It happened in a hayloft on a Friday night.
I was 18, I had a boyfriend called Harry, and we lived in the Home Counties. Normally on Friday nights we’d catch the train to our nearest Big Town for some mild debauchery, then pile into a friend’s house to post-game until the sun came up. On this night, however, the friend in question brought someone home from a club, and we were turfed out at 2am.
After a brief discussion we decided to bunk up in the hayloft at Harry’s house. The hayloft was dark and smelly, but somehow we managed to locate a blanket and get comfy. It was a chilly night but with the vodka pumping through our veins we didn’t really feel it, and soon sexytimes were underway.
To be honest, I’ve had better. There was a lot of knee-knocking and button-fumbling amid the utter darkness; we kept shushing each other, and at one point something I’m 60% sure I’d been kissing took off in a flurry of feathers. In fact, sex was such a struggle that we both passed out directly afterwards, still undressed.
I woke to Harry’s appalled exclamations. “There’s something... there’s something on my lap,” he yelped. “Do you have your period?”
“No,” I replied. And that’s when the screaming started.
Harry was screaming and spinning and pointing at his penis, which was now covered in blood and had a new bend in it.
I don’t know if you’ve ever sat in a kitchen with a woman whose only son you may have physically emasculated with your vagina, but I can tell you it was the most mortifying moment of my entire life.
I couldn’t speak; couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My mind was full of questions. How had this happened? Surely if it had been mid-coitus it would have hurt. What else could have broken his willy? Did he fall on it, then forget? It was like a scene from a horror film, and Harry just kept making these inarticulate gargling sounds. Of course this noise disturbed Harry’s parents, who came out to see what all the fuss was about.
At this point I should tell you two things. 1) Harry’s parents disapproved of our relationship and me so much that I’m pretty sure they regularly burned sage and put crucifixes on the walls to keep me away. 2) Harry’s dad was a doctor. My doctor.
There was a moment of standoff, and then Harry’s dad leapt into doctor-mode, spiriting him away for a medical examination. This just left Harry’s mum and me, gazing at each other across the world’s most awkward divide. Then she said: “Shall we have a cup of tea?” and I have genuinely never heard anything more chilling. I don’t know if you’ve ever sat in a kitchen with a woman whose only son you may have physically emasculated with your vagina, but I can tell you it was the most mortifying moment of my entire life. And that’s coming from someone who once said “you too” when a cinema worker told me to enjoy the film.
To their credit, though, Harry’s parents were incredibly restrained. When they returned from the examination, his dad explained that “blunt force” (oh, god) had ruptured (oh, GOD) Harry’s tunica albuginea (OH, GOD), and that he’d need to wear a splint inside a condom until things improved. A SPLINT. IN A CONDOM. Also, he was not to at any point become aroused during his recovery, so hand-holding was to be the extent of our relations for now. If that.
Poor Harry. He spent the next few weeks on a lot of painkillers, and in very baggy trousers. I’m pleased to say that the, er, new bend in his penis righted itself, and even more impressively, our relationship survived the year. The weirdest thing of all, though, is that I kept in touch with his parents, who for some reason warmed to me after peen-gate.
In fact, I’m still in touch with them now. Harry's penis and I, not so much.
Header image by Zhen Hu on Unsplash