Tenderness

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 Talk Dirty to Me: An Intimate Philosophy of Sex (1994)

  “There are times when I spend an hour with somebody and nothing sexual goes on at all. There’ve been times when I wanted to say ‘You know, if you would make an appointment like this with your wife, rent a hotel room, and lie down on the bed and talk with your wife, you wouldn’t be having to lie down naked on a bed and talk with me like this.’ I’m a sex therapist, that’s my training.” Alex told me, “When these people come to you, they’re coming to you not only for sexual release—which often is the easiest part—but with emotional needs as well. Some are lonely. It’s almost as though they want a mommy for half an hour. It’s weird because often I’m half their age, and here they are like little babies suckling at my breast, getting nurtured. They’ve had a hard day and they need somebody to rub their head and tell them they’re okay. And a lot of the time they’re people who in real life you don’t care about, and you have to put all your own emotions on the shelf for that period of time.” Nina Hartley, a well-known porn actress, partly credits Our Bodies, Ourselves as influencing her to consider work as a stripper and in pornography. Much of that famous book’s message is female sexual self-determination and the value of the female body. Before she did porn, Hartley worked as a nurse. I also worked as a nurse for several years, and in studying prostitution, listening to the women involved, I’m repeatedly struck by how similar the jobs can be. As with prostitution, some women are just not suited to nursing. In both jobs you can have some, but not total, control over your clients, and in both cases some clients will be repulsive, obnoxious, needy, and unattractive, while others will be charming and fun. Both jobs have elements of unpredictability and stress, moments of great satisfaction. The rewards are often surprising, not necessarily what one expected, and frequently the rewards are private ones that can’t really be shared or explained. Both require a cheerful tolerance of the human body’s many quirks. I don’t think I’d be a very good prostitute for the same reason I wasn’t a particularly great nurse. I don’t love adrenaline, and both professions require an ability to shift gears at a moment’s notice, change moods and manners, depending on the situation. I’m too much the misanthrope to make the kind of psychic room a successful prostitute makes for her clients. Looking back, I can see ways in which prostitution might be the better job. There’s very little paperwork, for one thing.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  “Breakfast in bed and a present?” Rusty said. “Should I open it?” Miri nodded. What else would you do with a present? Rusty untied the ribbon and rolled it up, then carefully removed the wrapping paper, so it could be reused. Finally she opened the box and pulled out the half-slip. “This is exactly what I wanted!” She sounded as if she meant it. Miri was pleased. “And in navy,” Rusty said. “It’s perfect.” “It’s nylon tricot,” Miri told her. “And if it’s the wrong size you can exchange it.” “Thank you, sweetie,” Rusty said, reaching for Miri. She hugged her and gave her a forehead kiss. “You’re welcome, Mom.” After Miri cleaned up the kitchen, she decided she’d finish her homework so she wouldn’t have to do it later, but she couldn’t keep her eyes open, so she climbed back into bed and snuggled under the covers. RubyRuby sat on the stool at the counter at Hanson’s Drug Store on Fifty-first Street and Seventh Avenue in New York City, savoring a scrumptious strawberry ice cream soda topped with whipped cream, chopped nuts and a Maraschino cherry. She saved the cherry for last. When she bit into it, Jimmy, the soda jerk, said, “You’re not supposed to eat those things.” “Why not?” “They’re for decoration. Too many of them will kill you.” “But just one will make you happy, right?” “If you say so.” Hanson’s was a celebrity hangout where Ruby was sometimes recognized—not that she minded—and where she often chatted with other entertainers, many of them famous, way more famous than her. But on this Sunday morning it was quiet, probably because of the miserable weather. She’d been a morning guest on WJZ, broadcast from Howie’s Restaurant on Sixth Avenue between Fifty-second and Fifty-third, and from there she’d walked over to Hanson’s. So what if she ordered an ice cream soda before lunch? Who was going to tell her she couldn’t have exactly what she wanted? Being the only customer gave her the chance to flirt with Jimmy, a Broadway gypsy who worked behind the soda fountain between shows. Jeez, he was so cute. Once upon a time Ruby and Jimmy had shared a backstage kiss. But it never went any further. Ruby knew better than to fall for a dancer. Besides, she’d heard he liked boys as much as girls. Anyway, she was romantically involved with Danny Thomas’s brother Paul now. She didn’t know yet if it was going to turn into something more serious or not. Her mother was always nagging, “Get married while you still have your looks, Ruby. And for god’s sake, marry up. Having money beats the dickens out of being poor.” As if Ruby didn’t know. Sorry, Mom, but she was nowhere near ready for marriage. She had a career to think about. And she expected to have her looks for a long time. Her agent was trying to get her on Ed Sullivan . He thought she had a good shot.

