There are different kinds of limits. There are the limits of human bodies in general, and the limits of yours in particular. There are limits of legality and/or social conscience. There are hidden —from and occasionally by you— limits, nestled away in your psyche, ready to surprise you when you least expect it. And there are limits of imagination: fear of the unknown.
You can educate yourself through the first few, but the latter stuff is trickier. You can’t know the fire might burn until you feel the heat a few times; thus it is imperative that you are extremely careful while learning how to approach a flame and gauge its capacity to devour you. If you progress slowly and thoughtfully —granted, something you’re probably not great at doing, so work on that— you’ll sense when you’re approaching something troubling. And that is when you slow way down for a minute and figure out how you want to deal with troublesome feelings.
But at some point, no matter how careful you are, yeah, you may try something, it’ll hit you differently than you expected, and you’re going to be a bit traumatized. And for the slow girls in the back —yesIseeyouspititout— that is why we are super, duper, extra-secret-sauce careful about the men we let fuck with us, right ladies? It doesn’t matter how awesome he is when shit is going his way… you need to be picky as fuck because of how awesome he has to be when shit has gone off the rails.
‘Cause ultimately, those Latter Limits of yours are an uncertain cat in a murder box; their ultimate structure and flexibility and permeability will be defined at the moment they are encountered, and will be partially architected by the temperament and diligence of the foreman you put in charge.