"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.