Anger

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 313 of 447 · 20 per page

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Alex’s face was suffused with purple. She was taking a lot of Tyre’s weight directly on her throat, and Tyre was not a small woman. As soon as the foot came off her face, before she even sat up, her hand darted inside her jacket. “This what you’re looking for?” Tyre said, and threw the knife point-down into the floor by her right hand. “Pretty fancy toy, that CIA plastic that won’t set off a metal detector. Security and I are going to have a little chat. If the guard on duty is somebody you ever fucked, she is about to get royally screwed by me.” Alex had plucked the knife from the linoleum and slid it home in the sheath under her armpit, without looking, of course. Tyre smiled at that. Weapons are so beautiful in competent women’s hands. “I don’t go anywhere unarmed,” Alex said bluntly. “And if I had pulled that blade, you wouldn’t have anybody to blame but yourself. You threw the first kick, remember?” “And what would you have done if I let you pounce on me as soon as you were done with dessert, huh? Have me over the table and next thing I know my stuff is all over town, that you had a piece of my ass, might come back for more if you get in the mood? I don’t think so.” “Pity,” Alex said softly. “It was only a little tussle, good clean fun between a couple of serious players. Next thing I know it’s time to hand down indictments and interview a jury. Lighten up, for Chrissake. Who had who? Who won? Do you know? I sure the fuck don’t. And I don’t care. Life is too short.” Neither of them could think of anything else to say. They just glared. “I want this gig,” Tyre said finally. “I want to run this trip for you.” “Okay, fine. But before you change the subject lemme just say that you got rings in your tits, Tyre, and if you really thought you had to apologize for bein’ human, maybe you oughta take ’em out.” “They are my rings, and I wear them for my own good reasons. They are not coming out. I have too much scar tissue as it is. And you ought to mind your own damn business.” “Oh, but I never could mind anybody at all. But I keep looking. That’s how I got most of my own scars. How about you?” “Stop it.” “Sure. I’ll stop. Just remember who cried uncle.”

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  There was a grant from a lesbian mothers’ collective that wanted to establish a childcare center. “Only if they’re open at night and give our patrons a discount,” Tyre said. “But they’d better keep our name out of it or the fundamentalists will have a field day.” Georgia took it down in Mach 2 shorthand. There was a request from an anthropology professor who wanted to send a team of students in to do participant observation. “Only if they’ll take their clothes off and stay in the maze,” Tyre said. The Annie Kenney Coven that consecrated the Calyx at each equinox and solstice was having trouble finding hypo-allergenic incense and didn’t want to oppress women disabled by their sensitivity to fragrance. “I don’t know where the hell I’m going to find sneeze-proof incense,” Tyre said, “but tell them we’ll do some research on it. We haven’t had a lawsuit since they started cleaning up our aura on a quarterly basis, and I want them to keep on doing it. It’s good P.R., it’s a weird party, and it works. What more could you want?” The Well Woman Body Care Center had agreed to set up a weekly clinic at the Calyx to do Pap smears and STD tests. They had sent a description of the kind of space, fixtures, and supplies they would need. “Do you believe how much cotton swabs cost? For that price they should come with an attachment for clitoral stimulation and vibrate at two speeds. Georgia, should we break their hearts and tell them they aren’t going to need any disposable paper drapes here? And what do they mean, they don’t know why I want them to stock latex dental dams! Jesus Christ on the Old Rugged Butt-Plug!” WIFE (Women for Images of Female Equality, a group Tyre referred to as “Better Living Through Censorship”) was threatening to picket the Calyx if Tyre didn’t change her advertising, which featured a woman in a trench coat saying, “Psst! Take a Tour of the Feminist Porn District.” Somebody had thrown a brick through the window of the women’s newspaper that reluctantly ran the ad in every issue. (The brick had a sticker on it that said, “This is violence against women.”) Tyre’s mouth got very grim. “Send somebody around to fix those windows,” she said, “and ask them if they want an alarm system installed. I’ll pay for it. Remember those pictures we took when Ricki Daft came here drunk on her ass and got obnoxious with the masseuse who didn’t want Ricki to pour chocolate syrup all over her? She’s WIFE’s director. Copy all that shit and just send it to her with a note on my letterhead saying that if any more bricks get thrown at On the Rag , they’ll get copies of it too. And remind me to double my annual contribution to the ACLU.” The phone rang. Georgia picked it up. “The Calyx of Isis,” she said. “Serving the Goddess in You.

