Fear

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 A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὑπηχέω, to sound under or in answer, to echo, respond, ὑπὸ δ᾽ ἤχεεν 305 C. 1622 οὔρεα μακρά Hes. Th. 835; ἔρρηξε 8 αὐδήν, ὥσθ᾽ ὑπηχῆσαι χθόνα Eur. Supp. 710; ὥστε τὴν κώμην ὑπηχεῖν so that the village rang again, Pherecr. “Apy. 1; θερινὸν ὑπηχεῖ τῷ τεττίγων χορῷ echoes summerlike with the grasshopper choir, Plat. Phaedr. 230 C ; of musical strings, Arist. Probl. 19. 42,1 :—with neut. Adj., ἄλλο τι ὑπ. Luc. D. Mar. 1. 4; σαθρὸν καὶ ἀγεννές Plut. 2. 64. Ὁ ; ὀξύ τι Arcad., etc. ὑπήχησι, ews, 7, a sounding in answer, echoing, Greg. Naz. ὑπηῷος, α, ον, (jas) = ὑπηοΐος, Ap. Rh. 4. 841, Q.Sm. 4. 11: etc: ὑπίημι, ὑπήσω, Ion. for ὑφ-,, Hdt. ὑπίλλω, aor. I ὑπῖλα Eur. σ. infr.): aor. pass. ὑπιλλήθην Hipp. ap. Galen. Properly, to force or draw in underneath, οὐρὰν δ᾽ imidao’.. καθέζετο (cf. Lat. remulcere caudam), put the tail between the legs in fear, Eur. Fr. 544 : metaph., σοὶ δ᾽ ὑπίλλουσι στόμα keep down their tongue before thee, i. e. _ fawn and cringe before thee, Soph. Ant. 509, (as she said just before, εἰ μὴ γλῶσσαν ἐγκλείσοι φόβο) :—cf. Buttm. Lexil. s. v. εἰλεῖν 12, and v. εἰλέω. ὕπισθα, Acol. for ὄπισθε, as ἐξύπισθα for ἐξόπισθε, Ahr. D. Acol. p. 82. ὑπίστημι, Lon. for ὑφίστημι. ὑπισχνέομαι, conir.-odpat; in lon. and Ep. Poets ὑπίσχομαι, Hom., Hdt., as also Aesch. Eum, 804, Ar. Fr. 516; and impf. ὑπίσχοντο Hdt. 7.168; but Hdt. also has ὑπισχνέετο, 9. 109; -ἰσχνεύμενος 2. 152, etc.; imperat. ὑπισχνοῦ Eur. ap. Ar. Vesp. 750 :—fut. ὑποσχήσομαι Dem. 445.16 :—aor. ὑπεσχόμην Hom.. Hdt., Att.; with pass. imper. ὑποσχέθητι, Plat. Phaedr. 235 D (Bekker ὑποσχέσειλ):---ῇ. ὑπέσχημαι Thue. 8. 48, Xen. Oec. 3, 11, Dem., etc.: plqpf. ὑπέσχητο Id. 378. 16 :—Act. ὑπ- loxvew Aesop. 205 Halm, ey collat. form of ὑπέχομαι, which supplies several of its tenses, and even in pres. is used -- ὑπισχνέομαι, App. Mithr. 16, 20, Poll. 6. 117 :---ὁπόσχομαι is only found in late Byz. (On the fons cf. ἀμπισχνέομαι.) To take upon oneself, i.e. to undertake to do, to promise, often in Hom.; ὑποσχέσθαι θ᾽ ἑκατόμβας 1]. 6. 115, cf. 23. 195; ὅσσα τοι... ὑπέσχετο δῶρα ο. 263 ; [βουλάς] ἅς τε μοι αὐτὸς ὑπ. 12. 236, cf. 20. 84; so in Hdt. and Att., ὑπ. δαπάνην τῇ στρατιῇ Πάϊ. 5. 30; ταῖς πόλεσιν ὀλιγαρχίαν Thuc. 8. 48, etc. b. with inf. fut., ὑπὸ δ᾽ ἔσχετο-- καὶ κατένευσεν---δωσέμεναι 1]. 13. 368, Od. 4.6; ὑπ.----

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  11. in Hom., φρήν or | φρενόθεν - φριξόθριξ. who have lost their wits, φρενῶν ἀφεστάναι, ἐκστῆναι, μεταστῆναι Soph. Ph. 865, Eur. Or. to21, Bacch. 943; τὰς pp. ἐκβάλλειν Soph. Ant. 648 ; ἔξω φρενῶν Pind. O. 7. 86; φρενῶν κεκομμένος Aesch. Ag. 479; κενός Soph. Ant. 754; τητώμενος Id. El. 1326; ἔξεδρος, παράκοπος Eur. Hipp. 953, Bacch. 33; ποῦ ποτ᾽ εἰ φρενῶν ; satisne sanus es? Soph. El. 390; φρένες διάστροφοι Aesch. Pr. 673, Soph. Aj. 447; μαργότης φρενῶν Id. Fr. 726; ἀνακίνησις pp. Id. O. T. 727; etc.;—and of persons in their senses, φρενῶν ἐπήβολος Id. Ant. 492; ἔνδον φρενῶν Eur. Heracl. 709 ; hence, ἔσω φρενῶν λέγειν, πείθειν, γράφεσθαι Aesch. Ag. 1052, Soph. Ph. 1325, etc. :—Hdt. opposes φρένες to σῶμα, 3. 134; so, ai σάρκες κεναὶ φρενῶν Eur. El. 387 :-—Hom. also attributes φρένες to beasts, μετὰ φρεσὶ γίγνεται ἀλκή Il. 4. 245, cf. 16. 157, etc.-The word is seldom used in the best Prose, as συμφορὰ τῶν ¢p., i.e. madness, Andoc. 20. 29 ; παραλλάττει τῶν op. Lys. Fr. 58; φρενῶν ἀφορία Xen. Symp. 4, 55; cf. Dem. 332. 25., 780. II. 4. will, purpose, ons ἀπεστάτουν pp. Soph. Ant. 993, οἵ. O. C. 1182.--In usage, there is little or no distinction observable between the sing. and pl. (From 4/®PEN come also φρεν-όω, φρον-έω, φρόν-ις, φρον-τίς, ppov-7iCw:—in compos. φρήν changes nto -φρων, e.g. εὔτφρων, κακό-φρων, etc.) φρήταρχοξ, ὁ, -εφρατρίαρχος, C. I. 5785 (where also φρητρία and φητρία are used for φρατρία). φρητία, ἡ, Ion. for φρεατία, Hesych.: φρητίον, τό, C. I. 5430. φρήτρη, 7, on. for pparpa; Ep. dat. φρήτρῃφιν. φρήτριος, 7, ov, Ion. for φράτριος. φρῖγος, eos, τό, f. 1. for oppiyos in Hermipp. =7par. t. φρτκάζω, fut. άσω, to shudder, shiver, Poéta de Vir. herb. 5. 71. pikadéos, a, ov, shivering with cold, Lat. horrens, horridus, Hipp. Vet. Med. 14. 2. with rough surface, σπιλάς Anth. P. 7. 382, cf. Tryph. 195. 11. dreadful, horrid, Anth. P. 7. 69., 9. 300. φρϊκασμός, 6, a shuddering, shivering, LXx (2 Macc. 3. 17). φρίκη [1]. ἥ, -- φρίξ, of the rippling sea, πορθμὸς ἐν φρίκῃ γελᾷ (like Lat. inhorrescit), Ael. N. A. 16. 19, Plut. 2. 921 F, etc. II. a shuddering, shivering, Hipp. Aph. 1255, al.: esp. an aguish shiver or chill, Plat. Phaedr. 251 A, Theophr. Fr. 2. 74, Nic. Th. 721: in pl., Arist. Probl. I. 39, al. 2. shivering fear, shuddering, esp. from religious awe, φρί- ans αὐτὸν ὑπελθούσης Hdt. 6.134; τοίην pp. παρέχεις μοι Soph. O. T. 1306, cf. Fr. 921, Xen. Cyr. 4. 2, 15, Plat. Rep. 387 C:—then, generally, shivering fear of any kind, φρίκᾳ τρομερὰν φρένα Eur. Phoen. 1285; ἐκ- πληχθεῖσα φρίκᾳ ld. Tro. 183; φρίκᾳ ματρός Id. 1on898; joined with δέος, ἔκπληξις, θάμβος, φόβος, etc., Plut. III. frost, cold, ap. Gell. 17. 8, 7. φρίκια, τά, and φρτκία, %, aguish shiverings, Diosc. 4. 14., 1. 181. Φρικίας, ὁ, Bristler, name of a horse in Pind. P. 10. 25 ;—prob. from his upstanding mane.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “I’ll do anything you want me to, Captain” The sound kept roughening, snagging on harsher sounds. And there was the metallic backing of hysteria. Robby looked at the deck. “Anything?” “You tell me to do something. I don’t care. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” He began to raise his eyes. “. . . do it!” The black, bare feet on the grey boards; the heavy chain on the right ankle; the frayed denim cuffs—the seam on the left had torn halfway up the calf—and the knees, grey, and baggy; Robby’s eyes reached the second baggy place, high on the thigh. His heart drummed. His armpits greased with sweat. He watched the captain slip one thumb through a belt loop: the dark fingers arched on the lap. Did what was in the pants leg move? The captain laughed. “You sure as shit look like you would!” Robby’s jaw hurt, and he was very cold. His vision kept blurring with veils and wild glistenings. He forced out, “Tell me . . .” and his belly had become water. He thought he was falling, thought he was rising. “Come on down with us to the cabin.” The captain clapped Robby’s shoulder. The blow struck with more laughter, broke with the waters on the pilings about them. Within the cage of his tensed muscles, Robby prepared some motion . . . “There—” Crack! “—he is!” The captain jerked his hand from the drifter’s shoulder. Whites ringing his pupils, Robby began to clutch at his side as if some insect had gotten into his shirt. He got down on one knee— Nig: “Hey, you got him, Bull!” Dove: “Look at the motherfucker go!” —opened his mouth, put one hand out to catch himself, then rolled over, face up and terrible with recognition. Bull clomped onto the deck, swinging his rifle from both hands. Nig and Dove, grinning, were behind him in a moment, peering around his elbows. Bull, licking first his upper lip, then his lower, stopped about three feet from the body. Both lips went into his mouth, then came out again. Blood crawled on the deck to catch between the boards, spreading from the puddle in an ordered grill. Shaking his head, Bull thumped the butt down and lay the barrel along his leg; the sight on the barrel’s tip flattened red stomach hair. (The shape defined where the metal stretches his pants is substantially thicker than the barrel.) “Shit. Guess I had to kill the stupid motherfucker, now, didn’t I? Priest wouldn’t let me alone no how. And you can’t let a man go running around the streets when everybody thinks he done something like that.” He scratched his bald head with the nubs of his hairy fingers. “I told that old black bastard you two got for a pappy you better watch out from now on. Take it easy next time. Bitch hadn’t a’ died, I wouldn’t a’ had to do this.” Dove: “Sure, Bull”

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Or J. D. Salinger himself, who’d become my mentor and order up poems from me like so many diner pancakes.... (What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.) At one point a town car glided up, and my heart bounded like a doe as the window silently slid down. But it was a wrinkled lady in tennis whites, asking in bad Spanish if I was Luz from the agency. Parched, covered in dust, with blisters the size of half dollars on both feet, I finally stood on the coastal highway, having adopted the most desultory hitchhiking manner in history. Holding up a cardboard sign that read SAN CLEMENTE—where my pals had been surfing all day—I tried to look bored, like a girl who didn’t actually need a ride. I was a hitchhiker to aspire to. Toward dusk, a black Volkswagen pulled up, its driver a tattered-looking doper with sleek raven hair and pork-chop sideburns. He jumped out and ran around to open my door, announcing that Tennessee men were bred to manners. Sam-u-el, his name was—short version Sam—a guy old enough to be sporting an incipient widow’s peak flanked by bald spots. The car smelled like something left in an ice chest too long, and the back seat had been torn out, trash piled in. He claimed his old lady was gonna fry his ass if he didn’t get that mess cleaned up, but he’d driven down from Oregon and was wore out. I said my fiancée was the same way, thus believing we’d entered into some chaste understanding. We pulled from the road’s shoulder, peace-sign roach clip swinging from the rearview. He was a slow driver, puttering along at a tractor’s pace, and in that landscape, I had no reason for fear. Along the populated beach were tanned, bemuscled men; women whose hands bore diamonds the size of gumballs. I tried to roll the window down more, but it stuck about halfway. He drove on, head-banging to the backbeat of Ozzy Osborne’s Paranoid. On a steep hill, he downshifted and said, Mary, do you believe you live by what you earn? I said sure, stunned less by the question than by the breath he’d exhaled—real snake-shit breath. He shouted, Some live by what their own hands take. Others feed like buzzards on the carcass’s leftovers. That’s right, I said, wondering what he was getting at. Maybe he wanted me to sell Tupperware or cosmetics door-to-door. Some of the want ads I’d answered offered that. He said, Samson after his haircut could not break his chains, and the stones of the temple rained down. I nodded at the King James Bible cadence he’d slid into, his accent no longer evoking Grandpappy on the porch with a slab of pie, but a preacher whose fire and brimstone maybe came from a guilty conscience about underage choristers.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  φόβος, 6, (φέβομαι) flight, Lat. fuga, the only sense in Hom. (Schol. Il. 11. 71, v. φοβέω B. 1); only once in Od., of δ᾽ ἔσχοντο φόβου 24.57; oft. in Il., Δαναῶν yivero ἰαχή τε φ. TEI5. 396; Hila, φόβου κρυόεντος Eraipn 9. 2; πρῶτος Πηνέλεως .. ἦρξε φόβοιο 17. 396; és φόβον ἀνδρῶν 15. 310;—so, pbBovde=piyabe, ἑστάμεναι κρατερῶς, μηδὲ τροπάασθε φόβονδε 15.666; φόβονδ᾽ ἔχε μώνυχας ἵππους 8. 139; μή τι φόβονδ᾽ ἀγόρευε counsel not to flight, 5. 252; ἀΐξαντα φόβονδε 17. 579:—dBos is personified as son of Ares, 13. 299, cf. 15. 110; Δειμός Te Φόβος τε 11. 37, cf. 4. 440; so in Hes. Th. 934, Aesch. Pers. 45. II. panic fear, such as causes flight, στρατῷ φ. ἐμβάλλειν Hdt.7.10,5; ἐν τῷ γινομένῳ φ. Id. 9. 69 :—then generally, fear, terror, properly of the outward show of fear, and so distinguished from δέος (y. sub δέος), τόρος ὀρθόθριξ φ. Aesch. Cho, 32; διατόρος φ. Id. Pr. 181; ταρβόσυνος Id. Theb. 240; νεανικός Eur. Hipp. 1204; joined with δέος and δεῖμα, v. sub vocc.; opp. to θάρσος, Plat. Legg. 644 C, cf. Aesch. Theb. 270; sometimes in milder sense, doubt, scruple, Plat. Phaedo ΟῚ B, Soph. 268 A.—Construction, a. the Object of fear is in gen., fear or dread of another, Aesch. Pers. 115, Thuc. 3. 54, etc.; . Tov στρατεῦσαι Xen. An. 3.1, 18; c. dupl. gen., ὀμμάτων εἰληφότας φόβον ες Τῆς ἐμῆς ἐπεισόδου Soph, O. C. 729 ;—so with Preps., p. ἀπό Twos Xen. An. 7. 2, 37 (v.1. ὑπό), Cyr. 3. 3, 53, εἴο. ; & τινος Aesch. Cho. 930, Xen.; πρός τινος Soph. El. 784; πρός τινα Dem. 204. 19., 798. 33 —so, φ. περί τινος fear for or concerning .., Thuc. 4. 88, Plat.; ὑπέρ twos Thuc. 7.41; τὸν ἐκ τῶν Ἑλλήνων εἰς τοὺς βαρβάρους φ. Xen. An. I. 2, 18; τῷ καθ᾽ ἑαυτὸν φ. from personal fear, Dem. 341. 21 :—from such phrases as ᾧ. τοῦ στρατεύειν comes the usage c. inf., φ. στρατεύειν, Xen. An. 2. 4, 3; φόβῳ εἰσορᾷν from fear to see, Eur. I. T. 1342 :—for τεθνάναι τῷ φόβῳ τινά, ν. θνήσκω 1. 2, déosT. . Ῥ. with Verbs, φόβον τεύχειν Aesch. Pr. 1090; φ. βλέπειν Id. Theb. 408, cf. 386; ποιεῖν τινι Xen. An, 1. 8,18; παρέχειν Eur. Hec. 1113, Xen., etc. ; παρασκευάζειν Dem. 1374.13; φόβον ἐμβάλλειν, ἐντιθέναι τινΐ to strike terror into one, Lat. metum incutere alicui, Xen. Cyr. 8. 7,18, An. 7. 4, 1; ἐνεργάζεσθαί τινι Isocr. 147 C, 226C; φόβῳ διδόναι τινά Pind. P. 5. 