finifTE"""R WifDOm 15
A J oumal of Words and Pictures for the Lesbian
Imagination in A II Women (Fall, 1980)
Guest Editors: JULIA PENELOPE &SARAH LUCIA HOAGLAND

Publishers: Harriet Desmoines & Catherine Nicholson
Editors : Catherine, Harriet, C. ColettePoetry Editor: Susan Leigh Star
Reviews Editor : Julia Penelope
Contributing Editor: Sarah Lucia Hoagland
Shipping: Donna Saunders
Staff : Edy Ambroz, Roxanne Claire, Vicki Nogle,
Janet Niland
Special thanks to Debb ie Alicen, Barbara Bradford,
Emily Levine, and Moni Usasz

SPECIAL
ISSUE: LESBIANISM: SEXUALITY AND POWER
THE PATRIARCHY: VIOLENCE AND PORNOGRAPHY

DEDICATION:
This special issue is dedicated to Frog,
who isn't afraid of her anger.

Front cover photograph by Morgan Gwenwald(also appeared in Off Our Backs, 7,9 (Nov. 1977) © 1977)
Back cover photograph by Emily Levine
Printed by Iowa City Women's Press
ISSN: 0196-1853
Copyright © Sinister Wisdom, 1980. All rights reserved to individual authors and artists .
Published quarterly
Individual subscriptions: 1 year (4 issues) $10.00
2 years (8 issues) $18.00(For out-of-the-U.S. subs: $12 .00 for I year ; $21 for 2 years; U. S. dollars only)
Institutional subscriptions: 4 issues $15.00
Supporting subscriptions: $25.00 and up
Sample copy: $3.10 (including postage)
NEW ADDRESS: SINISTER WISDOM, P.O.Box 660, Amherst, MA 01004

CONTENTS
Backroom with the Feminist Heroes: Conference For
Women Against Pornography
Susan Chute
For the Woman in the Tie
Susan Chute
The Garden
Paula Gunn AllenJan Hardy
what else do you remember
After News of a Rape/Mutilation
Sami Gray
For Venus DeMilo
Luisah Teish
Objectivity, She Said
Valerie Miner
in Wichita, Kansas, in Lincoln, Nebraska
Anita Skeen
Killers
Pamela McAllister
Jane Gapen
The Slaughter House
Chris Cuppett
A Spirit Crushed, A Spirit Healed
A Story for Freud
Nancy Harrison
Five After Incest
ran hallThe Swimming Lesson
Susan Marie Norris''When you grow up an abused child .. . " Christina Glendenning
Untitled poem
Deirdre Vanderlinde
Martha Courtot
Face to the Wall''What Did He Hit You With?"
The Doctor Said
Chrystos
The Images
Adrienne Rich
Sexual Power
Melanie Kaye
Michaele
notes on an artist in search of an erotic image
Lesbian Epic
Victoria Ramstetter
Cynthia Rich
Reflections on Eroticism
Cris South
Diary of a Woman/Wife/Queer
Violence, Victimization, Violation
Sarah Lucia Hoagland
The Lesbian in Pornography: A Tributeto Male Power
Andrea Dworkin
Catherine Risingflame Moirai
Declaration of
Mystery and Monster: The Lesbian in Heterosexual
Fantasies
Julia Penelope
Circling
Sandra Butler

2
4'
6
7

13
14
16
19
20
21

23
27
33
36
37

39

40
41

42
45
51
56
59
65

70
73

75

76
92

REVIEWS:
How Lesbians Read Literature : A Constructive
Cri ticism
Pamela C. Johnston
And now for the hard questions .. .
Julia Penelope

94
99

RESPONSE:
H. Patricia Hynes on "Racism and Writing"
PHOTOG RAPHS :Morgan Gwenwald
Emily Levine

10564
32,72,93

CONTRIBUTORS' NOTESLetter from Susan Brownmiller

SEE INSIDE BACK COVER FOR IMPORT ANT ANNOUNCEM ENT

110
111

Susan Chute

BACKROOM WITH THE FEMINIST HEROES:

Conference for Women Against Pornography
New York City , 1979 *I went to this conference on Women Against Pornography . I was into it.
There we were at Martin Luther King High School in New York City . I was
ready . Ripe for revolution .
All the hot-shot bigwig feminists were there . Susan Brownmiller. Lois Gould.
Barbara Seaman . EM . Broner. Phyllis Chesler. Shere Hite. Bella Abzug spokewith such fire and power that I wondeled if I was at the Democratic National
Convention . Gloria Steinem recited the story of her humiliation at the handsof AI Goldstein , who published a centerfold in Screw with Gloria's face on the
body of a nude woman . Along the side were penises of assorted sizes, and thepage was captioned , ' 'Pin the Cock on the Ferninist." When Gloria wrote a protest letter , she received a small box of candy and a message which read , " Dear
Gloria , Eat it! Regards, AI Goldstein." But Bella told Gloria not to worry ;Goldstein had published Gloria's face , but he had published Bella's labia onthat centerfold ; they were all in this together. Then Gloria said she felt better.
Robin Morgan said she had to read a dirty story and strip for her parents
and their friends in the theatre when she was six . She explained that her occasional brutal sexual fantasies were the result of "scar tissue ," and I thoughtthat was very moving. She said that her idea of erotica was Anne Bradstreet's
poetry , and I thought she was skirting (as it were) the issue .
A lot of other brave women got up and said they had been raped by theirfathers and brothers and that they were shown pornography to justify therapist's act. Another woman said that she was confused about the suppressionof pornography and its relation to censorship , but that when Playboy said it
was a magazine publishing serious authors and interviewing important people ,and she read the Playboy interview with President Carter and turned the page
to fmd a photograph of a nude woman , shot labia first , lickety -split down her
middle , she lost her confusion .
I watched a slide show with some pretty disgusting slides- from peep shows,from record jackets , from advertisements. It became obvious that women are
the victims of pernicious propaganda . It was equally apparent that not only
are women themselves injured by pornography , but pornography cripples maleperception of women as well. The media seems to bombard the country withimages of violence against women , and we ~II know what violence breeds.
A march on Times Square was announced for October 20th . That was pretty much that. Spirits were high. It had been years since all those feminists
gathered together in one place to work on one important issue. But with all
the pretty women, something was not quite right.
The next day , I attended the Lesbian Workshop , but they weren't discussing pornography. They were discussing the dilemma of trying to locate lesbians.
2 *For Susan Brownmiller's comments see page III .

They were deploring the sad implications of lesbians dressing like straight women and straight women dressing like lesbians . But a rather serious, vocal lesbian
said that you could still tell the straight women from the dykes because
straight women wore their ties loose like Diane Keaton, but dykes wore theirs
tight around the neck like she did. Then she pulled her wide yellow-and-blue
striped tie even tighter around her neck . We were all very relieved to hear that!
The discussion then turned to the fact that the conference organizers had
not done an adequate job of recognizing lesbian issues in its exploration of theeffects of pornography or even of recognizing the lesbian contingency at theconference . We got all riled about this.
Then we went back to the auditorium for the fmal round . A panel discussion with feminist organizers from around the country was scheduled . The only
"famous" feminist on stage was Susan Brownrniller-all the other "stars" hadheaded home. The panel members gave their speeches and a small discussion
was held about whether to invite the morally indignant church-going Catholic
mother of seven to join us, or to give her the feminist position on ERA andabortion and all the other scandalous matters (no one mentioned lesbianism,
oh no , not yet) instead . .
Then a woman got up and asked where the third-world women were . Everyone looked around but no one stood up. Another woman got up and commented that maybe the third-world women couldn't afford this gathering, because God knows everyone wasn't as rich as some people present who madetheir capitalist-pig money off their successful mass-market books!
Susan Brownmiller knew who they were talking about. Now Susan had along, hard month, and here she was, all tired and drained and (worst of all)unappreciated! at the end of her conference . She got up and slapped her fist
on the table and said, "This always happens at the end of feminist conferences!!!!" She was disgusted. So she apologized (yes, apologized!) to the rest of
the audience for the unfortunate presence of these impolite, ungrateful women
who had dared to mention that she and her. friends might not have planned anabsolutely perfect conference.
Now the lesbian. in the tie was beside herself. She climbed to the podiumwith an aggressive stride and yelled that she is "sick and tired of this movement being run by cocksucking straight women. After all, how could anything
be accomplished to fucking abolish violence against women since the cock wasfucking ultimately responsible for all violence against ,women, and here were
all these fucking straight women right before' her very eyes and they were all
going to go home to their men and suck cock!!!" And the lesbian made a few
more remarks in that genre.
Brownmiller was furious. She started toward the dyke in the tie, shoutingthat by God, she was straight and she wasn't going to take this kind of abuse.
The lesbian with the tie started to laugh and then bent down and called Brownmiller a cocksucker. Susan had to be restrained.
Then some lesbians said that they felt that the lesbian at the podium was
not adequately conveying their position . Some straight women said that obviously, we all needed some consciousness-raising. A lesbian agreed - "Yes, that's
the spirit. Let's talk about women rather than men and cocks." I almost
thought it was about time to get peaceful. But Susan Brownmiller rose a t1nal
time , pointed at the woman in the tie, and said triumphantly, "See, she evendresses like a man."3

Which remark set off another trauma in the audience . All the lesbians, myself included , started hissing and hollering , "Apologize! Apologize!" Susan
Brownmiller did , but you could tell she wasn't a bit sorry. The woman in the
tie wasn't sorry for her behavior either , although during the rest of the shouting , she remained uncertainly on stage , like leftover mashed potatoes on aplate . And we might all still be shouting if we hadn't had to vacate thebuilding.

FOR THE WOMAN IN THE TIE- to the Lesbian who called Susan Brownmiller a cocksucker
at the Conference for Women Against Pornographyhaving tasted blood
felt it seep as people talkseen it cake and smell
foul up weddings and christenings
sister \ I am frightened for you
2
on a dayblue-eyed as a daughter
we gather
I am there , yes , I am there for history
and fearshoulder to shoulder
the women murmur
double-exposed soundof black and white, of old and young
familiar incantation3
the talk continues
in the room we come and go
veiled women
breathing antiseptic
waiting for signs of healthlesbian charity sister
you overcome the microphone
to research evil
I am frigh tened

4
4

it's not pride
it's not bravery

it's not harmless entertainment
you follow orders
by the men who hate us
you are pornographic and obscene
as I listen to your talkas I hear your willful laughI try to reason with brother/father
you use language ten years deadI watchyou stretch your legs
an ache apartwhile Susan Brownmiller springs to tell us
you dress like a man
the tie you boughtin the men 's department of a village store
binds you tightsure as any woman
strapped in a Times Square display
you photograph well
5
blinking at mutilation
oh, we are complacent
women
wearing the ties of men

6
I want to take your tie
unbutton your shirt
to lookhaving tasted bloodfound it salty and thick
more satisfying than tomato juice
I could lick your wounds
I could like your wounds
some call this perversion
even as I cherish you
I cannot tell if I suck to heal or killboth are natural
sister, I am frightened for you- Susall Chute5

-Paula Gunn Allen

THE GARDEN
scene isky still bright
we weed, companionable.
she on her side of the low wallme on mine
"they leave their shells in the ground"
she says, "see those holes? I don't know
why, they have to be dug up andthrown away." she holds up
a transparent thing,tissue pa ttern for an insect dress.
her petunias , my corn, beans, squash and I
nod amiably.
scene iiin the hills last night
two more animals
dismembered :rectum , lip, nostril, vagina
split.
bodies left bloodlesson the unmarked grass.
something out there.
something unknown.
I straighten, groaning
wipe sweat from my eyes.
mystic impulse all aroundslicing holes in air
digging bad dreams
in daylight.
sun like a corpse over me.
sky blooming deep.
a shroud.

6

unmannered .
soft as night.
air keening
sky building .
what manners these?
fear lightly easing itself overback wall , through trees .
starshine
beginning at the edge.
her dress moves with ease , eyes
glitter , hair. so soft in evening wind, sherecalls summer nights ,arms like branches singing, bodysinking graceful into dusk
comfort of lounge chairholds buttocks , back , pliant neck.
she dreams of Pentecost , tongues
of flame above her shining hair,longs for beatitude, so suited
to this place .'a manner of speaking touches her lips
lightly, careful for her carelessness,words slip cautiously toward formation ,birds settle in for the night, crying.
daylight evaporates as she swirls
her drink, sips cold with perfect easeagainst her teeth, rests against cushions
soft as dissolving clouds
overhead.
trees by the back wall
begin to stirominous.
sky goes dark.

Jan Hardy

what else do you remember

it was so long since we'd been together away from the apartment where
she and John and I lived the two of them in their bedrooms and me in theliving room an afterthought, a person to help with the rent Denise and John
lovers and me jealous at least they didn't sleep together after they made lovein the room next to mine Denise liked to sleep in her own bed, with lots ofspace at least I could wa.ke her every morning by bringing coffee, sitting carefully on her bed and touching her hair soft brown on the pillow she'd rollover and grunt irritably tonight she had said let's go for a walk and I felt
honored stoned but clearing, we headed toward the parkon her favorite green I tried to fall in with her "dramatic improv" do anything, she had told me act what you feel she stood in the center tall thenpaced in long powerful steps a dance and deep wordless music, her voice
she acted for the trees, the grass, the sky and I spun on the edge of her circle
like silly lace mixing short dry laughs with whispers I stumbled down the hilltrying to drift with the air she misunderstood, called after me and followed
are you all right cynical, I asked, aren't you supposed to react to the otheractors, even in experimental theatre well, yes- so what do you mean nevermind
we walked to a spreading knobbly blossoming tree and she stretched, thenflopped down and we sat looking up at blossoms and stars I rememberedthat night years ago summer before college drunk in a cemetery but not
drunk enough to excuse it Denise lay resting her head on my bare feet and I
sat looking at stars each distinct in a clear black sky she touched my feet
kissed"my ankle and I stroked her hair her neck her cheek lightly afraid
later we walked toward the gates of the cemetery and suddenly I fell to myknees giggling buried my face in the grass sweet green laughingin the park, under the tree I lay leaning back on my elbows, watching
she sat three feet away not looking at me I sang to myself and to her likethe teasing half-finished phrases we gave each other sometimes at the apartment when we were high or feeling brazen flirting stepping out of our fear
as clumsily as drunks shedding clothes before stumbling to bed and deep sleep
then forgetting like drunks the morning after a "phase ," she called it pulling up blades of grass, I sang "don't let the past remind us of what we are notnow" surprised when she sung to answer "something inside is telling me that
I've got your secret fear is the lock and laughter the key to your heart andI love you" she still looked away
restless , I stood up let's walk veering off the golf course we found a wood ed strip high thick grass then a road, a long uphill curveand later I had to answer , I don't know where officer was it near the ninthhole, he asked I don't know (too dark to see those little flags, I was thinking we stole one uprooted it and speared it into a tree yelling war cries likeAmazons there might have been a 9 on the flag her favorite number and my7

favorite color, yellow) just down the hill from that big oak tree officer, I
said later when we tramped through the park to find The Scene Of The Crimeand Denise said like a child remembering an outing yes this way because wewere sitting under that Japanesey tree we looked away but I caught the two
detectives frowning at each other at the police station they asked, what were
you doing in the park that late at night
I was singing bouyant pieces of some song and had just burst out laughing
my arm around her waist when she said walk faster and I said, what? she
nodded toward the woods heavy thrashing through the brush an animal a
man in dark clothes thickset crouched STOP OR I'LL SHOOT
what did he look like , they asked he was big not tall but stocky and strong
about how tall I don 't know I can't judge too well was he taller than me,
taller than Sergeant White I don't know maybe a little taller than you about
5' 1 1" then okay wha t else do you remember
I grabbed Denise 's arm she still trying to stride past until he jumped down
into the road STOP OR I'LL SHOOT YOU BOTH he pointed the gun HANDSON YOUR HEADS PULL YOUR COATS UP OVER YOUR HEADS a hoarse
horrible voice I turned away even before he said TURN AROUND I had
wrestled my sweatshirt jacket up around my head couldn't see tried to stop
gasping so I could hear him then he searched us little pats on my side myass my legs GIT DOWN ON TH' GROUND I knelt then fell on my face down
Like he'd shot me already no sound from Denise I think she was still standing I sobbed for air dirt in my mouth gritting on my teeth I spread myhands not only to touch the earth maybe the last thing I'd ever touch but toshow I had no weapon I held out my arms the coat bunched under my armpits it was crazy he knew I had nothing my coat pockets were so small andhe'd already searched us I smelled earth crushing my face straight into theground tried turning my head aside but I remembered I paid fifty dollars forthese glasses I'm not going to break them for this but I might not" need themanymoreI SAID LIE DOWN a sound beside me Denise
MOVE CLOSER TOGETHER oh no will he make us does he know
he kept telling us to move we crawled forward back I remembered Lv.
murderers arranging bodies painstakingly like flowers in a vase what 's it feellike to be shot in the back a pinprick pain spreading like the blood comingfrom it will I die instantly newspaper pictures shredded unrecognizeablebodies face down little rivulets connecting to dark wet pools Denise 's whitejacket standing out it was new I said it was nice she said she liked it but it
looked butch I said oh come on , a simple white jacket her body like so muchgarbage off the side of a road clumps of grass trampled down policemen's
feet heavy and crude sounds of brush breaking next to our ears wouldn't hearsomeone taking pictures and chalking outlines of our separate imprints
I'd be beside her but she wouldn't know
you can do anything to me anything you want but please don't hurt her
my breathing so loud chest hurts hush, he'll hurt you because he'll know
you're afraid don't let an animal know you're afraid of it
what time is it they'll ask us what time when did we leave the apartment
clock's face on the bookshelf in my mind is blankwhere's John when will he come home it'll be late the apartment will be

8empty when will he start to worry tomorrow next day will he miss us
what else do you remember what did he look like I didn't see his face hehad something wrapped around his head and face a grey or brown tatteredscarf his clothes were dark his posture was crouched from the shoulders he 'was black they looked at each other and nodded
did he have an afro no his hair was short did he wear a hat no just thescarf hm so you couldn't see any scars no tattoos no jewelry no facial
hair no was he young or old about early thirties did he have an industrial
smell like a millworker no 1 don't know did he smell like liquor (I hadn't
thought of that) no 1 didn't notice (I didn't get that close) did he have any
personal odor any body odor not that I remember can you remember anything else at all yes I remember he had big heavy boots
heavy boots do you mean like work boots I don't know (good god stop)
I twisted around and my coat slipped down to my chin when I heard Denise
yell: I'm not going to stand for this it's not a real gun I saw her lunge up
trying to kick his groin a black shape rearing against black sky Denise trying
to kick the gun away and he threw her down easily I heard her hitting the
ground YOU BITCH he said YOU BITCH EVERYTHIN GOIN ALL RIGHTTILL YOU MESS THINGS UP YOU GIT DOWN ON THE GROUND I
heard the thumps his boots slamming into her ribs her back Denise yelling then whimpering she rolled away crying her arm raised blindly trying toshield herself stop it J won't move again please stop it thudding slamming into her backDenise stop it do what he wants
a high sharp cry hanging in the air before I realized it was mine he stoodover her breathing heavily through his scarf faceless even then made her lie ,bare back against gravel how bad is she hurt is it broken Denise whimpering
he prodded my side with that boot YOU SLIDE UP THERE I crawled a few
feet ALL RIGHT STOP NOW YOU GODDAM FUCKING WHORE NOW I
TAKE CARE OF YOU DIRTY BITCH
can you describe his voice yes it was harsh and low he used bad grammar
Denise said tiredly, he had the accent of an uneducated lower-class black man
like a street accent what did he say he called Denise a bitch is that right,
a bitch he wrote it down how many times did he say it, miss a couple oftimes how many times about four what else did he say it might help toidentify him since we have so little identification he frowned at his papers
I asked, a voice is identification? if we apprehend the suspect we can put
him in a lineup and make him repeat the words really? my voice like an interested kid 's I didn't think that was legal it's a method of identification,
yes now what else did he say
he said stop or I'll shootokay now he looked at his form are either of you injured in any way(any signs of struggle is what he meant) officer I have this she turned herback lifted her jacket and shirt bleeding cuts and blue -black welts
Denise do what he wants her body jerking up and down as he pushed insne crymg how bad are you hurt I pressed my leg to her arm maybe thelast time I'd touch her how did he rape you both couldn't one of you getaway she crying and bumping against me Denise I'm here I would shootthe fucker the animal cut his balls off and let him bleed to death I touched9

Denise's arm felt her shaking, then my trembling pressed my hands to thegravel and forced myself to stop so she wouldn't be more afraid then realized
she was shaking from the cold or from anger WHAT YOU DOIN OUT HERE
like a stubborn kid she said , just takin a walk he said TURN AROUND PUTYOUR HANDS UP he searched us YOU GOT ANY MONEY? Denise answered again , a little impatient I told you before we don't have any money
YOU SHUT UP GETTIN SMART WITH ME BITCH she said I wasn't getting
smart with you her voice exasperated now GIT YOUR HANDS OUT AND
SHUT UP he searched us again , then YOU TWO BULLDAGGERS? oh god
I haven 't heard that word since junior high will he make us do something to
get him off a silence no she said then that 's okay Denise he doesn't haveto know she thOUght he said do you two pull daggers , she said later pronouncing it crisply with confusion on her face and he 'd just searched us I thought
he was afraid of us pulling a knife out of our coat pockets no I said that'sslang for bulldykes
what exactly did he do he made me lie down he took off my pants hewrote it down on a form (I am going to be sick I can 't speak) what else did
he do I remembered he dn his hands down my hairy legs he looked andgrunted with surprise made me hold my legs up so he could get in deeper I
wouldn't wrap my legs around his I held them up in the air my shoes andlittle kid's white bobby socks sticking up in the air ludicrous Denise lying
face down where he could see he stopped , pulled the jacket over my facepushed the gun against the coat a bulge in my mouth as I gasped
that's his gun don 't move it might go off it can 't kill me if he shoots
through my mouth there's no brains behind my mouth I just won't be able
to swallow or talk anymore a hole in my coat and the back of my head gone
but I won 't die he pushed in and I grimaced cool air on my lips the coat
had slipped he stopped to cover my face did he see my braces did that hurthim
he stopped moved away PUT YOUR PANTS ON I stood, felt on the
ground for my pants the coat still bunched up at my neck can't find myunderpants never mind hurry put the pants on belt twisted can 't buckle ithard to move in this coat my arms out so he can see how I'm moving
GIT BACK DOWN ON THE GROUND I lay beside Denise she had dressed
too his boots scraped gravel as he walked to me , then a soft kick in my side
YOU. YOU NUMBER ONE what? didn't he rape Denise first ? he walked
to her, kicked her ribs hard she writhed and cried out YOU NUMBER TWO
is this a game will he give us directions by number and shoot us if we don't
get it right I repeated to myself number one, number one stretched my index finger out like I used to in gym class when we counted off to pick teams
and out goes y-o-u
NUMBER ONE STAND UP I stood with my coat still over my head
NUMBER TWO STAND TURN TO YOUR LEFT GIT WALKIN
Denise led me away I asked is he gone she answered flatly yeah I burrowed out of the coat , grasped her arm and sucked in air are you all rightyeah aw luck she said , disgusted then mock gaiety well life in the big city
raped in the park you know I answered , ] knew you 'd say that my breathcame in shaky sobs feet dragging through the grass Denise striding and shaking her head with pursed lips and a murderous frown sparkling ice-blue eyes
10then laughing incredulously, aw fuck we were far enough away and I reachedto hug her arms circling barely touching how bad are you hurt I'm okay
aw fuck
we walked through the park to Forbes Ave saw the lighted sign of a pizza'
place Denise said, my mouth is dry let's stop in there for something todrink she reached for her back pocket and stopped mid-stride I lost mywallet he might have it did you have money in it, I asked no, my i.d., shesaid, irritated that I didn't understand if he has my name he can find me in
the phone book he11 find our address and that apartment's simple to breakinto I turned cold as she looked at me her white jacket reflected the streetlight aw, shit she walked ahead again shit well, all we can do is wait maybe he didn't find it if we tell the police maybe they can keep an eye on theapartment, I said Denise looked at me, frowning you want to go through allthat red tape? no, we won't report it unless we have to , she said
wonder what time it is , I said as we walked to the pizza shop door feels
like it went on for hours look at your coat, all dirty and grass-stained she
frowned, looking down then started to push the door open wait, there's aleaf in your hair, I said, brushing it out smoothing back her hair, we went in,came out with two cokes did you see those guys? she said smiling they werelooking at us like we'd been in the park at night together . . . my eyebrowsraised, I answered, well we were the one night in ages I was hetero ya can't
please em she shook her head, smiling, janwalking back to the apartment we passed a police van the driver's eyes
followed us we turned down a side street sat on a curb under a tree because
our legs were suddenly shaking we giggled like two schoolgirls, deciding who
to tell Denise said I know 111 tell John I tell him everything I don't think
111 tell anyone elseback at the apartment we found John still awake he teased, where wereyou? his forefinger wagging: naughty, naughty we came into his room hesaw our faces in the light and his voice softened what happened? I was worried Denise told him about the rape, the beating, the gun her anger cooled
to a weary, matter-of-fact tone she sat on the bed winced and carefully
touched her back John said eagerly, I have something to tell you too thiswas such a weird night the moon was out a full moon and I had a premonition that something would happen I had a weird night myself I just got backfrom Cris' party but anyway the phone rings and it's this guy Denise and I
look at each other did he have a real hoarse voice? she asked yeah John
imitated the voice, grinning a hunchback his hands became claws on an imaginary telephone he growled IS DENISE WEBER THERE? what time was this?
Denise asked about one o'clock nobody calls at one in the morning and asks
for me by first and last name it must have been him
we decided to go to the police I realized I'd wanted to remembering thenumbers of reported rapes estimated rapes never knowing just how many
how that galled me I wanted to be two numbers closer to the truth but 1
wouldn't have gone if Denise hadn 't wanted toJohn walked with us to the police station Denise and I on either side ofhim each holding his hand Like two children out for a walk we went aheadof him through the doorway into a large bare room and up to a higll wooden
desk Denise and I had to stretch our necks to put our chins level wIth theIIcounter-top I remembered being shorter than the counters when my mothertook me to Murphy 's I knew I had to be assertive, be adult three policemen
sat behind the desk like judges I felt like a crir.1inal
Denise and I were silent can we help you ladies? and finally she spoke
officer , we've just been raped how long ago? about an hour and what are
your names?
they asked John for his name and what is your relationship to these young
ladies? Denise answered, he's our roommate hm. and where did you say thisrape took place? I thought, well, it's all a formality from here on
the police made John wait on a wooden bench across the room while theyquestioned us Denise told them about the wallet she said , he knows where
we live could you please have a patrol car somewhere nearby just for the
next couple of nights he might try to break in he's already called at the apartment sure honey we have a car stationed on that beat, he said , looking at hisforms , pencilling a number at the top but could they keep a special watch
will they be around there often sure honey we'll take care of it
well , we'd better get these girls to the hospital check them out walking us
toward the door , they shot John a look at the last minute do you want tocome too? he stood up quickly, smiling excited as a puppy rode in the backseat with us to the hospitalin the emergency room the police gave us coffee they apologized laughing
about the paper cups marked for urine samples eight ounces of urine coffee
is a diuretic don 't pay any attention to the cups honey now we hate to ask
you this but uh well do you have any uh protection are you taking any
contraceptives Denise said yes quietly like a schoolgirl with the right answer
and you miss? no oh well that complicates things well don 't worry we'll
ask the nurse for something he walked to the hospital desk swinging one leg
out in a strut the holster banging on his hip he talked to the nurse almost
whispered she turned back to a medicine cabinet the policeman kidded her
you workin the late shift tonight Rose? you look pretty good for three inthe morning uh-<>h you know it's snowing down south she looked over her
shoulder at the hem of her uniform the half-inch of slip beneath oh you be
quiet ",here's Bob tonight? he's out on another caselater the nurse gave me a large bottle, saying now you take these five times
a day for five days try to take them with meals so you don't get nauseated
I turned the amber bottle filled with large white tablets now you call us dear
if you have any problems
they called me to be examined before Denise she's hurt she needs help
it's all right dear we'll take care of your fdend on the table I spread my handson the clean taut sheet the nurse had said take your pants and underwear off
put this robe ' on you can leave your shoes on dear my feet sticking up in thestirrups absurd clunky shoes, bobby socks and hairy legs the nurse cleared
her throat and looked away a man parted the curtains, came in and pulled
them shut quickly hello my name is Dr . Harman he nodded to the nurse she
said this will be a little cold dear she rested her hand lightly on my shoulder
the papery white gown the doctor pushed the gown up pushed in the speculum
what are you doing? my voice like a curious child 's the nurse answered we're
just taking samples of his semen dear acid churned up to my throat the doc12

tor silent took out the speculum his hand in a plastic glove shoved a fmger
in my vagina pressed my stomach with the other hand what are you doing
now? we're checking your cervix dear I tried to relax so it would hurt lesscouldn 't stop the muscles from clenching could only make my mouth hangopen, slack remembered the gun pressed my hands against the sheet thenurse smoothed my gown Denise how bad are you hurt
he took his hand out and turned away then came at me bending his scissors pointed at my crotch long, thin glittering steel what are you doing? I
pushed myself up the nurse caught my shoulder and settled me back don't
be afraid dear we're only taking samples I'm not afraid I just wanted to knowwhat you're doing samples of what? of your hair dear in case we find him
there might be traces on him for evidence (traces, such a nice word traces ofme on that animal his scum in me in Denise) a metallic snip and he gavethe scissors to the nurse turned away , stripped the loves off while she said
now well take some from your head honey don't worry 111 try to take itwhere you won't notice that's all right 1 don't care you're a brave girl there
now well put these in an envelope and send it to the lab you can get dressed
now dear they left the room (Denise are you all right)
at the police station the officer's pencil had paused above the form did he
ask you to do anything for him? Denise and I looked at each other
did he at any time ask you to uh touch him no did you touch him at
any timeNO
well take my word girls you're lucky, he said looking up we've had somecases where these fellas have made them do all kinds of things with him , witheach other and they didn't walk away from it he stared at us is there anything else at all that you can remembernowell all right that about wraps it up now let's go over your story once
again

AFTER NEWS OF A RAPE/MUTILATION
Twinges in my shoulder joints
all day. Awareness of arms
as of something added, somethingthat could be removed. Arms,
four of them, as I lie beside
my lover, our various arms
wedged between us , or entwined
cocooning us.
I dream of driving the back roadsof Modesto with a knife
wondering , when we find him,
where to start- Sami Gray

13

FOR VENUS DEMILO
What is my sister's name?
who wandered armless through the city
raped and dismembered by agin-stained night?
What is her name?
Maria?
Ayesha?
Reiko?
What is the name of my sister?
We read her slavename on breast-heavy billboards:
Lupe's tits shoot Tequila .Sauze.
Fly me to Hong Kong on Lu Chin's neck.
Put your hands on some black velvet, baby.
The whore bends over for her pimp.
What is her name?
Maria?
Ayesha?
Reiko?
Charlene can be bought on Capitol Hill,
screwed and paid for with her own tax dollar.
Cheaper by the dozen, wrapped in black leather,
centerfold for the military budget
in Viet Nam and South Africa.
What is my sister's name?
Maria?
Ayesha?
Reiko?
What's her name?
What's her name danced through the 10 o'clock news
to exhibit her strength-the Art of Living Armless ,Venus DeMilo
Victim of the gin-stained night!
What's her name?
Maria.
Ayesha.
Reiko.
Como se llama, hermana?
Josefina, my Columbian cutiecrucified for cinco dineroson the backdrop of an imported
genuineAmericanSnuff-porn film.
14

Mi hermana!
Como se llama?
Maria!
Ayesha!
Reiko!
We know your names, you sons of Mothers
Rippers
RapersUterus-eaters
my armless sisters' butchers.
You shall know our names!
They ring through the streets
calling out to our sisters:
Tear down the billboards!
Rewrite our Herstory
Wage relentless war against
Chick pornandSnuff porn
andSoft porn

forMaria+Ayesha+Reiko+
Scream out your name, sister.
Helen.

