Excitement

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 Lower than the Angels: A History of Sex and Christianity (2024)

  The resulting structure did not call itself a Church but a ‘Connexion’, reflecting the Wesleys’ embarrassed efforts to show loyalty to the Church of their birth. Increasingly, nevertheless, their Connexion did look like a Church, particularly when it crossed the Atlantic away from its parent Church of England. Its congregations took to themselves the name that had begun as a satirical nickname for the Wesleys and their pious friends at Oxford University, ‘Methodists’. That had been an allusion to the ‘methodical’ nature of the daily life that the young Oxford men had shared, something that the Reformation had rendered problematic because of its ‘popish’ overtones. It illuminates one reason for Methodism’s success: it was answering a sense in Protestantism that there was something missing, which thoughtful Protestants might have conceded was rather effectively supplied within Counter-Reformation Catholicism. Not all Evangelical preachers followed the Wesleyan Methodist Connexion out of the established Church; they managed to bring their work of revival to various parishes where they had a foothold, creating a lasting Evangelical identity within the Church itself. In the anglophone colonies of north America, the same sense of revival and renewal moved across the various denominational Churches of the first settlers, which were finding it hard to cope with the rapid expansion of immigration and social change. The resulting ‘Great Awakening’ was a religion of enthusiasm suitable for the relentlessly enthusiastic European advance westward into the heartland of the continent. It spread through drama-filled ‘revival’ gatherings held outdoors in settings that as yet had no buildings big enough to contain the crowds; the pattern had been set a century earlier in Presbyterian Scotland and in colonial-style Scots Presbyterian settlements in Gaelic northern Ireland. [34] It is worth setting out these interconnected developments in some detail because they have shaped worldwide Protestantism ever since, providing the context for Western Christianity’s successive and current entanglements with sexuality. Evangelicalism is recognizably part of the same newly forming world of choice that produced such phenomena as the emergence of homosexual identity and the drive for personal privacy in society. Evangelical rhetoric makes a great deal of play with the idea of choice: a personal decision to turn to Christ and accept him as one’s personal Saviour. To make a choice was powerfully to assert individual self: a life-changing source of comfort for those who had already experienced their lives changed by economic or political revolutions, losing touch with previous familiar settings and often feeling little sense of agency in the process. The European parish systems of medieval and Reformation religion, static and formed for the use of older economies and communities, were often effectively absent from newly industrializing societies. The mobile ministry of Evangelicals could provide a new model for being a Christian. The effect might lead to public explosions of extreme emotion.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  One glance at Ava and we’re both giggling. “That’s an unfortunate policy,” Ava says. “You’d probably make more money tonight if we were allowed to stay.” She casts a glance around the club, pointing out the fact that there are plenty of people watching us instead of the band. I’m still giggling when Ava takes my hand and pulls me away. Simon sits where we left him, a satisfied smile on his face. Before we can take our seats, he slides out of the booth. “I already settled our bill. Shall we?” No dinner tonight. There are other things on the menu. We make the trip to my hotel with no contact between us. Conversation is limited to what is necessary to reach our destination. Instead of serving as a damper, this limited contact, this self-restraint heightens the anticipation. In the elevator, I wonder what the gentleman who has the good fortune of sharing this ride with us is thinking. The tension is so high that I’m almost surprised when the elevator doors don’t blow off their tracks and spill us all to the plush carpeting in the hallway. I pause in front of my door, plastic key card in my hand poised before the small red eye of the electronic lock. I decided a long time ago to give myself to them. This is it. The point of no return. ‘Theoretically, ?ve had the option of backing out at any time. I know once we go inside my room, there is no turning back. With a quick push, the smooth plastic glides home releasing the lock with a quiet snick and the red eye goes green. A small electric spark arcs between my fingers and the cool metal door handle. I step into the room, holding the door open for them. First him, followed by her. When she passes by, I reach out and take her hand, keeping her close. The door swings shut and I can’t wait any longer. With an urgent kiss, I pin her against the door. I need to feel her again the way we were on the dance floor. Her mouth. Her nipples. The soft skin of her belly. I can’t get enough. The smell of her hair. ‘The soft sighs of her breath against my skin. Her hand slides between my thighs. She slips her fingers under the edge of my panties and pushes into me. Through the haze of excitement, I hear a faint jingling from Simon’s direction and think he has had enough of sitting quietly to the side. I imagine that he is undoing his belt buckle and pants so ~ Simon Says 283 that he can begin to stroke himself. I am so wrong. He rises from his chair and comes to where I have her pinned against the door. With the front of his body, he traps me between them. The hard length of his cock sits high on my back.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown 3,000 miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago. “Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me. His gaze traces paths across my nate skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. 