Jealousy

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 Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  Hugh loomed over her with narrowed gaze. “You’ve been trapped out here for three years, and the most excitement you can muster is for Lucien Remington?” Charlotte made no attempt to squelch the thrill she felt at his possessiveness. She blinked innocently. “Well, he’s rather legendary among the demimonde. I met his mother once. A delightful woman. She—” Lowering his head, Hugh bit her bottom lip. “Ow!” she complained, pouting. “He’s married. To my sister. Very happily, I should point out. It’s almost sickening the way they fawn over one another.” She shrugged. “I can look.” “No,” he said gruffly. “You cannot.” “You’re jealous!” Giggling, she tugged his head down and kissed him. Against her thigh, she felt his cock swell. “You should know that women like to ogle handsome men. Usually with as much enthusiasm as men like to ogle attractive women.” “My sister might not approve,” he said, against her lips. “Oh, you see, women actually like it when the men they escort draw such avid attention. It makes us quite proud to possess something so desired.” “Hmmm . . .” Hugh’s mouth twitched as he held back a smile. “I suppose I should round up some admirers. Perhaps then you’ll pay more attention to me than to Remington.” Charlotte’s smile wavered. She almost didn’t want to leave the estate, preferring instead to remain trapped with Hugh, safe from the forces that would separate them. “Ah, some women like it,” he noted perceptively, his hands brushing the hair away from her face. “But you are not one of them.” The conversation was rapidly moving to areas best left unexplored. “You’re heavy,” she said, trying to create distance between them, even if it was only physical. It was a lie, of course. She relished the feel of his hard, powerful body stretched over hers. She loved how it made her feel cherished and cared for, instead of dominated. “You bear my weight often. This is the first I’ve heard you complain.” His gaze burned her with its intensity. “Am I beginning to bore you, Charlotte?” “No!” Her hands reached for his face. In the last fortnight, she’d learned many things about her lover, the most important being how deeply he feared being expendable. “Oh, Hugh, not that. Never that.” “Never?” He brushed his mouth across hers. Arching up into his weight, she pulled him close. “Take me to bed now.” “Why?” She offered a seductive smile. “You know why.” “Yes.” He lifted away from her. “I know why.” Charlotte watched him, confused, as he rose from the settee and moved to the window where she’d stood a moment ago. “What do you think about when we’re making love?” he asked suddenly. “What do I . . . ?” She shook her head and sat up. “I don’t think about anything.” “Precisely.” “What are you saying?” “You use sex as a way to avoid your feelings.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  critic of Christian morals, Rée found this idea delightful. He wrote to his would have it, a certain friend about Salomé, describing how desperate she was to meet him. After lady fell very deeply in love a few such letters, Nietzsche hurried to Rome. with him. She saw that he felt the same way, and as Rée had made this invitation to please Salomé, and to impress her; he her love grew day by day, also wanted to see if Nietzsche shared his enthusiasm for the young girl's there not being any way for ideas. But as soon as Nietzsche arrived, something unpleasant happened: them to speak to each the great philosopher, who had always been a loner, was obviously smitten other, she revealed her sentiments to another lady, with Salomé. Instead of the three of them sharing intellectual conversa- who she hoped would be of tions together, Nietzsche seemed to be conspiring to get the girl alone. service to her in this affair. When Rée caught glimpses of Nietzsche and Salomé talking without in- Now this lady neither in rank nor beauty was a whit cluding him, he felt shivers of jealousy. Forget about some philosophers' inferior to the first; and it menage a trois: Salomé was his, he had discovered her, and he would not came about that when she share her, even with his good friend. Somehow he had to get her alone. heard the young man (whom she had never seen) Only then could he woo and win her. spoken of so affectionately, Madame Salomé had planned to escort her daughter back to Russia, and came to realize that but Salomé wanted to stay in Europe. Rée intervened, offering to travel the other woman, whom with the Salomés to Germany and introduce them to his own mother, she knew was extremely discreet and intelligent, who, he promised, would look after the girl and act as a chaperone. (Rée loved him beyond words, knew that his mother would be a lax guardian at best.) Madame Salomé she straight away began to agreed to this proposal, but Nietzsche was harder to shake: he decided to imagine that he must be the most handsome, the join them on their northward journey to Rée's home in Prussia. At one wisest, the most discreet of point in the trip, Nietzsche and Salomé took a walk by themselves, and men, and, in short, the 197 198 • The Art of Seduction man most worthy of her when they came back, Rée had the feeling that something physical had love in all the world. So, happened between them. His blood boiled; Salomé was slipping from his never having set eyes on grasp. him, she fell in love with him so passionately that Finally the group split up, the mother returning to Russia, Nietzsche to she set out to win him not his summer place in Tautenburg, Rée and Salomé staying behind at Rée's for her friend but for

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  tremely fond of her. He was depressed when she missed a lecture, and young man had himself would send her notes and flowers. Her involvement in a love affair with written it to her. And just Tausk made him intensely jealous, and he began to compete for her atten-as it sometimes happens that the poison prepared for tion. Tausk had been like a son to him, but the son was threatening to steal a prince kills the one who the father's platonic lover. Soon, however, Salomé left Tausk. Now her tastes his food, so that poor friendship with Freud was stronger than ever, and so it lasted until her woman, in her greediness, drank the love potion death, in 1937. prepared for another. What more is there to say? The affair was no secret, and things so developed that Interpretation. Men did not just fall in love with Lou Andreas-Salomé; many other women besides, they were overwhelmed with the desire to possess her, to wrest her away partly to spite the others from others, to be the proud owner of her body and spirit. They rarely saw and partly to follow their her alone; she always in some way surrounded herself with other men. Appear to Be an Object of Desire—Create Triangles • 199 When she saw that Rée was interested in her, she mentioned her desire to example, put every care meet Nietzsche. This inflamed Rée, and made him want to marry her and and effort into winning this man's love, squabbling over to keep him for himself, but she insisted on meeting his friend. His letters it for a while as boys do to Nietzsche betrayed his desire for this woman, and this in turn kindled for cherries. Nietzsche's own desire for her, even before he had met her. Every time one —BALDASSARE CASTIGLIONE, of the two men was alone with her, the other was in the background. THE BOOK OFTHE COURTIER, Then, later on, most of the men who met her knew of the infamous TRANSLATED BY GEORGE BULL Nietzsche affair, and this only increased their desire to possess her, to compete with Nietzsche's memory. Freud's affection for her, similarly, turned into potent desire when he had to vie with Tausk for her attention. Salomé Most of the time we prefer one thing to another was intelligent and attractive enough on her own account; but her constant because that is what our strategy of imposing a triangle of relationships on her suitors made her de- friends already prefer or sirability intense. And while they fought over her, she had the power, being because that object has desired by all and subject to none. marked social significance. Adults, when they are