• From What My Bones Know (2022)

  Still, one aspect of this group made my attendance worth it—the ability to see that C-PTSD did not inherently make a person monstrous. Each of the group’s members was profoundly shattered. But they were all trying their damnedest to piece themselves back together in a way that didn’t hurt anyone else. They told darkly funny jokes, set out good cheese when they hosted at their apartments, and wrapped their arms around one another when they cried. They all had fierce protective streaks and passionately defended one another against the negative voices in their heads. They were talented and charismatic, quick to be introspective. They read self-help books and danced all night and painted bright, joyful canvases. So it broke my heart to see this: At the beginning of each meeting, we would go around in a circle and say how we were doing that month. And we almost never said “good.” Okay, we said. Meh. There was always a current struggle, a friendship on the precipice, a narcissistic parent sending passive-aggressive texts. We were all deserving. Why couldn’t any of us just be good? I wished so badly for us to be good. — Soon my calendar was packed with trauma-centered activities. Sound baths, yoga classes, my support group, Buddhist talks, massages. I hightailed it on the subway to make a meditation class in Midtown after a yoga class in Brooklyn, then hustled back for a physical therapy appointment. On these hectic journeys, I of course made mistakes. I forgot to bring a healthy snack, or I wasted too much time huffing essential oils in a gift shop and arrived too late to a yoga class, where I lost my $15 deposit. Each time I fucked up, I chastised myself: You’re jobless and bleeding money! You’re living like an entitled socialite! Except without any of the fun parts! Like octopus carpaccio! Or yachts! One day, I arrived at a meditation class five minutes late and had to step over crossed thighs, shuffling apologetically to my spot, where I stewed in shame on my pillow. Everyone thinks I’m an asshole! They can hear me panting! I’m ruining the vibe! And then it dawned on me: I was stressing out about not being perfect at my relaxation class. I was approaching “wellness” with the same obsessive, perfectionistic tendencies I’d brought to my job. This was no less disordered than being a workaholic, and the pattern had a distinct echo: moments of intense joy through achievement followed by anxiety over finding my next success. I decided to cut down on the number of wellness activities I participated in, keeping only my favorites, the ones that brought me sincere and easy joy. And I spruced up my at-home meditation routine, setting down a special cushion in front of my bay window, surrounded by my plants. I told myself that self-care shouldn’t cost money or come from a place of obligation. Being truly healthy should feel like a pleasure.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  Then she whispered to Suzanne, “The next time we need to buy lingerie, ” making Suzanne laugh as they opened the door and stepped out into the icy wind and blowing snow from yesterday’s storm. RustyOn Sayre Street, a brisk fifteen-minute walk from downtown in decent weather, a ten-minute bus ride on a day like today, Rusty Ammerman had already finished the laundry and vacuuming. The two-family house on a street of other two-family houses, each with a small, neat front yard, was divided into an upstairs apartment, where she lived with Miri, and a downstairs one, where her mother, Irene, lived with Rusty’s brother, Henry. But the doors between the two floors were never locked and Miri spent as much time at Irene’s as she did upstairs. Rusty was putting the finishing touches on the Hanukkah gifts she was wrapping for Miri. The Lanz nightgown was at the top of Miri’s wish list, not that Miri had told her in so many words, but Rusty knew. All the girls had Lanz nightgowns. She’d seen that in the photo from Natalie’s slumber party, with four of them in Lanz and Miri in ordinary pajamas. She hadn’t planned on the white angora mittens with leather palms, but she couldn’t resist when she saw them in the window of Goerke’s last week on her way home from the train station. They certainly weren’t practical, but Miri loved angora. The next best thing to having a pet, Miri said, since the dog or cat she wanted was out of the question. The house was too small, no one was home all day, and pets were a responsibility, not to mention an expense. Besides, Irene wouldn’t hear of it. Rusty should know. She’d lobbied for a dog when she was a girl, when they’d lived on Westfield Avenue in a single-family house with a backyard, close to her father’s shop, Ammerman’s Fine Food Emporium. She’d recruited Henry to beg with her. “We already have a cat at the store,” her mother had said. “You can play with Schmaltzie anytime you want to.” What kind of name was Schmaltzie for a cat? Rusty’s father had named him. “Because he’s fat,” he’d explained. “Because he looks like he eats too much schmaltz.” Her mother used chicken fat—schmaltz —in the chopped liver she made every Friday. “Schmaltzie catches mice,” Rusty had said. “That’s why he’s fat.” “That’s his job,” her father told her. “But he still likes to play.” “I want a different kind of cat,” Rusty told him. “One who lives at home, or else a dog. A dog would be even better.” But then the market crashed, and in the Depression that followed a pet was the least of their concerns. Rusty hid the wrapped presents in the corner of her closet, on the highest shelf, not that Miri would snoop around the way she had when she was little, but still, there was something satisfying about hiding them.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  By then the Lafferty parents had sold their farm and bought a house in the old part of downtown Provo; Dan’s father ran his practice out of a basement office in this home. In 1981, shortly after Dan started working for Watson Sr., the LDS Church sent both of the elder Laffertys abroad on a two-year mission, at which point Dan and his younger brother Mark (who had graduated the Los Angeles College of Chiropractic six months after Dan), agreed to take over the practice in their father’s absence. Dan and Mark had always enjoyed each other’s company. “As children,” says Dan, “we were inseparable.” Every morning and evening of their childhood they sat together across a milk pail to milk the family cow. They spent their summer vacations practically joined at the hip, “playing in the barns, jumping in the hay, throwing the football, playing in our tree hut,” he recalls. “It’s funny to remember how hard it was to stop playing even long enough to get a drink or take a pee. Nothing tasted so good as cold water from the faucet that filled the watering trough, and nothing felt so good as taking a pee when the pressure got so bad we had to stop playing because you couldn’t hold it any longer.” When their younger brothers—Tim, Watson Jr., and Allen—were old enough, the smaller boys eagerly joined in Dan and Mark’s escapades. Then, says Dan, “we’d all line up along the fence, oldest to youngest, and have a group pee. The little guys loved to do what Mark and I did, especially lining up to pee on a fence.” When Dan and Mark started working together in their father’s office, the special closeness they had shared in their youth was rekindled. During breaks between patients they engaged in heartfelt discussions about everything that was most important to them—and increasingly what seemed most important concerned religious doctrine and its power to remedy the insidious evils inflicted by the government on its citizens. Regarding the timing of these heart-to-heart talks, Dan reports, “I began to observe a fascinating phenomenon.” Dan and Mark were usually so busy seeing patients that often several days would pass between their religious-political discourses. But on those days when they would unexpectedly have gaps in the schedule in which to talk at length, says Dan, “rather mysteriously, my younger brothers would show up, unannounced. And we would have some very, very valuable time discussing issues.” These impromptu get-togethers happened often enough, says Dan, “that it seemed like it had to be more than just a coincidence.” Five of the six Lafferty brothers—Dan, Mark, Watson, Tim, and Allen—were usually present for these ad hoc conferences; the only brother who failed to attend was Ron, the eldest of the Lafferty offspring, who was six years older than Dan, and had always acted less like a sibling than a father figure to his brothers.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  Prayer of Azariah and the Song of the Three Young Men, which have no counterpart in the Hebrew. When the three men emerge from the furnace, the king acclaims their God and issues a decree forbidding anyone to utter blasphemy against him. This is what Jews in the Diaspora hoped for and sometimes received: the patronage of the king for the protection of their religion. Daniel 4 In chapters 4–6 two quite different texts of Daniel exist. The LXX translation has a very different form of these stories. Here we confine our attention to the form of Daniel 4 found in the Hebrew Bible. This form of the story is presented as a decree of Nebuchadnezzar in acknowledgment of the Most High God and recounting the wonderful experience that had befallen him. (There is a discrepancy in versification between the MT and the English Bibles. English 4:1-3 = MT 3:31-33l.) As in chapter 2, Daniel has a dream. The Chaldeans fail to interpret the dream, although in this case, the king narrates it to them. Given the content of the dream, they might well be reluctant to explain it in any case. The dream concerns a great tree, which gives shelter to birds and beasts. Then “a watcher and a holy one” appears from heaven and decrees that the tree be cut down and its stump left in the earth. At this point, however, the image is switched. The watcher decrees, “Let his lot be with the beasts of the field in the grass of the earth and let the mind of an animal be given to him until seven times pass over him.” (At this point, part of the interpretation seems to be given already in the dream.) Daniel explains the dream with some diffidence: “May the dream be for those who hate you and its interpretation for your enemies.” Later rabbinic interpreters found Daniel’s concern for Nebuchadnezzar scandalous: Why should a Jew be so concerned for the destroyer of Jerusalem? But Daniel’s goodwill toward his master is consistent throughout. He goes on, however, to explain to the king that he will be driven away from human society and be made to eat grass like oxen, “until seven times pass over you” (that is, for seven years). He advises the king

