From that point on, my life was never the same. Unless the pictures were of two women, the spreads never really did anything for me, so being the avid reader that I am, I would read one of the letters to Playboy (though I preferred Penthouse letters), or I’d put a tape in (being very careful to remember where it started so I could rewind it back to the exact moment so I wouldn’t get caught), then I’d get my stuffed Bert (yes, that Bert. He had a perfect shaped head), or another stuffed animal, or whatever pillow was nearby and hump my little hormones away. When I was at the point of climax, I would crack up laughing because it tickled like crazy. Oh god, I was filled with so much joy.
And then I’d instantly be filled with shame. I just knew I was doing something wrong. The feelings of joy, then instant shame continued for many years, into my adulthood. Even after I started having sex, pleasing myself carried more embarrassment for me than having sex with whomever my boyfriend was at the time. As an adult, I would draw the blinds, turn down the picture of my Great Grandmother – which didn’t work because I always felt like she was watching me, as if she would spend her time as an ancestor, up there with her husband, Billie Holiday, Paul Robeson, Dorothy Dandridge and whomever, worrying about me pleasing myself. But I could just hear her say in her sweet, condemning voice “Bless your heart baby, you’re such a little freak.” It tore me up…but not enough to stop masturbating.