• From Between the World and Me (2015)

  You must struggle to truly remember this past in all its nuance, error, and humanity. You must resist the common urge toward the comforting narrative of divine law, toward fairy tales that imply some irrepressible justice. The enslaved were not bricks in your road, and their lives were not chapters in your redemptive history. They were people turned to fuel for the American machine. Enslavement was not destined to end, and it is wrong to claim our present circumstance—no matter how improved—as the redemption for the lives of people who never asked for the posthumous, untouchable glory of dying for their children. Our triumphs can never compensate for this. Perhaps our triumphs are not even the point. Perhaps struggle is all we have because the god of history is an atheist, and nothing about his world is meant to be. So you must wake up every morning knowing that no promise is unbreakable, least of all the promise of waking up at all. This is not despair. These are the preferences of the universe itself: verbs over nouns, actions over states, struggle over hope. The birth of a better world is not ultimately up to you, though I know, each day, there are grown men and women who tell you otherwise. The world needs saving precisely because of the actions of these same men and women. I am not a cynic. I love you, and I love the world, and I love it more with every new inch I discover. But you are a black boy, and you must be responsible for your body in a way that other boys cannot know. Indeed, you must be responsible for the worst actions of other black bodies, which, somehow, will always be assigned to you. And you must be responsible for the bodies of the powerful—the policeman who cracks you with a nightstick will quickly find his excuse in your furtive movements. And this is not reducible to just you—the women around you must be responsible for their bodies in a way that you never will know. You have to make your peace with the chaos, but you cannot lie. You cannot forget how much they took from us and how they transfigured our very bodies into sugar, tobacco, cotton, and gold. II.Our world is full of sound Our world is more lovely than anyone’s tho we suffer, and kill each other and sometimes fail to walk the air We are beautiful people with african imaginations full of masks and dances and swelling chants with african eyes, and noses, and arms, though we sprawl in grey chains in a place full of winters, when what we want is sun. AMIRI BARAKA

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  What the fuck was she doing here if she didn’t even know about the sex ads? If it wasn’t for them, who would bother to buy a newspaper—and how could they afford to keep on publishing? “Don’t you keep up on current events?” I asked, all patience and sarcasm. “Didn’t you ever call up one of those numbers that say ‘Help for women troubled by sexual fantasies’ or ‘C-R about oppressive forms of sexuality’? Or is that chain around your neck just bargain-basement jewelry?” “I didn’t know there were any ads like that,” she said slowly. “I guess I’ve seen them, but I didn’t know what they meant.” “Huh?” I was really confused now. “Then what are you doing here?” “I just broke up with my … lover,” she said. She was obviously reluctant to label their relationship that way. “She told me about the Labrys. She used to come here before—before she had me.” “And how did she have you?” “What’s it to you?” “That depends on how bad you miss it. Maybe twenty, maybe a laugh. Tell me.” Her “lover” was a closeted sadist, a very well-camouflaged pervert. You can do that if you are gainfully employed. She worked as a carpenter on the lobster shift so she had an allocation for private living space. In this wee cottage, she had built a dog-house and a rack and many other sordid devices. She had plucked Ms Ingénue from an orientation for apprentices, sensing which way her far-from-reedy self could be bent. Our tail-wagging, panting little woofer spent every possible minute with her, and when she did she was always in a wooden set of stocks and had a plug up her butt. Much was made of leashes and spanking bad puppies. She slept in the aforementioned doggie-hut, and did all her drinking and eating out of little dishes on the floor. I shudder to think where she performed her baser functions. I was charmed. Unfortunately, the puppy had become an apprentice in earnest and had to report for a daylight shift, so her pragmatic trainer gave her the gate, and went out and got a mutt that was more available. “You really are disgusting,” I crooned, kicking her feet apart under the table. “What a lovely little freak you are. Letting her push you around that way. What did we have a revolution for if women are going to wallow in this reactionary masochism? Hmm? It’s decadent, diseased, self-indulgent, immature, impractical.” “At least I never did it for money,” she said. Her defiance made my blood run hot. I jerked my gloves out from under my epaulet and smacked her across the face. She didn’t try to put her knees back together. So I loomed up across the table and stuffed the gloves into her mouth.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Weapons are so beautiful in competent women’s hands. “I don’t go anywhere unarmed,” Alex said bluntly. “And if I had pulled that blade, you wouldn’t have anybody to blame but yourself. You threw the first kick, remember?” “And what would you have done if I let you pounce on me as soon as you were done with dessert, huh? Have me over the table and next thing I know my stuff is all over town, that you had a piece of my ass, might come back for more if you get in the mood? I don’t think so.” “Pity,” Alex said softly. “It was only a little tussle, good clean fun between a couple of serious players. Next thing I know it’s time to hand down indictments and interview a jury. Lighten up, for Chrissake. Who had who? Who won? Do you know? I sure the fuck don’t. And I don’t care. Life is too short.” Neither of them could think of anything else to say. They just glared. “I want this gig,” Tyre said finally. “I want to run this trip for you.” “Okay, fine. But before you change the subject lemme just say that you got rings in your tits, Tyre, and if you really thought you had to apologize for bein’ human, maybe you oughta take ’em out.” “They are my rings, and I wear them for my own good reasons. They are not coming out. I have too much scar tissue as it is. And you ought to mind your own damn business.” “Oh, but I never could mind anybody at all. But I keep looking. That’s how I got most of my own scars. How about you?” “Stop it.” “Sure. I’ll stop. Just remember who cried uncle.” Then Alex was gone. Tyre’s hands were shaking too bad to do anything but break the dishes she tried to stack in the sink, so she broke several on purpose, smashing them against the exposed brick in the kitchen. By the time she had cleaned that mess up, she felt better, but knew the rest of the day was shot to hell. So she used the interoffice phone to buzz Georgia and Simba, and told them to fire the security guard who had not frisked Alex, and got Michael on the car phone to let her know she needed the limo. During the long drive home, she thought about asking Michael to fuck her.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  He was a more excited lover that night, with his strange, small boy's frail nakedness. Connie found it impossible to come to her crisis before he had really finished his. And he roused a certain craving passion in her, with his little boy's nakedness and softness; she had to go on after he had finished, in the wild tumult and heaving of her loins, while he heroically kept himself up, and present in her, with all his will and self-offering, till she brought about her own crisis, with weird little cries. When at last he drew away from her, he said, in a bitter, almost sneering little voice: "You couldn't go off at the same time as a man, could you? You'd have to bring yourself off! You'd have to run the show!" This little speech, at the moment, was one of the shocks of her life. Because that passive sort of giving himself was so obviously his only real mode of intercourse. "What do you mean?" she said. "You know what I mean. You keep on for hours after I've gone off ... and I have to hang on with my teeth till you bring yourself off by your own exertions." She was stunned by this unexpected piece of brutality, at the moment when she was glowing with a sort of pleasure beyond words, and a sort of love for him. Because after all, like so many modern men, he was finished almost before he had begun. And that forced the woman to be active. "But you want me to go on, to get my own satisfaction?" she said. He laughed grimly: "I want it!" he said. "That's good! I want to hang on with my teeth clenched, while you go for me!" "But don't you?" she insisted. He avoided the question. "All the darned women are like that," he said. "Either they don't go off at all, as if they were dead in there ... or else they wait till a chap's really done, and then they start in to bring themselves off, and a chap's got to hang on. I never had a woman yet who went off just at the same moment as I did." Connie only half heard this piece of novel, masculine information. She was only stunned by his feeling against her ... his incomprehensible brutality. She felt so innocent. "But you want me to have my satisfaction too, don't you?" she repeated. "Oh, all right! I'm quite willing. But I'm darned if hanging on waiting for a woman to go off is much of a game for a man...."

