Shake It, Don't Break It: Stories of Your Craziest Sex Injuries

Illustration for article titled Shake It, Dont Break It: Stories of Your Craziest Sex Injuries

Torn foreskins, pulled muscles, and broken bones. Love truly is a battlefield, which is why, for this week’s Pissing Contest, we’re talking about the craziest sex injuries that we’ve ever encountered.

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What counts as a sex injury? It’s pretty obvious, dumb-dumb! A sex injury is anytime you hurt yourself during the exquisite act of lovemaking or, as it’s known around these parts, ENTERING THE BONE ZONE. This could mean an injury to your actual sex parts or to any other part of your body (one Jezebel staffer accidentally split her head open when a candle was jarred off of a shelf on the wall by her partner’s wild thrusting)—just so long as it happens while you you were doin’ it.

But before we get into your hilarious and gross tales of misery, SEXUALITY, and pain, let’s name the winners of last week’s Pissing Contest, The Most Sacrilegious Thing You’ve Ever Witnessed.

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The Battery Operated Holy Ghost by Tejón Face:

Me and my sisters went to catholic school for a year when we were little because we were living in an area where my parents didn’t feel great about the public schools. (We’re not catholic.)

On Halloween (this is relevant later) we always used to put out this motion activated grim reaper thing and it would like move its arms and do a creepy laugh and my little sister, who was like four at the time, HATED it, and would panic and cry every time she saw it. My dad would calm her down by popping the cap off the thing’s skull and saying “look, sweetie, it’s not real, it has batteries in its head!” And that, after a while, really made her feel better.

That year we went to the school’s Christmas service, because it was close / easy. And as soon as the priest said the words “the father the son and the Holy Ghost,” my sister screamed—like really really loud, and with a lot of passion and oomph—and once she has everyone’s attention she stands up on the pew and goes “NO! GHOSTS ARENT REAL. THEY HAVE BATTERIES IN THEIR HEADS!”

My mom was laughing too hard to apologize or anything, and there was jus kind of a weird pause before they continued on.

You Can’t Take It with You by PWB:

My husband and I toured the Paris Catacombs. It was one of the pivotal experiences in my life - I emerged with a profound acceptance of my own mortality, along with some insight into the darker side of human nature. While we were in there, we saw a woman (an American, sunnysunny-blond, moneyed, extremely entitled) pry the skull of a child from a wall and slip it into her purse like a souvenir. She was caught, of course. We turned her in. Apparently, it happens quite often there, according to the guard. The good news is that I got a good poem about it. It’s published in my first American collection, and it’s been in a few UK anthologies and magazines. But, honestly, I’m just glad that she didn’t get away with stealing it. Who takes a piece of a human child away as a souvenir?

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And, finally, Cady CumberbitchBettaHaveMyMoney with It Was Then That I Was Blowing You:

Several halloweens ago, I was at a house party with a few friends and lots of people I didn’t know. I walked into the bathroom and walked right in on a nun giving a BJ to Jesus while he was drinking a glass of wine and smoking a cig.

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STANDING O. GREAT WORK.

Now let’s move onto sex, laughter, and injury!


Contact the author at madeleine@jezebel.com.

Image via The 40-Year-Old Virgin/Universal Pictures.

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DISCUSSION

nevermindedith
NeverMindEdith

Scene- My bedroom, 2 AM, after a bottle and a half of wine.
Players (In a theatre sense, not like, a gross way to say ‘lovers’ or whatever)- My husband and also my me.

We were young, early 20’s, shitty on wine, having laugh sex, where we sort of clumsily bounced around the bedroom, laughing and not totally putting all the parts where they needed to go, but getting the basics right. I decided I was feeling brave, no- heroic, and I was going to try deep-throating for the first time. Now, my husband has a generous downstairs, so this felt like an undertaking. I jokingly stretched and jogged in place, and then put my sexy face on. Full of wine confidence, I felt like I was going to crush this blow job. I remembered then, that I read a tip that you should lay down on your back, with your head sort of off the bed and let the dude get in that way, so your neck isn’t at a 90 degree angle and you reduce your chances of triggering a gag-reflex. So I suggested that, and we got into place. I laid down and dropped my head off the bed.

I immediately felt nauseated.

I ignored it, because I was going to be a blow job legend. I was going to do this thing. Blow job legends don’t get NAUSEATED. Blow job legends get shit done. So, we started slow and then I reached around and grabbed his ass and pushed him past the gag-limit, because I WAS A PENIS PROFESSIONAL AND GODDAMNIT I CAN DO THIS. And then-

GODDAMNIT I CAN’T DO THIS.

Within seconds, my wine-filled belly was angry. Volcanic. I immediately squirmed away and ran to the bathroom where I threw up VIOLENTLY into the sink, because I couldn’t make the extra two steps to the toilet. Then, because of the wine, and the nakedness and the violence of my puking, I peed. I peed EVERYWHERE.

So, there I am, naked, vomiting and peeing, and my sweet, loving husband timidly approaches the door and says, “Can I do anything to help?”

And because I am still SO DRUNK, and embarrassed and my Blow Job Legend title has been stripped from me, I try to simultaneously run away to the shower and close the door at the same time. Except the floor is covered in pee. And a little bit of puke. And I slip.

I still have a scar on the very edge of my hairline on my forehead where I hit the cupboard corner on the way down.

I am much better at blow jobs now.