Despite the sheer and uncommunicable amount of violence enacted upon the female body throughout history, it’s woman as terroriser, as beast, that we keep coming back to.
It’s easy, really, to remove a penis.
It might even be luxurious, like taking yourself out to lunch: starched tablecloth, martini-olive, glint of a diamond on the finger.
It’s an act of security and authority, a statement of ownership, yes, but also elegance, desire – white linen and clean nails, of long fingers reaching out to take, take, take until we’re sated, day-drunk, a little giddy.
It’s less about the removal of the penis than it is about how we as the castrators feel about removing the penis.












