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 The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  The Arabs have a different legend. They tell how Abraham saw many flocks and herds and said to his mother: ‘Who is the lord of these?’ She answered: ‘Your father, Terah.’ ‘And who is the lord of Terah?’ the young Abraham asked. ‘Nimrod,’ said his mother. ‘And who is the lord of Nimrod?’ asked Abraham. His mother told him to be quiet and not push questions too far; but already Abraham’s thoughts were reaching out to the one who is the God of all. The legends go on to tell that Terah not only worshipped twelve idols, one for each of the months, but was also a manufacturer of idols. One day, Abraham was left in charge of the shop. People came in to buy idols. Abraham would ask them how old they were and they would answer perhaps 50 or 60 years of age. ‘Woe to a man of such an age’, said Abraham, ‘who adores the work of one day!’ A strong and fit man of 70 came in. Abraham asked him his age and then said: ‘You fool to adore a god who is younger than yourself!’ A woman came in with a dish of meat for the gods. Abraham took a stick and smashed all the idols but one, in whose hands he set the stick he had used. Terah returned and was angry. Abraham said: ‘My father, a woman brought this dish of meat for your gods; they all wanted to have it and the strongest knocked the heads off the rest, in case they should eat it all.’ Terah said: ‘That is impossible, for they are made of wood and stone.’ And Abraham answered: ‘Let your own ear hear what your own mouth has spoken!’ All these legends give us a vivid picture of Abraham searching after God and being dissatisfied with the idolatry of his people. So, when God’s call came to him, he was ready to go out into the unknown to find him. Abraham is the supreme example of faith. (1) Abraham’s faith was the faith that was ready for adventure. God’s summons meant that he had to leave home and family and business; yet he went. He had to go out into the unknown; yet he went. In the best of us, there is a certain timidity. We wonder just what will happen to us if we take God at his word and act on his commands and promises. Bishop Lesslie Newbigin tells of the negotiations which led to the formation of the United Church of South India. He took part in these negotiations and in the long discussions which were necessary. Things were frequently held up by cautious people who wanted to know just where each step was taking them, until in the end the chairman reminded them that Christians have no right to ask where they are going.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  Then there came out of the temple the whole of the High Priest's train. Amongst them walked a very beautiful page, about sixteen years old, so lovely that I thought I had never seen such charm and elegance even in the flowering capital. I was indeed surprised to see so beautiful a page in such a remote district as the Western Province of Higo. I was greatly troubled by him. Formerly I had become very weary of the luxurious and artificial life of our capital; but at that moment, in this distant country, I felt a temptation which disturbed all the peace of my spirit. My soul was quite thrown into confusion, and my heart began, to beat violently with desire. When the High Priest left the temple after his prayer, I watched the page from behind a screen, and my love grew with each minute. I asked my friend who this beautiful page was, and he told me that he was the second son of a noble family, whose parents had entrusted him to the High Priest because he wished to become a priest and to renounce the pleasures of this world. My love became so violent that it seemed to me that my soul was breaking into a thousand pieces; and it was, indeed, torn. I lost my calm, and in vain gravely reproached myself. I could not forget this beautiful young man. At last in despair, without caring what my friend thought, I wrote the page a love-letter, pleading the cause of my despairing soul. I hoped to gain a little peace if he should only know of my love, without going nearly so far as to return it. This is what I wrote:' DEAR AND ROYAL LORD, I saw you yesterday evening when you were crossing the garden in the High Priest's train, and was moved by your beauty. You are so lovely that the most famous beauties of China, such as Taitjio and Token, the fairest young men there, or Hi or the Empress Yo cannot excel you. I am a priest, but, alas! I have also the passions of a man, and I confess that I love you with all my being. Lord, I am a humble and insignificant priest, passing through this Province: you are of a noble family. To aspire to your love is, for me, as impossible and unfeasible as to climb up a ladder to heaven. I admit that it is impudent of me even to love you; but I write to you because I hope to win some satisfaction and contentment by simply letting you know that I do so. I am like a fly in a spider's web, I am helpless. I bring you my heart in these clumsy words.

