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.

Page 16 of 299 · 20 per page

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  Another example of this phenomenon is the way that feminine self-presentation is often framed as though it solely exists to entice or attract men. This assumption denies any possibility that those who are feminine might wish to adorn themselves for their own benefit or pleasure. After all, feminine self-presentation tends to highly correlate with a more general desire to surround oneself with beautiful or aesthetically pleasing objects and materials—whether in decorating one’s home or adorning one’s body. The idea that this trait exists primarily to pique men’s interest seems unlikely to me, as most straight men I know seem rather disinterested in the way their homes are decorated, and often are completely oblivious when their female partners don new outfits or hairstyles. It’s safe to say that most heterosexual men are far more interested in women’s physical bodies than they are in the clothing and accessories that cover them. The idea that feminine self-presentation exists primarily to attract heterosexual men is further undermined by the fact that femme dykes dress in a feminine manner despite their disinterest in attracting men. And some gay men also dress very femininely despite the fact that the gay male community has a history of idolizing and fetishizing hypermasculine images and bodies rather than feminine ones. As someone who’s not interested in attracting men, I often enjoy dressing femininely; I simply feel more alive and self-empowered when I do. Whenever people (male or otherwise) assume that women who dress in a feminine manner do so in order to elicit male attention, it always sounds like a slightly toned-down version of that arrogant claim that women who dress provocatively are somehow asking to be raped. Clearly, it’s the idea that feminine self-presentation exists for men’s benefit that is oppressive to women, not the acts of self-presentation themselves. The issue of feminine self-presentation also brings up another way in which feminine traits are undermined: They are often cast as being dependent on masculinity and maleness. This sentiment seems to be projected onto virtually all aspects of femaleness and femininity. It can be seen in the way men are often cast as the “protectors” of women, either because they are typically physically stronger or because women are seen as being “emotionally frail.” The stereotypic and mythic image of the damsel in distress who requires a masculine man to save her seems to impart an air of helplessness, fragility, and passivity onto virtually all aspects of femininity and female sexuality. Such connotations seem to heavily inform both the materiality and symbolism of certain feminine fashions. They also help foster a predator/prey mentality regarding sexuality, where femininity becomes conflated with being sexually receptive and passive, while masculinity is synonymous with penetration and sexual aggressiveness.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I shower while he shaves in front of the bathroom mirror and we hurriedly dress and say goodbye, as he heads off to a meeting and I go in search of coffee that will be strong enough to wake me up. * I have always thought that my birthday, which falls over Labor Day weekend, is perfectly placed on the calendar, that I am lucky to celebrate another year of my life in synchronicity with summer getting one last hurrah. Usually we are away on our annual summer vacation in Cape Cod and I wake up to handmade cards and gifts from Michael and the kids: rocks and seashells that have been painted, small gifts wrapped in aluminum foil, breakfasts in bed that the kids eat themselves while I sip from a mug of coffee. Michael would let me sleep late and in the afternoon would corral the kids so that I could have an hour or two to read on the beach by myself, and later, as the sun set, we would eat lobsters and drink cheap white wine at a no-frills clam shack. Summer got a proper send-off while I got another year added to my age, awash in the love of the family I had created. This year, as I turn 48 years old, there will be no family holiday. Daisy is away at school and holidays are from the last era of our family life, but Hudson and Georgia pull through. Hudson gives me a deck of playing cards with a note on the front that says “52 things I love about you”, and every card contains a note scrawled in Sharpie: you laugh at all of my jokes, you laugh at all of your own jokes, you make me food when I’m hungry and even when I think I’m not hungry, you let me play my music in the car, you always listen to me, you are strong, I know how much you love me. It is the best gift I’ve ever received, and I embarrass him and worry Georgia when I start crying as I flip through the deck. This is enough , I think to myself, more than enough . My parents arrive later, bearing a cooler filled with food my mother has cooked for me: an Asian shrimp salad with mint and lime juice, a poached salmon with thin lemon slices lining the top, fresh bread and bright red tomatoes from her garden. For dessert, in another cooler, are four pints of ice cream they procured from my favorite farm stand. There is enough food here for at least a dozen people, but there’s just the five of us. I know my mother is worried about me – her forced cheer is determined not to let in one sad thought of the way things used to be on my birthday – and I am matching her efforts with my own so that she doesn’t have to worry.