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My husband and I have always had a rather robust sex life. As newlyweds, we’d bump and grind no less than twice per day, as though it was as vital to the nourishment of our marriage as food was to our bodies. It was incredible because we’d dated just long enough to get to know one another’s quirks and kinks—and to still think they were cute.
We still giggled and grinned when unexpected noises escaped our bodies and were rather experimental in the bedroom. We thought nothing could dampen the tantric lifestyle we became accustomed to. I even promised him to never “let myself go,” or to let the flames go out once we had children—a next step I was so desperately excited for that I would have said he could put anything anywhere if we could start trying for a baby.
What a load of crap!
Not only would I NOT want him to flail around just anywhere with that thing, but I wouldn’t want it where it would normally go for quite some time after having our girl. A C-section warrants a bit more recovery time than a vaginal birth, and includes a few stipulations for sexy time I hadn’t considered when the time came for, well, us to come again.
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