With up to eight students, we first practice on a silicone-filled model (with quite lumpy breasts). I show them the palpation technique: Fingers make circles of light, medium, and deep pressure as they move in a vertical stripe pattern (lawnmower versus zigzag). Then I take off my shirt and bra and we look for rashes, dimpling, and changes in the nipples (such as spontaneous discharge or inversion). I teach them to palpate my nodes along the clavicle and under the armpit (“No tickling!”). Then, one at a time, they practice the vertical stripe technique on my breast.
Most students have been a pleasure to teach. A few had terrible palpation skills (I can only hope they’ve gone into research). Two got noticeable erections (I sympathized, as they seemed mortified at this betrayal of their body). A couple were inappropriate (one kept asking if my parents and boyfriend knew I did this work), and one asked me out (though I thought, Wouldn’t this be a story to tell our grandkids? I said no, of course). The majority of my students, however, have been respectful and grateful for the opportunity to learn from, and on, me.
I’m amazed by all the ways this job has impacted my life. As hoped (and as strange as it may sound), undressing in front of strangers has made me more comfortable with my body. Now, years into the job, I take off my shirt and bra, drop my pants, and often feel like a superhero. I’m not a “perfect 10,” just a healthy, strong woman, unashamed of her body. I feel students’ admiration and respect, and I deserve it because I am doing important work for women and women’s health. In addition, I’ve become knowledgeable about my reproductive health. Knowing where my uterus is and what my cervix looks like makes me more in touch with being a woman. On the downside, as “party talk” goes, telling people I’m a pelvic educator can be a conversation starter—or stopper. And at times, no amount of kisses could summon my libido because it got lost earlier in the day during the third pelvic exam. In general, however, I’ve found this to be rewarding work, both because of the immediate positive changes I see in my students and because of the ripple effect I know my work will have on their future patients. Finally, a nice benefit is that every day when I go to work, I’m reminded that Hey, I’ve got ovaries.
molly kenefick ([email protected]), a recovering “good Catholic girl,” founded PassionPress.com, an erotic audio publishing company in the San Francisco Bay area that emphasizes and celebrates women’s pleasure. Molly lives in Oakland, California.
The women and girls in this chapter are risking their lives. Or at least a trip to the hospital.
When we read their stories we might think, I could never do that! But they might have thought that, too. Before. So then is there a potential daredevil in each of us? If so, what has to happen inside a girl’s head to make her decide to put herself in harm’s way? What has to happen in a woman’s heart to move her to risk her life?
These women are motivated. They are inspired by needs that take a variety of forms: an instinct for survival, a lust for adventure, an impulse toward self-defense, a calling to help another, a dream that must be pursued. The potential hazards just don’t matter. Meeting those needs takes precedence over everything else—worries, fear, even safety.
Some of the women here actually enjoy danger! They purposefully incorporate adrenalizing activities into their lives with the work they do, where they live, or how they play (read: Xtreme sports).
Pretty remarkable, considering that the message girls have gotten for eons is to be cautious, certainly not to put themselves in the line of fire. And if women somehow found themselves in that line, they were to wait for some benevolent Y chromosome—Prince Charming, James Bond, Batman?–to save them. The message was clear: Women were not to participate in their own rescuing.
Well, here, the damsels in distress do. In fact, the reality is that gutsy broads have been taking an active, primary role in their own saving since women have walked the Earth.
These stories illustrate what women are truly capable of, and some of the many ways their risk-taking can be expressed. Some planned, some not; some wise, some foolhardy; some about fun, others about survival–these acts show that women and girls can be aggressive and engage in life-threatening, taking-it-right-to-the-edge-of-the-cliff behavior that traditionally they’ve been told they’d better leave for others.
Adventures in the Jungle
denise grant
The summer before my senior year in high school, I worked as a cashier at a movie theater near an area of Los Angeles nicknamed the Jungle. In the late 1980s, the Jungle was an economically and socially depressed district. Many of its inhabitants were angry, unemployed, disillusioned, or on drugs. This movie theater was one of the few money-generating businesses in the area. In many ways it was a cool, air-conditioned oasis in a land of heated despair. Because of the gang-infested location of the theater, we had unusual rules and regulations for admittance, including “No hats or headwear for men.” Hat colors and styles were one of the ways a local could show his gang affiliation.
I liked my job at the theater, as did most of the people who worked there. With our first-run movies, freshly popped popcorn, and a guaranteed secure environment, everyone felt we were in some small way giving something positive to the community.
One unusually hot day, a questionable looking gentleman came to the front desk to purchase a ticket for himself and his two young sons.
“I can sell you tickets,” I said, as I casually flipped through the latest Glamour, “but I can’t let you in until you remove the rollers and scarf.”
I was certain that his bright blue hair curlers and navy blue bandanna indicated gang affiliation. And although there was a sign clearly stating the rules of admission above the theater’s entrance, this guy became absolutely furious at me. He stood at the cashier’s booth (with his boys standing behind him), screaming and berating me for almost ten minutes. Everyone in the theater lobby—children, elders, my coworkers—could hear his yelling and cursing. I stood there eyes wide, head tilted, and mouth agape, alternating between shock and embarrassment, for me and for this guy standing before me in blue rollers. Eventually, my boss came over to reason with the irate customer. It didn’t work. Security was summoned to escort him off the premises.
