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.

Page 91 of 182 · 20 per page

• From What Belongs to You (2016)

  Dobre , I said, okay, so I’ll help you, you don’t need to worry. Some tension I hadn’t quite registered in him released as he smiled, and I realized that he had been worried, unsure whether my feeling for him would stretch so far. Thank you, he said, and then, you are a true friend, istinski priyatel , and I was disconcerted by the pleasure I took in his saying it. Mitko turned his attention back to the food on his tray, what was left of it, determined not to let anything go to waste. Wanting to get away from him for a moment, I pushed my chair back and stood, saying I would be right back. The bathroom was near the table we had chosen, just across from the locked playroom that seemed to me so oddly baleful. It was small, with a single stall and urinal and a sink mounted against the wall. I stepped up to the urinal, fishing myself out for form’s sake but feeling no urgency to piss; I closed my eyes instead and breathed deeply, grateful to be free from Mitko and what he had made me feel, that pleasure that was too sharp. I would wonder, later, whether that feeling itself was an invitation for what happened next, whether I allowed Mitko to see it; but I don’t think so, I think I was surprised when I heard or felt the door open, felt more than heard, I think, the tiny shift in pressure, the resistance of the air collapsing like my own resistance, which was swept aside when I felt the sudden warmth of Mitko behind me. I had known it was he when the door opened, it never occurred to me it could be anyone else, as it never occurred to me to tell him to stop, or occurred with so little force it was lost in the sweep of my excitement. There wasn’t a lock on the door, we could have been interrupted, and maybe the risk heightened my pleasure as Mitko pressed his whole length against me, placing his feet beside mine and leaning his torso into my spine, his breath hot on my neck. This was reality, I felt with a strange relief, this was where I belonged, and I thought of R., though it shames me to recall it, as though our life together, open and sunlit and lasting, were entirely without substance; I felt it disappear, simply disappear, like a flammable shadow, and part of me was glad to feel it go.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  And I don't doubt that I also intended to best my father on his own grou nd. Anyway, very shortly after I joined the church, I became a preacher a Young Minister-and I remained in the pulpit for more than three years. My youth quickly made me a much bigger draw ing card than my father. I pushed this advantage ruthlessly, for it was the most effective means I had found of breaking his hold over me. That was the most frightening time of my life, and quite the most dishonest, and the resulting hysteria lent great passion to my sermons-for a while. I relished the attention and the relative immu nity from punishment that my new status gave me, and I relished, above all, the sudden right to privacy. It had to be recog nized, af ter all, that I was still a schoolboy, with my schoolwork to do, and I was also expected to prepare at least one sermon a week. During what we may 306 THE FIR E NE XT TIME call my heyday, I preached much more often than that. This meant that there were hours and even whole days when I could not be interrupted-not even by my father. I had im mobilized him . It took rather more time for me to realize that I had also immobilized myself, and had escaped from nothing whatever. The chur ch was very exciting. It took a long time for me to disengage myself from this excitement, and on the blindest, most visceral level, I never really have, and never will. Ther e is no music like that music, no drama like the drama of the saints rejoicing, the sinners moaning, the tambourines racing, and all those voices coming together and cry ing holy unto the Lord. There is still, for me, no pathos quite like the pathos of those multicolored, worn, somehow triumphant and transfig ured faces, speaking from the depths of a visible, tangible, continuing despair of the goodness of the Lord. I have never seen anything to equal the fire and excitement that sometimes, without warning, fill a church, causing the church, as Lead belly and so many other s have testified, to "ro ck."

