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.

Page 52 of 145 · 20 per page

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  It wasn’t true that Alice had no unhappiness. She had a schizophrenic mother who lived in a state mental hospital (Alice’s family wasn’t wealthy) and who sometimes didn’t know her. Alice felt that she wasn’t accepted as an artist by her circle, and sometimes would get so upset about it that she’d scream and throw things. “I feel like a piece of shit,” she once said to Connie. Connie turned and put her stomach and breasts against Deana’s warm back. She thought about the first woman she’d had a crush on, a beautiful stripper with black hair and bitter blue eyes. She had gone to see her strip and was irretrievably moved by the resigned but arrogant turn of her strong chin, the way she casually offered and rigidly withheld her body, as well as her tacky black lingerie. “You don’t love women. You’re just trying to live out some kind of porno fantasy invented by men with the corniest props you can find,” a gay woman had told her. She turned again and placed her back in a matching curve against Deana’s. When she was a child, her mother had said, “When boys get angry with each other, they just fight it out and it’s all over. But girls are dirty. They pretend to be your friend and go behind your back.” She remembered herself as the new girl in elementary school trying to belong with the bony-legged clusters of little girls snapping their gum and talking about things that she never discovered the significance of. She saw herself sitting alone in a high school cafeteria eating french fries and a Cap’n Crunch bar. She opened her eyes and could barely see the big-eared outline of the tiny ceramic Siamese cat that her aunt had given her when she was twelve. At the time she had thought that it and its brood of ceramic kittens were the height of taste and elegance, and even though its face had been broken in half and Krazy-glued back together, it still seemed faintly regal and glamorous. It had been one of the items that Alice had in mind when she looked at Connie’s dresser and said, “One of these days you’re going to wake up and look at all this stuff and say, ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with me,’ and throw it out.” But it does have something to do with me, thought Connie. — The next day she had to leave the office because of a sudden and painful toothache. She thought it might’ve been psychosomatically induced by the memory of the exposed-nerve episode with Alice in the theater, but the dentist assured her that it was not. “Nope, nope, nope. This is the real thing, all right. You’ve just got a lulu of a mouth, is all.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She turned back to the stove and pulled the pancakes from the griddle. Four more full moons were born, and Kim set down the bowl and pulled a plate from the cupboard. She dropped one of the pancakes on it and dipped the honey stick into the jar again. The amber substance spilled back into its own rippled pool as she twirled. During a pause, she moved the stick over the pancake and turned it downward, waiting as gravity slowly pulled the liquid onto the whole wheat disk below it. Dropping the honey dipper back in the jar, Kim picked up a fork and pulled a bite toward her mouth, feeling the heat from the pancake as it got closer. She stopped short as Terry strode abruptly into view, clad in a pair of gray sweatpants. “What are you doing?” she said, dismayed that her surprise was spoiled. Terry rubbed his eyes sleepily. “I woke up and you weren’t there. I came down to look for you.” He looked behind her to the counter. “What are you doing?” Kim glanced behind her with disappointment. “I was making you breakfast in bed.” Terry’s expression registered surprise. “Oh.” A smile formed across his face like the sunrise. “Thank you.” Kim smiled then too, sensing his appreciation of the unfulfilled gesture. She had planned to tell him when she woke him that she wanted to show him that they were still okay, that he was okay, that feeling like a failure didn’t mean he wasn’t worthy, that he couldn’t feel happy, that he didn’t deserve to be appreciated—including by himself. Most of all, to show him that she loved him no matter what. As she watched him, Kim saw that while her carefully executed plan had failed, the intention had been fulfilled. Though she wasn’t waking her husband and telling him those things, she could see them transferring to him through the sight of the pancakes bubbling to life on the stove, the warmth of the griddle-heated air, the fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla and whole wheat. She hadn’t needed to say a word. “I forgot we were out of syrup.” Kim moved back to the counter and flipped the pancakes on the griddle before lifting the honey jar. “I was just checking to see how they tasted with honey.” A drop had fallen onto the counter, a single slip of disorder among meticulousness. Terry’s mouth curved in a smile as he followed her. “A spot on the counter!” he teased, pointing at it. Kim smirked and grabbed a kitchen wipe to clean it up. Terry laughed, and Kim spun around and looked into his eyes. It was a magical sound—one she hadn’t heard in weeks.