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  83 Desdemona will marry. He says that he will not stand in their way, but he warns Othello that Desdemona has deceived him and may deceive Othello, thereby planting the seeds of jealousy in Othello’s mind. Othello has now achieved the height of his ambition: he has won the hand of Desdemona and has been placed in command of the Venetian forces in Cyprus for war against the Ottoman Turks. The remainder of the play takes place in Cyprus. Iago assures Roderigo that he will win Desdemona. To achieve this, they must make Othello jealous. Cassio will be the foil for this plot. Iago will make Othello believe that Desdemona loves Cassio and is being unfaithful. Iago fl atters Cassio and encourages him to become drunk. Cassio then wounds a nobleman in a fi ght, which angers Othello. Iago suggests that Cassio ask Desdemona to appeal to Othello on his behalf, which Cassio does. Desdemona agrees to intercede for Cassio and a now suspicious Othello sees Cassio kissing Desdemona’s hand in gratitude. Iago asks his dutiful wife, Emilia, to obtain Desdemona’s handkerchief, a treasured gift from Othello. Desdemona accidentally drops the handkerchief; Emilia takes it, and Iago plants it in Cassio’s room. Desdemona asks Othello to consider restoring Cassio’s position, increasing Othello’s jealousy. Cassio fi nds Desdemona’s handkerchief and gives it to Bianca, a courtesan. When Iago and Othello notice Bianca carrying the handkerchief, she tells them that Cassio gave it to her. Othello, driven mad by jealousy, accuses Desdemona of infi delity and strangles her. The senators arrive, and the truth is revealed. Iago is led off to torture, and Othello kills himself. Scene from Shakespeare play Othello. © Photos.com/Thinkstock. 84 Lecture 15: Shakespeare, Othello, the Moor of Venice No God is working behind the scenes in Othello. Shakespeare’s play deals with real human nature and real human fi gures. Othello speaks across the ages. Moral blindness still grips and motivates nations and individuals. Humanity is prey to deception, power, jealousy, ambition and manipulation. That is the tragedy of Shakespeare. In Shakespeare, we see humans continually making the same mistakes, unable to learn from them. ■ Shakespeare, Othello. Schoek, Envy: A Theory of Social Behaviour. Spivack, Shakespeare and the Allegory of Evil. 1. Do you believe that Othello could have avoided his fate? 2. In light of Othello, how might you reconsider aspects of your life that have been marred by false ambition? Essential Reading Supplementary Reading Questions to Consider

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  When meeting a woman for the first time, Casanova might dress in the most fantastic outfit, with jewels and brilliant colors to dazzle the eye; he would use the target's reaction to gauge whether or not she would demand a more complicated seduction. Some of his victims, particularly young girls, needed no more than the glittering and spellbinding appearance, which was really what they wanted, and the seduction would stay on that level. Everything depends on your target: do not bother creating depth for people who are insensitive to it, or who may even be put off or disturbed by it. You can recognize such types by their preference for the simpler pleasures in life, their lack of patience for a more nuanced story. With them, keep it simple. Appear to Be an Object of Desire —Create Triangles Few are drawn to the person whom others avoid or ne- glect; people gather around those who have already attracted interest. We want what other people want. To draw your victims closer and make them hungry to possess you, you must create an aura of desirability— of being wanted and courted by many. It will become a point of vanity for them to be the preferred object of your attention, to win you away from a crowd of admirers. Manufacture the illusion of popularity by surrounding yourself with members of the opposite sex— friends, former lovers, present suitors. Create triangles that stimulate rivalry and raise your value. Build a reputation that precedes you: if many have succumbed to your charms, there must be a reason. Creating Triangles One evening in 1882, the thirty-two-year-old Prussian philosopher Paul Rée, living in Rome at the time, visited the house of an older woman who ran a salon for writers and artists. Rée noticed a newcomer there, a twenty-one-year-old Russian girl named Lou von Salomé, who had come to Rome on holiday with her mother. Rée introduced himself and they began a conversation that lasted well into the night. Her ideas Let me tell you about a about God and morality were like his own; she talked with such intensity, gentleman I once knew yet at the same time her eyes seemed to flirt with him. Over the next few who, although he was of pleasing appearance and days Rée and Salomé took long walks through the city. Intrigued by her modest behavior, and also a mind yet confused by the emotions she aroused, he wanted to spend more very capable warrior, was time with her. Then, one day, she startled him with a proposition: she not so outstanding as regards any of these knew he was a close friend of the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, then qualities that there were also visiting Italy. The three of them, she said, should travel together—no, not to be found many who actually live together, in a kind of philosophers' menage a trois. A fierce were his equal and even better. However, as luck

• From Middlesex (2002)

  face in his pillow, he understood the complaint of fathers everywhere who lived like boarders in their own homes. He felt a mad jealousy toward his infant son, whose cries were the only sounds Desdemona seemed to hear, whose little body was the recipient of unending min- istrations and caresses, and who had muscled his own father aside in Desdemona's affections by a seemingly divine subterfuge, a god tak- ing the form of a piglet in order to suckle at a woman's breast. Over the next weeks and months, Lefty watched from the Siberia of his side of the bed as this mother-infant love affair blossomed. He saw his wife scrunch her face up against the baby's to make cooing noises; he marveled at her complete lack of disgust toward the infant's bodily processes, the tenderness with which she cleaned up and powdered the baby's bottom, rubbing with circular motions and even once, to Lefty's shock, spreading the tiny buttocks to daub the rosebud be- tween with petroleum jelly. From then on, my grandparents' relationship began to change. Up until Milton's birth, Lefty and Desdemona had enjoyed an un- usually close and egalitarian marriage for its time. But as Lefty began to feel left out, he retaliated with tradition. He stopped calling his wife kukla^ which meant "doll," and began calling her kyria^ which meant "Madame." He reinstituted sex segregation in the house, re- 130 serving the sola for his male companions and banishing Desdemona to the kitchen. He began to give orders. "Kyria, my dinner." Or: "Kyria, bring the drinks!" In this he acted like his contemporaries and no one noticed anything out of the ordinary except Sourmelina. But even she couldn't entirely throw off the chains of the village, and when Lefty had his male friends over to the house to smoke cigars and sing kleftic songs, she retreated to her bedroom.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  critic of Christian morals, Rée found this idea delightful. He wrote to his would have it, a certain friend about Salomé, describing how desperate she was to meet him. After lady fell very deeply in love a few such letters, Nietzsche hurried to Rome. with him. She saw that he felt the same way, and as Rée had made this invitation to please Salomé, and to impress her; he her love grew day by day, also wanted to see if Nietzsche shared his enthusiasm for the young girl's there not being any way for ideas. But as soon as Nietzsche arrived, something unpleasant happened: them to speak to each the great philosopher, who had always been a loner, was obviously smitten other, she revealed her sentiments to another lady, with Salomé. Instead of the three of them sharing intellectual conversa- who she hoped would be of tions together, Nietzsche seemed to be conspiring to get the girl alone. service to her in this affair. When Rée caught glimpses of Nietzsche and Salomé talking without in- Now this lady neither in rank nor beauty was a whit cluding him, he felt shivers of jealousy. Forget about some philosophers' inferior to the first; and it menage a trois: Salomé was his, he had discovered her, and he would not came about that when she share her, even with his good friend. Somehow he had to get her alone. heard the young man (whom she had never seen) Only then could he woo and win her. spoken of so affectionately, Madame Salomé had planned to escort her daughter back to Russia, and came to realize that but Salomé wanted to stay in Europe. Rée intervened, offering to travel the other woman, whom with the Salomés to Germany and introduce them to his own mother, she knew was extremely discreet and intelligent, who, he promised, would look after the girl and act as a chaperone. (Rée loved him beyond words, knew that his mother would be a lax guardian at best.) Madame Salomé she straight away began to agreed to this proposal, but Nietzsche was harder to shake: he decided to imagine that he must be the most handsome, the join them on their northward journey to Rée's home in Prussia. At one wisest, the most discreet of point in the trip, Nietzsche and Salomé took a walk by themselves, and men, and, in short, the 197 198 • The Art of Seduction man most worthy of her when they came back, Rée had the feeling that something physical had love in all the world. So, happened between them. His blood boiled; Salomé was slipping from his never having set eyes on grasp. him, she fell in love with him so passionately that Finally the group split up, the mother returning to Russia, Nietzsche to she set out to win him not his summer place in Tautenburg, Rée and Salomé staying behind at Rée's for her friend but for