Not more than thirty minutes later, I was in line at a local fastfood fried chicken place with some friends from work. I was complaining about my horrible encounter with the guy at the theater, when who should burst through the door but the same guy and his two sons. I hadn’t expected him, but I wasn’t at all surprised to see him either. He began cursing and calling me all sorts of names again—and then he pulled out a huge, steel-gray gun. (I later learned it was a 9mm.) Wild-eyed and sweaty, with his sons in tow, he walked toward me screaming, “Now how tough are you, now that you’re not behind that glass? I could kill you right now!”
Yes, he could. But for some reason I remained calm, observing the entire incident with a detached sense of amusement: It all seemed so unreal—a gangbanger, a gun, my life on the line? The restaurant patrons stared at the two of us, likely wishing they had been in the mood for burgers and not chicken that day.
At the time, I was seventeen years old, five feet tall, weighing in at less than a hundred pounds, and possessing more mouth than brains. Anyway, something inside me snapped. This man had cursed and berated me at the theater for what seemed like an eternity and now had the gall to follow me here on my lunch break … and pull out a gun?
I don’t think so.
I stepped away from my friends and toward the guy: “If it will make you feel like a big man in front of your two kids to shoot a ninety-pound teenager, then just go ahead and shoot.” My anger fueling me, I started to walk even closer to him, “Just shoot me. What’s wrong? I’m not behind the counter now.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see the people in the restaurant literally drop their chicken wings, corn on the cob, and biscuits, and witness this insane scene. My two friends were behind me, in complete shock, as they later told me. The guy must have been surprised, t
oo. For a moment he just froze, staring at me.
“What are you waiting for?” I screamed, becoming hysterical and lunging toward him. “I thought you were going to kill me!” I was enraged. Just who did he think he was anyway?
He hadn’t counted on my being as crazy as he was. Frankly, neither had I. He started backing away, slowly at first, then turned around and ran, yelling “Crazy bitch” over his shoulder. His children trotted after him.
I stood there for a moment to regain my composure. A detached feeling of serenity came over me, yet at the same time I felt vindicated at having taken on the bully and won. I glanced at my Hello Kitty watch and turned to my friends, “Are you still hungry? We only have fifteen minutes left for lunch.”
Sensing that the guy would not be coming back, the restaurant patrons gave me a round of applause and the managers offered me a free meal, but none of us was hungry anymore.
When we got back to the theater, my boss called the police, who questioned me about the entire drama. I didn’t remember much, so my friends supplied most of the details. When I casually mentioned the incident to my parents at dinner, they wanted me to quit, saying that working in the Jungle was far too dangerous. I told them it wasn’t that bad, and I wanted to finish the summer with my friends. I did, and the incident was forgotten (except by my parents) within a few days.
denise grant ([email protected]) writes, travels, and plans events. She doesn’t mind being called a “crazy bitch” if the definition of the term is someone who always fights for the underdog–including when it is herself.
Slapshot off the Rink
amy chambers
Everyone who knows me knows I’m a big hockey fan, so it wasn’t surprising that I was at my boyfriend’s game. During the event, I watched with the rest of the crowd as the two teams were violent on the ice. We all figured it would cool off after the game ended.
Wrong.
On the trip back to the locker room, one of the other team’s players started trash-mouthing one of ours. A fight broke out between the two, and soon everyone from both teams was involved. Before I knew what I was doing, I jumped in to break up the fight. First, I grabbed a player from our team and peeled him off some defeated doormat under him. Then I shoved aside dumbfounded bystanders.
It was exhilarating … a complete rush. It was like my whole being had abandoned my body and was now watching myself break up this jumble of brawling bodies. Sure, I was scared being in the thick of it. I could practically feel the fear pulsing through my veins. But that didn’t stop me, because I was also ticked off. I suppose that’s why I started screaming at all the players—as if they didn’t each outweigh me by a whopping one hundred pounds! When the players and I came to our senses, the fight ended with the exchange of a few vulgar words and the referees escorting everyone (except me) to their respective locker rooms.
Driving home, I realized what a crazy person I was. I thanked God for being a woman—if I was a guy, I could’ve gotten my butt seriously kicked. Maybe next time I’ll offer to be a target for the pig pile at a football game.
amy chambers ([email protected]) is a college girl who doesn’t usually get into brawls. No, usually she volunteers as an emergency medical technician with the Tri-Town Terrorcats highschool hockey team.
Not Minding My Own Business
mary ann mccourt
Two years ago, as I was driving down a major street on my way home from work, I passed a young man hitting a teenage girl and throwing her to the ground. As I zipped by, I saw her repeatedly get up and try to run, only to have the guy push her down again and again. Now past them, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw him dragging her into the bushes. My god, he’s going to rape her. Almost without thinking, I made an illegal U-turn on the busy road and pulled up alongside where he was slapping and dragging her.
“Leave her alone!” I shouted, as I jumped out of my car. Part of me couldn’t believe I was getting in the middle of this, but mostly I was too enraged at this guy to stop myself.
