Many years later, the serpent's venom, once inflicted, would manifest in unpredictable ways. On that day, we were just outside the office, on our lunch break, Deborah smoking a cigarette. We sat by the back door of the office, looking at the car Park. Very close to the exit of the motorway. I used that exit the first time I arrived in Yorkshire, many years before, without suspecting I would end up working in Leeds, a city that later became home for many years.
On that morning, Deborah whispered these words.
- Only a woman knows how it feels when her body is penetrated by the dick of a rapist.
-
I listened silently, respectfully, taking in her pain. Everybody has their own ghosts, I thought. I just wanted to show my understanding, my solidarity. My love. I wanted to tell her “it's not your fault”, but I felt it was a stupid comment, much too easily misunderstood. I wanted to say you found a monster on your way and he used you, it was an accident, just as a rock falling on your head from a building, only you found a monster. But all my unspoken words felt clumsy, inappropriate. So, I kept silent, respectful, feeling that maybe the silence was also clumsy, inappropriate.
Telling her how many people go through the same, or even worse than her, would be useless. It’s not what she needs to hear, I thought. There is always someone suffering more, and there is always someone to demote your suffering by comparing it with the less fortunate experience of an abstract stranger. I would not become one of those people, of course.
-You are now here, you are safe- was the only occurrence I had to say, and I held her hand. She shook my hand away, and I carried on listening. Taking in her pain. Taking her hand was very clumsy, I felt. Her pain was due to someone disposing of her body and I took her hand. Clumsy. Insensitive. What an idiot I am.
-You can’t understand because you don’t know what is to be harassed all your life, from childhood, when you did not even understand that you were harassed. -
She was probably thinking of an experience she’d mentioned earlier, when a paedophile was smiling at her while she was in the school bus, and he was in his car. She noticed him, few seconds later, wanking himself while driving. She did not understand fully, but she understood that there was something wrong, disgusting, censurable.
-You can’t feel what we feel- said Deborah, with a touch of pride.-
You have to go through the same [to understand] You are a man. Men are the perpetrators.-
I kept silent, respectful. I knew it was useless to say that paedophiles target children, both boys and girls. It would be confrontational to tell her that boys also face paedophiles, and disturbing sexual games aimed at creating some humiliation. What is the point? She needs support and I thought that only my silence would ease her memories.
So I kept silent. And I listened to her. And also I heard the eco in my mind, “men are the perpetrators”. That eco made it difficult to empathize, to be part of the group of the victims, to be an equal. Dwelling in a corner of her mind was the idea that I was the enemy. I felt the distance.
And I was very careful to not hold her hand, because men are the perpetrators. I somehow must have had an expression saying I understand you. And she reacted in a way I felt slightly confrontational.
-Even when women are not victims, they understand. They are sensitive, emotionally available. Feminine. Men are tough or taught to be tough. We are different. You will never understand how it feels to be sexually abused….-
She kept talking but I stopped listening, I just heard her accusatory voice, my mind absent. I was looking at the cars arriving from the motorway, hearing their roaring noise, without paying attention to the traffic.
My mind went back to the day I was raped. My body was bitten everywhere but I was not feeling all the pain, maybe due to the adrenaline, the fear, the anger. Or maybe I wasn’t numbed enough by the pain in the rest of my body to avoid feeling the member of the guy trying to penetrate me. He couldn’t at the beginning and the rest of the prisoners were laughing. And finally, it happened. Something entered up my ass and I felt the humiliation of being conscious that it was happening. Verga, me están cogiendo. Shit, I am getting fucked. My chest was burning. I could not avoid it. I wanted to cry, but did not want to be seen crying, but I could not stop the tears, llora Mamita, cry Mamita, the others were shouting, laughing, adding humiliation to the pain. So I decided to focus on only one idea: it was not my fault, not my decision. It was because this animal was a monster, a beast. His decision. I just focused on what Julio Escalona, a former guerrillero, told me to do if I ever got tortured: preserve your soul. Preserve my soul, because my body did not belong to me, not for now.
Deborah kept talking, my memories did not come in the order I recall them now. Flashes here and there. Chest burning. Intrusive thoughts. And of course, my survival advice:the words of Julio preparing me for torture, in case it ever happened. If you join the party, it may happen.
