You would think that well into the twenty-first century, with all its contraception:

           pills for men
           pills for women
           diaphragms
           condoms
           patches
           dams
           morning-after capsules
           temporary tube-ties
           plugs for vas deferentia

that a co-ed’s impregnation would take place "accidentally" next to never.

        You would also think that sex for recreation, as opposed to procreation, could guarantee foolproof prophylaxis:

          vaccines
          germ-line therapies
          stem cell intervention

having all but eradicated STDs.

          Lastly you would think, despite:

          designer drugstore hormones
          narco-cocktails
          morph-inhalers
          mucus-dusters
          orifice foams

that males and females, one on one or in unbridled combination, could refrain from doing harm to one another’s parts. You would—you might—were you not young Rockefeller Falk, who has done all three:

          made his ladylove enceinte
          contracted who-knows-what in the process
          and "broken" or more aptly "sprained" his acrobatic dick.

        How, you might well ask, could someone manage such a hat trick?

Starting with the rarest feat, namely "fracturing" one’s erection:

when a phallus, energetically thrust, either hits or slips its target and encounters something stalwart (like a bone or hardwood floor), an audible ‘CRACK’ occurs (or can occur on occasions far from frequent), whereby tissue ardently stiff excruciatingly tears. The penis has a pair of spongy chambers along its shaft (corpora cavernosa) which fill with blood when cued by sexual stimulation. Surrounding them to ensure the blood stays trapped, the member rigid is a (usually resilient) membrane (tunica albuginea). Rockefeller’s (recently) suffered a mishap, rendering him a candidate for emergency surgery to repair ‘severe angulation and damage to his urethra’—or, in cruder terms, to 'straighten his crooked pecker and the trajectory of its piss'.

What he caught while doing this—though diagnosed generically:

appeared in the form of a red-raw irritating rash, which overtook his blue-black cock and balls, his post-op lap, then spread to nearby parts like a swarm of pesky locusts... mean locusts... hungry mean locusts... the itch like being nipped by a thousand compound mouth-parts. Cortisone cream prescribed and liberally smeared relieved the symptom, while the underlying disease surrendered to antibiotics (a ten day course administered, jointly, to him and his accomplice).

Now to the matter’s upshot (or offshoot), the problematic fetus:

which may, or may not harbor a dubious gene, a gene carried by one of the two contributors, on roughly half of his chromosomes (those labeled Y), the issue, therefore, moot should the issue present as female, and of even less concern should its mother abort (though Roman Catholics persist in abhorring the 'murderous' practice). Rockefeller, hooked on the horns of a self-imposed dilemma, is taxed to trace the source of his spermatozoon’s payload. Short of DNA testing (an option not ruled out), the resource best to tap is dear old...

            ‘You did what, to whom, engaged in...’

            ‘Don’t ask, Pa.’

            ‘Don’t call me...’

            ‘Rem. Sorry. Did Grandpa insist on your calling him by his first name, too?’

            ‘My father—your grandfather—was considerably older. I called him ‘Sir', if you must know. You and I, by comparison, could almost be brothers.’

            ‘Oh, so that’s it.’

            ‘What’s it?’

            ‘I make you feel old.’

            ‘Not as old as I’ll feel if I soon have to hear “Grandpa". Could we stick to the subject at hand? How far gone is she?’

            ‘Far enough to know for sure, not far enough to prevent her pulling the plug.’

            ‘Were she so inclined.’

            ‘Right.’

            ‘Which she is not, I take it.’

            ‘Right.’

            ‘Meaning she’s superstitious.’

            ‘Some people still use the term “religious", you know.’

            ‘Retards, Luddites, and imbeciles; is she any of those?’

            ‘She’s a Catholic.’

            ‘Christ; the trinity; then all three apply.’

            Rockefeller casts a withering look at his father—for whom Christianity tops the list of established-faith hypocrisies, worshipping a pacifist while waging war regardless, life inviolably sacred lest it venture from the womb, Remington's views in keeping with what his son calls 'tripe'—Mankind's penchant for violence impossible to eradicate, utopian research (to which his dad has devoted himself since setting up shop in New Zealand) a criminal waste of time.

            ‘I know you disapprove, Rem, but we thought we’d...’

            ‘Get married? It’s not of marriage I disapprove; it’s of...’

            ‘My choice? My choice? Joanna is good enough for me. When you get to know her...’

            ‘I’m sure I already do.’

           Once again father bears the brunt of son's scornful scrutiny, Remington's "extrasensory perception" typically evidence of unadorned subterfuge, pretending to divine information collected by mortal means—underhanded means, if the present mirrors the past: prying, peeping, spying on intimate exploits and private affairs. For as long as memory serves, Rockefeller has felt his life subjected to pseudo-psychic trespasses.

            ‘Okay, go ahead. What have you surmised?’

            ‘She’s your age, give or take. Older, by a few months, but finished with her education. Talks a lot, says little, depth of thought at a pockmark's.  Pretty, in a dressed-up dishtowel housewife sort of way; destined to domesticity, she, nonetheless, has style—albeit residual; Mom and Dad are the fashion plates. Both rich. Their daughter a duller, poorer proof. Working girl, by conviction. Earns her keep. Recipient, nonetheless, of rather upscale gifts, lavished never-endingly by her distantly doting folks. How am I doing?’

            As Rockefeller feared, his father must have snooped. Without ever having met the girl, his description is too exact. How much more “intelligence” has been gathered remains to be divulged—"Rem" proceeding to oblige, his scowling "offshoot" withholding further comment.

            ‘Loves lattés. Sips them by the hour at shopping-mall cafés. I believe your campus segues onto one such monstrosity... ‘