• From What Belongs to You (2016)

  Mitko seemed eager, too, full of an energy that propelled him forward, and as we walked down Vasil Levski toward Graf Ignatief, crossing innumerable side streets and alleyways, more than once I had to grab his arm and, saying to him again Chakai chakai chakai , pull him back from oncoming traffic. When we turned onto Graf Ignatief, he stopped in front of the many electronics stores and pawnshops, evaluating the products laid out in their windows. I was surprised by how much he knew about these phones and tablets, his monologues punctuated by English words for the various devices’ specs, pixels and memory cards and battery life, information he must have gleaned from the advertisements and brochures he picked up wherever they were offered. I tried to hurry him along, impatient to get home and uneasy at what seemed more and more like hints, especially when Mitko told me that his current phone, a model he clearly hoped to upgrade, was a gift from one of his friends. This word, podaruk , gift, would recur again and again in Mitko’s conversation that evening, applied, it seemed, to nearly everything he owned. Finally we came to the end of Graf Ignatief, and as we approached the small river that circles central Sofia, really little more than a drainage ditch, Mitko said Chakai malko , wait a little, and stepped off the sidewalk toward the sparse vegetation at the river’s bank. I walked on a few steps, then turned to look back at him, though I could barely make him out (it was dark now, the autumn night had fallen as we walked) as he stood at the bank to relieve himself into the water. He seemed entirely unconcerned by the passersby, the heavy traffic on one of Sofia’s busiest streets; and when he caught me watching him, he stuck his tongue out and wagged his cock in his hand, sending his piss in high arcs over the water, where it glimmered in the lights of oncoming cars.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  But enough of me. How are you?’ ‘In a strange position.’ ‘Tiring of His Speechlessness the Khedive of Tower Hamlets?’ ‘Oh—no, that’s all over ages ago.’ ‘Oh …’ A veneer of commiseration covered a discernible pleasure at the news. I chose not to expand on it. ‘No, it’s my queer peer, you remember? He wants me to write his life.’ James gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Whitewash, I imagine?’ I considered this. ‘I think not, actually. He talks of handing over diaries, telling all.’ ‘But what is there to tell?’ ‘I think a lot. I’ve just been to see his memorabilia. It’s all very suggestive. He was in Africa for a long time, I gather. It’s the queer side, though, which would give it its interest. I have the feeling that’s what he wants made known.’ ‘What’s his name?’ ‘Nantwich, Lord, Charles.’ ‘Oh really,’ said James irritatingly. ‘Well, it would be interesting, then.’ ‘You know about him?’ I stumbled. Because he had come into my life up the back-stairs, I had fatuously assumed that no one else could have heard him announced. ‘A certain amount. He’s the sort of chap who crops up in the lives of other people. Kind of diplomatic-artistic, Harold Nicolsony circles. In fact, he must be about the last person in those circles not to have had his life written. You must do it.’ ‘Well, I’m glad I asked you. I’ll get reading.’ ‘He’s surely incredibly old.’ ‘Eighty-three, he claims. He wanders rather, and it’s hard to tell what’s what and what, as it were, isn’t.’ ‘What’s his house like, frightfully grand?’ ‘Frightfully grandish. Very nice, actually—stuffed with pictures, blacks, for the most part. He has a somewhat terrifying servant who’s horrible to him and looks like a criminal. I must say I’ve become rather fond of the old boy. He has a Roman mosaic in the cellar and there are rather awful decorations of Romans with great big willies, Tom of Finland avant la lettre , but not what you expect to see in the homes of the aristocracy. Lord Beckwith, certainly, would frown on them …’ ‘It’s too exciting. I’ll look some things up for you when I go home.’ I didn’t sleep well that night. It was hot enough to sleep without any covering, but I woke in the small hours feeling just perceptibly cold.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  In a church basement, Walter’s sister found flyers advertising the fish fry held at Walter’s house; they confirmed that the event had taken place on the same day as the Morrison murder. A white storeowner who had no relationship to Walter or his family had kept a copy of that flyer for some reason, and he confirmed that he had received it before the Morrison murder. We even tracked down Clay Kast, the white mechanic who had modified Walter’s truck and converted it to a low-rider. He confirmed that the work had been done over six months after Ronda Morrison was murdered. This proved that McMillian’s truck had had no modifications or special features and therefore could not have been the truck described by Myers and Hooks at the trial. I was feeling very good about the progress we were making when I got a call that would become the most significant break in the case. The voice said, “Mr. Stevenson, this is Ralph Myers.” Our secretary had told me there was a “Mr. Miles” on the phone, so I was a little shocked to hear Ralph Myers on the other end of the line. Before I could compose myself, he spoke again. “I think you need to come and see me. I have something I need to tell you,” he said dramatically. Myers was imprisoned at the St. Clair Correctional Facility in Springville, Alabama, and Michael and I made plans to meet him there in three days. Michael and I had started running a few miles at night after work to help us wind down from the increasingly long work days. Montgomery has a beautiful park that houses the Alabama Shakespeare Festival, which brings nationally acclaimed playwrights and actors to Alabama to perform Shakespeare and modern theatrical productions. The theater is set among hundreds of acres of beautifully maintained parkland with lakes and ponds. There are several trails for running. That evening we spent most of our run speculating about what Myers would tell us. “Why would Myers call us now?” Michael asked. “Can you imagine just going into a courtroom and straight-up making up a story that puts an innocent man on death row? I’m not sure we can trust anything he says.” “Well, you may be right, but he had a lot of help in putting together that testimony. Remember, they also put Myers on death row to coerce some of those statements. Who knows? He may be in touch with the State now, and this is some kind of setup where they are trying to mislead us.” I hadn’t seriously considered that possibility until our run that night. I thought again about how sleazy Myers had been during the trial. “We have to be careful to not reveal information to Myers—just get information he has. But we have to talk to him because if he recants his trial testimony, the State has nothing on Walter.”