Luisa.
Margaret.
Sue Yin.
Make this pledge for your name's sake :Woman will walk tall!
Woman will fight back!
Woman will not fear
the
gin-

stainednight!
A Rainbow of Armsstrong and slenderWill embrace youWill protect youWill defend youAnd your name shall be
DIANA
Unconquered Queen of the Night.

- Luisah Teish

15

Valerie Miner
08J ECTIVITY, SHE SAID
"Huey Newton is on trial for the murder of a 17 -year-old black prostitute ,"said KCBS Radio News .
The phone woke me this morning. Charlene. "Did you hear about the rapeby the Campanile?" she asked .
I did not need this before 9 o'clock in the morning.
"It was still daylight," Charlene said . "She was walking alone. He grabbed
her can of Halt and sprayed it in her eyes. Then he shoved her in a van , oneof those ugly modern ones with a thick carpet."
What the carpet had to do with the story, I did not know, but I was glad
Charlene told me. I would watch out for carpeted vans more than I did already.
"He made her suck him off," Charlene said, "raped her repeatedly andthen ... "Did he kill her? I needed to know. I did not want her to be dead.
"She made it back to campus by 9 PM. to tell the police."
Just yesterday after class I almost went up the Campanile terrace to sit in
the late sun. I was tired from teaching for three hours. And I was nostalgic.
In another age, when I was a student, I used to neck with my fiance by theCampanile. But yesterday I felt too tired for reliving memories. So I wenthome. Home to my apartment where I locked the doors securely.
"And the day before yesterday," Charlene was still talking.
"Oh, yes," I said, because it's not as though I could go back to sleep after
hearing such a story.
''There was another rape," she said , "up by International House."
I wonder about the late 1930s in Europe, about whether the Jews phoned
each other like this. Did they wake each other with clipped, dark warnings?
Did they tell each other to get away?
"Huey Newton is on trial for the murder of an Oakland prostitute," said
KRON evening news.
But how do we get away?
I was jogging at a park near my house. Ho Chi Minh Park, we named it in
the '60s before we learned how long the revolution might take.
"Hot stuff," called the leering man who looked like a used teenager under
his long, blond hair.
.
"Hot stuff," he murmured before taking another swig from the sherry bottle. Sherry at 8 AM. Sherry in this neighborhood park next to the junior highschool which had seemed like a safe place to jog.
"Hot stuff," he said , despite the fact that I was wearing baggy pants and asweatshirt.
I tried to ignore him.
"Get her Rover ," he said to his big dog. "Sic her."His Boxer loped toward me. And I remembered another oversized Boxer
16dog who masturbated himself against me when I was a fi fth grader at Sacred
Heart School. So I jogged on home and locked the doors securely .
"Oakland prostitute," said KNBR . " Black prostitute," said KGO . Usually
they left out the l7 -year-old part. The lawyers were having trouble finding ajury.
Tonight I visited my friend Jana who is a tough cookie. She lives in a "badneighborhood" because she is poor.
"I don't mind having bars on the windows ," she said , "don't notice themanymore. But this door bothers me. You can 't get in or out without a key .
The fire department would slap a fine on me in two minutes flat. But they
can 't get in here either.""Huey Newton is on trial for the shooting of a prostitute .. ." a student readthe newspaper article aloud .
" Objectivity ," I asked my class. "How is the notion of objectivity in today's
media related to the 19th-century concept of logical positivism?"" It was still daylight ," Charlene said. "She was walking alone ."I told my mother I went to a pornography conference .
My mother stiffened. She already disagrees with 85% of my life. She saidcoolly , "I don 't like pornography ."" Neither do I ," I said , marvelling that for the first time in twenty years weagreed on something.
" I think pornography causes rape ," my mother said flatly .
I considered the fact that she works in an all-nig4t coffee shop where shesees both porn and violence.
"I'm sure it causes rape ," I answered. But I didn't bother to present thesociological research proving the correlation between pornography and assault.
Some women do not need statistical evidence.

"Huey Newton faces his second trial for the shooting of an Oakland prostitute ," said the man on the tube . "The first trial ended in a hung jury."
I watched the television series on Marie Curie . It was inspirational to watch
her perseverance , to see her working in her laboratory until very , very late atnight.
(This reminded me of the rush of dedication , fascination and hope I used
to feel when I stayed at the library until 3 A.M. studying. Then one night a
policeman caught me leaving the library .
"How are you getting home? " he demanded.
"Walking ," I said.
"You looking to get raped?" he asked.
" No ," I answered briskly , "just looking to pass my class."
I was angry. He was admonishing me. Accusing me . But the powers of mypatriarchal logic acknowledged that he was right. No more necking by the Campanile . No more walking home alone at night.
And now 13 years after as a teacher on the same campus, I know when toleave my office . I go home at dark . I smile at the policeman now . I am a goodgirl.)
17

If Madame Curie returned to the Sorbonne today , some conditions would
be better for women . Some conditions would be much worse .
A woman was found dead in the trunk of her car. A 72-year-old woman .
The first murder since the town was incorporated in 1971. Who? Where? I
asked my class . The facts , I said , put all the facts in the lead .
My class was discussing the mass magazine market.
"Six out of ten of the best-selling newsstand monthlies are men's entertainment magazines," said one student. She showed a Penthouse cartoon where arape victim is calling, "Encore ."Several men in the class giggled .
A woman got angry. "That cartoon implies that women like getting raped ,"she said .
"Well , " said one man in all seriousness , "Don' t some of them enjoy it?"He felt the wrath of seventeen women , few of them self-declared feminists .
"But ," he said. His voice was lower then and he was still serious, "don'tsome of them enjoy it sometimes?"
The Fremont rapist has raped forty women , but luckily , according to Jim
Avila, East Bay Bureau Chief of KPIX, " no one has been injured ."I went to London to work during the summer. I was staying with friends
in a house on Gloucester Drive.
"Gloucester Drive ," said the taxi driver , raising his eyebrows and then driving on because cabbies , like priests , have heard a lot of stories.
Gloucester Drive , my friends had written to prepare me for the raised eyebrows , is a red light district. Not a proper red light district with mad ames and!imosines, just a working class neighborhood in Hackney where women on thedole tum a few tricks to keep their kids fed .
Gloucester Drive, I learned , was a tricky street to cross . You had to lookout for cars , but you could not look at the drivers or they would stop. Gloucester Drive was always crawling with businessmen on their lunch breaks .
It took me a week of practice before I got across the street safely , without
having one of the prowlers stop.
Worse things might happen , of course . I learned this during my fifth week
there . Walking home alone , I sensed a man following me . I moved out on thestreet and he hugged my heels . I turned around and shouted at him to go
away . He just stood there. I walked faster. So did he . Then I ran , flinging
open our gate , rushing up the steps and ringing the bell as I fumbled for the
keys. He just hung on the gate , watching . Esther opened the door and as wewalked into the hallway , I breathlessly told her my story.
"Happens all the time ," she said, handing me a glass of burgundy.
We walked into the dining room where a group of women were sitting
around a table , drinking and laughing. And I wondered if we were all fools .
"Huey Newton has been acquitted of the murder of the seventeen-year-old
black Oakland prostitute."
Good thing too , Newton later told reporters. He was in his penthouse writing a religious tract during the stoning , rather shooting of the prostitute .
18

IN WICHITA, KANSAS, IN LINCOLN, NEBRASKA
Tonight , when I pull back the drapes ,there is a man crouchedbeneath my bedroom window.
I see his whi te shirt glow
like a dwarfed reflection of the moonor a hard patch of snowthat will not melt.
He is clever and does not move .
Only his breathing
gives him away.
This man has crouchedbelow windows for centuries,
and more times than not ,has entered through them ,unasked, uninvited into the livesof women.
He is young, he is old , he is the manat the newspaper stand , the former student,
the pastor of the corner church .
He brings only blood and death.
He goes through women
the way some people go through clothes ,the way others , bored with the latest pets,
cast them out.
He kills with the ease of a man
signing his name.
His voice is the strange clicking we hearthat wakes us from our dreams.
His dreams are our worst fears.
The man curses at me through the screen.
I move for the phone, call the police.
The man disappears into the cedars back of my house.
The police are three blocks away.
It takes them twenty minutes to arrive.
They ask my name, address , phone number, date of birth.
The man has crossed five streets
by now . Headed east,
his shoes leave wet stains
on the walk.
They ask where I am employed, need the numberof my business phone .
The man's white shirt moves
like a light along the boardsof a brown house.
Finally , [ take them to the spot
where his body hunkered against the bricks.

19

The officer says there are always cranks around,that I should lock my windows , go back to bed.
The fingers of the man's right handprobe for the latch on the low screen .
This time his left hand unsheathes a knife .
-Anita Skeen

KILLERSThe freckle-faced boys ,all snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails . ..
the freckle-faced boys learn to whistle young.
They will be whistling all their lives.
They wait for me around every cornerconjuring dark mushroom clouds with their eyes.
Their wolf whistles are little darts
piercing apples over my head , warning me
they have good aim.
Their whistles ride up my thighs , ride up
the thighs of the world .
Boys will be boys.
They whistle while they work,
wrapping my dreams in barbed wireand .selling them back for a profit.
They whistle all the way to the bank.
In the silence before the bomb hits ,there comes a high , thin , descending
Boys throwing spit-balls
imitate that sound.
They are the killers of the world.
They learn to whistle young.

whistle.

Listen . . .

- Pamela McAllister

20

THE SLAUGHTER HOUSE

This poem is part of a book which we will read . ..because wehave to understand how we let them get this far
before we said no
before we woke up in the same instant as the blow
meant to stun us fell . . .the stunning realizationthat if we do nothing else we can say NO
that we must. ..at least do that.
The cow , the gentle stupid mother of many
went to the slaughter house the long way
more and more alarmed by the ramp , the boxcar , the jolting
Then the yards . . .chaos and noise , stifling dust
rushing at the last , as if toward freedom!
It was the stunning blow and being strung up
that made her say no . ..
But the blow didn 't quite stun her.
She said NO again , hanging by her hind ankles
She struggled , knew what was happening
Another man in rubber pants came over with his sledgehammer
to help . ..another blow . ..and walked awayand came back for another and still
she said NO even tho it was too late
and then she was almost quiet.
A last great shudder of bone and hide andthen she was still and didn 't move again .
Watching, I didn ' t cry or cry out. . .I never averted my eyes
Perhaps I knew I was getting a lesson which I must not refuse
But I stowed it away in a secret store and turned the key .
I saw this and other things which horrified me at the time
I say.' this and other things which horrified me more at the timeat SWIFT, years ago . . .seen from behind glass and several feet below
this huge cow was dollied in with the others ... one of those marvelsof the dairy industry .. .black and white . . .with a huge bagthat gives the most milk on record day after day year upon year
and among the slow herds of the region
embellishes the scenery where she grazes.
So ...she was beautiful
even hanging upside down .. .and she said NO
and she said No and then she couldn 't say it anymore.
Between them , the two guys must have given her 4 blows on the head .
The others were finished with one.

*

*

*

*

*

21

In neighborhoods near the meat industry in Chicago
when the wind is right. ..people smell something
and hear something. It is animal ...
hide dust poop blood all mixed together
to make a huge smell/thing ...and they hear a chord so vast
not loud, really, from the cattle steers sheep pigs
waiting in the yards.
They even see something . .. a warm colored haze
lifting over a wide area then mixing withand dissolving into the blue Chicago welkin.
Chicago has a sky not merely blue . . jt is all different hues :
cobalt ultramarine cerulean and has
a depth you can go into, almost inky .
All blues vie for the eye of the admirer. . .draw her into
its inky depth where it holes into the universe . . .(is why
I call it a welkin). Anyway
some of the best steak houses are right there in the middleof things and men come and eat hearty for good moneywith the best napery tucked over their big fronts.
I would not eat with them. (But I did . . .I'd forgotten it!
I did eat there, with that guy who'd already begun doing it to me
and making me think I liked it.
Thank goodness he found betterchops than me to fry, soon after.)
We have to lay it out like a map
the long way to the slaughter house ...with X marking the places
to say NO(The cows will lie down in the grass where it's comfy
and won't get up.)Will they?
(Hoho, this metaphor requires a cow
who can burst an ancient barrier in the brainso as to think.)
And all the cows will have to do this at the same time!
-Jane Gapen

22

Chris Cuppett

A SPIRIT CRUSHED, A SPIRIT HEALEDIt was a cold brisk late afternoon in February , 1978. Not one of those afternoons that would make one scurry home from work and hide under theelectric blanket. No , there was a kind of energy about the day . It had motivated me to get going, to get things done. My reports were finished, my lessonplans were shaping up , and my desk even looked fairly presentable . Now , after
a productive Wednesday , I still had enough energy to look forward to my second guitar class .
As I left the rehab center, I shrugged off the idea of taking a bus as I had
the first time and decided to walk . The first half mile was an easy familiar
route. I walked along briskly and let my mind wander where it would. But
after leaving the familiar area , my mind began to ask a few small nagging questions. "These streets are numbered , but how do you know that one of thenumbers hasn't been left out of the sequence? Suppose some little side streets
have been thrown in between the numbered streets? How can you determine
the number of blocks you still have to walk?" I decided to continue walking
and to ask the next person who came along for a few directions.
As it turned out , the next person who came along asked me if I needed
directions, so I immediately explained where I was having difficulty. "Gee ,"he said a little hesitantly , "now that you mention it, I'm not sure about thesequence of the streets around here either. But I can walk with you , and I'll
fmd out the street signs along the way ." I took his arm , and we walked together for about two blocks as he pointed out landmarks and tried to locate
street signs. Suddenly , he made a sharp turn , and I felt walls closing in. "Hey ,"I said , feeling the panic rise inside me , "this is a garage." "It sure is! " he replied , releasing my hold and roughly drawing me toward him. I could only
utter a monosyllable and that came out in a scream : "No! "The next few minutes were a blurred succession of blows, screams, andthreats such as , "Be quiet or I'll hurt you," "don't let me hurt you." Somehow , through all the commotion , a persistent message kept getting through tome . "You can't get him by force , so gross him out." I was menstruating at thetime , so I let him get plenty of blood all over himself. The horror ended as
quickly as it had begun, and in an instant he was gone.
Stunned , I stood in the middle of the garage thankful to be alive and not
injured too badly . But what next? I wondered. Should I leave? I think I'm
about a block away from my guitar class , but should I go? Maybe I should go
home. To the police station . To the doctor. Is he hanging around out there?
Where is my cane? Where is my guitar? Well, forget the guitar , but where is
my cane? I need it!
I began carefully exploring the garage. The sound of a car heading purposefully in my direction caught my attention. It was going to be the end of me
now . He had come back with his car.
The car pulled into the garage and a woman got out. "Are you all right ?"23

she asked . "No . I've been attacked ." There was nothing more either of us couldsay. I moved toward her and we embraced . By that time I had located my cane ,but I was sure my guitar had been taken . She discovered it, however, sitting
neatly in a corner as it had been put there with the utmost care. "Maybe thejerk had one redeeming quality," she said as we got into the car, "maybe heliked music ."The time at the police station was spent answering and reanswering questions as accurately and succinctly as I possibly could . The policemen tried as
best they could to show tact in the way they phrased the question. But what,
they queried, had a "blind girl" like me been doing out alone? At six o'clockin the evening? Were they serious? What was I supposed to do, live in a vacuum all of my life?
I was asked to report to Hennepin County Medical Center for a thoroughmedical examination and a special test. My companion and I waited there
forty-five minutes before I was finally ushered into an examining room. During the long wait , I found that she was a tough no-nonsense insurance agent
who hailed from New York, loved classical music, and who treated me like theintelligent person I was. The only concern she showed was that which shewould have offered any woman in the same situation.
Fortunately, most of the examinations and special tests were carried out
by a nurse practitioner who was unhurried , sensitive , and who was absolutely
furious with the rapist. I appreciated her empathy , but at the same time, I
asked myself how she could work there every night facing the reality of womenin such pain and raging against the men who had caused it.
After she was through with all of the tests which might have offered someclue to my assailant's identity , a doctor stepped in to confirm everything.
Seemingly bored with the whole routine , he probed me with a few cold instruments , and promptly left the room.
Back in my apartment in the privacy of my own bedroom , the silence of
my surroundings and the loudness of my thoughts became unbearable. I
thought of going into the next room and awakening my apartment-mate . I
checked myself in time . She would , I surmised, simply tell me that I was overreacting and that I should promptly put the whole matter out of my mind.
(When I told her about the whole thing later, that's exactly what happened .)Instead , I dialed the number of a young couple, friends of long standing
with whom I had spent countless hours talking, listening, going places, anddoing any number of things that good friends do together. I asked them toget me out of the dreadful silence of my apartment and to let me spend thenight with them. During the night, they could only give me what countlessother friends and relatives must offer with the best intentions to loved ones
who have been raped-a cup of tea , a hot bath, and advice to forget thewhole thing.
It was difficult enough to conduct regular classes the next day constantly
fighting the turmoil in my mind. But, to make matters worse , I was called outof class twice to confirm the police reports. And, once , to converse with anewspaper reporter who had talked with the police and who wanted a goodstory . It was unnerving to stand in the reception area , to talk in to the telephone to these men, and to try to answer their questions, yet trying to keep
my statements vague enough so that eavesdroppers could not grasp what had
24

happened.
The story which came out in the newspapers that evening was a pathetic
account of a "blind girl" who had had the courage to venture out somewhereby herself, had gotten lost, and then had gotten raped by someone who pretended to help her. According to the story , she had told reporters that she
would need "a whole lot of counselling" and that she would be afraid fromnow on to leave her home alone . Where had they gotten all of that? Certainly
not from the telephone interview with me. I could see that letting reporters
write my story had been a terrible mistake . What I hoped to convey by letting
the story get printed was that women still get raped in this fair city of Minneapolis when they are just carrying out everyday functions , when they are justtrying to live their own lives.
When I arrived at work on Friday morning, I began overhearing my colleagues'
reactions to the newspaper article . Naturally they were curious about who had
been the rape victim. "Well , whoever it was ," a blind female colleague saidrather complacently, "the dumb girl shouldn't have been out alone ." For a longtime that one remark became a representation of what most of the people atthe Minneapolis Society for the Blind must be thinking, that somehow thewhole incident was a result of a blind woman overstepping her bounds .
That evening, I took an acquaintance of mine out to dinner , a gesture that
I hoped would bring a sense of normalcy back into my life . Then we whisked
ourselves off to a friend's tupperware party , very normal indeed. During theparty , the telephone rang . My friend returned a short time later howling withlaughter. "Chris , get this ," she said. "A friend of ours just called and said he 'sread the article in the paper. He was afraid the person might have been you.
Now is that paranoid or what?" "Yeah , I guess that's paranoid ," I replied , andquickly addressed an unrelated comment to another guest. After the guests had
left, I felt a need to tell my friend and my acquaintance ,the whole story . Alingwith that came a whole barrage of guilt feelings about my past, and conflicting
feelings of dependence and independence. My acquaintance spoke up suddenly. "Chris, what can we do for you right now?" Before I could change my mind
I said, "I wish someone could hold me ," The things this woman did for me
were simple: she held me, she listened quietly , she shared her own experience
with rape, and she wandered with me step by step through a maze of feelings .
Somehow, I felt that she had been able to reach inside me and deftly untangle
this web before it had time to curl itself into a hard unrelenting little knot. To
me, February, 1980 will signify the two-year anniversary of the assault. Since
that time, I have partiticpated with a group who have provided free counselling for me while I, in turn , ftIled out questionnaires, voluntarily supplying
them with information about the healing process which was taking place overthe months following the rape. I had been informed that I could drop the research program at any time and still receive free counselling. Even though thetask of frequently ftIling out questj('mnairses was an arduous and painful task
at times , I'm glad I stuck with it. I felt that it was essential that more research
about women working through this crisis be made available to professional
people as well as to the general public,
In August, 1979, I had an opportunity to release a great deal of anger in aconstructive way. A group calling themselves "Women Against Violence Against
Women " organized a march to protest rape, incest , battering, and other crimes

25

against women. Six blind women participated in this "Take Back the Night
March," and half of us wore sashes which stated : "I survived a rape." Gradually, I have been sharing my story with more and more people. One by one, I
talked to several colleagues at work , and they proved to be very supportive.
Eventually , I got up enough nerve to tell my family. I expected parental protective remarks like: "Well dear you should have been more careful" but, rora change there were none. I admitted to my mother later that I had been surprised that she had not asked me to return home to Thief River Falls immediately. "Why should I do that," she asked rather incredulously , "when sitting
at home would make you even more miserable?" Yea Mother!
At the AAWB convention in St. Paul , in October, 1979, I volunteered to
be a facilitator for a workshop on sexual assault . I have also stumbled upon
opportunities to help other women through their feelings about rape. I hope I
have been able to help them as much as my new-found friend helped me on along February night two years ago . As I think of the women I have met who
have gone through the experience I have, I think of a song recently releasedby the women's jazz group Alive!. The song depicts women suffering because
things happen to them which seem to be beyond their control. The song gives
an admonition to me : "You are the spirit healer."first published in Wom en 's Issues Newsletter (Winter , 1980), Minneapolis, MN.

10 dy - un iq ue- inc 1i no t ion -of -t he- nigh t
a feminist journal of the goddess
p.o. box 803
new brunswick. n.j. 08903

CYCLE 5 AUTUMN 1980
$3.50 + .75 Ost.

26

Nancy Harrison

A STORY FOR FREUD

He is no match for you. It is 1951 and he is not even five years old. He is
about to get a whipping. You do not like to watch. Your father is too big
and clumsy when he whips. He looks angry. You hate it when he whips you.
You hate him and the stupid movements involved. It hurts besides. Usually
you are the one who gets the whipping . Today it was your brother's fault andhe is going to get the whipping . Don't, you think of saying. Whip me instead.
He's too little. It's awful. Whip me . Your father is unmoved. For once yourbrother is to blame. He is going to get the whipping .
It is outside. You usually get it indoors, in your own bedroom. You don't
know why.
Pull down your pants, he says. Why? you say. Don't ask questions, just do
it. It is with a belt. Your father's army belt. It is heavy woven cotton with ametal tip which is like gold. You are told it is brass. The buckle slides andratties, it is gold too.
Outside the yard is long and green, rough in patches all along one side of
the yard. In the middle it is broken by grape arbors. Big, dusty grapes, withround seeds and pale grey insides. Your father positions himself between thefence and the grape arbor behind the garage. The chinaberry tree is withinrunning distance, just a few yards. Why outside? That's where it happened.
His disobedience. You try to shield him with your eyes. It's no good. Your
father is determined to punish your little brother. Billy's mouth is open. He
cannot believe it. His father is going to punish him, outside, in the middle ofthe yard, almost under the chinaberry tree.
There is a slight rise in the ground here, like a stage in the grass . It is aplatform. Your father is standing in the middle of it with your brother's handin his. He slides his hand along until he is holding Billy by the arm. The sky
is behind them and the chickenyard where there are three geese waddling andstopping to look. They hear something. It is your father speaking loudly to
say what the whipping is about. Billy can't believe it. His father is going towhip him. You can't believe it either. It is never his fault. Your mother hascome out to look. We don't like it. We don't want to see Billy whipped here
in the middle of the yard. We stand on the edge of the platform. We move
forward when my father speaks and back again when he turns and says why
he is doing it. He is very angry. He likes being right. My brother has been
wrong .
It is my fault. It is usually my fault, even though I say it isn't. My brotheris only little. I tell my father it wasn't his fault. Usually that is what he thinks.
He doesn't believe me. He doesn't believe me when it isn't my fault. But I'mused to the whippings , Billy isn't. Please, no, I say , hating to have to speak to
my father this way, but it isn't for me. It's for my brother.
My mother is silent. She spoke once, to say my father's name. She calls to27him that way. He is not listening. He has started this thing and won 't stop.
Your father loves you very much your mother says . Oh sure you say. Sometimes you think he does . Right now you are furious at him. You can do nothing .
He has begun to whip your little brother.
You look at your mother. She is watching your little brother get a whipping .
It is not too bad after all. Your father is ashamed of himself but he must fmish
what he has started . He hits harder just before he stops. Billy is crying the way
little children do. His eyes are full of water which spills out all around the edgesof his eyes which have gotten very big. He breathes in and out of his open
mouth. His whole face is open and crying . It hurts me very much to see him
this way . It is worse than when I get the whipping. My father looks at me as
if I will understand . I will not look at him.
My mother is forbidden from comforting my brother , and so she touches
his back once, puts a hand at the back of his head where his hair is all shaved
off and goes back to the kitchen . My father is left alone in the middle of thegrass . He looks at the ground where he and my brother had gone around in acircle, and scrapes it with his foot. It looks the same as it did before. We weregoing to have a picnic today . I don't want it anymore . I don't want to eat
with my father out in this backyard . I walk around to the front and look at
my mother through the kitchen window. She .
What happens with the whippings. Your father gets his belt out of the top
drawer in his bedroom chest of drawers. Sometimes your mother says , yourfather has gone to get his belt . You cannot run away . You have to stand still
because he is your father. You are only a child . You cannot disobey . That iswhat got you into trouble to start with. You are disobedient. A child mustn 't
talk back to its parents . You talk back. You do not honor your parents. You
do give your seat to ladies on the bus . Sometimes you even have to stop andthink , is she old enough for me to give her my seat. Only one of these ladies
has ever refused to take the seat you offer. But you mustn't talk back toyour parents . You are only a little girl. You must listen and not fly back intheir faces. Your mother tries to spank you sometimes. You make her laUgh .
She only uses a hairbrush . She cannot do it. You dissolve in laughter together ,you and your mother. If she is serious she says , I am going to tell your father
when he gets home . Later she may say , he has gone to get his belt.
You stand and it is almost unbearable. Your legs want to run away , they,almost , won't stand still with you waiting for your father who has gone toget his belt. You cannot believe your mother does this , but she has before
and she has just done it now .
You can't believe you wait because they have told you to , but you do. He
comes. He has his belt. He takes you into the bedroom . On your own bed . Hewants you to lean over with your pants down. I AM ALMOST ELEVEN YEARSOLD you want to say. Don't cry, he says, striking you . You cry .
He's crazy , you think. You don't know whether you are more angry thanhurting. It does hurt. Of course you are going to cry. He wants you to knowthat little girls are not supposed to talk back to their parents . You are a little
girl. Don't cry, he says.
You cry furiously.
Your father is upset. He is usually upset when he is whipping you . His facegets red and he looks angry. He looks sad , too , but he is determined. You feel28

sorry for him because he doesn't understand what he is doing. Your father
loves you very much , your mother says. He whips you very hard . You are
only a little girl and he shouldn't use a belt like that. Your behind is sticking
up in the air. You try to keep it down. It embarrasses you to have your father
standing behind you with your behind naked. Your mother goes away anddoesn't listen to what is going on. You tell her. I am almost eleven years old .
I know, she says. I'm sorry , she says sometimes.
You are thirteen when you get your last whipping. You say, I am thirteen
years old. Someone hears you because you don't get another whipping. You
are glad but you are still angry about the ones before .
Your brother got one more whipping. You didn't mind so much the second
time because he was older and he deserved it the second time. You don't know
how many whippings you got altogether.
II"A Child is Being Beaten, " Freud titles one of his essays; as is so often thecase, his titles are catchy. Subtitle: A Contribution to the Study of the Origin
of Sexual Perversions. "This 'phantasy' [my italics} - a child is being beaten- wasinvariably charged with a high degree of pleasure . .. "he writes. '''Phantasy'!''[ might write with some heat. "That was no phantasy, that was my life!"
A pallidly jocular psychology professor of my acquaintance assures me that
there is, chuckle, little difference here, the line between reality and phantasy ina case like this is a fine one.
"Further information would have been welcome," Freud hastens to add in
his introductory remarks to the essay. "Who," he asks, "was the child that was
being beaten?"
The one who was himself [sic} producing the phantasy or another?
Was it always the same child or as often as not a different child?
Who was it that was beating the child?
A grown-up person?
And ifso, who?
Or did the child imagine that he himself was beating another one?
"Nothing," he writes melancholically, "could be ascertained that threw any
light upon all those questions- only the one timid reply: '[ know nothing more
about it: a child is being beaten. ,,,(This phantasy, by the way, is undertaken out of "an incestuous wish to be
loved by the father. "The "meaning" of the beating is that my father "loves me."That IS what my mother kept telling me! Did she know something I didn't?)
Freud's questions. The answers would complete his story. I shall answer him
and thereby complete mine.
III

The scenario again : a child is being beaten.
- Who, Freud asks, was the child that was being beaten?
- My little brother. I've already said that.
- The one who was himself producing the phantasy or another?
- My brother was being beaten; [ was producing the phantasy.
- Was it always the same child or as often as not a different one?
- It was my brother in this case. Usually it was me . .. I've already told you
that.

