Dentata
The way they described it, I figured it must be dangerous, this thing they spoke of. It was my curse, after all, for what She did in the Beginning, and what I would have done, had it been me in Her place? A curse should be violent.
The original Implant lodged, firm and unshakable, an in-built time bomb. A mark of shame, our bright pain, our own fault, our self-inflicted blemish, our sin. Women were evil, corrupted by this thing that steered them and equipped them to corrupt others in turn – that much was made clear. Men were its victims, our victims, taken in by wiles and smiles, beguiled, innocent as a child until she had him where she wanted him, between her legs, in her very Curse, intimate as sin on sin, flesh on flesh. And not only would it damage men, this Cursed region, but, given the chance, it would maim the very women who bore it, wayward fingers wandering astray in response to rumours like tumours that infected the female mind – the hope that this Curse might not be so dangerous after all, but something in which they could even find pleasure, or some part of themselves they’d misplaced.
I don’t recall if someone told me about the biting or if I inferred it for myself, but by the age of ten the image was firmly lodged in my imagination: this dreaded thing between my legs, intimate and intimidating, deadly and destructive, was armed with the fangs of divine justice. That wailing and gnashing of teeth from Revelation was hidden in the folds and shadows of the body’s crossroads, the X’s shameful centromere, all-consuming always, poised to swallow you whole. Guard it with your life, my elders said, to protect both others and yourself. No one will love you if you let them close enough to see it. My imagination sketched a greedy, guzzling second throat, salivating in anticipation, lips pulled back in a snarling, frenzied grin as it awaited its prey. Pray indeed – for your immortal soul, they told me, that the corruption does not spread from this, your core; keep a clean mind and a contrite heart and cling to purity – a purity so lofty and unattainable as to be fictitious.
And if, should a man skirt your defences, your skirt, then that too is your fault. This curse – this vulnerability and locus of weakness, this target bullseye, this bright scarlet letter – is ours to bear and to guard. If a man gains access, then you must have let your guard down, neglected your responsibility, or led him on with your shy glances and feigned innocence, encouraging his advances. Another inch on the hem of that dress ought to do the trick, save them from you – although a muzzle would clearly be preferable.
I gleaned this information over a number of years, and while I now know it for the propaganda it was, the fear of myself lives within me still. Perhaps it always will. I dismissed the myths, learned to recognize the lies, but am haunted and charmed by the gleaming kernel of truth on which such grand fabrications are often founded. For this reason, that part of me, my defining core for so long, will remain unexplored, at least by my own probing curiosity.
They were right, however, to fear it. Teeth or no teeth, its presence unites us, a powerhouse of solidarity and shared shame surmounted. You see, the night I finally lost my virginity, he cried far more than I did. He bled far more too.