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  He drew her against him and lightly scratched her head. “But even as a kid I realized there were problems with the customer-hooker romance. Because once, when I was about twelve, I was in my father’s study rubbing his neck—I used to do that all the time for him—and there was this Playboy calendar over his desk and some babe was on it and I said to him, ‘Do you like her?’ and he said, ‘Sure I do,’ and I said, ‘Would you like to meet her?’ and he looked shocked and said, ‘No, she’s just a dumb broad.’ And I was appalled.” Bernard’s smile almost became a laugh. “Well, but you know he was lying. He would’ve loved to meet her.” “It’s not funny. I was hurt by what he said. I was hurt for her.” “No, I know it’s not funny. I’m sorry.” He lay on top of her and kissed her, cupping her head tenderly in his hands. They kissed and touched each other and then broke apart to talk some more. She told him about the conversation with Brett and how it made her feel. She told him about the opening she had been to the night before, leaving out her almost frightened sense of isolation. She asked what his wife was like. “She’s intelligent, and very independent. She’s better at being alone than I am. And she’s adventurous in her own way. Last year she went to South America by herself, which isn’t something most woman her age would do.” “How old is she?” “Thirty-nine.” “What does she do?” “Teaches high school, which she likes very much. I enjoy her, even if it isn’t passionate. We actually have separate bedrooms.” “I couldn’t be married like that,” she said. “There would have to be passion.” “You’re very idealistic.” “You’re not?” “No, I’m not. Anyway, marriage isn’t about passion for me. We’re excellent company for each other. And I don’t want to be alone.” They were silent for a moment; she gently felt his earlobes. “Why do you come to places like this?” she asked. “Why do you think?” “I really don’t know. How any grown man can accept what happens here as sex is beyond me. You could have affairs if you wanted, I’ll bet. You don’t seem that interested in sex here, anyway. So why do you come?” “To meet fascinating creatures I’d never meet in the usual course of my life. Like you.” He touched her nose and smiled. Of course, she realized what he liked about her. He loved the idea of kooky, arty girls who lived “bohemian” lives and broke all the rules. It was the kind of thing he regarded with a certain admiration, but did not want to do himself. He had probably had affairs with eccentric, unpredictable women in college, and then married the most stable, socially desirable woman he could find.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  The eyes expressed the fatigue and rancor of a small, hardworking person carrying her life around on her back like a set of symbols and circumstances that she could stand apart from and arrange. “Do you think that you’ll stay married?” “Oh, yes. I mean, my marriage with Roger is like…a project I’d never drop. And I want to have children soon.” Connie looked at the sadness in her jaw and the tired eyes, and she wanted to put her arms around Alice, to hold her and comfort her. Then either the face or her perception changed, and she was once again looking at a handsome, self-assured, wealthy woman with polite, curious, impenetrable eyes. “You know that we moved, don’t you? We bought a wonderful co-op in Soho. We’ll be having a party sometime soon. I should invite you.” “Oh, Alice!” A man in a paisley jacket with a smile like a bludgeon swooped toward them and took Alice’s elbow. “I must introduce you to Alex here…. Hi,” he said to Connie. “Are you a painter too?” Connie said no, and Alice waved a tiny good-bye with her fingers and went to meet Alex. Connie walked into the next room with her drink and got a hunk of chocolate cake and stood eating it out of one hand, dropping crumbs on the floor. A man asked her if she was a writer and she got involved in drunken conversations with three different people, in which almost nothing was said. The last was interrupted when Franklin appeared, his eyelids thick and purple, and took her by the arm. “Here’s a woman you’ve just got to meet. She’s incredibly intelligent and she’s a writer for The New Yorker . Cathy! Cathy! This is Constance Weymouth, an incredible writer, one of the most brilliant writers I know. You’ve got a lot to talk about.” An attractive gray-haired woman with large blue eyes stood facing her uncertainly but gamely. Connie shook her hand and they traded magazine gossip until it became apparent that while a great friendship could possibly be forged between them, the present situation precluded it. Two more couples shifted and undulated in the corner, and Connie watched them with a mournful and diffuse concentration. Their flat-footed steps were neither graceful nor dynamic, but their goodwill infused their clumsy gestures—the hand outstretched to squeeze a partner’s hand, the sudden eye contact—with a gentle, faded romance that made Connie want to go home and be with Deana. She found Franklin in the middle of two conversations about sculpture and Libya and said good-bye to him quickly. As she was putting on her coat, Alice turned toward her and smiled, holding a finger up in the paisley man’s face. “Are you leaving?” She came hurriedly across the floor. “Do you want to wait a little while? I’m going soon.” Connie felt an eagerness light in her eyes and then fade.

