Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

dressed, oh yes, very well-dressed, long skirts, demure, some

velvet, beautifully made, hippie style but finer, better,

simpler, tailored, the one w ho’d been naked and tied, and he’d

look over and he’d see me fucked and tied and I’d feel sticky

and dirty and crazy and I’d feel the bruises between m y legs

because he left them there and I’d feel the sweat, his sweat, and

I’d be polite and refined and quiet while he strutted. The men

would know; they could see. T h ey’d fuck me with their eyes,

smile, smirk, they’d watch me. He liked ropes, belt, sticks,

wooden sticks, a walking stick or a cane; cloth gags sometimes. I didn’t feel annihilated; I felt sick and bored. H e’d always do it to me but sometimes he’d have me do it to him as

a kind o f prologue, a short prologue, and I hated it but I’d try

to keep him occupied, excited, I’d try to get him to come, he’d

want to get hard but I’d want to make him come, I’d do

anything to make him come so the next part w ouldn’t happen

but it always did, you put your heart into staying alive, acting

like you’re in charge; married, a married woman, with what

we been to each other, this is just a hard stretch, he’s having

some trouble, it will change, I’ll love him enough, give him

what he needs, it will change, I can do anything, absolutely

anything. I’d go through the motions, tying him, doing what

he wanted, m ostly light strokes o f a cotton wrap-around belt

and fellating him and then he was ready and he’d tie m y wrists

to the bed and I’d start waiting and soon the pain in m y side

would come and I’d know it was going to last for hours and

he’d use a leather belt, a heavy belt, with a big buckle, a silver

buckle, or sticks, or he’d begin with his open hand, or he’d use

a brush, and he’d do what he wanted and he’d take his time and

then sometime he’d fuck me and I’d hope it was over and

sometimes it was and sometimes he’d do more and after he

would untie me and he wanted to visit folks and party, didn’t

matter w ho or where, even his terrible fam ily, he’d play cards,

the men would play cards, or i f it was real late at night he’d

want an after midnight m ovie, a cow boy m ovie, an edge o f

night crowd where there were always people he knew and

deals he could make and he’d strut by them, circle around

them, regale them, touch and poke them, tell vulgar jokes, sell

hash or score and always, always he’d smoke; or w e’d go to an

after-hours club and he’d deal and strut; and I’d sit there, the

quiet, used thing; the pale, used thing. I’d moan and do

everything you’re supposed to; I’d egg him on to try to get him

to finish; I ju st hate the fucking feel o f rope around m y wrists; I

hate it. We didn’t use mechanical things; you can use anything;

you can do anything any time with anything. The bed was in a

tiny middle room, a passageway really, no window s, and I’d

lay there, m y wrists tied to the headboard, and the walls

would be nearer each time, the room w ould get smaller each

time; and sometimes, more and more, he’d leave me spread-

eagle on the bed, m y ankles tied to the base o f the bed, and he’d

be done, and he’d get up, he’d fuck me with m y legs tied

spread apart and then he’d be dead weight on top o f me, he’d

be done, and sometime he’d get up, when he wanted, and he’d

stand there, his back to me, and he’d putter around, he’d find

his pants, he’d pick out a new shirt to wear, he’d hum, and I’d

want to reach out like this was still us, not just him, and he’d be

only a few feet away, but I couldn’t and I’d say his name and

he’d keep his back to me and I’d ask him to untie me and he’d

keep his back to me and I’d tell him m y side hurt and he’d

putter around and I’d see his back and then I’d close m y eyes

and wait. Then, sometimes, he’d say we were going out, and

I’d say I’m sick and I don’t want to, and then I’d get scared that

he’d leave me there tied up and I’d say I wanted to go, I really

did, and he’d sit down on the bed and he’d untie one rope

around m y wrist and then he’d make it tighter to hurt me and

then he’d untie it because I was shaking from fear that he’d

leave me there and I’d put on clothes, what he liked, and I’d

follow him, quiet. I never thought there was anything I

couldn’t walk away from; not me. If I didn’t like being

married I’d just leave. I didn’t care about the law. I wasn’t

someone like that. This was a few fucking ropes; so what? I

was getting nervous all the time; anxious; and he’d keep

waking me up to do something to me; to fuck me; to tie me; I’d

be sleeping, he’d be gone, he’d come in out o f nowhere, he’d

be on me in the bed where I was sleeping, I just could never get

enough sleep. It was ordinary life; just how every day went;

I’d think I could do it one more day, I could last one more day,

he’ll leave, he’ll change, he will go somewhere with someone,

a girl, he’ll find a girl, he’ll go away to buy or sell drugs and

he’ll get caught, he’ll go to jail, he’ll go back to running with

his pack o f boys; a man will always leave, you can count on it,

wait long enough, he’s gone, how long will long enough be?

I’d be counting seconds, on the bed, waiting. He painted the

bedroom a dark, shocking blue, all the walls and the ceiling; I

screamed, I cried, I begged, I can’t stand it, the walls will close

in on me, it makes the ceiling feel like it’s on top o f me, I’ll

smother, I can’t bear it, I screamed obscenities and I called him

names and I could barely breathe from the tears and he hit me,

hard, in the face, over and over; and I ran away; and I was

outside in the cold a long time; I didn’t have m y coat; I was

crying uncontrollably; I went to the park; men tried to pick me

up; I was freezing; m y face was swelling; I couldn’t stop

crying; I felt ashamed; I got scared; I went back; he wanted to

make love; I was tied in the room. I knew he was capable o f

frenzies o f rage; but not at me— he broke furniture, he

punched his fist into walls, once he tore up a pile o f money,

tore it into a million pieces— it was rage at things; not me; I

don’t care about things. It was an internal agony, he was

tormented, he was so distraught, and I thought I’d love him

and it would help that I did. When the violence possessed him,