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 Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  AUGUSTINE. (Tr. li. 2) Hosanna is a simple exclamation, rather indicating some excitement of the mind, than having any particular meaning; like many interjections that we have in Latin. BEDE. It is a compound of two words; Hosi is shortened into save; Anna a mere exclamation, complete. Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord. The name of the Lord here is the name of God the Father; though we may understand it as His own name; inasmuch as He also is the Lord. But the former sense agrees better with the text above, I am come in My Father’s name. (5:43) He does not lose His divinity, when He teaches us humility. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxvi. 1) This is what more than any thing made men believe in Christ, viz. the assurance, that He was not opposed to God, that He came from the Father. The words shew us the divinity of Christ. Hosanna is, Save us; and salvation in Scripture is attributed to God alone. And cometh, it is said, not is brought: the former befits a lord, the latter a servant. In the name of the Lord, goes to prove the same thing. He does not come in the name of a servant, but in the name of the Lord. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. li. 4) It were a small thing to the King eternal to be made a human king. Christ was not the King of Israel, to exact tribute, and command armies, but to direct souls, and bring them to the kingdom of heaven. For Christ then to be King of Israel, was a condescension, not an elevation, a sign of Hispity, not an increase of His power. For He who was called on earth the King of the Jews, is in heaven the King of Angels. THEOPHYLACT. The Jews, when they called Him King of Israel, dreamed of an earthly king. They expected a king to arise, of more than human greatness, who would deliver them from the government of the Romans. But how did our Lord come? The next words tell us; And Jesus when He had found a young ass, sat thereon. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. li. 5) John relates the matter briefly, the other Evangelists are more full. The ass, we read in them, was the foal of an ass on which no man had sat: i. e. the Gentile world, who had not received our Lord. The other ass, which was brought, (not the foal, for there were two,) is the believing Jew. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxvi. 1) He did this prophetically, to figure the unclean Gentiles being brought into subjection to the Gospel; and also as a fulfilment of prophecy.

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  Scope 424 not only inaugurating the reign of free verse in American poetry but also as fundamentally reconceiving the tradition of autobiographical writing that runs from Rousseau’s Confessions through Wordsworth’s Prelude to Thoreau’s Walden; in the early editions of Leaves of Grass (fi rst published 1855), he is also presented as a voice of brotherhood, love, and union at a time when the nation was fratricidally divided by the imminence of the Civil War. Wherever possible, each new author in this series is linked by comparison and contrast to one or more earlier ones. Besides the example of Whitman and Wordsworth just cited, the eponymous heroine of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles is shown to mark a major departure from the precedent set by Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. While Elizabeth is the respectable, well-bred daughter of a gentleman living in comfortable circumstances, Tess is the daughter of a shiftless peddler who must earn her own living by hard labor. Further, while Elizabeth manages to marry a fabulously rich and handsome gentleman who conscientiously wins her heart, Tess’s dreams of a fairytale romance lead only to disaster. Likewise, if Dickens’s Great Expectations radically reworks the story of the foundling or poor boy miraculously reforged as a gentleman, Oscar Wilde’s Importance of Being Earnest wittily reconceives the whole idea that accidents of birth—including one’s own given name—should determine the rest of one’s life. For all of their attention to plot, theme, intellectual currents, and historical context, the lectures never lose sight of their primary object: the richness, complexity, and literary brilliance of the works under discussion. To raise the curtain on each author, every lecture begins with a quotation that exemplifi es or encapsulates his or her creative power: a quotation typically plucked from the middle of a major work, then carefully scrutinized for its meaning in context, its implications for the work as a whole, and its impact on the reader. The lecture on Dostoevsky, for instance, begins with the horrifying passage from Crime and Punishment in which Raskolnikov brutally murders Lizaveta with an axe just after killing her sister—an event on which the whole novel turns. Likewise, the lecture on Herman Melville’s Moby Dick begins with the passage in which Captain Ahab defi es the rational arguments of Starbuck, his 425 fi rst mate, and vows everlasting vengeance on the great white whale that has devoured one of his legs. As a whole, then, the lectures aim to place each author within the framework of a specifi c historical period, to sketch the intellectual and literary infl uences that shaped him or her, and where possible, to link the authors with one another. But just as important, each lecture aims to show what sort of excitement, surprise, and revelation each author can deliver to the reader. ■

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  Scope 500 complexity, and literary brilliance of the works under discussion. To raise the curtain on each author, every lecture begins with a quotation that exemplifi es or encapsulates his or her creative power: a quotation typically plucked from the middle of a major work, then carefully scrutinized for its meaning in context, its implications for the work as a whole, and its impact on the reader. After backing up to sketch the author’s early life and explain what he or she brought to the writing of the work fi rst quoted from, the lecture returns to that work and reexamines it. In general, the lectures aim to place each author in the framework of a speci fi c historical period, to sketch the intellectual and literary in fl uences that shaped him or her, and to link the authors with one another. But just as important, each lecture aims to show what sort of excitement, surprise, and revelation each author can deliver to the reader. ■

