Stud Man Quotes

Alright, macho babe boy, I'm not some little ditz to bat my eyelashes at the buff stud in black leather. Don't try your he-man tactics with me. I'll have you know, in my office, I'm known as the ball-breaker. (Amanda)

I'm infatuated with you, I cannot deny it. Physically speaking, you're a very attractive man. But I don't like you, the vast majority of the time. So far as I can gather, you behave abominably in public and are only marginally better in private. I only find you remotely tolerable when you're kissing me.

You are a sweet man." -"God, there it is." He flopped back on the bed, as if shot through the heart. "Repeat that to anyone, and I will have you brought up on charges of slander." "I wouldn't dream of telling a soul.

The whole program of unemployment insurance, Social Security, was a confession of the failure of our whole social order. And confession of failure of Christian principles: that man, in fact, did not look after his brother.

I pick up the phone and press the few buttons until I can hear my heavy, creeper breathing over the PA system. I start beat boxing into the phone, making sure I spit more than necessary. “Yo, Marky Mark. Please come to your office immediately, there's a funky bunch of manly stud waiting for you.

What is the world coming to, with these modern women? A man can't tell them what to do.

How are you coming with your home library? Do you need some good ammunition on why it's so important to read? The last time I checked the statistics...I think they indicated that only four percent of the adults in this country have bought a book within the past year. That's dangerous. It's extremely important that we keep ourselves in the top five or six percent. In one of the Monthly Letters from the Royal Bank of Canada it was pointed out that reading good books is not something to be indulged in as a luxury. It is a necessity for anyone who intends to give his life and work a touch of quality. The most real wealth is not what we put into our piggy banks but what we develop in our heads. Books instruct us without anger, threats and harsh discipline. They do not sneer at our ignorance or grumble at our mistakes. They ask only that we spend some time in the company of greatness so that we may absorb some of its attributes. You do not read a book for the book's sake, but for your own. You may read because in your high-pressure life, studded with problems and emergencies, you need periods of relief and yet recognize that peace of mind does not mean numbness of mind. You may read because you never had an opportunity to go to college, and books give you a chance to get something you missed. You may read because your job is routine, and books give you a feeling of depth in life. You may read because you did go to college. You may read because you see social, economic and philosophical problems which need solution, and you believe that the best thinking of all past ages may be useful in your age, too. You may read because you are tired of the shallowness of contemporary life, bored by the current conversational commonplaces, and wearied of shop talk and gossip about people. Whatever your dominant personal reason, you will find that reading gives knowledge, creative power, satisfaction and relaxation. It cultivates your mind by calling its faculties into exercise. Books are a source of pleasure - the purest and the most lasting. They enhance your sensation of the interestingness of life. Reading them is not a violent pleasure like the gross enjoyment of an uncultivated mind, but a subtle delight. Reading dispels prejudices which hem our minds within narrow spaces. One of the things that will surprise you as you read good books from all over the world and from all times of man is that human nature is much the same today as it has been ever since writing began to tell us about it. Some people act as if it were demeaning to their manhood to wish to be well-read but you can no more be a healthy person mentally without reading substantial books than you can be a vigorous person physically without eating solid food. Books should be chosen, not for their freedom from evil, but for their possession of good. Dr. Johnson said: "Whilst you stand deliberating which book your son shall read first, another boy has read both.

Why didn't God apportion fine looks in equal accordance with deserving personalities? A horrid man ought to be horrid looking.

Parvaneh gives him a look studded with a long line of question marks and exclamation marks,

He was sad because he had grown up, and because the years passed like a river that no man could stop.

There's a very generous donation in the parish's future if you make this fast. Ten minutes, at the most." Frowning, the man fumbled open his liturgy. "There's an established rite, Your Grace. Marriage must be entered into with solemnity and consideration. I don't know that I can rush--" "Ten minutes. One thousand guineas." The liturgy snapped closed. "Then again, what do a few extra minutes signify to an eternal God?" He beckoned Amelia with a fluttering, papery hand. "Make haste, child. You're about to be married.

Because a book is a life, like one man is a life.

