Joy

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 Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  So finally we telephone for help from a police box, and the ambulance comes and the patrol wagon too. They take Al to the hospital and the rest of us to the hoosegow. And on the way we sing at the top of our lungs. And after we’re bailed out we’re still feeling good and the cops are feeling good too, and so we all adjourn to the basement where there’s a cracked piano and we go on singing and playing. All this is like some period B.C. in history which ends not because there’s a war but because even a joint like Ed Bauries’ is not immune to the poison seeping in from the periphery. Because every street is becoming a Myrtle Avenue, because emptiness is filling the whole continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Because, after a certain time, you can’t enter a single house throughout the length and breadth of the land and find a man standing on his hands singing. It just ain’t done any more. And there ain’t two pianos going at once anywhere, nor are there two men anywhere willing to play all night just for the fun of it. Two men who can play like Ed Bauries and George Neu-miller are hired by the radio or the movies and only a thimbleful of their talent is used and the rest is thrown into the garbage can. Nobody knows, judging from public spectacles, what talent is disposable in the great American continent. Later on, and that’s why I used to sit around on doorsteps in Tin Pan Alley, I would while away the afternoons listening to the professionals mugging it out. That was good too, but it was different. There was no fun in it, it was a perpetual rehearsal to bring in dollars and cents. Any man in America who had an ounce of humor in him was saving it up to put himself across. There were some wonderful nuts among them too, men I’ll never forget, men who left no name behind them, and they were the best we produced. I remember an anonymous performer on the Keith circuit who was probably the craziest man in America, and perhaps he got fifty dollars a week for it. Three times a day, every day in the week, he came out and held the audience spellbound. He didn’t have an act—he just improvised. He never repeated his jokes or his stunts. He gave himself prodigally, and I don’t think he was a hop fiend either. He was one of those guys who are born in the corn crakes and the energy and the joy in him was so fierce that nothing could contain it. He could play any instrument and dance any step and he could invent a story on the spot and string it out till the bell rang. He was not only satisfied to do his own act but he would help the others out.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  With his feet solidly planted on the great wall of the New Jerusalem Grover knew a joy which is incommensurable. Perhaps if he had not been born with a clubfoot he would not have known this incredible joy. Perhaps it was well that his father had kicked the mother in the belly while Grover was still in the womb. Perhaps it was that kick in the belly which had sent Grover soaring, which made him so thoroughly alive and awake that even in his sleep he was delivering God’s messages. The harder he labored the less he was fatigued. He had no more worries, no regrets, no clawing memories. He recognized no duties, no obligations, except to God. And what did God expect of him? Nothing, nothing . . . except to sing His praises. God only asked of Grover Watrous that he reveal himself alive in the flesh. He only asked of him to be more and more alive. And when fully alive Grover was a voice and this voice was a flood which made all dead things into chaos and this chaos in turn became the mouth of the world in the very center of which was the verb to be. In the beginning there was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the word was God. So God was this strange little infinitive which is all there is—and is it not enough? For Grover it was more than enough: it was everything. Starting from this Verb what difference did it make which road he traveled? To leave the Verb was to travel away from the center, to erect a Babel. Perhaps God had deliberately maimed Grover Watrous in order to hold him to the center, to the Verb. By an invisible cord God held Grover Watrous to his stake which ran through the heart of the world and Grover became the fat goose which laid a golden egg every day. . . . Why do I write of Grover Watrous? Because I have met thousands of people and none of them were alive in the way that Grover was. Most of them were more intelligent, many of them were brilliant, some of them were even famous, but none were alive and empty as Grover was. Grover was inexhaustible. He was like a bit of radium which, even if buried under a mountain does not lose its power to give off energy. I had seen plenty of so-called energetic people before —is not America filled with them?—but never in the shape of a human being, a reservoir of energy. And what created this inexhaustible reservoir of energy? An illumination. Yes, it happened in the twinkling of an eye, which is the only way that anything important ever does happen.