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

  CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxiii. 1) Christ did not answer Mary, as He had her sister, on account of the people present. In condescension to them He humbled Himself, and let His human nature be seen, in order to gain them as witnesses to the miracle: When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, He groaned in His spirit, and was troubled. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xlix) For who but Himself could trouble Him? Christ was troubled, because it pleased Him to be troubled; He hungered, because it pleased Him to hunger. It was in His own power to be affected in this or that way, or not. The Word took up soul and flesh, and whole man, and fitted it to Himself in unity of person. And thus according to the nod and will of that higher nature in Him, in which the sovereign power resides, He becomes weak and troubled. THEOPHYLACT. To prove His human nature He sometimes gives it free vent, while at other times He commands, and restrains it by the power of the Holy Ghost. Our Lord allows His nature to be affected in these ways, both to prove that He is very Man, not Man in appearance only; and also to teach us by His own example the due measures of joy and grief. For the absence altogether of sympathy and sorrow is brutal, the excess of them is womanly. AUGUSTINE. (de Ver. Dom. s. lii) And said, Where have ye laid him? He knew where, but He asked to try the faith of the people. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxiii. 1) He did not wish to thrust the miracle upon them, but to make them ask for it, and thus do away with all suspicions. AUGUSTINE. (lib. 83. Quæst. qu. lxv.) The question has an allusion too to our hidden calling. That predestination by which we are called, is hidden; and the sign of its being so is our Lord asking the question: He being as it were in ignorance, so long as we are ignorant ourselves. Or because our Lord elsewhere shews that He knows not sinners, saying, I know you not, (Matt. 7:23) because in keeping His commandments there is no sin. They said unto Him, Lord, come and see. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxiii. 1) He had not yet raised any one from the dead; and seemed as if He came to weep, not to raise to life. Wherefore they say to Him, Come and see. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xlix. 20.) The Lord sees when He pities, as we read, Look upon my adversity and misery, and forgive me all my sin. (Ps. 24:18.) Jesus wept. ALCUIN. Because He was the fountain of pity. He wept in His human nature for him whom He was able to raise again by His divine. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xlix. non occ.) Wherefore did Christ weep, but to teach men to weep?

