Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

bite, so smooth and so deadly, so big and so right, yo u ’d leave

your wife and fam ily and kill your fucking mother ju st to sit

on the floor near it. I was the perfect wife, illegally speaking; I

mean, I learned how to be a stoned sweet bitch, the new good

housekeeping. Y ou r man comes to visit m y man and he

don’t walk home; I am dressed fine and mostly I am quiet

except for an occasional ironic remark which establishes me, at

least in m y own mind, as smart, and I roll a fine joint, and in

this w ay I’ve done m y man proud; he’s got the best dope and a

fine wom an— and a clean house, I mean, a fucking clean

house; and I ain’t som ebody’s dumb wife except in the eyes o f

the law because I defy society— I defy society— I roll joints, I

have barely seen a martini, there’s nothing I ain’t done in bed,

including with him, except anal intercourse, I w o n ’t have it,

not from him, I don’t know w hy but I just w o n ’t, I don’t want

him in me that way, I think it’s how I said he’s m y husband;

husband. But I don’t think he even knew about it. I’d be as

perfect as I could according to his demands, gradually

expressed, over time. Everything escalates. D idn’t matter

how brilliant m y joints were once he started using a chellum, a

Turkish pipe for hash, rare in Europe, not used because you,

had to be so fucking aggressive to use it, the hashish and

tobacco went in it, it was like a funnel, and you pulled it fast

and hard into your lungs through a kind o f wind tunnel made

by your hands clasped at the bottom o f the funnel and the

bitter smoke hit your lungs with a burning punch, with the

force o f an explosion, and your bloodstream was oxygenated

with hash and nicotine. I didn’t like the chellum but I had to do

it, keeping up with Mr. Jones as it were. C an’t find yourself

being too delicate, too demure, unable to take the violence o f

the hit; not if you are Mrs. Jones; have to run with the boy or

the boy runs without you, he don’t slow down to wait, he

don’t say, Andrea doesn’t like this, she likes that, so let’s do

that. Same with sex. He pushes you down and does it. Y ou

solicit his personal recognition. Y ou ask his indulgence. Y ou

beg: remember me; me. It changes slow. He tied me up to fuck

me more and more; tied me up to this nice little modern brass

bed we got, we had a little money; he had from the beginning,

in rented rooms, on mattresses, on floors, it doesn’t take

much, but it was only sometimes; now he tied me up to fuck

me invariably and I was bored, tired and bored, irritated and

bored; but he wanted it which had to mean he needed it and I

want him to do what he needs, I think every man should have

what he needs, I think if he has it maybe he w on ’t need it in a

bad w ay; and I love him— not in love but I love him; him ; I’m

with him because it’s him; him; I want him to want me; me. I

said no or not now or let’s just make love and don’t tie me up,

we don’t need it, or even I don’t want it now, I don’t like it, or

trying to say that I didn’t want to anymore and it had to matter

to him that I didn’t want to because this is me; me. I said in all

kindness and with all tenderness that I didn’t want to but he

did want to and so we did because it was easier to than not to

and it wasn’t like we hadn’t before so it wasn’t like I had any

grounds for saying no or any right and it was so fucking dull,

and stupid and I’d want it to be over and I’d wait for it to be

over, especially to be untied; I learned how to wait, not just

when he was doing things to me but after when he’d leave me

there while he’d putter around or watch television or do

something, I’d never know what exactly. I’d get bad pains in

my side from the fucking or really from every time he tied me

to fuck me and I was so fucking bored it was like being back on

the streets but still easier frankly, just awful in some tedious

w ay: when will he be done, when’s he going, when’s it going

to be over. I know I’m saying I was bored, not morally

repelled, and you don’t have a right to nothing if you ain’t

morally repelled, and I know I don’t deserve nothing, but I

wanted us back being us, the wild us outside and free or

stretched out together body to body and carnal, mutual; not

this fucking tame stupid boring tie me up then fuck me. I don’t

have some moral view. M y view was that I was on his side;

that’s what being married meant to me; I was on his side the

w ay a friend on the street, that rarest creature, is on your side;

anything, any time, you need it, you got it, I don’t ask w hy, I

don’t ask any Goddamn thing, I do it, I take any pain that

comes with it or any consequences and I don’t blab about it or

complain or be halfhearted, I just take it. That was it

fundamentally for me. I’d think, when’s he going, except he

w asn’t going; the husband gets to stay. I started having this

very bad pain in m y left side and I felt frustrated and upset

because I hated this, it w asn’t anything for me; it was banal. I

hated having to go through these routines and I’d see the rope

coming out, or the movement toward the bed, or the belts, I’d

see the shadow o f something that meant he wanted this now

and I’d try to divert him to something else, anything else,

football, sports, anything, or if I saw it was going to happen

I’d try to seduce him to be with me; with me. M ore and more

it was pretend, I had to pretend— the sooner he’d come, the

sooner it’d be over, but he liked it, he really liked it, and it

went on and on; afternoons, fading to dusk. After he’d be

jubilant, so fucking high and full o f energy, jum ping and

dancing around, and I’d have this pain in m y left side, acute

and dreadful, and I wanted to crawl into a corner like some

sick animal and he’d want to go visit this one and that one,

married couples, his friends, his family; w e’d go somewhere

and he’d be ebullient and shining and fine and dancing on air,

he’d be golden and sparkling, and I’d be trying to stand the

pain in m y side, I’d be quiet, finally quiet, a quiet girl, not

thinking at all, finally not thinking, eyes glazed over, nothing

to say, didn’t think nothing, just sit there, pale, a fine pallor,

they like white girls pale, unwashed, he wouldn’t let me wash,