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  As he too was connected with Dada Abdulla & Co, he sent me word through Sheth Abdulla to go and see him. He talked with me quite frankly, and inquired about my antecedents, which I gave. Then he said: ‘I have nothing to say against you. I was only afraid lest you should be some Colonial-born adventurer. And the fact that your application was unaccompanied by the original certificate supported my suspicion. There have been men who have made use of diplomas which did not belong to them. The certificates of character from European traders you have submitted have no value for me. What do they know about you? What can be the extent of their acquaintance with you? ‘But,’ said I, ‘everyone here is a stranger to me. Even Sheth Abdulla first came to know me here.’ ‘But then you say he belongs to the same place as you? It your father was Prime Minister there, Sheth Abdulla is bound to know your family. if you were to produce his affidavit, I should have absolutely no objection. I would then gladly communicate to the Law Society my inability to oppose your application.’ This talk enraged me, but I restrained my feelings. ‘If I had attached Dada Abdulla’s certificate.’ said I to myself, ‘it would have been rejected, and they would have asked for Europeans’ certificates. And what has my admission as advocate to do with my birth and my antecedents? How could my birth, whether humble or objectionable, be used against me?’ But I contained myself and quietly replied: continue from here ‘Though I do not admit that the Law Society has any authority to require all these details, I am quite prepared to present the affidavit you desire.’ Sheth Abdulla’s affidavit was prepared and duly submitted to the counsel for the Law Society. He said he was satisfied. But not so the Law Society. it opposed

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  until this day been able to decide whether I was right or wrong in using the ruler. Probably it was improper, for it was prompted by anger and a desire to punish. Had it been an expression only of my distress, I should have considered it justified. But the motive in this case was mixed. This incident set me thinking and taught me a better method of correcting students. I do not know whether that method would have availed on the occasion in question. The youngster soon forgot the incident, and I do not think he ever showed great improvement,. But the incident made me understand better the duty of a teacher towards his pupils. Cases of misconduct on the part of the boys often occurred after this, but I never resorted to corporal punishment. Thus in my endeavour to impart spiritual training to the boys and girls under me, I came to understand better and better the power of the spirit. 114. TARES AMONG THE WHEAT It was at Tolstoy Farm that Mr. Kallenbach drew my attention to a problem that had never before struck me. As I have already said, some of the boys at the Farm were bad and unruly. There were loafers, too, amongst them. With these my three boys came in daily contact, as also did other children of the same type as my own sons. This troubled Mr. Kallenbach, but his attention was centred on the impropriety of keeping my# boys with these unruly youngsters. One day he spoke out: ‘Your way of mixing your own boys with the bad ones does not appeal to me. It can have only one result. They will become demoralized through this bad company.’ I do not remember whether the question puzzled me at the moment, but I recollect what I said to him: ‘How can I distinguish between my boys and the loafers? I am equally responsible for both. The youngsters have come because I invited them. If I were to dismiss them with some money, they would immediately run off to Johannesburg and fall back into their old ways. To tell you the truth, it is quite likely that they and their guardians believe that, by having come here, they have laid me under an obligation. That they have to put up with a good deal of inconvenience here, you and I know very well. But my duty is clear. I must have them here, and therefore my boys also must needs live with them. And surely you do not want me to teach my boys to feel from today that they are superior to other boys. To put that sense of superiority into their heads would be to lead them astray. This association with other boys will be a good discipline for them. They will, of their own accord, learn to discriminate between good and evil. Why should we not believe that, if there is really anything good in them, it is

