Confessions of a Weaning Weenie

I once heard someone say that the intensity of labor prepares you for the intensity of breastfeeding. Maybe, but the difference is, I was only in labor for 10 hours. I have been breastfeeding for over two years. The first time my daughter latched on and really got to work after my milk had come in, I felt like I wanted to jump out of my skin. Like that scene in the movie, "Underworld" when the blond vampire realizes there is a lycan in her house and leaps onto the ceiling and hisses like a cat. Yep, that's exactly how I felt.
After the first week or two, it got better. I could really get in to the Earth Mother thing, and was proud to be nourishing my child, providing her with the best possible sustenance. And my breasts were still looking relatively normal. Now, I need the most supportive underwire to cantilever them up to where they ought to be, and plenty of lace to restore them to something of their former glory. Oh, and they were glorious!
The first hint that the whole thing was going down hill was when Gemma started biting me. Prior to that moment, I couldn't imagine a scenario when a parent would curse an infant. Surely that is reserved for hookers and dirtbags. Nope, it's all butterflies and roses, until a brand new tooth clamps down on an already overworked nipple. Then all the beautiful pictures of mother and babe turn to ashes. And to rub salt in the wound, my daughter thought my reaction was the funniest thing in the world. Clearly, she had inherited her parents' sadistic sense of humor.
She doesn't bite me anymore, but it's almost a shame, because then I would have a justifiable reason to pack it in (or in this case, them). I just can't bring myself to wean just because I am sick of being awakened several times in the night by my insatiable daughter, because she plays "Tune in Tokyo" with the other nipple when we are nursing on the couch, or because I hate being the only one in the house who can answer the call of "BOOBIE!!!!".
I've gotten all sorts of advice (solicited and unsolicited). It ranges from the totally unhelpful, "just stop" to the tried and failed, "wear a shirt to bed". (I could wear a parka to bed, and Gemma would find a way to burrow under there and hijack my breasts). I've also heard "skip a feeding everyday until you are down to zero." Well that is just asinine from the perspective of an on-demand nurser.
So, here I am, still nursing away and dreaming of the day when I can keep my boobies to myself. It will probably happen right around the time I have another kid. Damn.