338 Lisabet Sarat I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I'll die if he doesn’t do-it soon. Still, ’m not prepared when he slaps one cheek with his open palm. “Ow!” “You are such a nasty little girl! I had forgotten. But now I remember (slap) just how kinky and twisted you really are.” He gives me three more spanks in quick succession, and I’m wailing out loud. At the same time, I’m hoping that he doesn’t stop. Of course he does, knowing how to stoke my fires with frustration, but only for a moment. “Across my knees, Sarah.” The armchair is perfect for a spanking, and once again my spirit soars, as he lays into me, landing one ferocious blow after another on my tender butt. ’m where I belong, and both of us know it. My butt is burning like it’s been barbecued. It’s starting to hurt enough to interfere with the pleasure. I wonder if he still has that uncanny sense of my limits that he used to demonstrate. Just as the thought crosses my mind, he whispers in my ear. “I'll bet anything that youw’re soaking wet, Sarah.” Without waiting for a reply, he thrusts three fat fingers deep into me. The fires race from my ass to my cunt and back. I come hard, grinding down on his hand, wanting him deeper, always deeper. Afterwards, he strokes my hair and plants little kisses on my ravaged ass. As for me, I’m content to just lie across his lap, glowing inside and out from his attentions. His erection pokes through his slacks and into my belly. He doesn’t make any moves to release his cock, and I don’t dare do so myself. He’s restless, though, aware as I am of the minutes ticking away. “Go get the ruler,” he tells me. It amuses him to have me supply the instruments of my own torment.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  And now, here she was again. Just as enticing and flawless in her sexist version of beauty and comical pink and purple pseudo- Western style as ever. I laughed as I looked her over, and decided I had nothing better to do than indulge in that wonderful pastime of undress-and-dress. I removed the jacket and skirt, undid the Velcro on the little blouse beneath, and soon she was naked, her pointy breasts hard, her waist twisty, her pink smile absurd, and her legs so long and juicy they made my mouth water. And then, yes, I put them in my mouth and suckled. I let my tongue lap and flick like I was sucking cock. Licked between the legs like delving between long, thick labia. Fought hard against the desire to let her slip almost out so I could touch then chew those precious feet. Such temptation and now no reason not to Plasticity 411 _ give in. But instead I teased myself, and Barbie, by sucking her legs and just enjoying the feel of her phallic length in my mouth. And then I heard a whimper. My own pleasure, of course, at having something in my mouth to suck. Something inanimate so I did not have to worry about his rejection. Something female so it wouldn’t make me think of him. Something cocklike so it would make me think of him. So, of course I would enjoy it, and make little enjoying sounds. But after a few contented moments, the whimpering grew louder, and it was so entirely clear that it was not mine. I pulled the doll from my mouth and looked around the room in that insane way you do when you think you’re suddenly in a horror movie and if you snap your head around fast enough you'll spot the ghost of the class president who killed herself in high school. Or, in this case, the whoever-it-was who was making little high-pitched erotic noises while watching me suck Barbie’s legs. When that didn’t work, I looked at Miss Lemon, who was curled in a sweet little feline ball with her tail covering her nose, obviously uninterested in either Barbie-sucking or little erotic noises from nowhere.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Greg lay restrained by his wrists and ankles to the head and footboard. He was also blindfolded and gagged but he could hear just fine. His wife’s words created a zing from his ears, straight to his balls, making his cock shudder. He’d found, aside from moans and groans when he was in this state, he could communicate his thoughts and emotions quite clearly through his cock, and Eagle-eyed Audrey always caught them. Greg had been telling Audrey for months how he’d love to submit to her while her girl friends watched, or maybe even joined in. It seemed she’d finally taken the bait and he was going to get his fantasy. “T have a friend, Moira, who thinks you’re just adorable.” Greg smiled around the gag and a little more drool ran down the side of his face. Audrey slowly inserted a well-lubed, gloved finger into his ass to the accompaniment of his sigh and moan. “And her boy is really quite special. He’s about ten years younger than you and works as a personal trainer. ’ve been thinking that I wouldn’t mind a bit handing you over to her and swinging with Ian. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?” - Greg’s eyes flew open inside his blindfold. No, no, no, this was supposed to be about him and other women. Audrey wasn’t supposed to be with another guy. He made some appropriate noises and, even though the anal attention he was receiving was certainly arousing, he felt his cock begin to wilt. “Oh, what’s the matter, baby? Not what you had in mind?” She continued with her gentle massage until he was nice and hard again before applying a cock ring to keep him that way. “You know, my Careful What You Wish For 433 darling, Moira’s also ten years younger than me, and very attractive. You could do worse. “They have an open relationship and go to various swinging functions and play parties. Anyway, I’ve invited Moira over to meet you and get to know you a little better before making up her mind. She should be here any minute.” Audrey unbuckled Greg’s gag to a quiet whine. After he licked his lips and worked his mouth, the first words out of his mouth were, “Today? Right now? Both of them?” “Yes — and no, just Moira. She wanted to get a sense of what you’re like to play with before committing. She saw you when you came to pick me up after the book club meeting last week and thought you were sexy, but she wanted to watch you in action, or at least, in flagrante, before making a decision.” sbuies “Oh, there’s the door. ’ll just go and get that, shall I?” Audrey stood up at the sound of the doorbell and, as she started to leave the bedroom, Greg turned his head to the sound of her footsteps and again said, “But”. . .”