Longing

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 57 of 170 · 20 per page

• From Best Erotic Romance

  I set my volume to vibrate and tucked my phone in my clutch. Then I took a deep breath, set the rose on the bed, and headed off to the elevator. As soon as the lobby doors opened, I saw him. Eric was standing opposite the elevator, leaning nonchalantly against the wall exactly where I’d expected him to be. It was the vantage point that let him, quietly and unobtrusively, see everyone and everything going on in the entire room and outside the huge glass doors. Either old habits died hard, or he was still in the same line of work. He’d seen me, too. He smiled as he straightened and started toward me. He was still slender, his muscles still moving with the same quiet strength beneath his dark linen suit. His hairline had receded a bit, the style well cut, but not military short anymore. A light blue shirt set off the color of his eyes and crows’ feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes. And oh, he was smiling. I’d so missed his smile. I met him halfway, my hands out to take his. But when his arms slid around me, somehow it was right. I slipped into his embrace like I’d never left, and we stood there in the middle of the lobby, tears streaming down my face as we clung to each other. “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you. It’s so good to see you again.” His voice wavered, and I smiled into the warmth of his chest. “I’ve missed you, too.” My laugh was shaky. “It’s a good thing I’m not wearing mascara, or I’d have ruined your shirt.” He inhaled as my mouth opened—I could almost hear the words between us. Then the shirt would have to come off. But neither one of us spoke. Instead he led me to a quiet corner where I could dry my eyes and blow my nose. I tried to excuse myself to go to the ladies room, to splash cold water on my face, but Eric shook his head, trailing the side of his knuckle down my cheek. “You’re beautiful just the way you are. I don’t want to waste another minute without you.” He nodded toward the door. “My car’s outside. Let’s go to dinner.” He held out his hand. His eyes held mine, and they didn’t look away. In that moment, I knew I’d made up my mind. I squared my shoulders, put my hand in his, and we left. The restaurant was only a few blocks away, still on the waterfront. The sun was setting. Lights twinkled on the boats moving slowly past the restaurant’s huge bay windows. “On the recommendation of a friend,” Eric ordered swordfish and delicate pasta, the perfectly steamed house vegetables, and a light white wine. We each had a single glass, and spumoni for dessert.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  The authors in this collection know that opening one’s heart comes with great risks and often greater rewards and that open communication and a spirit of adventure can make for a scorching sex life. They have created characters who believe all is fair in love and war and who take no prisoners in their quest for emotional and sexual fulfillment. Here you will find lovers exploring their desires in bedrooms, heating things up in the kitchen, splashing around in the bathtub, playing with sex toys, drinking champagne, getting it on in hotel rooms, staying warm in winter cabins, flirting in trucks and bars, making out in the great outdoors, and making love at dawn and midnight—all in the name of that greatest of all human desires: true love. So, dear reader, I invite you to explore this delicious collection of erotic romance selected especially for you. I think you will find that what makes a story the best of its kind is the same intangible that makes people fall in love. It’s magic, I think. And when it comes to love and war, there’s only one thing I know for sure: love wins. Love always wins. Kristina Wright In love in Chesapeake, Virginia TO BE IN CLOVER Shanna Germain Down on his knees in the clover, Dustan wrapped the electric wire around the insulator, pulling it tight. In the field next to him, the wind tickled the corn, making it rustle. The shiver of the tassels sounded like a woman undressing. And when Dustan thought of a woman undressing, he always thought of Maddy. He cocked his head, listening. There was no wind today. It was bright and still as summer could be, as if the day was holding its breath, waiting. If it wasn’t the corn and wind making that sound, then it was Maddy. In another moment, he could make out the sound of her, the silky-corn swish of her sundress against her legs. He kept at the fence, letting the sound of her come to him in small waves of leg and fabric, and then the smell of her; beneath his own fresh sweat and the sweet waft of the flowering clover came her morning scent. Tomatoes off the vine. Zucchini blossoms. The tang of the marigolds she used for pest control. She came up behind him and threw her hands over his eyes, and he pretended that she’d surprised him, that he hadn’t been anticipating her arrival by sound since she’d entered the field. Her hands were rough with tiny cuts—she never wore gloves—and he reveled in the press of her palms to his eyelids, the momentary loss of light, the way her sounds and smells rose around him to block out the world. Her laughter tickled the edges of his ears.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  On Wednesday, she’d pack her Focus with everything she could fit into it, leave her furniture to the mercy of movers, and head north to Atlanta and Suite Rewards’ corporate headquarters. She’d done it. After six years of busting her ass, first as the concierge and then as manager of guest services at the busy Suite Rewards Executive Hotel Miami, she’d been promoted to regional manager. Yes, she’d be back to Miami, but she’d also be in Savannah, Jacksonville, Tampa, Mobile, Orlando, and several other southern locations—but most often in her office in Atlanta. Thomas Wolburn would no longer be the steady fixation of her lustful dreams. His clockwork stays at Suite Rewards Miami, three times a year for the past four years, had helped kill two vibrators in Joanna’s nightstand. Part of her loved him, loved his smile, even after a six-hour delay in his flights, loved his wit and intelligence, plus he had an ass to make women drool. She knew he wasn’t conventionally handsome—a faded scar from forehead to jaw dropped his left eyelid to near closing and his nose was crooked, but Joanna would have gladly sold her soul to have his minty-green eyes look at her lustfully, or to have him kiss her, his lips so generous she sometimes wondered if he patronized Botox clinics. She had fantasized many times about those full lips locked around her nipples or rubbing against her clit. The job in Atlanta had been a fantasy too. She still chafed at the comment made at her interview by Les Grinion. “Joanna, you could have had this job a lot sooner if you’d had the nerve to take it.” Nerve to take it. Hadn’t that been the story of her life? When had she ever just taken something? She never stepped outside her safety zone, never threw caution to the wind and just took something for herself. Life just happened to her. She’d become a wife because Mark had asked and because she didn’t think anyone else would. Five years later, divorced and up to her gills in debt, she took a desk clerk job at Suite Rewards because it had been the first thing she had been offered. She worked diligently and, when their concierge quit, she had been assigned to cover his desk until a replacement could be found. Joanna learned five months later they never posted the position. She’d been promoted, and no one had even bothered to tell her. Until she mentioned it tentatively, her title and pay hadn’t changed. Once she knew that she wasn’t just a placeholder, she owned the position. She charmed entertainment and restaurant contacts in South Beach, Little Havana, and other hot spots in Miami, made sure the hotel was on the lodging list for every appropriate event, maintained an aggressive local events calendar on the Suite Rewards website, and made sure guests were emailed important notices in advance.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  give her the attention and validation she was not getting from her husband. Because of this reversal, when the boy becomes a man, he feels a great emptiness inside that he constantly needs to fill. He cannot exactly verbalize what he wants or what he missed, hence the vagueness of his fantasy. He will spend his life searching for this elusive figure and never settle on a flesh-and-blood female. It’s always the next one who will be perfect. If he falls for the narcissistic type, he will repeat the problem he experienced with his mother, falling for a woman who cannot give him what he wants. His own anima is a bit dreamy, introspective, and moody, which is the behavior he will tend to exhibit when in love. Men of this type must recognize the nature of their pattern. What they really need is to find and interact with a real woman, accept her inevitable flaws, and give more of themselves. They often prefer to chase their fantasy, because in such a scenario they are in control and have the freedom to leave when reality sets in. To break the pattern, such men will have to give up some of this control. When it comes to their need for a muse, they must learn to find such inspiration from within, to bring out more of the anima within themselves. They are too alienated from their own feminine spirit and need to loosen up their own thought processes. Not needing this wildness from their fantasy woman, they will better relate to the actual women in their life. The Lovable Rebel: For the woman who is drawn to this type, the man who intrigues her has a noticeable disdain for authority. He is a nonconformist. Unlike the Devilish Romantic, this man will often be young and not so successful. He will also tend to be outside her usual circle of acquaintances. To have a relationship with him would be ever so slightly taboo—certainly her father would not approve, and perhaps not her friends or colleagues. If a relationship does ensue, however, she will see a totally different side to him. He can’t hold down a good job, not because he’s a rebel but because he’s lazy and ineffectual. Despite the tattoos and shaved head, he’s quite conventional, controlling, and domineering. The relationship will break apart, but the fantasy will remain. The woman with this projection often had a strong, patriarchal father who was distant and strict. The father represents order, rules, and conventions. He was often quite critical of his daughter—she was never good or pretty or smart enough. She internalized this critical voice and hears it in her head all the time. As a girl she dreamed of rebelling and asserting herself against the father’s control, but too often she was reduced to obeying and playing the deferential daughter. Her desire to rebel was repressed and went into her animus, which is quite angry and resentful. Instead of