81;—of the person who feels fear, φόβον λαμβάνειν, ἔχειν Eur. ΕἸ. 39, Xen. Hier. 11, 11; τρέφειν Soph. Tr. 28;—c. acc. cogn., φόβον φοβεῖσθαι, δεδοικέναι Plat. Prot. 360 B, Eur. Supp. 548; τὸν σὸν οὐ ταρβῶ φ. I fear not with thy fear, i.e. not like thee, Soph. Ph. 1251 ; so, Ταντάλου φ. φοβεῖσθαι Schol, Eur. Or. 6 ;—also, és φ. καθίστασθαι Hdt. 8. 12, Thue. 2. 81; ἔρχεσθαι Plat. Lege. 635 C; ἐν φ. γενέσθαι Id. Rep. 578 E; also, φόβος ἔχει με Aesch. Ag. 1243, Eur. Or. 12555 εἰσέρχεται, ὑπέρχεταί pe φ. Ib. 1324, Soph. Ph. 1231; φ. ἐμπίπτει μοι Xen. An. 2. 2, 19, εἴς. ; διὰ φόβου ἔρχομαι, γίγνομαι Eur. Or. 757, Plat. Legg. 791 B:—opp. to all these are, φόβον λύειν Aesch. Theb. 270, Eur. Or. 104; ἐξαιρεῖν Isocr. 19 C; ἀπελαύνειν τινί Xen. Cyr. 4. 2, 10; φόβου ἀπαλλάττεσθαι to get rid of it, Ib. 5. 2, 32; φόβου ἐκλύεσθαί twa Soph. Ο. T. 1002; φόβους ἀπολύεσθαι Arist. Rhet. 3. 14, 103 φόβου μεθεῖσα (Herm. φόβους) Eur. Hel. 555; φόβου ἔξωθεν εἶναι Id. ΕἸ. οοἱ :---φόβος [ἐστί] c. inf., Ken. An. 2. 4. 3; μὴ -.- Id. Mem. 2. 1, 25; ὅπως μὴ .. Plat. Symp. 193 A; but φόβος εἰ πείσω vereor τὲ... Eur. Med. 184; so, φόβος ἔχει με ὅπως χρὴ .. Hdt. 4. 115; φόβον ἔχει τι ὡς .. it causes fear that, Plat. Soph. 268A; φόβος ἣν ὥστε τέγξαι Eur. I. T. 1380:—abverbial usages, φόβῳ by or through fear,

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  There was a delicate pressure about his thigh, then tiny, needling pains in his groin. He opened his eyes. His pants were below his knees. Perched on his thigh, the little dragon nuzzled and nipped at the base of his cock. And the waving shadows of the great dragon’s wing fell on him. He snatched his hand to his face to block his eyes. He had no hand. Scales swung above him. Ruby insects worried her flanks. Scales broke away at the wrinkled haunch. The bare flesh reddened toward the dribbling eruption below her tail. He rolled out of the way of a hinder talon that scratched through the coals. The little beast clawed to keep its footing. The great worm twisted her head toward him, blinked one fist-sized eye, waddling, tail beating sparks from the cinders over the floor. He sat up: she squatted, mushing her hole, like a hack in bad fruit, on his face. He thrust out his tongue through blind moments while insects chattered at his ears. But she lumbered on, leaving him reeling, nauseated by fumes of acetone. His face and eyes were filmed with her juice. He tried to wipe it away, and his hand balked, slipped, stuck again against the silt that gummed his lids. The points of light about the burning floor were haloed and gauzed prisms. And the beast, glimmering in opal veils, heaved aside piles of smoke. The black captain waited. In the embers, the rime on his feet glowed. The chain about his left ankle was bright black: a crescent of sweaty skin below one knee, and the underlength of his veined erections (its shadow slanted up his chest) gleamed: so did the bottoms of his lips; and his nostril rims; and the brass at his ear; and the roofs of his eyes. The she-beast nosed the burnings around his feet. The captain reached out with flickering palms (swords of light swung through the gauze on Robby’s eyes) to grasp her ears. Her head came up. Her tongue’s double serpent lazed about his sack and shaft. The captain wrestled her. The tail, thicker at its base than the black thigh, beat about his head. The hand had scuttled to the captain’s foot. Tacky with the same gum that dribbled Robby’s cheek, it clawed to the ankle, clawed higher, hung a moment from the calf, then scurried up the wet thigh, palmed the testicles, and thrust the long cock in as the tail swung away. She swiveled against him, forepaws collapsing in the ashes. The captain stretched along her green back, sank yellow teeth in her scales. Blood scarfed her throat, steamed on the coals, while she hiccupped and hissed. The perspiring sides of the black buttocks hollowed, retreated, hollowed. Slowly she began to crawl forward. The dog hobbled the whining blind woman across the floor. The dragon reared and pranced beneath the Negro, nearing.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Proctor looked at his hand on the banister, pondered the age of his flesh. “So did I.” He looked up again. “Any closer, Captain?” Laughter of suede, laughter of velvet. A dog barking. On the balls of his feet, Proctor padded up. There was less and less sawdust on each step. He squinted. Nig raised his head. “Hey, Dove—” Dove opened his eyes. “Now what’s that hippin’ it down the street over there by the—” “—church . . . !” Dove pulled on his belt. Nig stood. His hand moved under the broken pants buttons. Dove watched. “Hey, nigger, do them little titties and all that red hair she got hanging down her head get to you?” “Motherfucker—” The dark wrist went in. Dove looked back across the street. Bone hard fingers held flesh, blood-hard through his pants; his hand burned. “Yeah—” “Dove . . . oh, baby, go over there and get it for me.” Nig’s free hand gouged Dove’s shoulder. Dove made a long sound back in his throat. “Nig, you wait. Dove’s gonna see what he can do about that.” “Mmmmm, pussy on a stick . . .” Dove pulled from Nig’s hand and loped into the street. “Hey! Wait up, honey!” She heard him, saw him, frowned. He moved forward. She felt her shoulder jerk involuntarily and the expression she didn’t want twist through her face. She looked away and kept walking. If he did follow her, she wouldn’t hear him because he was barefoot; then heard him, much too close . . . He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you sure are a pretty thing! How about us going into that back alley and me eatin’ out your pussy . . .” She hunched away, opened her mouth, numbly astonished, closed it, pulled again. His hand was on the shoulder of her blouse, but when she pulled, his wrist touched her bare neck. Flesh on flesh started an explosion of revulsion that rippled her body, shook her face, snarled her features. She shook her head, hard. “I’d sure love to get down there and eat it out. Come on. Come on and sit on daddy’s face. What you so scared of a little pussy eatin’ for?” She started to— But he made as if he were going to hit her. Her shoulder struck the wall. She looked down, because he had grabbed the lap of her skirt. She felt his knuckles through the cloth. He was grinning, and bunching more cloth in his fingers. “Now what you got to be scared of? You’re gonna feel fine with my tongue a-workin’ it up.” Dove pushed his tongue out between his lips, wiggled it. The wall bruised the back of her head. He peered closer while she felt fear freeze her face, so the beginnings of screaming could only flicker around her lips. Then the elastic of her underpants tightened on her hip as his hand went under.