Vagina Dentata

It came upon me suddenly, without warning.  Lost in thought, alone in my room brooding over the Internet, I contemplated all of the words and actions that had led me to this moment.  I meandered through many memes, tasting the passionate rhetoric that defended or condemned one man’s words that echoed across the world.  His tone was easy and assured, and described invasive physical touch with the casual confidence of one who knows their actions will have no consequences.  The thing that shocked me most is that his words, while repugnant, were nothing new.

My earliest memory is of my father coming home drunk, angry because my mother did not have refreshments for his unexpected guests.  He shakes her, pushes her to the ground.  I see his steel-toed boot connect with her eyebrow, and as she goes down, he starts screaming about how she got blood on his shirt.  He takes it off, and stomps outside, slams the door behind him.  I look at her face, streaked with blood and tears, while I hear his friends laughing outside as they play horseshoes in the yard.  I am three years old.

Any child can see the relation between violent speech and actions. I learn quickly that in order to mitigate risk I have to ignore certain words and tolerate specific behaviors, because I am female and fair game. I remember the panic that ensues when I am eleven years old and began to bleed.  My budding curves invite constant comments from adults and peers alike, and I realize that I am now under surveillance and no longer a private person. Boys brush against me and find reasons to touch me, while girls glare at me and speculate on the status of my innocence.  I am told that I am no longer allowed to wear jeans around my father’s friends because they are saying things he dislikes hearing.

I make poor choices, and all of my mistakes become common knowledge.  I squander my virginity on an undeserving and dishonorable person, and am humiliated in public and slut-shamed for years as a result. Two decades later I am at a bar with some friends from my hometown who tell me that the folks responsible for most of the damage are great people and good friends of theirs.  I should just get over it as it was my fault anyway.

Other images flash through my mind, the violence of the years weighs on me while I hear this jerk on TV go on about how he can reach out and grab whatever he wants.  I think of that aggressive stalker no one believed I had until he tried to climb in my window. I remember my friend’s stories, and the constant assault that we accept as a simple fact of life. Listening to this rich man brag to his conspirator makes my stomach ache, and I feel sick.  I notice that these pains start to roll down my abdomen and into my legs.  I wonder what is going on? Its early for my cycle, but I feel a familiar warm gush between my legs and rush to the toilet.  I made it to the bathroom, and a wave of nausea hits me.

My guts twist as I double over.  A wicked cramp shoots through me.  My hand cups my vulva, as I reach between my legs and feel my blood, slippery and wet. I touch my swollen skin and remember some man telling me, recently, that good girls don’t use the word cunt, that pussy is the preferred term.  My fingers move in a circular motion, soothing myself through the pain and these heavy thoughts. As I press deeper, I feel something unusual.  Something sharp.

I grab a hand mirror and sit on the toilet, and prop one leg up on the tub. My hand shakes as spread my labia and see, for the first time, something hard. Like a pearl, as I stretch more I notice it is shaped like a tear, like a tooth! Fascinated I spread my fingers wider in astonishment and realize that my vagina is now ringed with a row of perfect, shining, sharp teeth.  My pain is gone and I smile in amazement as I watch my labia flex and smile back at me! I laugh and the teeth retract.  That mean cunt is gone, transformed once again into a sweet, harmless pussy, just waiting to be grabbed. Or possibly…fed?