Contentment

Passages

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

Page 55 of 189 · 20 per page

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  My toes swelled in my high heels. My mother and I both used the flowered box of Kleenex on the dashboard and stuck the used tissue in a brown bag that sat near the hump in the middle of the car. There was a lot of traffic in both lanes. We drove past the Amy Joy doughnut shop. They still hadn’t put the letter Y back on the Amy sign. Our first stop was Wonderland. There was a job in the clerical department of Sears. The man there had a long disapproving nose, and he held his hands stiffly curled in the middle of his desk. He mainly looked at his hands. He said he would call me, but I knew he wouldn’t. On the way back to the parking lot, we passed a pet store. There were only hamsters, fish and exhausted yellow birds. We stopped and looked at slivers of fish swarming in their tank of thick green water. I had come to this pet store when I was ten years old. The mall had just opened and we had all come out to walk through it. My sister, Donna, had wanted to go into the pet store. It was very warm and damp in the store, and smelled like fur and hamster. When we walked out, it seemed cold. I said I was cold and Donna took off her white leatherette jacket and put it around my shoulders, letting one hand sit on my left shoulder for a minute. She had never touched me like that before and she hasn’t since. The next place was a tax information office in a slab of building with green trim. They gave me an intelligence test that was mostly spelling and “What’s wrong with this sentence?” The woman came out of her office holding my test and smiling. “You scored higher than anyone else I’ve interviewed,” she said. “You’re really overqualified for this job. There’s no challenge. You’d be bored to death.” “I want to be bored,” I said. She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true.” We had a nice talk about what people want out of their jobs and then I left. “Well, I hope you weren’t surprised that you had the highest score,” said my mother. We went to the French bakery on Eight-Mile Road and got cookies called elephant ears. We ate them out of a bag as we drove. I felt so comfortable, I could have driven around in the car all day. Then we went to a lawyer’s office on Telegraph Road. It was a receding building made of orange brick.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Smothering a yawn, Kim began to pull mixing bowls and measuring cups from cupboards and drawers as quietly as she could. The counter collected with ingredients as she slid canisters forward from linear rows, the immaculate surface offering itself as her canvas, a steady, solid space upon which to create. She felt the familiar warmth of appreciation for the art of food preparation spread through her body. Picking up the griddle, she sprayed it with organic safflower oil before setting it on the burner and turning the heat to low. Terry’s despondence, which at this point was of more concern to her than financial matters, had been manifesting sometimes as a tightly controlled anger and bitterness and other times as a smothering despair. The night before, when he had left the kitchen after dinner with a whispered, “I’m sorry I’ve failed us,” she had almost thrown a dish against the wall in frustration. Kim reached for the canister of organic whole wheat flour and wiped away a spot on the side before unscrewing the lid. She reached into the canister, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as her fingers skimmed over the softness within. She loved the feel of flour. It was one of the ingredients she most loved to touch. It had been her conscious aim for as long as she could remember to appreciate food preparation with all of her senses. To her, cooking was nowhere near simply a means to an end. It was a transformation, a miraculous process in which elements came together, often in subtly different ways, and yielded a culmination that could be substantially different from what the components had been separately. Every ingredient she used, from olive oil to molasses to a dash of salt, Kim respected as indispensable to the whole she was creating. She took none of them for granted. Lifting her fingers from the flour, Kim picked up a measuring cup. Her movements were reverent as she measured the ingredient precisely and transferred it to the larger mixing bowl. Then she reached for the organic brown sugar, adding the measured amount to the flour as she licked a few stray grains from her thumb. Baking soda. Two teaspoonfuls landed in white puffs on top of the dry mixture. Finally she grabbed the cinnamon, which went into almost everything she baked, and tapped three brown splotches onto the powdered pile. Her thoughts returned to her husband as she picked up the eggs. The dispiritedness Terry had displayed since losing his job had included a lack of interest in many things he usually appreciated—including sex. While she didn’t take it personally, she suspected the degree to which Terry’s subconscious linked his perceived professional success with his sense of personal value was what had made losing his job seem such a staggering blow—and seemed to be threatening his entire self-image. It wouldn’t surprise her if a part of him was questioning whether he was still worthy of her affection.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  Mlungisi got maybe one hiding in his life. After that he said he never wanted to experience anything like it ever again, and from that day he always followed the rules. But I was blessed with another trait I inherited from my mother: her ability to forget the pain in life. I remember the thing that caused the trauma, but I don’t hold on to the trauma. I never let the memory of something painful prevent me from trying something new. If you think too much about the ass-kicking your mom gave you, or the ass-kicking that life gave you, you’ll stop pushing the boundaries and breaking the rules. It’s better to take it, spend some time crying, then wake up the next day and move on. You’ll have a few bruises and they’ll remind you of what happened and that’s okay. But after a while the bruises fade, and they fade for a reason—because now it’s time to get up to some shit again. I grew up in a black family in a black neighborhood in a black country. I’ve traveled to other black cities in black countries all over the black continent. And in all of that time I’ve yet to find a place where black people like cats. One of the biggest reasons for that, as we know in South Africa, is that only witches have cats, and all cats are witches. There was a famous incident during an Orlando Pirates soccer match a few years ago. A cat got into the stadium and ran through the crowd and out onto the pitch in the middle of the game. A security guard, seeing the cat, did what any sensible black person would do. He said to himself, “That cat is a witch.” He caught the cat and—live on TV—he kicked it and stomped it and beat it to death with a sjambok, a hard leather whip. It was front-page news all over the country. White people lost their shit. Oh my word, it was insane. The security guard was arrested and put on trial and found guilty of animal abuse. He had to pay some enormous fine to avoid spending several months in jail. What was ironic to me was that white people had spent years seeing video of black people being beaten to death by other white people, but this one video of a black man kicking a cat, that’s what sent them over the edge. Black people were just confused. They didn’t see any problem with what the man did. They were like, “Obviously that cat was a witch. How else would a cat know how to get out onto a soccer pitch? Somebody sent it to jinx one of the teams. That man had to kill the cat. He was protecting the players.” In South Africa, black people have dogs.