Desire

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 Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  5 Thes Soul of a Young Man smitten with Love follows his Lover on a Journey I N A SPRING MEDDOW STUDDED WITH GRACEFUL flowers and fresh grasses were two richly and elegantly clothed persons gathering spring flowers. Their faces were shaded by large hats. A young man Stood watching these two graceful silhouettes. He could not see their faces, and was curious to know what beautiful boys they might be. He had great longing to see their delightful faces. Then an old servant woman came out of the tent, and called to them: 'Dear maidens, dear Ofuji and Oyoshi.'The young man was disappointed to find that the two graceful persons were women and not young men. He went swiftly to the town of Sendai, the capital of that Province. At the end of one of the Streets of this town, called Bashyoja Fsuojji, there was a druggist's shop, the owner of which was a certain Hiusuke Ronishi. As our young man passed the shop, a delicious scent of incense escaped from the black curtains at the back of it, separating the commercial part from the living-rooms. The perfume was sweeter than that famous White Chrysanthemum incense which only the Lord of the Province possessed. The young man had a keen taste in incense, and was attracted by the perfume. So he entered the shop and, after buying some common perfumes, said to the proprietor: 'I should like to buy that incense which you are now burning behind the shop. Its perfume is exquisite. Will you give me a little? 'But the proprietor answered: 'That incense is my son's favourite, and we cannot sell it.' The young man was cast down, and lingered for a moment in the shop; for he could not tear himself from the delicious odour; and it was with regret that he withdrew. His name was Itjikuro Ban, and he was a Guard of the Province of Tsugaru, and immensely rich. He was passionately addicted to pederasty and did not waste a thought on women. He was at that particular time going to Yedo to see a celebrated young actor named Dekijima, whose beauty was attracting many men's admiration. His servant had received a letter from a friend at Yedo, praising Dekijima's beauty, and Itjikuro had at once set out to see him. He was a person of great refinement and dignity, of a rank which is seldom met with in so distant a country. Jutaro, the druggist's son, had seen Itjikuro and fallen in love with him. He thought: 'My fair youth cannot last for ever, and I shall soon be a grown man. Many men love and admire me for my beauty, and I have received more than a hundred love letters; but I have not read a single one of them. People say that I have no heart. But none of these men had any allure for me. Only this elegant male has troubled me.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted, she crossed over quickly and made her way back towards her original corner. By now she was rather depressed and disgruntled. Supposing that she should not find what she wanted in Bond Street? She had no idea where else to look—her knowledge of London was far from extensive. But apparently the gods were feeling propitious, for a little further on she paused in front of a small, and as she thought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact it was anything but humble, hence the bars half-way up its unostentatious window. Then she stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl that looked like a round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slender circlet of platinum—some sort of celestial marble! It was just such a ring as Angela had seen in Paris, and had since never ceased to envy. The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell rims: ‘Yes, madam, it’s a very fine specimen indeed. The setting’s French, just a thin band of platinum, there’s nothing to detract from the beauty of the pearl.’ He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen let it rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against her skin, which by contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten. Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancing curiously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite unperturbed, so he said: ‘Will you try the effect of the ring on your finger?’ At this, however, his customer flushed: ‘It wouldn’t go anywhere near my finger!’ ‘I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.’ ‘Thanks, but it’s not for me—it’s for a friend.’ ‘Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves? Is her hand large or small do you think?’ Stephen answered promptly: ‘It’s a very small hand,’ then immediately looked and felt rather self-conscious. And now the old gentleman was openly staring: ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, ‘an extraordinary likeness. . . .’ Then more boldly: ‘Do you happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died—it must be about two years ago—from some accident? I believe a tree fell—’ ‘Oh, yes, I’m his daughter,’ said Stephen. He nodded and smiled: ‘Of course, of course, you couldn’t be anything but his daughter.’ ‘You knew my father?’ she inquired, in surprise. ‘Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In those days Sir Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearl studs while he was at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins—a bit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at Oxford. But what may interest you is the fact that I made your mother’s engagement ring for him; a large half-hoop of very fine diamonds—’ ‘Did you make that ring?’

