ABSTRACT
For a panel about what direction “the men's movement” should take At issue: reproductive freedom. Pregnant poor women, denied dignity, denied integrity, denied a safe home. Now their lives hang in the balance against a gob of cells. Now the superfathers of America say that gob of cells deserves more dignity, that gob of cells has more integrity, that gob of cells has a paramount right to a safe home. Pregnant teenagers, children bearing children, one million every year. Now the superfathers of America say, “Stay chaste or else.” Now the superfathers of America say, “The paramount right to life resides in your uterus, not in you.” Now the superfathers of America say, “Go knock up your daughters, your stepdaughters, your nieces, go on; that gob of cells has a paramount right to life As if there was a question what men of conscience should do. At issue: rape. Penetration on demand. Penises engorged with rage. Tender, vulnerable organ— with a little help it gets hard. With a little help from fists, knives, force, contempt. With a little help from friends: two on one, three on one, ten on one… Tender, vulnerable organs all wanting in all wanting fun. Penetration on demand. Surefire fail-safe proof the guy's a man. As if there was a question what men of conscience should do. At issue: marital rape. The right to rape that comes with the wedding cake. His conjugal right. Her connubial duty. Whenever he gets hungry, he gets his piece of cake. Lip-smacking good. She's his. His piece. Can't say no now. Can't ever say no. She said a permanent yes to one penis forever. Forever is a long time. Forever is anytime. Now the legislators of America know a good thing when they see one. Now they see couples by the millions just shacking up, not getting a license, living outside the sacred bondage. No matter, say the legislators. They're passing laws across the land to make the right to rape legal in cohabitation, to make the right to rape legal if she ever said yes once— yes once on a date, yes once three years ago, yes once just once: a yes to any penis is permanent, say these clever new laws. Extend the marriage contract to the unmarried, to the roommates, to the date. Skip the cake. Get down to the business of devouring female lives. As if there was a question what men of conscience should do. At issue: battery. She walked into a door. She fell down some stairs doing the laundry. Her dark glasses are prescription. She limps from a slight sprain. She went to the hospital to visit a friend. Her screaming was all in fun, it was laughing, hysterical laughing, you know how women are. Fashions change. The look today is abused. Clothing that looks slit by a knife. Faces made up like flesh bruised from beating. Around the haunted, deep-set eyes: black and blue. On the temples and cheekbones: purplish-magenta welts, brushed on or beaten on, in a patch the size of a fist, broken blood vessels pancaked over. It takes a lot of pancake to cover damaged goods Check out the street. The abused look is in. Men like their women beautiful. They see beauty in women's pain. Go to your corner drugstore, check it out, Get your personal bruise kit in the latest, chic-est shades. Or just go home. The beauty of pain is within the reach of every woman within a man's reach. As if there was a question> what men of conscience should do. At issue: child sexual assault. They calculate the age at which the diameter of a child's vagina can accommodate a grown man's penis. They think it's eight. Or they don't bother to calculate. The infants go to the hospital with gonorrhea down their throats. They pick up children and drug them. When the children are passed out, they get it on. Or they pick up children and keep them conscious. They photograph them—being pissed on, perhaps, or spread open, poor and pimply, in Polaroid. They pressure their daughters and nieces and stepdaughters and little sisters into secret sexual intimacies. Simon says diddle diddle dumpling, little miss muffin, Simon says red rover red rover wants to come over and over. And they make the girls promise not to tell. The girls keep the promise: They grow up unable to speak. As if there was a question what men of consdence should do. At issue: pornography. The ropes cutting into her breasts give him pleasure. The gag stuffed into her mouth makes him feel full to bursting. The black leather hood over her face makes him feel radiant, hot. The chains around her ankles and wrists make him feel strong, like an ox ready to gore. The pincers ripping her nipples make his penis swell. The way she spreads her labia makes him feel like fucking her raw. He imagines her. He has her. He uses her. He possesses her. As if there was a question what men of conscience should do.