I’d offer you advice, but I’ve never been married.” “Neither has Garrett,” I said, stating the truth. “He’s a slut.” Cookie giggled. “I love it when you call men sluts.” “Right?” I said, giggling back. “It’s much funnier than the alternative.” It was odd how I despised that word when talking about women, but when talking about men, all bets were off. Maybe because of the centuries-old double standard where a woman who enjoyed sex was a slut, whereas a man who enjoyed sex was a stud. That one never sat well with me.

The oppressed grows weightless: doze/n th/rough c/and/or man/aged leg/ions stud/ents

Only man as an individual human being lives; the state is just a system, a mere machine for sorting and tabulating the masses. Anyone, therefore, who thinks in terms of men minus the individual, in huge numbers, atomizes himself and becomes a thief and a robber to himself. He is infected with the leprosy of collective thinking and has become an inmate of that insalubrious stud-farm called the totalitarian State. Our

Why were you upset?" Julian asked, casually resting his crossed arms on the wood stud. "I thought we were going to keep it business?" Matt said with a sad smile. "You could ignore me or tell me to mind my own business." "But that would be rude." Julian smiled. "I know. You're not rude.

boundbydad: thrust your fierce quavering manpole at me, stud grayscale: your dastardly appendage engorges me with hellfire boundbydad: my search party is creeping into your no man's land grayscale: baste me like a thanksgiving turkey!!!

A man? If I need a man, wouldn't you think I'd have one of my own? Must I wait for you?

It isn't the calendar age that determines a man's restlessness. It is daily circumstance, an *awareness* of being hurt, and an inordinate hunger for "another way".

Johnny had been on earth for thirty-four years. Less than a week ago, he walked on those streets. And now the cup, the ring and two unironed waiter's aprons at home were the only concrete objects left to connote that a man had once lived. There were no other physical reminders of Johnny, as he had been buried in all the clothes he owned with his studs and his fourteen-carat gold collar button.

Snarling an oath from an Icelandic saga, I reclaimed my place at the head of the queue. "Oy!" yelled a punk rocker, with studs in his cranium. "There's a fackin' queue!" Never apologize, advises Lloyd George. Say it again, only this time, ruder. "I know there's a 'fackin' queue'! I already queued in it once and I am not going to queue in it again just because Nina Simone over there won't sell me a ruddy ticket!" A colored yeti in a clip-on uniform swooped. "Wassa bovver?" "This old man here reckons his colostomy bag entitles him to jump the queue," said the skinhead, "and make racist slurs about the lady of Afro-Caribbean extraction in the advance-travel window." I couldn't believe I was hearing this.

You are such a kind and caring man, and so sizzling hot and studly. Please, please don’t go nutty on me.

If a man brags about his sex life he's a stud, but if a woman brags about her sex life she's a slut.

A man that wants to habitually fornicate with many women should never get married or have children.

Besides, the rush-hour train served for company. I settled in under a man's armpit, felt the stud of a woman's handbag digging into me, and thought: I am a part of something.

None can use black magic without straining the soul to the uttermost—and staining it into the bargain. None can inflict suffering without enduring the same. None can send death by spells and sorcery without walking on the brink of death’s own abyss, aye, and dripping his own blood into it. The forces black magic evokes are like two-edged poisoned swords with grips studded with scorpion stings. Only a strong man, leather-handed, in whom hate and evil are very powerful, can wield them, and he only for a space.

I work at T-Town, which is about ninety-nine percent men, and all of them either are alpha personalities or think they are. That said, what we have here is the standard dynamic for sexual tension. I'm moderately good-looking. I have big boobs, and I get hit on by everyone from the pastor of my church to baristas at Starbucks, and by every single guy at T-Town except for my boss and the range master. I don't blame them and I don't judge them. It's part of the procreative drive hardwired into us, and we haven't evolved as a species far enough exert any genuine control over the biological imperative. You, on the other hand, are a very good-looking man of prime breeding age. Old enough to have interesting lines and scars--and stories to go with them--and young enough to be a catch. You probably get laid as often as you want to, and you can probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times women have said no to you. Maybe--and please correct me if I've strayed too far into speculation--being an agent of a secret government organization has led you to buy into the superspy sex stud propaganda perpetuated by James Bond films." "My name is Powers," I said. "Austin Powers." She ignored me and plowed ahead. "We're in the middle of a crisis. We may have to work closely together for several days, or even several weeks. Close-quarters travel, emotions running high, all that. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not spend the next few days living inside a trite office romance cliche. That includes everything from mild flirtation to sexual innuendo and double entendre and the whole ball of wax." She sipped her Coke. The ball landed in my court with a thump.

