Anxiety

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.

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• From Emotional Beats: How to Easily Convert your Writing into Palpable Feelings (2018)

  When he dropped his hands back onto his knees with a slap, his hair was sticking up where he had ruffled it and his eyes looked wide, if not a little manic.She closed her eyes and summoned a deep breath, holding it in. Turning her head a fraction, as though straining to hear the notes of a song playing softly in the air, she looked blindly skyward.She looked like someone had just walked over her grave.Her voice whipped him back.Her face was blotchy, as if she’d been crying.He looked away and delicately pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes.Tears streaked down her face.She scratched her nose/head.He rubbed his forehead.She pinched the bridge of her nose.She cringed.He shuddered.She flinched.She shivered.She trembled.His body shook.She cowered.She shrank away from him.He huddled in the corner.She stiffened.She pulled a face of shock.She wrinkled her nose, stuck her hip out and folded her arms.He whipped his head around to face her.She jerked her head back.She turned her face away.Her mouth was bone dry.Fear etched his features.She rubbed her temples.Her head bobbed nervously.Nervous whispers and giggles fluttered freely in the hot air.Her head went to wagging back and forth.She worked up one of those smiles the simpleminded get for no particular reason.His tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his dried lips.Blood and all its heat left her face and settled in her feet.HairPeople often play with their hair when nervous (keep in mind that they may also do this when flirting). For example: She ran her hand through her hair.He threaded a hand through his hair.He raked his fingers through his hair.He shoved his hair back away from his face.She toyed/played with a lock of hair.She twirled her hair.She wrapped a curl around her finger.She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.She undid her ponytail and shook out her hair.She tossed her hair.He buried his hands in his hair.He stroked his beard.He scratched his beard.A chilling voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck.Every hair on his scalp stood to attention, every skin cell tingled, every neuron fired.The hairs on the back of his neck kept tingling in a way that signified he was being watched.The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.His words brought up the hairs on the back of her neck.The hairs on his arm itched beneath his cotton shirt.He stabbed his fingers through his hair.His hair was disheveled from raking his fingers through it repeatedly.He rubbed his fingers through his hair like his head had a pain deep inside.

• From Vox (1992)

  “Yes. I let her into the apartment, and the way my apartment is laid out, there is a very short entryway with a kitchen that opens on the left, and then you’re immediately in the living room—so she walked ahead of me into the living room, and even though I was careful not to turn on any lights in there, still, there was the couch against one wall and there was the VCR on a table against another wall, and it was as if there was this phosphorescent dotted line connecting the two things, they were linked, nothing else in the room counted, and I saw her turn quickly toward me so as not to face the living room quite yet, and she put down the bag with the blanket—oh, I forgot one other important thing that happened in the car. I parked the car in back of my apartment building, and I went around and opened the door for her, and she handed me the bag with the blanket and People magazine in it, and then she got out, and then—and for some reason this seemed exactly right—she held her arms out for me to hand her the blanket bag again. It had become somehow hers to carry. I held the tape, she held the blanket. Anyway, she put the bag down in the middle of the living room, and she said, ‘So, will you give me the grand tour ?’ And the conventionality of ‘grand tour’ showed how nervous she was, but she was one of those people who are improved by being nervous, you know?—who are nervous in a way that makes your detection of their nervousness seem like a privilege. So I showed her the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom—she nodded knowingly at the magnets on my refrigerator—beautifully nervous. I listed off what I could offer her to drink, and she said she wanted orange herb tea and she went in the bathroom. So I put two cups of orange herb tea in the microwave. Normally I make only one cup, of course, and I put it on two minutes, but I figured four minutes to handle the extra volume of water, but it was a bit too long, and the water was very hot. I walked out with the two teas and saw her again in the living room, with her back to me: she had been linking at the TV—it’s just a dinky Malaysian TV, somehow everybody still thinks that if you have a VCR, that means you’ve got to have a TV worthy of it—but I don’t know, I think maybe even the smallness was right for that evening. But anyway she slid her purse off her arm and put it on the rug next to an armchair on the wall farthest away from the couch, and took off her shoes and put them next to her purse—establishing a little separate non-couch locus for herself.

• From Girls & Sex (2016)

