“Privilege is relative,”
“Obviously, but don’t you think you have privilege as a pretty woman?” he cut in.

To be frank, he cut in. I don’t need an ellipsis after my sentence to express that he cut in before I was finished speaking. Underneath my skin, I am repressing an oil that bubbles and pours out of me an viperous snake when I am angry, a bitten tongue and a swollen left throat.  I have an unshaved pussy and natural body odor. I have a goiter that causes choking when I am rushed during dinner. I have not shaved my legs in three days. I was fat on three different occasions and twice asked if I was pregant. A boy threw Slim Fast powder on me in the hallway in front of people. I had braces. I once was voted the “funniest girl” in class and the cutest boy in the class announced it. I am hungry and confused as I go before council: the cult of men and I, their frigid leader, rewarding them only if they become extremely bendable like rubber dolls or dispensable. I am being publicly hung and whipped for my defiance but men are also begging for my blades and clapping. I am nursing a cyst the size of Saturn somewhere in my fragile, calcium deficient body but I am also being paid large sums of money without health insurance.

“Privilege is relative and attractiveness is subjective. There are many things you are ignoring to maintain your position that life has been easy for me,” I put my thumb up and began to count so he knows I am serious. “You can see that I am white, American and attractive in your eyes.” I put my index finger up. “You cannot see my past, including looks, weight, or makeup, hair and clothing choices which would add or detract from appearance.” I tug on the bottom of my wig and then put my middle finger up to continue counting. “Just so we are clear, my hair is thin and thinning. You cannot see my addiction, trauma or mental health unless I am triggered or symptomatic. And you cannot see my money or my inheritance, i.e. financial inheritance and any other familial traits or problems.”

I sit back, reflecting knowing already I had left out something. I lean forward quickly before he can cut in again.

“I am still a woman,” my pinky shoots up, “and I still must defer to men.”

He is paying me to be here and I am acquiescing only enough to be painted as slightly agreeable and to live up to my title as a dominant.

“If you tell them you do porn, don’t you think that’s baiting them?”
You can not let them touch you.
“I mean,” he corrected as that wasn’t the story I told. “If you tell a photographer you do porn and ask if he will shoot you masturbating, don’t you think it’s naive to get upset when he touches your thigh and asks to fuck you?”
You can not let them touch you.

“the black book”

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