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “Wedding nights sure aren’t what they used to be. Sean and I were so exhausted after all the festivities, he could barely haul me over the threshold of the honeymoon suite, and then we both fell fast asleep on this great big fancy bed. Of course, the morning after was all the better since we were so well rested. I love daytime sex, but sometimes I wonder if the nap afterward isn’t the best part.” The other women, all except Sophie, chuckled knowingly. Nina, her best friend all through high school, leaned close. “Sex definitely loses its edge once it’s legal, but Jasper and I try to get away for the weekend once a month or so. Then I pretend we’re having an illicit affair, and we don’t get out of bed until we’re chased from the room by the maid.” The other women exchanged sly glances and murmured approval. “You definitely have to work to keep things spicy,” her friend Megan added. “But I really like the closeness, too. Marriage really changed things with Brian. It’s funny but we can get buzzed just lying in each other’s arms and planning home improvements.” “The real change comes after you have kids. We don’t do it nearly as often, and we have to be very quiet, but our bond is deeper, more spiritual,” added her other college friend, Jenny. Sophie’s older sister, Elena, nodded and smiled. Sophie, who had been pleasantly buzzed from the wine until a moment before, slumped down in her chair. “Tell me the truth. Am I giving up hot sex forever by marrying Justin?” “Justin’s a great guy, Sophie, you definitely want a commitment so he doesn’t slip away,” Ashlyn said, her expression solemn. “And there’s more to your relationship than sex, right?” At the time Sophie nodded. Of course there was more to their relationship. They made each other laugh. He cooked a delicious pasta primavera. And there was no place she’d rather be after a rough day at the office than enfolded in his arms. But would any of that have the same glow without frequent refuelings of wild, wet, and very satisfying copulation? Such thoughts still troubled her as she lay beside her boyfriend, the end of their wonderful sex life just hours away. As if he somehow sensed her doubts, Justin’s eyes fluttered open. He smiled and slipped an arm around her. She snuggled against him, her head resting against his shoulder, their legs tangled together like his signature linguine. She secretly called this position “All is right with the world,” because she never wanted anything else when they were floating together like this. Especially after a good round of scream-until-your-throat-is-raw sex.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Teresa whispered frantically to me, “Your hand, put your hand down there.” I knew what she wanted. I moved slightly behind Tim’s pumping body and slid my hand down, over his balls, to where his cock joined her cunt. I pressed my hand there, feeling them both as they came, feeling the pulsations and flooding wetness. We stayed in a heap for a bit, catching our breath. The fire had died down, and our sweaty bodies chilled quickly. We untangled. Teresa pulled the blanket up and wrapped it around me and then her. Tim grabbed some more wood and fed the stove, then joined us. “Wow.” That’s all I could say. How fuckingly eloquent. Then I giggled. Tim smiled and leaned in to kiss me. “I love you so much. I’ve never told you before about this being a fantasy of mine, being with two women. I was afraid to. But this was incredible. Thank you.” Teresa was smiling. “You guys are so lucky to have each other. And I’m lucky to be here with you!” Outside the blizzard was still raging. “It’s not even midnight! Who wants more champagne?” THE CURVE OF HER BELLY Kristina Wright Brynn was crying. Again. As Paul closed the front door behind him and heard the sobs coming from the bathroom, he felt a thread of frustration winding its way around a ball of empathy. When they had decided to try to get pregnant, Brynn had been thrilled—she was a freelance copywriter who worked from home and couldn’t wait to become a mother. At least she had been thrilled, until about eight weeks into the pregnancy, when she started throwing up morning, noon, and night. Now, seven months pregnant and feeling like there was no end in sight, Brynn cried at the drop of a hat. Anything could set her off—a vitamin commercial, the grocery store being sold out of her favorite juice, a cute puppy loping along the boardwalk—and Paul had learned to tread on eggshells lest he be accused of being insensitive. It wasn’t that at all, he kept telling Brynn. It was just that he didn’t know what to do to make things better. And that, more than anything, was the root of his frustration. Bolstering every ounce of patience he could muster at six o’clock on a Monday evening, Paul walked down the hall and tapped lightly on the closed bathroom door. “You okay, baby?” “No, I’m ugly!” Paul sighed and bumped his head against the door. “Can I come in?” The sound of splashing and then, “I guess.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  She sighed, opened the paper carefully, folded it, and put it aside. When Ruth took the cover off the sewing machine she gasped. I could tell by the way her fingers trailed across the machine how happy it made her. “I'll make you a suit,” she whispered. I beamed. “Really?”? Ruth nodded and bit her knuckles. She stood up and walked over to the half- decorated evergreen. “This is for you.” She handed me a flat package. It was a book called Gay American History. My hands trembled as I leafed through the pages. “Look,” Ruth took the book from my hands and turned to the index. “Remember I told you about what I read in a drag magazine about how people like us used to be honored? Look at this whole section about Native societies. But, wait, look at this.’ She flipped the pages. “This whole part is about women like you who lived as men.” Tears clouded my vision. Esperanza looked at the title and shook her head. “I wish we weren’t always lumped into gay.” Ruth changed the subject, as was her way. She handed me a package wrapped in red tissue paper. “Open this.” Inside was a watercolor of a face filled with emotion, looking up at a host of stars. It was a beautiful face, a face ’d never seen before. It was my face. “Let me see that, honey,” Tanya reached fot it. “Ooh, Ruth. That’s nice. That looks just like him.” “Ruth,” I chewed my lip. “Do I really look like this?” She nodded and smiled through her tears. “When I thought you might die, I started to sketch yout face. I wanted something more than my memories of you to remain. Your eyes were closed, but I could shut my own and remember the way the color of your eyes changes in the light.” Ruth sat down next to me on the couch. We put our arms around each other and rocked. Esperanza and Tanya sat on the floor near us. My chin ached and trembled. “You know,” I told them, “I’ve been searching for you all for such a long time. I can’t believe I’ve finally found you.” I squeezed Ruth tightly in my arms as we both cried. Esperanza rested her hand on my thigh. “Do you know what my name means?” I shook my head. “No, but it sure is pretty.” She smiled and looked at me with a sure, unwavering expression. “Esperanza,” she explained— “it means hope.” Stone Butch Blues 293 IT WAS THE FIRST DAY of spring, when everyone who lives in this city agrees to feel good at the same time—a day when it seems as though every woman, man and child is flirting with my difference. I browsed at the farmer’s market in Union Square, killing time. The sun dipped behind the buildings to the west

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Ed stopped coming to the Malibou soon afterward. I asked Grant what was up, but all she said was that Ed “had a chip on her shoulder” ever since Malcom X was killed in New York City. I wanted to call Ed and talk to her, but Meg told me not to. She told me the butches at the auto plant said Ed was real angry and it was best to just leave her alone. That didn’t feel right to me, but the advice had come down from the old bulls, so I listened. It was springtime when I finally ran into Ed at the diner. I was so happy to see her I reached out my arms to hug her. She eyed me guardedly, as though examining me for the first time. I feared she wouldn’t like what she saw. After a moment she opened her arms to me. Hugging her felt like coming home. 56 Leslie Feinberg Ed started coming back to the Malibou. Out of the blue one morning she said, “I thought about it.” Funny how I knew exactly what she meant— about me going to the club with her. “TI didn’t know how Id feel about taking you, you know? But next Saturday night is an anniversary party for two women. One of them is white. I don’t know, I thought if you wanted to go...” I did. We decided to take Ed’s car. On Saturday night Ed picked me up late. We rode in silence. “You nervous?” she asked me. I nodded. She snorted and shook her head. “Maybe this was a mistake.” “No,” I told her. “Not for the reasons you think. I’m always scared before I go to a new club, any club. You ever feel that way?” “No,” Edwin said, “Well, yes, maybe. I don’t know.” “You nervous, Ed? About going to the club with a white butch, I mean.” “Yeah, maybe a little,” she said as she checked the rearview mirror. Ed stopped at a red light and offered me a cigarette. “I like you though, you know.” I looked out the car window and smiled. “T like you too, Ed. A lot.” I realized ?’'d hung out on the edges of the Black community with friends after school, but I’d never been deep in the heart of the East Side. “Buffalo is like two cities,” I said. “Pll bet a lot of white people have never even been to this city.” Ed laughed bitterly and nodded. “Segregation is alive and well in Buffalo. That’s it?’ Ed added, pointing to a building. “Where?” “You'll see.” Ed parked the car on a nearby side street.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Dutiful wife that she was, she bucked up against him—one, two, three more times—and then she was coming, wracking spasms that burst from her throat in a shriek. Justin planted his hands on the bed and reared up, his hips pounding her like a porn star as he announced his own climax with a series of low grunts. He fell forward and they clutched each other, their bodies still heaving. They were so close she could feel his heart pounding in her own chest. “I’m not sure what came over me just now,” Justin confessed. “I hope that lord-and-master talk wasn’t a mistake.” “No way. I think I left a wet spot on this bed the size of California.” She moved her lips to his ear and added in a whisper, “You bossy bastard. That was super hot.” “You’re hot, baby. God, I’m lucky. I have the sexiest wife in the world.” He rolled onto his back and they snuggled together, her head on his shoulder, their legs twined together. Sophie smiled. She had made a terrible mistake—spending the whole day worrying her sex life would be ruined by a piece of paper. But tonight she learned it could be a passport to new possibilities. ANOTHER TRICK UP MY SLEEVE Heidi Champa “Are you sure about this, Daisy?” “Yeah, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” His arms were fixed to the bed frame with two old ties, and I was decked out in the vinyl outfit I had hand-picked with his specifications in mind. Now that the moment had finally arrived, he seemed underwhelmed, and I was starting to sweat in the tight-fitting black plastic. He rolled his eyes and sighed, his back collapsing against the bed, his muscles loose. I was starting to get discouraged. But, I pressed on, banging my pink leather riding crop against my open hand. Blake didn’t look scared, and there was absolutely no desire in his eyes. My back, which I had been holding straight in an attempt to look authoritative and sexy, started to droop. None of this was going how I thought it would. “Blake, I thought you were into this, what is the problem?” He squirmed against his ties, but not in the way I was hoping. He tried to sit up but couldn’t, and had to settle for an odd, reclined position that almost made me laugh. “I don’t know Daisy, I just don’t really feel like it tonight.” I sat on the edge of the bed and dropped my fetching whip on the floor. My knee-high patent leather boots were staring to hurt my feet, and I felt more ridiculous than I ever had before. “This is all your fault, you know that Blake!” “I know, baby. I know.”

