Saturday, December 27, 2014
Just Another Number Synopsis
I used to think that women were equal to men.
I was delusional.
After thousands of years of being pinched, painted, corseted, negotiated and sold by our daddies as the decorated broodmares they called “wives,” we wear pants. We vote. We own property. And with a 20 percent pussy pay-cut, we can even hold a job. We should be grateful, right?
Like most of us, I danced the independent woman charade. I played sailor with the boys. I worked. I traveled. I fucked bachelors and paraded the bars with artificial liberation. I got into a prestigious school. I was allowed in Corporate America. But like my mother, grandmother, and all the women before, I was incarcerated. My shackles were just a bit lighter.
Incarceration is the yank of hot wax ripping pubic hair from my throbbing vagina. It’s the swollen blisters from the stilettos that elevate my rump to the supple, fuckable shape men like. It’s the itch of a black lace thong flossing my ass cheeks. It was the pressure to join the Navy boys in their cackles of sexist gossip as if I was rushing into an elite fraternity. Incarceration is every female magazine being a recycled instruction manual for molding myself to be the perfect balance of sex kitten and angelic bride. Incarceration was being told to preserve my hymen as the ideal clean, unsullied marital livestock. Incarceration is the deprivation of chivalry, manners, friendship, intimacy, and romance that is replaced with a dick down my throat, slap on my ass, and cum on my tits followed by passive aggressive criticism about my sexual track record when I refuse to water myself down and plaster on an innocent, delirious, girlish mask. Incarceration is the way men dangle their fictitious respect for us as treats for our proper, ladylike behavior. Incarceration is the embraced and digested idioms of “boys will be boys.” Incarceration is a man saying he respects a woman who doesn’t spread her legs right away. Incarceration is a woman expected to date like a soccer goalie, shuffling back and forth to block the balls constantly flying in her direction and shamed the moment she lets one slip in her net. Incarceration was wondering what I did wrong every time my lovers disappeared. Incarceration is when nobody writes a happy ending for a woman without a man.
My wakeup call wasn’t some light switch of empowerment. From as early as preschool I feared that if I didn’t grow up to be the pretty princess men fawned over, I was a failure. That mentality was my disease. It got me raped. It made me feel dirty and devalued because my cherry wasn’t popped on a bed of rose petals. It fueled an adolescence juggling starvation and vomiting until my throat bled out and my stomach acid burned through the plumbing. It made me snort coke, smoke meth, and routinely gulp down narcotic petri dishes in hopes of obtaining hallucinogenic intimacy with junkie boyfriends. But most of all, it made me waste my youth chasing, obsessing over, fighting for, worshipping, clinging to, and crying over one after another loser. At some point, I just quit giving a fuck.
Man has ruled the majority of our history. Rarely could women get jobs, education, property, and political rights. Women had to devote their lives to beauty, virginity, and reproduction. They had to be skilled in patience, loyalty, and male ego nourishment. They had to tolerate mistresses, tempers, beatings, and belittling for the roof over their head. That has all changed. Women can support themselves. But what has happened is that emotional evolution has not caught up with our economics. We are still haunted by the outdated myth that women need men.
This book isn’t about burning bras, shaving heads, or growing bush between our thighs. This book is not meant to be an exorcism of femininity, sexuality, or romance. This book isn’t about disowning all of our gender roles. This book isn’t meant to bash men, but to address the detrimental ways all genders have been told to act. This book is my rigorous trek to emotional freedom.