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I tell thee that Madam Ginevra thy wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about which are maybe half a dozen little hairs as red as gold.' When Bernabo heard this, it was as if he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, such anguish did he feel, and though he had said not a word, his countenance, being all changed, gave very manifest token that what Ambrogiuolo said was true. Then, after awhile, 'Gentlemen,' quoth he, 'that which Ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he having won, let him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be paid.' Accordingly, on the ensuing day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full and Bernabo, departing Paris, betook himself to Genoa with fell intent against the lady. When he drew near the city, he would not enter therein, but lighted down a good score miles away at a country house of his and despatched one of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to Genoa with two horses and letters under his hand, advising his wife that he had returned and bidding her come to him; and he privily charged the man, whenas he should be with the lady in such place as should seem best to him, to put her to death without pity and return to him. The servant accordingly repaired to Genoa and delivering the letters and doing his errand, was received with great rejoicing by the lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out for their country house. As they fared on together, discoursing of one thing and another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he might, with assurance for himself, do his lord's commandment, he pulled out his knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, 'Madam, commend your soul to God, for needs must you die, without faring farther.' The lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was all dismayed and said, 'Mercy, for God's sake! Ere thou slay me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, that thou wouldst put me to death.' 'Madam,' answered the man, 'me you have nowise offended; but wherein you have offended your husband I know not, save that he hath commanded me slay you by the way, without having any pity upon you, threatening me, an I did it not, to have me hanged by the neck. You know well how much I am beholden to him and how I may not gainsay him in aught that he may impose upon me; God knoweth it irketh me for you, but I can no otherwise.' Whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, 'Alack, for God's sake, consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never wronged thee, to serve another! God who knoweth all knoweth that I never did aught for which I should receive such a recompense from my husband.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  He spent all his time in class drawing out, encouraging, and praising the brighter and better-looking boys. I couldn’t even get him to argue with me. He would call on me when my nuisance factor reached a certain level, let me talk as long as I wanted to, stare out the window, then take up where he had left off as soon as I shut up. Coincidentally, Students for Solidarity was running short of targets. Everybody had pulled in and tightened up and battened down so carefully that we were in danger of becoming obsolete. Who needs cops in a law-abiding society? Everyone insisted we had to put this rogue professor up against the wall. We had been assigned reading from the annotated version of Engels’ “The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State.” When I walked into the classroom, I noticed that Roger, the only boy who dared sit in the front row, was not there. When the professor stood to begin his lecture, he seemed to have a cold. “I invite,” he said, “your predictable comments on this so-called piece of history.” I was astonished, and gleefully stood to object. “It would seem to me that you are calling fundamental truths into question,” I said. He actually, for a change, responded to me. He said, “Young lady, you do not know what you are talking about.” The insult was mind-ripping. My single cell of hatred fissioned, and I was hosting a colony of feverishly reproducing and breeding and multiplying rage. He then lambasted what he called the matriarchal “theory.” According to him, there was no evidence to support the belief that women had controlled all pre-industrial cultures. Nor was there any reason to believe that these societies, regardless of who ran them, were any more ecologically balanced, less violent, or more evolved than any other “community of homo sapiens.” He was repeatedly interrupted by a chorus of hisses from all the students. Some of the more timid boys were sneaking out the back door. “Cite your sources!” I shouted at him. He had to answer me. I was the only one saying something instead of drumming my feet on the floor and making a noise like a rabid goose. “If I were allowed to teach any anthropology in this benighted institution, I would!” he shouted back. Was this man having a nervous breakdown? He could not be that stupid. “The very name of that pseudoscientific cult discredits it,” I yelled. “How dare you call yourself a historian?” Another member of StudSolid, this girl who had ignored my tactful suggestion that one observer would attract less attention than two, was drowning us both out by shouting, “Boycott! Walk out! Boycott! Walk out!” And people were doing what she said. The small auditorium was emptying out. I was somehow going in the other direction, down to the front.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Come on, EZ, you been starin’ at her basket all night long, now it’s right in your face and you damn well better look good and hard. ” Michael was not being nice. She ran her tongue around her mouth, pushed down on her cock with two fingers, then wrapped her hand around it and jacked it off. “See, you don’t want to suck it because you figure that makes you pussy, but welcome to the twentieth century, EZ, where it takes a real man to suck cock. Blow it.” Five weapons in female hands circled her head, and the sixth went down her throat. “I am glad to see you’re not pretendin’ you don’t know how this is done,” Kay said calmly. “D’you think none of our tricks ever told me what went on every time I stepped out to take a leak or get a beer? You got quite a reputation, girl, for sneakin’ around doin’ something most people think is American as apple pie. Don’t think you’re gonna hide your light under a bushel no more, cocksucker. We just found something socially useful for that nasty mouth of yours to do.” With her hands behind her back, EZ had very little control over the depth of Michael’s penetration. She tried holding her neck stiff, but the prick of steel against her scalp took the starch right out of her. She gave up and let Michael make full use of her. When they hauled her to her feet, her face was covered with tears and less attractive substances, and Kay took the red bandana off her jacket to mop her off. EZ permitted this, but when Kay reached into her jeans again, she bolted. Michael and Joy caught her by the belt-loops and dragged her back, and Kay slapped her backhanded, a serious penalty when she was wearing all of her rings. EZ had to let that hand worm its way into her crotch and bring up a handful of female lubrication, which Kay smeared across her face. “I just gotta make sure you get brought down a notch or two and stay there,” Kay said, “about at the height of my spurs. See, I think you not only believe that the faggots you suck off will forget all about it, I think you also believe that I forgot how we ever got together in the first place. Tyre, go ask Alex if there’s any room on the horse.” “No!” EZ shouted. “Not ever there. Not by her. I won’t! You can’t make me!” “Nonsense, dear,” Anne-Marie said, and they dragged her bodily to where Alex stood, beckoning them to join her, and threw her onto the horse by Roxanne. “This is not consensual!”

