Heating Pad Quotes

How did you tell a man that you'd grown up, that you'd learned true love wasn't a night of passionate sex under a sky lit up by fireworks, but an ordinary Sunday morning when your husband brought you a glass of water, two aspirins, and a heating pad for your cramps?

Ouch," he said. "Move your foot." "No." "Go away." "Glad to see you, too." "What are you doing here?" I asked. "You missed the bus," he said. "I'm sick." "Need chicken soup?" "Actually, it's my period," I lied. "Killer cramps." "Chocolate and a heating pad?" "How do you know that?" "I have an older sister and my mom is a kick-ass feminist," he said. "I'm probably the only guy in school who can buy tampons without having a seizure. Look, at that, I can even say the word. 'Tampon, tampon, tampon.' If you say it enough, it stops sounding like a word, know what I mean?

A puppy feels like life and love. Their entire bodies are soft—fur, skin, the pads of their feet new and delicate. They radiate warmth in the way science can explain, but it goes further than that. The heat of affection pours out of their eyes and makes their little butts wiggle like crazy as soon as they see a person—they don’t even care who. They’re love, encapsulated.

Sooner or later, you will discover which kind of father you are, and at that moment you will, with perfect horror, recognize the type. You are the kind of father who fakes it, who yells, who measures his children with greatest accuracy only against one another, who evades the uncomfortable and glosses over the painful and pads the historic records of his sorrows and accomplishments alike. You are the kind who teases and deceives and toys with his children and subjects them to displays of rich and manifold sarcasm when--as is always the case--sarcasm is the last thing they need. You are the kind of father who pretends knowledge he doesn't possess, and imposes information with implacable gratuitousness, and teaches lessons at the moment when none can be absorbed, and is right, and has always been right, and always will be right until the end of time, and never more than immediately after he has been wrong. And when your daughter's body begins to betray her, and her sky flickers in the distance with the heat lightning of sex, you clear your throat and stroke your chin whiskers and tell her to go ask her mother. You can't help it--you're a walking cliché.

I first saw Lucas at the end of July last summer. Of course, I didn't know who he was then... in fact, come to think of it, I didn't even know what he was. All I could see from the backseat of the car was a green-clad creature padding along the Stand in a shimmering haze of heat; a slight and ragged figure with a mop of straw-blond hair and a way of walking - I smile when I think of it - a way of walking that whispered secrets to the air.

But at what cost? I mean, don’t get me wrong: I would have given almost anything to be rid of that pain. Yet I have spent my year alternately living on a heating pad or getting tests. I have accomplished survival. I still have so many things “wrong” with my body, and I am tired of being poked and prodded. Perhaps none of this makes sense. Or perhaps it makes sense only if you live through it: the hope, the barrage of tests, the self-blame when your body still refuses to cooperate and just get better. There is a cost to pursuing miracle cures. It is a high cost.

When it’s that time of the month, try natural remedies to ease your discomfort. For example, drinking raspberry tea eases cramps, and chamomile tea relaxes you. Essential oils, herbal teas, and elevating your legs while lying down are time-proven solutions. A heating pad and sprinkling lavender oil around the room works wonders, too. Get plenty of rest and relax. As my grandmother would say to me, “This too shall pass,” and it always does.

At last, some fourteen hundred years after the Romans withdrew, taking their hot baths, padded sofas, and central heating with them, the British were rediscovering the novel condition of being congenially situated.

In the car inching its way down Fifth Avenue, toward Bergdorf Goodman and this glamorous party, I looked back on my past with a new understanding. This sickness, the “endo-whatever,” had stained so much—my sense of self, my womanhood, my marriage, my ability to be present. I had effectively missed one week of each month every year of my life since I was thirteen, because of the chronic pain and hormonal fluctuations I suffered during my period. I had lain in bed, with heating pads and hot-water bottles, using acupuncture, drinking teas, taking various pain medications and suffering the collateral effects of them. I thought of all the many tests I missed in various classes throughout my education, the school dances, the jobs I knew I couldn’t take as a model, because of the bleeding and bloating as well as the pain (especially the bathing suit and lingerie shoots, which paid the most). How many family occasions was I absent from? How many second or third dates did I not go on? How many times had I not been able to be there for others or for myself? How many of my reactions to stress or emotional strife had been colored through the lens of chronic pain? My sense of self was defined by this handicap. The impediment of expected pain would shackle my days and any plans I made. I did not see my own womanhood as something positive or to be celebrated, but as a curse that I had to constantly make room for and muddle through. Like the scar on my arm, my reproductive system was a liability. The disease, developing part and parcel with my womanhood starting at puberty with my menses, affected my own self-esteem and the way I felt about my body. No one likes to get her period, but when your femininity carries with it such pain and consistent physical and emotional strife, it’s hard not to feel that your body is betraying you. The very relationship you have with yourself and your person is tainted by these ever-present problems. I now finally knew my struggles were due to this condition. I wasn’t high-strung or fickle and I wasn’t overreacting.

In 2008, Lawrence Williams and John Bargh conducted a study where they had people meet strangers. One group held a cup of warm coffee, and the other group held iced coffee. Later, when asked to rate the stranger’s personality, the people who held the warm coffee said they found the stranger to be nice, generous, and caring. The other group said the same person was difficult, standoffish, hard to talk to. In another round of research subjects held either a heating pad or a cold pack and then were asked to look at various products and judge their overall quality. Once they had done this, the experimenters told them they could choose a gift to keep for participating or they could give the gift to someone else. Those who held the heating pad chose to give away their reward 54 percent of the time, but only 25 percent of the cold pack group shared. The groups had turned their physical sensations into words, and then used those words as metaphors to explain their perceptions or predict their own actions.

The box was filled with a heating pad, painkillers, several pints of cookie dough ice cream, different kinds of chocolate and all my favorite junk food. There was even a variety box of tampons. My eyes burned. The guys… Something started waving from behind the blazer. A white flag. Someone, probably one of the twins, waved the makeshift flag in surrender.

What he did instead was clean his shelter. He had been sleeping on the foam pad that had come with the survival pack and he straightened everything up and hung his bag out in the sun to air-dry and then used the hatchet to cut the ends of new evergreen boughs and laid them like a carpet in the shelter. As soon as he brought the boughs inside and the heat from the fire warmed them they gave off the most wonderful smell, filled the whole shelter with the odor of spring, and he brought the bag back inside and spread the pad and bag and felt as if he were in a new home. The berries boiled first and he added snow water to them and kept them boiling until he had a kind of mush in the pan. By that time the meat had cooked and he set it off to the side and tasted the berry

A puppy feels like life and love. Their entire bodies are soft—fur, skin, the pads of their feet new and delicate. They radiate warmth in the way science can explain, but it goes further than that. The heat of affection pours out of their eyes and makes their little butts wiggle like crazy as soon as they see a person—they don’t even care who. They’re love, encapsulated. And someone touched that, put it in a bag, and killed it.

The first time Dad tried Rollerblades he had a bad wipeout on the sidewalk in front of our house- his feet went flying out from under him and he bruised his tailbone. "If God had ment us to have wheels on our feet he would have put them there," he said a few minutes later, searching the linen closet for the heating pad. And whenever Derek and I sometimes Mom went ice-skating at the rink in Ashton City, Dad would watch from the benches on the sidelines. "If God had meant for us to have blades on our feet...

Tod Clifton's one with the ages. But what's that to do with you in this heat under this veiled sun? Now he's part of history, and he has received his true freedom. Didn't they scribble his name on a standardized pad? His Race: colored! Religion: unknown, probably born Baptist. Place of birth: U.S. Some southern town. Next of kin: unknown. Address: unknown. Occupation: unemployed. Cause of death (be specific): resisting reality in the form of a .38 caliber revolver in the hands of the arresting officer, on Forty-second between the library and the subway in the heat of the afternoon, of gunshot wounds received from three bullets, fired at three paces, one bullet entering the right ventricle of the heart, and lodging there, the other severing the spinal ganglia traveling downward to lodge in the pelvis, the other breaking through the back and traveling God knows where.

Eleanor bit her lip. Camden West appeared remarkably…sturdy. His shoulders were half the length of the mantle, for pity’s sake, and he wasn’t thin or gangly like so many men of such imposing height. Perhaps he padded his coats? Yes, that must be it. The chest and the arms, anyway. Eleanor’s gaze dropped to his tight, buff-colored breeches. He must pad those, as well. Her face heated. My. That was a great deal of padding.

Panning his sunglasses across Quincy, Jamie, and LB, he spun his finger in small circles. He spoke into the mike curled at his lips. “Spinning up now.” Quincy climbed to his feet. He offered a mitt down to Jamie to lift him, then to LB. Across the pad, through waves of heat off the concrete, the rotors of Pedro 1 accelerated also. Quincy and Jamie hurried away with their packs and carbines. Jamie’s gait showed the strain; Quincy dug a big paw under the boy’s pack to help him along. LB donned his helmet and shouldered his rifle. Wally stayed seated, on the radio recalling Doc from the hospital.