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  Then he caught a cab and rode home like a sultan. He ignored Diane’s bitter stare as he walked through the living room and shut himself up in the bedroom with his jelly beans. He thought of rescuing Daisy. She would be walking across the street, with that airy, unaware look on her face. A car would roar around a garbage-choked corner, she would freeze in its path, her pale face helpless as a crouching rabbit. From out of nowhere he would leap, sweeping her aside with one arm, knocking them both to the sidewalk, to safety, her head cushioned on his arm. Or she would be accosted by a hostile teenager who would grab her coat and push her against a wall. Suddenly he would attack. The punk’s legs would fly crazily as Joey slammed him against a crumbling brick wall. “If you hurt her, I’ll…” He sighed happily and got another pill and a handful of jelly beans. — “My mother couldn’t understand me or do anything for me,” he said. “She thought she was doing the right thing.” “She sounds like a bitch,” said Daisy. “Oh, no. She did what she could, given the circumstances. She at least recognized that I far surpassed her in intelligence.” “Then why did she let her boyfriend beat you up?” “He didn’t beat me up. He was just a fat slob who got a thrill out of putting a twelve-year-old in a half nelson and then asking how it felt.” “He beat you up.” They were in a small, dark bar. It had floors and tables made of old creaking wood, and a half-moon window of heavy stained glass in one wall. The tables were clawed with knifemarks, the french fries were large and damp. The waitresses carried themselves like dinosaurs with ungainly little hands and had purple veins on their legs, even though they were young. They were friendly though, and they looked right at you. Daisy and Joey came here for lunch and sat in the deep, high-backed booths. Joey didn’t eat, and by now Daisy knew why. He drank and watched her eat her hamburger with measured bites. “I still can’t understand why she married that repulsive pig. I ask her and she says ‘because he makes me feel stable and secure.’ ” “He doesn’t sound stable to me.” “I guess he was, compared to my father. But then Dad was usually too drunk to make it down the stairs without falling, let alone hold a job. I mean, you’re talking about a guy who died in the nut ward singing ‘Joey, Foey, Bo-Poey, Bananarama Oh-Boey.’ Any asshole is stable compared to that. But Tom? At least my father had style. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in those ugly Dacron things Tom wears.” Daisy leaned into the corner of the booth and looked at him solemnly. “When she first told me over the phone that she was getting married to Uncle Tom, I was happy.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  It was when we moved to Eden Park that we finally got a car, the beat-up, tangerine Volkswagen my mother bought secondhand for next to nothing. One out of five times it wouldn’t start. There was no AC. Anytime I made the mistake of turning on the fan the vent would fart bits of leaves and dust all over me. Whenever it broke down we’d catch minibuses, or sometimes we’d hitchhike. She’d make me hide in the bushes because she knew men would stop for a woman but not a woman with a child. She’d stand by the road, the driver would pull over, she’d open the door and then whistle, and I’d come running up to the car. I would watch their faces drop as they realized they weren’t picking up an attractive single woman but an attractive single woman with a fat little kid. When the car did work, we had the windows down, sputtering along and baking in the heat. For my entire life the dial on that car’s radio stayed on one station. It was called Radio Pulpit, and as the name suggests it was nothing but preaching and praise. I wasn’t allowed to touch that dial. Anytime the radio wasn’t getting reception, my mom would pop in a cassette of Jimmy Swaggart sermons. (When we finally found out about the scandal? Oh, man. That was rough.) But as shitty as our car was, it was a car. It was freedom. We weren’t black people stuck in the townships, waiting for public transport. We were black people who were out in the world. We were black people who could wake up and say, “Where do we choose to go today?” On the commute to work and school, there was a long stretch of the road into town that was completely deserted. That’s where Mom would let me drive. On the highway. I was six. She’d put me on her lap and let me steer and work the indicators while she worked the pedals and the stick shift. After a few months of that, she taught me how to work the stick. She was still working the clutch, but I’d climb onto her lap and take the stick, and she’d call out the gears as we drove. There was this one part of the road that ran deep into a valley and then back up the other side. We’d get up a head of speed, and we’d stick it into neutral and let go of the brake and the clutch, and, woo-hoo!, we’d race down the hill and then, zoom!, we’d shoot up the other side. We were flying.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He pulled me down onto his cock, rocking his hips and parting my pussy lips with one hand. “Look at the window,” he growled. “Look at us.” And he touched his finger to my clit. I screamed as the orgasm washed through me, wailed again and again as his finger circled, my eyes locked on his as he shouted and bucked into me so hard the chair rocked against the floor. “I love you,” he panted as I shuddered in his arms. “Always, baby. I’m yours.” “I l-love you, t-too.” It was hard to speak. I couldn’t stop shaking. Eric’s cock twitched inside me. I shuddered as I came again. And again. When I finally quit trembling, when my pussy finally quit spasming, Eric stood us up and lifted me into his arms. He stripped me naked and took me to bed. Then he traced the rose over my nipples and licked my pussy until I finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I fell asleep in his arms and when we woke up, I took him into my mouth and loved him with