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 78 of 145 · 20 per page

• 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.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Keepin’ good tires on my rig and the tanks full, staying one up on the state cops. There are smarter people’n me out there to think on that big stuff.” “It’s everyone’s concern when people are dying for no reason, Dave.” “Well, then, I’ll work on that.” The wry twist of Dave’s face made her mad. She looked out the right side of the cab until she could lasso her uncomely grin. Sarah pumped her fist as she found a radio station. “Got one!” Johnny Cash sang “Folsom Prison Blues.” She patted Dave’s knee. “Bet you like this one.” Dave stared out front and bit his lip. “Want me to change it?” “No, leave it. I do like this one.” She leaned closer, chin on her fingers with a close-lipped smile. “You got something to say, Sarah?” “You’re passionate about deserts and country music.” “Passionate? I like ’em.” “And yet you don’t care about the war?” “Pardon, darlin’. What I said was, ‘I don’t give it much thought.’” “My brother’s in Canada.” A long pause. “I hear it’s nice this time of year.” “He’s a draft dodger, Dave.” “I kinda got that, Sarah.” “Honestly I don’t know when you’re being serious.” She took an errant hair from his shoulder. His eyes turned just enough to watch her make contact. “Is that so?” The radio signal faded. The cab fell silent again but for the throaty hum of the diesel engine. The horizon to the east started to glow. “If I were a man and got drafted, I’d go to Canada. What do you say to that?” Sarah turned to face him like a confrontation. “Well, I’d say, ‘Tell your brother I said hey.’” Sarah covered her mouth as she laughed. “Why you do that?” “What?” “You cover your smile.” “Nothing.” A long pause. “It’s my teeth.” “You got fine teeth.” “The lowers are uneven.” “Yeah. Ain’t they grand?” “Now you’re teasing me.” “Nope.” Sarah smoothed the edges of her dress from her plump waist down her full hips. Another long silence. Dave continued. “When I was a boy, I fought all the time. Drove my ma and pa nuts. One day Mama says, ‘Davey, what you fightin’ about now?’ I say, ‘Well Ma, Johnny say some bad things ’bout you.’ Ma says, ‘Like what?’ I say, ‘Like you fat.’ ‘I am fat. You stupid, boy? Fight for telling o’ the truth?’ But Dad didn’t give me a talkin’ to. He just walloped me good. Johnny beat me, Dad beat me, Mama was mad at me.” Dave nodded to signal the end of his story. “So, the point is you should choose your battles.” “Listen.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  The dispiritedness Terry had displayed since losing his job had included a lack of interest in many things he usually appreciated—including sex. While she didn’t take it personally, she suspected the degree to which Terry’s subconscious linked his perceived professional success with his sense of personal value was what had made losing his job seem such a staggering blow—and seemed to be threatening his entire self-image. It wouldn’t surprise her if a part of him was questioning whether he was still worthy of her affection. Kim opened the bottle of vanilla and inhaled deeply before tipping it over the bowl. She watched the thick brown ribbon swirl into the pale mixture and screwed the lid back on the small bottle. Frankly, she wasn’t interested in rebuilding that self-image back up in Terry. The fact was, he was far more than his professional success, and while she saw nothing wrong with taking pride in them, to her Terry’s reaction in the face of losing that perceived source of achievement indicated that it comprised dangerously too much of his appreciation and understanding of himself. The griddle began to hiss, and Kim lifted the heavy bowl of pancake batter and tipped it until a circle swelled on the sizzling surface. Upturning the bowl, she shifted it a few inches to start the next circle. After repeating the process twice more, she set the bowl back on the counter. The pale circles glowed like four full moons on the black iron background as Kim began to put the ingredients away, keeping one eye on the griddle. Right after her love of cooking was her love of a clean kitchen. She aimed for her kitchen to be less than immaculate only when she was using it. Ideally, by the time whatever she was cooking was ready, the kitchen was clean again too. Sparse bubbles began to yawn on the circles of batter like something just waking up. Kim slid the spatula under them and flipped them one by one, the bubbles receding back to the darkness of sleep. She opened a cupboard and reached toward the back. Not feeling what she wanted, she opened it further and peered inside. It took her a moment to remember they were out of syrup. “Shit,” she muttered as she shut the cupboard and tapped her fingers on the counter. She couldn’t leave to run out and get some; pancakes were still cooking on the stove. Waking Terry up to do so would defeat the purpose of surprising him with breakfast in bed. She frowned. Turning back around, she opened the cupboard again. Her eyes went to the thick, solid glass of the honey jar, honeycomb still intact in the center of the golden liquid fresh from the local apiary.