Embarrassment

Passages

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

Page 4 of 79 · 20 per page

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

  Would it make a difference if I had had more time to prepare for its end, or is it intolerable to not have someone or something to blame? He excuses himself to use the restroom, possibly fleeing after having witnessed an uncomfortable series of emotions ranging from sadness to anger cross my face in a matter of seconds. When he returns, he leans forward over the table toward me, sighs deeply, puts a hand over mine and says, “Listen, I’ve been in your shoes. It gets easier over time, but the shock has to wear off. You seem like a really nice person and I’m sure you didn’t deserve whatever it is that happened to you.” I nod my head but don’t say anything. A quick onset of tears has become a frequent occurrence in my life as of late, but I refuse to let them emerge on a first date. My awkward pause is saved by two older men who get up from the table next to ours and nod to us as they prepare to leave. “Hey,” #4 smiles at them, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “This is our first date. How are we doing?” “Wow, first date huh? I never would have known. I’d say the date is going very well,” one of the men says. “But if anything takes a turn, give me her number?” We laugh and I am at ease again, smiling as I watch the men walk out the door, holding it gallantly for an incoming couple. My smile is short-lived; unbelievably, that incoming couple is my mom and my dad. I freeze in alarm and after a moment slink down into my seat. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “My parents just walked in.” “Oh great, let’s say hi,” he says in a loud voice, twisting his body to see them. “No!” I practically shriek. “Please turn around immediately. Don’t draw attention to us! They don’t know that I’m dating yet.” He is laughing but I break into a cold sweat like I’m a teenager on the couch with my boyfriend, having just been busted by my parents. “OK, listen, they’re going to the bakery, probably to buy bread and then leave. Just give me a little cover here, I’m going to block myself with your body so they can’t see me. I’ll tell you when you can move. I know I seem nutty but I’m not ready to have this conversation with them yet.” I am practically begging him. “OK then,” he says carefully. “You sure you don’t want to just say hi?” “Please,” I say. “Carry on. As you were saying …” I’m barely listening to him as I track the movements of my parents. I see they’ve got the bread now, but it has started raining torrentially and they’re looking out the window with concerned expressions; then my father sits on an empty stool while my mother approaches the hostess. My worst fear: they’re waiting for a table to open up.

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

  He doesn’t have kids of his own but he enjoyed my stories of what it’s like to be a parent who is surreptitiously dating, and since I always laugh uproariously at my own jokes and stories, I appreciate anyone who goes along with me. I arrive at the café early so have time to shed my multiple winter layers and catch my breath before he arrives. When I’m sitting and trying to perfect my open-for-business-but-not-too eager face, I hear a loud and animated voice belt out, “Laura!” I look up and there is my friend Johanna with her warm smile beaming down at me. “What are you doing here?” she asks. “Ummmm,” is all I can get out and my face immediately reddens, so she starts laughing, knowing that I am awaiting a suitor’s arrival. I pick up my collection of outerwear so I can relocate my seat away from her, warning that despite my love for her, if she so much as even glances in my direction, she will be dead to me. “Go to the back, I promise not to peek. You look beautiful by the way,” she says and returns to her friend at the next table. I settle at a table in the back of the restaurant where we will be safely tucked away. I recognize #8 right away when he comes in – he’s got a huge smile, sparkling white teeth and is substantial, tall and broad. He spots me and heads my way, his sizable frame filling the space between tables. When he reaches me, I stand and he gives me a hug. This seems to be the standard greeting with men I’ve met online and it always reminds of the ’80s TV show The Dating Game , when a couple would finally meet face to face after talking behind a screen and instantly embrace as if to claim their prizes. I glance in Johanna’s direction and see that she is very determinedly averting her eyes, but still, I feel self-conscious. Johanna and her husband are amongst our closest friends and after all the time our families have spent together, I know it must be bizarre for her to see me with another man. “You look just like your photos, but even prettier,” he says. “Why thank you,” I respond, blushing. “Has it ever happened that you meet a woman who looks nothing like her pictures?” “Oh yeah, all the time. First of all, the majority of women lie about their age,” he says. “And I’m not talking about a couple of years, I’m talking more than a decade.” “I’d be too nervous to lie,” I say. “Actually,” he says laughing, “I have a confession to make. I’m really 53 not 48 which it says on my profile.” I purse my lips together and give him a quizzical look, so he continues, “So many women won’t like your profile if you’re over 50.

