I adapted this from a poem I wrote a while back. I'm taking an Intro to Fiction class and I had to take elements from a story that I would usually write in a straight, frontal manner and pick a skewed perspective to tell it in. Here's what I got:
"I watch you scratching your crotch discreetly, you assume, through the pocket of your jeans and for a moment mine itches, too, but I do not touch it because the itch is reactionary, imaginary and unladylike. I feel like it would be rude and for a long time after, wonder why. And when the delivery guy gets off his bicycle and pulls out his cock to take a leak, I turn away, not wanting to see it, feeling unclean. And I think about the billboards with the pictures of the breasts and the crotches of women and the commercial that teaches them how to submit to these men who believe they have escaped this objectification, who believe their genitals are theirs to impose on us whenever they want and I turn around and force myself to look. I force myself to look at the delivery boys cock. I stare at it, stopped in the middle of the street and I make him uncomfortable; not because it is right or because it changes anything or because I want it to be exposed, but because I want to see what it feels like to take away someone's power. I want to see what it feels like to be the one in control, to be the rapist. And after a moment I turn away, feeling ashamed and feeling less powerful than I assumed I would feel and I wonder if it is the same for them; I wonder if it is the same for that boy who tried to force me to blow him, shoving my head away from his mouth that I was kissing and down towards his lap; I wonder if it is the same for that man who used to talk to me and tell me to send him dirty emails, describing how much I wanted to fuck him (even though I didn't); I wonder if it is the same for that boy that used to keep me awake at night, kept me watching the door handle.
And I realize that it is not.
When I read that essay where whats-his-name describes the pen as a metaphor for a penis and read where he stated that a women had no place in writing, I began to realize that this is and could always be a man's world. If the pen is a penis, then the pencil must be, too. And the car antennae and the remote and the telephone poles and the skyscrapers and the fire escape ladders and the streets of my city. And the letters and the words in the books that I read and loved, as well.
And that's when I began to have fantasies of castration. Of cutting away, of evening out, of leveling the playing field. If men cannot have holes, at least they won't have knives to rip ours apart."
Thoughts? For a second, I thought it may be too much, but then I realized that destroys the validity of what I'm trying to say.
"I watch you scratching your crotch discreetly, you assume, through the pocket of your jeans and for a moment mine itches, too, but I do not touch it because the itch is reactionary, imaginary and unladylike. I feel like it would be rude and for a long time after, wonder why. And when the delivery guy gets off his bicycle and pulls out his cock to take a leak, I turn away, not wanting to see it, feeling unclean. And I think about the billboards with the pictures of the breasts and the crotches of women and the commercial that teaches them how to submit to these men who believe they have escaped this objectification, who believe their genitals are theirs to impose on us whenever they want and I turn around and force myself to look. I force myself to look at the delivery boys cock. I stare at it, stopped in the middle of the street and I make him uncomfortable; not because it is right or because it changes anything or because I want it to be exposed, but because I want to see what it feels like to take away someone's power. I want to see what it feels like to be the one in control, to be the rapist. And after a moment I turn away, feeling ashamed and feeling less powerful than I assumed I would feel and I wonder if it is the same for them; I wonder if it is the same for that boy who tried to force me to blow him, shoving my head away from his mouth that I was kissing and down towards his lap; I wonder if it is the same for that man who used to talk to me and tell me to send him dirty emails, describing how much I wanted to fuck him (even though I didn't); I wonder if it is the same for that boy that used to keep me awake at night, kept me watching the door handle.
And I realize that it is not.
When I read that essay where whats-his-name describes the pen as a metaphor for a penis and read where he stated that a women had no place in writing, I began to realize that this is and could always be a man's world. If the pen is a penis, then the pencil must be, too. And the car antennae and the remote and the telephone poles and the skyscrapers and the fire escape ladders and the streets of my city. And the letters and the words in the books that I read and loved, as well.
And that's when I began to have fantasies of castration. Of cutting away, of evening out, of leveling the playing field. If men cannot have holes, at least they won't have knives to rip ours apart."
Thoughts? For a second, I thought it may be too much, but then I realized that destroys the validity of what I'm trying to say.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
bratgrrrl:
well hell, how'd i double it? i just tried to edit the last line.
myrtle1:
This is beautiful, sincerely lovely, and reading it made me cry because I know that most women can sincerely relate.