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 How God Became King (2012)

  “You are so senseless!” he said to them. “So slow in your hearts to believe all the things the prophets said to you! Don’t you see? This is what had to happen: the Messiah had to suffer, and then come into his glory!” So he began with Moses, and with all the prophets, and explained to them the things about himself throughout the whole Bible. They drew near to the village where they were heading. Jesus gave the impression that he was going further, but they urged him strongly not to. “Stay with us,” they said. “It’s nearly evening; the day is almost gone.” And he went in to stay with them. As he was sitting at table with them he took the bread and gave thanks. He broke it and gave it to them. Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. Then they said to each other, “Do you remember how our hearts were burning inside us, as he talked to us on the road, as he opened up the Bible for us?” And they got up then and there and went back to Jerusalem. There they found the eleven, and the people with them, gathered together. They were saying, “The Lord really has been raised! He’s appeared to Simon!” Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he was known to them in the breaking of the bread. (24:13–35) The story is full of echoes. Think, for instance, of Mary and Joseph looking for Jesus in the Temple and finally finding him about his father’s business (2:41–52). “Didn’t you know,” says the twelve-year-old boy, “that I would have to be getting involved with my father’s work?” (2:49). This sense of what had to happen, of Jesus’s sense of a purpose to be fulfilled, is exactly echoed in his words to the two sad and puzzled disciples on the way to Emmaus: “Don’t you see? This is what had to happen: the Messiah had to suffer, and then come into his glory!” (24:26). But the echoes go much farther back as well. Think of Genesis 3, where the first two humans ate the forbidden fruit and found that their eyes were opened, so that they knew their condition. Now this sad pair, heavy with the sorrow and shame of Jesus’s death, pour out their tale of woe, only to be answered by a fresh reading of scripture and then, wonderfully, the moment of breaking bread in which “the eyes of both of them were opened, and they recognized him” (24:31).

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

  While this may distinguish me from other crossdressers (e.g., those who are motivated by feminine rather than female inclinations), I believe that the stages I passed through (which are described below) are shared by many crossdressers.The first stage of crossdressing I passed through was the “clothing phase.” It began with trying on individual articles of clothing one at a time (this was after a several-year period where I made due with blankets, curtains, shoelaces, and such while “pretending” to be a girl). Sometimes I would put on a pair of heels, stockings, or a dress, or dabble with cosmetics or shave my legs. Each was its own mini-transformation, where a part of my body would begin to resemble that of a woman in certain ways. After a while, I began to put it all together, to dress completely as a woman from head to toe. I looked rather ridiculous when I first began to do this, but over the course of many years, I slowly figured out what worked for me and what did not. Eventually, I reached the point where I could fairly consistently appear female to myself when I looked in mirror. This “mirror moment” was always the highlight of any crossdressing session for me, as I found it strangely comforting to be able to see my female reflection staring back at me.As the name suggests, my clothing phase was primarily about becoming familiar with, and eventually demystifying, “women’s” clothing. I eventually even stopped thinking about them as “women’s” clothes; after all, they were all my clothes, as I was the one who purchased and wore them. Similarly, I also stopped thinking of myself as being “crossdressed,” and instead began referring to myself as simply being “dressed.” Toward the end of this stage, I was no longer very excited by the idea of wearing “women’s” clothes just for the sake of it. However, while they had lost their mystified properties, I still understood them as having the transformative property of facilitating my appearance as female. It is this latter role that “women’s” clothing played in the next stage of my crossdressing, when I began to venture out in public.The “public phase” began with my earliest attempts to go out into the world as a woman. My very first experience involved walking around a shopping mall for about fifteen minutes, followed by purchasing a milkshake at a fast-food drive-through window. The fact that nobody seemed to give me a second glance, and that the cashier said, “Thank you, ma’am,” as she handed me my change, completely blew me away. Like the mirror moments, these experiences of having my femaleness acknowledged in some small way were profound and moving.

• 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 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.