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

  Wouldn't they be surprised when one day I woke out of my black ugly dream, and my real hair, which was long and blond, would take the place of the kinky mass that Momma wouldn't let me straighten? My light-blue eyes were going to hypnotize them, after all the things they said about “my daddy must of been a Chinaman” (I thought they meant made out of china, like a cup) because my eyes were so small and squinty. Then they would understand why I had never picked up a Southern accent, or spoke the common slang, and why I had to be forced to eat pigs' tails and snouts. Because I was really white and because a cruel fairy stepmother, who was understandably jealous of my beauty, had turned me into a too-big Negro girl, with nappy black hair, broad feet and a space between her teeth that would hold a number-two pencil.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I watched the top of his head as he ate me. Even though he had said before that he wanted to eat me all night I still felt nervous about how long it might take me to come. I made moaning sounds. My clit felt good but my mind stayed disconnected. I wanted him in me, wanted to fuck him, face-to-face. As if he knew how I was feeling, he put a finger inside me. I gasped. “I want your cock so bad,” I whined. “How much?” he said with his face still buried in my pussy. “So bad,” I said. I could see that he was stroking himself as he ate me. I could feel his cock, hard against my shin. “Give me your cock please,” I said. “Please can I have it?” He climbed back on me so his face was over my face and his chest on my chest, his cock nestled between my thighs, resting on my wet clit and lips. “I’m on the pill,” I said. “We don’t need to use anything.” Then I started laughing at the absurdity of everything. Was I really talking about birth control with a merman? It was true that I was on the pill, sort of. I wasn’t great about taking it. Sometimes I would forget for days at a time. Occasionally I would just go off it for a month. Jamie knew this, but in all our years together I never got knocked up. He would always pull out and come on my belly. He feared me getting pregnant, how that would impinge on his freedom—the emotional fallout from an abortion, or worse yet, a baby. He was afraid, but not enough to wear a condom. I couldn’t remember if I had taken my pill the day before, but could a merman really impregnate me? Would the child have legs or a tail? Perhaps it would have legs and a tail, or multiple legs, like an octopus. I couldn’t imagine Theo was riddled with disease either, considering he spent his life in saltwater. He was like a saline boy. I didn’t know how many others he had fucked, and now I didn’t really care. Let him give me his diseases, I thought. Let him give me some strange sea syphilis or whatever. I want it. I don’t care. Looking into my eyes, he rubbed the crease of my pussy with his cock. Then he slid his cock into me, so slowly. I gasped, he moaned, and I wanted to eat his moan. He was inside me. I couldn’t believe he was there. I had never thought of it like that before in the heat of things—about a person really being inside another person. “Entered,” like they say in romance novels. With every thrust he kissed me deeply and I gasped in his mouth. He was surprisingly dexterous given his tail.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  The wagon and blanket were only a few feet from where he had fallen, but I realized how hard it would be for him to even crawl that far. I wondered if his tail was heavy, what was inside it. Was it human flesh or fish flesh? I covered up his bottom half and he just lay there for a second. “Maybe this is a bad idea,” he said. “Maybe this is a warning.” My stomach dropped. I wondered if he really felt this scared, or if he was embarrassed from the fall, looking for reassurance to show him how much I wanted him to come home with me. No, he probably really felt that way. And anyway, I wasn’t going to beg. “Whatever you want,” I said. Theo closed his eyes. Under the blanket he looked like a child. I stood in the sand, tracing half-moon shapes with my toe. My life now came down to whatever he decided. But I didn’t convey any desperation. Just being with him relaxed me. When he was right near me I could feel strangely casual, as though he could disappear and I would be okay. I could just be there, languidly drawing my little sand prints. It was only when he wasn’t with me, when I was away from the ocean, that I felt like I was disintegrating. “Come here,” he said. “Come under the blanket with me.” I got in and pulled up the blanket as though we were going to bed. We hugged for a long time. Then we started kissing and I felt his cock get hard against me. “I want you so much,” he whispered in my ear. “You are my earth girl.” “I want you too,” I said. “We shouldn’t do it here,” he said. “Not on the beach at daylight.” “What do you want to do?” “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.” But he began to finger me, first tickling my clit just a little, then teasing my hole. I was already soaking wet. “Come on,” I said into his mouth. “Okay,” he said, fingering me harder. “You’re finger fucking me on the beach and you’re a very young man. This is your first time fingering a girl. What do you have to say about that?” Of course it was not his first time. But I wanted it to be. “I’m finger fucking your beautiful vagina and it’s my first time. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I get to finger you.” He intuitively knew exactly what to say to have me writhing. Or perhaps I planted the words in him, as so much of what our lovers do and say is imagined. We turn them into who we want them to be. We fill in their bodies and words for them. He pulled out his finger and sucked it, then put it in my mouth. “Taste yourself,” he said. “You are delicious.”

