In the mornings when I’m getting ready for work, I listen to
Lisa Landry on Pandora. Despite her
being a stand-up comedian, her antidotes can be terrifying. A domestic soothsayer of sorts, she can warn of the
trials and errors of marrying the wrong man, the man obsessed with recipes,
siring a son, and having dedicated bowls for keys; motherhood as a forced burden -not
a blessed reward. This morning my mind
began to drift to the time when I first—and coincidentally last time—ever
douched.
My first—and only—girlfriend, BobbySue Elisabeth Dawn McGraw
insisted upon me having the experience.
Said nothing could make you feel, cleaner. I remembered the rush of mint on the insides,
an enema for the soul, tingling, the ultimate hygiene.
I’ve only read one account on the act of female douching and
it was written by Stephen King in ‘The Dead Zone’. The female character Sarah uses it to
supplement sex, in order to quell her sex drive, to the point of it hurting
her.
And I realized the extreme disconnect between Sarah and
BobbySue.
BobbySue had had so many dicks in her, including her
step-fathers, in her childhood, where in her adulthood she would go from door to
door in a fully lite house checking doorknobs to make sure they were still
locked. Door to door, room to room. She snorted heroin to forget how in the
middle of the night, he’d single her out from her other siblings who reached to
protect her, a part of her mind still always hiding in cubby holes and running
away from home. Eventually when she
would depart and become under the custodianship of her biological father, since
he was a crack-head, got her addicted to crack and pimped her out to support
their now completely justifiable habit at twelve years of age. BobbySue spent so much time getting herself
sent to juvenile prison on purpose, by the time I met her when she was 24, she
was illiterate.
So this morning, sometime between washing my face and
brushing my teeth, I wondered as to why BobbySue had so loved that summer eve’s
feeling and knew why. She was washing
all that evil dick out of her. All that
had terrified her. All that had immobilized
her. All that had confused her. All of her self-loathing, guilt, and
disgust. Each dick no better than a
fucking ‘Sorry!’ game piece stealing her love, her innocence, parts of
her soul.
Rape is not merely the violation of a human body, it is the
violation of a human soul. You are not
inside of just their body. You are
inside of their mind. You are inside of
their soul. And you are a violator. You trespass and desecrate a sacred temple. When bones are broken, a life is broken. It is the ultimate invasion and force of
will.
It’s not sexy, it’s not hot, and not every woman has a “Rape
Fantasy” but every woman has a real, legitimate fear of rape or else there
would be more female midnight runners.
Women don’t douche because they want dick, they douche
because they had too much. They douche
because that dick has soiled their very soul, their zombi. They douche for rebirth of self. For a wound that never heals. Marked from birth, a less than. A slut slot for your comedic undoing. In your house? Has your last name? That bitch is your property, do what you
will. The broken American women and
girls will just continue to douche privately in their bathrooms and not write
about why. Because maybe like my
BobbySue, they were molested ever since they could remember by a man they had
to call father.
BobbySue’s mother in
denial or worse yet, victim blaming.
Like my own mother was doing the other day about Amanda Berry.
Feminism worked?
If Wikipedia gets their way, I’ll get categorized an American woman writer.
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