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  503 big enough to support her for the rest of her life. Given such freedom, the novel asks of Isabel, “What will she do?” What she does depends on what she sees and how she interprets her relation to others. Unlike George Eliot, James makes one character his center of consciousness. In novels such as Eliot’s Middlemarch, an omniscient narrator tells the story from a variety of perspectives. But James tells Isabel’s story chiefl y from her point of view. Though Ralph Touchett claims to be fundamentally American, his leisurely life presents a striking alternative to the American work ethic, and thus sets Henrietta’s view of him against Isabel’s. Like his father, who has no wish to “disamericanize” himself, Ralph claims to be still an American, even after years of living abroad. Though his idleness appalls Henrietta, who works hard as a journalist and prides herself on her industry, she is little more than a gossip columnist. Ironically, she personifi es the kind of writer James himself chose not to be. Eschewing the quest for gossip that newspapers want and Henrietta avidly collects, James sought to represent the “inner life” of Americans abroad. While Henrietta scorns Ralph as an idler and deplores his in fl uence on Isabel, Isabel admires him as a cosmopolite—a citizen of the world. After seeing Isabel reject her suitors, Ralph does everything he can to encourage her independence. Isabel rejects Warburton because she feels that she cannot be part of his “system.” She feels that she has a system of her own. Even though she knows that 19 out of 20 women would have taken his offer, she feels her identity threatened by it. Though Henrietta worries about where Isabel is going with her life, Isabel is determined to choose her fate or, paradoxically, to accept her fate. After rejecting both of her suitors, Isabel is excited by her power. Dismissing Henrietta’s warnings, she is determined to go her own way. But she admits that she can’t escape her fate—or unhappiness. Though Henrietta worries about where Isabel is going with her life, Isabel is determined to choose her fate or, paradoxically, to accept her fate.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  It was the half-hour after closing time and the narrow grid of Soho was rowdy with people, some shutting up shop, some stumbling from pubs, and others performing the awkward, drunken transition from one place of amusement to another, where money would pour off them into the early hours of the morning. There was a small crowd outside the Shaft, a gaggle of excited boys, and others waiting, staring challengingly at the arrivals. The thump of the music, like some powerful creature barely contained, came up out of the ground and gathered around us as we went in at the door. On the stairs it began to be really loud, the whole foundations humming with the bass while a thrilling electronic rinse of high-pitched noise set the ears tingling. From now on talk would be shouting, or confidences made with lips and tongue pressed close to the ear: we would be hoarse from our intimacies. The medium of the place was black music, and even the double-jointed spareness of reggae came over the dance floor like a whiplash. At the foot of the stairs, in his pink-bulbed cubbyhole, Denys took our money. ‘Hey Willy, I thought you was dead, man.’ ‘I’ve been resurrected, just for tonight.’ He grinned. ‘Whatever did happen to your nose, eh?’ I pinched the broken bridge with my fingers. ‘Ooh, a bit of trouble with some boys—a bit of rough, you might say.’ ‘Well, you take care, man—because you, are, pretty. ’ He fluttered his long lashes, but kept the straightest of faces. ‘And I hope you will have a pleasant evening too sir,’ he said to Phil, who thanked him apprehensively. So we passed on, waved in to the pounding semi-darkness by the impassive Horace, whose twenty-stone bulk, toiling and yet stately in a Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt, was reflected in floor-length mirrors that flanked the door and repeated him ad infinitum , like exotic statuary surrounding a temple. The mirrors and pink lights were reminders that this place, which to me was purely and simply the Shaft, was other things for other people on the intervening days and nights. Indeed, the club went back a bit and under different names had been a modish Sixties dive and before that a seedy bohemian haunt with a pianist and alcoholics. The décor, of what was essentially an arched, brick-walled cellar, was correspondingly eclectic, the bar overhung by a thatched roof, and the sitting-out area screened from the dance floor by a huge tank of flickering tropical fish. On first acquaintance these features seemed hideous or absurd, and gave me the sinister feeling that nightlife was still run by an elderly, nocturnal, Soho mafia who actually thought such details were smart. Soon, though, they became camp adornments to the whole experience, and I wouldn’t have had them changed for the world. The heavy hotness of the day, which had begun to drain from the streets, was redoubled in the thickly crowded club.

