“Mention flamenco dancing to the average American,” Marguerite told the assembled Castrators, “and to them it means José Dreko. It means stamping the foot on the floor like an angry bull. It means the no-hips of the man remaining motionless while the hands clap, and the body moves with seemingly smooth and fluid jerks. But José Dreko is not admired by the Andalusians. His flamenco is too stylized. It is basic, but it lacks spontaneity. It has been Hollywood-ized for too long. It is like the brushstroke of a copyist—the result may be an exact reproduction of a Matisse, but it lacks one thing: the genius of the original. So it is with José Dreko. To the genuine flamenco dancer he is one who has sold out. But then what can you expect? He is, after all, a man. And that is what men do best. They sell out themselves. They sell out their art. And most of all they sell out their women.
“Their women!” Marguerita snorted angrily. “In the milieu of the flamenco dancer, the truth of that role is right on the surface. The females of my tribe were considered property, chattels, nothing more. While still in my teens, I was a star performer of the group. By the time I was twenty I had performed all over Europe and in the United States. Yet I had absolutely no control over my life. All decisions were made for me by the men of the tribe. Sometimes decisions were made by booking agents and the like, who were not members of the group, but who were also men. Never did a woman -- not even my mother—have anything to say about her fate, or the fate of her children.
“The discipline was very strict; the men of Andalusia are very jealous of their women. But this is not flattering. In practice, it merely means that they feel free to use them-—yes, sexually — and exploit them and dictate to them their every movement. All through the years I traveled around the world I was forbidden to speak to any person—man or woman--who was not a member of the group. Even my food was ordered for me. Direct conversation with the waiter was forbidden!”
Marguerita’s eyes flashed with anger at remembered indignities as she continued. “Sexual exploitation! Nobody in this room is as expert on that subject as I am. From my sixteenth year, my sexual experience was ‘overseen’ by the leader of the group, a man of fifty-odd years. He was a very cruel-man and the exercise of this cruelty was very important to him in satisfying his erotic appetites. I was whipped frequently. I was subjected to all sorts of physical indignities on top of the mental indignities which were taken for granted for women in our culture. I was — of course—not allowed to have anything to do with any other males in our group.”
A half-smile crossed Marguerita’s lips. She sighed, recalling now a fleeting pleasure. “There was a boy. He was my own age. He was still too young to have developed this masculine arrogance. He worshipped me. I was attracted to him. We arranged to meet in his cabin aboard ship one night. The old man, the leader of the group, discovered us in bed. He killed the boy. Oh, yes, such things happen. The body was thrown overboard. The crime was never discovered. The boy was never missed. After all, what was one Spanish Gypsy more or less to the authorities who ran the ship? Naturally it was known within our group, but none of us would ever have dreamed of breathing a word about it to anybody else. Such was the power of the man who was our leader. And, anyway, the men of the tribe agreed that the punishment was fitting. And the women had no opinion because they were permitted to have none.”
Now Marguerita’s anger made her voice tremble. “The leader punished me too. He called me a ‘puta,’ and sold my favors for money to the other men. I was forced to submit to the caresses of the old and the fat and the foul-smelling and to perversions of the sick and the impotent. At this time I had star billing and we went on tour to the United States. I was becoming known by fans of the flamenco art. And yet when I was not on stage I was no better off than the lowest prostitute in the worst ghetto in the cities we passed through. My body was a chamber pot for the sexual waste matter of the most disgusting male organs. Every orifice was assailed and violated and desecrated nightly. Sometimes I had to submit to as many as eight or ten Gypsy men in one night. And do you know what finally put a stop to it, ladies? Do you think I simply rebelled? No! I caught the Spanish disease which, if you happen to be Spanish to start with is known as syphilis.”
Marguerita’s face was grim. “After that, the men didn’t bother me anymore. But remember, I was little more than a child. I had no idea of what to do about this disease. And neither the head of the group, nor any of the other then offered me any advice. They simply shunned me. And every night I danced . . .
“Finally one of the women whispered to me that she had heard of a place where I might be helped. A few nights later I managed to sneak out to a clinic in the city in which we were performing. Here I met the woman who changed my whole life.
“Her name doesn’t matter. She is a saint. She helped me to get medical treatment which—-fortunately-—-was obtained in time to clear my condition. Within a year I was completely cured. But more important, my benefactress-—who was a nurse — talked to me. She showed me the truehorror of my situation. She made me realize what had been done to me and who had done it. She identified the devil for me. And the devil—heed this, ladies--the devil is Man! All men!”
Marguerita paused to let it sink in. “This woman changed my life in many ways. I deserted the troupe and began to perform the flamenco on my own. I still had to deal with men, and they still tried to take advantage of me—and often succeeded--but at least I had the freedom to fight them.
“My benefactress was a member of this organization. She told me about it. She told me of how women have banded together to fight the devil. ‘Never, under any circumstances, trust a man!’ That’s what she used to say. And she was fond of paraphrasing the suffragette leader Emmeline Parkhurst, and adding that if a woman had to trust anybody, she should ‘Trust in God because She will provide!’”
There was a wave of ironic laughter and Marguerita waited for it to pass. “At first I decided to eschew any contact with men—-certainly any sexual contact. But then I began to realize I was neglecting my duty to other women, to other female victims. With my experience, sex was a weapon. I didn’t have the right not to use that weapon. As I became more deeply involved with our group, I came to appreciate that. And so I decided to come to grips with the enemy, the devil, Man, once more. Only now I would be using him, his body, and I would be using it both for my own carnal satisfaction and for the satisfaction of helping him to destroy himself. Tonight I want to pass along to you a few of the things I’ve learned since I came to this decision. I tell them to you in the hope that you may adapt them to your own purposes in the ongoing battle against the male oppressors.
“One of the first things I learned is that the language of lovemaking can itself be used as a weapon. There are certain key phrases. The male organ should always be referred to as his ‘cute little thing.’ Stress ‘little.’ All men secretly worry about being under-endowed.
“Timing is important. Sometimes it’s not so much what you say as when you say it. For instance, just after a man has had a truly explosive orgasm, the woman should ask: ‘Are you ready to come yet, darling?’ Also, when he first reveals with that typical male arrogance that he is erect, the woman should look at it with disappointment and say ‘It’s my fault; I guess I just don’t excite you.” And when making oral love, when you feel his response reaching the exploding point, you should raise your lips and deliver a non sequitur like ‘Do you think collies are so nervous because the breed has been overbred?’ or ‘Have you ever wondered just how much genetic damage cyclamates caused before they took them off the market?’