I want to express thanks and call out a few people for special praise for their contribution and creativity. First of all, behind every good man is a woman. In this case, two women: Kym Pappas and Carla Nell, who are also the directors and producers of V-Day in San Diego. They have done a tremendous job, in adding The MENding to V-Day and advertising the two shows together, positioning it as the ying and yang of solving the problem of violence. Thank you, you two strong, beautiful and wonderful women for giving men a voice in this very important work.

Next, I need to thank Brendan Cavalier and Christopher Burger. Christopher stepped forward to direct this project last year (thank you, Chris, it’s hard to be the first lemming off the cliff, I know) and Brendan took it on this year. Both of them are amazing men with big hearts and lots of creative juice.

I want to call out special thanks to Rod Rodriguez, who is a gifted writer. He has written a ton of pieces for this show, many of which I’m hoping, with his permission, to add to our general MENding script to make it available for other groups of men to do this work in college and communities around the country. Moreover, I plan to feature his work on this blog in the weeks to come.

But of all that he has written, by far my favorite is: “To Whom It May Concern:” is about an attempted rape and abduction of his sister 15 years ago that was thwarted by her and a sticky door handle on the rapist’s van. This piece wraps up the show and is one of my favorite for its depth and vulnerability. Rod is also the writer of “Breast”, “I am a man.”, “I am not a hero.” , “Curly” and co-author of several other work in the show. My other favorite piece (of many favorites!) is “Forgive Yourself” by Christopher Burger, which is expertly and movingly delivered by the talented Patrick Mayuyu. “Forgive Yourself” deserves a whole blog later, but it recounts how a 14-year old boy is sexually harassed and nearly molested by a priest. It is a subtle, first person account that shows that sexual misconduct doesn’t have to result in gentile touching or penetration for someone to be damaged.

I also want to honor David Wittenburg for his stunning delivery of Dr. Vaginski (see blog). Even though I wrote this piece and thought that I couldn’t laugh at my own jokes any longer, David delivered such a devastatingly funny performance that he had me rolling with gut laughs—and I’ve only heard this piece about 500 times.

I also want to thank Scott Amiotte for his performance of “Tantra” (see this blog), and for writing the piece “Babe”, which is another work I plan to feature here with his permission.

I also want to thank Paul Savage, Steven Schmitz, George Soete, Reed Willard, Marc Amial Caro, Josh Hyatt, Ryan Martinez, Tony Bejarno, Tony Hamm, Gilbert Quintana, Patrick Kelly, and Zach Goode for their hard work and participation in writing and performing in this show. You guys ARE heros.

Finally, one of the most rewarding moment for me happened after the show. I was approached by Brendan Cavalier’s mother, the director of this year’s show, who said the following to me: “Thank you so much for doing this work. Because of Brendan’s involvement with this show, I have seen a side of my son that I have never seen before, and I have to tell you, I like this side of him very much.”

So do I.

In fact, you could say I like this side of all these men—very, very much.

I love you guys and really look forward to working with, performing with, and collaborating with you on your special San Diego-flavored version of the MENding Monologues in the months and years to come.

One note: The italic is an interviewer asking questions of the vagina as disembodied voiceover.

The Vagina gives the women a piece of her mind.

The Puritan

VO: In this era of liberation, why has no one asked the vagina what IT thinks?

<From Vagina>

Ahem!  You want to know what I think?

YES!

Really?

Yes.  You have the floor… sort of.

Relax!

Me?

Yes.  No – everyone!  That’s what I want to say.

Don’t get so worked up.  And stop doing things on my account.  I’m not as starved and angry as you think!

No?
No!  I just want peace.  And respect.  And Love.

What makes me angry is when you women forget how sacred I am.  I am a place of life, of nurturing, of new beginnings… of Love.  Artists used to write poems and paint pictures celebrating my beauty and sacredness.  Now, I’ve been thrown in the ring to compete with the penis!

What?

Sure!  I’m supposed to be “liberated”.  Equal.  I have the green light to fight for the same treatment as men with penises, for the same opportunities, and for the same sexual freedom.

Problem is… no one asked me if that’s what I wanted.

So that’s not what you want?

I am so much more than just the inverse of a penis, ladies!  Stop trying to turn me in to one!  Don’t you see how amazing I am?  I do so many things.  I stretch and conform to accommodate your needs – I change every month, and you wouldn’t even recognize me during pregnancy…

So what do you need from us?

Value me.  Hold me sacred.

Why have values upholding purity and my sanctity been belittled and denounced as sexist and “out of touch”?  Why is purity “freakish” in today’s society?  Just maybe the Puritans were more in touch with me and my needs than you all think.

Really?

Sure.  I like to keep myself and my sacred place clean, peaceful and beautiful… and organized.  I enjoy entertaining the one I love, but I don’t want unexpected guests!  Who ever declared an open door policy here?  I wouldn’t bring just anyone over to your place, especially unannounced.  Why would you wave them all in to my place?!?

What if that’s not what we planned either?