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  It had all been so rapid and inevitable that it was only when he was breathing regularly and we had laid him down on a coat and done up his fly that I felt shaken by a surge of delayed elation. I raced up the steps into mild sunshine and hung around waiting for the ambulance, unable to stop grinning, my hands trembling. Even so, it was too soon to understand. I told myself that I had scooped someone back from the threshold of death, but that seemed incommensurate with the simple routine I had followed, the vital little drill retained from childhood along with all the more complex knowledge that would never prove so useful—convection, sonata form, the names of birds in Latin and French. The Corinthian Club in Great Russell Street is the masterpiece of the architect Frank Orme, whom I once met at my grandfather’s. I remember he carried on in a pompous and incongruous way, having recently, and as if by mistake, been awarded a knighthood. Even as a child I saw him as a fraud and a hotchpotch, and I was delighted, when I joined the Club and learned that he had designed it, to discover just the same qualities in his architecture. Like Orme himself, the edifice is both mean and self-important; a paradox emphasised by the modest resources of the Club in the 1930s and its conflicting aspiration to civic grandeur. As you walk along the pavement you look down through the railings into an area where steam issues from the ventilators and half-open toplights of changing-rooms and kitchens; you hear the slam of large institutional cooking trays, the hiss of showers, the inane confidence of radio disc-jockeys. The ground floor has a severe manner, the Portland stone punctuated by green-painted metal-framed windows; but at the centre it gathers to a curvaceous, broken-pedimented doorway surmounted by two finely developed figures—one pensively Negroid, the other inspiredly Caucasian—who hold between them a banner with the device ‘Men Of All Nations’. Before answering this call, step across the street and look up at the floors above. You see more clearly that it is a steel-framed building, tarted up with niches and pilasters like some bald fact inexpertly disguised. At the far corner there is a tremendous upheaving of cartouches and volutes crowned by a cupola like that of some immense Midland Bank. Finances and inspiration seem to have been exhausted by this, however, and alongside, above the main cornice of the building, rises a two-storey mansard attic, containing the cheap accommodation the Club provides in the cheapest possible form of building. On the little projecting dormers of the lower attic floor the occupants of the upper put out their bottles of milk to keep cool, or spread swimming things to dry, despite the danger of pigeons.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  I received a surprising call one day from the Swedish Ambassador to the United States, who told me that EJI had been selected for the Olof Palme International Human Rights Award. They invited me to Stockholm to receive it. I had studied Sweden’s progressive approach to the rehabilitation of criminal offenders as a graduate student and had long marveled at how focused on recovery their system appeared. Their punishments were humane, and their policymakers took rehabilitation of criminal offenders very seriously, which made me excited about the award and the trip. That they were giving an award named after a beloved prime minister who had been tragically murdered by a deranged man to someone who represented people on death row revealed a lot about their values. The trip to Stockholm was planned for January. They sent a film crew to interview me a month or two before the trip, and the crew also wanted to speak with a few clients. I made arrangements for them to interview Walter. “I can come down for this interview,” I told Walter. “No, you don’t need to do that. I don’t have to travel, so I’m okay to talk to them. Don’t spend time driving all the way down here.” “Do you want to go to Sweden?” I asked, half-joking. “I don’t know exactly where that is, but if you have to fly a long way to get there, no, I’m not too interested. I think I’d like to stay on the ground from now on.” We laughed and he sounded fine. He then became quiet and asked one final question before we hung up. “Maybe you can come and see me when you get back? I’m okay, but we can just hang out.” It was an unusual request from Walter so I eagerly agreed. “Sure, that would be great. We can go fishing,” I teased. I’d never gone fishing in my life, and Walter found that so scandalous that he never stopped questioning me about it. When we traveled together, I never ordered fish to eat, and he was sure I didn’t eat fish because I’d never caught a fish. I tried to follow his logic and made promises, but we had never gotten around to taking a fishing trip. The Swedish film crew was eager to meet the challenge of finding Walter’s trailer in the backwoods of South Alabama. I told them how to get there. I’d always been with Walter when he spoke to the press, but I felt like this was probably safe. “He doesn’t give speeches. He’s usually very direct and succinct,” I told the interviewers. “He’s great, but you should ask him good questions. And it’s probably better if you talk to him outside, too. He prefers to be outdoors.” They nodded sympathetically but seemed confused by my anxiety. I called Walter before leaving for Sweden, and he told me that the interview had gone fine, which was reassuring.

• From What Belongs to You (2016)

  It was a gesture so innocent, so full of childlike irreverence, that I found myself smiling stupidly back at him, filled with a sense of goodwill that buoyed me toward the metro station and our short commute. There was only one metro line in Sofia (though more were planned and great trenches had been gouged in neighborhoods throughout the city), and during peak hours it seemed as though the entire population were shuttling underground, alternately swallowed and disgorged through the closing doors. There were no seats on the Mladost train, and Mitko and I were separated from each other, standing finally some distance apart in the press of bodies. Mitko studied the maps above each set of doors, watching the stations light up as we passed them, but every now and then he glanced at me, as if to make sure I was still there or that my attention was still fixed on him, and his look now wasn’t innocent, anything but; it was a look that singled me out, a look full of promise, and under its heat I felt myself gripped yet again by both pleasure and embarrassment, and by an excitement so terrible I had to look away. When we emerged at the subway’s last stop, Mladost 1, spilling with the other passengers onto Andrei Sakharov Boulevard, I was surprised to see that Mitko knew the area well. Once he had oriented himself, he pointed toward one of the blokove , the dire Soviet apartment complexes that line both sides of the boulevard, and said that it was the home of one of his priyateli . As was always the case during our time together, I was frustrated by the fragments that were all I could understand of his stories, both because of my poor Bulgarian and because he kept speaking in a kind of code, so that I seldom understood precisely the nature of the relationships he described or why they ended as they did. Never before had I met anyone who combined such transparency (or the semblance of transparency) with such mystery, so that he seemed at once overexposed and hidden behind impervious defenses. We fell silent as we walked toward my building, both of us perhaps thinking of what awaited us there. On my street, the relative prosperity of which marked it off from its neighbors, Mitko turned into a shop for alcohol and cigarettes, a place I stopped at often; the people who worked there knew me, and I wondered uncomfortably what they would think when they saw us together. Mitko walked in first and placed both of his hands palm down on the glass counter, making the shopkeeper wince, and then leaned over to peer at the more expensive bottles displayed on the back wall. He examined several of these, asking the man repeatedly and to his increasing exasperation to pass them over the counter so he could read their labels.