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

  Trust me, the barking and crying will be even worse than having him in here.” “Um, OK,” I say and try not to be preoccupied with our audience. As I reach for his belt buckle and start to undo it, I ask if he has a condom. He shakes his head. “Seriously?” I ask skeptically. “A single man with not one condom in his house?” “Sorry,” he says. “I really don’t. I wasn’t expecting this.” Now we have paused mid-air like a still from a public service announcement in which a voiceover comes on and reminds us that to prevent diseases, we must use a condom. I have an IUD, so I’m not worried about getting pregnant (plus I am, ahem, a bit old for that), but I can’t tell my kids to use condoms every single time they even think about having sex and then not use one myself. I mean, I can’t, right? Because there’s a part of me that’s desperate enough for this to happen that I would be willing to. Luckily he saves me from myself, pulling away to check for a condom in the other room. When he steps into the hallway, I hear him cursing and muttering to himself, and then he’s yelling at the dog, who apparently in a jealous rage has defecated all over the hallway. “I cannot believe this. Floyd, did you do this? I just cannot believe this,” I hear him complaining over and over to himself. This seems like a good time to pull a blanket over myself and pretend I don’t know what is happening. A minute later he reappears and gives me the update as if I didn’t hear everything already. I turn my back to the door as I see him, shirtless, jeans unbuttoned and belt buckle flapping, bend down to the carpet with a roll of paper towels and cleaning spray, all the while muttering to himself and talking sternly to Floyd. This is not exactly the seduction I had in mind, but I’m not sure what to do other than wait it out. Back in the room a few minutes later, still condom-less but with Floyd hot on his heels, he announces that out of respect for me, he will run to the 24-hour Walmart. He puts his shirt back on and hands me a remote control so I can watch TV while he’s gone. I tell him I’m going to listen to music on my phone instead and then hallelujah again, he’s telling me that he will take the dog with him. He takes my car key so he can move it out of the way of the car he wants to drive and heads out. Five minutes later, he’s back with a sheepish look on his face, apologizing that he can’t get my car to start. I sigh, roll my eyes and hold out my hand for the car key.

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

  He took me out to a hibachi restaurant to celebrate my 17th birthday and by the time the chef had finished flipping grilled shrimp in the air for me to catch on my plate, I knew that Rob was the one I would cede my virginity to. The first few times we had sex, I found it painful and, frankly, embarrassing. It seemed bizarre that we would be caught up in unspeakable lust one moment and then the next he would come and our bodies would simply deflate. Were we supposed to resume our conversation at that point and pretend something both magical and calamitous had not just taken place? Mostly, relieved not to have been caught by my parents, we would hurriedly pull our clothes back on, smooth our voluminous ’80s hair and part ways. When Rob returned to the city for the fall semester of school, he moved into an apartment, which was where I learned to enjoy sex, not having to worry about the potential appearance of disapproving parents. We saw each other on weekends, tumbling in and out of his narrow, unkempt bed, emerging bleary-eyed to pick up Chinese take-out. Our romps were hasty but fun, and I learned to be quick to come so that I wouldn’t be left wanting when he was done – an ability that I took in stride until decades later when I learned from friends and books this was not a God-given skill. I went away to college in the Midwest the following year and a few months into the first semester, I broke up with Rob. It didn’t take me long to settle into a relationship with Julian, who lived in a fraternity house. Minus the scent of stale beer that permeated his bedding, and the sounds of his frat brothers throwing up in the bathroom across the hall after a night of partying, I took refuge in his full-sized bed, relishing the space and privacy his room afforded us. Julian and I broke up two years later and I wasted no time, within days going out with Michael, who had been my next-door neighbor the year before. Although I had never before thought of him romantically, sitting in his white Volvo after he took me out to a Jamaican restaurant for dinner, a James Taylor cassette tape tucked into the stereo, I looked at him anew. He kissed me, but then told me that between the tennis team and architecture school, he didn’t have much time for a girlfriend. I told him I liked my independence and wouldn’t require much of his time anyway. We spent our days separately, but when bedtime came I would practically skip across the lawn separating our on-campus apartments and sleep over in his room. His roommate had left for London for the semester and by the time he returned we had broken his wooden futon frame with the copious and vigorous sex we were having every night.

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

  “Since you’re the manager, do you know when the band is going to start?” he leans over the woman between us a few minutes later to ask. “It’s going to be a while,” I say. “What?” he shouts. It’s loud in here and we are gracelessly leaning over this poor woman as we attempt to keep our conversation going. “Would you like to trade seats with me?” she asks, looking at me and then at him and then back at me when he doesn’t answer. I hesitate for a second, remembering that moment weeks ago of indecisively lingering over the “purchase tickets” button that set my newly active single life in motion and then say “Sure” and hop off my stool to switch with her. This makes me feel almost like I’ve accepted an invitation to a date, but it wasn’t his invitation so I hope I’m not misreading his cues. And now here comes another woman, much younger than me, with a sweet smile and straight, compliant hair pulled back in a ponytail. She leans in with a kiss on the cheek for my new friend and I want to die for getting this whole thing wrong. He attempts to introduce me but we don’t know each other’s names, so we clumsily exchange them and now we are stuck here together, an awkward threesome. When the band welcomes the small crowd and starts playing, I am beyond relieved that I can stop trying to participate in their conversation. Bonus: soon the woman says she’s going to find her sister and wanders away, and she doesn’t say she is coming back so I am hopeful she won’t: we are fighting for limited supplies here and I am a scrappy but determined contender. The band is fun, upbeat and quirky. We are both smiling watching them and it feels like music that it would be impossible not to feel happy listening to. The hour that they play passes quickly and soon enough, they call it a night. “Do you want another drink?” he asks as the room quiets down. “I do, but then I’ll have to stay here a while until I can drive home,” I say. “I will take responsibility for keeping you company until you’re ready to go,” he says solemnly. I am incredulous. It does not seem possible that for the second time I have found and ensnared the one single man in the room, but I gratefully accept this gift from the universe. It will occur to me later that on both these nights, there were few other single women present, so it will seem less remarkable, possibly even comic that I gave myself and the universe so much credit. It’s quiet now, so we can talk without shouting. He lives nearby and this is his regular weekend haunt. He is a freelance writer whose passion for books, podcasts and music matches my own.