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then they stood very still, grown abruptly silent. And each of them felt a little afraid, for the realization of great mutual love can at times be so overwhelming a thing, that even the bravest of hearts may grow fearful. And although they could not have put it into words, could not have explained it to themselves or to each other, they seemed at that moment to be looking beyond the turbulent flood of earthly passion; to be looking straight into the eyes of a love that was changed—a love made perfect, discarnate. But the moment passed and they drew together. . . . 2The spring they had left behind in Orotava overtook them quite soon, and one day there it was blowing softly along the old streets of the Quarter—the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints Pères, the Rue Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who can resist the first spring days in Paris? Brighter than ever looked the patches of sky when glimpsed between rows of tall, flat-bosomed houses. From the Pont des Arts could be seen a river that was one wide, ingratiating smile of sunshine; while beyond in the Rue des Petits Champs, spring ran up and down the Passage Choiseul, striking gleams of gold from its dirty glass roof—the roof that looks like the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. All over the Bois there was bursting of buds—a positive orgy of growth and greenness. The miniature waterfall lifted its voice in an effort to roar as loud as Niagara. Birds sang. Dogs yapped or barked or bayed according to their size and the tastes of their owners. Children appeared in the Champs Elysées with bright coloured balloons which tried to escape and which, given the ghost of a chance, always did so. In the Tuileries Gardens boys with brown legs and innocent socks were hiring toy boats from the man who provided Bateaux de Location. The fountains tossed clouds of spray into the air, and just for fun made an occasional rainbow; then the Arc de Triomphe would be seen through an arc that was, thanks to the sun, even more triumphal. As for the very old lady in her kiosk—the one who sells bocks, groseille, limonade, and such simple food-stuffs as brioches and croissants—as for her, she appeared in a new frilled bonnet and a fine worsted shawl on one memorable Sunday. Smiling she was too, from ear to ear, in spite of the fact that her mouth was toothless, for this fact she only remembered in winter when the east wind started her empty gums aching. Under the quiet, grey wings of the Madeleine the flower-stalls were bright with the glory of God—anemones, jonquils, daffodils, tulips; mimosa that left gold dust on the fingers, and the faintly perfumed ascetic white lilac that had come in the train from the Riviera. There were also hyacinths, pink, red and blue, and many small trees of sturdy azalea.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I said. “Like you can’t go or you go too much?” “Both,” he said. “It depends on the day.” “I’m sorry I’m laughing. I know it’s not funny. But it’s weird talking about this with a stranger.” “We all do it, you know.” “I know. Have you ever accidentally gone in your wet suit?” Now I was laughing so hard that tears formed in the corners of my eyes. He was grinning and treading water. “That’s privileged information,” he said. “I feel like we’re not intimate enough to go that far.” “Ah, okay, I understand. Good that you have your limits,” I said. “I don’t, it’s just—we would need to be more close for me to disclose something like that,” he said, smirking. “What would be more close?” “I don’t know,” he said. “Like if I had touched you before or something.” I felt surprised. I don’t know why I am always surprised when a man is attracted to me. Maybe because he was so beautiful and young. But I guess it made sense. Why else was he hanging around these rocks? “Do you want to touch me?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “Where do you want to touch me?” I said coyly. He swam over to the edge of my rock. I suddenly felt nervous. “Hmmmmm,” he said. “Would you let me touch your ankle?” “My ankle?” I laughed. “Yeah, your ankle.” “Okay,” I said. “You can touch my ankle.” He ceremoniously lifted one hand, wiggled his fingers like a pianist, and gave my calf a little squeeze. I laughed. Then, he lightly cupped my ankle and massaged it gently, looking up at me. I stopped laughing. Slowly, he ran two fingers up and down the middle of my foot bone. He pressed each of the toes, one by one, and made his way around to the back where he gently massaged my Achilles tendon. “You have such cute ankles,” he said. When he was done massaging he sort of patted the top of my foot like a child’s head. Then he hugged my calf with his hand and head. It was weird as hell but it felt so good. “No,” he said. “I’ve never shit in a wet suit.” 28. For the next few days I rose at dawn and walked Dominic to Oakwood Park, where he would run around and chase birds. I felt like a wild woman as I ran beside him, a primal lady of the wolves. He thanked me gleefully, jumping up and licking my face, his cold, wet nose brushing up against mine. I couldn’t believe that his love for me was still so pure and unwavering, and I didn’t even have to work for it. Could a love like that really be trusted?