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  rette grammar your punctuation your dingbats. Every excla mation point is a rape-fuck!!!!!! Demon-sprache is blotched with underlines italics outline roman bold, putrid indecipher able swirls and stars—demons slap their foreheads, bug or scrunch their eyes, point to their temples and stick out their tongues; excretions bubble forth. A4/1N OH MAN @#!!!** HEY WOW! Pod-shaped bodies, waddling blobs of emo tional cacophony, “AWK!” when the Devil chastises one, he clenches the edge of a paragraph, hands and feet poking into the margin, toes crimped under like odious question marks, halo of sweat, jack-o’-lantern mouth ripped open, “GULP OHHH NOOO A1EEEEE!” Arms scrawny and naked as plucked chickens. I flushed my cigarettes, grass and diet pills down the toilet and went after Steven like a steamroller. Steven ran the Golden Gate Venusian Study Group, which met every Wednesday evening in the basement of Noe Valley Ministry. A thousand-holed white ceiling, fluorescent lights gleaming across the speckled linoleum floor, dark fiberboard paneling, dehumidifier humming in the corner, a handful of seekers sit ting in folding chairs in a circle, eyes closed, chanting the se cret Venusian mantra: OOOOHH-HOOOOOO-AAinillinni-EEEEEEEE- AAAHHHNNNNNNNNN-YYYAAAAAAAHHHH- OOOOHH-HOOOOOO-AAIIinillllH-EEEEEEEE-AA AHHHNNNNNNNNN-YYYAAAAAAAHHHH- OOOOHH-HOOOOOO-AAIIIIIIIIIIII-EEEEEEEE- AAAHHHNNNNNNNNN. When we opened our eyes the room looked slightly blurred-—brighter, lighter, the air effervescent with spiritual energy. Steven was high-vibed and businesslike, never gave me the time of day. He seemed to favor this other woman,

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  I tried to repress my eagerness and anxiety: to think of him being so close to here … ‘I saw him walking along the road first of all, and I thought it was him, so I followed him.’ ‘Good boy! Now what did he have on?’ ‘Um—trousers. And a shirt.’ ‘Terrific.’ I wanted to know if his tight cords cut into the crack of his bum, if you could make out his nipples through his T-shirt; but I made do with the more general answer. ‘Go on.’ ‘Well, he went along our road, and then turned right, and when I went round the corner he was coming back again. So I went into a house and hid behind the hedge, I was pretending that it was my house, you see. I’m sure he didn’t recognise me. Then he shouted when he was just outside the hedge, and there was another man.’ ‘Did you see him?’ ‘I saw his legs and hands. He was a black man too, and I think he was called Harold.’ ‘Harold, yes, that’s Arthur’s big brother. Arthur sort of works for him sometimes.’ ‘I think he was very cross. He said he was going to give him a smack.’ ‘The idea!’ I exclaimed, as the real idea—which I had never seriously been able to disallow—seeped inexorably through my system. ‘It was so funny being where I was, because he had something hidden in his sock, all wrapped up in silver paper, and when he got it out he didn’t know I was there!’ Rupert sounded very excited by this bit. ‘What was in the paper?’ he asked, a shade cautious now. ‘I wouldn’t know, old boy.’ His silence told of his disappointment. ‘Did they say anything else?’ ‘Yes. Arthur said, “Where’s fucking Tony?” ’ He giggled. ‘Mm—there’s no need to do the accent and everything.’ ‘And Harold said, “He’s in the car,” or something, I can’t quite remember … And Arthur said something about “That Tony was lucky to be alive” and Harold said “Watch your—um—lip”—does that mean mind your ps and qs?’ ‘Yup, more or less. That’s very interesting, Roops.” I pictured Arthur’s lips, and imagined Tony, and wondered if it could possibly be the same one. ‘You didn’t get to see Tony, then?’ ‘No, he was in the car. Actually, they walked down the street a bit, and then there was a car going parp, parp. When I came out again they were just climbing into the car.’ ‘Was it a big yellow car?’ ‘It was a quite big yellow car—and all the windows were black.’ ‘That’s the one. Darling, you are a great genius. One day I shall have to give you a medal.’ ‘Well, I promised I’d tell you.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  I knew that under all our tension and ignorance we were both excited by our own activity, and admired ourselves, swept forward through the murk by the exhilarating imperatives of a crisis. It was a little crisis for him as well, of course. He had stood by with an ironic mime as I told his father that Luc had run away again—his gestures were still the moue and wiggle of the head of Lilli Vivier, his protecting friend, maybe even of his remembered mother. When I said that Sibylle had gone too I had quite forgotten for a second how Marcel worshipped her. I saw him caught by a real discovered feeling of his own—he stepped forward. Then Paul had calmly proposed that Marcel come with me and made the condition that we speak only in English—it was to be a lesson of a kind. Marcel hesitated—he wasn't quite sure of the momentum of the thing; and again I saw his father rather clownishly encourage him, rather bruisingly exaggerate and publicise his blushing little tendresse. I put a hand on the kid's shoulder out of generalised sympathy. It was true he was a friend of Sibylle's: he knew far more of her than I did. I thought Sibylle herself probably didn't know, or at least kindly overlooked, the full extent of his feelings, however vague and ideal they may have been. As I glanced across at him in the car I wondered if it was my own failure of imagination—there was no reason he shouldn't be just as filthy-minded as I had been at sixteen. For a mad moment I thought I should tell him what Luc and I had done last night; but the moment passed and left me more wretched than before. "I expect they'll have to tell the police," Marcel said. "Ooh, let's hope we can get to them first," I said; though I saw he thought the police would be best, both at finding them and at somehow punishing Luc. "It's a bit early for that. As a matter of fact I know Sibylle's father wants this kept very quiet—it could be embarrassing for him, and Luc's father too, of course." I'd stood by as Mrs Altidore rang both these figures, and watched her persuade them of her exciting and ridiculous plan. De Taeye had been called out of an important meeting and had evidently spoken under some constraint; he had jumped at the idea of my going to sort things out. I heard her give me an incredible reference, a summing-up not exactly of insights, but of a high regard she'd never hinted at to me in person; and Martin Altidore too had been right behind me: I picked up from his wife's reactions his opening tone of shifty exasperation and then his relief, almost a shout when she proposed me as an envoy. As before I thought, I don't know what I'm doing, or why these people trust me so much.

