Love

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 Querelle (1953)

  190 I JEAN GENET love had to melt her down, to reduce her to zero, destroying that moral armature that made her into everything she was and lent her its authority. At the same time she felt ashamed and wished she could cling to a less monstrous man than this single half of a double statue was, a man who knew how to take care of money, who had no other preoccupations but those arisi n g out of his everyday existence; she felt a vague nostalgia for Noilo. But then again, it was a great comfort to be thus con· quered and dedicated to slave's work; it gave her a new and truer, more essential life. Her mouth glued to the neck tendon of her lover she whispered: "My dear cabbage, you know, darling, I'll do what you want." Robert squeezed her hard, then relaxed his grip a little to allow her to continue her slide down his body. She moved on, slowly, and Robert's body stiffened as it moved up to meet her. Lysiane went on down. Robert rose. Lysiane again, and then Robert, finally decisive, imperious and urgent, took hold of her shoulders and pushed her down. She took his whole cock in her mout h and swallowed the jism. Robert made no sound: he was a man, he didn't '1et himself go." By the time her face had reappeared above the covers, the light of dawn came trickling in through the curtains that had not been drawn quite shut. She loo ked at Robert. He was calm, indifferent. Through the strands of hair falling over her face she smiled at him, such a sad smile that Robert kissed her to console her (she understood that, and it made her feel quite desperate). Then he got up. And then she knew, full force, that everything had changed: for the first time in her life, after making love-after making a male happy-she did not hasten to wash herself, to get ' up with her lover and to use the bidet. The strangeness of such a situation houbled her: there she was, lying on the bed-having the bed all to herself-while Robert went to wash. Besides, what would she have had to wash? To rinse her mouth, to gargle, would have seemed ridiculous, after swallowing the spunk. She felt dirty. She watched Robert performing his ablutions, lathering