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  I squirmed excitedly as Hulk’s next blow landed. I shut my eyes and cleared my mind as best I could. The smacks continued at a steady clip, and soon I was lost in the same sweet spanking sensations I’d been craving. It didn’t matter that they weren’t coming from a human hand; in a way, it was even better, because unless ’m with someone truly wicked, in the back of my mind there’s often that niggling concern that they’re getting bored or their hand is stinging or they’ll be expecting something from me. All the Hulk expected was my bare bottom. I kissed the seat and spread my legs, relishing the wetness as I turned the dial to get the machine to spank me harder. It really kicked into gear and I whimpered, the pain shooting through my lower half. I held on tight, lifting my ass slightly to make the whacks come even faster. While of course the machine could never rival a human in disciplinary tactics, it seemed to make up for it with the stern, even whacks it doled out. Yes, I had the ultimate power to stop it, but I didn’t want to. It was like the machine was testing me, and I was testing the machine; who would win? I wanted to hold out as long as possible, at least, until I couldn’t anymore. As I let myself go to the highest level of spanking, where the whacks came so fast and furious it was like one continuous smack, I started to go to another place, as if I were looking down on myself. I wasn’t sobbing or whining or begging; I became one with the machine. I plunged my fingers into my pussy with one hand, shifting around The Spanking Machine 419 so my entire broad bottom could get its spanking fix. When I came, my fingers were drenched, and when I finally got it together to press stop, the world seemed quiet, like it had stopped entirely in the time it took me to get spanked. I cleaned off the machine, then examined my butt; indeed, its normally pale skin was marked by pink lines and an overall reddish tone. Even better, all that misplaced sexual energy that had been churning through me, looking for a proper kinky outlet, had found it. I felt at peace, truly satisfied, even though I hoped to someday be able to share my machine with a lover.

• From Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation (2020)

  These women insisted on interpreting biblical texts contextually, attentive to the settings in which they were produced. Conservatives, however, insisted on a “populist hermeneutic,” a method privileging “the simplest, most direct interpretations of scripture.” For conservatives, this wasn’t just the right method, it was also the masculine one. They depicted biblical authors like Paul as uncowed by political correctness. Paul wasn’t afraid to prohibit female authority, and masculine men should do likewise. They accused liberals and moderates of waffling, of introducing needless complexity while they stood firm in their quick grasp of the obvious, literal truth of the Scriptures.14 The issue of inerrancy did rally conservatives, but when it turned out that large numbers of Southern Baptists—even denominational officials—lacked any real theological prowess and were in fact functionally atheological, concerns over inerrancy gave way to a newly politicized commitment to female submission and to related culture wars issues. It wasn’t just Baptist men who helped accomplish this shift. Influenced by Elisabeth Elliot’s writings and by their participation in Phyllis Schlafly’s Eagle Forum and Beverly LaHaye’s Concerned Women for America, Baptist women themselves advanced conservative gender roles within the SBC.15 Al Mohler, who oversaw the purging of moderates from Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, offered a revealing glimpse into this process: “Mr. and Mrs. Baptist may not be able to understand or adjudicate the issue of biblical inerrancy when it comes down to nuances, and language, and terminology,” he acknowledged. “But if you believe abortion should be legal, that’s all they need to know. . . .” The same went for “homosexual marriage.” Inerrancy mattered because of its connection to cultural and political issues. It was in their efforts to bolster patriarchal authority that Southern Baptists united with evangelicals across the nation, and the alliances drew them into the larger evangelical world. Within a generation, Southern Baptists began to place their “evangelical” identity over their identity as Southern Baptists. Patriarchy was at the heart of this new sense of themselves.16 EVEN IF EVANGELICALS were not the decisive factor in Reagan’s victory, they believed they were, as did many pundits. Through extensive networks and public pageantry, evangelical leaders had rallied supporters behind Reagan and the Republican Party. Some, like Pat Boone and Jerry Falwell, had traveled the country stumping for Reagan. When Reagan won in a landslide, evangelicals were euphoric. Falwell effused that Reagan’s election was “the greatest day for the cause of conservatism and morality in my adult life.” And they were quick to claim credit: “The people who put Jimmy in, put Jimmy out,” declared Robison, with apparent glee. These were celebratory words, but also cautionary ones. With Reagan in the White House, they expected a return on their investment.17 At first, things looked promising. At his inauguration, Reagan paid homage to his evangelical supporters. His Bel Air pastor opened with prayer, and Reagan himself quoted the biblical passage Falwell had invoked while stumping for him.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  One afternoon not long after graduation, one of our mutual friends came to my house to hang out. It was unusual that it was just this friend and me; normally, there were a lot of us. This guy was suave in the way of the stubbled seventeen-year-old poet. He had an acoustic guitar. I had a feeling that afternoon that we were going to kiss, and we did, in the front hall. I was so excited, so thoroughly adrenalized, that my jaw quivered and I bit down hard on his lip. We laughed and kissed again, and then he had to go. Dizzy, half-blind, I reached for the doorknob and missed it by nearly a foot. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] That fall I went off to Stanford. Everybody was supposed to fool around in college. I knew this in the abstract, the way you know the earth is round, but I didn’t fool around, because I didn’t want to. I wanted a boyfriend. The summer after my freshman year, I stayed on campus and worked in a corn genetics lab in the biology building. I mixed tubes of chemicals to isolate DNA from corn kernels, pipetted liquids into plastic tubes the size of pinky fingers, and whirled them in a centrifuge. The lab had a plot of land at one end of campus where we grew corn for our research and a few other vegetables for fun. We’d have cookouts there each Friday and invite other labs to join us. At one of the cookouts toward the end of summer, I looked up from my plate and accidentally made eye contact with a guy from the visiting lab. Then, because I could feel him watching, I started looking his way on purpose. I liked catching his eyes on me. He introduced himself: he was a grad student, twenty-six, seven years older than me. The next week we met at the table on the concrete balcony outside my lab and ate our sack lunches together. I was flying to Oklahoma for a visit before classes started again, but I promised to call when I got back. He was nice-looking, but I wouldn’t normally have noticed him. That was no reason not to date him, I reasoned. I’d never “dated” anyone—just that awkward thing with Bobby, and then that kiss with the acoustic-guitar poet—but I figured uncertainty was normal in the early stages of getting to know a guy. Anyway, we can’t always be with the most gorgeous person in the room, can we? I thought of adult couples I knew when I was growing up, friends of my mother’s and father’s. The men often seemed to be sort of mildewing into middle age, while their wives remained taut and youthful. Did those women want their husbands? At some point? Now? Maybe desire was more about personality than looks? I had no idea. But this grad student liked me, and he was kind, attentive, and intelligent. I liked feeling wanted by him.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  Both women and men who deviate from the born-this-way model have historically been presumed to be exceptions and weirdos. People whose sexual identity and behavior didn’t fit neatly into categories—or whose attractions were not consistently same-sex or other-sex—have been routinely excluded by researchers or tossed out of studies of sexual orientation.45 Bisexuality has been, for this reason among many, consistently understudied—leaving us, writes Diamond, with a distorted and incomplete understanding of the nature and development of sexual orientation.46 But the “exceptions” no longer look exceptional to some researchers, like Diamond. Some have come to view female and male sexual orientation as wholly different phenomena. They begin from the acceptance of paradox, rather than try to explain it away. From this starting point, Diamond posits a new foundational principle: that one of the defining features of female sexual orientation is its fluidity, or a “situation-dependent flexibility in sexual responsiveness.”47 This flexibility means that, regardless of their overall sexual orientation, women may find they experience desires for men or women (or, presumably, any gender) as they move through life, encountering different situations and relationships. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] Diamond’s study isn’t without problems: Who is she referring to, I wish I could ask, when she uses the word women? Who, by her lights, is “female”? Does her model of sexual fluidity apply to both ciswomen and transwomen? What about those for whom gender means more than “male” or “female”—who are intersex, genderfluid, non-binary? Diamond’s book was published in 2009, barely over a decade ago, but surely her study would be structured and executed differently today, when we talk with dazzling precision and nuance about gender and sexuality spectrums, when the New York Times celebrates Pride with a glossary of LGBTQ+ terminology, twenty-two words and growing.48 Still, Diamond’s work meant something to me. I took pictures of passages and texted a blizzard of them to my friend Matthew, who’d been listening to me grapple since jury duty with what I could now giddily call my “fluidity.” Diamond’s writing is often impassioned, and I liked it. I felt set on fire by it, elated by not only the affirmation of her findings but by their specificity.

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  5 This was the period of the Upanishads, the Buddha, Confucius, Laozi, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Ezra, Socrates, and Aeschylus. We have never surpassed the insights of the Axial Age. In times of spiritual and social crisis, people have repeatedly turned back to it for guidance. They may have interpreted the Axial discoveries differently, but they never succeeded in going beyond them. Rabbinic Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, for example, were all latter-day flowerings of this original vision, which they translated marvelously into an idiom that spoke directly to the troubled circumstances of a later period. Compassion would be a key element in each of these movements. The Aryan peoples of India would always be in the vanguard of this spiritual and psychological transformation and would develop a particularly sophisticated understanding of the workings of the mind. Aggressive, passionate warriors addicted to raiding and rustling the cattle of neighboring groups, the Aryan tribes, who had settled in what is now the Punjab, had sacralized their violence. Their religious rituals included the sacrificial slaughter of animals, fierce competitions, and mock raids and battles in which participants were often injured or even killed. But in the ninth century BCE, priests began systematically to extract this aggression from the liturgy, transforming these dangerous rites into more anodyne ceremonies. Eventually they managed to persuade the warriors to give up their sacred war games. As these ritual specialists began to investigate the causes of violence in the psyche, they initiated a spiritual awakening. 6 From a very early date, therefore, they had espoused the ideal of ahimsa (“nonviolence”) that would become central to Indian spirituality. In the seventh century BCE, the sages who produced the earliest of the spiritual treatises known as the Upanishads took another important step forward. Instead of concentrating on the performance of external rites, they began to examine their interior significance. At this time Aryan society in the Ganges basin was in the early stages of urbanization. 