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  I practically fell into the place. The door was old and creaky and jammed, so when I forced it open, I lost my balance and stumbled into a guy who looked like a manager. “Whoa, buddy, what’s up?” he asked. “I wanted to find out about some boxing lessons.” “You’ve come to the right place. I’m Geno,” he said as he of fered his hand and then put a brotherly arm across my shoul ders. “Let me show you the place.” His arm was heavy on my neck, but sexless in a straight-guy way, graceful and unconscious. His skin was smooth, pale olive, his dark hair oily. He smelled like fresh-baked bread, doughy and warm. He walked me around the ground floor, where a boxing ring sat majestic beneath the room’s single skylight. Downstairs was a weight area, a locker room with showers, nothing fancy. I nodded and tried to butch it up a bit, walking stiffly and deepening my voice, talking in monosyllables: “Cool.” “Great.” “Tough.” The language of the enemy. I signed up for a three-month membership and a set of ten training sessions, beginning the next day. I walked home exhil arated and terrified. I’d never thrown a punch in my entire life. That night, in another hot bath, I thought of Oscar and wondered if my boxing lessons might lead to a chance en counter. Maybe I’d enter an amateur boxing contest and he’d be the judge. And I’d impress him, despite my rough skills, with killer determination. My will to triumph would inspire him to take me under his wing, and he’d offer to let me work with him in his training camp. Working out with him, run ning trails in the woods near his camp, sparring with him alone in a dusky gym, we’d grow close. He’d mentor me with his body, and ever the willing, grateful pupil, I’d offer my heart in exchange. © When I walked into Blue Velvet the next day, my chest flut tered, like the first time I dared to enter a gay bar. Geno threw me a towel and told me to pick out a locker downstairs. Un dressing felt unreal. Whenever I’m naked in a new place, I get hard. When the air hits my skin, instead of getting goose bumps I stiffen, as if at any second I’m gonna get stroked. Un dressed, my body became alive, expectant, even though the locker room was deserted. The newness of the place and the rhythms of the gym above made me feel even more naked and alien. Upstairs, sexy disco music and testosterone were pumping at equal levels. There were a couple of guys working out in the ring, their bodies aflame with speed and sweat, throwing punches in time to the George Michael tune blaring from the speakers. I kept wanting to dance, but I was afraid I would move my hips too much. “Yo, Charlie,” Geno yelled as I walked up the stairs from

