"My Vagina is Angry"

How to start? I wasn’t going to write about this, because it’s “not a big deal” and it “wasn’t sexual assault”. And then I realized how many times I have heard women say these same words about experiences that whatever their definition were wrong, and made them feel powerless. I am angry, I am fucking pissed off.

I gave dozens of more kisses than I wanted to. I felt pressured in a million ways, and understood in a real way how many factors go into feeling like your power is taken away, into feeling vulnerable and manipulated. I have a fucking open mind, and I do seize the moment, but this does not necessarily lead to me fucking you on the beach, believe it or not, American or not, cabrona woman travelling alone, or not. I didn’t want to make a big deal for fear of escalation. Only to find anger still rippling through me a week later. And just like the time that asshole molested me on the street when I was visiting my friend in Bellingham, my instinct was to not tell anyone. And I hate that silence seems to be the natural reaction. Because meeting a handsome stranger and having a romantic interlude on a August beach would be preferable to the reality- but, wouldn’t be true.

First of all, I don’t have that many close friends to tell here, but more than that, there is this sense of dirtiness. As though there is something about ME that attracts these creepers. As though it was my fault for letting him kiss me in the first place, for drinking whisky on the beach, for just wanting physical contact. So just now, I wrote him, saying, “I don’t want to see you. You pushed me too far and you scared me. I don’t forgive you for having taken away my power. Don’t write me or call me ever again.” And guess who is calling me right now, making my phone vibrate off the table. Fuck him.

So I’m trying to immerse myself in work. Interviewing audience members, and seeing their utter relief at finally talking about these things reminds me why I am here. I met seventy-two year old twins who adored the show and told me how they couldn’t have imagined a show like this being possible in their lifetimes. Tonight is the 5,000th performance “Gala Event”, to which I was informed by a snooty ticket seller that I needed to wear a ‘traje de noche”- something between a cocktail dress and a ballgown? Did I pack something like this along with my flipflops and yoga pants? Nope. BUT I found a sexy black dress for $4.50 at a flea market. So I’m going to shave my legs, put on lipstick, and go celebrate. And turn my phone off. So what if I rejected 5 phonecalls just while I was writing this. I refuse to let my righteous anger overtake my joy tonight.