Nostalgia

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Nothing was taken for granted; each day demanded a new test of power, a new sense of strength or of failure. And so, up until the age of nine or ten, we had a real taste of life—we were on our own. That is, those of us who were fortunate enough not to have been spoiled by our parents, those of us who were free to roam the streets at night and to discover things with our own eyes. What I am thinking of, with a certain amount of regret and longing, is that this thoroughly restricted life of early boyhood seems like a limitless universe and the life which followed upon it, the life of the adult, a constantly diminishing realm. From the moment when one is put in school one is lost; one has the feeling of having a halter put around his neck. The taste goes out of the bread as it goes out of life. Getting the bread becomes more important than the eating of it. Everything is calculated and everything has a price upon it. My cousin Gene became an absolute nonentity; Stanley became a first-rate failure. Besides these two boys, for whom I had the greatest affection, there was another, Joey, who has since become a letter carrier. I could weep when I think of what life has made them. As boys they were perfect, Stanley least of all because Stanley was more temperamental. Stanley went into violent rages now and then and there was no telling how you stood with him from day to day. But Joey and Gene were the essence of goodness; they were friends in the old meaning of the word. I think of Joey often when I go out into the country because he was what is called a country boy. That meant, for one thing, that he was more loyal, more sincere, more tender, than the boys we knew. I can see Joey now coming to meet me; he was always running with arms wide open and ready to embrace me, always breathless with adventures that he was planning for my participation, always loaded with gifts which he had saved for my coming. Joey received me like the monarchs of old received their guests. Everything I looked at was mine. We had innumerable things to tell each other and nothing was dull or boring. The difference between our respective worlds was enormous. Though I was of the city too, still, when I visited my cousin Gene, I became aware of an even greater city, a city of New York proper in which my sophistication was negligible. Stanley knew no excursions from his own neighborhood, but Stanley had come from a strange land over the sea, Poland, and there was always between us the mark of the voyage. The fact that he spoke another tongue also increased our admiration for him.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She’d known it when she’d turned her car off the highway and headed for the lake. She’d known it when she passed the “For Sale” sign at the end of wooded drive. She’d known it when she got out of the car and smelled the early autumn air, with its melancholy reminder that the seasons changed, that time moved on. That the past was lost. She’d known it when she twisted the key in the lock and opened the front door. The realtor hadn’t bothered with a lock box. The open house tomorrow would bring a slew of interested buyers, and there would be a bidding war for the vacation home. Bella had simply wanted to see the place one more time. No, not simply. There was nothing simple about divorce. She and Ethan had agreed to sell the cabin prior to the final paperwork and split the money. Neither of them wanted the other to have it. As far as Bella knew, Ethan didn’t want the place anyway. God knew she didn’t. Too many memories. Too many reminders of how happiness could drift away like autumn leaves falling from their trees, to be trampled underfoot and turned to dust. Inside, late afternoon light slanted off the lake and through the wall of windows and glass doors that led out onto the porch, filling the room with a warm glow and turning the wood to a gleaming deep honey. This had always been her favorite time of day here. She loved the play of the sunbeams on the water as the sun sank. She could sit on an Adirondack chair on the porch for hours, sipping a tart chardonnay, listening to the outboard motor hum of boats on the water and the occasional shout of an enthusiastic skier. Other than that, the rustle of the wind through the trees, the chatter of a squirrel or call of a bird was all that broke the peaceful silence. If the sliding glass door was open, she might also have heard Ethan banging pots and dishes in the kitchen as he made dinner. They tended to make simple meals when they came out here for the weekend: pasta aglio e olio with a salad of tomato and freshly shaved Parmesan. Omelets stuffed with feta and basil and garlic. Grilled chicken, the occasional steak. Fruit and cheese for dessert. Bella shook her head, trying to dislodge the remembrances. She shouldn’t have come. And yet she stepped inside, shut the door behind her. The cabin wasn’t tiny, but it was a comfortable size for a weekend getaway. The open plan meant that the view from the door was straight out the back to the lake. In the living room, simple Mission-style furniture gathered around a stone fireplace. Over the mantle was a painting of a proud buck (they had joked about hanging a deer’s head, but neither of them had really meant it), and boldly striped Indian-woven blankets were draped over the sofa and chairs.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  She dropped the hand at her chin, exposing her face to him. “I don’t know.” He got up from the table, looking straight ahead, and slowly gathered his coat around his shoulders. He could sense no movement of her head turning to look at him as he left the restaurant. He wouldn’t realize that he’d left the bag containing the bunny sweater-guard and Sylvia’s watch under the table until he arrived home in Westchester. Connection Susan had not been in Manhattan for five years, and she had been looking forward to this visit as a gorgeous wallow in sentimentality and the mild pain of déjà vu. The first three days had been just that. She had gone on long walks, visited with old friends and sat in cafés she’d once frequented as a thin, long-haired girl, lonely and worrying over tea. She had wandered through these days desultorily, enjoying the odd mix of memories and emotions that playfully showed their shadows and vanished again. She had been walking on Bleecker toward Lafayette when a tiny, youthful bag lady entered her vision. She was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand out, the other daintily holding a small plastic garbage bag as though it were a pocketbook, begging from everyone and looking at no one. Her torn sweater, ragged skirt and wool socks were drably color-coordinated; her small head was tilted at an odd birdlike angle that was an unintentional caricature of childlike curiosity. Her clearly once-beautiful face was as still as her body; her full lips, potentially so expressive, were held fixed and tight. Her stillness amidst the march of New Yorkers made her look lost and groundless, but there was an intensity about her, and a feeling of heat, as though she were exuding some sticky substance from her pores. The quick feeling of panic in Susan’s stomach made her turn and walk the other way before she had a mental reaction; when she figured out why she was upset, she felt even worse. The bag lady looked exactly like Leisha, her best friend many years ago. Her face, posture, even the style of her rags recalled Leisha. Susan turned a corner and stopped against a wall, her heart beating miserably. She remembered an article or a talk show or something where a smug somebody discussed the problem of chance meetings with old friends who were not as successful as you, and how you could avoid rubbing it in. She thought: This could not be Leisha. She had not seen or spoken to Leisha since their unhappy falling-out six years ago.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  She hesitated. “Well, if you’re in a rush, go ahead. But here, let me give you my card.” Alice had her business card ready in her hand. “It’s our new phone number. Why don’t you call?” They said it was good seeing each other, made more stunted hugging gestures and settled for hand squeezes. Connie walked three blocks before hailing a cab. “You think you know what you’re doing, but you don’t,” a huddled drunk informed her. She gave him a dollar bill and walked on, silently agreeing. Why hadn’t she waited for Alice? “Alice loves you, Connie,” Franklin had said. A couple across the street were embracing against a crumbling brick wall; the man’s hand was under the woman’s short leather skirt. Because she’d been ending a cycle and they weren’t friends anymore, Constance thought. She stopped before a garbage-choked wastebasket and pulled Alice’s card from her pocket. She started to throw it away and then changed her mind. You never know. One day she might come upon this card and decide it would be good to talk to somebody she hadn’t spoken to in years. She pocketed the little piece of cardboard and hailed a cab that was roaring down the street like a desperate animal. Heaven When Virginia thought of their life in Florida, it was veiled by a blue-and-green tropical haze. Ocean water lapped a white sand beach. Starfish lay on the shore and lobsters awkwardly strolled it. There was a white house with a blue roof. On the front porch were tin cans housing smelly clams and crayfish that walked in circles, brushing the sides of the cans with their antennae; they had been brought by her son Charles, and left for him and his brother, Daniel, to squat over and watch from time to time. She imagined her young daughters in matching red shorts, their blond hair pulled back by rubber bands. The muscles of their long legs throbbed as they jumped rope or chased each other, rubber thongs patting their small, dirty heels with every step. A family picnic was being held in the front yard on an old patchwork quilt. Watermelon juice ran down their sleeves. Jarold was holding Magdalen in the ocean so she could kick and splash without fear. He was laughing, he was pink; his hair lay in wet ridges against his large, handsome head. Twenty years later, Virginia thought of Florida with pained and superstitious but reverent wonder, as though it was a paradise she had forfeited without knowing it. She thought of it almost every night as she lay on the couch before the humming, fuzzing TV set in the den of their New Jersey home.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  ConnectionSusan had not been in Manhattan for five years, and she had been looking forward to this visit as a gorgeous wallow in sentimentality and the mild pain of déjà vu. The first three days had been just that. She had gone on long walks, visited with old friends and sat in cafés she’d once frequented as a thin, long-haired girl, lonely and worrying over tea. She had wandered through these days desultorily, enjoying the odd mix of memories and emotions that playfully showed their shadows and vanished again. She had been walking on Bleecker toward Lafayette when a tiny, youthful bag lady entered her vision. She was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand out, the other daintily holding a small plastic garbage bag as though it were a pocketbook, begging from everyone and looking at no one. Her torn sweater, ragged skirt and wool socks were drably color-coordinated; her small head was tilted at an odd birdlike angle that was an unintentional caricature of childlike curiosity. Her clearly once-beautiful face was as still as her body; her full lips, potentially so expressive, were held fixed and tight. Her stillness amidst the march of New Yorkers made her look lost and groundless, but there was an intensity about her, and a feeling of heat, as though she were exuding some sticky substance from her pores. The quick feeling of panic in Susan’s stomach made her turn and walk the other way before she had a mental reaction; when she figured out why she was upset, she felt even worse. The bag lady looked exactly like Leisha, her best friend many years ago. Her face, posture, even the style of her rags recalled Leisha. Susan turned a corner and stopped against a wall, her heart beating miserably. She remembered an article or a talk show or something where a smug somebody discussed the problem of chance meetings with old friends who were not as successful as you, and how you could avoid rubbing it in. She thought: This could not be Leisha. She had not seen or spoken to Leisha since their unhappy falling-out six years ago. The last time Susan had heard from her was when she received an invitation to Leisha’s wedding (she was marrying an attorney at a country club), which Susan had scornfully thrown in the trash. Surely even Leisha couldn’t have gone from being a well-off wife to a bag lady in six years. And even if she had, she had a middle-class family ready (and alert for just this purpose) to sweep her into its bosom. Still, anything was possible, and, as Leisha herself had constantly pointed out, she was very unstable. She was unskilled except as a waitress, and Susan had always worried about what would happen to her once she lost her beauty.