  As a parent, I am all for harm reduction. So I will absolutely explain to my daughter the particular effects of alcohol on the female body. I will explain how predators leverage that difference by using liquor itself as a date rape drug, and how bingeing increases everyone’s vulnerability to a variety of health and safety concerns. I know that getting loaded can seem an easy way to reduce social anxiety, help you feel like you fit in, quiet the nagging voice in your head of paralytic self-doubt. Still, knocking back six shots in an hour in order to have fun—or, for that matter, to prove you are fun—is, perhaps, overkill. Nor is it ideal to gin up courage to have sex that would otherwise feel too “awkward”—even if the results are consensual, the sex will probably suck. Two people who are lit may both behave in a manner they will later regret—or not fully remember, making consent difficult to determine. Should that constitute assault? Students themselves are divided. Nearly everyone in a 2015 Washington Post/Kaiser Family Foundation poll of current and former college students agreed that sex with someone who is incapacitated or passed out is rape (a huge and welcome cultural shift). But if both people are incapacitated? Only about one in five agree; roughly the same percentage say that is not assault, and nearly 60 percent are unsure. That’s understandable, given the paradox of students’ sexual lives: drunkenness is obligatory for hookups, yet liquor negates consent. There are bright lines—lots of them—and they are too often crossed. But there are also situations that are confusing and complicated for everyone. Recall Holly, who mixed Red Bull and shots (a combination that makes a person appear deceptively sober) before blacking out? Maybe she seemed coherent and eager to have sex; maybe her partner was equally drunk and oblivious; maybe he was stone-cold sober and consciously targeted her; she’ll never know.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Fifteen minutes, a man said. The crowd shifted forward. I put a hand in my pocket, and I felt a twist of plastic wrap I’d forgotten bringing. It was a small bundle of prescribed sedatives, pills I’d grabbed at the last minute because Phoebe and I planned to stay in the city that night. I had enough trouble sleeping that I relied on these pills, the bottle’s festive castanet rattle a promise, preludial to rest. Though I hadn’t tried taking them except at night, before I went to bed, the pills also tranquilized. I could use a little extra calm, I thought. I opened the cellophane. To rush the effect, I chewed the pills. – The march began. We’d been asked to walk in silence. Phoebe stayed close to me, a light hand at my back. The first time we showered in a shared stall, she’d pointed out the indent of my spine. This, she said. Here. She’d traced the rill, following the line down to my ass. I hadn’t conceived, before then, of having a back worth noticing: now I did, the skin gilded with Phoebe’s sight. This situation, well, it was a crisis. The girl I loved was in a cult—and that’s what it is, I thought, a cult. It was a problem, but I’d solve it, because I was intelligent. The sun’s heat intensified. Disquiet thawed until, tranquil, awash, I almost sympathized with these people. If I were convinced that abortion killed, I, too, might think I had to stop the licit holocaust. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d believed as they did. In fact, I pitied them. Goodwill toward all, I thought. While driving down from Noxhurst, I’d asked Phoebe, at last, if she agreed with the protest’s object, having abortions outlawed. It isn’t what I want to think, she’d said, but a fetus has a pulse within a month of fertilization. It’s alive. We marched awhile before the pill’s effect changed shape. I’d been watching protest signs bob past, marveling at bloodied photos, when a fetus jumped down. Others followed, flailing. Infant fists lifted; placentas writhed like tails, trailing dots of blood. One fell inches from my foot. I squatted, and I picked it up to prevent its being trampled. It was small, not quite spanning my hand, so I retrieved a second twisting fetus, then a third. Phoebe crouched down with me. What’s wrong? she whispered.

• From Hot Rods: Gay Erotic Stories (2011)

  Walking toward me is a younger version of Sonny, what he must have looked like when he first put on his hard hat forty years ago. Six foot at least, broad shoulders, thick neck. No gut—that’ll come later after a few years spent drowning his fears in pitchers at O’Malley’s after work, if he makes it. For the time being his stomach is flat, hips lean. He’s wearing a dark blue flannel shirt and stiff jeans that look brand new. Enjoy the feeling while it lasts, kid. They’re going to be covered in mud and soaked in sweat by quitting time. “I’m Billy,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. It’s big, like the rest of him, but soft. Not a single fucking callus, although his grip is strong. Well, that’ll change soon enough. Those smooth palms will be sprouting blood blisters by the end of the day. If he lasts that long—most don’t. They’ll go topside at lunchtime and never come back. Billy tried college but hated it, and decided to follow in his dad’s footsteps. We’ll see if this is just another thing he quits. “Ready to go?” I ask, looking into Billy’s dark blue eyes. I’m still sizing him up, looking for weaknesses, for anything that’ll give me a clue as to whether he’s going to make it or be crying for his mama before noon. I see nervousness masked by Brooklyn cockiness, a cool I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me flash in his eyes and a tight, thin smile on his lips. Well, you can’t fool me, kid. Don’t bother with the tough-guy attitude—I know better. I’ve seen too many boys like you go down, full of piss and vinegar, only to come up an hour later shaking and puking on the toes of their brand-new rubber boots. “Okay, then. Let’s go. Flip your tag,” I order, nodding toward the Check-In/ Check-Out board. Billy takes a minute to find his name on the pegboard. Under each man’s name is a double-sided hangtag. Green side means you’re topside, red means you’ve gone down into the belly of the beast. We have to flip the tags on the way down and when we get back up—it’s the law. In reality, it’s the only way the contractor will know which bodies to look for if something goes wrong down there, although I refrain from mentioning that tidbit of information to Billy. No sense in having him shit his pants before we even get down. I lead Billy over to the cage, the narrow, metal-grated elevator that will take us into the shaft. This is it, the moment of truth. Once the cage gets deep enough where the surface is so far above your head that you can’t see the sky or feel the air moving, a man is forced to be truthful with himself. It’s in that moment that he finds out if he’s got the balls for this kind of work.