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  could feel the distance separating themselves from the monarch, and how little their rulers really considered them. This feeling of entitlement also blunted their political effectiveness. The government ministers were cowed and intimidated by someone like Henry VIII, and so their energy went into appeasing the king rather than using their own intelligence and creative powers. With this sense of entitlement, rulers paid less attention to the details of governing, which were too boring; wars of conquest became their chief means of getting glory and providing riches for the aristocracy, even though such wars drained a country’s resources. These rulers could be incredibly selfish—Henry VIII had Elizabeth’s mother executed so he could marry his latest mistress, not caring how tyrannical this made him seem to the English. Mary, Queen of Scots, had her husband murdered so she could marry her lover. It would be easy for Elizabeth to delude herself and simply expect the loyalty that came with her august position. But she was too smart to fall into that trap. She would deliberately go in the opposite direction. She would feel no sense of entitlement. She would keep in mind the weakness of her actual position. She would not passively expect loyalty; she would turn active. She would earn the trust and credibility she required through her actions over time. She would demonstrate that she was not selfish, that everything she did was motivated by what was for the greater good of the country. She would be alert and relentless in this task. She would alter the way people (her subjects, her ministers, her foreign rivals) perceived her —from an inexperienced and weak woman to a figure of authority and great power. By forging much deeper ties with her ministers and the commoners, she would overcome people’s natural fickleness and channel their energies for the purpose of rebuilding England. Her first appearances before the English people were cleverly crafted to set the stage for a new type of leadership. Surrounded by all the usual royal pomp, she mixed in a common touch, making her seem both comforting and regal. She was not faking this. Having felt powerless in her youth, she could identify with the poorest charwoman of England. She indicated through her attitude that she was on their side, sensitive to their opinions of her. She wanted to earn their approval. She would build on this empathy throughout her reign, and the bonds between her and subjects became much more intense than with any previous ruler. With her ministers, the task was more delicate and difficult. It was a group of power-hungry men, with their egos and need to feel smarter than and superior to a woman. She depended on their help and goodwill to run the country, but if she revealed too much dependence on them, they would walk all over her. And so, from the first days of her rule, she made the following clear: she was all

• From The Hours (1998)

  He pats her belly carefully but with a certain force, as if it were the shell of a soft-boiled egg. Nothing shows yet; the only manifestations are a certain squeamishness and a subtle but distinct inner churning. She and her husband and son are in a house in which no one but they have ever lived. Outside the house is a world where the shelves are stocked, where radio waves are full of music, where young men walk the streets again, men who have known deprivation and a fear worse than death, who have willingly given up their early twenties and now, thinking of thirty and beyond, haven’t any more time to spare. Their wartime training stands them in good stead. They are lean and strong. They are up at sunrise, uncomplaining. “I like to make your breakfast,” Laura says. “I feel fine.” “I can make breakfast. Just because I have to get up at the crack of dawn doesn’t mean you have to.” “I want to.” The refrigerator hums. A bee thumps heavily, insistently, against a windowpane. Laura takes her pack of Pall Malls from the pocket of her robe. She is three years older than he (there is something vaguely disreputable about this, something vaguely embarrassing); a broad-shouldered woman, angular, dark, foreign-looking, although her family has been failing to prosper in this country for over a hundred years. She slides a cigarette out of the pack, changes her mind, slips it back in again. “Okay,” he says. “If you really want me to, tomorrow I’ll wake you up at six.” “Okay.” She