He Just Wanted Her Nipples Sucked

Already about two weeks on the road, after exploring parts of South India and Southern Malaysia, I made my way up north-east and arrived on the secluded tropical paradise of Perhentian Islands by ferry, cruising through crystalline turquoise waters. Sunglasses on, dressed in worn-out hippie attire, my entire solo nomadic life packed into a six-kilo backpack.

The moment I stepped off the boat, I ditched my flip-flops and walked barefoot along the beach. Somewhere between the whitish-golden sand and the scorching midday heat, I ran into a Norwegian guy I’d connected with through a closed-knit online travel community. We had exchanged a few messages before. He told me to look for him when I arrived. The island was small. He said I’d find him easily.

He was a dive instructor from Norway, about seven years older than me. Blonde. Military buzz cut. Blue eyes. A body with six-pack abs – the kind you expect on a fisherman, not a man patiently explaining buoyancy to tourists.

He lived in a shack right on the beachfront, a setup provided by the diving company he worked for. A marriage had ended badly, and to combat the heartbreak, he’d uprooted his entire life to land on a quiet Malaysian island that wasn’t an obvious choice.

That was exactly why I chose it. Spending a few days on an exotic island brimming with raw natural beauty sounded idyllic. And the vibe matched perfectly—almost no tourists around, just slow-moving backpackers and friendly locals.

We instantly hit it off as we walked toward the dorm he recommended as a good place to stay on a shoestring budget. His shack was a few minutes' walk away. I found him mildly fascinating. His career choice—our wildly different lives. I loved water, yet at that point I couldn’t float or swim.

I unpacked and settled in. He hung around at his. Another Irish guy I’d met at the dorm asked me out for dinner, which was awkward because the Norwegian had already done the same.

So I invited both of them. To the same place. Without either knowing.

Fuck it. We were eating food.

And it worked. The three of us had a great time. The Irish guy was too nice. He read the room and bowed out politely. Meanwhile, the vibe between me and Mr. Norway kept simmering.

The next day, he told me about a secret beach on the island, one only locals knew about. He’d lived there long enough to know coves no one ventured into. Locals didn’t bother with it either unless it served a purpose.

We decided to hike there without any proper trail, pushing through bushes and undergrowth. After a strenuous hour, we emerged onto a completely deserted beach.

It was perfect. Spontaneously, we removed all our clothes, decided to skinny-dip, and ran straight into the sea together.

The sky was pastel, washed in pinks, reds, and oranges. Soft clouds settled into the oncoming dusk.

He’d packed snorkeling gear. I had never snorkeled before – I was barely out of university.

We decided to leave our swimming costumes on the sand and go snorkel naked. I was manifesting merging with the elements after all.

To my surprise, it was easy. With the snorkeling mask on, I could swim with little help, which was unexpected and very cool. I saw fish in vivid metallic colors I didn’t know existed. I could cry.

Then, dashing out of the water, we set my digicam, balanced it on a rock, and took photos on auto-timer – jumping in the air, naked and laughing, while the sky melted into luminous shades of pastel.

It was surreal. And romantic.

We kissed as the sun set. One of those moments that goes straight into the highlights section of the book of life. It felt like I was in a movie scene, except better, because this was real.

Naturally, attraction followed.

The following day, he asked me out again. This time there was no third wheel. Just me and him. It was a full moon night. Late in the evening, we took a stroll down a beach bar, and like just everyone there, we ordered a bucket drink – because why, in that part of the world, it’s practically mandatory. Otherwise, what are you even doing?

It was strong. Lethal. A slow-burn cocktail that sneaks up on you and ruins your balance without warning. I was an amateur when it came to alcohol. At that point in my life, I’d barely had a handful of drinks.

Was I going to do it?
Fuck yes.

With this stranger?
Of course.

He told me that if I got too drunk, he wouldn’t abandon me on the beach. And he delivered, because that’s exactly what happened. I got drunk out of my mind and threw up. Feeling destroyed, on his arms he carried me back to his shack. Not long after, I threw up again.

He took care of me in a calm, grounded, masculine way. I showered. He lent me a long, loose, clean T-shirt. I felt human again. Almost.

He then put on some soft music. It was way past midnight. Not a soul in sight. We were two young people. Quite drunk. And very attracted to each other.

I was single. Barely stepped into my early twenties. Traveling alone. Far away from home. Far away from my traumatic past.

It felt like the right moment to let go.
To indulge.
To dive headfirst into impulse.To sin a little.

I was ready to lose myself.
To explore and be explored.
Hot.
Steamy.
Spicy.

A collision of two very different worlds: the Southern exotic and the Nordic blues.

We kissed.
Then kissed some more.

And just like that, we were all over each other.

Instinct took over and I slid down – only to be pulled back up, flush against his chest.

I was confused.

Yes, you may admire my perky breasts, but what exactly are you asking me to do here? There was nothing perky in front of me. Just hair and two flat buttons.

I slid back down again.
He pulled me back up, and… pointed at his nipples.

Sir, what? This was not the moment.
I was ferocious. In heat.

Please don’t kill my vibe?

“Suck it,” he said.

Suck what exactly?
A shallow crater with a tiny flippity floppity bump in the middle?

His lips twisted.

If something was going to be sucked here, it was the tool.

I slid back down. Again.
He pulled me back up toward his chest. Again.

EXCUSE ME?????

Look, we all have our kinks. I get it.
But this was 2010. Simpler times.
You my man, go for my bulge up here, and I, your girl, go for your bulge down there. Capeesh?

His eyes darkened. He was horny in an aggressively animalistic way.

“Come on. Suck it,” he insisted.

Deep down under, my well dried up. Instantly. All moisture evaporated. Gone with the wind.

He bit his lip.

Holy cripes. Did he plan to kill me if I didn’t obey?

Should I run into the ocean and drown myself just to stay in control of the narrative?

Okay fine. We would ignore my perky delicacies and acknowledge your opposites, you twisted motherfucker.

There was no one on the beach. Just darkness, the roaring sea, and this nipple-obsessed man.

I was still very drunk, yet somehow managed to assert my sovereign preferences – I slid down, toward the thing I wanted.

I don’t remember if we went the whole nine yards after that. Maybe we did. Maybe we didn’t. That alone tells me I definitely did not have the orgasm of my life.

Surprisingly, I woke up next to him the following morning. Fuck it. Erotic energies reignited. We made out again — the way I liked it. Went an extra mile, if you will. I was lighthearted, simply satisfying young hormones. Meanwhile, he was falling in love.

Brother. Do you not get the memo?

I rolled with an idea. Told him I was leaving the island and continuing my journey. He insisted I should stay longer.

All I heard was nipples.

Later that afternoon, we shared a kiss — our last one. He dropped me off at the ferry. I got on the boat and cruised towards the mainland.

Next stop: the rainforest. Taman Negara.

When I got internet access a few days later, a message awaited me. It read like a love-adjacent letter.

I’ll spare you most of it, but the gist was that he missed me and that this place gave him “Manali withdrawal symptoms.” Said he’d love to have me back out there, should I want to return.

All my brain registered was nipples.

Thanks, no thanks.