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 Hot Rods: Gay Erotic Stories (2011)

  Title : Hot Rods: Gay Erotic Stories Author: Laurence, Sean [image file=image_8.jpg] Table of Contents Title Page FRISK CHROME-OBSESSED URBAN COWBOYS THE BIG HOMO DADDY’S GUIDE TO LOVEMAKING BETWEEN SHOTS FIRED SANDHOGS ABOUT THE AUTHORS Copyright Page [image file=image_39.jpg] FRISK Hank Edwards I sat nervously in the conference room surrounded by my partners in law and, unfortunately, crime. A slick bead of sweat ran from my armpit to the waistband of my boxers, leaving behind a track of moisture that brought on a shiver. “What’s the matter, Zack?” asked the senior partner, George, narrowing his gray eyes in my direction. “Caught a chill?” I shrugged as nonchalantly as possible considering the situation. “Goose walked over my grave, I guess.” The seven men surrounding the fine oak conference table chuckled quietly. All of us had conspired to hide certain business transactions from the government. Now I found myself involved in a sting operation to save my hairy hide and rat out my partners. Oh, what a tangled web we weave. A few months ago the state’s attorney had shown up on my doorstep along about midnight. Midnight visitors are never good, and this one had lived up to that promise. I opened the door to a full-court press and after several hours of talks I agreed to turn state’s evidence against the other partners in my law firm. The state’s attorney had approached me because I was the newest member of the partners’ roster and could ask the many questions that needed to be answered on tape without raising much suspicion. For this effort, I would receive a reduced sentence in a white-collar prison and lose my license to practice law. Hey, what a deal, right? I now wore a small transmitter and microphone to every encounter I had with any of the partners. I had been doing it for several weeks, but at each meeting I felt as nervous as the first time. Would I screw up somehow and blow the whole operation? Then where would I be? Each time I wore the transmitter I had to go through a certain procedure. It was placed on different areas of my body depending on the type of meeting: golf, conference room, travel by car or rail, that kind of thing. With two other witnesses in the office, one of the agents would meet me just before I was to leave for the appointment and tape the transmitter to my waist, back or leg. This required me to partially disrobe, a fact that forced me to start wearing boxers to better hide the fact that I was usually sporting a partial hard-on. I don’t know where they found the field agents for this assignment, but I want a two-week vacation to that place.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  5 When they came to the land of Zuph, Saul said to his servant who was with him, “Come, let us return, otherwise my father will stop worrying about the donkeys and become anxious about us.” 6 The servant said to him, “Look here, in this city there is a man of God, and the man is held in honor; everything that he says comes true. Now let us go there; perhaps he can advise us about our journey [and tell us where we should go].” 7 Then Saul said to his servant, “But look, if we go [to see him], what shall we bring to the man? For the bread from our sacks is gone and there is no gift to bring to the man of God. What do we have [to offer]?” 8 The servant replied again to Saul, “Here in my hand I have a quarter of a shekel of silver; I will give that to the man of God, and he will advise us as to [where we should go on] our journey [to find the donkeys].” 9 (Formerly in Israel, when a man went to inquire of God, he would say, “Come, let us go to the seer”; for he who is called a prophet today was formerly called a seer.) 10 Saul said to his servant, “Well said; come, let us go.” So they went to the city where the man of God was living. 11 As they went up the hill to the city, they met some young women going out to draw water, and said to them, “Is the seer (prophet) here?” 12 They answered them, “He is; look, he is ahead of you. Hurry now, for he has come into the city today because the people have a sacrifice on the high place today. 13 “As you enter the city you will find him before he goes up to the high place to eat, for the people will not eat until he comes, because he must ask the blessing on the sacrifice; afterward, those who are invited will eat. So go up now, for about now you will find him.” 14 So they went up to the city. And as they came into the city, there was Samuel coming out toward them to go up to the high place. God’s Choice for King 15 Now a day before Saul came, the LORD had a informed Samuel [of this], saying, 16 “About this time tomorrow I will send you a man from the land of Benjamin, and you shall anoint him as leader over My people Israel; and he will save My people from the hand of the Philistines. For I have looked upon [the distress of] My people, because their cry [for help] has come to Me.” 17 When Samuel saw Saul, the LORD said to him, “There is the man of whom I spoke to you.