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  Their humidifier hissed. “I’m sorry about before,” Marta said, but Sigrid wasn’t listening. She was preparing for her comprehensive exams. Marta watched her read, the slow, steady progress of her eyes across and down the page. The lamplight illuminated her hair and she appeared to Marta like one of those paintings in churches, where the head glows, denoting some minor divinity. “I’m sorry,” Marta said because she felt she had to try again, and she put her hand on the book to draw Sigrid’s attention. “What’s that, baby?” Sigrid smiled a sleepy smile. Her eyes were a little unfocused. “I said I was sorry about before.” Sigrid’s smile turned inward, but then she put her arms around Marta. She kissed Marta’s hair. Marta put her arm over Sigrid, put her face down against her stomach. “Don’t be. That Peter’s a real jerk.” “No, not that, I guess. I just meant. I’m sorry. For saying that. About everyone knowing,” Marta said. “It’s okay if you don’t want anyone to know, though I think it’s a little late for that,” Sigrid said. It was true, Marta knew. They went around together everywhere. They held hands when they went to the park. They had gone to see Sigrid’s parents in Minnesota, and they had welcomed Marta the best they could with their tall Norwegian manners. All there was to know was known, by all of whom there were to know it. “It just made me feel funny, I guess,” Marta said. “Seeing him. Him knowing.” “We never are who we once were,” Sigrid said. “Did one of your dead ladies give you that one?” Marta asked. “No,” Sigrid said. “I made it up.” “I wouldn’t have known the difference,” Marta said. “You could have told me anything.” “And who says I haven’t already,” Sigrid said, picking her book back up. “Now let me read.” Marta lay there with her arm over Sigrid, thinking about that last bit, how Sigrid could have told her anything and she wouldn’t have known the difference. Sigrid could have made up all of that about the queens of England. She could have made up all of that with the diaries and her elegant dioramas. She could have told Marta anything at all, and Marta would have believed her. But maybe that’s what love was, she thought to herself as she fell asleep. Maybe love was that you didn’t try too hard to tell the difference. Maybe love was just believing something to be true because you’d been told. • • • In the winter, they made latkes and borscht. They had grown vegetables in a little plot behind the house and pickled them. They opened jars of okra and peas and beans. They made their own kraut. Their house smelled like vinegar that winter, but it was the healthiest Marta had felt in a long time, maybe since she’d taken that picture at camp.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Without a word I took off my brown leather jacket and offered it to her. Neither of us were in any hurry. Once this dance began there was no reason to rush and every reason to take it deliciously slow. I helped her on with my jacket. I think I fell in love with her the moment she swung her leg over the bike and settled in behind me. The way two women relate on a motorcycle is part of their sex together—and she was very, very good on a bike. I didn’t realize until she waved as we roared off that all her friends were watching us from the restaurant window, smiling those sweet, secret kind of smiles at her. From that moment on I was her butch and she was my femme. Everybody knew it. So did we. We just fit and the sparks flew. We were both a couple of tough cookies, and together we felt unbeatable. It wasn’t just bravado. We matched each other in nerve. For a stone butch and a stone pro to survive, they have to tough it out with the world. We walked out talk and we appreciated it in each other. Slow 114 Leslie Feinberg dancing at dawn, making fierce love, leaning together as one with the motorcycle into a deep curve—it just got better and better. One morning Milli didn’t come to the Malibou after work as usual. Neither did Darlene or her friends. All of us were worried. Darlene finally pulled up in a car. Milli was bleeding in the back seat. Her face was all busted up. I got in and held her head on my lap. We had to take her to a goddamn veterinarian to get her arm set in a cast. We were afraid emergency room staff might have called the cops. It was an off-duty cop who beat her. It took Milli a long, long time to get her confidence back. It changed her. Every beating changes you. I got a day-shift job at a plastic pipe factory. Milli worked as a temp at a bindery. Everything was OK, it was just different. Then I got pink-slipped and Milli told me casually that she was thinking of going back to dancing in the clubs to get us through. “No, no, no, no, no!” I thought that made my position perfectly clear. But the way Milli was coming around the kitchen table after me in response made me retreat. She backed me up against the sink and came right up under my nose. “Nobody,” she sputtered in rage, “nobody tells me how to run my life, not you, not anybody. You got that?” I conceded she had a point. “And when did you get so goddamn morally righteous all of a sudden?” She paced around the kitchen. “Puck you,” I yelled. She knew it wasn’t true. “You just said that to hurt me.” She conceded I had a point.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  “T’ll just be a minute,” she called out from the kitchen. I was glad for the time to nose around her living room and get a sense of her. One thing I could tell for sure—she loved dried wildflowers. “Ready,” she called out moments later. “Do you mind eating here in the kitchen?” I’d never eaten anyplace else. She’d made me a steak and mashed potatoes with gravy. God, it looked delicious. Then she put a mound of soft, green stuff on my plate. “What’s that?” I asked as politely as I could. “Spinach,” she said, locking me into her gaze. I circled it with my fork. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “T just never eat vegetables, that’s all.” Theresa took off her oven glove. She sat down on a kitchen chair next to me and took both my hands in her hands. “Never say never,” she said. “We’re too young to close the door to anything in our lives.” I discovered I was already in love with het. Stone Butch Blues 131 Actually, I found out spinach isn’t all that bad either, if you put lots of butter and salt on it. After dinner I helped her wash the dishes and clean up. Then, by the sink, we moved close to each other. I felt shy. That turned out to be okay. Gently, we kissed each other. Our tongues discovered a silent language to express our needs. Once we started, we never wanted to stop. That’s how it began. Within a month we rented a U-Haul trailer and moved into a new apartment together in Buffalo. Theresa negotiated with the landlord. He lived in Kenmore, so we hoped he’d never actually see me. We got real furniture. I mean, it was Salvation Army, but it was real. Our names were printed inside a heart on the dishtowel that hung on the refrigerator door handle. We got it made at Crystal Beach. It was a brave thing to do. But later we spilled loganberry juice on it, so we used it for dishes because we couldn’t bring ourselves to throw it out. And there were marigolds in amber glasses on the windowsill, daisies in a green cut-glass vase on the kitchen table, fresh mint and basil growing in a flower box on the porch. It was a home. I grew up in leaps and bounds. I learned to reduce the anxieties of life by paying bills on time, keeping receipts and promises, doing laundry before 132 = Leslie Feinberg I ran out of underwear, picking up after myself. Most importantly, I learned to say I’m sorry. This relationship was too vital to let dust accumulate in its corners.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  Wherefore who speaketh of that place, let him not say Assisi, 9 ’twere to speak short, but Orient, would he name it right Not yet was he far distant from his rising when he began to make the earth to feel from his great power a certain strengthening; for in his youth 10 for such a lady did he rush into war against his father, 11 to whom, as unto death, not one unbars the gate of his good pleasure; and in the spiritual court that had rule over him, and in his father’s presence he was united to her, and then from day to day loved her more strongly. She, reft of her first husband, 12 a thousand and a hundred years and more, despised, obscure, even till him stood without invitation. And nought availed her the report that she was found unterrified together with Amyclas, 13 when sounded that man’s voice, who struck all the world with terror; and nought availed her to have been so constant and undaunted, that she, when Mary stayed below, mounted the cross with Christ. 14 But, lest I should proceed too covertly, Francis and Poverty as these two lovers now accept in speech outspread. Their harmony and joyous semblance, made love and wonder and tender looks the cause of sacred thoughts; so that the venerable Bernard first cast off his sandals and ran to follow so great peace, and as he ran him thought him all too slow. Oh wealth unrecognized, oh fertile good! Unsandals him Egidius, unsandals him Sylvester, following the spouse, so doth the bride delight. Thence took his way, this father and this master, together with his lady, and with the household already binding on the humble cord; 15 nor abjectness of heart weighed down his brow, that he was Pietro Bernadone’s son, nor that he seemed so marvellous despised. But royally his stern intent to Innocent revealed he, and from him had the first 16 imprint upon his Order. When the poor folk increased, after his track whose marvellous life were better sung in heaven’s glory, 17 then was the holy will of this chief shepherd circled with a second 16 crown by Honorius at the eternal inspiration. And when, in thirst of martyrdom, in the proud presence of the Soldan, he preached Christ and his followers; and because he found the folk too crude against conversion,—not to stay in vain,—returned to gather fruit from the Italian herbage; then on the harsh rock 18 between Tiber and Arno, from Christ did he receive that final 16 imprint which his limbs two years carried. When it pleased him who for such good ordained him, to draw him up to his reward which he had earned in making himself lowly. to his brethren; as to his right heirs, his dearest lady he commended, and bade that they should love her faithfully;