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  at Castel Sant’Angelo. For one long year, in a small and windowless cell, she endured her loneliness and the endless tortures devised by the Borgias. Her health deteriorated and she seemed destined to die in prison, defiant to the end, but the chivalric French captain Yves d’Allegre had fallen under her spell. He persisted in demanding, in the name of the French king, to have her freed, and he finally succeeded, getting her safe passage to Florence. In retirement from public life, Caterina began to receive letters from men from all parts of Europe. Some had seen her over the years; most had only heard of her. They obsessed over her story, confessed their love, and begged for some memento, some relic to worship. One man who had caught a glimpse of her when she had first come to Rome wrote to her, “If I sleep, it seems that I am with you; if I eat, I leave my food and talk to you. . . . You are engraved in my heart.” Weakened by her year in prison, the countess died in 1509. • • • Interpretation: In Caterina Sforza’s time, the roles that a woman could play were severely restricted. Her primary role was to be the good mother and wife, but if unmarried, she could devote her life to religion, or in rare cases she could become a courtesan. It was as if a circle had been drawn around each and every woman, and she dared not explore beyond that circle. It was in a woman’s earliest years and education that she internalized these restrictions. If she studied only a limited number of subjects and practiced only certain skills, she couldn’t expand her role even if she wanted to. Knowledge was power. Caterina stands out as a remarkable exception, and it was because she benefited from a unique confluence of circumstances. The Sforzas were new to power. They had discovered in their rise to the top that a strong and capable wife could be of great assistance. They developed the practice of training their daughters in hunting and sword fighting as a way to toughen them up and make them fearless—important qualities to have as marriage pawns. Caterina’s father, however, took this further. Perhaps he saw in his daughter a female reflection of himself. Giving her his own tutor signaled some sort of identification he felt between them. And so a unique experiment began in the castle at Porta Giovia. Isolated from the outside world and allowed a tremendous degree of freedom, Caterina could develop herself in any direction she desired. Intellectually she could explore all forms of knowledge. She could indulge herself in all of her natural interests—in her case, fashion and the arts. In her physical training, she could give free rein to her own bold and adventurous spirit. In this early education, she could bring out the many different sides of her character.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Would she cry out when he mounted her, wincing from the pain that was a woman’s duty and yet a secret pleasure as well? Sophie sighed. Justin had been her eighth lover, although he’d been her first for a few of the more esoteric sexual practices most fairly adventurous couples enjoyed on occasion: back-door sex, light bondage, the occasional pearl necklace. Yet the timeless experience she longed for—a first night of profound erotic transformation in the arms of the man she loved deeply—was a pleasure she could never know. “Hey.” Startled from her Victorian era reverie, she looked up to meet her fiancé’s twinkling blue eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Phillips. You look happy.” “I am. Today’s the happiest day of my life.” “Why?” Sophie asked. Still half-lost in her musings, she was genuinely surprised by his answer. “Silly. Because I’m marrying the most wonderful, beautiful woman in the whole world.” Oh, right, speaking of our wedding… “Aunt Sophie!” Elena’s four-year-old daughter, Madison, burst into the room and rushed over to the bed. “You’re getting married today.” “We are. And you’re going to be the best flower girl ever,” Justin said in the perfect avuncular tone, warm but not condescending. He’d be a great father, Sophie thought with a pang of regret. “My dress is so pretty. I can’t wait to see yours.” The little girl was starting to crawl in bed with them when Elena appeared and led her daughter back toward the guest room. She gave Sophie a sly look. “I hope she didn’t disturb you. By the way, Mom and Dad said they’d come over from the hotel by eight. The appointment with the hairdresser is at nine, right?” “Yeah,” Sophie said weakly, that now-familiar dread closing around her ribcage like a corset. She might not be a real Victorian bride, but apparently her sex life was still to be molded by forces beyond her control. If she was making a terrible mistake, it was too late to turn back now. The day went by so fast, Sophie almost forgot she was making a mistake. The wedding ceremony in the garden brought her to tears, but not because she was depressed about the upcoming drought in her bedroom. There was something strangely moving about declaring her love for Justin in front of so many beaming, overdressed people who really seemed to wish them the best in their life together. With the whirl of the reception and the after-party back at the house, the day slipped into evening. It was six o’clock before they managed to drive off to the charming bed-and-breakfast they’d booked for the first night of their honeymoon. Only then, when Justin scooped her up and carried her over the threshold of their wine country cottage, did she remember this night was the beginning of the end of her erotic life.

