own dumb heart to love him, he is one of us, the raped, I do not
have to sleep with him, surely that is not what he meant.
*
I know what he wanted, he wanted me to ask to see the scars, to
run my fingers over them, to love him because of them, to stay
there, touching the scars, while he bit and clawed and screwed. I
have seen such scars. Of course, I knew what he wanted: old
habits: familiarity, the smell, the language of the body: you run
your hands over scars like that and you stay the night.
*
I get home. The windows are open. The wind blows through. I
am so cold.
*
I don’t want him. I need him, oh desperately, but I don’t want
him. I have his secret, sorrow added to sorrow, pain added to
pain, rape added to rape. I am faithful to the raped, it is my
only fidelity. I have his secret. It was a blood oath but not on
my blood, my real blood, so it is not enough, I know that, he
is a man, he needs my real blood, my blood is the blood beyond
symbol, uterine blood, vaginal blood, seasonal blood, stench
blood, strong blood; it is not over because it has not been my
blood, him cutting, me bleeding, the way a man and woman
do it. Others say: oh, he is gay, don’t worry, he doesn’t want
that. Others say: oh, don’t be silly, he can’t want that. Oh, he
can’t want that. I want to buy it. He can’t want that. The
raped don’t do that to the raped, I want to believe.
*
Others say: oh, don’t be silly, he can’t want that. I am dense,
troubled but dense. Before I knew what he wanted and how he
wanted it, but now I am blinded, because the raped don’t do
that to the raped. I decide: he can’t want that. I don’t believe it
really, but others say he can’t want that, so I don’t really know
what he wants, not that, I say. I pick a posture: he has told me
a secret: we are colleagues with a special understanding: his
secret: I will be patient and loyal because of his secret: because
I hurt in his behalf. I am always astonished by the cruelty of
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rape. I am awed by the enduring of it. I am awed by those who
carry the secret: those bodies carrying it, burned in; those minds
collapsing under the weight of vivid recollection that doesn’t
pale with time. I am awed by the intensity of the never-
assuaged anguish. I am confused. I don’t know what he wants
from me. He can’t want that. In private, I am troubled. In public
I am dense; we are colleagues with a special understanding.
*
I feel dread, confusion, panic: he can’t want that. That is so
simple and this whole routine is so complex. I need him but I
don’t want him. I am cold, the wind blows through the apartment, I am destitute and I have nowhere left to go: I don’t know what to do except to walk away: and I can’t do that
because I am too desperate and he is one of the raped.
*
I have nowhere else to go. I have no money, no hope of being
published elsewhere, by anyone else, my work offends everyone
else. Life is dead ends, ghostly alleys. I need him. I am so
confused, so cold, unhappy. I don’t know what he wants.
Others say: not that. I think: well, it can’t be that.
*
Underneath, inchoate— it is that. I want him to stay away. I
know he is coming closer.
*
I even say to myself: just do it. Just do it. But I don’t want to. I
say to myself: just do it, in the long run it will be so much
simpler, get it over with, just do it, he will get tired of you
soon, what difference can it make to you, one more or less—
but it makes a difference, I don’t know why, I don’t even want
it to: it just does. I am cold and I am tired and I don’t want to.
*
I am confused, but he is not. It boils over: he loves me.
I am scorched by it everywhere I turn, in private, in public, in
the little world of business where I go to meet with him, the
little world of huge skyscrapers and sterile offices. Like sunlight, it blazes. I don’t know what it is or why or what it consists of— but there is no missing it— I am his special
someone or something: he emanates it: it is no secret: every
secretary and office boy treats me like his bride. I like being
loved. He is no fool. I like being loved: so much so that I want
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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