Andrea Dworkin - Ice And Fire

to be loved more: and more: and more. I like it when men love

me. I especially like it when it starts to make them hurt. I like it

when they hurt. I am hooked enough. I am a player in the game.

*

Nevertheless I do not want it. I am proper, distant. I am formal.

I am soft-spoken: in his world it means fuck me.

*

The phone rings. His voice slithers. There is some detail of

production. I am called into his office. I am treated like the

Queen of Sheba. Everyone is both warm and deferential, respectful, amused by my jokes, I am never left waiting, I am escorted, welcomed, not just by secretaries and office boys. The president

of the company introduces himself to me, shakes my hand,

welcomes me: more than once. I am singled out: the beloved.

I go in prepared not to take up time. I am there four hours

later, six hours later. Everyone has gone home. We sit alone

high up in the sky surrounded by dusk. It gets dark. We walk

out. We walk along the sidewalks. We come to where he turns

to go to his apartment. I hold out my hand for a formal handshake. He draws me close and kisses me. I walk on, alone.

*

If I have to call him, I try to leave a message, take care of it

indirectly: I talk to my agent and ask her to call him. He always

has me come in. I go in with a list: the things that must be

taken care of. I pull out the list and say: this is a list. I cross

things off the list as we discuss them. It is never less than four

hours, six hours. I try to get it done. He must tell me this and

that. He loads me down with gifts: books. They are cheap gifts

from a publisher, but nevertheless: they are special, precious,

what I love, not thrown at me but given carefully, in abundance, he introduces me to new writers, he gives me beautiful books, he thinks about what I like and what I don’t like. He

keeps me there. My list sits. We walk out together. We get to

the corner. I go to shake his hand. He kisses me fervently. I

walk on, alone.

*

He takes me to dinner, it is the same. Romantic. He talks. I try

to end it. He talks on and on. I shake his hand. He kisses me. I

walk on, alone.

*

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The meetings go on for months. I go to his office. He keeps me

there. Everyone leaves. He tells me sexy stories, his lovers, his

adventures. I have my list out. He talks about writers. He

gives me books. He talks about himself, endless. It is dusk. It

is dark. There is a sofa in his office. He brings me over there. I

don’t sit down. I keep standing. I am formal. We walk out

together. We walk several blocks together. He does not acknowledge any of my moves to go. Finally, I go to shake his hand.

He pulls me. He kisses me. I walk on, alone.

*

It is dark. It is night. We walk several blocks together. It is

time for him to turn off to his apartment. I don’t shake his

hand. I start to move away fast, almost running, and say

good-bye once I am moving away. He grabs me and pulls me

and kisses me. I walk on, alone.

*

I dread the meetings, always four hours, six hours. Every smile

is a lie. He publishes my book with some money behind it, a

token of his esteem like a fine piece of jewelry would be. The

book is savaged. I am humiliated, ashamed. It keeps him away.

It is the one good thing. He could probably have me now. I am

too ashamed to pull away. He could wipe his dick on me now.

Why not?

*

He bought the next book before this savaged one was published. It was a token of his esteem, like a fine piece of jewelry would be.

I work feverishly to meet my deadline. I have one year. He

leaves me alone. I am desperate for money. The landlord sets

up a new exhaust system for the restaurant downstairs. The

windows are closed. I am still cold all the time but the windows

are closed. I am afraid I will suffocate, that the air is still

poison, but I am too cold to open the windows. Sometimes the

new exhaust system doesn’t work and I get sick so I am nervous

and afraid each day but the windows are closed. Sometimes

they are opened for a week at a time because the new exhaust system doesn’t work but most of the time the windows are closed. Each day I beat down the humiliation of the last

book to work on this new one: it is like keeping vomit from

coming up. I work hard. A year passes. I finish it. He

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has called to assure me of his love but he leaves me alone.

*

Then the rats come. Just as I am finishing, the rats come.

There are huge thuds in the walls, heavy things dropping in

the walls, great chases in the ceiling, they are right behind the

plaster, chasing, running, scrapping. The walls get closer and

closer, Edgar Poe knew a thing or two, the room gets smaller

and smaller. I am up each night and they are running, falling,

dropping, chasing, heavy, loud, scampering, fast. They are

found dead in the halls. The landlord says they are squirrels.

*

Night after night: they drop like dead weight in the walls, they

run in the ceiling, the walls close in, the ceiling drops down,

plaster falls, they are running above the bed, they are running

above the bath, they are running above the sink, the toilet, the

sofa, the desk, they are in the walls, falling like dead weight,

we put huge caches of poison in great holes we make in the

walls, we plaster the holes, sometimes one dies and the stink

of the rotting carcass is inescapable, vomitous, and still they

run and chase and fall and pounce: they are overhead and on

every side. I am scared to death and ready to go mad, if only

God would be good to me.

*

I live like this for months. The publisher has promised to publish a secret piece of fiction only he has read. He read it months before, in the privacy of his love for me. Now I have submitted

it officially. He has promised me, money, everything. I am

entirely desperate for money. I am so afraid. He knows about

the rats. He knows how poor I am. He knows I am ready to

leave the sleeping boy, who sleeps through the jumping and

chasing and great dull thuds. I am, frankly, too desperate and

too tired to love. I am too afraid. The boy sleeps. I do not.

This constitutes— finally— an irreconcilable difference.

The editor tells my agent he must talk to me about structure:

ideas he has for the piece of fiction: this means he will publish

it, but he has these ideas I must listen to.

I call to make an appointment at his office.

He insists on dinner.

There is dinner, coffee afterward: a restaurant, a coffeehouse. He talks and talks and talks. I drink and drink and 142