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  The newspaper vendors seemed cheerful; so did the people who bought the newspapers. Even the men and women queueing up before bakeries-f or there was a bread strike in Paris-did so as though they had long been used to it. The conference was to open at nine o'clock. By ten o'clock the lecture hall was already unbearably hot, people choked the entrances and covered the wooden steps. It was hectic with the activity attendant upon the setting up of tape recorders, with the testing of car-phones, with the lighting of flash bulbs. Electricity, in fact, filled the hall. Of the people there that first day, I should judge that not quite two-thirds were colored. Behind the table at the front of the hall sat eight colored men. These included the American novelist Richard Wright; Aliounc Diop, the editor of Presence Africaine and one of the principal organizers of the conference; poets Leopold Sen ghor, from Senegal, and Aimc Ccsaire, from Martinique, and the poet and novelist Jacques Alexis, from Haiti. From Haiti, also, came the Pres ident of the contcr ence, Dr. Pr ice-Ma rs, a \'cry old and ver y handsome man. 143 I++ NOBODY KN OWS MY NAM E It was well past ten o'clock when the conference actually open ed. Alioune Diop , who is tall, very dark and self-con tained, and who rather rese mbles, in his extreme sobriety, an old-time Baptist minister, made the opening address. He re tCrred to the present gathering as a kind of second Bandung. As at Bandung, the people gathered together here held in common the fact of their subjugation to Europe, or, at the very least, to the Eur opean vision of the world. Out of the tact that Eur opean well-being had been, fo r centuries, so cru cially dependent on this subjugation had come that racisme from which all black men suffered. Then he spoke of the changes which had taken place during the last decade regard ing the fate and the aspirations of no n-European peoples, es pecially the blacks. "The blacks," he said, "whom history has treated in a rather cavalier fashion. I would even say that his tory has treated black men in a resol utely spiteful fashion were it not fi:>r the fact that this history with a large H is nothing more, after all, than the Western interpretation of the life of the wor ld." He spoke of the variety of cultur es the conference represented, saying that they were genuine cultur es and that the ignorance of the West regarding them was largely a matter of convenience.

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  That night Steven took me to the Royal to see Fhe Entity. Invisible forces pummel a female torso, tiny craters dimple across the breasts, but it doesn’t really look like human flesh, more like the impressions made by your finger when you poke a ball of yeast dough, soft hollows that of their own accord rise back up. But Barbara Hershey is great, so convincing as her body is rhythmically slammed against the bed the couch the wall AIEEEE AWK! Scientists trap the demon in a mountain of liquid nitrogen, but it breaks out. Afterward Steven said, “Want to go to Sweet Creations? My treat.” “Sure!” As we crossed Polk Street he wrapped his arm around my waist, and I wriggled my hand into the back pocket of his Levi’s. From a car radio Phil Collins crooned, “There’s something in the air tonight.” And he was right, something was in the air, a clarity, a heightened charge—I could feel it in the way the concrete sparkled beneath the streetlights, in the aurora borealis of water standing along the curb, in the way the sky sprawled upward and outward forever, a vivid midnight blue. Three- dimensionality seemed to be swelling and stretching like a huge wad of bubble gum, and when it popped a whole new realm would spew forth, a realm filled with harmony and love. The infrared heat of Steven’s ass cupping my open palm. Minutes later I spotted the chubby cherubs that frolicked

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  She dropped her eyes, and said, “Please don’t tell anyone, but I have a similar fantasy. Like the girl at the fraternity the other night.” “You want to be train fucked? You’re kidding!” The idea of sweet, quiet Amira taking on a whole fraternity seemed be yond crazy, and I couldn’t help laughing. “It’s just a fantasy,” she protested. “That doesn’t actually mean I’m going to do it.” “So you don’t think you’ll ever go through with it?” She shook her head. “No way. For me, a fantasy like that should just be a fantasy. Besides, I’m a virgin, and I won’t lose my virginity until I’m married.” She smiled at the surprise on my face. “It’s a religious thing. I choose to honor it, but I also choose to use a very narrow definition of virginity.” “Ah, I see what you mean. Would you like to be my ca boose, then?” She wrinkled her forehead for a second, then laughed. “Yes, I’d be honored to be the last car on your taco train.” She wrig gled out of her tight jeans and then peeled off her black silk panties with a self-conscious look on her face. I eased her onto her back and spread her legs. Her pussy was sweet and clean, with a spicy fragrance that suggested she had dabbed some perfume down there. I took my time, enjoying the feeling of being on my stomach rather than on my back, steadily bringing her closer to orgasm with a newfound confidence in my abilities. When she began to squirm and pant, I concentrated on her clit, sending her over the edge with a final swirling flourish of my tongue. “Wow,” she said simply, a few seconds later. “Practice, practice.” She rolled onto her side, raised her head on her hand. “Let