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Then, “Maybe we better go.” The three hurried away. Robby felt the bonds with which he gripped what he knew as real begin to loosen. “Bull,” and he had remembered their description of the lawman. They were searching for him: And the man with the gun who searched for him thought him innocent! He thrilled with unresolvable terror. Turning left, turning right, he ran the labyrinthine alleys, turning again, and turning, now recognizing houses he had passed before, now passing strange porches, fences, windows. At the cafe, he ducked into the alley, keeping near the wall. Something caught his ankle. He staggered. As he turned to see, it jerked him again; he fell, scraping his palms on brick. A hand, from between the bars, had grasped his leg, was hauling him back. He grabbed the window edge to push himself away. A second hand came out and caught his wrist. He kicked, jerked, with his throat constricted so that the sound trying to push out was a gurgle. “Let me . . . let me out,” rasped from the window. “They forgot to let me out! Proctor needs me!” He kicked his leg free, tore scabby fingers from his wrist; then he was running. Slapped at a wall to keep from banging into it, and ran again. The small street dumped him out on the square. He came up short, thirty feet before the dark stones. There was no wind. Shadowed carvings took his eyes upward to the steeple, to lose his vision on crazed, moon-lined clouds, uncurling. There was no wind at all in the street. Something moved on the church steps. He looked. Uncurling, the black shape rose to its feet; barked. The dog cantered down the steps, paused at the bottom, barked again. Robby ran. The paws clicked after him; whatever was solid in him melted and flowed, lost edges and became terror. On a strange street, he turned, grabbed the side of a doorway to keep from falling. It stood on the corner. Its eye was red glass. Its tongue was foamy meat, shaking over barbs. The tail whipped the night. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Looked back. It still stared. Then it took three steps. His stomach and thighs jerked him to a crouch. His palms stung. The dog (it is a big dog) trotted into the street. It closed its mouth for a swallow he could hear. The tongue shook out again, shook, shook. He thought about walking away, just turning and— The dog barked, sagged back to spring, rushed forward. He fell in the doorway, rolled over and clambered up the gritty steps. There was another door at the top. He dove through; curled up and rolled. Claws scrabbled on the steps. His teeth were clenched too tight to scream. Shoulder, arm and hip were bruised. He waited and didn’t breathe. He realized he was waiting. And realized there was only silence to wait through.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  There is another picture in my mind from that night. On the beach the man is holding me while the woman is down by the water where the people are shouting, trying to get a boat. Then the man takes me down, because the woman calls him. Grey scabs of ash are wrinkling over the water. The waves come in and leave one black line along the sand, roll out, come in and leave another. Now. The first of these memories sits in my mind like a light that I cannot look at much. Like the sun. More like the sun on the water of the sea. The second is only a memory among hundreds of memories I can remember. I can’t give you the differences in the light, what I felt, and the way. Should I just stop maybe. The two figures saving me from the eruption in the village where I was born are the first two. They have changed me. Not by what they said or taught—though that too—but because of this light they suddenly have. Or maybe it is something I put. The closest thing I can talk about it is the feeling I had when I read that story, you understand? To understand what I am talking about, I guess you have to read science fiction. The first two were those saved me from the shack where I was a baby. The third is Herr Bildungs. I was nine then. We played on the beach. He was with the engineering people who came for the oil. Herr Bildungs was the first to tell me my father was a black soldier from the U.S. and my mother was a Negro who had come down from Haiti. He found it out from the people in the town: my father was gone and my mother was dead. Besides the teacher at the school who taught me to read Spanish, no one had ever told me anything before Herr Bildungs. The day we were first on the beach I asked, “Who are you?”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Nig’s free hand gouged Dove’s shoulder. Dove made a long sound back in his throat. “Nig, you wait. Dove’s gonna see what he can do about that.” “Mmmmm, pussy on a stick . . .” Dove pulled from Nig’s hand and loped into the street. “Hey! Wait up, honey!” She heard him, saw him, frowned. He moved forward. She felt her shoulder jerk involuntarily and the expression she didn’t want twist through her face. She looked away and kept walking. If he did follow her, she wouldn’t hear him because he was barefoot; then heard him, much too close . . . He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you sure are a pretty thing! How about us going into that back alley and me eatin’ out your pussy . . .” She hunched away, opened her mouth, numbly astonished, closed it, pulled again. His hand was on the shoulder of her blouse, but when she pulled, his wrist touched her bare neck. Flesh on flesh started an explosion of revulsion that rippled her body, shook her face, snarled her features. She shook her head, hard. “I’d sure love to get down there and eat it out. Come on. Come on and sit on daddy’s face. What you so scared of a little pussy eatin’ for?” She started to— But he made as if he were going to hit her. Her shoulder struck the wall. She looked down, because he had grabbed the lap of her skirt. She felt his knuckles through the cloth. He was grinning, and bunching more cloth in his fingers. “Now what you got to be scared of? You’re gonna feel fine with my tongue a-workin’ it up.” Dove pushed his tongue out between his lips, wiggled it. The wall bruised the back of her head. He peered closer while she felt fear freeze her face, so the beginnings of screaming could only flicker around her lips. Then the elastic of her underpants tightened on her hip as his hand went under. “Hey, that’s a big hand full of pussy.” He winced; and his fingers gouged. She hit him hard as she could. She clamped her teeth and sucked in air. I’ve got to get away! She tried to see past him, left, right. “I’m gonna take you over in the alley. Then we’re gonna do it.” He jerked her head forward when she tried to hit again; her hand glanced his shoulder; his fingers clamped her neck. The other hand twisted between her legs; she staggered forward. He pulled her across the street. The shadow from the building edge covered them, and she tripped. Her underpants tore. But he caught her waist. He pushed her against a door. The knob struck her hip. And she was gagging on the outrage and the absurdity.