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  At the top of the tree swung the little wax Christ-child in His spangled nightgown with gold and blue ribbons; and the little wax Christ-child bent downwards and sideways because, although small, He was rather heavy—or, as Stephen had thought when she too had been small, because He was trying to look for His presents. In the morning they all went to church in the village, and the church smelt of coldness and freshly bruised greenstuff—of the laurel and holly and pungent pine branches, that wreathed the oak pulpit and framed the altar; and the anxious-faced eagle who must carry the Scriptures on his wings, he too was looking quite festive. Very redolent of England it was, that small church, with its apple-cheeked choirboys in newly washed garments; with its young Oxford parson who in summer played cricket to the glory of God and the good of the county; with its trim congregation of neighbouring gentry who had recently purchased an excellent organ, so that now they could hear the opening bars of the hymns with a feeling of self-satisfaction, but with something else too that came nearer to Heaven, because of those lovely old songs of Christmas. The choir raised their sexless, untroubled voices: ‘While shepherds watched their flocks . . .’ sang the choir; and Anna’s soft mezzo mingled and blended with her husband’s deep boom and Puddle’s soprano. Then Stephen sang too for the sheer joy of singing, though her voice at best was inclined to be husky: ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night,’ carolled Stephen—for some reason thinking of Raftery . After church the habitual Christmas greetings: ‘Merry Christmas.’ ‘Merry Christmas.’ ‘Same to you, many of them!’ Then home to Morton and the large mid-day dinner—turkey, plum pudding with its crisp brandy butter, and the mince-pies that invariably gave Puddle indigestion. Then dessert with all sorts of sweet fruits out of boxes, crystallized fruits that made your hands sticky, together with fruit from the Morton green-houses; and from somewhere that no one could ever remember, the elegant miniature Lady-apples that you ate skins and all in two bites if you were greedy.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He had now been in service for several years, having contracted rheumatic fever which had weakened his heart and made him unfit for the strenuous life of a fisher. Pauline, his wife, was considerably younger, and she it was who would reign in the kitchen, while their daughter Adèle, a girl of eighteen, would help both her parents and look after the housework. Adèle was as happy as a blackbird in springtime; she would often seem just on the verge of chirping. But Pauline had stood and watched the great storms gather over the sea while her men were out fishing; her father had lost his life through the sea as had also a brother, so Pauline smiled seldom. Dour she was, with a predilection for dwelling in detail on people’s misfortunes. As for Pierre, he was stolid, kind and pious, with the eyes of a man who has looked on vast spaces. His grey stubbly hair was cut short to his head en brosse, and he had an ungainly figure. When he walked he straddled a little as though he could never believe in a house without motion. He liked Stephen at once, which was very propitious, for one cannot buy the good-will of a Breton. Thus gradually chaos gave place to order, and on the morning of her twenty-seventh birthday, on Christmas Eve, Stephen moved into her home in the Rue Jacob on the old Rive Gauche, there to start her new life in Paris. 2 All alone in the brown and white salle à manger, Stephen and Puddle ate their Christmas dinner. And Puddle had bought a small Christmas tree and had trimmed it, then hung it with coloured candles. A little wax Christ-child bent downwards and sideways from His branch, as though He were looking for His presents—only now there were not any presents. Rather clumsily Stephen lit the candles as soon as the daylight had almost faded. Then she and Puddle stood and stared at the tree, but in silence, because they must both remember. But Pierre, who like all who have known the sea, was a child at heart, broke into loud exclamations. ‘Oh, comme c’est beau, l’arbre de Noël!’ he exclaimed, and he fetched the dour Pauline along from the kitchen, and she too exclaimed; then they both fetched Adèle and they all three exclaimed: ‘Comme c’est beau, l’arbre de Noël!’

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I wish I cared less,” I say wistfully. #4 looks down at his watch and remarks that we’ve been sitting for over two hours and should relinquish our table. When the bill comes, he pulls out a crisp $100 bill as I reach behind me for my bag, which he firmly waves away. I thank him, grateful for his generosity and that we have successfully navigated the date to its conclusion. It is still raining when we exit, so we carefully walk down the slick steps and run under the porch for cover. I wonder if I will ever get used to this awkward dance of saying goodbye. We strategize how we will get to our cars without getting soaked and finally, when we are out of things to say, he gives me a hug and says it was great to meet me. The hug lasts long enough that I can smell the clean scent of soap on his body and feel how solid his muscles are under his thin shirt. I linger, breathing him in, and when I pull away our faces stay close so that he can lean in for a kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him toward me, and he kisses me again; when we pull away we realize we are standing on full display next to the kitchen windows, where there are at least eight people working. “I think we’ve given them a pretty good show,” he says and kisses me again. My eyes are open now and I am watching every pair of legs as they come down the staircase in front of us, terrified the legs will belong to my parents. “Can we scoot over to the side where we’re less conspicuous?” I ask and we shuffle over. I fully feel like a teenager now, as if over thirty years haven’t passed since I was having sex in my parents’ basement and praying I wouldn’t be caught. “So, do you have children underfoot at home today?” I ask, getting my mojo back. “I do not,” he says. “Would you like to come over?” I nod eagerly and we dash through the teeming rain for our cars so that I can follow him home. On the drive over, I call Lauren. “How did it go? Did you like him? Tell me everything,” she says. “It’s still going, but I ran into my parents and it was extremely uncomfortable. I’m following him to his house now.” “I love you,” she says, laughing. “You seem so sweet and innocent but you always get the job done.” I promise to call her later so she knows I’m safe and sound, then pull into a long driveway until I reach a large ranch-style house set back from the road, half suburban, half country, with a pool in the backyard. #4 holds the front door open for me and two dogs, of course, come bounding over. They are pugs, small (thankfully), cute and making snorting noises.