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  • Relax! Both the insertive and receptive partner need to be relaxed for successful anal penetration. Bathe together. Kiss and touch. Trade massages. Talk to each other. Share your anal sex fantasies. Feed your desire for anal play with each other. I had the pleasure of introducing my girlfriend to her first anal experience. I tried to do it in the way that I would like to have had it done. I spooned her from the back, kissing her neck and rubbing whatever my hands could reach. After whispering in her ear what I was about to do to her, I began massaging her butt, working my way to her anus. I put plenty of lube on one finger of a gloved hand. I played with the outside for several minutes, all the while kissing her neck and talking to her. I asked her how it felt and whether I should continue. Finally, I inserted the tip of the finger. She was relaxed, not tense, no sharp intake of breath. I increased the penetration until I got about half of my finger in. We decided that that was enough. Since that time, almost two years ago, she has become more adventuresome, taking in whole fingers or a cute pink plug. [image file=image_rsrc64E.jpg] Illustration 12. Anal Finger-Fucking Finger-FuckingYour fingers are perfect tools for anal play—they’re communicative, sensitive, and agile. As with vaginal penetration, you can use your fingers as a prelude to penetration with a dildo or hand, or as the main event. Begin with your partner lying on her belly, with her legs open and her hips propped up on a pillow, or on her back with legs spread and a pillow under her butt. Slip on a latex glove and put some lube on your finger. Spread your partner’s asscheeks. With the palm of your hand facing up, run your lubed finger over the opening. Caress the anus with the pad of your finger; don’t poke into the anus. Circle the opening slowly and then more quickly; and then run your finger across the opening. Watch her responses. Ask her what each stroke feels like. Build up a rhythm of touches and responses. As the receptive partner, you are in charge. You can tell your partner exactly which touches you like and which you don’t. You can ask her to slow down, to touch you with more or less pressure, or to add more lube to her finger. You may feel shy talking about your butt while a finger is stroking you. Or you may find it difficult to put words to such subtle physical sensations. Here’s an opportunity to build up a vocabulary for anal sex. Soon you’ll be telling your partner exactly how to stimulate your butt!

• From The Spiritual Works of Leo Tolstoy (selected nonfiction) (2016)

  In other of his statements I fully agreed with him, yet, loyalty to my country forbade my seconding the gloomy prospect he held out for us. Description of his relationship with wife and family. A fortunate interruption relieved the situation. His wife approached with a letter or manuscript in hand. He arose, proceeded toward her, and, for a while, the two conferred together. In all probability it was a manuscript of his which she was translating or revising. I was told that she was always doing something of that sort. She was his consultant, his reviser, his translator, while his daughter, Tatiana, was his correspondent in a number of different languages. It is said that his wife copied twenty-one times the four large volumes of his novel War and Peace , and that there has been no novel nor little else of his writing, since their marriage in 1862, that did not pass through her hands. He found in her, in the fullest sense of the word, his help-mate, a woman of great culture as well of great practical sense, who looked after his literary interests no less than after those of the household, and who often found it no easy task to be, as has been well said, "the patient wife of an impatient genius." She bore him thirteen children, six of whom passed away in their early youth. She fairly idolized him and skilfully managed to slip, unknown to him, those little comforts into his life which he required for his well-being and which he had renounced. Neither she nor the children shared his view respecting the distribution among the peasantry of his estate and other property, and keeping for himself no more than an equal share with all the others. The family believed in availing themselves of the benefits of civilization, and for that they required the income of the farm and the royalty of his books. There was quite a wrangle, for a time, between the family and its head, but it was amicably disposed of in the end, the count agreeing to their living as they chose, on the condition that they permitted him to live as he pleased. And so in his Moscow home as well as in that at Yasnaya Polyana, while the family rooms are said to be comfortably furnished, his own were poorly fitted out, and while they have servants and butlers and footmen, he attended to his own wants, fetched his own water, cobbled his own shoes, and, in summer time, labored in the field, from morn to night, alongside the commonest peasant.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  [image file=image_rsrcA5N.jpg] “VIRGIN MOTHER, daughter of thy son, lowly and uplifted more than any creature, fixed goal of the eternal counsel, thou art she who didst human nature so ennoble that its own Maker scorned not to become its making.1 In thy womb was lit again the love under whose warmth in the eternal peace this flower hath thus unfolded Here art thou unto us the meridian torch of love and there below with mortals art a living spring of hope. Lady, thou art so great and hast such worth, that if there be who would have grace yet betaketh not himself to thee, his longing seeketh to fly without wings. Thy kindliness not only succoureth whoso requesteth, but doth oftentimes freely forerun request. In thee is tenderness, in thee is pity, in thee munificence,2 in thee united whatever in created being is of excellence. Now he who from the deepest pool of the universe even to here hath seen the spirit lives one after one imploreth thee, of grace, for so much power as to be able to uplift his eyes more high towards final bliss; and I, who never burned for my own vision more than I do for his, proffer thee all my prayers and pray they be not scant that thou do scatter for him every cloud of his mortality with prayers of thine, so that the joy supreme may be unfolded to him. And further do I pray thee, Queen who canst all that thou wilt, that thou keep sound for him, after so great a vision, his affections. Let thy protection vanquish human ferments; see Beatrice, with how many Saints, for my prayers folding hands.” Those eyes, of God beloved and venerated, fixed upon him who prayed, showed us how greatly devout prayers please her. Then to the eternal light they bent themselves, wherein we may not ween that any creature’s eye findeth its way so clear.3 And I, who to the goal of all my longings was drawing nigh, even as was meet the ardour of the yearning quenched within me. Bernard gave me the sign and smiled to me that I should look on high, but I already of myself was such as he would have me;4 because my sight, becoming purged, now more and more was entering through the ray of the deep light which in itself is true. Thence forward was my vision mightier than our discourse, which faileth at such sight, and faileth memory at so great outrage. As is he who dreaming seeth, and when the dream is gone the passion stamped remaineth, and nought else Cometh to the mind again; even such am I; for almost wholly faileth me my vision, yet doth the sweetness that was born of it still drop within my heart. So doth the snow unstamp it to the sun, so to the wind on the light leaves was lost the Sybil’s wisdom.5