My mom had always wanted me to better myself. I wanted to better myself because of her. Now when the strikes started, I told her I was going to join the union and the whole movement. I told her I was going to work without pay. She said she was proud of me. (His eyes glisten. A long, long pause.) See, I told her I wanted to be with my people. If I were a company man, nobody would like me any more. I had to belong to somebody and this was it right here. She said, “I pushed you in your early years to try to better yourself and get a social position. But I see that’s not the answer. I know I’ll be proud of you.

When I come home from school, I take my Doc Martens off and put on fake satin mules with the marabou trim, slip into my dressing gown and my movie, and I feel serene. I hold a glass of Coke to my cheek and pretend it is a glass of bourbon and I am in New Orleans. My bedroom door is the doorway onto the street and at night I can't sleep because of the heat and the commotion in this town. So I go down to the river and dance as a man with scars on his face plays an accordion. People clap along and wolf-whistle and I whip my skirt around my thighs, which are long and lean because I barely get a chance to eat, what with all my bourbon and afternoon baths. I dance until my mules get muddy, then I tiptoe home, followed by sailors and men who have hundreds and thousands of dollars playing stud poker. Steve McQueen might be there. I can't remember. I get confused at this point. Too much drink. I'm sure Karl Malden is lurking in the background, gazing at me longingly. I am kind to him because his mother is dying.

There was a drugged sanctimoniousness about the sappy-looking birds seated in the lobby. Studs felt that there wasn't a man or a regular guy among them.

Man is so used to thinking visually that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass in its low-studded monotony as though I saw it.

Yeah I'm done. Chase frigging Reese." Slade shook his head. Mustang laughed again. Nothing like some good old-fashion jealousy to make a man see clearly. "Yeah, I know. The kid's got balls. I'll give him that. I guess we better show her what real men can do for her, huh?" "Oh yeah." Slade let out a snort. "'You get a buckle for that you know.' Yeah. I bet he made sure she knew that.

I love it when you call men sluts.” “Right?” I said, giggling back. “It’s much funnier than the alternative.” It was odd how I despised that word when talking about women, but when talking about men, all bets were off. Maybe because of the centuries-old double standard where a woman who enjoyed sex was a slut, whereas a man who enjoyed sex was a stud. That one never sat well with me.

His coach drew up before the Duke of Stanhope’s town house, and Ian walked swiftly up the front steps, almost knocking poor Ormsley, who opened the door, off his feet in his haste to get to his grandfather upstairs. A few minutes later he strode back down and into the library, where he flung himself into a chair, his eyes riveted on the clock. Upstairs the household was in an uproar as the duke called for his valet, his butler, and his footmen. Unlike Ian, however, the duke was ecstatic. “Ormsley, Ian needs me!” the duke said happily, stripping off his jacket and pulling off his neckcloth. “He walked right in here and said it.” Ormsley beamed. “He did indeed, your grace.” “I feel twenty years younger.” Ormsley nodded. “This is a very great day.” “What in hell is keeping Anderson? I need a shave. I want evening clothes-black, I think-a diamond stickpin and diamond studs. Stop thrusting that cane at me, man.” “You shouldn’t overly exert yourself, your grace.” “Ormsley,” said the duke as he walked over to an armoire and flung the doors open, “if you think I’m going to be leaning on that damned cane on the greatest night of my life, you’re out of your mind. I’ll walk in there beside my grandson unaided, thank you very much. Where the devil is Anderson?

