The Hite Report on Shere Hite (15 page)

In
this
dream
state,
then,
I
waited,
living
with
the
deer
in
my
heart,
observing
their
dancing.
Somehow
I
wanted
to
give
the
gift
of
them
to
others.
Our
world
could
be
as
happy
as
theirs,
could
be
like
theirs,
harmonious
and
beautiful
like
the
deer.
I
believed
this
and
believe
it
still.

It
has
been
said
that
in
our
father-centred
society,
women
are
all
Sleeping
Beauties,
waiting
for
a
‘man'
to
wake
us
with
a
kiss,
bring
us
to
life,
make
us
real.
Now
we
have
changed,
we
find
our
own
routes,
we
can
wake
each
other,
we
are
the
active
agents.
With
my
books,
I
want
to
kiss
the
Sleeping
Beauty
in
all
women
awake
(and
men
who
are
not
afraid
to
think
of
themselves
as
having
female
qualities
),
and
create
a
new
emotional
and
spiritual
universe.
Was
my
des
tiny,
dreaming
these
dreams,
to
imagine
a
different
reality,
a
new
psychosocial
spectrum?
The
nightmare
we
have
made
‘reality
' –
the
fighting
in
Bosnia,
the
holocaust
of
World
War
II,
the
millions
of
street
children
now
struggling
for
exist
ence,
what
we
have
done
to
the
environment
–
doesn't
have
to
be
‘reality',
it
is
not
the
inevitable
outcome
of
our
human
nature.
Human
nature
is
not
automatically
bad,
but
it
is
a
pernicious
social
system
that
perverts
‘human
nature'
.
We
have
the
ability
to
make
a
harmonious
global
society.

Why
did
I
begin
to
analyse
sexuality?
The
‘sleeping'
,
or
‘dark
side'
I
of
women's
consciousness
is,
in
a
way,
the
physical,
sexual
part,
the
part
our
social
system
sees
as
bad
and
dangerous
(
for
example,
the
films
Fatal Attraction, Disclosure
and
so
on
).
Is
it
as
simple
as
saying,
I
came
from
a
repressed
fundamentalist
family
background,
therefore
naturally
I
became
‘obsessed
with
sex'?
Yes
and
no
:
my
situation
was
and
is
the
situation
of
millions
of
women.

Some
people
may
(
consciously
or
unconsciously
)
want
to
see
me
fail
or
‘fall'
,
because
my
life
runs
counter
to
mythol
ogy,
and
the
double
standard
which
decrees
that
if
a
woman
is
sexually
overt
(
writes
about
sex,
for
example,
or
says
women
have
a
right
to
sexual
pleasure
and
self-expression
),
she
must
‘pay
the
price'.
She
can
have
fun
for
a
while,
but
eventually,
she
will
become
‘neurotic
'
,
‘unhappy
'
or,
like
Emma
Bovary,
be
destined
to
die!
For
example,
Marilyn
Monroe
is
‘OK'
now,
liked
and
accepted,
loved,
because
she
died,
she
paid
the
price
for
her
‘sin'
of
sexual
provocative
ness.
Madonna
has
not
yet
‘paid',
and
this
makes
her
dangerous
in
some
quarters
and
unpopular.
Have
I
increas
ingly
paid
the
price
for
speaking
sexually?
I
have
been
exiled,
made
to
suffer
financially
and
emotionally.

It
was
only
later
–
after
1987
and
its
events
–
that
I
learned
that
I
have
many
friends
who
do
understand,
who
can
and
will
pick
up
the
pieces
if
I
risk
all.
I
have
an
extended
family,
in
fact.
Daring
too
much
is
not
the
end
of
the
world.
It
is,
after
all,
vital
to
living.
Virginia
Woolf's
famous
‘room
of
one's
own'
is
a
close
parallel
to
the
way
I
have
lived
my
life:
needing
to
be
alone
to
write
and
work,
in
a
space
and
time
zone
of
my
own.
The
night
was
clearly
a
‘time
of
my
own'
,
my
‘own
room
'
.
Usually
I
listened
to
music,
while
I
worked
or
read
(
or
just
washed
my
hair
).
I
could
concen
trate
on
my
thoughts
then.
Many
women
who
answered
my
questionnaires
also
wrote
their
responses
on
the
kitchen
table
late
at
night,
‘After
everyone
else
has
gone
to
bed
…
that's
when
I
have
time
to
myself.'

