Andrea Dworkin: The New Womans Broken Heart

the 4 of us would drink whatever we thought Ronas parents

wouldnt miss (we drank mostly from heavily tinted bottles) and

make lewd remarks to the best of our combined abilities and talk

about the disgusting fact that Rona and I were virgins, it disgusted

all of us but not equally, it particularly disgusted Ronas boyfriend

and her boyfriends boyfriend. they after all did everything, whatever

that was.

the next morning I would go to school wasted, superior, and

dangerous, and shout in the hall: damn this damn school, an outlaw

I was.

then we met Johnny, he was a real outlaw, he had 7 brothers and

sisters and was Catholic and went to a Catholic school, he made his

tuition turning tricks in bars in Philadelphia, and he smoked grass,

and he used morphine, he was our hero.

he came to visit us in school, beer spilled out of his pockets and we

hid him in the girls room and he drank his beer while we smoked the

grass he had brought for us.

once he was in a car crash and went through the windshield and

they took him to the hospital and shot him up with morphine and he

loved it so much that he did it again.

he said that he turned tricks in the bars in Philadelphia to make

his tuition so that he could go to Catholic school even though his

family was poor, he said that in a Catholic school they couldnt touch

his mind or fuck him up. he was our image of purity.

the night we graduated from high school Rona gave a party and

one of our teachers fucked one of our friends and she had a nervous

breakdown when he never called her again, until 2 years later when

he called her. then it got worse because he made her suck his cock all

the time and then would tell her that if she ever did it to anyone else

she would be a disgusting slut,

he didnt call Rona until she got married.

he and I had an even stormier story, before graduation he threatened to turn me in to the FBI for smoking grass and to take me to a hospital to watch junkies scream and vomit and he made a list for

me, he explained everything that would happen throughout life—

THERES ORAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE

WOMAN SUCKS THE COCK OF THE MAN AND

THERES ANAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE

MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE ASS AND THEN

THERES REGULAR INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN

THE MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE VAGINA—

thats what sex is, he said, thats what happens, he drew pictures to illustrate his points,

he taught me everything I know.

I never believed a word he said.

he was, according to our unspoken mutual understanding, going

to be my first lover but he turned into such a jerk, traitor, and

villainous turncoat that I had to look elsewhere.

S. of course hadnt been.

now the thing about this story is that, like life, it just goes on and

on, or, like life as we know it, it did for about 8 years which was 250

or so men, women, and variations thereof later, then I thought it

time to reassess and perhaps invent,

at some point S. was.

at some point, in Amsterdam, or on Crete, in London, or maybe on

a boat somewhere S. was.

at some point whenever I lay on some floor or bed or the backseat

of some car drenched in sweat, watching the light break, it wasnt

Barry Greenberg, or Rhett, or Noel, or some rotten high school

teacher, it was S. pure and simple, who had a nervous breakdown,

got fucked by a painter, became a woman, then a Bunny, then disappeared. vanished into thin air, which is here, there, and everywhere.

bertha schneiders existential edge

first I gave up men.

it wasnt easy but it sure as hell was obvious, you may want to

know, woman to woman, what it was that made me decide, well, it

wasnt the times I was raped by strangers. I mean christ you do the

whole trip then, nightmares, cold sweats, fear and trembling and a

not inconsiderable amount of loathing as well—but one thing you

cant do is take it personally. I mean I always figured that, statistically at least, it had nothing to do with me, bertha schneider.

now the two I knew a little bit, that was different. I mean, I felt

there was something personal in it. the man from Rand, that well-

mannered smart ass, and some starving painter who limped for

christ sake. I mean, I figure I must have asked for it. I mean, Im

always reading that I must have asked for it, and in the movies

women always do, and theyre always glad. I wasnt glad goddam it

but whod believe it anyway, the painter told me that if I didnt want it

my cunt wouldve been locked and no man couldve penetrated it. I

told him I wasnt a yogi though I was seeing the value of all that

oriental shit for the first time. I figure thats why there arent too

many women yogis in India, they dont want them locking their cunts

which is obviously the first thing they would do.

it wasnt even being married for 3 years, it wasnt the time he kept

banging my head on the kitchen floor (hard wood) so that I would

say I really did like the movie after all. I mean, lets face it, I just dont

like Clint Eastwood and if thats a fatal flaw, well it just is. it wasnt

the time he beat me up in front of my mother either, it wasnt the

time he threw me out on the street in my nightgown and called the

police, it wasnt even the time he brought home 4 drunken friends,

one of whom kept calling me kike, and they tied me to the bed and

fucked me until I passed out and thank god I dont know what happened after that, after all, that was only 4 events in 3 years which is 1, 095 days, besides, I loved him. besides, I didnt have anywhere else

to go.

I never exactly made a grand exit. I mean, I could have, for instance, running away with another man wouldve been a grand exit, it also wouldve required presence of mind and a basically unbruised

body. I couldve changed the locks and gotten a court order, except,

frankly, and I know this for a fact, no one wouldve believed me. I

know that thats true from the time I went to a doctor after he bashed

my head against the kitchen floor. I was, I admit, hysterical, what I

kept trying to explain to the doctor was that if someone had bashed

his head against a hard wood kitchen floor because he didnt like

Clint Eastwood he would be hysterical too. my fatal flaw wasnt

regarded kindly by him either, he told me that they could have me

locked up or I could go home, then he gave me some valium. I considered it but I guess I was more afraid of the nuthouse than I was of being beaten to death.

anyway, finally 2 events led to my final departure, first I went