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  She took a white silk handkerchief and wiped my face. "'You please me very well,' she said. I was puzzled. What did Lord Gregory see in me that she did not see? "But I was too relieved to ponder this. Had she greeted me with anger, ordered more punishments and amusements, I would have wept with despair. As it was, she was all beauty and softness. She ordered me to undress her and to turn down her bed. I obeyed as well as I could. But she refused the silk dressing gown. "And for the first time, she stood behind me naked. "I had not been told I could look up. I was crouched at her feet. Then she said that I might look. As you can imagine, she was unspeakably lovely. She has a firm body, powerful somewhat, with shoulders just a little too strong for a woman, and long legs, but her breast were magnificent, and her sex was a gleaming nest of black hair. I found myself breathless. "'My Queen,' I whispered, and after I kissed her feet, I kissed her ankles. She did not protest. I kissed her knees. She did not protest. I kissed her thighs, and then impulsively I buried my face in that nest of perfumed hair, finding it hot, so hot, and she lifted me up until I was standing. She lifted my arms and I embraced her, and felt for the first time, her full womanly form, and also that no matter how strong and powerful she appeared, she was small next to me, and yielding. I moved to kiss her breasts, and she bid me silently do it, and I suckled them until she was sighing. They tasted so sweet, and they were so soft, yet plump at the same time and resistant to my respectful fingers. "She sank down on the bed, and I on my knees buried my face between her legs again. But she said she wanted my cock now and that I must not 'come' until she allowed it. "I moaned to show how difficult this would be out of love for her. But she lay back on her pillows, opening her legs, and I saw for the first time the pink lips there. "She pulled me down. I could not quite believe it when I felt the sheath of her hot vagina. It had been so long since I had felt such satisfaction with a woman. Not since I had been taken prisoner by her soldiers had I felt it. I struggled not to consummate my passion at once, and when she commenced to move her hips I thought surely I would lose the struggle. She was so wet and hot and tight and my penis ached from punishment. All my body ached and the aching was delicious to me.

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  I had just witnessed my first humiliating clean-your-plate-or-you-can’t-have-dessert incident at her house. When I came home, I tested my father. We were eating in our usual haphazard way in the living room—never on the debris-covered dining room table that was used only on national holidays—and he asked me if I wanted dessert. I pointed out that I hadn’t finished my dinner. “That’s okay,” he said as he went into the kitchen for ice cream. “Sometimes you’re hungry for one thing and not another.” I loved him so much at that moment. He listened to all my complaints about not going to school like other kids, yet years after his death, I realized that I’d also been spared the Dick and Jane limitations that school then put on girls. Nor was he around when I finally understood that having a loving and nurturing father made a lifetime difference. Only after I saw women who were attracted to distant, condescending, even violent men did I begin to understand that having a distant, condescending, even violent father could make those qualities seem inevitable, even feel like home. Because of my father, only kindness felt like home. It’s true that my father’s idea of childrearing was to take me to whatever movie he wanted to see, however unsuitable; buy unlimited ice cream; let me sleep whenever and wherever I got tired; and wait in the car while I picked out my own clothes. Salespeople were shocked to see a six- or eight-year-old with cash and making her own choices, but this resulted in such satisfying purchases as a grown-up ladies’ red hat, Easter shoes that came with a live rabbit, and a cowgirl jacket with fringe. All I knew was that my father enjoyed my company, asked my opinion, and treated me better than he treated himself. What more could any child want? Once I became a freelance writer, I also realized the value of his ability to live with and even love insecurity. He had two points of pride: he never wore a hat, and he never had a job—by which he meant he never had a boss. I knew I was my father’s daughter when I took a part-time editing job to pay the rent. It was work I could do at home, but when suddenly I was expected to spend two days a week in the office, I quit, bought an ice cream cone, and walked the sunny streets of Manhattan. My father would have done the same—except for the walking. It’s said that the biggest determinant of our lives is whether we see the world as welcoming or hostile. Each becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. My mother had performed the miracle of creating a welcoming world for my sister and me, even though she herself grew up in a hostile one. But her broken spirit could not help but let the darkness in—and I absorbed it during our long years together.

• From Querelle (1953)

  151 I QUERELLE waitress at th at time. Gil had been standing at the bar, exchang ing banter with her. At midnight, she finished work, and Gil walked both sister and brother back to their house. The next day Gil was there again. Roger had found him there on five subsequent occasions, and now and again, when they happened to meet, Gil had bought him a drink. "He never tried to sleep with you?" The interrogators were quite taken aback by Roger's wide- eyed, innocent look: "\Vith me? \Vhat for?" "He never made any advances to you?" ••Advances? Oh, no." He let his limpid gaze rest on the embarrassed police officers . .. He never touched you, like, down there?" ·�ever. " They could get nothing more out of the boy, whose love for Gil had grown more intense. At first, he had fallen in love with him as a ch ild, endowed 'Vith a quick and vertiginous imagina tion. The crime made him advance into a world of violent emotions; the sense of drama attached him to Gil, prime mover of that drama, and he had to be joined to the murderer by the strongest and closest of bonds: that of love. The effort Roger made to deceive the police made his love grow. He needed love to have enough strength, and even though he told himself at first that his effort was necessary to protect his own life, his own dr eam, he soon realized that opposing the police quite naturally meant siding with Gil. Deliberately, and in order to get closer to Gil whose glory was at its height at the time (due to his murders and to his disappearance), Roger made a great effort to keep up his fa�ade. All that remained to him of Gil was a shadow resting at his feet like a dog. Roger felt like placing one of his feet on its back, gently, to hold it there. He implored it, in his mind, not to run away, but to stay close to him, the messenger or witness of the hidden god; or at least, to hesitate, to stretch, then to stop, then to extend itself all the way from

