As he walked to the stove and reached for his favorite lace- adorned apron, he stumbled, not for the first time that day or even that hour, over the flacid, garden hose-like cock that dragged on the floor behind him between his legs. It was as thick as his powerful forearms and twice as veiny, and tended to slap around his ankles when he walked too fast.

Usually he had to thread it through one pant leg or the other, and then wrap it around his calf a few times and stuff the end into his boot to keep from dirtying it outside, so when he was home it was a relief to let it whip around freely. Sometimes, when he stood at the stove for many hours and it pulled heavily at his taint, he would drape it around his neck like a feather boa, and feel pretty.

I’m not going to engage with you on the topic of a women’s right to choose, or the meaning of bodily autonomy. On the off chance you’re not a troll, good luck with your research on this very well documented political debate.

It’s not about the development of the fetus, it’s about the woman’s autonomy. So long as it’s still inside her, her right to choose takes priority over its right to live, full stop.