29

-Who was it that was beating the child?
- My father. You already know that too.
-A grown-up person?
-Yes. A grown-up person. That's the trouble. He was a crazy grown-up
person.
-And if so, who?
-My father, the grown-up person.
-Or (cagily) did the child imagine that he himself was beating another one?
I refuse to answer this one . I can only go so far for my little brother.

IV
The scenario. I am leaning over my bed. My father is whacking me withhis belt. (Is this a metaphor? Am I using dirty language? What does "whackin..g" mean? Oh dear.) He has said the words: pull your pants down . whack.
don't cry. I cry. whack. don't cry. I cry.
It continues in this vein .
V

My father comes home . I am going to get a whipping. On a Monday night,
one week and a day exactly since my little brother was whipped. It is almost
dark outside and my mother has turned on the lights in the house. It is darkin the room where I am waiting, except for some late afternoon/early evening
light. I watch the light go away outside the window and listen to my father
who has come into the house. I can hear the noise from the new television
set which he has turned on while he is going back and forth between their
bedroom and the kitchen where my mother is. It is the evening news program .
My mother is saying something to my father in the kitchen. He answers her.
He raises his voice and I can almost understand what he is saying, but a singing commercial comes on even louder than his voice . I can hear the sound of
their voices but none of their words .
-Nancy!
He calls my name and I don't answer him.
- Nancy!
-In here , daddy , I'm in here.
-Come out here where I can talk to you.
I consider staying where I am but he calls my name again, louder this time.
He is standing right outside my door.
What is this about you and your brother? he says. I hold on to the door
to my room . What is this your mother was telling me about you and yourbrother?
I hate to look at him . I don't like to look at him when he is talking tome like this.
I don't know , I say.
Of course you know, he says.
This is what it was: I shoved my little brother. I shoved him deliberately.
I put my hands against his back, against either side of his backbone, against
his t-shirt , feeling his back through the t-shirt so I could get my balance, andI shoved him into the grass. It didn't hurt him. He was bothering me. I told
him to stop. He wouldn't. I shoved him. He told my mother. My father has
told her that if I keep on being ugly to my little brother and inconsiderate30

of his feelings he wants to know about it so that he can straighten things out.
That is his word for it : straighten things out. That's what he says now .
I want to straighten this thing out, he says.
I humpf deep in my throat , the way I have been practicing it for weeks.
Humpf, I say.
My father catches me at it. I have done it on purpose . It makes him furious.
I know that.

(Freud says this is the "love-impulse "; masochistically, I am seeking the "punishment for the forbidden genital relation. " The humpf was my provocation to
obtain the "regressive substitute" for this relation. I do not believe it for one
minute: "Timidly, " all I can say is that a child is about to be beaten- "whipped"in my family's vernacular.)I clear my throat. Already I am having second thoughts . He hears a soundin my throat and thinks I have humpfed again. He grabs my arm . It hurts. It
means he is getting angry. I remember his holding my brother's arm last week
when he was whipping him on the grass . I can see my father holding my armthat way and feel his hand squeezing my arm right under my shoulder. His
hand went all the way around my brother's arm. I pull on my father's hand
and try to slide my arm away. He squeezes very hard .
That hurts , I say.
He looks at me as if I had humpfed again .
I don't like to have to do this , he says .
Oh, really? I say inside my head . Oh reely. I would like to say it out loud
but that would be talking back.
Instead I say :I'll bet.
Afterwards I go into the kitchen, where my mother is, and sit with myback to the door of the den, where my father is watching I Love Lucy. Myeyes are dry and swollen , and I feel very tired. We eat supper in the kitchenwith the bright, overhead lights on and I feel embarrassed .
Later, that night , my brother tries to talk to me when we are both in bed.
He talks for no reason at all when he is falling asleep. I don't even have toanswer him . He doesn't talk for very long because he falls asleep quickly . He
doesn' t even know who he is talking to.
I lie in bed and think about my mother's face at supper. She couldn't keep
her eyes off uS, ·the three of us . My brother, my father, and me. I ate mysupper with my hand half over my eyes the whole time. I pretended to bereading a book. My father didn 't stop me . He didn't want to look at me , only
my mother did.

***
- Did the child imagine that he himself was beating another one ?
- I said I wouldn't go that far. My father did it for us .
- Did the child imagine that he himself was beating another one?
- I cannot speak for my brother .
I said I wouldn 't go that far , but I will.
- Did the child imagine that he himself was beating another one ?
- Yes , she did.
This is a patent lie , of course , but I am nothing if not amiable .
31

32

FIVE AFTER INCEST
1.

trusted , shared so many years
so muchbetrayedseduced in every way
hate disguised as love shows its handon a child, free woman child.
the friend, till the end
holding my handand screwing our daughter with the other.
when his cock couldn't shaft the motherhe pledged his undying friendshipand fucked a child(he always liked tender meat)2.

i did not deny him
love, just my bodywas my own and my mind
believing he understood and cared .
oh, he cared,
cared for his loss
the sheath for his ego.
and he could not accept
the rejection.
i can not accept his action
my mind refuses to see
while my guts feelthe truth
he is a man
man is a cockand a cock will fuck
he is man is a cockand a cock hates
he is a man and man hates me
and anything that is part of me- woman
free from his cock hates free woman. free woman child.
cock fills holes
in bodies and minds
knock 'em up or knock 'em downfuck 'em up and fuck 'em overevery man , any woman
any age any size, any woman
just a place to stick it.
the face of hatred disguised
lies
lies
lies as loveas truth, as naturalas protection
as need, as sharing
and giving, the face of hatred33

shoves its way throughthe face of hatred is a cock
cock is man .
i look at my daughterand knowthat she has been touchedby that hatredknows the meaningof being born a woman
she knows
the beneficent father
is a cock.
i did not protect her
when my mind said "fear"
my heart said "trust"and i taught her to trust.
my guts know fear
fear is man
my daughter's taught mewhat i wouldn't learn
and i can not forget.
3.

signed over by a quit claim deed
one moment his and the nextmine.
this is mineme, iown a housethese are mine
two children
me, i am a single parent.
me, i, mine
i am minealone
dissolution of a marriage
dissolves so much
more than the preacher's words.
my past remembereddissolvesin a solution of incest
my future as conceived
dissolvesto crystallize, beyond my eyes

4.

34oh, typewriter, my friend
i have shared pain with you
and joy, every hope and disappointmenti have laid on your listening keys
and you have answered with understanding words

to ease my mind

you have stored for me
the many , too many to keep inside
you have held safe and carried my baggage
leaving me light.
but friend
though your keys are warm
under my fmgers tonight
you will not take this from me
though i pound it in to you
it stays with me
and will not come out
with words or tears or time
but eats its way out
through my heart.
S.

night creeps
loudly through the open windows
seeps painfully
through my skull and enters
my frantic mind crushing my searchfor peaceof mindnight when
i can think , undisturbed
i am disturbed by my thoughts
spinning and swirlingsinking and risingcoveredwith bilework and read by night
till exhaustion claims me
and chains me to sleep through the day
becausenight creeps
after sleep
and waking is remembering
unable to halt the flow
think , feel think feeland it pours from under my eyelids
cold and damp under my arms
slippery on my fingertips
i am afraid
as the night creeps- Ran Hall

THE SWIMMING LESSON
The tongue-depressor diving board was ready ,cornered , bound with our masking tapeand onto it three boys placed a small brown gerbil ,then another , as the first hit the waterof the schoolroom's aquarium .
The second was likewise pushed ,And we stood to watch them swim.
"Look, he's swimming!
She can't make it. .. "Then they were heldeach shaking inside a winter glove
close to the lamb 's wool lining,
one a swimmer,
one saved from going down a third time.
My boundaries . I didn 't know where they were . Caught by their cruelty, I
wanted to see it played out on something else, instead of me . To feel therelief that it was not me this time.

**************************************************************I was small , helpless, minding my own business. You , my father , reached inwith one hand , invading my bed , and brought me out. Set me on a makeshift diving board , pushed me off, with your lie still ringing in my ears aboutsome "lesson." Let's give the gerbils a swimming lesson , which was , let's see
whether these gerbils can swim. Let's see whether Susan can swim. Put her
on the diving board . See whether the gerbils will die. See whether Susan will
die . Tell her you are going to give her a lesson , push her off the board , andwatch her thrashing in the water . My father . He taught me . He took me outof my cage , invaded my warm bed. I was small , helpless , minding my own
business.
Now years later
I think of those gerbils ,I think of me.
Who will hold us
each in winter's lining,some swimmingsome going down for the third time?

- Susan Marie Norris

36

Christina Glendenning"When you grow up an abused child .. ..

When you grow up an abused child your vocabulary is one of objects, ofimages. Words such as incest or violence no longer carry personal impact. Toooften they've been used to rationalize feelings too painful and overwhelming
to accept. But those feelings live, buried in objects as common as a wicker
clothes hamper. The white wicker hamper in which I hid from my father, asmall child covering herself with soiled bed linens. Those objects invade ourpeace like a strap wielded by a violent hand, leaving bright red welts on theprism of memory .
I don't suffer nightmares like some : it is the mundane encounter with awhite wicker hamper that shakes me. Forcing me to relive a childhood that
seems so unfair, so destructive. I'm thirty-one now, living far away from myfamily, but so often I am that same vulnerable little girl peering through thestrands of woven wicker.
Our family lived in Pittsburgh. When my parents weren't separated myfather drove truck out of state. Either way, he was a stranger to my life. My
mother and I and her two maiden aunts formed an extended family. Fromthem I received a strong sense of who I was. Those first five years of life werean idyll where my individuality was encouraged. My father moved back homeabout the time I was ready to start school and with him came a change ofatmosphere. It was both a feeling, dark and oppressive, and a physical presence that I can only compare to a volcano. I sensed I co.uld no longer argue
the appropriateness of my bedtime or plead my case during meals. I went
directly to bed at eight and no longer argued about eating certain foods . There
were rules that I had to obey . I was glad, initially, to be like my friends andhave a father at home. But there was a price to pay. The freedoms I had taken
for granted ended with the return of my father and for the first time I knew
authority. I did not question my father's rights over me. All of my friends'
fathers behaved like that but until then it hadn't affected my life. Where once
I was thOUght independent , my father now called me willful. I began to resent
this new oppression and the man who returned to my life not as a suppliant
but as an owner.
I clearly remember the evening my father first kissed me. My mother hadgone to the store and I was playing with my doll house. The kiss .was unexpected, full on the lips and warm , very warm. "I love you ," he said.
For a child needing parental love those words are important. I couldn't understand why they made me uneasy. That this authoritative, temperamental
man loved me broUght a promise of better times to come. I should have been
happy but I was only confused.
Each time my mother left us alone I felt an expectation from my father
that I should sit with him by the television and we would kiss. During and after
those sessions he was always very kind. His heavyhanded manners relaxed andI saw glimpses of freedoms I thought I had lost. But I was still uneasy andmore and more I hoped my mother would not let me alone with him. I 37

begged to go along or pretended I was ill . Looking back , I know it was hisneed I feared. His love was only a thinly disguised neediness that threatened
to overwhelm me . My instincts knew what my child 's mind couldn't know: I
was right to be afraid . It was then I discovered the clothes hamper.
It stood outside my parents' bedroom close to the front door. After crouching among the laundry I'd close the cover and wait for my mother's footsteps
on the stairs. A trip to the store took about thirty minutes. I would wait andmark time by the programs on the television set. I remember a time or two
when he walked past the hamper into my bedroom and called my name . My
fear was palpable inside those wicker walls . I expected myself to respond but
I couldn 't. What would he do if he found me? What explanation could I givethat wouldn't betray my distaste for being alone with him? Sometimes I left
the hamper early and would go and sit with him, knowing she'd be back before too long. Before he could start our "game ."The more I hid in the hamper the meaner he became . My withdrawal
brought little punishments or the loss of already dwindling privileges. But themore I kissed him the more intolerable my inner world became . There are
two pictures I keep locked away in my grandmother's cedar chest. This firstis of me taken on the first day of kindergarten , proud and spirited . The second
is my school picture at the end o f first grade . The spark in my eyes had gone
and a limpness had replaced it. Those pictures mean a lot because twenty-sevenyears later I am still rekindling the light in my eyes .
When I was ten we moved to my great-aunts ' house. My parents had been
having marital problems again , so I had been staying over there on weekends .
Their home meant protection for me ; my father and I would never be alone
together. There wouldn 't be time for our "game." I was growing older andknew the facts of life . My father 's advances were odious and I knew consciously that his needs were inappropriate . I was angry and began to avoid him. My
rejection turned his neediness into violence .
One morning I slept through my alarm . Afraid of being late for school , I
quickly dressed and headed for the front door. There he stood waiting for me .
In my haste I hadn' t made my bed and this infuriated him. He grabbed myhair and started to hit me on the back and shoulders until I ran out the door.
Any small infraction of the " rules" was enough to set him off. As I sat inclass I could feel the bruises forming , turning purple beneath my clothing. A
few years before I had tried to tell my mother and a school counselor what
was happening. Both refused to hear me and I felt shamed for saying things
that obviously should have been left secret. I never mentioned it again and I
lived that way until I left for college in Minnesota when I was eighteen .
Perhaps I'm most bitter about how my father 's and my relationship affected
my own concept of myself as a parent. I became pregnant when I was twentythree and after much deliberation I decided to abort. The reasons I gave formy decision were lack of money and a lot of confusion about my affectional
preference. But my innermost fear was that I was emotionally incapable of being a good parent ; the fear that I would imitate the man I've tried to disown
in my soul. I had to come to terms with my own anger and know that it
won't overwhelm me. It is very difficult to consciously denounce what I consider negative "masculine" behavior , to deny the patriarchy only to have toconfront those very same feelings in myself. Perhaps that is not all bad . But
it would be much easier to say those behaviors only exist " out there ."Allowing myself to have emotional needs has been another difficult task .
My personal belief is that Lesbians, especially those of us raised without thebenefits of community , have a difficult time with our needs, anyway . Not
only because they are different from the norm but because they are so traumatic to accept let alone try to fulfill . Added to that was my inner belief
that to have needs is a weakness. You will either suffocate others close to you
or be suffocated in turn by their needs. I am still awkward, still learning toaccept my own needs as normal . Still learning to meet those needs in waysthat are healthy.
Naturally, the inevitable question arises . Did my father's behavior " make"me a lesbian? Back in the days when I thought myself abnormal I leant an
ear to that tired chestnut. Now I have different thoughts . I prefer women because it is in their company that I blossom, just like when I thrived with mymother and her aunts before my father reentered our lives . By the age of five
I had been permitted more of a sense of myself than most women acquire in
middle life-if they're fortunate . I was a female child who had defined her own
space : I knew when those perimeters were being violated.
My being a Lesbian means reclaiming my boundaries, reclaiming the lightin my eyes. It seems more appropriate to say that my lesbianism , my childhood strength, made my father violent. I could have played our "game ." I
could have pleased and supplicated my father: perhaps sexual intercourse
would not have been required-onJy a posture of feminine passivity . But I knew
I had been violated and I fought. It cost me my childhood , it cost me mychild and it scarred me in places where I'm the most vulnerable-but I preserved an integrity that heals .
you doin this daddy?
its ok then?
.
feels funny please dont
daddy?
goin to sleep now
am i still your little girl daddy?
nite nite
there was you Dadand the Doctor.
were there others
or did you keep me for yourself,
the Doctor an oversight?
are you sure you knew wheremy 6 years bigger brother played at night?
was I ever too young?
or too small?
"You were such a cute baby .""You were such a cute little girl."
Mommy's girl by day.
yours by night.
ever mine?

-Deirdre Vanderlinde39

F ACE TO THE WALL

she bangs her headin the same spot
until a dent appears
in the wall
spreading like blood
the thick lines
like her grandmother's hands
spreading slowly over the wall
opening it
the plaster falls
down her face
onto lips
over eyelashes
a white rain
everywhere is fallingthe wall opens for her
she can see the worn wooden beams
and the small insects
which house themselveson the insides of things
gnawing on the discomfort of the world
deforming their bodies to fit
into closed places
to become the private dark
she can see the night
clearer than any day sky
engraved permanently on each of her eyes
she is banging the wall with her headher body loses everything
but the knowledge and meaningof wall
after it is broken into
and what a head becomeswhen it can move in only one direction
against something
she becomes her own drum
her music is that of the broken
the broken intoshe deforms the shapes of mind
spirit body to fit
into closed spaces
crawling into plaster and splintered wood
surrounding herself with the dark
listen to the sounds she makes at night
listen to the sound of a woman
breaking into herself
a small, tenacious thiefwith strong hands

40- Martha Courtot

" WHAT DID HE HIT YOU WITH ?" THE DOCTOR SAID

Shame . Silence .
Not he .
She.
I didn't correct him .
Curled into myself like a deformed footI looked at the floor
ceiling
evading
A fist.
Hand that has spread me open
fingers I've taken inside me
Screaming I love you bitch
You are the she
who rocked my headside to sidebarrier reef for your rage boat
It's safe to beat me
I've lain under your tongue
between your thighs
hungryWhen I grabbed you to throw you off
you screamed "if you've scarred my face
bitch
I'll kill you" I'm sorry I wept I didn't mean to scratch you
Should have said you won't have a chance to kill me
I'm gonna kill you for thinking you can hit me like thatscreaming that you love me
You said "1 haven't hit a woman in 8 years"
8 years bad luck my head caught it
My arms in dishwater scrubbing out my father's shoe
the dream tells me
you're familiarthat brutality I slide in without a horn
"You don 't have to be beaten to be loved" she said
I held the cool shock of those words
against the purple bruise of still wanting you
You've hit me with that irresistable
deadly weapon:
hatred dressed in the shoes & socksof the words
I love you- Chrystos
41

THE IMAGES
Close to your body, in thepain of the city
I turn. My hand half-sleeping reaches, finds
some part of you , touch knows you before language
names in the brain . Out in the darka howl , police sirens, emergency
our 3 a.m. familiar, ripping the sheath of sleep
registering pure force as if all transpired the swell of cruelty and helplessness in one block between West End
and Riverside. In my dreams the Hudson
rules the night like a right-hand margin
drawn against the updraftof burning life , the tongueless criesof the city. I turn again , slip my arm
under the pillow turned for relief,
your breathing traces my shoulder. Two women sleeping
together have more than their sleep to defend.
And what can reconcile methat you , the woman whose handsensual and protective, brushes me in sleep ,go down each morning into such a city?
I will not, cannot withhold
your body or my own from its chosen danger
but when did we ever choose
to see our bodies strungin bondage and crucifixion across the exhausted air
when did we choose
to be lynched on the queasy electric signsof mid town when did we choose
to become the masturbator's fix
emblem of rape in Riverside Park the campgroundat Big Sur the beach at Sydney?
We are trying to live
in a clearheaded tenderness I speak not merely of us, our lives
are "moral and ordinary"as the lives of numberless women I pretend the Hudson is a righthand margin
drawn against violence and woman-loathing(wRter as pUrification, river as boundary)but I know my imagination lies:in the name of freedom of speech
they are lynching us no law is on our side
there are no boundaries
no-man's-land does not exist.
42

I can never romanticize language again
never deny its power for disguise for mystification
but the same could be said for musicor any form createdpainted ceilings beaten gold worm-worn Pietas
reorganizing victimization frescoes translating
violence into patterns so powerful and pure
we continually fail to ask are they true for us .
When I walked among time-battered stones
thinking already of you
when I sat near the sea
among parched yet flowering weeds
when I drew in my notebook
the thorned purple-tongued flower , each petal
protected by its thorn-leaf
I was muteinnocent of grammar as the waves
irrhythmically washing, I felt washed cleanof the guilt of words, there was no word to readin the book of that earth, no perjury,
the tower of Babel fallen once and for all
light drank at my bodythinking of you I felt freein the cicadas' pulse, their encircling praise .
When I saw her face, she of the several faces
staring, indrawn, in judgment, laughing for joy
her serpents twisting, her arms raised
her breasts gazing
when I looked into her world
I wished to cry loose my soul
into her, to become
free of speech at last.

And so I came home, a woman starving
for images
to say my hunger is so deep
so ancient, that all the lost
crumbled burnt smashed shattered defaced
overpainted concealed and falsely named
faces of every past we have shared together
in all the ages
could rise reassemble re-collect re-member
themselves as I remembered myself in that presence
as every night close to your bodyin the pain of the city, turning43

I am re-membered by you , re-member you
even as we are dismemberedon the blue-movie screens, the white expensive wallsof collectors , the news rags blowing the streets- and it would not be enough.
This is the war of the images.
We are the thorn-leaf guarding the purple-tongued flower
each to each.

- A drienne Rich

Copyrigh t ® 1980 by Adrienne Rich

44

Melanie KayeSEXUAL POWER

transcript of tape, 2 womenno, i'm afraid towhy?
i don't know-i don't know-

it s like you said last night
i keep pulling away-ooh, could
you cover me anyway. even if ipull away don't throw me out
in the cold
no you have to be cold & suffer& i'll pour cold water on you-& takeaway your shoes . . .
(laughing) thats funny to y ou?
well it is a little funny, but
i wouldn 't have thought of something so mean well you started the fantasy, you said, will
you cover me even if i pull away.
oh.
why do you pull away?
don't know. i think i pullaway so that you 71 pull me back.
it seems like it requires a lot (laughing)to pull you back.
it does?
well, because, you know, you're pulling so
hard.
really? harder than mostpeople do?
yes.
why? do you think? really?
isn't that strange? do you
thinks it's unusual?
(both laughing)well, i dp.
oh, a freak. you're in bed
with a sexual freak.
no, baby, not a freak - just somebody whodoesn't want to let me have my full sexual
power with her. . ..
question : what is sexual power between women?
- what is power severed from patriarchal sanction?
- what is female sexuality unmediated by male demands or desires?

***

45

Feminists have described our mechanisms , our biology; but have offered little
exploration of our sexuality.1 lesbian artists and writers have given us imagesof intimacy and lots of flowers, but-tee corinne partly excepted-very little
that is explicit about good old funky sex. 2
We can hazard some guesses about why. we - especially lesbian feminists-labor
under a burden of prettifying, to demonstrate to the (hostile het) world that
we do it better (nicer: we're still trying to be nice!); that we are free of power
struggle in our sex . also we hesitate to focus on our sexuality-except to announce its existence, sometimes bravely-lest they think that's all we ever do;
and dismiss us as purely sexual beings. 3 fmally, the idea Of men turning on to
our eroticism makes us sick: we don't often have a sense of privacy.
but separable from their eyes is their vision-which we internalize (she said,
sooner or later we find patriarchy in bed with us). at some point we need toown these taboos as ours. we partake exactly of our culture's prudery to theextent that we aren't actively challenging this prudery: sex still , god help us,
embarrasses us . if there's any doubt about this , think how we've exposed attitudes toward menstruation and reclaimed menstrual blood as ours and healthful (sometimes to the point of romanticizing) : where are the visual or verbal
depictions of lesbian sexuality equivalent to tampax art?4
it seems we 're afraid - of objectifying, of "innate masochism ," of "insatiability ,"afraid of how we look with our face in a cunt, afraid of what we want- likeour lover's sexual power coming on strong . it seems the fear of being unfeminist keeps us prudish, silent , or partly lying. 5 how many sexual fantasies would
clear a feminist check point?6 how do feminist check points ill our heads affectour sexuality? why do we fear as well as desire the lover 's sexual power? what's
the relationship between sexuality, strength , and power?

***
Years ago, just after i left my husband, i fucked a man who told me i was "toopassive ." (his ex-wife-who soon became the first woman i admitted wantingtold me, later, that "too passive" meant you expected him to do anything!) i
took it to heart and one night, drunk, i fucked him, saying to myself, do what
you'd do if you were a man, pretending i was a man . it was a huge success: heliked it; so did i. i also felt the opposite of loving: along with feeling strong
and free, i felt hostile. (she said, why did i need hostility to free me?)years later the collective house i lived in was splitting up, painfully; my loverand i were making love and i kept wanting her to be "more like a man" is how
i thought of it, i kept pushing, pushing for her to be harder , stronger: in rage
and frustration, i began to sob. she said, i felt like you were wanting me tohurt you, so you could cry. then i accepted her perception. now i wonder-was
i wanting pain? or just intensity, release?
There is an edge to my desire for strong sex that scared and shamed me. we're
supposed to be autonomous beings, responsible for our own desires; equals;considerate, gentle . i was not supposed to want the strength i found myself
wanting. fear kept me back from my edges : fear of hurting, as men had hurtme; fear of pain, fear i would like hurting, like pain, fear that i wanted control
or wanted to give it over, fear that sex-full strong out of control sex-would
be, yes, violent.
46

why are you afraid you 71 hurtme?
you 're all sore- you say no, i don't hear
you -you say stop, i don 't- why do you think
i'm afraid?
do you think that if i reallywanted you to stop i wouldn't
have stopped you?
oh.
we have rarely seen or gotten to imagine sexual struggle between equals ; wehave rarely seen or gotten to imagine strong sex that did not imply powerabuse, violence.
If they did not rape us, push us around ; if we did not make movies like swept
away to project their fantasies into vast compelling images (what she reallyneeds is a good . . . ) meaning not only that women 's assertions against maledominance are really a cry to be mastered sexually , but also - implied-a goodfuck means a hard fuck , a brutal mean fuck if we had named our own parts, our own desires, our own comings & goings, if
we did not need to define our sexuality always against their images of sex in general and female sexuality in particular, maybe we could acknowledge that, yesin addition to meaningful interesting and safe work, a decent wage, a secureadequate shelter, safety on the streets, concerned wholistic health care,real choices about mothering, a society that cherishes its children &its
people, including its old people so that we are not terrified of aging, a society that does not pump carcinogens/mutagens into the earth/air/food, in
addition to friends creative work/play, bodies that sing minds that dancea splash ofsunlight a dip in the ocean, recognition of who we are and what
we can do, in addition to these thingswe sometimes need a good fuck .
question : is fuck a sexist word? a heterosexist word? if so , what can we say
we do?
Or consider the following phrase : c'mon baby you know you want it. uck.
in movies, on tv , in the books of norman mailer (that mailer stabbed his wife
should have surprised no one versed in his work) & other american greats , thesewords-or words like them- are said to women who gasp with pleasure ; or elsethey repress-deny ~and-wither-away. this was in contrast to my life , where men
were always wrong about what i wanted and besides, the thought made me sick .
it implied :coercion (c 'mon)condescension (come off it, i know what you want)
power (you want it & only i can give it to you)(not to mention) baby, which included all of the above
So what if, in the midst of making love ...
(transcript of tape, 2 women)
i'm afraid if you go down on me
thati 'll be cold
yeah? i wish we had a heater (both laugh)i could go down on you while i was upside
down, you know you mean 69?
47

uh huh. (pause) why not?
i don't know. but it scares me.
how come?
cause i'd lose myself in you, you
know...are you gonna do it?
(both laugh)is that ok? where are you? well, what?
why do you want to?
well, i got it into my mind as a way tokeep you warm, you know, di thought
i'd do it, and then when you said-anytime you say you're scared of something
then i want you to do it(both laugh)then you want me to do it if i say
i'm afraid of it? are you serious?
well, cause i want you to do it &not be
afraid.
ok, let me, can i close my eyes?
(both laugh ; pause ; noise)
i don 't care how much you hold me& kiss me & reassure me, when it
comes right down to it-well, i'membarrassed.
why are you embarrassed?
i don't know, i never have been
beforei guess it 's me, huh (both laugh)no, it's like too much woman overme- i like it, i'm just embarrasseddo you want me not to?
no i want it, i want it, i just had
to tell you about why(pause , mumble , nervous laughter)
STOP, stop . .. i'm sorry, oh no,shit . . .
stop it, it's okwell, i know, but you know i shouldbe able to do anything
well, i'm curious about whyoh, could you just go down on meoh sure, i will ...
(long pause , breathing , moaning)
oh no oh oh oh god . . . oh oh
oh god . .. oh no oh god . . .
aaaaaahhhhhh
uh huh . .. hu huh . .. uh huh . .. (mumble)
uh huh . .. mmmmmnn hmmmmmmmmm.
This tape has a happy ending; i don't offer it as an instance of failure . nevertheless: you, the second woman , as you confront your lover's fear with questions, exploration, answer her in her own terms- i'm embarrassed/why are you
embarrassed?- you seem to be courteous, sensitive .
48

in fact , you're being a coward , taking no risks (she said, fem inists make love
like a series of negotiated o kays 7 ). your lover says it's too much woman tohave over me and for the moment you see your own cunt as scary, possibly
ugly , and you're afraid to act, afraid of your lover's displeasure or disgust ;afraid you'll force her "against her will." you forget: that your lover can/willI
does stop you , if she wants; and , that she wants you. so really you are afraidof her fear and so can't pull her past fear.
fear: in your body, in y our cunt, i will be lost. the mother. where i wasborn.
fear : that your body will mark mine, that my body will mourn y ours.
fear of intensity.
beyond fear of absorption , fear of intensity - and are these connected? fear ofloss, of the self, of the lover - beyond fear of loss is fear of who we are , who
we might unleash if we lose controls, fear that we are not only gentle , notalways running through meadows and brushing each other's hair : fear we arestrong. fear we have power. 8
you , the second woman , take refuge from fear in concern and verbal support.
in words you'll go anywhere with a lover , defy her limits and demand everything - what are you feeling , why , where , what do you like (she said, don 't ask
me what i like, we 71 find out as we go what we like). but sexually , you holdback , ask her to define her limits, instead of trying to pull her past her limits,
instead of asking her to pull you past your own.
you could say , i'm afraid too. at least this would be honest & equalize the risk .
you could - since you know this woman & love her- instead of asking & tugging&teasing with words , why are you embarrassed, is it ok, what are you thinking,she said i want it, i want it, you could reclaim the words , it was never the words 'fault , you could say c'mon baby you know you want it & climb on shove yourcunt in her face and she can do what she likes with it.
.

***

SEXUAL POWER
in latin , the word was vis, feminine gender , meaning
force, power, strength, energy; hostile strength, violence, attack, impetuousity, fury, compulsion; power, might, influence, potency; force,
meaning, nature, essence, sense, import; quantity, abundance.
in english the word that derives from vis is violence. the loss described by thislinguistic shrinkage begins to emerge as we discover our fear of our own power .
question : can we be strong without being them?