• From Times Square Red, Times Square Blue (1999)

  Another regular who spent more time at the Venus than the Capri was Tommy. All but homeless, small and muscular, he collected scrap metal off the street and sold it to the yards around the docks. For most of the years I knew him Tommy wore a sleeveless denim jacket and a studded leather band on one wrist. In the winter, one or two hooded sweatshirts turned up under the denim; in summer, a T-shirt or, often, nothing. He had a carrot-colored ponytail and a red bushy beard even larger than mine. I first ran into him back in the seventies at the Cameo. In the world of quick, perfunctory sex, he was an extremely affectionate man, so that it was always a pleasure to trick with him. (I mean, with hands, arms, hips, Tommy made love to your head. Nor did he mind necking.) Sometimes his conversation was a bit incoherent (and grew more so over the years), consisting of complaints, more or less cheerfully offered, about various of his relatives, the intricate tales about whom he always assumed I would remember from the last time we’d spoken. Once, as far back as the seventies, when I brought a newspaper into the movies with me, and, as we were talking, I showed him some article or other, he turned to me under the wall light where we were sitting and said, “No, you got to read it to me.” And it hit me: Tommy didn’t read or write. We last had anything to do with each other perhaps a month before the theaters closed for good—that bushy red hair was more than half white. And for a three- or three-and-a-half-year period, toward the end of the eighties, in the middle of every third or fourth session with Tommy suddenly he’d urinate all over himself. “Some guys really get off on it,” he told me, once. “Uncle Phil, now—Afterwards, they’ll even go down to Robbins, buy me a new pair of jeans, and bring ’em back here to the movies, so I can change into something dry. Other guys, they’d get all twisted out of shape—soon as they feel my jeans get hot and start drippin’, they jump up and run out of the theater! That really tickles me. I mean, I actually get off on it! But I can’t do that too much, you know? You know my Uncle Phil? My Uncle Phil I told you about him? Not my cousin Mary. Huh? Oh—or they won’t let me into the theater”—another reason Tommy preferred the laxer and funkier Venus, especially in its end days, to the Capri.

• From Girls & Sex (2016)

