Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Greasing My Pole
especial from NYC writes:
One of the joys of being raised in a strict Catholic household is that no one talks about anything. So it goes without saying that on matters of sexuality, I grew up retarded. Especially when it came to masturbation. I was so ignorant of the wonders of hand lotion that I was going “caveman style” and chafing my penis raw until the age of 14. But not even the pain of exposed second-layer skin could stop this eight-year-old boy from pretending Olivia Newton John was his girlfriend. Alone time in the middle of the night was my time. And it didn’t hurt that the crucifix hanging on the wall was across the room so he couldn’t see what I was up to.
Every night before bed I would ask my older sister if could borrow her Grease double LP album. It didn’t matter that I didn’t own a record player. All I cared about were the photos of Sandra Dee on the inside cover. Particularly, the ones before she started looking like a whore. Dressed in my Star Wars pajamas, I stared at them forever, meticulously studying every inch of her awesomeness. I thought if I fell asleep with Olivia Newton John on my mind, I'd have a better chance of dreaming about the two of us holding hands and slow-skating.
Of course, the ritual of filing images of Sandra Dee into my mental file cabinet could only occur until after I said my prayers. Sinning all over my hands and R2-D2 sheets before saying my Hail Marys just didn’t seem right.