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  They were laughing. “Hold him there—yeah, keep his head back. Look at him take that stuff right down!” “He don’t look like he likes that at all—!” “You better swallow, boy, or you gonna drown in nigger piss!” Fingers in his mouth—one hand over his nose, one pulling down over his chin—kept his teeth apart. “Stick it right on in. Right on down.” Robby got one hand loose and struck at the canvas covered legs. Iron behind the cloth. He thought he was falling, slapped the ground to balance. A bare foot pinned his hand, bruising it. “Hey, look at this cocksucker—” He couldn’t get breath. “You better swallow, or you gonna die—” He couldn’t swallow for gagging. His tongue blunted on the flesh that flooded him. One of them wiped his hands over his face—so hard it hurt—and he could see: a big buckle and splattered cloth, very near. Then the ridged black belly, small head far away. But grinning. The nigger swung his hand—still grinning—and Robby’s ear clanged with the smack. One eye went blazing blind. But jarred into him. He got one gasp without taking in water. The knuckles came back the other way. With the pain, urine flushed his eyes. He reeled under their hands and his hand was still clamped on the ground. He swallowed. When they dropped him he went down clutching at their ankles. His face rolled over a foot. As he knuckled his eyes, toes struck his cheek. He curled on his side. Glancing up, he saw a fist slide up a dick. “Motherfucker—” the fisherman drawled, puckered his lips to a prune. He kicked again. Robby gaped with pain. The fisherman spat. Robby swallowed out of surprise: froth, and thicker than froth. He rolled his head aside, while their laughter unraveled. “Come on, nigger! This is the third white face you been in tonight.” “We better get on back to Proctor, before he gets where he’s goin’.” “Did me good to see him drink it down!” “Shit, you’d a’ thought that son of a bitch didn’t like it none, hey?” “He sure gonna feel funny in a little while when that stuff hits!” They laughed, and the laughter moved up the bank. Robby scrubbed his palm on his mouth. He got to his knees. His jaw hurt. He pulled his wet shirt from his chest, let it flop back. He pulled the thigh of his pants out with his fingertips. He stood, frowning. His left foot was awash in his shoe. He walked up the bank from under the dock. He slipped once, and barked a curse. His voice died quivering. He gained the concrete, looked along the boats; looked down at himself. Looked across the street.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Played with the balls; let the shaft rub the nub of his middle finger. Nig groaned. Dove opened his fly and played with himself. Nig reached back, caught Dove’s cock. “Bitch,” he growled, “give this white boy some head. Hey, swing that pussy around!” Dove kneeled by her face. She tried to twist her head. Nig pushed it back. Put his knuckles against her jaw. Dove slid back and forth in her limp mouth. “Oh, baby, suck him good! Suck, baby!” She didn’t. But Dove could feel Nig’s beat shaking her. Nig’s breath coarsened. His rhythm doubled. Dove felt her tongue move once on the side of his cock. He pressed in to the hair; and came. Nig stood up over her, massaging his bright, black penis. “Go on.” He gestured toward her. “You better get it before it all runs out.” Dove scurried around between her legs. She moaned and turned her head. Nig watched his brother’s yellow head waggle in the fork. Once, when Dove got too violent, she gave a small scream. Nig put his foot on her mouth. Her jaw moved under his instep, and once she tried to pull his ankle away. “Yeah, that’s it. Eat my shit.” Nig grinned. “Eat it.” Now Dove lay across her, his buttocks tightening, tightening, his face on her neck. When Dove pushed back onto his knees, Nig shoved her side with his foot. He buttoned one fly button. “It takes you a while, boy. But you get the idea.” Dove stood up, his face glistening. He stepped from one foot to the other with a happy, nervous movement. “Come on, Dove!” “Sure you don’t want to tear off another piece?” Nig grinned and scratched his crotch. “Wipe your mouth, boy! Come on, get out your fish-knife!” Reaching into his pocket, the one without the hole, Dove grinned back. When Robby turned the corner, she was still crawling. When he reached her, she had stopped, curled up in the gutter, head and one arm on the sidewalk. And there was a lot of blood behind her. Under her open blouse her bra was pulled down around her stomach. One foot was bare. Astonishment grew as he neared, repulsion and fascination battling to replace it. The fascination astonished him as well. He kneeled by her, his knee soaking through in the puddle where she lay. Three of the yellow bruises were going blackish. He picked up the hair from her face, limp and puffy. It suddenly scored with lines of pain as she surfaced to consciousness. He whispered, “Hey, are you . . . ?” and stopped, astounded at the absurdity of that, too. He caught her shoulder, to get his arm around her. His heart was beating loud and slow, and the night felt very cold. Except where she lay in the cradle of his arm. Her hand swung up at his face.