Out of Bondage by Linda Lovelace Read Free Book Online Page A

doctor.”
    Then the beating. Next door, where the crew is partying, it has gotten as quiet as a tomb. They can hear everything. The first punch sends me crashing onto the bed. Chuck is beserk now, picking me off the bed and throwing me against the wall. I fall to the floor, rolling myself into a tight ball, protecting my stomach and breasts from his boots, screaming, “Stop! Please stop! You’re hurting me!” Screaming, “Help! Oh, God, please help me! Someone help me!”
    But help does not come and the beating goes on. Why is there no help? Why do the men stay in the next room?
     
    Larry didn’t know about this, about the beatings. And there was no way to say anything as the movie played on in that crowded courtroom. We were hemmed in by other people—first the voyeurs who filled the courtroom and then the press vultures who snapped our photographs as we left the courthouse.
    Afterwards, finally, quiet.
    Neither one of us was able to say anything. Larry had taken everything else so well but this was just too much. There was a long aimless, silent walk along a beach in Key Biscayne, such a beautiful beach, a chance to let the offshore breeze blow away the clouds, but it wasn’t working. Nothing helped. Although we were walking hand in hand, I could feel the wall between us. When we returned to our hotel room, I tried rubbing his back. It was all knotted up, as stiff as sheet metal, and it didn’t relax as I messaged it. The tension just wouldn’t end and the talk wouldn’t begin. Somehow, finally, Larry managed to fall asleep. And late that night, when he woke up, I was still staring into his face.
    Our eyes met and we smiled. We held each other and we both cried. I started to tell Larry what had really happened and he told me I didn’t have to say anything.
    We were both realizing the same thing. It wasn’t Larry who carried Linda or Linda who carried Larry. It was just Linda and Larry sharing the burden and going on with each other.
    Only much, much later were we able to talk about what happened that afternoon.
    “Upset?” Larry’s voice was as sober as I’ve ever heard it. “Upset wouldn’t describe it.”
    “You are upset.”
    “Confused,” he said. “I’ve only known you for a short period of my life but that’s not you. I was having trouble understanding how anyone could possibly be in that spot. That wasn’t you.”
    And then Larry became angry. Angry with the film-makers, angry with the other actors, angry with the men who bought tickets to watch it, angry with me for letting it happen. And his anger made me angry.
    Finally I was able to tell him everything. The beatings, the kickings, the rapings, the animals. I told him what it was like being passed around to truck drivers and salesmen; what it was like having to perform as mechanically as a robot on whomever and whatever; I tried to tell him what caused the fear, the terror of those years.
    “You didn’t tell me this before,” he said.
    “I couldn’t. I was afraid that you wouldn’t understand. I’ve been telling you a lot—you just haven’t been hearing it.”
    “I can’t believe people get away with these things.”
    Quiet again, much thought. “You know what really bothers me now? That judge, what right did he have to show that film? And all those people, what right did they have to be there? Tell me why that courtroom went from empty to full. Why? I feel like they’ve all violated our privacy.”
    “Tell me about it. What do you think I’ve been feeling these past few years?”
    “I really haven’t understood,” he said. “Until now.”
    “I didn’t think you even looked at the screen.”
    “I tried not to. You know what I was doing? I was playing chess on the floor tiles. I was trying to concentrate on playing chess on floor tiles. But every now and then I would see something, just a glimpse, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. God, how awful!”
    The anger didn’t leave him but it wasn’t directed at me. It was