7 The elite now had time to examine the inner workings of their minds—a luxury that had not been possible before humans were freed from the all-absorbing struggle for subsistence. The Brhadaranyaka Upanishad was probably composed in the kingdom of Videha, a frontier state on the most easterly point of Aryan expansion, where Aryans mixed with tribesmen from Iran as well as the indigenous peoples. 8 The early Upanishads reflect the intense excitement of these encounters. People thought nothing of traveling a thousand miles to consult a teacher, and kings and warriors debated the issues as eagerly as priests.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  Another family member asked how my mother was “holding up.” Oh, she’s amazing, I fumbled. I explained that I knew how hard it must have been for her, especially since she’d only recently moved to town. I was grateful for the work she was doing to accept and understand and be there for me—for all three of us. Well, this family member scoffed, you’ve really put her through the wringer, Molly. This time I had the gall to attempt a protest. Excuse me? I howled. But that’s not to imply that I didn’t agree. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] Saying that my husband and I had separated was worse than coming out. I couldn’t just say it; I was sure I should explain. Our separation was my fault, and I would announce this culpability by outing myself. On three occasions, I outed myself to staff members of June’s school. I hardly knew any of them. I saw their heads wobble faintly with the impact, watched them labor to respond. It seemed easier to pawn my privacy, to flay myself next to the playground sandbox, than to let someone make assumptions. Then they might land on the tender thing: my marriage hadn’t worked very well. When did I stop loving Brandon? Did I? Why would I even formulate such a question, as though it mattered in the end? “There are some people that one loves,” admits the wife in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, “and others that one perhaps would rather be with.” 26Ash and I went on a second date, this time to a movie. I was running late, and I texted to say she should go ahead and get seats. I shimmied into the theater as the lights started to dim, hoped she couldn’t see how I blushed when I saw her. I sat down, and she leaned close: Are you a hand-holder? I nodded, and she put her elbow on the armrest, opened her palm. Her skin was smooth and even, like a new ream of paper. After the movie we went for tacos and made out standing against the back hatch of my car. I rubbed the seam at the crotch of her jeans, pinched her lip in my teeth, let the rear wiper dig into my back. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] The morning was overcast, and I sent Ash a text: Today is prime makeout weather. It IS, she replied. I can’t wait to make out with you again. I’m currently making granola, I typed back. This is what it’s like to sext with me. I’m also listening to a feminist podcast about menstrual cups. Hubba hubba, typed Ash. I haven’t had my period in almost a year. A beat, then she added: Not for any unhealthy reasons, thankfully. Oh, why not? I asked. About a year ago, she replied, my doctor and I decided that a very low dose of testosterone might help me feel more aligned with my gender identity, which is queer/non-binary. Does that freak you out?

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  In the seventh century BCE, the sages who produced the earliest of the spiritual treatises known as the Upanishads took another important step forward. Instead of concentrating on the performance of external rites, they began to examine their interior significance. At this time Aryan society in the Ganges basin was in the early stages of urbanization.7 The elite now had time to examine the inner workings of their minds—a luxury that had not been possible before humans were freed from the all-absorbing struggle for subsistence. The Brhadaranyaka Upanishad was probably composed in the kingdom of Videha, a frontier state on the most easterly point of Aryan expansion, where Aryans mixed with tribesmen from Iran as well as the indigenous peoples.8 The early Upanishads reflect the intense excitement of these encounters. People thought nothing of traveling a thousand miles to consult a teacher, and kings and warriors debated the issues as eagerly as priests. The sages and their pupils explored the complexity of the mind and had discovered the unconscious long before Jung and Freud; they were well aware of the effortless and reflexive drives of the human brain recently explored by neuroscientists. Above all, they were bent on finding the atman, the true “self” that was the source of all this mental activity and could not, therefore, be identical with the thoughts and feelings that characterize our ordinary mental and psychological experience. “You can’t see the Seer, who does the seeing,” explained Yajnavalkya, one of the most important of the early sages. “You can’t hear the Hearer who does the hearing; you can’t think with the Thinker who does the thinking; and you can’t perceive the Perceiver who does the perceiving.”9 The sages were convinced that if they could access the innermost core of their being, they would achieve unity with the Brahman, “the All,” the indestructible and imperishable energy that fuels the cosmos, establishes its laws, and pulls all the disparate parts of the universe together.10