Isaiah lazily yet deliberately tilts his head as he stares into my eyes. My entire body hums and a fuzzy sensation fills my head, making it hard to focus. My mouth opens then closes. And as he slowly bends down, my tongue quickly licks my dry lips. I hope I’m doing this right. I want to do this right. Isaiah slips his hand from my chin to cradle my head. His fingers tunnel through my hair, making the back of my neck tingle with anticipation as the pad of his thumb whispers gently against my cheek. His lips hover right next to mine and his warm breath heats my face. The blood pounds so wildly in my veins that he has to sense the vibration. There’s a magnetic pull taking over the small distance between our lips. An energy I can’t resist. My head inclines opposite his and the moment I close my eyes, his mouth brushes mine. Soft. Warm. Gentle. His lips move slowly, exerting pressure. And I feel like I can’t breathe, yet like I’m flying. The pressure ends, but his mouth stays near mine. His hand grips my waist and my spine gives at the shockingly right pleasure of his touch. Isaiah senses my weakness and his hand snakes its way around my waist, his strong arm holds me up. And he explores again. A little pressure on my lower lip. A little pressure on the top. And then I remember that I’m supposed to kiss him back. Nerves send small shock waves through my chest, and my hand trembles as I raise it to his shoulders. I press both my lips into his lower one right as my fingers caress the side of his neck. Isaiah shivers. In a good way, I think. I open my mouth to ask when his lips move fast against mine, sucking in my lower one, causing warmth and excitement to explode in my body, the aftermath of that divine encounter melting every piece of me. I moan, and Isaiah’s arm tightens, bringing my body closer to his. My lips maneuver against his in response. A yes to his pulling me closer. A yes to his lips taking in mine. A yes to the fact that he allows me to perform the same succulent kiss on him. I can’t help it. I permit the tip of my tongue to barely brush his lower lip. Isaiah curls my hair into his fist and I love how my touch affects him, affects me. Wrapping my other arm around his neck, I lose all sense of independence with his sweet taste. I like this. I like this a lot.

I stepped from the desert doorway with nothing except the clothes on my back and a shoulder bag filled with notebooks—blue-lined paper pads bound together with rubber bands and stained with my sweat, with camel shit, by smears of my own blood. The pages crazed with jottings about devastating heat. The bearings for remote wells. Inked maps of pilgrim roads. The divinations of Bedouin fire cures. Mile upon mile of sentences from an austere kingdom still largely closed to the world. I walked along the concrete highway and spotted the first alcoholic artifacts I had seen in seven months (bottles, cans), past a large potash mine, and up the wrinkled coast to a tourist town. I saw women in colorful sarongs. Some drove cars. Nobody watched me. I floated out of a desert wadi like windblown trash. I found an ATM. I asked directions to a posh hotel with knockoff Mies van der Rohe tubular furniture in the lobby. Men gave camel rides to tourists outside. “And where”—asked the clerk, without the least curiosity, as I signed the paperwork—”are you coming from, Mr. Salopek?

I’ll go myself,” the sergeant said tersely. He was getting annoyed. The stairway went down underneath the ground floor to a depth of about eight feet. A short paved corridor ran in front of the boiler room at right angles to the stairs, where each end was closed off by unpainted panelled doors. Both the stairs and the corridor felt like loose gravel underfoot, but otherwise they were clean. Splotches of blood were more in evidence in the corridor and a bloody hand mark showed clearly on the unpainted door to the rear. “Let’s not touch anything,” the sergeant cautioned, taking out a clean white handkerchief to handle the doorknob. “I better call the fingerprint crew,” the photographer said. “No, Joe will call them; I’ll need you. And you local fellows better wait outside, we’re so crowded in here we’ll destroy the evidence.” “Ed and I won’t move,” Grave Digger said. Coffin Ed grunted. Taking no further notice of them, the sergeant pushed open the door. It was black and dark inside. First he shone his light over the wall alongside the door and all over the corridor looking for electric light switches. One was located to the right of each door. Taking care to avoid stepping in any of the blood splotches, the sergeant moved from one switch to another, but none worked. “Blown fuse,” he muttered, picking his way back to the open room. Without having to move, Grave Digger and Coffin Ed could see all they wanted through the open door. Originally made to accommodate a part-time janitor or any type of laborer who would fire the boiler for a place to sleep, the room had been converted into a pad. All that remained of the original was a partitioned-off toilet in one corner and a washbasin in the other. An opening enclosed by heavy wire mesh opened into the boiler room, serving for both ventilation and heat. Otherwise the room was furnished like a boudoir. There was a dressing-table with a triple mirror, three-quarter bed with chenille spread, numerous foam-rubber pillows in a variety of shapes, three round yellow scatter rugs. On the whitewashed walls an obscene mural had been painted in watercolors depicting black and white silhouettes in a variety of perverted sex acts, some of which could only be performed by male contortionists. And everything was splattered with blood, the walls, the bed, the rugs. The furnishings were not so much disarrayed, as though a violent struggle had taken place, but just bloodied. “Mother-raper stood still and let his throat be cut,” Grave Digger observed. “Wasn’t that,” Coffin Ed corrected. “He just didn’t believe it is all.

Even in the dry heat of summer's end, the great forest was never silent. Along the ground – soft, bare soil, twigs and fallen branches, decaying leaves black as ashes – there ran a continuous flow of sound. As a fire burns with a murmur of flames, with the intermittent crack of exploding knots în the logs and the falling and settling of coal, so on the forest floor the hours of dusky light consumed away with rustlings, patterings, sighing and dying of breeze, scuttlings of rodents, snakes, lizards and now and then the padding of some larger animal on the move. Above, the green dusk of creepers and branches formed another realm, inhabited by the monkeys and sloths, by hunting spiders and birds innumerable -creatures passing all their lives high above the ground. Here the noises were louder and harsher –chatterings, sudden cacklings and screams, hollow knockings, bell-like calls and the swish of disturbed leaves and branches. Higher still, in the topmost tiers, where the sunlight fell upon the outer surface of the forest as upon the upper side of an expanse of green clouds, the raucous gloom gave place to a silent brightness, the province of great butterflies flitting across the sprays in a solitude where no eye admired nor any ear caught the minute sounds made by those marvellous wings.

Even though Jasmine was supposed to try Marcella's Stone Plum Soup tonight, she pulled at her baking cupboard. She wanted chocolate. She wanted oozing, rich, creamy, comforting chocolate. She would throw chops on the grill and toss a salad for dinner. Tonight, she was going to concentrate her efforts on dessert. She pulled out her big bowl and mixer. She took down blocks of chocolate, vanilla, sugar. Poked her head into the refrigerator to count the eggs. Ten. Just enough. Her mouth watered, her tongue repeatedly swallowing the swamp that had become her mouth. Cream? A pint poked from behind the mayonnaise. She smelled it. One day to spare. She padded to the liquor cabinet and examined her choices. Brandy, amaretto, Grand Marnier. Mmm, yes. Grand Marnier, a subtle orange swirl. The chocolate and butter wobbled over the heat of the double boiler. Unctuous and smooth. Jasmine beat the eggs and sugar until lemony light. She poured in the chocolate in a long professional sweep. A few deft turns of the spatula turned the mixture into what she really craved. She stood over the bowl tasting slabs of it from the spatula. A good dash of Grand Marnier. Another taste. And another. She had to discard a number of egg whites to fit with the reduced mixture. She finally tipped the glossy beaten whites into the chocolate.

I’ve put down half a pitcher of water by the time she comes to take my order. She fills another pitcher and sets it in front of me, standing with her pen in her hand, distracted, waiting for me to order. It’s early afternoon and well north of 100 degrees. Perusing the menu, I comment on the heat. “Man, it’s hot out there.” Setting her order pad down on the counter, crossing her arms, tapping the back of her pen against her lower lip, she looks out the window at my bike leaning there. Her eyes drift to mine with that look women can give men. You know the look, the one that says, “I’m wondering if you’re trying to act dumb, or if you really might be that dumb.” Not necessarily mean, just curious. I smile sheepishly beneath the pressure of the question behind her look. Every man reading these words knows exactly what I’m talking about here. You get the look, so you know you’ve said or done something really stupid, but you don’t have a clue what it is you’ve done or said that is so outrageously idiotic. Which just makes it worse. She sees all this wash across my face, and a small smile plays at the corners of her face. Still tapping the pen against her lower lip, she brings her elbows down to rest on the bar, leaning in a little closer to me, as if letting me in on her secret. “Honey, it’s June. It’s the hottest month in the Sonoran Desert.” Pausing, she looks again at my bicycle leaning against her window. “You’re riding a bicycle across the black asphalt in the hottest desert in the hottest month.” She pauses there, looking into my eyes, raising one eyebrow, letting me know a question is coming. “What, exactly, did you expect?” Hmmm. Good point. I might have heard those words whispered to me by the desert itself earlier today. “Right,” I say, closing the menu and handing it to her, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’ll take the burger.” We smile at each other as she takes the menu.

On these lands, in both the occupied places and those left to grow wild, alongside the community and the dwindling wildlife, there lived another creature. At night, he roamed the roads that connected Arcand to the larger town across the Bay where Native people were still unwelcome two centuries on. His name was spoken in the low tones saved for swear words and prayer. He was the threat from a hundred stories told by those old enough to remember the tales. Broke Lent? The rogarou will come for you. Slept with a married woman? Rogarou will find you. Talked back to your mom in the heat of the moment? Don't walk home. Rogarou will snatch you up. Hit a woman under any circumstance? Rogarou will call you family, soon. Shot too many deer, so your freezer is overflowing but the herd thin? If I were you, I'd stay indoors at night. Rogarou knows by now. He was a dog, a man, a wolf. He was clothed, he was naked in his fur, he wore moccasins to jig. He was whatever made you shiver but he was always there, standing by the road, whistling to the stars so that they pulsed bright in the navy sky, as close and as distant as ancestors. For girls, he was the creature who kept you off the road or made you walk in packs. The old women never said, "Don't go into town, it is not safe for us there. We go missing. We are hurt." Instead, they leaned in and whispered a warning: "I wouldn't go out on the road tonight. Someone saw the rogarou just this Wednesday, leaning against the stop sign, sharpening his claws with the jawbone of a child." For boys, he was the worst thing you could ever be. "You remember to ask first and follow her lead. You don't want to turn into Rogarou. You'll wake up with blood in your teeth, not knowing and no way to know what you've done." Long after that bone salt, carried all the way from the Red River, was ground to dust, after the words it was laid down with were not even a whisper and the dialect they were spoken in was rubbed from the original language into common French, the stories of the rogarou kept the community in its circle, behind the line. When the people forgot what they had asked for in the beginning - a place to live, and for the community to grow in a good way - he remembered, and he returned on padded feet, light as stardust on the newly paved road. And that rogarou, heart full of his own stories but his belly empty, he came home not just to haunt. He also came to hunt.