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

  enactment of the English archbishop, Arundel, at the beginning of the 15th century, forbidding the reading of Wyclif’s English version, was followed by the notorious pronouncement of Archbishop Bertholdt of Mainz against the circulation of the German Bible, at the close of the same century,1485. The position taken by Wyclif that the Scriptures, as the sole source of authority for creed and life, should be freely circulated found full response in the closing years of the Middle Ages only in the utterances of one scholar, Erasmus, but he was under suspicion and always ready to submit himself to the judgment of the Church hierarchic. If Wyclif said, "God’s law should be taught in that tongue that is more known, for this wit [wisdom] is God’s Word," Erasmus in his Paraclesis1237 uttered the equally bold words: — I utterly dissent from those who are unwilling that the sacred Scriptures should be read by the unlearned translated into their own vulgar tongue, as though the strength of the Christian religion consisted in men’s ignorance of it. The counsels of kings are much better kept hidden but Christ wished his mysteries to be published as openly as possible. I wish that even the weakest woman should read the Gospel and the epistles of Paul. And I wish they were translated into all languages, so that they might be read and understood, not only by Scots and Irishmen but also by Turks and Saracens, I long that the husbandman should sing portions of them to himself as he follows the plow, that the weaver should hum them to the tune of his shuttle, that the traveller should beguile with their stories the tedium of his journey. The utterances of Erasmus aside, the appeals made 1450–1520 for the circulation of the Scriptures among all classes are very sparse and, in spite of all pains, Catholic controversialists have been able to bring together only a few. And yet, the few that we have show that, at least in Germany and the Netherlands, there was a popular hunger for the Bible in the vernacular. Thus, the Preface to the German Bible, issued at Cologne,1480, called upon every Christian to read the Bible with devotion and honest purpose. Though the most learned may not exhaust its wisdom, nevertheless its teachings are clear and uncovered. The learned may read Jerome’s Vulgate but the unlearned and simple folk could and should use the Cologne edition which was in good German. The devotional manual, Die Himmelsthür,—Door of Heaven,—1513, declared that listening to sermons ought to stir up people to read diligently in the German Bible. In 1505, Jacob Wimpheling spoke of the common people reading both Testaments in their mother-tongue and made this the ground of an appeal to priests not to neglect to read the Word of God themselves.1238 Such testimonies are more than offset by warnings against the danger attending the popular use of Scriptures.