  At the end of each session, Denison pulled several handfuls of condoms from a silver tackle box she carried everywhere with her, sort of like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag: it also held the vulva puppet, a model of a penis (nicknamed Richard) for demonstrating proper condom use, individual capsules of personal lubricant, and other tools of her trade. “Keep talking, keep asking questions,” she would say. “Knowledge is power.” True, I saw a group of boys make a show of scooping up the condoms and tossing them in the air. “Children, be free!” one of them said, laughing. But more often students, both boys and girls, approached respectfully. Some took the condoms casually; others sidled up, pretended to pick up an errant index card or pen, and then subtly slipped one or two condoms into their pockets. A few kids always hung around as the room emptied, hoping for a private moment with Denison. One girl wanted clarification on the definition of statutory rape. Another wanted to know about Denison’s career path so she could emulate it. One afternoon, the last student to approach her was a boy with dark curly hair and wide brown eyes. He ground the toe of his sneaker into the floor as he confided that his girlfriend was pushing to have intercourse, but he wasn’t ready. “You’d be surprised at how often boys tell me that,” Denison told him. “It must be hard and feel lonely.” The boy nodded, his eyes welling up. Denison talked to him for a while, in a voice too low for me to hear. Then she gave him her phone number and e-mail address and told him to feel free to contact her. He nodded and walked away, a little less alone. THIS BOOK IS about girls, about the ongoing obstacles to their full, healthy sexual expression and the costs of that to their well-being. But I want to leave Denison there, with a boy, because making change has to include them as well. It’s no longer enough simply to caution young men against “getting a girl pregnant,” or, more likely in the current climate, to warn about the shifting definition of rape. Parents need to discuss the spectrum of pressure, coercion, and consent with their sons, the forces urging them to see girls’ limits as a challenge to overcome. Boys need to understand how they, too, are harmed by sexualized media and porn. They need to see models of masculine sexuality that are not grounded in aggression against women, in denigration or conquest. They need to know about shared pleasure, mutuality, reciprocity—to transform from baseball players to pizza eaters. That may not be as hard to do as one might think.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  Before he was a soldier he was an artist. Sometimes, when we were alone, I would ask my mother questions about my father when they first met. She would nearly always go into the spare bedroom, pull a shoebox down from the closet, sit down next to me, and unfold a piece of drawing paper. On the paper was a redbird. A beautifully drawn - I mean artistically stunning redbird. She would smile, and keep her eyes down, and say in her soft southern drawl almost in the voice of a girl, “Your father won an art prize for this drawing.” In the same box, she would unfold a yellowed scatter of pages filled with beautiful handwriting. “I won a prize for this story.” And then she would carefully fold it all back up, put it back in the box, return it to the closet. When I hold photos of the two of them in my hands my heart aches. My father looking all James Dean with his rolled at the cuff denims and his white muscle tee with cigarettes tucked in the sleeve and his mirror sunglasses. My mother in her 50s dresses with wide skirts and her hair tied back, her lips that were red as a coca-cola can looking black in the black and white photos. They were gorgeous. Hollywood. She was smiling. He looked like someone a woman would fall in love with. There is another photo of him sitting at a picnic table. He has khaki pants on and a white shirt. The way he is sitting? His crossed legs and bad posture and long fingers running through his thick hair? His other hand wrapped around his neck so that his elbow folds softly in? He has the body language of an artist. I know. I married three in a row. Before my father was an artist he was an athlete. I know how to tell this story. I know how to story over things.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  “ Why swimming?” he said, turning to look at me. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at,” came out of my mouth. “That’s not the only thing you are good at.” And he put his huge wrestler writer arm around me. Fuck. This is it. Here it comes. His skin smelled … well it smelled like somebody’s father’s skin. Aftershave and sweat and whiskey and Ragu. He’s going to tell me I’m good at fucking. He’s going to tell me I’m a “tootsie” - the nickname he’d used on me the year of the class. And then I’m going to spread my legs for Ken Kesey, because that’s what blond clueless idiots do. I closed my eyes and waited for the hands of a man to do what they did to women like me. But he didn’t say any of those things. He said, “ I’ve seen a lot of writers come and go. You’ve got the stuff. It’s in your hands. What are you going to do next?” I opened my eyes and looked at my hands. They looked extremely dumb. “Next?” I said. “You know, in your life. What’s next?” I didn’t have a plan. I had grief. I had rage. I had my sexuality. I liked books more than people. I liked to be drunk and high and fuck so I didn’t have to answer questions like this. As I’m telling this I realize there is another way to tell it. Tenderly. Quiet and small. The question he asked me. It’s what a loving father should ask. Or I could lie. I could render an epic psychedelic love affair. Or hot older man younger woman sexcapades. I could write anything. Maybe there are a million ways to tell it. Kesey was the best liar I ever met in my life. When I got home I cut all the hair off on the left side of my head, leaving two different women looking at me in the mirror. One with a long trail of blond halfway down her back. The other, a woman with hair cropped close to her head and with the bone structure of a beautiful man in her face. Who. Am. I. Back at U of O I went to classes. Once in the creative writing department a man big as a wrestler walked by me staring at my uneven head hair and kinda banged into my shoulder. Must be a writer. Who gives a shit about writers. Not me. Keep walking. But my heart nearly beat itself up in my chest. I never saw Kesey again. His liver failed and he got Hepatitis C. In 1997 he had a stroke. Later he got cancer and died. But I’m of the opinion he drowned. There are many ways to drown. III. The Wet A Happy Childhood I AM SIX.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  Somebody, usually my eyerolling sister, would have to jump in after me every time, and pull me sputtering to safety. So when I was three my mother signed me up for swim lessons. But it was my father who put me in the car, drove me to Lake Washington, took off my little clothes and threw me in. In November. I was by far the youngest kid there. I can’t tell you I remember any of this, but I sure the hell can conjure up an image of my own skin bluing in the icy waters. And I feel pretty certain I have muscle memory in my mouth of my teeth nearly shattering from kid cold chatter. If I learned to swim that year I did it in a frozen zombie state, under the heavy weight of father, who, every time I came running out crying stuck his hand and arm out of the station wagon window like an angry god and pointed back to the water. If there is more to that story it drifts away when I go near it - it’s too far back, or too deep. When I first began writing this story my son Miles was seven. So that means I’m seven too sometimes. I mean my seven year old me swims back during the course of an ordinary day all the time, whether or not I’m ready. Miles absolutely loves swimming pools. The thing is, Miles can’t exactly … swim. When Miles gets in the pool, there is no other way to say this, he’s a spaz. And he’s wearing more weenie water gear than a special needs deep sea diver. Don your protective gear: goggles, life vest. Then he wades in and has the time of his life, prepared for any aqua danger, looking like a water nerd. When he’s in the water he laughs and laughs. He shows me all the things he can do in the water, things that amount to splashy little circles or pushing his way across the pool like a water bug, and says, “Lidia, look, I’m doing swimming.” He throws his little arms around and kicks his unsynchopated legs and holds his head in this sort of strange crane upwards, his mouth in a little smirk nowhere near the water, his goggle-bugged eyes looking my way. It drowns my heart. When I was seven I won 13 trophies with little faux gold girls leaning over for the dive on top. If my seven year old me saw his seven year old in the same pool? With all the gear? Well first of all my little posse of athletes wouldn’t have gone anywhere near him. Gyawd they would have gone. What’s wrong with that kid? Is he special ed? But the me inside the me would have adored him. I bet my current salary I would have been the one wishing I could swim over and try out his cool gear.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  My father lived a quiet life there for two years until he died. In the morning he would watch T.V. In the afternoon too. Sometimes he would just stare out the window at trees and smile. This man who took the place of the father I’d known before was sweet and docile and kind. Even his eyes were kind. Sometimes, I’d let him see Miles. I never saw the happiness that spread across his face like it did when he was with Miles. I mean in my life with him. Though I rarely let him hold my son, when he did, he looked like a miracle had happened. A boy. A few times Andy and I brought him out to our house in the trees. He marveled at the architecture - muscle memory, I guess. He spoke of the way the light cascaded down the hand crafted wood stairs quite eloquently. The forest took his breath away. He said, “I love it here so much. I wish I could die here.” I think he meant to say “live” here, but I let it go. It was not something I could give him anyway. I’d ask him about things when I’d drive him to do errands or to lunch - I’d say, “Daddy, do you remember being an architect?” “I was an architect? No. No, I don’t think so. Was I?” Or I’d say, do you remember the time when … and I’d try to choose something happy. Like the time he took my mother and me to Trinidad, where his greatest architectural achievement had happened. Steel drum music. A tortoise we saw lay eggs on the white sand beaches. Or living at Stinson Beach. Fruit trees in our yard. The ocean on the breeze. Or my sister singing in The Singing Angels Choir. Or classical music. Or baseball. To all of these he’d smile, sometimes he’d laugh, shake his head yes, maybe a glimpse of something. Mostly he’d stay quiet and look out the window of the car. Once he looked over at me driving and said, “Marilou?” His sister’s name. “No Daddy,” I’d say, “I’m Lidia.” “I know that,” he’d say, and laugh. Among the meager boxes of things he’d brought with him - old photographs and miscellaneous “papers” and a drawing pad and a very fine assortment of pencils and pens - was my first published book. I found it in his room one day. I picked it up and said, “Huh. What are you doing with this thing?” The cover was worn. “Oh, I’ve read that book many times.” “Really. Do you know who wrote it?” “You,” he said, looking up at me with transparent blue eyes, twinning mine. “Yeah, daddy. Me. Have you read all the stories?” “I think so. I can’t remember.” “That’s OK. It doesn’t matter.” “There’s one about swimming.”

