Andrea Dworkin - The New Womans Broken Heart

to see them as they would want to be seen, never herself being deceived. she learned what to do to claim the highest price, sometimes in money, sometimes in services, just as other nomads learned to live

off berries and weeds, find water holes, protect themselves from rain,

she learned to pick a meal out of a crowded room, to find a warm

bed in the faces on the street, to milk that male cow without mercy,

shame, or regret.

the first one had been a shopkeeper, nice dress in the window,

never show need, a quiet dress, modest, a dress that would let them

see whatever they wanted to see. a dress that would make no particular statement, set up no particular expectation, I am whatever you want me to be, the dress seemed to say.

she learned to empty her face of its intelligence, she learned to

empty her face of its past, poverty, grim, grueling poverty, drudgery,

murder, she learned to empty her face so that the man himself could

fill it in.

soon she had several dresses, a small, quiet room, and enough

money to take an acting class.

time passed in this way, man after man, year after year, man after

man, never for nothing, always for something, in this way she advanced herself, slowly, bit by bit.

it was true, the first time it did hurt, the shopkeeper had been

delighted at the blood, he had taken her again, biting and pum-

meling, more blood, he seemed to say, more blood.

his apartment was small and filled with things, she remembered

that it was filled with things as he entered her. her scream delighted

him. she was graceless, awkward, her body tough and tight, she

twisted and turned, her twisting and turning delighted him.

as soon as he was finished, he seemed to forget her. she felt lonely

and cold then, her body as if dead, covered with a cold white sheet,

she turned towards a window and watched the light coming up. this

was the saddest moment of her life.

she learned to use her vagina, to contract the muscles, to envelop

and squeeze the cock, she learned to whimper and to moan, she

learned to sweat and to cling, she learned to cry out. this was her second acting exercise,

she learned to kneel in front of the man and take his cock in her

mouth, she learned the postures of wantonness and abandon, she

learned the postures of fear and submission.

she learned to stay on her stomach as the man entered her ass. she

learned not to scream unless he expected it. she learned to bite his

arms or to bite her tongue, she learned never to ask for anything.

she became pregnant twice, the first time a nameless doctor had

stuffed her vagina with gauze and injected her with chemicals, he

had told her to go home and wait, not to drink, not to take pills, not

to call anyone for help.

she had waited for 2 days, thinking it would not happen, also

thinking she would die.

then the pain started, cramps in her gut, dreadful cramps, like being kicked in the belly over and over, she drank to ease the pain, the pain got worse and worse, feet kicking her in the belly, over and over,

endless, constant.

there was no one to call, would she die there, and still there was no

one to call, she tried to call the doctor, she dialed the number she

had been given, no answer, nothing, just feet kicking her in the belly,

her back almost broken from the pain.

contractions in her gut, she went to the bathroom, tried to get it

out, whatever it was, out, straining and straining, feet marching over

her and in her, Nazis, an army of Nazis, marching over her gut.

sweating, screaming, silent, standing or sitting or lying, straining

over the toilet, then it came out, in the toilet, a small, not human, not

anything, mass of membranes, like a lima bean, but all bloody, it

was something but what was it, nothing, nothing human, she looked

at it for a moment, repulsed, and then flushed the toilet.

the second time the doctor had come to her. an arranged signal, a

light bulb on and off 3 times in the window, he was very big, sloppy,

wore a hat. what would he do to her.

he spread newspaper on her bed. she lay, her back on the

newsprint, her legs hanging spread wide open over the edge of

the bed.

then, he began to scrape inside her. then, the pain, then, the searing, scaring, screeching pain, she must not yell, neighbors, police, she must not scream, no pills, no shot, scraping inside her, scraping

her inside out and outside in.

then, he took her legs, closed them, and lifted them onto the bed.

for a moment he stared at her, her face contorted in agony, her body

wanting to curl but not daring to move, would he, was he going to,

no, he turned to leave, then he was gone, what did he do to her,

would she die, and the pain, would it ever stop, and the bleeding,

would it ever stop, an army of Nazis inside her tramping tramping

goosestepping inside of her and all she could think of was, would

she die.

she had advanced herself, she had her own room now, filled with

things, quiet and dark, she had a closet full of dresses, enough for

any occasion a man would provide, she took more classes, in acting,

in voice, in movement,

the men were not nameless now, not shopkeepers either,

she had a good eye.

they were a different sort now, actors, writers, directors,

she knew how to move in, just enough,

she knew how to be there and to disappear at the same time,

when to disappear.

her smile, always ready, a mask, enigmatic or reassuring, whatever

was necessary,

her ambition began to enlarge.

she had read books, enough of them, still, one was always open on

her night table, she was conversant with acting theory, she

discovered that she had an intelligence and a tongue, she could

speak clearly and strongly, but not too often, never at the wrong

time, never the wrong thing.

she began to develop her own persona, no longer a shapeless piece

of putty where each man could make his own mark, she began to

have a definite form, some opinions, a consistent though flexible

posture, a strong woman, they said, independent, they said, a

woman who didnt hang on.

her third acting exercise, never let her insides show,

it was a calculated strength, designed to appeal to a certain kind of

man. she had determined who needed what.

the one she loved was not the father of this child.

the one she loved, how did she see him, not as she saw and had

always seen the others, she didnt see him as he wanted to be seen,

never believing it herself, she believed it, anything he wanted her to

believe.