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

  I’d bring her the letter and stand there while she read it. Invariably she’d tear it up and throw it in the dustbin. “Rubbish! This is rubbish!” Then she’d start to launch into me and I’d say, “Ah-ah-ah. No. You have to write a letter.” Then I’d go to my room and wait for her reply. This sometimes went back and forth for days. The letter writing was for minor disputes. For major infractions, my mom went with the ass-whooping. Like most black South African parents, when it came to discipline my mom was old school. If I pushed her too far, she’d go for the belt or switch. That’s just how it was in those days. Pretty much all of my friends had it the same. My mom would have given me proper sit-down hidings if I’d given her the opportunity, but she could never catch me. My gran called me “Springbok,” after the second-fastest land mammal on earth, the deer that the cheetah hunts. My mom had to become a guerrilla fighter. She got her licks in where she could, her belt or maybe a shoe, administered on the fly. One thing I respected about my mom was that she never left me in any doubt as to why I was receiving the hiding. It wasn’t rage or anger. It was discipline from a place of love. My mom was on her own with a crazy child. I destroyed pianos. I shat on floors. I would screw up, she’d beat the shit out of me and give me time to cry, and then she’d pop back into my room with a big smile and go, “Are you ready for dinner? We need to hurry and eat if we want to watch Rescue 911. Are you coming?” “What? What kind of psychopath are you? You just beat me!” “Yes. Because you did something wrong. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore.” “What?” “Look, did you or did you not do something wrong?” “I did.” “And then? I hit you. And now that’s over. So why sit there and cry? It’s time for Rescue 911. William Shatner is waiting. Are you coming or not?” — When it came to discipline, Catholic school was no joke. Whenever I got into trouble with the nuns at Maryvale they’d rap me on the knuckles with the edge of a metal ruler. For cursing they’d wash my mouth out with soap. For serious offenses I’d get sent to the principal’s office. Only the principal could give you an official hiding. You’d have to bend over and he’d hit your ass with this flat rubber thing, like the sole of a shoe.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  “Is she doing well?” “Oh, yes. You know, I don’t ever worry about her anymore. Ever since she’s gotten serious about photography, her whole life’s pulled together. She really works hard. She works for all the papers and magazines in Detroit.” Virginia looked at the pieces of fruit on her plate. “I always thought that Lily could do well if she wanted to,” she said. “She was such a sensitive child. I was sorry I couldn’t do anything to help her.” “Don’t feel that way. You couldn’t have done anything. She was too difficult.” “Yes,” said Virginia. “She was.” “But she has good memories of you,” said Anne. “She used to tell me about going up into the mountains with you. She said that the two of you ate so many olives in the living room together that for years the color of olives made her think of you.” Anne grinned in a hideously open way. Virginia looked at the fruit. “And then do you know what she said? She said, ‘But that’s not right because Virginia’s not like an olive color at all. She’s more golden.’ ” “Oh, stop it,” said Virginia. “But that’s how I always thought of you too, even when you were awful. You were always golden.” Anne was smiling again, her eyes in sad half-moons. She saw that Virginia was embarrassed, so she looked down and picked up a wet piece of melon. She ate it, smiling dimly. The movements of her jaw were neat and careful. Virginia was afraid for a moment that she was going to say something nasty to Anne, though she wasn’t sure why. She had a drink of coffee instead. It was getting cold and oily. “What’s wrong?” Anne was watching her with a dark, naked look. Virginia glanced away. “Nothing.” — They had an old-fashioned family barbecue for Anne’s visit. It was the first one they’d had in a year, and Jarold was excited about it. He was ceremonious and manly beside the smoking barbecue, pronged fork in hand. Anne nervously mixed the salad and talked to Jarold about her job counseling old people in Detroit. Magdalen came out of the house, bringing a flat dish of cold pasta. She put the dish on the card table and her hand on Virginia’s shoulder. “How are you doing, Mama? Did you and Anne have a good time?” “We had a lovely time. We went for a long drive in the mountains.” “Oh, yes,” said Anne. “We actually got out of the car and walked for a long time. I was enthralled. It was just gorgeous.” “Anne must’ve put a pound of rocks in her pockets,” said Virginia. “Every time I turned around, she was picking up something else.” “I love it up there,” said Magdalen. “It’s my salvation.” She moved lightly around the card table, folding napkins.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  My arms took more of her into my circle to protect her, as though I could ward off their jeers and keep her safe in my embrace. I had always marveled at her strength. Now I felt the muscles in her back and shoulders and arms. I experienced the power of this stone butch, even as she slumped wearily in my arms. The cops announced Jacqueline had posted out bail. The last words I heard from the cops were, “You'll be back. Remember what we did to your buddy.” What did they do? The questions came back again. Jacqueline looked from Al’s face to mine asking the same. I had no answers. Al offered none. In the cat Jacqueline held Al in a way that made it look at first glance like Al was comforting her. I sat quietly in the front seat needing comfort, too. I didn’t know the gay man who drove us. “Are you OK?” he asked me. “Sure,” I answered without thinking. He dropped us off at Al and Jackie’s house. Al ate her eggs like she couldn’t taste them. She didn’t speak. Jacqueline looked nervously from Al to me and back again. I ate and then did the dishes. Al went into the bathroom. “She'll be in there a long time,” Jacqueline said. How did she know? Had this happened many times before? I dried the dishes. Jacqueline turned to focus on me. “Are you OK?” she asked. “Yeah, I’m alright,” I lied. She came closer to me. “Did they hurt you, baby?” “No,” I lied. I was mortaring a brick wall inside myself. The wall didn’t protect me, and yet I watched as though it wasn’t my hands placing each brick. I turned away from her to signal that I had something important to ask. “Jacqueline, am I strong enough?” She came up behind me and turned me around by the shoulder. She pulled my face against her cheek. “Who is, honey?” she whispered. “Nobody’s strong enough. You just get through it the best you can. Butches like you and Al don’t have a choice. It’s gonna happen to you. You just gotta try to live through it.” I was already burning with another question. “Al wants me to be tough. You and Mona and the Stone Butch Blues 35 other femmes are always telling me to stay sweet, stay tender. How can I be both? Jacqueline touched my cheek. “Al’s right, really. It’s selfish of us girls, I guess. We want you to be strong enough to survive the shit you take. We love how strong you are. But butches get the shit kicked out of their hearts too. And I guess we just sometimes wish there was a way to protect your hearts and keep you all tender for us, you know?” I didn’t. I really didn’t. “Is Al tender?”

