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 Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Whether Christ worked miracles by Divine power?Objection 1: It would seem that Christ did not work miracles by Divine power. For the Divine power is omnipotent. But it seems that Christ was not omnipotent in working miracles; for it is written (Mk. 6:5) that “He could not do any miracles there,” i.e. in His own country. Therefore it seems that He did not work miracles by Divine power. Objection 2: Further, God does not pray. But Christ sometimes prayed when working miracles; as may be seen in the raising of Lazarus (Jn. 11:41,42), and in the multiplication of the loaves, as related Mat. 14:19. Therefore it seems that He did not work miracles by Divine power. Objection 3: Further, what is done by Divine power cannot be done by the power of any creature. But the things which Christ did could be done also by the power of a creature: wherefore the Pharisees said (Lk. 11:15) that He cast out devils “by Beelzebub the prince of devils.” Therefore it seems that Christ did not work miracles by Divine power. On the contrary, our Lord said (Jn. 14:10): “The Father who abideth in Me, He doth the works.” I answer that, as stated in the [4215]FP, Q[110], A[4], true miracles cannot be wrought save by Divine power: because God alone can change the order of nature; and this is what is meant by a miracle. Wherefore Pope Leo says (Ep. ad Flav. xxviii) that, while there are two natures in Christ, there is “one,” viz. the Divine, which shines forth in miracles; and “another,” viz. the human, “which submits to insults”; yet “each communicates its actions to the other”: in as far as the human nature is the instrument of the Divine action, and the human action receives power from the Divine Nature, as stated above (Q[19], A[1]). Reply to Objection 1: When it is said that “He could not do any miracles there,” it is not to be understood that He could not do them absolutely, but that it was not fitting for Him to do them: for it was unfitting for Him to work miracles among unbelievers. Wherefore it is said farther on: “And He wondered because of their unbelief.” In like manner it is said (Gn. 18:17): “Can I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?” and Gn. 19:22: “I cannot do anything till thou go in thither.”

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

  JEROME. For these are not five, but four thousand; the number four being one always used in a good sense, and a four-sided stone is firm and rocks not, for which reason the Gospels also have been sacredly bestowed in this number. Also in the former miracle, because the people were neighbours unto the five senseso, it is the disciples, and not the Lord, that calls to mind their condition; but here the Lord Himself says, that He has compassion upon them, because they continue now three days with Him, that is, they believed on the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. HILARY. Or, they spend the whole time of the Lord’s passion with the Lord; either because when they should come to baptism, they would confess that they believed in His passion and resurrection; or, because through the whole time of the Lord’s passion they are joined to the Lord by fasting in a kind of union of suffering with Him. RABANUS. Or, this is said because in all time there have only been three periods when grace was given; the first, before the Law; the second, under the Law; the third, under grace; the fourth, is in heaven, to which as we journey we are refreshed by the way. REMIGIUS. Or, because correcting by penitence the sins that they have committed, in thought, word, and deed, they turn to the Lord. These multitudes the Lord would not send away fasting, that they should not faint by the way; because sinners turning in penitence, perish in their passage through the world, if they are sent away without the nourishment of sacred teaching. GLOSS. (ord.) The seven loaves are the Scripture of the New Testament, in which the grace of the Holy Spirit is revealed and given. And these are not as those former loaves, barley, because it is not with these, as in the Law, where the nutritious substance is wrapped in types, as in a very adhesive husk; here are not two fishes, as under the Law two only were anointed, the King, and the Priest, but a few, that is, the saints of the New Testament, who, snatched from the waves of the world, sustain this tossing sea, and by their example refresh us lest we faint by the way. HILARY. The multitudes sit down on the ground; for before they had not reposed on the works of the Law, but they had supported themselves on their own sins, as men standing on their feet.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  There was a knock at the bathroom doot. I unlocked it. Annie came into my arms and kissed me deeply. She put her hand gently between my thighs and squeezed the sock. “I got a lot of pleasure out of this tonight,” she said. “It was like magic.” My body tensed, and she withdrew her hand. I stroked her hair. “All magic is illusion,” I admitted. The light was on when I returned to the bedroom. I clicked it off. Annie came back and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hungry?” she asked me. “Mmm,” I pulled her back on top of me and kissed her until I realized I was making promises I couldn’t keep. “I’m tired,’ I said, “but I want to hold you.” Annie came into my arms and nestled against my shoulder. “You are one strange man.” “Whatdya mean?” “First of all, I never met a guy who wasn’t afraid of a little bit of woman’s blood. But you know what’s the weirdest about you?” Every muscle in my body got hard, except the sock. Annie laughed. “Relax, baby. ’m not complaining. What really blew me away is that you knew I had to take care of my kid and you didn’t demand my attention till she went to bed. That, and the fact that even my ex-husband never did the dishes, and he’s the one that dirtied most of them.” Annie shook her head. “You don’t fuck like some other guys, either.” I rolled over on my stomach protectively. She massaged my shoulders. “I mean, you take your time, you know. It’s like you got a brain in your dick instead of a dick for a brain, you know?” We both laughed and rolled around on the bed together. I fell asleep, safe in her arms. The first voice I awoke to was Kathy’s. “Can I turn on the cartoons?” Annie mumbled, “Go ahead.” Shortly afterward she kissed me on the ear and got up to make breakfast. While Annie cooked pancakes, Kathy sat on my lap and told me everything she could think of about Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. Annie tried to hide her pleasure at watching us together. “She’s usually scared of men,” Annie said when Kathy left the room. “You're real good with her.” I noticed Annie’s body language as she cooked. “Something on your mind?” I asked. She turned and wiped her hands on her apron. “T know this is crazy to ask you.” “Go ahead,’ I said. “Well, my sister’s getting married tomorrow, and, well, it’s crazy, I mean it’s too short notice and you didn’t commit to nothing last night—” “Yeah, sure,” I said. Annie sat down in a kitchen chair next to mine. “You really don’t mind?” “T really don’t mind, as long as you understand.” She pressed her fingertips against my lips. “My heart asks for more sometimes,” she said, “but my head wants the same thing you do.” I nodded.