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  His unwillingness to stand still and accept the blows – his insistence that we move forward, not back; that I look inward to share my part in it – only served to make my rampages even more intense. The damage I was doing to myself was just as severe, as after I had worked myself into heated rages during which I felt victimized and wronged, it wasn’t easy to be calm and present for the kids. The bitterness building in me was to be my ruin, but understanding that only made it worse as I felt powerless against its crushing weight. Georgia and I waited until Hudson returned from skiing so that we could ice skate together. It had been years since I had been on skates and I was scared of falling and dreaded even the idea of being cold. Hudson offered to take Georgia so that I could have a break, but I knew they wanted me to skate with them. Michael was agile and athletic, so it had always been reasonable for me to cede physical activities to him: skiing, ice skating, skateboarding, biking, swimming, tennis – these had all been his domain, but now I had to find a way to make all domains my own. At the rink, I stacked three milk crates on top of each other to use for balance as I got my bearings. After a few slow loops around, the kids insisted I give up the babyish crates and skate on my own. They each took one of my hands and promised not to whip me around at full speed to amuse themselves. When I felt steady, I let go of their hands. The rink was nearly empty and I picked up speed with each lap around, spinning faster and faster, leaving Georgia behind with Hudson. I felt free, singing and smiling and watching my kids from a distance as they set up an obstacle course. Here I am , I thought. I hadn’t wanted to be here, was terrified to be on my own, scared of moving fast and feeling uncomfortably cold – but I was not only here, I actually felt a sense of inner peace and something I might even call happiness surge through me. Just keep doing this , I thought, face the things you are scared of, put on a brave face for your kids, let yourself be present in joyful moments without panicking over what comes next, and you might actually find your way through . * On our last day in Vermont, Georgia and I checked out of the hotel and went to a bowling alley while we waited for Hudson to finish skiing. We had just laced up our bowling shoes when my cell phone rang. A stern voice asked if I was the mother of Hudson Williams. My heart sank.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I tell him I am struggling through an old Michael Chabon novel; he tells me he tried that one but couldn’t get through it. We talk about how we ended up in this area and marvel when we realize that not only did we grow up in the same suburban town, we even attended the same elementary school. He is three years older than me, so we don’t know many of the same people but we land on one or two in common. He seems familiar to me, not that I know him, but I feel like I could. Our conversation meanders and is thoroughly enjoyable; he is witty, charming, and attentive. My conversations with #1 and 2 were fun and flirty, but this is something different – he feels like a friend. We’ve passed a couple of hours without running out of steam, but it’s just us and the bartender now and I suggest that we should probably let him close up, so we reluctantly get up to leave. The rain has stopped, but the air outside is heavy and damp. “I would love to see you again if you want to share your number with me?” he asks. “Yes, that would be lovely,” I respond, and he puts my number into his phone. We are standing at my car already so it’s do-or-die time. “When are you available?” he asks. “I’m sure it’s hard for you to get away with your kids at home.” I raise my eyebrows. I don’t have an easy answer to this question: tomorrow, Georgia will return from sleepaway camp and then I’ve got kids home for the rest of the summer. “Well,” I say very slowly, “I’m available right now.” The meaning of my words sinks in and he chuckles softly. “That’s a more literal answer than I was expecting,” he says. “Just grabbing the bull by the horns,” I say with a soft laugh. “And the question of my future availability is anyone’s guess.” “What are you thinking about doing with your current availability?” he asks. “Going back to my house or yours,” I say, letting my forwardness float between us. “I’m not sure,” he says hesitantly. “I wasn’t expecting this tonight. My girlfriend and I broke up a few months ago and I haven’t been with anyone since.” “It’s OK,” I say. “I don’t have any expectations, it’s just that I’m not sure when I’ll be free again, so …” He leans down toward me and kisses me. He’s tall, and I lean forward onto my toes to reach him. His kiss is soft and gentle. “OK,” he says, pulling back. “Let’s go to my house. It’s closer than yours plus I have to walk my dog.” Another dog , I think, my heart sinking. I follow him along dark winding roads. He knows the area well and drives fast; I have to concentrate to keep up.