The Female Body
by Natalie Martusciello
College of Charleston
Natalie Martusciello is from Long Island, New York. She is currently an English major and creative writing concentrator at College of Charleston. Her work has appeared in The Roadrunner Review and Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose. She has upcoming work in Applause.
During Introduction to British Literature
My hair smelled like burnt bacon because my housemate had burnt bacon that morning, setting off the fire alarm. Claire’s frying pan sucked. Whenever I would use it to cook an egg, the bottom of the egg would burn and stick to the pan. I absentmindedly traced my jaw with my thumb, digging deep into my double chin. On YouTube, this girl said that she did this repeatedly every day for one month, and her double chin eventually vanished. I bit the tip of my thumb, peeling off the first thin layer of skin with my teeth. The sheeny, dark pink surface beneath felt tender and hot. We were analyzing “Porphyria’s Lover”.
“What is odd about Porphyria?” Professor Whitlock asked us. When no one answered, he called on the girl next to me, who pretended to search for a copy of the poem on her laptop, scrolling and clicking with feigned effort. Before she had the chance to say anything, Calvin, the boy who participated every day, began to answer for her.
“Porphyria is the one initiating the sex, and women weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing back then.”
Professor Whitlock beamed at Calvin, silently confirming his answer.
“She has complete control over the situation. Over him,” echoed Whitlock.
I scraped residual false eyelash glue off of my eyelid with my nail. I had forgotten to wash my face the night before. My skin was oily and fragrant from the makeup remover wipe that I had used to take off my foundation. I could feel my unwashed hair slicked against my scalp. I had forgotten to put on dry shampoo that morning. I wore an oversized crop top and no bra. I worried that everyone could see the side of my boob through the wide sleeve whenever I moved my arm. Well, I thought, at least nobody could see the nipple. The side of the boob is okay. The nipple is not.
At Work
I worked at an upscale jewelry store where we sold romanticized history to people as though it were carat weight. An elegant old woman walked into the store. She wore gaudy gold jewelry that complimented her dyed orange hair. Our owner began to talk her up.
“Did you know that the wealthy women of Charleston preferred pale sapphire?” he asked her, nodding to the sapphire ring she wore on her middle finger. Before the woman could respond, my manager slid open the door of the display case.
He pulled out an estate piece, an emerald-cut sapphire ring. The 14K white gold band against the icy blue gemstone reminded me of winter. I thought of snow as I polished the chunky sterling silver charm bracelet that we had on display, gazing absentmindedly around the room.
While talking to the woman, he glanced at me and then at our assistant manager out of the corner of his eye. She nodded at him discreetly, wearing an earnest expression. She began to approach me. I looked away awkwardly, pretending to inspect one particularly tarnished link of the charm bracelet.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Love the dress, but it is kind of low-cut.” The grave look on her face had vanished, and she now smiled too much. She gently moved my hair so that it covered the exposed portion of my chest. My body tensed. “I’m busty too,” she continued, grabbing her own chest. “It can be hard for women like us to tell what’s appropriate to wear.”
Apparently, more than just the nipple is not okay. The mere suggestion of boob is not okay. I felt dirty. “I’m sorry,” I told her. I grabbed the Windex and the paper towel roll and began to clean the glass case so that I would not have to make eye contact with anyone. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the old woman slip the translucent gemstone that my boss had handed her onto her slender finger, her body fair and frail as baby’s breath. As I wiped the foamy liquid away, I saw my own reflection. I stared at my double chin.
After Showering
I hurried through the hallway of my on-campus house to my bedroom, the too-small towel barely wrapped around my body. I picked an old pair of Aerie underwear that I had owned since the tenth grade out of my drawer. It had been permanently stained brown from stubborn period blood that would not wash out. I stretched it so that it would not dig into my hips while I slept later that night, leaving behind an indented trail of red skin that itched and burned. The fabric crackled and snapped as I pulled. As I stepped into the underwear, I thought of my gynecologist appointment the week before.
“You shouldn’t wear underwear to bed,” Dr. Yarrow had said to me. “It can cause moisture to build up, which can cause infection.”