• From Vox (1992)

  Well, I’m driving down the expressway of an eastern city one evening around ten o’clock, in town on business, in my rented midsize car, my Ford Topaz, with the radio going, a classics oldie station, playing ‘Ain’t Nobody,’ and I’m just driving along, and as usual I have my Mmmm-Detector open on the seat beside me, but the fluid is dark, and then I start curving through this residential area, very close to the buildings on either side, and I glance down at the seat beside me, and my God, I’m getting a very strong signal, I’m getting wave patterns I’ve never seen before, from very near and to my right, and craning my neck I catch sight of a lighted window, and I know that behind it you are in process, you are beginning. My years of practice in reading the flux patterns in the watch tells me this is something very special, something I cannot pass by, and so I palm the steering wheel around suddenly and veer onto the off ramp and scoot back through the narrow streets, swearing at all the one-way signs, and when I come to the door where the Mmmm-forces are flowing from, I park in a place that is sure to get me a ticket, and I leave my flashers on, and I go into the foyer. There’s a row of buttons with names beside them: I hold the detector to each one until one, the third one down, makes the Mmmm-Detector glow with strange colors, and I hesitate, I know that I am interrupting you, and I don’t want to do that, that’s the last thing I want to do, but it seems so clear to me, reading the force waves, that there is a strong possibility that you would want me to interrupt you, if you knew me, and the conviction that this is true grows in me, and my finger trembles at your button, and there is a huge interior war between reticence and attraction, between the fear that I will inspire fear and the certainty that I should not inspire fear and that we would like each other if I could simply push that button, and I look down at the Mmmm-Detector and I see that you are going to come in less than four minutes if you keep on at that rate, you’re really moving, the colors are increasingly intense, and I’m trembling, I’m shivering, but I’m compelled, and I push the button, bzzzzt . You’re on your bed, and you’re wearing a blue long-sleeved pullover sort of shirt, and black pants and black sneakers, but your black pants are around your ankles, and you’ve got that tattered, disintegrating issue of Forum in your left hand, and you’re reading about a job interview in which the woman interviewer is sucking the interviewee’s cock, and you’re right in the middle of things, when bzzzzt , the doorbell.

• 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 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 Well of Loneliness (1928)

  When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequently read it aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that the writing was fine, yet her thoughts would stray from the book to Stephen. The deep, husky voice would read on and on, having in it something urgent, appealing, so that Mary must suddenly kiss Stephen’s hand, or the scar on her cheek, because of that voice far more than because of what it was reading. And now there were times when, serving two masters, her passion for this girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be torn by conflicting desires, by opposing mental and physical emo- tions. She would: want to save herself for her work; she would want to give herself wholly to Mary. Yet quite often she would work far into the night. ‘ I’m go- ing to be late — you go to bed, sweetheart.’ And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she would steal like a thief past Mary’s bedroom, although Mary would nearly always hear her. “Is that you, Stephen? ’ “Yes. Why aren’t you asleep? Do you realize that it’s three in the morning? ’ ‘Is it? You're not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking of you alone in the study. Come here and say you’re not angry with me, even if it is three o’clock in the morning! ’ THE WELL OF LONELINESS 395 Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would fling herself down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do more than take the girl in her arms, and let her lie there with her head on her shoulder. But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she found so deeply appealing in Stephen — the scar on her cheek, the expression in her eyes, the strength and the queer, shy gentleness of her — the strength which at moments could not be gentle. And as they lay there Stephen might sleep, worn out by the strain of those long hours of writing. But Mary would not sleep, or if she slept it would be when the dawn was paling the windows. 4 One morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. ‘Come here. You’re not well! What’s the matter? Tell me.’ For she thought that the girl was unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped a little at the corners; and a sudden fear contracted her heart. ‘ Tell me at once what’s the matter with you!’ Her voice was rough with anxiety, and she laid an imperative hand over Mary’s. Mary protested. ‘ Don’t be absurd; there’s nothing the matter, I’m perfectly well — you’re imagining things.’ For what could be the matter? Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away quickly to hide them, ashamed of her own unreason.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Don Ciappelletto, who was then out of employ and ill provided with the goods of the world, seeing him who had long been his stay and his refuge about to depart thence, lost no time in deliberation, but, as of necessity constrained, replied that he would well. They being come to an accord, Musciatto departed and Ciappelletto, having gotten his patron's procuration and letters commendatory from the king, betook himself into Burgundy, where well nigh none knew him, and there, contrary to his nature, began courteously and blandly to seek to get in his payments and do that wherefor he was come thither, as if reserving choler and violence for a last resort. Dealing thus and lodging in the house of two Florentines, brothers, who there lent at usance and who entertained him with great honour for the love of Messer Musciatto, it chanced that he fell sick, whereupon the two brothers promptly fetched physicians and servants to tend him and furnished him with all that behoved unto the recovery of his health. But every succour was in vain, for that, by the physicians' report, the good man, who was now old and had lived disorderly, grew daily worse, as one who had a mortal sickness; wherefore the two brothers were sore concerned and one day, being pretty near the chamber where he lay sick, they began to take counsel together, saying one to the other, 'How shall we do with yonder fellow? We have a sorry bargain on our hands of his affair, for that to send him forth of our house, thus sick, were a sore reproach to us and a manifest sign of little wit on our part, if the folk, who have seen us first receive him and after let tend and medicine him with such solicitude, should now see him suddenly put out of our house, sick unto death as he is, without it being possible for him to have done aught that should displease us. On the other hand, he hath been so wicked a man that he will never consent to confess or take any sacrament of the church; and he dying without confession, no church will receive his body; nay, he will be cast into a ditch, like a dog. Again, even if he do confess, his sins are so many and so horrible that the like will come of it, for that there is nor priest nor friar who can or will absolve him thereof; wherefore, being unshriven, he will still be cast into the ditches. Should it happen thus, the people of the city, as well on account of our trade, which appeareth to them most iniquitous and of which they missay all day, as of their itch to plunder us, seeing this, will rise up in riot and cry out, "These Lombard dogs, whom the church refuseth to receive, are to be suffered here no longer";--and they will run to our houses and despoil us not only of our good, but may be of our lives, to boot; wherefore in any case it will go ill with us, if yonder fellow die.'