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

  Patriarch von Constantinopel. Sein Leben, seine Schriften und das griechische Schisma. Regensburg, 1867–69, 3 vols. (The Monumenta mentioned above forms part of the third vol.) Cf. Du Pin, VII., 105–110; Ceillier, XII., 719–734. Photius was born in Constantinople in the first decade of the ninth century. He belonged to a rich and distinguished family. He had an insatiable thirst for learning, and included theology among his studies, but he was not originally a theologian. Rather he was a courtier and a diplomate. When Bardas chose him to succeed Ignatius as Patriarch of Constantinople he was captain of the Emperor’s body-guard. Gregory of Syracuse, a bitter enemy of Ignatius, in five days hurried him through the five orders of monk, lector, sub-deacon, deacon, and presbyter, and on the sixth consecrated him patriarch. He died an exile in an Armenian monastery, 891. As the history of Photius after his elevation to the patriarchate has been already treated,911 this section will be confined to a brief recital of his services to literature, sacred and secular.912 The greatest of these was his so-called Library,913 which is a unique work, being nothing less than notices, critiques and extracts of two hundred and eighty works of the most diverse kinds, which he had read. Of the authors quoted about eighty are known to us only through this work. The Library was the response to the wish of his brother Tarasius, and was composed while Photius was a layman. The majority of the works mentioned are theological, the rest are grammatical, lexical, rhetorical, imaginative, historical, philosophical, scientific and medical. No poets are mentioned or quoted, except the authors of three or four metrical paraphrases of portions of Scripture. The works are all in Greek, either as originals or, as in the case of a few, in Greek translations. Gregory the Great and Cassian are the only Latin ecclesiastical writers with whom Photius betrays any intimate acquaintance. As far as profane literature is concerned, the Library makes the best exhibit in history, and the poorest in grammar. Romances are mentioned, also miscellanies. In the religious part of his work Chrysostom and Athanasius are most prominent. Of the now lost works mentioned by Photius the most important is by an anonymous Constantinopolitan author of the first half of the seventh century, who in fifteen books presented testimonies in favor of Christianity by different Greek, Persian, Thracian, Egyptian, Babylonian, Chaldean and Jewish scholars. Unique and invaluable as the Library is, it has been criticized because more attention is given to some minor works than to other important ones; the criticisms are not always fair or worthy; the works spoken of are really few, while a much larger anthology might have been made; and again there is no order or method in the selection.

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

  I’m more than a little delighted when he shoos them out of the house and closes the door behind them. I’m making progress: a dog in the room to a dog outside the room to dogs outside the house. He takes me through the house, a combination of a bachelor pad and a family home, as if it can’t quite decide what it wants to be, and that is probably true depending on who is inhabiting it at any given moment. His bedroom is in an open lofty area with a king-size bed, its plain brown comforter covered in dog hair. We stand near the bed, quiet now that the house tour is over. He kisses me as I pull my shirt over my head and kick off my shorts so that I am standing in my lingerie. He unbuttons his shirt and I am intrigued by how taut and muscular his arms, shoulders and chest are. I’ve never been with a man so brawny and hairless and I love the way his skin feels, smooth and warm. He presses himself against me until I back up and sit on the edge of the bed. Apologizing that he wasn’t expecting company today, he pulls back the hair-covered blanket to expose sheets that look rumpled but clean enough if I’m not being fussy, which right now, I’m definitely not. I take note that this is the third man in a matter of weeks who has excused the conditions of his home because he wasn’t anticipating having a guest over. I seem to push ahead even as my dates are ready to kiss and say goodbye; it’s never enough for me. He climbs on top of me, stroking my body and working his way down until his mouth is between my legs. Then he looks up at me, a boyish grin lighting up his face. “You take good care of yourself,” he says. At this I smile: I do take care of myself. If there’s one benefit to the swell of anger raging inside of me, it’s that I work out like I’m on fire and sweat is the only thing that can douse it. The more rage I get out through heavy exercise, the less likely I am to expel it later through ugly, impassioned text missives to Michael. When he bought me my own Peloton bike a year earlier, he could not have known how much it would actually come to help him too. #4 reaches for a condom that he must have placed discreetly under a pillow at some point, and I watch him unfurl it onto his penis. I feel decidedly awkward during this part of a sexual encounter – am I supposed to help with the condom or watch him put it on or avert my eyes?

