I had my first sexual experience when I was six.
An Irish Catholic girl named Mary Pulchritude Pinochle, a crazed red-head [is there really any other kind?] in my Kindergarten class, assaulted me during nap time. I had just finished my usual snack of crackers and milk with bourbon and was lying face down in the soft toy bin when Mary struck. I must confess that I resisted at first because I had vowed to lose my virginity only to one of The Golddiggers, but, well…you know…what can I say but ‘redheads’ ― you understand. Anyway…ever since this incident, I have had an inordinate fear of flat-chested women, green Jello, and soft toys.
This explains why, a few years later, I rejected Ali McGraw’s advances made in the pediatric section of the Shriner’s Hospital & Hat Emporium. Love means never having to say: ‘Are those pimples?’