• From Emotional Beats: How to Easily Convert your Writing into Palpable Feelings (2018)

  HandsShe drummed her fingers on the table.He tapped his fingers on the table.He fidgeted.She rubbed her hands on her thighs.An icy panic started to creep up his extremities and into his chest.She tugged at her earlobe.He bit a nail.She chewed on a cuticle.She picked at her nails.She inspected her fingernails.She fiddled with her earring/bracelet.He twisted the wedding ring on his finger.She played with her cell phone.He wrung his hands in front of his body.Raising her hands, she momentarily hugged herself.He folded his hands in front of him on the table.He folded his hands over his chest/over his vest.She shoved her hands in her pockets.He jammed his hands in his front pockets.She folded her arms.He crossed his arms over his chest.She hugged herself.He wrapped his arms around himself.He moved his elbow to scratch an intolerable itch in the crook of his arm.Heart and bloodHis heart pounded hard in his chest.Her h e a rt b e a t so f a st, she t h ought i t would pop out of her c h e st.Her heart leaped like a wild stag in her throat.Her heart rate kicked up a notch.Her heart was rapping against her ribs, ringing in her ears.Her heart beat like a drum in her chest.Her heart thudded in her chest.Her chest heaved in and out.His chest heaved to the point that he groaned with each breath.Fear clenched like a tight first around her chest.His heart thudded louder and louder.A weight seemed to press on her chest, robbing her of breath.A tendril of panic seized his chest.The ache in her chest almost seemed to explode then.Panic engulfed him.His heart thumped against his rib cage. It fought for space in his chest with the air frozen in his lungs. His heart beat double-time.It made his blood boil.It made his blood curdle.His heart felt like a fist pounding the inside of his chest.Her heart kicked a ruckus in her chest, mingling fear and excitement with her blood. LaughterHe let out a joyless/mirthless chuckle.She gave a nervous laugh.He broke into a mirthless laugh.Legs and feetHe paced up and down the room.She shifted from one foot to the other.He swayed on his feet.She jiggled her foot.He swung his leg.She shifted her weight against the floor.She crossed her legs.She dragged her feet.She shifted her weight between feet and rocked from side to side, like a boxer keeping his muscles warm before the bell.He rocked on his heels, considering his reply.He took an involuntary step backward.Panic set me atop a pair of shaky twigs that used to be my legs.

• From Emotional Beats: How to Easily Convert your Writing into Palpable Feelings (2018)

  Consider instead some of these alternatives to portray worry: FrownsDissatisfaction plowed his brow.Up went his eyebrows.One heavy eyebrow slanted in strong disapproval.His expression slid into a frown.His brow furrowed.Her knitted eyebrows told me she did not believe me.Her forced nod of agreement told me I had failed to convince her.His forehead creased with worry.He had a little furrow between his eyebrows as he thought.A deep frown crossed / creased his brow.He scrunched his nose.Her face scrunched up in worry.He wrinkled his nose.A worried expression marred her face.He knitted his eyebrows.H e r f u r ro we d br o w told me she w a s be g i nning t o wo r r y.Th e r e w a s a d e e p- s e t f r own on h e r f a ce.His eyes narrowed as his eyebrows pulled together.His eyebrows drew together in an anguished expression.His eyebrows pulled together in question.“This is bad,” she muttered, lines in between her eyebrows.Her brow puckered threateningly.His brow furrowed as his mouth turned grim.His brow knitted into a frown.Bushy eyebrows beetled.She furrowed her brow, alarm bells ringing in her head.Her forehead creased with concern.He knitted his eyebrows together in puzzlement.Worry lined his forehead.A deep furrow got tangled in his brow.His brow furrowed as if ideas bumped headlong into his mind.His brows edged close to each other as he spoke.Signs of troubleExcept for a frown, you can use any of the following to depict a troubled character: She rocked back and forth.His head lowered, he watched his feet step one after the other, his hands clasped behind his back to keep from trembling.Slowly, he rose to his feet and proceeded to walk with hands clasped behind his back.He covered his eyes with a hand.She pressed her fingers to her lips.He held his finger up to his lips.He rubbed his chin.His face fell the slightest bit.She reclined on the sofa and pressed her fingertips against her shut eyes, like they might roll off, should she lose diligence.Her spine jerked her upright.He forced his spine upright.She shook her head as if that would bring her clarity.She shook the cobwebs from her head.Concern grew on his face as he listened. PART 2: BODY PARTS The eyes have itAs the saying goes, eyes are the window to the soul. They are also a writer’s best friend, as they can convey a wide variety of emotions. The only thing you need to watch out for is using overworn words: doesn’t “he gaped, unable to peel his gaze off the woman” sound better than “he stared at her”?