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

  I take off my sandals and dangle them from my fingers as I try to gracefully make my way over shells and shallow pools of water to the bar, which is shut down for the night. As I approach, I hear a long whistle come from the direction of a stretch of empty chairs on the beach. I amble over, feigning casualness as best I can. The chairs are more like round beds, half covered by a canopy, and it’s not until I get to the second one that I see Blaze tucked inside of it. “Hey beautiful,” he says quietly. I say hello shyly, still clutching my sandals in one hand and holding up the hem of my maxi dress in the other. I didn’t really expect him to be here and am surprised and nervous. He gestures to the enclosed seat. I drop my sandals and climb in, asking how he got to the beach since I can’t picture him in a car, which seems too ordinary for him. He takes a long inhale of the joint he is holding and passes it to me, but I shake my head. Now that I’m trying to see him as a real person and not just the demi-god of my dreams, I’m curious too to know his real name. He makes me promise that I won’t laugh at it. “Ephraim,” he says. “A Biblical name. Does anyone still call you that?” I ask. “My mother,” he says. “And how did you come to be known as Blaze?” I say. “How do you think, Mama?” he says laughing and before I can answer his lips are on mine, so soft and pillowy that I want to bite them. His breath is a combination of cigarettes and weed, and I can smell cologne on his skin, which I find touching – an indication that he put himself together for me. He lies me back and looks meaningfully at me as he pulls my dress down and throws it to the side, so that I am lying naked except for a pale pink thong, which he also pulls down and throws to the side of the chair. I watch him closely but don’t speak. He tells me that he’s been watching me for a long time and then his lips are all over my body, working their way from my nipples down my torso, resting on my still-hairless pubic triangle. “Mama, you have fat pussy lips!” he says, laughing. “I don’t know how to take that. Is that a compliment or an insult?” I ask. “I have no insults for you,” he says, burrowing his face between my legs.

• 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.

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

  He was the co-op board president and Michael and I had to be interviewed by him to be allowed to buy in the building. We were in our late 20s and had scraped together every dollar we could find to purchase a lofty studio. The building had an elevator and a doorman, and the dishwasher, washer/dryer, and bathroom faucet in which hot and cold water mixed together in one glorious tap so that we would no longer have to choose between icy cold or scalding hot water made me feel that adulthood was finally within our reach. This man was all that was standing between our faking being adults and our actually becoming them. He turned out to be kind and welcoming and we were surprised by how readily he had ushered us into the building and our new state of maturity. Over the ensuing years, we often ran into him and his wife; perhaps because he had unwittingly played such a large role in this milestone moment, I had always felt indebted and even deferential to him. Leslie tells me that he just moved out of his family’s apartment into his own place, and I suggest she drop it into conversation with him that I happen to be single now too. “You sure?” she says. “Seems like he has his hands full right now.” I snort and say, “Oh please, who doesn’t? If I use that as criteria, everyone will be off limits and I’ll definitely be untouchable. Ask your brother to mention it to him, see if it piques his interest.” A few days later, she calls me back, her voice breathless with excitement, to tell me that Alan jumped enthusiastically on the news of my being single and said he will not only call me, he wants to take me out for dinner. “OK, so pass along my number. I mean, he’s cute and nice, right?” “Yes, very cute, fit, nice, and an amazing cook. You can give him any random ingredients and he could make something delicious out of it,” she says. That’s all I need to know: nothing is as tantalizing as the idea of dating a man who cooks for me. He wastes no time, texting me that night so we can set up a time to talk after I get Georgia to sleep. We talk about how odd it is to find ourselves single and living alone, about our kids and what the impact of our marriage dissolutions has been on them. His voice is deep and sonorous and, now that I’m allowed to think of him this way, sexy. We make a date for dinner on Saturday, on the late side as I will be volunteering all day at Georgia’s school Halloween fair.

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

  Later, I ask Hudson if he can bear to be with me and Michael so that we can all go away to the Caribbean together, reassuring him that no matter what he prefers my feelings will not be hurt. He does not hesitate in saying he wants me there, that he doesn’t want to go on vacation without me. #6 is both amused by and wary of my upcoming family holiday, wryly suggesting that perhaps Michael and I will reunite. I tease him for being jealous, but he insists that the timing and location suggest an ulterior motive. “Oh please, he wants me back as little as I want him back. He knows the kids will be disappointed if I’m not there and he’s in love with the notion of our being an ultramodern family. He’s too transparent to hide something like that and anyway, I’ve got bigger fish to fry. All the years we’ve been going to this place, I’ve been obsessed with the man on the beach who sells fruit and weed to tourists. He’s gorgeous – Rasta hair down his back, mahogany brown skin, perfectly defined muscles and an accent that could bring you to your knees. If you want to be jealous about something, this is your target,” I say. “And this is your prey?” he asks. “For years I’ve been innocently flirting with him but now I can do whatever I want. I mean, why not? Daisy and I used to walk down to the beach together to talk to him and then argue later if he was paying more attention to her or to me,” I say. “Back on the LLT,” he says. “Listen, who am I kidding? He’s probably fifteen years younger than me and he sees gorgeous barely dressed women all day long, he’s not going to look twice at me. It’s certainly fun to fantasize though.” I tell my friends and they agree, why not try? It seems outlandish, but it’s a good diversion – and anyway, haven’t I proven that my formerly staid life has indeed become outlandish? Some of them suggest it would be karmic payback, but I’m not interested in revenge. I am hurt, but what I want from Michael is continued acknowledgement of how deeply he’s wounded me, not vengeance. I don’t want to get back at him, but I do want to experience aspects of life that have been unavailable to me up to this point, like Blaze, the current object of my fantasies. Frugal as I am, I am prepared to shell out big bucks for new bikinis that will help in my hunt. I ask my friend Jen for help. We meet at a bathing suit boutique and carry dozens of options into the fitting room, treating this like a broad science experiment.