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "I shall if I possibly can. I should be fearfully proud if I had a child by him." It was no use talking to her. Hilda pondered. "And doesn't Clifford suspect?" she said. "Oh, no! Why should he?" "I've no doubt you've given him plenty of occasion for suspicion," said Hilda. "Not at all." "And tonight's business seems quite gratuitous folly. Where does the man live?" "In the cottage at the other end of the wood." "Is he a bachelor?" "No! His wife left him." "How old?" "I don't know. Older than me." Hilda became more angry at every reply, angry as her mother used to be, in a kind of paroxysm. But still she hid it. "I would give up tonight's escapade if I were you," she advised calmly. "I can't! I _must_ stay with him tonight, or I can't go to Venice at all. I just can't." Hilda heard her father over again, and she gave way, out of mere diplomacy. And she consented to drive to Mansfield, both of them, to dinner, to bring Connie back to the lane-end after dark, and to fetch her from the lane-end the next morning, herself sleeping in Mansfield, only half an hour away, good going. But she was furious. She stored it up against her sister, this baulk in her plans. Connie flung an emerald-green shawl over her window sill. On the strength of her anger, Hilda warmed towards Clifford. After all, he had a mind. And if he had no sex, functionally, all the better: so much the less to quarrel about! Hilda wanted no more of that sex business, where men became nasty, selfish little horrors. Connie really had less to put up with than many women, if she did but know it. And Clifford decided that Hilda, after all, was a decidedly intelligent woman, and would make a man a first-rate helpmeet, if he were going in for politics for example. Yes, she had none of Connie's silliness, Connie was more a child: you had to make excuses for her, because she was not altogether dependable. There was an early cup of tea in the hall, where doors were open to let in the sun. Everybody seemed to be panting a little. "Good-bye, Connie girl! Come back to me safely." "Good-bye, Clifford! Yes, I shan't be long." Connie was almost tender. "Good-bye, Hilda! You will keep an eye on her, won't you?" "I'll even keep two!" said Hilda. "She shan't go very far astray." "It's a promise!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Bolton! I know you'll look after Sir Clifford nobly." "I'll do what I can, your Ladyship." "And write to me if there is any news, and tell me about Sir Clifford, how he is." "Very good, your Ladyship, I will. And have a good time, and come back and cheer us up."