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  “That’s it, C, you got it.” He grinned at me. “Now let’s go.” I tried to forget that I was in a room of men, that there was violence going on not only around me but inside me. I found myself bobbing to the disco beat, hypnotized by the repetition of the punches, exhausted by each endless three-minute round. And I was amazed: I was throwing punches, I was hitting Ness’s padded hands, I was hitting him as he moved across the floor. I couldn’t believe I was hitting something, and it felt good to connect, leather against leather, when my knuckles struck his pads hard and direct. Sweat was dripping down my forehead; so I wiped my face with my arm. My hands were clubs—I had to hit something, anybody. Ness was grinning, leading me on, trying to fake me out with his own moves. The less I thought about what I was doing, the better I got. Maybe that’s what I was after: a body that worked without thinking, without remembering what to do, a muscle moving through space. I tried to imagine the two of us circling each other in bed. Who would top? Who would bottom? Already I felt how boxing becomes sex, the heat of two men moving in need, thrusting and sparring, arms locked in embrace—how in that haze of muscle and sweat, everything else drops away, the two bodies the only reality. But I couldn’t block out the surroundings: the weighted bags, the mirrors, and, especially, the other boxers as they moved through their workouts. Mostly black or Latino, they were young, fierce, and focused, pounding the heavy bags or sparring with partners. As Ness and I wove across the floor, we brushed against punching bags and sleek, wet bodies. I leaned into their heat, shimmering like a horizon all around me. I’d glide against a sweaty black arm or bump up against a brown leather bag, my sweat leaving a trail across the room. By the fourth or fifth round, I was totally drenched with sweat. During a rest minute, Ness got a water bottle from a cooler by the ring. I started to take the bottle from him, but he gestured for me to lean back and open my mouth. He shot the water into my mouth, then all over my face. He squirted more than I could swallow, and the water washed over my chin and down my chest. I dropped my head and he continued to pour the cool water over me, soaking my head, as I stared down at the drops hitting the floor. “Awright, man, that’s it for today.” He led me through a cool-down of push-ups, crunches, and squats, and I did as he commanded, counting under my breath, silent and sweating, doing whatever he said. ©

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  But he’s not really a regular of mine. He doesn’t have the sort of innocence I needed for this … cycle.’ I agreed. ‘He does look pretty naughty.’ ‘Oh, he’s wildly naughty.’ Staines lowered his voice. ‘And you know the most ridiculous thing about him. What do you think he does?’ ‘Absolutely everything, I should imagine.’ ‘True, true,’ Staines almost boasted. ‘But I mean as a job?’ ‘He’s not one of your butchers, is he? I don’t know—a florist …’ ‘No!’ ‘I can’t guess.’ ‘My dear, he’s a policeman. Isn’t it wonderful?’ I blinked and then rolled my eyes in a way I would never have done if I had been genuinely amazed. ‘In fact I first spotted him on the beat—you could see at once he was something special. But what I say is, with boys like that in the police force, things can’t be all bad!’ He began to move off, but returned to his subject. ‘Not an eyelash, though, not a teardrop, of innocence. The one I’d have loved to do, the really innocent one, was your little friend Phil …’ I wondered at first if I was going to have to strike a bargain. ‘I’d like to buy one of your studies of Colin.’ Staines had virtually left me, so that he called out to me as Guy Parvis pressed himself upon him, ‘Dear, I’m far too dear!’ And then mouthed, in a kind of grimacing secrecy: ‘I’ll give you one …’ Now I was alone with Aldo again. I wasn’t utterly utterly uninterested in doing something with him afterwards, but the social work was a strain, so I struggled back upstairs. I planned another drink before escaping, and looked round the main gallery too to see if there was anyone else I wanted to escape with. It was as full as it sensibly could be now, and there were some interesting punky-looking boys with public-school voices as well as real leather queens and a sprinkling of those dotty types with monocles and panama hats who seem to exist for ever in some fantastic Bloomsbury of their own. I was excited by a heavily built man with thick slicked-back hair, and was showing an implausible degree of interest in the picture hanging just by his right shoulder, when the bell went again. We both turned, though he looked away at once while I, seeing Charles shuffle in, felt my mood lighten with friendliness and a flicker of guilt. I had been neglecting the old boy, and seeing him now in this noisy, confusing place recalled my responsibilities. I went to help him. ‘Ah … ah …’, he was saying, looking regretfully to left and right. ‘Charles!

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  And in reality the places that I sought had in some cases long been closed or demolished. Down Street was shut up before the war; and the station at the British Museum, although I recall no lavatory there, was another imaginary rendezvous, that now is an abandoned Stygian siding; so that my dream dissolved one nostalgia in another, and showed how all closures, all endings, give warning of closures, greater yet, to come. I enter the narrow, half-dark space—again certain that there will be something for me there, but always uncertain what. In the dream it is only the acrid, medicinal scent that is missing—but the excitement from which it is almost indistinguishable survives. It is a smell as remote as can be from supposedly aphrodisiac perfumes, but its effect on me is electrifying. I unbutton at once, or in the dream remove most or even all of my clothes; my mood is optimistic and youthful—and my body too puts off half a lifetime of weight and care. After a few moments a handsome young man comes in, his eyes obscured by the brim of his hat; or the lightbulb in its wire cage is behind him, so that he is a figure of promising darkness. I realise that of course I had seen him in the street on my way here, and had had the impression that he returned my glance. He must have followed me in. He stands well back from the wall and the gutter as he eases his bladder, his penis is preternaturally visible and his attitude encourages me to look at it. Sometimes he seems to drop his trousers round his knees or to undo a wide fly with buttons up both sides, like a sailor’s. In the light of day I can discern elements of many people in him, some of whom he may for a few seconds become, so that I whisper in welcome ‘O Timmy’ or ‘O Robert’ or ‘Stanley!’ At each moment he embodies a conviction of happiness, of a danger overcome. His penis is not quite that of any of the ghosts of whom he is compounded: it is not either large or small, thick or thin, pale or dark, but has an ideal quality, startling me like some work of art which, seen for the first time, outwits thought and senses and strikes in an instant at the heart. He puts his arms around my neck, and I lick his face and push back his hat, squashing it down urchin-like on his springy black curls. His features are serious and beautiful with lust.

