Waif

by Samantha Kolesnik

I call it “The Time Before Men,” a version of myself I can never get back. I guess, you could say, some might also call it Innocence.

No matter how friendly a physician was, there was always this strange lack of consent, a strange condescension. No, not a lack of consent. Presumed consent. Pressured consent.

I laughed and picked up my book again. I had been through this same scenario so many times with various men over the course of my lifetime. They always wanted to get in an insult if their egos were wounded, and the insults were rarely ever original.

What made a man? Hatred for women, perhaps. If not hatred . . . then apathy. Utilitarianism.

And so like my mother told me would happen, I walked the world of men alone, often discussing with other girls my age how to be a better product. A shinier product. Hot, wet, and ready. The first catcall made me doubt my body. Walk a different way to the mall, a quieter way, but not too quiet because then no one will hear you scream. The first assault made me afraid of my body. Your body is too tempting. Wear a baggy sweatshirt, not the low-cut sweater. Stop styling your hair, barely even brush it. No more make-up. Definitely no heels, they are too difficult to run in. The first rape made me hate my body. Thereisnothingicandototakethisawayandihateithateithateitandnoonewantstohearmetalkaboutitanymoreicryintoablackholeonlygirlslikemeknow. But oh I hated them, too. M-E-N. I hated the lot of them. And they were too stupid and too confident, too sure of themselves and their ugly penises to see it.