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  For the first half hour all went according to program. Charlie and I moved the cattle together and drove them over the waves of prairie towards the river; it all seemed as easy as eating and we had begun to push the cattle into a fast walk when suddenly there was a shot in front and a sort of stampede! At once Charlie shot out on the left as I shot out on the right and using our whips, we quickly got the herd into motion again, the rear ranks forcing the front ones on; the cattle were soon pressed into a shuffling trot and the difficulty seemed overcome. Just at that moment I saw two or three bright flames half a mile away on the other side of Charlie and suddenly I heard the zip of a bullet pass my own head and turning, saw pretty plainly a man riding fifty yards away from me. I took very careful aim at his horse and fired and was delighted to see horse and man come down and disappear. I paid no further attention to him and kept on forcing the pace of the cattle. But Charlie was very busily engaged for two or three minutes because the fusillade was kept up from behind till he was joined by Bent and shortly afterwards by Bob. We were all now driving the cattle as hard as they could go, straight towards the ford. The shots behind us continued and even grew more frequent, but we were not further molested till three quarters of an hour later we reached the Rio Grande and began urging the cattle across the ford. There progress was necessarily slow. We could scarcely have got across had it not been that about the middle Bob came up and made his whip and voice a perfect terror to the beasts in the rear. When we got them out on the other side I began to turn them westwards towards our wooded knoll, but the next moment Bob was beside me shouting—“Straight ahead, straight ahead; they are following us and we shall have to fight. You get on with the herd always straight north and I’ll bring Charlie back to the bank so as to hold ’em off.” Boylike, I said I would rather go and fight, but he said: “You go on. If Charlie killed, no matter. I want you.” And I had perforce to do what the little devil ordered. When Texan cattle have been brought up together the largest herd can be driven like a small bunch. They have their leader and they follow him religiously and so one man can drive a thousand head with very little trouble. For two or three miles I kept them on the trot and then I let them gradually get down to a walk. I did not want to lose any more of them; some fat cows had already died in their tracks through being driven so fast.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  This made sense to me not only as a person who took comfort in the firm ground of science but also as a kid who wanted vindication for her dead gay uncle. The born-this-way narrative was, and still is, a vital refrain of the LGBTQ+ rights movement. If gayness is something you’re born with, like skin color, you have a right to protection by the law. This is also how we talk about transness. Homosexuality was absolved of its classification as a mental illness in 1973, but the rights of LGBTQ+ people still depend on our framing the “condition” as involuntary and fixed. My mother’s artist-friend Michael let me interview him for my research paper, and I called with a list of questions. When did he know he was gay? How did he know? What did his family say? What did he think made a person gay? I remember referring to his “sexual preference,” and him gently corrected me: Try using “sexual orientation” instead, he said. We’re not talking about who or what a person prefers, because that implies choice. We’re talking about who a person is. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] I liked boys. That was who I was. It was easy to figure out. In kindergarten, I liked a first-grader named Eli. He was so cute that the sight of him panicked me, as though I’d narrowly missed being hit by a car. One of the teachers at school taught us origami, and I folded love notes into brightly colored swans and dogs. I never talked to Eli, but I invited him to my birthday party that year. He couldn’t come, but he and his mother drove to our house to deliver a present. I was in the bathroom when the doorbell rang, and when my mother called to me, I found I couldn’t move my feet. I was terrified to see him. I short-circuited, hid behind the bathroom door. I was six. When I opened the wrapped package they’d left, it was just a necklace of ugly plastic beads in primary colors. But I kept it, because he gave it to me. The next year, in Mrs. Fightmaster’s first grade class, I had a crush on a boy named Aaron. My best friend had a crush on him too. He had big earnest eyes and a sweater with his name stitched across it. I didn’t even mind when he vomited up his lunch on the rug in front of our cubbies. My friend and I sometimes invited him to climb trees at recess, and when he agreed, I was so excited I could hardly speak.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  My wild excitement made me shiver; I could have struck her for drawing away; but soon I noticed that she let my sex touch her clitoris with pleasure and I began to use my cock as a finger, caressing her with it. In a moment or two I began to move it more quickly and as my excitement grew to the height, I again tried to slip it into her pussy, and now as her love-dew came, I got my sex in a little way which gave me inexpressible pleasure; but when I pushed to go further, she drew away again with a sharp cry of pain. At the same moment my orgasm came on for the first time and seed like milk spurted from my sex. The pleasure thrill was almost unbearably keen: I could have screamed with the pang of it; but Jessie cried out, “Oh, you’re wetting me” and drew away with a frightened “Look, look!” And there, sure enough, on her round white thighs were patches of crimson blood. “Oh! I’m bleeding”, she cried, “what have you done?” “Nothing”, I answered, a little sulky, I’m afraid, at having my indescribable pleasure cut short, “nothing” and in a moment I had got out of bed, and taking my handkerchief soon wiped away the telltale traces. But when I wanted to begin again, Jessie wouldn’t hear of it at first: “No, no”, she said. “You’ve hurt me really, Jim, (my Christian name, I had told her, was James) and I’m scared, please be good.” I could only do her will, till a new thought struck me. At any rate I could see her now and study her beauties one by one, and so still lying by her I began kissing her left breast and soon the nipple grew a little stiff in my mouth. Why, I didn’t know and Jessie said she didn’t, but she liked it when I said her breasts were lovely and indeed they were, small and firm while the nipples pointed straight out. Suddenly the thought came, surprising me: it would have been much prettier if the circle surrounding the nipples had been rose-red instead of merely umber brown. I was thrilled by the bare idea. But her flanks and belly were lovely; the navel like a curled sea-shell, I thought, and the triangle of silky brown hairs on the Mount of Venus seemed to me enchanting, but Jessie kept covering her beauty-place. “It’s ugly”, she said, “please, boy”, but I went on caressing it and soon I was trying to slip my sex in again; though Jessie’s “O’s” of pain began at once and she begged me to stop.