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  All that’s missing is the worry that I will be found out by my parents in their bedroom two flights up from the basement and the nubby wool of the plaid sofa. Being intimate with Jack is surprising in all the best ways: fun, sensual, even transporting. It is liberating to give up control and stop dictating what end of the spectrum between making love and fucking our intercourse will be. The fact that he doesn’t know me and thus has no expectation of how my body will respond allows me to be whoever I want to be sexually at this moment in time. I had worried that I would miss Michael like a stabbing pain during whatever my first encounter would be, but having shed self-consciousness and assumptions of who I am once my clothes come off is profoundly freeing, giving me a reprieve from the sexual identity I steadfastly adhered to over the course of almost three decades with Michael. As Jack works his way back up my body, he places one hand on my stomach and reaches the other hand up to gently place his palm on one of my nipples. His touch on my stomach is the one that feels decidedly intimate; I’ve always equated arousing touches with private parts of the body that are reserved for sex, but his interest in the more mundane parts of my body – my calves, thighs, stomach – enthralls me. “You’re in great shape,” he says. “It’s hard to believe you have three kids.” “Thank you,” I say. “But yes, they’re all mine. I’ve got some stretching and sagging to prove it.” Immediately I regret saying this: learn just to say thank you , I think for the second time tonight. If he’s not noticing where I’ve lost my elasticity, it’s not my job to draw a map for him. He playfully squeezes my arm muscles, admiring them. I feel aglow from these compliments. He’s not saying that I’m lithe or I’m voluptuous, words I associate with sexiness – he’s saying I’m strong. I know that no one can create strength in another person and that you can’t fake strength, which means I can take full credit for this aspect of myself. I realize that’s exactly what I want – to be a little badass, a little unexpected, willing and able to take care of myself. He reaches over for the condom that he had earlier placed on the nightstand, but I catch his forearm and say, “Wait.” I roll over so that I am straddling him and I put my hands on his bare, buff chest. His skin is soft and smooth, not a hair in sight. I take my index finger and trace the tattoo on his left bicep. It’s the size of my fist, a large bird with Latin words underneath. “What does this mean?” I ask. “It’s a long story. I got it during a stint in the military a long time ago,” he says.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  It’s already clear to me that I had been silly to worry about his being too genteel to be an ardent lover. Soon I am lying on the couch and he lifts the blouse over my head, then runs his finger along my clavicle, down my breastbone to my navel, slowly but finally landing at the button to my jeans, which he easily opens with one hand. He slides my jeans down my legs, taking his time to kiss the soft spot of skin where my thong touches my bikini line, along the inside of my upper thighs and then down my legs, delicately lifting my feet to free me of my jeans. I watch wordlessly as he puts my toe into his mouth, gently sucking on it as I arch my back and let out a long, slow breath. He rises from the couch, then takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom. His bedroom is small but his bed is hotel-quality, with a crisp white duvet covering a fluffy down quilt and copious pillows with matching white pillowcases and navy blue piping. It is elegant and enticing, but also masculine without signs of the bachelor beds I’ve seen haphazardly thrown together and usually covered in dog hair up until now; decidedly metrosexual, which hits my sweet spot. I lie back against the pillows and he kneels between my legs, saying, “I’m dying to taste you.” He pulls my thong down, his thumbs hooked around the lace waistband, and slowly runs his fingers down my legs. When he puts his head between my legs, he inhales deeply and says, “Your smell is intoxicating.” With these words, I’m at a loss. Am I supposed to respond? And what exactly would an appropriate response be – a delighted, why thank you? A sidebar that the smell is deeply indebted to expensive Parisian rose oil that never goes on sale so he’s lucky I used some of it for his benefit? A sultry and absurd, “You know it baby”? Flummoxed, I remain silent and hope my silence will be a hint that I’m all action and no conversation once I’m in bed. I am not quite so lucky though, as it appears that #6 is going to take the time and effort to observe every detail of our sexual encounter and verbalize these observations. “You are so wet and so sweet,” he says, and my mouth twists so that I am biting the corner of my lip. He’s kind of far away so if I do speak I’m going to have to do it in a loud voice, which means I’m going to have to really assert myself, say whatever I can muster up with some degree of gumption. I am running through all the possible responses, trying to come up with one that registers I hear him but offers only the most banal words so that I’m not forced to follow up with even more words.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I was wearing terrible, grandmotherly cotton underpants. He breathed on my pussy through the fabric and it felt warm and wet. Then he licked the skin on the sides of my undies, kissing back into the center and out again, moaning with his warm mouth open on the fabric. He pulled my underpants to one side and gave me a long lick, starting with my hole and slowly tracing over my clit. He did this again, back and forth, bringing the moisture from inside me over my clit. I was shaking. I looked up at the sky. It felt so good, but I was nervous. “Theo,” I said. “It might take me a little while. Is that okay? Will you tell me if you get tired?” He took his head out from under my skirt. “I want you to take as long as you need,” he said. “Take the whole night. Take forever.” I lay back down. The stars were beautiful but I closed my eyes. I focused on the feeling in my pussy entirely and not what was going on around us or even him. It was a sustained goodness and I felt that in my sexual relationships with others I had missed the point. Had it ever been solely about pleasure for me? Maybe I had missed the point of what having a pussy was for entirely. It was not for having babies or pissing, but simply a locus of pleasure—its own purpose. Now a growing confidence was there, like a crystal inside it or maybe a whole ocean. Perhaps the crystal had always been there without me seeing or knowing. Had I always glowed from there but never realized? Right above my pussy, my whole pelvis felt full—not of piss or pain—but self-sustaining, pulsing. I felt glad to be alive. Or not even glad, just alive. I was in my is-ness and was not going to fight it. So this was joy. Like my pussy, this part of my pelvis felt like it had existed forever but had disappeared years ago. I remembered feeling something like this as a young child, but somehow that feeling had been eclipsed and forgotten until now. It had been eclipsed by all the matter on Earth. I saw that all of that matter was just emptiness. It accrued and accrued to nothing. My chest, too, was warm, as though it sought to open, like a light in there was pushing through rusty doors. This I resisted. I was scared, afraid to let the doors swing open fully. But my throat felt like the throat I had known as a child, when all language was new and words hadn’t hurt so much. In the past when I made sex sounds, I tried to imitate what I saw in porn. But now what I heard was way deeper, guttural, without the formation of my mouth. It didn’t resemble syllables and definitely not words. It was the sound of the planet rotating.