***

To define our sexuality in terms of our selves; to diminish sexual fear; to enjoy sexual power: we have to trust what we want ; to acknowledge that whilesome of the things men do say and feel in sex as elsewhere are stupid vicious
boring and/or abusive , some may be expressive of more freedom than we have
had ; and if we choose freely , who knows? do they own sexual freedom? are
we doomed in the name of liberation to be awkward, formal , prissy , or clinicalwith our sex, to always make love , secrete, have orgasms, perform cunnilingus :can't we accept that women get down , fuck, come , (she said, that's what lesbians do , we do come and we drip wet between our legs) we go down on each49

other & lick each other's cunts, we sweat/bleed into each other's faces, weshove bristle of hair against hair, breast against breast against bone, we rub
suck tug & wrestle each other into coming***

excerpts from journal
i force you open everywhere i can. i want in. i want your legs open wider,
i open your legs with my legs, my fingers, restrained because of the surgery

more than a month old now but still healing, go inside you not too far &you are wet &gooey. afterwards i71 paint you with the stuff(you said, iwant you to do everything to me; i never said that before either)
NOTES
I. Masters & Johnson, Anne Koedt , the Boston Women's Health Book Collective, Mary
Jane Sherfey, Shere Hite , and Betty Dodson have all done crucial work ; but we are still at
the excavation stage.
2. Our artists , myself included , for the most part treat the subject intermittently andway too prettily, self<onsciously ; for example , the school of " cunt art " created by women
who think our cunts have petals instead of flesh. Is there something wrong with flesh?
3. The stereotype of lesbians who do it all the time may have some grounding in reality(admit it, isn't it fun?); and in heterosexual fantasies which transform a woman ill to a huge
cunt/or dildo the minute she says she 's a dyke. It's worth noting that the stereotype closely
resembles the stereotype of Black sexuality, popularized after Emancipation, and the stereotype of Jewish sexuality, which flourished throughout recorded history and into this century(so that when i read a poem about my grandmother with the line you wore a girdle and nounderpants. a woman raised in rural Oregon tells me that her image of Jewish women was
exactly that they wore no underpants so as to be always ready to do it). In fact , excessive
sexuality is attributed to the poor (under capitalism) ; the "natives" (under imperialism); and,
until the 19th century, to women. The point is to dehumanize the underclass by "animalizing"them (sex=animal function). Lesbians are doubly animalized , as an underclass of deviants
whose deviance is sexual; and as prototypical women . Susan Griffin 's Woman and Nature
beautifully exposes the chain of non-life in patriarchal reasoning, linking women, nature, andbeasts as tha t-which-is-to-be-mas tered.
4. On the other hand, menopause remains even more in shadow than sexuality . June
Arnold's Sister Gin deserves mention here as a novel that deals both with menopause andwith explicit sexuality .
5. What I'm talking about here has wide-ranging implications for the current fight against
pornography . A feminist fight against porn must include a fight to expand and protect sexual
freedom and honesty; otherwise we, especially lesbians, threaten ourselves with censorshipand repression (feminist strategy on abortion similarly has demanded that the struggle forabortion rights be paired with the fight against forced sterilization .
I might as well say , while I'm on the subject, that I wish we'd use the word pornography
as a strictly descriptive non-evaluative category of explicitly sexual Literature, movies, etc.
By this definition some of what I'm writing is porn. I do not want explicit sexuality to defme the cutting edge of our struggle. I fmd much "great" or popular art more horrible andviolent than some porn (Looking for Mr. Goodbar?) And I want a new category that means
HORRIBLE VIOLENT OFFENSIVE & INTOLERABLE. The distinction offered by somebetween porn and erotica leaves us in the hazy realm described by Ellen Willis (in a Village
Voice from October 1979) as "if it turns me on it's erotica ; if it turns you on it's porn."
6. Only quislings (traitors) like Nancy Friday have paid much attention to women's
sexual fantasies (My Secret Garden and sequel) . Friday claims to be gathering our fantasies
in an attempt to free us from shame on one hand and failure of the imagination on the other.
But her analysis seems creepily dishonest , so riddled with woman-hating and heterosexual
blindness as to be useless to any feminist. In addition , the fantasies them selves seem suspiciously uniform in rhythm and voice.
7. Michaele, conversation, March 1979 .
B. Cf. Adrienne Rich, timely as ever: "We shrink/from touching our power" in "Hunger ,"Th e Dream of a Common Language (NY , 197B).

50

Michaele

notes on an artist in search of an erotic image

a lesbian artist/revolutionary seeking to enhance erotic images - for .. .
i have a knack for changing peoples
minds . i have a knack for aggravating
settlements , an image of bravery ,one foot in the swamp of catholic
inhibitions , both hands in the planet
pie, and my nose up the ass of theuniverse . (and i am, you can see,entirely unconcerned with any meanings
or any coherent images, notun-in-keeping with my sexual interests , for i have had , at critical
moments, the unpleasant experienceof having my come tangle up withmy prose .)... i, too , am c~ught by such key
phrases as : their breath came
faster and faster. or, shearched her back and tensed herthighs .. .
because eroticism depends so on
images, i think of it as somethingof a warm plasticine sculpture.
i tried at u .c .berkeley to takea course in sculpture sometime before liberation (1970) .
i was concerned about injustice .
accordingly , i carved little hearts
out of soap and rough crosses outof soap stone . i hoped , thereby
to work up a voodoo against my race
(white) which i perceived as one
wellspring of global imperialism .
my art teacher said i was trite.
i was convinced , however, thatgetting on the bus covered withsoap and stone dust was sculpture
enough and at least voodoo enough.
learn to present, g. said , you dont
know how to present. get the picture?
51

a genius in search of external ,showable media. a gimmick toforestall drowning in lesbian/hippie/
commie madness. i looked at myfriends , lesbian/hippie/commies
for sure . one had drowned in her
madness. her arms were covered
with deep ugly purple gashes froma razor blade . some presentation!
a gallery success. but i decideagainst this media on grounds ofim not sure how much ugliness isworth as an ingredient in the beakerof fame, or more to the point,
whether it will have other thanprurient interest for imperialists.
i decided to take pictures instead.
i took pictures of arms slashedwith razor blade to show to an
exclusive audience of lesbian/hippie/commies . it was an outrageous display of cynicism caused
by a childhood amputation of taste.
the intent was innocent. i hoped
only to become an artist, and perchance exercise my knack for changing
a few minds. mutilation tweaked
my conscience. i had hoped no lessfor my comrades . but my erstwhile
culturally maddened comrades looked
at my pictures of the details of
insanity , became sad , and so averted
their eyes. nothing changed .
now , while i still hold tight tomy usefully gruesome mind, i havesubsequently been taught the sweet
healing balm of lesbian erotic love ;but i havent yet learned to depict
it. so to continue my beloved intimations . ..
. . . she arched her back andtensed her thighs ... and later,
as she nuzzled her nose into myneck . ..
nuzzled her nose! what the fuckkind of erotic language is that?
what are we? bunnies? again . . .
. . . after she arched her backand tensed her thighs, she52

came, moaning into my neck.
flat. flatflatflat. cant you
write decent prose about a fuck ?
again ...
. . . after she arched her back andtensed her thighs , her legs gaveout, and her cunt gave in, and,in the exact moment i slid my
tongue into her mouth, she came.

hmmm. her legs gave out, and hercunt gave in . . . sounds like a slingshot, sounds like a push-me-pull-me
doll. but the rest, getting better,
getting sexy. at this point i needto show it to someone. i find m.
m . says of the above that i soundtoo detached. that she feels likean object in here. she implies
fascist tendencies in the mind of
the fucker /writer . (i do confess anarrogance to any strangers i fuck.
with strangers i am a cold fuck indeed.
but m. is not a stranger. i am in love .)a little background might help. m. is
my lover. she is typing downstairswe are working out working in thesame house. but i am afraid of her. ihave been in love five times before andthis is the first time i tremble withfear whenever i have her image in myminds eye. something to do withcredentials? she asks.
m. wonders what my fear will become . loathing, disgust, contempt?
she asks. what will you do, leaveme? she inquires. i ponder. i will
do what i always do when i am afraid,
i will try to fuck her in as greata variety of ways as i can think of.
that will keep her happy. i will
test out my prowess, and if i do it
well, she will kiss me and take mebehind the altar in her house. if
i do it well , she will give me thekeys to the sacristy. i will steal
bread and drink wine and draw dirty
pictures on her belly with my tongue.
she will wrap her legs around me when
we fuck. (i might mention that she
is jewish and does not always catchon to this, that desecration is part53

and parcel of catholic porn.) and
if i do very well, she will cry when
she comes. this is all in my greedy
imagination. in reality, we fuck ina large number of ways that havenothing to do with power and lesswith desecration , (i should mention
that while she does not participate
in catholic porn , she neverthelessdemands my presence , an image of
my participation, within my writings
about our sex.) so here goes again . ..
. . . while she arched her back andtensed her thighs, i whispered
my sexual heart out into ourcome ...
better, its getting better ...
. . . and later, as she nuzzled her
nose into my neck, i, with more
, tenderness than i have ever felt
before , licked my soul into her
ear ...
oh , baby , now you are definitelyon . on , baby , yes ...
. . . her legs gave out, and her cuntgave in .. . (hrnmrn. oh well.) andi moved my hands between her
thighs seeking our extraordinary
pleasure , (entire cities have'fallen for less) and finding
myself dying with love , at theexact moment i slid my tongue into
her mouth, she ... ah , that is ,we .. . came.
thoughts on the matter:i had written my consciousness is my throbbing clit. but a friend wrote on
the paper, bullshit! be more complex and truer. well , im not so sure its bull·shit, and im not so sure i can be so much truer , but heres some complexities.
my understanding of the world and my life in it often comes fIltered througha haze of nightmares and a contracting vagina. i can look at selected parcels
about the nazi atrocities as declared (entirely out of context) in the writs ofnuremburg, look at biblical overtones in news stories depicting the poisoningof our wells and fields (for generations on generations), visualize my own in. quisition as it mirrors the inquisition of millions of women and homosexuals ,our trials, our tortures and deaths, endure my cancer and my castration cure,S4

stand by helpless in the slaughter houses, cause an icy death within the heartof my former lover and friend, and still , still, in the stillness of the night, havethe hardest come of my life when we make love, make tender love , sweet
guilt-ridden illicit love (tho she sensibly , communistically, denies a belief inguilt, and that keeps me going further into my sins, further into our relationship , deeper into life), and our love, our sex, is at the very least an antidote
to my fear, a way to wash my face and tug at my heartstrings, a healant tomy errant mitotic cells and my recent wounds . i often tell her i hate her. iwant to tell her , in hard come, hard won erotic prose, that i will protect her
from everything , that i will certainly think about giving my life for her.

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LESBIAN EPIC
HoweverThis is the story of Trolls
and their lovers :In the thread of life, some knitting ,some weaving, some tangling the spool.
And all caught on a spindle.
But look
How their scales glisten , transmute.
From the dark scum of their water they flash their tale.
Guileless and soft-spoken,
dragging crooked legs behind. I have seen themin your eyes, where the blue foams grey
And nerves
broken and splayed
under the furrow and the wave.
And you wishing there were no nightmares?
No self.denials?
With your entourage of nymphs and gutter snipes
and your own private allegory
we masturbate full circle.
How's tricks?
How were you stricken?
Tell me,how are you goingto do it?
Princess Charming Disarming
court and ritual. Frothing with riddles.
It must have been another time,
another place, another performance .
SapphoScorpio
Strutsleans over my chair, tongue tempting ear,leers into my bookgurgleshoney
there are no chapters in that book.

S6

She asks me to worship my cervix.
She tells me secrets ooze through the marrow,seep out the phalanges .
I am the womb carver,

the warm caressing angel. I let me in.
My eyes unfold in petals, paper roses .
Her heart throbs against my back her hands
trace my hips
her vulva sears me from behind do you wantto dance?
I wipe my eyes .
She breathes of oranges and sex.
Legerdemain
Legerdemain
Vigilante, who assigned you to my case?
Feint once
Feint twice
Beguiler beguiled. Who'd have thought it?
Her teeth graze my flesh , She is teasing ,I turn her into this wild thing.
I make her grovel.
I make her growl.
I am mud. I am clay. I am granite . I am gibraltar.
I am air. I am fire. I am moonlight. I am water.
She pouts .
Tensely twitching haunches.
Groan ,
nibbling clitoris. "Oh red exotic kernel!"
I pour myself out to her. She absorbs me.
I sharpen my claws with her. She adores it.
We do this dance with flaming feet. All senses.
She turns me into this wild thing.
She makes me grovel.
She makes me growl .
My teeth graze her flesh. I am no longer teasing.

My fingers spoon and cajole
cacklecacklethere's no measuring my ardor.
You know I want it all :sinews, tissues, corpuscles .
The grime lacing toe to toe .
I will have you for soup.
Nail clippings caught midair,
pubic hairs teased from the rug .
A poultice of entrails, a dab of honeyed bile.
This is no one's business but our own
Hold Still !

I think you should know something.
Heart and spleen are wet ,must be seen inside out for proper lOving
To hug your gnarled beauty is notenough. To hurl such little bones
higher is too much . Honey, roll overI am going home .
My hat, my suit , my tie ,My smart grey suitcase drooling red linenI pack me up and go.
Do I have a closing quip?
My thighs worry and jitter.
Hands itch and collapse . I'll be backfor the luggage. Honest
stare straight into your squelching
I must be going . I have to go . I go.
Bloodless eye at the keyhole
Spirits
Lamias
Shadows
gawk and twitch.
One taps me on the shoulder.
I DON'T WANT TO RECOGNIZE THEM!
I want to be alone. I want to shuffle
out ,quietly
dangerous . I want you
to tell them to leave me alone .

I will go.
Plucking at entrails , old music,
like Mrs . Lot I think it over , turn back.
I DON'T WANT TO WORK OUT KARMA WITH YOU!
I want to fuck you .
But
in the boredom of my bedroom
listening ,the incantation smolders.
By nightfall glistening ,by candlelight I graft shadows.
In the dying night
I dream of you and you and you .
Receiving the gift of tongues
from your moutns from your mouths

S8- Victoria Rtimstetter

Cynthia Rich

REFLECTIONS ON EROTICISM

I want to write about the lesbian erotic. I want to do so because everything
makes it impossible . I want to do so because I do not have the words. I want
to do so because of the contradictions it leads me to. I want to do so because
what I write is not true for every woman or even every lesbian in this culture ,and yet the powerful intuition of my blood insists that my experience is thelesbian erotic, the female erotic .
The contradictions: I do not think of men when I lie between my lover's
thighs . As I go through my days, I do not think of lesbian sexuality as a variant , an alternative. For me , lesbian sexuality is female sexuality , is primary.
Heterosexuality seems at its best a poor and fumbling imitation. Yet I live on astreet, in a world where Heterosexuality = Sexuality . And so to write about
lesbian sexuality in this world, I must write about heterosexuality. I must
write about the differences. I must write about men.
Another contradiction: Deborah, a friend, complains, "Now that I am known
to be a lesbian, I am seen strictly as a sexual being." 'Straight' women are curious , not about her political work , her creativity , or her emotions, but what
it means to do those strange things in bed. Yet in fact, our eroticism is, as Audre
Lorde has affirmed , the wellspring of our emotions, our creativity, and ourpolitical work .

Approximations. The words we need are extinct. - Olga Broumas
The words we are stranded with, the false namings : Sexuality, sexual liberation.
Sexuality . Harvard scientists have discovered a species of lizard that is all
female , reproduces parthenogenetically, and enjoys erotic behavior, tribadism[tribade = lesbian ("she who rubs")] . In their press release , the scientists contrast this species with its "sexual counterparts" which are both male and female . Assumption: without the male erotic activity or even reproduction cannot be "sexual."
Sexual liberation. As defined by men it is the freedom of women to be constantly available to men, according to male sexual values. What a powerfulphrase if it were ours , if it meant liberation of our territory , our bodies. fromcolonial rule by men. Now a phrase pre-empted, turned upside down before
we could even claim it.
The vocabulary of their sexuality : Not merely cunt, tit, boobs. pussy, ass.
prick . "Foreplay" - eroticism trivialized. Defined by its culmination. rather thanas powerful exploration and knowledge in itself. As if the climax of the symphony were the symphony, all the early movements only a titillating lead-up .
"The chase"- sexual excitement as hunting. whose pleasurable climax is domi nation and killing . "Sexual liberation" does not alter the chase . it simply makes
5<)

woman "an easy lay," "an easy prey." "Passion" -derived from suffering. Eroticism as pain, to be extinguished by the release of orgasm, rather than that intense, joyful force that propels us to another to know and be known. "Seduction" -to lead away, rather than to draw together. "Erogenous zones" -the compartmentalization of our sensuality in order to control and manipulate it, rather
than an interconnecting flow in which eye, nipple, voice, armpit, labia, mind
blend and alternate erotic powers in an ever-changing variety of responses.

If you don't like my ocean, don 't fish in my sea
stay out of my valley, let my mountain be.
-Ma Rainey
I grew up not so much straight as straightened (as hair is straightened because only straight hair is beautiful or even acceptable) . To grow up straightened was to grow up with my sexual feelings rerouted , forced along complex
channels that were not of my making.
When I was still straightened , I saw women sexually through male eyes.
Male images of naked or half-naked women , in those contorted postures thateven "artistic" porno-graphics prefer , were faintly repulsive to me but they also excited and stirred me. I did not see those breasts or thighs through myown girl -woman eyes. I had to step out of myself and into a man 's head inorder to dream of a woman. It was as if the direct path from woman to woman or from girl to girl were blocked - as indeed it was by" every armed " no"that society could muster. Instead I saw the women in male.<fesigned photographs or paintings as they had been seen by the male photographer or painter. Those female bodies were intensely attractive to me but oddly foreign. They
were more attractive for being suggestively half.<fraped , as if knowledge mustbe less exciting than illusion . They swept me on a dark and disturbing flood ,where pleasure was a sudden moment to be grabbed , snatched , wrestedraped - not from a woman like myself, but from a provocative yet unwilling and rather dangerous stranger . I could fantasize myself as a man uncovering, handling other women's flesh , but I never envisioned another woman willingly or joyfully touching me. It seems to me now that if I had , just once ,imagined a woman touching, kissing , stroking me sensually with love andtrust , time would have speeded up , leaping over years of terror , confusion, ambivalence , husband , children , to lesbian knowledge . Then I could also have seen
myself touching , kissing , stroking her with love and trust. But active sexuality
was male - and I became a male in my fantasies with women . Passive sexuality
was female - and I envisioned a male partner when I imagined being touchedor kissed. He might taunt me or treat me with contempt or he might be thegentle lover . But even the gentle lover was not fondling me gently because hewanted more knowledge of me. For him it was foreplay . What he really wanted
was something from me of his own that lay ahead .
I would maintain that in those days myfantasies were heterosexual , whether
they involved women or men. When I knew myself to be a lesbian , a woman lover , before I ever kissed a woman, my fantasies altered radically . " Fantasy"
no longer seemed the right word ; "imaginings ," rather , since I imagined realpossibilities with real women in which both of us kept our reality , instead of
the incredibly elaborate structures of male.<fefined fantasies . The complicatedgarries of teasing, ritualized undressing , provocation, retreat , defiance , submission . Men talk about "play"-"playmates ," "foreplay"- but male erotic fantasy
60

involves not play, but games.
When I knew myself to be a lesbian , I ceased to need those shadow-gamesI was moving into female sexuality , into the sunlight.
I always assumed that the reason why heterosexuality had a dark and rest- .
less element for me was the puritanism in the culture . The child , punished forher or his sexuality, must associate all sexuality with the secret and forbidden .
But what in the culture is kept more secret and forbidden than lesbian sexuality? And yet , for many of us , to know our lesbianism is indeed an act of "moving into the sunlight." It is a way of seeing and feeling more clearly . Not
excitement followed by peace-a thunderstorm building at night and exploding- but a profound peace that pervades the most intense excitement. Not theslow undress but the direct gaze at another body , so same and so different. Not
a body to be held at bay u.ntil the doubts and ambivalences , the foreignness ,can be mastered, but a body whose meanings are to be slowly absorbed withboth wonder and fullness of knowledge. I am convinced that the direct andclear-eyed gaze of the lesbian-one of the ways that we recognize each otheris related to her sexuality, to the clear-eyed directness of her sensual being,
the honesty of her eroticism.
Men and women need games and rituals to overcome their mutual distrustand fear. Women fear, with painful cause , men's superior physical size andforce. The erect penis has been used as a weapon against us throughout history , and the deep knowledge of those real and symbolically enacted violations is imprinted on every woman's unconscious , if not her conscious , mind .
Rape by husbands , "friends ," strangers , five men forcing a 14-year old girlinto a wooded area - rape and the threat of rape used to intimidate and confme us , to repress our power. "We tame our women with the banana," athe Mundurucu Indian men in Brazil of their gangrapes. Not surprising thatthe heterosexual "act of love" has a dark and uneasy underside. The woman
must always stifle beneath the surface her personal and collective knowledge
that the penis has more often been used as an instrument of terror (or an instrument for male release of sexual tension with indifference to the real woman and her desires , her rhythms , or her fears of dying in childbirth) than as
an instrument of love. The woman must , consciously or not, always be insisting to herself, but t~~ man is different.
Man's fear of woman is more deep and primitive since it is even further
from consciousness. It is based on a fear of powers that are more mysterious
than the power of brute force. Men fear our creative power , that makes ourconnection to nature more profound , more awesome , and more secure thantheir own. Woman has the power of life ; hence, the power of death-she canbring forth a live child or a dead fetus . Parthenogenesis- the dispensibility ofthe male-is not only a future possibility for the human race and a present
reality in some species , including, on occasion , our own. At one time- before
women discovered the relationship between intercourse and pregnancy - parthenogenetic birth was an assumed fact of daily life. Even today , men's confidence about the role they play in creating life is shaky and uncertain . Manyif not most - men carry with them the knowledge that they may well have begotten children whose existence they will never learn of. Other men , looking
at an infant whom they hope or fear they have fathered , wonder- is it truly
mine? No woman can conceive a child and be unsure whether it was born or61whether she is indeed its mother. She usually knows, better than the man himself, who is its father. Men sense that they are transients in the life-generatingprocesses of nature .
I have borne two children, my lover has borne none . She consciously andwithout hesitation chose another life than that of biological mother. But when
she approaches my cervix she does so with the knowledge that she has lived
her lifetime intimately aware of the potentiality of her own uterus. The mystery of my being is no more or less awesome than the mystery of her own.
Coming out - a woman's first experience of another woman's rich and deepest body-life-has been described as coming home. It takes us back to ourmother's bodies, but where for a man that is a trip fraught with peril-since
he must dissociate himself, define that place as "other" -for us it is a returnto the ground of our being in the present, not only in the past. We meet atonce the wonder of our lover's body into which we penetrate, the wonderof our mother's body in which we lived , and the wonder of our own in which
we are living.
Sexuality that is more than mere release of tension is the exploration, deeper
knowledge and celebration of our self and the other . Men can only experience
ambivalence about knowing and celebrating a woman. For a man to know awoman would be for him to know men's crimes against the Goddess, to confront his own affronts against women , to know above all that there are things
that he will never know and yet must worship. Scarcely surprising that men who
have a little of that knowledge , who have some intimation of what women are ,are so often impotent or gay . They know enough of women 's power to fear
more knowledge . No wonder that sexuality became loaded with men's guilt andshame. A man knows that to approach a woman's being is to glimpse his own
guilt, his own shame. His sexual forays towards her are loaded with the terrorthat true intimacy with her-true knowledge of her-would change his life.
For me to know another woman is profoundly Iife-changing, but in changing
me it deepens and enlarges my self-love and my knowledge of my own female
power. I feel mystery and reverence in climbing the staircase of my lover's be ing , but the mystery and reverence is for a power that includes me, celebrates
me, empowers me .
Not only psychologically and spiritually but physiologically too , men andwomen must strain to bridge the gap between male and female . I laugh when
I read sex manuals . It sounds as if they are trying to get two different species
together. From Van der Velde's Ideal Marriage-the best-selling manual of myparents' generation , that I used to crouch on the floor of an attic closet toread-to The Joy of Sex, men are reminded that they must go against their natural inclinations (or , if you prefer, their acculturation-but whose culture is it?)in order to please a woman. Such books spell out how profoundly different
are the rhythms , the needs , the sources of pleasure for men and women .
Why bother? The penis was designed for procreation. Woman's deepest
erotic pleasure and fulfillment are anatomically sheer accident in "natural"intercourse . Her multi-orgasmic desires , the imperatives of her clitoris, are rarely
met without the addition of "unnatural" acts. And although I find the deep
and forceful penetration and vibration of my vagina can create a profound surrender to excitement, as my lover reaches into and shakes my very being , her
hand is a more responsive and sensitive instrument than any penis.
The awkwardness of heterosexuality! Masters and Johnson have confirmedthat same-sex loving (for reasons that they see as cultural) is more richly andfinely tuned than heterosexual loving. That homoerotic lovers not only savor
each other more, but - while already instinctively knowing more of what willplease the other - communicate more freely . Is that lack of communication , of .
loving trust between men and women really cultural? Is it truly "natural" formales and females to spend time together as loving and trusting companions?
Not in the rest of nature , at least , where males and females meet only once a
year for a few days to attend to the purposes of procreation . The females andchildren spend all of the other days of the year in each other's company,
while the males travel alone or in small groups with other males .
. In their sexual laboratory, Masters and Johnson clinically observe the convenience for the homosexual of taking turns in orgasm. They call it : "youthen me." I do not "take turns " with my lover. While we may take turns at orgasm , we do not take turns in erotic joy. She and I know within our cells thenature of the excitement the other is experiencing. We do not remain observersof each other's delight, straining to imagine how it might feel to have a penis
stroked. At the moment at which my tongue lifts my lover's clitoris, I am bothoutside, creating her joy, and inside, partaking in it. I am simultaneously loverand beloved. As multi-orgasmic, we can extend many times over the delight ofbringing each other joy while our sensuality is still alive and mutual . Lesbian
loving comes closer to an unbroken erotic flow - between lover and beloved, between active and passive, between kitchen and bedroom, between passion andpolitics .
The politics of passion. Revolution calls for the No of refusal. The no to
one who is dominant and the no to one who is dominated. The no to games
and rituals that mask terror. The no to faking orgasm to please another andthe no to faking for myself a depth of confidence that cannot stand the full
scrutiny of daily life . The no to the lover who enters my being but who is
unwilling to face the consequences of the full power of that being. The noto the lover who will use my energy and love, not to transform the world for
women , but to shore up the world for men.
Some women, consciously or unconsciously, remain celibate out of that
refusal.
But lesbians know that the Nos and the Yeses are indivisible. A revolution
with the vision to see its true direction calls for more than refusal. It calls forblood-knowledge of the possible . In her erotic life, the lesbian imprints thepossible on the tissue of her being. The deep exploration and celebration of self
and other. The reclaiming and the cultivation of the soil of her psychic andphysical territory. The dissolving of man-made divisions between flesh andspirituality, giving and receiving , work and play, creation and recreation. The
free sharing of wealth. That is what my lover and I do at the kitchen table,
and that is what we do in bed.