pours herself a cup of the coffee he’s made. She comes back to him with the steaming cup in her hand, kisses his cheek. He pats her rump, affectionately and absentmindedly. He is no longer thinking of her. He is thinking about the day that lies ahead of him, the drive downtown, the torpid golden quiet of Wilshire Boulevard, where all the stores are still locked up and only the most cheerful and dedicated figures, young early-risers like himself, move through sunlight still innocent of the day’s smog. His office will be silent, the typewriters in the secretarial pool still shrouded, and he and a few of the other men his age will have a full hour or more to get caught up on paperwork before the phones start ringing. It seems sometimes to be impossibly fine that he should have all this: an office and a new two-bedroom house, responsibilities and decisions, quick joking lunches with the other men. “The roses are beautiful,” Laura tells him. “How did you get them this early?” “Mrs. Gar is in her shop at six. I just kept tapping at the glass until she let me in.” He looks at his watch, though he knows what time it is. “Hey, I’ve got to go.” “Have a good day.” “You too.” “Happy birthday.” “Thank you.” He stands.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She frowned. Turning back around, she opened the cupboard again. Her eyes went to the thick, solid glass of the honey jar, honeycomb still intact in the center of the golden liquid fresh from the local apiary. Kim considered, then pulled it off the shelf and shut the cupboard door. Unscrewing the cap, she reached across the counter for the small wooden honey drizzler and lowered it into the jar. Twirling it as she brought it back out, she watched as the barely transparent, lava-like liquid streamed back into its container. When the flow paused, Kim brought the wooden implement to her lips, opening her mouth just as the honey started to fall again. It landed on her tongue, and she moaned quietly. All the more because of its unique, extraordinary, direct-from-nature creation process, honey was one of her favorite foods. 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.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Theresa bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut. I sat down on the toilet seat. Theresa cleaned the wound on my mouth with peroxide. “I’m going to use two bandaids,” she told me. “Just to be safe. It might need stitches.” I shook my head slowly. No hospital. I needed gentleness and safety. Theresa gave me both. She took me to bed, held me, caressed me, ran her fingers through my hair and cried. I awoke later and realized Theresa wasn’t next to me. It was still dark outside. I staggered to the kitchen. My body hurt, but I knew the worst stiffness and pain would come a day later. Theresa sat at the kitchen table, with her head in her hands. I noticed the level of whiskey left in the bottle. I pulled her head against my belly and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry,” she kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.” She lurched to her feet and fell heavily against me. I felt the frustration building in her body like a storm. I heard it in the small strangulated sounds from her throat. She pounded me with her fists. “I couldn’t stop them. They cuffed me so fast. I just couldn’t do anything,” she cried. That’s exactly how I felt. We really were in this life together. We might not have the words, but we both knew exactly what we were choking on. There were so many things I wanted to tell her in that moment. Feelings worked themselves up to my throat and then stuck there, clenched like a fist. I kissed Theresa’s sweaty forehead. “It’s OK,” I whispered. “It'll be alright.” We both smiled at the irony of my words. I took her hand and led her back to our bed. The sheets were cool. The night sky was filled with stars. Theresa looked up at me, her face soft and caring. For a moment I almost told Theresa I was afraid I couldn’t go on much longer—even with her love. Emotions moved from my throat to my mouth; the words banged against the back of my teeth. And then they ebbed. Theresa asked me a question with her eyes. I had no answers. I could find nothing to say. Since I had no words to bring the woman I loved so much, I gave her all my tenderness. I found Theresa in the bathroom splashing her face with cold water. Her eyes were red and swollen from tear gas. I tried to hold her tight, but she was excited. She pulled away and started to tell me about what had happened on campus. All the words tumbled out on top of each other. “The students called a strike. They took over the campus and Main Street. The cops were everywhere in riot gear. I stuck around but the tear gas got so bad I couldn’t see. My friend Irma found me and drove me home. Looks like I’m not going to work for a while.”

