cunning linguists
The first women to set me straight were older women. I was hitchhiking. A convertible hauling four sunny babes pulled over. They made room for me in middle of the back seat. They had me surrounded.
Boy, did they take advantage of me. They joked about their body parts. They mentioned “periods” in a non-punctuation context. They acknowledged familiarity with the sex act. Before they were done with me, one of them farted and they all laughed. My ears glowed red. I was 15. These libertine women were perhaps as ancient as college age.
Only years later did I appreciate my rendezvous with such sexyhood, my naive eyes finally seeing the extent to which humanity is rigged against women who dare think for themselves. You know, “the feminist movement.” I, too, became a feminist, not in any histrionic sense but rather because … who isn’t? I mean, if you are pro-American and anti-Taliban, you’re a feminist.
Seems simple enough. But I was still naive. Once, on my radio show, I read a brief news item on women’s equality and ad-libbed, “Women achieving equality is a terrible idea. We’ll be a lot better off so long as women remain superior.” Moments later the phone rang. Some angry guy cussed me out.
Men — they’re so emotional sometimes. Angry. Thanks to Rush Limbaugh and his ilk, they’ve been brainwashed into thinking they’re victims. Poor Rush. He’s such a loser with chicks. He has hit bottom, resorting to smuggling his stiffy pills to an offshore location that specializes in pubescent whores. For that — and for being one Bic shy of Head Witch Burner — he’s a role model.
That’s what shocks me. After several generations of the widespread and inarguable notion that women ought enjoy the same bodily sovereignty as men, and that they ought to be able to get down with they bad selves, mouth-breathers get equal time to declaim this notion as controversial.
And don’t get me started on the the specific shame due specific body parts. Especially that body part which, to nearly every person alive, is the very portal to life itself.
That would be the job of The Vagina Monologues. Now, I have no use for East Coast confrontational art therapy. Show me someone who says “empower” a lot and I’ll show you someone who hopes that New Age blather will be mistaken for real work.
Which shows you how clueless I was about The Vagina Monologues. (It played to two packed houses over the weekend at the Mainstage.) It’s a great piece of writing, hilarious when not heartbreaking and every bit as truthful as true can be. The local production also featured one terrific performance after another, bam bam bam, a new high-water mark in local stagecraft.
Unlike my little episode in the convertible, when I felt like a stranger in a strange land, The Vagina Monologues granted me a delightful new sensation. Finally, a heady all girl-power crowd felt liberated enough to let we fellers in on the joy. Cherish those mad throw-back-your-head-and-yelp pleasures? Then you’re invited!
That’s all The Vagina Monologues wants to do: help those who have been held back to fall in love with heathen miracles which start at the clitoris and quickly radiate outward. Controversial? You bet — if your brain stopped developing at age 15.