• From Middlesex (2002)

  There was a sound out in the woods, twigs snapping. The Object grabbed Rex's arm. "What was that?" "Maybe a bear," Jerome said. "Neither of you girls are on the rag, I hope," said Rex. "Rex!" the Object protested. "Hey, I'm serious. Bears can smell it. I was out camping in Yel- lowstone one time and there was this woman out there who got killed. Grizzly could smell the blood." "That is not true!" "I swear. This guy I know told me. He was an Outward Bound guide." "Well, I don't know about Callie, but I'm not," said the Object. They all looked at me. "I'm not either," I said. "I guess we're safe, then, Roman," said Rex, and laughed. The Object was still holding on to him for protection. "You want to do a shotgun?" he asked her. "What's that?" 371 "Here." He turned to face her. "What you do is one person opens their mouth and the other person blows the smoke into it. You get totally fucked up. It's excellent." Rex put the lit end of the joint in his mouth. He leaned toward the Object. She leaned forward too. She opened her mouth. And Rex began to blow. The Obscure Object's lips were a perfect ripe oval and into that target, that bull's-eye, Rex Reese directed the stream of musky smoke. I could see the column rush into the Object's mouth. It disappeared down her throat like Whitewater over falls. Finally she coughed and he stopped. "Good hit. Now do me." The Object's green eyes were watering. But she took the joint and inserted it between her lips. She leaned toward Rex Reese, who opened his own mouth wide. When they were finished, Jerome took the joint from his sister. "Let me see if I can master the technical difficulties here," he said. The next thing I knew, his face was close to mine. So finally I did it, too. Leaned forward, closed my eyes, parted my lips, and let Jerome shot- gun into my mouth a long, dirty plume of smoke. Smoke filled my lungs, which began to burn. I coughed and let it out. When I opened my eyes again, Rex had his arm around the Ob- ject's shoulder. She was trying to act casual about it. Rex finished his beer. He opened two more, one for him and one for her. He turned toward the Object. He smiled. He said something I couldn't hear. And then while I was still blinking he covered the Object's lips with his sour, handsome, pot-smoking mouth. Across the flickering shack Jerome and I were left pretending not to notice. The joint was ours now to bogart as we wished. We passed it back and forth in silence and sipped our beers. "I'm having this weird thing where my feet look extremely far away," Jerome said after a while. "Do your feet look extremely far away to you?"

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Jerome and I were still sitting up. He was pressing his face against mine. By maneuvering a little, I could see across the room to where Rex and the Object were. They were lying down now. The tails of Rex's blue shirt seemed to flap in the wavering light. Beneath him one of the Object's legs dangled off the bed, the cuff of her pants muddy. I heard them whispering and laughing, then silence again. I 373 watched the Object's mud-stained leg dancing. I concentrated on that leg, so that I hardly noticed when Jerome began to pull me down on our cot. I let him; I gave in to our slow collapse, all the while watch- ing Rex Reese and the Object out of one eye. Rex's hands were mov- ing over the Object's body now. They were pulling up her shirt, moving under it. Then their bodies shifted so that I saw their faces in profile. The Object's face, as still as a death mask, waited with eyes closed. Rex's profile was rampant, flushed. Meanwhile Jerome's hands were moving over me. He was rubbing my overalls, but I was no longer in them exactiy. My focus on the Object was too intense. Ecstasy. From the Greek Ekstasis. Meaning not what you think. Meaning not euphoria or sexual climax or even happiness. Meaning, literally: a state of displacement, of being driven out of one's senses. Three thousand years ago in Delphi the Oracle became ecstatic every single working hour. That night in a hunting cabin in northern Michigan, so did Calliope. High for my first time, drunk for my first time, I felt myself dissolving, turning to vapor. Like the incense at church my soul rose toward the dome of my skull— and then broke through. I drifted over the plank floor. I floated above the little camp stove. Passing by the bourbon bottles, I hovered over the other cot, looking down at the Object. And then, because I suddenly knew that I could, I slipped into the body of Rex Reese. I entered him like a god so that it was me, and not Rex, who kissed her. .

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Come on," I said. "We've got to go to that thing." "What thing?" "You know. That thing." Finally I managed to pull her away. She left trailing smiles and significant looks. As soon as we got off the porch she was frowning at me. "Where are you taking me?" she said angrily. "Away from that creep." "Can't you leave me alone for a minute?" "You want me to leave you alone?" I said. "Okay, I'll leave you alone." I didn't move. "Can't I even talk to a boy at a party?" the Object asked. "I was taking you away before it was too late." "What do you mean?" "You've got bad breath." This checked the Object. This struck her to her core. She wilted. "I do?" she asked. "It's just a little oniony," I said. We were on the back lawn now. Kids were sitting on the stone porch rail, their cigarette tips glowing in the darkness. "What do you think of Rex?" the Object whispered. "What? Don't tell me you like him." 356 "I didn't say I like him." I scoped her face, seeking the answer. She noticed this and walked farther away over the lawn. I followed. I said earlier that most of my emotions are hybrids. But not all. Some are pure and unadulterated. Jealousy, for instance. "Rex is okay," I said when I had caught up to her. "If you like manslaughters ." "That was an accident," said the Object. The moon was three-quarters full. It silvered the fat leaves of the trees. The grass was wet. We both kicked off our clogs to stand in it. After a moment, sighing, the Object laid her head on my shoulder. "It's good you're going away," she said. "Why?" "Because this is too weird." I looked back to see if anyone could see us. No one could. So I put my arm around her. For the next few minutes we stood under the moon-blanched trees, listening to the music blaring from the house. The cops would come soon. The cops always came. That was something you could depend on in Grosse Pointe. The next morning, I went to church with Tessie. As usual, Aunt Zo was down in front, setting an example. Aristotie, Socrates, and Plato were wearing their gangster suits. Cleo was sunk into her black mane, about to doze off. The rear and sides of the church were dark. Icons gloomed from the porticoes or raised stiff fingers in the glinting chapels. Beneath the dome, light fell in a chalky beam. The air was already thick with incense. Moving back and forth, the priests looked like men at a hammam.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  What can I say about my well-bred, small-nosed, trust-funded schoolmates? Descended from hardworking, thrifty industrialists (there were two girls in my class who had the same last names as American car makers), did they show aptitudes for math or science? 296 Did they display mechanical ingenuity? Or a commitment to the Protestant work ethic? In a word: no. There is no evidence against genetic determinism more persuasive than the children of the rich. The Charm Bracelets didn't study. They never raised their hands in class. They sat in the back, slumping, and went home each day carry- ing the prop of a notebook. (But maybe the Charm Bracelets under- stood more about life than I did. From an early age they knew what little value the world placed in books, and so didn't waste their time with them. Whereas I, even now, persist in believing that these black marks on white paper bear the greatest significance, that if I keep writing I might be able to catch the rainbow of consciousness in a jar. The only trust fund I have is this story, and unlike a prudent Wasp, I'm dipping into principal, spending it all . . .) Passing by their lockers in seventh grade, I wasn't aware of all this yet. I look back now (as Dr. Luce urged me to do) to see exactiy what twelve-year-old Calliope was feeling, watching the Charm Bracelets undress in steamy light. Was there a shiver of arousal in her? Did flesh respond beneath goalie pads? I try to remember, but what comes back is only a bundle of emotions: envy, certainly, but also dis- dain. Inferiority and superiority at once. Above all, there was panic. In front of me girls were entering and exiting the showers. The flashes of nakedness were like shouts going off. A year or so earlier these same girls had been porcelain figurines, gingerly dipping their toes into the disinfectant basin at the public pool. Now they were magnificent creatures. Moving through the humid air, I felt like a snorkeler. On I came, kicking my heavy, padded legs and gaping through the goalie mask at the fantastic underwater life all around me. Sea anemones sprouted from between my classmates' legs. They came in all colors, black, brown, electric yellow, vivid red. Higher up, their breasts bobbed like jellyfish, softly pulsing, tipped with stinging pink. Everything was waving in the current, feeding on microscopic plankton, growing bigger by the minute. The shy, plump girls were like sea lions, lurking in the depths. The surface of the sea is a mirror, reflecting divergent evolution- ary paths. Up above, the creatures of air; down below, those of water. One planet, containing two worlds. My classmates were as unaston- ished by their extravagant traits as a blowfish is by its quills. They seemed to be a different species. It was as if they had scent glands or 297