Matthew knew it was wrong the instant their lips met. Because nothing would ever equal the perfection of Daisy in his arms. He was ruined for life. God help him, he didn’t care. Her mouth was soft and hot, like sunshine, like the white blaze of a heartwood fire. She gasped as he touched her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Slowly her hands came to his shoulders, and then he felt her fingers at the back of his head, sliding into his hair to keep him from pulling away. There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening. Nothing could have made him stop. A tremor shook his fingers as he bracketed the exquisite line of her jaw in the open framework of his hand, gently angling her face upward. The flavor of her mouth, sweet and elusive, fueled a hunger that threatened to rage out of control… he searched the damp silk beyond her lips, deeper, harder, until she began to breathe in long sighs, her body molding against his. He let her feel how much stronger he was, how much heavier, one muscular arm clamped along her back, his feet spread to hold her between the powerful length of his thighs. Her upper half was bound in a laced and padded corset. He was almost overcome by a savage desire to tear away the stays and quilting and find the tender flesh beneath. Instead he sank his fingers into her pinned-up hair and tugged it backward until the weight of her head was cradled in his hand, and her pale throat was exposed. He searched for the pulse he had seen earlier, his lips dragging softly along the secret pathway of nerves beneath her skin. When he reached a senstive spot, he felt the vibration of her suppressed moan against his mouth. This was what it would be like to make love to her, he thought dazedly… the sweet shivering of her flesh as he entered her, the delicate chaos of her breath, the helpless sounds that rustled in her throat. Her skin, warm and female, scented like tea and talcum and a trace of salt. He found her mouth again, opened it, delving into wet silk, heat, and an intimate flavor that drove him mad. She should have struggled, but there was only yielding and more softness, driving him past all limits. He began to ravish her mouth with deep, twisting kisses, bringing her body rhythmically against his. He felt her legs part beneath her gown, his thigh fitting neatly between them. She squirmed with innocent desire, her face blooming with the color of late summer poppies. Had she understood exactly what he wanted from her, she would have done more than blush. She would have fainted on the spot. Lifting his mouth from hers, Matthew pressed his jaw against the side of her head. “I think,” he said raggedly, “this puts to rest any question of whether I find you desirable or not.

Chicago, Illinois 1896 Opening Night Wearing her Brünnhilda costume, complete with padding, breastplate, helm, and false blond braids, and holding a spear as if it were a staff, Sophia Maxwell waited in the wings of the Canfield-Pendegast theatre. The bright stage lighting made it difficult to see the audience filling the seats for opening night of Die Walküre, but she could feel their anticipation build as the time drew near for the appearance of the Songbird of Chicago. She took slow deep breaths, inhaling the smell of the greasepaint she wore on her face. Part of her listened to the music for her cue, and the other part immersed herself in the role of the god Wotan’s favorite daughter. From long practice, Sophia tried to ignore quivers of nervousness. Never before had stage fright made her feel ill. Usually she couldn’t wait to make her appearance. Now, however, nausea churned in her stomach, timpani banged pain-throbs through her head, her muscles ached, and heat made beads of persperation break out on her brow. I feel more like a plucked chicken than a songbird, but I will not let my audience down. Annoyed with herself, Sophia reached for a towel held by her dresser, Nan, standing at her side. She lifted the helm and blotted her forehead, careful not to streak the greasepaint. Nan tisked and pulled out a small brush and a tin of powder from one of the caprious pockets of her apron. She dipped the brush into the powder and wisked it across Sophia’s forehead. “You’re too pale. You need more rouge.” “No time.” A rhythmic sword motif sounded the prelude to Act ll. Sophia pivoted away from Nan and moved to the edge of the wing, looking out to the scene of a rocky mountain pass. Soon the warrior-maiden Brünnhilda would make an appearance with her famous battle cry. She allowed the anticpaptory energy of the audience to fill her body. The trills of the high strings and upward rushing passes in the woodwinds introduced Brünnhilda. Right on cue, Sophia made her entrance and struck a pose. She took a deep breath, preparing to hit the opening notes of her battle call. But as she opened her mouth to sing, nothing came out. Caught off guard, Sophia cleared her throat and tried again. Nothing. Horrified, she glanced around, as if seeking help, her body hot and shaky with shame. Across the stage in the wings, Sophia could see Judith Deal, her understudy and rival, watching. The other singer was clad in a similar costume to Sophia’s for her role as the valkerie Gerhilde. A triumphant expression crossed her face. Warwick Canfield-Pendegast, owner of the theatre, stood next to Judith, his face contorted in fury. He clenched his chubby hands. A wave of dizziness swept through Sophia. The stage lights dimmed. Her knees buckled. As she crumpled to the ground, one final thought followed her into the darkness. I’ve just lost my position as prima dona of the Canfield-Pendegast Opera Company.

flicker?" He points to the screen and pauses the vid. "That's when they switched the footage." I stare at the screen. "How do I know you're not the ones lying?" "You saw it yourself on the street," Meyer says. I glance up from the pad and lock eyes with Meyer. "What else are they lying about?" Jayson chuckles. "Well… that's going to take longer than we have." "Here's one," Meyer says. "Remember that last viral outbreak that killed a bunch of Level Ones?" "3005B?" My heart races. That's the virus that ultimately killed Ben thirteen years ago. "That's it. The one they use in all the broadcasts to remind citizens how important it is to get your MedVac updates? It wasn't an accident." We were always told a virus swept through Level One because they hadn't gotten their updated VacTech yet. Hundreds of people died in the day it took to get everyone up to date. "My brother died because of that." Everything I've found out over the last week suddenly grips me with fear. This can't be real. My breath shortens, and suddenly my head starts slowly spinning. Everything goes blurry. Then black. ~~~ "It's all right, kid," a distant voice, which must be Jayson's, echoes in the back of my mind. The room swirls around me. Their faces blur in and out of focus. "Meyer, get her." Blinking a couple of times, I try to sit up. I guess I fell. Meyer's warm hands rest on the back of my neck, my head in his lap. "Don't stand. You could pass out again," he says. He helps me sit up. "Are you okay?" "No, I'm not okay," I mumble. "This is too much." I feel like I should be crying, but I'm not. The reality is that the anger I feel is so much greater than any sadness. Neither Meyer nor Jayson speak, and let me mull over what I've just heard. "Why did they do that?" I eventually ask. "Two reasons, kid," Jayson says. "To cull the Level Ones, and to scare Elore into taking the VacTech. If viral outbreaks are still a threat, no one questions it, and continues believing inside the perimeter is the safest place for them." "I'm sorry about your brother," Meyer says as he stands, offering me his hand. His words are genuine, filled with the emotions of someone who has also experienced loss. "I hate to end this," Jayson interrupts, "but it's time to go." Meyer eyes Jayson, and then me. "I understand if you're not ready, but you need to choose soon. Within the next few days." I take his hand and pull myself to my feet. Words catch somewhere between my heart and throat. The old me wants to tell them to get lost and to never bother me again. It's so risky. Then again, I can't stand by while Manning and Direction kill people to keep us in the dark. Joining is the right thing to do. Feelings I've never experienced before well inside my chest, and I long to shout, When do we start? Instead, I stuff them down and stare at the ground. Subtle pressure squeezes my hand, bringing me back to the present. I never let go of Meyer's hand. How long have we been like that? He releases my hand as he mutters and steps back. The heat from his touch still flickers on my skin. You didn't have to go. I clear my throat and turn toward Meyer. Our eyes lock. "I've already decided," I tell him. "I'll do it. For Ben. Direction caused his death, and there's no way I'm standing by and letting them do this to more people." I barely recognize my own voice as I ask, "What do I do?" A slap hits my back and I choke. Jayson. "Atta girl. Meyer and I knew you had it in you." "Jayson, you have to give Avlyn some time." Meyer steps toward me and holds his handheld in the air toward Jayson. "I'll bring her up to speed." "Sure thing." Jayson throws his hands in the air and walks to the other side of the room. "Sorry," Meyer murmurs. "Jayson is pretty… overwhelming. At least until you know him. Even then…" "Oh, it's fine." A white lie. "He's a nice guy. Now, why don't you tell me the instructions

