things nice, I put something here or there, little touches, but
especially I washed things— I washed floors, dishes, clothes,
anything could be washed I fucking washed it; and I would o f
course keep thinking; I’d be doing laundry but I’d think I was
thinking— housework wasn’t what I was doing, not me, no, I
was thinking. I shared the fruits o f all this labor with him,
clean clothes, clean dishes, clean floors, my thinking, which
has always been first-rate in some senses, and I saw him put the
thinking I had done into action so I felt like some pretty major
player, running dope and making money all over Europe, and
I kept thinking, and I saw the thinking go into political
actions, so I felt pretty major, and I just kept washing and
thinking; washing, ironing, and thinking; washing, shopping,
and thinking; washing, cooking, and thinking; washing,
scrubbing, and thinking; washing, folding, and thinking. I
saw the consequences o f m y thinking; it was us out there, not
just him. I was important; he knew; you don’t need
recognition in a revolutionary life. Increasingly he incarnated,
freedom, I dreamed it; especially he was the one who got to be
free outside the four walls, and I got to be what he rolled over
on when he got home, dead tired and mean as madness. He
did— he got on top, he fucked me, he went to sleep. I was
incredulous. In the aftershock I ironed, I washed, I scrubbed, I
cooked. I’d lie there awake after he rolled o ff me, on m y back,
not m oving, for hours— outraged, a pristine innocence,
stunned in disbelief; this was me; me. We’d entertain too, the
revolutionary couple, the subversives— I learned to do it. It’s
like you see in all those films where the bourgie wife slinks
around and makes the perfect martini amidst the glittering
furniture; well, shit, honey, I made the most magnificent joint
a boy could sit down to on a beanbag chair. I mean, I made a
joint so gorgeous, so classic and yet so full o f savagery and
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
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,
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,
it didn’t have anything to do with me; it didn’t; I was terrified
by the magnitude o f it, like the w ay yo u ’re frightened o f a big
storm with thunder that cracks the earth open and lightning
that looks like the sk y’s exploding, you feel small and helpless
and the drama o f it renders you passive, waiting for it to be
over, hoping it w o n ’t hurt you by accident. The first time his
frenzy landed on me— landed on me, a shower o f his fists
pummeling me— I just didn’t believe it. It w asn’t something
he would really do; not to me; me. It was some awful mistake;
a mistake. I didn’t clean the refrigerator. I had never seen
anyone clean one before— I mean, I never had, however stupid
I am I hadn’t— and I didn’t see w hy I should do it and I didn’t
want to do it and he told me to do it and I said no and he went
mad, it was some seizure, something happened to him,
something got inside him and took him over, and he beat me
nearly to death, it’s a saying but I think it’s true, it means that
some part o f you that is truly you does die, and I crawled into a
corner, I crawled on the floor down low so he w ouldn’t kick
me, I crawled, and I was sick in the corner but I didn’t m ove,