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

  I hear #7 pass by the bathroom on his way to the kitchen and I quietly open the bathroom door to step into the shadows of the hallway, standing naked as I brush my teeth, silhouetted by the light from the bathroom behind me. I see him in the kitchen leaning into the open fridge, appearing to pick at leftovers from dinner and eat with his fingers straight from the plastic containers. I’m about to comment about his late-night snack, but when I squint my eyes to get a better look and he slowly turns his head toward me, I realize with horror that it’s not him, it’s his daughter – the daughter who was not supposed to be home for hours. I take a flying leap backwards into the bathroom, grabbing the door to pull it shut behind me. Not thinking about how narrow the bathroom is and panicked in my mad dash to get out of the daughter’s sight, the heel of my foot slams into the bathtub and I land with a smashing thud on top of the flimsy wicker wastebasket – no doubt from the Dollar Store downstairs – wedged between the tub and the toilet. I had grabbed the shower curtain in a futile attempt to steady myself on the way down and succeeded only in bringing the entire rod and curtain down on top of myself. I lay now, jammed between the porcelain tub and the toilet with the garbage can pressing painfully into my back, a damp plastic shower curtain draped over me and toothpaste dripping down my chin onto my chest. I’m stuck, lodged between two large objects that have no give, and realize after taking a few deep breaths that the pain is not coming from the location of the trash can, it’s coming from my ribs, which I’m immediately certain I’ve broken. I catch my breath, hoping my shockingly loud crash followed by the fall of the shower rod will bring #7 running to help me, but the apartment remains eerily silent. I slowly wiggle myself forward an inch at a time until I am out of the narrow sliver of space and can sit up, disentangling the shower curtain from my arms. I wince in pain as I try to rise to my feet. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I whisper to myself over and over again. A moment later there is a light tap on the door, which I assume is the daughter who has been waiting patiently to use the one bathroom in the apartment. I freeze. “Sorry,” I say finally, in the most cheerful, sing-song voice I can muster. “I’ll be out in a minute.” She doesn’t say anything and I don’t hear footsteps, so I am unsure if she’s waiting at the door for me to exit.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Her face would grow splotched with resentment and worry; she would feel her neck flush and her hands become awkward. Embarrassed, she would sit staring down at her hands, which would seem to be growing more and more awkward. No escape! No escape! Captain Ramsay was kind-hearted, he would try very hard to be complimentary; his grey eyes would try to express admiration, polite admiration as they rested on Stephen. His voice would sound softer and more confidential, the voice that nice men reserve for good women, protective, respectful, yet a little sex-conscious, a little expectant of a tentative response. But Stephen would feel herself growing more rigid with every kind word and gallant allusion. Openly hostile she would be feeling, as poor Captain Ramsay or some other victim was manfully trying to do his duty. In such a mood as this she had once drunk champagne, one glass only, the first she had ever tasted. She had gulped it all down in sheer desperation—the result had not been Dutch courage but hiccups. Violent, insistent, incorrigible hiccups had echoed along the whole length of the table. One of those weird conversational lulls had been filled, as it were, to the brim with her hiccups. Then Anna had started to talk very loudly; Mrs. Antrim had smiled and so had their hostess. Their hostess had finally beckoned to the butler: ‘Give Miss Gordon a glass of water,’ she had whispered. After that Stephen shunned champagne like the plague—better hopeless depression, she decided, than hiccups! It was strange how little her fine brain seemed able to help her when she was trying to be social; in spite of her confident boasting to Raftery, it did not seem able to help her at all. Perhaps is was the clothes, for she lost all conceit the moment she was dressed as Anna would have her; at this period clothes greatly influenced Stephen, giving her confidence or the reverse. But be that as it might, people thought her peculiar, and with them that was tantamount to disapproval. And thus, it was being borne in upon Stephen, that for her there was no real abiding city beyond the strong, friendly old gates of Morton, and she clung more and more to her home and to her father. Perplexed and unhappy she would seek out her father on all social occasions and would sit down beside him. Like a very small child this large muscular creature would sit down beside him because she felt lonely, and because youth most rightly resents isolation, and because she had not yet learnt her hard lesson—she had not yet learnt that the loneliest place in this world is the no-man’s-land of sex. CHAPTER 91S