I, Prayer (A Poem of Magnitudes and Vectors) I, Prayer, know no hour. No season, no day, no month nor year. No boundary, no barrier or limitation–no blockade hinders Me. There is no border or wall I cannot breach. I move inexorably forward; distance holds Me not. I span the cosmos in the twinkling of an eye. I knowest it all. I am the most powerful force in the Universe. Who then is My equal? Canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook? None is so fierce that dare stir him up. Surely, I may’st with but a Word. Who then is able to stand before Me? I am the wind, the earth, the metal. I am the very empyrean vault of Heaven Herself. I span the known and the unknown beyond Eternity’s farthest of edges. And whatsoever under Her wings is Mine. I am a gentle stream, a fiery wrath penetrating; wearing down mountains –the hardest and softest of substances. I am a trickling brook to fools of want lost in the deserts of their own desires. I am a Niagara to those who drink in well. I seep through cracks. I inundate. I level forests kindleth unto a single burning bush. My hand moves the Universe by the mind of a child. I withhold treasures solid from the secret stores to they who would wrench at nothing. I do not sleep or eat, feel not fatigue, nor hunger. I do not feel the cold, nor rain or wind. I transcend the heat of the summer’s day. I commune. I petition. I intercede. My time is impeccable, by it worlds and destinies turn. I direct the fates of nations and humankind. My Words are Iron eternaled—rust not they away. No castle keep, nor towers of beaten brass, Nor the dankest of dungeon helks, Nor adamantine links of hand-wrought steel Can contain My Spirit–I shan’t turn back. The race is ne’er to the swift, nor battle to the strong, nor wisdom to the wise or wealth to the rich. For skills and wisdom, I give to the sons of man. I take wisdom and skills from the sons of man for they are ever Mine. Blessed is the one who finds it so, for in humility comes honor, For those who have fallen on the battlefield for My Name’s sake, I reach down to lift them up from On High. I am a rose with the thorn. I am the clawing Lion that pads her children. My kisses wound those whom I Love. My kisses are faithful. No occasion, moment in time, instances, epochs, ages or eras hold Me back. Time–past, present and future is to Me irrelevant. I span the millennia. I am the ever-present Now. My foolishness is wiser than man’s My weakness stronger than man’s. I am subtle to the point of formlessness yet formed. I have no discernible shape, no place into which the enemy may sink their claws. I AM wisdom and in length of days knowledge. Strength is Mine and counsel, and understanding. I break. I build. By Me, kings rise and fall. The weak are given strength; wisdom to those who seek and foolishness to both fooler and fool alike. I lead the crafty through their deceit. I set straight paths for those who will walk them. I am He who gives speech and sight - and confounds and removes them. When I cut, straight and true is my cut. I strike without fault. I am the razored edge of high destiny. I have no enemy, nor friend. My Zeal and Love and Mercy will not relent to track you down until you are spent– even unto the uttermost parts of the earth. I cull the proud and the weak out of the common herd. I hunt them in battles royale until their cries unto Heaven are heard. I break hearts–those whose are harder than granite. Beyond their atomic cores, I strike their atomic clock. Elect motions; not one more or less electron beyond electron’s orbit that has been ordained for you do I give–for His grace is sufficient for thee until He desires enough. Then I, Prayer, move on as a comet, Striking out of the black. I, His sword, kills to give Life. I am Living and Active, the Divider asunder of thoughts and intents. I Am the Light of Eternal Mind. And I, Prayer, AM Prayer Almighty.

Some grant programs are structured as competitions. New York City’s Industrial Growth Initiative, now in its second year, is a two-stage process that requires businesses to attend a growth workshop and then apply for a more in-depth workshop series covering topics like human resources and marketing. The program culminates with a business plan competition, where participants put what they have learned to work and create expansion plans to guide their next stage of growth. The plans are pitched to an audience of judges and business leaders, and three winners split a $150,000 prize. One recent winner was Eric Campione, chief administrative officer for P.A.C. Plumbing, Heating, & Air Conditioning. Mr. Campione submitted a plan to bring the third-generation family-owned business on Staten Island into the digital age with new technology, such as iPads for field technicians. It is about more than money, though.

Anyone Can Deal With Arthritis With These Simple Tips There is more than one type of arthritis and it is important to know what you have before you can begin proper treatment. If you find this fact helpful, then read this article because it contains even more helpful advice in order to help you live comfortably in the face of this painful condition. If you have rheumatoid arthritis, measure your pain. Use a scale of one to ten to let yourself know how difficult a new task is for you to accomplish. Take a measurement before the task, and again after. This will let you know how that task is effecting your body, and your life. It is important that you have enough calcium in your diet if you suffer from arthritis. Medical research has proven that inflammatory arthritis conditions are worse if a person does not have enough calcium in their diet. You can find calcium in many different foods, including milk, cheese, and ice cream. Lose weight to help reduce your arthritis symptoms. Losing even a few pounds has been shown to take pressure off of weight bearing joints and reduce the pain that you suffer with arthritis. It can also help reduce your risk of developing osteoarthritis of the knee and can slow the rate in which your arthritis progresses. Maintaining a healthy body weight reduces the stress placed on arthritic joints. Carrying around extra wait can place an enormous amount of stress on arthritic joints. Do not skip meals or deny yourself food in order to shed pounds, but adhere to a diet that provides your body with the necessary nutrients. Try hot wax for relief. While heating pads can give great relief when used, they do not completely touch every painful spot. Warm wax envelopes your entire hand or foot, giving you complete relief to the painful areas. Make sure the wax is not too hot, and do not use it too often, or you may cause more irritation than you fix. Make sure to eat plenty of fruits and vegetables if you want to help ease the effects of arthritis. Fruits and vegetables are healthy for all people, but for people with arthritis, they are especially helpful because they have vitamins and nutrients that help to build healthy joints and reduce joint inflammation. Let the sun in. Vitamin D has been shown to help relieve some symptoms of arthritis, and sunshine is well-known for increasing positive thoughts and bettering moods. Opening your blinds for around fifteen minutes every day can be enough to give you some great benefits, while still being in the comfort of your home. Add ginger to your food. Ginger is well known for relieving inflammation and stiffness, so adding a few grams a day to your foods can help you reap the benefits of this healthy plant. Ginger and honey drinks are the best method, as honey also gives some of the same benefits. In conclusion, you know not only that there is more than one type of arthritis that can develop, but there are different ways to identify and treat it. Hopefully you will find this information usefu visit spectrumthermography.com and that it will allow you to help yourself or other people that are afflicted with this painful disease.

Avenell." His name was a whisper, a sigh, a sacred vow on her lips. The ache inside him deepened. He knew what she wanted. Somehow, he always knew. Despite the truth he had to acknowledge, he was unable to deny her. He lowered his head to take the words from her, pressing his mouth to hers as her eyes fell closed. Lifting his hand, he cradled the side of her face, indulging in the smooth warmth of her cheek against his palm and the way her pulse fluttered where the pad of his little finger rested below her earlobe. She tilted her head to deepen the kiss, and he responded with a sensual sweep of his tongue. No matter how many times they had come together in the last couple of weeks, the heat never dissipated. The urgency and the passion seemed to grow. It was too much and yet would never be enough. She began to lean into him, and though he tensed when she pressed against his chest, he did not stop her. Nor did he object when her hands came up to rest on either side of his lower rib cage. He just breathed more deeply of her scent, allowing the essence that was Lily to overwhelm his senses. After a few long minutes, he drew back to rest his forehead against hers. He could not resist the temptation of savoring that moment.

When he finished his portion, he retrieved the other buffalo fur from where he had kicked it earlier and stretched out on his back beside her. Snapping his fingers, he pointed to the space next to him. Loretta curled up on her side, as close to the edge of the pallet as she could. She jumped when she felt his hand in her hair. When she realized that he had wrapped a length of it around his wrist, helpless rage welled within her. Miserable, Loretta hugged herself to ward off the cold, too proud and too frightened to seek warmth with him under the fur. He sighed and yawned, draping a corner of the robe over her. Accidentally? Or on purpose? She couldn’t be sure. Heat radiated from his body and immediately began to warm her back. Loretta fought against the desire to inch closer and hugged herself more tightly. It really wasn’t that cold tonight. it just felt that way because of her sunburn. Oh, but she was chilled. So chilled she felt sick--hot on the inside, shaking on the outside. When she closed her eyes, her head whirled. If only he would throw more wood on the fire. Seconds slipped by, mounting into minutes, and still Loretta huddled in a shivering ball. The Comanche lay motionless beside her. Warmth seeped from his body, beckoning to her. She cocked an ear, trying to tell by his breathing if he was awake. She’d be crazy to move closer unless he was asleep. If he was, he’d never know, would he? And she could warm herself, stop shivering. He had to be asleep. Nobody could lie that still otherwise. She wriggled her bottom over just a little way, then held her breath. He didn’t move. For a long while she lay there listening, waiting. Nothing. She moved in another inch. He remained perfectly still. Loretta relaxed a little, taking care not to lean so close she touched him. In a few minutes she would grow warm and ease away, and he would be none the wiser. With no warning, he rolled onto his side. He threw a heavy arm across her waist, splaying his broad hand on her midriff just below her breasts. With an ease that alarmed her, he pulled her snugly against him, scraping her sunburned thigh on the fur. His well-padded chest felt as warm as a fire against her back. He bent his knees so his thighs cradled hers. For several seconds Loretta held herself rigid, not sure what to expect next, imagining the worst. He nuzzled her hair, his breath warm on her scalp. Was he asleep? She stared at the fire, her nerve endings leaping every time he inhaled and exhaled, every time his fingers flexed. Slowly the heat from his body chased the chill from hers. Loretta’s eyelids grew heavy. The wind whispering in the treetops seemed peaceful now, not frightening. The shifting shadows that had terrified her for hours became just that, shifting shadows. A branch cracked somewhere in the darkness. A large animal of some kind, she guessed. It didn’t matter. Wolf, bear, coyote, or cougar, Hunter the terrible was beside her. Nothing would dare challenge him.

We’re almost finished, Willie,” Dad said in cheerful greeting. “Soon as we get these boards nailed on, your dog can move in. It’s too cold to paint the house until spring. Think he’ll like it?” “I don’t know, Dad,” Willie said cautiously. “It’s not heated.” “Hated?” Dad said indignantly. “Don’t be ridiculous. What do you expect for the mutt, hot and cold running water?” “Maybe we could run a heating pad from the house to the yard,” Willie suggested helpfully. Dad snorted.

dogs sleep on padded beds inside heated homes.

What do you need? I'll get it. I'm going out anyway." She clutched the heating pad to her belly and eyed me. "You don't want to buy what I need. Trust me." I scoffed. "What? Pads? Tampons? I have six sisters, this isn't my first rodeo. Text me what you want." I turned for the garage before she could object. I couldn't care less about buying the stuff, and she didn't strike me as the kind of woman to be embarrassed by feminine products- or anything for that matter.