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

  There is something that makes a man look so vulnerable when he is handling himself and I think I should stay out of it altogether but maybe that’s considered rude or unfriendly? Our bodies glisten with sweat – even though the rain has cooled the air outside, it’s stuffy and close in here without air conditioning – and we slide against each other, which one could interpret as hot and sexy or just unseemly. I’m choosing to go with hot and sexy, that this is what lust looks like. He is inside me for only a few moments when we both come, but without skipping a beat, he peels off the condom, tosses it on the floor and we keep going, new condoms appearing every so often, seemingly out of thin air. He is at once aggressively manly and appealingly tender, touching me gently but insistently. There seems to be no beginning or ending to this sex, just a middle chapter that stretches on. He is six years younger than me and his virility is matched by my insatiable curiosity and thrill at being desired. Of the four men I’ve slept with since I’ve started this journey, this is the most physically satisfying sex I’ve had. He laughs with enthusiasm when I sigh deeply and tell him in a grave voice that I really love sex. He seems to know exactly how and where to touch me, and I can’t get enough of his hard, sleek body. It’s as if I’m being cracked open again and again; it’s not explosive so much as a feeling of being totally present in my body and with his. It feels good to be wanted, to want, to be appreciated, to know that I am quenching someone’s thirst, to know my body is capable of both giving and receiving, to match his vigor with my own. When we have finally expended our sexual energy, we lie wrapped around each other. As much as I am shocked to discover how much I love touching and being touched, I am surprised by how nourishing I find this part, this calm after the storm. I feel completely enveloped as our hearts return to their regular rhythms and we lie, exhausted but sated, in the aftermath of the intimacy we have shared. Why , I wonder, do I feel I could stay in this spot for hours but when I was married, instead of reveling in the physical connection, I ran from it? Within seconds of having sex, I was already rolling back to curl in a ball on my side of the bed, so relieved that this obligation could be checked off my list and I could go back in my corner to be left alone. I usually orgasmed and I enjoyed sex once I mustered up the energy, but I could take it or leave it – and the affection that came with it I recoiled from, believing myself to be a physically unaffectionate person.