Manifestly, man is the ape that imitates, tells stories, seeks status, morally condemns others, and yearns for the good old days, all of which guarantee a human future studded with religious and financial mass manias.

Yet, “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” opens up a political question. Why should this man be penniless at any time in his life, due to some fantastic thing called a Depression or sickness or whatever it is that makes him so insecure?

Thomas Paine’s vision of the American is being profaned. What he wrote in 1791 is on the button in 2003: “Freedom had been hunted round the globe; reason was considered as rebellion; and the slavery of fear had made men afraid to think. But such is the irresistible nature of truth that all it asks, and all it wants, is the liberty of appearing. … In such a situation, man becomes what he ought. He sees his species, not with the inhuman idea of a natural enemy, but as a kindred.

Exactly,” Gertie said. “This hot young stud claiming to be a marine stationed in the Middle East friended her on Facebook. Apparently, he sent her long letters and poetry and even a nude photo.” “Doesn’t sound like anything worth putting a bra on for,” Ida Belle said. “Well,” Gertie said, “in all fairness, that photo is probably the closest Beulah will ever get to male plumbing.” “Are you kidding?” I said. “The Internet is full of male plumbing. It’s like the Walmart of man parts.

Not branded dresses, expensive perfumes, studded sandals, glamorous accessories, the true beauty of a woman is her smile, willpower, confidence, intelligence and her ability to survive and rule with pride in a man's world. Happy Woman's Day !

She remained stiff against him. “It’s a nasty little piece that speculates on the unions of older women and younger men. There is a mocking paragraph on how wise a man like you must be to reap the benefits of an older woman’s ‘grateful enthusiasm.’ It’s a completely dreadful article, and it makes me sound like a lust-crazed old crone who has managed to ensnare a young man for stud service. Now, tell me at once if there is any truth in it!” One would have wished for immediate denial.

this first hour of arrival before one was again pierced by knives and arrows—this strange animal feeling, this breath reaching far and coming from afar, this breeze, without emotion yet, along the streets of the heart, past the dull fires of facts, past the nail-studded cross of bygone days and past the barbed hooks of the future, this caesura, the silence within oscillation, the moment of pause, most open and most secret form of being, the unemphatic beat of eternity in the very transitoriness of the world

I’ll never forget one of the first families I visited. The father was a railroad man who had lost his job. I was told by my supervisor that I really had to see the poverty. If the family needed clothing, I was to investigate how much clothing they had at hand. So I looked into this man’s closet—(pauses, it becomes difficult)—he was a tall, gray-haired man, though not terribly old. He let me look in the closet—he was so insulted. (She weeps angrily.) He said, “Why are you doing this?” I remember his feeling of humiliation . . . this terrible humiliation. (She can’t continue. After a pause, she resumes.) He said, “I really haven’t anything to hide, but if you really must look into it. . ..” I could see he was very proud. He was so deeply humiliated. And I was, too. . ..

Still, it was tempting to tell him to quit looking at the scratch. It hadn’t changed or gotten worse since the last time he’d examined it. The thing to do with wounds was ignore them, like your hole cards in a game of stud poker, which also never changed, no matter how many times you looked at them. Like Sully’s knee, which he allowed himself to examine once, first thing in the morning, and which he then ignored the rest of the day. Like all the mistakes a man made in his life, which could be worried and picked at like scabs but were better left alone.

I've been thinking about seeing. There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But -- and this is the point -- who gets excited by a mere penny? If you follow one arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the sight of a muskrat kit paddling from its den, will you count that sight a chip of copper only, and go your rueful way? It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get.

There they were, the movers and shakers of Benjamin Franklin Hight - the sports stars, the cheerleaders, the good, the great, the gorgeous - bent over their pizzas. Trish sensed my angst and said, "My mother says girls like Lisa Shooty get the ultimate curse known to man." "What's that?" "Too much too soon." I looked at poor, cursed Lisa who had been sprayed with sex appeal at birth. She had gleaming teeth and long, raven-black curls. She threw back her head and laughed with diamond-studded joy. "When do you think the curse takes effect?" I asked. "Not in our lifetime," Trish answered.