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

  The whole issue of Santa Claus is a rather contentious one when it comes to African Christmas, a matter of pride. When an African dad buys his kid a present, the last thing he’s going to do is give some fat white man credit for it. African Dad will tell you straight up, “No, no, no. I bought you that.” Outside of birthdays and special occasions, all we had were our Sunday afternoons. He would cook for me. He’d ask me what I wanted, and I’d always request the exact same meal, a German dish called Rösti, which is basically a pancake made out of potatoes and some sort of meat with a gravy. I’d have that and a bottle of Sprite, and for dessert a plastic container of custard with caramel on top. A good chunk of those afternoons would pass in silence. My dad didn’t talk much. He was caring and devoted, attentive to detail, always a card on my birthday, always my favorite food and toys when I came for a visit. But at the same time he was a closed book. We’d talk about the food he was making, talk about the F1 racing we’d watched. Every now and then he’d drop a tidbit of information, about a place he’d visited or his steakhouse. But that was it. Being with my dad was like watching a web series. I’d get a few minutes of information a few minutes at a time, then I’d have to wait a week for the next installment. — When I was thirteen my dad moved to Cape Town, and we lost touch. We’d been losing touch for a while, for a couple of reasons. I was a teenager. I had a whole other world I was dealing with now. Videogames and computers meant more to me than spending time with my parents. Also, my mom had married Abel. He was incensed by the idea of my mom being in contact with her previous love, and she decided it was safer for everyone involved not to test his anger. I went from seeing my dad every Sunday to seeing him every other Sunday, maybe once a month, whenever my mom could sneak me over, same as she’d done back in Hillbrow. We’d gone from living under apartheid to living under another kind of tyranny, that of an abusive, alcoholic man. At the same time, Yeoville had started to suffer from white flight, neglect, general decline. Most of my dad’s German friends had left for Cape Town. If he wasn’t seeing me, he had no reason to stay, so he left. His leaving wasn’t anything traumatic, because it never registered that we might lose touch and never see each other again. In my mind it was just Dad’s moving to Cape Town for a bit. Whatever. Then he was gone.