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  I 5 Thes Soul of a Young Man smitten with Love follows his Lover on a Journey N A SPRING MEDDOW STUDDED WITH GRACEFUL flowers and fresh grasses were two richly and elegantly clothed persons gathering spring flowers. Their faces were shaded by large hats. A young man Stood watching these two graceful silhouettes. He could not see their faces, and was curious to know what beautiful boys they might be. He had great longing to see their delightful faces. Then an old servant woman came out of the tent, and called to them: 'Dear maidens, dear Ofuji and Oyoshi.'The young man was disappointed to find that the two graceful persons were women and not young men. He went swiftly to the town of Sendai, the capital of that Province. At the end of one of the Streets of this town, called Bashyoja Fsuojji, there was a druggist's shop, the owner of which was a certain Hiusuke Ronishi. As our young man passed the shop, a delicious scent of incense escaped from the black curtains at the back of it, separating the commercial part from the living-rooms. The perfume was sweeter than that famous White Chrysanthemum incense which only the Lord of the Province possessed. The young man had a keen taste in incense, and was attracted by the perfume. So he entered the shop and, after buying some common perfumes, said to the proprietor: 'I should like to buy that incense which you are now burning behind the shop. Its perfume is exquisite. Will you give me a little? 'But the proprietor answered: 'That incense is my son's favourite, and we cannot sell it.' The young man was cast down, and lingered for a moment in the shop; for he could not tear himself from the delicious odour; and it was with regret that he withdrew. His name was Itjikuro Ban, and he was a Guard of the Province of Tsugaru, and immensely rich. He was passionately addicted to pederasty and did not waste a thought on women. He was at that particular time going to Yedo to see a celebrated young actor named Dekijima, whose beauty was attracting many men's admiration. His servant had received a letter from a friend at Yedo, praising Dekijima's beauty, and Itjikuro had at once set out to see him. He was a person of great refinement and dignity, of a rank which is seldom met with in so distant a country. Jutaro, the druggist's son, had seen Itjikuro and fallen in love with him. He thought: 'My fair youth cannot last for ever, and I shall soon be a grown man. Many men love and admire me for my beauty, and I have received more than a hundred love letters; but I have not read a single one of them. People say that I have no heart. But none of these men had any allure for me. Only this elegant male has troubled me.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  If you hadn’t been there they’d have let him get killed, and I’m just devoted to Tony.’ Her voice had the soft, thick drawl of the South, an indolent voice, very lazy and restful. It was quite new to Stephen, that soft, Southern drawl, and she found it unexpectedly pleasant. Then it dawned on the girl that this woman was lovely—she was like some queer flower that had grown up in darkness, like some rare, pale flower without blemish or stain, and Stephen said flushing: ‘I was glad to help you—I’ll drive you back to The Grange, if you’ll let me?’ ‘Why, of course we’ll let you,’ came the prompt answer. ‘Tony says he’ll be most grateful, don’t you, Tony?’ Tony wagged his tail rather faintly. Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the car, where he lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the seat beside herself, helping her carefully as she did so. Presently Angela said: ‘Thanks to Tony I’ve met you at last; I’ve been longing to meet you!’ And she stared rather disconcertingly at Stephen, then smiled as though something she saw had amused her. Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet her. Feeling suddenly shy she became suspicious: ‘Who told you about me?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Mrs. Antrim, I think—yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said you were such a wonderful rider but that now, for some reason, you’d given up hunting. Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a man. Do you fence like a man?’ ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Stephen. ‘Well, I’ll tell you whether you do when I’ve seen you; my father was quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lot about fencing in the States—perhaps some day, Miss Gordon, you’ll let me see you?’ By now Stephen’s face was the colour of a beetroot, and she gripped the wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longing to turn round and look at her companion, the desire to look at her was almost overwhelming, but even her eyes seemed too stiff to move, so she gazed at the long dusty road in silence. ‘Don’t punish the poor, wooden thing that way,’ murmured Angela, ‘it can’t help being just wood!’ Then she went on talking as though to herself: ‘What should I have done if that brute had killed Tony? He’s a real companion to me on my walks—I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for Tony, he’s such a devoted, cute little fellow, and these days I’m kind of thrown back on my dog—it’s a melancholy business walking alone, yet I’ve always been fond of walking—’ Stephen wanted to say: ‘But I like walking too; let me come with you sometimes as well as Tony.’

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  13 Love long Concealed F OLLOWING A DISPUTE WITH THE counsellor of the Lord of the Province of Osumi, the samurai Jiuzayemon Fatjibana retired from official life. He lived very comfortably with his wife and son in a remote village. His son, Tamanosuke, was at that time fifteen years old, and so beautiful that people thought it a pity to leave him hidden in this remote village, and not to make him a well-known samurai in some large town. But when Jiuzayemon thought that his son was old enough to serve a Prince as a page, he sent him to the capital, Yedo. He also caused his servant, Kakubel Kanazawa, to accompany him. This man had served him for many years, and was fifty years old and had great experience of life. Before leaving him, his father gave his son some good advice, telling him to conduct himself bravely and to defend his honour to the death. But his mother whispered for a moment with Kakubel, asking him to guard and protect her son, and ended by saying: 'I beg you to take particular care of my son, especially in this matter.' When Tamanosuke and Kakubel were some distance from the house, Tamanosuke asked: 'Did not my mother tell you not to deliver love-letters to me if a samurai should send me one? But if you refuse to oblige a man who sends me love-letters, you will ad heartlessly. You will be a cruel man. I want to be loved by some great samurai, since that is one of the best things in this life of ours. If no one loves me, I shall hate my beautiful face. Once in Great China, a prevalent poet of the Province of Yoshu said in one of his poems, speaking of a young boy: "A cruel youth without a heart." I wish you to feel sympathy for pederasty, O Kakubel.' Kakubel answered: 'But of course, young master! If everybody were as scrupulous as your mother, such a thing as honourable love between samurai would not exist. I shall act quite in accordance with your wishes.' And they laughed together. After a long and troublesome journey they at last reached Yedo. Tamanosuke was presented by a friend of his father's to the Prince of the Province of Aezu, who was charmed with him and immediately engaged him as a page, and took him to the Province of Aezu with him. Tamanosuke was greatly attached to this Lord, and very polite to the other courtiers, of whom this Lord made him his favourite. Compared with Tamanosuke's beauty, all the other pages were as flowers hidden behind a fence from the rays of the sun. One summer evening Tamanosuke was playing ball with the other pages in the palace garden. He was the best player of all, and people watched and admired his grace and skill. Suddenly his eyes grew haggard, his body began to tremble, and he was seized with convulsions in all his limbs.