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  She ran more along Roxanne’s armpits and down her sides, on the inside of her thighs, and across her belly. Wherever she could find enough loose flesh to give the clothespins purchase, she fastened them on. Roxanne began to strain against the ropes. Joy had gotten so absorbed in positioning the clamps that she had forgotten to talk to her, keep her involved and excited. Only the force of her training and the look in Joy’s eye kept Roxanne from saying the words that would release her from bondage. Chris saw that her energy was flagging and moved in on them. She knelt by the foot of the cross and began to massage Roxanne’s clit. Joy stepped back and called for a beer. One of the pack supplied her. She stood in silence, surveying her handiwork and Chris, patiently working Roxanne back up into a state of arousal and need. “Her feet are cold,” Chris said. Joy moved behind the cross and loosened the secondary ropes that kept Roxanne cinched extra-tight to it. The tightly-trussed girl sighed with gratitude and moved a little, easing blood back into her cramped limbs. Chris’s fingers moved between her lips, around her clit, confident and careful. “Shall I let her come?” Chris asked Joy, acknowledging her preeminence. Joy thought a minute, carefully assessing Roxanne’s mindset and the degree of her fatigue. “A little, yeah, that would be good,” she agreed. Chris quickened her manipulations, rendered them a little more forceful, a little more demanding. Roxanne was possessed by a wave of indignation. Let her come “a little!” She wanted to come a lot! She wanted to have one final gigantic orgasm that would be so dramatic and beautiful that they would stop this whole thing and take her down. But Chris would not give her the strokes she needed to achieve complete release. Instead, she felt a flicker of pleasure run briefly through her body. It was over too soon, and left her wanting more. She told them both so, in no uncertain terms. They laughed at her indignation, and returned to drink beer and consider her future. She spat her frustration at them, and they did not even deign to slap her. “She looks good,” Alex complimented Joy. “I don’t see a single bald spot.” Joy grinned. “In another minute, she’ll start thinkin’ about getting them off. And for her, to think a thing is to say it mos’ loudly. She been played with clamps much?” “Enough to know that they hurt worse when they come off than they do on.” Joyous Day laughed until she coughed. Alex patted her gently on the back, then hugged her tight. “Hey, I think she’s getting antsy.” “Too bad,” Joy chuckled. “Never hurts to let them simmer. Makes those tough cuts get so tender they just fall apart in dere own gravy.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But now let us leave this and look somewhat to the first principles of things, whereby thou wilt see that we all get our flesh from one same stock and that all souls were by one same Creator created with equal faculties, equal powers and equal virtues. Worth it was that first distinguished between us, who were all and still are born equal; wherefore those who had and used the greatest sum thereof were called noble and the rest abode not noble. And albeit contrary usance hath since obscured this primary law, yet is it nowise done away nor blotted out from nature and good manners; wherefore he who doth worthily manifestly showeth himself a gentleman, and if any call him otherwise, not he who is called, but he who calleth committeth default. Look among all thy gentlemen and examine into their worth, their usances and their manners, and on the other hand consider those of Guiscardo; if thou wilt consent to judge without animosity, thou wilt say that he is most noble and that these thy nobles are all churls. With regard to his worth and virtue, I trusted not to the judgment of any other, but to that of thy words and of mine own eyes. Who ever so commended him as thou didst in all those praiseworthy things wherefor a man of worth should be commended? And certes not without reason; for, if mine eyes deceived me not, there was no praise given him of thee which I saw him not justify by deeds, and that more admirably than thy words availed to express; and even had I suffered any deceit in this, it is by thyself I should have been deceived. An, then, thou say that I have committed myself with a man of mean condition, thou sayst not sooth; but shouldst thou say with a poor man, it might peradventure be conceded thee, to thy shame who hast so ill known to put a servant of thine and a man of worth in good case; yet poverty bereaveth not any of gentilesse; nay, rather, wealth it is that doth this. Many kings, many great princes were once poor and many who delve and tend sheep were once very rich. The last doubt that thou broachest, to wit, what thou shouldst do with me, drive it away altogether; an thou in thine extreme old age be disposed to do that which thou usedst not, being young, namely, to deal cruelly, wreak thy cruelty upon me, who am minded to proffer no prayer unto thee, as being the prime cause of this sin, if sin it be; for of this I certify thee, that whatsoever thou hast done or shalt do with Guiscardo, an thou do not the like with me, mine own hands shall do it. Now begone; go shed tears with women and waxing cruel, slay him and me with one same blow, an it seem to thee we have deserved it.'