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  She grimaced. “Well, I don’t know if I do anything. I’m trying to become a writer. That’s why I came to New York.” She paused, wondering if that sounded ridiculous to this man who wore suits and patronized prostitutes. “Do you think that’s stupid?” “No, not at all. Why would I think it’s stupid?” “Because so many girls in these houses have the desire to do something else, but it’s obvious that in most cases they don’t have any talent or are too scared, and I don’t know, it just seems sort of pathetic to me. I don’t even tell people here what I do. I say I’m a secretary or a dental technical or something.” “But that’s silly. As it happens, I know there have been some very talented people working here. There was a whole coterie of various artists at one point. One of them was a performance artist who went off to Italy and started working with, oh, some avant-garde choreographer—I know the name but I can’t think of it. Anyway, I hear she’s doing fine.” “How do you know?” “I was a regular of hers, and we saw each other on the outside. She had short hair like yours, only hers was orange.” He smiled, as though this disclosed a revealing element that firmly established a relationship between Stephanie and the orange-haired girl. “As a matter of fact, she used this place to collect material for her work. She was extremely bright and very aware of all the contradictions she embodied by being here.” He smiled gently. “She could talk about it endlessly.” She pulled off her skirt and lay down next to him, supporting herself on one elbow. They talked about fiction in The New Yorker and The Atlantic . She ranted against the trendy writers she despised. They talked about dance performances they’d seen. He described a piece at the Dance Theater Workshop in which the dancers waved large Styrofoam animals at each other and rolled around in paint. She thought it sounded idiotic, but felt tender toward his robustly curious delight in this goofy spectacle. “I have a Workshop membership and every now and then I get invited to fabulous parties, where all the boys wear long coats and earrings, and all the girls have hair like yours.” He beamed. She thought: At this rate, I’m not going to have to do anything. They talked about her past, her coldly perfect father, her sad, passive mother, her sister on lithium, her college major, her first romance. He listened gravely. He began to stroke her arm hairs, and then her arm. He had a seductive touch; she moved closer to him and he put his arms around her. He caressed her as if he were trying to discover the places she most inhabited—not romantically, but tenderly, with a sense of exploration.

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

  REMIGIUS. They who brought the dumb to be healed by the Lord, signify the Apostles and preachers, who brought the Gentile people to be saved before the face of divine mercy. AUGUSTINE. (De Cons. Ev. ii. 29.) This account of the two blind men and the dumb dæmon is read in Matthew only. The two blind men of whom the others speak are not the same as these, though something similar was done with them. So that even if Matthew had not also recorded their cure, we might have seen that this present narrative was of a different transaction. And this we ought diligently to remember, that many actions of our Lord are very much like one another, but are proved not to be the same action, by being both related at different times by the same Evangelist. So that when we find cases in which one is recorded by one Evangelist, and another by another, and some difference which we cannot reconcile between their accounts, we should suppose that they are like, but not the same, events. 9:36–3836. But when he saw the multitudes, he was moved with compassion on them, because they fainted, and were scattered abroad, as sheep having no shepherd. 37. Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few; 38. Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest. CHRYSOSTOM. The Lord would refute by actions the charge of the Pharisees, who said, He casteth out dæmons by the Prince of the dæmons; for a dæmon having suffered rebuke, does not return good but evil to those who have not shewn him honour. But the Lord on the other hand, when He has suffered blasphemy and contumely, not only does not punish, but does not utter a hard speech, yea He shews kindness to them that did it, as it here follows, And Jesus went about all their towns and villages. Herein He teaches us not to return accusations to them that accuse us, but kindness. For he that ceases to do good because of accusation, shews that his good has been done because of men. But if for God’s sake you do good to your fellow-servants, you will not cease from doing good whatever they do, that your reward may be greater. JEROME. Observe how equally in villages, cities, and towns, that is to great as well as small, He preaches the Gospel, not respecting the might of the noble, but the salvation of those that believe. It follows, Teaching in their synagogues; this was His meat, going about to do the will of His Father, and saving by His teaching such as yet believed not. GLOSS. (non occ.) He taught in their synagogues the Gospel of the Kingdom, as it follows, Preaching the Gospel of the Kingdom.

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

  2. And great multitudes were gathered together unto him, so that he went into a ship, and sat; and the whole multitude stood on the shore. 3. And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, Behold, a sower went forth to sow; 4. And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up: 5. Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: 6. And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away. 7. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them: 8. But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold. 9. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear. CHRYSOSTOM. When He had rebuked him that told Him of His mother and His brethren, He then did according to their request; He departed out of the house, having first corrected His brethren for their weak desire of vainglory; He then paid the honour due to His mother, as it is said, The same day Jesus went forth out of the house, and sat down by the sea side. AUGUSTINE. (De Cons. Ev. ii. 41.) By the words, The same day, he sufficiently shews that these things either followed immediately upon what had gone before, or that many things could not have intervened; unless indeed ‘day’ here after the Scripture manner signifies a period. RABANUS. For not only the Lord’s words and actions, but His journeyings also, and the places in which He works His mighty works and preaches, are full of heavenly sacraments. After the discourse held in the house, wherein with wicked blasphemy He had been said to have a dæmon, He went out and taught by the sea, to signify that having left Judæa because of their sinful unbelief, He would pass to the salvation of the Gentiles. For the hearts of the Gentiles, long proud and unbelieving, are rightly likened to the swelling and bitter waves of the sea. And who knows not that Judæa was by faith the house of the Lord. JEROME. For it must be considered, that the multitude could not enter into the house to Jesus, nor be there where the Apostles heard mysteries; therefore the Lord in mercy to them departed out of the house, and sat near the sea of this world, that great numbers might be gathered to Him, and that they might hear on the sea shore what they were not worthy to hear within; And great multitudes were gathered unto him, so that he went into a ship, and sat down, and all the people stood on the shore.

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

  PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. Behold, is a word used in pointing out any thing; look, that is, not with the bodily eye, but with the spiritual understanding, at the works of His power. Also aforetimes He oft said, Behold, that He might shew that He of whom He spake before He was born was even then thy King. When then ye shall see Him, say not, We have no King but Cæsar. He cometh to thee, (John 19:15.) if thou wilt apprehend Him, that He may save thee; if thou wilt not apprehend Him, He cometh against thee; Meek, so that He is not to be feared for His power, but loved for His meekness; wherefore He sitteth not on a golden car, refulgent in costly purple, nor is mounted on a mettled steed, rejoicing in strife and battle, but upon a she-ass, that loves peace and quiet.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I blushed, which made her laugh and kiss me all over my flushed face again. “You really are pretty,’ I told her. She made a face and leaned over for a cigarette. I shook my head. “How come you make yout living from your looks and you don’t know how beautiful you are?” “That’s why,” she laughed bitterly. “Whatever it is they find attractive, you figure it must be pretty ugly. You know?” I didn’t, but I nodded. “Will you still respect me in the morning?” she demanded. “Will you marry me?” I asked her. We both laughed and hugged each other, but the sad thing is, I think we were each kind of serious. 76 Leslie Feinberg Angie looked at me long and hard. “What?” I was worried. “What?” She ran her hands through my hair. “I just wish I could make you feel that good. You’re stone already, aren't your” I dropped my eyes. She lifted my chin up and looked me in the eyes. “Don’t be ashamed of being stone with a pro, honey. We’re in a stone profession. It’s just that you don’t have to get stuck in being stone, either. It’s OK if you find a femme you can trust in bed and you want to say that you need something, or you want to be touched. Do you know what I mean?” I shrugged. She kept talking. “I remember when I was a little kid, I saw a bunch of the older kids in a circle in the playground. I went over to see what they were doing.” I got up on one elbow to listen. “There was this big beetle. The kids were poking it with a stick. The bug just kind of curled up to protect itself” She snorted, “God knows I been poked with enough sticks.” I kissed her on the forehead. “God,” she said, “by the time we’re old enough to have sex, we’te already too ashamed to be touched. Ain’t that a crime?” I shrugged. “Will you trust me a little?” she asked. I tensed. “T won't touch you any place you’ve been hurt, I promise. Turn over, baby,” she whispered. She lifted the back of my T-shirt. “God, your back looks like raw hamburger. Did I do that to your” I laughed. “God, it’s bleeding a little. Did I hurt you?” I shook my head. “What a butch,” she laughed. Angie’s hands rubbed all the soreness out of my shoulders and lower back. She slid her nails down my back and sides, and soon her mouth followed the same trail. I clenched the pillowcase in my fists. I knew it pleased her that I writhed under her touch.