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  They were easily the most eligible young men in the neighborhood. If I was going to venture into sex, I saw no reason why I shouldn't make my experiment with the best of the lot. I didn't really expect to capture either brother on a permanent basis, but I thought if I could hook one temporarily I might be able to work the relationship into something more lasting. I planned a chart for seduction with surprise as my opening ploy. One evening as I walked up the hill suffering from youth's vague malaise (there was simply nothing to do), the brother I had chosen came walking directly into my trap. “Hello, Marguerite.” He nearly passed me. I put the plan into action. “Hey.” I plunged, “Would you like to have a sexual intercourse with me?” Things were going according to the chart. His mouth hung open like a garden gate. I had the advantage and so I pressed it. “Take me somewhere. ” His response lacked dignity, but in fairness to him I admit that I had left him little chance to be suave. He asked, “You mean, you're going to give me some trim?” I assured him that that was exactly what I was about to give him. Even as the scene was being enacted I realized the imbalance in his values. He thought I was giving him something, and the fact of the matter was that it was my intention to take something from him. His good looks and popularity had made him so inordinately conceited that they blinded him to that possibility. We went to a furnished room occupied by one of his friends, who understood the situation immediately and got his coat and left us alone. The seductee quickly turned off the lights. I would have preferred them left on, but didn't want to appear more aggressive than I had been already. If that was possible. I was excited rather than nervous, and hopeful instead of frightened. I had not considered how physical an act of seduction would be. I had anticipated long soulful tongued kisses and gentle caresses. But there was no romance in the knee which forced my legs, nor in the rub of hairy skin on my chest. Unredeemed by shared tenderness, the time was spent in laborious gropings, pullings, yankings and jerkings. Not one word was spoken. My partner showed that our experience had reached its climax by getting up abruptly, and my main concern was how to get home quickly. He may have sensed that he had been used, or his disinterest may have been an indication that I was less than gratifying. Neither possibility bothered me. Outside on the street we left each other with little more than “Okay, see you around. ” Thanks to Mr. Freeman nine years before, I had had no pain of entry to endure, and because of the absence of romantic involvement neither of us felt much had happened.

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  Among my associates, there were no takers. Understandably the boys of my age and social group were captivated by the yellow-or light-brown-skinned girls, with hairy legs and smooth little lips, and whose hair “hung down like horses' manes.” And even those sought-after girls were asked to “give it up or tell where it is.” They were reminded in a popular song of the times, “If you can't smile and say yes, please don't cry and say no.” If the pretties were expected to make the supreme sacrifice in order to “belong,” what could the unattractive female do? She who had been skimming along on life's turning but never-changing periphery had to be ready to be a “buddy” by day and maybe by night. She was called upon to be generous only if the pretty girls were unavailable. I believe most plain girls are virtuous because of the scarcity of opportunity to be otherwise. They shield themselves with an aura of unavailableness (for which after a time they begin to take credit) largely as a defense tactic. In my particular case, I could not hide behind the curtain of voluntary goodness. I was being crushed by two unrelenting forces: the uneasy suspicion that I might not be a normal female and my newly awakening sexual appetite. I decided to take matters into my own hands. (An unfortunate but apt phrase.) Up the hill from our house, and on the same side of the street, lived two handsome brothers. They were easily the most eligible young men in the neighborhood. If I was going to venture into sex, I saw no reason why I shouldn't make my experiment with the best of the lot. I didn't really expect to capture either brother on a permanent basis, but I thought if I could hook one temporarily I might be able to work the relationship into something more lasting. I planned a chart for seduction with surprise as my opening ploy. One evening as I walked up the hill suffering from youth's vague malaise (there was simply nothing to do), the brother I had chosen came walking directly into my trap. “Hello, Marguerite.” He nearly passed me. I put the plan into action. “Hey.” I plunged, “Would you like to have a sexual intercourse with me?” Things were going according to the chart. His mouth hung open like a garden gate. I had the advantage and so I pressed it. “Take me somewhere.” His response lacked dignity, but in fairness to him I admit that I had left him little chance to be suave. He asked, “You mean, you're going to give me some trim?”