• 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 Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I pushed the head of my cock gently inside of her. She tensed her body; I waited. Then Annie relaxed and her hips began to move, pulling me into her. When I was deep inside of her I lay still on top of her. Our bodies relaxed, fitting into each other. I didn’t move until she did. I stroked her just a little slower than her motion demanded; her body demanded more. I felt her orgasm building long before she came. As she began to come her hands clawed at my back. Once she pulled my hair so hard I cried out with het. As her orgasm began to ebb I followed it gently— citcles in the broken surface of a pool of water. I searched with her for the next orgasm before the last one had subsided. Together we found it, and later a smaller one. “Oh, Jesse.” It sounded so pretty the way she sighed my name. Her fingertips slid down my back like warm raindrops. I was still rock hard inside of her. We both realized it at once. “What’s the matter, darlin’, you stuck?” Stone Butch Blues 207 “T can’t come with a tubber on,” I said. “Let me take it off and I'll pull out just before I come, I promise.” She turned her head away. “T’ve heard that one before.” “T promise. Trust me.” “Lord have mercy, those are the four most dangerous words out of a man’s mouth. OK, sweetheart, you’re lucky I don’t think I can get pregnant again.” It’s true I faked an ejaculation, but not my pleasure. Annie’s body felt so good. She kissed me deep and slow, moved for me, gave me everything a woman can give to a lover, and I was excited. At the moment when it became unbearable for me to go on any longer I pulled out gently, ground my pelvis against the sheets, and cried out. I lay face down on the bed with my head resting on her belly. Her hands played with my hair. Her fingertips ran across my shoulders, arousing the surface of my skin. I wished I could just stay in that moment in time. We lay together without speaking for a while. “T have to go to the bathroom,” I said. “Me too,” she laughed. “Me first.” Still face down I tucked my dildo 208 = Leslie Feinberg into my briefs. I turned away from her, slipped on my T-shirt, and headed to the bathroom in the darkness. I locked the door, pulled my bag out from behind the tub, and replaced my dildo with a sock in my briefs. I looked in the mirror as I splashed cold water on my face. Still me looking back at me.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  happen to be a rival, they are easy to bait into an overreaction that reveals something less than tough. The Saint: These people are paragons of goodness and purity. They support the best and most progressive causes. They can be very spiritual if that is the circle they travel in; or they are above the corruption and compromises of politics; or they have endless compassion for every type of victim. This saintly exterior developed early on as a way to disguise their strong hunger for power and attention or their strong sensual appetites. The irony is that often by projecting this saintly aura to the nth degree they will gain great power, leading a cult or political party. And once they are in power, the Shadow will have space to operate. They will become intolerant, railing at the impure, punishing them if necessary. Maximilien Robespierre (nicknamed the Incorruptible), who rose to power in the French Revolution, was just such a type. Under his reign, the guillotine was never busier. They are also secretly drawn to sex, to money, to the limelight, and to what is expressly taboo for their particular saintliness. The strain and the temptations are too much—they are the gurus who sleep with their students. They will appear the saint in public, but their family or spouse will see the demonic side in private. (See the story of the Tolstoys in chapter 2.) There are genuine saints out there, but they do not feel the need to publicize their deeds or grab power. To distinguish between the real and the fake, ignore their words and the aura they project, focusing on their deeds and the details of their life—how much they seem to enjoy power and attention, the astonishing degree of wealth they have accumulated, the number of mistresses, the level of self-absorption. Once you recognize this type, do not become a naive follower. Keep some distance. If they are enemies, simply shine a light on