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

  CHRYSOSTOM. The Lord sought to heal the Jews by this mildness. But though they rejected Him, yet He did not resist them by destroying them; whence the Prophet, displaying His power and their weakness, says, A bruised reed he shall not break, and a smoking flax he shall not quench. JEROME. He that holds not out his hand to a sinner, nor bears his brother’s burden, he breaks a bruised reed; and he who despises a weak spark of faith in a little one, he quenches a smoking flax. AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup) So He neither bruised nor quenched the Jewish persecutors, who are here likened to a bruised reed which has lost its wholeness, and to a smoking flax which has lost its flame; but He spared them because He was not come to judge them, but to be judged by them. AUGUSTINE. (Quæst. Ev. i. 3.) In the smoking flax it is observed, that when the flame is out it causes a stink. CHRYSOSTOM. Or this, He shall not break a bruised reed, shews that it was as easy for Him to break them all, as to break a reed, and that a bruised reed. And, He shall not quench a smoking flax, shews that their rage was fired, and that the power of Christ was strong to quench such rage with all readiness; hence in this is shewn the great mercy of Christ. HILARY. Or, he means this bruised reed that is not broken, to shew that the perishing and bruised bodies of the Gentiles, are not to be broken, but are rather reserved for salvation. He shall not quench a smoking flax, shews the feebleness of that spark which though not quenched, only moulders in the flax, and that among the remnants of that ancient grace, the Spirit is yet not quite taken away from Israel, but power still remains to them of resuming the whole flame thereof in a day of penitence. JEROME. (Ep. 121.2.) Or, the reverse, He calls the Jews a bruised reed, whom tossed by the wind and shaken from one another, the Lord did not immediately condemn, but patiently endured; and the smoking flax He calls the people gathered out of the Gentiles, who, having extinguished the light of the natural law, were involved in the wandering mazes of thick darkness of smoke, bitter and hurtful to the eyes; this He not only did not extinguish, by reducing them to ashes, but on the contrary from a small spark and one almost dead He raised a mighty flame.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  The greenhouse looked like a grownup’s playhouse—a self-contained world. Humidity fogged the glass inside. I opened the door and stepped over the threshold. My boots sank into the wet straw strewn on the floor. I took a deep breath and inhaled the good smell of damp earth. Jan bent over a crate of violets. I recognized her strong, broad shoulders. Her hair had turned to silver. She rose and looked at me. Her glasses rested on top of her head. She slid them down to her nose. “Am I getting so old I can’t trust my own eyes?” she asked. “Ts that really you, Jess?” She wiped her hands on a towel and welcomed me into her arms. Jan stroked my hair and kissed my head as I cried. “I’ve thought about you so many times,” she whispered. My lip quivered. “TI didn’t really believe I lived in anyone’s memory except my own.” Jan patted my cheek. “I could never forget you. You were one of those baby butches I knew Pd grow old with. How long you here for? Where are you living? How’d you find this place?” “Manhattan,” I answered. “Frankie told me about your shop. There’s something I need to find out while Pm here, if I can. I want to find out whatever happened to Butch Al. I want to find out if she’s still alive.” Jan rubbed her face and sucked in her breath. “Well, if anyone could find out, it’s Edna. Did you see Ednar” I watched Jan’s face as I nodded. “Edna’s still in touch with Lydia, whose butch worked at the auto plant with Al for a long time.” My voice rose. “Do you think Lydia knows?” Jan shrugged. “She might. And Edna knows how to find Lydia.” I took a deep breath. “Would you ask Edna if she’d find out?” I watched Jan’s face as she said, “Sure, I’d be happy to.” That’s when I knew for sure Jan didn’t know Edna and I had been lovers. “Tell you what,” Jan smiled, “what say we all get together tonight for a drink?” It sounded excruciatingly painful, and unavoidable. I nodded. “Maybe Frankie would want to come too?” Jan slapped me on the shoulder. “Good idea.” She wrote down the address of the bar. When Jan opened the greenhouse door, the chilly air startled me. Her pick-up truck was parked in the garage behind the store. Next to it was an old Triumph motorcycle. Jan followed my eyes to the bike. “I haven’t ridden it for a long time but I keep it running, You want to use it while you’re here?” I smiled and nodded emphatically. It had been years since I straddled a motorcycle. Jan grinned as the bike sputtered to life. She squeezed my shoulder. “You are a sight for sore eyes. It’s good to see you, kid.” I waited till she was back inside the flower shop before I whispered out loud, “I’m not a kid anymore.” 307

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  2Throughout the years of our boy’s infancy, in Hitler’s Germany and Maginot’s France, we were more or less constantly hard up, but wonderful friends saw to his having the best things available. Although powerless to do much about it, you and I jointly kept a jealous eye on any possible rift between his childhood and our own incunabula in the opulent past, and this is where those friendly fates came in, doctoring the rift every time it threatened to open. Then, too, the science of building up babies had made the same kind of phenomenal, streamlined progress that flying or tilling had—I, when nine months old, did not get a pound of strained spinach at one feeding or the juice of a dozen oranges per day; and the pediatric hygiene you adopted was incomparably more artistic and scrupulous than anything old nurses could have dreamed up when we were babes. I think bourgeois fathers—wing-collar workers in pencil-striped pants, dignified, office-tied fathers, so different from young American veterans of today or from a happy, jobless Russian-born expatriate of fifteen years ago—will not understand my attitude toward our child. Whenever you held him up, replete with his warm formula and grave as an idol, and waited for the postlactic all-clear signal before making a horizontal baby of the vertical one, I used to take part both in your wait and in the tightness of his surfeit, which I exaggerated, therefore rather resenting your cheerful faith in the speedy dissipation of what I felt to be a painful oppression; and when, at last, the blunt little bubble did rise and burst in his solemn mouth, I used to experience a lovely relief while you, with a congratulatory murmur, bent low to deposit him in the white-rimmed twilight of his crib.