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  My poor brother didn't know what she meant. I knew. I lifted the flap and said, “Joyce, don't you do that to my brother.” She nearly screamed, but she kept her voice low, “Margaret, you close that door.” Bailey added, “Yes. Close it. You're supposed to be playing with our doll baby.” I thought he would go to the hospital if he let her do that to him, so I warned him, “Bailey, if you let her do that to you, you'll be sorry.” But he threatened that if I didn't close the door he wouldn't speak to me for a month, so I let the end of the blanket fall and sat down on the grass in front of the tent. Joyce poked her head out and said in a sugary, white-woman-in-the-movies voice, “Baby, you go get some wood. Daddy and I going to light a fire, then I'm going to make you some cake.” Then her voice changed as if she was going to hit me. “Go. Git.” Bailey told me after that Joyce had hairs on her thing and that she had gotten them from “doing it” with so many boys. She even had hair under her arms. Both of them. He was very proud of her accomplishments. As their love affair progressed, his stealing from the Store increased. We had always taken candy and a few nickels and of course the sour pickles, but Bailey, now called upon to feed Joyce's ravening hunger, took cans of sardines and greasy Polish sausage and cheese and even the expensive cans of pink salmon that our family could seldom afford to eat. Joyce's willingness to do odd jobs slackened about this time. She complained that she wasn't feeling all that well. But since she now had a few coins, she still hung around the Store eating Planter's peanuts and drinking Dr Pepper. Momma ran her off a few times. “Ain't you said you wasn't feeling well, Joyce? Hadn't you better get home and let your aunty do something for you?” “Yes, ma'am.” Then reluctantly she was off the porch, her stiff-legged walk carrying her up the hill and out of sight. I think she was Bailey's first love outside the family. For him, she was the mother who let him get as close as he dreamed, the sister who wasn't moody and withdrawing, and teary and tender-hearted. All he had to do was keep the food coming in and she kept the affection flowing. It made no difference to him that she was almost a woman, or possibly it was just that difference which made her so appealing. She was around for a few months, and as she had appeared, out of limbo, so she disappeared into nothingness. There was no gossip about her, no clues to her leaving or her whereabouts. I noticed the change in Bailey before I discovered that she was gone. He lost his interest in everything.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “No, it feels natural.” “Crazy. So I have a question. Do you like Bukowski?” I asked. “Who?” he said. “Charles Bukowski; he’s a poet.” “I don’t know who that is,” he said, treading water. “Why?” “It’s not important,” I said. “No, tell me why. Do you like him?” “Definitely not,” I said. “But I just went on a date with someone who is a big fan.” “You did?” said Theo. “How was that for you?” I couldn’t tell if he seemed genuinely interested or if he was just being polite. “Heinous,” I said. “That can happen, I suppose,” he said. Suddenly I felt too…something. I wanted him to know I had gone on a date, because I wanted to see what his response would be. But I didn’t want him to think that I was a complainer or needy, or that things didn’t work out for me. I didn’t want to seem bitter. I wanted to seem youthful and full of joie de vivre. “It’s okay,” I said. “There’s another possible date on the horizon with someone else. This designer guy. Might make out with him.” What was I saying? “Ah,” he said. Did he look dejected? His expression was so serious that I couldn’t tell. “What about you?” I broke in. “Do you have a girlfriend?” “Not at the moment,” he said. “Boyfriend?” I asked. “Nope,” he said. “Really, I’m surprised. I would think people would be all over you.” I don’t know what I was trying to get him to say. Mostly, I wanted to get us talking about sex and love. But he changed the subject. “So which poets do you like?” he asked. “Me, no one at the moment. I actually want to kill all of poetry. If there was no more poetry left in the world I would be fine with it.” “I hate art too,” he said. “Really?” I asked. “No.” He grinned. “It’s not that I hate poetry. But I’ve been working on a project about a particular poet for a very long time. And I’m having trouble with it. So right now I’m feeling pretty over poetry.” “Which poet?” he asked. “Oh, her name is Sappho,” I said. “I know Sappho,” he said. “No you don’t,” I said. I assumed he was being one of those people whom, when asked about a movie they’ve never seen, responds with an affirmation about how much they loved it. “Yes, Sappho, she’s not exactly esoteric. Greek love poet. Well actually, she was a musician. Of course, most people don’t know that.” “Yeah, I know. How do you know that?” “I know a few things,” he said. “Amazing.” “So what is this project about?” “It’s bullshit, pretty much.” “Is it? I can’t imagine bullshitting about Sappho. Her words are so beautiful, what’s left of them anyway.” “I don’t know if it’s bullshit. It’s an attempt to sort of read Sappho through the—nothingness around her. Through the destruction of her text.”

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “That sounds interesting, actually. Nothingness is good. Almost as good as filling up every space,” he smiled. “And destruction. Destruction can be sexy.” I shivered a little bit. “I guess the gaps are sort of a reminder that, in love, things get disconnected,” I said. “People just disappear.” “Maybe they leave room for something more infinite,” he said. “Maybe,” I said. “All I know is it’s not going very well. I’m not enjoying it.” “But you’re still doing it?” he said. “Yes,” I said. “I guess I like torturing myself.” “That can also be sexy if done right, I suppose.” Was he fucking with me? I stood up. I didn’t know whether to move closer to him or away from him on the rock, so I looked up at the moon, which was a crescent. I thought about licking it or putting it inside me. “Well, Lucy, I wish you only the best with the self-torture,” he said. “And with your next date.” “Thanks,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you out here again?” “Maybe,” he said. “Okay.” “Have a good night,” he said. And with that he pushed off the rock and began to breaststroke away. 15.When I got home I was turned on. That little fucker. Who was he, even, lurking around in the ocean? I decided to take immediate action. Brushing past Dominic, who sniffed at me suspiciously and growled a little, I took to my phone. It was time to send Tinder Garrett a message. Hey I changed my mind. Want to meet up after all? I wrote. He wrote back within seconds: guess it didn’t work out with the other dude? haha, I said. want to come to downtown? i work in a loft down here. meet me on the roof of the Ace Hotel tmrw @ 7 sounds good I wrote, so casually. Immediately after that message came a text. It was from Jamie. How are you? I miss you. My stomach dropped. Claire was right! It was like he could smell that I was out with other men. Now it was raining attention. There was Adam, Garrett, Theo, and Jamie. I wanted to wait to text him back but wrote immediately, of course. I’m fine. deep in therapy, as instructed And how is megan? There was a pause. She is good Well, that was that… She’s no you, of course