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

  AUGUSTINE. (Serm. 105) But what are these three loaves but the food of the heavenly mystery? For it may be that one has had a friend asking for what he cannot supply him with, and then finds that he has not what he is compelled to give. A friend then comes to you on his journey, that is, in this present life, in which all are travelling on as strangers, and no one remains possessor, but to every man is told, Pass on, O stranger, give place to him that is coming. (Ecclus 29, 27.) Or perhaps some friend or yours comes from a bad road, (that is, an evil life,) wearied and not finding the truth, by hearing and receiving which he may become happy. He comes to thee as to a Christian, and says, “Give me a reason,” asking perhaps what you from the simplicity of your faith are ignorant of, and not having wherewith to satisfy his hunger, are compelled to seek it in the Lord’s books. For perhaps what he asked is contained in the book, but obscure. You are not permitted to ask Paul himself, or Peter, or any prophet, for all that family is now resting with their Lord, and the ignorance of the world is very great, that is, it is midnight, and your friend who is urgent from hunger presses this, not contented with a simple faith; must he then be abandoned? Go therefore to the Lord Himself with whom the family is sleeping, Knock, and pray; of whom it is added, And he from within shall answer and say, Trouble me not. He delays to give, wishing that you should the more earnestly desire what is delayed, lost by being given at once it should grow common. BASIL. (Const. Mon. c. 1.) For perhaps He delays purposely, to redouble your earnestness and coming to him, and that you may know what the gift of God is, and may anxiously guard what is given. For whatever a man acquires with much pains he strives to keep safe, lest with the loss of that he should lose his labour likewise. GLOSS. (ordin.) He does not then take away the liberty of asking, but is the more anxious to kindle the desire of praying, by shewing the difficulty of obtaining that we ask for. For it follows, The door is now shut. AMBROSE. This is the door which Paul also requests may be opened to him, beseeching to be assisted not only by his own prayers, but those also of the people, that a door of utterance may be opened to him to speak the mystery of Christ. (Col. 4:3.) And perhaps that is the door which John saw open, and it was said to him, Come up hither, and, I will shew thee things which must be hereafter. (Rev. 4:1.)

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  corresponding. Flannery never judged any of them, feeling herself to be rather odd and outside the mainstream. To this growing cast of characters and misfits she offered advice and compassion, always entreating them to devote their energies to something outside themselves. The letters were the perfect medium for Flannery, for it allowed her to keep some physical distance from people; she feared too much intimacy, as it would mean getting attached to those she would soon have to say good-bye to. In this way she slowly built the perfect social world for her purposes. One spring day in 1953, she received a visit from a tall, handsome twenty-six-year-old man from Denmark named Erik Langkjaier. He was a traveling textbook salesman for a major publisher, his territory including most of the South. He had met a professor at a local college who had offered to introduce him to the great literary figure of Georgia, Flannery O’Connor. From the moment he entered her house, Flannery felt they had some kind of mystical connection. She found Erik very funny and well read. It was indeed rare to meet someone so worldly in this part of Georgia. His life as an itinerant salesman fascinated her; she found it humorous that he carried with him a “Bible,” what those in the business called the loose-leaf binder of promotional materials. Something about his rootless life struck a chord with her. Like Flannery, Erik’s father had died when he was young. She opened up to him about her own father and the lupus she had inherited. She found Erik attractive and was suddenly self-conscious about her appearance, constantly making jokes about herself. She gave him a copy of Wise Blood , inscribing it, “For Erik, who has wise blood too.” He began to arrange his travels so that he could pass often through Milledgeville and continue their lively discussions. Flannery looked forward to every visit and felt pangs of emptiness when he left. In May of 1954, on one of his visits he told her he was taking a six-month leave from his job to return to Denmark, and he suggested they take a good-bye car ride through the county, their favorite activity. It was dusk, and in the middle of nowhere he parked the car on the side of the road and leaned over to kiss her, which she gladly accepted. It was short, but for her quite memorable. She wrote to him regularly and, clearly missing him, kept discreetly referencing their car rides and how much they meant to her. In January 1955, she began a story that seemingly poured out of her in a few days. (Normally she was a careful writer who put stories through several drafts.) She called it “Good Country People.” One of the characters is a cynical young woman with a wooden leg. She is romanced by a traveling salesman of Bibles. She suddenly lets down her guard and allows him to seduce her, playing her own game with

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  A GUY I KNOW NAMED ALAN WENT AROUND THE country asking ministry leaders questions. He went to successful churches and asked the pastors what they were doing, why what they were doing was working. It sounded very boring except for one visit he made to a man named Bill Bright, the president of a big ministry. Alan said he was a big man, full of life, who listened without shifting his eyes. Alan asked a few questions. I don’t know what they were, but as a final question he asked Dr. Bright what Jesus meant to him. Alan said Dr. Bright could not answer the question. He said Dr. Bright just started to cry. He sat there in his big chair behind his big desk and wept. When Alan told that story I wondered what it was like to love Jesus that way. I wondered, quite honestly, if that Bill Bright guy was just nuts or if he really knew Jesus in a personal way, so well that he would cry at the very mention of His name. I knew then that I would like to know Jesus like that, with my heart, not just my head. I felt like that would be the key to something. I was watching one of those news shows on television several months ago about a woman whose son was on death row. He had killed a man and buried him in the woods. The television show followed the woman around during her son’s last few days. The cameras were there for the last visit when the son, a young black man, sat across from his mother in the prison visiting room, and the mother had tears in her eyes and was trying so very hard to disguise the fear and regret and confusion and panic. I sat on the couch uncomfortably, and I wanted to jump through the screen and stop it all. I remember saying to myself, I hate this, but I kept watching. And there was a little girl there, the man’s tiny sister, and she was sitting on his lap, and she didn’t know he was going to die, but he was saying to be good and to do homework and don’t tell any lies and obey her mama. Then the television showed the mother in her apartment

