Mercy

expressed, over time. Everything escalates. D idn’t matter

how brilliant m y joints were once he started using a chellum, a

Turkish pipe for hash, rare in Europe, not used because you,

had to be so fucking aggressive to use it, the hashish and

tobacco went in it, it was like a funnel, and you pulled it fast

and hard into your lungs through a kind o f wind tunnel made

by your hands clasped at the bottom o f the funnel and the

bitter smoke hit your lungs with a burning punch, with the

force o f an explosion, and your bloodstream was oxygenated

with hash and nicotine. I didn’t like the chellum but I had to do

it, keeping up with Mr. Jones as it were. C an’t find yourself

being too delicate, too demure, unable to take the violence o f

the hit; not if you are Mrs. Jones; have to run with the boy or

the boy runs without you, he don’t slow down to wait, he

don’t say, Andrea doesn’t like this, she likes that, so let’s do

that. Same with sex. He pushes you down and does it. Y ou

solicit his personal recognition. Y ou ask his indulgence. Y ou

beg: remember me; me. It changes slow. He tied me up to fuck

me more and more; tied me up to this nice little modern brass

bed we got, we had a little money; he had from the beginning,

in rented rooms, on mattresses, on floors, it doesn’t take

much, but it was only sometimes; now he tied me up to fuck

me invariably and I was bored, tired and bored, irritated and

bored; but he wanted it which had to mean he needed it and I

want him to do what he needs, I think every man should have

what he needs, I think if he has it maybe he w on ’t need it in a

bad w ay; and I love him— not in love but I love him; him; I’m

with him because it’s him; him; I want him to want me; me. I

said no or not now or let’s just make love and don’t tie me up,

we don’t need it, or even I don’t want it now, I don’t like it, or

trying to say that I didn’t want to anymore and it had to matter

to him that I didn’t want to because this is me; me. I said in all

kindness and with all tenderness that I didn’t want to but he

did want to and so we did because it was easier to than not to

and it wasn’t like we hadn’t before so it wasn’t like I had any

grounds for saying no or any right and it was so fucking dull,

and stupid and I’d want it to be over and I’d wait for it to be

over, especially to be untied; I learned how to wait, not just

when he was doing things to me but after when he’d leave me

there while he’d putter around or watch television or do

something, I’d never know what exactly. I’d get bad pains in

my side from the fucking or really from every time he tied me

to fuck me and I was so fucking bored it was like being back on

the streets but still easier frankly, just awful in some tedious

w ay: when will he be done, when’s he going, when’s it going

to be over. I know I’m saying I was bored, not morally