my lips and tongue and throat until he was as wasted as I was. We made love all night. And in the morning, we called Melissa and Janelle and told them we were engaged. Everybody else found out through their Facebook status updates, because Eric and I cleared our calendars for the rest of the week, turned off our computers and phones, and damn well spent most of that time in bed and getting to know each other again. We’re getting married next year, after he’s transferred to the Minneapolis office. We’ll use traditional invitations—and at Melissa’s instigation, we’ll also have a Facebook RSVP option for those who can’t break away from their computers, because God help me, we’re inviting everybody. We’re even having a somewhat traditional wedding night, though only Eric and I know that. As we left the hotel at the end of our extended holiday, Eric turned to me and asked, “Have you ever had anal sex?” My blush gave him his answer even before I stammered out, “Um, no.” “Me, either,” he grinned. “How about we save that for our wedding night? I know some very interesting things we can do in the interim so we’re ready for it.” I looked pointedly at his butt. “Okay.” He rolled his eyes and his face turned a beautiful pink, but then he laughed and shrugged. “All right. Both ways. We can order some toys. Damn. I’ll send you a Facebook message.” I had no doubt he would. I couldn’t wait to see the innuendo only I’d recognize in his status updates. THE DRAFT Craig J. Sorensen Sarah could have played it safe and bought a VW bug.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  His hands freed my hips and roamed my body, touching off electric shocks with each pass. I was so deliciously full; his cock stretching me open, hitting deeper with each thrust. He pulled me forward to devour my mouth with his sweet kisses, taking my mouth. My clit was rubbing against his body, and I swirled my hips around in a circle as he plunged into me. I felt my body tightening, every muscle building with tension and pleasure. His thumbs rolled over my nipples, the tight flesh barely able to take much more. My body was shaking, and I felt my orgasm building in me, deep and powerful. Blake let his thumb drop lower, and I felt it stroke over my warm wet clit, and I exploded. My body cried out violently, gripping Blake’s cock deep inside me, my whole body contracting around him. I filled the silence of the room with my voice, my body releasing the pleasure that had been building. I rode against him, letting my body rise and fall, as pleasure seemed to be coming in never ending waves. Blake’s hands dug deep valleys into my hips, and I felt his body turn to stone underneath me, his cock growing inside me as he grunted out his own orgasm, just as mine was ending. We collapsed together, finished, spent. I rolled off Blake, feeling my body succumb to exhaustion. I felt like I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Blake wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into the safety of his embrace. “That was amazing, Daisy. Exactly what we needed.” “Absolutely. And, I promise, no more DVDs, toys, or whips for a long time.” Blake laughed and pulled me up into a kiss, before waggling his eyebrows at me. “Well, let’s not be rash, Daisy. Maybe we can keep the whip.” DRIVE ME CRAZY Delilah Devlin Just a glimpse of him standing in profile, arms crossed over his well-developed chest and leaning his firm, round butt against the dispatch counter, was enough to shore up my weakening resolve. Dressed in faded blue jeans, a black, chest- hugging T-shirt, and a red Razorback ball cap turned backward on his dark shaggy hair, he was every woman’s blue-collar fantasy. My mouth dried as I glanced down his tall, muscled frame. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want one night with all that ripped hotness? And that’s all it could be—one night. I’d waited until the last possible moment to make my move. The midnight drive to the dispatch office had given me plenty of time to argue my way out of what had seemed like a good plan earlier when I’d realized that the planets had aligned to give me this one last chance to fulfill my long-standing fantasy. There’d never been the right time.

• From The History of Christianity II: From the Reformation to the Modern Megachurch (2017)

  The Second Great Awakening had huge consequences for Christianity in the West, especially in the young American republic. It was during the Second Great Awakening that America really became Christian. This lecture shows exactly how that happened. THE METHODISTS õ The real geniuses of revival in the early 19th century were a new Protestant group, the Methodists. The Methodists began as a movement within the Church of England in the 1700s. Two key figures in this movement were John Wesley and his brother Charles—a pair of earnest Anglicans who were so zealous in their faith that when they got to Oxford for university, they founded a society called the Holy Club. õ In 1735, John and Charles sailed to the colony of Georgia as Anglican missionaries. On the voyage, they met a group of Moravians. The Moravians were Protestants from eastern Germany who lived in community and stressed internal transformation and holy living. They had a big impact on John Wesley —in fact, he had his own born-again experience thanks to them. õ Three years later, in 1738, he was in London at a Moravian worship meeting. Suddenly something came over him—he later said that he “felt [his] heart strangely warmed,” and he knew it was the Holy Spirit. õ In the years after his conversion, John Wesley grew more and more critical of the Church of England. He thought Anglicans gave the top people in the hierarchy, the priests and the bishops, way too much power. He believed that lay people, with no ordination, could take charge of their own spiritual development. This shows the influence of pietist groups like the Moravians, who emphasized the importance of theological education not just for clergy, but for lay people too. 160 The History of Christianity II õ In the pietist spirit, John