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  patterns of behavior we cannot begin to fathom. This distance can turn into hostility among some. Although we can see this in both men and women, the hostility is stronger among men. Perhaps this is related to the latent hostility many men feel toward the mother figure, and the feeling of dependency and weakness she unconsciously triggers. The male sense of masculinity often has a defensive edge that reveals underlying insecurities. Such insecurity has only become more acute with shifting gender roles, and it increases the suspiciousness and hostility between men and women. This outer conflict between the genders, however, is merely a reflection of an unresolved inner conflict. As long as the inner feminine or masculine is denied, the outer distance will only grow. When we bridge this distance from within, our attitude toward the opposite sex changes as well. We feel a deeper connection. We can talk and relate to them as if relating to parts of ourselves. The polarity between the sexes still exists and still causes us to be attracted and fall in love, but now it includes the desire to get closer to the feminine or the masculine. This is much different from the polarization between the genders, in which distance and hostility eventually come to the fore in the relationship and push people further away. The inner connection will vastly improve the outer connection and should be the ideal we aim for. Gender Projection—Types Although there are infinite variations, below you will find six of the more common types of gender projections. You must use this knowledge in three ways: First, you must recognize in yourself any tendency toward one of these forms of projection. This will help you understand something profound about your earliest years and make it much easier for you to withdraw your projections on other people. Second, you must use this as an invaluable tool for gaining access to the unconscious of other people, to seeing their anima and animus in action. And finally, you must be attentive to how others will project onto you their needs and fantasies. Keep in mind that when you are the target of other people’s projections, the temptation is to want to live up to their idealization of you, to be their fantasy. You get caught up in their excitement and you want to believe you are as great, strong, or empathetic as they imagine. Without realizing it, you begin to play the role they want you to play. You become the mother or father figure they crave. Inevitably, however, you will come to resent this— you cannot be yourself; you are not appreciated for your true qualities. Better to be aware of this dynamic before it entraps you. The Devilish Romantic: For the woman in this scenario, the man who fascinates her—often older and successful—might seem like a rake, the type who cannot help but chase after young women. But he is also romantic. When he’s in love, he showers the woman with

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  The school was in a small town, and as she explored it she quickly discovered a new passion to pursue, the theater. She loved everything about it—the costumes, the sets, the performers in makeup. It was a world of transformation, where somebody could become anybody. Now all she wanted was to be an actress and make her name in the theater. She took the stage name Coco and she tried everything—acting, singing, and dancing. She had a lot of energy and charisma, but she realized quickly enough that she lacked the talent for the kind of success she desired. Coming to terms with this, she soon hit upon a new dream. Many of the actresses who could not make a living from their work had become courtesans who were supported by wealthy lovers. Such women had enormous wardrobes, could go where they pleased, and, although they were shunned by good society, they were not shackled with some despotic husband. As luck would have it, one of the young men who enjoyed her on the stage, Etienne Balsan, invited her to stay in his nearby château. He had inherited a family fortune and lived a life of total leisure. Gabrielle, now known as Coco to one and all, accepted the offer. The château was filled with courtesans who floated in and out from all over Europe. Some of them were famous. They were all beautiful and worldly. It was a relatively simple life that centered on riding horses in the country, then lavish parties in the evening. The class differences were noticeable. Whenever aristocrats or important people came to the château, women like Coco were to eat with the servants and make themselves scarce. With nothing to do and feeling restless yet again, she began to analyze herself and the future ahead of her. Her ambitions were great, but she was always searching for something beyond her grasp, continually dreaming about a future that was just not possible. At first it was the palaces in the romance novels, then it was a grand life on the stage, becoming another Sarah Bernhardt. Now her latest dream was just as absurd. The great courtesans were all voluptuous, beautiful women. Coco looked more like a boy. She had no curves and was not a classic beauty. It was more her presence and energy that charmed men, but that would not last. She always wanted what other people had, imagining it contained some hidden treasure. Even when it came to other women and their boyfriends or husbands, her greatest desire was to steal the man away, which she had done on several occasions.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Edna took a bite of food. I wished she’d hurry up chewing and continue. “I love all the different ways butches can be. I love butches’ hearts. But the ones I worry most about are the ones who aren’t tough inside.” I frowned and dropped my eyes. Edna leaned forward. “You see, I hurt you. ’m sorry. You and Rocco both had beautiful hearts that were so easily hurt, and I loved you for it. But I didn’t know how long you could survive.” “T think about her a lot,’ I told Edna. She stared at her plate and nodded. “Me too.” “Td give anything to talk to Rocco,” I said, wishing Edna knew how to reach her. Edna nodded. “T’ll bet.” Stone Butch Blues 231 I sat back in my chair and scuffed the rug with my shoe. “I wish I could ask her a million questions.” Edna leaned forward. “What don’t you know?” I shrugged and played with my fork. “I’m not sute. How to survive this, I guess.” Edna smiled gently. “What makes you think Rocco knows?” Her answer surprised me. “T’m not like Rocco,” I said. “She’s like a legend or something. She’s so strong, so sure of herself. I don’t feel that way at all. If I could just get to know her.” Edna gently took the fork from my hand and put it down on the tablecloth. She rested her fingertips on my forearm. “People get buried under legends. Rocco doesn’t have all the answers. She’s got questions, just like you do. She’s trying to get through it the best way she can, just the way you ate. That’s what makes you both so strong, There’s only one thing Rocco had that you don’t have,” Edna told me. I leaned forward. “What?” “Tl show you later.” Was she always going to make me wait? “Edna, where have you been all these years?” I asked her. She picked at her lasagna. “After the bar scene changed I stopped going. The butches I loved weren’t 232 Leslie Feinberg there anymore. It was mostly university women. I started to feel embarrassed about showing up in a dress, with makeup on. It seemed like everyone in the bar was wearing flannel shirts, jeans, and boots. That’s not me. But there was no other place to go. A few of us went to a dance on campus,” she said. “But we wete dressed different, we danced different.’ She clenched her fist in anger. “One of the women at the dance made fun of the butch I was with because she helped me off with my coat. I was so upset that we left right away.” I nodded. “My ex-lover Theresa worked up at UB. I remember getting mad and telling her how much I hated those women for rejecting us. She used to say: “They’re right about needing a revolution, but they’re wrong to think they can do it without all of us.”