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, having set all his affairs in order, he betook himself with one only servant to Ancona and transporting all his good thither, despatched it to Florence to a friend of the Anconese his partner, whilst he himself, in the disguise of a pilgrim returning from the Holy Sepulchre, followed secretly after with his servant and coming to Florence, put up at a little hostelry kept by two brothers, in the neighbourhood of his mistress's house, whereto he repaired first of all, to see her, an he might. However, he found the windows and doors and all else closed, wherefore his heart misgave him she was dead or had removed thence and he betook himself, in great concern, to the house of his brethren, before which he saw four of the latter clad all in black. At this he marvelled exceedingly and knowing himself so changed both in habit and person from that which he was used to be, whenas he departed thence, that he might not lightly be recognized, he boldly accosted a cordwainer hard by and asked him why they were clad in black; whereto he answered, 'Yonder men are clad in black for that it is not yet a fortnight since a brother of theirs, who had not been here this great while, was murdered, and I understand they have proved to the court that one Aldobrandino Palermini, who is in prison, slew him, for that he was a well-wisher of his wife and had returned hither unknown to be with her.'

• From Girls & Sex (2016)

  So while only girls get catcalled, it’s also true that only girls’ fashions urge body consciousness at the very youngest ages. Target offers bikinis for infants. The Gap hawks “skinny jeans” for toddlers. Preschoolers worship Disney princesses, characters whose eyes are larger than their waists. No one is trying to convince eleven-year-old boys to wear itty-bitty booty shorts or bare their bellies in the middle of winter. As concerned as I am about the policing of girls’ sexuality through clothing, I also worry about the incessant drumbeat of self-objectification: the pressure on young women to reduce their worth to their bodies and to see those bodies as a collection of parts that exist for others’ pleasure; to continuously monitor their appearance; to perform rather than to feel sensuality. I recall a conversation I had with Deborah Tolman, a professor at Hunter College and perhaps the foremost expert on teenage girls’ sexual desire. In her work, she said, girls had begun responding “to questions about how their bodies feel—questions about sexuality or arousal—by describing how they think they look. I have to remind them that looking good is not a feeling.” Self-objectification has been associated with depression, reduced cognitive function, lower GPA, distorted body image, body monitoring, eating disorders, risky sexual behavior, and reduced sexual pleasure. In one study of eighth-graders, self-objectification accounted for half the differential in girls’ reports of depression and more than two-thirds of the variance in their self-esteem. Another study linked girls’ focus on appearance to heightened shame and anxiety about their bodies. A study of twelfth-graders connected self-objectification to more negative attitudes about sexuality, discomfort in talking about sex, and higher rates of sexual regret. Self-objectification has also been correlated with lower political efficacy: the idea that you can have an impact in the public forum, that you can bring about change.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The gospel, accordingly, was first propagated and the church founded by the personal oral teaching and exhortation, the "preaching," "testimony," "word," "tradition," of the apostles and their disciples; as, in fact, to this day the living word is the indispensable or, at least, the principal means of promoting the Christian religion. Nearly all the books of the New Testament were written between the years 50 and 70, at least twenty years after the resurrection of Christ, and the founding of the church; and the Gospel and Epistles of John still later. As the apostles’ field of labor expanded, it became too large for their personal attention, and required epistolary correspondence. The vital interests of Christianity and the wants of coming generations demanded a faithful record of the life and teaching of Christ by perfectly reliable witnesses. For oral tradition, among fallible men, is liable to so many accidental changes, that it loses in certainty and credibility as its distance from the fountain-head increases, till at last it can no longer be clearly distinguished from the additions and corruptions collected upon it. There was great danger, too, of a wilful distortion of the history and doctrine of Christianity by Judaizing and paganizing errorists, who had already raised their heads during the lifetime of the apostles. An authentic written record of the words and acts of Jesus and his disciples was therefore absolutely indispensable, not indeed to originate the church, but to keep it from corruption and to furnish it with a pure standard of faith and discipline. Hence seven and twenty books by apostles and apostolic men, written under the special influence and direction of the Holy Spirit. These afford us a truthful picture of the history, the faiths, and the practice of primitive Christianity, "for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness."865