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

  I make a note to myself: we don’t know what people have gone through or are going through or will go through, so always be kind. The next day, Jessica and I are hanging out in the second-floor lounge overlooking the lobby when we notice a large group file in. There are about fifty people and they’re all 20/30something, mostly male and casually but intentionally dressed: narrow jeans rolled up just so, cool retro T-shirts, carefully groomed hipster beards. We assess which men are the cutest and which of those are wearing wedding bands. We lean further and further over the ledge to see more clearly until a couple of them spot us and look up quizzically. In our embarrassment, we quickly duck behind the plants and laugh about how we must appear to them: two middle-aged women in yoga pants ogling the fresh blood. In truth, I would willingly throw myself at any of them, so badly do I want to be wanted. A new and essential understanding of my current status is starting to become clear to me: I’m looking for men all the time now. I want to be noticed, I want to be flirted with and touched, and there’s no limit – aside from when I’m with my kids – as to when or where that can happen. For better or for worse, I am free and very, very available. * On Friday, I say goodbye to Jessica and drive to Upstate New York, where Hudson is performing in a play at a theatre camp. I’m eager to see him and hear about his time at camp, but my heart is heavy: it’s been five months since he has spoken to Michael, with whom he had always been close – in fact, much closer than he had been with me – and there’s no way around the fact that Michael’s absence this weekend is going to be keenly felt. I feel like sloppy seconds, knowing I am not the parent Hudson would have chosen loyalty to if he had had an option. I pull into the motel parking lot, where my mother is sitting on a bench near the entrance waiting for me to arrive, watching Hasidic Jewish families bustle in and out of the kosher grocery store in the adjacent parking lot before Shabbat beckons them home. Alarmed by the squalid state of the motel, she decides she will spend the whole weekend with me as she cannot bear the idea of my spending any time in this decrepit place alone. I insist that I will be fine but she’s stalwart, her eyes fixing leerily on the man who has come to deliver a broken-down cot so that I have a place to sleep now that she will be in the bed. I feel a flutter of anxiety, knowing I will not get so much as five minutes alone this weekend and that she will be watching me like a hawk.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I no longer argued with past scholars about their biographical projections on the texts. I wrote, instead, about Eros in the text itself and its relationship to the spaces. The verb eratai less closely meant “to love” than it did “to desire.” Yet despite the best attempts of history, time, weather, and churchmen, the desire in Sappho’s poems had survived as though it were love eternal. Perhaps desire was not so ephemeral after all. Was a feeling the only eternal thing, despite the fact that everyone said it would pass? Could you get away with academic discourse about a feeling? I was going to try. I informed the advisory committee by email of my changes. They asked me to send an outline of the project and a sample. I bullshitted an outline and sent it over to them. At the same time, it wasn’t bullshit at all, because I was already living it. The book was me. On the in-between days, after returning Theo to the ocean, I mostly hid from feeling. I stayed deep under the covers and slept. I tried to ignore the rest of the world. I was like a hungover person, biding time until she could have more alcohol. The hair of the dog alone would fix me. I was a drunk waiting only for her next drink. I felt I loved him, yet I kept my secret from him. To contain the answer as to how this would all end—to withhold that knowledge, as well as the lie that I would continue to live here alone—felt strange. I was so close to him, it was odd that I could keep a secret that might upset him. It was as though we were one person who was able to completely compartmentalize different elements of themself in different parts of their mind, and the two parts never intersected. They were not allowed to meet. When living in the illusion of our eternality (which was perhaps not an illusion if the feeling rather than the facts were to be believed), I prevented the truth from entering. Actually, it was as though the truth didn’t even knock. But when I was alone, I would wake in a panic from my daytime naps and there it would be: my impending departure. 41. That afternoon I got my period. When I saw the blood, I wept. I wondered if that was why I had been feeling so anxious and afraid. I had cramps that felt like I was being stabbed in the uterus. Usually I enjoyed getting my period, the release of it—I always had. It made me feel connected to some primal goddess energy. But today I just felt heartsick. I had only five more weeks left with Theo and now the next week would be spent bloody, unsexed. What would we do together? I supposed we could just talk. I could put his cock in my mouth. He was waiting for me when I got to the rocks.

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

  I know that it’s common for outsiders to focus on the more sexual aspects of MTF crossdressing (just as they focus on the more sexual aspects of femaleness in general). However, I personally found that, if anything, the social, emotional, and psychological effects of being crossdressed were far more profound than the sexual ones. The truth is that gendered clothing is extraordinarily symbolic of the sex of the body that presumably lies underneath; this is why wearing the clothing associated with the other sex is an almost invariant feature of cross-gender expression and identity across cultures and throughout history. Prior to my transition, dressing up in “women’s” clothing was the closest I ever got to actually being a woman, to having my body be aligned with how I imagined it. For me, the fact that “women’s” clothing was symbolic of being female far outweighed any sexuality-related symbolism it may have had. 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.