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  My toes swelled in my high heels. My mother and I both used the flowered box of Kleenex on the dashboard and stuck the used tissue in a brown bag that sat near the hump in the middle of the car. There was a lot of traffic in both lanes. We drove past the Amy Joy doughnut shop. They still hadn’t put the letter Y back on the Amy sign. Our first stop was Wonderland. There was a job in the clerical department of Sears. The man there had a long disapproving nose, and he held his hands stiffly curled in the middle of his desk. He mainly looked at his hands. He said he would call me, but I knew he wouldn’t. On the way back to the parking lot, we passed a pet store. There were only hamsters, fish and exhausted yellow birds. We stopped and looked at slivers of fish swarming in their tank of thick green water. I had come to this pet store when I was ten years old. The mall had just opened and we had all come out to walk through it. My sister, Donna, had wanted to go into the pet store. It was very warm and damp in the store, and smelled like fur and hamster. When we walked out, it seemed cold. I said I was cold and Donna took off her white leatherette jacket and put it around my shoulders, letting one hand sit on my left shoulder for a minute. She had never touched me like that before and she hasn’t since. The next place was a tax information office in a slab of building with green trim. They gave me an intelligence test that was mostly spelling and “What’s wrong with this sentence?” The woman came out of her office holding my test and smiling. “You scored higher than anyone else I’ve interviewed,” she said. “You’re really overqualified for this job. There’s no challenge. You’d be bored to death.” “I want to be bored,” I said. She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true.” We had a nice talk about what people want out of their jobs and then I left. “Well, I hope you weren’t surprised that you had the highest score,” said my mother. We went to the French bakery on Eight-Mile Road and got cookies called elephant ears. We ate them out of a bag as we drove. I felt so comfortable, I could have driven around in the car all day. Then we went to a lawyer’s office on Telegraph Road. It was a receding building made of orange brick.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  I came again, my body defeated and dominated, and then once more before he granted me the vital injection. He used me hard, leaving finger marks on my hips and my bottom burning, but the exhaustion I felt on his withdrawal was oddly invigorating—it was no longer the exhaustion of sickness, but of healthy exertion. While I lay on the damp rubber sheet, trying to remember what was supposed to be wrong with me, he kissed the length of my spine and then arose, disappearing for a moment. When he came back, he patted me down with a towel before uncuffing me, helping me to my feet and removing the rubber sheeting. “I think you need to go back to bed rest,” he said, holding me close, his arms crossing my rib cage, “if we’re going to continue this treatment.” I let myself lean back against him, boneless in the aftermath, while he kissed my neck and shoulders, and then I was tucked back into bed and my real temperature taken. “It’s well down,” he said. “For some reason. I would have expected that kind of treatment to elevate it. But what do I know? I’m not a doctor.” “Hey,” I croaked. “You aren’t? So...what was that?” His wickedest smile shone down on me. “That was for your own good,” he said. “Now I’m going to call your doctor and ask what he recommends for girls who are well enough to be taken vigorously up the ass yet who protest that they can’t go back to work yet.” “No you aren’t, you swine!” “Yes I am. Or rather, no I’m not. Because I know what he’d say. I know what he’d write on his prescription form. Something painful involving your behind and my hand, I suspect. So you’d better get some rest while I work my strength up.” I pouted, but I felt blissfully, floatingly sleepy. “Thank you,” I yawned. “You might not be a doctor, but I think I’m cured.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead, his blue eyes earnest as he drew back. “I’m very glad to hear it,” he said. “Gladder than you know.” I know he hates it when I’m ill, but I don’t think it’s all about control and inconvenience. I think it’s mostly about love. GUEST SERVICES Angela Caperton Joanna Danvers checked her watch again, the third time in the past hour. Maybe he had canceled late. Severe weather in the Northeast had caused more than one Suite Rewards guest to change their plans and their reservations. Damn. Her heart constricted at the thought that Thomas Wolburn might not check in today.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  The white man was quite stern with the native. “You need to pray to Jesus,” he said. “Jesus will save you.” To which the native replied, “Well, we do need to be saved—saved from you, but that’s beside the point. So let’s give this Jesus thing a shot.” My whole family is religious, but where my mother was Team Jesus all the way, my grandmother balanced her Christian faith with the traditional Xhosa beliefs she’d grown up with, communicating with the spirits of our ancestors. For a long time I didn’t understand why so many black people had abandoned their indigenous faith for Christianity. But the more we went to church and the longer I sat in those pews the more I learned about how Christianity works: If you’re Native American and you pray to the wolves, you’re a savage. If you’re African and you pray to your ancestors, you’re a primitive. But when white people pray to a guy who turns water into wine, well, that’s just common sense. My childhood involved church, or some form of church, at least four nights a week. Tuesday night was the prayer