Nicholas Powers | Affirmative Action Orgasms

But when I looked down the street and saw the men there, some of them my friends, I felt naked, vulnerable in my imagined body. I wouldn’t be able to just walk by them. They would dissect my breasts and legs with their eyes. They would catcall. They would order me to smile. Some would walk beside me, trying to pull my name or get my number. And if I didn’t answer they’d curse me.

Every day, I would have to untangle myself from their voices that crisscrossed the sidewalk like fishing lines. I would wear headphones like a helmet to shield myself against the blast of their open lust. If I stayed late at work or wanted to go out it would be an issue. At night, whole sections of the city are off-limits to a woman.

What if I was a working-class woman and no Prince Charming came for me? If I were a straight woman, I’d have to find a lover among these men. Behind closed doors, I would be near their volcanic egos that spewed hot chunks of hurt. Building a life with them would mean having to trust someone who seemed to be sinking into debt, into jail, into a bottle or just into bleak-eyed work that, like mine, left little time to find oneself.

And what if I as a woman met me? How would I as a man treat me as a woman? I wondered about the silent judgments that would be made. Would I have to prove my worth to him? Would his male privileges be a lacquer that glazed his thinking? Would he hurt me? Knowing my combustible mix of arrogance and insecurity, I was forced to admit that yes, yes I would.

Turning the corner, I imagined the weight that women must physically feel. Sure, some have class or racial privileges that lessen it, but even just this brief fantasy made me feel like a spectacle for men. I hated having my movements hemmed in by fear. Anger knotted my forehead. I looked at the men I knew, who saw me and waved. I gritted my teeth.

The Bell Curve

When I saw my lover the next day I apologized for the bell. “It was a stupid idea,” I said and shrugged. “I thought about the self-judgment, the fear, the limits that women feel and I felt angry, ashamed. On a systemic level, men have to work with other men to push against sexism, I get that, I do but instead of ‘blah, blah, blah’ why can’t we actually commit time to repairing some of the damage? And pleasure can heal.”

She eyed me without saying anything. She was a quiet thinker — radiant constellations flashed continuously in her eyes but it took days before she told me about her decisions. And now she studied my face and I felt like glass.

“It’s about justice. A straight man in a relationship with a woman should be getting her off at least four times a day. I don’t know.” I threw up my hands. “Call it Affirmative Action Orgasms.”

“Is that really all it’s about?” she asked.

“No,” I muttered and went to my desk. “It’s my way of penance.”

Sitting down, I began doing school work. Then I heard the bell ring. Turning around, I saw her smiling. She patted her inner thighs. “Reparations?”

I got up laughing and we fell in together. An hour later, I was doing work again when she rang the bell. “Seriously?” I asked. “If you want world peace,” she said making gang signs over her pubic hair, “Come eat me out.”

When she rang, I answered. If I was cooking and heard the bell, I turned off the oven and went to her. If I was reading or writing and heard the bell, I put the work down and went to her. If she was in the shower and rang the bell, I came in. Over those first two weeks, I saw a bright joy begin to illuminate her face. Her body’s rhythms became as sweeping as ocean tides that erased and redrew her self-image. An easy, flowing generosity filled our nights together.

One evening, I was drinking with friends when my cell phoned beeped. I answered it and heard a bell ringing. Instantly I got up, and they asked where I was going. “I have to do reparations,” I said. They looked at me, eyes scrunched, not understanding.

“You guys should definitely look into getting bells,” I said smiling, and left.

 This creative nonfiction originally appeared in The Indypendent. a New York City-based newspaper published 13 times a year.  Used by permission. His newest book, Ground Below Zero, is available on Amazon.