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

  After dinner he consents to a taxi home because I’m convinced I will wash away in what has become a monsoon. At home, we light tall white candles I have set on the ledge of the bathtub and I sprinkle lavender bath salts into the water, turning off the lights and putting on quiet music Pandora has helpfully made into a “Romantic” playlist. #6 undresses and slides into the tub. “I should have brought my snorkeling gear, this tub is so big,” he says, lying back and watching me slip out of my clothes and attempt to climb gracefully into the deep tub, which is fairly impossible as I have to swing my leg high to get in and then teeter with one leg in and one leg out while I regain my balance. I have avoided bathtubs assiduously for as long as I can remember, afraid of wiping out on the slippery bottom and cracking my head on the marble edge, but ever since I took a bath to get ready for my first date with #6 at Tina’s insistence, I have begun to appreciate its many merits. No sooner have I gotten both legs safely inside than I hear my phone ring and see that it’s a FaceTime call from Georgia, who probably wants to wish me a happy New Year. I catapult myself out of the tub, grabbing my phone and singing out, “Hello sweetheart!” As soon as I do, I realize my mistake: I’m naked and there’s a naked man in the tub behind me and the room is aglow with candles. I quickly hang up, hoping she caught only a blur of me; she calls right back. I decline the call and call her back without using video. She asks me suspiciously where I am. “I’m home. What are you up to?” I ask. She tells me that Hudson went out with his friends and she and Michael went out to dinner and are now waiting for the ball to drop. Then she says the words that land with a thud on my heart, that she misses me. “I miss you too, but I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll do something special,” I say. “OK, but what did you do tonight? Are you OK? Are you lonely by yourself?” Both moved and dismayed by her concern, I am proud of her for her compassion but sad that she feels she has to worry about me. I reassure her that I spent time with friends and am thrilled to be home now, dry and warm and snug, and she seems satisfied. I blow her kisses as I hurry to hang up the phone and turn it over so I don’t have to see the screen again.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  You might go to-morrow. Of course you’ll have to live on this side, the Rive Gauche is the only possible Paris. ‘I should like to see the old house,’ said Stephen. So Valérie went to the telephone there and then and proceeded to call up the landlord. The appointment was made for eleven the next morning. ‘It’s rather a sad old house,’ she warned, ‘no one has troubled to make it a home for some time, but you’ll alter all that if you take it, because I suppose you’ll make it your home.’ Stephen flushed: ‘My home’s in England,’ she said quickly, for her thoughts had instantly flown back to Morton. But Valérie answered: ‘One may have two homes—many homes. Be courteous to our lovely Paris and give it the privilege of being your second home—it will feel very honoured, Miss Gordon.’ She sometimes made little ceremonious speeches like this, and coming from her, they sounded strangely old-fashioned. Brockett, rather subdued and distinctly pensive as sometimes happened if Valérie had snubbed him, complained of a pain above his right eye: ‘I must take some phenacetin,’ he said sadly, ‘I’m always getting this curious pain above my right eye—do you think it’s the sinus?’ He was very intolerant of all pain. His hostess sent for the phenacetin, and Brockett gulped down a couple of tablets: ‘Valérie doesn’t love me any more,’ he sighed, with a woebegone look at Stephen. ‘I do call it hard, but it’s always what happens when I introduce my best friends to each other—they foregather at once and leave me in the cold; but then, thank heaven, I’m very forgiving.’ They laughed and Valérie made him get on to the divan where he promptly lay down on the lute. ‘Oh God!’ he moaned, ‘now I’ve injured my spine—I’m so badly upholstered.’ Then he started to strum on the one sound string of the lute. Valérie went over to her untidy desk and began to write out a list of addresses: ‘These may be useful to you, Miss Gordon.’ ‘Stephen!’ exclaimed Brockett, ‘Call the poor woman Stephen!’ ‘May I?’ Stephen acquiesced: ‘Yes, please do.’ ‘Very well then, I’m Valérie. Is that a bargain?’ ‘The bargain is sealed,’ announced Brockett. With extraordinary skill he was managing to strum ‘O Sole Mio’ on the single string, when he suddenly stopped: ‘I knew there was something—your fencing, Stephen, you’ve forgotten your fencing. We meant to ask Valérie for Buisson’s address; they say he’s the finest master in Europe.’ Valérie looked up: ‘Does Stephen fence, then?’ ‘Does she fence! She’s a marvellous, champion fencer.’ ‘He’s never seen me fence,’ explained Stephen, ‘and I’m never likely to be a champion.’ ‘Don’t you believe her, she’s trying to be modest.

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

  He’s usually game for whatever I suggest as long as we are outside. We walk to a monument on the island and he explains the history of it as we sit on a stone ledge in the sun, Manhattan on one side and Long Island City on the other. He lies down and rests his head in my lap, and I am pleasantly surprised by this rare display of affection from him. When the sun starts to dim, we agree that we are starving and realize we are only a few stops away from a Thai restaurant in Queens that we’ve wanted to try. While we wait for a table, he heads to the restroom. The hostess approaches me to say that she has a table ready, but can’t seat us unless we’re both here. “No, it’s OK, we’re both here. My, um, my … he just went to the restroom, he’ll be right back,” I stammer. I squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment, realizing I could have just called him my friend, that she wasn’t seeking an explanation of who we are to each other. Who are we to each other anyway? On the outside we look like a middle-aged couple who’ve been married beyond the point of anyone caring, but the novelty of being out and about with a man who is not my husband is still very real to me. When he returns a minute later, I tell the hostess, “OK, he’s back, we can sit now,” as if we have some secret understanding of who “he” is. Later that night, talking in his bed before I have to head home, I sigh and tell him, “I need to up my blow job game. I want you to know that I know, lest you think I’m unaware.” He lets out a long, soft chuckle, asking why I just said that out of the blue. “I was just thinking about it. I’m not good at giving blow jobs, I need to improve. I’m a single woman and men love blow jobs. I’m on the case,” I say earnestly. “And don’t respond. If you tell me I’m good, I’ll know you’re lying and if you tell me I’m not I’ll be insulted. So whatever you’re about to say, bite your tongue.” “Well, I was just going to say you could use your teeth a little less,” he says. “What did I just say? I don’t want feedback, I just want you to know I’m actively engaged in improving my skills. And I’m really sorry I’m not as old as you are and still have all my teeth,” I say. “Hey, while we’re talking about things we want to get better at, you know what I would find such a huge turn-on?” he asks, and I brace myself. “If you shaved all the hair from your pussy.” “All of it? 100 per cent?” I ask. “Yes, that would be so sexy,” he says.