One Politburo meeting had an important topic to discuss, but before the meeting began, Jiang Qing raised a fuss, saying, 'Premier, you need to solve a serious problem for me, otherwise there will be real trouble!' Zhou Enlai asked, 'Comrade Jiang Qing, what is this serious problem?' Jiang Qing said, 'The toilet im my quarters is so cold that I can't use it in chilly weather - I'll catch the flu the moment I sit on it, and once I catch the flu, I can't go to see Chairman Mao for fear he'll catch it. Isn't this a serious matter?' Zhou Enlai said, 'How shall we deal with this? Shall I send someone to have a look at it after the meeting?' Jiang Qing found this unacceptable, saying, 'Premier, you lack class sentiment toward me; the class enemies are just waiting for me to die as soon as possible!' Zhou Enlai had no choice but to cancel the meeting and take us all over to Jiang Qing's quarters. Zhou Enlai looked at Jiang Qing's toilet and rubbed his chin thoughtfully without coming up with a solution. Finally he said, 'Comrade Jiang Qing, how about this: We don't have the technology to heat this toilet, but we could wrap the seat with insulating material, and also pad it with soft cloth, and that should solve the problem temporarily.' Jiang Qing agreed to this, and Zhou Enlai immediately told the Central Committee Secretariat to send someone over to deal with it.

Tristian enters the room with a large serving tray. From this vantage, I can see there’s a mug, a teapot, an assortment of snacks, a bottle of pain reliever, and a large glass of water. It isn’t until he carefully places it on my nightstand that I see the heating pad tucked beneath his arm.

The air was swampy heat, a marshy bath. The smell was barbecue smoke, truck exhaust, cow manure, and dust. It was scorched earth and cheap beer. Stars, sausage, ham sandwiches, lemonade, padded bras, sweaty pantyhose, hairspray, gum, condoms like slippery fish on her fingers. She was back in Texas, and felt as if she had never left.

The duke was standing before the open windows…stark naked. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged, and Jules could only stare as the silvery beam from the moonlight painted itself over his body. His thighs and calves were thick and powerful, stomach and buttocks lean and delineated with muscle. Though they stood several feet apart, she was all too aware of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and the inherent power in his body. You are so beautifully formed, Your Grace. Alarmingly, her cheeks went hot, then her throat and belly. He was so compelling she stared helplessly, absurdly grateful for the darkened room. Jules drew a soft breath, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart. The duke tilted his head, baring to her gaze the strong column of his throat. She refused to look lower than his shoulders, not wanting to feel that baffling heat stabbing her belly. He inhaled, and it came on a soft growl when he released his breath. She bit into her lower lip, hard, for that thumping heat low in her belly responded viscerally to that low growl. The corner of the duke’s mouth curled upward and seemed mocking and cynical. Still, she was struck by the incredible sensual beauty of that small smile. Unexpectedly he turned his head and stared directly at her. Jules froze, even her breathing suspended. Though she held herself astonishingly still, her heart jerked with more erratic force. Surely he could not see her. It is impossible. Yet she felt way down inside her, every nuance of his stare. Perilous tension coated the air, and she waited for him to move closer to her, but he turned away and padded over to the bed, the darkness hiding him from her entirely. Jules could not say how long she waited, listening for sounds that he slept. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. She heard nothing, and again she couldn’t escape the feeling the duke knew someone was in the room with him. But why did he not say or do something if he suspects it? She closed her eyes and drew strength for calm, allowing that she might be panicking in vain. There was no peril, and she only had to leave his chamber without being noticed. Jules waited a few more minutes before softly moving from behind the drapes. She paused, then lowered herself to her knees and crawled on her hands and knees to the door. She almost smiled at her absurdity but marshaled her reaction and ventured forward as fast as possible. At the door, she reached up and gently eased open the latch, grateful the hallway was also dark. Perhaps if the duke was awake, he might not notice the slight opening of his door. She crawled through the small space created, and once in the hallway, she lurched to her feet and hurried toward her door.

Instead, his lips brushed over the tip of my index finger in a kiss that was feather light and yet hummed through every part of me: my throat, my chest, my inner thighs, all the way to my toes. My mouth dropped open with a small “Oh.” A flicker of a smile crossed his mouth before it landed on my next finger. His dark gaze collided with mine as he moved to the next, and heat crept across every inch of my flesh, pooling at my core. With each kiss, that thrumming in my body rose, my nipples tightened, and the dark flavour of night built on my tongue, sparked with starlight and rhubarb. If he’d asked me to strip bare, to bend over the table and let him fuck me, to marry him, to anything at that moment, I’d have agreed in an instant. But all I could do was stare at his progress, my chest heaving as I tried to contain… everything. The magic, the thrumming resonance that threatened to shatter me, the burning, burning heat that must’ve made my cheeks as red as the jewels in their glass phials. When he reached my thumb, the pad dragged across his lower lip and I couldn’t have said whether it was him pressing it against his flesh or if I did. I didn’t care. By the time he moved to my right hand, starting with the thumb, I was swaying. When he whispered, “It is so,” against the very tip of my little finger, I almost swooned as a kick of pure energy throbbed through me. Chest heaving, cheeks flushed, he caught me. “Are you all right?” He searched my face, concern in his gaze. “Yes,” I breathed. My fingertips tingled. “Just… that was…” “Sorry, I’ve never done that before, I didn’t realise it would be so”—he swallowed and wet his lips—“heady.” “That’s one word for it.” I huffed

Reaching both hands up, he cupped my cheeks, teasing the soft flesh there with the roughened pads of his thumbs. Eyes never leaving mine, he rasped, “You deserve to feel good.” Heat blossomed across my cheeks, and I broke eye contact, whispering, “I do.” “It’s not the same.” Emboldened, having this man on his knees for me, I glanced up, responding, “You’re right. It’s better.

She clutched the heating pad to her belly and eyed me. “You don’t want to buy what I need. Trust me.” I scoffed. “What? Pads? Tampons? I have six sisters. This isn’t my first rodeo. Text me what you want.” I turned for the garage before she could object. I couldn’t care less about buying the stuff, and she didn’t strike me as the kind of woman to be embarrassed by feminine products—or anything, for that matter.

Here’s who it’s okay to share a bed with: Your sister if you’re a girl, your brother if you’re a boy, your mom if you’re a girl, and your dad if you’re under twelve or he’s over ninety. Your best friend. A carpenter you picked up at the key-lime-pie stand in Red Hook. A bellhop you met in the business center of a hotel in Colorado. A Spanish model, a puppy, a kitten, one of those domesticated minigoats. A heating pad. An empty bag of pita chips. The love of your life. Here’s who it’s not okay to share a bed with: Anyone who makes you feel like you’re invading their space. Anyone who tells you that they “just can’t be alone right now.” Anyone who doesn’t make you feel like sharing a bed is the coziest and most sensual activity they could possibly be undertaking (unless, of course, it is one of the aforementioned relatives; in that case, they should act lovingly but also reserved/slightly annoyed). Now, look over at the person beside you. Do they meet these criteria? If not, remove them or remove yourself. You’re better off alone.

A throat cleared. “Earth to Arik. Come in, boss.” With brows drawn, Arik glared at his beta. “What?” “I was asking what had your boxers in a knot.” “You know I go commando.” “Usually, but something obviously has your panties in a twist. Spill.” Oh, he spilled all right. Arik yanked off the hat and flung it against the wall and then swiveled his chair to get it over with. Indrawn breath. A snicker. A full-on guffaw. Arik swirled again and tossed deadly visual daggers at his second. “I fail to see the humor in my butchered mane.” “Dude. Have you seen it? It is bad. What did you do to piss Dominic off? Seduce one of his daughters?” “Actually one of his granddaughters did this to me!” He couldn’t help the incredulous note. The effrontery of the act still got to him. A thump and a shake of the wall as Hayder hit it, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “A girl did that to you?” His beta convulsed with mirth, not at all daunted by Arik’s glower and tapping fingers. “This is not amusing.” “Oh, come on, dude. Of all the people to have a hair mishap, you are the worst.” “I look like an idiot.” “Only because you didn’t let her finish hacking the rest off.” His fingers froze as he took his gaze off the screen for a moment to address the travesty. “Cut off my mane?” Was his beta delusional? “Well, yeah. You know, to even it out so it doesn’t show.” A growl rumbled forth, more beast than man, his lion not at all on board with any more trimming. “Okay, if you’re not keen on that, then what about a hair weave? Maybe we could get you a platinum one, or pink for contrast since you’re being such a prissy princess about it.” That did it. A lion could take only so much. Arik dove over his desk and tackled his beta. Over they went with a thump and a tangle of limbs. As he was slamming Hayder’s head off the floor, snarling, “Take it back!” to his beta’s chortled, “We’ll get your nails done while they’re weaving,” Leo strode in. A giant of a man, he didn’t even have to strain as he grabbed them each by a shoulder and yanked them apart. But he didn’t stop there. He slammed their heads together before shoving them down. Arik and Hayder sat on the carpeted floor, nursing robin’s eggs, united in their glare for the pride’s omega, also known as the peacemaker. Of course, Leo’s version of peace wasn’t always gentle, which was why he was perfect for the pride. The behemoth with the mellow outlook on life took a seat in a chair, which groaned ominously. “You do know that the staff two floors down can hear the pair of you acting like ill-behaved cubs.” “He started it!” Arik stabbed a finger at his beta. He had no problem assigning blame. Delegation was something an alpha did well. Hayder didn’t even deny his guilt. “I did. But can you blame me? He was pissing and moaning about this precious mane. All I did was offer a solution, and he took offense.” “I assume we’re talking about the missing chunk of hair on our esteemed leader’s head?” Leo shook his neatly trimmed dark crown. “I keep telling you that vanity is your weakness.” “And chocolate chip ice cream is yours. We all have our vices,” Arik grumbled as he heaved himself off the floor and into his leather-padded seat— with built-in heating pad and massager because a man in his position did enjoy his luxuries. “My vice is beautiful women,” Hayder announced with a grin, adopting a lounging pose on the floor. Felines were king when it came to acting as if embarrassing positions weren’t accidental at all. “Don’t talk to me about women right now. I’m still angry at the one who did this.” “I think I’m missing a key point,” Leo stated. It didn’t take long to bring Leo up to speed. To his credit, the pride omega didn’t laugh— long.

