Author's Warning: There is
strong language in this piece, though it serves a purpose. Constructive criticism would be lovely guys, but keep in mind I wrote this in 45 minutes so it is FAR from perfect.
The Hole
Katherine A. Hasty
“You women have the real power,” he informs me, grinning in what I assume is supposed to be a suggestive way. The smile is broad, drawing attention to teeth that are unnaturally white, standing out in contrast to hair that is unnaturally black. Middle-age has set in, and the lines of his face are like dirty informants he is fighting to the point of absurdity.
“We do?” I reply, eyebrows drawing together in wariness. My gut tells me where this is going, but I choose to give the benefit of the doubt. I choose to play dumb, despite hating myself a little for doing it.
“Yeah!” A chuckle bubbles up from his chapped lips; he is amused by my apparent ignorance on the subject in a jovially patronizing way. “You’ve got it right there between your legs!”
A blink. A pause. A beat. How to react? Initially unsure, my hesitance becomes apparent in the uneasy shifting of my feet, in my gaze on the floor. I can feel his eyes boring into the top of my head, I can hear my heart beating in my ears, deafening in the awkward silence that has settled between us. The moment becomes taut, making apparent the uncomfortable fact that neither one of us knows what to say, but for entirely different reasons.
This man is no devil. No great fiend. I know this; I’m a rational being. And reason tells me that this is meant to be a
comfort to me. That this is an unintentionally degrading compliment to reassure me that while my efforts to be mentally equal may go ultimately unfulfilled, that my vagina will always have the “real” power in the world.
Strangely, I don’t feel powerful. In that instant, I feel
disgusting. I am a hole. An orifice. An
object to be
fucked. My mind, my dignity, my integrity, my creativity. None of it compares to the power of a wet, dark, hairy, musky
hole.
That is my
“real” power.
Outrage clouding my wits, I don’t know how long it takes for me to find the nerve to look back up, to meet his dark brown eyes; is he awaiting my gratitude? But lo! What’s this?! A walking penis! A veritable dickhead! I have to force myself not to look at his crotch, to see if he is aroused by his own epiphany. Would he even notice if I did? What would it mean if he was? What does it mean that I want to look?
I wish I could get away. To hide. To cover myself with hair and hands like Venus rising from the foam of the sea.
Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I try to smile, to assuage the situation as though I had somehow caused it. “Oh, well…thanks.” My voice is a mere shadow of its usual self, veiled in shame. But shame at what? At him? At myself? For my own cowardly inability to speak my mind? For his words? I can’t decipher the source and so cannot dismiss the feeling.
The phone rings and he moves to answer it, but not before giving me one more pearl of wisdom. A lock of hair falls over one of his eyes, keeping me from seeing his expression. “No problem! Learn to work it! I mean, some girls get anything they want!”
Anything they want…
The rest of the day goes by in a blur, my inability to focus impeding my work, suspicion making me anxious and unpleasant. My workplace is full of decent men, but with this new information comes a growing sense of cynicism. Is this a universal feeling? Do they all think that way? Their eyes, usually disinterested or calm, become like microscopes to me, their gazes become like x-ray vision. I feel undressed, exposed, more naked with each passing second.
Perverted Superman! Your cape is dirty!
My Aveo is an easy sanctuary to fall into, the dull slam of its door a startling relief from my raging thoughts. In the vacuum of my car I don’t have to think. I can drive to the store and forget my troubles, regrouping as I listen to Vivaldi and NPR. There are people being tortured in a foreign country; my problems are so insignificant.
Perspective. Perspective. Perspective.
A box of cherry Pop-Tarts and a Dr. Pepper chug down the conveyer belt of my local supermarket, a personal reward for a challenging day. A mother of two is in front of me, loading up with dozens of baby food jars, colorful little pots of sustenance that clink and clank their way towards the scanner. Her daughter, confined to the grocery cart, is screaming at the top of her lungs and waving her arms like a chimpanzee in a zoo.
Trying to be patient, my eyes wander to the rows of reading material for sale, glancing over the celebrity gossip and the recipe books.
Oprah is apparently trying to lose weight again.
I take pause at a hot pink magazine with a pretty brunette on the cover. Her breasts are unnaturally large, standing out in contrast to a waist that is unnaturally small. She pouts like she’s practiced it in a mirror; I smile and do the same in the sunglasses display that is set up nearby.
Her interview is on page sixty-seven, right after an article about being a “bad girl” in bed and eight beauty tricks that are sure to impress your boss. It starts out averagely enough--something about her newest movie, something else about her beauty routine-- before delving into her apparently torrid love-life. Vapid, uninteresting drivel, it keeps me from murdering the small girl who has resorted to throwing candy onto the floor. But there is one sentence that stands out as though it were highlighted, as though the gods of injustice themselves had reached down with a sharpie and repeatedly underlined it just for me.
“
Women hold the power because we have the vaginas…if you’re in a heterosexual relationship and you’re a female, you win.”
What…?
Betrayal! Treachery! Treason! How could she?! Does she not see? Does she not know?! But deep within, silent like a snake swimming on the surface of the water, there is a whisper of self-doubt. It peeks at me from behind the curtain of my self-righteous indignation, winking at me as though it already knows my mind.
It is
ugly.
I am alone in the supermarket now. The woman with her baby food and rampaging toddler are gone. The checker and her over-teased bangs have vanished. The man scratching his lotto tickets with an old half-dollar coin has disappeared into the negative space of my mind. I stand bereft, naked once more in my utter disappointment.
Am I the one in the wrong? Is it
me?
All at once, like water gushing from a broken levee, the outside world pours back in. A bag of Skittles has broken open at my feet, scattering like pieces of a broken rainbow across my peep-toe shoes. I stare at them as the little girl’s mother apologizes to me while trying to rearrange her plastic bags in the cart.
“It’s okay,” I mutter blankly, not knowing whether I’m addressing her or myself.
I return the magazine to the rack.
I put it face down.
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