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  Downstairs, alone again in the locker room, I sat on the single bench and felt the blood rush through my body. I stripped and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I was dripping with sweat, and my limbs were pink and bright. I grabbed my right biceps and was surprised at its hardness. Is this what “pumped” felt like? I felt leaner, meaner, and I wondered what Oscar would have thought of my body. Did I have what it takes to be a fighter? Was my body a weapon? What things could it do? As I entered the shower, I could hear the music from up stairs, the clear note of The Bell every three minutes. I imag ined Ness up there, working on another boy, turning him into a man, a machine of muscle and speed. Maybe it was all about contact, the touching, the way Geno draped his thick arm around my neck, the way Ness wrapped my hands, then showed me how he fucked. Maybe what I wanted from Oscar was his touch, the pummeling he could offer—what touching him, even in violence, would mean for me. The water was hot, adding to the heat of my body as the blood stayed near the surface of the skin. I lathered my chest with soap, then foamed up my groin. I was hard, my balls as tight as the speed bag upstairs, which I imagined a Latino boy pumping with his fists. I started to jerk off, my rhythm copied from the boxers I had watched, one-two, one-two, finding a rhythm and letting my body take over. When the bell sounds, Oscar approaches me from across the ring, the EVERLAST of his red satin shorts all I can focus on. I can’t look at those eyes yet, but I can see his red gloves hover ing before me. I take a defensive stance, then begin circling him. He throws a left jab, which I block, and his lips protrude over his mouthpiece, like a child pouting. My hook catches him off guard, my glove grazing his chin. His hairy chest damp with sweat, he moves closer, and I back away. He fol lows me as I dodge his punches, trying to gauge how long I can last before he hits me again. Backed into the corner of the shower, all I hear is the slap of leather against muscle—hard, then gone. My fist curls around my shaft, one-two, one-two. I back away, but he’s there, lean ing into me, dancing me into the corner, where I’m all his, and I bite into my lips to draw blood to spit in his eyes. I can see his

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  I decided I was into this, and fumbled around his waist; his intake of breath as my own wintry hands touched his skin. The bubbled waistcoat made him look bigger than he was, but he had a round, hairyish backside and when I groped through the tangle of undone shirt-front and lolling belt-buckle I felt the start of something beautiful in his rough crotch-hair and had to tug it out, thickening and obstructing itself, from its prison down a tight jean-leg. I could barely make it out in the night between us, while he pressed against me, rubbing at my fly, kissing me with surprising fervour all over my face, his tongue slipping over my glasses and smearing the lenses. He was all stoked up, in a way I couldn't quite match but marvelled at, and at the chance that brought me here on this November night, which was otherwise a cold prospect for both of us. 3 A Merry Goose Hunt Chapter 15 Cherif had grown a moustache. It was thick, not quite as broad as his mouth, and gave him a pugnacious expression; the appealing curl of his upper lip was disguised. I hesitated before taking a seat by him at the bar. "You probably don't recognise me," he said. I rested a hand for a second on his cool leather shoulder. "I recognise all the rest of you." "That's good." In fact there was shyness behind the bristles. "I thought you must be dead or something. I've been in here the last three nights." "Not me, someone else: I've been home for a funeral." He turned his glass around on its mat. "I thought you might be at that men's sauna, I went there." I knew about the place, I pictured it in a deeper shadowy circle of the city's sex-life. "No, I never go there. Any good?" A shrug. "One or two guys . . . I didn't really do anything." I noticed I was pleased he hadn't. "I don't have the figure for sauna sprawling any more." He kept frowning at his drink and said, "You look really thin"— with a hint of criticism, an implied allusion to the wasting of unappeased love? I ordered a beer for myself, and added one on for him. "So where have You been?" I said. He leaned towards me and pushed his hand through my hair and stayed stroking the smooth little knoll behind my ear with a gentle thumb. I thought he'd probably had a few—it was the mid-evening lull already. I'd come in straight from the airport, a bit queasy from turbulence and a string of miniature malts and the mad cabaret of the Kentair stewards. "Nowhere," he said. And I thought maybe that was enough curiosity shown.