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

  Erasmus contradicts the slander, and remarked that if that tradition was true, there must have been many thousands of antichrists before this.585 Melanchthon (who had been invited to the feast of the 27th of June, but not to the ceremony of the 13th), in a Greek letter to his friend Camerarius (June 16), expressed the fear that Luther, though he might be ultimately benefited by his marriage, had committed a lamentable act of levity and weakness, and injured his influence at a time when Germany most needed it.586 Luther himself felt at first strange and restless in his new relation, but soon recovered. He wrote to Spalatin, June 16, "l have made myself so vile and contemptible forsooth that all the angels, I hope, will laugh, and all the devils weep."587 A year after he wrote to Stiefel (Aug. 11, 1526): "Catharina, my dear rib, salutes you, and thanks you for your letter. She is, thanks to God, gentle, obedient, compliant in all things, beyond my hopes. I would not exchange my poverty for the wealth of Croesus."588 He often preached on the trials and duties of married life truthfully and effectively, from practical experience, and with pious gratitude for that holy state which God ordained in paradise, and which Christ honored by his first miracle. He calls matrimony a gift of God, wedlock the sweetest, chastest life, above all celibacy, or else a veritable hell. § 78. Luther’s Home Life. Luther and Katie were well suited to each other. They lived happily together for twenty-one years, and shared the usual burdens and joys. Their domestic life is very characteristic, full of good nature, innocent humor, cordial affection, rugged simplicity, and thoroughly German. It falls below the refinement of a modern Christian home, and some of his utterances on the relation between the two sexes are coarse; but we must remember the rudeness of the age, and his peasant origin. No stain rests upon his home life, in which he was as gentle as a lamb and as a child among children. "Next to God’s Word," he said from his personal experience, "there is no more precious treasure than holy matrimony. God’s highest gift on earth is a pious, cheerful, God-fearing, home-keeping wife, with whom you may live peacefully, to whom you may intrust your goods and body and life." He loved his wife dearly, and playfully called her in his letters "my heartily beloved, gracious housewife, bound hand and foot in loving service, Catharine, Lady Luther, Lady Doctor, Lady of Zulsdorf.589 Lady of the Pigmarket,590 and whatever else she may be." She was a good German Hausfrau, caring for the wants of her husband and children; she contributed to his personal comfort in sickness and health, and enabled him to exercise his hospitality. She had a strong will, and knew how to take her own part.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I squeezed and squeezed, sliding around on the toilet, but nothing came out. How did others do this all the time? Who could be expected to have a pristine butthole? I slid my finger in and dug around. I tried to pull some out, and it worked. Now there was shit on my finger, some in the toilet, but still some in the hole. I’d only broken the shit in half inside me, not gotten it all out. So I went back in. Then I squeezed again. I felt like my eyeballs were going to pop out. Eventually the rest of the piece of shit came out. I could tell that it was the end. I got back in the bathtub and ran the water again. I washed off my finger and my butt four times each with rose soap. It was a fancy tub with jets. I turned them on and put my ass up to the jets, like a bidet. My hole felt tired already and no one had even fucked it yet. But then the jet started to turn me on. I felt a feeling I had never felt before, almost like my butthole was blossoming. I wondered if my whole ass canal was full of water. I imagined it was Garrett’s dick. I didn’t come but I felt really warm inside. This was exciting. I felt a bit like a Hollywood starlet, someone with something going on. A life was happening. 18. The following night, tired of waiting, I texted Garrett. I had fun last night I waited to hear back, carrying the phone with me from room to room. There was no response. I felt like Dominic’s pile of shit. Was he really going to ignore me? I had gotten a weird feeling after our kisses, that I had suffocated him or seemed too interested. I texted him again. Would you want to hang out again? And again: Hey, sorry if I seemed too eager or something. And again: Ok I’ll leave you alone now I went outside to the beach. I saw a girl bike by on the boardwalk. She had long hair to her ass and was wearing a tiny black skirt and a hot-pink crop top with her stomach showing. I thought to myself, You little slut . I didn’t think it in a mean way but as a celebratory thing. I wanted to be her in that moment. She seemed like such an independent slut. I bet she never waited for texts, just fucked guys like Garrett all the time, casually. Surfer boys who looked like Theo the swimmer too, probably. I bet she never got attached. I wanted to be like this girl, not dependent on anyone else to be okay. Slutty, but an island. She wasn’t pretending to be content without anyone while secretly wallowing in misery.

