20 Nov 2007 ›  6:15pm

Thanks to an avalanche of horrid marketing campaigns targeting erectile dysfunction, I am now familiar with the word priapism. Learning this word has not enhanced my vocabulary in the slightest, as I’ve yet to work priapism into casual conversation. Instead, it simply rattles around my brain, creating hideous word pictures that haunt my sex-dreams. Luckily I’ve never found myself in bed or otherwise engaged with anyone suffering from a bout of priapism. This is not to say that my sex life has been without its horrifying little incidents. I don’t know what else to call them other than what they are: Sex Accidents.

Once, my then-boyfriend and I accidentally ripped the bathroom sink off of the wall in a rain of plaster and plumbing while going at it in the bathroom. To make matters worse, my boyfriend neglected to let go of my legs as the sink (and I) crashed to the floor – I’m lucky that I didn’t sustain a serious head injury. That would have been a fun one to explain in the ER waiting room.

Another time, in the heat of passion, I kicked my down comforter off the bed and onto a lit candle where it promptly exploded into flames. If you think burning hair stinks, just try to imagine burning goose down. Even after I extinguished the last smoldering ember (naked firefighting is super graceful, trust me), the entire apartment was covered with a thin layer of putrid feathers. I was literally vacuuming it out from between the pages of books for weeks. And for that word picture, you’re welcome.