It could have been perfect. He walked me home every day for two weeks. I had waited long enough to make sure he wasn't that guy my father had been warning me about since the age of seven who was going to deflower me just by looking in my general direction, have sex with me a jillion times, and then throw me outside by the dumpster utterly unclad.

Somewhere between getting busy and my mind wandering off to the Cosmopolitan article on sex disasters I had read earlier that day, I'd uttered the most awkward question I could manage. What made it worse was that it wasn't even true.

Technically, a penis cannot be broken because it is not a limb, nor does it have bones. It's a muscle. In retrospect, I should have asked, Did you know you can strain your boner? Then I wouldn't have spent 15 more minutes explaining to him that his weewee is a muscle and can't break.

To be honest, at the time, the idea of an erect fleshy object pointing at me made me want to call it a night and just watch reruns of Dawson's Creek in my room.

Two years later, I am no longer plagued with nightmares of decrepit erections. Unfortunately I have learned that these awkward moments don't disappear just because you're no longer in high school and "down there" is no longer the common phrase to describe your private area.

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