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A special Guest Post by Morgan Shanahan @the818
Third degree tears.
Shaped like a Y, the tip of which crept up to my sphincter leaving my nether region looking something like this: 
They stitched me up so tight that when I’m 50, my vagina will only be 25.
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.
But we are determined folk. We quite liked our sex life before baby, and we reassured each other that with a little bit of good ‘ol American stick-to-it-iveness, we would once again see a day when a romp in the sack didn’t feel like driving a battering ram through a keyhole.
Still, I ran to my internet friends in dismay.
“OMG. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? I JUST WANT TO HAVE NORMAL SEX.” I lamented – eager for advice and encouragement.
As always, my girls were forthcoming. They lamented along with me. They e-stroked my hair and promised it would get better. And then I read the three little words that would change the course of history [in our bedroom] forever. It was my dear, brilliant, wonderful, [insert-glowing-adjective-here-because-she-effing-deserves-every-one] well, I won't tell you WHO wrote these life-altering words:
Vibrating. Cock. Ring.
Totally helps relax the tight vadge.
Oh, and not the trojan kind. Buy one from a naughty sex toy site. It’s worth it.
I was intrigued. I mentioned it to my hubby, and [after he wiped the kid in a candy store grin off his face] he ran right out and picked one up.
Well…slap my ass and call me Pamela, because that shit WORKED. Loosened things right up, and got us back on the train to O-town (and I’m not talking about the city, or the shitty boyband, ifyouknowwhatImean…) I still pretty much praise my friend's name on a daily basis.
And yet…there was still one hurdle to be lept. Just beyond my war-torn labia, things remained dry as the Sahara. 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, ladies. 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