63

- photograph by Morgan Gwenwald
Copyrigh l ~ 1980 by Morgan Gwenwald

64

Cris SouthDIARY OF A WOMAN/WIFE/QUEER

Sitting in the dark drive-in , my husband's hand on my thigh , I watch themovie on the screen in front of me . Am I that woman , those women? Am I
supposed to be? Obscene , I shudder. Fascinated, I watch. For a clue, for ananswer. An eight-inch penis grows to eight feet or more on that screen , looming upward , linear , threatening , a warning. A weapon , like a sword , knife , gun .
God 's cock must be even longer , I think to myself, the only humorous thoughtthat has occurred to me during the hour we have been here . This movie isserious . This place is serious. The man on the screen is proud , demanding respect , even worship, from the woman who kneels before him , a woman who
is reduced , by male fantasy and a cameraman, to nothing but an open mouth ,a receiver. My husband tugs my attention back to him ; his penis is only seveninches long but he makes sure my hand is on it , a reminder. The fantasy on
the screen is to be applied to the reality that sits beside me in this car. I turnthe speaker off; I don't like the sounds. Once my husband hid a tape recorderunder the bed when we made love and later , he played back for me the soundsof my orgasm. He never understood why I had been so angry and disgusted.
If I remove me , the woman, from that screen , from the slick pages of popular pornographic magazines , then I also remove almost every image of thewomen I have seen. All women I see there are me , within the minds of themen who make the movies, who take the pictures , who write the words . And
yet, they are not me, not me as chunky , short-haired , wide-hipped , square ,solid, muscular, unshaven , large-thighed. Only me as slim , long-legged, moistlipped, paint-eyed , open-mouthed. Not me as strong, capable, free. Only me
as weak, submissive , willing. Not me, all me. All women. A male fantasy thatis not all fantasy since women act it out every day. I am confused.
I was raised to please a man , sexually . I try to be those women , those fantasies. In bed with him , I bring them to mind ; I imitate as best I can , to please
him , to define my sexual self. I feel self-conscious because I am large , not slim
and svelte. I feel clumsy, ponderous. Afterwards , when the light is out, I rollover as far as I can to avoid touching him in my sleep. I feel angry; I feel sad .
But mostly , I feel empty .
But, I am liberal. I am hip. I am a progressive woman. The movies , thebooks , the magazines , all have the right to be, to exist. Freedom of the press,of choice. Don 't let the children have them. It's silly to think that the books
and movies have any real influence over people's actions or thoughts . I am
liberal ; I buy penthouse and playboy at the local convenience store where themanager there knows me, knows my husband . He says my husband is a very
lucky guy ; he and some of the male customers say they wish their wives would
loosen up , read the magazines , go to the movies . They talk about how good65

it would be for their sex lives , put some pizzazz into their marriages. They
think I'm okay. They thump me on the shoulder and tell me their latest dirty
jokes.
My neighbor's husband seeks me out to show me a color nude spread in
hustler: Shere Hite , a lay-out pose done during her college days, years before ,reprinted by hustler to discredit. The Hite Report is valuable ; I've read it, haveit on my bookshelf. The neighbor man smiles . Proof on the slick pages of themagazine he holds in his hands . She's nothing but a slut , he says, a bitch. Acting like she knows everything. Probably puts out for every guy that comesalong . That's why she knows so much . I am angry at him , confused and dismayed by what I have seen. I feel betrayed.
There are things bad girls do that good girls don't do. Mama taught mewell. But my husband wants something Mama never mentioned . She talked a
lot about a wife's duty to please her husband , to submit sexually , to satisfy
him, to never tell him "no ." She didn 't give me any details as to how I should
go about it. That was always very mysterious . But now he wants somethingelse and I'm sure it wouldn 't fit mama 's ideas of what good girls do . He knows
I am attracted to women . He approves . He's liberal ; he 's hip. He's a progressive man. At the drive-in , on the large screen , two women make love together.
He knows I watch carefully ; he knows I've never seen this before . He wants
me to be with women, with a woman that I will bring home to him . He wants
to watch us make love and then thinks to join in at some crucial point, hoping to replace our hands and mouths with the penis he is sure we will want.
He says it would be fun , that no one would be hurt. He brings the idea up
from time to time , never forgetting this favorite fantasy. He thinks that my
attraction to women will make it possible for him to talk me into such athreesome some day.
I am beginning to have a fantasy of my own and it is relatively simple : all
I really want to do is kiss another woman , touch her breasts, hold her , feelthe softness . But he brings me books , glossy magazines from a local porno
store , women together, women in black garters, wild looking, with whips intheir hands , dildoes held like weapons. I can see the male imagination in what
the models are doing together, the whip handles and artificial -penises . I wonder why there are no books that tell in gentle ways how women are together
when they make love with one another. He waits for me to read what he hasbrought. There are other pictures , too. Women with men in various poses . I
realize that I am afraid, afraid that I must be some image if I am to be awoman.
All women are whores, he says to me one day, breaking the Sunday morning silence with his tearing statement. All whores , in one fashion or another.
My hand shakes as I pick up my coffee cup. I know he means me , whether
or not he will say it. At least hookers are honest , he goes on , obviously enjoying himself, you just give them money and they put out , no questions , no demands , no coaxing. Plain sex. Everyone knows exactly what they're supposed
to do. He talks about other women/whores. In order for a guy to get laid , hesays, you have to court a woman, buy her dinner , coax her , sweet talk her.
And even then she sometimes still says no . "I don 't know why women makesuch a big deal out of it all. Besides a guy spends a lot of time and money ona date and he should get something more substantial than a thank you and a6()goodnight kiss." He looks meaningfully at me. I am reminded of how long I
held out when he and I were dating. I finally gave in a month before our wedding, tired of the constant demands and somewhat curious, too. But now weare married, I think silently. Then suddenly I understand; he bought my services, my body, when he married me. He pays the rent, buys the food, buys
my clothes, gives me a car, and even pays for the gas, to name only a few
money matters. I am his own personal prostitute, he is saying, and he pays
dearly, much more, perhaps, than he thinks I am worth. And I can be replaced.
I begin to read the magazines once more and I learn quickly now. He has
finally frightened me; he has shown me my worth to him even if he did notmean to do so. I must be those women, those fantasies. That is what he wants.
He pays me, pays for it. He would deny all of this if I were to confront him
with it. He loves me; he would seem hurt by such an accusation. Now I frequently go to the movies alone, sitting inside my carefully locked car, absorbing what I see on the screen in order to surprise him, to find out what I am
to him. I read more and go to the movies once a week. I watch them in totalsilence. I am cautious because I am alone; I often wear a hat so men passing
by my car won't notice that I am a woman without a man by my side, fairgame, perhaps wanting some company. I do not get out of the car during themovie. I am trapped there in order to protect myself. I take my own beer andfood.
I begin to notice that the women in these movies are furnished only to offset the men, to be receptacles, necessary to the dim plots and the men's pleasures, whatever form those pleasures might take. The women are not allowed
to argue in these mms and if they do resist, they are properly subdued by themacho, dominant man, in such a manner that the women are portrayed as
liking the roughness, the cruelty, the lack of interest in their desires or in theirsexual satisfaction. The point of each and every movie seems to be that men
are the aggressive masters and women are willing, panting slaves, even to thepoint of suffering humiliation or pain. Even the lesbian scenes do not portray
women having orgasms, but merely looking futile, fumbling, and incompetent,
until a man steps in and takes charge. And of course, there are no scenes of
two men together.
The more r read, the more I watch, the less I feel. When in bed with him,
I create a scene, I act. I can fake passion and orgasm with great artistry. Maybe he knows. I never ask and he never questions. He thinks there is a medical
problem that keeps me from getting wet when we make love. I don't correct
his thinking. There's safety for me in his ego-saving logic. More and more I
conjure images of women when he and I make love, trying to free myself ofthe reality of being with him, of having him inside my body.
I am desperate to get away from him, from my marriage. He doesn't reallywant me-I've seen him stare longingly at the nude pictures in playboy andthen sigh when he looks at me. I am a poor substitute for those long, slender,"sexy" bodies. I feel cheap, obscene. My broad shoulders and square, chunky
body are not feminine, not "sexy." I don't wear skirts or negligees or heels. I
don't totter about or act helpless. I've even stopped wearing makeup. He doesn't
think of me as a woman.
r am losing feeling for myself. Perhaps I am not a woman. Perhaps I am a67neuter. I have female genitals, breasts . But that is all that would mark me asa woman . I don't fit into any model of woman I can find. I want to be withwomen. I seek out N .O.W. groups and the Girl Scouts so I can avoid being
with men. I find myself staring at women, consumed by feelings I can't nameand frightened by my bursts of aggression and desire . I want to make love toa woman and never go home again to a man. Maybe , I should have been born
male and it all would have been much easier.
Bad girls . The worst bad girls. Unmentionable bad girls. How will I manage
this? She wanted me and told me so to my face. No games. She took me toher apartment and I spent the afternoon in bed with her , drinking wine andmaking love. I didn't feel aggressive ; I felt shy , young. I don 't know what itmeans except that I want to see her again .
I went to bed with a woman, I tell him , not realizing my foolishness . I expect him to understand . He has encouraged me , discussed it with me. My lovemaking with her has lef1 me feeling gentle towards him, not expecting so muchfrom him . I feel that he will know my joy and will be happy , too . After all , I
am here with him . His face blanches for a moment. I knew you would someday , he says, how was it? I don't know how to answer his question . I know
he is asking for specific details , a description of exactly what she and I did together when we made love . He wants to confirm his fantasy and the fantasiesof the magazines and movies. And he wants my love-making with her to beokay but incomplete . That night, he wants to make love with me . He is especially careful, taking a long time to try to arouse me fully. Later he tells methat he is self-conscious now , that he thinks I am secretly comparing him withher. I tighten inside and tell him that there is no comparison. Reassured, hesmiles and goes to sleep . He did not hear , did not understand , what I said tohim . But then , it doesn 't really matter to me whether he did or not.
I try to write in my journal ; I try to describe what it is like to make lovewith a woman. But I cannot find satisfactory words . If I go into detail , itsounds like a porno story. I think there are no words for women together .
He wants me to bring her home , to fulfill his fantasy. I will have his blessing, his complete approval if I share her with him. He is furious when I refuse
to even ask her. I will keep her separate from him , a part of my life that hecannot touch or even see . I try to reassure him in other ways . In anger , heturns on me and says all of our marital difficulties are my fault. He says that
I do not know how to make love , that I only know how to fuck . He says I do
not know how to be tender or gentle. I think about rocking her in my arms
while she slept and then I see the playboy magazine on the sofa. My fault. I
am not a real woman. We never make love , only screw. The anger I feel towards
him is so intense it frightens me. I have had no identity except as his wife, his
woman. I tried to be what he seemed to want me to be . Now I feel the obscenity and the betrayal . And I feel violence in me more vividly than I have everfelt it before.
I lay in bed beside her while she sleeps as she often does after orgasm. It is
quiet and I have time to think . I do not want him anymore . I thought I could
love both of them and that they would let me. Both want me without theother and I feel I have to choose between them. C. wants me to leave him andlive with her in a life that I cannot fully understand. He wants me to leave he r
and give him back his woman, his self-worth, his proof of manhood. He wants68

me to live with him in some undefined way that he can always challenge. I
feel like a sacrifice.
I choose neither. I leave alone.
In another town, I unpack boxes, placing my few things in a new house/home. Some of the boxes he has packed, throwing things in; his haste to remove
the last of me from his house is obvious in his packing. As I go through thecontents of the boxes, I spot a magazine turned cover downward in the bottomof the carton. When I pick it up, there is a picture of three women. One has
her arms thrown over her head in a pose of self-defense; another holds a multithonged whip; the third woman watches, her arms crossed over her chest. Hisparting shot. Queer. Dyke. Whore.
I throwaway the magazine. All the words were frightening. All the words
that are me, that are all women. Slut, queer, dyke, lesbian, hussy, woman. I
use hard words and I am still afraid. I have to decide how to be a woman.
Without the magazines, without the movies, without the books and the fantasies. I have to create my own fantasy. I write in my journal, word for word,of how my lover and I made love last night.

FOR

THE
SOUTH
Emphasizing the Lesbian Vision
FEMINARY, one of the oldest surviving feminist
publications in the southeast, announces a shift In
focus from a local feminist magazine to a lesbian
feminist journal for the South.
published 3 times a year
Subs: $6.50 for individuals$10. for institutions
P.O . Box 954, Chapel H i li, N.C. 27514

69

Sarah Lucia Hoagland

VIOLENCE, VICTIMIZATION, VIOLATION

Feminists first focused on overt violence against wimmin in pornography
and rape-the rapidly increasing imagery of dismemberment, slaughter, cannibalism in porn, the widespread male linguistic and conceptual merging of violence and sex, the predictable increase of assault and mutilation-in responseto the heterosexist charge that if wimmin were liberated from our prudish
backgrounds, we would appreciate explicit sexual material and would be beddedby an "appropriate" male. We distinguished between feminism and the malesexual revolution with the latter's elemental premise of access to wimrnin on
demand and its consequent absolution of male responsibility and commitment.
As we clarified the basic hatred and fear of wimmin which pornography andrape express, we accepted the traditional liberal male distinction between erotica and porn, explaining that material displaying wimmin sexually to arouse
men was OK so long as it contained no hint of physical abuse and violence.
Violence is the key, we said. And we determined to take back the night. Finally,in an effort to reach out to less aware, less honest,. less afraid, less safe and/or
less committed wimrnin, many have simplified the issues and simply focusedon violence.
I think the simplification as well as the focus erroneous. We must ask why
violence against wimmin is such an integral part of society; why it is expectedthat men will maim, rape, batter, mutilate, torture and murder wimmin; whyrape, wifebeating and "incest" are ignored while wimmin who fight back face
the full brutality of the system. Pornography is violent; but its violence stems
from male objectification and victimization of wimrnin. We are displayed legs
apart, cunts open, arms out of the way, breasts posed, ears accessible, andmouths ready for male "pleasure." Objectified, we are objects whose function
is to be acted upon by men-objects of male pleasure, pain, anger, joy, titillation, aggression, love,2 and hatred ... targets of male "attention." Straightporn exists to portray the objectification of wimmin, and it is even more blatant in so-called lesbian porn. 3 We are the targets at which they aim to getin some mood or other and then relieve themselves. Thus men do things to us
and for us and at us and against us but never with us. As a result of objectification, female autonomy, integrity, independence, are invisible, conceptually
non-existent. In their place men assert our victim status, and violence agairist
wimmin follows ipso facto.
Objectification is violence, a violation of integrity, wholeness, and it leads
to more violence; but it is important to acknowledge that objectification is
not always obviously violent; it is not limited to physical assault, dismemberment, maiming and death. When we focus on explicitly and overtly violent
material and on the physical violence of rape, we fail to acknowledge the full
extent of the control men claim over us; we fail to admit that institutionalized
heterosexuality is key in the maintenance of male supremacy. Over the centuries

70men have clothed male domination and authority in the rhetoric of romanceand protection. We see only the most blatant of their violations as violenceagainst us .4
Protection objectifies just as does predation , and violates our space. 5 Paternalism operates to legitimize domination and establish control "for our own
good." To protect us men do things to us and at us, and if they act "for" us ,it is to create the ideology of special protection for wimmin and affum ourvictim status : To be protected we must first be in danger. Thus it is in the interest of protectors that there be predators;6 for men to maintain the conceptual framework in which they can see themselves as protectors, they must establish and maintain an atmosphere in which wimmin are in danger ; they must
create our victim status. To maintain the ideology of special protection of
wimmin , men have portrayed wimmin as helpless , defenseless , innocent- victims ,targets. And when we step out of the feminine role, becoming active and guilty ,it is a mere matter of logic that men step up overt physical violence against us
to reaffirm our victim status. When they cannot control us through protection,
the safety valve they have to fall back on is overt violence , predation? But
protection violates wimmin just as much as predation. Through institutional
heterosexuality, men cast themselves as protectors.
If we focus on obvious violence against wimmin in pornography and raperather than the fundamental objectification of wimmin essential to predationand protection, we will be increasingly tempted to turn to male protection,
institutional and random : police protection , the use of men who see themselves as protectors, the fairy tale father protector, increased laws on rape ,violence and censorship for men to (selectively) enforce, neighborhood malevigilantes , the use of men in anti-porn and take-back-the-night campaigns. We
will be more likely to Playboy money to fund battered wimmin 's shelters,
child advocates and rape crisis lines . And we will be tempted to believe men
are essential to our well-being. If we focus on obvious violence against wimmin,
it will become increasingly difficult to fight institutional cooptation of feminismand maintain conceptual autonomy from conservatives who are concerned with
pornography and rape in their efforts to return to "sexual purity ." If we focus
on violence against wimmin , we will forget that our victimization forces us toturn to men, and then asking for protection becomes an acceptable alternative.
The essential function of the propaganda of pornography is objectification. The
essential function of the propaganda of protection is also objectification. Theyboth are tools which render wimmin victims, violate our integrity, fix us in malevision. Porn/rape (predation) and protection emerge from the same ideology ,and it is a matter of indifference to the successful maintenance of male supremacy which of the two we fall for.
If feminists focus on obvious violence against wimrnin , rape and porn appear
simply to be the results of some mens' actions who have been "conditioned"
by a sexist society to vent "abnormal" but tolerated male aggression against
wimmin . If, on the other hand , we focus on the objectification and victimization of wimmin, it becomes clear that rape and porn (predation) together withprotection are tools men use to enforce female heterosexuality. Taking backthe night only from predators reinforces our victimization. Taking back thenight from predators as well as protectors challenges the rule of the fathers
and the forced alliance of wimmin with men.
71

NOTES
1. My thanks and love to Julia Penelope for helpful suggestions on an earlier draft ofthis piece.
2. The violence and death worship of Eros and of male erotic love is epitomized by
Cupid's arrow. In Greek literature and in the Bible, Eros is a total taking and subsequentloss of identity in contrast with Agape, a total giving (allegedly motherly love) . Neither
include Philia, companionship and "brotherly" love. The complete removal of giving andof companionship from erotic love in male thought betrays the poverty of the male conceptof sexuality as well as of. the concept of erotic "love" altogether.
3. There is now a slick, glossy monthly porn magazine coming out of England concerned
exclusively with so~alled lesbians, Lesgirls.
4. To violate is to rape; violate and violence share the Indo-European root, *wei-, whichmeans 'vital force.' *Wei- is possibly related to wiros which means 'man' according to theeditor of The American Heritage Dictionary, and appeared in Old English and Frankish as
werewolf while appearing in Latin (vir) as virile. Also the editor thinks the latter relates tocuria or court if it is regarded as deriving from co-vir which means 'men together.' Apparently ,the vital force of men together, particularly virility in their courts, is violence and violation(rape) following the practice of werewolves.
5 . While children are often protected, the protection is allegedly provided so they canhave space to grow up and learn to take care of themselves. No such expectations surroundthe conceptual basis of protected wimmin.
6. In fact, most often protectors are themselves predators: Husbands more often beat
their wives than strange wirnmin, and fathers are far more likely to rape their daughtersthan strange girls.
7. For example, prior to the Shah's over throw, Iranian men attacked feminist wimmin
broadcasting a wimmin's program in order to "defend femininity" - punishing feminists
and driving other Iranian wimmin to men for protection. The Ayotollah's men continue thesame policy, attacking wimmin who refuse the veil.

Andrea Dworkin

THE LESBIAN IN PORNOGRAPHY:
A Tribute to Male PowerThe photograph shows two women in an elegant living room. Both women
have cream-colored skin , taut and fl awless . The room is cream -colored : carpeting,sofa , table , walls. The furniture is taut in design : very modern and simple. One
woman , blond-haired , lies on the sofa, her ass raised on the arm of the sofa, herlegs bent back toward her stomach, the spread of her legs shown by the distance
between her feet poised in the air. She is wearing a garter belt, nylon stockingsthat end a few inches above her knees , and spiked heels the same color as her
hair. Her eyes are closed, her eye shadow is dark gray . Her mouth is slightly open ,her lips are distinctly pinkish . One of her hands disappears between her legs ; theother, emerging from a hidden arm , seems to be fondling her own breast , which
is not visible because one sees the proftle of the breast closest to the camera . The
most prominent part of her body is her buttock, raised , highlighted by the intensity of the light on it. The rest of her ass, even in proftle , is obscured by the headof the second woman. The second woman is on her knees beside the sofa arm ,her features indistinguishable , her mouth apparently kissing the first woman 's exposed buttock but in fact her face is merely proftled against the woman's raised
buttock. The second woman is perpendicular to the reclining woman , so that her
ass, fully exposed , directly faces the camera. She is wearing a cream-colored robe
which is draped across her back and falls to one side to highlight her naked ass.
Her legs are spread. Pubic hair shows underneath . She is wearing spiked heels thesame color as her hair , dark brown . The light is concentrated on the ass of thewoman on her knees .
In the photograph , all visual significance is given to the ass of the woman onher knees which is in the foreground , exaggerated by the light markedly on it ,and to its echo, the raised buttock of the woman reclining. The camera is the
penile presence , the viewer the male who participates in the sexual action which
is not within the photograph but in the perception of it. The photograph does
not document lesbian lovemaking; in fact , it barely resembles it. The symbolic
reality of the photograph - which is vivid - is not in the relationship between thetwo women, which not only does not provoke but actually prohibits any recognition of lesbian eroticism as authentic or even existent. The symbolic reality
instead is expressed in the posture of women exposed purposefully to excite amale viewer. The ass is exposed and vulnerable ; the camera has taken it; the
Copyright@ 1980 by Andrea Dworkin73

viewer can claim it. The spiked heels suggest cruelty, associated with the lesbian,the quintessential castrator. At the same time, the spiked heels suggest a slavish
conformity to male-dictated fashion , a crippling of the female , binding of thefeet, underlined in the accompanying text, which is long and languid, by the
declaration that neither woman has ever before made love with a woman (sothis is just for you , dear boy) and the assurance that men are magnificent. The
exposed ass is an emblem for the values in the photograph as a whole. The contact between the women does not exclude the male; it explicitly invites him.
The woman on her knees , legs spread open , conjures up the propitiating, submissive gesture of the animal who takes the same stance (ethologists take note :without the spiked heels) to appease an aggressive male . The photograph is theultimate tribute to male power: the male is not in the room , yet the women are
there for his pleasure . His wealth produces the photograph; his wealth consumes
the photograph ; he produces and consumes the women. The male defines andcontrols the idea of the lesbian in the composition of the photograph. In viewing
it , he possesses her. The lesbian is colonialized , reduced to a variant of womanas-sex-object , used to demonstrate and prove that male power pervades and invades even the private sanctuary of women with each other. The power of themale is affirmed as omnipresent and controlling even when the male himself isabsent and invisible . This is divine power, the power of divine right to divine
pleasure , that pleasure accurately described as the sexual debasing of others inferior by birth. In private , the women are posed for display . In private , the women still sexually service the male , for whose pleasure they are called into existence. The pleasure of the male requires the annihilation of women'~ sexual integrity . There is no privacy , no closed door , no self-determined meaning, for womenwith each other in the world of pornography .

74

DECLARATION OF

I am afraidof men with whipsof men who like picturesof men with whips
and women tied down
and women tied open
I am afraid
I remember
men who said
all I needed wasand there's no such thing
and relax and enjoy
I am afraidof men who say
this pretend threat
this is fantasy
this is freedom
for women tied down
for women tied open
I am afraid
you said
you assume consent
and you oppose censorshipand you would not deny sexuality
for men who like whips
and men who like picturesof men with whips
I am afraid
when the woman on the screen
was slit
from throat to cuntwhen they pulled out her guts
the men in the theater stood yelling
give me a knife
give me a knife
and then wenthome
I am afraid
we are at war- Catherine Risingf/ame Moirai

75Julia Penelope

MYSTERY AND MONSTER:

The Lesbian in Heterosexual Fantasies

For some reason I have yet to fathom , the year 1975 1 saw the publicationof an extraordinary number of stories and pictorials about the subject ofLesbianism in two sectors of the popular media that we prefer to ignore :confession magazines and "men's" magazines. While sanity and self-esteem
might argue that the less said about the prurient fascination with Lesbianismthat heterosexuals seem to have the better, I believe there is information to
be gained from exposing the mythological structure of their fantasies thatwill prove tactically useful to Lesbians in particular and feminists in general,
especially if we intend to continue to fight masculinist pornography and theviolence against wimmin it purveys as a necessary ingredient of heterosexuality.2 Whether we wish to acknowledge it or not , male pornography ,(and I include here both the magazines aimed at a female audience, such as
Tnle Confessions and Secrets, and the slick porno productions written for amale audience, such as Playboy and Qui) , exerts an insidious, long-lasting,and destructive influence on our ability to conceive ourselves as Lesbians , andprovides the conceptual framework within which heterosexual wimmin andmen perceive us . We are not "people" to heterosexuals because we have been
unwilling, two-dimensional toys manipulated to serve the whims of heterosexual fantasies in a tradition that goes back at least to the greek patriarchal"classics."
It would be simple (and stupid) to pretend to ourselves that we havesomehow escaped whole from the influence of male imagination in coming
to understand ourselves as Lesbians . How many of us, desperate for any
information about other Lesbians, had only the confession and porno
magazines to read when we were growing up? (Where did you hide yours?)
How many of us accepted those male images and descriptions completely,
unwittingly, innocently, believing that we were learning what it means tolive as a Lesbian? (1 did.) To what extent is our individual understandingof our sexuality as Lesbians still structured according to those malefantasies we soaked up as young wimmin? 1 have no handy numbers totoss around here, but when I look at the inside of my own imagination, I am
frightened. What is worse, perhaps , the concepts created by those early
images and words are so integral to us that we don ' t even want to talk about
them, and with good reason. It is humiliating, depressing, and scary to admit
to ourselves that we believed , and still believe, in neural structures we can't
begin to reach , those images we accepted when we didn't know any better.
I am talking here about emotional violence so pervasive , buried in our minds ,76

that most of us will die with some portion of the self-hatred still intact
within us. I learned to despise myself as a Lesbian from those magazinesand books , and now my belief in feminism makes it easy to despise myself
for believing what I was told and for not being able to completely disengage ·my sexual feelings from those lurid fantasies. I already have enough reasonsfor despising myself; if I maintain my silence about the ways in which men
determined my perceptions about my Lesbianism, I would despise myself
more. That silence, and the conflicts about it, are tearing me apart.
It would be so comforting, and dishonest , to say that no one , especiallyLesbians, believes that "nonsense" churned out in such huge quantities by
the men who conceive, write, print, publish, and distribute it. We mustnever forget that men control the economically feasible media in this world,
including pornography; that what we see in the popular media is of men , bymen, for men, even when a particular book , article, movie, or TV programis advertised (by men) as being aimed (by men) at a female audience. We
must keep asking why such-and-such exists, why specific images keeprecurring, why this gets published and that doesn't. We must continue to
ask whose interests the various media serve. We must ask why pornography
exists ; why the images we see are available but not others. We must ask why
the idea of Lesbianism is so popular in male pornography! Whoever controls
and , thereby, has unchallenged access to the media in this century controls
our minds and our lives. It may be fashionable to pretend otherwise , but it'salso foolish.
Being virtually unaware of the ways in which male pornography had influenced me, I didn't realize that anyone believed the distortions and misinformation contained therein to be "factual." After all, the "purpose" of pornography is to provide the content of sexual fantasies. I discovered that otherpeople accept the "stuff of fantasy" as factual information, including myself,
when I happened to overhear a conversation in a restaurant in New YorkCity.
You know how men can occupy space just by talking? On this particularmorning, I was having breakfast out with the womon I then lived with, when
I heard a male in a back booth explaining, at the top of his lungs, how
Lesbians do it. I looked back, and saw two males and a womon sitting in abooth, and the male I had heard was "explaining" to her about "lesbians."
When she shook her head in disbelief, he assured her that he had gotten
his information from reliable authority. His authority? A STUDY OFLESBIAN PRACTICES!!! And that was how I learned about the existenceof that magazine , from a male who believed that he had THE WORD on"lesbian practices." How many wimmin have participated in similar
incidents and , not knowing any better, accepted such misinformation as thebasis for their opinions about themselves and other wimmin? He went onwith his "explanation" for at least half an hour, describing for her
bewildered amusement the scenes of sado-masochism, whippings, nipplepinching, the use of whip handles as dildoes, and, finally, wound up by saying that all any Lesbian needed was "a good fuck by the right man." Mind
you, I was sitting in a booth in the front of the restaurant, and they weresitting way in the back, yet I heard every word of that conversation. How
many other people heard it, too? How many believed it? (Do we want toknow?)
77

As we left the restaurant I stopped at the newsstand on the comer, just on
a hunch, to see if A Study of Lesbian Practices was there . And it was. I
bought it, dear reader, and thus began the process of collecting as many ofthese periodicals as I could fmd (and afford). (They are now on me at the
Lesbian Herstory Archives in New York City. A "gift" of dubious value, but
perhaps some day they'll have "merely" historical interest.) What I foundremarkable was the quantity of male descriptions of Lesbian activities (notreal ones, needless to say) available on the newsstands during a two-month
period, October-November of 1975. (There are nine such articles in six
magazines.) Between March and October of the same year, 11 articles
purporting to be about "Lesbians" appeared in confession magazines, which
I assume to be the female equivalent of male pornographic materials. (Ifyou've read one, you know why .) Both types of magazine exploit ignorance
about Lesbians as a means of titillating their audiences : Confession
magazines portray most of their Lesbian characters as monsters, while malemagazines portray us as mysterious and somehow "unreal." These contradictory views ot Lesbianism serve two important cultural needs: Portrayal of
the Lesbian as disgusting and sordid keeps wimmin bound to men ; depicting
the Lesbian as mysterious and surreal enables males to think that Lesbians
aren't a threat to them. By perpetuating images of the Lesbian as"dangerous" to wimrnin and "exciting" to males , these pulp magazines makeit easy for their respective audiences to continue to think of Lesbianism inculturally safe ways . Thus , however much we might wish to ignore it, thepopular media exercise considerable influence , both reflecting andperpetrating conventional , masculinist attitudes among heterosexuals , and theimage of the Lesbian promoted in these media deserves our attention if weplan to combat their effects in our own lives, never mind anyone else's.
This periodic interest in Lesbianism, in a culture that actively suppresses
discussion of the subject in more "respectable" publications, indicates thatsome awareness that Leshians exist abounds, at least in those media directed
to a mass reading audience . That this increased intere~t in a taboo subject
is essentially prurient carries cultural messages of its own. Why does
Lesbianism have such pornographic appeal for those who purchase magazines
such as True Story, My Romance, True Confessions, on the one hand , andCavalcade, Climax, and Playboy, on the other? Some of the appeal mustderive from the combined effects of Lesbianism as a tabooed, and therefore"deviant," topic, and the ignorance about us that results from ourinvisibility . Although the handling of Lesbianism as content in the two
types of mass magazine is Significantly different, and apparently aimeo at
the culturally-approved "taste" of the sex for whom the magazine is published, the portrayal of "lesbianism" as a potential source of sexual fantasy
for both sexes tells us a lot about the dullness of heterosexist culture in
America, and nothing about Lesbians. Because, of course, what one reads in·True Story or Playboy has no relation to the reality of Lesbianism. In bothconfession and male magazines the images of Lesbians and our "activities"
are clearly intended to feed the fantasies of those who read them . That is ,in magazines published for a heterosexual audience in need of escape fromthe drabness of their own lives, the Lesbian becomes a dangerous (therefore
exciting) subject cast in a safe medium. An examination of the differences78

in the treatment of Lesbianism in these magazines reveals the uses to which ourlives are subject in a heterosexist culture .
The readers of confession magazines are primarily young wimmin between theages of 12 and 25, (my own introduction to the genre came through female
peers in junior high school) , but this does not imply that some readers of thesepublications aren't older or male. The style , format , and range of topics in the"confessions" are cast stereotypically for a young female audience. The
articles are simplistically conceived and written, and the subjects treated haveto do with rape , abortion , familial relations , incest, love, extramarital sexual
relationships, orgies, and other tabooed areas of interpersonal and social
problems. Unfortunately , because most of these subjects are the sort thatmost young wimmin have been taught they shouldn 't discuss with anyone ,"confession" magazines provide them with the only information they arelikely to find . Since Lesbianism is defined by our culture as a "social
problem ," it fits very neatly within the range of topics covered by the"confessions." The titles on the covers of two confession magazines illustrate the tone and approach to the problems as they are presented foryoung wimmin : From Real Confessions (April , 1975): "My Father Watched
Me Make Love!", "Kept as a Sex Slave for a Teen Rape-Gang--only faith ingod saved my sanity!", "He Made Me Pregnant--without even touching me!" ,"Forced to Marry--though I can't love men !"; from Revealing Romances(April , 1975): "The Sex Operation I Swore I'd Never Have--I Believed in
Leaving Mother Nature Alone", "Scared to Try What This Girl Offered Me-If I Let Her , Would I Ever Want a Man Again?" , ''Manhandled Too Often--I
Went from Great in Bed to Dead in Bed", "He Promised, 'It Will Be Better
Next Time'--Eager For Sex Until I Got It".
In general , the subject of Lesbianism is advertised in the same sensational,
excited tone ; one can almost hear the fearful tremor in the voice , completewith exclamation marks: " How Did I Ever Get Mixed up with a Roommate
like Angie?- The story of a singles weekend that turned into a nightmare! " ,(True Confessions, April , 1975); "Maybe I'm a Lesbian! - In my husband'sarms I have every reason to believe it! ", (True Story, March, 1975); "RapeWas Double Horror for Me-Because I'm a L esbian!" , (Real Confessions, June
1975); "I Lured My Best Friend into My Bed- I Wanted to touch her, love
her, but my kind of love always ends with pain", (My Romance, July , 1975);"The Family Secret That Became Heartbreak- My Mother is a Lesbian", (True
Love, May , 1975); "My Stepsister Can't Love a Man-She Wants Me!", (TrueExperience, October, 1975). With two notable exceptions, the articles about
Lesbianism present us as depraved, disgusting monsters , which is the "appropriate " response for any "normal" woman. As these titles indicate, the subjectof Lesbianism is merely a lewd enticement , and the so-called confessions carrywith them the "moral" that Lesbianism is "dirty," "immoral," "sinful ," and"evil," im activity in which no "decent" womon would engage . Of course , thereaders get to enjoy these Lesbian stories from a safe distance , vicariously , atthe same time drawing about them the safe cloak of conventional morality.
All of the negative stories carry in them warnings about the dangers of Lesbians, the inherent corruption of Lesbians , and emphasize the social stigma
attached to Lesbianism. In "Scared to Try What This Girl Offered Me" , forexample, we first meet Peggy as she arrives at a reform school , and the third79