That’s a crime against everything sacred. Rape is an obvious denigration that shatters all semblance of dignity and sacredness of me AND you.  I wish liberation eliminated that violence.  But it didn’t.  WHY NOT?

Maybe because we can’t control the actions of others or their obsession with domination.

That’s true.

So what can women do about that?

Sadly, maybe nothing.  But you can ask yourselves, “Have I taken my own vagina seriously?”

You wanted me liberated to experience pleasure without consequence, but yet you don’t value or even see my blessedness anymore than the men who abuse us do.  Instead, this open door policy… where countless streams of men wander in and out (and in and out) with no appreciation of the sacred place in which they find themselves.  Why do you give them a free pass?

There’s a double standard.

Yes, but I have a brain.  You should know this.  Stop putting me in the ring with the penis.  In a time when it’s not just OK but actually hip to denounce religion, conservatism, and chastity while supporting lifestyles and choices that devalue my sanctity… all in the name of freedom and liberation, what else are we to expect?

WOMEN, you cry out AGAINST violence and abuse of yourselves and your bodies by men… but what are you doing to yourselves?  What have you told yourselves in the process?

You want to liberate yourselves, but from what?  Abusive men?  Yes!  The devaluation of women?  Right on! Hatred and Injustice?  Sign me up! … Responsibility?  Good Judgment?  Consequences of your choices?  Stop right there!

If you cry out against violence to women, you cannot then neglect your own bodies or use them as weapons or tools of abuse.

Maybe the Puritans really did know what they were doing.  Why are we so eager to slam the door on that?  Sure makes my life easier!

Fine, call me a Puritan.  Out of touch.  I don’t care.

I want to give LIFE and celebrate real LOVE.  I am SACRED.  Embrace that and you WILL be liberated.

Inspired by Eve’s work, we call ourselves The MENding Monologues. Like The Vagina Monologues, we perform a mixture of stories and comedic satire to audiences around country. It’s a love letter to women and wake up call for men.

When new men enter our group, they usually tell me that they don’t have a story to tell, or they have a story, but they are certain no one would want to hear it. I assure them they do have a story to tell and that people would want to hear it—as long as they can tell with it authenticity and vulnerability.

To get the ball rolling, I tell the new men one of my stories. It’s called “R U my 2:15?” and it’s about me being the focal point of aggressive sexual attention—from a man. From this experience, I developed empathy for what many women suffer through daily.

This happened two and half years ago, six months before I started The MENding Monologues. I had ended a relationship with my girlfriend of nearly six years and felt like I needed to write my way through the anger, depression and loss. So, I started a screenplay about time travelers, who kidnap world leaders when they are impressible teenagers, take them to a post-apocalyptic future and show them the fruits of their follies—essentially, it’s A Christmas Carol crossed with The Terminator, that’s a coming of age story. And for once, I promised myself I would finish something that I wasn’t being paid ahead of time to write. So, I choose a quiet library with nothing to distract me except the milling about of ancient librarians.

Let’s be clear: As a writer, I’m very accomplished at not writing. One of my favorite ways of not writing is the minute I sit down and start, I have a forceful urge to pee. It happens every time. So, to get around my procrastination and fear of failure, I make it a rule to always go to the bathroom before I sit down to do any serious work.

In the library’s restroom, above the urinal, right at eyelevel was written: “Meet me here for a blowjob, August 12, from 1:30 to 2:15 pm.” Then the next day, it would still read “Meet me here for a blow job—”, but the date and time had changed to “Aug. 13, from 11:45 to 2:30.” The next day, the offer would be the same, but the time and date would be different. After several weeks of this, I started to wear a watch.

Two months went by and nothing happened, so I forgot about it. I thought it was just amusing graffiti, kids having fun. Until one day, I walk into the middle of the library; remembered my need for an empty bladder, and headed to the restroom.

Suddenly, this short, stocky guy, about 25 years old, with a face full of acne, springs from the couch and follows me into the hallway. He’s right on my heels, walking quickly. I think: “He must really have to pee.”

When I pull up to the urinal, he takes the one right next to mine, and starts making small talk. That should have been my first clue. Guys do not make small talk with strangers while at the urinal. I reply, “I’m fine. You?” to his salutation. He says: “Oh, I’m great, great yeaaah…” Then I see him peek over the splashguard to get a look at my low hanging fruit. That should been my second clue: Guys do not check out each other’s gear at the urinal, unless, you know, one of you is packing something extremely impressive.

I should have walked out right then, but I was determined not to let this guy get to me. I wanted to finish up and get on with my writing. Unfortunately, he’s talking to me now, constantly. I don’t remember what he said, but he was monologuing about something inane. And that gave my urination stage fright. So, I just stood there, anxiously waiting for the flow to begin. It wasn’t. So, he assumes, since I’m still standing there, not peeing, he had successfully built rapport with me.

This goes on for a very uncomfortable two minutes.

Finally, I give up. I turn to leave and he turns towards me, showing his semi-erect penis, displaying it like it was the best piece of meat in the butcher shop—with this sappy grin on his face.

