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 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  Bailey and I decided to memorize a scene from The Merchant of Venice, but we realized that Momma would question us about the author and that we'd have to tell her that Shakespeare was white, and it wouldn't matter to her whether he was dead or not. So we chose “The Creation” by James Weldon Johnson instead. 3Weighing the half-pounds of flour, excluding the scoop, and depositing them dust-free into the thin paper sacks held a simple kind of adventure for me. I developed an eye for measuring how full a silver-looking ladle of flour, mash, meal, sugar or corn had to be to push the scale indicator over to eight ounces or one pound. When I was absolutely accurate our appreciative customers used to admire: “Sister Henderson sure got some smart grandchildrens.” If I was off in the Store's favor, the eagle-eyed women would say, “Put some more in that sack, child. Don't you try to make your profit offa me.” Then I would quietly but persistently punish myself. For every bad judgment, the fine was no silver-wrapped Kisses, the sweet chocolate drops that I loved more than anything in the world, except Bailey. And maybe canned pineapples. My obsession with pineapples nearly drove me mad. I dreamt of the days when I would be grown and able to buy a whole carton for myself alone. Although the syrupy golden rings sat in their exotic cans on our shelves year round, we only tasted them during Christmas. Momma used the juice to make almost-black fruit cakes. Then she lined heavy soot-encrusted iron skillets with the pineapple rings for rich upside-down cakes. Bailey and I received one slice each, and I carried mine around for hours, shredding off the fruit until nothing was left except the perfume on my fingers. I'd like to think that my desire for pineapples was so sacred that I wouldn't allow myself to steal a can (which was possible) and eat it alone out in the garden, but I'm certain that I must have weighed the possibility of the scent exposing me and didn't have the nerve to attempt it.

• 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)

  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)

  If he could but return my love, I should love him all my life long. In truth I love him desperately. His manly beauty has made me lose my head. He has fascinated me.'His too ardent and youthful blood so inflamed him that his passion threw him to the ground. His eyes became set, and he seemed like a mad.'man. He rushed about, holding his long-cherished spaniel in his right hand, while he brandished a sword with the other. No one could go near him. At last, at the risk of her own life, his nurse managed to seize him. She consoled and cheered him: 'My dear young master, calm yourself! We can recall this traveller and arrange your love. I beg you to take command of yourself, dear master.'The young man then became a little calmer. His parents engaged a travelling priest to pray for his recovery. Hiusuke, the young man's father, had, when thirty-five years of age, married a rich merchant's daughter; but he had reached the age of sixty without having a child. Then he and his wife prayed Tenjin to grant them a child, and remained in prayer for seven days before the shrine of the god. On the evening of the seventh day they dreamed that a blossom fell from a plum tree into the wife's mouth, and that she became with child. They were very happy and grateful to the god Tenjin. Then Jutaro was born. He was hardly five years old when he began to write Chinese letters without ever having learned them. At thirteen he wrote a Story about a meeting between two young lovers who had to separate after a short time on a summer evening. He called the book: The Love of a Short Summer Evening. Such was his genius. Therefore his sudden illness caused great sorrow to his parents and friends. The priest's prayer had no great effect. Jutaro was in a continuous delirium, and grew weaker every day. His pulse became so faint that all hope of saving him was lost. His parents wove a fair white shroud and made ready a beautiful coffin for his burial; for they expected his death at any moment. But one day, suddenly, the young man raised his weary head and said in a weak voice to his relations: 'I am happy, for this man whom I love will pass along the stree tomorrow evening. Stop him, and bring him to me.'

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “Rubbish,” she said. “How else do you think you are going to get over him? You think you are going to just heal? Nobody heals. You need to replace! That’ll be the thing that makes him come back in the end, but by then you won’t want him. Men can smell it when we’ve moved on. Especially to a bigger cock. Bald Brad texted me.” “Don’t text him back!” “Oh, I won’t,” she said. “I have no need.” “Well, that’s interesting,” I said. “I’m glad you found a way to balance it all and not get attached.” “For women like us? I’m convinced this is the only way. The only way you’re going to get over him is by having a lot of sex and seeing what else is out there. You might even surprise yourself. You might see that you can do it, you can just fuck and not get attached. I guarantee I will not be getting attached to Trent.” “Ponytail man?” “Yes.” She laughed. “Also, you need to see how hot you are. To feel it.” “I am so not hot,” I laughed. “I’m gross.” “Oh, bugger off. You have the disheveled waif ingénue thing going. Like that bitch from Les Misérables.” She looked at her watch. “Fuck, I have to go pick up my kids. Never have children. They’ll ruin your life.” “Not planning on it,” I said. “You should just try Tinder,” she said. “Just try it.” 11.That night I thought about going to the rocks to see if Theo the swimmer was there again. It made me feel stupid. What was I doing chasing down some boy? Instead I made a fake Facebook profile (I’d shut mine down since I saw Jamie and Rochelle toasting over flan) and created a Tinder account, using old photos: some from five or ten years ago. I was not consciously thinking I will kill the old me and in her place will grow an electronic me, but that is what I was doing. I wanted to negate myself somehow, as if you could just sign up to vanish. As if you could sign up to really be alive, but as someone else. Well, I was going to be somebody who didn’t care. I was going to be free about sex, my body. I wanted to be the one to no longer give a fuck. Could you sculpt yourself into one who does not give a fuck? Could I remove the giving a fuck from the time in my life before I met Jamie, where I had sex with a lot of people, but always seemed to care whether they loved me after? I had to go into it with a professed mission of not giving a fuck. So I wrote my bio: Let’s make out in a dark alley.

• 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 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 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 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 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 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 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)

  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 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.