The torturer, Julio said, is a person full of hatred and he knows that you love. He has no ideals, and he knows that you have. He suffers because he feels inferior, ignorant, mean, and he hates your generosity, your wisdom, your confidence. He wants you to become like him. He is a monster, you are not. He doesn’t want anything but to feel he is above you, and beyond that, he wants you to become like him. He knows how the world is, you don’t, this is why he thinks he is teaching you a lesson. He wants you to become a monster like him. So the only thought that will preserve your sanity is your knowledge that the moment will pass, he will be him, and you will be you. The moment will be over. You will not become like him. He is a monster, you won’t become one. Preserving your sanity is your aim. And to preserve your sanity you need to understand that it was an accident. Never forget, an accident.
Flashes came and went, Julio’s thoughts didn’t, but were instead part of my weaponry in my battles against flashes and complexes.
The thought is powerful, the moment will be over, but that doesn’t change the reality. His member enters, the moment is not over, his member enters again and again, and to the physical pain the humiliation is added, my chest burning with rage, the sight of the prisoners laughing, dale duro they say, llora Mamita, cry Mamita, give it to him hard. Pain, humiliation and disgust, difficult to say which is worse.
All these memories came to my mind together, mixed up, with some fantasies about standing up, killing the guys, smashing their heads against the walls, the floor, the edges of the stairs. How many times I thought about the ways I would kill them, make them suffer. And all of a sudden the flashback was interrupted.
- And that is why you cannot understand - Deborah concluded her speech. Who knows what she was saying. She had a conclusion, and I was not able to feel as she felt, I was the other, the perpetrator. And I needed to let her know that it was not the case.
Strong emotions took over me. A part of me wanted to build a bridge, become one with her. I just felt the need to get close to the suffering human in front of me. Another part of me rejected using my pain to lessen her anger directed at me as the situationally appointed representative for manhood, the perpetrators. So I felt encouraged to disclose to her what happened to me while detained. Then I didn’t. Then I did.
I gave her grotesque details, my legs shook, I heard my voice break. And suddenly she interrupted and asked me, as if she had not heard a thing…
-Were you raped?
I felt so odd being asked something so obvious. And the conversation finished suddenly because our lunch break finished, and we had to go back to work. She finished her cigarette and did not speak to me, greetings excepted, for the next two days.
Two days later Carolina, my Spanish friend, mentioned she had had a world with Deborah. Deborah told her I had spoken to her about private things, that I made her feel uncomfortable. Feeling uncomfortable?!
-Are you sure she told you that?-
-Yes, of course. What did you speak about?-
-Private things, she was right. Maybe I shouldn’t…-
I couldn’t believe it. But it could not be a lie.My legs shook when I spoke to Deborah, I was giving my soul away, and her only reaction was of her own personal discomfort… Maybe she did not hear you, it thought. How many times I do not hear, I get locked inside my mind, maybe she did not hear…my private things.
I naturally distanced myself from her. When I worked, I could see her sat at her desk, concentrating, focusing on her computer. I avoided being seen, exchanging glances, as they were painful. Fortunately she found a new job. I also distanced myself from every single woman who made big statements about womanhood. I am a feminist man, and will always be. But it was so obvious that I need to take distance from women like her. Women who hate men, not who love women. Deborah was to the feminist movement what the champagne communist were for the social struggles of our peoples. I already moved away from the champagne communists. So, I promised myself to never again tell any woman about my experience if they claimed to be superior in their understanding because of their womanhood. Never again. Never. It was like giving the rapist another laugh, it was telling him that he had been right if he had said I fuck you and women will not respect you. And Deborah finished the job. I wanted to go to her house, stand in front of her door, ring the bell, wait for her to open it and shout:
-You crowned the rapist. You finished the job. Fuck you.
Of course, I didn’t.
Time passed. Months, years. I moved on from Deborah. I kept my promise to keep a distance from the big statement women, which was not difficult as I also kept distance from big statement champagne communists, and big statement Christians, always ready to abuse their commitment with Jesus, God, the Lord and so on. Of course I was at peace with women in general, feminist women included, and Katerina in particular.
Katerina, as I called her, was the next woman who saw my damaged chest. I loved her. Very shortly after I met her I saw her as a potential partner. I had such a desire for her, with her energy she raised my hope to find a soulmate, her commitment made me feel that she could be for me.