Will
we,
as
a
culture,
reach
a
time
when
women
don't
need
a
‘room
of
one's
own'
–
because
we
are
finally
empow
ered
in
the
real
world
–
at
home,
truly
at
home
outside,
and
in
the
world?
And
will
I,
can
I,
reach
that
point?
Yes.

Perhaps
the
song
which
I
find
in
my
heart,
found
first
with
the
trees
and
my
grandfather
so
long
ago
under
the
night
sky
–
and
which
I
hid
for
so
long
–
has
made
me
in
a
strange
way,
more
open.
True,
I
was
frightened
many
times,
so
my
inner
spirit
went
into
hiding.
But
those
parts
of
me,
the
dancing
deer,
which
I
hid
for
fear
some
harm
would
come
to
them
or
their
joy
be
dulled
(
leaving
me
with
nothing
),
I
con
tinued
to
struggle
to
bring
out.
I
am
still
working
on
this.

Just
after
completing
The Hite Report on Female Sexuality,
I
had
a
dream.
In
the
dream,
I
was
flying
with
a
white
bird
over
a
large
continent.
We
were
going
east,
a
long
way
from
my
destination.
And
suddenly,
there
I
was,
born
in
the
middle
of
my
journey.
I
found
myself
in
a
place
far
away
from
everything,
a
place
which
seemed
strange
to
me.
The
continuation
of
my
journey
would
have
to
wait.
Later
in
the
dream,
I
found
a
very
large
white
egg
in
the
exact
centre
of
a
spiraea
bush
in
our
back
yard
in
Missouri,
only
it
was
in
the
place
in
the
yard
where
the
lilac
tree
was.
I
had
to
part
the
bushes
and
look
down
to
find
the
egg.
The
egg
began
to
open,
and
it
was
me.

The next years, 1982–7, were peaceful and productive. I lived in beautiful surroundings and was happy. This long period of normal daily life, even financial stability in the 1980s, allowed me to grow and gain confidence, creep out of my cocoon and spread my wings – both in work, where my theories gained depth, and in my personal life, where I developed a long-term intimate relationship and married.

After all the excitement of publishing
The
Hite
Report,
including worldwide translated editions, my life resumed a more even pace. I was happy to have this
stability, because suddenly, I could just live! I was relieved to be out of the limelight, the spotlight (the hot seat), which so disoriented me, and distorted all I was trying to do. It felt very uncomfortable to be placed in a context which was not
me
. I worried that these media-created images of me would turn off other women and alienate them from me. How could they be proud of me? The hype (which I couldn’t control) was robbing them of a positive image of a woman who had achieved something, smashing our solidarity. I fought against these images, but when I fought against them, all that happened was that I was caricatured as an angry feminist. So it was a no-win situation.

I was pleased to return to private life and have a few years of calm to work, research and write, walk in the park with my dog. I was glad my books took so long to produce, about five years (because of the extensive research involved). This gave me time to do what I liked best: research and think, try to understand society in a new way, as well as living in a calm daily work atmosphere. I needed to get back in touch with my spiritual and intellectual questions. Also I needed beauty around me, to forget painful images seen in the press as of ‘American sex millionairess, sex priestess’, as they wrote in the papers. It’s a wonder I had any identify or self-esteem left at all.

It took some time to wash all that out of my brain, those sensationalised ugly images. They were like so many bad billboards constantly appearing in front of my eyes when I tried to get through a normal day. After a while, they faded, especially as I replaced them with the
faces of those I loved (my dog, my friends), beautiful opera and music, and walks in the park, reading people’s questionnaire replies, which often told me (since they were safely anonymous) their most profound fears and hopes, the secret experiences of their lives. I treasured these writings, and felt they were a key to understanding.

I loved where I lived. By this time, I had an apartment on Central Park West with a view of the park, and many friends whom I constantly saw or talked to on the telephone. Some of my friends were on the Upper West Side too, so we often got together or just walked in the park. And I was glad not to be travelling any more, no matter how exciting it had been. It had its moments, but I felt fragmented, and missed my friends. I missed being around the same people all the time. Travelling, I would be with one person, one group and then another, so there was no continuity. At home with my friends, I felt much more relaxed and content. I was happy. In the afternoons, the sun drenched the apartment, so it was good for working. I had moved there just two months before publication of my book, on borrowed money which I had now, with great relief, paid back.

