Crazy Enough

by Storm Large

  “I’m going to catch snakes.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not. You’ll get raped.”

  “God, Mom. There is no guy in a white van at the pond.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “Mom!”

  “He will hold you down and stick his penis right in your vagina,” Mom said, as if there would be a dramatic swell of music and we would go to an Ovaltine commercial. I was eight, and I knew it was horseshit.

  “And what if I like it?” I said in a snotty voice to Bowser in bed that night, pretending I was smarting off to my mom. Bowser was my huge teddy bear I practiced making out with.

  Fast forward to twelve years old. My childish ideas of sex were not at all on par with my advanced ability to please myself. I was a genius masturbatrix. But though I knew what everything was and where everything went, I had no tangible idea of how it was all supposed to happen.

  Thank god for porn.

  Watching grownups have sex with no subtlety or innuendo, just straight up doing it, was a huge leap in my awareness. The film was Candy Goes to Hollywood. Not a terribly clever story, or superattractive people, but in the twenty odd minutes I sat glued to it, I learned everything I needed to know about sex before I actually did it. The only bummer was, I was getting this deep education while wedged, shoulder to shoulder, between my mom and my aunt Bitsy.

  My father’s family lived in rural Pennsylvania, about five hours from Southborough. We spent some summers and many Christmases there. My grandparents and aunt and uncle lived in these huge old farmhouses, filled with generations of antique furniture, silver, and gleaming lemon-oiled wood floors. There were wide fields and golf courses, tennis clubs where we could have watercress tea sandwiches with the crusts neatly trimmed. It was a blue-blooded WASP-y land, but my dad’s family were farmers and railroad workers and some of the best people I had ever known. My aunt Bitsy, Dad’s sister, was a tall, gorgeous blonde with a filthy sense of humor and a heart too big for this world. She had the porn tape hidden in the study, behind the red- leather encyclopedias.

  The details of how I ended up watching the porn with my mother and my dad’s sister I cannot recall. However, I remember absolutely everything about Candy and all the misadventures she and her giant droopy boobs got into.

  She was a big dumb blonde from nowhere, stepping off a bus on Hollywood and Vine. Her fake Marilyn Monroe-isms were not lost on me. “Hollywood! I can’t believe it! Here I am in Hollywood!” heaving her chest with every H. In no time, a talent scout sees her and gets her on the casting couch. He hypnotizes her to get her over her stage fright. “By the way, what’s your favorite flavor ice cream?”

  “Va-NILLA!” Heave-heave-heave.

  Later, as the talent scout crams his joint into her mouth, telling her it’s a vanilla ice cream cone, my mom whispers into my ear, “That’s not making love.”

  I nodded slightly, making a mental note that, yes, yes, it was. I was all tingly and hot and couldn’t wait to scoot my butt under a bathtub faucet.

  I kept my tingles and prickles well to myself throughout the stretch of film we watched. My aunt finally clicked it off and put the VHS tape back behind the encyclopedias on the bookshelf. Both women feigned disgust and I quietly agreed, mumbling something like, “Yeah, she was so stupid.” I couldn’t wait to try it all out on somebody.

  Valuable lesson number one: I learned that when the guy is done, everybody’s done. Lesson number two: When he’s shot his stuff in or all over you and is kneeling or standing over you panting, you need to stare at him or just his dick, with a mixture of fear and total amazement. Lesson three: No matter what is happening to you sexually, you must respond in all excited affirmatives, Yes! and Yeah! or Oh, yeah!!! were all you needed to say to stoke the action further, and keep things positive.

  My only concern was the whole penetration thing. Besides my fingers, nothing had actually been in me, and that was worrisome.

  What if it hurt? What if I said ouch or, worse, cried? I had heard that you bleed when you lose your virginity and that was way too embarrassing to even remain in the realm of possibility.

  I’d have to break myself in.

  I found a plastic, tapered cylinder in an old junk drawer in our guest room in Southborough. It was cream-colored and hollow with a screw-off bottom. When I opened it, I saw a place for two C batteries. “Personal Massager” was embossed around the bottom along with “Johnson and Johnson.”

