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Authors: Rosie Waterland
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and running. Bless my eager little heart.
Iâd been going at it for about ten minutes and it was a particularly tough appointment that day, so I was panting and I was sweaty (the mattress also had a pretty aggressive bounce happening).
In my frustration at the lack of progress, I thought it would be best to change positions. Under immense pressure and in a very time-sensitive situation, I decided to shift my body to face the door instead of the wall, which sometimes worked when I wasnât getting results. I didnât want to take my hands off my special place, though, so I would need to turn my whole body around without using my arms. It took me about three almostflips (itâs not easy lifting and turning your entire body when your arms are clamped down on your vagina), but I managed it on the final swing, all without losing my rhythm. And it was just as my face was about to land back down on the bed, my body heaving around like a mental person in a straightjacket, that I locked eyes with my mum and sister, both standing in the doorway, mouths agape.
The mattress slowly came to a halt.
I froze. Like an animal that knows it canât outrun the lion but if it just . . . keeps . . . still . . . the sound of Rugrats combined with my slowly diminishing panting was all that filled the room. My mother gave me one final, pitiful look and began to drag my sister away, closing the door behind her. (âBut Muuuuum, whatâs wrong with her? What is she doing?â )
Iâm not even kidding when I say this: I then proceeded to finish what I had started. I was mortified, obviously, but it certainly wasnât worth not getting the special feeling. Nothing was worth that.
When I came out of my room twenty minutes later, I was expecting the worst. To Rhiannon, this had to be heaven. I was officially the massive loser she had always insisted I was. I humped mattresses. I was a freak. There would certainly be some kind of humiliating punishment she had decided I would have to endure for the rest of my natural life. I knew it would at least have something to do with being called âMattress Humperâ and the story being told at every birthday party I ever threw until I was ninety.
I was equally worried about the reaction from my mum. Was she warming up the car right now, waiting to take me straight to the nearest medical professional to be diagnosed with fanny addiction? Would she take me on A Current Affair and beg the nation to help with her middle daughterâs embarrassing âproblemâ? I could picture it clearly: me, ashamed, huddled nextto her on the couch as she cries and blames herself, saying that she should have known. She should have done something the first time she thought my fingers smelled fishy.
I braced myself for the new, shameful life I was about to enter, and walked into the living room.
And . . . nothing. It was business as usual. Mum was feeding Tayla in her highchair, and Rhiannon was watching TV. Neither of them said anything to me as I came and sat down between them on the couch. I kept waiting for the humiliating bomb to drop, but it never did. To my shock and cautious confusion, Rhiannon kept her mouth shut. She couldnât look me in the eye, but she kept her mouth shut.
Something had happened. Some agreement had been made before I walked into the living room. If you can tell when people have just been talking about you, then you can definitely tell when theyâve just been talking about you and your vagina.
My mother had somehow negotiated a vow of masturbatory silence, and I donât think Iâd ever loved her more than I did in that moment.
The incident was never spoken of again â by her or Rhiannon â and she discreetly made sure I had the bedroom to myself at 4pm on weekdays from that point on.
In fact, aside from warning me to always wipe from front to back and to scrub it properly in the shower, she pretty much left me to my own devices when
Iâd been going at it for about ten minutes and it was a particularly tough appointment that day, so I was panting and I was sweaty (the mattress also had a pretty aggressive bounce happening).
In my frustration at the lack of progress, I thought it would be best to change positions. Under immense pressure and in a very time-sensitive situation, I decided to shift my body to face the door instead of the wall, which sometimes worked when I wasnât getting results. I didnât want to take my hands off my special place, though, so I would need to turn my whole body around without using my arms. It took me about three almostflips (itâs not easy lifting and turning your entire body when your arms are clamped down on your vagina), but I managed it on the final swing, all without losing my rhythm. And it was just as my face was about to land back down on the bed, my body heaving around like a mental person in a straightjacket, that I locked eyes with my mum and sister, both standing in the doorway, mouths agape.
The mattress slowly came to a halt.
I froze. Like an animal that knows it canât outrun the lion but if it just . . . keeps . . . still . . . the sound of Rugrats combined with my slowly diminishing panting was all that filled the room. My mother gave me one final, pitiful look and began to drag my sister away, closing the door behind her. (âBut Muuuuum, whatâs wrong with her? What is she doing?â )
Iâm not even kidding when I say this: I then proceeded to finish what I had started. I was mortified, obviously, but it certainly wasnât worth not getting the special feeling. Nothing was worth that.
When I came out of my room twenty minutes later, I was expecting the worst. To Rhiannon, this had to be heaven. I was officially the massive loser she had always insisted I was. I humped mattresses. I was a freak. There would certainly be some kind of humiliating punishment she had decided I would have to endure for the rest of my natural life. I knew it would at least have something to do with being called âMattress Humperâ and the story being told at every birthday party I ever threw until I was ninety.
I was equally worried about the reaction from my mum. Was she warming up the car right now, waiting to take me straight to the nearest medical professional to be diagnosed with fanny addiction? Would she take me on A Current Affair and beg the nation to help with her middle daughterâs embarrassing âproblemâ? I could picture it clearly: me, ashamed, huddled nextto her on the couch as she cries and blames herself, saying that she should have known. She should have done something the first time she thought my fingers smelled fishy.
I braced myself for the new, shameful life I was about to enter, and walked into the living room.
And . . . nothing. It was business as usual. Mum was feeding Tayla in her highchair, and Rhiannon was watching TV. Neither of them said anything to me as I came and sat down between them on the couch. I kept waiting for the humiliating bomb to drop, but it never did. To my shock and cautious confusion, Rhiannon kept her mouth shut. She couldnât look me in the eye, but she kept her mouth shut.
Something had happened. Some agreement had been made before I walked into the living room. If you can tell when people have just been talking about you, then you can definitely tell when theyâve just been talking about you and your vagina.
My mother had somehow negotiated a vow of masturbatory silence, and I donât think Iâd ever loved her more than I did in that moment.
The incident was never spoken of again â by her or Rhiannon â and she discreetly made sure I had the bedroom to myself at 4pm on weekdays from that point on.
In fact, aside from warning me to always wipe from front to back and to scrub it properly in the shower, she pretty much left me to my own devices when
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