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“Miranda is doing very important work. Protesting against pornography. And she volunteers at a women’s shelter,” I say.
“You’re a feminist.” L’il nods.
“I wouldn’t consider being anything else.”
“I’m a feminist,” I volunteer. “I think every woman should be a feminist—”
“But it means you hate men.” L’il takes a sip of her beer, and stares straight across the table at Miranda.
“What if I do?” Miranda says.
This is not going well. “I don’t hate all men. Just some men,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Especially men whom I like and they don’t like me back.”
L’il gives me a sharp look, meaning she’s determined to lock horns with Miranda. “If you hate men, how can you ever marry? Have babies?”
“I guess if you truly believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to marry and have children—” Miranda breaks off and gives L’il a superior smile.
“I never said that,” L’il replies calmly. “Just because you’re married and have children doesn’t mean it’s the only point to your life. You can do all kinds of things and have children.”
“Good answer,” I say.
“I happen to think it’s wrong to bring a child into this patriarchal society,” Miranda replies swiftly. And just as the conversation is about to go completely haywire, our samosas arrive.
I quickly grab one of the pastries, dip it into a red sauce, and pop it into my mouth. “Fantastic,” I exclaim, as my eyes begin to water and my tongue burns. I frantically wave my hand in front of my face, reaching for a glass of water, as Miranda and L’il laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me that sauce was hot?”
“Why didn’t you ask?” Miranda giggles. “You dove right in. I figured you knew what you were doing.”
“I do!”
“Does that include sex?” Miranda asks wickedly.
“What is it with everyone and sex?”
“It’s very exciting,” L’il says.
“Ha,” I say. “She hates it.” I point to Miranda.
“Only the ‘intercourse’ part.” Miranda makes quotation marks with her fingers. “Why do they call it intercourse anyway? It makes it sound like it’s some kind of conversation. Which it isn’t. It’s penetration, pure and simple. There’s no give-and-take involved.”
Our curries arrive. One is white and creamy. The other two are brown and red, and look dangerous. I take a scoop of the white curry. L’il takes some of the brown and pushes it toward Miranda. “If you know how to do it properly, supposedly it is like a conversation,” she says.
“How?” Miranda asks, thoroughly unconvinced.
“The penis and vagina communicate.”
“No way,” I say.
“My mother told me,” L’il says. “It’s an act of love.”
“It’s an act of war,” Miranda objects, getting heated. “The penis is saying, ‘Let me in,’ and the vagina is saying, ‘Get the hell away from me, creep.’”
“Or maybe the vagina is saying, ‘Hurry up,’” I add.
L’il dabs at her mouth, and smiles. “That’s the problem. If you think it’s going to be terrible, it will be.”
“Why?” I dip my fork into the red curry to test it for hotness.
“Tension. If you tense up, it makes it more difficult. And painful. That’s why the woman should always have an orgasm first,” L’il says nonchalantly.
