She is a dominant lesbo in a man's body, intent on infiltrating the local homo baths and clubs, anxious to be welcomed as one of 'them' and experience the exclusive gay-boy membership. As her phallus stiffens and the creamy semen gathers momentum, she feels the tremble of her penis and silently longs for the visceral intimacy of her vaginal ecstasy. It is, on a symbolic level, inside me. To be male is to be a perpetual stranger, always seeking out contact that cannot be prolonged indefinitely without a great deal of frustration. To be female is to assimilate, absorb, ingest, and incorporate.
Men try to rule the world, while women just become it.
There is something tragic and also heroic about this male dilemma. For A Day women get to parade before the images that men have thrown back at them, and reflect on images of themselves as they are refracted via the male surface for their own amusement. In the hall of mirrors that results, neither sex gets to be merely the audience, and all our projected images and fantasies are nothing but interpretations. So there lies the challenge. For A Day throws down a heady gauntlet in the face of political correctness and mythological enigma, and dares anyone to enter its serpentine interiors and emerge unchanged.