• From Querelle (1953)

  267 I QUERELLE yet a thought, but then became one and acquired this formu lation: "There he is, th eir bo y." Never-nor at th is moment-had the Madam imagined that the brothers in their. love for each other had accomplished the miracle of true offspring, but their physical resemblance that - crea ted such an enormous obstacle for her feelings could not be anything less than love. Besides, this love-she saw only its earthly manifestation-had troubled her for such a long time that the least incident could give it substance. She was not far from expecting it to emanate from herself, from her body, her entrails, where it had been deposited like radioactive matter. Now, all of a sudden, two steps and yet very far away from her, th e brothers reunited by an unknown youngster who naturally became the personification of that brotherly love her anguish labored over. But as soon as she had admitted this to herself she felt that she was being ridiculous. She wanted to turn her atten tion to the clients and whores, but was unable to forget the brothers, to whom she was now turning her back. She hesitated, then chose the pretext of talking to Robert about an expected delivery of liquor, to go over and take a look at the kid. He was ador able. He was worthy of the two lovers. She sized him up. " ... and wh en the Cinzano man comes, teJl him t o wait for me." She made as if to leave the parlor, but turning back immedi ately, smiling, sh e pointed at Roger: And, smiling even more : "You know, this could get me into trouble. And I'm not joking." Robert, trying to look indifferent, asked Querelle: "\Vho is he?" "He's the kid brother of a girl I know. A little chickie I'm after." Quite ignorant of the love between men, Robert thought that the boy had to be another one of his brother's fairy lovers.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  [image file=image_rsrcA5N.jpg] WHILST I WAS in suspense concerning my quenched sight, I was made heedful by a breath that issued from the glowing flame which quenched it, saying: “Until thou hast again the sense of sight thoix hast consumed on me, ’tis well thou compensate it by discourse. Begin then, and declare whereon thy mind is focussed; and assure thee that thy sight within thee is confounded, not destroyed; because the lady who through this divine region doth conduct thee hath in her look the power that was in Ananis’ hand.”1 I said: “At her good pleasure, soon or late, let succour come to the eyes which were the gates when she did enter with the fire wherewith I ever burn. The good which satisfieth this court is Alpha and Omega of all the scripture which love readeth to me with light or heavy stress.” That same voice which had removed my terror at the sudden dazzlement, set my concern again upon discourse, and said: “Yea, through a closer sieve thou needs must strain; needs must thou tell me what it was that aimed thy bow at such a targe.” And I: “By philosophic arguments and by authority which down-cometh hence, such love must needs stamp itself on me; for good, as good, so far as understood, kindleth love, and so much more by how much more of excellence it graspeth in itself.2 Therefore to the Essence which hath such privilege that whatsoever good he found outside of it is nought else save a light of its own ray, more than to any other must the mind needs move, in love, of whoso doth discern the truth whereon this proof is founded.3 And this same truth is made level to my intellect by him who doth reveal to me the primal love of all the eternal beings.4 It is made level to me by the voice of that veracious author who saith to Moses speaking of himself; I will cause thee to see all worth.5 It is made level to me by thee also, where thou openest the lofty proclamation which doth herald upon earth the secrets of this place above all other declaration.”6 And I heard: “As urged by human intellect and by authorities concordant tvith it, of thy loves keep for God the sovereign one. But tell me yet if thou feel other cords draw thee towards him, so that thou utter forth with how many teeth this love doth grip thee.” Not hidden was the sacred purpose of Christ’s eagle,7 but rather I perceived whither he willed to lead on my profession. Wherefore I began again: “All those toothgrips which have power to make the heart turn unto God co-work upon my love; for the being of the world and my own being, the death that he sustained that I might live, and that which each believer hopeth, as do I,