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

  I want to turn it off completely, but I don’t like the kids not being able to reach me whenever they need to and dread the recriminations when I am accused of not being available because God forbid, I didn’t come right to the phone. Fresh in my mind is my most recent debacle when Daisy’s shower backed up with her alone at home, leaving inches of water that seeped into the carpet in her bedroom in the 45 minutes it took for me and #6 to have quick afternoon shake-off-Thanksgiving sex at his apartment. By the time I turned my phone over to find ten missed calls from her, a few from Michael and a couple more from the building’s super, the shake-off sex was rendered null and void and my parenting acumen was on the line. “OK, sexy bath scene take two,” I say, jumping in without attempting grace this time. I lie back, closing my eyes and pressing my feet into his thighs to keep myself from sliding down. “I love the look on your face when I enter you,” he says, shifting toward me and watching me. He moves his hips as the water rises above us like ocean waves until I push him away so that he is lying against the tub and I am leaning forward to straddle him. “Ah yes, so Laura is in control now,” he says, raising his eyebrows. I am still not used to talking during sex. I know that #6 finds it incredibly sexy, needs it even, my voice as tantalizing as the rest of my body, but I’m at a loss as to what to say. Giving words to my physical desire is like learning an entirely new language. When I try to talk dirty and use words like “cock” or “pussy”, I pause before saying the words, uncomfortable and certain that my reluctance is more of a game-stopper than a turn-on. I visibly cringe when he uses the word “tits”, finding it crass and demeaning, so that now he apologizes and corrects himself when he says it. He’s asked what word I like in place of it and that perplexes me too: “boobs” sound childlike and “breasts” sound clinical. Is there another choice? The words “cock” and “pussy” are, surprisingly, growing on me when he says them, but when I use them they catch in my throat. Then again, using the words “penis” and “vagina” makes me feel like I’m giving an anatomy lesson, which is a turn-off even to me. Hasn’t anyone come up with anything better yet? A world full of wordsmiths and the best we’ve got is a male rooster and a cat to describe our most intimate and mysterious body parts? When I had sex in my married life, I wanted to come quickly so I could call it a night and go to sleep, but now I want sex to last as long as it can.

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

  I tell him I am struggling through an old Michael Chabon novel; he tells me he tried that one but couldn’t get through it. We talk about how we ended up in this area and marvel when we realize that not only did we grow up in the same suburban town, we even attended the same elementary school. He is three years older than me, so we don’t know many of the same people but we land on one or two in common. He seems familiar to me, not that I know him, but I feel like I could. Our conversation meanders and is thoroughly enjoyable; he is witty, charming, and attentive. My conversations with #1 and 2 were fun and flirty, but this is something different – he feels like a friend. We’ve passed a couple of hours without running out of steam, but it’s just us and the bartender now and I suggest that we should probably let him close up, so we reluctantly get up to leave. The rain has stopped, but the air outside is heavy and damp. “I would love to see you again if you want to share your number with me?” he asks. “Yes, that would be lovely,” I respond, and he puts my number into his phone. We are standing at my car already so it’s do-or-die time. “When are you available?” he asks. “I’m sure it’s hard for you to get away with your kids at home.” I raise my eyebrows. I don’t have an easy answer to this question: tomorrow, Georgia will return from sleepaway camp and then I’ve got kids home for the rest of the summer. “Well,” I say very slowly, “I’m available right now.” The meaning of my words sinks in and he chuckles softly. “That’s a more literal answer than I was expecting,” he says. “Just grabbing the bull by the horns,” I say with a soft laugh. “And the question of my future availability is anyone’s guess.” “What are you thinking about doing with your current availability?” he asks. “Going back to my house or yours,” I say, letting my forwardness float between us. “I’m not sure,” he says hesitantly. “I wasn’t expecting this tonight. My girlfriend and I broke up a few months ago and I haven’t been with anyone since.” “It’s OK,” I say. “I don’t have any expectations, it’s just that I’m not sure when I’ll be free again, so …” He leans down toward me and kisses me. He’s tall, and I lean forward onto my toes to reach him. His kiss is soft and gentle. “OK,” he says, pulling back. “Let’s go to my house. It’s closer than yours plus I have to walk my dog.” Another dog , I think, my heart sinking. I follow him along dark winding roads. He knows the area well and drives fast; I have to concentrate to keep up.