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 Girls (2016)

  full. “Money is ego, and people won’t give it up. Just want to protect themselves, hold on to it like a blanket. They don’t realize it keeps them slaves. It’s sick.” She laughed. “What’s funny is that as soon as you give everything away, as soon as you say, Here, take it—that’s when you really have everything.” One of the group had been detained for dumpster diving on a garbage run, and Suzanne was incensed, recounting the story as she pulled the car back onto the road. “More and more stores get wise to it. Bullshit,” she said. “They throw something away and they still want it. That’s America.” “That is bullshit.” The tone of the word was strange in my mouth. “We’ll figure something out. Soon.” She glanced in the rearview. “Money’s tight. But you just can’t escape it. You probably don’t know what that’s like.” She wasn’t sneering, not really—she spoke like she was just stating the truth. Acknowledging reality with an affable shrug. That’s when the idea came to me, fully formed, as if I had thought of it myself. And that’s how it seemed, like the exact solution, a baubled ornament shining within reach. “I can get some money,” I said, later cringing at my eagerness. “My mom leaves her purse out all the time.” It was true. I was always coming across money: in drawers, on tables, forgotten by the bathroom sink. I had an allowance, but my mother often gave me more, by accident, or just gestured vaguely in the direction of her purse. “Take what you need,” she’d always said. And I’d never taken more than I should have and was always conscious of returning the change. “Oh no,” Suzanne said, flicking the last of her cigarette out the window. “You don’t have to do that. You’re a sweet kid, though,” she said. “Nice of you to offer.” “I want to.” She pursed her lips, affecting uncertainty, igniting a tilt in my gut. “I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to.” She laughed a little. “That’s not what I’m about.” “But I do want to,” I said. “I want to help.”

• 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.' Those who heard him thought that he was speaking in his delirium; but to appease him they sent a man named Biwajutji to wait for the stranger at the town gate. And lo! as the sick man had said, the stranger arrived. They brought him to Hiusuke's house, and the father, overcome with emotion, told him of his son's strange illness.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

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

• From The Girls (2016)

  “Babe,” Peter said with his mouth full, and loped over to give her a hug, burying his face in her neck. Pamela squealed and pushed him away. When she laughed, her snaggletooth flashed. “Beyond foul,” Connie whispered, entering the room. But I was quiet, trying to imagine how that would feel: to be so known to someone that you had become almost the same person. — We were upstairs, later, smoking weed Connie had stolen from Peter. Stuffing the space below the door with the fat twist of a towel. She kept having to pinch the rolling paper shut again with her fingers, the two of us smoking in our solemn, hothouse silence. I could see Peter’s car out the window, parked awry like he’d had to abandon it under great duress. I’d always been aware of Peter, in the way I liked any older boy at that age, their mere existence demanding attention. But my feelings were suddenly amplified and pressing, as exaggerated and inevitable as events seem in dreams. I stuffed myself on banalities of him, the T-shirts he wore in rotation, the tender skin where the back of his neck disappeared into his collar. The looping horns of Paul Revere and the Raiders sounding from his bedroom, how he’d sometimes stumble around with a proud, overt secrecy, so I would know he had taken acid. Filling and refilling a glass of water in the kitchen with extravagant care. I’d gone into Peter’s bedroom while Connie was showering. It reeked of what I’d later identify as masturbation, a damp rupture in the air. All his possessions suffused with a mysterious import: his low futon, a plastic bag full of ashy-looking nugs by his pillow. Manuals to become a trainee mechanic. The glass on the floor, greased with fingerprints, was half-full of stale-looking water, and there was a line of smooth river stones on the top of his dresser. A cheap copper bracelet I had seen him wear sometimes. I took in everything as if I could decode the private meaning of each object, puzzle together the interior architecture of his life. So much of desire, at that age, was a willful act. Trying so hard to slur the rough, disappointing edges of boys into the shape of someone we could love. We spoke of our desperate need for them with rote and familiar words, like we were reading lines from a play. Later I would see this: how impersonal and grasping our love was, pinging around the

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

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

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

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

• From The Pisces (2018)

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

• From The Pisces (2018)

  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 The Pisces (2018)

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

• From The Pisces (2018)

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

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

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

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

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

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

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

• From The Pisces (2018)

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

• From The Pisces (2018)

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

• From The Pisces (2018)

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

• From 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?