• 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)

  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)

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

  full account of baptism and the holy Supper, to which we shall refer again, he continues: "On Sunday369 a meeting of all, who live in the cities and villages, is held, and a section from the Memoirs of the Apostles (the Gospels) and the writings of the Prophets (the Old Testament) is read, as long as the time permits.370 When the reader has finished, the president,371 in a discourse, gives all exhortation372 to the imitation of these noble things. After this we all rise in common prayer.373 At the close of the prayer, as we have before described,374 bread and wine with water are brought. The president offers prayer and thanks for them, according to the power given him,375 and the congregation responds the Amen. Then the consecrated elements are distributed to each one, and partaken, and are carried by the deacons to the houses of the absent. The wealthy and the willing then give contributions according to their free will, and this collection is deposited with the president, who therewith supplies orphans and widows, poor and needy, prisoners and strangers, and takes care of all who are in want. We assemble in common on Sunday because this is the first day, on which God created the world and the light, and because Jesus Christ our Saviour on the same day rose from the dead and appeared to his disciples." Here, reading of the Scriptures, preaching (and that as an episcopal function), prayer, and communion, plainly appear as the regular parts of the Sunday worship; all descending, no doubt, from the apostolic age. Song is not expressly mentioned here, but elsewhere.376 The communion is not yet clearly separated from the other parts of worship. But this was done towards the end of the second century. The same parts of worship are mentioned in different places by Tertullian.377 The eighth book of the Apostolical Constitutions contains already an elaborate service with sundry liturgical prayers.378 § 66. Parts of Worship. 1. The reading of Scripture lessons from the Old Testament with practical application and exhortation passed from the Jewish synagogue to the Christian church. The lessons from the New Testament came prominently into use as the Gospels and Epistles took the place of the oral instruction of the apostolic age. The reading of the Gospels is expressly mentioned by Justin Martyr, and the Apostolical Constitutions add the Epistles and the Acts.379 During the Pentecostal season the Acts of the Apostles furnished the lessons. But there was no uniform system of selection before the Nicene age. Besides the canonical Scripture, post-apostolic writings, as the Epistle of Clement of Rome, the Epistle of Barnabas, and the Pastor of Hermas, were read in some congregations, and are found in important MSS. of the New Testament.380 The Acts of Martyrs were also read on the anniversary of their martyrdom. 2.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I imagined him standing, how or if that could ever happen. I would have to prop something up for him, almost like a frame or a podium. I wondered how much weight his tail could withstand. “Guess what?” “What?” he asked, kissing my cheek. “I have my period,” I said, dejected. “I know,” he said. “What do you mean you know?” I laughed. “I just know. I know because I just intuited it. I could feel it. I’m in sync with your vagina. We’re always in contact,” he said. We were both laughing but his eyes seemed serious. “Also, don’t forget,” he said. “I’m an oceanic creature. I’m always with the moon. I can tell these things.” “Well, I guess we won’t be able to fool around for a while,” I said. “Oh, I don’t care. I’d be happy to be covered in your blood.” “You would?” “Yeah, I want your blood all over me. I want your blood on my face and in my hair.” “You’re crazy,” I said. “No, it’s true.” And with that he began to kiss me down my body, lying between my legs with his face up my skirt. I felt scared. Did I smell? Jamie had never gone down on me with my period, and certainly no one before him. I had a tampon in and no blood was on the outside of me, but even still. I was shocked. But after a minute or so he sighed. “I can’t eat you the way I want to with this rock under me. And I’m certainly not going to be able to fuck you here. It’s cutting me up,” he said. I could see that some of the scales near his sash looked irritated and misshapen, like a fish that had been packed at the bottom of a full grocery bag. “What should we do?” I asked. “Do you want to get back in the water?” “No,” he said. “I don’t know. I guess you’d better get the wagon.” “Oh my God, really?” I squealed. “Yes,” he said. “But keep that creature in there under full lockup. And throw away the key.” “Of course,” I said. “I’ll be right back!” I went skipping away. Or maybe I was running. My joy of having him again, being near him, was unabashed. You could not separate me from it. I was the happiness and the happiness was me. The nothingness was nowhere near. It couldn’t touch me. I felt no need to be or do anything other than the way I felt. And if I did, it wouldn’t have been possible anyway. I tripped on a dune and skinned my knee running across the beach. I cut it on a shard of shell. That made me pause for a moment. Was it a sign that being with Theo was deeply misguided?