Last night, beside my bed, in Uttanasana (forward bend pose), I saw my mother’s knees–in a series of tiny folds–just above the joint.
“Hi Mom,” I said.
It’s only now, as my own skin wrinkles and sags, that I understand so much that was unspoken then.
Like this: being female.
And this: Not quite rape, but not right.
At 51, I see that the only way to meet the sexual desire of my youth was to have a steady boyfriend, to whom I then belonged, and was obliged to provide sex and frequent blow jobs, whether or not I had grown bored of him, or wanted to swallow, or never came, because he held me on a pedestal, and had no idea what a clitoris was, while he slept around, which gave him the reputation of being a stud, which I couldn’t do, because then I would be a slut, suffering what other girls suffered, in the open market of no rules, because we had pussies instead of penises.
Like in the film, The Butler, which I watched again last week, when the young boy sees his mother taken from the field to be raped by the boss. Not nearly as horrible as that, but not nearly as different.
Our flesh belonged to Him. Whoever he was. Even God.