A Casual Rapency

I'll admit I sometimes picture myself aiming a fleshy wand at the toilet. I can’t help wonder what it would feel like to have my genitalia on the outside...until I see a man vomit, roll around on the ground, and turn an unnatural shade of red after getting kicked in the dick. Then I don't wonder so much.

I wonder if Richard Mourdock ever pictures himself needing to sit down to pee, calmly tinkling the need to aim away. I wonder if he ever thinks about how it feels to walk down a street, alone, always on high alert. I wonder if he ever thinks about all his might being overpowered. About having a knife held to his throat. Foreign saliva dripping on his face. Having his body forcibly split, opened. I wonder if he ever thinks about being so scared he wishes for death to come.

I wonder if Richard ever thinks about how looking down at a swollen belly is a trigger. How a body splitting apart, again, pushing out God’s Good Will Baby, is a constant reminder of violence and fear.

I wonder if he thinks the way he talks about rape seems callously casual.

I wonder if he thinks at all.