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  with saliva and my glands ached from the aroma. Just as I got my keys, Ruth opened her door. “T’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not skulkinge—honestly. It’s just been a long time since I smelled rhubarb cooking, It takes me back.” Ruth nodded. “I’m making pies. Would you like some coffee?” I hesitated. We both faced each other stiffly. But I was so weary of our caution and defensiveness. “Thank you,” I smiled. “Oh,” I groaned as I walked into her kitchen. “It smells so good.” Ruth smiled. “Well, I wish I could send you home with a small pie, but these are for friends in the hospital.” I nodded. “When I was a kid I used to eat it plain in a bowl with brown sugar.” Ruth stirred the pot. “I’m sure there’s enough for that.” She stopped puttering and buried her hands in the pockets of her old-fashioned floral apron. I pointed to one of the small watercolor paintings on her kitchen wall. “I recognize the Queen Anne’s Lace, but what are these purple flowers?” “Asters,” she said. “And that’s goldenrod.” I didn’t usually like pictures of flowers, but these reminded me of the way flowers looked the first time I saw them. “These are really nice,’ I said. “Thank you.” “Did you paint theme” I asked. She nodded. “This is beautiful.” I pointed to a framed handkerchief, embroidered with colorful pansies. “I always loved pansies, but they embarrassed me, too, because that’s what kids used to call me when I was a little girl.” Ruth looked me in the eye and then went back to stirring the pot. “It’s almost ready,” she said. “Sit down. Would you like decaf so you can still sleep? You work nights, don’t you?” I smiled and nodded. She had directed at least a little attention toward her neighbor, just as I had. “Some regular coffee would be great. ’'m trying to stay up and clean on the weekends, but all I get is one layer deeper into the crud.” Ruth’s immaculate home inspired me. “Where are you from?” she asked me. “Buffalo.” She smiled. “We ate neighbors. You know where Canandaigua Lake is?” I nodded. It was about two hours outside of Buffalo. “I’m from Vine Valley.” I frowned. “I never heard of Vine Valley. Is it farm country?” Ruth nodded. “Oh, yes—vineyards.” As she poured the coffee I could smell cinnamon in it. Stone Butch Blues 213 “I miss Buffalo,” I sighed. “Well, at least I miss the way it used to be. It was such a blue-collar town when I grew up. I never could have imagined that the plants would close and the people from the suburbs would move in and buy our houses dirt-cheap.” Ruth nodded and stirred her coffee. “I know.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  The imaginary boundary of my world had changed. My glance traveled now far beyond the cemeteries, far beyond the rivers, far beyond the city of New York or the State of New York, beyond the whole United States indeed. At Point Loma, California, I had looked out upon the broad Pacific and I had felt something there which kept my face permanently screwed in another direction. I came back to the old neighborhood, I remember, one night with my old friend Stanley who had just come out of the army, and we walked the streets sadly and wistfully. A European can scarcely know what this feeling is like. Even when a town becomes modernized, in Europe, there are still vestiges of the old. In America, though there are vestiges, they are effaced, wiped out of the consciousness, trampled upon, obliterated, nullified by the new. The new is, from day to day, a moth which eats into the fabric of life, leaving nothing finally but a great hole. Stanley and I, we were walking through this terrifying hole. Even a war does not bring this kind of desolation and destruction. Through war a town may be reduced to ashes and the entire population wiped out, but what springs up again resembles the old. Death is fecundating, for the soil as well as for the spirit. In America the destruction is complete, annihilating. There is no rebirth, only a cancerous growth, layer upon layer of new, poisonous tissue, each one uglier than the previous one. We were walking through this enormous hole, as I say, and it was a winter’s night, clear, frosty, sparkling, and as we came through the south side toward the boundary line we saluted all the old relics or the spots where things had once stood and where there had been once something of ourselves. And as we approached North Second Street, between Fillmore Place and North Second Street—a distance of only a few yards and yet such a rich, full area of the globe —before Mrs. O’Melio’s shanty I stopped and looked up at the house where I had known what it was to really have a being. Everything had shrunk now to diminutive proportions, including the world which lay beyond the boundary line, the world which had been so mysterious to me and so terrifyingly grand, so delimited. Standing there in a trance I suddenly recalled a dream which I have had over and over, which I still dream now and then, and which I hope to dream as long as I live. It was the dream of passing the boundary line. As in all dreams the remarkable thing is the vividness of the reality, the fact that one is in reality and not dreaming. Across the line I am unknown and absolutely alone. Even the language has changed. In fact, I am always regarded as a stranger, a foreigner.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Ruth mesmerized me with her voice. “I wish I could show it all to you—how the hills change with the seasons. In the winter, my Uncle Dale could name every tree for me just by the shape of its silhouette 286 = Leslie Feinberg outlined against the sky. But it was the vines that brought us out to discover spring. We might not have noticed the smell of the earth thawing if it hadn’t been for the work that needed doing. The men trimmed the vines, and we tied them to the locust posts. “The women all working together in the vineyards were the best times of my life, Jess. I know it was hard work lugging those heavy grape trays. But all I remember is talking and laughing together. All the stories seemed to begin with the same sentence: ‘Remember the time that...” Ruth glanced up to make sure I was awake. “When I was eight or nine, my Uncle Dale tried to take me out with the men to prune the vines. But my mother said no. She and my aunt and my grandma took me to work with them. They