PSA, ladies of the Interwebs: there is such a thing as sex that’s too hot, and you don’t want to try it.
This isn’t some sort of humblebrag about my steamy sex life. (For the record, I have toddlers, so my sex life—when existent—is a far cry from “steamy.” If I were to choose another adjective to describe it, it would be something more along the lines of “rushed-paranoid-OMG-can-he-feel-my-food-baby-is-he-done-yet-I-have-laundry-to-do-exhausted.”)
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(26 things I’ve said while dressing my toddlers and/or boinking my husband)
No, this is a cautionary tale. A tale of foreplay and forgetfulness, of buildup and burning, of nookie and negligence, of pleasure and pain (so much pain).
This is the tale of how I wound up with habanero pepper juice in my vagina.
My husband set out with honest intentions on that most unfortunate of evenings. The series of events that led to The Incident began while he was innocently cooking dinner. He tends to do most of his own cooking, mainly because a) I don’t want to do it, and b) we have vastly different palates. (He claims that mine is partial to things that “taste like cardboard.”) So I spent the evening hanging out with our kids while my husband whipped up a “spicy” chicken recipe that he’d concocted himself.
Apparently, the “spicy” component of this recipe was diced habanero pepper.
For those of you unacquainted with this little gem of a fruit—yes, it’s technically a fruit, placing it in the same controversial category as the toe-mah-toe—allow me to enlighten you: On the official pepper scale (yes, it’s a thing), the habanero is listed as “12 to 140 times hotter” than a jalapeño. If you’re a total pepper ignoramus, and using a jalapeño as a frame of reference still doesn’t help you, let me put it in terms that even a Worst Cooks in America contestant would understand.
It’s really fucking hot.
My husband tends to taste his food as he cooks it, and this night was no exception. (This is CRUCIAL to the story, so read it twice if you have to.) He happily popped pepper pieces into his mouth as he pranced around the kitchen like Bobby Flay, oblivious to the fact that he was laying the foundations for a spicy disaster later that evening.
When my husband was done cooking, we tucked the kids into bed for the night, and he invited me to “rock and roll.” (Yes, he used that exact terminology.) Although I was exhausted from being used as a human trampoline all evening, I accepted his offer, despite the aforementioned terminology. And since I don’t want this post being used as some pervert’s personal erotica, I’m going to skip the details and get right to the climax (snort) of the story.
Things were just starting to heat up when they really started to heat up. As in, holy-fucking-mother-of-shit-STOP-my-vagina-is-ON-FIRE. To make a long, agonizing story short: You should think twice before you use saliva as a natural lubricant. (Use your deductive reasoning, folks.)
You know how in the Ten Commandments, God appears as a burning bush? My experience was like that, minus the God part. I’ll leave you with the following list of analogies by way of description.
Imagine the following:
- Having sex with the Heat Miser from the Christmas cartoon The Year without a Santa Claus;
- Douching with hydrochloric acid;
- Spraying your lady bits with oil and then hitting up a nude beach near the equator when the UV Index is approximately infinity;
- Somehow mistaking a lit Fourth-of-July sparkler for your vibrator;
- Allowing fire ants to build a mound in, well, your mound; and
- Dipping your tampon in gasoline and then standing too close to a campfire.
Then raise the level of pain on any of those by a factor of ten thousand.
Luckily, thanks to a long shower, some major scrubbing, a strategically-placed cold washcloth, and half a tube of Vagisil, my vagina is suffering no long-term physical effects from The Incident. But I will never be able to hear the term “hot sex” again without feeling a little after-burn between my legs.