Haven't You Ever Seen a Pussy?

I mentioned in a later story that that I carry Mace. I just say that. I carry pepper spray, but "Mace" has a nice ring for those who enjoyed the "Medieval Weapons" chapter in seventh grade. How mankind has advanced. A mace was a club with a round metal head bristling with sharp spikes. You could crush your opponent's skull. With Mace, you burn out his brain, leaving the skull intact. A breakthrough.

I began carrying pepper spray as a high-school sophomore, when on vacations I came home to Manhattan from the Academy, where I boarded. Imagine my wave of understanding when I later learned that mom had exiled me to the Academy to save my virtue from my new stepfather, who had the hots for me at sweet sixteen. Shows you, though, what an adorable little piece I was, even with few identifiable female anatomical features. Mom, couldn't pop have boarded at Sing-Sing?

I didn't know anything about all this at the time of this story. I was as worldly wise as Heidi. There are rumors about her grandfather, though. Just kidding. But back in Manhattan, and home with my loved ones, I assumed that the danger to my virtue prowled the dark streets of the Lower East Side, not behind me in the shower when I bent to pick over to pick up the soap. And so, I bought pepper spray.

My virtue already was tattered. Sophomore year at the academy, I had a born-again experience in a woodland glade when Brucey Knickerbocker baptized me in cum. You know, that is a tasteless thing to say, even for me. But I never take anything back. I love the line "Call me any name that you like, I will never deny it."

My dear lord, I pray thee, let me get on with this poor simple excursus. Just TELL us, Ellen.

So one day I am sitting in a booth in the lady's room of the Museum of Modern Art on West Fifty-Third Street. I have been there about 20 minutes. Constipated? No. It is just that the experience of shitting is so much more interesting than most of the exhibits at MOMA. That is why they have such large restrooms, I think. My connection with art breaks entirely after Picasso's early period. It is too bad he kept menstruating. Careful, Ellen...drifting off topic...

Sitting in a train station, or shitting on the pot, with nothing to read, if you are a woman, you start going through your pocketbook. I mean before cellphones. If you are a guy, you sit marveling how when it dangles down into the toilet, your dick gets much bigger.

So I seize upon my pepper spray canister. Awesome power. But I never have tested it. What if in a dark alley I am attacked by a minority mugger—back then, all muggers were minority—and I whip out the spray, fire off with my thumb, and the motherfucker shoots out one drop that falls at my feet? Unless my attacker is crippled by laughter, he is going to... Helen, this is veering right into politically incorrect territory...

So, I figure, with nothing to do, I will conduct an intelligent test of my weaponry. Fire a few test rounds to zero-in, as it were.

I am not an idiot. Well, my idiocy manifests in carefully plans. I reach forward and send a modest squirt at the inside of the cubicle door. A brownish puddle appears and starts running down the door.

NOTHING. Not even an odor. Firing blanks. The gigantic minority mugger has me on a pile of garbage, lying on top of me like a fallen construction crane—sorry, insensitive—and saying, "Shit baby, I never seen such small titties." That can scar you for life.

I reach over, swipe my forefinger through the stuff, and bring it beneath my nose for an honest sniff. If this smells like maple syrup, I'm going to sue the fuckers.

Words should not be asked to describe the ineffable. Besides, philosophers know that qualia cannot be described, only experienced; the rudiments of sensory experience cannot be conveyed...Ellen, what are you doing?

The following occurred. It is authentic. It happened. but for certain qualifications see footnote 317 in my forthcoming autobiography, "Dad, Don't Call Me A 'Little Bugger.'

I dropped the canister, flung myself against the door of the cubicle, rocketed out like a launched Titan missile. My little navy blue skirt was around my ankles, my panties below my knees. I almost fell flat on my face, but just in time got one foot outside the skirt. If you are envisioning how much of my pussy was visible, or my poor pale little ass, you are cruelly ogling a girl with third-degree burns over 90 percent of her nasal passages.

I saw nothing; no bawling ever yielded this cascade of tears. I think my nose was serving like a coffee machine filling a cup. I probably was drooling. Dimly, I suppose, I discerned the sinks and lunged for them.

What sounds was I making? I have no idea. The snuffling that accompanies birth and death.