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

  I answer that, Since virtue is directed to the good, wherever there is a special aspect of good, there must be a special virtue. Now the good to which religion is directed, is to give due honor to God. Again, honor is due to someone under the aspect of excellence: and to God a singular excellence is competent, since He infinitely surpasses all things and exceeds them in every way. Wherefore to Him is special honor due: even as in human affairs we see that different honor is due to different personal excellences, one kind of honor to a father, another to the king, and so on. Hence it is evident that religion is a special virtue. Reply to Objection 1: Every virtuous deed is said to be a sacrifice, in so far as it is done out of reverence of God. Hence this does not prove that religion is a general virtue, but that it commands all other virtues, as stated above (A[1], ad 1). Reply to Objection 2: Every deed, in so far as it is done in God’s honor, belongs to religion, not as eliciting but as commanding: those belong to religion as eliciting which pertain to the reverence of God by reason of their specific character. Reply to Objection 3: The object of love is the good, but the object of honor and reverence is something excellent. Now God’s goodness is communicated to the creature, but the excellence of His goodness is not. Hence the charity whereby God is loved is not distinct from the charity whereby our neighbor is loved; whereas the religion whereby God is honored, is distinct from the virtues whereby we honor our neighbor. Whether religion is a theological virtue?Objection 1: It would seem that religion is a theological virtue. Augustine says (Enchiridion iii) that “God is worshiped by faith, hope and charity,” which are theological virtues. Now it belongs to religion to pay worship to God. Therefore religion is a theological virtue. Objection 2: Further, a theological virtue is one that has God for its object. Now religion has God for its object, since it directs us to God alone, as stated above [2994](A[1]). Therefore religion is a theological virtue. Objection 3: Further, every virtue is either theological, or intellectual, or moral, as is clear from what has been said (FS, QQ[57],58,62). Now it is evident that religion is not an intellectual virtue, because its perfection does not depend on the consideration of truth: nor is it a moral virtue, which consists properly in observing the mean between too much and too little. for one cannot worship God too much, according to Ecclus. 43:33, “Blessing the Lord, exalt Him as much as you can; for He is above all praise.” Therefore it remains that it is a theological virtue. On the contrary, It is reckoned a part of justice which is a moral virtue.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  rariis delapsum evolasset. lamque lassa, salute de- fecta dum saepius divini vultus intuetur pulchritu- dinem, recreatur animi: videt capitis aurei genialem caesariem ambrosia temulentam, cervices lacteas genasque purpureas pererrantes crinium globos de- coriter impeditos, alios antependulos, alios retropen- dulos, quorum splendore nimio fulgurante iam et ipsum lumen lucernae vacillabat: per humeros vola- talis dei pinnae roscidae micanti flore candicant et quamvis alis quiescentibus extimae plumulae tenellae ac delicatae tremule resultantes inquieta lasciviunt : ceterum corpus glabellum atque luculentum et quale peperisse Venerem non paeniteret. Ante lectuli pedes iacebat arcus et pharetra et sagittae, magni dei pro- pitia tela; quae dum insatiabili animo Psyche, satis et curiosa, rimatur atque pertrectat et mariti sui miratur arma, depromit unam de pharetra sagittam et puncto pollicis extremam aciem periclitabunda tre- mentis etiam nunc articuli.nisu fortiore pupugit altius, ut per summam cutem roraverint parvulae sanguinis rosei guttae: sic ignara Psyche sponte in Amoris incidit amorem. Tune magis magisque cupi- dine flagrans Cupidinis, prona in eum efflictim inhians, patulis ac petulantibus saviis festinanter ingestis, de somni mensura metuebat. * Sed dum bono tanto percita saucia mente fluctuat, lucerna illa, sive perfidia pessima sive invidia noxia sive quod tale corpus contingere et quasi basiare et ipsa gestiebat, evomuit de summa luminis sui stillam ferventis olei super humerum dei dexterum: hem audax ettemeraria lucerna et amoris vile ministerium, ipsum ignis totius deum aduris, cum te, scilicet 232 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK V her rash and hasty hands. And now she was faint and had lost her strength, but when she saw and beheld the beauty of his divine visage, she was well recreated in her mind; she saw his hairs of gold, that were drenched with ambrosia and yielded out a sweet savour thereof; his neck more white than milk ; his ruddy cheeks upon which his hair hanged comely behind and before, the brightness whereof did darken the light of the lamp ; the tender plume feathers of that flying god dispersed upon his shoulders with shining gleam, and though his wings were at rest, the tender down of their edges trembling hither and thither, and the other parts of his body so smooth and soft that it could not repent Venus to bear such a child. At the bed’s feet lay his bow, quiver and arrows that be the gentle weapons of so great a god : which when Psyche did curiously behold, and marvelling at the weapons of her hus- band took one of the arrows out of the quiver, and trying the sharpness thereof with her finger, she pricked herself withal: wherewith she was so grievously wounded that some little drops of blood followed, and thereby of her own accord she fell in love with Love. Then more and more broiling in the love of Cupid, she embraced him and kissed him a thousand times, fearing the measure of his sleep.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  Later that evening, she and Sigrid were in bed under the covers. To Marta it felt like the first time in her life she had ever been warm. Sigrid was reading. Outside, the wind was in the trees, their jagged shadows gliding across the window. Their humidifier hissed. “I’m sorry about before,” Marta said, but Sigrid wasn’t listening. She was preparing for her comprehensive exams. Marta watched her read, the slow, steady progress of her eyes across and down the page. The lamplight illuminated her hair and she appeared to Marta like one of those paintings in churches, where the head glows, denoting some minor divinity. “I’m sorry,” Marta said because she felt she had to try again, and she put her hand on the book to draw Sigrid’s attention. “What’s that, baby?” Sigrid smiled a sleepy smile. Her eyes were a little unfocused. “I said I was sorry about before.” Sigrid’s smile turned inward, but then she put her arms around Marta. She kissed Marta’s hair. Marta put her arm over Sigrid, put her face down against her stomach. “Don’t be. That Peter’s a real jerk.” “No, not that, I guess. I just meant. I’m sorry. For saying that. About everyone knowing,” Marta said. “It’s okay if you don’t want anyone to know, though I think it’s a little late for that,” Sigrid said. It was true, Marta knew. They went around together everywhere. They held hands when they went to the park. They had gone to see Sigrid’s parents in Minnesota, and they had welcomed Marta the best they could with their tall Norwegian manners. All there was to know was known, by all of whom there were to know it. “It just made me feel funny, I guess,” Marta said. “Seeing him. Him knowing.” “We never are who we once were,” Sigrid said. “Did one of your dead ladies give you that one?” Marta asked. “No,” Sigrid said. “I made it up.” “I wouldn’t have known the difference,” Marta said. “You could have told me anything.” “And who says I haven’t already,” Sigrid said, picking her book back up. “Now let me read.” Marta lay there with her arm over Sigrid, thinking about that last bit, how Sigrid could have told her anything and she wouldn’t have known the difference. Sigrid could have made up all of that about the queens of England. She could have made up all of that with the diaries and her elegant dioramas. She could have told Marta anything at all, and Marta would have believed her. But maybe that’s what love was, she thought to herself as she fell asleep. Maybe love was that you didn’t try too hard to tell the difference. Maybe love was just believing something to be true because you’d been told. • • •

