A couple days ago, I was hanging at my house with my friend with whom I also do sex stuff. He was hungry, so I let him eat some leftover pasta I had made a few nights prior. He really loves spicy food, so I gave him a couple bird’s eye chilies — on a scale of one to really hot, they belong on the surface of the sun — to chop up and put in the pasta.

Later, we were in my room and started getting frisky. He starts using his fingers down there, which is usually a great time, but it just felt really uncomfortable and a little painful for some reason. I thought maybe he just hadn’t cut his nails, so I just tried to ignore it. Then the pain started to spread and I got worried. He could clearly feel something was off and stopped to ask what was wrong. And that’s when I figured it out.

“Is that the hand you used to cut the chilis, perchance?” I asked. To which he replied, “Oh …”

This is when the pain really hit, and I jumped up and ran to the bathroom. There I was in the bathroom, debating whether or not to make him pour milk into my nether region, and he leaned on the bathroom door and said, “Do you want me to put a cold washcloth on it?” After politely declining his offer, I walked out and pretended everything was fine while trying desperately to distract myself from the agonizing pain in my loins.

I guess the only good things that came out of that experience were that I now have a valid reason to back up my passionate hatred for spicy foods, and I now know I’m never having children if labor hurts even half that bad.

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