already knew my nature.” I stiffened as the pain grew inside my head. Ruth rubbed my chest until the hurt subsided. “I remember my Uncle Dale told my mother I needed a man around. My dad died when I was so young, Dale used to come by to take me hunting, Mostly we just walked in the woods. He taught me to respect Bare Hill—that’s the birthplace of the Seneca Nation. The government cut a road right through the burial grounds there. “Anyway, Dale seemed to get more and more upset about the way I was growing up. There certainly wasn't anything manly about me, and I think he felt it was his fault. One spring day we were walking on Bare Hill. The clouds were moving fast, throwing shadows over the valley and the lake as they passed. Uncle Dale seemed so disgusted with me I thought he’d stop taking me on those walks. “At the top of the hill I saw a man whose hair was long and chocolate brown, like muck. Someday Tl show you the land we call muck—it’s very fertile and very beautiful. They stood there talking. Then Dale nodded toward me and said, ‘I’m trying to teach the boy to be a man.’ His voice sounded like he’d already failed. I felt so ashamed standing there, this stranger hearing the disappointment in my uncle’s voice at the same moment I did. “But the man put his hand on my uncle’s shoulder and he said, ‘Let the child be” After a minute Dale hung his head and nodded. He looked at me different after that, like he was seeing me for the first time.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Her mouth watered at the memory of it. “One glass, then.” “Steak. I confess I was going for man comfort food,” he said as he poured. “Women go for chocolate, men go for cow. I’ve got potatoes, salad fixings. There’s more than enough for two.” She swirled the wine in the glass, noticing how it didn’t cling. That seemed like a lesson she should learn. She’d never been one for lessons or following directions or orders. She supposed it was her downfall, that stubbornness. “So why did you come back?” she asked. He dashed salt and pepper over the thick steak, not looking at her. “Nostalgia, I suppose. One last night in the cabin. You?” “Same thing, although I just wanted to stop by.” She leaned against the counter, shook her head. “I guess I didn’t really comprehend that it was for sale, that it wouldn’t be ours any longer, until I saw the sign.” “Same here.” He ran water over the vegetables in the colander. “Look, Bella, I…” “I know,” she said. “Me, too.” She looked down at the wine, but it didn’t give her any easy answers. There probably weren’t any. She looked back up. “I’d like to stay for dinner. What can I do?” She rinsed off two baking potatoes—he’d grabbed a bag of them at the store—and pricked them with a fork, smelling the earthy scent of them. She was, she realized, famished. Astonishing, really, how easy it was to fall into the old routines. The two of them in the kitchen, she being sous chef to his head cook. But at the same time, it was also awkward; they’d lost the automatic way they’d had of moving around each other, not bumping into each other (unless they really wanted to, sharing a laughing kiss before turning back to the task at hand). Somewhere along the line, they’d lost that. It had been a gradual transition. Bella couldn’t look back and find one instant, one moment when everything turned. It came down to a series of missteps, and before they noticed the stumbles, it was too late to catch up and right themselves, and the marriage. Ethan’s business had gone under, and although she still had a good job, he stressed about money. He pulled away from her, confided in another woman. It had been a purely emotional relationship, not physical in the least, but for Bella that had cut deeper than if he’d had an affair. It had been her mistake to fall into bed with someone else. She and Ethan had argued (again), she’d stayed late at work and then gone out for a drink that had turned into several, followed by a tumble with an acquaintance. She didn’t forgive herself by the fact that she’d been tipsy, because it had happened a few more times, until her lover had gone back to his own wife.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “So why did you come back?” she asked. He dashed salt and pepper over the thick steak, not looking at her. “Nostalgia, I suppose. One last night in the cabin. You?” “Same thing, although I just wanted to stop by.” She leaned against the counter, shook her head. “I guess I didn’t really comprehend that it was for sale, that it wouldn’t be ours any longer, until I saw the sign.” “Same here.” He ran water over the vegetables in the colander. “Look, Bella, I…” “I know,” she said. “Me, too.” She looked down at the wine, but it didn’t give her any easy answers. There probably weren’t any. She looked back up. “I’d like to stay for dinner. What can I do?” She rinsed off two baking potatoes—he’d grabbed a bag of them at the store—and pricked them with a fork, smelling the earthy scent of them. She was, she realized, famished. Astonishing, really, how easy it was to fall into the old routines. The two of them in the kitchen, she being sous chef to his head cook. But at the same time, it was also awkward; they’d lost the automatic way they’d had of moving around each other, not bumping into each other (unless they really wanted to, sharing a laughing kiss before turning back to the task at hand). Somewhere along the line, they’d lost that. It had been a gradual transition. Bella couldn’t look back and find one instant, one moment when everything turned. It came down to a series of missteps, and before they noticed the stumbles, it was too late to catch up and right themselves, and the marriage. Ethan’s business had gone under, and although she still had a good job, he stressed about money. He pulled away from her, confided in another woman. It had been a purely emotional relationship, not physical in the least, but for Bella that had cut deeper than if he’d had an affair. It had been her mistake to fall into bed with someone else. She and Ethan had argued (again), she’d stayed late at work and then gone out for a drink that had turned into several, followed by a tumble with an acquaintance. She didn’t forgive herself by the fact that she’d been tipsy, because it had happened a few more times, until her lover had gone back to his own wife. It had been a mistake, and it had been the final nail in the coffin. After that, she and Ethan tried and failed (finally) to reconcile, to come to some middle ground. They were so far apart that they couldn’t see the middle. Certainly they couldn’t see each other. Now, she chopped vegetables, crumbled bleu cheese, and tossed a salad, and then they went onto the porch with their wine to wait for the potatoes to bake. Ethan would throw the steaks on at the last minute. A loon called, low and haunting.