"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.

"Ding-dong!" I would say aloud to myself in my bedroom while tapping myself on the shoulder. "Who is it? It's me again!" Round and round and round I went. Life was better than a box of chocolates, and it was certainly better than my father's tits. I look back at that time in my young life with fondness, nostalgia, and a touch of disgust.

It wasn't long before I needed to masturbate all the time. I started coming home from school and watching Oprah in our second living room in the back of the house. The heat was hardly ever on in that room, and I discovered through practice that I could get extremely passionate with myself and heated up quickly, so a cold room was a bonus. I found a small oscillating fan in our basement and would place it six inches in front of my head. I would position my ass directly behind the ottoman, so if anyone walked in, all they would see was my feet fishtailing and my head propped up on a pillow. When my mother would walk in wondering why I was spending the better part of my days in an unheated living room with a fan on in the middle of winter, I would tell her I thought I was going through early menopause. When she explained that I would have to hit puberty before experiencing early menopause, I quickly changed my tune and welcomed her theory. "I guess I'm just bursting into womanhood" became my byline.

When my brothers would come home from college, they would always hang out in the second living room, but that didn't stop me.