meeting. Wednesday night was Bible study. Thursday night was Youth church. Friday and Saturday we had off. (Time to sin!) Then on Sunday we went to church. Three churches, to be precise. The reason we went to three churches was because my mom said each church gave her something different. The first church offered jubilant praise of the Lord. The second church offered deep analysis of the scripture, which my mom loved. The third church offered passion and catharsis; it was a place where you truly felt the presence of the Holy Spirit inside you. Completely by coincidence, as we moved back and forth between these churches, I noticed that each one had its own distinct racial makeup: Jubilant church was mixed church. Analytical church was white church. And passionate, cathartic church, that was black church. Mixed church was Rhema Bible Church. Rhema was one of those huge, supermodern, suburban megachurches. The pastor, Ray McCauley, was an ex-bodybuilder with a big smile and the personality of a cheerleader. Pastor Ray had competed in the 1974 Mr. Universe competition. He placed third. The winner that year was Arnold Schwarzenegger. Every week, Ray would be up onstage working really hard to make Jesus cool. There was arena-style seating and a rock band jamming out with the latest Christian contemporary pop. Everyone sang along, and if you didn’t know the words that was okay because they were all right up there on the Jumbotron for you. It was Christian karaoke, basically. I always had a blast at mixed church. White church was Rosebank Union in Sandton, a very white and wealthy part of Johannesburg. I loved white church because I didn’t actually have to go to the main service.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  If he recommended me to read a certain chapter of the Bible he would add very seriously—“it will do you good.” It was a new medicine which he had discovered, a sort of quack remedy which was guaranteed to cure all ills and which one might take even if he had no ills, because in any case it could certainly do no harm. He attended all the services, all the functions which were held at the church, and between times, when out for a stroll, for example, he would stop off at the minister’s home and have a little chat with him. If the minister said that the president was a good soul and should be re-elected the old man would repeat to every one exactly what the minister had said and urge them to vote for the president’s re-election. Whatever the minister said was right and just and nobody could gainsay him. There’s no doubt that it was an education for the old man. If the minister had mentioned the pyramids in the course of his sermon the old man immediately began to inform himself about the pyramids. He would talk about the pyramids as though every one owed it to himself to become acquainted with the subject. The minister had said that the pyramids were one of the crowning glories of man, ergo not to know about the pyramids was to be disgracefully ignorant, almost sinful. Fortunately the minister didn’t dwell much on the subject of sin; he was of the modern type of preacher who prevailed on his flock more by arousing their curiosity than by appealing to their conscience. His sermons were more like a night-school extension course and for such as the old man, therefore, highly entertaining and stimulating. Every now and then the male members of the congregation were invited to a little blowout which was intended to demonstrate that the good pastor was just an ordinary man like themselves and could, on occasion, enjoy a hearty meal and even a glass of beer. Moreover it was observed that he even sang—not religious hymns, but jolly little songs of the popular variety. Putting two and two together one might even infer from such jolly behavior that now and then he enjoyed getting a little piece of tail—always in moderation, to be sure. That was the word that was balsam to the old man’s lacerated soul—“moderation.” It was like discovering a new sign in the zodiac.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  I answer that, The Philosopher discusses this question (Ethic. x, 4), and leaves it unsolved. But if one consider the matter carefully, the operation of the intellect which is vision, must needs rank before delight. For delight consists in a certain repose of the will. Now that the will finds rest in anything, can only be on account of the goodness of that thing in which it reposes. If therefore the will reposes in an operation, the will’s repose is caused by the goodness of the operation. Nor does the will seek good for the sake of repose; for thus the very act of the will would be the end, which has been disproved above ([1017]Q[1], A[1], ad 2;[1018] Q[3], A[4]): but it seeks to be at rest in the operation, because that operation is its good. Consequently it is evident that the operation in which the will reposes ranks before the resting of the will therein. Reply to Objection 1: As the Philosopher says (Ethic. x, 4) “delight perfects operation as vigor perfects youth,” because it is a result of youth. Consequently delight is a perfection attendant upon vision; but not a perfection whereby vision is made perfect in its own species. Reply to Objection 2: The apprehension of the senses does not attain to the universal good, but to some particular good which is delightful. And consequently, according to the sensitive appetite which is in animals, operations are sought for the sake of delight. But the intellect apprehends the universal good, the attainment of which results in delight: wherefore its purpose is directed to good rather than to delight. Hence it is that the Divine intellect, which is the Author of nature, adjusted delights to operations on account of the operations. And we should form our estimate of things not simply according to the order of the sensitive appetite, but rather according to the order of the intellectual appetite. Reply to Objection 3: Charity does not seem the beloved good for the sake of delight: it is for charity a consequence that it delights in the good gained which it loves. Thus delight does not answer to charity as its end, but vision does, whereby the end is first made present to charity. Whether comprehension is necessary for happiness?Objection 1: It would seem that comprehension is not necessary for happiness. For Augustine says (Ad Paulinam de Videndo Deum; [*Cf. Serm. xxxciii De Verb. Dom.]): “To reach God with the mind is happiness, to comprehend Him is impossible.” Therefore happiness is without comprehension. Objection 2: Further, happiness is the perfection of man as to his intellective part, wherein there are no other powers than the intellect and will, as stated in the FP, QQ[79] and following. But the intellect is sufficiently perfected by seeing God, and the will by enjoying Him. Therefore there is no need for comprehension as a third.