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Over the mantle was a painting of a proud buck (they had joked about hanging a deer’s head, but neither of them had really meant it), and boldly striped Indian-woven blankets were draped over the sofa and chairs. To the right was the doorway to the master bedroom and bath, and a wide wooden staircase that led upstairs to the loft, with bedrooms and a bathroom for guests. The kitchen was along the back as well, open to the living room, with windows looking out on the lake and the tangle of trees to the north: stately pines, poplars, birches. If she woke before Ethan, Bella had enjoyed the early morning solitude of brewing coffee and watching the shadows diminish; more often than not, however, she had been the night owl, watching the stars prick the sky and the moon leave a shimmering trail on the water as she nursed a brandy and put away the dishes. Bella set her purse on the small half-round table by the front door, hung her blazer on a wooden peg just above. Too familiar. Even with the realtor’s changes, the place felt like home. Oh, it felt bare—no magazines on the coffee table that they’d bring to read and never get around to (same as home), no stack of empty wine bottles to recycle, no towels draped over the porch railing to dry after a late-morning swim. Or a late-night swim. She sat down hard on the sofa, half-feeling like an intruder, half-feeling lost and very, very small. Remember when they would sneak down to the lake, under the full moon? They’d shuck what little clothes they had on—their wardrobe was so much simpler than when they were in the city—and dive into the water (chilly even in the height of summer), stifling their squeals, laughing breathlessly. Ethan would complain that he’d lost all feeling between his legs, but it wouldn’t be long before it became apparent that he was feeling very well indeed. His cock would rise, hot in the cool water. They’d be lucky if they made it to the raft before the groping started in earnest. Sometimes they’d just head back to the shore, lie on the soft grass above the beach. Moonlight would shimmer in Ethan’s dark hair, and she wouldn’t be able to see his expression, but she’d hear his voice, rough with passion. He’d tell her how beautiful she was, how sexy, and he’d follow the droplets of water on her pale flesh with his tongue. Down from her neck, to the hollow where it met her shoulder. Laving away the moisture, teasing her sensitive flesh there.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Too familiar. Even with the realtor’s changes, the place felt like home. Oh, it felt bare—no magazines on the coffee table that they’d bring to read and never get around to (same as home), no stack of empty wine bottles to recycle, no towels draped over the porch railing to dry after a late-morning swim. Or a late-night swim. She sat down hard on the sofa, half-feeling like an intruder, half-feeling lost and very, very small. Remember when they would sneak down to the lake, under the full moon? They’d shuck what little clothes they had on —their wardrobe was so much simpler than when they were in the city—and dive into the water (chilly even in the height of summer), stifling their squeals, laughing breathlessly. Ethan would complain that he’d lost all feeling between his legs, but it wouldn’t be long before it became apparent that he was feeling very well indeed. His cock would rise, hot in the cool water. They’d be lucky if they made it to the raft before the groping started in earnest. Sometimes they’d just head back to the shore, lie on the soft grass above the beach. Moonlight would shimmer in Ethan’s dark hair, and she wouldn’t be able to see his expression, but she’d hear his voice, rough with passion. He’d tell her how beautiful she was, how sexy, and he’d follow the droplets of water on her pale flesh with his tongue. Down from her neck, to the hollow where it met her shoulder. Laving away the moisture, teasing her sensitive flesh there. He’d spent more time there than was strictly necessary to catch all the drops, knowing how it made her press up against him, nails digging into his back, whispering harsh and incoherent into his ear. Only then would he move down, along her collarbone, to everywhere but the center of her breasts until she moaned in unfulfilled need. He’d capture one of her taut nipples—puckered and dark from the cold swim—between his lips. God yes. Her back would arch; she’d be arching her hips from the moment he started suckling and grazing with his teeth. She’d get so wet, so hot and slick, but he’d linger there, entranced by how hard her nipples would get, how ripe and juicy (he would murmur against her flesh, as if he were drunk, drunk on the lust of her). A teasing tongue in her navel, flicking out the water there, and then he’d move farther down. A quick nip on her hip bone, a nuzzle against her inner thigh. Her fingers would take the place of his mouth—seeing her pleasure herself always drove him a little mad—and then he’d find the true source of moisture, like Galahad succeeding in his quest for the Grail.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She looked back up. “I’d like to stay for dinner. What can I do?” She rinsed off two baking potatoes—he’d grabbed a bag of them at the store—and pricked them with a fork, smelling the earthy scent of them. She was, she realized, famished. Astonishing, really, how easy it was to fall into the old routines. The two of them in the kitchen, she being sous chef to his head cook. But at the same time, it was also awkward; they’d lost the automatic way they’d had of moving around each other, not bumping into each other (unless they really wanted to, sharing a laughing kiss before turning back to the task at hand). Somewhere along the line, they’d lost that. It had been a gradual transition. Bella couldn’t look back and find one instant, one moment when everything turned. It came down to a series of missteps, and before they noticed the stumbles, it was too late to catch up and right themselves, and the marriage. Ethan’s business had gone under, and although she still had a good job, he stressed about money. He pulled away from her, confided in another woman. It had been a