the clear signs of hypocrisy. As a variation on this, you will find people who propound a philosophy of free love and anything goes; but in fact they are after power. They prefer sex with those who are dependent on them. And of course anything goes, as long as it’s on their terms. The Passive-Aggressive Charmer: These types are amazingly nice and accommodating when you first meet them, so much so that you tend to let them into your life rather quickly. They smile a lot. They are upbeat and always willing to help. At some point, you may return the favor by hiring them for a job or helping them in their careers. You will detect along the way some cracks in the veneer— perhaps they make a somewhat critical comment out of the blue, or you hear from friends that they have been talking about you behind your back. Then something ugly occurs—a blowup, some act of sabotage or betrayal—so unlike that nice, charming person you first befriended.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  A fresh bout of tears followed, and Paul couldn’t help but chuckle. “Why are you laughing at me?” Brynn sat up, more indignant than modest. “It’s not funny. I look like a whale.” “You look like a mermaid.” “Don’t try placating me,” Brynn accused. “I know what I look like.” Paul slipped to his knees beside the tub, the water that had splashed over the side of the tub soaking through his trousers. “No, you don’t know what you look like. You’re emotional and afraid and you look in the mirror and see how your body has changed and think it’s a bad thing—but it’s not.” He took Brynn’s face in his hands. “Listen to me. You are beautiful. I love the way your body is changing.” To prove his point, he moved his hand from Brynn’s cheek down to her full, dark-tipped breasts. They were exotic, earthy—larger than he’d ever seen them. Paul felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in months out of respect for Brynn’s self-consciousness and discomfort: desire. Hot and needy desire. Without thinking, he cupped Brynn’s breasts in his hands. He thumbed the distended nipples and watched them tighten under his firm caress. “What are you doing?” Brynn asked, a tremor in her voice. Paul looked into those dark cerulean eyes, so suitable for a sexy mermaid. “I’m showing you how beautiful you are.” Brynn squirmed under Paul’s touch, her eyes wide. “That feels…nice.” Paul grasped her nipples between his thumb and index fingers and gave them a gentle tug. “Yeah? You like that, baby?” Brynn nodded, her nostrils flaring. Tendrils of blond hair escaped their confines to curl around her face. She looked innocent and wanton at the same time. Paul moved his hands lower, following the contours of Brynn’s growing belly. It was round and taut, and he felt the baby kick beneath his touch. They both laughed at that, but this wasn’t about the baby. Paul slipped his hand between Brynn’s legs, lightly stroking her blond pubic curls. “Stop. I hate all that stupid hair,” Brynn said. Paul ignored her and kept stroking her. Before the pregnancy, Brynn had waxed her pubic hair so that she was bare and smooth, but her skin was too sensitive for that now. Paul liked the silky-springy feel of the hair beneath his fingers, and he tugged lightly, watching Brynn’s face as she did. Brynn’s eyes went wide, and she caught her breath. “That’s a strange feeling,” she said. “Good?” Brynn nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Tingly.” Paul smiled. He slipped a finger between the lips of Brynn’s pussy and found her clit. He was rewarded by Brynn’s audible gasp.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Theresa bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut. I sat down on the toilet seat. Theresa cleaned the wound on my mouth with peroxide. “I’m going to use two bandaids,” she told me. “Just to be safe. It might need stitches.” I shook my head slowly. No hospital. I needed gentleness and safety. Theresa gave me both. She took me to bed, held me, caressed me, ran her fingers through my hair and cried. I awoke later and realized Theresa wasn’t next to me. It was still dark outside. I staggered to the kitchen. My body hurt, but I knew the worst stiffness and pain would come a day later. Theresa sat at the kitchen table, with her head in her hands. I noticed the level of whiskey left in the bottle. I pulled her head against my belly and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry,” she kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.” She lurched to her feet and fell heavily against me. I felt the frustration building in her body like a storm. I heard it in the small strangulated sounds from her throat. She pounded me with her fists. “I couldn’t stop them. They cuffed me so fast. I just couldn’t do anything,” she cried. That’s exactly how I felt. We really were in this life together. We might not have the words, but we both knew exactly what we were choking on. There were so many things I wanted to tell her in that moment. Feelings worked themselves up to my throat and then stuck there, clenched like a fist. I kissed Theresa’s sweaty forehead. “It’s OK,” I whispered. “It'll be alright.” We both smiled at the irony of my words. I took her hand and led her back to our bed. The sheets were cool. The night sky was filled with stars. Theresa looked up at me, her face soft and caring. For a moment I almost told Theresa I was afraid I couldn’t go on much longer—even with her love. Emotions moved from my throat to my mouth; the words banged against the back of my teeth. And then they ebbed. Theresa asked me a question with her eyes. I had no answers. I could find nothing to say. Since I had no words to bring the woman I loved so much, I gave her all my tenderness. I found Theresa in the bathroom splashing her face with cold water. Her eyes were red and swollen from tear gas. I tried to hold her tight, but she was excited. She pulled away and started to tell me about what had happened on campus. All the words tumbled out on top of each other. “The students called a strike. They took over the campus and Main Street. The cops were everywhere in riot gear. I stuck around but the tear gas got so bad I couldn’t see. My friend Irma found me and drove me home. Looks like I’m not going to work for a while.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  When he lifted his head, the fiercely tender look on his face was one she’d remember for the rest of her life. Or she could just make him show it to her again. She had a lifetime to work on it. FIRST NIGHT Donna George Storey It was a mistake. Sophie gazed at Justin’s sleeping face, so pale against the pillow in the dawn light. Her chest tightened. He was even more beautiful when she could stare to her heart’s content at his thick lashes, the artful slope of his nose, the luscious curve of his shoulder. Yes, he was gorgeous, but it was still a mistake. Sophie glanced over at the alarm clock, which glowed an ice-blue “6:08.” In approximately six hours she and this young man were supposed to tie the knot. But she simply couldn’t go through with it. Her brain ticked off the familiar list: dress, flowers, photographer, ceremony, reception, table assignments, band, cake. This time it wasn’t to reassure herself all was in order but rather to calculate the damage, the shocked faces, the dollars lost, when the bride called the whole thing off the morning of the wedding. Just then, Justin sighed and rolled closer, his hard-on brushing her thigh. Sophie leaned toward him and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of his flesh—cream and earth mixed with a touch of cumin. The insistent ache in her belly was her own version of Justin’s morning boner, which rose unfailingly each day with the sun. She was tempted to reach down and stroke him, even though she’d been the one to suggest they abstain for a week before the wedding. But now she wanted nothing more than to feel his hard cock inside her. The problem had nothing to do with Justin himself. It was the stupid piece of paper that would ruin everything. Suddenly Sophie’s lips stretched into grin. Her brain was foggy—she’d barely slept all night—but she might have a solution to the problem after all. Just as planned, she would dress up in her perfect white sheath and glide off to the lovely historical mansion to be photographed and admired. She would float through the flower garden with her attendants to the wedding gazebo and take Justin’s arm. And then she would turn and address the assembled guests with the utmost dignity: “I want to thank you all for coming today. I know the invitations suggested you would be witnessing a wedding ceremony between Mr. Justin Trevor Phillips and myself, but actually, I have another reason for calling you together. I want to announce that I am having really fabulous sex with Justin.