Of course, building a partnership with a woman meant sharing my inner thoughts, my struggles, including my memories and the way I processed them. I just needed to show my soul to her, or so I thought. Katerina was very understanding, emphatic. She also worked in the same office, and Deborah had left the year before. Of course, she found a new job, better paid, more responsibilities. Fortunately she was far from my sight. I needed to ensure that I never again showed the rotten part of my soul to another Deborah. And Katherine was evidently not a Deborah. The softness of her voice convinced me. The calmness of her responses, her stares, her undivided attention when I spoke, the choice of words, the conversation topics. Nothing in her reminded me of Deborah. In fact, I forgot Deborah.
My friendship with Katerine became closer and closer. We walked from the office to the train station together. Many times, we had a beer after work. On a special occasion we were at Leeds train station and she was waiting for her train to Bingley while I waited for mine to Saltaire. For some reason, the trains were delayed, and we stayed there chatting, and she, nothing unusual between us, would take my arm and hand while talking to me. But the tipping point was approaching, and she started gazing at my lips; and suddenly she went still, looking at me. I noticed how she would moisten her lips with her tongue from time to time, and I began to enjoy with a certain thrill her touching my belly several times, all of this while standing on the upper mezzanine of the station. I lost track of what she was saying when she held my hand while we talked: she did it for much longer than usual. My desire for her started to grow, but the always murky boundaries between friendship and desire held me back.
Calm down, I told myself, you're getting carried away with what cannot be. She's a colleague, a friend, don't ruin everything. But the body somehow disobeys and at certain point she noticed, or so I felt, that I was staring at her thighs wishing to drown my head down there, between those delicious legs. In essence, signs of desire became increasingly evident. And desire was mounting, breaking down barriers and sending lively signals different from the shy spoken words. Until the rain arrived and she, with a mischievous expression, got on with me, heading to Saltaire. She didn't catch the train to go to her house, she came with me. She was the one who did it. The train traveled at the speed of light; time vanished. She was talking to me, but I didn't know what she was saying I just wanted to kiss her, to get in her.
It happens that there comes a moment when I don't know what the female in front of me is saying. Instinct takes over me, feminism fades away, I don't understand anything, my brain shuts down, she speaks, tries to impress me with her intelligence, and it's all in vain, I just want to fuck her. But I did not do it. The few functioning neurons, which are few, I insist, prevented me from taking the first step, they always do, a feminist mother programmed restrictions on my super ego. Somewhere in my brain, there are metal dendrites, or whatever is happening to me, even if I lose self-awareness, I behave, incredibly, but I behave well, and I hope she takes the first step. And so I did. But since she didn't take the first step on the train, I did not fuck her just there.
We arrived in Saltaire, today a UNESCO World Heritage site, a picturesque neighborhood in Bradford. We stopped at a bar that was once a tram station, a gem. We had a drink, nibbled on some snacks, and then we set off walking towards an unknown destination. The moment of the kiss arrived when she grew tired of waiting for me to assume my role as the male. She chose the moment. She decided to stand in front of me. She leaned towards me, looking into my eyes, gazing at my lips, smiling.
However, after the kiss, I felt compelled to bring to the surface the revelations about the rotten corners of my soul. I can't help it. It's like needing to make a confession. I can't build a relationship if my partner doesn't know, from the beginning, that I am a man with a deep scar in my soul, the scar of humiliation, of being raped. It's a part of who I am. We walked together, holding hands, and arrived at a bench in a park. The day was shining, the scene was perfect. England is a rainy country, but there you learn to appreciate sunny days, like that one, perfect. Perfect for the truth. I felt love so intensely, and I felt fear. Fear of rejection.
Again, my voice broke, my legs trembled once more. I had to sit on the bench. Once again, I brought back the memories that I tried so hard to erase. Sometimes memories came back unexpectedly, uninvited, making me sweat, scaring me. And I wanted Katerina to meet this ghost, one of my ghosts, and she listened. She paid attention. She heard the whole story. She didn't rush off to attend work commitments. So different from Deborah. She didn't ask if I had been violated. She was perfect. I felt loved, accepted. When we stood up, she embraced me. A deep, strong, tight embrace. And now that she knew my dark side, I was ready to make love. I had already purged the venom left by the snake.
We began to stroll, walking hand in hand, my body cleared of adrenaline, of fear of rejection. I was ready to merge my body with hers, to kiss her all over, to feel one with her. And the moment of wild sex was imminent when we arrived at my apartment. I was so excited, my heart beating strongly, merging with my lungs, liver, and intestines in a whirlwind of appetite, hunger for her body. Meanwhile, she said something to me, as if there was something to say, well, I didn't understand anything when I was like that, of course I didn't understand, the brain shutting down again. I grabbed her hand to lead her towards the bedroom.