I like significantly big desks, so I got five doors, painted them pastel colours, and put them on filing cabinets all over the rooms, to get ready to do the charts and have storage for all the questionnaires, letters and summary sheets for my continuing research project (which was on men’s psychosexual identity and masculinity). I hate feeling cramped, with papers falling all around my head. Offices need some space to be tranquil.

Seeing the trees and sky out of the window gave me endless pleasure during all seasons of the year. In short, I had a wonderful life during this time. I had work I adored – more pleasure than work – and a group of friends, a social life that was full of fun. Many nights I would meet my friends at restaurants on Columbus Avenue. The prices were still moderate and the atmosphere was great, full of life.

During those years I had begun to make a real home for myself, finding my own interesting antique furniture, trying out colours, with different types of lamps and curtains. Of course, there was always music in the apartment. I expanded my musical collection, especially with old recordings from the twenties, thirties and forties. I saw many performances – Brigit Nilson, Carlo Bergonzi – at the Metropolitan Opera. I listened to
WQXR
. I saw old movies, in black and white, with plots with serious women characters, played by Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo. Or I watched Ginger Rogers or Marlene Dietrich, and old films with great musical scores. (Lauritz Melchior was just one opera singer who made Hollywood films.) Even the Marx Brothers made
A
Night
at
the
Opera
!

Of course, I had a few boyfriends over those years: two I look back on with respect, and one I’m not so sure! (Well, you can’t have perfect judgement all the time! Even me, the ‘expert’. Was I researching ‘male sexuality’ by having several boyfriends? Of course not.)

One, I liked a lot. He was a construction worker (struggling young artist) who came to help me paint my apartment and we stayed together for a year. He was
beautiful, in both body and spirit. From Wisconsin, he had somehow managed to grow up, study fine art, painting, and move to New York (along with a large community of other struggling artists), yet maintain an inner purity and positiveness about life that I shared. He liked, most of all, to paint animals – fantastical, colourful, animals with bright and individual personalities, in landscapes. When humans were in the landscapes at all, they appeared as slightly hysterical and funny, weird, freak-outs among the calm and serene animals.

I don’t remember much about how we made love, though I remember that the first time we kissed and embraced was in my apartment, in the bedroom, where he was working on painting a wall. He could mix colours with great subtlety, so together we concocted magnificent shades of pale yellow, ivory and rose mixed with umber in different finishes for the walls and mouldings. When the sunlight hit these colours, the walls appeared luminescent.

I remember the moment that day when we paused from work. Strange, I don’t remember after that, or what sex was like. Perhaps we just kissed for a while. How we made love is unclear in my mind, but the brightness of his spirit remains with me always.

My personal relationships with boyfriends at the time seemed to be a way I was gingerly trying to express the sides of myself that were not (yet?) appropriate anywhere else. This must have made me interesting, but somewhat difficult, from their point of view. How could they have had any idea what this process was all about?

I decided dating was fun – one of the most interesting things in the world, in fact. I liked kissing and cuddling and becoming sexually excited. But I did not want to stay with any of the boyfriends then – some of whom I loved, some of whom I didn’t. I couldn’t stay, I would have eventually become someone who was not me, someone other than myself. I spent another two years around this time just hanging out with friends, being totally celibate. I wasn’t ‘crazy about sex’ at all; it was other things that were on my mind, such as the ‘meaning of life’, how to make my own life more beautiful, how to understand my own emotions and what I was really looking for in life.

My day! A large part of the growing I did at this time had to do with my beautiful dog. In 1972, my friend, Calla Fricke, had given me a dog or, rather, she introduced me to a magical, shy brown dog named Rusty. He – the wittiest, most even-tempered friend and companion, with boundless enthusiasm and energy – was a big part of my happiness through these years. It was love at first sight. When I met Rusty, from the minute I saw him, I adored him. He always made me smile, and feel so glad to be alive. With him, there were always new adventures to share. I met many people through his friendly initiatives!

When I first brought him home, he was to stay with me just for the weekend. Calla had been keeping him in her ‘I Love Animals’ shelter in New York City, but it so happened that she also had fourteen cats. ‘It’s not that
he doesn’t get along with the cats, he likes them. It’s just that it’s so crowded. There’s nowhere for him to run around. Whenever he tries, the cats think he will pounce on them, so they start ganging up on him, push him back into a corner, and make him sit down again,’ she told me.