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

  I was like, Yep, just gonna take my time. Because that’s what happens in the movies, right? I’d seen my American high school movies. You hang around long enough as the friendly good guy and the girl dates a bunch of handsome jerks, and then one day she turns around and goes, “Oh, it’s you. It was always you. You’re the guy I was supposed to be with all along.” That was my plan. It was foolproof. I hung out with Zaheera every chance I got. We’d talk about boys, which ones she liked and which ones liked her. I’d give her advice. At one point she got set up with this guy Gary. They started dating. Gary was in the popular group but kind of shy and Zaheera was in the popular group but kind of shy, so his friends and her friends set them up together, like an arranged marriage. But Zaheera didn’t like Gary at all. She told me. We talked about everything. One day, I don’t know how, but I plucked up the courage to ask Zaheera for her phone number, which was a big deal back then because it wasn’t like cellphone numbers where everybody has everyone’s number for texting and everything. This was the landline. To her house. Where her parents might answer. We were talking one afternoon at school and I asked, “Can I get your phone number? Maybe I can call you and we can talk at home sometime.” She said yes, and my mind exploded. What???!!!! A girl is giving me her phone number???!!! This is insane!!! What do I do??!! I was so nervous. I’ll never forget her telling me the digits one by one as I wrote them down, trying to keep my hand from shaking. We said goodbye and went our separate ways to class, and I was like, Okay, Trevor. Play it cool. Don’t call her right away. I called her that night. At seven. She’d given me her number at two. That was me being cool. Dude, don’t call her at five. That’s too obvious. Call her at seven. I phoned her house that night. Her mom answered. I said, “May I speak to Zaheera, please?” Her mom called her, and she came to the phone and we talked. For like an hour. After that we started talking more, at school, on the phone. I never told her how I felt. Never made a move. Nothing. I was always too scared. Zaheera and Gary broke up. Then they got back together. Then they broke up. Then they got back together. They kissed once, but she didn’t like it, so they never kissed again. Then they broke up for real. I bided my time through it all. I watched Popular Gary go down in flames, and I was still the good friend. Yep, the plan is working. Matric dance, here we come.

• From On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (2019)

  To be or not to be. That is the question. A question, yes, but not a choice. — “I remember one time, while visiting you all in Hartford—this must be a year or two after you landed from Vietnam—” Paul rests his chin on his palm and stares out the window, where a hummingbird hovers at the plastic feeder. “I walked into the apartment and found you crying under the table. No one was home—or maybe your mom was—but she must have been in the bathroom or something.” He stops, letting the memory fill in. “I bent down and asked you what was wrong, and you know what you said?” He grins. “You said that the other kids lived more than you. What a hoot.” He shakes his head. “What a thing to say! I’ll never forget that.” His gold-capped molar caught the light. “‘They live more, they live more!’ you shouted. Who the hell gave you that idea? You were only five, for Christ sakes.” Outside, the hummingbird’s whirring sounds almost like human breath. Its beak jabs into the pool of sugared water at the feeder’s base. What a terrible life, I think now, to have to move so fast just to stay in one place. After, we go for a walk, Paul’s brown-spotted beagle clinking between us. It’s just after sunset and the air’s thick with sweetgrass and late lilacs frothing white and magenta along the manicured lawns. We veer toward the last bend when a plain-looking lady, middle-aged, hair in a blond ponytail, approaches. She says, looking only at Paul, “I see you finally got a dog boy. Good for you, Paul!” Paul stops, pushes his glasses up his nose only to have them slide back down. She turns to me, articulates, “Welcome. To. The. Neighbor. Hood.” Her head bobs out each syllable. I hold tight the dog’s leash and step back, offering a smile. “No,” Paul says, his hand raised awkwardly, as if waving away cobwebs. “This is my grandson.” He lets the word hover between us all, until it feels solid, an instrument, then repeats it, nodding, to himself or the woman I can’t say. “My grandson.” Without a beat the woman smiles. Too widely. “Please remember that.” She laughs, makes a dismissive gesture before extending her hand to me, my body now legible. I let her shake my hand. “Well, I’m Carol. Welcome to the neighborhood. I mean that.” She walks on. We head home. We don’t speak. Behind the row of white town houses, a column of spruces stands motionless against a reddish sky. The beagle’s paws scrape the concrete, its chain clinking as the animal pulls us home. But all I can hear is Paul’s voice in my head. My grandson. This is my grandson.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I laughed. “T don’t know why, but I have this image of you sleeping with a different femme every week.” Frankie nodded without smiling. “I thought that was what I was supposed to do. Inside my head I was Stone Butch Blues 299 asking each one: Could you love me? Do you love me? Am I loveable? Of course, the minute they did care about me I knew I couldn’t respect their judgment so I moved on to the next. God, I was a shit to femmes.” Frankie looked out over the water. “It was only when I finally admitted it was butch hands I wanted on my body that everything changed for me. The mote I saw what I loved about other butches, the more I began to accept myself. You know who gets it for me, Jess?” I smiled and shook my head. “An old bull with graying hair, a cocky smile, and sad eyes. You know the kind of butch with arms as big as your thigh? Those are the arms I want to hold me.” I ran my fingertips over the dark wood near my thigh. “I love them so much, too. But what gets it for me is high femme. It’s funny—it doesn’t matter whether it’s women or men—it’s always high femme that pulls me by the waist and makes me sweat.” Frankie rested her hand on my arm. “You and I have to hammer out a definition of butch that doesn’t leave me out. I’m sick of hearing butch used to mean sexual aggression or courage. If that’s what butch means, what does it mean in reverse for femmes?” I shook my head. “T never thought about it like that. But I have to admit that when you told me about you and Johnny, the first thing I wondered was, who’s the femme in bed?” 300 Leslie keinberg Frankie leaned forward. “Neither of us were. What you meant was who does the fucking and who gets fucked? Who ran the fuck? That’s not the same as being butch or femme, Jess.” Frankie moved closer to me and touched my shoulder. I tensed. “Relax,” she whispered, “I’m not coming on to you, Jess.” “T’m sorry. ’m not so used to getting touched.” Prankie’s hands kneaded the soreness from my shoulders. ““You know, I have a confession to make. I used to have a crush on you in the old days.” I laughed nervously. “Oh shit. I was just starting to relax with you.” She patted me on the back. “You'll get over it.” Frankie rubbed my neck. “You were like a fucking legend when you started to pass. What's it like, Jess?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just trying to survive has pulled me through, but it hasn’t left much leisure to think about it.” “Am I so different from you?” She whispered her thought out loud. “You have to decide that. To me we're still kin.”