• From The History of Christianity II: From the Reformation to the Modern Megachurch (2017)

  88The History of Christianity II õThey never lost their heart for social reform, and in the 19 th century they would lead the way in abolishing slavery and helping the poor. But in the tumultuous context of post–civil war England, Quakers reacted strongly against violent movements like the Fifth Monarchists by embracing pacifism instead. They didn’t stomp into Parliament with their arms full of signed petitions, like the Levellers did. Their retreat from the frontlines of political debate in the 1650s was a big reason why the Society of Friends is still around today. SUGGESTED READING Hall, Worlds of Wonder, Days of Judgment. Miller, Errand into the Wilderness. Morgan, The Puritan Dilemma. QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER äHow do popular stereotypes of the Puritans compare to the facts of history? äAre witch hunts an artifact of centuries gone by, or do they happen in modern times as well? äDo Americans still consider their country a “city on a hill,” as the Puritans considered their colony? 89 LECTURE 10 EASTERN ORTHODOXY: FROM BYZANTIUM TO RUSSIA I n 1573, Lutheran theologians from the German university of Tübingen set their sights beyond Europe and started thinking globally. Their minds turned to those Christians in faraway lands who had also broken away from Rome almost five centuries before Martin Luther wrote his 95 Theses. Those were the Eastern Orthodox Christians. The Lutherans decided to pay a visit to the most important leader of that branch of Christianity, the Patriarch of Constantinople.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  I answer that, We speak of that as being natural, which is in accord with nature, as stated in Phys. ii, 1. Now, in man, nature can be taken in two ways. First, inasmuch as intellect and reason is the principal part of man’s nature, since in respect thereof he has his own specific nature. And in this sense, those pleasures may be called natural to man, which are derived from things pertaining to man in respect of his reason: for instance, it is natural to man to take pleasure in contemplating the truth and in doing works of virtue. Secondly, nature in man may be taken as contrasted with reason, and as denoting that which is common to man and other animals, especially that part of man which does not obey reason. And in this sense, that which pertains to the preservation of the body, either as regards the individual, as food, drink, sleep, and the like, or as regards the species, as sexual intercourse, are said to afford man natural pleasure. Under each kind of pleasures, we find some that are “not natural” speaking absolutely, and yet “connatural” in some respect. For it happens in an individual that some one of the natural principles of the species is corrupted, so that something which is contrary to the specific nature, becomes accidentally natural to this individual: thus it is natural to this hot water to give heat. Consequently it happens that something which is not natural to man, either in regard to reason, or in regard to the preservation of the body, becomes connatural to this individual man, on account of there being some corruption of nature in him. And this corruption may be either on the part of the body—from some ailment; thus to a man suffering from fever, sweet things seem bitter, and vice versa—or from an evil temperament; thus some take pleasure in eating earth and coals and the like; or on the part of the soul; thus from custom some take pleasure in cannibalism or in the unnatural intercourse of man and beast, or other such things, which are not in accord with human nature. This suffices for the answers to the objections. Whether one pleasure can be contrary to another?Objection 1: It would seem that one pleasure cannot be contrary to another. Because the passions of the soul derive their species and contrariety from their objects. Now the object of pleasure is the good. Since therefore good is not contrary to good, but “good is contrary to evil, and evil to good,” as stated in Praedic. viii; it seems that one pleasure is not contrary to another. Objection 2: Further, to one thing there is one contrary, as is proved in Metaph. x, 4. But sadness is contrary to pleasure. Therefore pleasure is not contrary to pleasure.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  When I first went into Alex, I was drawn by the electricity and the excitement of it, but more important, I was accepted there, more so than I’d been in high school or anywhere else. When I first showed up, a couple of people raised an eyebrow. “Who’s this colored kid?” But the hood doesn’t judge. If you want to be there, you can be there. Because I didn’t live in the hood I was technically an outsider in the hood, but for the first time in my life I didn’t feel like one. The hood is also a low-stress, comfortable life. All your mental energy goes into getting by, so you don’t have to ask yourself any of the big questions. Who am I? Who am I supposed to be? Am I doing enough? In the hood you can be a forty-year-old man living in your mom’s house asking people for money and it’s not looked down on. You never feel like a failure in the hood, because someone’s always worse off than you, and you don’t feel like you need to do more, because the biggest success isn’t that much higher than you, either. It allows you to exist in a state of suspended animation. The hood has a wonderful sense of community to it as well. Everyone knows everyone, from the crackhead all the way through to the policeman. People take care of one another. The way it works in the hood is that if any mom asks you to do something, you have to say yes. “Can I send you?” is the phrase. It’s like everyone’s your mom, and you’re everyone’s kid. “Can I send you?” “Yeah, whaddya need?” “I need you to go buy milk and bread.” “Yeah, cool.” Then she gives you some money and you go buy milk and bread. As long as you aren’t busy and it doesn’t cost you anything, you don’t say no. The biggest thing in the hood is that you have to share. You can’t get rich on your own. You have money? Why aren’t you helping people? The old lady on the block needs help, everyone pitches in. You’re buying beer, you buy beer for everyone. You spread it around. Everyone must know that your success benefits the community in one way or another, or you become a target. The township polices itself as well. If someone’s caught stealing, the township deals with them. If someone’s caught breaking into a house, the township deals with them. If you’re caught raping a woman, pray to God the police find you before the township does. If a woman is being hit, people don’t get involved. There are too many questions with a beating. What’s the fight about? Who’s responsible? Who started it? But rape is rape. Theft is theft. You’ve desecrated the community.