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “I’m not allowed to sit next to my date?” I asked. “Pudge, one of us has been a girl her whole life. The other of us has never gotten to second base. If I were you, I’d sit down, look cute, and be your pleasantly aloof self.” “Okay. Whatever you say.” Jake said, “That’s pretty much my strategy for pleasing Alaska.” “Aww,” she said, “so sweet! Pudge, did I tell you that Jake is recording an album with his band? They’re fantastic. They’re like Radiohead meets the Flaming Lips. Did I tell you that I came up with their name, Hickman Territory?” And then, realizing she was being silly: “Did I tell you that Jake is hung like a horse and a beautiful, sensual lover?” “Baby, Jesus.” Jake smiled. “Not in front of the kids.” I wanted to hate Jake, of course, but as I watched them together, smiling and fumbling all over each other, I didn’t hate him. I wanted to be him, sure, but I tried to remember I was ostensibly on a date with someone else. Harsden Academy’s star player was a six-foot-seven Goliath named Travis Eastman that everyone—even his mother, I suspect—called the Beast. The first time the Beast got to the free-throw line, the Colonel could not keep himself from swearing while he taunted: “You owe everything to your daddy, you stupid redneck bastard.” The Beast turned around and glared, and the Colonel almost got kicked out after the first free throw, but he smiled at the ref and said, “Sorry!” “I want to stay around for a good part of this one,” he said to me. At the start of the second half, with the Creek down by a surprisingly slim margin of twenty-four points and the Beast at the foul line, the Colonel looked at Takumi and said, “It’s time.” Takumi and the Colonel stood up as the crowd went, “Shhh…” “I don’t know if this is the best time to tell you this,” the Colonel shouted at the Beast, “but Takumi here hooked up with your girlfriend just before the game.” That made everyone laugh—except the Beast, who turned from the free throw line and walked calmly, with the ball, toward us. “I think we run now,” Takumi said. “I haven’t gotten kicked out,” the Colonel answered. “Later,” Takumi said. I don’t know whether it was the general anxiety of being on a date (albeit one with my would-be date sitting five people away from me) or the specific anxiety of having the Beast stare in my direction, but for some reason, I took off running after Takumi. I thought we were in the clear as we began to round the corner of the bleachers, but then I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a cylindrical orange object getting bigger and bigger, like a fast-approaching sun. I thought: I think that is going to hit me. I thought: I should duck.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Over the next few years, Amy sharpened this mode of dissociative sex, mostly in order to fulfill a social obligation that she felt from both girls and boys. Girls, who wanted to see Amy respond to their beauty, their flirting, in the correct ways. Boys, who wanted to brag about conquests, or more commonly, bond over them. In Amy’s late teens, sharing attempted conquests had become the primary and most thrilling activity among boys. The way they got to know and trust each other. The girls were incidental. More than that, they were vaguely disdained in subtle manners by the boys—in college, a girl Amy talked to about her high school years made a strong case for calling this disdain misogyny—because girls frustratingly didn’t always conform to the boys’ plans. Still, enough of them did for Amy and her friends. And so the important questions were: How many girls would be at the party? Did you see that short girl? Did you get with her? She had nice titties, didn’t she? Did you give it to her? No? She left you blue-balled? Sucks, bro. Bitches be cray. The more Amy went along with this, the more she grew to fear sex. To fear the comedown afterward, when she couldn’t dissociate any longer, and had to confront her obvious brutishness. She came to resent the tight cliques of girls who saw how other, dangerous, and terribly male she was. They might have said she was cute, noticed her abs or her pretty-boy face. But she was not to be allowed in among the girls. Amy was disgusted at the way she craved approval through behavior that made her feel like a cosmic joke: an asshole with no self-esteem who wanted to be one of the girls so badly there weren’t even the words for it, so she got close in the crudest ways instead. At times the resentment spiked into self-loathing—whole weeks when she either couldn’t bear to look at herself in the mirror or didn’t want to do anything else. When she watched the girls she knew, a burning jealousy would stab through her. Little things. How they plucked their eyebrows. How they put their hands on each other’s arms. Jealous. Jealous. Jealous. So it was easy for her to call girls bitches. To dismiss their concerns, which cruelly could never apply to her. To charm the boys with jokes about the ridiculousness of girls, of femininity in general.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Atthe height ofthe festivities,Sourmelina causedascandalwhenshe returned from herroomwearingabrightorangedress. "Whatare you doing?" Desdemonawhispered."Awidowwears blackfor therest ofherlife." "Forty daysis enough,"saidLina, andwentoneating. Onlythen couldthebabiesbebaptized.The nextSaturday,Des- demona, seizedwith conflicting emotions, watchedasthechildren's godfathers heldthem above thebaptismalfont at Assumption. Asshe entered thechurch, mygrandmother hadfeltanintensepride. People crowded around, tryingto getalookathernewbaby,who hadthe miraculous powerofturningeven theoldestwomeninto young mothersagain.Duringtheriteitself,FatherStylianopoulos clipped a lock ofMilton'shairanddroppeditintothe water.Hechrismedthe sign ofthecrossonthebaby'sforehead.He submergedtheinfant underthewater.ButasMiltonwascleansedoforiginal sin,Desde- monaremained cognizant ofheriniquity.Silently,sherepeated her vownevertohaveanotherchild. "Lina,"shebeganafewdays later, blushing. "What?" "Nothing." "Not nothing.Something.What?" "I was wondering. Howdo you ... if you don'twant .. ." And sheblurteditout:"How doyou keepfromgettingpregnant?" Lina gavealowlaugh."That'snotsomethingIhavetoworry about anymore." "But doyouknowhow? Isthere a way?" "Mymother alwayssaidas longasyou'renursing,youcan'tget pregnant. I don'tknow ifit'strue,butthat'swhatshesaid." "But afterthat,whatthen?" "Simple. Don'tsleepwith yourhusband." At present, itwas possible.Since thebirth of die baby, mygrand- parents had taken a hiatus fromlovemaking.Desdemonawasup half thenight breast-feeding. Shewasalways exhausted.Inaddition,her perineum hadtornduring thedeliveryandwas stillhealing.Lefty politely kept himself from startinganythingamorous,but after the second month hebeganto comeoverto hersideofthebed.Desde- mona held him off as long as shecould. "It'stoosoon,"shesaid. "We don't want anotherbaby." 129 "Why not?Miltonneeds a brother." "You're hurtingme." "I'llbegentle. Come here." "No, please, not tonight." "What? Are youturningintoSourmelina? Onceayear is enough?" "Quiet.You'llwakethe baby." "Idon'tcareifI wakethebaby." "Don'tshout.Okay.Here.I'mready." Butfiveminuteslater: "What'sthematter?" "Nothing." "Don'ttellmenothing.It'slikebeing withastatue." "Oh,Lefty!"Andsheburstintosobs. Leftycomfortedherandapologized, butasheturnedover togo tosleephefelthimselfbeingenclosedinthelonelinessof fatherhood. Withthebirthofhisson,Eleutherios Stephanidessawhisfutureand continuingdiminishmentintheeyesofhiswife,and asheburiedhis faceinhispillow,heunderstoodthecomplaintof fatherseverywhere wholivedlikeboardersintheirownhomes.Hefelt amad jealousy towardhisinfant son,whosecries werethe only sounds Desdemona seemed tohear,whoselittlebodywastherecipientofunendingmin- istrations andcaresses, andwhohadmuscledhisownfather asidein Desdemona's affectionsbyaseeminglydivine subterfuge, agodtak- ingtheformof a pigletinorder to suckle ata woman'sbreast.Over thenext weeksandmonths,Lefty watchedfromtheSiberiaofhis sideof thebed as thismother-infantloveaffair blossomed. Hesaw his wifescrunchher faceupagainst the baby's tomakecooingnoises; hemarveled athercompletelackofdisgusttoward theinfant'sbodily processes, thetendernesswithwhichshecleanedup andpowdered the baby'sbottom,rubbingwithcircularmotions andeven once,to Lefty's shock, spreadingthetiny buttocks to daubthe rosebud be- tweenwith petroleumjelly. Fromthen on,mygrandparents' relationship began tochange. Up untilMilton's birth,LeftyandDesdemona hadenjoyedanun- usuallycloseand egalitarianmarriageforitstime. ButasLefty began tofeelleft out, heretaliatedwithtradition. Hestopped callinghis wife kukla^ which meant"doll,"andbegan calling herkyria^which meant"Madame."Hereinstitutedsexsegregation inthehouse,re- 130 serving the sola forhismalecompanions and banishingDesdemona to the kitchen. He began togiveorders."Kyria,mydinner."Or: "Kyria, bringthe drinks!"Inthisheactedlikehiscontemporaries and noone noticed anything out of theordinaryexceptSourmelina.But even she couldn't entirelythrow offthechains ofthe village,and when Leftyhad hismalefriends overtothehouse to smokecigars andsing kleftic songs,sheretreated toherbedroom. Shut up in theisolationofpaternity,Lefty Stephanidesconcen- tratedon findinga safer waytomakealiving.He wrotetotheAt- lantis PublishingCompany in NewYork,offering hisservicesasa translator,but receivedinreturn onlyaletterthanking himforhisin- terest,along with a catalogue.He gavethecataloguetoDesdemona, whoordereda newdreambook. WearinghisblueProtestantsuit, Leftyvisited thelocaluniversities andcollegesinperson to inquire about thepossibilityofbecoming a Greekinstructor. Buttherewere few positions,andallwerefilled.Mygrandfatherlacked theneces- saryclassicsdegree;hehadn'tevengraduatedfromuniversity. Thoughhelearnedtospeakafluent,somewhateccentricEnglish,his writtencommandofthelanguagewasmediocreatbest.Withawife andchildtosupport,therewasnothoughtofhisreturningto school. Despitetheseobstacles ormaybe because ofthem,duringthe forty-daymourning period Leftyhad setupastudy forhimselfinthe livingroomandreturned to hisscholarlypursuits.Obstinately,and for sheerescape,hespenthourstranslatingHomerandMimnermos intoEnglish. He used beautiful,muchtoo expensiveMilanesenote- booksandwrote witha fountainpenfilledwithemeraldink.Inthe evenings,other young immigrantmencameover,bringing bootleg whiskey, andtheyalldrankandplayed backgammon.Sometimes Desdemona smelledthe familiarmusky-sweetscentseeping under the door. During thedaytime,ifhefelt cooped up, Leftypulledhisnewfe- doralow on hisforehead andleftthehouseto think.Hewalked downto WaterworksPark, amazedthattheAmericanshad built such apalace to houseplumbing filtersandintake valves.Hewentdown to theriver andstood amongthedry-docked boats.Germanshep- herds, chained in ice-whitened yards,snarledathim. He peekedinto the windows ofbait shopsclosedfor thewinter. During oneof thesewalks hepasseda demolishedapartment building.Thefacade 131