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Robby felt the bonds with which he gripped what he knew as real begin to loosen. “Bull,” and he had remembered their description of the lawman. They were searching for him: And the man with the gun who searched for him thought him innocent! He thrilled with unresolvable terror. Turning left, turning right, he ran the labyrinthine alleys, turning again, and turning, now recognizing houses he had passed before, now passing strange porches, fences, windows. At the cafe, he ducked into the alley, keeping near the wall. Something caught his ankle. He staggered. As he turned to see, it jerked him again; he fell, scraping his palms on brick. A hand, from between the bars, had grasped his leg, was hauling him back. He grabbed the window edge to push himself away. A second hand came out and caught his wrist. He kicked, jerked, with his throat constricted so that the sound trying to push out was a gurgle. “Let me . . . let me out,” rasped from the window. “They forgot to let me out! Proctor needs me!” He kicked his leg free, tore scabby fingers from his wrist; then he was running. Slapped at a wall to keep from banging into it, and ran again. The small street dumped him out on the square. He came up short, thirty feet before the dark stones. There was no wind. Shadowed carvings took his eyes upward to the steeple, to lose his vision on crazed, moon-lined clouds, uncurling. There was no wind at all in the street. Something moved on the church steps. He looked. Uncurling, the black shape rose to its feet; barked. The dog cantered down the steps, paused at the bottom, barked again. Robby ran. The paws clicked after him; whatever was solid in him melted and flowed, lost edges and became terror. On a strange street, he turned, grabbed the side of a doorway to keep from falling. It stood on the corner. Its eye was red glass. Its tongue was foamy meat, shaking over barbs. The tail whipped the night. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Looked back. It still stared. Then it took three steps. His stomach and thighs jerked him to a crouch. His palms stung. The dog (it is a big dog) trotted into the street. It closed its mouth for a swallow he could hear. The tongue shook out again, shook, shook. He thought about walking away, just turning and— The dog barked, sagged back to spring, rushed forward. He fell in the doorway, rolled over and clambered up the gritty steps. There was another door at the top. He dove through; curled up and rolled. Claws scrabbled on the steps. His teeth were clenched too tight to scream. Shoulder, arm and hip were bruised. He waited and didn’t breathe. He realized he was waiting. And realized there was only silence to wait through. Opened his eyes. Beams ran the ceiling. Shadows pulsed on the white plaster between.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Proctor looked at his hand on the banister, pondered the age of his flesh. “So did I.” He looked up again. “Any closer, Captain?” Laughter of suede, laughter of velvet. A dog barking. On the balls of his feet, Proctor padded up. There was less and less sawdust on each step. He squinted. Nig raised his head. “Hey, Dove—” Dove opened his eyes. “Now what’s that hippin’ it down the street over there by the—” “—church . . . !” Dove pulled on his belt. Nig stood. His hand moved under the broken pants buttons. Dove watched. “Hey, nigger, do them little titties and all that red hair she got hanging down her head get to you?” “Motherfucker—” The dark wrist went in. Dove looked back across the street. Bone hard fingers held flesh, blood-hard through his pants; his hand burned. “Yeah—” “Dove . . . oh, baby, go over there and get it for me.” Nig’s free hand gouged Dove’s shoulder. Dove made a long sound back in his throat. “Nig, you wait. Dove’s gonna see what he can do about that.” “Mmmmm, pussy on a stick . . .” Dove pulled from Nig’s hand and loped into the street. “Hey! Wait up, honey!” She heard him, saw him, frowned. He moved forward. She felt her shoulder jerk involuntarily and the expression she didn’t want twist through her face. She looked away and kept walking. If he did follow her, she wouldn’t hear him because he was barefoot; then heard him, much too close . . . He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you sure are a pretty thing! How about us going into that back alley and me eatin’ out your pussy . . .” She hunched away, opened her mouth, numbly astonished, closed it, pulled again. His hand was on the shoulder of her blouse, but when she pulled, his wrist touched her bare neck. Flesh on flesh started an explosion of revulsion that rippled her body, shook her face, snarled her features. She shook her head, hard. “I’d sure love to get down there and eat it out. Come on. Come on and sit on daddy’s face. What you so scared of a little pussy eatin’ for?” She started to— But he made as if he were going to hit her. Her shoulder struck the wall. She looked down, because he had grabbed the lap of her skirt. She felt his knuckles through the cloth. He was grinning, and bunching more cloth in his fingers. “Now what you got to be scared of? You’re gonna feel fine with my tongue a-workin’ it up.” Dove pushed his tongue out between his lips, wiggled it. The wall bruised the back of her head. He peered closer while she felt fear freeze her face, so the beginnings of screaming could only flicker around her lips. Then the elastic of her underpants tightened on her hip as his hand went under.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  The candlelight behind her set fire to the edges of her black hair. She whispered, “I think even she was pleased . . .” turned away, her cloak opening a moment to block the light. “Are you going back up to the Hill?” “No,” laughing, “I’m going to wander back down to the boats.” Pauses. “She went with them to the wharf. Goodnight, Jon.” “Goodnight.” She paused; “Take care.” Light again; and Robby found himself looking at her portrait against the wall, and wondering if she had really been. Proctor came over to him, kneeled by him “Try to sit up?” Robby pushed himself from the floor. He looked around the study. He frowned at the paintings. “Where am . . . ?” “My studio.” Proctor looked over his shoulder. “Benny, make some coffee for us.” And the sullen boy who had been sitting in the corner with his hands too deep in his pockets stood up and went to the stove. “Are you some kind of an artist?” Proctor nodded. “You paint this stuff?” “I also write poems, stories, music.” He sat back on his heels. “But the renaissance ideal comes to so little in a specialized world. Do you feel better? You looked fairly sick when I got here.” “Yeah, I guess . . .” The Puerto Rican boy brought coffee. They talk a while. Robby talks about where he’s come from, where he wants to go, the things he wants to do. It makes him feel better. That is because he is saying things that he has said before to other people, and the artist smiles, nods, makes explanations of complicity or indignation in the places where other people have, and it is reassuring. Occasionally Robby finds his eyes suddenly snatched away from the sympathetic face by some trick of a candle on the paintings, and chills clutch along his nerves. Still, Proctor listens like any ordinary man. “You seem a lot better,” Proctor, finally. “Perhaps you can go now.” “Oh,” Robby, warily. “Yeah, I guess I should.” He stands, a little shakily. “Thanks. For the coffee.” At the bottom step he realizes how cold it is. And the pressure on his bladder. Leaning one hand against the wall, he urinates, occasionally looking up to see if anybody is coming. Down the street, toward the harbor, there is mist. He starts for the coiling fogs. A sound makes him look back. A black dog has come around the corner, has stopped by the door frame. He laps the puddle by the wall. He looks up, panting, drops his head again. Robby puts his hands in his pockets to stop the terror that begins at the base of his spine, and hurries toward the wharf.