Dear Digby Read Free Page A

him first. I won’t go into it, but it took weeks (as you might imagine) to crank open the airlocks and bring my room back to normal.
    Well. Those are my reasons for never marrying before this. Now here we have a dilemma—we’re up to the present. Here I am, a woman of almost uncontainable sex appeal (and am I cognizant of it, you bet!) and a quicksilver mind and manner. I know the guy who got me would leap tall buildings at a single bound in gratitude. My face is haunting, and I have a pantherlike, smoothly coordinated body. I am brilliant and my conversation is original and scintillating. I know what it would mean to some poor Joe to hook me—PARADISIO! Yet I try to remain objective about it.
    But there’s something more to be considered. Let me put it this way. I know what is repugnant to me in another person, and I am committed to never being repugnant to another. Let me correct that: another blameless person. Naturally, if some bozo, out of nowhere, began forcing his penis into my vagina (under some weird trance or hypnosis), I would try very hard to be repugnant to him.
    I would feel completely righteous if I suddenly came to (from the hypnosis) while he was shooting his sperm into my vagina—to eliminate him.
    What right do these types have to go around hypnotizing women and blasting their seminal fluid up them? I’ve had my fill of this sort of thing in my life, and to deliver death to just one of these violators of my precious body would be the apex, the shimmering peak of my life. Think about it, would it not be of yours?
    These attackers come out of the mist—sometimes in satanic garb and sometimes in doctor’s uniforms—the average unsuspecting female has to be eternally vigilant.
    You see, my underwear is my witness. I’ve been taking the time to sniff my panties a lot lately and, lo and behold!, I noticed that they reek of seminal fluid! What does this mean? It means, I suspect, that someone has been coming into my room to hypnotize me and pump huge quantities of sperm into my vagina. Then the perpetrator leaves me, spread-eagled there on the carpet, with seminal fluid pouring out from between my legs.
    I’ve never seen these predator-fiends, but that’s the way they work—you’re hypnotized, conk-ola —then they hook up their pumpers.
    I know what you’re thinking: This woman does not like men. Wrong. I simply do not like the male member in my kit bag if I don’t want it there. Got it? Simple enough to understand. The point is—I just don’t want wet sperm trickling down my thighs every five minutes. I don’t want to walk around all the time with a womb full of seminal fluid—or various strange penises—if I don’t have to. It’s a free country. If the lady is out for the count, don’t stick it up. Simple enough to understand.
    I love my room. It’s quite beautiful, on the sunny side of the building with yucca and spider plants in the window. I am happy and peaceful in it. But, after the other night, when I awoke and felt seminal fluid gushing out of me, I put a big sign on my door:
    WARNING LOCAL PENISES: ARMED VAGINA BEYOND THIS POINT
    Hypnotic rape is no fun. I added a p.s. to my sign stating that Basil Schrantz was the only man who would now be allowed to enter my room. I like Basil. I am fairly sure that he has no seminal fluid at all. Naturally, I do not wish to marry him. However, he is a helpful fellow who understands my strong sexual convictions and never asks about them. He comes in to talk and help me redecorate occasionally. I have my bed in different places: sometimes in the middle of the room, sometimes against the wall. The windows let in sun and cooling air, and I have the radio playing my favorites, which include Don Ho and Mabel Mercer. I put up a mirror or two occasionally, but not too many, because my beauty is distracting. I have a bulletin board with Peanuts cartoons and some of my favorite sayings from Socrates to R. D. Laing, and in the corner sits my desk and