XII. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped, the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness? Tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupified, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I knew, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain. And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm to mine to fix me to the place, The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. XVII. Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first, What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that: Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. XX. So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded - good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, of feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! - It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage - XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque, What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

My children,” Lik-Rifa growled, her voice like a mountain slide, like a summer storm fractured with lightning, rumbling into the distance. A tremor passed through her, from snout to tail, and then her shape was shimmering, twisting and coiling like mist, shifting and changing, contracting, shrinking, until a woman stood before Ilska and her kin. She was tall, taller than any man, at least as big as the bull troll Elvar had slain on Iskalt Island. Her body was lean and striated, skin pale and raw and scabbed, weeping pus. Blood oozed from wounds. She was clothed in a tunic of grey, red-woven at the neck and hem, a belt studded with gold about her waist and a dark cloak billowing about her like wings. Her hair, black as jet, streaked with silver, was pulled back tightly, braids woven into it. She had a sharply beautiful face. Red coals glowed in her eyes. “What has become of my world, my children, my warbands?” she said, her voice hard as the north wind, a tremor shivering through it. She looked around at the battle-plain, the shapes of the long-dead become part of the landscape. Her red eyes flickered to Ilska.

In standard American English, the word with the most gradations of meaning is probably run. The Random House Unabridged Dictionary offers one hundred and seventy-eight options, beginning with “to go quickly by moving the legs more rapidly than at a walk” and ending with “melted or liquefied.” In the Crescent-Callas of the borderlands between Mid-World and Thunderclap, the blue ribbon for most meanings would have gone to commala. If the word were listed in the Random House Unabridged, the first definition (assuming they were assigned, as is common, in order of widest usage), would have been “a variety of rice grown at the furthermost eastern edge of All-World.” The second one, however would have been “sexual intercourse.” The third would have been “sexual orgasm, “as in Did’ee come commala’? (The hoped-for reply being Aye, say thankya, commala big-big.) To wet the commala is to irrigate the rice in a dry time; it is also to masturbate. Commala is the commencement of some big and joyful meal, like a family feast (not the meal itself, do ya, but the moment of beginning to eat). A man who is losing his hair (as Garrett Strong was that season), is coming commala. Putting animals out to stud is damp commala. Gelded animals are dry commala, although no one could tell you why. A virgin is green commala, a menstruating woman is red commala, an old man who can no longer make iron before the forge is-say sorry-sof’ commala. To stand commala is to stand belly-to-belly, a slang term meaning “to share secrets.

However,he also found himself constantly stalked by marriage-minded mamas and their braying daughters, and, frankly, while he'd thought it rather amusing in a twisted way when he'd been poor and knew they were getting no bargain, Daniel now found it vastly annoying. He was more than a stallion for stud with a bag of gold between his legs. And as entertaining as Suzette was, he didn't appreciate her interest in him being based only on his wealth. So he did what any reasonable man would do in this situation...he lied. "I am as poor as a church mouse," he announced with feigned regret. "In fact, poorer than a church mouse since just this last year I inherited Woodrow from my uncle and it is a terrible mess in need of a great deal of repair and care that I cannot afford.

Andrew Hale was a ruddy man with a big gray moustache and a stubbly double-chin unconstrained by a collar; but his scrupulously clean shirt was always fastened by a small diamond stud. This display of opulence was misleading, for though he did a fairly good business it was known that his easygoing habits and the demands of his large family frequently kept him what Starkfield called "behind.

If anyone had asked him that morning concerning his idea of Heaven, he never would have dreamed of describing a place of gold-paved streets, crystal pillars, jewelled gates, and thrones of ivory. These things were beyond the man's comprehension and he would not have admired or felt at home in such magnificence if it had been materialized for him. He would have told you that a floor of last year's brown leaves, studded with myriad flower faces, big, bark-encased pillars of a thousand years, jewels on every bush, shrub, and tree, and tilting thrones on which gaudy birds almost burst themselves to voice the joy of life, while their bright-eyed little mates peered questioningly at him over nest rims——he would have told you that Medicine Woods on a damp, sunny May morning was Heaven.