Get up, Edward." "No." She sighed. There was only one thing for it. She grabbed the sheet and stripped of off the bed. He did not cover himself as she expected him to. Instead, he looked at her and grinned wolfishly. "Like what you see?" he growled. "Um..." 'Like' was such an insipid word to describe the effect his nakedness had on her. She couldn't tear her gaze away from his powerful thighs and the thick member resting there. He cleared his throat. "Let me know when you're finished." The heat in her face rose, but she would not let him embarrass her. It ought to be the other way round! "It's quite fascinating. I've never seen one before. Thank you for the education." "Bloody hell." He snatched at the sheet, but she held it out of his reach. "Give me that back." She took it off the bed completely. "Get up." He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. "If you insist." He stood. How was it that he seemed so much more magnificent without clothing? Surely it should be the opposite. He ought to be vulnerable and perhaps even appear smaller in his nakedness. But no. Edward Monk was a man who did not need padded shoulders in his doublet. He was a wonderful specimen of manhood. "Close your mouth," he said with a lopsided grin. "Ha. Very amusing." -Elizabeth & Monk

I guess there’s nothing else to say.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, crooking a finger. “Come here.” Her throat went dry, and her heart gave a thud. On instinct, she shook her head. His expression turned ruthlessly intent. “Maddie, I’ve been thinking about that mouth of yours for almost twenty-four hours straight. You don’t think I’m going to let you go without touching you, do you?” Had it only been one day? How was that even possible? It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she’d run out on her wedding. “Um . . .” She swallowed hard and squeaked out, “Yes?” A long pause filled with sexual awareness so thick it practically coated the air. How did he do it, flip the mood? Only moments ago, she’d felt bereft, but with one wicked glance she’d forgotten everything dogging her. “I’ll tell you what.” He smiled, and it was so filled with cunning that the fine hairs on her neck rose in anticipation. “Tell me you won’t regret it and we can end things right here with a friendly pat on the back.” “I-I d-don’t know what you mean,” she lied, loving and hating the direction the conversation had taken. “Do I need to spell it out?” “No?” The word was a question instead of the statement she’d intended. “You want to take care of yourself, right?” She nodded, sensing a trap but unable to stop playing into his hands. He leaned close, placing his elbow on the console, taking up every spare inch of breathing room. “You’re ready to ditch the good Catholic girl and start doing what you want?” The strange mixture of lust and irritation he evoked pulled in her stomach. “Well, when you put it that way.” The curve of his lips held a distinct sexual tilt. “If you get out of this car untouched, tell me you won’t lie in bed late at night and regret it. Tell me you won’t wonder and wish you’d done things differently.” Her pulse hammered and her throat dried up, leaving her unable to breathe, let alone speak. He stroked a path over the line of her jaw, and Maddie forced her eyes to stay open instead of fluttering closed from sheer desire. Why did it feel like an eternity since he’d touched her? Even more troubling, why did his hands feel so right? The slightly rough pads of his fingers trailed down the curve of her neck, leaving an explosion of tingles coursing through her. “And remember, Princess,” he said, in a deep rumble of a voice that vibrated through her as though he were her own personal tuning fork. “Lying is a sin.” She gasped, sucking in the last available bit of air left in the car. “That’s a low blow.” He gave a seductive laugh, filled with heat and promise and the kind of raw passion she’d always dreamed about. “I’m not above playing dirty.” A sly smirk as he rubbed a lazy circle over skin she hadn’t known was sensitive. “In fact, I think you prefer it that way.” “I do not!” Her heart beating far too fast, she clutched at the credit card hard enough to snap it in two. “Liar.” He slipped under the collar of her T-shirt to wrap a possessive hand around the nape of her neck. “I’m waiting.” She gritted her teeth to keep from moaning. How did one man feel so good? Hot and sinful. Irresistible. She whispered, “For what?” “My answer,” he said, inching closer. Their mouths mere inches away. She swallowed hard. The truth sat on the tip of her tongue, and for once in her life, she decided to speak it instead of stuffing it back down. “I’d regret it.” “Exactly,” he said, the word a soft breath against her skin. The pad of his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, sliding over the dampness until it felt swollen. Needy. “I can’t live with myself unless I’ve tasted this mouth.” This

How exciting,’ I said, starting on a layer of cast padding. ‘Never a dull moment,’ Alison agreed. ‘I must say it makes a pleasant change to have the patient asleep when you’re putting on the cast. I had a little boy try to bite me last week.’ ‘That’s why I prefer animals. If a dog does that you can jab it with a pole syringe full of ketamine through the bars of the cage. Have you got a finger spare to hold down another layer of bandage?’ ‘Just as long as you don’t incorporate my hand into your cast,’ she said, trapping the end of the padding layer under her left little finger. ‘I’ll try not to.’ ‘Thank you.’ I opened a packet of Scotchcast and dropped it into a jug of water. It’s such cool stuff – water activates the resin and it heats up and hardens in mere minutes. In fact, it usually hardens about thirty seconds before you really want it to, just to keep you on your toes.

She thought how she might describe it, the way they bobbed on the illuminated water’s gentle swell, and how their hair spread like tendrils and their clothed bodies softly collided and drifted apart. The dry night air slipped between the fabric of her dress and her skin, and she felt smooth and agile in the dark. There was nothing she could not describe: the gentle pad of a maniac’s tread moving sinuously along the drive, keeping to the verge to muffle his approach. But her brother was with Cecilia, and that was a burden lifted. She could describe this delicious air too, the grasses giving off their sweet cattle smell, the hard-fired earth which still held the embers of the day’s heat and exhaled the mineral odor of clay, and the faint breeze carrying from the lake a flavor of green and silver.

His movements became more aggressive. He pushed forwards. Attack and retreat. She responded, her movements complementing his, the ebb and flow of her breathing increasing with the rhythm. He could hear the soft pad of her footsteps against the ground. A dance in the darkness. It would be that way if they made love. Completely attuned to each other’s bodies through simple touch and tension. He sensed it in his soul as heat and energy pumped through his veins. He stopped abruptly and let go of her, reaching up to remove the blindfold. Ailey came back into view. She blinked at him. ‘Why are you stopping?’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Do you even know what you do to me?’ She could entice him to madness without even trying. With a combat exercise, of all things. Sooner or later, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of her. And when he gave in to his need, he wouldn’t know how to let go.

February 16 One Horse, Three Friends He does great things too marvelous to understand. He performs countless miracles. —Job 5:9 It was time to say good-bye. The vet frowned, “I’ll be back at ten to put him down.” Colic is the number one killer of horses, and Cash’s condition was much worse. His twisted gut left no room for hope. Without hope, I went down on my knees crying out to God. My year had been much like Job’s. “He’s my best friend—the only one who loves me, and now you’re taking him too. Please God, no!” I called my friends with the news. Within an hour, Debbie and Patti came to pray and, I thought, say their good-byes. Instead, Debbie pulled out her anointing oil and prayed like I’d never heard. “Where’s your faith?” was her only comment as we applied heating pads, oil, and rubbed his stomach for hours. Finally Debbie stood. “He’s going to live.” Within minutes, Cash lifted his head and pounded the barn door. I let him out and he ran full speed. The vet returned to scratch her head. “This is not possible.” With the love of friends and a horse, God chose to perform a miracle that night in the same place He did two thousand years ago: a stable. When God shows His love through a miracle, our lives are never the same. — Renee Shuping Cassidy —

Setting the card aside, I gingerly look inside the basket. Tears blur my vision as I pull out a fuzzy blanket, warm socks, a heating pad, trail mix, herbal tea, more chocolate than I could eat in a week, and . . . Heat rushes to my face. Oh my goodness. Archer Sullivan made me a PMS-care basket.

There, I grab some ibuprofen, some stick-on heating pads, and three pints of ice cream in a variety of flavors. And when the car drops me off at her doorstep, I practically run up the steps of her brownstone because I’m so damn eager to see her.

Water. Drinking water, water purification system (or tablets), and a water bottle or canteen. Food. Anything that is long lasting, lightweight, and nutritious such as protein bars, dehydrated meals, MREs24, certain canned goods, rice, and beans. Clothing. Assure it’s appropriate to a wide range of temperatures and environments, including gloves, raingear, and multiple layers that can be taken on or off as needed. Shelter. This may include a tarp or tent, sleeping bag or survival blanket, and ground pad or yoga mat. A camper or trailer is a fantastic, portable shelter, with many of the comforts of home. If you own one keep it stocked with supplies to facilitate leaving in a hurry, as it can take several hours load up and move out if you’re not ready. In certain circumstances that might mean having to leave it behind. Heat source. Lighter or other reliable ignition source (e.g., magnesium striker), tinder, and waterproof storage. Include a rocket stove or biomass burner if possible, they’re inexpensive, take very little fuel, and incredibly useful in an emergency. Self-defense/hunting gear. Firearm(s) and ammunition, fishing gear, multi-tool/knife, maps, and compass, and GPS (it’s not a good idea to rely solely on a GPS as you may find yourself operating without a battery or charger). First aid. First aid kit, first aid book, insect repellant, suntan lotion, and any needed medicines you have been prescribed. If possible add potassium iodide (for radiation emergencies) and antibiotics (for bio attacks) to your kit. Hygiene. Hand soap, sanitizer, toilet paper, towel, toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, and garbage bags. Tools. Hatchet (preferably) or machete, can opener, cooking tools (e.g., portable stove, pot, frying pan, utensils, and fuel), rope, duct tape, sunglasses, rubber tubing, and sewing kit. Lighting and communications. LED headlamp, glow sticks, candles, cell phone, charger (preferably hand crank or solar), emergency radio (preferably with hand crank that covers AM, FM, and Marine frequencies) and extra batteries, writing implements, and paper. Cash or barter. You never know how long an emergency will last. Extensive power outages mean no cash machines, so keep a few hundred dollars in small bills, gold or silver coins, or other valuables on hand.