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

  Michael and I are left alone on the chair, watching them and unsure what to talk about when we aren’t talking about them. In moments like this, I have to remind myself that we are not who we used to be to each other, that a tranquil moment like this is hard-won. “Michael,” I start. “Yes?” He swivels his head to look at me, seeming surprised and thrilled that I have initiated a conversation with him. “You know how I asked you for a laptop so that I could do some writing?” “Yes. I’m so glad you’re writing. I really think you could get copywriting work, the stuff you did for me was great.” “That’s not the kind of writing I want to do. I mean, if I can do that and make some money, I’d be thrilled, but I’m more interested in creative writing.” “OK, well do both. This could be a whole new direction for you,” he says encouragingly. “Actually, I want to tell you about a project I’m working on. Sort of a memoir about my life after marriage. It’s not about you, but you obviously play a big role in it. It’s my story, about finding myself again,” I say cautiously. “I’m writing it with the hope that it’ll be published. I’m writing carefully about you, I don’t want to trash you. You’re the father of our kids and I hope that we are moving into a new dynamic in which we can be friends, but the story of how we fell apart is included.” “Laura, I’m interested in the truth, in people speaking their truth. As long as you’re honest, it’s OK with me. I have nothing to hide,” he says. “You say that now because it’s an abstract notion. It could feel different when it’s spelled out on a page,” I say. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, if it’s making you feel good to write, do it,” he says. I nod my head and thank him. “Hey, just to lighten the mood a bit, can I tell you something funny?” he asks, and continues without awaiting my response. “The doormen still sometimes call my cell phone instead of yours when you have visitors. I gather you’re dating someone named Alan, because I get phone calls from the doorman like clockwork on Friday nights after I pick Georgia up for the weekend, asking if it’s OK to send him upstairs.” “Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing,” I say, my face reddening. “I’m telling you because I think it’s funny. I want you to be happy. I’m glad you’re dating,” he says. I realize it’s especially awkward that he’s getting these calls because it’s always within minutes of Georgia leaving, like I haven’t wasted a moment having a man up to my apartment, and I wonder aloud why he didn’t simply tell the doorman at some point to call my number instead.

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

  I had wanted to understand the allure of sex and why certain girls I knew had a sophisticated swagger. I was dating a boy named Rob who was home from art school for the summer and drove a yellow school bus for the camp at which I was a counselor. He took me out to a hibachi restaurant to celebrate my 17th birthday and by the time the chef had finished flipping grilled shrimp in the air for me to catch on my plate, I knew that Rob was the one I would cede my virginity to. The first few times we had sex, I found it painful and, frankly, embarrassing. It seemed bizarre that we would be caught up in unspeakable lust one moment and then the next he would come and our bodies would simply deflate. Were we supposed to resume our conversation at that point and pretend something both magical and calamitous had not just taken place? Mostly, relieved not to have been caught by my parents, we would hurriedly pull our clothes back on, smooth our voluminous ’80s hair and part ways. When Rob returned to the city for the fall semester of school, he moved into an apartment, which was where I learned to enjoy sex, not having to worry about the potential appearance of disapproving parents. We saw each other on weekends, tumbling in and out of his narrow, unkempt bed, emerging bleary- eyed to pick up Chinese take-out. Our romps were hasty but fun, and I learned to be quick to come so that I wouldn’t be left wanting when he was done – an ability that I took in stride until decades later when I learned from friends and books this was not a God-given skill. I went away to college in the Midwest the following year and a few months into the first semester, I broke up with Rob. It didn’t take me long to settle into a relationship with Julian, who lived in a fraternity house. Minus the scent of stale beer that permeated his bedding, and the sounds of his frat brothers throwing up in the bathroom across the hall after a night of partying, I took refuge in his full- sized bed, relishing the space and privacy his room afforded us. Julian and I broke up two years later and I wasted no time, within days going out with Michael, who had been my next-door neighbor the year before. Although I had never before thought of him romantically, sitting in his white Volvo after he took me out to a Jamaican restaurant for dinner, a James Taylor cassette tape tucked into the stereo, I looked at him anew. He kissed me, but then told me that between the tennis team and architecture school, he didn’t have much time for a girlfriend.