sentence of the story sets the tone: "I could picture some butch matron beating me to death and then saying I'd fallen and hit my head ." Another story,
one which ends happily for the Lesbian , begins by describing a teenager's firstLesbian love affair , with her ninth-grade teacher. The two wimmin are caught
making love , and the teacher, of course , is immediately fired (and replaced bya male teacher!) Perhaps the most clearly stereotyped portrayal of the Lesbian
occurs when Peggy (of "Scared to Try") encounters her first " dyke" in thereform school.
The other girl who was let into the bathroom at the same time I was whispered , 'Don't worry about Julie. She's a lousy fink , but I'll take care of you ,baby .' We 'd moved out of sight of the door by then , and this other girl put
her hands on my breasts.
I jumped as if I'd been scalded . 'Hey, what's the idea?' I demanded. I tried
to sound tough , but I was scared. I realized this girl was a lesbian - a real dyke
with squatty build and coarse features . Her hair was a drab brown and chopped
off just below her ears. Her eyes were pale and evil looking, though she tried
to smile in a winning way .
'I 'm Lena ,' she said . 'And you kn ow what the idea is , baby . I run this joint,
you know . If you want to do easy time here , you 'd better be friends with me .''I don ' t go for your kind of friendship ,' I whispered fiercely . 'I've got a manin my life -a real man who has something to give me . You dig?'(R evealing R omances, p . 37)
Clearly , Peggy's involvement with " a real man " is supposed to make her immune to lesbian advances , and her initial reaction to Lena typifies the ways
wimmin are taught to im agine lesbian contacts.
Carol , the major figure in " Forced to Marry ," is constantly badgered byher parents to marry. The final argument that pushes her into marriage is expressed by her mother.
'We're your family . We know you ' re a normal , decent girl. But your attitude about marriage is unnatural - and we want to protect you from scandal.
Nobody's talking yet- but they will .'And Carol thinks to herself:
There was nothing between Buddy and me. We were just two women who
had no marriage plans. I never asked her what her reasons were , nor told her
the truth about mine. But now that my family 's suspicions were out in theopen, I had to face them - and I was frightened .
I wasn't a homosexual , but the thought of people whispering about me
behind my back- made me sick.
She decides to marry Mark because of the pressure from her family , although
she believes " There's something wrong with me. I can't love men." After arocky beginning and a brief separation , she suppresses her lack of enthusiasm
for sex with her husband , and resigns herself to heterosexuality : " But in theend , it's all turning out for the best." (Sigh.) In spite of her fears about thepossibility that she might be a lesbian , the demands of a heterosexual audience
are satisfied as Carol settles for heterosexuality and the "safety" of marriage.
This fear of Lesbianism is the major theme of "Maybe I'm a Lesbian! " , inwhich Connie struggles constantly against the possibility . After a school friend
has commented that "it's a gay world ," with emphasis on the word gay, Connie's
introspection reveals her "problem":80Forgot, too, the doubt that had been keeping me awake nights- the doubtthat said that maybe I wasn't normal. That I might be like Martha Barnes , thegirl on my dorm floor who was unmistakably a lesbian . Or Miss Phigbee , myhigh school P .E. teacher, who was the only person of either sex I'd ever hada crush on . Miss Phigbee , who lived with a squarely-built, masculine woman
named 10.
Later, Martha Barnes asks Connie to study with her, and Connie wonders if
Martha is friendly to her because she knows that Connie is "like her." Again,
sex-role stereotyping plays an important part in the development of the story.
Connie wants to join the Waves, but is told by her husband-to-be that "they're
all lesbians." (He goes on to say, gratuitously : "I never dated one myself. Women like that aren't my type.") After two wimmin have dropped in and "caught"
her working on her sewing machine , Connie feels humiliated and says to herself: "Okay, so I'm a failure when it comes to being a woman. Well , then , I'll
just be what I am . .. ," and she puts on a pair of old jeans and a polo shirt.
Finally, she decides to "be herself," and her marriage also begins to improve.
The article ends with a lengthy moral concerning the role of wimmin in American society.
Women today are very lucky. We have a lot of opportunities now thatwomen never had before. Women are piloting planes, removing brain tumors,and fixing telephone lines , besides being nurses, and teachers and secretaries.
Some of us have children, others choose not to. Some marry, some never do.
But we're all 'normal' women_ An interest in mechanics or sports doesn't
make you a lesbian. And neither does an understanding tolerance of those
women who are.
I'll never want to be like Martha Barnes or Phyll ... or poor Miss Phigbee,
my high school P.E. teacher. The world isn't ready for their sexual preferences,and I think they miss a lot by not knowing normal male-female love. But I'll
never again think that just because I, or anyone else , prefers motors to cookbooks, jeans to ruffled skirts, or being a Wave to being a chorus girl , thatthey're in the misfit category.
When Darrell got home ... I explained all that to him, and then we had arousing good time in bed. The kind that made him know he was a man - andme know I was definitely all woman.
(True Story, p. 96)
In spite of the plug for "understanding tolerance ," the conclusion is clearly
intended to reassure readers of their own "normality." And, although it isfine to encourage wimmin to pursue their own interests in spite of the sexrole dichotomy, I find the insistence on defining Lesbians as "misfits" a grating bit of condescension . But the medium sells this kind of treatment, since
its purpose is to tantalize its female readers with possibilities. at the same time
reinforcing their heterosexual security . Whatever the specific instance, they
can sympathize with the major female character who either doesn't enjoy sex
with her husband or prefers tinkering with machines to cooking, and, when
the character accepts life with a male , these readers can re-establish their heterosexual identities through the process. Is it any wonder that so many wimrnin
buy confession magazines?
Conventional horror at the thought of Lesbianism is expressed graphicallyin ''My Mother is a Lesbian", a story in which a young womon runs away tojoin her mother after her father has remarried. She has never been told why
81her mother left because her father wanted to "protect" her. After travelingall night to the city where her mother lives , she coaxes the landlady to let her
wait inside the apartment for her mother. Shirley , the young womon , is half
asleep when her mother returns from a party , with her lover, and she watches
them embrace and kiss after they 've turned on the lights.
I heard my mother 's excited giggle . And then I heard a wounded cry. They
broke apart and looked at me . And that was when I knew the anguishedsound had come from me.
'Shirley!' my mother screamed. She rushed ov.er to me , reaching out,crooning, 'My baby. Where -''Don 't touch me! ' I was up on my wobbly legs , backing away from her ,the horror swirling around me like a red fog . 'You 're -' My voice choked in
spasm of revulsion .
'You've got to understand ,' my mother cried .
But I did. And I staggered away from her toward the door , needing to get
outside before I got physically sick .. .
I began crying. It was so awful, worse than any nightmare I'd ever had .
(Tru e Love, p. 50)
Shirley is rescued by her father , finally , and he takes her back home . Whilethey 're on the plane , Shirley assures him : " And I'm not- like that , Daddy ."He replies : " Thank God." The final sentence brings us the reassurance thatall's right with the world : " So , while I can't say what 's right and what's wrong,
I can say I'm glad I am the way I am - a girl who likes boys." In spite of thisqualification , the expected revulsion and horror is explicit in this article , andthe mother never is given a chance by her daughter either to explain her life
or to try and console her. The Lesbian mother's pain , her point of view , isnever heard throughout the story .
Peggy , in "Scared to Try What This Girl Offered Me", although she expresses
the appropriate hostility when approached by Lena , the "coarse dyke ," later
becomes attracted to a young womon who doesn ' t "look like one ." The progression of her thoughts provides an interesting example of the way in whichheterosexuality and male approval are insinuated into story lines .
My head buzzed ; my cheeks burned. Grace was a lesbian . This beautiful ,talented girl wanted to be my lover. I thought of Ron , and I could hardly
remember what it felt like to be with him ...
Oh, no , I cried deep inside me . Don't let it happen! But still I was excited .
Don 't knock it till you 've tried it- I'd heard that plenty of times , even on
the outside . What would it be like , I wondered . Would it really be good ?
Would it be anything like a man's love? If it were , wouldn't that be a kick!
. . . Would I be doing it because I wanted to or because I wanted to ruin myself? ... Her other hand went to the back of my neck , and she pulled myface toward hers. Our lips met.
It was awful - no , it wasn't. It was just the idea of it that was awful. If
we'd been in the dark and I' d thought he was a boy , I would have been
thrilled , . . . I longed to melt in Grace's arms , but something held me back .
If I started down this street, would I ever be able to turn back? Would I turnagainst heterosexual love? I couldn 't bear to think that I'd never want a man's
body in the coupling that is a part of creation .
(R evealing R omances, pp . 3940)

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Through the character of Peggy, the reader is allowed to venture into the ideaof Lesbianism without feeling seriously threatened by the events. At each stepof the way, as Peggy's thoughts move her toward Grace, readers are remindedof heterosexuality as Peggy weighs things in her mind. At no point does Peggy ·let go of males as her standard of comparison, and the female reader is thus
permitted a minor transgression in fantasy, knowing that Peggy won't take her
far beyond socially proscribed boundaries.
"My Stepsister Can't Love a Man-She Wants Me" presents the Lesbian , Figgy ,as a rapist. The reaction of the "straight" daughter to the advances of her Lesbian half-sister completely satisfies conventional expectations. From the beginning, Angela, the "normal" young womon, is "mildly uneasy about Figgy ," theLesbian stepsister, because she is "forever looking at me , watching me." Figgy,of course, is described in a frightful way. As Angela sees her : "Her hair was
terrible. It was a blunt-<:ut and not cute in a pixie way, but just chopped off.
She didn't wear one speck of makeup, not even to emphasize her eyes, whichwere unusually big and blue. Of course she wore jeans and a shirt, but there
wasn't any style in the way she dressed." Well , of course, all the "signals" arethere! Any womon whose hair isn't "cute," who doesn't "emphasize" her eyes,
and whose dress lacks "style" can't be completely "normal ." If Figgy looks soterrible , it is difficult for the conventional reader to be surprised when she"attacks" Angela one night. Angela has safely fallen asleep and becomes "dimly
aware of feeling caresses beneath [her] sheer baby-dolls." Angela's descriptionof the ensuing scene establishes her own authenticity as a "normal" womon .
My pleasure at the sensations quickly turned to horror when I realized
their source. Twisting away, I yelled , 'Get away! Are you crazy?'
Swiftly , Figgy caught me in a grip I couldn't break. I strained against her,but she only pressed her body tighter to mine . Her breath rasped in my ear.
The taste of vomit was in my throat. 'Let me go,' I croaked ... .
Figgy was a lesbian!
It can't be true, I battled in anguish, but I knew it was true ; all the pieces
fit. Even without Figgy in my bed , all the pieces fit ....
'Let me show you,' she purred, her hands shifting across my flesh.
Swallowing against the sickness in my mouth, I protested, 'That's like rape .''It's love,' she argued.
'Not love! Not between two girls! How dirty can you get? 'Angela threatens to tell Figgy's father, and gives her an ultimatum. Poor
Angela, of course, lives "in dread of what might happen ." Figgy, driven to
extremes in her "drive" for satisfaction, is caught by a neighbor attacking his
daughter.· He drags her back home, and while Figgy lies "crumbled to a heapon the floor," he says "in a tone of horror": "She had her face between my
baby's legs." (Hmrnm.) Later , Angela provides us with her analysis of the situation .
Long afte r the house was quiet , I lay awake, reflecting abou t Figgy, wondering what I could have done differently. I did see that with her friend, Trish,out of town and with me repelling her at every turn, Figgy was all wound up
and ready to pounce . It was just awful that she'd caught Christy Sellers alone .
At the end of the story, Figgy is being treated at the Pastoral Council Foundation, and the family is trying to survive the crisis. The psychiatrist has informed
them "that a true lesbian can ' t be changed ," and they are trying to learn to83

accept Figgy as she is. Because Angela has established her "credentials" as aheterosexual, she can add at the end: "In time, maybe I can really be a friend
and a sister to Figgy. And maybe she'll be the same to me."In each of these articles written from the perspective of a heterosexuallyprogrammed womon the emphasis is on the horror she feels when she is touchedby a Lesbian or when a male calls her a Lesbian . Once the narrator has carefully
proven to the reader that she is "alright," it is permissible to express sympathy ,or even tolerance, for the "unfortunate" Lesbian, who will never know "reallove." The readers of such stories are thus encouraged and reinforced in theirown heterosexuality by vicariously experiencing something alleged to be Lesbianism at a safe distance. In only one story is the narrator allowed to consciously
experience pleasure when another womon touches her , but she is turned off
when she thinks that she might never want a man again. The logic of this "reasoning" is never explained , although I assume that it suffices as a "turningpoint" for heterosexual wimmin.
Up to this point , the articles I've been discussing appear to fulml one's
expectations about the kind of treatment one would fInd in a confession
magazine. There are , however , four exceptions to this general statement. Twoof them are "confessions" told from the Lesbian's point of view, and theother two are purported "interviews" with "real" Lesbians. Once again , however, the method of treatment and presentation is simple-minded, and it isclear that the writers assume that most readers of confession magazines areheterosexual wimmin (which is probably true).
One of these stories , "I Lured My Best Friend into My Bed," carried a subtitle that contradicts the actual outcome of the article-"I wanted to touch
her , but my kind of love always ends with pain ." The major character, Val
Owens, describes herself and her experiences in a stereotypical fashion . She
thinks she's always been a Lesbian, she has kept a copy of Playboy hiddenin her drawer under her panties, and she had her fIrst Lesbian experience withan older womon, a teacher (of course!). After her parents find her and theteacher naked in bed, the teacher is fIred , and Val becomes a member of agroup of Lesbians her own age. She is attracted to Meg, and plots ways of seducing her. The major event in the story , from which it takes its title , is thenight that Val tries to make love to Meg. She waits until Meg is asleep , andthen begins to gently caress Meg. (MORAL: Never go to sleep around a Lesbian!) Meg responds, in her sleep , (of course) , thinking that she 's in bed withher boyfriend. When Meg realizes that she 's kissing Val , she pulls away andtries to cover her body. When Val tries to tell Meg that she loves her, Meg
screeches, "Get away from me you-you pervert!" In this story , the "true"
heterosexual womon is appropriately disgusted and repelled by the approachof the Lesbian , but the Lesbian winds up with her own apartment in New
York, where she is protected by the anonymity of a large city. She has a"wonderful roommate ," and they "have a great thing going." The "pervert"
is living happily in New York City wi th "her own kind ," she has "seen theerror of her ways," and , most likely. we are given to understand that she'll
never bother another "normal womon" again.
My last example of the Lesbian image in confession magazines is unique:
Not only is it told from the Lesbian's point of view, but it also deals with asituation common to adolescent wimmin after they discove r their Lesbianism.

84

In this instance, the young womon has been forced by her parents to go out
on a date with a young male, a "friend" of the family. However, Madelyn,
the young Lesbian, has already made plans with Barbie, her lover. Madelyn's
description of her relationship with Barbie is superficial, and reflects heterosexual ideas about Lesbian relationships:
Barbie , as you might've guessed, was really the butch in our relationship.
She dug taking over, and she was so good at directing me and guiding me inwhatever we did, especially in the sensual pleasures we shared . She always
beat me at chess. She made me go out with her , wearing no underpants andb ra. It was all fun , and it turned me on.
Although Madelyn protests her mother's interference in her life, an ultimatumfrom her father forces her to accept a date with the young man her mother had
picked for her. After her initial refusal to date a male, Madelyn's mother begins
to sob violently : "What's going to happen to her? ... She's not normal. There's
something wrong with her! Oh God , what is it?" In an unusual tum of events,
however , it is the young male who is "sick," for he repeatedly rapes Madelyn
after she refuses to have anything to do with him sexually, and he ends up
being treated by a psychiatrist. Madelyn spends a month in a sanatarium being
treated for the emotional trauma of rape , her mother realizes that she shouldn't
have pushed her daughter into doing something she didn't want to do, andthe story ends happily , the only one of its kind in the magazines I've surveyed.
The contrast between the image of the Lesbian projected to wimmin byconfession magazines and that portrayed in male magazines is startling, andrevealing. While wimmin's pulp magazines continue , by and large , to perpetrate
negative cultural attitudes toward Lesbianism, "men's" magazines tend to use
the idea of Lesbianism in order to titillate or excite their primarily male audiences. There are two significant differences between these two types of magazine that strike me with renewed force each time I consider them: First, while
the confession magazines rely on the verbal medium, using words to describe
reactions to Lesbianism , male magazines use photographs to depict supposed"lesbian" activities, and captions to direct the fantasies. Men are stimulated (Iguess) by visual imagery ; at least , that's what's provided for them in their slick
magazines. The photographs are posed by professional models , not Lesbians ,so I suspect that it is the "claim" regarding Lesbianism that makes it a popularsubject. One might wish to argue that photographs of wimmin pretending toengage in lesbian activities is only an "excuse" for showing more nude orpartially-clad females to the prurient male eye , but such magazines have shown
female nudes for years and they don't need "excuses" fo r exploiting our bodies .
If male pulps continue to provide visual portrayals of "lesbians" for male heterosexuals , it must be because such men are fascinated by the sexual " potential"of the subject. When Play boy published their first selection of photographsfrom j. frederick smith's Sappho: The Art of Loving Women, it promised its
readers that this was only the first such selection . "And you 'll be happy tonote that there will be a sequel in our February issue . How 's that for a special
valentine ?" While confession magazines are pushing the negative reactions of"normal " wimmin to Lesbian advances , male magazines are offering the san1e
subject as something pleasant , even desirab le , to their readers .
Second, the confession magazines stress heterosexuality as a moral imperative for wimmin, asserting time after time that any womon who permits her-85

self to become involved in a Lesbian relationship will never again "enjoy" arelationship with a man . Why this assertion should be so frightening to wimmin ,I have no idea. Certainly the stories that flU these magazines offer no substantial reasons why wimmin should want to relate to men , and one would thinkthat Lesbianism would be an alternative. But, of course, there are two veryclear messages embedded in the stories : In the heterosexual stories, which feature rape, incest, and battering, the powerlessness of wimmin and their dependence on men for "protection" (from the same men?) provides the covert "moral,"whereas, in the stories that focus on the subject of Lesbianism, the emphasis ison the supposed "depravity" of a Lesbian lifestyle. Why don' t the readers ofconfession magazines see the depravity of heterosexual relationships? How dothey manage to not understand the contradictions to be found between the
covers of a single issue? In contrast, the portrayal of Lesbians in male magazines is thoroughly consistent with their depiction of wimmin in general as
the objects of male sexuality, with , perhaps , the additional titillation createdby inaccessibility. The major theme found over and over again in slick porno
magazines is male conquest of wimmin. How much more reassuring, then , toa male must be the "conquest" of a Lesbian??? If Lesbians don't like men,then the male who succeeds in convincing a Lesbian to have sex with him
must be very "special." And we 're back to the cliched male ego again . In themale porno magazines, then , Lesbianism is used as a vehicle for reassuring themale of his desirability, not his heterosexuality per se, as it is used in confession magazines.
By setting the portrayals of Lesbianism in magazines aimed at sex-segregatedaudiences in contrast to each other, it becomes possible to discern some of
the mechanisms by which heterosexuality and male dominance are maintainedin our culture . The confession magazines provide a "legitimate" vehicle forwimmin to externalize their hostility toward men ; at the same time, Lesbianism, their alternative to men, is presented in ways that refocus men as the"desirable" sex. Wimmin are told again and again that they aren't "real" wimmin if they aren't heterosexual and dependent on men, socially , economically,and sexually. Male porno, on the other hand, doesn't reinforce male heterosexuality , it reinforces conquest as a prerogative of male sexuality, and thedeflniendum of a "real" man. Heterosexual fantasies about Lesbianism are,thus, the link that secures the circle of institutionalized heterosexuality. Lesbianism is used to bind wimmin to heterosexuality and male domination, to
insure that they remain vulnerable to male conquest. What are the mechanismsthat secure these interconnections?
Part of the answer lies in the kinds of material found in the magazines
themselves, in the very conjunctions created by the possible story lines. First,
consider the fact that confession magazines carry stories that purport to handle,
in a "realistic" fashion, the very real problems that wimmin confront in ourlives : rape, wife battering, lack of pleasure from heterosexual sex, too muchpleasure from heterosexual sex, abortion, unwanted children, adoption , and Lesbianism, strong feelings for other wimmin. Having aligned Lesbianism withevery other major issue in a womon's life, (and it is worth pointing out that
all the other problems stem from heterosexual relationships), it's a simple matter for the writers (and publishers) of these stories to tell wimmin that thesolution to all of these problems is a good man. Once all of the "problems"

86have been reduced to the level of fantasy , it makes a certain kind of sense tooffer , in the place of the unpleasant "fantasies ," yet another fantasy that promises hope, however false : the discovery of that mythical beast , the " good"man. At this point , who can tell the difference?
If we want to know why Lesbianism has come to be thought of by wimrninas belonging to the same genre as rape , mutilation , and abortion, we may findsome thought-provoking evidence elsewhere. The magazine Secrets, for example ,carries a monthly feature called, "SEX- ask our male expert." (Does it set yourteeth on edge?) Their "male expert" is "Alex," who is willing to tell their female readers "how the mysterious male mind works ." (The only credentials
offered for Alex's expertise are : he has "experienced the world " and " he's thetype who appreciates a good womon.") In the May , 1975 issue, a womon wrote
in , wanting to know if she should tell her husband-to-be about an affair she
once had with another woman. Alex's reply, with all of its contradictions, isinteresting.
[ definitely think we men are threatened by a woman's affair with another
woman. Even when a man is pretty sure he's satisfying his woman , he's neversure what making love is like for her. Men fear that women , since they understand better what sex means to a woman , can be better lovers to each other.
We wonder , too, if these women really hate men and so turn to other womenfor sex . Then again, .some men feel that sex between women is a perversion.
You seem to be honest , and you want to tell him about your affair , and hemight understand more about you if you did . But when you do, be sure to
reassure him that you think he's terrific in bed, that you prefer men as lovers,
and having sex with this woman was your way of showing her how much you
cared . If he still feels troubled , try to get him to discuss his feelings with you .
He 11 probably discover his fears and prejudices are silly and unimportant.
Once the two of you are able to talk freely , hell feel more sure of you andless threatened by the idea that at one time you loved a woman . Try it; I'msure you'll get positive results!
While the specific logic of this response escapes me, the contradiction does
not: Although men are threatened by Lesbianism , (Alex makes this assertion
twice) , this womon is supposed to "reassure" her husband-to-be , thus proving
to him that his "fears and prejudices are silly and unimportant." I think that
Alex is right ; men are threatened by the thOUght of wimrnin loving each other.
If we look carefully at the juxtaposition of four of the assertions here concerning "what goes on in the male mind ," an interesting sequence emerges.
First, Alex says that men don 't know what making love is like for a womon.
(Can 't they guess?) Second , third , and fourth , after his admission of the conceptual ineptness of heterosexual males , Alex goes on to list three popular
stereotypes about Lesbians : (I) We 're better lovers than men; (2) We're manhaters; (3) We're perverted . (The first two may be true ; the last one is a matter of definition.) But what, if anything , is the conceptual connections between
the masculine inability to imagine whether or not a womon enjoys sex withthem and the conventional statement about Lesbians? Simple : We get fromno. 1 to no. 3 via no . 2 , and the connection is FEAR. See, IF men aren ' t
decent lovers, IF wimmin are better lovers , THEN , we're "man-haters" and"perverted." Is that clear? (To any one?)
For the other side of exactly the same coin. an article in the July. 198087

issue of Forum provides an example of a womon executing very complicatedmental gymnastics. (And the article bills her as a data processor from Lincoln ,Nebraska, of all places!) As a lead-in to her "Lesbian" experience, "Suzanne"
describes her heterosexual affairs in the following way :My affairs always started off with an explosive bang [sic!], but eventuallyturned out to be more like a firecracker, just a flare of brilliant light, burned
out in a flash, leaving behind nothing but smoke and ashes. And so I went,from bed to bed, body to body, never totally sure if I was satisfied or if sex
was even worth the effort. (p. 55)
Is it merely coincidence that "Suzanne" talks about her sexual experienceswith men in exactly the same metaphorical way that they promote themselves?
Why was she never sure whether or not she was satisfied? As you might've
guessed, a "good" man provided her with an opportunity to make love withanother womon, (he even left the room after he'd "gotten" them off!), which
she describes as follows:
I found in Maria a tenderness I had never experienced with any man. For
the first time ever, I felt I was offering my body freely and lovingly. Sex
used to mean giving something away or feeling used . For some reason, making love with Maria felt more natural and more equal ....
Having had a taste of the other life, I returned to my merry-go-round ofaffairs anyway . They all left me asking myself, 'Is this really all there is tosex?' (p. 55)
Our "heroine" is then introduced to a vibrator, by a man, of course, and, ofcourse, less than a year later, meets "the lover of her dreams ," Eric, who cangive her an orgasm as good as her vibrator. Eventually, we learn , they begin
to experiment with sado-masochistic sex, and she learns the "relief of pain"(p. 57) .
What do these two narrations have in common, one written from the malepoint of view, the other from a womon's point of view? The Lesbian "experience" is the link. For the male, Lesbianism is a threat , something in "his womon" to be conquered, and it is the conquest that provides the relish. For the
womon, Lesbianism becomes a gate through which she passes to find "herman" and submits to her "true state" of heterosexuality. If you think I'm
conjuring this interpretation, I know a womon (married to a faggot) who goesaround telling Lesbians that she "knows how wonderful it is to love anotherwomon because it enabled her to love a man." Doesn't it begin to sound as
though heterosexuality couldn't exist without the threat of Lesbianism??? Inboth female and male fantasies, FEAR of Lesbianism is the common feature,and it is the conquest of this fear that excites them.
If fear is a basic element in heterosexuality, then men's magazines satisfy
their audiences by providing threatening images to the male imagination. The
visual representations of "lesbians" in male magazines fall into one of two
categories, depending upon their audience. The first type, the glossy, expensive male magazine, generally carries pictures of "Lesbians" that are illusory,vague, and romanticized, and the wimmin in the photographs have "perfect"bodies, without hair and without blemish . Such magazines portray all wimmin
in their pages as hairless, although pubic hair occasionally appears. The imageof wimmin in these photographs shows us as mysterious but warm, unattainable but provocative, and the depiction of "lesbianism" follows these concep-

88

tions. The second type of male magazine has selected the opposed view of
wimmin, and their photographs portray wimmin as coarse , vulgar , unattractive ,and lewd (in male terms). Accordingly , the wimmin who pose for "lesbian
stances" have hair on their bodies (allover!) , pimples , moles , and warts around 'their genitals. In addition , many of the photographs of "lesbian practices"
play to male fetishism , especially sado-masochistic poses, although garter belts
and see-through bras are always in sight, as are net stockings. The image ofthe "lesbian" portrayed in each type of magazine depends on the stereotype
of wimmin that the editors think will most appeal to their male audience. In
the expensive magazines , the "slicks ," we have "perfect" bodies and the posesconvey warmth and "femininity"; in the " pulps," no special fllters have beenused ; our bodies are flawed and we are depicted as brutal and sado-masochistic.
Neither mode of portrayal is connected with the reality of lesbianism ; in its
own way, each method extends the stereotype of wimmin chosen to Lesbianism , and caters to the sexual fantasies and aberrations of its male audience.
On the less romantic side of male pornography , one finds whole magazines
devoted to the subject of Lesbianism , complete with unflltered, un-prettified
women , and a long discourse that is supposedly direct quotation from the wimmin depicted in the photographic sequence. There is no doubt in my mind ,however, but that the actual writers are male. Two elements contribute to myobservation : 1) The terms used throughout the texts are the kinds of expressions that few , if any , wimmin ever use , particularly when discussing anotherwomon sexually ; 2) too frequent reference is made to the "almighty prick"to make the conversations believable . The following quotations illustrate theways in which wimmin are supposed to discuss sexual relationships with eachother. (All of the following examples are taken from Illustrated Case Histories:
A Study of Lesbian Practices.)''When I first saw Sheri sitting on the bench outside the Student Union I
knew that she 'd just love to suck my boobs. You know how it is , you canjust tell that about some girls." "The whip handle has this big knob at theend of it. It's like a prick head , I suppose." " Right away she developed thislittle trick that really made me throb. She started licking right under my boob,
letting her rough tongue rub back and forth along my milky skin." "But evenwhen his rod is jamming away inside me, and I feel the walls of my pussy
spread apart with his throbbing prong , even then there 's nothing happening
inside me." "So , you can see why I think about Ellen while Bob's pumping
his load into me . . .. And you know what? I don 't ever think for a minutethat I'm cheating on Bob. After all , it 's not like going out and getting screwedby another man , is it?" ''Well, her nipples were sticking out about a mile! I
mean it! They looked like rifle bullets, that's how long and firm they were .
Just like little pricks." "Like , as soon as I see the chain coiled up there in thecorner , or the thick , prick-like handle of the whip , well , the fires start in myboiler .. ."As should be obvious from these quotations, the purpose of such prose is not
elucidation , but ejaculation. Because the cheaper male porno magazines shun
the vague romanticism of the more expensive "soft" porn, they make explicit
the use of Lesbianism as a vehicle for male fantasies of conquest in the construction of heterosexuality . Wimmin may prefer each other , but we can't live
without men , no matter how repulsive they are . So say the male pornographers!
In both the so-called "hard " and "soft " pornography published for males ,89

we find that Lesbianism is the fantasy that satisfies both elements that are essential to masculinity : the arousal of fear by direct threat to male predationand its conquest by conquest. It is the "fantasy" of Lesbianism sold throughthe male media that is important, while whatever reality we may have for themis trivialized through mystification or brutalization . In either case, the polarized
stereotypes of wimmin provide the mythological structure for both the photographs and texts . These fictions of supposed Lesbians "in the act" cast our"behaviors" as being at the extreme ends of masculinist definitions of wimmin:
the aloof, unattainable virgin and the sadistic bitch .3
Clearly, Lesbianism, although a tabooed topic in "respectable" media, is a
powerful, perhaps even necessary , element in the heterosexual scripts of wimmin and men . In fact , I suspect that it is the taboo status of Lesbianism thatmakes us prime candidates for heterosexual fantasies. As long as the sanctioned
male media keep our reality invisible , the pornographers will find us invaluable
for maintaining the fantasy worlds in which heterosexuals seem to live . Between the two levels of media, Lesbianism is the axis that sustains the mythof heterosexuality. Fear of admitting their Lesbianism keeps other wimrnin"in line," and fear that they may be dispensable keeps men buying pornography.
In their minds, we are the essential link that binds heterosexuals together inthe scenario of female submission to male conquest.
ENDNOTES
I. In spi te of periodic browsing through the magazine racks in grocery stores, I have notyet found another year in which the subject of Lesbianism was as popular in confession
magazines , although I clearly remember similar spates during the mid-fifties , when I was ateen-ager.
2. The issue here is not whether, in fact, violence is a necessary ingredient of heterosexuality, but the extent to which the male media present violence as an inherent element in heterosexual fantasy. Does it make a difference?
3. After reading this article, Deidre McCalla suggested yet another, more gruesome aspectof male fantasies of Lesbian "activities" and their pornographic utility as titillation to themale ego. She observed that, in addition to my analysis, which hints at female compliancein the male's conquest fantasy, (insofar as the depicted womon's will must be " broken " first),
when pornographic portrayals of Lesbians cast us as sick , perverted, and, therefore, as nonhuman, as objects that are the very "scum of the earth," men can cast themselves as beatingus, mutilating us, raping us, torturing us , fucking us to death, without having to feel guilty
about it. If we represent to them the lowest kind of animal, then we deserlle whatever brutality the male can imagine himself acting out, and he can also maintain the illusion of his"superiority." Whatever his sickness may be, however foul his fantasies , ollrs is worse in his
eyes. Thus, the pornography itself justifies male violence directed at Lesbians.
REFERENCES"Boy's Night Out," Ca valcade. (November 1975) , 16+.
"Forced to Marry - Though I Can't Love Men ." R eal Confessiol/s, (A pril 1975) , 16+.
"Forum Study of Female Sexuality ," Forum , (July 1980) ,54-7.
Gilmore, Christopher. "Black Magic Blues," Gallery, (November , 1975),40+.
"God Wanted Me to Become a Man," True Secrets, June 1975), 20+.
"How Did 1 Ever Get Mixed Up with a Roommate Like Angie?" Tru e Confessions, (April
1975), 42+.
" 1 Lured My Best Friend into My Bed ," My Romance, (July 1975) , 10+.
Illustrated Case Histories: A Study of Lesbian Practices. Los Angeles: Calga Publishers , 1971.
Kirk, John. ''The Test," Gallery , (November 1975) ,9 1+.
"Maybe I'm a Lesbian," True Story, (March 1975) ,52+.
"My Mother is a Lesbian," True Love, (May 1975) , 16+.
"My Stepsister Can't Love a Man - She Wants Me! " True t:xperience. (October 1975). 4+.