• From The Pisces (2018)

  After his drink and my toast we decided to take a walk. I wondered if this would be the make-out walk, since he had pretty much ignored that line of my Tinder bio and gone straight to the idea of fucking. Downtown L.A. wasn’t pretty, but it was sexy in the dark—all empty space, cooling air, and warehouses. Sexy dirt. He pointed across the street at a neon blue lit sign and said, “That’s my office.” The sign said GO ALL NIGHT. I thought the sign was stupid, but somehow, in the context of his jaw, it seemed hot. The jaw knew what it was doing, and so the sign did too. The jaw, and now the sign over this cool and modern office, made him seem like he had something creative and successful going on in his life. I wished he would just kiss me and wondered why he wasn’t doing anything. I felt ashamed. Maybe he didn’t think I was cute. Then the shame turned to anger, and I poked him in the chest. Then I pushed him into a wall. I don’t know whether I was trying to get him to kiss me or to wrestle him. But he didn’t seem to notice. He was too wrapped up in telling me about his new “health goth”–style fitness client. He was designing their online catalog, only the catalog wouldn’t be like a regular catalog. It would be a space that had 3-D printing elements and holographic models. Finally I said to him, “Can I kiss you?” “Yeah,” he said. He pulled me to him gently and we kissed in a really sweet way, very soft. That was kind of confusing. He kissed me like someone who definitely didn’t have a girlfriend. Like it was more of a loving kiss than a lusty kiss. Or maybe it wasn’t loving, but just dispassionate. Then he stopped, looked at me, and started talking about the project again. “Shhhhhh,” I said. I kissed him again. I felt strangely high. I was still a little drunk, but there was definitely something narcotic about kissing him—just being around him—that made me feel like I wanted to keep doing it over and over. I traced his jaw with my hand and let out a little sigh. He stopped kissing me and said, “So where did you park?” I told him that I took an Uber, and I would take one back. “I’m going to get a car now. Maybe we can kiss until it gets here?” I got higher and higher off the kisses. I just needed more and more of them. I felt that if I stopped getting them I would not be okay, but while I was close to his face everything was humming. I might have been looking at him funny. Maybe too lovingly? Could he smell my strange attachment already? What the fuck was wrong with me?

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  But when Jiuzayemon thought that his son was old enough to serve a Prince as a page, he sent him to the capital, Yedo. He also caused his servant, Kakubel Kanazawa, to accompany him. This man had served him for many years, and was fifty years old and had great experience of life. Before leaving him, his father gave his son some good advice, telling him to conduct himself bravely and to defend his honour to the death. But his mother whispered for a moment with Kakubel, asking him to guard and protect her son, and ended by saying: 'I beg you to take particular care of my son, especially in this matter.' When Tamanosuke and Kakubel were some distance from the house, Tamanosuke asked: 'Did not my mother tell you not to deliver love-letters to me if a samurai should send me one? But if you refuse to oblige a man who sends me love-letters, you will ad heartlessly. You will be a cruel man. I want to be loved by some great samurai, since that is one of the best things in this life of ours. If no one loves me, I shall hate my beautiful face. Once in Great China, a prevalent poet of the Province of Yoshu said in one of his poems, speaking of a young boy: "A cruel youth without a heart." I wish you to feel sympathy for pederasty, O Kakubel.' Kakubel answered: 'But of course, young master! If everybody were as scrupulous as your mother, such a thing as honourable love between samurai would not exist. I shall act quite in accordance with your wishes.' And they laughed together. After a long and troublesome journey they at last reached Yedo. Tamanosuke was presented by a friend of his father's to the Prince of the Province of Aezu, who was charmed with him and immediately engaged him as a page, and took him to the Province of Aezu with him. Tamanosuke was greatly attached to this Lord, and very polite to the other courtiers, of whom this Lord made him his favourite. Compared with Tamanosuke's beauty, all the other pages were as flowers hidden behind a fence from the rays of the sun. One summer evening Tamanosuke was playing ball with the other pages in the palace garden. He was the best player of all, and people watched and admired his grace and skill. Suddenly his eyes grew haggard, his body began to tremble, and he was seized with convulsions in all his limbs. They took off his playing habit, and he seemed to have Sopped breathing. When he regained consciousness, they bore him to his house. He grew worse and worse. His death seemed very near, and they despaired of saving him.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Pierre had rigged up an imposing flagstaff, from which waved a brand new tricolour commandeered by Pauline from the neighbouring baker; flowers had been placed in the study vases, while Adèle had contrived to produce the word ‘welcome’ in immortelles, as the pièce de resistance, and had hung it above the doorway. Stephen shook hands with them all in turn, and she introduced Mary, who also shook hands. Then Adèle must start to gabble about Jean, who was quite safe although not a captain; and Pauline must interrupt her to tell of the neighbouring baker who had lost his four sons, and of one of her brothers who had lost his right leg—her face very dour and her voice very cheerful, as was always the way when she told of misfortunes. And presently she must also deplore the long straight scar upon Stephen’s cheek: ‘Oh, la pauvre! Pour une dame c’est un vrai désastre!’ But Pierre must point to the green and red ribbon in Stephen’s lapel: ‘C’est la Croix de Guerre!’ so that in the end they all gathered round to admire that half-inch of honour and glory. Oh, yes, this home-coming was as friendly and happy as good will and warm Breton hearts could make it. Yet Stephen was oppressed by a sense of restraint when she took Mary up to the charming bedroom overlooking the garden, and she spoke abruptly. ‘This will be your room.’ ‘It’s beautiful, Stephen.’ After that they were silent, perhaps because there was so much that might not be spoken between them. The dinner was served by a beaming Pierre, an excellent dinner, more than worthy of Pauline; but neither of them managed to eat very much —they were far too acutely conscious of each other. When the meal was over they went into the study where, in spite of the abnormal shortage of fuel, Adèle had managed to build a huge fire which blazed recklessly half up the chimney. The room smelt slightly of hothouse flowers, of leather, of old wood and vanished years, and after a while of cigarette smoke. Then Stephen forced herself to speak lightly: ‘Come and sit over here by the fire,’ she said, smiling. So Mary obeyed, sitting down beside her, and she laid a hand upon Stephen’s knee; but Stephen appeared not to notice that hand, for she just let it lie there and went on talking. ‘I’ve been thinking, Mary, hatching all sorts of schemes. I’d like to get you right away for a bit, the weather seems pretty awful in Paris. Puddle once told me about Teneriffe, she went there ages ago with a pupil. She stayed at a place called Orotava; it’s lovely, I believe—do you think you’d enjoy it? I might manage to hear of a villa with a garden, and then you could just slack about in the sunshine.’ Mary said, very conscious of the unnoticed hand: ‘Do you really want to go away, Stephen? Wouldn’t it interfere with your writing?’