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Did they display mechanical ingenuity?Ora commitmentto the Protestantwork ethic? In a word:no. Thereisnoevidence against genetic determinism more persuasivethanthechildren ofthe rich. The Charm Braceletsdidn't study. Theyneverraisedtheirhands in class. Theysat intheback, slumping, andwenthomeeachdaycarry- ingthe propofa notebook.(But maybethe CharmBraceletsunder- stood moreabout lifethan Idid.Froman earlyagethey knew what littlevaluethe worldplaced inbooks,andso didn't waste theirtime with them.WhereasI, evennow,persist inbelievingthattheseblack marks onwhite paperbearthegreatest significance,thatifI keep writingImightbe abletocatchtherainbow ofconsciousnessinajar. Theonlytrust fundIhaveisthisstory, andunlikeaprudentWasp, I'mdipping intoprincipal,spendingitall.. .) Passing by theirlockersinseventhgrade,Iwasn't awareofallthis yet. Ilookbacknow(asDr.Luceurgedmetodo)tosee exactiywhat twelve-year-oldCalliopewasfeeling,watchingthe CharmBracelets undressinsteamylight.Wasthereashiverofarousal in her? Did fleshrespondbeneathgoaliepads?Itrytoremember,but what comesbackisonlyabundleofemotions:envy,certainly,butalsodis- dain.Inferiority andsuperiorityatonce.Aboveall,therewaspanic. Infrontofmegirls wereenteringandexitingtheshowers.The flashesofnakedness werelikeshoutsgoingoff.Ayearorsoearlier these samegirlshadbeenporcelain figurines,gingerlydippingtheir toesinto thedisinfectantbasin atthepublicpool. Now theywere magnificent creatures.Movingthrough thehumidair,Ifeltlikea snorkeler. OnI came,kickingmy heavy,paddedlegsandgaping through thegoalie mask at thefantastic underwaterlifeall around me.Sea anemones sproutedfrom betweenmyclassmates'legs. They camein allcolors, black,brown, electric yellow,vividred. Higherup, theirbreasts bobbed likejellyfish, softlypulsing, tipped withstinging pink. Everything waswavingin thecurrent,feedingon microscopic plankton, growing bigger bytheminute. Theshy, plumpgirlswere like sealions, lurking inthe depths. The surface ofthe seais amirror,reflecting divergentevolution- ary paths. Upabove, thecreatures ofair;downbelow,thoseofwater. One planet, containing two worlds.Myclassmateswere as unaston- ished by their extravagant traitsas a blowfishis by its quills.They seemed tobe adifferent species. Itwasasiftheyhadscentglands or 297 marsupial pouches, adaptationsforfecundity,forprocreatingin the wild, whichhad nothingtodowithskinny,hairless,domesticated me. Ihurriedby, desolate,myearsringingwith thenoiseofthe place. BeyondtheCharm Bracelets Ipassednextintotheareaofthe Kilt Pins. Themostpopulousphyluminour lockerroom, the KiltPins tookupthree rows of lockers.There theywere,fatandskinny,pale and freckled,clumsilyputtingonsocksor pullingup unbecoming underwear.Theywerelikethedevices thatheld ourtartanstogether, unremarkable,dull,butnecessaryintheirway. I don'trememberany of theirnames. PasttheCharm Bracelets,through theKiltPins,deeperintothe lockerroom,Calliopelimped.Backtowherethetileswerecracked andtheplaster yellowing, undertheflickeringlightfixtures,bythe drinkingfountainwiththeprehistoricpieceofguminthedrain,I hurried towhere I belonged,tomy niche ofthelocal habitat. Iwasn'talonethatyearinhavingmycircumstancesaltered.The specterofbusing had started other parentslookingintoprivate schools.Baker&Inglis,withanimpressivephysicalplantbutasmall endowment, wasn'taversetoincreasing enrollment.And so,in the autumnof 1972, we hadarrived(thesteamthinsoutthisfarfrom theshowers andIcanseemy old friends clearly):ReetikaChura- swami, withherenormousyelloweyesand sparrow'swaist;and Joanne MariaBarbaraPeracchio, with hercorrectedclubfootand (it must beadmitted) John BirchSociety affiliation;NormaAbdow, whosefather hadgone awayon theHajand nevercomeback;Tina Kubek,who was Czechbyblood;and Linda Ramirez, halfSpanish, half Filipina, who wasstandingstill,waiting forherglassestounfog. "Ethnic"girls we werecalled, but thenwho wasn't,whenyougot rightdown toit? Weren't theCharm Bracelets everybit as ethnic? Weren'tthey as full ofstrangerituals andfood? Oftribalspeech? Theysaid"bogue" for repulsiveand "queer"for weird.Theyatetiny^ crustlesssandwiches on whitebread— cucumber sandwiches,mayon- naise,andsomething called "watercress." Untilwe came to Baker & Inglis my friends and I had alwaysfelt completely American.But now the Bracelets' upturned nosessuggested that therewasanother America to whichwe could never gain admittance. Allofa sudden Americawasn't about hamburgers and hot rods anymore. It was about the Mayflower and Plymouth Rock.It wasabout something 298