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  I am accustomed to Matthew’s bedside manner, so when I arrived home on a rainy wintry night with unusually heightened color in my cheeks and greeted him with a croak, I knew what was coming. He leapt up from his writing desk and put a cool palm to my forehead, shaking his head and muttering. “You’re feverish,” he diagnosed. “Get to bed. Now.” Usually these words are enough to gladden my perverted heart, but when he says them without sexual intent they are even more powerful. I was happy to obey, crawling between the covers and shivering there until he appeared at my side with a thermometer—not the one we sometimes use in doctor and patient role plays, thank goodness—and a glass of hot water with honey, lemon, and a nip of brandy. “What have you been doing to yourself?” he asked sternly. He always accuses me in this manner when I fall ill, as if I have somehow invited the infection in. “Nothing!” I defended myself. “Germs don’t care what you do. If they’re out to get you, they will.” “Are you sure you weren’t flirting with them?” he said, his severity containing a more playful note. He made me open my mouth and stuck the thermometer beneath my tongue, muting me for the half-minute it took to get a reading. “Because if I thought you were giving those streptococci the come-hither, Loveday, I would be most displeased. And you know what happens when I’m displeased, don’t you?” I nodded, wanting to bite my lip but finding the gesture impeded by the slim glass tube resting upon it. I knew what happened when Matthew was displeased. But it wasn’t anything he could do to a person with strep throat, so I considered my bottom safe for the moment. He whipped out the thermometer and read it with a frown. “I think you’re officially ill,” he said. “We’ll have to add my current displeasure to your account. I’m going to give you three days, Loveday. For every day beyond that that you are coughing or sniffing or spending the most part asleep, there will be a penalty.” “That’s not fair,” I said, my voice coming out in the wrong register. He tutted and took my burning hands, stroking them. “When have I ever been fair?” It was a good point. “So you need to make sure you get well as soon as possible, won’t you?” he whispered. “No getting out of bed without permission. No trying to talk when your voice isn’t ready. No disobeying Dr. Rossington’s orders.” “No fun,” I mouthed with a pout, and he gave my hands a light tap of reproof. “Not until you’re better. Now get some sleep.” Swimming in and out of consciousness, I sometimes heard him on the phone, canceling engagements and giving explanations of my absence.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She lay sprawled over him, her eyes half-closed, and listened to the steady beat of his heart. The shrill tones of her cell phone had her reaching instinctively for her purse. As she scrabbled to find her cell on the messed-up bed, the screen lit up and Jodi’s stomach did a peculiar flip. Before she could answer the phone, it was plucked from her grasp. “Why the hell is he calling? Can’t we get any peace?” Jodi tried to grab the cell back, but it was too late. “What’s up, Mikey?” She tried to understand the excited chatter on the other end of the line, but it was too fast. His face softened and he raised his eyebrows at her. “Do you want to speak to Mom?” He handed her the phone and lay back down on the pillows, his expression resigned. “What’s up honey?” Jodi asked. “The babysitter wants to know if I can play Dark Warriors in Peril. Can you tell her its okay?” “Is that why you called, Mikey? You’re thirteen—you should be able to work this out yourself.” “Mom, she says it’s for teens only and Darla and Tom aren’t old enough.” “Then you get to play it when they’ve gone to bed. Why aren’t they in bed anyway?” She waited while Mikey conferred in muffled tones with someone else. “They are just going now. When will you and Dad be back?” Jodi glanced at her husband. “When we’re ready.” “Haven’t you guys finished celebrating your anniversary yet? Jeez, how long does it take?” “As long as we want. Fifteen years is a big deal, okay?” He sighed. “Okay, we’ll see you later then.” The phone went dead, and Jodi stared at the now blank screen. She turned to the large naked man stretched out on the bed beside her, and he took her hand. “I told you to turn that off.” She squeezed his fingers. “I just couldn’t.” He sighed, “I know how you feel, but is one night away from the kids a year too much to ask?” “No, it’s not.” Jodi held up her cell so he could see it and turned it off. He deserved this night. They deserved it. Having three kids had definitely inhibited their sex life. Perhaps this would help them get back into their sexual groove on the ranch—now that they’d fitted that new lock to their bedroom door. He smiled and ran a hand down his growing cock. “Then come here and fuck me.” She crawled toward him and bent to lick his already wet crown. “That will be my pleasure.” OUR OWN PRIVATE CHAMPAGNE ROOM Rachel Kramer Bussel