Well, I guess I would have to accept the possibility of an infection because I refused to go commando at night. What if an insect or something crawled into my vagina? I slipped my loose pajama shirt over my body, my skin still sticky from the moist heat of the shower. I lit my pumpkin pecan pancake candle that really just smelled like curdled egg and burnt sugar. No pumpkin.
Before Bed
I sat on the toilet to pee. I tucked the bottom of my shirt underneath the excess fat of my stomach so that it would not drop down into the toilet bowl. After washing my hands, I reapplied my cucumber mint deodorant to my clean skin and unwillingly remembered my ex.
“Lemme smell,” he said to me the day I bought the deodorant from Target. I lifted my arm so he could smell it. He wiggled his finger into my armpit without warning. I snapped my arm shut against my torso, trapping his finger. I laughed soundlessly and recoiled from his touch. He pulled his finger out and sniffed it contemplatively.
“Nice,” he said finally, nodding approvingly. “I can’t smell the cucumber, though,” he added. “What does cucumber even smell like?”
During Sleep
I dreamt of Porphyria and her illusion of control. She and her lover sat on the stage of my middle school’s gymnatorium, reenacting the poem. Mr. Beckett, my seventh-grade science teacher who used to direct the annual play, shouted at Porphyria from underneath the basketball hoop.
“Do you want him?” yelled Mr. Beckett. “You need to make me believe that you want him.”
Porphyria seemed reluctant, as though she could sense that she would soon be murdered. She flipped her hair back to reveal her bare shoulder. She crooked her neck awkwardly, unnaturally, inviting him to her body. I could only think of how she had no door to shut, no winter storm to close out, no fire to start. The set designer had done an awful job. At least, though, she had been given the heat of the stage light to keep her warm.
At 2:00 a.m., I thought I had woken up inside my childhood bedroom. I looked around from my semi-lofted bed and could see only black. I tried to map out the familiar layout of the space that had watched me grow up. I strained to locate the silhouette of my old four-poster bed, of the fishbowl that sat on my desk underneath the window.
I heard the toilet flush. The yellow light of the bathroom illuminated the hallway. The bathroom door creaked, and my roommate shuffled back to her side of our bedroom. She climbed onto her desk so that she could get back into her bed. She tore back her duvet, and her mattress creaked. I thought she was my mom. I felt an urgent need to tell her about Mr. Beckett.
“Mom,” I began.
“Huh?” asked my roommate, squinting at me.
I mumbled incoherently through my sleepy haze, attempting to take control of the false reality that had been given to me, that I had accepted involuntarily. My roommate fell back asleep.
Interview with the Author
What inspired you to write this piece? What was your thought process throughout?
I honestly started to write this piece accidentally. My housemate actually did burn bacon, and my hair smelled like bacon, and I wrote the first line of the story down because I thought that it would sound interesting. I think that initial detail led me to focus heavily on concrete sensory imagery, specifically imagery that described the narrator’s physical body as well as the world around her. The theme naturally fell into place after that.
What do you hope readers will take away from your piece? What effects do you want the piece to have on the person, community, or society?
I hope that my story demonstrates both the physical and figurative lack of control that one often has over their female body. I have always felt that my body does not truly belong to me. Instead, I have felt as though it belongs to the world around me, which defines me and measures my worth according to my physical appearance. I wanted to share this unsettling feeling with the reader. I hope that after reading my piece, people understand more intimately the social experience of living inside of a female body.
What is your favorite piece of fiction (short story, novel, flash fiction, etc.) that you’ve ever read? Why?
My favorite short story is “The Pelican” by Arlaina Tibensky. It is haunting, poignant, and deeply evocative. Her prose is just incredible. You can find her story in Issue Seventy-Six of *SmokeLong Quarterly*.
If you plan on continuing to write, what are some goals/plans you may have for your future?
I hope to be able to write novel-length work someday. For now, though, I will continue to focus on short fiction. I plan on earning my MFA and PhD in creative writing and teaching at the college level.