Wesley advocated the establishment of lay societies, where Christians would help one another understand scripture and better align their lives with God’s will. Note: Methodism was as much about holy living as it was internal piety. For example, John Wesley opposed slavery, and he banned alcohol and tobacco use. õ When John Wesley saw that the war had destroyed the Church of England in America, in 1784 he ordained new priests to serve in the United States. His deputy, Francis Asbury, formally founded the Methodist Episcopal Church at Baltimore that same year, 1784. The Methodists retained many Anglican structures, including the office of bishop, but they totally reinvented the way the church worked in practice. õ In Great Britain, the Methodists reorganized during the 1790s. Some remained members of Anglican churches while others worshipped in their own chapels or pulled out of the Church of England altogether. Revivals broke out in Wales, Yorkshire, Cornwall, and other places. Lecture 17—The Second Great Awakening 161

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Similarly, that state cannot fail through the corruption of the beings existing there. These are either naturally incorruptible, as is the case with the angels, or they will be transferred to a condition of incorruption, as is the case with men. “For this corruptible must put on incorruption,” as we are informed in 1 Corinthians 15:53. The same is indicated in the Apocalypse 3:12: “He who overcomes, I will make him a pillar in the temple of my God.” Nor can that state fail by reason of the turning away of man’s will in disgust. The more clearly God, the essence of goodness, is seen, the more He must be loved; and so enjoyment of Him will be desired ever more keenly, according to Sirach 24:29: “They that eat Me shall yet hunger, and they that drink Me shall yet thirst.” For this reason the words of 1 Peter 1:12, “on whom the angels desire to look,” were spoken of the angels who see God. That state will not be overthrown by the attack of an enemy, for no disturbing interference of any evil will be found there, as we read in Isaiah 35:9: “No lion shall be there,” that is, no assaulting devil, “nor shall any mischievous beast, that is, any evil man, “go up by it nor be found there.” Hence our Lord says of His sheep, in John 15:28: “They shall not perish forever, and no man shall pluck them out of My hand.” Furthermore, that state cannot come to an end as a result of the banishment of some of its inhabitants by God. No one will be expelled from that state on account of sin, which will be simply non-existent in a place where every evil will be absent; hence we are told in Isaiah 60:21: “Your people shall be all just.” Again, none will be exiled for the purpose of urging them on to greater good, as happens at times in this world, when God withdraws spiritual consolations even from the just and takes away other of His benefits, in order that men may seek them with greater eagerness and may acknowledge their own powerlessness; that state is not one of correction or progress, but is a life of final perfection. This is why our Lord says in John 6:37: “Him that cometh to Me, I will not cast out.” Therefore that state will consist in the everlasting enjoyment of all the goods mentioned, as is said in Psalm 5:12: “They shall rejoice forever, and You shall dwell in them.” Consequently the kingdom we have been discussing is perfect happiness, for it contains all good in changeless abundance. And, since happiness is naturally desired by men, the kingdom of God, too, is desired by all. CHAPTER 10

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  All the drag queens were there: Justine and Peaches and Georgetta. Butch Al was there, and Ed. There were a few other people nearby, but shadows covered their faces. I discovered Rocco sitting next to me. She reached forward and stroked my cheek. I touched my own face. I felt the rough stubble of beard. I ran my hand across the flat plain of my chest. I felt happy in my body, comfortable among friends. ‘Wheres the others?” I asked. Justine nodded. “E:veryone’s going in different directions.” AA sense of loss washed over me. ‘Well never find each other again.” Peaches laughed gently. ‘Well find each other, child. Dont you worry.” I leaned forward and squeezed Peaches’ hand in mine. “Phase dont forget me. Please dont any of you forget me. I dont want to disappear.” Peaches put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. “You're one of us, child. You abvays will be.” I felt panicky. “Do I really belong here with youe” Affectionate laughter rose to answer my question. One by one each person in the hut hugged me. I felt safe and loved in their arms. I looked up. The hut had no roof. The stars winked on and off like fireflies. The air was cool and scented with eucalyptus. I crossed my legs in front of the fire and warmed myself in Pleasure. ‘Wheres Theresa?” I asked. I woke up without hearing the answer. “Honey, wake up. Please.” I shook Theresa gently. She lifted her head off the pillow. “What is it, Jess? What’s wrong?” “T just had this really amazing dream.” Theresa rubbed her eyes. “I was in a place that felt very old, out in the woods. I was with Peaches and Justine and Georgetta. And Rocco was sitting next to me.” I didn’t know how to describe the feeling of the dream to Theresa. “I felt like I belonged with them, you know?” I could feel Theresa’s hand sweep once gently across the back of my T-shirt, then she began to drift back to sleep. “Theresa,” I shook her, insistently. She moaned. “I forgot to tell you this part. In the dream I had a beard and my chest was flat. It made me so happy. It was like a part of me that I can’t explain, you know?” Theresa shook her head. “What’s it mean, honey?” I crushed my cigarette. “It was about something old in me. It was about growing up different. All my life I didn’t want to feel different. But in the dream I liked it and I was with other people who were different like me.” Theresa nodded. “But you told me that’s how you felt when you found the bars.”