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

  I felt terrible for him. The more time I spent in jail, the more I realized that the law isn’t rational at all. It’s a lottery. What color is your skin? How much money do you have? Who’s your lawyer? Who’s the judge? Shoplifting PlayStation games was less of an offense than driving with bad number plates. He had committed a crime, but he was no more a criminal than I was. The difference was that he didn’t have any friends or family to help him out. He couldn’t afford anything but a state attorney. He was going to go stand in the dock, unable to speak or understand English, and everyone in the courtroom was going to assume the worst of him. He was going to go to prison for a while and then be set free with the same nothing he had going in. If I had to guess, he was around thirty-five, forty years old, staring down another thirty-five, forty years of the same. — The day of my hearing came. I said goodbye to my new friend and wished him the best. Then I was handcuffed and put in the back of a police van and driven to the courthouse to meet my fate. In South African courts, to minimize your exposure and your opportunities for escape, the holding cell where you await your hearing is a massive pen below the courtroom; you walk up a set of stairs into the dock rather than being escorted through the corridors. What happens in the holding cell is you’re mixed in with the people who’ve been in prison awaiting trial for weeks and months. It’s a weird mix, everything from white-collar criminals to guys picked up on traffic stops to real, hardcore criminals covered with prison tattoos. It’s like the cantina scene from Star Wars, where the band’s playing music and Han Solo’s in the corner and all of the bad guys and bounty hunters from all over the universe are hanging out—a wretched hive of scum and villainy, only there’s no music and there’s no Han Solo. I was with these people for only a brief window of time, but in that moment I saw the difference between prison and jail. I saw the difference between criminals and people who’ve committed crimes. I saw the hardness in people’s faces. I thought back on how naive I’d been just hours before, thinking jail wasn’t so bad and I could handle it. I was now truly afraid of what might happen to me.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Theresa rolled over and touched my face. I wiped away my tears. “Jess, did you say something?” Theresa’s voice was hoarse with sleep. “No, honey,” I stroked her hair and kissed her cheek. “Go back to sleep.” Theresa watched me from the kitchen doorway as I repotted the spider plant. ““There’s a bigger pot under the sink,’ she reminded me. I shook my head. “This one does better when it’s rootbound. The mote pressure on its roots, the more it thrives.” Stone Butch Blues 161 Theresa came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “Is that like us, honey?” I didn’t answer. Theresa turned me around to face her. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. “What is it, baby?” she pressed. I shrugged. “I don’t think I have feelings like other people do. Sometimes you want me to talk to you about how I feel and I can’t figure out if I’m like other people inside. Maybe I don’t have real feelings.” Theresa didn’t answer at first. She lay her head on my shoulder and pulled me close. “Sit down, baby,” she sighed. She pulled a kitchen chair close to mine. “Oh, you have feelings, honey. I think you can feel love, maybe more than other people.” She took my hands in hers. ““There’s so much going on in your heart it scares me sometimes because I’m afraid you'll explode if you don’t have some sort of safety valve. I think anger is real hard for you. Maybe your own rage scares you. And I think humiliation is a rough feeling for anyone to deal with, and I think you feel that way a lot.” I almost couldn’t stand to listen to her words. My temperature rose and I felt dizzy. Theresa pulled me closer and brushed my cheek with her lips. “Take it easy, honey,” she whispered. I pulled back. “But maybe I don’t have feelings like other people. Maybe the way I grew up changed 162 = Leslie Feinberg me inside. Maybe I’m like the plant: my feelings got so choked up that I grew in a different way.” Theresa smiled as she weighed the thought. “Yeah, maybe it’s what makes you so sensitive to other people’s feelings. Sometimes you see so much about people that it used to make me feel naked around you.” I sighed. “Why do feelings have to be such a big deal?” Theresa smiled. “You mean your feelings, honey. You always treat other people’s feelings like they’re a big deal. It’s a hard place for you, sweetheart. But don’t leave me out here alone.” I frowned. “What do you mean?”