I lurched over the sink, groping for faucets, turning on the cold water. I realized, even then, that my face could not be saved by modern surgical techniques. My eyes, nose, and lips would have to be cut out; maybe I could live in a leper colony in Hawaii.

I was gasping, more like shrieking, dashing water against my face with both hands.

"But she's naked." Barely heard it.

"I can't believe these kids do this." Barely heard it.

"I am not coming to this museum, if this is what we have to see." Barely heard it.

"They all use drugs you know." Barely heard it.

Still shoving blessed water at my face. I might live. A lot of stinging, but I could see. Jeez, that stuff really works.

"Are you all right, young lady?" Next sink. A kindly inquiry.

Me? Of course? Why do you ask? I accidentally got my face in the way of the flame thrower demonstration they are doing in the lobby, today.

I did not say that. I blinked repeatedly. Everyone says I have a cute face, skirting pretty, with feathery black bangs and smoldering brown eyes. True, it was boiled-lobster red with the Tigris and Euphrates of snot running down into my mouth. And my eyes open less than one-eighth of an inch.

Otherwise, a very normal looking young woman.

"Should I call for help? Do you need assistance?"

"Fribige maukerly?"

"Excuse me, what did you say?"

Oh, my dear living god, my panties are around my knees. Everyone standing around, now a small crowd, can see my pale, tight, perfect ass. My hands shoot down, try to pull the fuckers up to cover my nakedness. Ellen, is this any way to conduct yourself in the lady's room of the world-famous Museum of Modern Art? These are ladies of refined esthetic taste, do they want to see your butt crack?

"Should I call an attendant..."

"Oh, no, no. Thank you, no." See if you can stuff me in the trash container; I'll be fine.

"What happened to you?"

I was sitting on the shitter testing my pepper spray and you know what? It REALLY works. Want to try it? Most surprising things happen.

I did not say that. "I'm fine, now." I am aware that my accent is part bullfrog. A refined, Connecticut boarding school croak.

"I had an attack. They come and go. I really apologize." Haven't you ever seen a bare pussy?

She is inspecting my long, bare legs, my nude little ass, aware that when I step back from the sink, my very womanhood will be on display in the lady's room of MOMA.

"Would you be able to...um...pull up...?"

"Yes, yes." I am dragging at my panties, now. The motherfuckers are twisted. I have GOT to get back to that cubicle and retrieve my pepper spray, and pronto. My imagination is taking over, now.

"It is a condition called comburetur in nares . Very few people have it. Only Jews from Tajikistan suffer from it."

"Oh, you're a Jewish girl?" Genuine dismay. "Do you know your panties are down?"

Only Jewish girls are expected to keep on their panties in the MOMA lady's room.

Motherfuckers. Get UP there. Ah, that did it. I straighten up. I have 14 paper towels with which I am mopping up my face.

There is my skirt on the floor. No one has dared touch it. Who wants to contract comburetur in nares? I swipe it up from the floor, haul it up my long legs. Move on, please, move on, nothing to see, here. Move on. There are a dozen women arrested by this drama. It is going to end up a full-page spread in the 'New York Times' tomorrow morning. "Young woman with rare Jewish affliction sheds skirt, panties, in Museum of Modern Art lady's room."

Best thing to do is disappear, pronto. I charge for the cubicle. All eyes watching. YES, God is good. Here is my pocketbook, the canister. I bend down, freeze. Do I dare to touch the thing, again? It is the Anti-Life. Maybe the anti-Christ. Leave it here? With two fingers, face averted, holding my breath, I pick it up. Just another un-exploded land mine. If it explodes, I am fragments. Drop it in my purse.

I straighten up. Take a moment to pull myself together. Panties secure. Skirt straight. Face bright red, I assume, wet hair. A little snot still flowing.

Dignity, Ellen. Never surrender your dignity, dear.

I step forth with my adorable gamin grin, admittedly boiled-lobster red. I make eye contact. They are watching me, standing in a half-circle. "Fine, now," I say. "Thank you so much for your concern."

My shoulders are proudly straight. I stride for the door. It is nice to have one's panties on straight, at last.

I trust pepper spray, now.