she’s turning into clay, an electricity running all over you
carried in saliva and spit, you’re cosseted in electric shock,
peeing, your hair standing up on end, muscles stretched, lit
up; there’s her around you and in you everywhere, the
rhythm o f your dance and at the same time she’s like the
placenta, you breathe in her, surrounded; it’s something men
don’t know or they’d do it, they could do it, but instead they
want this push, shove, whatever it is they’re doing for
whatever reason, it’s an ignorant meanness, but with a woman
you ’re whole and you’re free, it ain’t pieces o f you flying
around like shit, it ain’t being used up, you got scars bigger
than the freedom you get in everyday life; do it the w ay you ’re
supposed to, you got twenty-four hours a day down on your
knees sucking dick; that’s how girls do hard time. There’s not
many women around who have any freedom in them let alone
some to spare, extravagant, on you, and it’s when they’re on
you you see it best and know it’s real, now and all, there w o n ’t
be anything wilder or finer, it’s pure and true, you see it, you
chase them, they’re on you, you get enraptured in it, once you
got it on you, once you feel it m oving through you, it’s a
contagion o f wanting more than you get being pussy for the
boys, you catch it like a fever, it puts you on a slow bum with
your skin aching and you want it more than you can find it
because most women are beggars and slaves in spirit and in life
and you don’t ever give up wanting it. Otherwise you get
worn down to what they say you are, you get worn down to
pussy, bedraggled; not bewitched, bothered, bewildered; ju st
some wet, ratty, bedraggled thing, semen caked on you, his
piss running down your legs, worn out, old from what yo u ’re
sucking, I’m pretty fucking old and I have been loved by
freedom and I have loved freedom back. Did you ever have a
nightmare? Men coming in’s m y nightmare; entering; I’m in,
knock, knock. There’s writers being assholes about outlaws;
outlaw this, outlaw that, I’m bad, I’m sitting here writing m y
book and I’m bad, I’m typing and I’m bad, m y secretary’s
typing and I’m bad, I got laid, the boys say, like their novels
are letters home to mama, well, hell’s bells, the boys got laid:
more than once. It’s something to write home about, all right;
costs fifty bucks, too; they found dirty wom en they did it to,
dirty women too fucking poor to have a typewriter to stu ff up
bad boy w riter’s ass. Shit. Y ou follow his cock around the big,
bad city: N ew Y ork, Paris, Rom e— same city, same cock.
B ig, bad cock. Wiping themselves on dirty women, then
writing home to mama by w ay o f G rove Press, saying what
trash the dirty women are; how brave the bad boys are,
writing about it, doing it, putting their cocks in the big, bad,
dirty hole where all the other big, brave boys were; oh they say
dirty words about dirty women good. I read the books. I had a
typewriter but it was stolen when the men broke in. The men
broke in before when I w asn’t here and they took everything,
my clothes, my typewriter. I wrote stories. Some were about
life on other planets; I wrote once about a wild woman on a
rock on Mars. I described the rock, the red planet, barren, and
a woman with tangled hair, big, with muscles, sort o f Ursula
Andress on a rock. I couldn’t think o f what happened though.
She was just there alone. I loved it. Never wanted it to end. I
wrote about the country a lot, pastoral stuff, peaceful, I made
up stories about the wind blowing through the trees and leaves
falling and turning red. I wrote stories about teenagers feeling
angst, not the ones I knew but regular ones with stereos. I
couldn’t think o f details though. I wrote about men and
women making love. I made it up; or took it from Nino, a boy
I knew, except I made it real nice; as he said it would be; I left
out the knife. The men writers make it as nasty as they can, it’s
like they’re using a machine gun on her; they type with their
fucking cocks— as Mailer admitted, right? Except he said
balls, always a romancer. I can’t think o f getting a new
typewriter, I need money for just staying alive, orange juice
and coffee and cigarettes and milk, vodka and pills, they’ll just
smash it or take it anyway, I have to just learn to write with a
pen and paper in handwriting so no one can steal it and so it
don’t take money. When I read the big men writers I’m them;
careening around like they do; never paying a fucking price;
days are long, their books are short compared to an hour on
the street; but if you think about a book just saying I’m a prick
and I fuck dirty girls, the books are pretty long; m y cock, m y
cock, three volumes. They should just say: I Can Fuck.
Norm an M ailer’s new novel. I Can Be Fucked. Jean Genet’s
new novel. I ' m Waiting To Be Fucked Or To Fuck, I Don't
Know. Samuel Beckett’s new novel. She Shit. Jam es Jo y c e ’s
masterpiece. Fuck Me, Fuck Her, Fuck It. The Living Theatre’s
new play. Paradise Fucked. The sequel. Mama, I Fucked a Jewish
Girl. The new Philip Roth. Mama, I Fucked a Shiksa. The new,
new Philip Roth. It was a bad day they w ouldn’t let little boys
say that word. I got to tell you, they get laid. T h e y’re up and
down these streets, taking what they want; tw o hundred
million little Henry Millers with hard pricks and a mean prose
style; Pulitzer prizewinning assholes using cash. Looking for
experience, which is what they call pussy afterward when
they’re back in their posh apartments trying to ju stify
themselves. Experience is us, the ones they stick it in.
Experience is when they put down the money, then they turn
you around like yo u ’re a chicken they’re roasting; they stick it
in any hole they can find just to try it or because they’re blind
drunk and it ain’t painted red so they can’t find it; you get to be
lab mice for them; they stick the famous Steel Rod into any
Fleshy Hole they can find and they Ram the Rod In when they
can manage it which thank God often enough they can’t. The
prose gets real purple then. Y ou can’t put it down to
impotence though because they get laid and they had wom en
and they fucked a lot; they just never seem to get over the
miracle that it’s them in a big man’s body doing all the
damage; Look, ma, it’s me. Volum e Tw elve. They don’t act