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “While she was still as the corpse on the table, she attracted them. They invited me to take her. I did. Their excitement excited me. As well, I realized that while I covered her lacerated body, it was harder for them to wound her further—though, as I toiled in her, they nipped at her feet and ankles, or shoved their fingers in alongside my prick. Between us, we entered her nine, ten times. But though she kept them stiff, neither Guido nor Pietro could empty himself into her. Only I filled her cavity. Then father and son got their heads between her legs and I drew their final juices. Several times I heard Guido restrain the boy: ‘No, no, go in her gently. We have all night, and the beauty on the table still to go . . .’ “We rested a while. “Once I opened my eyes to see Guido, in the firelight, kneeling to lick the blood from the face of his sleeping son. Toward dawn, I felt Guido rousing me with a boot, and Pietro kicking at me with his bare foot. ‘Come to the table . . .’ “Later, when Guido was buttoning his fly, and Pietro had gone to the wall to pee, I helped the Duchessa up. She was barely able to walk. Guido held the door silently for us. The cool air revived her a little as we walked along the road. It was growing light. “ ‘Are you . . .?’ I ventured inanely. “She looked at me with bruised and scabbed face. ‘Go away . . .’ she said. ‘Go away from this town.’ “ ‘But—’ “Her expression was suddenly recognizable through the injury. I started at it and tried not to show my start. “I said, ‘You shouldn’t have—’ “She stopped me: ‘My husband is looking for me. I shall take him to the cemetery and he will have those two monsters arrested. They will be tried for their abominations and hung.’ “ ‘But—’ “ ‘My husband is looking for me, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘Do you hear the horses . . . ?’ “There were horses. “ ‘Those can’t be the Duke’s . . .’ “ ‘Don’t you think I told him where I was going? If I was not back before dawn, he was to send men out to look for me. Go away. Or I shall tell them your part in this and you will be arrested too.’

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Opened his eyes. Beams ran the ceiling. Shadows pulsed on the white plaster between. He turned his head. A dragon of tarnished bronze writhed about the candle stub that guttered and flapped its light through the room. A tiny screeching over metal: He jerked around to stare at the bird cage. It wasn’t a bird inside. All his muscles contracted. The back of his hand dragged more grit. Claws ticked the floor. He jerked up. The dog waited. His body shrank from the beast. The only thing his mind could touch were new facets of fear. It is a big dog. On the wall the carcass of a horse fell apart. Crouching in the livid cage, he, distorted, pawed between her legs. She, grotesque, flopped his gross cock from thigh to thigh. It stayed limp. Flames sputtered about the protecting ribs. Skull and fore-hooves pawed and wagged before the infernal sea where six feet dangled. The dog sprang. Robby screamed. Nothing hit. The black cock and balls rolled off its brass plate, slipped from the table, and flopped to the floor. Where it fell, blood inched the wood. He snatched his hand away. Jerked again because teeth clicked. Dog breath lanced his ear. He fell on his belly and began to cry. His cheek slipped on puddled blood. The dog barked. As he flailed out, the light went insane. Three candles fell from the window sill. He pulled back, expecting the floor to fire. Two went out. He got to his feet. The blood patch burned, flames half an inch above the bright surface as though it were kerosene. He looked at his right hand, which was in pain. Two drops of hot wax dulled on his skin. The creature in the cage scraped its claws on the bars. He slapped at the puddle. Fire splashed. The whole floor was pocked with amethysts. His hand stung. He scraped at the spots, to pry up the wax scales with his thumb nail. His hand fell off. His wrist spurted fire. He whirled, waving fire. Fire hit the cage bars. The creature inside shrieked. The bars sagged, dribbled away. The thing leaped, clawing and shrieking, on pale green wings. It walked across the floor on its hind legs, foreclaws scraping at the ceiling beams. Its wings masked out the door behind it. The forelegs thumped down. The dog ran to grovel between them. It yawned hugely on flame-colored gums, reared again. Clawed toes splayed in ashes. Amethysts glittered between its talons. The wings made a wind that tugged his hair. The candles about the room roared. And the tarnished dragon was crawling from around the mash of wax to the table’s edge. The floor was cluttered with emeralds and cut spinel besides. On knees and one hand, he crawled the points. Then his hand mashed something soft. He reared back from the crushed flesh. The dog had gotten to its feet again, chin and underbelly flickering in the floor’s litter.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  One corner of his mouth kept twitching. He lurched across the street, ducked into the alley as two men appeared from behind a further boat. He turned to watch them in the moon’s light. “You know, Father, probably, like I said, he got out of town as soon as he ran away from the girl.” That was an immense, shirtless creature, shaven skull, mat-chested, whose boots thumped the wharf boards and whose voice sounded like a rasp doing something to rock. And he was swinging a rifle against his hip. “But, Sheriff, we can’t take any chance! We just can’t allow a beast like that to roam our streets, attacking women. If you had seen what that monster had done to the poor, poor child.” That was the priest! “If you had seen!” “You just point him out to me, and I’ll blow his fuckin’ head off—excuse me, Father. But I’m just saying I don’t think it’s very likely you will.” “If he isn’t down here by the docks, Sheriff, I think we can probably assume you’re right. They’ll