90

"Rape Was Double Horror for Me - Because I'm a Lesbian! " R eal Confessions, (June 1975) ,10+.
"The Return of Aunt Nancy ," Qui, (October 1975) , 37+.
"Scared to Try What This Girl Offered Me ," Revealing Romances, (April 19 75), 12+.
"The Shy Homosexual Woman ," Bronze Thrills, (June 1975 ),35+.
Smith, J. Frederick. "Sappho," Play boy, (October 1975) , 126+.
''Two Lesbians Tell It Like It Is," Secrets, (June 1975 ), 20+.
"Up in Mother's Room ," Climax, (November 1975), 27+.
WiUiams, James. "Spanking and Hangups," Ca valcade, (November 1975 ),8+.

MI~NAD
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VALERIE MINERCAROLE McCAULEYDELLA SMITH
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91Sandra Butler

CIRCLING

Now. After all this time ... all this writing. This one is for you. About you.
Us. What has happened to my life lived now in your love . And fear. And thenmore love . This is about the temperature changes in my body on my skinin my moist and damp and dark places of birth and of sex and of love and of
our joinings. This is about how I grow sticky with wanting ... how my body
grows round and I move in circles and slide and your eyes widen in surprisein fear in love . And we move together our bodies in circles circling. We
open. Our mouths wet. Our mouths wet. No need for words here. No words
live here. Just the circles our bodies make. Our mouths circling. Our tongues.
Our fingers hovering over flesh. Slowly lowered onto breast arm thigh
all the same. All you. All us. Circling. Moving up and into your body . Hearing your intake of breath as you are entered and filled with my hand. Hearing
your deep sounds dark sounds as I move in circles. Circling . Lower my head
to my hands .. . my mouth and my hands move together. Opening. Filling.
Your wetness and your sounds are both thick and full. Your hand reaches down
to join mine . Our hands move together inside you ... my mouth moves on us
moving in you. Your sounds grow sharper your hands move l1ercely yourface tenses I watch you . I watch your eyes open and look at me pleadingly.
Sandy . Oh my god Sandy. And your voice trails off into short thinner cries.
Talking to yourself now . This is yours . Your body folds itself around myhands , tenses and opens and opens and spills over. Your body eases as mymouth moves softly to your liquids and fills my mouth with us . Your hands
reach to my head stroking it with tenderness and I move slowly up your bodyto rest my head on your narrow chest. A chest held so tightly. A chest that
holds so many secrets and angers. A chest that rests now cradling me. We
are silent.
The phone rings. As you move away from the bed to answer it I watch yourcurved hips , remember their precise shape and feel under my hands , theirsmell and taste under my mouth. You begin to speak and turn to face andwatch me . I move my hands down my body and begin to move them lightly,
sliding along my wetness. I keep my eyes on your face and watch your eyes
darken, your mouth part hear your voice grow husky and hurry to finish
the call. I hold your eyes and move on myself open my mouth run mytongue along my lips imagining it to be your tongue your mouth. My hands
move more quickly more moving into my body only my thumb visible moving
in smaller circles. You return nearly running to the bed and kneel between
my widely spread legs nuzzling your face into my hand , into my body , into mywetness. We move more quickly now and you say "Put your hand in my mouth. .. I want your taste in my mouth ." Slowly I take my hand out of my own
warmth and place it into your open lips and your hands replace mine and your92

head again lowers to join them and I move and strain up to be deep inside yourmouth and my body opens wider and my throat is hot and full and still there
is more .
You make sounds now . . . murmuring yes love yes all of it everything I love
you yes. Your sounds stir a growl deep inside my belly . A growl thattravels up into my throat .. . pushing aside the thickness and I call your nameas I come. Barbara . .. Barbara ... Barbara ... the sound growing smaller as
my body stills. I am growing smaller. Allowing myself now fmally finally to
be held. To sleep .

-photograph by Emily Levine

93

REVIEWS
HOW LESBIANS READ LITERATURE: A Constructive Criticism

A review of Motherlines by Suzy McKee Charnas, Berkley Publishing Corporation , 1978, New York , N. Y.
As Lesbians re-discover and create our own culture , we sometimes find disturbing levels of violence and sexual exploitation in the books and music , both
popular and womon-centered, widely consumed in wimmin's communities. Someof this offensive culture creeps in through association with gay boys with their
pornography , sado-masochism , man-boy "love," etc . And as long as we live inthe cities and towns of the patriarchal world , it continues to seep into our consciousness as it permeates our visual and audio environment.
Most Lesbian artists/eroticists, like photographers Tee Corinne and J .E.B., whoboth address this issue in their slide presentations , are conscious and careful that
their works neither exploit nor objectify wimmin . But as a community , as a people , Lesbians are so starved for readily available movies , art , music , and fictionthat is not blatantly heterosexual , that we sometimes lower our standards of acceptable quality - not just in craftswomonship , but in the quality of content andthe treatment of exploitive sex and violence.
In Sinister Wisdom No. 12, Joanna Russ wrote an upbraiding review of Donna
1. Young's Retreat: As It WasIl According to Russ, Young's book and Sally
Gearhart's Wanderground 2 lack the mettle of good science fiction. As an alternative to "Gearhart's sturdy eveready flashlight and Young's druggy candle ,"Russ offers Motherlines 3 by Suzy McKee Charnas, as a "giant who is using thefire . .. to hammer out tools for the future ."4Russ wonders why Motherlines was not a hit in hardback (most Lesbians I
know can't afford hardback books) , but it does indeed seem to be a hit inpaperback. By popular fiction standards, the book is excellent-fast pace, plenty of action , interesting characters, intrigue . For Lesbians there is an added bonus : there are no boys.
In her review, Russ says as much about Motherlines as she does Retreat .
But among the things she doesn't tell us about Motherlines is that the "parthenogenetic Riding Women" stimulate ova division by fucking with their stallions, and that the book includes a detailed description of one of these "matings."
Any good adventure story has a moral, and much of what is distasteful in
Motherlines is integral to the plot, setting up conflicts which not only stimulate the reader's consciousness but set events moving. The protagonist Alldera
has escaped from the Holdfast , a survival city of a post-nuclear wasting, wherewimmin, called Fems,5 are the literal slaves and loathed beasts of burden to
an extraordinarily violent , male-controlled society. She has escaped the moun94

tains bordering the Holdfast , onto the wide grasslands feared to be occupied
by monsters. Rescued by the amazon Riding Women, ALldera fmds that she
feels out of place with them and with the Free Fems- wimmin like herself
who have escaped the Holdfast and live by trading herbs , dyes, and trinkets
with the Riding Women.
The Riding Women do much that ALldera or the reader disapproves of, mostnotably the horse fucking. There is also the child pack: the wild , unkempt , unsupervised pack in which the young daughters learn survival of the fittest, andfrom which young wimmin are violently expelled at the onset of their firstbloods. There is the slaughter of beloved horses for meat, alongside a wastefulsystem of grain storage. There is the constant raiding and pillaging among thecamps of the Riding Women.
The Free Ferns are no better with their incessant quarreling and intrigues ,their stupid prejudices , arbitrary and hierarchical leadership , and grotesque internalization of misogyny . Alldera tells them, "I can't believe this. It's as if
I'd never left the Holdfast at all - ferns spending their lives laboring for someone else 's profit , squabbling among themselves over trifles-" (p. 115). The Free
Ferns continue very much as they did in the Holdfast , even to the extent ofcarrying their trade wagon across the plains on their own backs.
On the other hand, there is much the reader can admire about both groupsof wimmin in the novel. ALl are amazons of physical strength and moral courage
The Free Ferns have their dream of some day raiding the Holdfast and freeing
their sisters there. The Riding Women are especially attractive, with their close
bonds to their horses, unswerving loyalties to one another , freedom of laughterand touch, melodic speech , and commitment to honesty .
But it is the very attractiveness of the Riding Women that makes the obscenity in the book so insidious. Here it is important to assert that Charnas
has no obligation to give us perfect characters or a perfect society- her novelis science fiction, not utopia. As a feminist writer,6 howeyer , she is obliged not
to offend our sensibilities with purposeless, graphic images of wimmin being
fucked by gigantic penises.
With the exception of one sensitive but non-descriptive moment between
Alldera and the Riding Woman Nenisi , most of the sex in Motherlines is atbest disappointing to the characters. For example, ALldera and the former"pet fern" Daya attempt to be lovers after a long-standing quarrel and reconciliation:
Their lovemaking was not a great success for Daya. She needed to feeloverwhelmed by a force of nature , swept to a place of infinite security
and delight where she could let herself safely melt. (p. 148)
But for Daya, that place of security and delight includes penetration and sub mission :Early on in the Holdfast she had seen that a pet's life included a lot more
fucking than the life of an ordinary labor fern ; she had made herself enjoy,
and had later come to crave , the sensations of penetration . (p. 125)And earlier , "She enjoyed seeing her companion's eyes glinting greedily in the
flash of the lightning" (p. 122).
Daya's sexual liaisons are numerous, and when the reader first meet s Daya,q5her current lover beats her regularly. One of the Free Ferns, perhaps a jealous
lover, tries to poison Daya. The instrument of the poison is a vaginal syringe,
supposedly carrying an herbal mixture to stimulate parthenogenesis (an unfulfilled dream of the Free Ferns). During the ritual herbal douching in which thewimrnin pair off, Charnas describes how Daya "rode the flooding instrument
to her climax" (p. 125). This is followed by a description of Daya's burning,
excruciating pain and near death. Here we have sex combined with pain andviolence, the victim an insatiable womon who is satisfied only by the penislike penetration she had learned to "enjoy" throughout years of rape.?
The emphasis on "penetration" suggests a lack of familiarity with Lesbiansexuality. Is Charnas confusing the pleasures of vaginal stimulation with a desire for penis-like penetration? Many Lesbians spent years in heterosexual relationships, but we certainly don't carry into our relationships with wimmin acraving for penetration. Charnas includes detailed descriptions of sexual encounters only in those instances which mirror men fucking wimmin. This heterosexual "erotic" appeal is by nature voyeuristic, exploitive, and violent, and certainly not the work of a Lesbian.
The section in which Charnas describes the mating between the Riding
Women and their stallions is insidious because the reader likes the Women somuch better than the Ferns, and because the Riding Women so poetically justify the mating by speaking of the bond with their horses . The reader would
like to willingly suspend the offensiveness of it and just let it be all right, but
it's not.
Although the mating itself happens relatively non-violently (if you can pretend that a horse's prick thrust into a womon is non-violent), the language andsuspense leading up to the act is charged with expectant death and violence.
The mating and its attendant ritual is narrated from the point of view ofSheel, the most violent and aggressive of the Riding Women. The mating is preceded by an "erotic" description of a group of young wimmin "dancing thehorses," running naked among and on the backs of their studs. During the preparation for the matings, the wimmin sing their self-songs and remember thedead. ''The faces of the other women showed Sheel that they too were thinking of the dead; dead horses, dead children, dead women who had bled todeath after bad matings" (p. 155). Fortunately, the young womon in the mating chute ("Some called it 'the saddle' because this was the horse's turn toride ," p. 153) is not hurt. But later in the book, at another gathering, two
wimrnin are hurt in the matings.
It is not so much the presence of this offensive material in Motherlines that
I fmd disturbing, but the use of it. It is clear that a major theme of the bookis the conflict in values between the two groups of wimmin. But Charnas neverfinds quite the right voice or the right perspective to make the reader feel that
she has not been offended. Although the characters do seem to sense a conflict between the lives of the two groups, there is never any recognition andarticulation of the value conflict operating in their fear and mistrust of one
another. Alldera is repulsed by the horse fucking and slaughter of horses formeat, but the reaction seems to serve no other purpose than to provide her areason to go live with the Free Ferns. There is virtually no attempt to resolvethese conflicts. The novel lacks a unity of purpose and vision that a third volume of the Alldera series would, hopefully, complete.

96

Those wimmin who can overlook Charnas's insensitivity in offering us what
I think is pornographic material, and read the book anyway , will be delighted
by much and engrossed by most of it. A word of warning, though: don 't run
out and buy the first in the Alldera series, Walk to the End of the World. It
was first published in 1974, and I did not discuss it here because Lesbians I
know aren't reading it and making it part of our culture , as with Motherlines.
Walk to the End of the World takes place in the Holdfast and primarily follows
the action and character development of a male death figure in search of his
father. Our heroine Alldera figures as a main character in the last quarter ofthe book. It is an inexcusably violent story, the pages filled with rape , bloodand gore , cannibalism, and witch burnings. Like Motherlines, it is hard to put
down once you pick it up, especially if you're a sci fi fan, but you will hateyourself for reading it.
All this raises the very old questions of the relationship between art andmorality (politics) and the role of the critic. Lesbians are discovering and creating our own culture , making or not making new rules as we gradually recovera real morality and aesthetics , free from patriarchal values.
One reason why so many Lesbians are reading Motherlines is that it is sowell written. I agree with Joanna Russ that we deserve good writing, carefulcraft, and high quality in wimrnin 's culture . We should not have to choose between art that is "politically correct" 8 and art that is technically well crafted.
Our art should provide us with a spectrum of expression of our be-ing, without
offending our sensibilities with unexamined intrusions of heterosexual, patriarchal images.
Setting standards which include a moral commitment spreads the responsibility for good art among the artist , publishers, reviewers, and , not least, thereaders, making critics of us all. We can support all our established and emerging artists by taking their work seriously, constructively criticizing both theircraft and their politics.
The manner in which we engage in critical dialogue and the value judgments we make on art can facilitate or paralyze the artistic process in all of
us . While encouraging excellence in the exercise of our crafts , we need toguard against the kind of elitism found in Russ's review of Donna Young's
novel: "Retreat: As It Was! ... is a heartbreaking non-book ... written out of
starvation; ... " "I want to convey as forcefully as possible the absolute , limp, thinness of the book ... ."9 Such a nasty review would be hard enough to handle coming from some mouthpiece of the male publishing establishment. But how crushin~ to a new novelist to read such devastating criticism from a Lesbian, publishedin one of the most respected and widely read journals of wimmin's culture.
One last comment about Motherlines and its pornographic appeal . Russ calls
the paperback cover of Motherlines ''unjustly dull." The cover depicts threewimmin , two on horseback , one on foot, all with Hollywood faces and figures.
The womon on foot is carrying a baby, she is barefoot, and the scenery is a wasteland with discarded machine guns poking up out of the sand. The womon on foothas rope around her neck, and one of the riding wimmin is holding the other endof the rope. This cover is not "dull," it's an outrage! Do "explicit and committed
feminists"lO really have no control over the covers their publishers choose?

97

I Donna J . Young, Retreat: As It Was! (Weatherby Lake, Missouri : Naiad Press, 1979).
2 Sally Gearhart, Th e Wandergroulld, Stories of the Hill Women (Watertown , Massachusetts: Perse phone Press, 1979) .
3 Suzy McKee Charnas Motherlines (New York : Berkley Publishing Corporation, 1978).
4 Joann a Russ, " Listen, There's a Story for You .. . ," Sinister Wisdom No. 12, p. 91.
5 Charnas always refers to the riding wimmin as the "women" and the escaped Holdfast wimmin as the "ferns" or "free ferns': The free ferns refer to the riding wimmin as"mares." None of the characters ever reflect on the misogynist implications of the language
they use, and there is no indication that Charnas uses the words for any reason other thanthe convenience of distinguishing the two groups. When the distinction is not clear by thecontext, I will use Charnas's language in discussing the characters, since they are her creations.
6 Just inside the cover of Motherlines is a joint statement by Charnas and Russ: For

too 10llg sciellce ji"ction has been dominated by masculine/sexist writing, but in recent
years a group of women writers has beell bringing new life and maturity into the field.
Th ese women are explicit and committed feminists. We're proud to be among them.
7 ror an excellent analysis of sado-masochistic pornography, see AndreaDworkin,

Woman Hating (New York : E. P. Dutton, 1974).
8 In Sillister Wisdom No. II , p . 54 , Joanna Russ writes, "Most artistic and literary
criticism in the women's press is very bad. It reacts to having its P.C . buttons pushed ."The term Politically Correct ha s become a derisive phrase used to belittle and oppress
radical and separatist Lesbians who are seeking honest examination of the patriarchy
within us . The phrase is a dest ructive tactic to avoid discussing issues of moral integrity.
9 Russ, "Listen, There's A Story ... " p. 90.
10 See note 7, above.

- Pamela C. Johnston

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98

"AND NOW FOR THE HARD QUESTIONS . .. "A review of A Woman's Touch edited by Cedar and Nelly, published by
Womanshare Books (1979) and distributed by Amazon Reality, POB 95, Eugene, Oregon 97440, $4.75. 158 pp ., 27 pp. of photographs and drawings.
Driving back one below-zero-cold winter night from Hallam, Nebraska, acarload of dykes snuggles cozily along the highway into Lincoln. We are warmand satisfied. Sitting three to a seat, we are all touching , our parkas rubbing
noisily together. Outside the car, it is cold, and snow lies piled on either sideof the highway; inside, we are bundled together, touching and laughing. Our
bellies are full of the best homemade tortillas and Mexican food we've evereaten, and it's cheap! For now, we are satisfied, at this time , and in this space.
We are planning to play bridge and get stoned, just to top off the deliciousness of this night, this deep winter time together. Two of the wimmin are moving back to North Carolina and we are going to miss them.
I am in the front seat , happy and full of myself and tortillas. From the backseat someone asks , "Has anyone read that new book of Lesbian erotica , A
Woman's Touch?" ''I'm reading it now ," I yell back into the darkness. The
driver asks, "What do you think of it?" "I think it's boring," I declare, readyfor an argument. "So do I," says another voice from the depths of the car.
"Why?" an anonymous voice asks. Hmmmm , I think to myself. Good question. Why is a book of "Lesbian erotica" boring??? Of course , I hadn't thenfinished the book , but there's a wonderful excitement in debating ideas, issues,
half-considered reactions, airing internal debates with other dykes , and we still
have 20 minutes in the car. The temptation is too much for me .
"Well , I don't know," I begin hesitantly, thinking fast, my brain scanning
hasty impressions, selecting, rejecting; I can feel my synapses fighting off thefood-induced torpor, gearing up for action. "I found some of the stories, uh,well , sort of 'made-up,' 'artificial,' ... they just weren't 'real' enough to me to
be exciting." "Like what?" the womon sitting next to me fires back. (Noslouches here. You ain't gonna git away with haphazard generalizations withthis group, Julia P .!) Feebly, I make a stab at specifics. "There's this story
about a womon having an affair with a chicken named ellen, and the womon's
father kills the chicken at the end" ("Going Down on the Farm or Duck, Duck,
Goose," by Robin Chaparral , 93-8). "Oh, heavy symbolism," quips our psychologist driver. "Sounds too Freudian for me!" "Well, it's a good title ," I offer,"but, really, the idea of chicken feathers in my mouth just wasn't exciting tome!" "Maybe furry animals ," a womon's voice suggests from the back seat, "akitty, for instance." "Yeah, I like cats!" another voice chimes in.
I persevere with my "specifics ," not to be derailed from my musing out
loud. "Then there's another story about a womon making love with a womon
from outer space .... " "I'm always from outer space," says one of the dopeheads . But I continue, over the laughter, " ... and the womon from outer space
has this interesting appendage just above her clitoris, 'a tube, a wet spaghetti
coiling and uncoiling,' and it's called a carnapalu. In addition to being extremely handy during sex, these other beings can use it to reproduce themselves ,either parthenogenetically or with another womon" ("Foreheads Forever," byStar , 36-61).
99

"You know what turns me on?" interrupts the driver. "Really plain stuff,
like , 'She unbuttoned her shirt' ." "Yeah, or, 'She unzipped her zipper'." By
now, everyone is excited, interrupting each other, offering their own examples.
The material of our parkas rubs together deliciously, scrunching and crunching . Something happening here, I think to myself; this is important. A voicefrom the back seat carries unerringly to those of us in the front seat. "Yaknow, one time I had a lover who only took off her glasses when she wasgoing to make love to me. All she had to do was take her glasses off, and I
got all wet and shivery with anticipation. For months after we stopped seeing
each other, whenever another womon took off her glasses , I'd get palpitations
in my clitoris ." "Kinky!" declares our psychologist driver.
"Interesting," says Julia , who's already begun her book review in her head ,starting opening sentences, revising them before they're even complete. "Itsounds to me like we're 'turned on' by the mundane, the commonplace, the'real', whatever that is to each of us. We're excited by descriptions of exactly
what goes on when we make love to other wimmin. Maybe we don't need orwant the 'fantastic', the 'erotic', the fictional, or the absurd." But what does
all this mean?
Cedar and Nelly, describing the creation of the book, tell us that they
"fust envisioned [it] as a lovemaking partner , a new turn-on while masturbating" (Introduction , 9). But, this book, like so many others we are creating, raised more questions for them than they had anticipated.
However , frequently the stories which we found most sexually
exciting made us feel uncomfortable from either a political or
literary viewpoint. This brought up lots of questions about what
we, Cedar and Nelly, fmd erotic and why . (The process of editing
and writing the book has continually forced us to analyze and workon our personal sexuality.)(Introduction , 9)Indeed, A Woman 's Touch is not an amiable masturbatory companion,
nor would it be realistic to expect it to be just that. For any Lesbian , but
expecially for the Lesbian/Feminist , engaged in the difficult process of dismantling the masculinist descriptions of sexuality that structure our perceptions of our own sensual pleasures , even the most casual reading of the bookwill raise profound qu~stions of the most disturbing kind. "Disturbing" because simple answers for them do not exist and are unlikely to appear fora long time , but they will keep coming back to us over and over again; "profound " because they expose unresolved contradictions in our own struggles
to define our sexuality , which , because it is the first cause of our independence , is also the source of the patriarchy's fear of us . Nelly and Cedar tellus they hope the appearance of A Woman's Touch will "inspire dialogue andaffirmation of our sexuality" (12) . Their anthology has already accomplishedthat for many of us, and the clarification of issues and redefinitions that such
conversations will lead to will help all of us toward affirmation of our sexuality.
There are many questions about the sexual aspects of Lesbianism that thesestories put before us , among them : What is the role (if any) of fantasy in Lesbian sexuality? If it is true that some (if not many) Lesbians are " turned on"by the most mundane descriptions of their sexuality , do we even want to in-corporate a specifically "sexual"* literature as part of our cultural growth? Is
it possible , much less "desirable ," to integrate the S-M ethic into Lesbian / Feminist culture?
As I've indicated previously in this review , other Lesbians have said thatthey are "turned on" by descriptions of real actions that are all a part of Lesbian sexual intimacy, and they have also confirmed my own reaction to stories like the one about the chicken and the being from another galaxy as too"unreal" and "made-up" to be sexually exciting. Are these assertions idiosyncratic and common only to dykes here in Lincoln , Nebraska? Are we, becauseof geography, too insular to appreciate sexual materials too subtle for us? 1
think the answer to both of these questions is "no." I've talked to many of
my friends who live on both the East and West Coasts , and they agree withthese observations . Are all of my friends just as dull and unimaginative as I
am , the old "birds of a feather flocking together"? Maybe. We all agree that
we prefer what Pat Califia has described as "vanilla sex." Well , so be it! At
the risk of being labeled a "puritan" by those who believe that all ideas haveequal value (if they did, I wouldn't call myself a "feminist") , and thereby condemned for my obtuseness, I will assert that the unrealistic , the far-fetched,
the artificial have no sexual value for the Lesbian culture some of us believe
we are in the process of creating. This is not to deny that some of us don't
participate or share such fantasies, only that we do not include them in our
visions of the Lesbian future.
After I had been mulling over these issues about fantasy and reality inLesbian sexuality, 1 began to read Kathleen Barry's Female Sexual Slavery(prentice-Hall , 1979). Her discussion of fantasy as an integral component of
the pornographic experience which, in turn, is one of the media institutions
that contributes to the maintenance of cultural sadism (see especially pp. 17882) provided an analysis that helped me to make sense of my own observations. While Barry is willing to regard fantasy as neither positive nor negative, in and of itself, she stresses the relationship between fantasy and social reality , about which we know so little.
Fantasies are very private experiences and sexual fantasies aremost private of all. Sharing a fantasy with another may rob it of
its excitement and therefore its mystery. Fantasy is essentially aninteraction with oneself through images present in the mind. The
images may be free-floating , separate entities, may be singular fleeting images, or may form into a story content-a scenario, script, or
short vignette. 'They exist only for their elasticity, their ability to
instantly incorporate any new character , image, or idea-or as indreams , to which they bear so close a relationship-to contain conflicting ideas simultaneously . They expand, heighten, distort or exaggerate reality. (Friday , 1974; pp. 34 , as cited in Barry, p. 179 .)(My italics.)
Thus , although Cedar and Nelly collected these stories in an effort "to transform the pain by creating images of our sexuality that move beyond ourconditioning, to create change by changing our expectations" (p. 10), such anenterprise is inherently dangerous to our consciousness, and, given that
Lesbians (of any political persuasion) must exist in a patriarchal culture
that, by its own definition , is hostile to our existence, we cannot afford101

to accept uncritically even the most innocent efforts put forth as "additions to our culture." Can we accept without question the assertion that
Lesbians need a pornographic literature? I don't think so.
The fact is that it is impossible to think of any symbol, image, or concept in fantasy if we have no prior knowledge of its existence . Yet it ispopularly assumed that fantasy reveals some basic, innate truths about ourselves. But it is in our interaction in the social world that concepts or images
are formed or developed. We learn them. We must know about somethingfrom our social experience for it to enter our fantasy life. We do not haveto know it as a social reality in the same manner, form, or context in which
we meet it as a fantasy image, but it must have had in some form a priorsocial reality to us before it enters our private self-interactive fantasy. (Myitalics.) ...
Fantasy is often the link between one's self and one's sexual life. In
the privacy of one's mind one can dream of, fantasize about, or plan out
sexual experiences. In the freedom of one's mind those fantasies may be
as exotic or erotic as one's creativity will allow. However the images form
and are presented in fantasy, they have their source in social reality. The
less individual creativity brought into private fantasy, the more closely the
fantasy will approximate social reality, the experienced world. (My italics.)(Barry , pp. 180-1)
Surely there are none of us so utterly naive as to believe that we have individually purged our minds of all the male~onstructed , nega.tive symbols andimages of ourselves as wimmin. Yet, this is the leap we must make if we are
to believe that: (1) Lesbian culture needs pornography ; (2) We are capable ofcreating sexual images that are free of negative, patriarchal myths about wimmin in general; (3) Sado-masochism is a "natural," welcome addition to Lesbian sexuality . I realize that I am treading on dangerous ground here, but then,nothing is safe for any of us (safety is another delusion), and I have gotten
ahead of myself.
Let me back up just a bit here. I believe that Kathleen Barry is correct when
she says that fantasy objectifies .
. . . however fantasy enters a sexual interaction, when sexual experience
with another is determined by tantasy, the social-sexual reality of theother person is replaced by the fantasy. The extent to which fantasy dominates sexual interaction with another is the extent to which theother is an object of sexual pleasure. (My italics.) One of the effects of widespread pornography has been to introduce movies, books,
or pictures as the erotic stimulant between two people. thereby reducing the need for people to relate to each other. (Author'S italics.)(Barry, p. 110)That is, the more we rely on internal fantasies during our interactions withother wimmin, the less we are relating to each other as wimmin! When these
fantasies can only be drawn from our common, externally-defined social reality, we have admitted into our intimacy with each other elements of patriarchal culture in which we were raised, and in which we must live, nor are anyof as individuals absolutely free of the symbols and their meanings that we aretrying to destroy. Furthermore, I think that Barry's description applies equallywell to our masturbatory fantasies : To the extent that we rely on fantasies
for our masturbation, we have objectified our own sexual feelings.