• From Vox (1992)

  19 again, naturally, and I thought for a second, and I hit the redial button, and a different woman answered, with a much lower and smarter voice, with some name like Vulva, and I said, 'Vulva, I have what may sound like an unorthodox question, and you don't have to answer it if you don't want to. But what I'm curious about is, well, of the men who order from your catalog, do you think some of them are in a subtle or maybe not-so-subtle way obscene phone callers?' She laughed and she said, That's a good question.' And then there was a long pause, a very long pause. I said, 'Hello?' And right there I knew I'd blown it—I knew the tone of my hello, that slight reed- iness in my voice that betrayed sexual tension, blew away the potential rapport I might have had with Vulva. See, I'd sounded quite confident when I actually asked her the question." "What did she say?" "She just said, in a more official voice, but still a friendly voice, 'I don't think I'm going to answer your question.' And I said, 'Fine, I understand, okay, sure.' And she said 'Bye.' Not 'Good-bye,' you notice—still the slight vestige of amused intimacy there. If she'd said 'Good-bye' I would have felt absolutely crushed." "What did you do then?" "I sat up and ordered a pizza and read the paper. So you see, I'm not an obscene phone caller, really. I can't smother an orgasm." "Ho ho. I can," she said.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  On THE drive home Mary held Stephen’s hand. ‘I enjoyed my- self awfully, didn’t you? Only —’ and she frowned; ‘ only will it last? I mean, we mustn’t forget Lady Massey. But he’s so nice, and I liked the old aunt .. .’ Stephen said firmly: ‘ Of course it will last.” Then she lied. ‘ I enjoyed it very much too.’ . And even as she lied she came to a resolve which seemed so strange that she flinched a little, for never before since they had been lovers, had she thought of this girl as apart from herself. Yet now she resolved that Mary should go to Passy again — but should go without her. Sitting back in the car she half closed her eyes; just at that moment she did not want to speak lest her voice should betray that flinching to Mary. CHAPTER 53 I ITH Martin’s return Stephen realized how very deeply she had missed him; how much she still needed the thing he now offered, how long indeed she had starved for just this — the friendship of a normal and sympathetic man whose mentality being very much her own, was not only welcome but reassuring. Yes, strange though it was, with this normal man she was far more at ease than with Jonathan Brockett, far more at one with all his ideas, and at times far less conscious of her own inversion; though it seemed that Martin had not only read, but had thought a great deal about the subject. He spoke very little of his studies, however, just accepting her now for the thing that she was, with- out question, and accepting most of her friends with a courtesy as innocent of patronage as of any suspicion of morbid interest. And thus it was that in these first days they appeared to have achieved a complete reunion. Only sometimes, when Mary would talk to him freely as she did very often of such people as Wanda, of the night life of the cafés and bars of Paris — most of which it transpired he himself had been to — of the tragedy of Barbara and Jamie that was never very far from her thoughts, even although a most perfect spring was hurrying forward towards the summer —when Mary would talk to him of these things, Martin would look rather gravely at Stephen. But now they seldom went to the bars, for Martin provided recreations that were really much more to Mary’s liking. Martin the kindly, the thoroughly normal, seemed never at a loss as to what they should do or where they should go when in search of pleasure. By now he knew Paris extremely well, and the Paris he showed them during that spring came as a complete revelation to Mary. He would often take them to dine in the Bois. At the neighbouring tables would be men and women; neat, well 482 THE WELL OF LONELINESS

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She had never cared for these parties before, but now she was clumsily trying to escape, for a few hours at least, from the pain of existence. Barbara usually stayed at home or spent the evening with Stephen and Mary. But Stephen and Mary would not always be there, for now they also went out fairly often; and where was there to go to except the bars? Nowhere else could two women dance together without causing comment and ridicule, without being looked upon as freaks, argued Mary. So rather than let the girl go without her, Stephen would lay aside her work—she had recently started to write her fourth novel. Sometimes, it is true, their friends came to them, a less sordid and far less exhausting business; but even at their own house the drink was too free: ‘We can’t be the only couple to refuse to give people a brandy and soda,’ said Mary, ‘Valérie’s parties are awfully dull; that’s because she’s allowed herself to grow cranky!’ And thus, very gradually just at first, Mary’s finer perceptions began to coarsen. 3 The months passed, and now more than a year had slipped by, yet Stephen’s novel remained unfinished; for Mary’s face stood between her and her work—surely the mouth and the eyes had hardened? Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged wearily round to the bars and cafés, observing with growing anxiety that Mary now drank as did all the others—not too much perhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook on existence. The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the grip of a rather tearful reaction: ‘It’s too beastly—why do we do it?’ she would ask. And Stephen would answer: ‘God knows I don’t want to, but I won’t let you go to such places without me. Can’t we give it all up? It’s appallingly sordid!’ Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood changing as she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have no friends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the world crush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris, whose fault was that? Not hers and not Stephen’s. Oh, no, it was the fault of the Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had closed their doors, so afraid were they of contamination! Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching her sorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequate answer. 4 That winter Barbara fell very ill. Jamie rushed round to the house one morning, hatless, and with deeply tormented eyes: ‘Mary, please come—Barbara can’t get up, it’s a pain in her side. Oh, my God—we quarrelled . . .’ Her voice was shrill and she spoke very fast: ‘Listen—last night—there was snow on the ground, it was cold—I was angry . . .