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Martinisina can,Callie.Weliveinanage ofwonders." Five hourslater, not at allsober,heturned up the unpavedroad that ledto the summerhouse.Itwasteno'clockby thistime. In moonlightwe carriedourbagsuptothebackporch. Mushrooms dotted the pine-needled path betweenthethingray pines.Next to the houseanartesian wellchimedamongmossyrocks. Whenwecame inthekitchendoor,wefound Jerome. Hewas sit- tingatthetable, readingtheWeekly World News.Thepallorof his face suggestedthat hehadbeen thereprettymuchallmonth. His luster- less blackhairlooked particularlyinert.Hehad ona Frankenstein T-shirt, seersuckershorts,whitecanvas Top-Siders withoutsocks. "Ipresenttoyou MissStephanides,"Mr.Objectsaid. "Welcometothe hinterland." Jerome stood up andshookhisfa- ther'shand.Theyattempteda hug. "Where's yourmother?" "She's upstairsgetting dressedforthepartyyou're incrediblylate for.Hermoodreflects that." "Whydon'tyou take Callie uptoher room?Showheraround." "Check,"said Jerome. Wewentupthe backstairsoffthekitchen. "The guest room's beingpainted," Jerome toldme."Soyou're stayingin my sister's room." "Where isshe?" "She's outonthe backporch withRex." Myblood stopped. "Rex Reese>" "His 'rents haveaplace up here,too." Jerome then showedmetheessentials,guesttowels,bathroom location, how toworkthelights.Buthismannerswerelostonme.I was wondering why theObject hadn'tmentionedanythingabout Rexon thephone. Shehadbeen up herethreeweeksandsaidnoth- ing. We came backintoherbedroom.Herrumpledclothes layonthe unmade bed.There wasadirtyashtrayononepillow. "Mylittle sister isacreatureofslovenlyhabits," Jerome said,look- ing around. "Are youneat?" I nodded. "Me too. Onlywaytobe.Hey." Hecamearoundtofaceme now. "What happened to your triptoTurkey?" "It got canceled." 365 "Excellent.Nowyoucan be inmyfilm.I'mshooting it uphere. Areyouup forthat?" "Ithoughtittookplacein a boarding school." "I decidedtomakeit a boarding schoolintheboonies." Jerome was standing somewhatclosetome.Hishandsfloppedaround inhis pocketsashesquintedatmeandrocked onhisheels. "Should wegodownstairs?"Ifinallyasked. "What?Oh,right.Yeah.Let's go." Jerome turnedandbolted.I followedhimbackdownandthrough thekitchen.Aswewerecross- ingtheliving roomIheardvoicesoutontheporch. "SoSelfridge,thatlightweight, pukes?RexReesewassaying. "Doesn'tevenmakeittothebathroom.Pukesrightonthebar." "Ican'tbelieve it!Selfridge!"ItwastheObjectnow,cryingout withamusement. "Heblewchunks. Rightinto his stinger.I couldn'tbelieve it. It wasliketheNiagaraFallsof puke. Selfridgewoofsonthebarand everybody jumpsofftheirstools,right?Selfridgeisfacedowninhis own puke. For a minutethere'stotalsilence.Thenthisonegirlstarts gagging . ..andit'slike a chainreaction.Thewholeplacestartsgag- ging, puke'sdrippingeverywhere,andthe bartenderis—pissed.He's huge, too.He'sruckinghuge.Hecomesoverandlooks down at Sel- fridge.I'mgoinglikeIdon't knowthisguy. Neversawhimbefore. Andthen guesswhat?" "What?" "The bartenderreachesoutandgrabshold ofSelfridge.He'sgot him bythecollarand thebelt, right?Andhelifts Selfridgelike a foot upintheair—and Zambonisthebarwithhim!" "Noway!" "I'mnotkidding. Zamboniedthe Fridgeright inhisownbarf!" Atthatpointwe stepped out ontothe porch.TheObjectand Rex Reesewere sitting together ona whitewicker couch.Itwasdarkout, coolish,butthe Object was stillin herswimsuit, ashamrock bikini. Shehad a beachtowelwrapped around herlegs. "Hi," Icalledout. The Object turned.Shelooked atme blankly. "Hey,"shesaid. "She's here,"said Jerome. "Safe and sound.Dad didn'trunoff the road." "Daddy's notthat bada driver," saidthe Object. 366 "Whenhe'snot drinkinghe'snot.But tonightI'd wagerhehad the old martinithermosonthefrontseat." "Your oldmanlikes toparty!"Rexcalledouthoarsely. "Didmydad haveoccasiontoquenchhisthirstonthe drive up?" Jerome asked. "More thanone occasion,"Isaid. Now Jerome laughed,goinglooseinthebodyandslappinghis handstogether. MeanwhileRexwassayingto the Object,"Okay.She'shere.So let'sparty." "Whereshouldwego?"theObject said. "Hey, Je-roman, didn'tyousay there was some oldhuntinglodge outinthewoods?" "Yeah.It'sabout half a milein." "Think you couldfindit in thedark?" "With a flashlight maybe." "Let'sgo." Rexstoodup."Let'stakesomebeersandhikeonin there." The Objectgot up, too. "Letmeputon some pants."Shecrossed the porchinherswimsuit. Rexwatched."Comeon,Callie,"shesaid. "You're stayinginmyroom." Ifollowed the Objectinside.Shewentquickly,almostrunning, anddidn'tlook back at me. Asshe climbedthestairsahead ofme,I whacked herfrom behind. "I hateyou,"I said. "What?" "You're sotan!" Sheflashed asmile overhershoulder. Asthe Object dressed,Isnoopedaroundthe bedroom.Thefurni- ture waswhite wicker uphere,too.Therewereamateursailingprints onthe walls andon theshelvesPetoskeystones,pinecones,musty pa- perbacks. "What are wegoingto do inthewoods?"I said,withanote of complaint. The Object didn't answer. "What arewe goingtodointhewoods?" Irepeated. "We're going forawalk,"she said. "You just want Rex to molestyou." 367

