“The rapper and actor T.I. prompted widespread outrage after revealing on a podcast that he has accompanied his daughter, now 18, to a yearly doctor’s appointment to ensure that her hymen is still intact.” — New York Times, 11/7/19.
T.I., I know you’re getting blowback for your commitment to protecting your daughter’s purity, and that a lot of lax-moral loudmouths are complaining that taking her to the OB/GYN for virginity checks is intrusive and retrograde. But I want you to know that you and I are on the same page, and I’ve got the proctologist receipts to prove it.
As the mother of a teenage boy, it is my job to safeguard his virginity, even if it means taking measures my son finds distasteful. The doctor’s offices are just one piece of the puzzle — my son’s doctors keep telling me there’s no “medical” way they can tell where my son’s penis has been, but that only strengthens my resolve to help his doctors develop the world’s first male hymen. What is science even for, if it can’t tell you what your children are doing with their genitals?
Furthermore, his GP and specialists aren’t the only doctors I’ve got on the case; I also make sure his psychiatrist flags any mention of potential sexual activity and brings it to my attention immediately. Doctor-patient privilege ends where my son’s chastity begins — if the law says otherwise, that’s the law’s problem. Some folks would say I’m teaching my son to fear women and sexuality, and to them, I say: Can you ever truly be fearful enough?
And where science fails, faith provides. My son goes to confession twice a week, and do I have the priest live-stream it directly to my headphones? You bet your boots I do. Not only am I getting a clear picture of the daily assault on his virtue my son must endure, but it helps me make sure the priest himself is on the up-and-up — I call that a twofer!
The godless whiners on the internet just don’t understand that this world is full of young women, she-wolves in ewe’s clothing, who will stop at nothing to wrap their vaginas around my son’s innocent penis, ruining him forever. What decent woman would want a soiled, dirty man? What pure vessel would accept a man whose most prized virtue has been cast away on some cheerleader with neglectful parents and a bedroom door that actually closes?
You and I both know, T.I., that some people would say my implanting an emission-tracker on my son’s genitals is intrusive at best and abusive at worst. But I say there’s no other way to make sure whatever he does emit is going into a sock, tissue, or the air, not into the sin-holes of those sluts who bag groceries at the Stop & Shop. Do I like knowing the time, date, and place of my son’s ejaculations? Am I happy knowing exactly how much he jerks it in the bathroom at the children’s library? Do I want to know what he did with the chicken cutlet after he masturbated into it? I don’t, but what kind of mother would refuse this burden?
Of course, not even trackers can guarantee the degree of protection a precious gift like my son’s virginity demands. And that’s why I sneak into his room every night and sniff his crotch. A mother knows the smell of her son’s untainted genitals. A mother knows if those precious jewels have been beslimed with female lust fluids. A mother knows, and a mother checks. Anything less would be a dereliction of duty.
So thank you, T.I. Your vigilance helps us all. And when you’re finally ready to drop your designer line of chastity belts, rest assured I’ll be your best customer.