Andrea Dworkin: The New Womans Broken Heart

or I like yr ass. to clarify, not a man calling to say I like yr ass but one

of those shining new women, luminous, tough, lighting right up from

inside, one of them, or some of the wrecked old women I know, too

late not to be wrecked, too many children tom right out of them, but

still, I like the wrinkles, I like the toughness of the heart, one of

them, not one of those new new new girl children playing soccer on

the boys team for the first time, young is dumb, at least it was when I

was young. I have no patience with the untom, anyone who hasnt

weathered rough weather, fallen apart, been ripped to pieces, put

herself back together, big stitches, jagged cuts, nothing nice, then

something shines out. but these ones all shined up on the outside,

the ass wigglers. I’ll be honest, I dont like them, not at all. the

smilers. the soft voices, eyes on the ground or scanning outer space,

its not that I wouldnt give my life for them, I just dont want them to

call me on the telephone.

still, business is business. I needed one of them, the ass wigglers, to

call me on the phone, editors, shits, smiling, cleaned up shits, plasticized turds, everything is too long or too short or too angry or too rude, one even said too urban. Im living on goddam east 5 street, dog

shit, I mean, buried in dog shit, police precinct across the street

sirens blazing day and night, hells angels 2 streets down, toilet in the

hall and of course I have colitis constant diarrhea, and some asshole

smiler says too urban. Id like to be gods editor. I have a few revisions

Id like to make.

so I wait, not quietly, I might add. I sigh and grunt and groan. I

make noise, what can I say. my cat runs to answer and then demands

attention, absolutely demands, not a side glance either but total rapt

absolute attention, my whole body in fact, not a hand, or a touch, or

a little condescending pat on the head. I hiss, why not, I mean I

speak the language so to speak.

which brings me to the heart of the matter, ladies, for instance, a

lady would pretend she did not know exactly what to say to a cat that

demanded her whole life on the spot, she would not hiss, she would

make polite muted gestures, even if she were alone, she would act as

if someone was watching her. or try to. she would push the cat aside

with one hand, pretending gentle, but it would be a goddam rude

push you had better believe it, and she would smile, at the window,

at the wall, at the goddam cat if you can imagine that, me, I hiss,

thus, all my problems in life, the ladies dare not respect hissers. they

wiggle their goddam asses but hissers are pariahs, fem ale hissers.

male hissers are another story altogether.

for example, one morning I go to cover a story. I go 1500 miles to

cover this particular story, now, I need the money, people are very

coy about money, and the ladies arent just coy, they are sci fi about

money, me, Im a hisser. I hate it but I need it. only I dont want to

find it under the pillow the next morning if you know what I mean. I

dont wear stockings and I want to buy my own hershey bars, or steal

them myself at least. Id really like to give them up altogether, but I

wouldnt really and its the only social lie I tell, anyway I pick my own

health hazards and on my list sperm in situ comes somewhere below

being eaten slowly by a gourmet shark and being spit out half way

through because you dont quite measure up. its an attitude, what

can I say. except to remind the public at large that the Constitution

is supposed to protect it.

so I go to cover the story and the ass wigglers are out in large

numbers. I mean they are fucking hanging from the chandeliers,

and there are chandeliers, ritzy hotel, lots of male journalists,

whither they goest go the ass wigglers.

so its a conference of women, and the point is that this particular

event occurred because a lot of tough shining new women have demanded this and that, like men not going inside them at will, either naked or with instruments, to tear them up, knock them up, beat

them up, fuck them up, etc. and suddenly, the ladies have crawled

out of the woodwork, so I go to pee in the classy lounge where the

toilets are, and one of the ass wigglers doesnt talk to me. I mean, Im

peeing, shes peeing, so who the fuck does she think she is. so the line

is drawn, but its been drawn before, in fact its been drawn right

across my own goddam flesh, its been drawn in high heeled ladies

boots trampling over me to get into print. I mean, I cant make a living. the boys like the ass wigglers.

so I work you know. I mean, I fucking work, but theres work I

wont take on, like certain kinds of ass wiggling at certain specific

moments, the crucial moments, like when the male editor wants that

ass to move back and forth this way and that, as a result, I am what

is euphemistically referred to as a poor person. I am ass breaking

poor and no person either, a woman is what I am, a hisser, a goddam

fucking poor woman who stays goddam fucking poor because she

doesnt fuck various jerks around town.

its the white glove syndrome, the queen must be naked except for

the white gloves, while hes fucking her raw she has to pretend shes

sitting with her legs closed proper and upright and while hes sitting

with his legs closed handing out work assignments she has to pretend shes fucking him until she drops dead from it. yeah its tough on her. its tougher on me.

I dont mean for this to be bitter. I dont know from bitter, its true

that morning fell flat on its ass and when morning breaks its shit to

clean it up. and I dont much like sleeping either because I have technicolor dreams in which strangers try to kill me in very resourceful ways, and its true that since the ass wiggler snubbed me in the toilet

of the ritzy hotel I get especially upset when I go to pee in my own

house (house here being a euphemism for apartment, room, or

hovel—as in her own shithole which she does not in any sense own,

in other words, where she hangs her nonexistent hat) and remember

that the food stamps ran out and I have $11. 14 in the bank, bleak,

Arctic in fact, but not bitter, because I do still notice some things I

particularly like, the sun, for instance, or the sky even when the sun

isnt in it. I mean, I like it. I like trees. I like them all year long, no

matter what. I like cold air. Im not one of those complainers about

winter which should be noted since so many people who pretend to

love life hate winter. I like the color red a lot and purple drives me

crazy with pleasure. I chum inside with excitement and delight every

time a dog or cat smiles at me. when I see a graveyard and the moon

is full and everything is covered with snow I wonder about vampires,

you cant say I dont like life.

people ask, well, dont sweet things happen? yes, indeed, many