Sex! Now that I have your attention: SEX! We all love it, and the more painful, the better. A few people claim to prefer their sex painless. If that's you, stop reading now. And if it's not you, sorry about your father issues.
I notice you're all still here. That's because sex sells, but drama subscribes. Put the two together, and you've got an irresistible list of injuries. Let's all cringe together, because like so many women before you (two!), you and I are going to share some humiliatingly bad sex. These afflictions ooze from tolerable to terminal, and none of them is "Died of ecstasy with a Cracked staffer," if you were wondering.
I like my women like I like my coffee -- hot enough to hurt me.
Easing ourselves into erotic agony, here's a nice nonpermanent injury everyone can relate to: being crushed by a falling tombstone while having sex in public inside a cemetery while visiting a dead relative.
And really, we're with the dead relative who sent a tombstone tumbling onto her with ghost physics. Imagine how you'd feel if you woke up to two people sex-moving above you. You'd be either very upset or living on a college campus (in which case you're always upset, because college is a trick that adults and savages play on kids who want to better themselves).
If you didn't want to live in The Lord of the Flies, why did you pay a hundred thousand dollars for a useless education?
Sorry, I went to a liberal arts school.
Even I can admit that being dead is almost as bad as being a college student, since it lasts even longer. If the living are going to rub your face in it by actually creating life on your moldering bones, you have every right to curse them. Yeah! Curse 'em GOOD! That's how a New Jersey (of course) couple who were rutting in the silent kingdom learned that curses and their partner, seventh-grade physics, always have their revenge.
Wounded leg crushed by necromancer-toppled tombstone. The 39-year-old woman was not terribly hurt, but for the rest of her life must endure an accusing ghost in her bathroom mirror. The real injuries are to the couple's reputations. While plenty of us have desecrated a tomb (again: college), very few of us were aroused by it, let alone with press coverage.
Cemeteries actually used to be popular date destinations in the 19th century, because that was the only way to meet a girl's family. Plus not even the ruffiest ruffian would dare prey upon a maiden's virtue in front of God, the Grim Reaper and the chittering dead. Only two out of three of those parties would be into that kind of thing. Oh, but you'll never guess which two!
Whee! Copyright free!
Cholera is an easy punch line, but a good one.
It led the Victorians to eroticize death so much that their ideal girl was the one who died without making a scene before you ever got to kiss her china-white hand. Nevertheless, we have to assume everyone in the 19th century eventually triggered the cemetery curse, because they all died.*
*Except for a few 120-year-olds still alive today, but they hissed incoherent warnings at the couple entering the cemetery before their eyes boiled out of their heads.
How It Could Have Been Avoided:
By finding a nice, flat crypt. Or by not provoking the cold wrath of the ancients. Neither of these, however, corrects their first mistake of being in New Jersey.
Ugh. Why would anyone want to live there?
If you're going to have sex on a tombstone, do it in winter, when the ground, like your lover and the flint eyes of the numberless dead, is hard and unyielding.
Nicknames are reserved for only the most special sex moves, though special isn't necessarily good. Therefore, let us forever remember injury by tombstone mid-coitus as a Jersey Stunner.
What can be a pleasant tingle on the skin is, in a surprise to no one who has eaten Thai food, delicious murder on the mucous membranes. To put it another way, nobody goes to Ethiopian restaurants if they have to work the next day, unless they're a test pilot at a Japanese space-toilet developer.
And speaking of great food, let's visit Hell's Kitchen. Picture it, dear friends! Use the eroticmost powers of your fetid imaginations! A woman enters the emergency ward stiffly and with small steps but a wide gait. The desk attendant quite wrongly assumes the lady has ridden a horse without oiling its saddle. But no! She is something more. She is ... the Woman with the Red-Hot Labia.
Her lover -- who we all agree wears too many gold chains atop his oiled chest, right? -- had eaten hot sauce, then lovingly scorched her inner lady parts with his soft-obscenity-murmuring lingual ones.
That, or she was dating the devil, but that seems like the kind of thing you'd brag about.
This is why I'm not allowed to pitch to Marvel
Especially in Hell's Kitchen.
Doctors treated her burn by having a man who had just eaten yogurt go down on her.
Mild burns down there. Also up there, if he knew what he was doing.
It's an eternal question -- is the pain of spicy food worth its delicious flavor? Now complicated by "Is it worth the orgasm if you don't get to taste it?" I just don't know. Ladies?
How It Could Have Been Avoided:
As an honest mistake, it's pretty understandable and avoidable. Just glue your labia shut so that no man can ever perform oral sex on you again! Problem solved. Because girls -- no way are you going to stand between us and Mexican food.
Indian Burn, Southern Heat Wave and Spicy Fish Taco all spring easily to mind, but let's call this a Tralfamadorian Tamale, since the heat runs backward from your tongue to spice up the dish.
Warner Bros. owns these plot holes
But you won't listen, you buxom blonde in the basement of a horror movie.