Disability is both apparent and nonapparent. Disability is pain, struggle, brilliance, abundance, and joy. Disability is sociopo- litical, cultural, and biological. Being visible and claiming a disabled identity brings risks as much as it brings pride. The peculiar drama of my life has placed me in a world that by and large thinks it would be better if people like me did not exist. My fight has been for accommodation, the world to me and me to the world. -Harriet McBryde Johnson Taking up space as a disabled person is always revolutionary. -Sandy Ho There is so much that able-bodied people could learn from the wisdom that often comes with dis- ability. But space needs to be made. Hands need to be reached out. People need to be lifted up. -A. H. Reaume Disability justice exists every place two disabled people meet-at a kitchen table, on heating pads in bed talking to our loves. -Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

I scoop up a generous mouthful, thankful for something cool to take away the sudden heat flushing up me neck. I can’t believe I agreed to this…. My drawings aren’t good enough. Then the flavor of the ice cream bursts through my mouth. And it isn’t vanilla or chocolate or any ordinary flavor like that. Honeysuckle. Our favorite activity during third-grade recess was to hide behind the classroom, lying under the window so Ms. King wouldn’t see us and ask what we were doing. Jack and I would lie out among the clover and honeysuckle, holding hands and just staring up at the impossibly huge sky. Some days, I’d bring my sketch pad so we could draw the clouds, and we made those little pictures into stories. A cloud-bunny would go on adventures with the cloud-dragon, and they’d find gleaming treasures and hidden magical lands, always together. When we got bored, we’d suck on the stems of the honeysuckle for a drop of sweetness. Those honeysuckle days are some of the sweetest moments I ever had growing up.

Bacchus lifted a hand and ran the pad of his thumb along her cheek, sending a wave of heat coursing over her skin. "You are very much worth it, Elsie Camden.

I’ve found that the real empowerment comes from menopause, not periods. There were white sheets in my future, and I could finally buy a nice pair of underwear. Of course, my blap (belly plus lap) would cover most of the pretty parts. But who cares? I was delighted to trade my monthly ventures into womanly hell for a flesh canopy. The freedom I was about to embrace was priceless. I could spend the night as a guest at someone else’s house without anxiously checking the bed in the morning. I wouldn’t have to carry a handbag big enough to run away from Nazis with the family silver. And I could finally break up with my heating pad, a moment I couldn’t wait for.

I do not find you attractive.” His eyes are fixed on mine, blazing like black fire, fierce yet unknowable, only the intensity readable “No?” I arch an eyebrow. “The way you look at me says otherwise.” He swallows hard. His jaw grinds audibly. “Attractive? No, Corinna.” His fingertip traces my jawline from earlobe to chin. “I am consumed by you.” His touch is exquisitely gentle. Yet, it sends a line of fire trickling over my skin, makes me shiver down to my toes. “Could have fooled me,” I whisper. “Am I fooling you, Corinna?” Instead of his finger on my jaw, he now touches the pad of his thumb to my lips. “Can you not read the obsession in my eyes?” “I can’t read a damn thing in your eyes.” I have to pause, suck in a breath; his nearness, the intensity of his eyes and the wild ferocity of his presence, the molten heat of his touch on my lips—my breath is scorched away. It’s terrifying. “Why would you be…consumed by me?” “It was a miscalculation,” he murmurs. “I thought I could use you. I thought I could hold you hostage and use you for leverage against your parents.” “What was the miscalculation?” “You.” He’s too close. I can feel his breath on my cheek. “Everything that you are.

Guide my hands. I don't wish to hurt you." "Lower," she said when he pressed fingertips to the middle of her back. "Lower," she urged, guiding him downward. "There." He started softly, pressing the pads of his fingers to the muscles he felt. She sighed, a sound that vibrated down his spine, settling with a flickering and tightening heat in his scrotum. He shifted as his blood thickened like honey in his veins. This was too much to ask of him. He was already drunk on arousal and need. It swam through his head like whisky, making his thoughts give way to instinct and consequences appear murky.

As she led them out onto the mud, Dovepaw glanced back to see Thornclaw pull a long stick out from under the roots of an elder bush at the edge of the bank. Before he could carry it off, Jayfeather erupted from the undergrowth, a bundle of herbs in his jaws. "Hey, that's mine!" he protested, spitting leaves everywhere. "Put it back!" "Are you mouse-brained?" Thornclaw mumbled around the stick. "I need it. It's only a stick." "It's my stick." Dovepaw was startled to see how worked up Jayfeather was, his eyes blazing and neck fur bristling, as if he was facing an enemy. "If you don't bring it back to me in one piece, I'll... I'll..." "Okay, I'll bring back your stupid stick," Thornclaw snarled. "Keep your fur on." He raced back across the mud with the stick in his jaws. Dovepaw and Ivypaw followed more slowly behind their mentors. Dovepaw was trying to lift each paw as soon as it touched the scorching ground. Her pads would be shriveled by the time she reached the water. "Do you think the heat is getting to Jayfeather?" Ivypaw whispered. "Thornclaw's right. It's only a stick." Dovepaw shrugged. "Maybe it's medicine cat stuff." "Yes, but what happens to us if our medicine cat gets bees in his brains?

Ingredients for the sauce: 1/3 cup of tamarind concentrate 2 teaspoons + 1 tablespoon of Thai red chili sauce 5 tablespoons of fish sauce 3 tablespoons of oyster sauce 6 tablespoons of coconut sugar 1 tablespoon of cornstarch 2 teaspoons of tomato paste Ingredients for the Pad Thai: 8 ounces of rice noodles, uncooked 2 tablespoons of avocado oil 1 chicken breast, thinly sliced 2 cloves of garlic, minced 1 teaspoon of ginger, grated 1 shallot, chopped 1/3 cup of carrots, grated 1 red bell pepper, thinly sliced 1 egg, beaten 1 lime wedge A dash of salt and black pepper, for seasoning according to personal preference A dash of fish sauce, for taste 1 ½ tablespoons of tomato sauce Ingredients for garnish: Cilantro, chopped Bean sprouts Green onions, thinly sliced Lime wedges, fresh HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Methods: a)    Prepare the rice noodles according to the directions on the package. Once they have cooked, drain the noodles and set them aside. b)    In a medium bowl, add in all of the ingredients for the sauce. Whisk them until they have been evenly mixed. Set the sauce aside. c)     In a large wok set over a high heat setting. Add in the oil and once it is hot enough, add in the chicken strips. Cook them for a period of 8 to 10 minutes or until the chicken strips have fully cooked. d)    Add in the grated ginger, minced garlic, and shallots. Stir well to mix them together. Cook this for a period of 30 seconds before adding in the grated carrots and chopped bell pepper. Continue to cook the ingredients for a period of 5 minutes or until they become soft to the touch. Push these ingredients to one side of the wok. e)    On the free side of the wok, add in the beaten egg. Cook it for a period of 1 to 2 minutes or until the egg has scrambled. f)      Add in the cooked noodles and pour the sauce over the top. Toss to mix the noodles with the remaining ingredients. Cook everything for a period of 1 to 2 minutes or until the sauce is thick in consistency. Remove the noodles from the heat.

Soon Laila took to wearing extra layers, even in the heat, two, three sweaters beneath the burqa, for padding against the beatings.

Heat flooded beneath Clear Sky’s pelt. “You scared it off.” He straightened angrily. “It probably smelled your scent.” She padded closer, her tail swishing. “At least something did.” “You were downwind.” Clear Sky grunted. Was she trying to embarrass him? “Perhaps I could give you some tips.” She stopped a tail-length away. “I’ve been hunting here all my life.” Clear Sky climbed onto the root and sat down. “I don’t need tips, thanks. I’m a great hunter.” He lifted a paw and began washing it. “I know that.” Star Flower rounded the end of the root, where it plunged into the earth, stopping on the other side. “But you weren’t born in a forest. You don’t have the same feel

Given the sheer number of people that could use them, I didn’t know why someone hadn’t invented something where one of those Snuggies and a heating pad had a baby. They gave you this tiny rectangle, and you just had to move it around.

Heat is spreading in the pit of my stomach, and I lower myself down for another haze-inducing kiss. My chest brushes against his as I slowly start to rock forward and backward. Considering how thin my tank top is, there might as well be nothing there. I sit up and pull the flimsy piece of fabric over my head, tossing it onto the sheets beside me and basking in the dazed look that crosses Matt’s face. His hands drift higher, pressing down on the small of my back, then returning to where they were—only this time slipping under my shorts and panties. I suck in an uneven breath as the pads of his fingers tease and tickle my bare skin.

What’s her pain level?” Kevin asked. “She says six or seven, but you know how stoic she is. She always understates it.” “How’s her spirit?” “Not good,” I said. “I’ve never seen her like this, Kevin. She’s just staring at the TV, won’t get up to look out the window or go to the playroom, won’t talk to anyone…” “Mommy,” Annabel whimpered, “can I get a heating pad for my stomach?