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  When I had spoken these words, I perceived by Fotis eys being wet with tears and well nigh closed up that shee had a desire unto pleasure and specially because shee embraced and kissed me sweetly. And when she was somewhat restored unto joy shee desired me that shee might first shut the chamber doore, least by the untemperance of her tongue, in uttering any unfitting words, there might grow further inconvenience. Wherewithall shee barred and propped the doore, and came to me againe, and embracing me lovingly about the neck with both her armes, spake with a soft voice and said, I doe greatly feare to discover the privities of this house, and to utter the secret mysteries of my dame. But I have such confidence in you and in your wisedome, by reason that you are come of so noble a line, and endowed with so profound sapience, and further instructed in so many holy and divine things, that you will faithfully keepe silence, and that whatsoever I shall reveale or declare unto you, you would close them within the bottome of your heart, and never discover the same: for I ensure you, the love that I beare unto you, enforceth mee to utter it. Now shal you know all the estate of our house, now shal you know the hidden secrets of my mistres, unto whome the powers of hel do obey, and by whom the celestial planets are troubled, the gods made weake, and the elements subdued, neither is the violence of her art in more strength and force, than when she espieth some comly young man that pleaseth her fancie, as oftentimes it hapneth, for now she loveth one Boetian a fair and beautiful person, on whom she employes al her sorcerie and enchantment, and I heard her say with mine own ears yester night, that if the Sun had not then presently gon downe, and the night come to minister convenient time to worke her magicall enticements, she would have brought perpetuall darkness over all the world her selfe. And you shall know, that when she saw yester night, this Boetian sitting at the Barbers a polling, when she came from the Baines shee secretly commanded me to gather up some of the haires of his head which lay dispersed upon the ground, and to bring it home. Which when I thought to have done the Barber espied me, and by reason it was bruited though all the City that we were Witches and Enchantresses, he cried out and said, Wil you never leave off stealing of young mens haires? In faith I assure you, unlesse you cease your wicked sorceries, I will complaine to the Justices. Wherewithall he came angerly towards me, and tooke away the haire which I had gathered, out of my apron: which grieved me very much, for I knew my Mistresses manners, that she would not be contented but beat me cruelly.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other’s soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do. After one wild attempt we made to meet at night in her garden (of which more later), the only privacy we were allowed was to be out of earshot but not out of sight on the populous part of the plage. There, on the soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each other: her hand, half-hidden in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender brown fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer; then, her opalescent knee would start on a long cautious journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by younger children granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other’s salty lips; these incomplete contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of exasperation that not even the cold blue water, under which we still clawed at each other, could bring relief. Among some treasures I lost during the wanderings of my adult years, there was a snapshot taken by my aunt which showed Annabel, her parents and the staid, elderly, lame gentleman, a Dr. Cooper, who that same summer courted my aunt, grouped around a table in a sidewalk café. Annabel did not come out well, caught as she was in the act of bending over her chocolat glacé, and her thin bare shoulders and the parting in her hair were about all that could be identified (as I remember that picture) amid the sunny blur into which her lost loveliness graded; but I, sitting somewhat apart from the rest, came out with a kind of dramatic conspicuousness: a moody, beetle-browed boy in a dark sport shirt and well-tailored white shorts, his legs crossed, sitting in profile, looking away. That photograph was taken on the last day of our fatal summer and just a few minutes before we made our second and final attempt to thwart fate. Under the flimsiest of pretexts (this was our very last chance, and nothing really mattered) we escaped from the café to the beach, and found a desolate stretch of sand, and there, in the violet shadow of some red rocks forming a kind of cave, had a brief session of avid caresses, with somebody’s lost pair of sunglasses for only witness. I was on my knees, and on the point of possessing my darling, when two bearded bathers, the old man of the sea and his brother, came out of the sea with exclamations of ribald encouragement, and four months later she died of typhus in Corfu.