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  Not at all! I hope you didn’t feel on the spot. It must be wild to experience that kind of deep change in yourself. I didn’t feel on the spot, she said. It felt like a good way to drop that into the convo. And yes, it has been wild. I’m amazed at how much more myself I feel. I started sleeping better, feeling happier. There is growing evidence of lowered rates of depression and anxiety with hormone therapy, though most research is based on folks who are taking a dose to fully transition. The stress of living incongruent to one’s gender identity can be so harmful. I’m really glad for you, I said. People are still learning, Ash added. Myself included. The world still operates by a “this or that” framework. Even my doctor uses language implying that because I am on hormones, I want to transition. Which is wrong. I typed: There’s this really great passage from a book I love, The Argonauts, by Maggie Nelson. “How does one get across the fact that the best way to find out how people feel about their gender or their sexuality—or anything else, really—is to listen to what they tell you, and to try to treat them accordingly, without shellacking over their version of reality with yours?” I couldn’t yet tell her what the quote meant in my story. I couldn’t yet tell her about the times my husband had said I was crazy, about the time he’d tried to tell me I wasn’t gay and I’d wanted to scream this at him, every word. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] On our third date I was looking down, fiddling with my phone, when Ash arrived. She slid onto the booth beside me like an apparition, and when I turned to see why the light had changed, her face was close to mine. I put my tongue in her mouth. I’ve never asked about your pronouns, I said. I just realized it. I’m sorry I didn’t think to earlier. That’s fine, she said. I’ve been thinking about it lately. It’s kind of a shifting thing. I’ve just started using they/them at work, and it feels really good. So, they/them, I think. Okay, I said, great. I can do that. I had quietly hoped that I could keep saying “she/her.” But even as I thought it, I felt bad. Ash’s pronouns have nothing to do with me. I should be happy to call them whatever they want. The singular “they” felt strange on my lips, like practicing a new language. But I could practice, and I wanted to. We were supposed to see Moonlight, but we lost track of time. There was a Halloween party at Dino’s, and we stopped by. Brandon was there with someone he’d been seeing. I hugged him en route to the dance floor, and his date whispered in my ear: You two look so beautiful. Ash is like a tiny shiny Bieber lady.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  Wilhelm and my stepfather, about the moon. He walked around me as I talked and got out my paints. He was high on possibilities, on hope, beer, and smoke. He reminded me that he had come over to take me to the dance at the canteen. “No!” I told him. “No, I can’t. Today I made a promise to myself, and I can’t risk getting sent home. I need to paint.” The incantations of the Doors wound through the campus and through the door of the studio, tempting me. “You’re running away from yourself,” he said. “You’re hiding from reality. Let’s go! Besides, I need you for courage to check somebody out for me. Aieeeee.” I knew he meant Lewis. And when I thought of Lewis, I remembered Lupita and the deal Clarence had going. Tonight was the deadline. I had to find Lupita and warn her before it was too late. The canteen was jammed. Herbie immediately pulled me out onto the dance floor. Dancing was like painting, like flying. Through rhythm I could travel toward the stars. Herbie and I could stay on the dance floor for hours, and if we stayed in the canteen and danced I couldn’t drink or get into any other kind of trouble. While we danced I kept my eyes on the door, looking for Lupita. We danced every dance until a Mexican song interrupted us and all the Apache girls flooded the dance floor. While they weaved back and forth to the bright music of the ranchero, Herbie bought us Cokes, and I looked around the room for Lupita. I didn’t see her anywhere. I didn’t see Clarence either. Georgette stood outside the glass doors of the entrance. She was small and alone. I watched her ask to borrow a cigarette from another student. She lit it. I remembered the night she upset the whole dorm with her panicked run from the ghost chasing her, and the big stink her roommates had caused when they demanded she move from their room. I felt sorry for the girl with the scratchy army blanket draped over her shoulders. The ghost had not reappeared, but the fear followed her. I spotted Clarence coming up out of the dark, from the direction of the ditch. He was smiling and laughing too hard, walking with Lewis. Lupita wasn’t with them. Clarence grabbed Georgette a little roughly. She smiled and melted into him, and then they came through the door and onto the dance floor, Lewis following behind them. Georgette beamed and made sure I saw her. “Where’s Lupita?” I demanded. A knot formed in my stomach. Georgette glared at me. “She’s on Venus,” said Clarence, and he and Lewis laughed. I didn’t like the sound of their sly laughter. I pulled a reluctant Herbie behind me. “We have to look for Lupita,” I urged. He slid out the door of the packed canteen with me.