Page 8 of Bastard

I scowl. “Not even close. Blue. Bright, neon blue.” I hoist the six-inch blue dildo out of the box and wave it in front of his face. “¡Mira!”

With a humorous twinkle in his eyes, he says, “Is that for tonight’s presentation?”

“Sí. Think it’s bright enough?”

“Bright enough and big enough. I could be standing in Cape Town and not miss a thing.”

“Laugh all you want. But don’t you agree that HIV prevention is as important now as it was thirty years ago? Over one and a half million young women are HIV positive in this region, a number much higher than in men. The availability of antiretroviral treatments might have improved but there’s still work to be done on using protection. Most programs are focused on educating women. But I was surprised to learn in training that the men are the decision-makers when it comes to sex.”

“It’s because the West is blinded by Western thinking and often misses values deeply ingrained within other cultures.”

“That’s exactly what I said when I pitched my proposal to UWC.”

“Which they promptly accepted.”

I frown. “That’s not true.”

Donovan pulls a face.

“What are you saying?”

“Don’t you find it ironic that sex education is part of your assignment here?”

I do—considering I’m on a sexual hiatus for the undetermined future. Intimacy isn’t part of this new plan.

I cock my head at him. “So what’s your point?”

Donovan takes a step backward. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that ... you’re ... beautiful ...”

I roll my eyes. If I had a peso for every time I heard someone refer to me in this way, I’d be rich. Exactly where has it gotten me? The attention of a cartel boss who liked collecting pretty things? The turning heads of every pendejo who couldn’t see past the surface? Married?

I used to ignore the comments, the looks.

But now? When I’m in the position to contribute to the welfare of other women?

Part of my training prior to relocating to Malawi was to come up with alternative proposals to programs already in place. “Fresh ideas,” as one staff member put it. I pitched two plans. The first was to finance local workers to dig trenches and lay high-quality PVC piping that would connect the main waterline outside of town to homes in the village. Fresh water drawn by a faucet—it’d be life-changing.

My second concept was simple, the free monthly distribution of condoms supported by a project targeting changing male habits. Not surprisingly, UWC’s conservative board members were reluctant to finance monthly condom shipments, their focus being more on antiretroviral treatments. But they accepted my second proposal. I got my program and the monthly shipments. I’m still waiting on PVC piping and financial support for digging that trench.

And my pretty face is what helped this to happen? How annoying. I grind my teeth together, thinking next time I’ll wink at them during our videoconference and then smoothly ask the status of the PVC piping project. If what Donovan says is true, why not?

“Thanks for helping me set up.”

Donovan relaxes. “Anytime.”

“It’s not like movie night or a town festival.” I bite my lip. “Do you think a lot of people will come?”

“Don’t get angry at me for saying this. But every man from Cape Town to Cairo is going to be here. Mark my words.”

Qué bueno, I think, half-annoyed, half-excited.

* * *

It’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop.

Hiding my smile behind a firm poker face, I conclude the task at hand. “It is your responsibility, and your responsibility, and your responsibility, to bring a condom, to put on a condom, and to practice safe sex. Do not expect a woman to have unprotected sex. Do not expect her to be on birth control. Do not put her in a position where unsafe sex is even an option.” I point the dildo at them like it’s a pointer stick. “You are men. This is what men do.”

The audience smiles up at me. They get it, and it’s a beautiful thing.