• From What Belongs to You (2016)

  I was depressed by both the weather and the landscape we passed, the beauty of which was ruined everywhere human hands had touched it. Along the highway, which must have dated to Communist times, the buildings we passed were squat and concrete and often falling apart, abandoned no doubt for their larger counterparts in the city I had just left. I was amazed by how completely the impulse to beauty had been erased from these buildings, which were so different, in everything but their poverty, from the mountain villages I had visited, where almost every dwelling showed as if defiantly an urge toward art. As evening fell, the landscape darkened and was lost, and the window offered nothing but the reflection of my own face. I’ve never been able to read on buses, and so the only distraction from the discomfort of the ride was the line of small screens that ran the length of the center aisle, looping the same low-budget American action movie over and over. There was no sound, and the subtitles moved too quickly for me to puzzle them out, but even so I was unable to stop watching. It was a terrible movie, a revenge tragedy, every shot was a cliché. In each scene the violence grew more brutal, the tortures more baroque, my own excitement more intense; and not just my own, at one point I heard a woman gasp and glanced away from the screen and saw that nearly everyone on the bus was transfixed. The film had bound us together, it had made us all feel the same thing, so that we became a kind of temporary corporate body. How easily we are made to feel, I thought, and with what little foundation, with no foundation at all. At the movie’s climax, a final scene of slaughter and settling of accounts, an old man across the aisle breathed Chestito , well done, just loudly enough to be heard, and it was almost as if I had spoken the word myself. As we neared Varna, the lights of the city drew me back to the windows, to the blurred world glimpsed through glass streaked with rain. We stopped at the edge of the city center, or what I took to be the city center, not at a terminal but in a lot beside a gas station, where Mitko was standing without an umbrella, his shoulders hunched against the rain. I was the first off the bus, bounding out to greet him, so overcome with excitement that he had to send me back for my bag, which I had left on the seat beside me. We both laughed at this, at my eagerness and forgetfulness, and he shook his head in rebuke and indulgence, having provided once again a service beyond the terms of our contract. He took the bag from me, insisting with a show of gallantry when I said I could carry it myself, and led me to a line of taxis.

• From Wild (2012)

  “So guess what I heard yesterday morning at the store?” asked Rex. He was stirring a pot of something over the flame of his stove, his face still pink from the day’s exertions. “Apparently there’s this thing called the Rainbow Gathering up ahead at Toad Lake.” “Toad Lake?” I asked, suddenly remembering the woman I’d met in the restroom at the Reno bus station. She’d been going there. “Yeah,” said Rex. “It’s only half a mile off the trail, about nine miles up ahead. I think we should go.” I clapped my hands in glee. “What’s the Rainbow Gathering?” asked Stacy. I explained it to them while we ate dinner—I’d gone a couple of summers before. The Rainbow Gathering is organized by the Rainbow Family of Living Light, a loose tribe of so-called freethinkers, who share a common goal of peace and love on earth. Every summer they set up an encampment on national forest land that attracts thousands in a celebration that culminates during the Fourth of July week, but simmers all summer long. “There are drum jams and bonfires and parties,” I explained to Rex and Stacy. “But best of all there are these amazing outdoor kitchens where people go and make all these breads and cook vegetables and stews and rice. All sorts of things that anyone can just go and eat.” “Anyone?” asked Rex in a pained voice. “Yep,” I said. “You just bring your own cup and spoon.” While we talked, I decided that I’d stay at the Rainbow Gathering for a few days, my hiking schedule be damned. I needed to let my feet heal and to get my head back in the game, to shake this spooky feeling that had blossomed inside me that I might be abducted by a mythical bipedal humanoid beast. And possibly, just perhaps, I might get myself laid by a hot hippy. Later, in my tent, I rummaged through my pack and found the condom I’d carried all this way—the one I’d rescued back in Kennedy Meadows, when Albert had purged the rest from my pack. It was still unspoiled in its little white packet. It seemed it was high time to put it to use. In the six weeks I’d been on the trail, I hadn’t even masturbated, too wrecked by the end of each day to do anything but read and too repulsed by my own sweaty stench for my mind to move in any direction but sleep. The next day I walked faster than ever, wincing with each step, the trail undulating between 6,500 and 7,300 feet as it offered up views of high pristine lakes below the trail and endless mountains in the near and far distance. It was noon when we started down the little trail that descended from the PCT to Toad Lake. “It doesn’t look like much so far,” said Rex as we gazed at the lake 350 feet below.