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  “Is she your girl?” “I don’t even know what that means.” They went over to Evan’s house. Ele didn’t have a pesky kid sister, only an older brother who was at William and Mary. For the first hour they studied together up in Evan’s room, smoking cigarettes and dope and studying really hard, but Elena knew Evan was planning something. It made her feel tense and excited. She trusted Evan and she didn’t care what he did, as long as Chad didn’t laugh at them. She got worked up just sitting there knowing that Evan was about to make his move. He stood up suddenly and came over to her, drawing her to her feet. He began unbuttoning her blouse. “Get undressed, Elena, and lie on the bed.” Chad remained in his chair. “Hey. What’s going on?” “Watch,” was all Evan said. He waited till she had stripped and lay on the bed, feeling exposed but also high from the way that Chad was staring at her. She knew that she looked good and that he couldn’t turn his eyes away. In the meantime, Evan quickly undressed and grabbed a condom. Then he lay down on top of her. He could tell she was excited already and simply pushed in and began to fuck her. She glanced over at Chad. He was staring at them but he hadn’t moved. She loved the feeling of him watching them, as if he were in their power and couldn’t break away. She came quickly. So did Evan. He stood up, not covering himself, and came to stand in front of Chad. He motioned for Elena to come over. Slowly, loose and wet after coming, she obeyed. She almost felt sorry for Chad. Instead of looking cool and in command the way he always did, he looked lost, almost scared, but he stood his ground. She had no idea what Evan was about to do, and in a way she was scared too, but she trusted him. It would be some

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  This was all very good and with my hangover I felt it with electric intensity. But I was aware of his reluctance, and let him stop. He was inexpert, and though he was excited, needed help. We sat back for a while, my hand all the time on his shoulder. I loved the nerve with which I’d done all this, and like most random sex it gave me the feeling I could achieve anything I wanted if I were only determined enough. There was now a fairly complicated set-up on screen, with all six boys doing something interesting, and one of them I realised was Kip Parker, a famous tousle-headed blond teen star. I ran my hand between my new friend’s legs and felt his cock kicking against the tightish cotton of his slacks. He helped me take it out, a short, punchy little number, which I went down on and polished off almost at once. God, he must have been ready. After a shocked recuperation he felt for his bag and went out without a word. I’d had a growing suspicion throughout this sordid but charming little episode, which rose to a near certainty as he opened the door and was caught in a slightly brighter light, that the boy was Phil from the Corry. He had smelt of sweat rather than talcum powder and there was a light stubble on his jaw, so I concluded that if it were Phil he was on his way to rather than from the Club, as I knew he was fastidiously clean, and that he always shaved in the evening before having his shower. I was tempted to follow him at once, to make sure, but I realised it would be easy enough to tell from seeing him later; and besides, a very well-hung kid, who’d already been showing an interest in our activities, moved in to occupy the boy’s former seat, and brought me off epically during the next film, an unthinkably tawdry picture which all took place in a kitchen.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  There was no one else in the street that led up to the church, no one in the shabby square that its tower overhung. St Vaast: an ugly old hulk, with a porch tacked on, all curlicues and dropping yellow stucco, with a nest-littered pediment above. It was locked, of course: no last light glimmering from a vestry window—no choral society meeting after work to rehearse their director's own Te Deum or some minatory Flemish motets. I went on with a shiver. From the further side of the square a lane led out to a still bleaker area. The street-lamps flickered into pink as I approached, but nothing else responded. The buildings were grandiose, like cinemas gone dark, the lower windows boarded up and plastered with posters for rock groups and the dud grins of politicians in the previous year's elections. The names of newspapers, printing works, engineering firms, in forward-looking Deco script, could still be read above the padlocked entrance grilles. There was a sense that cacophonous all-night business had been done here, and that the city, with a certain unflustered malevolence, had chosen its moment, and stilled it, and reasserted its own dead calm. At the street's end was the long vulgar front of a hotel, the Pilgrimage and Commercial, still with its brass entrance rail and the red and blue badges of motoring clubs. I climbed the steps, among the ghost-throng of arrivals, and peered through the splendid glass doors on to a shadowy half-acre of mud and rubble. I was at a bar that was quite crowded, back in the middle of town. I'd had a few drinks, my sense of possibilities was bobbing up again, as well as a feeling of justified delay—I'd only just arrived, there was time for everything. I looked out through my cigarette-smoke and the coppery half-light at various strangers, some chatting, some embracing, others airily alone. It was called the Cassette. I had a presentiment of it in a month or two's time, when these first impressions of brass taps and bottle-glass windows and little varnished compartments would be dulled, and I would take the manners of the two barmen, one taciturn, the other solicitous, for granted. I smiled at my own sense of anticipation, of being poised for change, ready to fall in love, and finding myself in the midst of this ordinary evening in the oddly mock-Tudor surroundings of the city's one gay bar.