My Body, My Choice!

[AdSense-A]

By Bethany “BST2” Armstrong

I’ve had so little body autonomy in my life and yet so much more than previous generations of women. The patriarchy’s first mistake was “allowing” us women to attend school, to read, to understand our brain is no dimmer than that of a male. Now we know, now we fight.

There are little things that showed me that men were in control of my body, my life: like mother reminding me to pull my shirt down so that a half-inch of tantalizing tummy skin didn’t incite a rape-fest in the men around me. There are the big things, like being on the surgery table for a cesarean section for my fourth child and having the Doctor ask my husband, my rapist, if it was okay to perform the already planned tubal ligation. I learned early and repeatedly that my body had to reflect what the men around me wanted.

I had what my mother would call “a torrid affair” or “an unforgivable sin” while I was still legally married. I was in my late 30’s and it was the first time a man had asked for permission to view and touch and pleasure my body. Personally, I lean more towards honoring the spirit of the law, rather than the letter.

The letter of the law says I am an adulterer, a whore. The spirit of the law says my husband and I were divorced for a long time before we were legally separated.

I honestly can’t say when my heart divorced my disgusting ex. It may have been when I pawned my wedding ring to buy medicine for our diabetic son whilst waiting for Medicaid because my dear ex refused to work or to help in any way. He was content with God’s Will that our son should die. It might have been the day he called me a “Stupid, Ugly, Cunt” while I was working two jobs and going to college, trying desperately to provide a better life for our babies.

It was probably that day, to be honest. The day he told our youngest son with special needs and an affection for cats that if he didn’t “shut up right now, I’m going to take your cat and skin it alive in front of you and roast it over a campfire. I’ll make you eat it too.”

I got between the two of them, my sweet baby boy and my selfish piece of shit ex of my heart, and I yelled for my children to run to their rooms and take the cat with them. He screamed vile names at me, with spittle flying in my face. I took it as my due. He was a man after all.

It was that day I sinned. I made the toughest call of my life. I pushed to finish college and left my precious babies with the monster during the hours I worked for minimum wage; trying to keep our electricity on and food in their bellies. I carry that sin on my soul to this day. I don’t give a fuck if God forgives me, I only hope my babies do.

Years of this went by before I graduated, cum laude mother fuckers, with a degree in special education. I found a teaching job and then I started looking for a way out.

I was in my besties garage, drinking my problems away, when she suggested I get on an app called Plenty of Fish. It was a free dating app. I think she wanted a man to save me. I just wanted somebody to say nice things to me and show me their dick.

That story could make a book in itself. The story of the man who saved my soul by helping me save my children. The man who encouraged my independence. The man who stood by me with a place to rest my weary soul, without battering me into doing things his way. But this story is about my body, my consent.

Months into our relationship, I laid in his bed with the intensity of his eyes boring into me. I felt shame. I heard mother telling me I was going to hell. I felt fat and ugly, but he was looking at me like I was beautiful, and it made me feel even worse.

Then he asked, “is this okay?” as he reached for me. I nodded and giggled with confusion. He asked, “can I touch you here?” and again I nodded, eyes narrowing trying to find the hidden manipulation, the meaning behind his words and touches. This continued with him stroking my hair, my shoulders, my waist.

Somehow, I ended up with his thigh between my legs and I instinctually moved against him until I achieved the first orgasm I’ve ever had with another human. I looked up at him, expecting to see lust and bracing myself for him to use my body. Instead I saw what I call his “miracle face”. It was a look of awe like he had just seen the heavens birthed and galaxies created before his very eyes.

We did not have “sex” that night, but he showed me what making love is; it’s all about consent. My body, my choice. And I choose him. Always…

[si-contact-form form=’2′]