She frozed me. She pointed to the sofa, so I didn't try to reach the bedroom. Her body language clearly indicated that she didn't want to make love. Since deciphering her gestures wasn't easy, words came to the rescue.
-Not now- she she seemed to say.
-Don’t worry, there is no need to rush- I replied immediately, to relieve her from the pressure, as if it were easy for me to understand.
Maybe she has her period, I thought. Maybe she is like Isabel, never would have sex during her period. I knew, with my typical good insight and great optimism, that it was a minor inconvenience, not even worth talking about. However, the next few days clarified the situation. And if body language was not enough, the dreaded sentence came.
-I see you as a friend-
I dread that sentence. The day will come that I will reply,
-I also see you as a friend. I don’t want to marry you, just want to fuck-
How can I be a friend of a woman who can’t see me as a man? I was sure of my interpretation. Sexual desire was building between us. We kissed. Desire was building up. She just changed her mind after she learned about my accident. So I felt again the same horrid feeling, confused. Again, the rapist won. Again, I could see him laughing. Again, the prison mates were laughing. Again, I saw the beast laughing, with his missing tooth, laughing and saying I fuck you now and no woman will respect you again. The venom of the snake regenerated after it was almost extinguished.
Slowly I took my distance from Katerina. I know she is not a bad person; I know she may question her own feelings, I know we all have contradictions and sometimes our feelings and tastes betray our convictions. You can’t always rewire your brain. You may be vegetarian but love the smell of bacon. It happens. She couldn’t see me as a man, after knowing about my accident. It happens. Well, she couldn't see me as a man after finding out about my accident. It happens. And what I have to understand is that our brain is wired in a certain way, and it can't always comply with what's in the sophisticated program of our convictions. The wiring follows instincts, and sometimes these can't be completely reprogrammed. You can't do anything against that wiring, it's flawed, that's all. Accept it, I told myself.
But it was hard for me to be trash. I may be able to understand her, intellectually, but it is hard to feel disposed of. I took my distance, slowly. I did not want a breakup, I did not want to hurt her feelings. I looked less and less for her. She also seemed to have lost interest in me.
The day I didn’t call her arrived. I was sad and looked into my phone, looking at her number, to call her. I wanted to talk to someone. I didn’t call her. I was walking along a pathway bordering the canal in Saltaire. Sad. Very sad. But I made up my mind. Don’t speak again about the accident. Never. Never again. Julio Escalona was wrong. Or at least he did not tell you all the truth, which is, that you are alone, isolated, very alone fighting the torturer. You will be on your own forever, not even God will be on your side. Nothing. Life is brutal. You had your slice of brutality. Nothing you can do.
Secrecy. The only way to live with dignity was to keep it all secret. Why do I have to say who and how my ass was penetrated. That is trivial. It’s only important because I make it important by feeling humiliated, by allowing these feelings to grow inside me. No truth because that truth is not important. The only important truth is my life, my struggles, my victories, not that accident. It’s an accident! And the wiring that others have, that's also an accident. It's a flaw of our species. A mistake. So the only reasonable thing is secrecy. And that's it. That's what I told myself.
And I also told myself that if I ever meet a woman immune to the venom, and she falls in love with me, I will let her feel all the power of my love, which is immense. She will feel also my disposition to accept everything from her. I may find a way to make her feel that all my might was involved in accepting her, all what came from her, all her weaknesses, all her shame, all. I had to rewire my own wiring to accept myself, and that's why I will be able to love my lover like no one else. I am stronger. I have endured. I am reprogrammed. I have antidotes for very potent poisons. I know it.
And again the years passed. I survived the death of the monster Zamani, the struggles of the Bajunis, the suicide of mamosta, Brexit fucked my mind, Mohammed had his extra vouchers, I was blamed for the death of Hirut’s baby and the stress of Jonathan, I finally killed Charlotte. I had enough new trauma to forget Venezuela…and then I saw the dead body of Sofia, and decided to write about her. It would be so easy to sit in the garden and write about her. I booked a flight to Sicily. And I got away.
My chosen city was Palermo. Phoenician, Greek, Roman, Arab, Byzantine, Norman, Spanish, and finally Italian. Remnants of the best and the worst of the Western world are here, present in its architecture, culture, and, most importantly to me, in its gastronomy. Proximity to mountains for climbing and seas for swimming. When the flight I booked to Sicily landed, I felt great excitement upon seeing Mount Pellegrino, the sea on one side, the city on the other. Like Caracas. Here, I will write Sofia's notebooks.