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  Once the mom knew we were nice, upstanding guys, she’d agree to let us take her daughter to a party as long as we promised to get her home safely. So then we’d go to the guy who’d been so desperate to meet the daughter. “Hey, let’s make a deal. We’ll bring the girl to your party and you get to hang out with her. How much can you give us?” “I don’t have money,” he’d say, “but I have some cases of beer.” “Okay, so tonight we’re going to this party. You give us two cases of beer for the party.” “Cool.” Then we’d go to the party. We’d invite the girl, who was usually thrilled to escape her mother’s prison. The guy would bring the beer, he’d get to hang out with the girl, we’d write off the mom’s debt to show her our gratitude, and we’d make our money back selling the beer. There was always a way to make it work. And often that was the most fun part: working the angles, solving the puzzle, seeing what goes where, who needs what, whom we can connect with who can then get us the money. At the peak of our operation we probably had around 10,000 rand in capital. We had loans going out and interest coming in. We had our stockpile of Jordans and DVD players we’d bought to resell. We also had to buy blank CDs, hire minibuses to go to our DJ gigs, feed five guys three times a day. We kept track of everything on the computer. Having lived in my mom’s world, I knew how to do spreadsheets. We had a Microsoft Excel document laid out: everybody’s name, how much they owed, when they paid, when they didn’t pay. After work was when business started to pick up. Minibus drivers picking up one last order, men coming home from work. The men weren’t looking for soap and Corn Flakes. They wanted the gear—DVD players, CD players, PlayStation games. More guys would come through selling stuff, too, because they’d been out hustling and stealing all day. There’d be a guy selling a cellphone, a guy selling some leather jackets, a guy selling shoes. There was this one dude who looked like a black version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. He’d always come by at the end of his shift with the most random useless crap, like an electric toothbrush without the charger. One time he brought us an electric razor. “What the hell is this?” “It’s an electric razor?” “An electric razor? We’re black. Do you know what these things do to our skin? Do you see anyone around here who can use an electric razor?” We never knew where he was getting this stuff from. Because you don’t ask.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  as the steady stream of deliveries arrived. Gradually my rooms began to assume shapes. Ruth hung her framed handkerchief embroidered with pansies on my kitchen wall and gave me the tie quilt she’d made with her grandmother for my bed. But I really knew Ruth and I were becoming close when she admitted how much she wanted help repainting her apartment. It was an absolute pleasure to see the joy on her face as I covered her walls with fresh colors. She excitedly cut shelf paper while the cupboards were still tacky with white enamel. I enjoyed the complex layers of life in the city and longed to explore those nooks and crannies with Ruth. But we never left our apartment building together because of what she called her geometric theory: two people like us in public are more than double the trouble. Instead we brought each other little gifts from out daily travels. I gave her Villa Lobos, she gave me Keith Jarrett; I brought her forsythia, she brought me impatiens. And after a while we exchanged our tears and our frustrations, as well. “Why, Ruth?” I stormed around her kitchen. “Why do heads turn when we walk down the street? Why ate we so hated?” Ruth stopped scrubbing the inside walls of her stove. “Oh, honey. We’ve been taught to hate people who are different. It’s been pumped into our brains. It keeps everybody fighting each other.” I slumped in a chair. “I used to want to change the world. Now I just want to survive it.” Ruth laughed. Her rubber gloves snapped as she pulled them off. “Well, don’t give up just yet, honey. Sometimes things don’t change for a long time and then they catch up so fast it makes your head spin.” I sighed. “When I was growing up, I believed I was gonna do something really important with my life, like explore the universe or cure diseases. I never thought P’d spend so much of my life fighting over which bathroom I could use.” Ruth nodded. “I’ve seen people risk their lives for the right to sit at a lunch counter. If you and I aren’t going to fight for the right to live, then the kids coming up will have to do it.” I leaned my head back against the back of the kitchen chair and laughed. “You are my pleasure, Ruth. You’re the last ice-cold Coca-Cola in the desert.” I flashed her a smile that clearly charmed her. I had forgotten I could do that. That evening we crawled out onto the fire escape and sat close to each other as the afternoon shifted to evening. ’d never held a body larger than mine before. The street below us was blocked off for a festival—tiny lanterns strung up between booths of food, couples dancing in the intersections to a live mariachi band.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “I think you need to go back to bed rest,” he said, holding me close, his arms crossing my rib cage, “if we’re going to continue this treatment.” I let myself lean back against him, boneless in the aftermath, while he kissed my neck and shoulders, and then I was tucked back into bed and my real temperature taken. “It’s well down,” he said. “For some reason. I would have expected that kind of treatment to elevate it. But what do I know? I’m not a doctor.” “Hey,” I croaked. “You aren’t? So...what was that?” His wickedest smile shone down on me. “That was for your own good,” he said. “Now I’m going to call your doctor and ask what he recommends for girls who are well enough to be taken vigorously up the ass yet who protest that they can’t go back to work yet.” “No you aren’t, you swine!” “Yes I am. Or rather, no I’m not. Because I know what he’d say. I know what he’d write on his prescription form. Something painful involving your behind and my hand, I suspect. So you’d better get some rest while I work my strength up.” I pouted, but I felt blissfully, floatingly sleepy. “Thank you,” I yawned. “You might not be a doctor, but I think I’m cured.