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  I wrote the manuscript the year that we got married. We hit the ground like thoroughbreds, pacing each other. That fall, as I was finishing the book, Brandon started toying with the idea of opening a restaurant. We’d made a friend who owned a successful Italian spot in town, and with her mentorship, Brandon began to plan a restaurant of his own: a neighborhood pizza place, Delancey, where he’d make and serve in Seattle the kind of pizza he’d loved in New York. When he’d conceived Delancey, I’d been so deep in writing that I didn’t pay much attention. My whole life had built to this moment: I was writing a book, and it was going to be published! I was learning how to write it as I went along, an intensive process that, many days, left me feeling like my insides had been sucked out with a straw. I remember conversations about the futility of his doctoral degree, about whether he would go through with it. The degree was important mostly if he wanted to teach, in which case we’d likely have to move to the University of Wherever He Could Get a Job. We wanted to stay in Seattle, but there were few job openings. Having pulled out of a doctoral program myself, I encouraged him to do what felt right. I wanted him to be able to do work he would love, as I now did. Anyway, even if he had the idea to open a restaurant, I never imagined he’d do it. This was a man who had, after all, also considered robbing banks. Surely he was no more serious about this than he had been about that. People dream of opening restaurants all the time. I’ve probably heard a dozen people in a dozen different fields toss out the idea in casual conversation, usually under the influence of a good meal. Most come to their senses. The steps to opening a restaurant are numerous and byzantine, the costs exorbitant, and the failure rate is high. The leap was so large that I assumed he’d never get there. Brandon liked to dream big dreams. He and our friend Sam even made a game of this type of unbridled thinking. They called it “Think Tank,” and it involved taking turns calling out scrappy inventions and lavish solutions to often-dubious “problems.” Over a pitcher of beer, they taught me how to play. My proudest invention—in concept, if not in anything near reality—was a potato that would grow out of the ground already cut, fried, and hot, in the style of the Bloomin’ Onion at Outback Steakhouse. Big dreams were a fun game.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  Still I liked the idea of Laura wanting me, though I wasn’t sure if I liked that I liked it. This was harder to parse. I couldn’t imagine dating her, or any sort of ongoing thing, a relationship. It had been a leap to imagine anything, to sit at the bar next to her and understand that I wanted to kiss her. In that moment I’d been there and also not there: a version of me had hovered near the ceiling, watching, wondering which was the “real” me. Was I the person in the chair down there, or was I this one, up here? How would I know? Then the minute had passed, and I’d floated back down to my seat. I’d stayed. I rode in Laura’s car, I sat on her sofa, I told her what I wanted. I became someone who surprised me, someone interesting. And then nothing happened. Nothing happened, but I felt bigger somehow. That I could be attracted to a woman, this woman, the way I was to men—the knowledge of this made me feel larger, my body capable of pulling in more air. I had imagined it would feel different to want a woman, different from wanting a man, but it didn’t. It felt expansive. Expansive, a word I couldn’t remember ever using, now instinctively in my mouth. But alongside this feeling came another: I was relieved. I was relieved that nothing had happened, that the decision had been made for me. The thing was out of my hands. At least I won’t have to tell my parents I’m a lesbian. Summer dwindled into fall, and I moved back to campus. I thought about Laura for a few weeks. Thanksgiving came, and I spent the long weekend at Tina’s house. I went to the store, but Laura was gone, had taken a new job elsewhere. I didn’t reach out, though sometimes I wanted to. I was taking a medical anthropology class that quarter, and there was a boy who usually sat in the row ahead of me, with auburn hair and cheekbones like twin mesas. I had a crush. It was fun, like it always was. The next summer I worked again at Whole Foods, this time in the cheese department, Laura’s old domain. The manager now was a soft-spoken man who’d spent some years living in Spain. He taught me how to pronounce the Basque cheese Idiazábal, letting my tongue glance off my front teeth, turning the z into a th. It was a different summer, less fraught. I didn’t look at a woman again the way I’d looked at Laura. I didn’t even think to look at a woman that way for fifteen years, until the morning I walked into the courtroom.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  A thought: If this were fiction, a good editor would scratch this scene out. She continued. I’ve had a crush on you since the trial, she said. I’d love to date you. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] We went out the next Saturday, the last day of April. I parked on the street outside the city park where we’d agreed to meet. Nora waited for me on a bench by the reflecting pool. She had a fresh haircut. It was tidy around her ears, trimmed close along the back of her head. I thought about dragging my fingers up, nape to crown, against the prickle of her hair. I could do that now, if I wanted to. She wanted me to touch her, didn’t she? She was here. She sat at one end of the bench, and I sat down at the other. We were too far apart, weirdly far apart. Nausea swam around my gut like a strange fish. I brought something for you, she said. It’s my favorite book about writing. Do you have it? She handed me a package wrapped in twine. It was a paperback copy of On Writing Well, by William Zinsser. I didn’t have it. On the title page, she’d written the date and an inscription. Her handwriting was even and relaxed, the M of my name a cheerful zigzag, the o flowing into looping ls, a neat up-and-down y. She had written my name! I goggled at it, like a preteen running into her school crush in the toothpaste aisle at Target: Whoa, he brushes his teeth, just like me. Nora had written my name. This is what it looks like when her hand forms my name! I couldn’t look directly at her, or the web of muscle at the corner of my eye would seize. For a while we talked about the weather, which was unseasonably warm. Nora had rolled her jeans once at the hem, where they rested on the creased cowboy boots she’d worn in court. I stared at a hedge in front of me, noticed that its leaves were the size and shape of almonds. We set off for a bar. Walking beside her, I saw that she wasn’t as tall as I’d thought. I realized I’d never done this before: I’d never walked beside her. It felt different from walking beside anyone else. I was walking beside Nora. I was walking beside a woman who was gay, and who looked gay, and I was not walking beside this woman because she was my friend. I was walking beside her because we wanted to put our tongues in each other’s mouths.