• 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.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ing she woke with something very like a weight on her chest; in less than two minutes she knew why this was — she was going to tea with the Antrims. Her relations with other chil- dren were peculiar, she thought so herself and so did the children; they could not define it and neither could Stephen, but there it was all the same. A high-spirited child she should have been popular, and yet she was not, a fact which she divined, and this made her feel ill at ease with her playmates, who in their turn felt ill at ease. She would think that the children were whisper- ing about her, whispering and laughing for no apparent reason; but although this had happened on one occasion, it was not always happening as Stephen imagined. She was painfully hyper-sensi- tive at times, and she suffered accordingly. Of all the children that Stephen most dreaded, Violet and Roger Antrim took precedence; especially Roger, who was ten years old, and already full to the neck of male arrogance — he had just been promoted to Etons that winter, which added to his overbearing pride. Roger Antrim had round, brown eyes like his mother, and a short, straight nose that might one day be handsome; he was rather a thick-set, plump little boy, whose buttocks looked too large in a short Eton jacket, especially when he stuck his hands in his pockets and strutted, which he did very often. Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly have loved to bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her arms were so strong, he could never wrench Stephen’s arms backwards like Violet’s; he could never make her cry or show any emotion when he pinched her, or tugged roughly at her new hair ribbon, and then Stephen would often beat him at 46 THE WELL OF LONELINESS

• From The Beautiful Room Is Empty (1988)

  No one respected them for their labor in a country where the idea of honorable poverty had vanished. And yet we had done something, we’d loaded transcontinental trucks. More than most fuckin’ men did in a night. But mostly I just ached. The pain of work, real labor, had driven splinters into my muscles, into the crouching muscles, the climbing muscles, the bending-over muscles, the lifting muscles, the just-standing-there muscles. My upper body had rusted shut in its basin of pelvic bones and couldn’t turn anymore. I was a tired animal, and I tied a feedbag of milk and cereal over my nose. I couldn’t tell if I was big or small. In some ways I felt big, because the men said I was strong and could get stronger, but the boy in me was skinny and losing weight fast in that sweatbox. I couldn’t figure out my size, because in my mind I kept modeling a wax effigy of myself, now puny, now a big bear of a worker, now a supple girl without breasts or vagina although responsively female: treat me as a woman and you can rule me. The wax was soft and getting softer, nearly fluid, and as it melted its color became milkier. It would flow out of the chubby cool forms of a child, his sturdy legs, big head, lips lucent as fruit jellies, into lanky adolescence. A moment later it had set into a thick neck, barrel chest, thickening biceps, and even my penis, a moment ago nothing but a tiny urine spout, would thicken and grow, the river god’s sex in a bed of ropey moss. On my day off I went to the Oak Street beach. Luxury apartment buildings lined the lakefront and the six-lane Outer Drive. On one side of the drive strolled businessmen in coats and ties and women in dresses and big summer hats. On the other was a wide, white-sand beach and bathers in swimsuits surveyed by lifeguards. Between these two worlds, one formal, the other nearly nude, the traffic streamed ceaselessly. I felt my grip on this, the “nice” part of town, was slipping. I had no confidence I’d ever land a decent job after school. Would I be condemned to loading trucks? My shoulders thickened brutishly. On the beach I saw a group of older gay guys, and I spread my towel beside them. They quieted down as I stripped to my swimsuit, and one of them even put on his glasses. I couldn’t tell what the verdict was. But Midwesterners are friendly people who chat and joke easily with strangers, and soon enough I was talking with one of my neighbors, a rosy-cheeked countertenor with a haze of silky hair unexpectedly covering his back and shoulders. His nose and the bald top of his head were painfully red. He put on a shirt and baseball cap.