“The shape, size and color of a baby eggplant”

Ah, young love. You meet up, exchange numbers, meet again, go back to her place, and break your penis.

That's not a euphemism, and it’s an excellent essay. It starts:

Pain. Ow. That’s real pain. I move her off me and roll onto my stomach. Miscalculations have happened before; a few seconds of discomfort and then it's go time again. I roll back over and look down to see if it’s go time again. I rise up off the bed: "Yeah, this… this isn't right." I sit back down. The woman beside me looks so horror-stricken, I try to sound especially calm when talking to 911. I don't tell the operator it's so swollen and purple that I'm afraid it'll burst at any moment. Instead I say, in an even, measured tone, “My penis is the shape, size and color of a baby eggplant.”

Am I doing it wrong?

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