It will be easier to write Sofia's novel now in Palermo, perhaps with a lover by my side, an Italian lover I have been fantasizing about. Passionate and sensitive, different from the women I met in England.
The sun of the Mediterranean sea refreshed my thoughts. And I met a poet, Helene.
Helene was indeed different. Firstly she spoke French, and her English had a French accent, which I loved. Then she was so different from the people I met in the UK, above all she did not need to get drunk. Maybe I can become warm friends with her, I thought very soon after meeting her. She heard about many of my struggles in life, attentively. Of course, I held firmly onto the decision to never disclose to her my way of dealing with the memories of the accident. I could speak about everything, not about the accident.
Helene liked to walk with me around the marina of Palermo, and Foro Italico, a marvellous boulevard by the sea. Walking there gives you sight of the mountains, the sea and the old city nearby and the faraway buildings of Bagheria, the town where many of the shots of Cinema Paradiso were taken. The sounds there are a mix of the city noises in the distance and the closer sound of waves,breaking against the rocks of the breakwaters. Nearby you can see children playing, teens chattering, the elderly walking, lovers kissing and middle-aged people engaging in random exercise here and there. Some people doing yoga. We were at this side of the city the day she started to mention the part of herself hidden to others, the dark side of her memories. So I learned that she also had an accident, like mine. She ended up in a hospital, in Canada. And she moved on. She said she moved on.
The day she told me about her accident, we returned to the hostel in silence, and I thought that I made her feel like her pain had lodged itself in my chest, in my conscience. And the moment passed, the day passed. Life went on, of course. On each occasion, seeing the same lovers, or perhaps others, the same yogis, or others, the same faces, or similar ones, and, of course, at each opportunity, we talked about our dreams, about her book, about her poems. About her expectations in life. In the end, getting to know the demons she had embedded in her soul brought us closer and closer.
We wandered through all the streets of ancient Palermo, and I listened to her, whatever she wanted to tell me. Of course, we also found the time for me to assimilate her poems, which she read to me in French and checking that I understood, to ensure that I could understand them well, as my French is not that good. I was also able to read and listen to her poems from the red book. And the red part of her red book. And, of course, I talked about myself, not about the accident, of course, but I did share my thoughts, the Zamani monster, the Red Cross coupons, Hirut, and, above all, Sofia's notebooks. Our friendship remained strong. And about the accident, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Never a word about it.
Every now and then, Helene would leave the city to visit other places in Sicily, and she always came back with a special story. Not because something special happened, but because she narrated everything in a way that made it seem special. Or maybe I felt it was special. Anyway, I eagerly awaited her every time she went to another city, another town, another mountain, another beach. I almost waited for her in a frenzy until the day she returned from Messina. She asked me to share the room with her at the hostel since I was the only person with a private room in that hostel and it was fully booked. I agreed without hesitation and knowing that the proposition had no erotic implications. In fact, strangely enough for me, knowing her intimate thoughts did not make me desire her. Maybe I'm getting old, who knows.
-Do you think I can stay in this extra bed you have in your room- she said looking at the tiny sofa-
- Yes, of course, I think the owner won’t mind if you stay there, even when the hostel gets a free room. Maybe he does not even charge you…-
- We will have lots of conversations also before falling asleep-
-And of course, I would love to have a chattering partner in this room, on every occasion you come back from your Sicilian adventures. And you may save some money-
-I don’t do it for the money, but saving some wouldn’t do any harm-
The day I discovered that snakes also bite in Sicily, Helene went to Taormina. This is an ancient Athenian colony where the ancient Greeks built the most spectacular theater in the world. In the background of the stage, you can see the constantly erupting volcano on one side and the sea on the other. She enjoyed the view of the volcano, took the obligatory photos, armed herself with poems and comments for the red book, and on her return, she brought all her belongings to what should become our room. We ate some french fries and peanuts together, and she began organizing her belongings in the wardrobe, unaware of what awaited me. I was eagerly awaiting her story, and as soon as she finished, we sat together on her sofa bed. I felt an intense desire for intimacy. Not for sex, just for intimacy. It was clear that she was the only one with whom I could share the hell I went through, I thought. She went through the same thing. She had an accident. Then the memories of my past took hold of my mind. Then I began to speak. She was sitting on the bed, and I started talking without knowing what would come next.