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I unlocked my front door and shook my head. “No, but thank you.” Once inside, I threw open the windows and began a serious cleaning frenzy. Hours later I scrubbed the gunk under my sink while my music blasted. The knock at the door startled me, and I hit my skull on the pipes. I rubbed my head angrily as I opened the door. Ruth extended an armful of orange gladiolas. “I thought you might like these. I heard you cleaning and I hoped they would brighten up the place after all that hard work.” I opened the front door a little further. “Thanks. I don’t think I have anything to put these in.” Ruth returned a moment later with a cut-glass vase. She couldn’t conceal her horror at my barren apartment. I shifted my weight uncomfortably. “I haven’t had time to shop for furniture or anything,” I put the flowers in water and set them in the middle of the empty living room. “They’re really pretty, Ruth. I’ve brought women flowers, but no woman ever gave me flowers before. It’s a beautiful thing to do.” Ruth blushed. “People need flowers.” She turned to go and stopped. “You know, I don’t even know your name.” “Jess.” She smiled. “I had an uncle named Jesse. Is it short for Jesse?” I shook my head. “Just Jess.” “Tl leave you to your cleaning, Jess.” I nodded. “Thanks for the flowers.” When she left I went back to scrubbing. Hours later, I sat down wearily on the living room floor next to the flowers. Maybe Ruth had been right: being afraid to lose anything I cared about meant Id already lost it all. I heard another knock on my door, the second time in one day. It was Ruth. She extended a bundle of unbleached muslin. “These are the curtains I used to have in my Stone Butch Blues 275 living room. My windows are the same size as yours so I thought Id offer them. It’s up to you.” I stood and looked at Ruth and at the gift in her large hands, and I said yes to both. A week later I brought Ruth’s vase back to her, filled with irises. Her smile was my reward. “Do you have a vase?” she asked me. I shook my head. “Come in. Here, do you like this?” She handed me a cobalt blue glass vase. I sighed. “Oh! The color is so intense it pulls me in. I can almost taste the color.” Ruth rested her fingertips on my cheek. “You’re hungry, Jess. Your senses are starved.” I stared into the depth of the deep blue. “If I made you dinner tonight, what would you eat? Fish?” I laughed. “Ts fish food?” Ruth shook her head. “Oh no, you’re not a meat and potatoes kind of guy, are your” I dropped my eyes. “I’m not a guy, Ruth.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  a snowwoman. It’s a snowman.” I put Scotty’s smaller snow boulder on top of the first. “Help me make her head,” I told them both. Kim flew into a rage and sobbed. I touched her shoulders. “Are you really that upset?” She nodded and cried. I wiped her runny nose. 182 = Leslie Feinberg “It’s OK,” Scotty said gently, “She could be a snowman, tight?” I nodded. “Help us make his head, OK?” Kim sniffled and nodded. We rolled the head, and I put it in place. I scrounged for stones under the snow, and we used them to make a mouth and nose and eyes. “He needs a scarf, right?” I asked. They both nodded. I pulled off my scarf and put it around his neck. I took out my pack of cigarettes. “No,” they both shouted in unison, “don’t smoke!” “Well, I don’t have a pipe for the snowman. Should I put a cigarette in his mouth?” “No!” they shouted. “He doesn’t smoke! He’s smart!” I laughed. “OK, OK. But that’s a pretty good- looking snowman we made, isn’t it?” Scotty nodded and fell on the ground. “Watch me make a snow angel!” He wildly flailed his arms and legs. “Are you OK?” T asked Kim. She nodded. I pulled her scarf snug around her neck. “I’m sorry I upset you,” I told her. “I was just teasing.” She shrugged. “It’s OK.” “Tm sorry anyway,” I said. “No,” she told me. “I mean it’s OK about it being a snowwoman.” I smiled. “How about if we decide that this is a snowperson and we like him or her just the way she is?” Kim nodded without smiling, She silently stared out the car window during the long ride home. “Did they eat?” Gloria wanted to know. I nodded. ““Time for your bath,” she told them. “Aw, Mom, we’re too pooped,” Scotty said. Gloria laughed. “Alright, smart aleck. But tomorrow night you both take a bath, and I don’t want to hear any whining.” Scotty beamed in triumph. “Can Jess put us to bed?” Gloria glanced at me. I nodded. Scotty and Kim changed into their pajamas and kissed Gloria good night. I tucked each one under their covers. “You have to read us the story about when we were little kids,’ Scotty instructed me. I picked up the book from the nightstand. Kim pointed to a bookmark. “That’s where Mom left off,” she said. I began to read, my voice quiet and low: Where am I going? I dont quite know. Scotty yawned. I kissed his sweaty hair. A mobile turned slowly over our heads, casting the shadows of moving ships against the walls. Tf you were a bird, and lived on high, My voice cracked like a teenage boy’s and then dropped a bit deeper as I read. The hormones were beginning to work. Youd say to the wind as it took you away: ‘That's where I wanted to go today!’