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Ruth made a face. “Jess, you don’t understand. You can’t just drive up to someone’s house and let them off and drive away. I’ve got to introduce you. They'll offer you coffee.” I grew sullen. “Oh, now I understand.” Ruth’s anger flared. “No, you don’t. I’m not ashamed of you.” Her voice dropped. “I’m ashamed of them sometimes.” I started to protest but she held up one hand to stop me. “It’s a no-win situation. If you like them a lot, I'll be angry with you for not understanding why it was so hard for me to grow up with them. And if you don’t like them, I'll despise you for not recognizing their worth.” I shrugged. “OK, I get that it’s complicated. Pll drop the subject. But ’m going to Buffalo to visit. I’ve got to face some things and find my memories.” Although I didn’t discuss it further, we both knew the subject wasn’t dropped. I kept putting off my trip, partly because I knew it could be painful, but mostly because I still hoped Ruth would come with me. In early September I asked Esperanza if I could borrow her car to make the trip. Ruth puttered around the kitchen pretending not to hear us. Days before I planned to leave I brought Ruth a half-gallon of mulled cider. She sat down in a kitchen chair next to me and stared at her mug, “When I get beat up,” she began in a quiet voice, “it’s always worse when it’s visible. It means other people can see I’ve been hurt. That’s humiliating to me.” I waited for her to continue. “My people aren’t bad,” she said. “I love them more since I left. They love me the best way they know how. P’m family. But it’s hard, and I don’t want anyone who’s not family to see it. I think they’d make you feel welcome as a guest, but Pm not sure. If they were unkind to you, I’d hate them for it. They’re not cruel. But it’s a big risk for me because I could never forgive them if they hurt you.” I stirred my cider with a cinnamon stick. “When are we leaving, Ruth?” She looked surprised. “I didn’t say we were going,” I smiled and nodded. “Yes, you did, honey. Neither of us wrestle that hard with things we’re not ready to take on.” Ruth sighed and patted my hand. “Thursday.” | The world is our restroom! That was out motto on the trip upstate. We brought plenty of toilet paper so we wouldn’t need to risk a rest stop. We left the city well before dawn on our six-hour trek. By the time the sun shone, I was so happy we’d made this difficult trip together. Ruth packed muenster cheese sandwiches with sun-dried tomatoes and arugula on freshly baked bread. We drank quarts of iced tea. The world is our restroom! we laughed.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  what we do. With this continual awareness we can see what really matters, how petty squabbles and side pursuits are irritating distractions. We want that sense of fulfillment that comes from getting things done. We want to lose the ego in that feeling of flow, in which our minds are at one with what we are working on. When we turn away from our work, the pleasures and distractions we pursue have all the more meaning and intensity, knowing their evanescence. See the mortality in everyone. In 1665 a terrible plague roared through London, killing close to 100,000 inhabitants. The writer Daniel Defoe was only five years old at the time, but he witnessed the plague firsthand and it left a lasting impression on him. Some sixty years later, he decided to re-create the events in London that year through the eyes of an older narrator, using his own memories, much research, and the journal of his uncle, creating the book A Journal of the Plague Year . As the plague raged, the narrator of the book notices a peculiar phenomenon: people tend to feel much greater levels of empathy toward their fellow Londoners; the normal differences between them, particularly over religious issues, vanish. “Here we may observe,” he writes, “. . . that a near View of Death would soon reconcile Men of good Principles, one to another, and that it is chiefly owing to our easy Scituation in Life, and our putting these Things far from us, that our Breaches are fomented, ill blood continued. . . . Another Plague Year would reconcile all these Differences, a close conversing with Death, or with Diseases that threaten Death, would scum off the Gall from our Tempers, remove the Animosities among us, and bring us to see with differing Eyes.” There are plenty of examples of what seems to be the opposite— humans slaughtering thousands of fellow humans, often in war, with the sight of such mass deaths not stimulating the slightest sense of empathy. But in these cases, the slaughterers feel separate from those they are killing, whom they have come to see as less than human and under their power. With the plague, no one is spared, no matter their wealth or station in life. Everyone is equally at risk. Feeling personally vulnerable and seeing the vulnerability of everyone else, people’s normal sense of difference and privilege is melted away, and an uncommon generalized empathy emerges. This could be a natural state of mind, if we could only envision the vulnerability and mortality of others as not separate from our own. With our philosophy, we want to manufacture the cleansing effect that the plague has on our tribal tendencies and usual self- absorption. We want to begin this on a smaller scale, by looking first at those around us, in our home and our workplace, seeing and imagining their deaths and noting how this can suddenly alter our