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  Pino found this even more amusing. ‘He very nice boy,’ he repeated. It was hard to tell if he was crazy about him himself or merely recommending him to me. He sounded like someone trying to sell his sister to a tourist. ‘You have drink?’ he said. I glanced hastily at Phil, and said ‘Oh, er—no thanks,’ while Phil himself said, ‘Yes, we’re going to have a drink upstairs.’ My heart sank at the prospect of sitting in some stuffy hotel bar with the boy I was in love with and an imbecile Spanish waiter; I thought for a second that Phil must have chickened out of our encounter, and grabbed at the Spaniard as a chaperon. But Pino was suddenly solemn, and extended his hand again. ‘Very nice to meet you, Weel,’ he proclaimed. We shook hands once more. ‘I go to watch Call my Bloff.’ As we left he resumed his persuasion on the television. ‘You fockin, fockin thing!’ he went on amiably. ‘That’s where we watch television,’ Phil said when we were outside. He led me onto a staircase and we climbed right to the top, perhaps eight floors up. We took the stairs two at a time, and all the while I had this wonderful ass in my face; I had a hard-on by the time we reached the first floor. The attic corridor was hot and low-ceilinged, with dormer windows wide open and the traffic noise from far below nostalgically audible. Phil persuaded a key from the tight front pocket of his cords, and let us into a small bedroom. ‘This is it,’ he said. The room was furnished with a single bed, a bedside cupboard with a lamp, and a low cheap dressing-table with a mirror in which, standing, one could see only the region of one’s crotch; there was also a chair and a curtained-off hanging cupboard. I closed the door behind me and we both put our bags on the floor, side by side. The tension was terrific, and I could hear the rapid shushing of my pulse in my ear. I knew everything was up to me. ‘Well …’ I began, but at the same moment he turned away towards the window; his face was stiff with embarrassment and fear. He stood there, looking out. The mood of delay snagged me temporarily. ‘Do you often entertain people here?’ I asked, the words coming out with a quite sarcastic edge.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  I called Clay Kast to the stand. The white mechanic testified that McMillian’s truck was not a low-rider in November 1986 when Ronda Morrison was murdered. Kast had records and clearly remembered modifying Walter’s truck in May 1987, over six months after the day when Hooks and Hightower claimed they’d seen a low-rider truck at the cleaners. We finished the day with Woodrow Ikner, a Monroeville police officer who testified that he was the first on the scene and that the body of Ronda Morrison was not where Myers had testified it was. Ikner said it was clear from his observation of the murder scene that Morrison had been shot in the back after a struggle that had started in the bathroom and ended in the rear of the cleaners, where the body was found. Ikner’s description of the scene contradicted the assertion that Myers had made at trial about seeing Morrison near the front counter. More significantly, Ikner testified that he’d been asked by Pearson, the trial prosecutor, to testify that Morrison’s body had been dragged through the store from the front counter to the spot where it was found. Ikner was indignant on the stand as he recalled the conversation. He knew that such testimony would be false and had told the prosecutors that he refused to lie. He was soon after discharged from the police department. Evidentiary hearings, like jury trials, can be exhausting. I had done the direct examination of all of the witnesses and was surprised when I realized that it was already 5:00 P.M. The hearing was going well. I was excited and energized to be able, finally, to lay out all of the evidence proving Walter’s innocence. I kept an eye on Judge Norton to make sure he was still engaged, and he seemed visibly affected by the proceedings. I believed the concerned look on his face revealed confusion about what he was going to do in light of this evidence, and I considered the judge’s newfound confusion and concern to be real progress. All of the witnesses we called during the first day were white, and none had any loyalties to Walter McMillian. It seemed that Judge Norton had not expected that. When Clay Kast acknowledged that the truck the state witnesses described as a “low-rider” wasn’t modified until close to seven months after the crime took place, the judge furiously scribbled notes, the worry lines on his face deepening. When Woodrow Ikner announced that he had been fired for trying to be honest about the evidence against McMillian, the judge seemed shaken. This was the first evidence we presented that suggested that people in law enforcement had been so focused on convicting Walter that they were prepared to ignore or even hide evidence that contradicted their case.