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Sarah grinned. “And you gave me a hard time for covering my smile. You’re a traditional man.” “You ’spose?” “Can’t you give a straight answer?” “You didn’t ask a question.” “No, I guess I didn’t.” “Standing up for what you believe is good. I’m just a little further down the road in this life than you. Maybe I seen a few things, done a few things, that bring a different light. Speaking of, there’s a pretty sunrise about to lift. I most always stop for the sunrise. I drive the night so I can see the morning come.” Dave navigated into the next truck stop. He positioned on edge of the parking lot with the cab facing due east, toward the soft wash of vermilion on the naked desert. “Where were you that sunrises became so important, Dave?” “What you mean became?” “Don’t toy with me.” He shook his head. “You’re a handful.” “Yup. Answer the question.” A long pause. “A place where a man can think through every mistake he made. A place where a man can learn to use his voice like a tape recorder. A place where a man can taste a steak in his mind while scraping scraps of rotten rice up in his fingers. Learn all the things that got past him when he was busy being an idiot fool.” Sarah’s knees pressed tighter to Dave’s hip. She traced her fingers on his thick shoulder. “Where?” Spoken softly, “Vietcong prison camp.” “Sorry, that must have been—” “It’s going to be a magnificent sunrise.” Dave reached toward her face and waited. She nodded and he stroked her full cheeks, then traced her slim lips with his rough thumb. He whispered, “I may not be looking at that sun when it comes. You’re too beautiful.” Sarah started to cover her smile, didn’t, and rested her head on his shoulder. She lifted her mouth to Dave. After a pause, Dave dipped his sweet-salty tongue in her mouth. He traced her teeth, then the bottom of her tongue, then around the top. “You taste so fine, Sarah.” She’d never felt a kiss so deep in her body. “May I?” Sarah nodded toward the sleeper behind them. “Make yourself at home.” She kicked off her shoes and crawled in. She reached for the tie at her waist. “Remember? I said there would be a prize.” He grabbed her hand fast. “That’s more’n a prize.” The way he looked at her, the way he said it, made it hard for her not to gasp. It was the time of free love, sexual liberation, and cast in that light, this was a prize, pure and simple. She was sure of it, right up to the moment. She let go of the bow and relaxed her hand into his. “So you never had, just sex for the fun of it, Dave?”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Still got a bunch to discover.” She walked after him quickly. “Always wanted to see Lincoln.” Truly, she never had given it a thought. She grabbed his arm. “You know, it occurs to me we never did work out our differences about Vietnam, Dave.” “You might be surprised what I—” Sarah put her finger tight to his lips. He grinned. “You’re right. You got your work cut out for you.” He took the suitcase from her hand, walked to the passenger door, and opened it. She paused for a moment, then smiled and climbed in. “You too, Big Dave.” She folded her hands in her lap. He closed the door for her. TO BE IN CLOVER Shanna Germain Down on his knees in the clover, Dustan wrapped the electric wire around the insulator, pulling it tight. In the field next to him, the wind tickled the corn, making it rustle. The shiver of the tassels sounded like a woman undressing. And when Dustan thought of a woman undressing, he always thought of Maddy. He cocked his head, listening. There was no wind today. It was bright and still as summer could be, as if the day was holding its breath, waiting. If it wasn’t the corn and wind making that sound, then it was Maddy. In another moment, he could make out the sound of her, the silky-corn swish of her sundress against her legs. He kept at the fence, letting the sound of her come to him in small waves of leg and fabric, and then the smell of her; beneath his own fresh sweat and the sweet waft of the flowering clover came her morning scent. Tomatoes off the vine. Zucchini blossoms. The tang of the marigolds she used for pest control. She came up behind him and threw her hands over his eyes, and he pretended that she’d surprised him, that he hadn’t been anticipating her arrival by sound since she’d entered the field. Her hands were rough with tiny cuts—she never wore gloves—and he reveled in the press of her palms to his eyelids, the momentary loss of light, the way her sounds and smells rose around him to block out the world. Her laughter tickled the edges of his ears. It was dangerous, the things she did, sometimes. Like blinding him while he was working with fence trimmers and electric wires. But he didn’t have the heart to quell her enthusiasm, her childish delight. At least not for his own safety. She was still laughing when he turned and lifted her a few inches off the ground. She was little but strong, half a foot shorter than him. He settled one hand on her ass, holding her up, loving the way her body filled out there, glorious curves. Not suns. Not moons or melons. Just Maddy and the sweet globes of her ass.