• From Another Bullshit Night in Suck City: A Memoir (2004)

  ulysses Many fathers are gone. Some leave, some are left. Some return, unknown and hungry. Only the dog remembers. Even if around, most disappear all day, to jobs their children only slightly understand. Gone to office, gone to shop, men in suits hiding behind closed doors, yelling into phones, men in coveralls, reading pornography in pickup trucks. The carpenter. The electrician. They drive to strangers’ houses, a woman in a robe answers the door, they sit at the table with her, she offers coffee and cake, they talk about the day ahead. By nightfall you won’t recognize the bathroom, he promises. Monday we start in on the roof. Many end up sitting around the house all day, sneaking sips in the woodshed. Many drive to other towns, make love to a woman they’ve been making love to for years. Some continue to yell at their sons from the grave, some are less than a tattered photograph. Some sons need to exhume the body, some need to see a name written in a ledger. Some drive past a house the father once lived in as a child, park across from it, some swear that if they could gaze into his face just once their hearts would settle. One friend inherited some money and hired a private investigator to track down his lost father, paid a thousand dollars to find out his father was dead. All my life my father had been manifest as an absence, a nonpresence, a name without a body. The three of us sat around the table, my mother, brother and I, all carrying his name. Flynn ? Some part of me knew he would show up, that if I stood in one place long enough he would find me, like you’re taught to do when you’re lost. But they never taught us what to do if both of you are lost, and you both end up in the same place, waiting. winter (1989) My father wraps himself in newspaper some nights, stuffs his coat with newspaper, the headlines finally about him, though he isn’t named. Just more heartstring pieces about “the homeless.” Get it straight, I’ve never flung a knife or shot a bullet at anyone. I’ve only been locked up for two of my fifty-nine years. I’m no jailbird . The nights drop below freezing and still he sleeps outside. “My toes,” he writes me, “are being cut off.” On wet nights he wraps himself in plastic, a Hefty trashbag sealed with duct tape, he weaves himself a cocoon, lies on the ground, puts his feet into the bag and pushes until they reach the bottom. Leaning forward, he tightens the plastic around his ankles and tapes them, and then he tapes the bag around his waist. This way, in the night, the bag won’t slide down his body.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Justine lifted her glass in the air to salute me. “T wouldn’t have said you were wrong, but in my book you did the right thing.” W2 = Leslie Feinberg I slumped on the bar. “Jan’s mad at me anyway,” I told them. “She saw us dancing together.” Justine stroked my hair. “She’s still your friend.” “Tm afraid I’ve lost them both,” I sighed. Justine shook her head. “Jan will be back. And Edna was crying and smiling when she walked out of here. You must have done something right.” I shook my head. “T don’t know, it doesn’t feel like ’m doing anything right.” Peaches laughed, “You wait and see. The right girl is coming down the road, headed in your direction.” If that was true, I sure wished she’d hurry. IF IT WASN’T FOR EDWIN I might never have met Milli. Ed was on her way to have breakfast with Darlene one morning, “Come with” she asked. When Ed and I walked into that sleazy diner I was glad ’'d come. The restaurant was filled with working girls—male and female. We were welcomed with a boisterous roar. I got kissed and teased. Darlene pulled Edwin down on her knee and feigned threats to all the other femmes to leave her butch alone. It was fun when we all played like that. Darlene told me about the last television episode of “The Fugitive”: the real killer is caught and David Janssen gets vindicated and can stop running. Ed was arguing with a woman sitting across from us about the riots in Newark and Detroit. “Violence is as American as cherry pie. That’s what Rap Brown says.” Ed pounded her fist on the tabletop. ““They’re a dress rehearsal for revolution.” The woman raised both her hands in surrender. “OK, alright. Don’t blow your cool.” Everyone was trying to shout over the jukebox, which was turned up real loud. The Beatles were singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” I tapped Darlene on the shoulder. “What’s that song mean, anyhow?” She laughed. “How the hell should I know?” My eyes burned from exhaustion. I asked Edwin to come outside with me and listen while I kick- started my Norton. It wouldn’t kick over whenever it was chilly and damp. I didn’t know why. It was over Ed’s shoulder that I really saw Milli for the first time. She was standing there just looking at me. Ed glanced at Milli and then, like a good friend, Ed walked away. I have a few photographs I can see in my mind’s eye. One of them is Milli, hands on her hips, looking me up and down as if the bike and I were one lean machine. Her body language, the gleam in her eyes, the tease in her smile, all combined into an erotic femme challenge. Milli set the action into irresistible motion by lifting one eyebrow.