If you think your
sexuality is for nothing more than screwing, that you can and should make it
with any guy who looks good in jeans, or buys you a drink, or several, or even
if he says “Let’s move in together. Who needs a piece of paper?” and if a baby
comes about, it’s nothing more than an inconvenience, something to flush, or to
have pulled out and tossed into the medical waste bin, your heart gets colder
and your soul emptier with every sex act and every abortion. Then, when someone
dares to call it wrong and begs you to consider the life of the child, you
shriek like a banshee. You’ve devoted yourself to a devilish lie, and you can’t
bear to hear it contradicted.
When you refuse
self-control, commitment, and the gift of new life, you are standing in the
alley eating from the dumpster while someone stands on the doorstep and calls
to you, “No, that’s just scraps, a poor imitation of a feast. It’s dangerous.
Look how filthy it is. The real dinner is inside, at the table. Please, leave
that and come in.”
“There’s nothing wrong
with what I’m doing. It’s what I choose. You just want to control me. You want
me to sit at a table and use a knife and fork? Stupid outdated rules,” you say.
“But there’s something so
much better, the beautiful banquet with all the courses, so many flavors and
colors, you can hardly imagine. There’s a seat for you,” says your tormenter.
“It’s MY F---ING
DIGESTIVE SYSTEM,” you shout. “Not yours! Not the government’s! I control it.
It’s my right. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Eventually, the person on
the step gives up. She goes inside and closes the door behind her. But she
doesn’t lock it.
