I’m reading Hala Alyan’s poem about the death of the wrestler Chyna, about Chyna’s glamorous strength, her freedom and defiance, when my sister calls and tells me some dude assaulted her. It happened weeks ago but she can only now talk about it. A scene in a hotel. Punching. Kicking. Attempted strangulation. I’m furious for my sister and at the world, furious about male violence, so furious I imagine what I’d do to the man. I start googling if brass knuckles are legal and how much a stun gun costs and what exactly the gun show loophole is. Ten minutes later, I start thinking about Chyna. Graceful choreographed violence leaping off the turnbuckle, bouncing off the ropes, picking up speed. I google Chyna. I start rubbing my crotch. I find snippets of her pornos on Pornhub. Chyna upside down in a mid-air 69. Chyna reverse cowgirl, fake tits and real abs. I jerk off. I hate men. I hate myself. I go back to googling stun guns.