purely emotional relationship, not physical in the least, but for Bella that had cut deeper than if he’d had an affair. It had been her mistake to fall into bed with someone else. She and Ethan had argued (again), she’d stayed late at work and then gone out for a drink that had turned into several, followed by a tumble with an acquaintance. She didn’t forgive herself by the fact that she’d been tipsy, because it had happened a few more times, until her lover had gone back to his own wife. It had been a mistake, and it had been the final nail in the coffin. After that, she and Ethan tried and failed (finally) to reconcile, to come to some middle ground. They were so far apart that they couldn’t see the middle. Certainly they couldn’t see each other. Now, she chopped vegetables, crumbled bleu cheese, and tossed a salad, and then they went onto the porch with their wine to wait for the potatoes to bake. Ethan would throw the steaks on at the last minute. A loon called, low and haunting. “I hadn’t realized until now just how much I’d missed this,” she said, indicating with her glass the view of the lake. “It was always so peaceful up here.” “Except that time Jo and Kent brought their nephew with them,” Ethan said. “God, he was a terror.” “I don’t know how we got through the weekend without killing him,” Bella agreed, laughing. “He clogged the toilet, terrorized the chipmunks...” “...and refused to eat anything except Cocoa Puffs and Spaghetti-Os...” “...which Kent had to drive half an hour into the village to get...” “...while Jo cursed his name under her breath for abandoning her.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  I repressed a whimper. A lubricated finger circled my quivering asshole, preparing it for the slow slide of the cold glass thermometer. “Most patients would have their temperatures taken with a digital ear thermometer,” explained Matthew, pushing it further in, inch by inch, and rotating it slowly inside my bum. “But not you. You’re different, Loveday. You need special treatment. It says so on your notes.” “Does it?” I whispered. “Yes, it does.” He held the thermometer fully in, his thumb and finger resting between my cheeks. “It says, ‘Patient needs firm handling at all times. Facilitate her swift recovery with frequent rectal examinations and strict discipline.’ The consultant seems very sure that this is what you need.” “Stupid consultant,” I whispered, just loud enough to be audible. “What was that?” Matthew withdrew the thermometer in one swift stroke, leaving my sphincter muscles trembling at the unexpected vacation. “I see from my thermometer that you are not too ill for a spanking, young lady. Disrespecting the consultant certainly merits one. In fact, I think he should be here to witness it...but I think he’s on another call. Never mind. You can imagine him here, and I’ll write up a report on your punishment for the notes, just so he knows.” I twisted my ankles and wrists, antsy and tense on my rubber sheet. I both dreaded and longed for the promised spanking, and I worked on my readiness for the first stroke, but instead he picked up the sponge again and wrung it out on my bottom so that the water flowed over the cheeks and down my hips, puddling on the sheet. When his hand fell, I nearly jumped up to my knees. I thought I knew the exact form and feel and weight and shape of his open palm, but this felt quite different, and it stung substantially more than I remembered. “Ha ha,” he chuckled delightedly. “That’s how it feels on a wet bottom. I’ve heard it’s more painful. So it’s true.” He continued to smack at my dripping bottom until it was dry—a long and intensive process throughout which it was impossible not to wriggle and kick and make pathetic squeaking noises. “There,” he said, rubbing the site of his evildoing. “A red, sore bottom is very good at aiding recovery for minxes like you. I think we’ll repeat that prescription thrice daily.” “Thrice?” I moaned. “But it hurts.” “The best medicines are hard to swallow,” lectured Matthew. “Speaking of which...but no. I can’t be sure the infection has cleared up yet. We’ll have to find another way of administering the dose.” “The dose?” I wanted to laugh. That was one way of putting it. If I panted, “Dose me up, doctor,” in the throes of orgasm, would that work for him? “The medicine you need,” he whispered, bending down to my ear. “The medicine you’re going to get.” “Can I ask for a second opinion?

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Ruth mesmerized me with her voice. “I wish I could show it all to you—how the hills change with the seasons. In the winter, my Uncle Dale could name every tree for me just by the shape of its silhouette 286 = Leslie Feinberg outlined against the sky. But it was the vines that brought us out to discover spring. We might not have noticed the smell of the earth thawing if it hadn’t been for the work that needed doing. The men trimmed the vines, and we tied them to the locust posts. “The women all working together in the vineyards were the best times of my life, Jess. I know it was hard work lugging those heavy grape trays. But all I remember is talking and laughing together. All the stories seemed to begin with the same sentence: ‘Remember the time that...” Ruth glanced up to make sure I was awake. “When I was eight or nine, my Uncle Dale tried to take me out with the men to prune the vines. But my mother said no. She and my aunt and my grandma took me to work with them. They already knew my nature.” I stiffened as the pain grew inside my head. Ruth rubbed my chest until the hurt subsided. “I remember my Uncle Dale told my mother I needed a man around. My dad died when I was so young, Dale used to come by to take me hunting, Mostly we just walked in the woods. He taught me to respect Bare Hill—that’s the birthplace of the Seneca Nation. The government cut a road right through the burial grounds there. “Anyway, Dale seemed to get more and more upset about the way I was growing up. There certainly wasn't anything manly about me, and I think he felt it was his fault. One spring day we were walking on Bare Hill. The clouds were moving fast, throwing shadows over the valley and the lake as they passed. Uncle Dale seemed so disgusted with me I thought he’d stop taking me on those walks. “At the top of the hill I saw a man whose hair was long and chocolate brown, like muck. Someday Tl show you the land we call muck—it’s very fertile and very beautiful. They stood there talking. Then Dale nodded toward me and said, ‘I’m trying to teach the boy to be a man.’ His voice sounded like he’d already failed. I felt so ashamed standing there, this stranger hearing the disappointment in my uncle’s voice at the same moment I did. “But the man put his hand on my uncle’s shoulder and he said, ‘Let the child be” After a minute Dale hung his head and nodded. He looked at me different after that, like he was seeing me for the first time.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  It had been a mistake, and it had been the final nail in the coffin. After that, she and Ethan tried and failed (finally) to reconcile, to come to some middle ground. They were so far apart that they couldn’t see the middle. Certainly they couldn’t see each other. Now, she chopped vegetables, crumbled bleu cheese, and tossed a salad, and then they went onto the porch with their wine to wait for the potatoes to bake. Ethan would throw the steaks on at the last minute. A loon called, low and haunting. “I hadn’t realized until now just how much I’d missed this,” she said, indicating with her glass the view of the lake. “It was always so peaceful up here.” “Except that time Jo and Kent brought their nephew with them,” Ethan said. “God, he was a terror.” “I don’t know how we got through the weekend without killing him,” Bella agreed, laughing. “He clogged the toilet, terrorized the chipmunks…” “…and refused to eat anything except Cocoa Puffs and Spaghetti-Os…” “…which Kent had to drive half an hour into the village to get…” “…while Jo cursed his name under her breath for abandoning her.” They were both laughing now, free and easy. Bella couldn’t remember the last time it had been so natural to laugh, as if a blockage had cleared in her chest. “At least we can laugh about it now,” she said. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he asked. “How things that seem so awful at the time end up being pretty minor later, when you remember them.” “The blissful haze of memory,” she said. “Natural brain defense mechanism. You know, Bella, I—” The kitchen timer pinged. “I have to put the steaks on,” he said. She set the table, then abandoned the porch to walk barefoot in the cool grass to the wild area nearby where wildflowers clustered. When he brought the plates out, he nodded at the simple arrangement she’d made in an old jam jar. “Nice.” It was the clear lake air, she decided, that made her so hungry. The steak was perfect, the potatoes crisp on the outside and steaming soft inside, the salad a light counterpoint to the rest of the meal. It all went down nicely with the wine. Shadows grew, the sky turning a gorgeous shade of deep blue. Across the table, Bella watched Ethan, noting the circles beneath his eyes. Surprised, she found herself wanting to smooth them away with her fingers, ease him into a healing sleep. Now, where had that come from? The wine, probably. But the wine didn’t explain why she’d stayed for dinner, why she’d put flowers on the table. Nothing, it seemed, made sense anymore. They did the dishes together in silence—what once would have been an awkward or angry lack of discussion now felt companionable. He’d set the timer on the coffee pot before they’d eaten, and the fresh brew filled the cabin with aromatic steam.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  himself with Cicero, whose speeches and actions in favor of the Roman Republic and against tyranny naturally resonated with many French people and gave Danton’s mission the added weight of the ancient past. The filmmaker Akira Kurosawa brought back to life the world of the samurai warrior, so celebrated in Japanese culture, but re-created it in such a way as to make judicious comments on the issues and moods of postwar Japan. When running for president, John F. Kennedy wanted to herald a new American spirit that was moving past the staleness of the 1950s. He called the programs he would initiate the New Frontier, associating his ideas with the pioneer spirit so reverentially ingrained in the American psyche. Such imagery became a powerful part of his appeal. Resurrect the spirit of childhood. By bringing to life the spirit of your early years—its humor, its decisive historical events, the styles and products of the period, the feeling in the air as it affected you—you will reach a vast audience of all those who experienced those years in a similar way. It was a time of life of great emotional intensity, and by re-creating it in some form, but reflected through the eyes of an adult, your work will resonate with your peers. You must use this strategy only if you feel a particularly powerful connection to your childhood. Otherwise your attempt to re-create the spirit will seem flat and contrived. Keep in mind that you are not aiming for a literal re-creation of the past but capturing its spirit. To have real power, it should connect to some issue or problem in the present and not simply be some mindless bit of nostalgia. If you are inventing something, try to update and incorporate the styles of that childhood period in a subtle manner, exploiting the unconscious attraction we all feel to that early period in life. Create the new social configuration. It is human nature for people to crave more social interaction with those with whom they feel an affinity. You will always gain great power by forging some new way of interacting that appeals to your generation. You organize a group around new ideas or values that are in the air or the latest technology that allows you to bring people together of a like mind in a novel way. You eliminate the middlemen who used to set up barriers that prevented freer associations of people. In this new form of a group, it is always wise to introduce some rituals that bond the members together and some symbols to identify with. We see many examples of this in the past—the salons of seventeenth-century France, where men and women could talk freely and openly; the lodges of the Freemasons in eighteenth- century Europe, with their secret rituals and air of subversion; the speakeasies and jazz clubs of the 1920s, where the mood was “anything goes”; or more recently, online platforms and groups, or

• From Best Erotic Romance

