Chelsea Handler - Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang

So many thoughts were running through my head, from unicorns to high-speed car chases to why would a woman ever need a man if she could make herself feel so outrageous? Why did she even need to leave the house? Maybe this is what stay-at-home moms did all day. Maybe they just sat around and played with themselves while watching Days of Our Lives, and then Another World, and then General Hospital. Why would anyone go to college, when you could just meet a guy, send him to the factory, and spin your baby bean all day? The only warning my mother had given me about too much pleasure was with regard to chocolate. "Life is like a box of chocolates," she told me. "Eat too many and you'll end up with your father's tits."

I didn't know at the time that what I was doing would be considered masturbating, but I definitely knew enough to know that I needed to be somewhat discreet when accommodating myself. My parents had never had the birds-and-the-bees conversation with me, and neither did any of my sisters or brothers. I once asked my father about where babies came from, and he told me that "sometimes Daddy parks his car in Mommy's garage." I had no idea what that could possibly mean, but I never went into the garage again.

The only conversation about a penis I'd ever had was with my next-door neighbor Jason Rothstein. The Rothstein family lived next to us for my whole life, and they had two sons who were good friends with my brothers. My brothers and I were always over at their house until for some reason, one night while playing Tip the Waiter with Jason, he decided to pull his pants down and show me the tip of his penis. I had been sitting Indian style on the floor across from him when this happened, and I was on my feet and out the door before it dawned on me that there should be punishment for this kind of behavior. I turned around, and as he and his penis tip were getting up off the floor, I, in my best law-enforcement impersonation, threw my leg up and kicked him right in his balls. I then did a follow-up with one of my signature back-of-the-head slaps. This has the effect of making you feel not only bad but stupid. It being my first one-on-one penis interaction, I was horrified. Like most unpleasant experiences regarding the penis, the first time is always the worst time.

I went barreling down the Rothsteins' steep driveway, gaining just enough momentum for me to make a sharp right and run straight up my own driveway and through my front door in less than sixty seconds. I stormed into the kitchen, where my parents were eating dinner. "Jason Rothstein just showed me his penis."

"What?" my father asked, looking up from his newspaper.

"His penis?" my mother asked, in a way that made me think this was the first she was hearing of this so-called object.

"Yeah, we were in the middle of playing Tip the Waiter, and then he pulled down his pants and changed the game to Tip of His Penis."

"What did you do?" my father asked me, still holding on to his paper.

"I kicked him in the balls and ran back here."

"Good response," he said, looking back down at whatever article he was reading. "Don't go over there again."

"Thanks for the hot tip, Dad. Shouldn't we press charges or something?"

"Press charges against a penis?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think that would be going a little overboard?"

"No, Dad. I'm eight. Are you familiar with the term 'molester'?"

"He didn't do anything to you, did he?"

"No, Dad, but that's not the point. He's obviously in love with me. He's fifteen, and he's got a crush on an eight-year-old. You don't think there's anything sick about that?"

"Oh, please, Chelsea, your mother and I are ten years apart."

A few minutes later, my sister Sloane came into my room without knocking. "Jason's asked me to take my pants down three times. Don't think you're anything special."

I was in the middle of organizing my sticker collection and was laser focused and therefore more than a little irritated by her intrusion. "He obviously respects me more, Sloane. Any guy who asks to see yours first isn't interested in anything long-term. You've got a lot to learn," I advised her.

"Like you know anything about boys," she told me.

"Oh, really, dipshit? I knew that I wouldn't be going back over to my neighbor's house for seconds and thirds after he told me to pull my pants down. You're a moron."

"He never told me to pull my pants down. He asked me to, and I declined."

"So then why do you keep going over there?"

"Because they have the new Nintendo and better games."

Sloane was pathetic and I knew it, but I also needed her to know it. "Let me fill you in on something, Sloane. I'll be married twice before you even go on a date. I'm way more fun to be around. Plus, it's obvious I'm going to have a huge rack. My boobs are going to be way bigger than yours, and I have hips. You have a body like Cathy the cartoon character. Please see yourself out."

The fact that Stacy's sleepover came just a few weeks after this incident was serendipitous to say the least. After getting a glimpse of Jason's penis and accidentally seeing one of my father's balls at the beach the previous summer, I was pretty intent on never having sex with a man. I spoke to my father at length not only about covering his balls but also how, if he was going to insist on wearing sweatpants, he would have to use support briefs or put one or both balls in a Ziploc bag before getting dressed. I was willing to accept either option, which I thought generous considering my hatred of men in sweatpants. "Even Russians have the decency to wear tracksuits!" I howled.

I was the last one to leave Stacy's house the next day and didn't question until much later in life why no one said good-bye to me. I was doing the walk of shame through the woods to my house, wearing my still-damp-from-the-night-before jeans, when I noticed how sore my calves were. What… a workout.

I wasn't home for an hour before I needed more. I vacillated between wanting to report a rape and feeling more alive than I ever had in my first three-quarters of a decade on earth. I told my mom I was turning in for the night.

"It's six o'clock, Chelsea."

"I know, but we stayed up really late and I am… wiped out," I told her, feigning a yawn, and then I pumped my arm the way one would do when signaling an eighteen-wheeler to blow its horn.

I ran upstairs, took off my clothes, and changed into a clean T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. As I didn't yet have a lock on my door, I propped myself up against the wall next to my door so that I could avoid anyone walking in and seeing me humping myself.

Talk about elevating your heart rate! I felt as if Popeye's forearms had taken up residence in my calves. This was my first introduction to strength training, and it was unforgettable. If I kept this up, which at that point wasn't even open for discussion, it was clear that, due to the muscular development in my calves I soon would only be able to wear cutoffs.

With this kind of definition, it was inevitable that I would be approached for soccer, softball, and possibly even water polo. The fact that water polo wasn't a sport offered at any school wasn't an issue. After people saw what I was able to bring to the table physically, it would be clear that a team would be started, and probably a league. I began fantasizing about what coaches and recruiters would say to reel me in after I'd fake having interest in athletic pursuits.

"Ms. Handler," one of the humorless, dykey-looking coaches would say upon approach. "May I call you Chelsea?"

I would say no.

"Okay, well, Ms. Handler, calves and muscle development like that at such a young age would be uncategorically preposterous to waste. You were obviously put on this earth to play soccer." I would act coy and maybe guffaw, all the while knowing it wasn't a soccer ball I could handle but a little tiny football hiding right inside my peekachu that I would have all to myself for the rest of my life.