With the New York Mets in the World Series I just had to share this post from an older friend (who wishes to remain anonymous) about the first she masturbated.

The New York Met’s were in the World Series. It had to have been the late 1960s. I don’t think they ever were in the World Series before. A once in a lifetime event.My parents were not TV people. Or sports people. They read newspapers and drank.  I was sent to bed. My brother had also been sent to bed but he had a transistor radio. I was under the cool floral sheets with the fan on high (back in the pre A/C days for most folks in suburbia). I felt wet between my legs.Was it so hot that I was sweating? No. I thought maybe I had peed. I reached down and could feel the warm liquid. Hmm… that’s weird. Did I have an accident? I felt around and the juice increased. Was I peeing on my fingers? I pulled my hand out and sniffed my index finger. What was that smell? I bravely licked my wet pointer finger. It was salty but although I had never tasted urine, I was sure it was not. My hand went back to this mysterious source of moisture when my brother came running into my bedroom, the Met’s had scored, My hands were down my thick, white cotton panties.


Even though every light on the upstairs level of our split-level house was off I was sure he saw what I was doing. He was older than me. I must have known I was doing something bad. Something weird.Soemthing dirty. Something I would surely get in trouble for. I waited for him to question me, to tease me, to report me to my mother, but he never did. And I never did what I did that night again. The Mets were my ticket to my budding sexuality and also the end of my sexual experimenting for close to a decade.


My brother grew up and moved away to college. Years later, when I moved west to go to college, I was dying to order a masturbation book from the Book of the Month Club. Still embarrassed,  I ordered a bunch of books so the masturbation book wouldn’t stand out. I was going to learn how to really masturbate and have an orgasm. It took that book and a lot of hard work but I finally did. Over and over again. Sometimes when I’m alone I can still hear the tinny sound of my brother’s transistor radio and the crowd dheering.


The World is Flat (and so am I)

shutterstock_138076832-300x282This great piece is from my friend’s new blog. If you’re a woman with breasts, I’m sure you can relate. I know I can! If you’re a man, maybe you’ll learn something.

I found out that I was flat-chested in 6th grade. I am both naive and a slow learner; however, when I looked at the other girls changing out of their gym clothes, I couldn’t miss the obvious: I was the only girl wearing a tee-shirt and Grandma pull-up cotton panties. All the other girls in my class were strutting around the locker room in their matching bras and panties.

Apparently, I missed the memo.

After school, I had a clear mission in which I would get a training bra, too. But first, I had to go through my mother. See, my mother was old-school, tough as nails, parochial-schooled Shanty-Irish-Catholic ruler with an iron fist and a biting tongue. No poetic blarney ever came from her; she fancied herself a straight-shooter and you either withstood her heat-seeking missiles or you hid.

I opted to approach her after dinner, after the eight of us sat down to a home-cooked meal, after the dishes had been cleared, the leftovers lovingly stored away to later metamorph into something vaguely recognizable in a day or two, and the pots and pans were scoured, dried, and put away.

The next phase of the evening was homework, but I had been honing my speech (my plea, actually) since school let out and during the 3:00-4:00 soap opera, “The Guiding Light.” My plan was simple and reckless: just get my mother alone and ask her to bring me to The Mart for…mumble…mumble…, which is where I lost my nerve based on her lack of accessibility, interest, or investment in my crisis du jour.

But, I prevailed and blurted that I, “…desperately needed a bra…no one in my gym class was wearing tee-shirts any more…and I needed her to buy me a bra that very night.”Teenform-Training-collectible-5811--711x1024

She stepped back to gain perspective. Looked at me with a critical and jaundiced eye, and proclaimed, “but you don’t need one: you haven’t developed yet.” I admit I’ve suppressed what came next. I know there was no blood. There may have been teeth-gnashing, rending clothes, pulling hanks of hair out and such histrionics, but what I do remember is that we did get in the car with the intention of getting me an unnecessary training bra (her words, not mine).

So. The Mart: old school department store. Some fossils had been there since the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Grease, carbon-dated hot dogs, and rancid popcorn butter added to its dubious allure. But to me, it was Nirvana, I was going to get a bra, wear it the next day, and casually and pointedly change in full view of the other girls so I could show them I belonged to the pack.

Couldn’t have written the script for what happened next, though.

The Mart was a small-town department store in which there was no clear division (walls) between departments. Ladies lingerie may as well been next to fishing tackle, which may as well been next to the snack bar. It was a bargain-basement store and what you see was what you got.

Well, the whole store got an eye full when my mother stopped rummaging through bras, mumbling, “28A, 28A, 28A.” She handed me this stripped-down, sexless, utilitarian scrap of fabric and told me to try it on. I asked her where the dressing rooms were. She shot me a funny look and said, “No, just try it on over your clothes.”59b327d3146ac972cbc1b942931e4544

That phrase still reverberates nearly 40 years later.

The only way I was going to score this bra was to stand in the middle of the store, in the center of the aisle, next to machinists and housewives, and sniggering teens and try on that Goddamned bra.

And I did it. And I’m not proud of it. Sweat was pouring down my back from the humiliation. I must have smelled like a locker room, but I did it: pride be damned. I took off my jacket, unhooked the bra, wrapped it around my chest, and adjusted it while I stood rooted to the spot while my mother adjusted my breasts in full view of the other shoppers. And…lest we forget, she was saying, “…well, you know you don’t really need one….”

She did buy it for me but by that time, it could have been a hair shirt. I wore my new bra to school the next day to gym class. Made sure I was noticed while changing, but no one noticed it. No acknowledgement. No comments. Things were no different than the day before: other than my mother was $6.00 poorer and I was 100% more bitter and cynical.

That’s how I learned I was flat-chested and would remain so. Luckily, I hadn’t been exposed to any snide remarks or jokes…but it was merely a matter of time.

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