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.