I look down at the floor, I look away, I walk out. I glance behind me, he is still standing there, with a confused look on his face that said: “Hey? Where you going man? I thought we had something?”

I exit to the hallway, and I have a mix of emotions; I feel pissed and I want to punch him in the face. I also feel a little scared. But mostly, I feel humiliated.

That surprised me. I always thought if something like that happened, I would find it amusing. Trust me, I was not amused. I’m usually a very live-and-let-live kind of person. And, I don’t care that someone is gay. I’ve had gay men hit on me before, and it’s no big deal—I’m no homophobe. But this was creepy.

Later, upon reflection, I get present to what it must be like to be a woman. Having guys grab your ass in a bar. Whistling and yelling at you as you walk by a construction site. Leering at you as you wait for a bus, followed by inappropriate remarks or touching. I got a small taste of it and didn’t like it. I made me think of the times in my youth when I may have done things like that.

So, I go back to the library and I try to write. I can’t write. So, I pack up my laptop and head for the exit. I’m thinking of which kinds of hastily made cocktails I should drink when I get home and I heard something that snaps me out of it. A little boy’s voice says: “Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom.”

Mom doesn’t look up from her magazine. She replies: “Honey, you know where it is, just go.” He looks five years old, maybe six. It hits me: This is a public library in the middle of the afternoon—not an abandoned restroom out on the Interstate at 3 A.M. There are two schools just blocks away. This place is packed with kids. (I’m not implying that all men who cruise for sex in public bathrooms are potential pedophiles, but perhaps he picked this restroom for a reason. When kids are involved, I don’t take chances).

I pipe up: “Sorry ma’am, but you need to take your son to the ladies’ room, there’s some weird guy hanging out in the men’s room. I don’t know if it’s safe.”

She gives me a suspicious look and walks her son to the bathroom. I think about telling one of the librarians. The youngest looks in her mid-seventies. What the hell is she going to do? That’s when I got worried. That’s when got pissed. That’s when I called the police.

And, that’s when I suffered another humiliation.

I meet a large, redneck-looking cop in the parking lot. I tell him about the guy cruising for sex in the bathroom. And he asks me: “What did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t say anything. He just showed me his dick with a knowing look on his face,” I replied.

“Well, how did you know he wanted sex then?”

I stammered, feeling like a very unreliable narrator of my own life’s story. I tell him about the daily blow job offers on the walls, how the guy made small talk, and the semi-erect penis, and the cop just looks at me like he doesn’t believe me. He walks into the bathroom. Lucky me, the walls were scrubbed clean yesterday. There’s no trace of evidence. Just my word against his.

The cop gives me one of those looks of disgust that a junior high vice-principal gave me once when I was 12 years old. I read it as, “You wimp. You should have popped the guy in the nose and instead of calling me.” Later, he gives me another look, which I interpret as: “Well, your pants are pretty tight, your hair is dyed blonde, sure you weren’t asking for it?” Like somehow, I was inviting this behavior and it was my fault.

At that moment, I felt humiliated. And, I know it’s only one-tenth of one percent of the feeling that countless women must endure when they have to speak to authorities, and their story is called into question. I know it is one-tenth of one percent of what a woman must go through on the witness stand. I know it is only one-tenth of one percent of what it must be like to say that a teacher, family member or minister is molesting you. I know it’s only one-tenth of one percent, but I know when it happened to me, it felt like shit.

The police officer grills him for a few minutes, but doesn’t arrest him. Instead he tells him never to come back here again. The man swears he’ll never come back, he walks away without looking my direction. The police officer tells me the guy’s body language, voice and eye contact indicated he was guilty and lying about something. So, in the end, the cop believed me.

There’s an epilogue to this story: I never finished the screenplay. I stopped writing it that very day. I told myself I would go back to the library in a couple of weeks to start again, but I didn’t. That guy in the bathroom gave me the perfect excuse to quit. I wish I could blame the guy for that, but I know it is solely my issue whether or not I write. But I have to admit that I don’t write there anymore because it doesn’t feel comfortable. I was afraid of retribution of some kind, perhaps being hit from behind while walking to my car because I ruined good rendezvous point for dozens of men who like anonymous bathroom sex in libraries. I know it doesn’t make rational sense. I’m also afraid that if it happens again, maybe next I wouldn’t put my fist in my pocket and walk away. Next time, if I was having a bad day, would humiliation turn to rage?

Here’s another distinction that needs to be made: I could choose to walk away. I’m not sure women always have the choice to avoid the subways, construction sites, or bars where sexually aggressive assholes seem to lurk and leer.

When I do this piece as a monologue, I usually end the story by citing a line from the “Short Skirt” piece from The Vagina Monologues. It goes something like this: “Just because I’m wearing a short skirt, isn’t an invitation for you to have sex with me.”

My version of that is: “Just because I’m in the public restroom, at your appointed time of 2:15, August 14, doesn’t mean I’m there for a BJ.”

Derek Dujardin is the director and creator of The MENding Monologues,www.theMENding.org . Feel free to write him with your comments atcopycowboy@mac.com .