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  That’s not how the Devil works. This is part of God’s plan, and if He wanted us here then He had a reason...” And on and on and there we were, back at it, arguing about God’s will. Finally I said, “Look, Mom. I know you love Jesus, but maybe next week you could ask him to meet us at our house. Because this really wasn’t a fun night.” She broke out in a huge smile and started laughing. I started laughing, too, and we stood there, this little boy and his mom, our arms and legs covered in blood and dirt, laughing together through the pain in the light of a petrol station on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Apartheid was perfect racism. It took centuries to develop, starting all the way back in 1652 when the Dutch East India Company landed at the Cape of Good Hope and established a trading colony, Kaapstad, later known as Cape Town, a rest stop for ships traveling between Europe and India. To impose white rule, the Dutch colonists went to war with the natives, ultimately developing a set of laws to subjugate and enslave them. When the British took over the Cape Colony, the descendants of the original Dutch settlers trekked inland and developed their own language, culture, and customs, eventually becoming their own people, the Afrikaners—the white tribe of Africa. The British abolished slavery in name but kept it in practice. They did so because, in the mid-1800s, in what had been written off as a near-worthless way station on the route to the Far East, a few lucky capitalists stumbled upon the richest gold and diamond reserves in the world, and an endless supply of expendable bodies was needed to go in the ground and get it all out. As the British Empire fell, the Afrikaner rose up to claim South Africa as his rightful inheritance. To maintain power in the face of the country’s rising and restless black majority, the government realized they needed a newer and more robust set of tools. They set up a formal commission to go out and study institutionalized racism all over the world. They went to Australia. They went to the Netherlands. They went to America. They saw what worked, what didn’t. Then they came back and published a report, and the government used that knowledge to build the most advanced system of racial oppression known to man. Apartheid was a police state, a system of surveillance and laws designed to keep black people under total control. A full compendium of those laws would run more than three thousand pages and weigh approximately ten pounds, but the general thrust of it should be easy enough for any American to understand.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 3: Further, that which is desired by all, seems to be good of itself: because good is “what all things seek,” as stated in Ethic. i, 1. But everyone seeks some kind of pleasure, even children and dumb animals. Therefore pleasure is good in itself: and consequently all pleasure is good. On the contrary, It is written (Prov. 2:14): “Who are glad when they have done evil, and rejoice in most wicked things.” I answer that, While some of the Stoics maintained that all pleasures are evil, the Epicureans held that pleasure is good in itself, and that consequently all pleasures are good. They seem to have thus erred through not discriminating between that which is good simply, and that which is good in respect of a particular individual. That which is good simply, is good in itself. Now that which is not good in itself, may be good in respect of some individual in two ways. In one way, because it is suitable to him by reason of a disposition in which he is now, which disposition, however, is not natural: thus it is sometimes good for a leper to eat things that are poisonous, which are not suitable simply to the human temperament. In another way, through something unsuitable being esteemed suitable. And since pleasure is the repose of the appetite in some good, if the appetite reposes in that which is good simply, the pleasure will be pleasure simply, and good simply. But if a man’s appetite repose in that which is good, not simply, but in respect of that particular man, then his pleasure will not be pleasure simply, but a pleasure to him; neither will it be good simply, but in a certain respect, or an apparent good. Reply to Objection 1: The virtuous and the useful depend on accordance with reason, and consequently nothing is virtuous or useful, without being good. But the pleasant depends on agreement with the appetite, which tends sometimes to that which is discordant from reason. Consequently not every object of pleasure is good in the moral order which depends on the order of reason. Reply to Objection 2: The reason why pleasure is not sought for the sake of something else is because it is repose in the end. Now the end may be either good or evil; although nothing can be an end except in so far as it is good in respect of such and such a man: and so too with regard to pleasure. Reply to Objection 3: All things seek pleasure in the same way as they seek good: since pleasure is the repose of the appetite in good. But, just as it happens that not every good which is desired, is of itself and verily good; so not every pleasure is of itself and verily good.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Brynn’s body went taut and still, her hair loose around her shoulders now as she arched her back and pressed down on Paul’s hand. Then she opened her mouth and let out a moan that rose to echo off the bathroom walls. Months of pent-up emotion and suppressed desire exploded from her in that scream. It was like watching a mythical banshee unleashed, and Paul could only watch and marvel at her beauty. Wiggling his fingers inside her, he kept the pressure on her clit and rode out her orgasm. He stared at Brynn, as sexy as any woman he’d ever seen—coming, because of him. For him. Brynn’s orgasm seemed to last for minutes, and she gasped and panted as if she were in labor. Paul’s heart nearly stopped at that thought, but Brynn showed no signs of pain—only pleasure so intense Paul felt like they had never shared anything quite like this before. Finally, slowly, the moans faded to soft whimpers, and Brynn’s eyes fluttered open. Her radiant smile was a sight to behold, and Paul forgot all about his own barely controlled desire. He’d done this—he had made Brynn smile like this. Brynn opened her mouth, started to say something, and then shook her head. “Wow.” They both laughed, Paul’s fingers still inside Brynn, most of the bath water on the tile floor. Brynn shivered and grimaced as she tried to sit up. Paul gently slid his cramped fingers free. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” he asked, feeling a pang of remorse. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed Brynn so hard. Brynn laughed. “Did you mean it?” “What?” “That I’m beautiful like this.” Paul ran a finger over the light purple mark that ran down Brynn’s rounded belly. “Every inch of you, every curve, every mark. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” “I believe you.” Brynn covered Paul’s hand on her stomach. “Now get me out of this tub and take me to bed so you can fuck me properly.” Paul grinned. “Anything you want, beautiful.” DAWN CHORUS Nikki Magennis Of course it’s not possible to stuff an entire duck-down pillow into the small shell-shaped hole of one’s ear, but John was trying nonetheless. Not that cotton and duck feathers would be enough of a muffler. He doubted that pouring cement in his ears, wrapping his head in deep pile carpet, and lead-lining the walls would be enough. The thump of the bass was the worst—he could feel it vibrate in the marrow of his bones—that regular, predictable bludgeoning kick. Pounding through the floor, rattling the glass in the window frames, making his whole body throb with a surround-sound headache. And then that jarring, jangling noise. Just after the out-of-tune wailing of the third chorus. He didn’t know the title, but he knew the song by heart—every riff, lick, and drum roll.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  At 3:30 I pulled my bike up in front of the supermarket. I wished I had a second helmet. Edna looked my Harley up and down and smiled, as though she liked what she saw. Then she looked at me the same way. “It’s good to see you, Jess. How long has it been?” I could have asked her when she broke up with Jan, but I thought better of it. “Well, my hand was in that contraption and we were on strike. I think it was 67, so it’s been twelve years. ’m almost thirty, can you believe itr” Edna nodded. “That means you’re just about the age I was when you thought I was such an old woman.” I shook my head. “That’s not fair, Edna. The problem was I was so young, I never thought you were old.” Edna took my face in her hands. I felt my cheeks flush. “Pm sorry,” she said, “that was my feat.” I offered her my helmet. She swung her leg over the bike and settled behind me. Her body felt so damn good against mine. “Where are we going?” she asked. “T don’t know.” I gently popped the clutch. We ended up at the zoo. The air smelled fresh there, washed by the rain. We walked on a bed of wet leaves, under a latticework of branches. I ached to hold her hand. We tried to make small talk, but there wasn’t anything either of us said that seemed insignificant. I tried to wait before I asked the question clenched in my throat, but I couldn’t put it off any longer. I turned to her. “I can’t take another step till I ask you a question.” She shook her head shyly. “No.” “No, I can’t ask you a question?” She smiled. “No, ?’'m not with anyone.” A grin spread across my face, then I checked it. “T was just wondering.” We stood and faced each other under a maple tree. “How about you? Are you with anyone?” she asked. I shook my head. The maple seeds whirled around us. I caught one on my palm. “We used to call these helicopters,” I said, as I let it twirl to the ground. Edna ran her fingertips across the beard stubble on my cheek. I wished I had shaved before I’d gone to the gym. She touched my lips, my hair, my neck— as though she was searching for me with her hands. “Have I changed so much?” I asked her, afraid to hear her answer. She smiled and shook her head. “No. In a way I don’t know how anyone in the world could think you're a man, especially if they looked into your eyes.”

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 2: Sad things, called to mind, cause pleasure, not in so far as they are sad and contrary to pleasant things; but in so far as man is delivered from them. In like manner the recollection of pleasant things, by reason of these being lost, may cause sadness. Reply to Objection 3: Hatred also can be the accidental cause of love: i.e. so far as some love one another, inasmuch as they agree in hating one and the same thing. Whether the actions of others are a cause of pleasure to us?Objection 1: It would seem that the actions of others are not a cause of pleasure to us. Because the cause of pleasure is our own good when conjoined to us. But the actions of others are not conjoined to us. Therefore they are not a cause of pleasure to us. Objection 2: Further, the action is the agent’s own good. If, therefore, the actions of others are a cause of pleasure to us, for the same reason all goods belonging to others will be pleasing to us: which is evidently untrue. Objection 3: Further, action is pleasant through proceeding from an innate habit; hence it is stated in Ethic. ii, 3 that “we must reckon the pleasure which follows after action, as being the sign of a habit existing in us.” But the actions of others do not proceed from habits existing in us, but, sometimes, from habits existing in the agents. Therefore the actions of others are not pleasing to us, but to the agents themselves. On the contrary, It is written in the second canonical epistle of John (verse 4): “I was exceeding glad that I found thy children walking in truth.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  One of them answered, “He’s on vacation. Don’t worry.” I started to protest but a needle pierced my arm and the room started to dissolve. When I awoke the world seemed fuzzy. I couldn’t focus. The man in the bed across from mine stared at me. Nurses peered in at me from the doorway. I fought for consciousness. A priest came into the room. “Where is she?” he looked around. “Whore” I asked. The room spun. The priest came close to my bed. “There’s a lost soul who needs my help,” he whispered. “They just wheeled her down the hall, father,” I said, pointing. “If you hurry, you can catch her.” I tried to sit up. A dull pain pounded in my chest. I called out to the nurses standing in the doorway. “Can I get something for the pain?” They walked away. One of the nurses came back. “Look,” she said, “I don’t understand any of this. But I can tell you this hospital is for sick people. You people make some arrangement with Costanza on the side, that’s yout business. But this bed and our time is for sick people.” How much time would they give me to recuperate? An hour? Twor I didn’t want to be there another minute. I wanted to be safe in my own home. I swung my legs over the bed and tested standing on them. Once I felt steady, I carefully dressed. It took forever for the elevator to arrive. I stepped inside and pushed the button for the lobby. The young nurse who had brought me down for surgery held the elevator door open and pressed something into my hand. It was four Darvon wrapped in a paper towel. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. I had to walk a long way from the bus to my house. When I finally got home I put my key in the door, but I remembered the door needed to be pulled in as the key was turned. When I finally pulled hard enough to turn the key, I knew I had hurt myself a little. But I was home. I lay down on my bed. The last thing I remember is wondering what day it was. When I woke up I couldn’t figure out where I was. A dull pain throbbed in my chest. I stood up carefully. When I opened the closet door, I saw myself reflected in the full-length mirror mounted inside. I could tell from my beard growth I had slept for days. My chest was bandaged. There it was—the body I’d wanted. I wondered why it had to have been so hard. I stumbled into the kitchen and chugged a Pepsi. I found a slice of cold pepperoni pizza and a piece of chocolate cake in the refrigerator. My childhood dream breakfast.