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead, his blue eyes earnest as he drew back. “I’m very glad to hear it,” he said. “Gladder than you know.” I know he hates it when I’m ill, but I don’t think it’s all about control and inconvenience. I think it’s mostly about love. GUEST SERVICES Angela Caperton Joanna Danvers checked her watch again, the third time in the past hour. Maybe he had canceled late. Severe weather in the Northeast had caused more than one Suite Rewards guest to change their plans and their reservations. Damn. Her heart constricted at the thought that Thomas Wolburn might not check in today. This was it; this was Joanna’s last weekend at Suite Rewards Miami. On Wednesday, she’d pack her Focus with everything she could fit into it, leave her furniture to the mercy of movers, and head north to Atlanta and Suite Rewards’ corporate headquarters. She’d done it. After six years of busting her ass, first as the concierge and then as manager of guest services at the busy Suite Rewards Executive Hotel Miami, she’d been promoted to regional manager. Yes, she’d be back to Miami, but she’d also be in Savannah, Jacksonville, Tampa, Mobile, Orlando, and several other southern locations—but most often in her office in Atlanta.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “I hadn’t realized until now just how much I’d missed this,” she said, indicating with her glass the view of the lake. “It was always so peaceful up here.” “Except that time Jo and Kent brought their nephew with them,” Ethan said. “God, he was a terror.” “I don’t know how we got through the weekend without killing him,” Bella agreed, laughing. “He clogged the toilet, terrorized the chipmunks…” “…and refused to eat anything except Cocoa Puffs and Spaghetti-Os…” “…which Kent had to drive half an hour into the village to get…” “…while Jo cursed his name under her breath for abandoning her.” They were both laughing now, free and easy. Bella couldn’t remember the last time it had been so natural to laugh, as if a blockage had cleared in her chest. “At least we can laugh about it now,” she said. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he asked. “How things that seem so awful at the time end up being pretty minor later, when you remember them.” “The blissful haze of memory,” she said. “Natural brain defense mechanism. You know, Bella, I—” The kitchen timer pinged. “I have to put the steaks on,” he said. She set the table, then abandoned the porch to walk barefoot in the cool grass to the wild area nearby where wildflowers clustered. When he brought the plates out, he nodded at the simple arrangement she’d made in an old jam jar. “Nice.” It was the clear lake air, she decided, that made her so hungry. The steak was perfect, the potatoes crisp on the outside and steaming soft inside, the salad a light counterpoint to the rest of the meal. It all went down nicely with the wine. Shadows grew, the sky turning a gorgeous shade of deep blue. Across the table, Bella watched Ethan, noting the circles beneath his eyes. Surprised, she found herself wanting to smooth them away with her fingers, ease him into a healing sleep. Now, where had that come from? The wine, probably. But the wine didn’t explain why she’d stayed for dinner, why she’d put flowers on the table. Nothing, it seemed, made sense anymore. They did the dishes together in silence—what once would have been an awkward or angry lack of discussion now felt companionable. He’d set the timer on the coffee pot before they’d eaten, and the fresh brew filled the cabin with aromatic steam. He handed her a mug as she sat on the sofa. He’d remembered how she liked it—light on the cream, two sugars. Before he joined her, he lit the fat new cranberry-red candle on the coffee table. “Jane’s not going to like that,” Bella said of the realtor. He blinked, as if he hadn’t considered that until now. Then he shrugged. “So I’ll buy another.” Typical Ethan. His ability to brush off the details that didn’t really matter had infuriated her at the end.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  Of the African languages, Zulu has the largest number of native speakers, but we couldn’t keep that without also having Xhosa and Tswana and Ndebele. Then there’s Swazi, Tsonga, Venda, Sotho, and Pedi. We tried to keep all the major groups happy, so the next thing we knew we’d made eleven languages official languages. And those are just the languages big enough to demand recognition; there are dozens more. It’s the Tower of Babel in South Africa. Every single day. Every day you see people completely lost, trying to have conversations and having no idea what the other person is saying. Zulu and Tswana are fairly common. Tsonga and Pedi are pretty fringe. The more common your tongue, the less likely you are to learn others. The more fringe, the more likely you are to pick up two or three. In the cities most people speak at least some English and usually a bit of Afrikaans, enough to get around. You’ll be at a party with a dozen people where bits of conversation are flying by in two or three different languages. You’ll miss part of it, someone might translate on the fly to give you the gist, you pick up the rest from the context, and you just figure it out. The crazy thing is that, somehow, it works. Society functions. Except when it doesn’t. [image file=image_rsrc2UG.jpg] [image file=image_rsrc2UH.jpg] A YOUNG MAN’S LONG, AWKWARD, OCCASIONALLY TRAGIC, AND FREQUENTLY HUMILIATING EDUCATION IN AFFAIRS OF THE HEART, PART III: THE DANCEBy the end of high school I’d become a mogul. My tuck-shop business had evolved into a mini-empire that included selling pirated CDs I made at