• From In the Dream House (2019)

  Dream House as Romance Novel A week after you get back from Savannah, you are fucking on your bed and you come and she says, “I love you.” You are both sweaty; the silicone strap-on is still in your body. (When dating men, you always loved feeling a cock soften inside you afterward; now, you pant on her chest and slide off and it springs back to where it was, slick and erect but spent just the same.) You look down at her, confusion muddled with the vibrations of orgasm, 3 and she claps her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Did you mean it?” you ask. “I didn’t mean to say it just now,” she says, “but I meant it.” You are silent for a long beat. Then you say, “I love you too.” It feels stupidly, sickeningly correct, and you don’t understand how you didn’t know until now. “If I don’t get into Iowa, I don’t know what I’ll do,” she says. “I want to stay here with you. That’s all I want.” 3 . Thompson, Motif-Index of Folk-Literature , Type C942.3, Weakness from seeing woman (fairy) naked. Dream House as Déjà Vu She loves you. She sees your subtle, ineffable qualities. You are the only one for her in all the world. She trusts you. She wants to keep you safe. She wants to grow old with you. She thinks you’re beautiful. She thinks you’re sexy. Sometimes when you look at your phone, she has sent you something stunningly filthy, and there is a kick of want between your legs. Sometimes when you catch her looking at you, you feel like the luckiest person in the whole world.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  Daddy closed his eyes. I admired his body for the umpteenth time. My Daddy! Fuck! Holy fuck! Bristles of black hair pushed through his shaved torso; he still modeled and “acted” in porn videos, even at his age. He delighted in my giggles whenever he lowered himself onto my body and playfully slithered his scratchy chest over mine before fucking me hard. Like Craig, he had great abs, and his muscles stood out in a heavy basrelief: three horizontal lines cut across his trunk, announcing a six-pack from hell and accentuating his obliques. He wore his thick black hair on the longish side, and I loved to see him shake his head as he peered through uncooperative strands when he procrastinated over a much-needed hair cut. Square jaw, Aquiline nose. A five o’clock shadow that appeared about three p.m. Long legs firm from years of running, mostly track and around our flat town, not much hill work—which was obvious from his great calves, but his thighs needed gym persuasion. We’re both athletic, although we focus on different activities. And we’re pretty well matched otherwise—sharp technical minds; we both joke a lot, are partial to puns but tend to be deep thinkers. Our coffee table and bedside tables are piled with scientific mags and journals, and, I must admit, sci-fi, adventure, and spy novels. The trait we have most in common is the love we have for each other, a spiritual marriage I can feel but not explain, a match of beautiful bodies and beautiful minds. Craig approached with a white beach towel draped over his shoulder. Daddy motioned him to the far side of the blanket. Craig positioned his towel contiguous to Daddy’s side of the blanket and stretched out. Two hard-ons out of three wasn’t bad, and just maybe there was a third one under those damn board shorts. “So, where are you from?” Daddy asked Craig. “Born and raised in upper state New York. Good place to leave behind. I prefer warm weather, so I made my way to California.” “And your line of work,” Daddy pressed on, “if I may ask?” “Oh, sure, I’m a personal fitness coach and a masseur. Have a space here in Kona where I see clients, some on a regular basis, some vacationers. Also go to other islands, Kauai and Maui, once a month.” “So that’s why you’re so buffed.” “Yeah, I have to set a good example—can’t be a chef who won’t sample his own creations.” Daddy raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Yeah,” Craig offered, “sometimes I give more than a massage.” “What’s your client base?” “Oh, the cross section is pretty even—young, old, men and women.” Daddy raised himself to a sitting position. “And which side of the pond do you fish in?” Craig threw his head back and laughed. “Both sides.” Daddy relaxed with his arms underneath his head. “So, what’s your line of work?” Craig asked as he scanned Daddy’s body.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  Burner means that there will be ten to fifteen people they vaguely know and kerosene-soaked rags torched in metal barrels. Cheap whiskey, cheap beer for the Christians. Coke, molly, and weed for the true believers. Heavy bass pumping from the mudder trucks—Kendrick and Luke Bryan in some kind of awful mash-up like a diversity poster. Tommy Boy cologne, white polos, Wallabees, and dark denim turned white in the crotch and ass from wear. Exhausting. “Unless you wanna waste a good high in your fucking basement,” Nolan says, his gaze leveled on Milton. “It’s whatever.” “You’re such a little girl sometimes.” Milton shimmies his jeans up over his basketball shorts and pulls on a gray sweater made for him by his grandmother from the wool of Sturdy Matilda, her bossy ewe. “Get up, lazy.” Nolan is already dressed in his jeans and eye-searing orange hoodie. They’re almost the same height, and people sometimes mistake them for siblings. Nolan is beige and drenched in freckles. Milton has only one black grandparent, but Nolan calls him a pale-ass nigga just the same. Milton doesn’t see a resemblance except for the parts of them that aren’t white. On his feet, Nolan punches Milton in the gut, then bounds up the stairs. Milton stomps after him, grabbing at his heels. They emerge into the back hall, and Nolan jerks the door open and sprints out through the garage to the safety of the driveway. Milton catches sight of his mother in the living room. “Where you boys off to?” The gentle music of her voice makes Milton shift awkwardly near the door. He rests his hand on the outside knob. She’s folding a thick blanket. “The hill, I guess.” “Make sure you’re back before too late.” There’s something else, he knows, but she won’t bring it up. “All right, yes, ma’am,” he says. “Milton,” his father says from the kitchen. The news plays through the ending credits. Wheel of Fortune will be on soon. His father’s tall and solid. He watches Milton over his glasses and that long straight nose of his. “Sir?” Milton asks. Nolan kicks a pinecone from foot to foot at the end of the driveway. Milton waits for his father to say what he needs to say. “Having a good one?” “Yes, Pop,” Milton says. “I am.” “Get back safe.” “Yes, Pop.” “Milton.” “Yep?” Milton puts his forehead to the white grain of the door. Nolan’s on his phone in the yard. His father twists a white towel around the inside of a glass bowl, though it must certainly be dry by now. The opening music of Wheel of Fortune enters the living room, and the glow from the television illuminates the side of his mother’s face. Her pale brown eyes are on him, too. He thinks for a moment that they’re going to stop him. It’s his birthday. Let me have this one thing, he thinks. This one thing. Before it’s all gone. His eyes sting a little. “Have fun.”