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “Standing up for what you believe is good. I’m just a little further down the road in this life than you. Maybe I seen a few things, done a few things, that bring a different light. Speaking of, there’s a pretty sunrise about to lift. I most always stop for the sunrise. I drive the night so I can see the morning come.” Dave navigated into the next truck stop. He positioned on edge of the parking lot with the cab facing due east, toward the soft wash of vermilion on the naked desert. “Where were you that sunrises became so important, Dave?” “What you mean became?” “Don’t toy with me.” He shook his head. “You’re a handful.” “Yup. Answer the question.” A long pause. “A place where a man can think through every mistake he made. A place where a man can learn to use his voice like a tape recorder. A place where a man can taste a steak in his mind while scraping scraps of rotten rice up in his fingers. Learn all the things that got past him when he was busy being an idiot fool.” Sarah’s knees pressed tighter to Dave’s hip. She traced her fingers on his thick shoulder. “Where?” Spoken softly, “Vietcong prison camp.” “Sorry, that must have been—” “It’s going to be a magnificent sunrise.” Dave reached toward her face and waited. She nodded and he stroked her full cheeks, then traced her slim lips with his rough thumb. He whispered, “I may not be looking at that sun when it comes. You’re too beautiful.” Sarah started to cover her smile, didn’t, and rested her head on his shoulder. She lifted her mouth to Dave. After a pause, Dave dipped his sweet-salty tongue in her mouth. He traced her teeth, then the bottom of her tongue, then around the top. “You taste so fine, Sarah.” She’d never felt a kiss so deep in her body. “May I?” Sarah nodded toward the sleeper behind them. “Make yourself at home.” She kicked off her shoes and crawled in. She reached for the tie at her waist. “Remember? I said there would be a prize.” He grabbed her hand fast. “That’s more’n a prize.” The way he looked at her, the way he said it, made it hard for her not to gasp. It was the time of free love, sexual liberation, and cast in that light, this was a prize, pure and simple. She was sure of it, right up to the moment. She let go of the bow and relaxed her hand into his. “So you never had, just sex for the fun of it, Dave?” Dave looked out the front of the cab at the growing strip of light. “That’s none of your business.” “You have.” “Appetites go strong when a man ain’t fed. Sometimes it’s hard not to gorge. Don’t make it right, and the bellyache after tells you so.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Annie brought two beer bottles to the table and sat back down. We lifted our beers in a toast. Kathy tried to do the same thing, Her glass tipped over, pouring milk all over the table. Annie immediately tried to mop the milk off my plate with her napkin. I jumped up and came back from the sink with a sponge. We got most of it. Annie looked tense. “Your meal’s all spoiled.” “Naw,” I said, “milk’s good for you.” Kathy seemed ready to cry. She hugged her bunny tighter. I smiled at her. “Sometimes when I drop something I think everybody is gonna be mad at me,” I told her. “P?’m not mad at you.” Kathy narrowed her eyes as she checked me out, just the way her mother did. “Would it make you feel better if I spilled my beer?” I asked her. Kathy smiled and nodded emphatically. “Don’t you dare,” Annie warned me with a hidden smile. The rest of the dinner went much smoother. After dessert Kathy thrust her bunny at me. “Take her temperature?” I asked. She nodded. “This wabbit needs to go to bed soon,” I told her. “I think she’s got a cold.” Kathy weighed the information and nodded. “Does your wabbit need a bath first?” I asked. Kathy shook her head from side to side. Stone Butch Blues 203 “Oh yes, she does,” Annie laughed and scooped up Kathy in her arms. I was washing the last of the dishes when Annie came up behind me. She grabbed a dishtowel off the refrigerator door. I washed the pots while she dried the dishes. It felt good. But the longer Annie dried dishes, the angrier she seemed to become. “What’s up?” T asked her. She threw down the towel and glared at me. “?’m not an easy lay, you know. You guys know a woman with a kid’s been fucked before so you figure you can get whatever you want, right?” I rinsed a sponge under the faucet and walked over to the kitchen table to wipe it off. “I got what I wanted at dinner,” I told her. She looked stunned. “What, macaroni and cheese in milk gravy?” We both laughed. “T just wanted to spend some time with you when we’re both off-duty, you know.” “Why?” She measured me with those keen eyes again. “T like you. I guess I really like tough cookies, and god knows, you are one.” She shook her head. “TI can’t figure you out.” “So what?” “So a man you can’t figure out is a dangerous 204 Leslie Feinberg man,” she told me. She came closer. My body turned toward hers. It was happening. “T’m not dangerous,” I promised. “I’m complicated, but ’m not dangerous.” “Whatchya lookin’ for, darlin’?”? Annie ran her fingers lightly through my hair. Oh, god, it felt so good.