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

  Once we started talking I realized he wasn’t the Hulk at all. He was the sweetest man, a gentle giant, the biggest teddy bear in the world. He was simple, not educated. I’d assumed he was in for murder, for squashing a family to death with his bare hands, but it wasn’t anything like that. He’d been arrested for shoplifting PlayStation games. He was out of work and needed money to send to his family back home, and when he saw how much these games sold for he thought he could steal a few and sell them to white kids and make a lot of money. As soon as he told me that, I knew he wasn’t some hardened criminal. I know the world of pirated things—stolen videogames have no value because it’s cheaper and less risky to copy them, like Bolo’s parents did. I tried to help him out a bit. I told him my trick of putting off your bail hearing to get your defense together, so he stayed in the cell, too, biding his time, and we hit it off and hung out for a few days, having a good time, getting to know each other. No one else in the cell knew what to make of us, the ruthless colored gangster and his menacing, Hulk-like friend. He told me his story, a South African story that was all too familiar to me: The man grows up under apartheid, working on a farm, part of what’s essentially a slave labor force. It’s a living hell but it’s at least something. He’s paid a pittance but at least he’s paid. He’s told where to be and what to do every waking minute of his day. Then apartheid ends and he doesn’t even have that anymore. He finds his way to Johannesburg, looking for work, trying to feed his children back home. But he’s lost. He has no education. He has no skills. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where to be. The world has been taught to be scared of him, but the reality is that he is scared of the world because he has none of the tools necessary to cope with it. So what does he do? He takes shit. He becomes a petty thief. He’s in and out of jail. He gets lucky and finds some construction work, but then he gets laid off from that, and a few days later he’s in a shop and he sees some PlayStation games and he grabs them, but he doesn’t even know enough to know that he’s stolen something of no value.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I smiled at Scotty. “That’s not weird. If you grow up and become the wind, I'll take off my helmet while I’m riding a motorcycle and you can blow through my hair.” 172 = Leslie Feinberg Kim shook her head. “That’s dangerous.” I nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Why don’t you become the sunshine, Scotty? Then you could keep me warm.” Scotty shook his head emphatically from side to side. “No, the wind.” Kim looked far away. “Hey, Kim?” I asked het. “What do you want to be when you grow up? “T don’t know,” she answered. “That’s alright,” I told her. “You don’t have to know now.” Kim looked worried. “My mother says I should be something special when I grow up.” I cupped her head with my hand. “You already ate,” I said. Her expression flickered as she watched my face. Then her smile began to grow until it filled her whole face, Gloria came home from work early, gripped with a stomach flu. She asked me to stay overnight and drop the kids off at school in the morning, She looked green around the gills. When I urged her to go to bed, she didn’t argue. Scotty emerged from sleep the next morning as though he was stuck in glue. Kim opened her eyes, sat bolt upright, and hugged me. I cooked pancakes for breakfast. I tried to make smiling faces on them with raisins, but when I flipped them over the raisins sank into the batter. “T think I found his smile,’ Kim announced, picking at her pancake with a fork. Scotty looked over at Kim’s plate. “That’s her eye,” he said. I heard my own laughter. It reminded me of spring water bubbling from the earth. “Are you married?” Kim asked me. I looked at the gold band on my finger. My throat tightened. “Not anymore.” Scotty nodded. “My mommy and daddy are diborced.” “Di-vorced,” Kim corrected him. “Who were you mattied to?” If I spoke openly with the kids would Gloria forbid me to see them? I took a deep breath. “Her name is Theresa.” Kim weighed the information. “Was she pretty?” I smiled. “Very pretty.” Kim frowned. “Wait a minute, girls can’t get married to girls.” Syrup dripped slowly down Scotty’s chin. “Yes, they can,” he said. I wiped his chin with my thumb. “No, they can’t, stupid.” Kim told him. She looked back at me. “My teacher says boys and girls get married when they grow up.” I checked my watch. It was almost time to drive them to school. “Well, Kim, teachers know a lot of things, but they don’t know everything. Finish your breakfast.” Kim stabbed her pancake, angry because I hadn’t really answered het.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Her words confirmed what I'd feared most—Id asked for too much. I stood up slowly and staggered to the door. Ruth put her hand on the door. “Jess, sit down. Where are you going?” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. I looked at her calmly, hiding the crisis of rejection. “Honey,” she stroked my cheek. “I’m so sorry. I just don’t want it to be you. C’mon, honey. Please. Come.” Ruth guided me to her bedroom. I covered my eyes against the sunlight streaming in her window. She pulled the shades. Ruth laid me down on her bed. I could feel the embroidered edges of her pillowcases against my cheek. My head hurt even worse when I lay down. I sat up, unable to explain why. Ruth touched the back of my head. I winced in pain. She stared at her hand in horror. It was coveted with blood. “Jess,” she whispered, “Tm afraid.” My eyes narrowed in anticipation of another rejection. Ruth lifted my hand in both of hers and kissed each bruised knuckle. I wasn’t afraid to die in her bed with my hand in hers. She gently pressed my head against her body. It hurt, but I needed her closeness. Her voice dropped low, like a whisper: “I once read in an old drag magazine about a time, long, long ago, when people like us were honored. If I had the power, Jess, I’d take you back and leave you there with people who would cate for you as much as I do. I’d know you were safe, and you’d be loved.” I tried to sit up. “Lean against me, Jess. You need to rest.” I moaned as I tried to lay my head against her 285 Stone Butch Blues