  I never put batteries in it, but I washed it really well and took it to bed with me every night for a long time. Every day I would wash, dry, and return it to the junk drawer. Just in case. After a few weeks, I was confident that I was ready for my first time.

  Sex was already important to me. It was my thing. And I believed once I got past the physical initiation, once I was cocked and loaded, as I liked to call it, the old me would dissolve, leaving a pink and fresh new me. A me that might not go crazy, but wherever I went, I would definitely not go alone.

  He was twenty, I think. I met him in a cloud of college kids outside of a concert. He got a six-pack and we walked into the huge park called the Boston Common. He seemed cute enough, not too big, dark, spiked hair, his collar pointed upwards on his jacket. I noticed he had acne under his jaw and down his neck a bit, but he had beer, and that made him perfect. I told him my name was Nina and I was nineteen years old and would he like to go hijack a swan boat?

  Nineteen was my go-to lying age until I was nineteen, then I told everyone I was twenty-two. This night, however, I was a few months into thirteen.

  We couldn’t find the swan boats in the dark, so we ended up in a nice dewy patch of grass near some Hare Krishna twirl-off. They chanted and sang and hopped around in their saffron sheets about twenty yards from us. I could smell the incense as we sipped beer and talked about music we liked. I told him how it was so cool to meet him, but, “Gosh, it is such a shame I have to leave day after tomorrow, back to London.”

  Because of course, during this entire exchange, I was faking an English accent.

  Besides my lie “I’m nineteen,” the accent was something else I did constantly when I was on my own in the city, or when Daphne and I met new people. We watched a lot of Monty Python; I can still recite huge chunks of Holy Grail and Life of Brian. John Cleese was my dialect coach for snowing guys and sounding as cool as possible.

  And though I only suspected it at the time, there is nothing quite so hot as a girl who’s going to be leaving soon, and going far, far away.

  We made out. We lay down and he got on top of me. My heart sank when his hands went up my shirt. I was wearing a padded bra with basically bee-sting boobs underneath. At this point, though my body was long (I was as tall as he was), in his fumbling hands I probably felt like a squashy ribbed ironing board . . . an ironing board with a hole in it. He looked for that next.

  “Yes,” I tried to say, but the weight of him on top of me was a thing I hadn’t yet encountered. I had made out before, but only sitting up, or leaning against something. In this position, everything I would try to say sounded strained. So I was quiet.

  My tightest and sluttiest corduroys were probably not the best choice for this adventure, but they got pulled down past my bum eventually, and far enough to get my legs open, just enough.

  I steeled myself.

  Hare Kriiishnaaa! Hare Kriiishnaaa! Thrumming in the background.

  My bare butt in the cool wet grass.

  Hare raammaaaHare raaammaaaarammaraaammaaa. . . .

  Desperate breathing in my ear, and Storm, the virgin, was gone.

  It didn’t hurt.

  I did get to say yes, and oh yeah a couple of times (in my fake accent) when he would do a push-up over me and I could breathe. I bit his chin at one point, he seemed to like that, so I decided later it would become my signature move.

  The moments leading up to his finish line, I felt this weird burst of feverish heat push out of him and onto me. He made a sharp, surprised
sound, shook, then collapsed. His breathing became long and happy-sounding, like he’d just run to catch up with someone he loved and truly missed. It felt amazing to me to be buried under a big hot body that felt so grateful.

  It took me awhile, after getting cocked and loaded, to figure out how to get more of that transient, love-you-for-a-split-second action. I was determined to become good in bed. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what that even meant, but knew the power was in that. And like anything else, I knew with practice, I could become a pro, a passionista, and, in time, a dick whisperer. I would be in demand, like the cool kid who gets chosen first for dodgeball.

  On television, girls always got mad at boys for kissing and telling. Me, I wanted a full-on word-of-mouth campaign. I wanted guys to call each other and marvel at my skills. “Dude. Isn’t she fucking amazing? Did she bite your chin?”

  I lived for that moment when the guy was about to get off. Simultaneously melting and exploding, he became simple. The world would disappear, but I wouldn’t. And whoever he was, for a brief bit of time, he was so glad I was there.