I’m taking a shower,” he announces, not sparing me a glance as he moves past me and into the bathroom. This is way above my pay grade. I don’t possess the necessary training to make sense of this behavior. Twenty minutes later, I’m tucked into the cozy bed, reading glasses on, Delia’s latest manuscript on Dane’s iPad when he steps out of the bathroom. Aaaand I instantly turn into Joan of Arc, burned at the stake. Except the heat doesn’t start at my feet. Noooo. It starts between my legs and spreads forth. By the time it reaches my face, there’s a veil of sweat above my lips. Not attractive. A wall of finely sculpted flesh walks further into the room with only a scrap of towel to hide the extra good parts. There’s so much razzle dazzle to take in my mind locks onto one area. His abdominal muscles. Mother of gee oh dee, what kind of torture must one endure to get those? So cut they don’t even look real. Mentally, I’m poking them with my index finger to see if they poke back. Until something intrudes in the periphery of my vision. South of these spectacular ab muscles, the towel wrapped around his waist starts to rise. That’s when I hear a snapping of fingers. A large hand immediately comes into view and more snapping of fingers. “Eyes up, Shorty. Or you’ll get more of a show than you bargained for.” My gaze makes a swift trip back up to his face. His mouth is twisted in a grimace and his eyebrow arched. He’s not happy I was looking…whatever. “Don’t look so scared. I pinky promise not to molest you.” His eyes widen while his lips thin. “You know what, it’s still early. I’m gonna get a workout in. I’ll be back later.” A workout? At 9 p.m.? He doesn’t even wait for me to respond. He grabs his clothes in a hurry, and a moment later he’s gone. I know I don’t have a ton of experience with men but this can’t be normal behavior. This has got to be far from normal behavior.

But let’s assume it’s an indestructible hair dryer. And if we have something as cool as an indestructible hair dryer, it seems like a shame to limit it to 1875 watts. With 18,750 watts flowing out of the hair dryer, the surface of the box reaches over 200°C (475°F), as hot as a skillet on low-medium. I wonder how high this dial goes. There’s a distressing amount of space left on the dial. The surface of the box is now 600°C, hot enough to glow a dim red. If it’s made of aluminium, the inside is starting to melt. If it’s made of lead, the outside is starting to melt. If it’s on a wood floor, the house is on fire. But it doesn’t matter what’s happening around it; the hair dryer is indestructible. Two megawatts pumped into a laser is enough to destroy missiles. At 1300°C, the box is now about the temperature of lava. One more notch. This hair dryer is probably not up to code. Now 18 megawatts are flowing into the box. The surface of the box reaches 2400°C. If it were steel, it would have melted by now. If it’s made of something like tungsten, it might conceivably last a little longer. Just one more, then we’ll stop. This much power—187 megawatts—is enough to make the box glow white. Not a lot of materials can survive these conditions, so we’ll have to assume the box is indestructible. The floor is made of lava. Unfortunately, the floor isn’t. Before it can burn its way through the floor, someone throws a water balloon under it. The burst of steam launches the box out the front door and onto the sidewalk.​[​2​]​ We’re at 1.875 gigawatts (I lied about stopping). According to Back to the Future, the hair dryer is now drawing enough power to travel back in time. The box is blindingly bright, and you can’t get closer than a few hundred meters due to the intense heat. It sits in the middle of a growing pool of lava. Anything within 50–100 meters bursts into flame. A column of heat and smoke rise high into the air. Periodic explosions of gas beneath the box launch it into the air, and it starts fires and forms a new lava pool where it lands. We keep turning the dial. At 18.7 gigawatts, the conditions around the box are similar to those on the pad during a space shuttle launch.

General Guidelines for Wilderness Medical Kits 1. Accept the fact that there is no such thing as the perfect wilderness medical kit. Many factors should determine your choices of specific contents. No matter how much you plan and prepare, someday you will want something that is not there and/or discover you’ve carried an item for years and never used it. When considering the contents of a kit, take into account (1) the environmental extremes you will face (altitude, cold, heat, endemic diseases), (2) the number of people that may require care; (3) the number of days the kit will be in use; (4) the distance from definitive medical care; (5) the availability of rescue services; (6) your medical expertise and/or the expertise of other group members; and (7) preexisting problems of group members, such as individuals with diabetes. 2. Evaluate and repack your wilderness medical kit before every trip. Renew medications that have reached expiration dates. Replace items that have been damaged by heat, cold, or moisture. Remove items that are unnecessary for the proposed trip, such as insect repellent on winter trips, and add items that may be useful on the upcoming adventure. 3. Do not fill your kit with items you do not know how to use. Maintain a high level of familiarity with the proper uses of all the items in your wilderness medical kit. 4. Choose specific items for the wilderness medical kit, whenever possible, that are versatile rather than particular. For example, a wide variety of sizes and shapes of Band-Aids is nice, but wound coverings can be created from pads of gauze and strips of tape. Triangular bandages are useful, but safety pins and T-shirts can be used to make slings. Medical adhesive tape has limited usefulness compared with duct tape. 5. Encourage each group member to pack and carry a personal first-aid kit to reduce the size and weight of the general wilderness medical kit.

You keep sweet-talking me like that and I’ll have to develop frostbite on other parts of my body.” “Baby, I’ll be your personal heating pad.” He stopped walking and laughed. “Damn, that was corny.

For a second, I’m too shocked to react. I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this. My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders. My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear. She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire. Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders. She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us. And there isn’t—not much. I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra. Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand. She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone. If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close. She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going. I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now. And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth. She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch. She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick. “You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.” She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.” I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?” She shivers. “You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.” She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.

For a second, I’m too shocked to react. I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this. My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders. My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear. She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire. Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders. She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us. And there isn’t—not much. I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra. Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand. She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone. If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close. She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going. I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now. And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth. She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch. She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick. “You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.” She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.” I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?” She shivers. “You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.” She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.

The room was perfectly quiet, with that padded, luxurious quietness that only money can buy in a modern city. However noisy the streets below may be, noises falter, discouraged, before they can climb to the top flats in such buildings as Hyde House; like those bees which never discover the luckless virgin flowers in the penthouse gardens of New York. It is not a peaceful silence. There is something drugged and enchanted about it. Conditioned air, central heating, and sound-proof walls are the only magicians employed to produce this hush, yet it gives a strange feeling to a visitor of being cut off from the living world.

Ouch," he said. "Move your foot." "No." "Go away." "Glad to see you, too." "What are you doing here?" I asked. "You missed the bus," he said. "I'm sick." "Need chicken soup?" "Actually, it's my period," I lied. "Killer cramps." "Chocolate and a heating pad?" "How do you know that?" "I have an older sister and my mom is a kick-ass feminist," he said. "I'm probably the only guy in school who can buy tampons without having a seizure. Look, at that, I can even say the word. 'Tampon, tampon, tampon.' If you say it enough, it stops sounding like a word, know what I mean?

Cramps are not easy to get rid of. The best thing for you to do is to order her some Midol, junk food, and a heating pad to soothe the cramps.

Then I read that the body heats up the water after a few minutes, unless the water is moving, like a whirlpool. So I bought a motor to go into the ice bath. That way, I could sustain near-freezing temperatures while I was in it. I also bought a hydropowered mattress pad for my bed, which I keep at the lowest temperatures, about 55°F (13°C).

It occurred to me often that to be a user in New York was to lay oneself open to a whole system of threats, not only legal; for my mind always came back as I looked down at the little heap of whitish powder to wonder what an analyst would find there. The horse is cut with all manner of adulterous powders, until, at the average user's end, there remains 3% heroin. You can usually count on 3%. But there are times when codeine or even a barbiturate is substituted for the real thing. . . so long as they stun you, they calculate. And so you look to cop again, at once, and so it goes on. To administer an overdose a pusher has only substantially to raise the percentage of heroin in what he gives you. When you turn blue your friends try to bring you round and if they cannot they discuss how to have your body discovered elsewhere, away from their pad so as not to bring the heat on them. An occasional corpse is found in a parking lot.

Sometimes we ate raw onions like apples, too, I wanted to tell her. Sometimes, the tin foil held shredded chicken petrified in aspic. A fish head to suck on! I was filled with shame and hateful glee: everything I was feeling turned out at the person next to me. I was the one with an uncut cow's tongue uncoiling in the refrigerator of his undergraduate quad, my roommates' Gatorades and half-finished pad Thai keeping a nervous distance. I sliced it thinly, and down it went with horseradish and cold vodka like the worry of a long day sloughing off, those little dots of fat between the cold meet like garlic roasted to paste. I am the one who fried liver. Who brought his own lunch in an old Tupperware to his cubicle in the Conde Nast Building; who accidentally warmed it too long, and now the scent of buckwheat, stewed chicken, and carrots hung like radiation over the floor, few of those inhabitants brought lunch from home, fewer of whom were careless enough to heat it for too long if they did, and none of whom brought a scent bomb in the first place. Fifteen floors below, the storks who staffed the fashion magazines grazed on greens in the Frank Gehry cafeteria. I was the one who ate mashed potatoes and frankfurters for breakfast. Who ate a sandwich for breakfast. Strange? But Americans ate cereal for dinner. Americans ate cereal, period, that oddment. They had a whole thing called 'breakfast for dinner.' And the only reason they were right and I was wrong was that it was their country. The problem with my desire to pass for native was that everything in the tinfoil was so f*****g good. When the world thinks of Soviet food, it thinks of all the wrong things. Though it was due to incompetence rather than ideology, we were local, seasonal, and organic long before Chez Panisse opened its doors. You just had to have it in a home instead of a restaurant, like British cooking after the war, as Orwell wrote. For me, the food also had cooked into it the memory of my grandmother's famine; my grandfather's black-marketeering to get us the 'deficit' goods that, in his view, we deserved no less than the political VIPs; all the family arguments that paused while we filled our mouths and our eyes rolled back in our heads. Food was so valuable that it was a kind of currency - and it was how you showed loved. If, as a person on the cusp of thirty, I wished to find sanity, I had to figure out how to temper this hunger without losing hold of what it fed, how to retain a connection to my past without being consumed by its poison.