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  ideas that have no relation to your daily life, that are full of empty speculations about things that only half exist. And none of this turmoil and ceaseless desire for what is most distant ever leads to anything fulfilling—it only stirs up more chimeras to pursue. In the end you cannot escape from yourself. On the other hand, reality beckons you. To absorb your mind in what is nearest, instead of most distant, brings a much different feeling. With the people in your circle, you can always connect on a deeper level. There is much you will never know about the people you deal with, and this can be a source of endless fascination. You can connect more deeply to your environment. The place where you live has a deep history that you can immerse yourself in. Knowing your environment better will present many opportunities for power. As for yourself, you have mysterious corners you can never fully understand. In trying to know yourself better, you can take charge of your own nature instead of being a slave to it. And your work has endless possibilities for improvement and innovation, endless challenges for the imagination. These are the things that are closest to you and compose your real, not virtual world. In the end what you really must covet is a deeper relationship to reality, which will bring you calmness, focus, and practical powers to alter what it is possible to alter. It is advisable to let everyone of your acquaintance—whether man or woman—feel now and then that you could very wel dispense with their company. This wil consolidate friendship. Nay, with most people there wil be no harm in occasional y mixing a grain of disdain with your treatment of them; that wil make them value your friendship al the more. . . . But if we real y think very highly of a person, we should conceal it from him like a crime. This is not a very gratifying thing to do, but it is right. Why, a dog wil not bear being treated too kindly, let alone a man! —Arthur Schopenhauer 6 Elevate Your Perspective The Law of Shortsightedness It is in the animal part of your nature to be most impressed by what you can see and hear in the present—the latest news reports and trends, the opinions and actions of the people around you, whatever seems the most dramatic. This is what makes you fall for alluring schemes that promise quick results and easy money. This is also what makes you overreact to present circumstances—becoming overly exhilarated or panicky as events turn one direction or the other. Learn to measure people by the narrowness or breadth of their vision; avoid entangling yourself with those who cannot see the consequences of their actions, who are in a continual reactive mode. They will infect you with this energy. Your eyes must be on the larger trends that govern events, on that which is not immediately visible.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  All day long I sat in my apartment rehearsing how I would introduce myself to her. I stood outside her door and listened to the Motown music blaring on her stereo before I finally got up the courage to knock. Someone turned the music down as she cracked open the door. I lifted my hand to silence her before she could speak. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I didn’t make a very good impression before. I know you think I’m a man, but I’m not. ?m a woman.” She sighed and unhooked the chain. “Listen,” she opened her door a little wider, “I don’t need a gender identity crisis on my doorstep. This is my home and I’m with friends. Please understand, I really don’t want to be bothered.” I heard a drag queen’s voice from inside her apartment. “Who’s that, Ruth? Ooh, he’s cute! Let him in.” “Tanya, please.” Ruth silenced the drag queen with a glare. I could see someone else peering at me from the living room. Ruth was visibly annoyed at the curious way her friends and I were checking each other out. “Pm not trying to be rude, “she told me, “but let me make myself clear: This is my home. I do not want to be annoyed.” I rested my hand on her doorframe. “But I need to talk to you.” She glared at my hand. I removed it. “But I don’t need to talk to you. Excuse me.” She closed her door. I had no choice but to give Ruth the wide berth she demanded. I shivered in a blanket on my fire escape, unwilling to let go of the day. The temperature had risen to seventy-five degrees, unusual in late October. The chilly evening breeze still smelled fresh by Manhattan standards. Ruth poked her head out of her living room window. “Oh,” she sounded startled. “I didn’t know you were out here. ’m going to close my window because it’s cold.” I sighed and looked up at the sky. She spoke more softly. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” The shades of gender in her voice were intricate, like mine. I smiled. “That’s a harvest moon up there tonight.” Ruth laughed. “What’s a city slicker like you know about harvests?” Her words and tone angered me. I was sick of being everybody’s “other.” But part of me still needed Ruth’s friendship so damn much. So I took a moment before I answered and spoke without anger. “T know how it feels to stand in a field in the pitch dark under a billion stars, with no sound except the music of crickets and cicadas.” Ruth nodded as she stared at the moon. I leaned my head back against the brick. “And I know how a white-capped rivet looks when it’s racing toward the falls—how it’s translucent and green at the place where it bends over the edge, like bottle glass when it washes up in the surf.”