  Those sweet, pounding seconds, to me, were like little drops of love. The only love I understood. I know it wasn’t really love per se, it was more carnal gratitude than anything, but it was all I had, so it was enough.

  Just like with Mr. Pool Jet and ChapStick, I knew not to tell anyone in the beginning. I told anybody and everybody I was a virgin, unless, of course, they were about to fuck me. I kept everything hidden, especially from Mom. It wasn’t hard, since she was home less and less. And I didn’t even want to acknowledge her existence, let alone talk to her about anything. But when she got released one day, without anybody knowing, she sneaked home while everyone was out, and found condoms and pot in my dresser drawer. She insisted we go immediately to the gynecologist. I thought the jig was up.

  I was fourteen and, at this point, hated everyone, especially my mom. Whenever she came home from the hospital, she would try to mom the shit out of me, I guess to make up for lost time, but she would give absurd advice about boys, my weight, or try to ground me for talking back. It was too little, too late. Every blessed thing she did reeked of an obvious need to draw attention to herself. Every overly mom shtick she pulled on me had to be in front of an audience.

  In a clothing store, I’d try to run away from her and look for boys, “I’m going to the restroom.” Then she’d wait until I was within shouting range,

  “Stormy! Tell them you just got your period!!” Then, every human in the store, boys included, would suddenly burn holes in my crimson cheeks with their embarrassed-for-me stares, then, one by one, picture me bleeding and struggling with a tampon.

  Friendly’s is a fast food chain that has family-friendly, greasy- spoon food and ice cream. They call milkshakes “Fribbles.” It was also my mom’s favorite theater of hideous and public discussion of my fertility and other cringe-worthy topics.

  We would get all the way there in silence, me just staring through my running black eyeliner and cigarette smoke, stinking boots on the dash, she singing gaily along to the radio and not talking to me about anything until we got inside. The ambush would spring as soon as we were surrounded by strangers in line, waiting to be seated, or in front of the waitresses.

  “Welcome to Friendly’s! Can I get you girls something to drink to get started?”

  “Oh, boy! Can I please have a big ginger ale with a cherry in it? Stormy, when you DO get your period, did you know you can bleed up to a tablespoon’s worth a day?” She would say this out of nowhere.

  “Um, thanks, Mom. Yeah, I’ll have a chocolate Fribble and a hand grenade. No pin, thanks. Awesome.”

  I would eventually run away or make her cry, so she would hide in her room. But every time she would come home, she’d try to mother me or ground me, and find absolutely any opportunity to talk loudly and publicly about my menstrual cycle.

  She also had a strange habit of grabbing her boobs in public. Like an actress in an old black-and-white film who would clutch at her chest to emphasize her passionate sincerity, Mom would go for that effect. Only she would straight up grab one tit and hold it. Arching her back and sighing, dramatically, “Oh, my stars above!”

  She loved doing the boob clutch thing in front of any boy in her presence. I had a guy come over while she was home exactly once. She pulled him into a room, closed the door, and held him hostage for about twenty minutes. I could imagine her grabbing her tits and telling him how completely insecure I was about my weight and how this whole punky thing was such a cry for help. She went on about how I had a big, wounded heart, which she understood because, “You know, I was raped when I was ten and now I hear voices I have named ‘the Judges.’ They tell me to hurt myself, but oh, my stars (grab-squeeze-hold), I am doing so much better since they found out that I am the only person in the world who has this rare illness. It is SO new and unresearched it doesn’t even have a name yet! Right now they are calling it ‘mental epilepsy.’ They say I’m going to be written about in a medical journal, and I said ‘A medical journal? Oh, my goodness gracious!’ (grab-clutch-hold).”

  Then she hugged him for an awkwardly long time, thanked him, and let him leave.

  Never saw him again.

  Suffice it to say, I would just run away to get laid. However, I did keep condoms in my dresser drawer with my pot. Unluckily for me, Mom got a ride home from the loony bin while no one was home and went through my stuff. Lucky for her, she found just the things to inspire some phony-baloney mother-daughter moment.