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  When he suggests that it’s too late at night for me to drive back to the city and I should spend the night, I cock my head to the side to mull the option over, pretending that I hadn’t thrown a pair of glasses and clean underwear into my bag just in case this option arose. Back at his apartment, he offers me a T-shirt to sleep in but I decline it and strip down to my underwear to lie in bed next to him. We have sex – quick again, given that he got me started an hour ago at the bar, but intense and deeply satisfying – and then I hear his breathing change as he falls asleep. I lie awake, hearing the metallic tapping of water from the air conditioner from the apartment above drip onto his air conditioner. It is amazing how jarring and noisy just one drop of water can be when it hits metal from a distance of ten feet, and I try to relax to the pattern of drips so that I can fall asleep, but there’s no rhyme or reason to it so I remain frustrated and very much awake. #5 gently snores next to me and I think of kicking him as I would have kicked Michael, but we aren’t anywhere near the point in which I am free to nudge him so I listen to the drips and the snores, the tapping and the breathing, and wonder if I will ever get used to sleeping with another man again. When the sun finally spills through the slats of the blinds in the morning, I rise exhausted while Scott bounces out of bed, hurrying to get ready for a race he’s running with his firemen buddies. “Walk of shame,” he says as he walks me, outfitted back in my skimpy ruffled dress and high heeled sandals, to my car. “Strut of success,” I counter back, shooting him a coquettish smile. We start talking every day after that, kicking the day off with sunshine emoji texts and catching up over phone calls as he drives home from work. Sometimes he calls late at night as I lie in bed reading, and he almost always makes me laugh. He enjoys provoking me so that I work myself up into heated, impassioned arguments about everything from politics to childrearing and then he backpedals his staunch stance, teasing me that it’s easy and fun to get me riled up. Once a week he goes to fire training classes and I hang onto all the details of what he has to carry while battling smoke and intense heat, and how many of the other volunteers couldn’t make it to the end as he did.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I leave the table to use the restroom and when I return, I am alarmed all over again. “This might be TMI,” I say, furrowing my brows, “but I think #8 broke me. I’m bleeding.” Ana bursts into peals of laughter, shrieking “TMI? TMI? Now it’s TMI? You passed that so long ago! TMI went out the window the minute you told me you thought you peed in #8’s bed.” We laugh long and hard, drawing a few looks from the waiter who normally witnesses us huddled in the corner, me wiping away tears while Ana reaches out to put her hand over mine. Now we are like hyenas, cackling and doubled over, crying with laughter. It’s obvious to both of us that we have crossed the border into a land where bodies are just bodies and what they can do is a common experience, no reason to keep it to ourselves. * True to my prediction, #6 is wildly jealous that another man has located my G-spot and becomes obsessed with finding it himself. I suggest that he go down one of the research rabbit holes I’m so famous for to figure it out. “Now you’re definitely going to see #8 again. Why wouldn’t you?” he says mournfully. “Actually, he texted me already to make another date and I declined,” I say. “I told him that as much as I enjoyed my time with him, I have been dating someone for whom I am developing real feelings and thus it is starting to feel strange to sleep with other men.” “And what did he say?” he asks, though I was hoping he would respond to the part in which I declared vague but real feelings for him. “He said he was happy for me,” I say. “So now the pressure is really on for me to find the mystery spot,” he says. “I’m parking my LLT for a while. I’m going to see what it feels like to date just you,” I say. He laughs; I know the way I said it made it sound like I was slumming it with him as my sole sex partner. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously I have limited free time and I would like to spend the free time I do have with you. My sexual curiosity is calming down – I think I’ve got it now, and honestly, I’m exhausted. I like having sex with you, I like being with you, so my liberation train is going on hiatus,” I say. “What do you think about that?” “I don’t know, I feel jealous when you’re with other men but it’s also a huge turn-on. I think you should do what feels right to you,” he says. “Better step up your game if you’re going to be my only sexual partner,” I say. “I have to update my will,” he says lightheartedly, but I can tell that he is relieved.