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

  He’s never been married and he tells me a story about a woman he was engaged to who turned out to be pretty wacky, so I get the sense that he’s not serious relationship material, which is just fine with me. When I see Johanna walk by our table on her way to the restroom with a hand shielding the side of her face so she can make it clear she isn’t looking at us, I laugh. As the waiter clears our mugs, #8 tells me that he’s had a great time talking to me and asks if we can see each other again. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Just one thing I have to be upfront about. I’m dating a lot right now, I like to be open about that from the beginning so there are no misunderstandings later,” I say, blushing again. He laughs, so I ask earnestly, “Is that too much to share? I’m not suggesting you’re looking for anything exclusive, I just have to say it or I’ll worry I’ve been misleading.” “No, don’t worry, I appreciate your being so open. And I’m dating lots of women too, so we’re even. But while we’re confessing, I may as well tell you something too,” he says. “What, you’re not really 53, you’re actually 83 and preternaturally youthful- looking?” “Ha, no! I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober for five years. Some women find that unappealing, they want to be able to go out and let loose and drinking is a big part of that. I mean, I don’t mind if you drink, I just want you to know why I won’t.” I thank him for sharing with me, but let him know it’s not an issue. We head back outside into the cold. Walking next to him, I feel tiny. I don’t think I come up past his shoulders. I have long since recognized that I like being smaller than men I’m dating, but I don’t particularly like feeling like a child. We head down into the subway station together and he walks me to the downtown platform to say goodbye. We feel a rush of wind as the train zooms into the station and suddenly he is bending toward me, his lips pressing against mine. The doors of the train are already open and I smile at him as I hastily jump on before the doors close. There is something decidedly unromantic about being kissed in the middle of the day on a dirty subway platform under dingy fluorescent lights, but I guess the kiss goodbye is as mandatory as the hug hello? That Sunday, as we clean up after a lunch of tuna niçoise salad at #6’s apartment, he asks if I want to walk to the international grocery store where I love to peruse the aisles and get dinner ideas for the kids. I tell him that I can’t, that I actually have to leave soon to meet a friend.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Next I took to grooming my body. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possible anal. My asshole was definitely not a vacant space. What was I going to do? How was his dick going to get in if there was a shit blocking the way? Would there be a shit blocking his dick? Would he get shit on his dick? In the bathtub I tried to give myself a fake enema, swishing some of the water from the bath directly into my ass. It didn’t feel like anything was giving. I wondered how far in the canal it was. So I reached my finger in my butt and felt around. There was the tip of it, not far from the entrance. Dripping wet, I went over to the toilet and sat down. Dominic looked up at me from underneath his doggy eyebrows. I squeezed and squeezed, sliding around on the toilet, but nothing came out. How did others do this all the time? Who could be expected to have a pristine butthole? I slid my finger in and dug around. I tried to pull some out, and it worked. Now there was shit on my finger, some in the toilet, but still some in the hole. I’d only broken the shit in half inside me, not gotten it all out. So I went back in. Then I squeezed again. I felt like my eyeballs were going to pop out. Eventually the rest of the piece of shit came out. I could tell that it was the end. I got back in the bathtub and ran the water again. I washed off my finger and my butt four times each with rose soap. It was a fancy tub with jets. I turned them on and put my ass up to the jets, like a bidet. My hole felt tired already and no one had even fucked it yet. But then the jet started to turn me on. I felt a feeling I had never felt before, almost like my butthole was blossoming. I wondered if my whole ass canal was full of water. I imagined it was Garrett’s dick. I didn’t come but I felt really warm inside. This was exciting. I felt a bit like a Hollywood starlet, someone with something going on. A life was happening. 20.I arrived at the Shalimar wearing the lingerie under a trench coat that I found in Steve’s closet. I’d done a lot of snooping in Annika’s house, looking for I wasn’t sure what. Something to help me know my sister better? Something to show me that the life she and Steve had together wasn’t as beautiful as it seemed to be? But there were no private journals with any confessionals, no secret passageways or locked boxes. Their relationship was like her ample ass: out in the open, giving no fucks, proudly just there. It was what it was.

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

  CHAPTER 33 Definitely Not a Good Morning When I trek back to Brooklyn for a weekday tryst, #7 doesn’t notice my newly bald hairstyle. #6 was delighted and appreciative when he saw it days ago, admitting that he had been very surprised, disappointed even, when he discovered during our first sexual interlude that I had any pubic hair at all. Now I don’t know which is worse, his initially distasteful opinion of my pubic hair or #7’s total unawareness of it. #7 tells me that he’s made a reservation with a group of his friends for New Year’s Eve at a local restaurant and he’s added a seat for me. New Year’s Eve is weeks away and it feels too soon for me to spend such a momentous occasion with him and his friends, and alarming that he would want me there. If I had plans with my friends, which I sadly do not, the last thing I would want is a date to accompany me. “Can I see a picture of your ex?” he asks suddenly. “I want to see what I’m up against.” “You’re not up against him,” I say. “That’s why he’s the ex. You sure you wouldn’t prefer photos of other people I’m dating? Your actual competition?” “Sure, show me them too,” he says. “No, I’m kidding. Here, I’ll show you one photo of Michael and then we’re moving on,” I say, finding an old family photo on my phone and handing it over for him to see. After a few moments of studying the photo, he lies back with a satisfied smile and says, “OK, I’m happy. I’m better-looking than he is.” I know he is waiting for me to agree with him, but I’m speechless. I don’t think he’s better looking, and anyway, does he really think he has a right to assert an opinion of the man I’ve been with for decades, the father of my kids? I feel instinctively protective of Michael and embarrassed for #7 that he is comparing himself. After a few moments of awkward silence, I start looking under his quilt for my clothes, both to make a statement and because I have to get home. He asks if I can stay for a late lunch but I look at my watch and shake my head. He laments that he never properly feeds me, asking if I can come over for dinner and spend the night, that he’s dying to cook for me and have a whole night with me. I am noncommittal, saying I don’t have many chances to be out for the whole night, but it’ll happen eventually.