Rusty had luminous, communicative and sensitive, big and soulful brown eyes. His face had exquisite deer-like markings. His fur was brown, and he had lovely black lines around his eyes (very fetching), and adorable small black antennae over his eyebrows – small black hairs that stuck out like radar! He had white furry beauty marks around his eyes and nose and underneath his sweet little ears. His body was graceful and deer-like too, covered with fawn-coloured fur with white spots. There was an even softer (if possible) soft white down underneath the brown of the fur – if you lifted up the brown hairs, you could see it. His body was quick, and he could leap like a gazelle, or bounce joyfully like a top. He would sometimes walk in a trot, sometimes a canter and other rhythms, depending on his mood. He had a wonderful smile.

He hopped in bed with me the first night he stayed. I was surprised! In the taxi coming home earlier that day, he had trembled all the way. Had he had some bad experience in a car? Had someone once shoved him out of a moving car? Just as I was falling asleep – he was lying on the carpet next to the bed – suddenly, with one quick and graceful bound, he leaped up from the floor, sailing over me to just the other side, and lay down. This was the first time I learned he could fly! (The bed
was taller than he was, but this was no problem for a flying dog!) At first, I was surprised that he had joined me in bed. But then, he was so warm, that a good, contented feeling started to spread all over me – and I fell asleep very happily.

Leaping sweetly into bed like that, he won my heart. How did he know to trust me, whom he hardly knew? And he wanted to be close to me. This was so touching. I loved him immediately. We slept together, with no disturbance, all night. And in the morning, he did not wake me up, but when I awoke, he was sitting there on the floor, next to the bed, waiting for me to get up. What manners!

On Monday, when Calla was ready to take him back, I said, ‘What? Oh, no! I couldn’t give him back to you now! He lives with me!’ And Calla was very surprised and happy about this turn of events.

Every day, we would go for a walk. I lived next to the park, and there was a big wide pavement next to the building where we lived. Sometimes we would walk along there, towards the shops down the street to browse around, and other times, we would go straight to the park and take a beautiful route through the trees and pathways among the grass. The sun shone next to our building in the afternoons. One particularly beautiful day, not too long after we began living together, I taught Rusty to ‘sit’ and ‘heel’, so that we could go out together. That day we went out in front of the apartment building where we lived, on the large sidewalk, to try it, near the Museum of Natural History (where Margaret Mead had her office in one of the towers). Rusty
was so happy and smiled at me, he took it all as a game, a game it was so easy for him to comprehend that it was like nothing teaching him all these commands. He understood them all on the first try. He was so cute! His bright eyes, his smile and his tail perkily stuck up in the air, with the sun shining on his warm brown coat, as he trotted along merrily with a walk that told how happy he was. He learned all the commands and their meaning on the first day.

This was four years before the first Hite Report was published in 1976. Though full of financial worries as I was funding the study myself on a shoestring (and had to borrow money from a total of ten friends), we were extremely happy.

Boris Shishiptorov and his wife, Ellen, a nurse, had been living in the building for eighteen years. He was an elderly Russian
émigr
é
from before the 1917 Russian Revolution! They had an apartment which they had decorated in an old-fashioned Russian style, with charming colours. It was fun to go there. Boris took walks in the park every day too, so soon he started taking Rusty with him for companionship. Next, before I knew it, he had taught Rusty to shake hands in Russian! Now I had a bilingual dog. Though it was demeaning, really, for a dog to have to shake hands, Rusty didn’t seem to mind going along with what pleased Boris. So there we were, having fun together almost every day.

I loved to have Rusty close to me while I was working. I sat at my desk so many hours a day, and while I was there, I could see him lying on the floor, hear his
quiet breathing, smell his delicate warm fur and look at his beautiful face. I could always stop to play with him during breaks. I felt lucky to have this special, lovely and graceful spirit living with me, as I often used to think looking at him lying sleeping so peacefully on the carpet, on his side, all four legs stretched out in front of him. Loving him, and seeing him love me, I think I learned another dimension of love – how to love other people better too. Watching his patience and loving care towards me, I learned a lot about ways I could show love and care to others.

There were an assortment of scarves and collars I had for Rusty for when we went out, for example, to the supermarket or the flea market, strolling around. He liked to go out, and would bounce around the room with such excitement and anticipation, it was hard to get him to hold still long enough to get his collar on. He didn’t always wear a leash, he understood what I told him so well, that he would heel while crossing the street, walking next to me carefully (there was some traffic always), but I put the leash on if there was very much. He liked having his freedom, though, to run around and sniff things I would never have noticed were interesting to him. But he liked his ‘leash’ too, it was a means of connection, not a means of control. We had a good relationship. I loved Rusty.