Your Female Body Belongs To Us

Let’s set the record straight: your female body belongs to us and you must comply.

First, let’s talk about your appearance. Your body should be thinner, it should be smoother, it should have perkier bigger breasts, it should have a perfectly round bum, it should not have any visible hair, it must not be too white or too dark, it should not be blotchy or rippled, it may not have too much muscle or too much fat, nor too little muscle nor too little fat. We can see your cellulite; that is disgusting. We can see your ribs; that is nasty.

You must cover your female body or you are asking for trouble. It is your duty to be sexually attractive to males at all times. You must take care of yourself by removing all traces of body hair no matter how painful it might be. Do not be high maintenance. You must paint your face to ensure it is acceptable, especially when working because it is unprofessional to be undesirable to heterosexual men. You must wear fitted clothing that is not too loose or your will look shapeless, but it must not be too fitted or it is inappropriate. Your shorts should be longer than that. You should not show that cleavage. You look like a nun, come on, have some fun! You look like a bum; that is disgusting. You look like a prostitute; that is nasty.

When a man gives you a compliment on the street, you will smile and thank him because you are lucky you are attractive enough for him to pay attention to you.

You didn’t run away when that strange man approached you? You are so stupid. Anything bad that happens to you is your fault.

It is against our religion for a female like you to make your own health care decisions. From here on out, every gynecological appointment must be performed in the presence of a panel of male advisors. Otherwise, you may do something unacceptable like interfere with your body’s natural purpose of serving as an incubator for more males. Before you receive care, we must discuss it with your husband, father, and brother. They are only looking out for your best interest, don’t be mad sweetie. Do you have PMS?

Your employer-based insurance plan may not cover your birth control if it violates his testicles’ precious religious beliefs. You can go to Planned Parenthood anyway. We will scream in your face that you are a baby killer when you do. We might even try to murder you, but don’t worry you deserve it.

Just so you know, we have decided that Viagra, Cialis and Penis Pumps should be free to all men from now on.

You must never, ever have sex unless you want to have a baby. You owe sex to any man who compliments you or buys you dinner. When you do have sex, it must be focused solely on the pleasure of the penis. The penis is the only indicator of whether or not sex is good. If the penis is happy, you must be happy even if you are sexually unsatisfied or in pain. You’re welcome.

You should not have worn that dress. You should not have gone there alone. You should have used the buddy system. Why did you drink? Never walk home in the dark. You should have left that party. Don’t you know better? But come on really, you can tell us. You actually liked it right?

Why should our tax dollars pay for you sluts to have sex? An unintended pregnancy? Tough shit. That is the consequence of your bad decisions. You cannot have an abortion, even if the sperm donor has abandoned you and your unborn fetus. You shouldn’t have opened your legs. It’s too late now. You sinned and now you must face the music. It was your choice. I knew we shouldn’t let you make any.

The fetus is precious, don’t you see? It could still turn out to be male!

You’re not prepared to have a baby and you want to have an abortion? No, we’ve already been over this. Your possibly male fetus is precious. You, however, are a worthless slut. You do not matter.

You had a baby and you cannot afford to care for it? Tough shit, maybe you shouldn’t have gotten pregnant if the only job you are qualified to do doesn’t pay a living wage. You’re on your own. No handouts, you welfare queen.

Your decisions are not yours to make, but all of the consequences of those decisions are yours and yours alone. Never forget that. It’s for your own good, really.

Your female body belongs to us.

You Aren’t a Girl Unless You Wear a Dress

When I was a little girl, I loved to run around outside in our country backyard wearing nothing but my “ruby necklace” made of shiny red plastic beads. I liked to play with my brother’s toys, especially anything that involved building blocks or digging in the yard. We played outside all the time, catching salamanders in the stream that ran behind our house, a variety of bugs, and little frogs in the yard. I liked finger painting and making a big mess with Play-Doh. I never wanted to be a princess or play with baby dolls. Baby dolls seemed ugly to me. I didn’t know what you were supposed to do with them.

Photos of me from this time show that I wore adorable little Osh Kosh overalls, corduroy pants, and rainbow stripes. I was a quintessential child of the 80’s. I loved Punky Brewster. We shopped at the thrift store.

But like many children, I was sensitive to the opinions of my peers. My memories of being a child are like clear focused spots in a sea of black fog. I remember very few specific moments. One memory that stuck with me, thirty years later, is being teased by the most popular girl in my kindergarten class.

Even then, I remember being aware that there were popular kids and that I was not one of them. I didn’t grasp the nuances of this until much later, but even as children too young to understand things like class, the popular kids were the rich kids. They had the coolest toys and clothes. They were already indoctrinated with the idea that they could and should get everything they wanted at all times and they had the propensity to act like spoiled little brats because of it.

I don’t remember her name but I remember that she was an adorable pushy little Asian girl with long shiny black hair and many fancy expensive-looking dresses. On the day when this memory took place, she was wearing a dark red velvet dress with lacy white trim, white tights, and shiny patent leather maryjanes. She had taken her place atop the jungle gym and declared herself the Queen of the playground. There was a social order to recess, you see; only the Queen was allowed to sit on the top. How do kids learn to do things like this so early? We must have been five or six.

I was wearing brown corduroy overalls, a colorful striped shirt and sneakers. I also had very long hair, but it was plain and brown and frequently a tangled mess. I was playing on the jungle gym and climbed high enough to be close to Her. This is the distinct part of the memory: She hung down from one of the top bars by her knees, so that she was upside-down, her face framed by her beautiful long shiny hair, looked me dead in the eye and tauntingly said:

“You’re wearing pants! That means you are a boy. If you were really a girl, you would wear a dress!” Then she laughed at me.

This was very confusing. I knew that I was a girl and my brother was a boy, in the most basic way children know such things. Nobody had ever tried to tell me that there were things I had to do to be a girl, I thought you just were what you were. I knew how my brother’s body was different than mine and that was what made him a boy. If I didn’t wear a dress, would I grow boy parts?  Would I be like my brother? I was shy when I was a little kid, and easily embarrassed and upset. I did not like people making fun of me.

The next day, I threw a massive temper tantrum and insisted that I must wear a dress to school. The memory ends there, but my mother later told me that I would not wear pants anymore that year, I insisted on always wearing a dress so that I would be a girl.

This Is

I have blogged about various specific subjects in the past, but recently I decided that I would like to create a site dedicated to writing about anything and everything that interests me.  I want to write about whichever subjects inspire me at the moment without worrying that they fit the theme of my site. From my prior experiences I have found that the subject of my blog inevitably starts to feel restrictive because my focus in life changes and morphs as time progresses.  Eventually I feel the need to move on.

I am a visual artist, but I also love to write.  I consistently kept journals in tiny decorative notebooks from age 13 to 26.  They are taped up in a box, not to be opened until an undetermined time in the future when I feel prepared to explore them.  Blogging replaced journaling.  Regardless of the form, writing has always been an expressive and cathartic activity for me.  Lately I have not been writing because I had truly outgrown my last blog to the point where I found the subject of it to be completely uninteresting.  I had nothing left to say on the matter.  I was over it.

When I change my mind and move on, I really do it.  I don’t tend to look back.

This blog is going to have no cohesive theme, except that it is written by me.  I am writing just to write.  I’m not giving any hints about what I will write about.  I will just write.