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  As with many MTF spectrum folks, my crossdressing passed through a series of stages. Each was a demystification process that I began by experimenting with some aspect of femaleness/femininity that seemed unknowable and fascinating to me. Over time, my exploration and experimentation of that aspect of femaleness/femininity led to it becoming demystified; what had previously seemed out of my reach eventually became something that I was capable of, that was within my realm of possibility. The main motivating force behind my exploration of crossdressing was to make sense of my ever-present desire to be female. While this may distinguish me from other crossdressers (e.g., those who are motivated by feminine rather than female inclinations), I believe that the stages I passed through (which are described below) are shared by many crossdressers. The first stage of crossdressing I passed through was the “clothing phase.” It began with trying on individual articles of clothing one at a time (this was after a several-year period where I made due with blankets, curtains, shoelaces, and such while “pretending” to be a girl). Sometimes I would put on a pair of heels, stockings, or a dress, or dabble with cosmetics or shave my legs. Each was its own mini-transformation, where a part of my body would begin to resemble that of a woman in certain ways. After a while, I began to put it all together, to dress completely as a woman from head to toe. I looked rather ridiculous when I first began to do this, but over the course of many years, I slowly figured out what worked for me and what did not. Eventually, I reached the point where I could fairly consistently appear female to myself when I looked in mirror. This “mirror moment” was always the highlight of any crossdressing session for me, as I found it strangely comforting to be able to see my female reflection staring back at me. As the name suggests, my clothing phase was primarily about becoming familiar with, and eventually demystifying, “women’s” clothing. I eventually even stopped thinking about them as “women’s” clothes; after all, they were all my clothes, as I was the one who purchased and wore them. Similarly, I also stopped thinking of myself as being “crossdressed,” and instead began referring to myself as simply being “dressed.” Toward the end of this stage, I was no longer very excited by the idea of wearing “women’s” clothes just for the sake of it. However, while they had lost their mystified properties, I still understood them as having the transformative property of facilitating my appearance as female. It is this latter role that “women’s” clothing played in the next stage of my crossdressing, when I began to venture out in public.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Did mermaids menstruate? Perhaps this was part of Theo’s attraction to me, my feet in the dirt and the blood in my pussy. My feet on the desert sand, dirty feet, dirty legs, bloody legs, blood dripping down my legs and onto all the earth. Both of us dry on our chests, but me wet in the pussy like a red hearth: the only wetness for days, no other water. Did mermaids even get wet in their cunts? Was it hard fucking them in the water, as beautiful as they were? I remembered trying to fuck in a pool years ago at a motel in Phoenix. It wasn’t easy. You got dried up from the water and couldn’t slide around right. So what would happen in the ocean? What did they use for lubrication? I gasped when I saw his cock. It was harder than I’d ever seen it, thick and pink, aiming straight at me like a meaty arrow. I gasped again when I saw the pool of blood on my sister’s white sofa. I was not so blinded by passion that I didn’t care if I had ruined it. I couldn’t destroy Annika’s house just because my new boyfriend was a merman with a penchant for period sex. But Theo saw the stain as a memento and looked proud: as though we should both autograph it. Saltwater stained boats, but in a beautiful way—weathering them, rendering the wood a soft, gray color. So too was our stain to him an act of nature. Perhaps he saw it as a triumph, even, a miracle marking our existence together on land, rather than any cause for alarm. And so I pretended to own my bodily secretions, as though I was proud of what we had made, instead of feeling inwardly ashamed. I pretended to celebrate by kissing him. With his tongue in my mouth and little bits of dried blood flaking off of his cheek, he put his dick in me. I couldn’t believe how strong it was. “Fuck me,” I said. “Fuck me with your Triton spear.” We both laughed. We were looking in each other’s eyes and he was rubbing my organs from the inside. My flow was very heavy and he was sliding in and out, pumping inside me. I had never come from sex before, but maybe I would this time. Maybe I would. “Oh my God, I’m either going to come or piss,” I laughed. “I’m either going to come or piss, I don’t know which one.” “So come and piss,” he said. “Come and piss!” But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t let go, or maybe I wasn’t about to come—only piss. Whatever it was, I couldn’t reach it. But it felt so good to fuck him and I felt so connected to him and to all of the lovers throughout time. Missionary was so classical: simple, romantic, and ancient.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  30.I went late to see Theo. The fact that he had other plans the night before, and I didn’t know what they were, made me feel insecure. Instead I spent extra time cuddling with Dominic, the dog’s head draped over my arm so that his neck fit snug like a warm puzzle piece. I pretended that I preferred to be with the dog and could take or leave seeing the swimmer entirely. But I was playing a game: I knew that Theo was not mine alone. I mean, he said he didn’t have a girlfriend, but he was so beautiful. Of course there were other women. Everything I saw in him that I liked was available for others to see. But the way he treated me, with such reverence, made me feel like he held me above all others or anything else. If there were a gaggle of younger girls, I was his special older woman. Still, I couldn’t help but play a little bit of a game just to make him wonder. He was waiting for me when I got to the rocks. He was still in the water and was holding on to a rock, his chin resting on it. I sat down on the rock and leaned forward. With my hand, I lifted up his face to mine, kissed him wetly, our tongues in each other’s mouths. He moaned in my mouth and the moaning set off shudders inside me. I realized for the first time that he didn’t just like me or think I was pretty, but that he wanted me. In a flash I felt myself get wet inside. “I just want to take off your fucking wet suit,” I said. He looked me in the eyes. “Lie down,” he said. “With your legs over the rock.” I lay down. He took off my flip-flops and began kissing my feet, sucking my toes. “Oh my God.” I laughed. “Aren’t they sandy? Sorry if they taste weird!”

