“Arab women are a lot like coffee. strong. refreshing. Roasted until nearly burnt and then marketed as bitter. Expected to keep you going when you can’t do it yourself. Mis-used. Under appreciated.” (Yasmeen AlFaraj, University of California, Berkeley @_alfa_ya)
The vaginal dilators I had ordered, per the instructions of my physical therapist, arrived at my apartment in a perfectly normal-looking box, as if they weren’t sold by adamandeve.com, a site that has my eternal gratefulness for coming up as “unspecified merchant” on my bank account statement. I kept them under my bed for two weeks, a reincarnated childhood monster that I waited to go away until I couldn’t stand the guilt of leaving sixty dollars’ worth of a medical device under my bed. I opened the box for the first time.
