Had I known as I walked up the hill to Stacy's house that night, I was about to embark on one of life's greatest adventures, I would have gotten there forty-five minutes earlier.

"Now," she explained, "just keep rubbing the outside of your pants so that they rub against it. If you keep doing it, you'll get 'the feeling.' "

"Can I have a bolster or something for my head?"

"I don't have any more," she told me. All the other girls had gotten there earlier. I took my Three's Company suitcase and placed it under my head for support. After that was drenched, I had no choice but to put my head facedown on the carpet. A lesson I wouldn't need to learn twice.

Two hours and twenty minutes later, I was covered in sweat, with rug burns on my forehead and both cheeks. I was in a marathon with my coslopus, and I couldn't break for more than a minute at a time. Every time my eyes would start to roll to the back of my head and I'd feel the exhaustion, I'd get a little tingle and know there was another boom-boom right around the corner. I kept coming back for more. I couldn't get enough of myself. Who was this girl who had been hiding from me for so long? We were one and the same-soul mates, if you will. The carrot to my clitoris.

Who knew that something I could barely look at could give me such pleasure? Who knew that the little albino pincushion I was carrying around all these years would end up turning into the equivalent of a watermelon Jolly Rancher? How many other women knew about this? And if they did, why did anyone ever get jobs?

After I had completely sweated through my jeans and T-shirt like a rapist, I quickly changed into my Fantasy Island pajamas. "Hold on, Tattoo," I said, looking at his face printed on the pocket of my pajama top. "I'm about to show you what real paradise is all about."