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  My chest, too, was warm, as though it sought to open, like a light in there was pushing through rusty doors. This I resisted. I was scared, afraid to let the doors swing open fully. But my throat felt like the throat I had known as a child, when all language was new and words hadn’t hurt so much. In the past when I made sex sounds, I tried to imitate what I saw in porn. But now what I heard was way deeper, guttural, without the formation of my mouth. It didn’t resemble syllables and definitely not words. It was the sound of the planet rotating. I didn’t even think about Theo. For once I was not thinking. Maybe for the first time ever. I felt space in my mind, in my skull, which I had never felt before. Had that too always been there? If it had always been there, then life, it seemed, could have always been beautiful, redeemable, sacred. But if it had always been there, it was strange that I had never found it before. If something so beautiful and pure existed right between your ears, why wouldn’t you stay there forever? Why wouldn’t you live there? —I started to laugh. I couldn’t tell if I was coming, or if I had already come. But then the laughter subsided and I felt a darkness crawl over me—a cool darkness that was dead serious—and I realized that I had not come yet and was going to. His tongue was like a dog’s tongue—a little rough—so unlike my fingers or vibrator. It was like a magic carpet or something, in that I came and came and came. It was like the orgasm began, then stopped, then started a couple of times and I felt that I was able to control it, before I rode the carpet all the way up to where it crested and then exploded. I stayed in it longer than I had ever experienced. And just as I came I became aware of him again. I said his name out loud, I heard myself say it. But I also felt a connectedness between me and something bigger—beyond him—as though there were a split screen. He was on one side of the screen and the universe was on the other. I felt love for both of them. I lay there on the rock and stared up at the sky, silent, for a long time. He kept his face in between my thighs and I hugged his head with my knees. “Would you like me to come out of the water?” he asked. “What?” He took his head out from under my skirt, looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I said, ‘Would you like me to come out of the water?’ ” “So much,” I said. “More than anything. More than anything I would like you to come out of the water.” “I’m scared,” he said.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  He had said in his Autobiography that "every lover is a martyr,"483 and here the Eternal Wisdom declares that if all hearts were become one heart, that heart could not bear the least reward he has chosen to give in eternity as a compensation for the least suffering endured out of love for himself .... This is an eternal law of nature that what is true and good must be harvested with sorrow. There is nothing more joyous than to have endured suffering. Suffering is short pain and prolonged joy. Suffering gives pain here and blessedness hereafter. Suffering destroys suffering—Leiden tödtet Leiden. Suffering exists that the sufferer may not suffer. He who could weigh time and eternity in even balances would rather he in a glowing oven for a hundred years than to miss in eternity the least reward given for the least suffering, for the suffering in the oven would have an end, but the reward is forever.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Fisher of men To Christ [the] King, Who are saved, Holy reward Catching the chaste fishes For the doctrine of life. With sweet life Let us sing together, From the hateful wave Sing in simplicity Of a sea of vices. To the mighty Child. O choir of peace, Guide [us], Shepherd The Christ begotten, Of rational sheep; O chaste people Guide harmless children, Let us praise together O holy King. The God of peace." This poem was for sixteen centuries merely a hymnological curiosity, until an American Congregational minister, Dr. Henry Martyn Dexter, by a happy reproduction, in 1846, secured it a place in modern hymn-books. While preparing a sermon (as He. informs me) on "some prominent characteristics of the early Christians" (text, Deut. 32:7, "Remember the days of old"), he first wrote down an exact translation of the Greek hymn of Clement, and then reproduced and modernized it for the use of his congregation in connection with the sermon. It is well known that many Psalms of Israel have inspired some of the noblest Christian hymns. The 46th Psalm gave the key-note of Luther’s triumphant war-hymn of the Reformation: "Ein’ feste Burg." John Mason Neale dug from the dust of ages many a Greek and Latin hymn, to the edification of English churches, notably some portions of Bernard of Cluny’s De Contemptu Mundi, which runs through nearly three thousand dactylic hexameters, and furnished the material for "Brief life is here our portion." "For thee, O dear, dear Country," and "Jerusalem the golden." We add Dexter’s hymn as a fair specimen of a useful transfusion and rejuvenation of an old poem. 1. Shepherd of tender youth, None calls on Thee in vain; Guiding in love and truth Help Thou dost not disdain— Through devious ways; Help from above. Christ, our triumphant King, We come Thy name to sing; 4. Ever be Thou our Guide, Hither our children bring Our Shepherd and our Pride, To shout Thy praise! Our Staff and Song! Jesus, Thou Christ of God 2. Thou art our Holy Lord, By Thy perennial Word The all-subduing Word, Lead us where Thou hast trod, Healer of strife! Make our faith strong. Thou didst Thyself abase, That from sin’s deep disgrace 5. So now, and till we die, Thou mightest save our race, Sound we Thy praises high, And give us life. And joyful sing: Infants, and the glad throng 3. Thou art the great High Priest; Who to Thy church belong, Thou hast prepared the feast Unite to swell the song Of heavenly lov § 67. Division of Divine Service. The Disciplina Arcani. Richard Rothe: De Disciplinae Arcani, quae dicitur, in Ecclesia Christ. Origine. Heidelb. 1841; and his art. on the subject in the first ed. of Herzog (vol. I. 469–477). C. A. Gerh. Von Zezschwitz: System der christl. kirchlichen Katechetik. Leipz. 1863, vol. I. p. 154–227. See also his art. in the second ed. of Herzog, I. 637–645 (abridged in Schaff’s "Rel. Enc."). G. Nath. Bonwetsch (of Dorpat): Wesen, Entstehunq und Fortgang der Arkandisciplin, in Kahnis’ "Zeitschrift für Hist. Theol." 1873, pp. 203 sqq. J. P. Lundy: Monumental Christianity. N. York, 1876, p. 62–86. Comp. also A. W. Haddan in Smith & Cheetham, I. 564–566; Wandinger, in Wetzer & Welte, new ed. vol. I. (1882), 1234–1238. Older dissertations on the subject by Schelstrate (1678), Meier (1679), Tenzell (1863), Scholliner (1756), Lienhardt (1829), Toklot (1836), Frommann (1833), Siegel (1836, I. 506 sqq.).