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

  I lean against a lamp post and wonder if Jack is really coming out or if he might find a backdoor to sidestep me. Maybe this is his way of getting rid of me, an obvious imposter, so that he can flirt with the real sexy divorcée he spotted in the crowd. After a few minutes in which I fear that I will actually die of embarrassment, Jack noiselessly appears next to me. We smile shyly at each other now that we are alone with only the crickets as background noise and I lead the way through muddy puddles to the more populated part of town. At the entrance to a noisy barbecue place, he asks if I will eat with him. “No, probably not,” I say. I love to eat, but how can I possibly do so right now with my stomach doing its own unique form of nervous acrobatics? “I’m not hungry, but I’ll sit with you.” “I don’t want to eat alone,” he says. “Will you have a drink?” “No, I can’t,” I say, shaking my head, my curls bouncing in the humidity. “I’ve reached my two-drink maximum and have to drive home.” I’m pretty sure this goes against the bold, carefree persona I’m trying to put forth, but the practical mom in me keeps breaking through. We face each other, contemplating. “I’m happy to sit with you while you eat,” I say, and then add in a rush of words that I can’t believe are coming from my mouth, “but are you really that hungry?” The words themselves are less meaningful than the impassioned look I am giving him that basically says, ravish me instead. “I guess not,” he says carefully, taking a moment to register my meaning, and then suddenly he is pressed against me, kissing me so hard that I back up to the brick wall behind me and brace myself against it. His lips, soft and full, are pushing against mine with a sense of urgency that I recognize and reciprocate. Like water being poured over a wilting plant, I immediately perk up. I haven’t been kissed like this, with passion and curiosity, since I was barely more than a teenager. I am astonished. How have I survived until now without this source of nourishment? When he pulls back, he breathlessly tells me, “My hotel is up the street.” I know it and it’s kind of seedy, not exactly what I imagined for my first (or really any other) tryst. But I know better than to pass up a seemingly perfect opportunity like this, so I smile demurely, nod my head and we start walking up the hill of the main street in town. On every corner, as we wait to cross the street, he kisses me – not just kisses me, but sucks the very breath out of me as if sustaining himself one more block until he can do it again.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Then Neifile, whose face had turned all scarlet with confusion since she was the object of one of the youth’s affections, said: ‘For goodness’ sake do take care, Pampinea, of what you are saying! To my certain knowledge, nothing but good can be said of any one of them, and I consider them more than competent to fulfil the office of which we were speaking. I also think they would be good, honest company, not only for us, but for ladies much finer and fairer than ourselves. But since it is perfectly obvious that they are in love with certain of the ladies here present, I am apprehensive lest, by taking them with us, through no fault either of theirs or of our own, we should bring disgrace and censure on ourselves.’ ‘That is quite beside the point,’ said Filomena. ‘If I live honestly and my conscience is clear, then people may say whatever they like; God and Truth will take up arms in my defence. Now, if only they were prepared to accompany us, we should truly be able to claim, as Pampinea has said, that Fortune favours our enterprise.’ Filomena’s words reassured the other ladies, who not only withdrew their objections but unanimously agreed to call the young men over, explain their intentions, and inquire whether they would be willing to join their expedition. And so, without any further discussion, Pampinea, who was a blood relation to one of the young men, got up and walked towards them. They were standing there gazing at the young ladies, and Pampinea, having offered them a cheerful greeting, told them what they were planning to do, and asked them on behalf of all her companions whether they would be prepared to join them in a spirit of chaste and brotherly affection. The young men thought at first that she was making mock of them, but when they realized she was speaking in earnest, they gladly agreed to place themselves at the young ladies’ disposal. So that there should be no delay in putting the plan into effect, they made provision there and then for the various matters that would have to be attended to before their departure. Meticulous care was taken to see that all necessary preparations were put in hand, supplies were sent on in advance to the place at which they intended to stay, and as dawn was breaking on the morning of the next day, which was a Wednesday, the ladies and the three young men, accompanied by one or two of the maids and all three manservants, set out from the city. And scarcely had they travelled two miles from Florence before they reached the place at which they had agreed to stay.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Spinelloccio, who was inside the chest and had not only heard all that Zeppa had said but also his wife’s reply and the fandango that shortly thereafter took place directly above his head, was torn with anguish, and felt at any moment he would die. But for his fear of Zeppa, he would have given his wife a severe scolding, even though he was under lock and key. In the end, however, recalling that he himself was to blame in the first place, that Zeppa was justified in doing this to him and that he had chosen a civil and comradely way of taking his revenge, Spinelloccio vowed that, if Zeppa was agreeable, they would thenceforth become greater friends than ever. Having taken his fill of pleasure, Zeppa stepped down from the chest, and on being asked by the lady for the jewel he had promised, he opened the door and summoned his wife. The only words she uttered, on entering the room, were: ‘My dear, you’ve paid me back in my own coin.’ And as she said this, she laughed. Then Zeppa said to her: ‘Open up this chest.’ She duly obeyed, and turning to the lady, Zeppa pointed to the huddled figure of her husband, Spinelloccio, who was now revealed inside it. It would be hard to decide which of the two was the more embarrassed: Spinelloccio, on seeing Zeppa standing over him and knowing that he knew what he had done; or the lady, on seeing her husband and realizing that he had heard and felt what she had been doing directly above his head. However, Zeppa broke the silence, saying to the lady: ‘Here’s the jewel I promised to give you.’ Spinelloccio now emerged from the chest, and without making too much fuss, he said: ‘Now we are quits, Zeppa. So let us remain friends, as you were saying just now to my wife. And since we have always shared everything in common except our wives, let us share them as well.’ Zeppa having consented to this proposal, all four breakfasted together in perfect amity. And from that day forth, each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the men had two wives, nor did this arrangement ever give rise to any argument or dispute between them. NINTH STORYBeing eager to ‘go the course’ with a company of revellers, Master Simone, a physician, is prevailed upon by Bruno and Buffalmacco to proceed by night to a certain spot, where he is thrown by Buffalmacco into a ditch and left to wallow in its filth. When the ladies had quite finished commenting upon the two Sienese and their wife-sharing, the queen, who short of offending Dioneo was the only one left to address them, began as follows: