Goodbye To Comics #1:
The Broken Vagina Monologues
You might have noticed in the last post that I glossed over a rather visceral phrase: “broken vagina.” I think Broken Vagina is a good way to begin this theoretical memoir. It’s provocative and begs explanation. Of course, you might be wondering what a theoretical broken vagina has to do with comic books. It has a literal and figurative meaning, both of which I hope will be apparent buy the end of this post.
Actually, let’s get the figurative one out of the way -- I WAS FUCKED BY COMICS!
Ok, super. Let’s go.
I, like many in the comics industry, had sex with someone within the comics industry. Actually, there was a bit of fine wine and good food, laughs and hugs under the stars, but, in the end, there was fucking. The last man I had fucked, six years previously (obviously such a positive experience in itself that I became abstinent, questioned my sexuality, and got my jollies writing Buffy porn), was also in the industry. The man I fucked before that was also in the comics industry. The man I fucked before that was only tangentally in the comics industry and was more of a comic book collector. The man I fucked before that collected rare Megos. Before that, I used to have sexual fantasies about Burt Ward and still slept with my teddy bear.
But back to my broken vagina.
We have dinner, laughs and hugs under the stars, and then I say the magic line -- “why don’t I go over your place and take a look at your comic book collection?”
To be honest, I didn’t feel completely gung-ho about sleeping with this particular person, but I wanted to be “normal” like Carrie on “Sex in the City” and have sex like it was no big deal. I had been afraid of getting intimate with anyone since my last boyfriend, and always carried a a degree of guilt and shame concerning my body & sex.
But I knew that this time would be different. I was newly-skinny (okay, that was because of catastrophic illness, but I looked good in a belt), I was blond (just like Mom!), and I had a bunch of crazy promises from various small-time industry types that yes my star was to rise again.
We made love on a bed that I later found out was supported by long comic boxes. We fucked on comics. It was not the first time for me.
Two-thirds into the sex, I felt a “pop.” It was the only actual pain I felt, that quick, swift pop.
I kicked my partner off of me and pulled myself into a crouched sitting position. I felt something warm pour down my legs.
“T-t-the bluh....the bluhhhhhh...”
“Are you sure you’re not a virgin?”
“Maybe you had some of your virginity left?”
Then it stopped. My eyes darted quickly to the beige carpeted floor, which was soaked with a big circle of blood.
At this point, I think it would be helpful to give the other member of this awkward carnal tango a name. Significantly, throughout all of the therapy I received right after the injury, I never mentioned this man by name once. As my therapist pointed out, this made for a choppy, hard-to-follow narrative. So I would have to name him, just as I would have to name everyone.
But I can’t really do that, can I? This being a theoretical memoir and all.
What would OJ do?
(Theoretical conversation between OJ and Judith Regan of Harper Collins
OJ: So...let’s say theoretically I killed Nicky and Ron...I could say how I did it? Theoretically, of course? And get a lot of money?
Regan: Well...it would be theoretical money.
OJ: Oh. Could I spend theoretical money? Could I use it to buy a boat, for example?
Regan: You could buy a theoretical boat.
OJ: Could...I sail on a theoretical boat?
OJ: Can it be a yacht? I like yachts.
Regan: Dear, it can be any type of boat you want.
OJ: Chinese junk?
OJ: I...I’m going to get fucked somehow from all this, aren’t I? You’re entrapping me, aren’t you?
Regan: I’m on your side, OJ.)
It ocurrs to me that I will have to give theoretical names to this theoretical cast of characters. For this task I go to my handy-dandy online random name generator, a great tool if you ever want to surf the net looking for other lonely, disaffected souls at 2:00 in the morning to engage in a bit of conversation.
The first name I get is “Donovan Paul.”
Okay, so Donovan Paul has just leaped off my bleeding body, his body splattered with blood as well, both of us naked as the day we were born. Somewhere, Dario Argento is dreaming. Donovan regards nervously the red fluid that has dripped through and past his thin futon mattress, threatening to stain his collection of Giffen “Defenders.”
“Uh, I think the first thing to do is...stay calm...and get off the bed. Hey look, it’s stopped bleeding.”
“Y-yeah...yeah it has. M-maybe it was just a little t-tear...I could get it c-checked out with the gynocologist tomorrow if it s-still bothers me...”
“Do you have a gyno?”
“N-no...” I look up hopefully at him, think Willow Rosenberg circa season two of Buffy. “B-but I will -- I’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning!”
Then the bleeding started again.