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘Almost at once, I hope,’ smiled Stephen. Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because of what money could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimes behave like two children, having endless things dragged out for inspection. They drove to Versailles in the new touring car and wandered for hours through the lovely gardens. The Hameau no longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and she brought love back to the Hameau. Then they drove to the forest of Fontainebleau, and wherever they went there was singing of birds—challenging, jubilant, provocative singing: ‘Look at us, look at us! We’re happy, Stephen!’ And Stephen’s heart shouted back: ‘So are we. Look at us, look at us, look at us! We’re happy!’ When they were not driving into the country, or amusing themselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep herself fit—would fence as never before with Buisson, so that Buisson would sometimes say with a grin: ‘Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almost appears that you wish to kill me!’ The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning: ‘She fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so strong and so graceful.’ Which considering all things was generous of Buisson. But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: ‘More than seventy francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Is this winning the war? We starve, we go short of our butter and chickens, and before it is better it is surely much worse. We are all imbeciles, we kind-hearted French; we starve ourselves to fatten the Germans. Are they grateful? Sacré Nom! Mais oui, they are grateful—they love us so much that they spit in our faces!’ And quite often this mood would be vented on Stephen. To Mary, however, he was usually polite: ‘You like our Paris? I am glad—that is good. You make the home with Mademoiselle Gordon; I hope you prevent her injurious smoking.’ And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of his interest in Stephen’s fencing. 2One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked in serenely: ‘Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I’ve turned up again—not that I love you, I positively hate you. I’ve been keeping away for weeks and weeks. Why did you never answer my letters? Not so much as a line on a picture postcard! There’s something in this more than meets the eye. And where’s Puddle? She used to be kind to me once—I shall lay my head down on her bosom and weep. . . .’ He stopped abruptly, seeing Mary Llewellyn, who got up from her deep arm-chair in the corner. Stephen said: ‘Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett—an old friend of mine; we’re fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary Llewellyn.’ Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen’s direction, then he bowed and gravely shook hands with Mary.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The generation of the eternal Son in the soul brings joy which no man can take away. A prince who should lose his kingdom and all worldly goods would still have fulness of joy, for his birth outweighs everything else.455 God is in the soul, and yet He is not the soul. The eye is not the piece of wood upon which it looks, for when the eye is closed, it is the same eye it was before. But if, in the act of looking, the eye and the wood should become one, then we might say the eye is the wood and the wood is the eye. If the wood were a spiritual substance like the eyesight, then, in reality, one might say eye and wood are one substance.456 The fundament of God’s being is the fundament of my being, and the fundament of my being is the fundament of God’s being. Thus I live of myself even as God lives of Himself.457 This begetment of the Son of God in the soul is the source of all true life and good works. One of the terms which Eckart uses most frequently, to denote God’s influence upon the soul, is durchbrechen, to break through, and his favorite word for the activity of the soul, as it rises into union with God, is Abgeschiedenheit, the soul’s complete detachment of itself from all that is temporal and seen. Keep aloof, abgeschieden, he says, from men, from yourself, from all that cumbers. Bear God alone in your hearts, and then practise fasting, vigils and prayer, and you will come unto perfection. This Abgeschiedenheit, total self-detachment from created things,458 he says in a sermon on the subject, is "the one thing needful." After reading many writings by pagan masters and Christian teachers, Eckart came to consider it the highest of all virtues,—higher than humility, higher even than love, which Paul praises as the highest; for, while love endures all things, this quality is receptiveness towards God. In the person possessing this quality, the worldly has nothing to correspond to itself. This is what Paul had reference to when he said, "I live and yet not I, for Christ liveth in me." God is Himself perfect Abgeschiedenheit. In another place, Eckart says that he who has God in his soul finds God in all things, and God appears to him out of all things. As the thirsty love water, so that nothing else tastes good to them, even so it is with the devoted soul. In God and God alone is it at rest. God seeks rest, and He finds it nowhere but in such a heart. To reach this condition of Abgeschiedenheit, it is necessary for the soul first to meditate and form an image of God, and then to allow itself to be transformed by God.459

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I can’t believe his dick is inside me, I kept thinking, that it is his dick inside me, that it’s your dick inside me. A beautiful look came across his face: flushed cheeks, glazed eyes, lips wet and full. He looked intoxicated, and I felt so proud to be the one intoxicating him. Or was it simply being in a pussy, a wet pussy—not dry-wet from seawater, but wet with secretions—that made him look so drunk? Could it be anyone’s pussy? I wanted to believe it was me and that he felt about my pussy like I felt about his cock: amazed, because of who it belonged to. It was me alone: my body and my spirit that made this beautiful creature look so high. In that way I felt that I was beautiful now too. And then his expression changed again. Now he looked more pained, or perhaps engulfed in a pleasure that overwhelmed him. He was moaning “ungh, ungh” into my mouth, but not like the guys in porn saying stupid, phony lines like “Fuck me, bitch.” This was pure sound. It was as though his mouth emitted pure nature. His mouth was like a shell that you could put to your ear. Or maybe we were nature together? Were we shells or were we animals? Or one shell and one animal? No, we were two fish swimming in circles around each other, playful and spared of memory, unaware that we had ever been born and that we would ever die. We were connected now not only with all of human history—all the human lovers of the past—but with animal history as well. I’d been having sex for years. I’d had it hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, but now it was like I finally understood what sex was. There were only so many things in our lives that connected us to all of our ancestors, to all of humanity and to the animals. Poetry was one thing that bridged generations. But this was the big thing. This encompassed every species. Otherwise what was there? There was birth and death. There was eating food, drinking fluid, pissing and taking shits. There was this.