I think that we are still operating within patriarchal definitions of sexuality
when we accept their defmition of Lesbianism as "a sexual preference." We
incorporate their emphasis on "the sex act" as a product or single event, andwe perpetuate their concepts about sexuality when we attempt to incorporate"pornography/erotica" ({;all it what you will) into our culture. I think the"need" some of us are expressing these days for external sexual images is something we have picked up from phallocentric ideology, and I think it is destructive of the radical consciousness we are trying to evolve within ourselves. I am
not denying that this "need" is real ; I have no doubt that it is . I am suspiciousof its source(s) and of where it might lead us.
There are some stories in A Woman's Touch that do describe some of
the real things that happen between/among lesbians , such as " Bosom
Buddies" by Mint (pp. 18-20), "Excerpts from the Open Road" by River
Malcolm (pp. 21 -8), "A Journal Entry" by Shady Gove (pp . 29-30),"Sex and the Working Class Jewish Woman" by Cypress (pp. 73-83), "TheRite" by Ouida Crozier (pp. 84-92), "For Nights Like This One" by
Becky Birtha (pp . 99-106) , and "The Perfect Touch" by Nelly (pp. 146-8).
Yet, neither I nor any of the other Lesbians with whom I've discussed thebook were particularly "turned on" by even the realistic stories. Again,
I had to ask myself, "why"? I think, perhaps , that the problem lies in
the print medium itself. Maybe the use of written language, which is also
a way of objectifying experience , interferes, comes between our minds andthe sensual experiences themselves. It is worth noting that most of therealistic stories are also the shortest ones, often only one or two pages,
which suggests to me that they are the most difficult to write and sustain
over several pages . (While I think the print medium may be inherently
inimical to the creation of sensual images, I leave it to others to assessthe degree to which the objectification of visual media interferes in theexperience of it.)
I do not mean to suggest , with my questioning and negative reactions
to the stories in A Woman s Touch, that the attempt to "create morelesbian power" by creating beautiful images of Lesbian sexuality is aworthless endeavor. We do need positive images of ourselves that reach
into and convey back to us every aspect of the new lives we are trying
to construct. We do need positive images of our bodies , all our bodies,every facet of them , every pose we assume as we change and grow. I am
suggesting that we do not need anything that labels itself as purely sexual,
because that is to dismiss many areas of our lives that are stimulating,exciting, and sensual , and to cordon off one area as distinct from theothers . Whatever the temptations may be to do tllis, I think we need tohold suspect any attempt to pigeon-hole our experience as "just this" or"just that." If we really do believe that being a Lesbian comprises every
aspect of our beings , then it cannot be true that any single facet of ourlives is more central than another. I am suggesting that fantasy , as an
aspect of sexuality , may be a phallocentric "need" from which we are notyet free , that fictional fantasy , in particular, may be derivative ofmasculinist concepts, that the current belief of some Lesbians that sadomasochism is compatible with a feminist consciousness is a hangover frol11
patriarchal social reality and inimical to our attempts to construct asexual ident it y distinct from masculinist conceptualizations of sexuality.
103

I hope that my discussion of A Woman's Touch accurately conveys myappreciation of what Nelly and Cedar have contributed to all of us. I, too,
hope that their book will stir dialogue among u~. They have given me agreat deal, as I believe my questions and "outloud" thinking indicate.
Without their book, I would not have been pushed to any of my questions.
From beginning to end, their book is a challenge to our consciousness, andwe need it to grow. Buy it, read it, talk about it! Especially, talk about
it. Two of the wimmin in the car got so turned on by the discussion thatthey decided not to play bridge and went home to enjoy each other.

- Julia Penelope

LESBIANS DISCUSS THE VIOLENCE IN OUR LIVES: We are a group of eight womyn
who met for eight weeks to discuss violence - violence between lesbians, incest, sexual
abuse, batterings of all kinds. Our common interest was that we felt battered by thesesituations, and wanted a supportive atmosphere in which to discuss issues surrounding theabuse. Since the group was an experiment, we allowed flexibility in the format and learned
as we went along. Mainly we discussed agreed-upon topics such as: fear, anger, powerlessness, manipulation. One week we each described a situation where we felt powerless andhow that felt emotionally, physically and mentally, and then how we could have changed
the situation. We also discussed situations where we felt powerful and compared the feelings.
It's important for womyn who are battering each other to seek support and to takeresponsibility. You are not alone. We all have deep-seated patterns which we can change
together. We need to learn how to express our anger. Understanding how we move fromanger to violence is the first step toward creating solutions. As womyn who were sexually abused as children, we share many of the same feelings, but what is accented by childhood sexual abuse are feelings of guilt, a sense of responsibility, alienation from our bodies and our sexuality, and denial of our own perceptions. Because the experience is nottalked about and is invalidated, we lose touch with what really happened-that it really
did happen. We found that as we discussed this topic in the group, we became aware of
how the effects of incest had manifested themselves in other areas of our lives. In becoming aware of our feelings and realizing 'the patterns and effects of abuse in our lives, wegain a sense of power and control. (For lesbians who are interested in talking about thegroup, please call and leave a message with Sarah or Marynella at Operation Concern,(415) 563-0202.)

104

RESPONSE
ON "RACISM AND WRITING"
A response to Elly Bulkin's article in Sinister Wisdom 13 (Spring, 1980)

Elly Bulkin's article, "Racism and Writing: Some Implications for White
Lesbian Critics," would have been more accurately entitled, "The Racist
Patterns in Gyn/Ecology." Reading the article was like being a spectator at acannibalistic picnic with ritualistic grace before and after meals to normalize
the event. Initially, I was shocked at the subterranean hostility in the article
towards Mary Daly, her work, and the impact that her work has had on
women. Secondly, I think that Bulkin's overt criticisms of Gyn/Ecology arebased on an uncertain grasp of Daly's philosophy of feminism and also on afalse reading of her work. She has, perhaps, read her words, but she has notheard them.
In the introduction, Bulkin associates homophobia and racism, enjoining
feminists to edit written work for evidence of or reference to both. Being amathematician, I sensed the emergence of an arithmetic of oppression: Homophobia + Racism = Oppression, an equation whose correctness is measured byits containing the proper factors of addition. There are at least two problems
with this groundwork for a critique of Gyn/Ecology. The first is the word
homophobia. Like the word human, homophobia lumps women in with men.
Like the word human, homophobia does not say woman; it is not femalecentered. Both words may, in fact, by the false inclusion of women with men
and by the false transcendence of gynocentric language, really mean male existence and male oppression. Daly does not write about homophobia; it is noteven in the index of her book. She writes of the male hatred of women
and, mythically and historically, of the dismemberment of the goddess spirit
in women. It should be further noted that Daly does not use the word lesbian
as it is commonly used by many within the "women's community," i.e., primarily to designate "sexual preference" and as a word which stands by itself.
Rather she always uses it with a capital "L," spelled Lesbian, and in the company of other Self- and woman-identified words . Her old words with new meanings such as Hag, Fury, Crone expose male terror of wild women. Unlike theword, non-heterosexist, they act as metaphysical forces of gravity which draw
the female reader closer to Be-ing. While a Hag may be seventy, Eskimo, andsexually active-or forty-five, white, and celibate-she is unmistakably female,"wild-eyed, and not man-wooed." This is not a f:use transcendence of realdifferences between women, as Bulkin suggests, but rather a real memory ofan original wholeness, in the sense that we were once a clan, a tribe, and a sisterhood, whose tribal consciousness has been fractured by patriarchally imposed
differences, and whose love has been crippled by enforced heterosexuality. This
is not a false transcendence of differences but a hope and a life commitment toreconciling those differences that have not been of our own making. In contrastlOSto heterosexism and homophobia, Daly's new phrases, gynocide, Totaled Woman,feminitude, name unmistakably the female experience of oppression and enforced passivity .
This brings me to a second problem with BuIkin's article. Equations, mathematical or political, have never been adequate for encompassing the more subtle,
complex, or spirited dimensions of existence. H + R = 0 is both technically incorrect and substantively imprecise . It does not include the oppressions of ageism, classism, and the handicapped. Nor can it. There are, by this method ofaddition , an infinite variety of specific oppressions . Equations are limited to afmite number of factors . Neither does the equation describe the specific oppression of women ; it could be used just as well to defme the plight of the young,gay, Chinese male in Word Is Out. The criticism of Gyn/Ecology in "Racism
and Writing" would lead one to think that Daly's book is missing some analytic parts, parts which would be indexed under racism and classism, as if thefracture of the female spirit could be made whole by adding fragments together. As Janice Raymond has pointed out , using this method a new androgyny
model has been incorporated into the women's movement but this time, men
are much more subtly included. This method will always leave joints, seams,
and fissures subject to new rupture and new additions. Daly's method, whichis integral to her philosophy of female oppression and female Be-ing, in contrast to the addition of parts, is like that of one labyrinthine ear whose hearing is deepened, not by the addition of a second ear for homophobia and athird ear for racism, but by journeying more deeply inward through that labyrinthine passage to original female wholeness, as our consciousness of the formsof female oppression expands and deepens .
While I sense that the heart of Elly Bulkin's article is her unstated philosophical differences from Mary Daly on the methods of patriarchy and the visionof female Be-ing-in-the-world , I think that it is important to address her particular accusations of racism in the Second Passage of Gyn/Ecology. While I
am at it, I will identify her own theoretical contradictions and anti-female innuendoes therein.
Bulkin writes: "As a vocal critic of heterosexism, I have been able to raise
my voice confident in the knowledge that my own actions, my own words do
not reflect that very bias ." I challenge her confidence in her own non-misogyny. I and many women were shocked at the odor of sarcasm and woman-hatred in her article . To insinuate, by the word gynuflect, that the thousands ofwomen moved and empowered by Gyn/Ecology were reflexive robots is a devaluation and a betrayal of those women. It is a belittling of radical feminist
thought and action. If a man wrote this particular word, we would accuse himof misogyny. To suggest , as Bulkin does, that Daly and women who proudly
use "big words" are most likely "token women able/allowed " to overcome
barriers of sex and class is deceptive and unjust. First of all , able and allowed
are two entirely different realities . Women who en-able themselves classicallydo so in spite of not being allowed (Le., tolerated, encouraged). Second, herinterpretation of Daly's section, ''This book contains Big Words, even Bigger
than Beyond God the Father , for it is written for big, strong women , out of
respect for strength," missed the point which was to ward off some anti-intellectualism creeping into feminist circles. To insinuate, as Bulkin does , by quoting one working class lesbian, that the majority of working class women cannot
read big words (which in the intended metaphysical sense of Daly means power106

lui words) is insulting and patronizing to those women . It is also , to my mind ,covertly yet outrageously classist .
Bulkin criticizes Daly for using white western males such as Joseph Campbell to illustrate the patriarchal mind because of their racism and Daly's failure ·to cite this. Bulkin's own examples of typical racist images and descriptions in
the media of Japanese, Chinese , and North Vietnamese are those of men inwar. Furthermore , the reasoning behind her criticism is not woman-centered .
The female-centered purpose of searching out and encouraging feminist writers
and thinkers to use primary Indian sources on suttee and primary African
sources on genital mutilation is to illuminate more clearly the underpinnings
of woman-hatred in the Indian and African male culture. It is not to protect
Indian men , who enforce suttee, and African males , who encourage genital mutilation, from the racism of white males ; it is to search out the most transparent account of the plight of women in Indian and African patriarchal culture .
I have not read Mo ther India , and I presume that the majority of women
who read Gyn/Ecoiogy and " Racism and Writing" have not either. Therefore,
my judgment of Bulkin's criticism of Daly's use and praise of Katherine Mayo's
analysis of the widespread material poverty and malaise throughout the Indian
subcontinent is limited to the text quoted. Mayo states that the basis of " thewhole pyramid of the Hindu's woes" is the horrifying system of child brides.
Bulkin charges Mayo (and Daly by collusion) with racism for assuming thatthe condition of women could not be the basis of the oppressed condition ofa society. Cannot the oppression of the female by the males of her culture be
sufficiently sapping to a culture to affect every member? Why could not sexual politics , i.e ., misogyny , be the "rockbottomphysical base ...of the whole pyramid of the Hindu's woes"? I am reminded of the classical myths of India, related by Merlin Stone, in which an original woman-centered , goddess society
was defeated and ·subjugated by a patriarchal order. Yes, I can believe that millenia of patriarchy and phallocentrism would drain the potency and will of awhole society , female and male, adult and child. Because we do not see thesame visible effects of misogyny on the white male or ·in American culture ,can we conclude that woman-hating in India did not sap the entire society of
its vitality? (Because it doesn't look that way in America, it couldn't be thatway in India?) Bulkin's judgment seems culture-bound and betrays a reverse
racism. In this context , I was appalled at the bloated accusation : [I] .. .foundMary Daly doing to Third World people exactly what she (accurately) charges
men of doing to women." The charges of what men do to women are suchheinous crimes as foot-binding, Indian suttee , genital mutilation, mind-binding ,and fracturing of women's spirits. Men have cultural approbation to ruin women. No radical feminist has or wants that kind of necrophilic power. I think
this kind of juxtaposition and accusation demeans feminism. It disguises thepower and horror of patnarchy, it confuses who is doing what to whom, andit undermines the credibility of a critical article on racism.
The fmal charge of racism is , in brief, that Chapter Seven of Gyn/Ecoiogy ,"American Gynecology : Gynocide by the Holy Ghosts of Medicine and Therapy ,"is short on concrete examples and detail of the victimization of women of color
and poor women by American gynecology. Chapter Seven is , in fact , the longest chapter of the Second Passage and has more than twice the number of footnotes and additional references for the reader than all of the other chapters .
\07

Its speed and pace are due to the enormous spectrum of information which, infact, points to the thorough medicalization of life and the triumph of the therapeutic to which the author constantly alludes. Of all the atrocities written about
by the author, gynocide by American medicine and therapy is that atrocity
which has been exposed and documented extensively by feminists , as the notes
to Chapter Seven make clear. Bulkin accuses Daly of indifference to the unequal access that poor women and women of color have to the American healthsystem . This accusation , however , is based on her own assumption, not Daly's ,that more and more care from this same system is unequivocably desirable forwomen . Chapter Seven, to the contrary , challenges that assumption. I thinkthat the unique value of this chapter for women , no matter what our access to
medical care and therapy , is to associate American gynecology and therapy
with footbinding , suttee , and genital mutilation so as to unmask the death-loving and death-inducing face of modern medicine .

Conclusion: I feel keenly aware of the insufficiency of debating selected points
from the Second Passage of GynjEc%gy to show that one-third of the book(and , presumably, the author) is not racist. It is an exercise which feels static,
uninspiring, and strangely unlike the book itself. The word passage suggests .
movement. The three passages of Gy njEc%gy are not separate trips or journeys, nor self-contained stories or themes. They creatively fuse the classical fragments of time: past , present , and future. They voyage into and between one
another . It is a bizarre discontinuity and a fatal omission , in a critical piece on
GynjEc%gy, to fail to speak to the First Passage , the groundwork of Daly's
analysis, and the Third Passage, her visionary hearing of a new gynocentric
time/space. It is as if the two passages were written for all women and one
passage was not.
One challenge that I see for feminist thinkers is to make sense out of what
is being called racism in the white feminist movement. First of all , it is notclear who or what is the white feminist movement. In Bulkin's article, a woman
known for her radical thought is lumped together with women (e .g. , Ellen Moers)and work about women (e.g., anthologies whose object matter is women) which
is not radically feminist.
A second challenge is to develop criteria, not in a static or rigid sense, alongwith critical perception with which to judge the ultimate value of a woman's
work for women . I think that a woman's writing and thinking can be measured
by what it challenges and inspires, as well as by what it says. Words such as
Crone, Fury , Spinster, and Amazon do call forth a hearing and seeing movementof women who will resist being torn asunder by the various guises of womanhatred : sexism , racism , classism , heterosexism , to name four. The imperative
for radical feminism, as I see it , is to fmd language and theory which describe
in precise detail every manner of suspicion and separation that has dulled thepassion for a community of women. Finding words to express the intuition
that woman-hatred is the model , the symbol, and the basis of all oppression iscentral to the philosophy of radical feminism. Daly's works, The Church andthe Second Sex, Beyond God the Father, and Gy njEcology: The Metaethics ofRadical Feminism are not intended to be a fmal word on oppression nor a
final resting place for feminist thought. Like the galaxies , her work has a moving center. Other women and she, in future books , will continue to search out
new sources and new words to illuminate that same thesis, i.e., that all mannersof oppression ultimately quench the fire of female friendship .
108

I would, finally , like to suggest some questions which may further a deeper
listening to the divisions among women which racism engenders. Certain of theideas are spin-offs from concepts in Gyn/Ecology :What are the mechanisms of racism which lock women into men (white ·women with white men; women of color with men of color) and keep
women from one another?

If, at its root , racism divides women from women, what is the reversal
that calls white women's loss of sisterhood with women of color, white
privilege?
How are white women used as "token torturers" of women of color inorder to "mask the male-<:enteredness" of racism and turn women against
one another?
If we cannot remember, how do we reinvent the tribe of women?
-H. Patricia Hynes

EDITORS' NOTE: We have received to date four other responses
to "Racism and Writing," which the guest editors chose not to include in their special issue. In SW16(March , 1981) we will publish
these responses by Andree Collard , Marguerite Fentin, Sally Gearhart , and Louise Mullaley , as well as a reply by Elly Bulkin .

-Catherine, Harriet, and C.Colette

IMPORTANT!

PLEASE NOTE:

In the last issue (SW 14), we ran an ad on page 67 for a new Lesbian newspaper ,The Lesbian Insider/lnsighter/lnciter. The ad did not print well. so we wanted
to run the information again. Subscriptions are $9.00 for 13 issues. Lesbian
Art and Writing wanted.
Write to :The Lesbian Insider /Insigh ter /Inciter2104 Stevens Ave. South
Minneapolis, MN 55404

109

CONTRIBUTORS'NOTESPaula Gunn Allen is a poet and writer and a member of the Laguna tribe. She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she does readings and is an independent scholar. Sandra Butler
is a Bay Area feminist and writer. She is the author of Conspiracy of Silence: The Trauma
of Incest (New Glide, 1978) and is currently researching the causes and effects of misogyny
in American life. Chrystos: "Until recently I've been more interested in doing readings,
which I feel are closer to the root of poetry, than in publishing. My drawings have appearedin Woman spirit and in several books; the two for which I was sole artist are For Those Who
Cannot Sleep and Visions Incognito. " Susan Chute is a lesbian poet living in NYC. She has
been an associate editor on 13th Moon. She is now learning lighting design in NYC theatresand searching diligently for the perfect radical feminist theatre group to collaborate with.
Martha Courtot: "I am a lesbian, I am a mother, I am a fat woman insisting I am beautifulauthor of Tribe and Journey. My third book, Night River, is looking for a publisher." Chris
Cuppett: "Although I was born in Warren, Ohio, I spent most of my growing-up years in
Thief River Falls, Minnesota. Presently, I am a Braille and abacus instructor, specializing inwork with the deaf/blind; and I am hoping to move toward another career. Two of mydreams are to compose music, and to do music and news commentaries on educational
media." Andrea Dworkin is the author of Woman Hating (1974), Our Blood (1976), andthe new womans broken heart (1980). Her next book, Pornography: Men's Graphic Depiction of Whores, will be published by Perigee in May, 1981. Jane Gapen: "I am a divorced
ex-mama of a boy & a girl, now grown up, and I live near Key West with Barbara Deming,
also a lesbian feminist writer, and a volunteer with our domestic abuse shelter. A book ofmine, Something Not Yet Ended (pagoda Publishers), will be available in women's bookstores by 1981." Christina Glendenning lives in St. Paul, Minnesota. Sami Gray was bornin December 1952, lives in San Francisco, and has only recently started to emerge from her"closet" as a writer. She is also a masseuse and psych/counseling student. Morgan Grenwald
is a Lesbian-Feminist photographer currently trapped in Brooklyn but dreaming of relocating on the earth. She is compiling a Lesbian photography directory to be published Summer
Solstice , 1981 . ran hall: "Lesbian writing and publishing is the most important part of mylife." Jan Hardy: "I write mostly poetry and am active in the Pittsburgh Feminist Writers'
Guild. I'm a man-hating separatist, obsessed with political perfection, and doomed to fallshort of the mark because of my happily monogynous relationship and my lack of faith inTarot readings." Nancy Harrison lives in Austin, Texas, with her "wimlife" ("the-woman+live-with"). She is working on her Ph.D. and writing A Novel. Pat Hynes is an environmental
engineer. She was a founder of Bread and Roses, a women's restaurant and cultural centerin Cambridge, Massachusetts. Pamela Johnston lives in Lawrence, Kansas, and works as partof a collective that operates Spinsters Books and writes and helps edit The Monthly Cycle,
a Lesbian newsletter. Melanie Kaye is co-writing a book on women and violence and cohatching Harpies' Bizarre (see Michaele). She teaches part-time at Goddard College and at
the University of New Mexico. Her book of poems, We Speak in Code (1980), is available
from Motheroot Publications, 214 Dewey St., Pittsburgh, PA 15218, $4.75 + .50 pst./hdlg.
Emily Levine: "I'm still keeping grounds at UN-L, trying to change my concepts of photography . I've been trying to incorporate an artistic, visually interesting technique with a basic
documentation of Lesbian Lives." Pam McAllister has written numerous articles for feminist
pUblications and is a playwright, poet and musician. She is currently completing a book on
self-<lefense strategies for women and is editing two anthologies-one on the feminist dialogue
on violence and nonviolence, the other on feminist consciousness in the contemporary theatre.
Michaele and Melanie spoon together in cereal monogamy in Santa Fe. They are working on
a book about women and violence. Michaele presides over hatching the weird, gossipy, obscene eggs that become Harpies' Bizarre, an outrageous women's newspaper. Invite her out
for spaghetti. Valerie Miner is co-author of Tales I Tell My Mother (1980) and Her Own
Woman (1975). Her stories and articles have appeared in The Feminist Review, Ms., Spare
Rib, and Saturday Review. She teaches at V.C. Berkeley. Catherine Risingfiame Moirai lives
on a farm near Knoxville, Tennessee. Susan Marill Norris: "After spending 13 yrs. as a teacher
of English and as a social worker, I found myself out of a job in 1971. Since then I havenamed myself as a lesbian, as chemically dependent, as an incest victim, as a musician, andas a poet. For the next 2 yrs. I intend to study feminist healing, and then join with a few
women in a new healing center in Minneapolis." Victoria Ramstetter has self-published twovolumes of poetry, Root Chakra (1978) and Antares (1979), and has co-edited.an anthology,

110

-Dinah Might Voices of Strong Wimmin, as a fund-raiser for Dinah_ A novel, The Marquise
and the Novice, will be published by Naiad Press in 1981. Adrienne Rich is living in western
Massachusetts and working on a new book of poems_Cynthia Rich is a writer living in Cambridge, Mass., where she is currently collecting unemployment and wisdom. Her most recent
writing has appeared in Sojourner, Equal Times, and The Feminist Review. Anita Skeen ,native West Virginian now transplanted in Wichita, Kansas, teaches Women's Studies andcreative writing at Wichita State. She is currently on sabbatical, traveling the country with
her two beagles in a big blue van (listen for a call from Van Dyke at 2:00 a.m. on your CB
radio), and working on a book of poems about relationships among women. Cris South lives
in the country with her two cats and her dog and is still trying to write the great lesbiannovel. Luisah Teish lives in Oakland, California. Deirdre Vanderlinde: "I'm growing, thinking, writing, loving, struggling, teaching, and living with two cats in NYC." Sarah Lucia
Hoagland declares herself a Chicago Dyke. Chicago Dykes are Dykes who survive in Chicago.
We are a fme breed. Julia Penelope still lives (yes!) in Lincoln, Nebraska. She is the co-editor,
with Susan J. Wolfe, of The Coming Out Stories (Persephone Press, 1980), and they are
now collecting stories for a sequel anthology about "why wimmin marry men," deadline:
Dec. 1, 1980.

aSusan Chute sent a copy of her poem "For the Woman in the Tie" (see page 4) to Susan
BrownmiUer and received the following reply:(Used by permission)

Oear Susan:
It was a beautiful poem . It really worked as poetry, and that's the most important thing . I also liked the politics of it.
We intend to make many copies of it for our members, straight and gay,
many of whom were traumatized by my encounter with the "woman in thetie," who we've learned calls herself Frog and belongs to a loose associationof Dyke Separatists who see their role as trashing feminist conferences.
Fashion is very political, I think, but I don't think everyone understood I
was trying to make a very serious political comment.
We have never had a gay/straight split in Women Against Pornography andwe never will. Some of the lesbian women in the group are angry with me forwhat I said-but some of the heterosexual women in the group have said that
if I didn't say what I said they would have walked out and never come back.
I try to be sensitive to the feelings of lesbian women, but I want lesbian
women to be sensitive to the feelings of heterosexual women, most of whom
feel it is close to impossible to work in the feminist movement today-becauseof the slurs against our sexuality that never stop.
Lesbian women have good cause to feel that they are on the defensive inthe real world. Heterosexual women have good cause to feel that they are on
the defensive in the w9men's movement. The problem is a serious one but wewill work it through.
In Sisterhood ,Susan Brownmiller

I 11

NEW ADDRESS FOR POSTERIn the spring of 1977, a Tee Corinne solarized photograph of two women
making love appeared on the cover of Sinister Wisdom 3, followed by adeluge of requests for a poster. The poster was printed in the summer of1977 : a duplicate of that cover, black on gray , 17" x 22." Beginning inJanuary 1981, the Lincoln Legion of Lesbians will take over the sale anddistribution of the Tee Corinne poster .
Send all poster orders to :LLL
P.O.Box 30137
Lincoln, Nebraska 68503
Posters are $3.00 each plus .50 postage.
Bulk rates for 5 or more posters= $2.00 each plus postage.
Also available in feminist bookstores.
NEW SUBSCRIPTION RATES:
Sinister Wisdom's expenses have been increasing and we are long overdue fora subscription rate increase. For quite awhile we've been aware that the oldrates were not sufficient to cover the mounting costs of paper, supplies, postage,
and printing. Therefore, we are announcing the new rates in this issue , effective
immediately. They are :Individuals: one year (4 issues) = $10.00
two years (8 issues)= $18 .00
Out-of-the-U.S . subs: one year = $12.00
two years= $21.00(U.S. dollars only)
Institutions: one year(4 issues) = $15.00

Supporting Subscriptions:$25.00 and up

SINISTER WISDOM
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I would like to subscribe to Sinister Wisdom, beginning with issue 16.
Enclosed is _________ .
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We are very happy to announce that next year the new editors andpublishers of Sinister Wisdom will be Michelle Cliff and Adrienne Rich .
Michelle and Adrienne will be receiving manuscripts after January 1,
1981 , at SINISTER WISDOM, P.O. Box 660, Amherst , MA 01004.
Please enclose an SASE for return of manuscript. If you would likean acknowledgment, please also enclose a stamped postcard. Please
send xeroxes or photographs, not originals, of art work.

Sinister Wisdom 16 will be the final issue selected by the current editors.
It will be typeset and pasted-up by the Lincoln staff, but it will be distributed by the new publishers and editors in Massachusetts. All correspondence, including orders as well as submissions, should be sent toSinister Wisdom, P.O . Box 660, Amherst, MA 01004.

SW BACK ISSUES, WHILE THEY LAST
Issue 4 (Fall 1977): stories of mothers and daughters and witches and lovers;
Joanna Russ's tale for the girlchild in all of us; Lesbian separatism from theinside ; photo-essay; interview; reviews, letters and poetry. 96 pp., $2.25.
Issue 5 (Winter 1978): Susan Leigh Star, "Lesbian Feminism as an Altered
State of Consciousness"; Judith Schwarz, "Researching Lesbian History";
Michelle Cliff on speechlessness; Lesbian Day speech by Barbara Grier; fiction ;poetry; photo-essay ; reviews ; interview. 104 pp., $2.25 .
Issue 7 (Fall 1978) : myths , monsters, teeth, etc. Jane Caputi on patriarchal
fish stories; Judith Schwarz on being physically different ; self-portraits inprose and poetry by Alice Bloch and Susan Wood-Thompson; feminist musings by Melanie Kaye ; plus a wealth of fiction, poetry, reviews, drawings, andphotographs. 104 pp., $2.50
Issue 8 (Winter 1979): "did you say lu-uv?"; storytelling by Sherry Thomasand Audre Lorde ; photographs by Deborah Snow; poetry by Judy Grahn ;notes on deafness ; essay on "that place whl?re nothing is"; interview; reviews;"Scrambled Eggs"; and much more poetIY and fiction. 104 pp. $2 .50.
Issue 14 (Summer, 1980): Lesbian/Straight sister-struggles; Marilyn Fryeturns a jaundiced eye on Women's Studies; Karen Snider's dorothy poems ;fiction by Jane Rule, Joan Gibbs , Sandy Boucher, and others; Lesbian Americana; class and closet ; families; responses ; graphics ; more! 112 pp. $3.00 .
(Add 60 cents postage for every 1-2 copies ordered)fW 153.00.