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But in spite of all this Stephen’s figure was handsome in a flat, broad-shouldered and slim flanked fashion; and her move- ments were purposeful, having fine poise, she moved with the easy assurance of the athlete. Her hands, although large for a woman, were slender and meticulously tended; she was proud of her hands. In face she had changed very little since childhood, still having Sir Philip’s wide, tolerant expression. What change there was only tended to strengthen the extraordinary likeness between father and daughter, for now that the bones of her face showed more clearly, as the childish fullness had gradually diminished, the formation of the resolute jaw was Sir Philip’s. His too the strong chin with its shade of a cleft; the well modelled, sensitive lips were his also. A fine face, very pleasing, yet with something about it that went ill with the hats on which Anna insisted — large hats trimmed with ribbons or roses or daisies, and supposed to be softening to the features. Staring at her own reflection in the glass, Stephen would feel just a little uneasy: ‘4m I queer looking or not?’ she would wonder, ‘ Suppose I wore my hair more like Mother’s?,’ and 78 THE WELL OF LONELINESS then she would undo her splendid, thick hair, and would part it in the middle and draw it back loosely. The result was always far from becoming, so that Stephen would hastily plait it again. She now wore the plait screwed up very tightly in the nape of her neck with a bow of black ribbon. Anna hated this fashion and constantly said so, but Stephen was stubborn: ‘ I’ve tried your way, Mother, and I look like a scare- crow; you're beautiful, darling, but your young daughter isn’t, which is jolly hard on you.’ ‘She makes no effort to improve her appearance,’ Anna would reproach, very gravely. These days there was constant warfare between them on the subject of clothes; quite a seemly warfare, for Stephen was learn- ing to control her hot temper, and Anna was seldom anything but gentle. Nevertheless it was open warfare, the inevitable clash of two opposing natures who sought to express themselves in ap- parel, since clothes, after all, are a form of self-expression. The victory would be now on this side, now on that; sometimes Stephen would appear in a thick woollen jersey, or a suit of rough tweeds surreptitiously ordered from the excellent tailor in Mal- vern. Sometimes Anna would triumph, having journeyed to Lon- don to procure soft and very expensive dresses, which her daugh- ter must wear in order to please her, because she would come home quite tired by such journeys. On the whole, Anna got her own way at this time, for Stephen would suddenly give up the contest, reduced to submission by Anna’s disappointment, always more efficacious than mere disapproval. < Here, give it to me!’ she would say rather gruffly, grabbing the delicate dress from her mother.

• From Vox (1992)

  114 thirties maybe, very attractive, with her hair pinned back. Emily watched this for maybe a minute, and then she looked over at the windows and she said, 'Are you sure people can't see in?' I do have curtains, but I honestly wasn't sure if people could possibly see in or not, and my apartment is on the first floor, on the side of the building, so it was a legitimate concern, so I hopped up again and got my keys and said I'd be back in a second, and I went outside and tried to look in my windows, and it was surprisingly secure: not only could you not see Emily or anything in the room, you couldn't even tell the TV set was on, I guess because it's a small set. So I went back in and sat down, slightly out of breath, and told her that you couldn't see a thing from outside. She said, 'Great, thanks. ' I said, 'What's happened so far?' and she said, in a slightly unnatural voice, 'The woman and her lover have been fucking in various ways.' It was the same scene, in fact—this Italian guy, whose name turns out to be Mario, has his amazingly long cock between her breasts—I remember seeing that image and immediately turning to Emily and watching her eyes: every time there was a cut, I could see her eyes make a tiny movement to find the center of gravity of the next image. Porn movies are almost always done with very repetitive cuts back and forth between two or three camera positions, so I knew what the images were and yet I could watch Emily's eyes: say the alternation was between a close-in shot of the woman's head bobbing as she was sucking the cock, and

• From The Decameron (1353)

  By reason of these things I feel myself alike ill at ease here and abroad and at home, more by token that meseemeth none, who hath, as we have, the power and whither to go, is left here, other than ourselves; or if any such there be, I have many a time both heard and perceived that, without making any distinction between things lawful and unlawful, so but appetite move them, whether alone or in company, both day and night, they do that which affordeth them most delight. Nor is it the laity alone who do thus; nay, even those who are shut in the monasteries, persuading themselves that what befitteth and is lawful to others alike sortable and unforbidden unto them,[17] have broken the laws of obedience and giving themselves to carnal delights, thinking thus to escape, are grown lewd and dissolute. If thus, then, it be, as is manifestly to be seen, what do we here? What look we for? What dream we? Why are we more sluggish and slower to provide for our safety than all the rest of the townsfolk? Deem we ourselves of less price than others, or do we hold our life to be bounden in our bodies with a stronger chain than is theirs and that therefore we need reck nothing of aught that hath power to harm it? We err, we are deceived; what folly is ours, if we think thus! As often as we choose to call to mind the number and quality of the youths and ladies overborne of this cruel pestilence, we may see a most manifest proof thereof. [Footnote 17: This phrase may also be read "persuading themselves that that (_i.e._ their breach of the laws of obedience, etc.) beseemeth them and is forbidden only to others" (_faccendosi a credere che quello a lor si convenga e non si disdica che all' altre_); but the reading in the text appears more in harmony with the general sense and is indeed indicated by the punctuation of the Giunta Edition of 1527, which I generally follow in case of doubt.]

