Free Cunt by Betty Dodson Inga Muscio Page A

adventure until she comes her brains
     out. She’s rolled her eyes and moaned on public transportation and in long lines at
     the grocery store. Comin’ her brains out. Another friend of mine goes the manual route,
     but has specialized her timing and precision in elevators.
    For those of us less mentally talented and/or dexterous, there are vibrators, dildos,
     Ben Wa balls, butt plugs and massage wands shaped like everything from dill pickles
     to elephants with trunks raised clit high. Also, of course, the five holy and munificent
     fingers on each hand.
    Sex exclusively with girls is also fun. Unless pregnancy is on the agenda, or something
     immaculate occurs, lesbians do not usually conceive. Women do not have sperm. Thus,
     women cannot accidentally get each other pregnant. HIV, though, is another scenario.
     Women are able to pass HIV to each other. The research done thus far on the possibility
     of acquiring HIV woman to woman is inconclusive, but the risk should be taken seriously.
     Trust no one but yourself, and always practice the safest possible sex.
    In conclusion, the only 100 percent safe and infallible birth control lifestyles worth
     considering are: masturbation and/or sex exclusively with women. When neither of these
     lifestyles coincides with a cuntlovin’ woman’s reality, the prevention of unplanned
     pregnancy is often an issue.
     
    There are ways for cuntlovin’ women to deal with this issue without the pill, barriers
     against the cervix, hormone implants or whatever other “choices” male-centered medicine’s
     birth control industry has palmed off on us.
    What, exactly, is the lifecycle of a woman’s body doing under the jurisdiction of a medical science established, defined and implemented
     by people who do not have cunts?
    It’s like suddenly, one day in the Middle Ages, people figured men should be in charge
     of women’s bodies since they were in charge of pretty much everything else.
    In context, at the time, perhaps it made sense.
    It does not make sense anymore.
    Maybe we lost contact with our archives somewhere along the way. Maybe we kinda went
     ahead and played along like we were dumb. Maybe we got beaten and raped and tortured
     and enslaved into submission.
    That is the past.
    It’s something to reckon with, but also: it’s gone.
    Face it, forget it.
    Focus on the present: the age of communication.
    We gots us the Internet.
    You can e-mail government officials in Pakistan and plead mercy for the fifteen-year-old
     girl sentenced to death for killing the man who raped her. You can find the chemical
     compound for Depo-Provera and see how that chemical compound affects the human body.
     You can hop on Diamanda Galás’s website and find out what in good Lordisa’s name she’s
     up to now. You can download all the recipes for chocolate chip cookies on the planet
     earth and follow a different one each month when you and your friends are PMSing.
    And that’s just the Internet.
    Living as we do in an age of communication, it is pretty much acceptable to go, “Hey
     Gramma, what’d you use for birth control, how did you bleed, what was sex like back
     then, how many lovers did you have, how many abortions, when, where, how, why?”
    Bam , connection with history.
    Our communication environment fosters vast, far-reaching and intricate networks of
     women who utilize fanzines, small presses, schools, record companies, magazines, television
     shows and movies. Women from all socioeconomic stratas communicate in mediums that
     in the past were either not accessible or not invented.
    It is perfectly socially acceptable for you to write down every thought you’ve ever had about anything —from your gorgeous prize wisteria, to the insane relationship you have with your
     hair, to your all-consuming love for the clitoris—then slap the words together with
     some cool pictures, make five hundred copies, staple each and sell them to every woman
     you do and don’t know for a