  To the right was the doorway to the master bedroom and bath, and a wide wooden staircase that led upstairs to the loft, with bedrooms and a bathroom for guests. The kitchen was along the back as well, open to the living room, with windows looking out on the lake and the tangle of trees to the north: stately pines, poplars, birches. If she woke before Ethan, Bella had enjoyed the early morning solitude of brewing coffee and watching the shadows diminish; more often than not, however, she had been the night owl, watching the stars prick the sky and the moon leave a shimmering trail on the water as she nursed a brandy and put away the dishes. Bella set her purse on the small half-round table by the front door, hung her blazer on a wooden peg just above. Too familiar. Even with the realtor’s changes, the place felt like home. Oh, it felt bare—no magazines on the coffee table that they’d bring to read and never get around to (same as home), no stack of empty wine bottles to recycle, no towels draped over the porch railing to dry after a late-morning swim. Or a late-night swim. She sat down hard on the sofa, half-feeling like an intruder, half-feeling lost and very, very small. Remember when they would sneak down to the lake, under the full moon? They’d shuck what little clothes they had on—their wardrobe was so much simpler than when they were in the city—and dive into the water (chilly even in the height of summer), stifling their squeals, laughing breathlessly. Ethan would complain that he’d lost all feeling between his legs, but it wouldn’t be long before it became apparent that he was feeling very well indeed. His cock would rise, hot in the cool water. They’d be lucky if they made it to the raft before the groping started in earnest. Sometimes they’d just head back to the shore, lie on the soft grass above the beach. Moonlight would shimmer in Ethan’s dark hair, and she wouldn’t be able to see his expression, but she’d hear his voice, rough with passion. He’d tell her how beautiful she was, how sexy, and he’d follow the droplets of water on her pale flesh with his tongue. Down from her neck, to the hollow where it met her shoulder. Laving away the moisture, teasing her sensitive flesh there. He’d spent more time there than was strictly necessary to catch all the drops, knowing how it made her press up against him, nails digging into his back, whispering harsh and incoherent into his ear. Only then would he move down, along her collarbone, to everywhere but the center of her breasts until she moaned in unfulfilled need.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Ruth’s face softened as I drove. She called out the names of all the beautiful wild weeds. The anxiety of Manhattan melted into the distance behind us. The upcoming tension was hundreds of miles ahead. Somewhere between here and there Ruth and I really met each other all over again. As we finally turned off the Thruway and headed toward Canandaigua Lake, Ruth grew visibly excited. “See?” she pointed to a condominium development. “That used to be Roseland Amusement Park. Pull over. Let me dtive now.’ Ruth knew those roads like the veins on her hands. Stone Butch Blues 303 We passed fields of sunflowers. “That’s a new crop since I grew up here.” I recognized the goldenrod and purple asters that Ruth captured as memories in her watercolors. She pulled over near the lake and parked in a space no wider than three car widths. “I could never figure out if this lake mirrored my mood swings or if my moods reflected the changes in the lake. Every square inch around the lake is private now except for two little spaces like this one and the patch behind the country store. They’re even posting the hills now.” She turned the key in the ignition and backed the cat out. “The summer people killed my daddy.” Her voice was flat and cold. “A couple in a car stopped on a hairpin curve to watch the deer. My daddy swerved to avoid them. Went off the road right over there.” We drove past in silence. “I hate the summer people. Only problem is, my mama’s one of them.” I didn’t speak. Ruth knew what she was and wasn’t willing to say. “Of course, my mama was a renter. Her people weren't yuppies. She fell in love with my daddy before the summer passed. But if you loved that man, you knew he’d never leave this valley. He and my Uncle Dale hear the hills calling them like lovers.” Ruth smiled. “Funny thing. My mama’s a city girl, but after my daddy died she stayed here in these 304 Leslie Feinberg hills he loved. I’m like him. My heart’s in these hills, but I left for the city.” We pulled up in front of a small home at the edge of the woods. A golden Labrador retriever barked and clawed at the screen door as Ruth turned off the ignition. “This is Dale’s place.” She handed me a piece of paper. “Here are directions to pick me up at my mama’s house.” I nodded. We sat in the car until our artival was acknowledged. “Robbie!” I heard Dale call out to Ruth. “Robbie, you’re home!” Ruth sighed. We both got out of the car. I watched how their bodies fit as they hugged, how their hands knew each othet’s back and shouldets. Ruth pulled away. “Dale, this is my friend, Jess. She lives in Manhattan, too.”

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  512 Lecture 75: William Butler Yeats William Butler Yeats Lecture 75 Born in Dublin in 1865, he was the eldest child of a middle-class, Anglo- Irish family. His father briefl y practiced law before giving it up to study painting in London, where he moved his family when the future poet was just 2 years old. W hen the boy was 7, his mother—Susan Mary Yeats—took him and his three new siblings off to Sligo, where they stayed for two years. They then returned to London, and at the age of 12 William entered the Godolphin School in Hammersmith—“an obscene, bullying place,” he later called it, where pretentious little English dimwits sneered at what one them called a “Mad Irishman.” None of them could have foreseen that he would eventually become the greatest Irish poet of his time. As a young man, he settled in London, where he launched the fi rst phase of his poetic career. Radiating nostalgia and a fascination with Celtic myth and folklore, Yeats’s early poems seek to recon fi rm “the ancient supremacy of the imagination.” Though he soon realized that poetry of this kind was escapist and that he had to shed the “old mythologies” like an old coat, he could never forsake aesthetic ornaments altogether, and like the women of “Adam’s Curse,” he knew that a poet “must labor to be beautiful”—even though labor alone could not ensure either beauty or art. In his plays and theater management, as well as in his poetry, Yeats labored to inspire the Irish through times of bitter con fl ict with England; much as he hated violence, he saluted the “terrible beauty” of the Easter Rising in 1916, Easter Uprising of 1916. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.