapped with a two year old, no dinner, a toilet, and maybe some of that citrus air freshener to sniff when the hunger pangs started.
When you are trapped in a small confined space with no way out, a common scenario is that you suddenly have two brains: rational brain and “OMGWTF WE ARE GOING TO FUCKNG DIE!” brain. Rational brain was thinking this:
“My word. It certainly is a good thing I didn’t do anything terribly stupid like leave my son in the car while I ran in alone, thinking my bathroom trip would be just a quick 30 seconds. I’d be trapped in here, and he’d be alone in the car for hours. Someone sure is looking out for us. And hey, what better place to be trapped for 15 hours than a small area with a toilet? There’s a sink too, so we have water. No diapers though. That will suck. Oh well. Someone will for sure be here in the morning. This will be hard, but we can do it. And hey! This is a great time to toilet train my little guy!”
Doesn’ t that person just sound so wonderfully optimistic and pleasant? What a delightful person to be around! Such logic! Such sense! Such looking on the bright side!
The problem here, however, is that I am not a pleasant or optimistic person who looks on the bright side. The other brain kicked in, and comparatively, it would be like a 300 pound linebacker with an IQ of 2 who is drooling uncontrollably and would slaughter your entire family for a sandwich, compared to the rational brain, who is probably a dainty British lady who can make a pefect cup of tea and has never killed plant in her life.
“OH MY GOD WE’RE GOING TO DIE. SOMEONE HEEEELP US! HAAAALP! FUUUUUCK NO THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! NO FOOD! NO WINDOWS! WE ARE GOING TO DIEEEEEE! WELL IT’S A GOOD THING I BROUGHT THIS KID IN HERE WITH ME, BECAUSE NOW WHEN I AM HUNGRY, I CAN EAT HIM! WE’RE THE FUCKING DONNER PARTY NOW! THIS IS THE END, GODDAMNIT! THIS IS THE EEEEEND!!!”
There was quite a bit of banging on both doors, despite neither office building being inhabitied by a single
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