• From Girls & Sex (2016)

  Title : Girls & Sex Author: Orenstein, Peggy [image file=image_rsrc2DB.jpg] DedicationFor my one daughter, my eight nieces, my two nephews, and all the girls and boys I’ve met along the way ContentsCover Title Page Dedication INTRODUCTION Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Girls and Sex (but Really Need to Ask) CHAPTER 1 Matilda Oh Is Not an Object—Except When She Wants to Be CHAPTER 2 Are We Having Fun Yet? CHAPTER 3 Like a Virgin, Whatever That Is CHAPTER 4 Hookups and Hang-Ups CHAPTER 5 Out: Online and IRL CHAPTER 6 Blurred Lines, Take Two CHAPTER 7 What If We Told Them the Truth? Appendix A: Consent Alone Is a Low Bar for Sex Appendix B: Girls & Sex by the numbers Acknowledgments Notes Selected Bibliography Index About the Author Praise Also by Peggy Orenstein Credits Copyright About the Publisher INTRODUCTIONEverything You Never Wanted to Know About Girls and Sex (but Really Need to Ask)Afew years ago I realized that my daughter wouldn’t be a little girl much longer. She was headed toward adolescence, and honestly, it put me in a bit of a panic. Way back in preschool, when she was swanning around in her Cinderella gown, I took a deep dive into the princess industrial complex and came back convinced that its seemingly innocent pink-and-pretty culture was priming little girls for something more insidious later on. Well, “later on” was now coming at us like a Mack truck—a Mack truck whose driver was wearing five-inch heels and a micro-mini, and was checking her Instagram when she ought to have been looking at the road. I’d heard horror stories from friends with teenagers about how girls were treated in the so-called hookup culture; of girls coerced into sexting or victimized in social media scandals; of omnipresent porn. I was supposed to be the expert at decoding the mixed messages of girlhood. I traveled the country schooling parents on the difference between sexualization and sexuality. “When little girls play at ‘sexy’ before they even understand the word,” I’d tell them, “they learn that sex is a performance rather than a felt experience.” True enough. But what about once they did understand the word?

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The lady now understood very well how the case stood and telling the maid what she had heard from the physician, besought her help to save Ruggieri, for that she might, an she would, at once save him and preserve her honour. Quoth she, 'Madam, teach me how, and I will gladly do anything.' Whereupon the lady, whose wits were sharpened by the urgency of the case, having promptly bethought herself of that which was to do, particularly acquainted the maid therewith, who first betook herself to the physician and weeping, began to say to him, 'Sir, it behoveth me ask you pardon of a great fault, which I have committed against you.' 'In what?' asked the doctor, and she, never giving over weeping, answered, 'Sir, you know what manner young man is Ruggieri da Jeroli. He took a liking to me awhile agone and partly for fear and partly for love, needs must I become his mistress. Yesternight, knowing that you were abroad, he cajoled me on such wise that I brought him into your house to lie with me in my chamber, and he being athirst and I having no whither more quickly to resort for water or wine, unwilling as I was that your lady, who was in the saloon, should see me, I remembered me to have seen a flagon of water in your chamber. Accordingly, I ran for it and giving him the water to drink, replaced the flagon whence I had taken it, whereof I find you have made a great outcry in the house. And certes I confess I did ill; but who is there doth not ill bytimes? Indeed, I am exceeding grieved to have done it, not so much for the thing itself as for that which hath ensued of it and by reason whereof Ruggieri is like to lose his life. Wherefore I pray you, as most I may, pardon me and give me leave to go succour Ruggieri inasmuch as I can.' The physician, hearing this, for all he was angry, answered jestingly, 'Thou hast given thyself thine own penance therefor, seeing that, whereas thou thoughtest yesternight to have a lusty young fellow who would shake thy skincoats well for thee, thou hadst a sluggard; wherefore go and endeavour for the deliverance of thy lover; but henceforth look thou bring him not into the house again, or I will pay thee for this time and that together.'