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  There were cloudy-white splashes about—on the gold-imprinted title of a textbook, on a shoulder of the ink bottle, on one corner of the dictionary. Some objects were dripping lazily, leadenly, and others gleamed dully, like the eyes of a dead fish. Fortunately, a reflex motion of my hand to protect the picture had saved the book from being soiled. This was my first ejaculation. It was also the beginning, clumsy and completely unpremeditated, of my "bad habit." (It is an interesting coincidence that Hirschfeld should place "pictures of St. Sebastian" in the first rank of those kinds of art works in which the invert takes special delight. This observation of Hirschfeld's leads easily to the conjecture that in the overwhelming majority of cases of inversion, especially of congential inversion, the inverted and the sadistic impulses are inextricably entangled with each other.) Tradition has it that St. Sebastian was born about the middle of the third century, became a captain in the Praetorian Guard of Rome, and ended his short life of thirty-odd years in martyrdom. He is said to have died in the year 288, during the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. Diocletian, a self-made man who had seen much of life, was admired for his benevolence. But Maximian, the coemperor, abhorred Christianity and condemned the Numidian youth Maximilianus to death for refusing, in the name of Christian pacifism, to perform the required military service. Marcellus the Centurion was likewise executed for this same religious constancy. This, then, is the historical background against which the martyrdom of St. Sebastian becomes understandable. Sebastian became a secret convert to Christianity, used his position as captain in the Praetorian Guard to console the imprisoned Christians, and converted various Romans, including the mayor; when these activities became known, he was sentenced to death. He was shot with countless arrows and left for dead. But a pious widow, who came to bury him, discovered that his body was still warm, and nursed him back to life. Immediately, however, he defied the emperor, reviling the emperor's gods. This time he was beaten to death with clubs. The broad outlines of this legend may well be true; certainly many such martyrdoms are known to have taken place. As for the suspicion that no human being could have been restored to life after receiving so many arrow wounds, may this not be a later embellishment, a familiar use of the resurrection theme in response to mankind's demand for miracles? Desiring that my own rapture before the legend, before the picture, be understood more clearly as the fierce, sensual thing it was, I insert the following unfinished piece, which I wrote several years later : St. Sebastian—A Prose Poem Out of a schoolroom window once I spied a tree of middling height, swaying in the wind.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  This day Cinderella felt a keen interest in her kingdom, and more particularly, the people who lived there. She had been so secluded in her life so far, and wished to see how others lived. She wandered about among the towns and shops, seeking knowledge about the goings-on in her world, and where she fit into them. There were so many intriguing things to occupy one and here she had been, holed up in the castle like some Rapunzel, too uncomfortable and afraid to take part in it all. She discovered that there were many pursuits that appealed to her, and the day flew by so quickly that she scarcely realized it had become night. Meanwhile, the prince had once again arrived home to find that Cinderella was not there. Supposing that she had returned to the tavern, he rode out to meet her there. But she was not at the tavern and no one there had seen her or knew her whereabouts. Once again the prince found himself annoyed with his wife. Though he had been ultimately delighted by her behavior of the night before, he felt in retrospect it had been a bit shocking the way she had wantonly given in to her desires and appetites, only to disappear again this following night. He wondered where she was and who she was with, and envious resentment came over him. Could she have forgotten about him yet again? He sighed with frustration. It left him feeling somewhat inadequate, that she could so easily forget him and enjoy the company of others after he had spent so much effort to please her! All of these ruminations only served to fuel his anger all the more. He felt suddenly weary and decided to go home and have done with her childish games. But upon returning to the castle he discovered Cinderella had arrived, and in a jolly mood, smiling and laughing, and not even noticing his sour mood. She chattered excitedly about her day and the many interesting things she’d seen. All seemed harmless enough, and in spite of himself, the prince’s mood improved; for it is impossible for any husband to remain angry when his wife is so happy. Yet the prince felt a lingering anxiety and restlessness. It was as if everything was changing. Would it be for the better, or worse? He reached out for his beaming wife and drew her to him. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him heartily. She could feel his hardness as he reached beneath her blouse, but she abruptly drew away from him, offended by his hastiness. Why, it was as if her husband needed only to turn on a switch. “I feel like a bath,” she purred. “Won’t you prepare it for me?”

