I was eight years old and well into the third grade at Riker Hill Elementary School when I fell head over heels in love with myself. What can only be described as the “cornerstone of my youth” came unexpectedly out of left field and washed over me like a Category 5 cyclone. Not enough to drown me completely, but enough for me to lose my footing and knock me on my supple eight-year-old ass.

A friend of mine named Stacy Silverberg invited me to a sleepover party at her house, where she was going to teach everyone how to get “the feeling.” I had never heard of the feeling before, but it was definitely something that piqued my interest. Reason led me to assume it had something to do with either a Smurf or a Cabbage Patch Kid, both of varying appeal.

When I got to Stacy’s house, her Jamaican housekeeper, Margaret—or, as I liked to call her, M-Dawg—let me in. Stacy’s parents were always out on the town, and her house was always spotless, which was a nice respite from the doughnut-stained, dog-hair-covered sofas my parents tried to pass off as sanitary.

When I walked into Stacy’s room, there were a total of four girls already there, all facedown on their sleeping bags with their clothes on, violently rubbing their vaginas. I was appalled that no one had the good manners to manage a hello and equally taken aback by the pure ecstasy on all their faces.

I had never planted my face so fast into a carpet in my life. This was what my brother Greg referred to as a “double jackpot.”

“Over my jeans?” I asked Stacy, with my hands underneath me and my head squished to one side.

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