• From Girls & Sex (2016)

  She looked again at her stomach, again at her butt. She changed her shirt. She pulled off her skirt, tried on a different one, decided the first made her stomach look better, changed back. “In my gender class I’m all, ‘That damned patriarchy,’” she said. “But at night it all goes to shit. The only thing I care about is: ‘Does this skirt make my ass look good?’” She grabbed her cosmetics pouch and headed to the bathroom. Although she hates makeup, she said, it’s part of attracting guys’ attention, so she swiped on dark lipstick and some smoky, sparkly eye shadow. She smoothed her hair with two hands (a brush in one, a comb in the other), put on a pair of four-inch heels, and doused herself with perfume. “It makes me feel less self-conscious to wear the outfit and the heels,” she said. “I feel kind of like I’m swaggering, like, ‘Yes, I am the baddest bitch in this room.’” The evening was cold, but Megan didn’t take a jacket. Nor did she carry a purse. She held her keys and school ID in one hand (later she would lose both) and tucked her phone and iPod into the waistband of her skirt, which was tight enough to hold them fast. She looked in the mirror one last time, turning to check her butt, and tugged down the hem of her skirt, a gesture she’d repeat every few minutes throughout the evening. She grabbed a bottle of vodka to share at pregames, and headed out the door. It was nearly ten o’clock. Her goal? “To get really drunk and make out with someone,” she said cheerfully. “Because what’s the point of a night if you aren’t getting attention from guys?” The stigma of “slut” didn’t disappear with the rise of hookup culture. Its criteria just became ever more elusive. Girls routinely told me they hated the word, that they never used it, didn’t “slut-shame” their classmates (though in truth, they often did). At the same time, they policed themselves. Some, like Holly, would continually revise, rather than discard, the definition of “skank” as their own behavior changed. Others, such as Megan, took “slut” on as a badge of honor, or at least tried to. “I’m the slutty friend,” she told me gleefully when we’d first met. “I find it liberating. I love being the crazy one. If someone is going to judge me for what I do, then fine, judge me. I don’t care. Fuck you if you think you’re better than me just because you don’t have sex that much. I feel bad for you if you don’t have sex that much because sex is awesome. I’m not saying that every time I go out, I hook up with someone. That’s definitely not the case. But it’s more fun to not control myself. Not to worry how it will look. And in college, nobody gives a shit.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But her voice was quite gentle, so Stephen said quickly: ‘ Well then, may I invite Mrs. Crossby to Morton? ’ Anna hesitated a moment, then she nodded: ‘I suppose so — that is if you really wish to.’ The drive only took about twenty minutes, for now Stephen was so nervous that she positively flew. She who had been puffed up with elation and self-satisfaction was crumbling completely -in spite of her careful new necktie she was crumbling at the mere thought of Angela Crossby. Arrived at The Grange she felt over life-size; her hands seemed enormous, all out of proportion, and she thought that the butler stared at her hands. ‘ Miss Gordon? ’ he inquired. ‘Yes, she mumbled, ‘ Miss Gordon.’ Then he coughed as he did on the telephone, and quite suddenly Stephen felt foolish. She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long, open casements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple wood burnt on the hearth, in spite of the fact that the weather was warm, for Angela was always inclined to feel chilly — the result, so she said, of the English climate. The fire gave off rather a sweet, pungent odour — the odour of slightly damp logs and dry ashes. By way of a really propitious beginning, Tony barked until he nearly burst his stitches, so that Angela, who was lying on the lounge, had perforce to get up in order to soothe him. An ex- THE WELL OF LONELINESS 153 tremely round bullfinch in an ornate brass cage, was piping a tune with his wings half extended. The tune sounded something like * Pop goes the weasel.’ At all events it was an impudent tune, and Stephen felt that she hated that bullfinch. It took all of five minutes to calm down Tony, during which Stephen stood apolo- getic but tongue-tied. She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry at this very ridiculous anti-climax. Then Angela decided the matter by laughing: ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Gordon, he’s feeling peevish. It’s quite natural, poor lamb, he had a bad night, he just hates being all sewn up like a bolster.’ Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony now licked, so that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela had torn her dress, and this seemed to distress her — she kept fingering the tear. ‘ Can I help? ’ inquired Stephen, hoping she’d say no — which she did, quite firmly, after one look at Stephen. At last Angela settled down again on the lounge. ‘ Come and sit over here,’ she suggested, smiling. Then Stephen sat down on the edge of a chair as though she were sitting in the Prickly Cradle.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  [Is 37:1–13 ] 2 Then he sent Eliakim who was in charge of his household, Shebna the scribe, and the elders of the priests, covered with sackcloth, to Isaiah the prophet the son of Amoz. 3 They said to him, “Thus says Hezekiah, ‘This is a day of distress and anxiety, of punishment and humiliation; for children have come to [the time of their] birth and there is no strength to rescue them. 4 ‘It may be that the LORD your God will hear all the words of the Rabshakeh, whom his master the king of Assyria has sent to taunt and defy the living God, and will rebuke the words which the LORD your God has heard. So offer a prayer for the remnant [of His people] that is left [in Judah].’ ” 5 So the servants of King Hezekiah came to Isaiah. 6 Isaiah said to them, “Say this to your master: ‘Thus says the LORD , “Do not be afraid because of the words that you have heard, with which the servants of the king of Assyria have reviled (blasphemed) Me. 7 ‘Behold, I will put a spirit in him so that he will hear a rumor and return to his own land. And I will make him fall by the sword in his own land.” ’ ” Sennacherib Defies God 8 So the Rabshakeh returned and found the king of Assyria fighting against Libnah [a fortified city of Judah]; for he had heard that the king had left Lachish. 9 When the king heard them say concerning Tirhakah king of a Ethiopia, “Behold, he has come out to make war against you,” he sent messengers again to Hezekiah, saying, 10 “Say this to Hezekiah king of Judah, ‘Do not let your God on whom you rely deceive you by saying, “Jerusalem shall not be handed over to the king of Assyria.” 11 ‘Listen, you have heard what the Assyrian kings have done to all the lands, destroying them completely. So will you be spared? 12 ‘Did the gods of the nations whom my forefathers destroyed rescue them—Gozan and Haran [of Mesopotamia] and Rezeph and the people of Eden who were in Telassar? 13 ‘Where is the king of Hamath, the king of Arpad [of northern Syria], the king of the city of Sepharvaim, and of Hena and Ivvah?’ ” Hezekiah’s Prayer 14 Hezekiah received the letter from the hand of the messengers and read it. Then he went up to the house (temple) of the LORD and spread it out before the LORD . [Is 37:14–20 ] 15 Hezekiah prayed before the LORD and said, “O LORD , the God of Israel, who is enthroned above the cherubim [of the b ark in the temple], You are the God, You alone, of all the kingdoms of the earth. You have made the heavens and the earth.

