Rubber Missiles
An Exercise in Unlearning
Article by Anna Heimel, art by Utshaa Basu
Content Warning: Religious indoctrination, abortion
I remember the off-white light in the girls’ bathroom. I untied my shoes as I overheard a word. Masturbation. It was Ella who said it across the room. It echoed through those white tile floors.
I’d never been told what it meant, but I knew that I knew it. Ella said, it’s when you have sex with yourself. Ella’s mom was a doctor and it showed. Ella was smart. She always seemed to know more than me. It killed me. She knew the word masturbation, but did she do it too? I doubted it. She did everything right. She didn’t know shame, she never over-ate, she never made mistakes in math class. Surely. She never touched herself until she burned.
I did it for months after that day in the bathroom. One morning I sat, raw in religion class. The teacher said: Do unto others as you would yourself. We read from our shiny books that broke down the bible into small sections of self-loathing. Sex is sacred... don’t have sex before marriage... don’t participate in self-gratification…
Excuse me???
Did this book covered with a smiling cartoon Jesus just tell me what to do with my body? Jesus smiled at me as my stomach burned with anger.
I continued my nightly routine. It felt a little bad, but it felt too good to let the words from that book interfere. Looking back, I know the guilt nestled quietly inside of me.
Three months later, the teachers brought us to the library for a “talk” about abortion. I knew what that word meant; my mom had told me women get them when they need them. So their lives aren’t ruined. She had one once in law school. I sat down on the itchy floor. The fluorescent light stared. It was seventh grade and my school had recruited an anti-abortion activist to speak to us. The smiling woman started talking. She talked about pussies like she didn’t have one. She stared at me as she said: Sex is sacred. I looked down at the carpet. She continued: Don’t have sex before marriage. If you do make that mistake, keep the baby... life starts at conception. She talked about sex like it was an accident. Like she didn’t know what it felt like to cum. I sunk further down into the itchy floor and my stomach churned.
I looked up again. My eyes met spiky forceps that wound through the smiling woman’s hands. She opened and closed them slowly as she detailed how doctors used them to crush the baby’s skull...mutilate its limbs...rip it from the mother’s uterus. She stared at us, making sure we imagined what she said. She kept smiling eerily as Ella and I exchanged nervous looks.
Three years passed. I was in high school. I walked across the soft white carpet of Ella’s boyfriend’s basement. I was wearing short shorts. The shorts the staring woman said would invite men to take advantage of me. I knew this wasn’t true, but I did wear them because I wanted to be looked at. I wanted to drink a lot of vodka and kiss a man. To be touched by someone else’s hand. I made eyes at the blonde boy across the room and he walked over. I felt powerful. I told him how drunk I was and giggled. He put his arm around my waist. He pulled me closer and my stomach burned. I wanted him. He stared into me and met my lips with his; he sucked on them and pulled my tongue inside his mouth. He put his hand around my neck, gently but intently. I felt close to him. It felt like we’d done this for years. The neon blue light wrapped around us as my body sunk into his. My skin tingled hotly as his cool grip grew firmer.
The next day my stomach churned when I found out he had a girlfriend. I was the other woman in my first sexual experience. He used my body and lied about it to his girlfriend and to Ella (who knew he was bullshitting). She and I told him what he already knew. Still, I couldn’t help think about that night with him when I touched myself. I focused on his body and reconstructed every scene. When I drank, I could feel him. His touch grew stronger with every sip; so many nights, I sipped too much to reach him.
Months later, after trying and failing to have sex in college, I sat at home in isolation. My body was healing as I pushed rubber missiles inside of me. I had started pelvic floor therapy and I could put things in me without pain. I had a friend who became my lover. I tried and failed to let him inside of me. Months passed. Eventually, I visited him and it worked. I let him in under those warm yellow lights and it didn’t hurt. It didn’t... those yellow lights were too soft. We broke up, but my body absorbed his love. It dissolved the fear inside of me and allowed me to open myself without pain.
Some days, sex still stings. But I do it, honoring the work I put in to gain control over my body. Some days, I even enjoy it. Some days, it is euphoric. My new love and I turn on the red lights and soak each other in. When the sting subsides, it burns so good. Everything is red and warm.