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She had been a good girl, had always acted like a lady, never
raised her voice, always deferred to everybody and everything. She had assumed that somewhere down the line there would be a reward for that; a prize.
So all that struggle to stay pure, the fear of being touched, the fear of driving a boy mad with passion by any gesture, and the ultimate fear—getting pregnant—all that wasted energy was for nothing.
He hunted and fished and watched his football games like the other men, but she began to suspect that he, too, was just playing a part.
Lately, it had been an endless procession of long, black nights and gray mornings, when her sense of failure swept over her like a five-hundred-pound wave; and she was scared.
She could almost feel the ice-cold bullet shooting through her hot, troubled brain, freezing the pain for good.
You cain’t dwell on sadness, oh, it’ll make you sick faster than anything in this world.”
What was this power, this insidious threat, this invisible gun to her head that controlled her life … this terror of being called names? She had stayed a virgin so she wouldn’t be called a tramp or a slut; had married so she wouldn’t be called an old maid; faked orgasms so she wouldn’t be called frigid; had children so she wouldn’t be called barren; had not been a feminist because she didn’t want to be called queer and a man hater; never