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  43 the degree to which your brains lit up in synchrony with each other, matched in both space and time: Greg J. Stephens, Lauren J. Silbert, and Uri Hasson (2010). “Speaker-listener neural coupling underlies successful communication.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (USA) 107(32): 14425–30. See also Uri Hasson (2010). “I can make your brain look like mine.” Harvard Business Review, December. 43 voice can convey so much emotion: Scherer et al. (2009) and Bachorowski and Owren (2008). 44 Your knowing is not just abstract and conceptual; it’s embodied and physical: Niedenthal et al. (2010). 45 Brain coupling, Hasson argues, is the means by which we understand each other: You might be wondering how Hasson and his team can be so sure they’ve captured communication, a true transfer of information from one brain to another, and not simply matched responses to listening to the same sounds, like hearing your own voice, or the incomprehensible dialogue from a foreign-language film. They ruled this out by having listeners also hear a story in Russian (which none of them understood). In that case, virtually no neural coupling emerged. 45 a single act, performed by two brains: Hasson (2010), p. 1. 45 the insula, an area linked with conscious feeling states: A. D. (Bud) Craig (2009). “How do you feel—now? The anterior insula and human awareness.” Nature Reviews Neuroscience 10: 59–70. 45 people’s brains come particularly into sync during emotional moments: Uri Hasson, Yuval Nir, Ifat Levy, Galit Fuhrmann, and Rafael Malach (2004). “Intersubject synchronization of cortical activity during natural vision.” Science 303: 1634–40. 46 your awareness expands from your habitual focus on “me” to a more generous focus on “we”: This is work I described in my first book, Positivity (2009). See especially chapter 4. 47 as if to prevent their pain from becoming your pain: Yawei Cheng, Chenyi Chen, Ching-Po Lin, Kun-Hsien Chou, and Jean Decety (2010). “Love hurts: An fMRI study.” Neuroimage 51: 923–29. See also work by Mary Helen Immordino-Yang, Andrea McColl, Hanna Damasio, and Antonio Damasio (2009). “Neural correlates of admiration and compassion.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (USA) 106(19): 8021–26. 47 stifled emotions … can also function as obstacles to positivity resonance: For support for this idea, see work by Iris Mauss and colleagues. It suggests that stifled positivity erodes social connection and thereby limits well-being. Iris B. Mauss, Amanda J. Shallcross, Allison S. Troy, Oliver P. John, Emilio Ferrer, Frank H. Wilhelm, and James J. Gross (2011). “Don’t hide your happiness! Positive emotion dissociation, social connectedness, and psychological functioning.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 100(4): 738–48.