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

  [image file=image_rsrc2U3.jpg] When I was growing up, my mom spent a lot of time trying to teach me about women. She was always giving me lessons, little talks, pieces of advice. It was never a full-blown, sit-down lecture about relationships. It was more like tidbits along the way. And I never understood why, because I was a kid. The only women in my life were my mom and my grandmother and my aunt and my cousin. I had no love interest whatsoever, yet my mom insisted. She would go off on a whole range of things. “Trevor, remember a man is not determined by how much he earns. You can still be the man of the house and earn less than your woman. Being a man is not what you have, it’s who you are. Being more of a man doesn’t mean your woman has to be less than you.” “Trevor, make sure your woman is the woman in your life. Don’t be one of these men who makes his wife compete with his mother. A man with a wife cannot be beholden to his mother.” The smallest thing could prompt her. I’d walk through the house on the way to my room and say, “Hey, Mom” without glancing up. She’d say, “No, Trevor! You look at me. You acknowledge me. Show me that I exist to you, because the way you treat me is the way you will treat your woman. Women like to be noticed. Come and acknowledge me and let me know that you see me. Don’t just see me when you need something.” These little lessons were always about grown-up relationships, funnily enough. She was so preoccupied with teaching me how to be a man that she never taught me how to be a boy. How to talk to a girl or pass a girl a note in class—there was none of that. She only told me about adult things. She would even lecture me about sex. As I was a kid, that would get very awkward. “Trevor, don’t forget: You’re having sex with a woman in her mind before you’re having sex with her in her vagina.” “Trevor, foreplay begins during the day. It doesn’t begin in the bedroom.” I’d be like, “What? What is foreplay? What does that even mean?”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He brought cool cloths for my forehead and antiseptic lozenges for my throat. He was as efficient a nurse as anyone could wish for. Perhaps a little too efficient. When I staggered to the bathroom without waiting to ask his permission, it was made clear to me that I had transgressed. He waited outside the door for me and, on my exit, he took me by the shoulders and steered me back to the bed. “Since you can’t be trusted to do as you’re told,” he said, “perhaps I need to tie you to the bed. Hmm? Should I?” “No,” I whispered. “I’ll ask next time.” “You’ve got your phone. If I’m in another room, just send me a message.” “I will.” I collapsed into the blankets again and let them take me into their too-hot embrace. For two days I languished, but on day three, I began to rally. My voice was still more like that of a pubescent boy than a professional soprano, and my head still felt stuffed with wadding, but my spirits made a brisk reentry, and so did my libido. I picked up the mobile phone and began to text. I knew that Matthew was composing in the other room, but he’d had two uninterrupted days with his muse. Surely she could spare him for a little while. “I need a doctor,” I wrote, and pressed Send. He appeared in the doorway in a matter of seconds, his face pale. “Are you alright, Loveday? Why do you need a doctor? Are you feeling worse?” Feeling slightly guilty, I shook my head. “I meant you,” I warbled. “I need Dr. Rossington.” The color returned to his cheeks, and he raised a disapproving eyebrow. “You mean you just worried me on a whim?” “I didn’t mean to. I just felt the urgent need for some... medical attention.” I tried to look sexy, which wasn’t easy in an old-lady nightgown and socks, but it seemed to work because he came all the way into the room and stationed himself at the foot of the bed, arms folded, brow creased in that thrilling way I love so much. “Medical attention? Well, I think I can provide that. Take off your nightgown.” I pulled the sagging cotton over my head and peeled off the socks too, since he’d never expressed a kink for them, while he left the room. When he came back, he was carrying a basin of soapy water and a sponge. “Let’s start with a bed bath, shall we?” He pulled out the rubber sheet from underneath the bed and made me lie flat on it, its cold smooth texture immediately transporting me back to the other occasions it had been in use, bringing my reawakened sex drive to even more vivid life. I curled my toes and clenched my vaginal muscles, enjoying the sight of him rolling up his shirtsleeves before he reached for the sponge.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  That was all the encouragement Paul needed. Oblivious to everything but the feel of Brynn’s pussy clamped around his fingers, he began to fuck her hard. Water sloshed every which way, causing a tidal wave in the bathroom until the floor was soaked and Brynn was only half-covered by water. Paul braced his right hand lightly on Brynn’s wet, swollen belly as he finger-fucked her with his left hand. It was like fucking a beautiful, familiar stranger—and that aroused him in a way he could never have predicted. “You’re so wet, baby,” he growled, pushing his fingers deep inside Brynn. Slowly, so slowly Brynn closed her eyes and whimpered with the anticipation, Paul drew his fingers out again. He could feel Brynn’s pussy ripple against his fingers, trying to hold them inside, trying to get off. Paul pushed his fingers back inside Brynn, stroking her swollen clit with his thumb. Brynn nearly came out of the bathtub at that, shrieking as she gripped the edge of tub. “I guess you like that,” Paul muttered, doing it again. “You’re driving me crazy.” With his fingers buried inside Brynn’s wetness, Paul kept rubbing his thumb against her clit. “I know the feeling. Know what I want, baby?” Brynn’s eyes fluttered opened and she tried to focus on Paul’s face. “Hmm?” Paul stilled his thumb on her clit. “I want you to tell me you’re beautiful.” Brynn jerked against him. “What?” “Tell me you’re beautiful,” Paul repeated, emphasizing his words with a wiggle of his fingers. “Tell me how beautiful you are.” Brynn stared at him, as if he’d asked for something perverse. “Don’t tease me like that,” she whispered. Paul stroked her pussy again, building a back-and-forth rhythm inside Brynn that caused a wave to lap up against the swell of Brynn’s rounded belly. “Oh, the water feels good,” Brynn moaned, rocking against Paul’s hand so the water sloshed over her again. “Tell me,” Paul repeated. “You’re beautiful. Tell me and I’ll make you come so hard, baby.” Brynn whimpered again, eyes closed and head thrown back. She was close to orgasm, Paul could tell by the way her pussy tightened on his fingers. He kept finger-fucking her, driving his fingers deep into her, reveling in the way Brynn’s body held him inside. “You’re beautiful, baby,” he said. “Beautiful and fucking sexy and I can’t wait to get you out of that tub and spread you across the bed so I can make you come again and again.” His litany of words aroused him as much as they were intended to arouse Brynn. His cock ached to be touched, licked, sucked, and enveloped by Brynn’s sweet pussy, but this was about Brynn and making her feel good. Making her feel as beautiful as she looked. Paul stilled his fingers once again. “Tell me, baby.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Sarah looked away. “Don’t tell me you do that.” She shrugged. “You know what happens if I gotta stop quick? I saw it happen to another trucker on the road to Stockton. Bigger car than yours, and it wasn’t just the driver of the car. She had her...” Dave bit his lip hard. “There was a kid.” He looked away and wiped each cheek with his thumb. “I—I’m sorry.” She patted his shoulder. “Just don’t draft, Sarah.” Sarah curled her legs toward him while he studied the mirror. “Okay.” He reached toward the shifter, and his fingers grazed Sarah’s bare knee. His hand jerked back. “Pardon.” “For what?” “Your leg. I mean, it’s a fine…it’s, uh, real smooth and all. But I didn’t mean to…aw hell.” That wonderful color lit up his full cheeks. He turned back to the mirror and upshifted until the car appeared from the void behind the truck and passed him. “It’s okay.” Sarah edged a little closer to him. Her knee pressed his hip. Dave squeezed the gearshift tightly. After a long silence, Sarah resumed, “I think we’re spending too much time worrying about other people’s gardens. Not tending to our own.” Dave sighed. “Yeah, I can see you draftin’ out there on the highway.” “Bet you think women should be seen, not heard.” “No, I just don’t see things the same.” “Really?” A hint of sarcasm. Dave studied the road closely. “You ask a man who’s been in hell if he’s happy to be in a garden with a few weeds, he’s libel to say a big ‘yes.’” “What hell have you been in, Dave?” “It’s just an observation. More repartee.” “It’s more than that.” Sarah rested her hand on the top of the seat just behind Dave’s shoulder. “You have a nice face.” Dave blushed deeply and looked away. Sarah grinned. “And you gave me a hard time for covering my smile. You’re a traditional man.” “You ’spose?” “Can’t you give a straight answer?” “You didn’t ask a question.” “No, I guess I didn’t.” “Standing up for what you believe is good. I’m just a little further down the road in this life than you. Maybe I seen a few things, done a few things, that bring a different light. Speaking of, there’s a pretty sunrise about to lift. I most always stop for the sunrise. I drive the night so I can see the morning come.” Dave navigated into the next truck stop. He positioned on edge of the parking lot with the cab facing due east, toward the soft wash of vermilion on the naked desert. “Where were you that sunrises became so important, Dave?” “What you mean became?” “Don’t toy with me.” He shook his head. “You’re a handful.” “Yup.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  separations, and crises in life. It gives us a sense of proportion, of what really matters in this brief existence of ours. Most people continually look for ways to separate themselves from others and feel superior. Instead, we must see the mortality in everyone, how it equalizes and connects us all. By becoming deeply aware of our mortality, we intensify our experience of every aspect of life. The Bullet in the Side As a child growing up in Savannah, Georgia, Mary Flannery O’Connor (1925–1964) felt a strange and powerful connection to her father, Edward. Some of this naturally stemmed from their striking physical resemblance—the same large, piercing eyes, the same facial expressions. But more important to Mary, their whole way of thinking and feeling seemed completely in sync. She could sense this when her father participated in the games she invented—he slipped so naturally into the spirit of it all, and his imagination moved in such a similar direction to her own. They had ways of communicating without ever saying a word. Mary, an only child, did not feel the same way about her mother, Regina, who came from a socially superior class to her husband and had aspirations of being a figure in local society. The mother wanted to mold her rather bookish and reclusive daughter into the quintessential southern lady, but Mary, stubborn and willful, would not go along. Mary found her mother and relatives a bit formal and superficial. At the age of ten, she wrote a series of caricatures of them, which she called “My Relitives.” In a mischievous spirit, she let her mother and relatives read the vignettes, and they were, naturally, shocked—not only by how they were portrayed but also by the sharp wit of