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Suddenly that was a very good idea. Chris sat heavily on one end of the shelf at the foot of the cross while Joy began the laborious task of undoing her human macramé project. After checking Chris’s pulse and patting her on the head, Anne-Marie gave Joy a hand. “This is so much more entertaining than staying home and knitting sweaters,” she said cozily. Chris had drunk a pint of seltzer and given Roxanne the rest of the bottle before she could be taken down from the cross. Joy and Chris linked arms behind her shoulders and under her knees, and carried her away. The three of them wound up on the same mat that Kay had taken her to. Roxanne sat in Chris’s lap, her legs thrown across Joy’s thighs. Chris cradled her, hid her face from the light and the future. Some of her welts were bleeding slowly, but her breathing was peaceful and untroubled. “It’s a miracle,” Joy said, rubbing her feet. “Look. No holes.” “This reminds me more of St Sebastian,” Chris said. Roxanne was a satisfying weight. She wanted to hold her until she healed completely and then do it all over again. Alex stood above them. She was obviously not going to wait that long. Her face was a storm cloud. She squatted and went to pass a hand over Roxanne’s flank. Chris tried to deflect her, and Joy hissed. Alex hesitated, then stood and turned her back on them. Was this the way it was going to end? Tyre and Michael filtered over, their bouncer-instincts warning them that trouble was brewing. There were far too many toys that could become deadly weapons in this room to allow tempers to flare. But it was Anne-Marie who defused the situation, calling from the cross, “Oh, Joyous Day, where shall I stow all this lovely line?” Joy took the hint and slid out from under Roxanne’s feet, patted her goodbye, and went to put away her ropes. Her departure seemed to wake Chris up, and she turned Roxanne’s face to the light. “We have company,” she told Roxanne tenderly. Alex made her fists unknot and approached them once again, but this time she did not go to her haunches. She wound her fist in Roxanne’s hair and yanked her off the mat and onto all fours. “Get that fucking strap off your neck,” she told her, quietly furious. Roxanne was forced to let most of her upper-body weight hang from her hair while she used both hands to rip Kay’s collar off her throat. Kay saved her from the dilemma of what to do with it by plucking it from her fingers. Everyone was trying to be handy and inconspicuous at the same time. The storm finally broke when Alex’s palm connected with Roxanne’s rump. It was a thunderclap that heralded a downpour of blows. Chris went white as a sheet and lunged at Alex.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  land for building, and many raised themselves from the status of labourers to that of owners of land and houses. Merchants from India followed them and settled there for trade. The late Sheth Abubakar Amod was first among them. He soon built up an extensive business. The white traders were alarmed. When they first welcomed the Indian labourers, they had not reckoned with their business skill. They might be tolerated as independent agriculturists, but their competition in trade could not be brooked. This sowed the seed of the antagonism to Indians. Many other factors contributed to its growth. Our different ways of living, our simplicity, our contentment with small gains, our indifference to the laws of hygiene and sanitation, our slowness in keeping our surroundings clean and tidy, and our stinginess in keeping our houses in good repair all these, combined with the difference in religion, contributed to fan the flame of antagonism. Through legislation this antagonism found its expression in the disfranchising bill and the bill to impose a tax on the indentured Indians. Independent of legislation a number of pinpricks had already been started. The first suggestion was that the Indian labourers should be forcibly repatriated, so that the term of their indentures might expire in India. The Government of India was not likely to accept the suggestion. Another proposal was therefore made to the effect that 1. The indentured labourer should return to India on the expiry of his indenture; or that 2. he should sign a fresh indenture every two years, an increment being given at each renewal; and that 3. in the case of his refusal to return to India or renew the indenture he should

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Maybe I am. The moon never talked to me, and neither did Jesus, but is sounds like he understood criminals and poor people. “If you’re going to take it to the collective,” I hiss, “surely you ought to have all the information. Don’t you want to know what I told her? After she got down on her knees in the alley and started licking my belt buckle? Huh?” I get my hand near my crotch and make a suggestive, masturbatory motion. Her eyes rivet themselves to my hand. She rearranges her big fanny nervously on the chair. “I called her a queer,” I chant, “a cunt-sucking little lezzie, a dyke, a boot-licking slut. And you might also tell your collective that her spit was running down my leg and dripping on the ground until there was a puddle underneath my boots, and she was so excited she pissed herself.” “Stop!” she shrieks. “Shit, if your process is worth anything, I think I ought to show up and introduce myself and tell the whole story to everybody.” I grab my crotch and squeeze it. “When’s your next meeting?” We stare at each other, perfectly matched in our hatred. She drops her eyes to go hunting for a rubber stamp. It says “REJECTED,” and she stomps on my application with it and throws the page at me. I catch it as it slaloms through the air. “You are scum,” she says, trying to sound calm and dispassionate. Her watermelon tits, the kind that look so nice when they are tied up, are thumping on her stomach, she is so upset. “When the bureau sends me leeches like you, I grieve for the decent and valiant women who laid down their lives for the sake of freedom.” I have no quick answer to that. I know I will probably spend all night trying to think of one, so I spit on the floor. Then I take my time hitching my pants up and settling my belt on my hips. She is tracking the faded patch of denim over my pussy, her mouth open. She starts to whisper, “You foul-mouthed traitor to your sex, wallowing in the garbage and the misery left in our very souls by ten thousand years of male domination.” One of her hands wanders off and finds a heavy crystal paperweight, the only pretty thing in the whole office. I get my ass out of there double-time, never you mind that is has been rimmed a hundred times by the decent and valiant daughters of the revolution. I run to the elevator and punch the button. There is no response.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "I shall if I possibly can. I should be fearfully proud if I had a child by him." It was no use talking to her. Hilda pondered. "And doesn't Clifford suspect?" she said. "Oh, no! Why should he?" "I've no doubt you've given him plenty of occasion for suspicion," said Hilda. "Not at all." "And tonight's business seems quite gratuitous folly. Where does the man live?" "In the cottage at the other end of the wood." "Is he a bachelor?" "No! His wife left him." "How old?" "I don't know. Older than me." Hilda became more angry at every reply, angry as her mother used to be, in a kind of paroxysm. But still she hid it. "I would give up tonight's escapade if I were you," she advised calmly. "I can't! I _must_ stay with him tonight, or I can't go to Venice at all. I just can't." Hilda heard her father over again, and she gave way, out of mere diplomacy. And she consented to drive to Mansfield, both of them, to dinner, to bring Connie back to the lane-end after dark, and to fetch her from the lane-end the next morning, herself sleeping in Mansfield, only half an hour away, good going. But she was furious. She stored it up against her sister, this baulk in her plans. Connie flung an emerald-green shawl over her window sill. On the strength of her anger, Hilda warmed towards Clifford. After all, he had a mind. And if he had no sex, functionally, all the better: so much the less to quarrel about! Hilda wanted no more of that sex business, where men became nasty, selfish little horrors. Connie really had less to put up with than many women, if she did but know it. And Clifford decided that Hilda, after all, was a decidedly intelligent woman, and would make a man a first-rate helpmeet, if he were going in for politics for example. Yes, she had none of Connie's silliness, Connie was more a child: you had to make excuses for her, because she was not altogether dependable. There was an early cup of tea in the hall, where doors were open to let in the sun. Everybody seemed to be panting a little. "Good-bye, Connie girl! Come back to me safely." "Good-bye, Clifford! Yes, I shan't be long." Connie was almost tender. "Good-bye, Hilda! You will keep an eye on her, won't you?" "I'll even keep two!" said Hilda. "She shan't go very far astray." "It's a promise!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Bolton! I know you'll look after Sir Clifford nobly." "I'll do what I can, your Ladyship." "And write to me if there is any news, and tell me about Sir Clifford, how he is." "Very good, your Ladyship, I will. And have a good time, and come back and cheer us up."

