Chelsea Handler - Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang

Copyright (c) 2010 by Chelsea Handler

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Grand Central Publishing

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First eBook Edition: April 2010

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ISBN: 978-0-446-56353-6

Contents

To all my chunks.

Mamala chunk, I hope you're watching.

Chunky chunk, thanks for making me a mother.

Ted-chunk, you're a pretty nice guy for putting up

with all my shit. How I put up with yours is another issue.

Shabbat shalom.

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.

"Yes," she told me. "You don't want to actually touch your own vagina."

No fucking kidding. That was out of the question. I had enough trouble even looking at my own vagina every morning when I pulled on my Mary Lou Retton underwear.

I had finally discovered what most English-speaking people refer to as the "vagina" but what my family referred to as the "coslopus" (kuh-SLOP-us). I wasn't prepared for what kind of ride this little magic muffin was going to take me on, but I reminded myself that we never choose who we fall in love with, and I had no choice when my little hot pocket in a pita took over my life for the good part of the third and fourth grades.

My initial feeling when looking down at my private area was one of disgust. From my earlier self-examinations, the only thing I could deduce was that my private area was similar to a pincushion in structure, but less radiant. You can imagine my feelings of conflict when I watched one of my brother's porn tapes and found out that in a few more years pubic hair would be joining the party. This was obviously horrific news, but after seeing a very special episode of The Jenny Jones Show about a pair of Siamese twins separated at age thirty-four, I had made it a point that I would always look for the positive in any situation. Even if that situation involved me having all of my sexual encounters up to the age of thirty with my sister connected to me. For instance, on the upside, I would be able to hide my coslopus's contents under the mound of pubic hair that was right around the corner. Were pubes better than just the pincushion by itself? This topic alone plagued me for a fortnight. Pubic hair or pincushion by itself? It basically came down to six of one, half a dozen of another. I learned an important lesson during my third-grade year: Avoid all direct contact with any part of your body you can hide something in, and stay away from Siamese people--and Siamese cats, for that matter.

Had I known as I walked up the hill to Stacy's house that night, I was about to embark on one of life's greatest adventures, I would have gotten there forty-five minutes earlier.

"Now," she explained, "just keep rubbing the outside of your pants so that they rub against it. If you keep doing it, you'll get 'the feeling.' "

"Can I have a bolster or something for my head?"

"I don't have any more," she told me. All the other girls had gotten there earlier. I took my Three's Company suitcase and placed it under my head for support. After that was drenched, I had no choice but to put my head facedown on the carpet. A lesson I wouldn't need to learn twice.

Two hours and twenty minutes later, I was covered in sweat, with rug burns on my forehead and both cheeks. I was in a marathon with my coslopus, and I couldn't break for more than a minute at a time. Every time my eyes would start to roll to the back of my head and I'd feel the exhaustion, I'd get a little tingle and know there was another boom-boom right around the corner. I kept coming back for more. I couldn't get enough of myself. Who was this girl who had been hiding from me for so long? We were one and the same--soul mates, if you will. The carrot to my clitoris.

Who knew that something I could barely look at could give me such pleasure? Who knew that the little albino pincushion I was carrying around all these years would end up turning into the equivalent of a watermelon Jolly Rancher? How many other women knew about this? And if they did, why did anyone ever get jobs?

After I had completely sweated through my jeans and T-shirt like a rapist, I quickly changed into my Fantasy Island pajamas. "Hold on, Tattoo," I said, looking at his face printed on the pocket of my pajama top. "I'm about to show you what real paradise is all about."

I tried every different position I could imagine. I lay on my back and got myself from the front. Then I'd make a backward bridge and get myself from the top. I got on all fours and then took myself from behind, then turned on my side with one leg in the air erect, like a boomerang. Every few minutes I would come up for a couple sips of cherry CapriSun and to wipe the drool off my cheek, and then it was back to business.

I got out my sleeping bag and lay on that for more cushioning. I turned around on my back and kicked both legs out on either side in a split. I tried a scissor kick while simultaneously probing my two forefingers down the inseam of my pajamas and ended up kicking our friend Kim right in the face. "Ow!"

I looked over and realized I had woken Kim up. "How could you sleep at a time like this?" I barked.

"What are you doing?" she asked groggily. "Everyone's asleep."

There was no time for sleep. This was go time, and I wasn't going to let another formative year pass right underneath my nose, or my coslopus.

Not only did getting "the feeling" feel borderline amazing, I felt like I was really recruiting some unused muscle tissue. My little eight-year-old thighs were burning, and the arches of my feet were cramping. I'd have to throw my leg out like a kickstand to alleviate the pressure, but I was hesitant to take a break. What if I couldn't get the feeling back? What if this was a onetime deal, like a Saturday at the Chrysler-Plymouth Auto Sale?