• From Vox (1992)

  151 some decline, you are now ten or more minutes away from an orgasm, though the glow faintly persists. I knock, and I begin pacing back and forth in front of the door, distractedly, like a guy impatient to make a phone call. You look through the peephole and you see this guy, middle height, black hair, not bad-looking, somewhat frazzled, pacing back and forth in front of your door, checking a pocket watch. You let me in. And I introduce myself, I apologize for bothering you, I smile at you, and immediately I can sense the alertness and intelligence in your face, and I see that we understand each other, and I know my Mmmm-Sensor hasn't misled me. Ah, but I've lied my way into your apartment, which is a prob lem." "It is, because if I knew!" "Curtains. So you bring me the phone, and I sit on the edge of a dining-room chair, and I call my answering machine, and I start telling it about the oil lights on my dashboard, I really have to have someone take care of it, I need the number of a cab company, etcetera, and then all of a sudden I stop, in midsentence, and I click off the phone and I say, 'Nah, I can't.' " " Tou can't what?' " " 'I can't do it. I can't pretend.' And I confess to you that I've lied, that my car is fine, that I was driving on the expressway, and I got this highly unusual, if not unique, reading on my Mmmm-Sensor, or Mmmm-Detector, whatever I'm calling it, and I pull it out of my pocket and

• From Girls & Sex (2016)

  Teens have always been acutely aware of how they are seen by their peers. Social media amps up that self-consciousness: rather than experimenting among a small group of people they actually know, they now lay out their thoughts, photos, tastes, and activities (as well as their lapses in judgment) for immediate approval or censure by their 947 BFFs, many of whom are relative strangers. The result, according to Adriana Manago, a researcher at the Children’s Digital Media Center in Los Angeles who studies college students’ behavior on social media, is that young people have begun talking about the self as a brand rather than something to be developed from within. Their “friends” become an audience to be sought after and maintained. Ninety-two percent of teens go online daily, including 24 percent who are online “almost constantly.” Nearly three-quarters use two or more social networking sites. Also, especially on photo-sharing sites such as Instagram, girls are more active than boys, who are more likely to be gamers. “You use your experience to create an image,” Matilda Oh, a high school senior in San Francisco told me, “with the ultimate goal being to show that you’re desirable and attractive and wanted and liked.” Every young woman, she said, knows that she will “get ten times as many ‘likes’ by posting a picture of yourself in a bikini than you would if you were wearing a snow jacket.” Yet, just as in the real world, girls must be careful to come off as “hot” yet not “slutty,” sexually confident but not “thirsty.” In one study of 1,500 Facebook profiles, college-age women judged other girls’ profiles far more harshly than they did boys’, criticizing those who had “too many” friends, shared “too much” information, showed “too much” skin in photos, name checked their boyfriends “too often,” posted “too many” status updates. This despite the fact that 1,499 of the profiles aspired to the same “ideal”: a girl who, through status updates, glamour shots, and skin-bearing selfies, depicted herself as “fun” and “carefree”; who had lots of attractive friends, went to lots of parties, and was interested mostly in romance, pop culture, and shopping. You could easily get trashed, then, for the very thing you needed to do to court approval. It doesn’t take much to become a target. “You can totally get stigmatized,” agreed Sarah. “I knew a girl who only Instagrammed selfies. Every single picture was a selfie. And people talked about it. It made her seem like she either had no friends or was too into herself. There are so many ways to be judged. And of course you’re afraid that the judgments you pass against others will be passed against you. It’s not something you ever talk about, though. You just try to listen to what people say and kind of learn those unwritten rules. Like, don’t change your profile picture too much. Don’t post statuses about everything you’re doing. Don’t have too many pictures of yourself.”