Andrea Dworkin: The New Womans Broken Heart

nothing, had she too come out of a mothers body, who was that

mother, her mothers daughter.

her mothers daughter, that was her anguish, her curse, the foul

smell in the middle of her life, the bad memory in each and every

dream.

she saw her mothers face in her own, no, dont look there, she

stilled her mothers voice every time it entered her own, what was her

mothers voice, why did she know it so well, the voice of a woman who

had lived in silence, who was this mother, there was a memory like

an old movie, frayed, a woman, bent over from work, bent over the

tub of laundry, bent over scrubbing the floor, that bitter grimace,

stony, silent, that penny for candy, nothing of her in this newer life,

almost 40 and she had found her place.

her man was rich and famous, thank God for that, a writer,

nothing of her mother in that, her man was distinguished and handsome. nothing of her mother there.

he was the closest friend of the man she had loved and would

always love, he was the lover of the man she had loved and would

always love, nothing of her mother in that.

and now she was by this famous mans side, now she went to the

theatre with him, to parties, took long walks, now she was carrying

his child, his little Che.

she touched herself, she was real, this, this was real, she would

have this little Che and she would continue to be real, now she would

never be her mother.

their agreement had been simple, he was getting older, he was rich

and famous, he had no son. she would have his son. he would pay for

it and for her. each year she would have a certain amount of. money

for herself, he would supervise the upbringing and education of his

son. he would make the decisions for his son. she would take care of

his son in his home, if she wanted to leave, she would not take his son

with her.

if a daughter were bom, he would give her a large lump sum of

money and she would raise the girl on her own. perhaps he would

continue to be generous.

for the 9 months of pregnancy he took care of her. he told her what

to eat and where to walk, he told her when to sleep and what to wear,

she vacationed on his farm, and in the city they were constant companions. he had many male lovers but she was the mother of his son.

this was her pride, this swelling in her gut. this was her safety, her

freedom, this swelling had bought her a place.

he was arrogant and self-centered, sometimes she recoiled just

from the memory of him. no, calm, smile, remember, no mistakes.

they did not sleep together now. they had been together only to impregnate her. it had been difficult, that time of coupling, at first her body had been a curiosity to him and he would touch it and feel it as

if it were a strange fruit or vegetable, he would force his way in only

to ejaculate, only to empty himself into her like target shooting.

and then, finally—there was a God—he had made his mark, he

had hit the target.

she had tried at first to interest him in their coupling, she had

stroked his face and his body, he had liked that, to lie there, a king

tended to by his consort.

he had wanted to see her do it with a woman, he had liked that, she

had done it in the manner of putting down a deposit on an item she

wanted very much, for him. to acquire him. as if she had saved up

the pennies to make the deposit on the coat that would save her from

winters cold.

it had been strange and bitter, so this is what we are like, she

thought, as her mouth tasted the salty sweet taste of the other

womans cunt, no, too painful, too strange, too close to something

buried too long ago.

she had refused a second time, squirming, looking embarrassed

and humiliated, he had liked that.

then one night he had spread her out naked on his bed. he spread

her legs as far apart as they could go. he tied her wrists to the bedposts. another man entered and sat on a chair at the foot of the bed.

whatever this was had been planned, choreographed, between them,

she did not know.

the second man was big, his arms laden with muscles, a square

face, athletic, all loincloth and sweat.

her lover fingered her cunt slowly, dispassionately, he was grinning. surprise, Ive taken you by surprise, the second man watched, she was red with shame, they both liked that.

then her lover mounted her and the second man mounted him

from behind, then her lover fucked her and the second man fucked

him. this double man on top of her, heaving, the weight of that cock

inside her driven by this double weight, this two headed, two assed

man on top of her, like a mountain, volcanic, erupting, on and on,

fucking and fucking, the sweat and the weight, drowning her in lava

and ash.

then, she began to swell, then, he did not want her anymore, only the

inside of that swelling, only if it were a son.

she had made her peace with this humiliation, not then, years

before, so long ago that she could not remember, so long ago that it

did not matter anymore.

still, sometimes it was hard to breathe, and saliva choked in her

throat, sometimes a kind of redhot shame swelled with the swelling,

then she would remember, this is life, remember, this is life, dont go

down, dont go under.

she would go with this man who had impregnated her to see the

man they both loved, she was in his life now. for that she would have

done anything, even this.

around her 6th month, this man whose son she was carrying began

to find her repulsive, he could not look at her or touch her hand or

see her naked without repulsion, at the theatre, at parties, at dinner,

he would look through her, call her parasite or whore, his pride was

in her size, he had done that, those were his fruits she would bear, he

encouraged his male lovers to touch the swelling.

sometime during the 8th month, early on, she was slit in the middle, a knife to the abdomen.

his head rose up from the bloody mess, indistinguishable from her

own inner slime, this was his birth, she was the vessel, success at last,

her 40th birthday came and went.

he was named after the writers father but they called him Che. she

was a queen, the mother of this boy, rich, safe, her place secure.

drugged insensible, shaved, cleaned, she had been slit down the

middle to remove this prize from her innards where he was tangled,

excruciating, you will forget, they said.

slit down the middle, her abdomen and pubis shaved, her gut

painted red with antiseptic.

slit down the middle, her blood pouring out of her right from her