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  I asked my husband many questions. After a while, and especially once he saw that I was not hurt or disgusted, he became more comfortable. He answered all of my questions quite satisfactorily. He told me everything he knew about the woman, though it was limited since he had only seen her out that one time. How sad the boundaries can be for those women! I could almost have been jealous of her, except that, even after giving my husband such unforgettable pleasure, she had not managed to interest him in knowing her further. My husband knew nothing of my reasons for my bizarre request, and I kept them intentionally from him. I wanted everything to be a wonderful surprise. I prepared for days. And even when all was arranged to the minutest detail I repeatedly delayed, for I confess that I was exceedingly nervous. And then, one day, I was ready. It happened quite accidentally really. Out of curiosity, I had slipped on the blond wig I had purchased for this occasion and glanced at myself in the mirror. My heart instantly began to race. I actually had butterflies fluttering wildly in my stomach! Yes, I was most certainly ready. I slowly and carefully applied the new makeup I had purchased. First, I spread the dark, seductive charcoal color around my eyes, which made them look much larger than they are. Then came the lipstick. It had been at least ten years since I had worn lipstick, but I was certain that I had never worn that particular shade of red. I couldn’t stop myself from giggling as I applied it to my lips. I felt a little like a child, dressing up in someone else’s clothes. Next there were the stockings. It is hard to believe that women had to contend with those before pantyhose came along. But what a delightful feeling when you wear them without panties! Being exposed to the air like that. Nice. Again I couldn’t suppress a giggle. I hoped I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself by laughing through the entire event. A drink would have helped, but I was determined to wait until the last minute and then have only one. I did not want to get tipsy, after all. I wanted all my senses to be acutely aware so that I would feel every single sensation as it came over me. Once I had put on the wig, makeup and stockings, I was finished. It felt like a part of me was missing, for I was never the sort that was comfortable without clothing, but there was no turning back now.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  I asked my husband many questions. After a while, and especially once he saw that I was not hurt or disgusted, he became more comfortable. He answered all of my questions quite satisfactorily. He told me everything he knew about the woman, though it was limited since he had only seen her out that one time. How sad the boundaries can be for those women! I could almost have been jealous of her, except that, even after giving my husband such unforgettable pleasure, she had not managed to interest him in knowing her further. My husband knew nothing of my reasons for my bizarre request, and I kept them intentionally from him. I wanted everything to be a wonderful surprise. I prepared for days. And even when all was arranged to the minutest detail I repeatedly delayed, for I confess that I was exceedingly nervous. And then, one day, I was ready. It happened quite accidentally really. Out of curiosity, I had slipped on the blond wig I had purchased for this occasion and glanced at myself in the mirror. My heart instantly began to race. I actually had butterflies fluttering wildly in my stomach! Yes, I was most certainly ready. I slowly and carefully applied the new makeup I had purchased. First, I spread the dark, seductive charcoal color around my eyes, which made them look much larger than they are. Then came the lipstick. It had been at least ten years since I had worn lipstick, but I was certain that I had never worn that particular shade of red. I couldn’t stop myself from giggling as I applied it to my lips. I felt a little like a child, dressing up in someone else’s clothes. Next there were the stockings. It is hard to believe that women had to contend with those before pantyhose came along. But what a delightful feeling when you wear them without panties! Being exposed to the air like that. Nice. Again I couldn’t suppress a giggle. I hoped I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself by laughing through the entire event. A drink would have helped, but I was determined to wait until the last minute and then have only one. I did not want to get tipsy, after all. I wanted all my senses to be acutely aware so that I would feel every single sensation as it came over me. Once I had put on the wig, makeup and stockings, I was finished. It felt like a part of me was missing, for I was never the sort that was comfortable without clothing, but there was no turning back now.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  “Before you answer my request, hear me out,” I entreated. “I know you love me and I am convinced of your respect. Because of these two things (things that I deeply value), I believe I must be eliminated from the compilation of memories from which you will choose. I am not looking for a story of romance or love. I want only to hear of your most memorable, unusual and exciting sexual encounter with a woman—no matter how shocking, horrifying or embarrassing. All I ask is that you truly pick out the very best incident you can remember, and that you do not play it down to spare my feelings.” I thought I knew the meaning behind every expression that marked my husband’s handsome features, but I had never before seen that particular look on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. I realized then that he did, in fact, have such a memory. It was in his mind at that very moment! My heart began to beat faster. I must know it! Real tears flooded my eyes this time as I grasped his hands urgently. “I know it’s an odd request, but I really want to know about it,” I told him. Truly, the only other hope I had of gaining knowledge about such matters would have been for me to turn to a total stranger, and I was not quite that dissatisfied with my situation yet! My husband ultimately gave in, of course, but I vow, it was more difficult than the time I wanted that terribly expensive diamond bracelet! He was genuinely uncomfortable when he at last began to relate the incident to me. It was an experience that he had in his youth, many years ago. As he reluctantly described the affair to me, there was no doubt that my husband told the truth, for the expression on his face combined with the slight quaver in his voice thoroughly convinced me of the authenticity of all he said. And luckily, the incident did not repulse me. It was something I had never tried before, something I assumed my husband was not interested in, but then, it wasn’t exactly something a man would be comfortable suggesting to a lady like me. How odd that the mere thought of it should send thrills of excitement through me! Yes, this had been a wise course to take. I now knew whose shoes I would borrow to escape my reality and sample the delights of a vastly different existence.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But, over all the other pleasures that be there is that of fair ladies, who, so one but will it, are incontinent brought thither from the four quarters of the world. There might you see the Sovereign Lady of the Rascal-Roughs, the Queen of the Basques, the wife of the Soldan, the Empress of the Usbeg Tartars, the Driggledraggletail of Norroway, the Moll-a-green of Flapdoodleland and the Madkate of Woolgathergreen. But why need I enumerate them to you? There be all the queens in the world, even, I may say, to the Sirreverence of Prester John, who hath his horns amiddleward his arse; see you now? There, after we have drunken and eaten confections and walked a dance or two, each lady betaketh herself to her bedchamber with him at whose instance she hath been brought thither. And you must know that these bedchambers are a very paradise to behold, so goodly they are; ay, and they are no less odoriferous than are the spice-boxes of your shop, whenas you let bray cummin-seed, and therein are beds that would seem to you goodlier than that of the Doge of Venice, and in these they betake themselves to rest. Marry, what a working of the treadles, what a hauling-to of the battens to make the cloth close, these weaveresses keep up, I will e'en leave you to imagine; but of those who fare best, to my seeming, are Buffalmacco and myself, for that he most times letteth come thither the Queen of France for himself, whilst I send for her of England, the which are two of the fairest ladies in the world, and we have known so to do that they have none other eye in their head than us.[400] Wherefore you may judge for yourself if we can and should live and go more merrily than other men, seeing we have the love of two such queens, more by token that, whenas we would have a thousand or two thousand florins of them, we get them not. This, then, we commonly style going a-roving, for that, like as the rovers take every man's good, even so do we, save that we are in this much different from them that they never restore that which they take, whereas we return it again, whenas we have used it. Now, worthy doctor mine, you have heard what it is we call going a-roving; but how strictly this requireth to be kept secret you can see for yourself, and therefore I say no more to you nor pray you thereof.'

