When my husband and I decided we were ready to have a baby, we had no idea there would be a long, trying road ahead of us. Over the years, we tried everything: IVF, ovulation apps, and a shared Google Cal to schedule our lovemaking. But nothing worked. We’d all but given up hope, until we did something so stupidly simple it worked: giving a hand job in a hot tub.
As the #1 cause of teen pregnancy in America, an HJ in an outdoor Jacuzzi is the foremost reason for overpopulation on this planet. That’s why it’s so dumb that I wasn’t even considering fertility when I decided to jerk off my husband in a portable spa.
It just seemed like a bit of fun. Something to take the pressure off of our constant and exhuasting baby talk. I never expected that having my husband come outside of me into a hot tub would be the thing that finally got me pregnant.
But it did.
When we told our fertility doctor, Dr. Lee, she was impressed. She’d thought about recommending the practice, but didn’t want to get our hopes up, since given our struggles, the odds were still low. She informed my husband and I that hot tubs can get reach over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, which is actually the preferred temperature for sperm trying to swim through a sea of hot water towards a vagina.
It turns out we were lucky in other ways as well. The cabin we’d impulsively rented included an eight-jet Hydropool tub. A high number of jets optimizes successful impregnation, as they blast semen throughout the tub and directly up your cooter. We didn’t know this at the time, but now we do.
I won’t go into details about the baby-making process itself, but let me just say: It was magical. It was intimate. It was over his Old Navy swim trunks. I kept my suit on, too, not knowing that this was yet another baby-making attempt.
Three months later and I can happily announce my husband and I are expecting—triplets! We couldn’t be more thrilled. All that money we poured into doctors visits and non FDA-approved black market supplements could have been used to buy ourselves a hot tub! But luckily we didn’t, otherwise I’d be constantly be pregnant. You know, from all the hand jobs.
Jerking off my 40 year-old husband, bubbles abound, sweating profusely as evaporated chemicals seeped into our eyeballs—is not exactly how I imagined bringing a new life into this crazy world. But I can’t wait to tell our little ones about it someday.