this ten-year-old. The father, however, found the caricatures delightful. He collected them into a little book that he showed to visitors. He foresaw a great future for his daughter as a writer. Mary knew from early on that she was different from other children, even a bit eccentric, and she basked in the pride he displayed in her unusual qualities. She understood her father so well that it frightened her when in the summer of 1937 she sensed a change in his energy and spirit. At first it was subtle—rashes on his face, a sudden weariness that came over him in the afternoon. Then he began to take increasingly long naps and suffer frequent bouts of flu, his entire body aching. Occasionally Mary would eavesdrop on her parents as they talked behind closed doors of his ailments, and what she could glean was that something was seriously wrong. The real estate business her father had started some years earlier was not doing so well, and he had to let it go. A few months later, he was able to land a government job in Atlanta, which did not pay very well. To manage their tight budget Mary and her mother

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  “Look, Toni,” I said, “if you want to hit me, you go ahead. If it’ll make you feel better, I won’t stop you. But why would I want to hit you? You helped me out when I needed it. You know damn well I’d never disrespect you or Betty.” I caught Betty’s eye and she looked at me apologetically. “Don’t you be looking at my femme, you motherfucker!” Toni sputtered. “Toni, I’m telling you I wouldn’t do anything, ever, to disrespect you.” “Get out of my fucking house,” she yelled at me. She was reeling. “Get out!” Angie was behind me. “C’mon, baby.” She tugged on my arm. “It’s only gonna get worse out here. C’mon,” she said, pulling me back into the bar. Grant and Edwin offered to help me pack up my stuff and bring it back. “Hell,” I told them, “T still only need a couple of pillowcases for all my stuff. I can bring it back on the bike.” When I got back to the club with my things, I found a stool at the end of the bar and nursed a beer. Angie sat down next to me. “You got a place to stay 70 = Leslie Feinberg tonight?” She stubbed out her cigarette. I shook my head. “Look,” she patted my arm. “I’m tired, I want to go home and to bed—to sleep. You need a place to sack out for the night, fine. Just don’t get any funny ideas.” “You been turning tricks all night?” I asked her. Angie eyed me distrustfully. “Yeah.” “Then why on earth would I think you were dying for someone to take you home and fuck you?” Angie tossed back her whiskey and laughed. “C’mon, baby, I'll buy you breakfast for that one.” “Tell me the truth,’ Angie said as she buttered her toast. “No bullshit. How come you didn’t fight her? Was it really ’cause she’s your friend or were you scared?” I shook my head. “She’s not like my best friend or anything, but she helped me out a lot. I don’t want to hit her, that’s all. She was drunk.” Angie smirked at me. “So were you fuckin’ around with Betty?” I shook my head. “I don’t play that game.” She watched my face as she poked her eggs with a fork. “How old are you, baby?” “How old were you when you were my age?” I felt annoyed. She leaned back against the booth. “I guess the streets made us old before our time, huh, kid?” “T’m not a kid.” My voice sounded hard. “T’m sorry.” She sounded like she meant it. “Youre right, you aren’t a kid.” I yawned and rubbed my eyes. She laughed. “Am I keeping you up?”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Just you and me, on our bed. You know, sex. I hate to use the word normal, but it somehow seems appropriate.” “You mean boring sex?” “God, fuck! I wish I’d never said that. That’s what all this has been about, hasn’t it? Because I said we were boring in bed.” “No.” Blake didn’t say a word, but he made it clear with his eyes that he knew I was lying. “Okay, fine Blake. Fine. Yes. I was trying to make our sex life less boring. You seemed to enjoy it. What’s changed?” “Nothing. And, I did like most of it. But, I miss being with you. Is it so crazy to want to feel you, be with you and watch you come? No bells, no whistles, no whips. Just you and me.” Secretly, they were the words I wanted to hear since our sexcapades began. I had been afraid to say it, but hearing Blake confess made my resolve melt away. “If that’s what you really want. Who am I to say no to an idea like that?” Blake stood up, pulling me to my feet with him. He reached behind me and started to unzip my outfit, peeling the black vinyl down my skin until my breasts popped out of the top. As he continued to undress me, he captured one of my nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue and sucking in a wonderfully familiar way. He released me all too soon, and I helped Blake with the rest of my outfit, stretching it over my shiny boots and tossing it aside. He dropped to his knees and started untying my boots, taking his sweet time, kissing my legs as he went. When he was finished, he sat on the bed, sliding back toward the headboard, the same place he was before I let him loose. He was waiting for me to do something, and I didn’t hesitate to oblige him. I didn’t try and come up with something interesting; I just straddled him. My legs wrapping around his waist, I kissed him deeply, rocking slightly on his lap. I felt his bare chest with my hands, the heat coming off his skin in waves. He leaned forward, his tongue flicked over my collarbone, dropping kisses down to my breasts. His fingers teased me, pulling my nipples into tight peaks, while his mouth stayed away, only making me want it more. I arched my back, but he went on with his game. Until I started grinding myself against his growing cock. He then became much more generous with his affection. He mumbled against my skin, the vibration tickling me. “This is more like it, Daisy.