catch him in one of the towns along the coast here. I just hope they get him before he kills some other innocent creature.” Horror struck through Robby like long crystals forming. He pulled back against the wall as they passed the alley entrance. And almost gagged again. “When we work our way down to the end of the docks, then I’m afraid you’ll have to turn me loose. I promised I’d do some work for Proctor before the night was up. He needs me.” They passed beyond his vision. Robby ran down the narrow street. His shirt was a cold tongue lapping his chest. His pant leg went flap, flap. He tried to run close to the wall. Small streets kept emptying him onto bigger ones. He would turn off them again, ducking down behind wooden fences— Two, ahead of him in workmen’s greens: white and black; he recognized them in the lamp light, and froze. They were laughing, and the white one was elbowing the black one over some stupendous joke. They stopped, looked around. Robby wasn’t breathing, sure that they had seen him, not knowing why he should fear if they did, but fearing it more than anything. Then there was an unfamiliar voice. A figure vaulted over the fence. Robby ground his flank on the wall. “Where the hell you two guys been? I’ve been huntin’ all over.” “Tearin’ up a little cunt down in front of St. Mark’s,” Nig said. “Redheaded whore. Shit, she had some mouth-fillin’ pussy,” Dove said. A black-haired man, a leather jacket open on a naked chest. And a chain around his neck with a black swastika, silver rimmed: “Bull said he thought it was you two. Look, you better come with me.” “What for, Nazi?” “Whyn’t you come with us, Nazi? We still out huntin’.” “Proctor needs you.” “Oh.”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Nig’s free hand gouged Dove’s shoulder. Dove made a long sound back in his throat. “Nig, you wait. Dove’s gonna see what he can do about that.” “Mmmmm, pussy on a stick . . .” Dove pulled from Nig’s hand and loped into the street. “Hey! Wait up, honey!” She heard him, saw him, frowned. He moved forward. She felt her shoulder jerk involuntarily and the expression she didn’t want twist through her face. She looked away and kept walking. If he did follow her, she wouldn’t hear him because he was barefoot; then heard him, much too close . . . He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you sure are a pretty thing! How about us going into that back alley and me eatin’ out your pussy . . .” She hunched away, opened her mouth, numbly astonished, closed it, pulled again. His hand was on the shoulder of her blouse, but when she pulled, his wrist touched her bare neck. Flesh on flesh started an explosion of revulsion that rippled her body, shook her face, snarled her features. She shook her head, hard. “I’d sure love to get down there and eat it out. Come on. Come on and sit on daddy’s face. What you so scared of a little pussy eatin’ for?” She started to— But he made as if he were going to hit her. Her shoulder struck the wall. She looked down, because he had grabbed the lap of her skirt. She felt his knuckles through the cloth. He was grinning, and bunching more cloth in his fingers. “Now what you got to be scared of? You’re gonna feel fine with my tongue a-workin’ it up.” Dove pushed his tongue out between his lips, wiggled it. The wall bruised the back of her head. He peered closer while she felt fear freeze her face, so the beginnings of screaming could only flicker around her lips. Then the elastic of her underpants tightened on her hip as his hand went under. “Hey, that’s a big hand full of pussy.” He winced; and his fingers gouged. She hit him hard as she could. She clamped her teeth and sucked in air. I’ve got to get away! She tried to see past him, left, right. “I’m gonna take you over in the alley. Then we’re gonna do it.” He jerked her head forward when she tried to hit again; her hand glanced his shoulder; his fingers clamped her neck. The other hand twisted between her legs; she staggered forward. He pulled her across the street. The shadow from the building edge covered them, and she tripped. Her underpants tore. But he caught her waist. He pushed her against a door. The knob struck her hip. And she was gagging on the outrage and the absurdity.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  In another part of the city, the longer hand on the church clock, in three starts, lurched a minute nearer midnight. Niger lolloped and high-legged it through the streets, pausing at a studio door, at the center of the city square, at a barred cellar window, to howl the season’s turning. A flash detonates all the combustible night. BULL, RETURNED:Anything? How about you want to suck on my dick. Shit, I can come ten or twelve times in a night, if I want. Last one was number nine. (He leans against the rocking cabin wall, hands in his pockets. Sometimes he moves his arm to brush Gunner’s. He stares directly in front of him and tries to make it seem as though it is the boat’s sway. On the rug, a hand flexes, is locked by another, is pulled back among heaving bodies. Gunner stares at the light points on the studs in Bull’s collar, the rigid flesh of the dark elbow, the reflections on the sweat under tangled belly hair.) You like piss, hey? Nazi told me you like to drink a guy’s piss. You know what I like: When I get all ready to come, say when maybe some little kid is sucking on my dick, I start to pee. It’s just like coming, only for a whole minute, you know? Mostly I just do it when I jerk off. I mean, I’d really like to do that. Yeah? Get down there, yeah! Like to have you around for a while, boy. You can take almost as much as I got to give. (Gunner has crouched down. Bull has one hand on Gunner’s shoulder. The other fumbles his fly.) Okay, now come on and do it. Use your teeth . . . harder, yeah, like that. Oh, yeah, fine. You’re doing real fine. SEVENHARBOR OF THE SCORPIONBut Doctor Faustus within short time after he had obtained his degree fell into such fantasies and deep cogitations that he was marked of many, and of the most part of the students was called the Speculator. —The Historie of the Damnable Life and Deserved Death of Doctor John Faust (1592) THE SCORPION’s log:Perhaps this is a bad book. If there are bad things in this book then I should throw it in the water because I was afraid of what was on his face and because I was surprised and scared—I wasn’t surprised at Bull in fact I guess I’m glad—because I didn’t feel sorry for him at all. I didn’t feel sorry for him. And it would be too much trouble to have write this down then to tear it up. Or hire him.