-I was tortured. I know the pain of being raped-
Again, I had this feeling I have when I share this moment. Again, my legs were shaking, my whole body shaking. And on this occasion, I went silent for a few seconds. Waited for my words to sink in. I wanted to avoid what happened with Deborah, I wanted to make sure the words sunk in, I wanted to avoid not being heard. She was silent. Then I said:
-I know the damage is mainly psychological, it’s the humiliation, the memories. The desire to go back in time and kill the monsters. The perception you have of yourself. The stereotyping. The labelling-
Then she spoke.
-Sorry, darling. I can’t hear it. It’s self-preservation. I need to go to another room. It’s not about you.-
And she went to another room of the hostel. She avoided talking to me. She went around Sicily and did not even tell me when she was going to come back, and if she was going to come back. She just left. She kept enjoying her holiday and every time I saw her around a deep pain grew in my chest.
I didn't talk to her about it anymore. And once again, I felt that my virility was being questioned, although this time in a way I didn't understand at all. I felt betrayed once again. I felt stupid for discussing it with women. And I told myself: another snake, and a very venomous one. Never again, never again, never again.
From that moment on, I closed myself off to the hope of finding a woman for myself. I would never again give away my soul. And then I met you, Celine. You made me be at peace with women, with feminism, with life. You gave me the strength and inspiration I need to make the effort to write the story I'm going to write after finishing Sofia's story. If I ever escape from hell, I will write about you, Celine. Your story is pending.
You helped me to heal my pain. You held my hand when I told you about the accident and you made me feel that you suffered with me. But the moment passed, and in bed you treated me as a man who desired you. You gave me the opportunity to love you, to make love, to be a man with you. You let me get you excited, you let me kiss every part of your body, you let me taste the flavour of all your juices. You enjoyed watching me tasting the juices I dug out of your body, telling you that I receive everything from you. You enjoyed me penetrating you with the strength of a beast and you also enjoyed the sweet words I whispered in your ear when our bodies were still wet and sweaty. You hugged me when we got cold, you hugged me when I was cold, getting every part of me. You wanted me to explore what you thought was forbidden for me. You enjoyed that I enjoyed your body, and I enjoyed that you enjoyed mine.
However, the best part was the pillow talk. Pillow talking to you was so liberating. I needed to reveal the demons first, but once they were caged, I wanted you to know my childlike soul, still hidden and unseen behind the self-sufficient and cultured intellect. I wanted you to receive everything from me, so that I could also receive you. With everything. You swallowed my poison, spat it out, and gave me the opportunity to start anew. I love you.
-You should write about it, you are so good telling stories -you said
-But I can’t speak about me with honesty, there is too much shit-
-Maybe the best thing would be to talk about similar shit, not exactly your own-
That was the moment I thought you were the right woman to be by the side of a wannabe genius. You are the genius; I am the carpenter.
-It doesn’t matter who is the genius, the important thing is to create a masterpiece about the intimacy of lovers.- you said, guessing my thoughts.
I knew exactly what you meant. Your acceptance of my inner monsters packed my soul with desire to embrace yours, especially if you felt embarrassed by them. You learned about my accidents, I wanted to learn about yours, and embrace the way you dealt with them. Our reciprocated emotional clinch built a desire for a sexuality that expressed our complicity.
-Don’t speak about sex so explicitly here, leave it for another book- you said when you read this part. So, I erased it. But I want to leave a line, at least about how amazing the oral sex was.
-Erase that. This is not the book to write this– you said.
-So here I speak about the accident, and the way I dealt with it-
-Not exactly, just change the details. Make something up-
-Readers won’t know what is true and what I made up. It’s like I am playing with them. Some people will be very upset-
-So what? It’s literature-
-So how do I start? -
-Just write this sentence, in a dialogue:
Only a woman knows what it feels when her body is penetrated by the dick of a rapist
-That is too tough! And I would be an impostor if I wrote this-
-Never mind if you are. Well, you could quote a character, in a dialogue-I love your complicity. There were moments when I thought you didn't exist, but I feel you're there, reading me. You're there, thinking with me. Feeling with me.
-Yes, I exist. You believe I'm here, in your imagination, but I'm here. I didn't experience the love scenes with my own skin, but I was with you. I almost stepped into the story I read. Didn't you feel me?
-Yes, of course. You lived the story in your own way, and I enjoyed knowing that you did. And what if the reader were a man?
In that case, don't worry: if they've reached this point, they'll have empathy. They will understand me and they will understand you.
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