breastbone. Ruth propped me up with pillows. She curled up between my thighs and stroked my chest with her wide hand. “Shh,” she whispered. “I know you're frightened, too, but it’s gonna be alright. It’s always the worst when they hurt my head. I’m always afraid I'll lose my thoughts, my memories. ’m scared Tl lose me. Is that how you're feeling?” She wiped the tears from my cheeks. I closed my eyes. “Try to stay awake, honey.” She pleaded. “Please. I’m afraid for you to fall asleep right now.” I wanted to go away. “T’ll tell you stories,” she smiled. “Pll tell you about where I grew up. Would you like thatr”’ I blinked back to consciousness and nodded. Ruth rested her cheek against my chest and squeezed me tight. “Oh, Jess. I wish I could show you the vineyards. I wish you could smell the grapes in the fall air.” Ruth looked up at me and smiled. “Someday I’m going to make you grape pie. After my Grandma Anne’s and my mama’s, I make the best grape pie in the valley.” Grape pie didn’t sound very good to me, but it didn’t matter much at the moment.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Then I felt her body move closer and we kind of melted together. I discovered all the sweet surprises a femme can give a butch: her hand on the back of my neck, open on my shoulder, or balled up like a fist. The feel of her belly and thighs against mine. Her lips almost touching my ear. The music stopped and she started to pull away. I held her hand gently. “Please?” I asked. “Honey,” she laughed, “you just said the magic word.” We danced a few slow songs in a row. Our bodies swung effortlessly in the circle of dance. The slightest shift in the pressure of my hand on her back changed the motion of her body. I never ground my thigh into her pelvis. I knew she had been wounded there. Even as a young butch that was the place I protected myself. I felt her pain, she knew mine. I felt her desire, she aroused mine. Finally the music stopped and I let her go. I kissed her on the cheek and thanked her. I crossed the dance floor to my table. I was forever changed. Jacqueline patted my thigh and flashed me a sweet smile. The other femmes—male and female—looked at me differently. As the world beat the stuffing out of us, they tried in every way to protect and nurture our tenderness. My capacity for tenderness was what they’d seen. 32 Leslie Feinberg The other butches had to recognize me as sexual now, a competitor. Even Al looked at me differently. As painful as this whole ritual had been, it was nothing less than a rite of passage. I didn’t feel cocky. It taught me that humility was exactly the correct emotion when seeking to unleash the power of a woman’s passion. Strong to my enemies, tender to those I loved and respected. That’s what I wanted to be. Soon I would have to put these qualities to the test. But for the moment, I was happy. The next Friday night at the bar was boisterous. We all laughed and danced. Out of the corner of my eye I looked for Yvette. Jacqueline must have known it because she explained to me that Yvette’s pimp wouldn’t let her have a steady butch. My stomach tightened in rage. I still kept an eye out for her. After all, a pimp can’t know everything that’s going on, right? When the red light flashed over the bar, I took myself to the women’s bathroom and assumed my post on the toilet. A long time passed. I heard thumping and several shouts. Then it was quiet. I peeked outside the bathroom. All the stone butches and drag queens were lined up facing the wall, hands cuffed behind their backs. Several of the femmes who the cops knew were prostitutes were getting roughed up and separated from the rest. I knew by now it would take at least a blow job to get them out of jail tonight.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  I am accustomed to Matthew’s bedside manner, so when I arrived home on a rainy wintry night with unusually heightened color in my cheeks and greeted him with a croak, I knew what was coming. He leapt up from his writing desk and put a cool palm to my forehead, shaking his head and muttering. “You’re feverish,” he diagnosed. “Get to bed. Now.” Usually these words are enough to gladden my perverted heart, but when he says them without sexual intent they are even more powerful. I was happy to obey, crawling between the covers and shivering there until he appeared at my side with a thermometer—not the one we sometimes use in doctor and patient role plays, thank goodness—and a glass of hot water with honey, lemon, and a nip of brandy. “What have you been doing to yourself?” he asked sternly. He always accuses me in this manner when I fall ill, as if I have somehow invited the infection in. “Nothing!” I defended myself. “Germs don’t care what you do. If they’re out to get you, they will.” “Are you sure you weren’t flirting with them?” he said, his severity containing a more playful note. He made me open my mouth and stuck the thermometer beneath my tongue, muting me for the half-minute it took to get a reading. “Because if I thought you were giving those streptococci the come-hither, Loveday, I would be most displeased. And you know what happens when I’m displeased, don’t you?” I nodded, wanting to bite my lip but finding the gesture impeded by the slim glass tube resting upon it. I knew what happened when Matthew was displeased. But it wasn’t anything he could do to a person with strep throat, so I considered my bottom safe for the moment. He whipped out the thermometer and read it with a frown. “I think you’re officially ill,” he said. “We’ll have to add my current displeasure to your account. I’m going to give you three days, Loveday. For every day beyond that that you are coughing or sniffing or spending the most part asleep, there will be a penalty.” “That’s not fair,” I said, my voice coming out in the wrong register. He tutted and took my burning hands, stroking them. “When have I ever been fair?” It was a good point. “So you need to make sure you get well as soon as possible, won’t you?” he whispered. “No getting out of bed without permission. No trying to talk when your voice isn’t ready. No disobeying Dr. Rossington’s orders.” “No fun,” I mouthed with a pout, and he gave my hands a light tap of reproof. “Not until you’re better. Now get some sleep.” Swimming in and out of consciousness, I sometimes heard him on the phone, canceling engagements and giving explanations of my absence.