  I came home to find her on the couch next to our neighbor, Suzi2, from across the street. They were both sitting straight up, knees together, hands folded—a serious talking-to posture. She was trying to not crack a smile as the camera in her head started rolling on this pivotal moment in her life as a mother. The Intervention.

  “I found these in your room.”

  Three little square condom envelopes sat on the coffee table in front of them.

  “You’re home,” I responded flatly, fighting the urge to pick up a nearby lamp and smash it over my own head.

  “Stormy. Are you still virginal?” Both women were fighting off a full-on giggle fit. I guess they had found my stash as well.

  “Yes,” I lied. “Mom, did you smoke my pot?”

  “We flushed your drugs straight down the po-po,” she lied, fully snickering now.

  “Great. Thanks.” I walked into the kitchen to get something to eat. Her performance continued as she shouted from the couch about how WE were bringing ME to the gynecologist to get me on the PILL.

  Fast forward to where my heels were dug into the cold metal stirrups and my stomach was in my throat. We girls often find ourselves on our backs, legs cranked open, hoping for the best. During sex: “Please don’t be another douche bag.” In childbirth: “Please be healthy . . .

  and look like your father.” Our gynecological visits are no exception. Most of the time, in these episodes of legs akimbo, one simple hope is, whoever is dealing with us down there, is at least cool . . . and not looking like someone’s creepy old uncle, like my last gynecologist did.

  No problem. Act cool. Count ceiling tiles.

  The creepy doctor was actually humming as he thumbed through my girl parts like a damp paperback. I was pretty sure I wanted to die. This guy will see I’m not a virgin and tell my mother.

  I could just picture her making a spectacle to the horror of women and girls waiting for their own round of personal, and some humiliating, tests, discussing her bold confrontation with her wild teenage daughter who’s been using food and now sex to cover up her feelings of insecurity. “It’s so hard for Stormy, but I understand. My nanny was a Satanist and she used me in some terrible rituals when I was just a baby. Oh, my heavens, it was awful. Just. Awful.” Grab-squeeze-hold.

  I was up to twenty-odd ceiling tiles when I realized Dr. Creepy wasn’t really talking. Does he see something weird? He’s gotta know. He will totally be able t
o tell. Will he tell my mom? Isn’t it a law or something? Shit, I’m going to have to have yet another hideous talk with my mom, and it will probably take place at Friendly’s. God damn it. Every time she comes home from being locked up . . . ow! Is his whole fucking hand in me??

  “So, what d’you use normally?” he finally said from between my shaking knees.

  “Huh?”

  “G-K-S?” He actually smirked at my open and brightly lit sexbits.

  “What . . . um . . . what is . . . I don’t know what . . .”

  “Greasy kid stuff,” he said to my insides.

  Great. My very first gynecologist is clearly a pervert, and thinks he’s down with what the kids are sayin’ these days. Fucking great.

  “Oh . . . um . . . ha-ha . . . no . . . um I’m still a . . . um . . . a virgin. Yeah,” I said to the ceiling tiles.

  “Uh-huh. Little pressure now.” Was he chuckling? He moved the speculum, then I heard a click and something pinched deep behind my belly button, like a ragged toenail getting caught on a wet sock.

  Later in the car, headed to the drugstore with a prescription for birth control pills in my hand, and a dull aching in me, Mom and I, again, smoked in silence. Thankfully, we did not go to Friendly’s. She had already put on a great performance for her girlfriend and the cringing girls and women at the doctor’s waiting room, so I guess she was satisfied.

  We got to the drugstore and I got my pills. Mom got some pills, too. By the time I started taking mine, she had already taken one too many of her own, and was gone again.

  I didn’t really get to notching up too many bedposts until starting around fifteen. It was a slow turn of the crank until I went full throttle slut bag. Probably because I wouldn’t fuck anybody weird, or anyone I knew and certainly no one I liked. That seriously limited my pool.

  Most of my trysts were with my many punk-rock acquaintances in Cambridge and Boston. If I liked someone, though, I was a disaster. There was a boy in a neighboring town I loved desperately, forever.