Sex through a lifetime
an excerpt

She felt manly. She knew most people would never look at her that closely, but when she stared like that, she could easily see the random hairs under her square jaw, the mustache bleach didn’t quite make disappear, her broad, square shoulders, her less-than-delicate hands. She’d look at her wide and calloused feet and her burly calves. Her short fingernails running up and down her imperfect body, looking for flaws. Dicolourations. Abnormalaly shaped freckle. She’d count her grey and white hairs and shake her head at the big pores around her nose. Big pores! Talk about insane! Like most people go around judging people for the size of their pores.

After staring awhile she’d fixate on her mouth, her full lips, her pretty eyes, her big floppy breasts, her hips, her slightly round stomach and strong legs. She’s say hello to each stretchmark. Each scar that told a story. She’d stare at the curls between her legs and wonder if they needed a trim. Then she’d smile. She was a woman alright. This is what a woman looked like. Not a girl. Not some inflated Barbie doll some men thought of as ideal, either. She just had to remember that. Again.

How does one even become a woman? Not when you’re old enough to fornicate in the dark with some other teenager. Not when you’re old enough to fornicate with the light on, although you’re probably closer. Not when you turn 18, or when you graduate school. Something must happen to you to make you feel like a woman. A gradual transition? Maybe. But usually it is kicked off by some sort of event. You give birth, maybe. You pay your own bills you stand on your own feet. You defy convention, you have no apologies? Maybe it’s when you learn to cook, Or you walk back home from the grocery store in below freezing weather with 200$ worth of food and a toddler on your shoulders while you push a stroller?