home. I’d convinced my mother, as frugal as she was, that I needed a computer for school. I didn’t. I wanted it so I could surf the Internet and play Leisure Suit Larry. But I was very convincing, and she broke down and got it for me. Thanks to the computer, the Internet, and the fortunate gift of a CD writer from a friend, I was in business. I had carved out my niche, and was having a great time; life was so good as an outsider that I didn’t even think about dating. The only girls in my life were the naked ones on my computer. While I downloaded music and messed around in chat rooms, I’d dabble in porn sites here and there. No video, of course, only pictures. With online porn today you just drop straight into the madness, but with dial-up it took so long for the images to load. It was almost gentlemanly compared to now. You’d spend a good five minutes looking at her face, getting to know her as a person. Then a few minutes later you’d get some boobs. By the time you got to her vagina, you’d spent a lot of quality time together.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  His soft accent begat a warm drawl. “I been good Mary Jo. How ’bout you?” “Well, just dandy. Ain’t seen ya in ages.” “I had a run o’ work up and down California. Good to be on the east to west again. The folks is nicer.” He winked. Mary Jo pushed her pencil through her bright blonde hair, piled high enough to stretch a five-foot-seven frame to over six feet. “You want the usual, hon?” “You know what I like!” Mary Jo turned to Sarah. “And for your lady friend here?” “Just acquaintances. A cup of coffee, two poached eggs, and dry toast. Separate checks, please.” Mary Jo popped her gum. “Sure thing, hon.” She walked away. “That’s some plain eatin’, little lady.” Dave lifted his brow. “I like it fine.” Sarah felt a little defensive. She eyed Mary Jo. “Old friend?” “You meet a lot of people on the road. Some real fine people.” Dave’s eyes locked briefly on the waitress. “Your friendship extends beyond ham and eggs.” “Were that true, it would be none of your concern, little lady.” “My name’s Sarah, not ‘little lady.’” “Well, you ain’t big, Sarah.” Sarah collapsed her fingers over a swelling smile. “I’m a little chubby.” “You’re built like a woman.” Sarah pursed her lips. “You don’t like being a woman?” “I like being a woman just fine.” “Where you headed, little…Sarah?” “Idaho.” “Big place. Any spot in particular?” “Nampa.” “Nice town. I can take you as far as Winnemucca.” Dave pointed to a new, bright red Peterbilt semi with a sleeper outside the diner. Sarah had planned to find a Travelodge and a garage in the morning. But she was near broke; that’s why she was going back. It wouldn’t be her first hitchhike. “You think my car’s bad?” “It ain’t good.” Sarah knew it was true. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take that ride.” She eyed the big omelet with home fries and toast with cherry jam that Mary Jo set down in front of Dave. “I can pay.” She picked at her carefully chosen breakfast. Between orderly but ravenous bites from his plate, he said, “For what?” “The ride.” “No point. I’m already going that way.” When they left, Dave held the passenger door of his truck open. Sarah paused until he walked away from it. She climbed up and closed the door. Dave sang along with Hank Williams’s “Hey Good Lookin’,” his voice a near dead ringer. When the song finished, Sarah tapped the dashboard. “I don’t have a radio. You mind if I check the local stations? Catch up with the news?” “Be my guest, darlin’. A dose of Hank’ll keep me going for miles.” She twisted the dial all the way up and back down a couple times, then settled on a station. A song started.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 2: Further, what we enjoy is the fruit. But the Apostle says (Gal. 5:22): “The fruit of the Spirit is charity, joy, peace,” and other like things, which are not in the nature of the last end. Therefore enjoyment is not only of the last end. Objection 3: Further, the acts of the will reflect on one another; for I will to will, and I love to love. But to enjoy is an act of the will: since “it is the will with which we enjoy,” as Augustine says (De Trin. x, 10). Therefore a man enjoys his enjoyment. But the last end of man is not enjoyment, but the uncreated good alone, which is God. Therefore enjoyment is not only of the last end. On the contrary, Augustine says (De Trin. x, 11): “A man does not enjoy that which he desires for the sake of something else.” But the last end alone is that which man does not desire for the sake of something else. Therefore enjoyment is of the last end alone. I answer that, As stated above [1080](A[1]) the notion of fruit implies two things: first that it should come last; second, that it should calm the appetite with a certain sweetness and delight. Now a thing is last either simply or relatively; simply, if it be referred to nothing else; relatively, if it is the last in a particular series. Therefore that which is last simply, and in which one delights as in the last end, is properly called fruit; and this it is that one is properly said to enjoy. But that which is delightful not in itself, but is desired, only as referred to something else, e.g. a bitter potion for the sake of health, can nowise be called fruit. And that which has something delightful about it, to which a number of preceding things are referred, may indeed by called fruit in a certain manner; but we cannot be said to enjoy it properly or as though it answered perfectly to the notion of fruit. Hence Augustine says (De Trin. x, 10) that “we enjoy what we know, when the delighted will is at rest therein.” But its rest is not absolute save in the possession of the last end: for as long as something is looked for, the movement of the will remains in suspense, although it has reached something. Thus in local movement, although any point between the two terms is a beginning and an end, yet it is not considered as an actual end, except when the movement stops there.