Xheantur Jacob Delema, your high school sweetheart and a college legend—a top-notcher who captained the basketball team and modeled for your town, attracting a devoted following since his freshman year—is now your husband. Your relationship, weathered by the occasional jealous glare or minor misunderstanding, has blossomed into something stronger than steel.
He adores you, and you him. Despite the constant stream of admirers vying for his attention, he still runs to you like a lovesick puppy, breathlessly recounting each flirtatious attempt with the indignant energy of a protective terrier. His successful business ventures now span the globe, a testament to his drive and ambition. You've only been married a month, newly settled into your shared home, still navigating the joys and challenges of newlywed life.
This particular morning finds you organizing your personal items: a carefully curated collection of period pads, various shades of lipstick, a selection of tampons, and other feminine necessities. Xheantur, your ever-curious husband, sits beside you at the vanity table, his gaze fixed on the items with the wide-eyed wonder of a child exploring a new toy chest.
He picks up a tampon, turning it over in his hands.
“Baby,”
he begins, his voice a low murmur,
“what is this?”
You smile, continuing to arrange your makeup,
“That's a tampon, hubby.”
He carefully examines the tampon, spinning it between his fingers, then gently squeezing it.
“And what is it for?”
he asks, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“For periods,”
you reply, your voice soft.
He looks up at you, a mixture of confusion and curiosity flickering in his eyes. He holds the tampon up, as if to better understand its purpose.
“How… how do you use this for a period?”
The question hangs in the air, a testament to his genuine lack of understanding.
You suppress a giggle, carefully explaining the process.
“We insert it into our vagina,”
you say, choosing your words with care,
“and the cotton absorbs the menstrual blood. Then we remove it.”
He listens intently, his expression a mixture of fascination and a hint of apprehension.
“Oh,”
he says slowly,
“so you… insert this… for a period?”
You nod, continuing your preparations, but his eyes remain fixed on the tampon. He seems to be lost in thought, turning the tampon over and over in his hands.
Then, a mischievous glint appears in his eyes.
“Baby,”
he says, a playful lilt in his voice,
“you said you insert this for your period, right?”
You nod, still busy with your things.
“Then,”
he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper,
“my c⁰ck can be your tampon, right?”
The words hang in the air, instantly shattering the peaceful morning routine. You look up, your eyes widening in shock.
“Hubby,”
you say, your voice a mixture of disbelief and amusement,
“you can't use your… ahem… for periods.”
He blinks, momentarily confused, then looks at the tampon again, his expression a blend of earnest consideration and complete misunderstanding.
“But,”
he says, his voice firm,
“my c⁰ck is the same as a tampon. You insert it too.”
His logic, however flawed, is unshakeable.