• From The Pisces (2018)

  The swimmer leaned on the rock with his arms. They were thick and meaty—not cut like a bodybuilder’s, but you could see the muscles underneath what looked like a layer of baby chub. They reminded me of eating a piece of fish with thick skin and a small layer of fat, strong and also soft, very white. I wanted to bite them. His chest was hairless, and I noticed that the color of his nipples matched perfectly his lips, like pencil erasers. He looked like he was twenty-one, at most. If this was death then death was hot. “Doesn’t it scare you to be night-swimming? Isn’t the water freezing?” I asked. “I’ve got a wet suit on my lower half,” he said. “But no, it doesn’t scare me. I like the way the splashes look in the moonlight and I like having the ocean to myself. Well, almost to myself.” “Yeah, it’s nice out here,” I said. The wine was wearing off. I suddenly felt exhausted. His teeth were shiny white, but not like an actor’s. They didn’t look bleached or fake. They were practically iridescent, like the inside of a shell. There was something almost feminine about him, pretty, but his jaw was well defined. These surfer boys. I always forgot that they were real. I mean, I knew that they existed. I knew they were alive. But it really seemed to me that the surfing was a costume, like they were only pretending to be so enamored of it. How could anyone be that devoted to something so lacking a destination? Just wave after wave, over and over. I wished someone were that enamored of me. But their love for surfing was real. It was a fact. They really loved surfing as much as they appeared to love it. This one didn’t have a board, though. This wasn’t a surfer. This was a swimmer. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Lucy.” I felt old. “Nice to meet you, Lucy,” he said. “I’m Theo.” When he said his name, his hotness increased. He was real, there in the water, real in a way that I wasn’t. He was swimming and wet and I was—what was I doing? I thought of all my books, the ones waiting for me in piles back in my parching Phoenix apartment, collecting dust. I thought of the university library. I imagined the library growing and growing, the books piling up on the edge of this ocean. One wave could destroy them all. They were so dry, like they were actually made of dust. My skin, too, felt like an old book: powdery parchment etched with lines that supposedly contained knowledge, but when you looked closer they were only empty scribbles. Not the right kind of knowledge. If you put me in the water, I too would dissolve. I was sure of it. “Do you always swim at night?” “Yes,” he said. “The waves are more intense but it makes you stronger.”