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  Damian shook his head. “I called the police before, and they won’t do anything. Maybe Stan paid them off. Besides they have all my stuff, and I have nowhere else to go.” “Under the circumstances, it’s completely fine to stay with me.” Damian smiled. “I would, but sooner or later Stan and Bob would find me and enslave my ass again. I don’t want to get you involved in this mess. Over the past week, I was able to steal a dollar now and then to take the bus here and bring you flowers. I…uh…I also kind of…sold some gold cufflinks that belonged to Stan to a pawnshop, so I have enough for a ticket out of Los Angeles. I needed to say good-bye to you though.” “But you’ll still need money for food and a place to stay.” Damian shuffled his feet. “I suppose I may have to let them fuck me for a while longer, and I admit part of me still enjoys it. Even if I’m starting to believe that I’m not good for anything except giving up my ass. It turns out I’m just as stupid as Stan says.” “Oh, sweetheart, you are not. One mistake made to get away from your family does not make you dumb.” Damian could no longer resist, and he leaned forward to kiss Richard fiercely, his lips pressed urgently against the older man’s. He could sense Richard’s surprise as he reflexively backed up, but then he returned the kiss, putting his arms around Damian and pulling him tighter. “Please,” Damian begged. “I may never see you again. Would you fuck me?” Richard shut his eyes. He inhaled sharply, and then again, and a third time. Damian saw his resolve breaking. “Yes! Yes, I want to fuck you so bad.” Damian felt himself lifted off the ground and gently carried into Richard’s small house. Damian knew that with his muscular frame, he wasn’t a lightweight, and Richard’s strength surprised him. Every few steps, Richard stopped to kiss Damian’s mouth, but in less than a minute, Richard had Damian on his back on the bed, kissing, nipping at and caressing the young man feverishly. Damian couldn’t control his need. He yanked off his shorts and put his legs in the air, moaning and squirming. “Sweetheart, slow down. Let me be good to you.” “But sir, I’m so horny. Please, sir.” Richard continued his patient, affectionate exploration of Damian’s body, caressing his muscular chest and abs, kissing his face and neck. Damian sighed in delight, but he still whimpered for penetration.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  Similarly, the initial tennis coaching I had inflicted on Lolita—prior to the revelations that came to her through the great Californian’s lessons—remained in my mind as oppressive and distressful memories—not only because she had been so hopelessly and irritatingly irritated by every suggestion of mine—but because the precious symmetry of the court instead of reflecting the harmonies latent in her was utterly jumbled by the clumsiness and lassitude of the resentful child I mistaught. Now things were different, and on that particular day, in the pure air of Champion, Colorado, on that admirable court at the foot of steep stone stairs leading up to Champion Hotel where we had spent the night, I felt I could rest from the nightmare of unknown betrayals within the innocence of her style, of her soul, of her essential grace. She was hitting hard and flat, with her usual effortless sweep, feeding me deep skimming balls—all so rhythmically coordinated and overt as to reduce my footwork to, practically, a swinging stroll—crack players will understand what I mean. My rather heavily cut serve that I had been taught by my father who had learned it from Decugis or Borman, old friends of his and great champions, would have seriously troubled my Lo, had I really tried to trouble her. But who would upset such a lucid dear? Did I ever mention that her bare arm bore the 8 of vaccination? That I loved her hopelessly? That she was only fourteen? An inquisitive butterfly passed, dipping, between us. Two people in tennis shorts, a red-haired fellow only about eight years my junior, with sunburnt bright pink shins, and an indolent dark girl with a moody mouth and hard eyes, about two years Lolita’s senior, appeared from nowhere. As is common with dutiful tyros, their rackets were sheathed and framed, and they carried them not as if they were the natural and comfortable extensions of certain specialized muscles, but hammers or blunderbusses or wimbles, or my own dreadful cumbersome sins. Rather unceremoniously seating themselves near my precious coat, on a bench adjacent to the court, they fell to admiring very vocally a rally of some fifty exchanges that Lo innocently helped me to foster and uphold—until there occurred a syncope in the series causing her to gasp as her overhead smash went out of court, whereupon she melted into winsome merriment, my golden pet.