Shaped like a Y, the tip of which crept up to my sphincter leaving my nether region looking something like this:
Needless to say, I waited the full six weeks postpartum and then some to hop back on the bologna pony. And when I did? It wasn’t pretty.
Our little monster was asleep. All was quiet around the house. We took things slow. We dusted off the lube. And then we played a little game I like to call: just the tip.
Because that’s about how far we made it before it felt like I was SPLITTING IN TWO. Turns out there were a couple of issues standing between us and the hot, steamy, belly-free, skin to skin, real. actual. sex we had so eagerly anticipated. First of all, they really down-play that whole “breastfeeding can cause vaginal dryness” thing, and I was kind of blindsided by it. So was Scott. There was chafing across the board. Secondly, I was tighter than my pre-pregnancy jeans.
The generic drug store lube we had wasn’t cutting it. It was time to break out the big guns…So we unearthed the novelty lube from my bachelorette party. It was one of those his&hers combo packs – kind of like that KY Yours + Mine stuff – except not like that at all, because as soon as the “his” met the “hers” it was like someone had LITERALLY LIT MY LOINS ON FIRE. The “chemists” at WET must have gotten a few ingredients wrong, because not only did I shriek in pain, but my husband did as well. It burned his dick, literally. We were officially in the market for some new lube.
So when our anniversary came around, and we sent our little one to spend the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, Scott turned to me with that shit-eating grin and said:
“Wanna go to Le Sex Shoppe?”
Truth be told, I did NOT want to go to Le Sex Shoppe. I wanted to go to Rite Aid, and quietly buy them out of whatever lube they had – well disguised amongst other less incriminating items like diapers and rocky road – before going home to drink some wine, have a semi-painful quickie, and promptly pass out for 10 hours of uninterrupted shut-eye…because despite having no problem airing intimate details of my sex life on the internet, I am kind of a prude in real life.
But my husband has been an incredible sport. So if he wanted to spend our one night off in the creepiest shop in town looking for miracle lube, then so be it.
We entered through the back (where the “violators will be towed” signs have also been amended to advise: “no oral in the parking lot”) made our way past the LolliCocks and Anal Speculum, and up to the display in front where we were greeted by “Rick” who looked like my old guitar teacher but might as well have been working at The Gap the way he cheerfully greeted us. “Are you looking for something specific today? I’m here if you have any questions!” Much to my horror, Scott actually welcomed the opportunity to consult a professional about our situation.
“Can you recommend a really good lube? Something that doesn’t dry up, get sticky, or feel like it’s giving you a chemical burn?” he inquired. [Oh dear god. Just what I need. The dude in the overcoat behind the bondage display knowing the in’s and out’s of my chafed va-jay-jay. Horrible pun yes intended.] “Rick” was eager to share his expertise. Turns out, he’d been getting lots of RAVE reviews on the KY Yours + Mine. The Hubs cocked an eyebrow (oh my god, I can’t stop!) and turned to me – “you wanna try it?”
So there I was. Standing in the middle of Le Sex Shoppe on a Saturday night, with Rick, Trenchcoat Guy, and the mousy-looking Secretary-type who thought she was flying under the radar all staring back at me as I struggled to find a classy (!?) way to say “I have a flux-capacitor shaped scar in my oh-so-tight vagina that I am not looking to have lit aflame again, so no I don’t want to “try it” thankyouverymuch, and since we’re all listening so intently, there is baby vomit between my boobs, I’m covered in stretch marks, and my stomach looks like someone glued a deflated skin-colored beach ball to the front of it. Now, who wants to bone?
What I came up with after what felt like a good forty-five seconds of desperate silence as I tried to get my husband to telepathically understand the above sentiment was: “Um, I think…ah…I don’t think we’re….uh…I think that might be…overly ambitious.”
Rick actually laughed out loud. Scott, sensing my discomfort, gave me one of his crooked smiles, and dutifully reached for the plain ‘ol Jelly. (Y’know, the stuff they use at your OB’s office. Talk about sexy.) He handed it to Rick. But this party wasn’t over yet. “KY’s tried and true,” said Rick, “but if you’re really having trouble getting wet, this Agape stuff rocks my face off.” Kill me. Kill me right the fuck now. Rick’s helpful advice had just expanded to include personal endorsements.
He informed us that the best lubes have glycerin in them, which is great for vaginal dryness but can also lead to yeast infections, and most chicks don’t dig that. As it turns out, Rick is kind of like a lube sommelier. And quite the salesman. By the time all was said and done, we’d ditched the KY Jelly and walked out of there with [almost no modesty remaining] and two high-end, Rick-approved, glycerin-free personal lubricants. Uh…and also a membership to their rewards program…since we figured we might be back for more of this alleged wonder-lube.
So to tie in my Back To the Future reference and bring this baby full circle? The moral of the story is this: With a little high-octane lube and a vibrating cock ring we were finally able to get my vagina up to 88MPH…’cause where we’re going…we don’t need roads. (What? Roads? That doesn’t even make sense. The lube was awesome. The sex was epic. The end.)