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  As much as I wanted to be female, I was taught to believe that this was not a realistic possibility for me. For this reason, I began to channel my female inclinations into fantasies or role-playing, in which I’d imagine I’d turned into a girl somehow. The fact that these fantasies always began with me being a boy (rather than simply imagining myself as a girl from the start) is indicative of how illegitimate I felt my own desires to be female were. I was convinced that I could never attain actual femaleness; in my mind, the best that I could hope for was merely pretending to be female or being “turned into” a girl.After a year or two of imagining myself becoming a girl (typically a rather tomboyish one who went off on adventures and such), I started experimenting with conventional femininity. This was due both to me wanting to explore my own feminine inclinations and to the fact that (like most people) I was taught to believe that femininity was an intrinsic part of being female. My growing fascination with femininity was also very much intertwined with my growing attraction to women. As a teenager who was dealing with sexual attraction for the first time, I found it hard not to conflate my desire to be female with my sexual attraction for women. And in this respect, feminine accoutrements—whether clothing, cosmetics, or other accessories—became highly symbolic of both.In chapter 14, “Trans-Sexualization,” I explained that trans people who have not transitioned, and who therefore are unable to take their own physical sex for granted, often experience sexual arousal in association with their own cross-gendered thoughts and expressions. While this is true for virtually all trans people, there are a couple of factors specific to crossdressers that intensify this phenomenon. First, testosterone, which significantly boosts one’s sex drive across the board, undoubtedly plays some role in amplifying cross-gendered sexual arousal for those who are hormonally male. Second, we live in a culture in which women are frequently viewed as sexual objects, and much of women’s clothing emphasizes and exaggerates women’s sexuality. For crossdressers, there is no way of getting around the cultural eroticism that surrounds “women’s” clothing.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I asked Theo. “Maybe if he just comes out and meets you.” “The problem is that if he attacks I can’t get away.” “He won’t attack,” I said. But I had never seen Dominic this irate and I wasn’t sure. When we imagine a situation—when our hearts decide this must happen—we will go to any lengths to make the fantasy happen. In my fantasy there was no barking. There was only me and Theo on the soft sheets and a universe of silence. “Wait one second,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I remembered I had seen some doggy tranquilizers in one of the kitchen cabinets for things like airplane flights. I got two pills and hid them in a treat, then went into the pantry and stuffed it into Dominic’s frothing mouth. Two was double the dose. Was I awful? Would I be punished? Next I turned on some music, something ambient of my sister’s, a soft electronic yoga chant meant to soothe the most stressed-out human or animal. “He should be quiet soon,” I said, coming out the side door. Then I realized that Theo was still in the wagon. “Oh God,” I said. “I’m sorry, let me help you out of there.” He smiled nervously as I pulled the wagon into the house. In my visions, Theo would be able to go anywhere on his own. He would be part Paralympic champion and part giant snail, easily gliding from room to room and up the stairs. But there really was no way of getting him up there. “Maybe we can relax on the sofa,” I said, pointing. My sister’s sofa was white and I felt nervous about getting it covered in kelp, sand, the sheen of sea dirt that accrued and attached itself to Theo’s tail. I was covered in the beach and ocean salt too. I took the blanket off of him and laid it on the sofa. He flipped himself onto the floor and began to drag himself over. I felt proud of him that he was unashamed to do this in my presence, to let me see him so vulnerable. It was adorable—him flopping around out of water, trying to be strong for me, arms straining. Who was this magic creature in my sister’s home? How had this even happened? He hoisted himself onto the sofa and lay down on his back. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the big flat-screen TV. “It’s a television,” I said. “It projects images and sound. But right now it’s off. It’s sleeping.” “Do you enjoy it?” “Not really,” I said. “Come over here,” he said. I got on top of him. We kissed each other with open mouths, sucking at each other like we were eating mussels. Then we kissed slow and gentle. I noticed that Dominic had stopped barking. How long could Theo stay with me?

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  After a few minutes he turns up a dirt road and parks in front of a small weathered farmhouse. I get out of my car and hear a cacophony of honking noises – ducks! He assures me they’ll settle down but I don’t care, I’m thoroughly charmed by the whole scene. When he opens the screen door after crossing a ramshackle porch filled with rubber boots and gardening tools, two cats and a chocolate Labrador come running to greet us. He looks down at my feet and asks if I have a more practical pair of shoes in my car to take the dog for a walk. I do not, so he reaches for my hand to guide me as we walk up a damp grassy path behind the dog. It is serene under the inky black sky, but impossible to see more than a foot ahead and we are walking with purpose to keep up with the dog, wet grass tickling my feet while my delicate sandals rebel against the pastoral conditions. Terrified that even with him protectively clutching my hand I am merely steps away from wiping out, I’m doing everything I can to simultaneously secure my footing, casually swat away mosquitoes and reassure him this is a lovely walk and of course I am loving every second of my time outdoors! My relief when we are back inside and I can kick off my ridiculous heels is so great that one might have thought I was returning from a ten-mile hike in the depths of the jungle. Settling into a cane-backed rocking chair to wait while he feeds his cats, I take in the living room, which, like the house, is unpretentious and charming, simply furnished with a stack of astronomy magazines and copies of The New York Review of Books on the coffee table. Soon he is back, wasting no words while he sinks down to his knees next to the rocking chair, kissing me gently and then with increasing urgency. He asks if I want to go upstairs and then we are on the rickety staircase with him holding out a hand behind him for me to hold as we head to his bedroom. The windows are open and it sounds like pouring rain outside, but he says it is the river rushing by, one on his property that I could not see in the dark. It’s hard for me to imagine a more romantic spot than the one I am standing in. I have a flash of the hugely bestselling book The Bridges of Madison County : at the time I read it I thought it was absurd, the idea of a lonely housewife on a farm having a brief affair with a stranger she stays in love with forever and never sees again, but now it comes back to me and makes sense.