Thomas Pitilli
When I was 10 I became addicted to humping. I’d hump everything I could get my colorful Esprit sweatpants on: pillows, the side of the bed, every single one of my stuffed animals. Years later when I go home to visit my parents, upon entering my old room I immediately feel the glares of my Pound Puppy, Wuzzle and Dopey Doll staring at me their eyes calling out “slut.”
Like most children, I didn’t know what I was doing but I knew it felt good. Really good. So good that I didn’t understand why no one had recommended doing it before. Since no one told me about it, I assumed I had invented it, and I thought that when I got older I could write a book or perhaps teach lessons. Maybe it would sweep the nation! Except that it involved my “thingy,” which led me to believe this was probably a bad thing to do. So I kept my invention a secret, a solo activity reserved only for bedtime.
Then my parents bought the greatest sex toy ever: the beanbag chair. The beanbag chair lived in the living room. Once on a sick day home from school, I sat on it watching Diff’rent Strokes; the episode where Arnold and Dudley get trapped in a haunted house. Arnold was scared, Dudley was scared and I was scared. I tussled about the beanbag chair, covering my eyes from the fright on my TV, and as I shifted, I ending up straddling the beanie. The malleable chair adjusted itself neatly into my crotch and I wrapped myself around the top and pressed my belly against its firm plastic. I moved around more, this time not out of fear but ecstasy. Forget Dopey, that day I fell in love with a chair. And I still have no idea if Arnold and Dudley ever made it out of that haunted house.
The problem was that my beanie was located in a very public part of my house and, of course, “it” was only allowed to happen when I was alone in my room. However, the way in which I mounted the beanbag chair looked simply like a cozy position to my unsuspecting, very Catholic, “stay a virgin until marriage” mother, which made it possible for me to sneak in a quickie while we watched Dynasty together. After a few weeks, I had mastered the hump so well that I could make slight, inconspicuous grinds without anyone noticing.
Nothing could stop me. Perhaps getting caught added to the thrill. I humped my beanbag chair daily, sometimes multiple times daily. My friends would invite me over but I’d opt to stay home with the chair. Still, I didn’t know this was what they called “masturbating.”
Then I met Jill Regan. Jill’s mom had given her a book about sex, making her the reigning expert among 11-year-olds in our circle, and I listened in amazement as she discussed wee wees, ding dongs and hoo-has. Then Jill said something that ruined my life: “Masturbating is when you rub your thing and it feels good. Isn’t that gross? You don’t do that, do you?”
“Me? No. Never. Ew. Why?”
“Good! It’s sooooo gross, and I heard you can get pregnant.”
Apparently Jill hadn’t read the whole book.
I passed Jill’s knowledge onto other girlfriends, all of who had the same reaction. If masturbating was gross, that meant people who do it are gross—and that meant I was gross.
The last thing any teenager wants to be is gross, so I tried to quit humping things. But there were relapses, and on one fateful day, the beanbag popped. My mother was bewildered that the seams had busted on the chair when I, an 80-pound child, was the only one who sat on it. In an effort to salvage Beanie, she put him in a trash bag so the beans wouldn’t leak out.
I began to pray a lot, asking God to forgive such a gross and dirty girl. I cried over my guilt and my confusion. I cried because eventually my mom threw Beanie away, before I ever got to say, “I love you.”
Years passed, and I eventually lost my interest in chairs and got into boys. One boy in particular took up most of my high school daydream space: a popular football player to whom I had given my first hand job during Mighty Ducks II.
One night on the phone he began to breathe heavily. “Are you listening to me?” I asked.
“Aahhhh, yeah. Yeah, keep talking”
“What are you doing?”
“Just talk”
“Are you…”
“Aaaaaah!”
“What were you…”
“OK, I was touching myself.”
“Why?!”
“Because your voice turns me on.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, don’t you touch yourself?”
“Ew! No that’s so gross!”
“No it’s not, do it. Trust me, you’ll love it”
“But I can’t…”
And then, with his deep voice, he whispered, “Do it.” His aggressiveness combined with the sounds of Silk’s hit single “Freak Me” in the background forced me to obey.
So I finished the phone call and finished myself off. I was waiting to feel guilty, but all I felt was amazing. From that moment on, I’ve never considered something that feels amazing to be “gross.” There is a good mood just waiting in my pants, and I am forever grateful to the beanbag chair for introducing me to it.
Giulia Rozzi is a comedian, actress and writer. She hosts the storytelling show “Stripped Stories” Aug. 7th at Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre, 307 W. 26th St. (at 8th Ave.), 212-366-9176; 11, $5.
BVanPopps