• From Understanding the Old Testament (2019)

  l e Ct Ure 10 | d e Uteronomy to Kings 59 The Historical Picture The Early Iron Age covers the years from 1200 to 1000 BCE. During the previous era, the Late Bronze Age, all of Canaan was ruled by Egypt. Beginning around 1200, Egypt became consumed with internal matters. The Egyptians kept control of parts of Canaan until 1150, by which time everything was independent. This allowed several different groups to expand in different parts of the country, generally getting along well with each other. In the Canaanite communities—including the cities on the coast and Jezreel Valley—town mayors became independent kings. They had control of the coastal highway route up to Jerusalem, which remained a Canaanite city. They did not call the city Jerusalem during this period. They called it Jebus. It was surrounded on the north, east, and south by Israelites. The entire area from Jerusalem almost to Jenin—the entire northern half of the modern West Bank—was dotted with small villages belonging to the Israelites in the Early Iron Age. That’s what the archaeology tells us, and it’s also the background for the entire book of Judges. The Pattern of Judges The book of Judges is not necessarily arranged chronologically. Its second chapter sets out a pattern by which the book will present, in turn, each of the judges. The pattern starts in Judges 2:11 with Israelites prostrating themselves to other gods, which the text calls “doing what was evil in the Lord’s sight.” This invariably was followed by God’s anger and the Israelites being handed over to their oppressors, which is seen in verse 13: Because they had abandoned the Lord … the anger of the Lord flared up against Israel. He delivered them into the power of plunderers who despoiled them, sold them into the power of the enemies around them. They were no longer able to withstand their enemies. Whenever they marched out, the hand of the Lord turned against them.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  A TUSSLE WITH POWER To turn now to the Asiatic Department. Johannesburg was the stronghold of the Asiatic officers. I had been observing that, far from protecting the Indians, Chinese and others, these officers were grinding them down. Every day I had complaints like this: ‘The rightful ones are not admitted, whilst those who have no right are smuggled in on payment of 100. If you will not remedy this state of things, who will?’ I shared the feeling. If I did not succeed in stamping out this evil, I should be living in the Transvaal in vain. So I began to collect evidence, and as soon as I had gathered a fair Amount, I approached the Police Commissioner. He appeared to be a just man. Far from giving me the cold shoulder, he listened to me patiently and asked me to show him all the evidence in my possession. He examined the witnesses himself and was satisfied, but he knew as well as I that it was difficult in South Africa to get a white jury to convict a white offender against coloured men. ‘But,’ said he, ‘let us try at any rate. It is not proper either, to let such criminals go scot-free for fear of the jury acquitting them, I must get them arrested. I assure you I shall leave no stone unturned.’ I did not need the assurance. I suspected quite a number of officers, but as I had no unchallengeable evidence against them all, warrants of arrest were issued against the two about whose guilt I had not the slightest doubt. My movements could never be kept secret. Many knew that I was going to the Police Commissioner practically daily. The two officers against whom warrants had been issued had spies more or less efficient. They used to patrol my office