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I'm gettinga beer.Whatdoyouthink?" Itwas fairly darkoutside.Asinmostsocial situations,Iletmy hair fallintomy face.Iwas standingbehindthe Object, looking like Cousin It,when someoneputhishandsovermy eyes. "Guess who?" "Jerome." Ipulledhishands offmyfaceandturnedaround. "Howdidyou knowitwasme?" "The curioussmell." "Ouch,"said a voicebehind Jerome. Ilooked overandreceiveda shock.Standingwith Jerome was Rex Reese, the guywhohaddriven CarolHenkelto herwaterydeath.RexReese,ourlocal Teddy Kennedy.Hedidn't lookparticularlysobernow, either.Hisdarkhair covered hisears and he worea pieceofbluecoral onaleatherthong aroundhisthroat.Isearchedhisfaceforsignsof remorseorrepen- tance. Rexwasn'tsearchingmyface,however.He waseyeingtheOb- ject,hishairfallingintohis eyes abovethecurlof asmile. Deftly, thetwoboysmovedinbetween us, turningtheir backsto eachother.IhadafinalglimpseoftheObscure Object.Shehadher handsinthe backpocketsofhercorduroyskirt.This lookedcasual buthadtheeffect ofpushingoutherchest.She was looking upat Rexandsmiling. "Istart filmingtomorrow," Jerome said. Ilooked blank. "Mymovie. Myvampire movie.Yousureyoudon'twant tobein it?" "We're going onvacationthis week." "That sucks,"said Jerome. "It'sgoingtobegenius." We stood silent.After amomentIsaid,"Realgeniuses never thinkthey're geniuses." "Who says?" "Me." "Because why?" "Because geniusisnine-tenths perspiration.Haven't youever heard that? As soon asyouthinkyou'reagenius, youslack off.You think everything youdoissogreat andeverything." "I just want tomakescarymovies," Jerome replied. "With occa- sional nudity." 355 "Just don'ttryto be ageniusandmaybeyou'll endupbeing one by accident,"Isaid. He waslookingatmein a funnyway, intense,butalsogrinning. "What?" "Nothing." "Whyareyoulookingatmelikethat?" "Lookingatyoulikewhat?" Inthe dark, Jerome's resemblance totheObscure Object was even morepronounced.Thetawnyeyebrows, thebutterscotchcomplex- ion—here theywere again, in permissible form. "You'realotsmarterthanmostofmysister'sfriends." "You're a lotsmarterthan most of myfriends'brothers." Heleanedtowardme.HewastallerthanIwas.Thatwas thebig differencebetweenhimand hissister. Itwasenoughtowakeme frommytrance.Iturnedaway.Icircledaroundhimbacktothe Ob- ject.Shewasstill staring up bright-faced atRex. "Come on,"Isaid."We'vegotto goto thatthing." "Whatthing?" "Youknow.Thatthing." FinallyImanagedtopullheraway.Shelefttrailing smiles and significantlooks. As soon as wegotofftheporchshewasfrowningat me. "Whereare you takingme?"shesaidangrily. "Away fromthatcreep." "Can't you leavemealoneforaminute?" "Youwant metoleaveyou alone?"Isaid."Okay,I'llleaveyou alone."I didn'tmove. "Can't Ieven talktoaboyata party?"theObjectasked. "I wastaking youawaybeforeitwastoo late." "Whatdo youmean?" "You'vegot badbreath." Thischecked theObject.Thisstruckherto hercore.Shewilted. "I do?"sheasked. "It's just alittleoniony," Isaid. We wereon thebacklawnnow. Kids were sittingonthe stone porch rail, their cigarette tipsglowing in the darkness. "What doyouthink ofRex?"theObject whispered. "What? Don't tell meyoulikehim." 356 "I didn'tsay Ilike him." I scoped herface, seekingtheanswer. Shenoticedthisand walked fartheraway overthe lawn.Ifollowed.Isaidearlierthatmost ofmy emotions are hybrids. Butnotall.Somearepureand unadulterated. Jealousy, forinstance. "Rex isokay," Isaid whenIhadcaught upto her."If you like manslaughters ." "Thatwas an accident,"saidtheObject. The moonwas three-quartersfull.It silvered thefatleavesofthe trees.The grasswaswet. Webothkicked offour clogstostandinit. Aftera moment, sighing,theObjectlaidherheadonmyshoulder. "It's good you'regoingaway,"shesaid. "Why?" "Becausethisis tooweird."Ilookedbacktoseeifanyonecould seeus.Noone could.SoIputmyarmaroundher. Forthe nextfewminuteswestoodunderthemoon-blanched trees, listening to themusicblaringfromthehouse.Thecopswould come soon.Thecopsalwayscame.Thatwassomethingyoucould dependoninGrossePointe. Thenextmorning,Iwenttochurchwith Tessie.As usual,AuntZo wasdowninfront,settinganexample. Aristotie, Socrates,andPlato werewearingtheirgangstersuits.Cleowassunkintoherblack mane, aboutto doze off. Therear andsidesofthe churchweredark.Iconsgloomed from theporticoesor raised stifffingersintheglintingchapels.Beneath the dome,lightfellin a chalkybeam.Theairwasalreadythickwith incense. Movingbackandforth,thepriestslookedlikemen ata hammam. Then itwasshowtime.Onepriestflicked a switch.The bottom tierofthe enormouschandelier blazed on.Frombehindtheicono- stasis FatherMikeentered.Hewaswearing a brightturquoise robe with a red heartembroideredonhisback.Hecrossedthe soleaand came down amongthe parishioners. Thesmokefromhiscenser rose and curled, fragrantwithantiquity."Kyrieeleison"FatherMike sang. "Kyrieeleison? Andthoughthewordsmeantnothing tome, oral- most nothing, Ifelt theirweight, thedeepgroovethey madein the airof time. Tessiecrossedherself,thinkingabout ChapterEleven. 357

