Not some bauble from the Five and Dime. I’m the one tucked away just past your cervix. I’ve got an isthmus, fundus and ovarian canals. And I’ve got a great big introitus and a few choice things to say…
Listen, if you’d been hanging around as long as I have, well, you’d see the world from a ridiculous slant. Dear Bes, the complications: births right side up and upside down and side-to-side, the unwashed hands, and the puerperal fevers. Thank Priapus, all that’s in the past. Today we’ve got D&Cs and forceps and gloves.
Behind every great man is a great woman, right? And behind every great woman, there’s me. Oh, the works I’ve produced. I’m the begetter of the begot, the power on the throne, and the seat of humankind. Think Anne Boleyn and Henry, Cleopatra and Caesar, Marie Antoinette and Louis, Anaïs and June, Lord Alfred and Oscar, Hatshepsut, Santayana, Obama.
Look, the idiot you’re married to is a pain in the ass, but, hey, I go deeper than that. Frankly, I could care less what found its way into your vagina. And you sent hordes. Did I complain? No. Didn’t bat fimbriae. And sister, I’ve tolerated it all—cervical scrapings, lasers, rectoceles and cystoceles elbowing their way in. How much can good uteri take?
There’s a rumor in my canals that I’m slated to end up as a gobbet in a surgeon’s pan. I’m feeling claustrophobic and it’s getting hard to breathe. I can see it. Strolling down Fifth Avenue, a tall drink of fallopian tube on my arm and heading to the Plaza for tea. Warhol will do me in print. Ingrid Sischy with write me up in Art Forum. They’re dead? Who cares? Get Janet Malcolm. She can write about anything. In fact, get Jeffery Moussaieff Masson. Now, there’s a man I want to meet.
Honey, no excision as medical waste for me.
I’m coming to meet the world.