The girl stood up again, and ran toward me with a look of sheer panic on her face.
“Get in the car,” I yelled to her. That was all I could say at the time: “Get in the car,” I repeated, though by now she was almost inside.
Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, her assailant followed after her, and the realization suddenly struck me, Ohmygod, what if he has a knife or a gun? I have two young kids at home, what would they do without me? I didn’t even have a car phone to call for help.
So I shouted at him again, “You! You stay right where you are. The police are on their way.” A big fat lie.
“Whaddya mean?” he said.
“You heard me, I called the police. Stay away from her.”
Meanwhile, people were driving by in their cars. I looked at the faces of the drivers as they sped past, hoping someone might stop and offer help. Instead, they gawked and drove on. I couldn’t help thinking, What if I had acted like all those other apathetic drivers? Who knows what he would have done to her?
As the teenager climbed into my car, her attacker began pleading: “Don’t do it, baby, don’t go with that lady.” Luckily, she closed the door fast and we sped away.
Now where should we go? I wondered. Of course. “I want to take you to the police station, to fill out a report,” I said.
The girl was breathing hard, catching her breath, and visibly shaken. “I don’t know … maybe I should just go back to class … can you drop me off at the high school?”
“High school?” I asked. So young. “Is that guy your boyfriend?”
Turns out they had been dating for three years, since she was just fourteen. Now she was seventeen, and he was in his twenties. This was not the first occurrence of violent behavior. It was ongoing and getting worse—including the night before, when he had smashed the windshield of her family’s car. I could tell just by looking at her that she was deathly afraid of him. I’d seen the look before: My sister’s boyfriend had stalked her. I tried to convince the girl that she needed to get some help, today.
When we arrived at the station, we both wrote down our versions of the story. But she obviously didn’t want to go through with any procedures. Fortunately, she did call her parents. The officer said the police department would contact me to testify if she decided to press charges. Behind the girl’s back, the officer added, “Don’t hold your breath.”
Before I left this young girl I was now so afraid for, I told her how hard we’d worked to keep my younger sister out of danger. It was not easy, but in the end, my sister’s ex-boyfriend stopped bothering her. As I pulled the keys out of my purse, I said, “I’m scared if you stay with this guy, I’ll be reading about you in the death notices.” I had never felt so sure of anything in my life.
She looked at me with tears in her eyes. “You’re not the only one who thinks that.”
This story doesn’t have a happy ending; it has a real-life ending. I was never called to testify. I don’t know what happened to this poor girl. I pray she is safe and happy, but deep down I know she is just one of many women and girls who, for any number of complex and personal reasons, stay in abusive and sometimes deadly relationships.
In a way, I can’t believe what I did that afternoon, especially given how crazy and violent people can be these days. But I’m sure I’d do it again if I saw the same thing happening tomorrow.
Wouldn’t you?
mary ann mccourt ([email protected]), today a mother of three, cares about all young people. She works in the Metro Detroit area for the Infant Mortality Project, a nonprofit organization dedicated to reducing infant deaths. She now owns a car phone, for emergencies such as these.
Surfergrrl
elaine marshall
Learning to skydive is electrifying. At two miles up (as in in the sky), I smiled crazily at my instructor, a strapping Vietnam vet I called Mommy, let go of the airplane, and slipped into the utter freedom and excitement of falling through the air at more than
150 miles per hour.
As I lay panting and pale-faced on the ground after my first jump, a seasoned sky diver who had heard my screams during free fall kneeled down beside me. “Congratulations,” he said. “You just experienced your first airgasm.” The sport of skydiving had initiated its newest adrenaline junkie; knees shaking, ears pounding, clothes damp with sweat, I hobbled to the ticket window to sign up for a second jump.
Skydiving is never boring. Sometimes it is downright terrifying. But the initial shocks of adrenaline I experienced as a student soon gave way to the calmer pleasure of enjoying bird’s-eye views and mastering the art of flying my own body. So with 550 jumps under my belt, I decided to give skysurfing a try.
Skysurfing has pushed the boundaries of skydiving, a sport in which risks are carefully calculated (honest). The pro who flies a fifty-five-inch surfing board through a series of freestyle spins, flips, and twists is regarded by some skydivers as a renegade, a lunatic. Sounded like my kind of sport! The prospect of leaping from an airplane with my feet strapped together on a stiff metal board brought back that familiar feeling of dread, which, I realized somewhat sickeningly, I welcomed. I called to schedule my first lesson.
On a chilly Saturday morning, I met with Mike, a tall, athletic skysurfing pioneer who would teach me what little there was to know about this new sport that involved swooshing through the sky on an air-designed snowboard. Mike showed me how to strap into a puny-looking, twenty-four-inch beginner’s skyboard and accustom myself to the “trauma,” as he insisted on calling it, of having my feet restricted to an object that exerted its own forces in free fall. Should I find myself trapped and spinning uncontrollably under the skyboard, as skysurfers sometimes do, I had merely to yank on an emergency release that would send the board to Earth under its own mini-parachute.
That Takes Ovaries! Page 10