Seriously. Not even Cheese's column can raise your spirits after what comes next.
This medical condition is so disturbing, it comes from an article listing every possible penis injury, and it still edged out the cracking sound, significant bleeding and "eggplant deformity" of a penis fracture.
There's an urban legend about a babysitter who gets a call from the police warning him that the stimulation is coming from inside his penis. That legend is true! Some folks really love sticking things up there. How many? Nobody knows! But what most people would pay vast sums to be unable to imagine, others do quietly in the privacy of their own BDSM dungeon. Look to your left. Look to your right. One of the people next to you is a urethral stimulator. Is there no one on either side of you? Then it's YOU. Hey, no judgments. Just deep and disquieted awe.
The important thing to remember is that everything hurts.
Now consider the young man who walked into a urologist's office and didn't even pretend the damnedest accident occurred while he was cooking dinner naked and aroused.
He accidentally broke a piece of spaghetti off in his urethra. And yes, he was Italian.
A case like this raises lots of questions, the most important being -- did it come out cooked? Right behind that: Does this disprove God's existence, or demonstrate Satan's? Also: WHY, sir? That's the kind of thing Roman emperors only do after the thrill of humping the spear wound in a virgin goat's lungs has grown dreary. How bored can you get waiting for water to boil?
The X-ray on this must look like a four-dimensional view of the life of a kidney stone. It's one thing to want to hurt yourself. It's another to commit the original sin that hurts all mankind. Every case of erectile dysfunction in history is caused by the outward ripple of his mistake.
I will admit the pleasure index on this one makes sense. After all, the male urethra is the vagina of unimaginable agonies. But when a guy wants to know what a piece of raw spaghetti feels like inside his penis, he just deals with UPS customer service.
No one would claim responsibility
We like to have a lot of fun around here, but seriously, UPS: Pack it in, you're the worst.
Here's a tip for men: The next time you have sex, ask her if you can stick pasta in her urethra. After she recoils in horror, you'll easily bargain her down to conventional equipment up any other orifice, including the ear. Or the police will arrive for you. Either way, show more forethought than this fellow, who stimulated himself with the flimsiest stick imaginable. Literally anything would have had more integrity, even dry balsa wood or a Democrat's campaign promises.
And even if you don't break it off inside, what do you get? They say the man who reaches his pubic bone attains ultimate knowledge. For three seconds, you become God, and then the totality of omniscience incinerates your mortal husk.
But more likely you die of touching your prostate from the wrong side.
How It Could Have Been Avoided:
By not using an intraurethral device known for breaking when you stare at it too hard. Literally anything other than ground glass or panicked animals would have been a better choice: gravel, alligator fat, a rolled-up parchment of human skin inscribed with the final sin mankind will commit at the end of the world ... all of these, but not brittle spaghetti.
An Italian going the wrong way to the wrong place but coming back with pasta and groin injuries? This is like some lousy Christopher Columbus/Marco Polo buddy comedy. But since there are probably Cracked articles on everything we know about them being wrong, call this one a Deep Dish Ditalini Diddle.
Thanks to poor product design standards, "April Bonjour" just went from being an even better name for Audrey Tautou to a top result for one of Google's Safe Search Off terms.
But then, so is Mademoiselle Tautou.
The California resident was using a vibrating sex toy, which in most other articles would be a great start to a paragraph. But, oh! Nothing is right in our world, ye sadistic sojourners of sexuality. A sharp pain, and her concerned boyfriend extracted a ...
Oh, no. No, no, no.
He extr-- Urp.
Extracted a bl-- Please don't make me type this, Jack O'Brien.
"I thought, very briefly, that I had started my period," said the stoic mother who, like of all her gender, lives in a terrifying world where her genitals hemorrhage a dozen times a year. But this was no ordinary Stephen King tale about the horrors of menstruation; this was a Stephen King tale about possessed cannibal appliances.
The bleeding intensified until it exhausted Ms. Bonjour's entire supply of sanitary pads and belief in a loving God. As she lost consciousness, her boyfriend called 9-1-1. Her son was by her side, convinced she was dying. Here are the reasons that is traumatizing for children and other living things:
Yours to cherish
And the dildo had six fingers.
For the world's most unfrivolous lawsuit, $25,000 is a modest request. Consider what sum it would take before you consented to internal genital mutilation. Pretty high, right? And that's voluntarily. Twenty-five keys is the surcharge you'd tack onto the bill for the surprise factor. Women already spend a quarter of their adult lives bleeding from their reproductive machinery without the option of suing God. They don't need this mandatory overtime malarkey.
How It Could Have Been Avoided:
By removing the pentagram from the device's schematics, prying down all fetal pigs nailed to the development lab's walls and kicking over the altar of skulls in the company cafeteria.
This sex move can only be called the Curse of the Mommy's Womb. I know! It would have been perfect if this had happened at the cemetery. But it didn't, because sometimes life is sad. Usually not "murderous vibrator inside you" sad, but still.