• From Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  The phrase 'place these words upon your heart' doubtless means that the Israelite should both know and intend to obey the commandments of God in the Torah, and obedience demonstrates that one loves God. By studying the commandments, one comes to know God and to adhere to his will. That this is the goal of religion the Rabbis did not need to say. As we shall eventu ally see, knowing God and cleaving to his way does entail a reward (since God is just), but the reward is not the goal of religion. That is achieved simply when one knows God and does his will; study of the commandments and the intent to obey them are the proper means towards the goal and the proper behaviour within the covenant. Being in the covenant is most explicitly related to keeping the command ments in a passage from Sifra which is commenting on Lev. 1.2: '"Speak to the people of Israel, and say to them, When any man of you brings an offering to the Lord, you shall bring your offering of cattle from the herd 16 On the designation of God as ha-Maqom as an indication of early material, see Marmorstein, The Names and Attributes of God, pp. 92f., 97, 108ff. Urbach (lfa::.al, pp. 53f.; ET, pp. 66-8) has shown that Marmorstcin was basically right, although he sometimes forced the evidence by resorting to theories of interpolation and the like, thus making too firm a distinction between the early use of ha-Maqom and the late use of 'the Holy One, blessed be he'. For or her literature, see Urbach, p. 54 n. 3 (ET, p. 711 n. 3). 17 Sifre Deut. 33 (59). In Friedmlnn's edition (f. 74a, top), the passage is anonymous and the term for God in both cases is 'the Holy One, blessed he he' T annaitic Literature [I or from the flock."' The question concerns who may and should bring an offering, and why. The passage is as follows: 18

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

  ORIGEN. It is from humility that they declare themselves unworthy of any praise for their good deeds, not that they are forgetful of what they have done. But He shews them His close sympathy with His own. RABANUS. Lord, when sate we thee &c. This they say not because they distrust the Lord’s words, but they are in amaze at so great exaltation, and at the greatness of their own glory; or because the good which they have done will seem to them to be so small according to that of the Apostle, For the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be revealed in us. (Rom. 8:18.) JEROME. It were indeed free to us to understand that it is Christ in every poor man whom we feed when he is hungry, or give drink to when he is thirsty, and so of other things; but when He says, In that ye have done it to one of the least of these my brethren, He seems tome not to speak of the poor generally, but of the poor in spirit, those to whom He pointed and said, Whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother. (Matt. 12:50.) CHRYSOSTOM. But if they are His brethren, why does He call them the least? Because they are lowly, poor, and outcast. By these He means not only the monks who have retired to the mountains, but every believer though he should be secular, though an hungred, or the like, yet He would have him obtain merciful succours, for baptism and communication of the Divine mysteries makes him a brother.

• From The Sex-Starved Marriage: Boosting Your Marriage Libido: A Couple's Guide (2003)

  Once you have set the tone for a positive conversation, you can begin to discuss things you’d like to improve. As always, it helps to say what you want your spouse to do rather than focus on the things s/he does wrong. This is not to say that you shouldn’t let your spouse know about the things s/he does that are uncomfortable or unpleasurable; you should. However, it helps to emphasize what you would prefer to happen instead. It’s a matter of degree. For instance, rather than say, “I really don’t like the way you stroke my penis,” say, “When you touch the underside of my penis near the head, it feels really good. I’d love it if you would do that more often.” Or instead of saying, “I don’t like your ‘Wham-bam, thank you ma’am’ style of making love,” say, “When we’re done making love, I really like it when you hold me in your arms rather than peel away from me so fast. I like feeling close to you.” • Be specific. Talk in action-oriented terms. This is important. If you want to have a satisfying sexual relationship, you have to tell it like it is. You have to be specific and concrete. I can’t tell you how many women have told me, “I keep telling my husband that I want to make love, not have sex, but he doesn’t have the foggiest idea of what I’m talking about. That’s why I think we’re mismatched.” There’s no way in the world two people will have the same definition of what it means to make love. If you prefer making love but your spouse doesn’t get it, you have to spell out what this means, one step at a time. And as you do, you need to stop thinking that your spouse is dense, resistant, or insensitive. He’s not; he’s just not you. You need to figure out which of his touches say “tenderness,” “closeness,” “connectedness,” “emotionality,” and so on. Do you feel these feelings of warmth when he touches your hair, looks into your eyes, says “I love you” during the heat of passion, gives you little kisses on nongenital parts of your body? It’s your responsibility to figure it out and share the news. Maybe you’ve been wanting to tell your spouse, “I wish you were more passionate,” or “Take more initiative,” or “I wish you wouldn’t put so much pressure on me to be sexual all the time.” Makes sense to you, right? These requests are not good enough, though. You need to be more specific. Let me give you a few examples. Instead of saying, “I wish you were more passionate,” tell your spouse, “It feels great to me when you let me know what pleases you by making more noise or moving around more energetically. I love it when you say dirty things like ‘Fuck me.’ It really turns me on.”