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  Cinderella rose up from her bath and stood perfectly still as the prince took up a large towel to dry her body. She watched his face as he carefully toweled her curves and angles, paying special attention to the crevice between her legs, with extra gentleness, but a meticulousness that left her breathless. He then lowered his attentions to her legs and feet, kneeling before her and taking each foot onto his leg to dry each toe in turn. The prince suddenly dropped the towel and began to caress Cinderella with his fingers. Still on his knees, he stroked her skin, which was especially soft and rosy and sensitive from her bath. Ever so tenderly he embraced her, kissing her stomach while his hands roamed over her backside in a firm but loving embrace. Cinderella shivered. Holding Cinderella’s bottom in his hands, the prince turned his face to kiss her abdomen, again and again, and then lower, he kissed the cleft between her legs, his tongue darting out in search of the secret little pleasure spot he had discovered the night before. The prince firmly licked up from the center to the front of Cinderella’s open legs; again and again, and as he licked her he wiggled his tongue into her smallest crevices, and twirled it in and around her sensitive nubs and peaks. All his energies were centered on that part of her he explored, so that it seemed his senses existed through his tongue alone, and it was thus that he could see, feel, smell, taste and hear Cinderella. At last the prince found what he was looking for and he carefully began his relentless pursuit of Cinderella’s ultimate pleasure. He whirled and stroked the magical little membrane with his tongue, slowly and meticulously. Her hands instinctively went to his head and her fingers entwined themselves within his dark locks. He felt her shudders as he worked on her, and his ego soared with triumph. Every now and then he could not resist dipping his tongue into her open body to taste her delicious contentment. This would cause both to moan with pleasure.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  Having that much decided, I stood wide-eyed before the mirror. The woman that stared back at me looked strangely vulnerable. She was beautiful, with that poignant, forlorn beauty that belongs to those women who humbly present themselves on lace and silken platters, dressing up as best they can, in the hopes that this will bring them love, fame, money or happiness. And I thought to myself, Why, any woman can do this. It’s as easy as buying a costume! My bright-red lips smiled back at me. Suddenly I remembered one last thing. I fished through the makeup until I located a brown liner pencil. Then, very carefully, I drew a cute little mole right above my lip. There. Perfect! I allowed myself one more nervous giggle. As usual, my husband came home right on time. I hid myself in the shadows of our dining room until I should decide the moment was right. My heart pounded ridiculously in my breast. Was it my very own, familiar husband I was hiding from? He came through the front door, as always, calling my name. But on this occasion I didn’t answer him. I wanted every single detail of this evening to be different, memorable. He called out my name a second time. I heard him ascend the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. There was a shuffling sound upstairs as he called for me again, and then yet again. My heart was hammering painfully. I was almost afraid. It was a similar feeling to the one I had when playing hide and seek as a child. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, this time descending. There was concern now present in his voice as he walked into the kitchen and again called out my name. Finally I stood up and slipped quietly into the living room. I stood inconspicuously alongside one wall in the large room. In a few minutes he came into the living room and paused, scratching his head. I stood perfectly quiet and still as I watched him. After a moment he felt my presence. He turned his head precisely to where I stood frozen against the wall. Shock overtook his countenance. At first he did not even appear to recognize me. I did not laugh, or even smile, for that matter. A new emotion was coming over me, stifling my earlier urges to giggle. I could hardly breathe while my husband stood gaping at me. But at last his confusion disassembled, and in both our eyes there was recognition. He knew me. And I knew him. He realized what I wanted him to do, and I, of course, had my script memorized. He didn’t say a word as he slowly walked toward me. His eyes traveled over me, missing nothing. A smile began to form upon his lips, but then just as quickly disappeared. As we stared into each other’s eyes he was suddenly very serious.