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

  Reply to Objection 1: The male sex is more noble than the female, and for this reason He took human nature in the male sex. But lest the female sex should be despised, it was fitting that He should take flesh of a woman. Hence Augustine says (De Agone Christ. xi): “Men, despise not yourselves: the Son of God became a man: despise not yourselves, women; the Son of God was born of a woman.” Reply to Objection 2: Augustine thus (Contra Faust. xxiii) replies to Faustus, who urged this objection; “By no means,” says he, “does the Catholic Faith, which believes that Christ the Son of God was born of a virgin, according to the flesh, suppose that the same Son of God was so shut up in His Mother’s womb, as to cease to be elsewhere, as though He no longer continued to govern heaven and earth, and as though He had withdrawn Himself from the Father. But you, Manicheans, being of a mind that admits of nought but material images, are utterly unable to grasp these things.” For, as he again says (Ep. ad Volus. cxxxvii), “it belongs to the sense of man to form conceptions only through tangible bodies, none of which can be entire everywhere, because they must of necessity be diffused through their innumerable parts in various places . . . Far otherwise is the nature of the soul from that of the body: how much more the nature of God, the Creator of soul and body! . . . He is able to be entire everywhere, and to be contained in no place. He is able to come without moving from the place where He was; and to go without leaving the spot whence He came.” Reply to Objection 3: There is no uncleanness in the conception of man from a woman, as far as this is the work of God: wherefore it is written (Acts 10:15): “That which God hath cleansed do not thou call common,” i.e. unclean. There is, however, a certain uncleanness therein, resulting from sin, as far as lustful desire accompanies conception by sexual union. But this was not the case with Christ, as shown above ([4139]Q[28], A[1]). But if there were any uncleanness therein, the Word of God would not have been sullied thereby, for He is utterly unchangeable. Wherefore Augustine says (Contra Quinque Haereses v): “God saith, the Creator of man: What is it that troubles thee in My Birth? I was not conceived by lustful desire. I made Myself a mother of whom to be born. If the sun’s rays can dry up the filth in the drain, and yet not be defiled: much more can the Splendor of eternal light cleanse whatever It shines upon, but Itself cannot be sullied.”

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

  I answer that, As Augustine says (De Civ. Dei i, 13): “If a father’s coat or ring, or anything else of that kind, is so much more cherished by his children, as love for one’s parents is greater, in no way are the bodies themselves to be despised, which are much more intimately and closely united to us than any garment; for they belong to man’s very nature.” It is clear from this that he who has a certain affection for anyone, venerates whatever of his is left after his death, not only his body and the parts thereof, but even external things, such as his clothes, and such like. Now it is manifest that we should show honor to the saints of God, as being members of Christ, the children and friends of God, and our intercessors. Wherefore in memory of them we ought to honor any relics of theirs in a fitting manner: principally their bodies, which were temples, and organs of the Holy Ghost dwelling and operating in them, and are destined to be likened to the body of Christ by the glory of the Resurrection. Hence God Himself fittingly honors such relics by working miracles at their presence. Reply to Objection 1: This was the argument of Vigilantius, whose words are quoted by Jerome in the book he wrote against him (ch. ii) as follows: “We see something like a pagan rite introduced under pretext of religion; they worship with kisses I know not what tiny heap of dust in a mean vase surrounded with precious linen.” To him Jerome replies (Ep. ad Ripar. cix): “We do not adore, I will not say the relics of the martyrs, but either the sun or the moon or even the angels”—that is to say, with the worship of “latria.” “But we honor the martyrs’ relics, so that thereby we give honor to Him Whose martyrs [*The original meaning of the word ‘martyr,’ i.e. the Greek {martys} is ‘a witness’] they are: we honor the servants, that the honor shown to them may reflect on their Master.” Consequently, by honoring the martyrs’ relics we do not fall into the error of the Gentiles, who gave the worship of “latria” to dead men. Reply to Objection 2: We worship that insensible body, not for its own sake, but for the sake of the soul, which was once united thereto, and now enjoys God; and for God’s sake, whose ministers the saints were. Reply to Objection 3: The dead body of a saint is not identical with that which the saint had during life, on account of the difference of form, viz. the soul: but it is the same by identity of matter, which is destined to be reunited to its form. OF CHRIST AS CALLED THE MEDIATOR OF GOD AND MAN (TWO ARTICLES)We have now to consider how Christ is called the Mediator of God and man, and under this head there are two points of inquiry:

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I remember, it was abvays the same. I would put on the briefs, and then Id just get the T-shirt over my head and _you would find some reason to come into the bathroom, to get something or put something away. In a glance you would memorize the wounds on my body like a road map—the gashes, bruises, cigarette burns. 4 Leslie Feinberg Later, in bed, you held me gently, caressing me everywhere, the tenderest touches reserved for the places I was hurt, knowing each and every sore place—inside and out. You didnt flirt with me right away, knowing I wasnt confident enough to feel sexy. But slowly you coaxed my pride back out again by showing me how much you wanted me. You knew it would take you weeks again to melt the stone. Lately I've read these stories by women who are so angry with stone lovers, even mocking their passion when they finally give way to trust, to being touched. And I’m wondering: did it hurt you the times I couldnt let you touch me? I hope it didn’. You never showed it if it did. I think you knew it wasn't you I was keeping myself safe from. You treated my stone self as a wound that needed loving healing. Thank you. No ones ever done that since. If you were here tonight ... well, its hypothetical, isnt ite I never said these things to you. Tonight I remember the time I got busted alone, on strange turf. You're probably wincing already, but I have to say this to you. It was the night we drove ninety miles to a bar to meet friends who never showed up. When the police raided the club we were “alone,” and the cop with gold bars on his uniform came right over to me and told me to stand up. No wonder, I was the only he-she in the place that night. He put his hands all over me, pulled up the band of my Jockeys and told his men to cuff me—lI didnt have three pieces of women’s clothing on. I wanted to fight right then and there because I knew the chance would be lost in a moment. But I also knew that everyone would be beaten that night if I fought back, 50 I just stood there. I saw they had pinned your arms behind your back and cuffed your hands. One cop had his arm across _your throat. I remember the look in your eyes. It hurts me even now.