Bowery

And I guess I realized at that moment, that I really did love her.  Because there was nothing to gain,  and that didn't matter. (Charlie, The Perks of Being a Wallflower ,  p.179)

            Reading into Andrea Dworkin’s array of works on radical feminism [1] reminds me of that time I was scolded by my mom for having sexual urges; as if I was to be blamed for the way my body works. As if it was unnatural for women to want to have sex. I was probably four when my mom first caught me rocking on my tricycle seat, back and forth, trying to generate more from the strange pleasure of rubbing my genital against something. She pulled me off my tricycle abruptly and proceeded to sit me in front of her. Here came her first reprimand on how what I was doing was absolutely disgusting, shameful, and most importantly worthy of sin from God. Without any coherence of reasoning, she simply stated that touching my vagina is unacceptable. The 4 year old me was understandably confused and scared of the threat in her voice and decided to never do it again(or even if I did, it was never to be found out by her). Later when I entered adolescence she tried to address it agai