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He’d told his daughter Bea the same thing many, many times over the years. Being a woman didn’t obligate her to make men—or anyone—comfortable in her presence.
“I’ve split them into three piles. Really expensive, prohibitively expensive, and I’d-better-see-about-cashing-in-Dad’s-life-insurance-policy expensive.” Her voice lowered to a faux-whisper. “I’m leaning toward the latter.”
“In my class, I don’t save discussions of women for women’s history month, because if we don’t talk about women, we’re not addressing half the population. If you don’t know what they were doing, what rights they did or didn’t have, how they affected their culture and government and economy, you don’t know history. Period.”
“The same principle applies to other marginalized groups. History is written by those in power, but those deprived of power deserve to be seen too. For the sake of their humanity, but also because their stories are crucial in understanding world history.
“There’s a lot of black clothing for women my size, but most of it was created to facilitate the disappearance of the woman wearing it. To erase her from sight in apology for her existence as a fat woman. That’s not the kind of black clothing I wear. Mine has metallic accents. Bold lines. Quality fabrics. Good tailoring. All unmistakable markers that I’m not apologizing or looking to disappear.”
“I don’t intend to present a more comfortable version of myself for anyone. Even me.”
“This good woman plans to make you happy too.” She flicked him a glance through her lashes. “Several times. At least once with her mouth.”
“Are you going to come all over my face, Ms. Owens?” He licked her earlobe. Bit down. “How about if I finger-fuck you? Are you going to squeeze my fingers and soak my hand again?” She drew back and stared at him for a moment, silent, and he regretted everything. Everything. Even his birth.