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese nods. She can’t bear to meet Katrina’s eyes when she speaks. “There are moms and then there are moms. I know another trans woman. She had two little girls before she transitioned. They’re four and six now. Do you know what those girls call their mothers?” The question is obviously rhetorical. Reese goes on. “Mommy and Mommy Lucy. The trans woman, she is Mommy Lucy, the mommy who needs a qualifier. Not Mommy. When there is a woman who carried the baby biologically, and a sort-of dad, and his transsexual ex-girlfriend, which of us do you think will be the mommy with no need of a qualifier?” “So it’s all or nothing, then?” “Tm not in a position to be setting terms. You are.” Katrina reaches out and grabs Reese by the wrist, not at all gently. She pulls Reese’s hand, and fumbling, holds it in both of hers, against her chest. It’s a gesture of such intimacy, but when Katrina speaks, her tone is hurt and angry. “You think you’re the only one who thinks this is unfair? You think I’m not being treated unfairly? The only one whose expectations have been disappointed? When I found out I was pregnant, I thought I had what you wanted: a baby with a reliable man. But that’s not what I turned out to have, and I’m getting over it.” Katrina’s chest is hot through her shirt against Reese’s hand. Reese speaks, “Whatever you are, I’m lower.” “Tell me something. Do you resent me for being pregnant?” “Yes.” She drops Reese’s hand. “T thought so.” “Tm jealous. God, I’m so jealous. And resentful too.” “T want to figure out how to be something to you, Reese, or with you.” For a moment, Katrina appears ready to mount a second, more impassioned argument, but instead, in a deflated voice, she says, “Well, I don’t know how to do that if you’re just going to be resentful and jealous. Being pregnant isn’t as magical as you think.” Reese rolls her eyes. Cis women are always complaining about the burden of their reproductive ability, while secretly cherishing it. Hysterectomies are widely available, but even women who don’t want children aren’t exactly lining up to get them.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  In work pumps with two-inch heels, Amy skipped between two parked cars, onto the sidewalk, scanning the black spike-topped bars of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the park for an entrance gap. In a half run, half prance to accommodate her heels, she set off along the perimeter and ducked into the park, fifty yards south. Casting her gaze about, she saw no sign of Reese. Two teenage girls, both in white tank tops, met her searching eyes. The larger girl, her hair in a braid, held a joint and openly gave it a puff, defiantly—as if Amy would care. They were dykes, Amy registered, but they hadn’t registered her as a queer. Just some lady in business clothes. The thought flitted away largely unexamined, unusual for Amy, because she often fixated on how she read to other queers in public. For a moment, she tried to see herself with a semblance of humor or distance, this woman in a hurried semi-dash from a BMW. The humor didn’t stick. She hurt too much, the emotions clung too close for that kind of breathing room. On her phone, the R logo had moved slightly to the south. The raindrops fattened. Scattered groups of people began to stand, to collect their belongings. Amy set off south, hunting the R by way of her phone. By the southern edge of the park, a wind shear swept across the grass. A woman was getting out of a silver Audi SUV when the gust took her by surprise—she wore a full-skirted gingham dress, and shifted her purse to hold down the fabric of her skirt, which flapped upward. Amy owned a dress like that. Actually, Amy owned that exact dress. That was Reese. Reese was wearing her dress. A wet dream of a housewife dress, with a structured nipped-in waist and the discrete petticoat that gave it the curves of an inverted goblet. It was the kind of dress in which men picture Betty Draper, waiting docile at home with a drink and a blow job at the ready. And that was how Amy saw it too—her own jerk-off fantasy bent back and draped over her own body. Except that the very male gaze of that vision had always poisoned the dress for her: No matter how many people told her she looked great in it, somewhere deep down her very joy in it made her feel like a man. Reese, however: Full, soft Reese, appeared to wear it psychically unencumbered, as though she not only could thoughtlessly kneel at the door to deliver an ice-clinking drink and a BJ, but had plans to.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Aw SPENT A week tortured by her iPhone’s location-sharing service. She and Reese had turned it on one day in order to find each other in a park, then forgotten about it and left it activated. Amy rediscovered Reese’s shared location after Reese’s confession about Stanley. That discovery twinned with a second: When Reese claimed to go to work in Manhattan, the little white circle with an R at the center that represented Reese on Apple Maps instead traveled to Williamsburg, an area Reese usually made noises about avoiding. The first time Amy spotted the R in the Williamsburg area of the map, she figured that Reese had gone errant on a shopping mission, but the following day, the little R returned to that same location. The third day, Reese went about her normal business, her R visiting locations that Amy could identify as retail brands with a client relationship to Reese’s firm—but the fourth day, a Friday, the R again returned to Williamsburg. When Amy came home that night, she feigned casualness to ask whether Reese had been to Brooklyn that day. “No,” Reese replied. She stood at the kitchen counter intent on peeling a mango. Reese had discerning tastes when it came to mangoes—according to Reese, units of disappointment should be measured in the difference between a good mango and a bad mango. A friend forgetting to call you on your birthday? Four mango units. “Oh. Ingrid told me that she thought she saw you on the train,” lied Amy. “No,” said Reese, dangerously licking mango juice off the blade of a chef’s knife. “I was down on the Lower East Side all day.” Amy nodded and discreetly looked at her phone. There was Reese’s R: safely tucked into their apartment. Jealousy is like a hangover: When you are in the midst of it you want to die, you are poisoned, useless. Nothing stretches before you but an expanse of ashes and regret; yet despite the intensity of your suffering, no one feels sorry for you, no one cosigns your fury. No sympathy for you! Look how wantonly you indulged! Of course it hurts, but your suffering is nothing unique, everyone has suffered like that, so get ahold of yourself, show some backbone and discretion, for god’s sake. Don’t go making any major decisions. Jealousy and hangovers, as common wisdom goes, are temporary. But torture is temporary too, and torture nonetheless breaks its victims. The poor guys on the lowered end of a CIA waterboard wouldn’t confess if it were possible to tell themselves that, actually, this drowning is merely temporary.