To my mind there is nothing like the quest for jewels at their sources, which will throw a man into the whirlpool of adventure, and if he has eyes to see it, into the arms of romance itself. Adventure and romance usually prove to be uncommonly uncomfortable at first-hand, but they are the stuff of memories. Memories studded with gems, memories literally bejeweled, are to me memories worth having indeed.

It was astonishing how loudly one laughed at tales of gruesome things, of war’s brutality-I with the rest of them. I think at the bottom of it was a sense of the ironical contrast between the normal ways of civilian life and this hark-back to the caveman code. It made all our old philosophy of life monstrously ridiculous. It played the “hat trick” with the gentility of modern manners. Men who had been brought up to Christian virtues, who had prattled their little prayers at mothers’ knees, who had grown up to a love of poetry, painting, music, the gentle arts, over-sensitized to the subtleties of half-tones, delicate scales of emotion, fastidious in their choice of words, in their sense of beauty, found themselves compelled to live and act like ape-men; and it was abominably funny. They laughed at the most frightful episodes, which revealed this contrast between civilized ethics and the old beast law. The more revolting it was the more, sometimes, they shouted with laughter, especially in reminiscence, when the tale was told in the gilded salon of a French chateau, or at a mess-table. It was, I think, the laughter of mortals at the trick which had been played on them by an ironical fate. They had been taught to believe that the whole object of life was to reach out to beauty and love, and that mankind, in its progress to perfection, had killed the beast instinct, cruelty, blood-lust, the primitive, savage law of survival by tooth and claw and club and ax. All poetry, all art, all religion had preached this gospel and this promise. Now that ideal had broken like a china vase dashed to hard ground. The contrast between That and This was devastating. It was, in an enormous world-shaking way, like a highly dignified man in a silk hat, morning coat, creased trousers, spats, and patent boots suddenly slipping on a piece of orange-peel and sitting, all of a heap, with silk hat flying, in a filthy gutter. The war-time humor of the soul roared with mirth at the sight of all that dignity and elegance despoiled. So we laughed merrily, I remember, when a military chaplain (Eton, Christ Church, and Christian service) described how an English sergeant stood round the traverse of a German trench, in a night raid, and as the Germans came his way, thinking to escape, he cleft one skull after another with a steel-studded bludgeon a weapon which he had made with loving craftsmanship on the model of Blunderbore’s club in the pictures of a fairy-tale. So we laughed at the adventures of a young barrister (a brilliant fellow in the Oxford “Union”) whose pleasure it was to creep out o’ nights into No Man’s Land and lie doggo in a shell-hole close to the enemy’s barbed wire, until presently, after an hour’s waiting or two, a German soldier would crawl out to fetch in a corpse. The English barrister lay with his rifle ready. Where there had been one corpse there were two. Each night he made a notch on his rifle three notches one night to check the number of his victims. Then he came back to breakfast in his dugout with a hearty appetite.

I had enough of a story churning in my head that combined all the elements of the day—the interview, the concert, the after-party’s private session—when he put his guitar away and asked me if I had ever experimented with homosexuality. Talk about unexpected segues. Letting him know that I had not and wasn’t about to, I successfully changed the subject by asking him to give me a condensed account about traveling to Mississippi in search of Bukka White.

Father," said Zadig, "what's all this I see? You seem in no way like other men: you steal a golden basin studded with precious stones from a lord who receives you magnificently, and you give it to another who treats you with indignity." "My son," replied the old man, " that magnificent man, who revieves strangers only out of vanity and to have his riches admired, will become wiser; the miser will learn to exercise hospitality. Be astonished at nothing, and follow me.

One day there came from the South a stranger who was unlike any man that Shasta had seen before. He rode upon a strong dappled horse with flowing mane and tail, and his stirrups and bridle were inlaid with silver. The spike of a helmet projected from the middle of his silken turban and he wore a shirt of chain mail. By his side hung a curving scimitar; a round shield studded with bosses of brass hung at his back, and his right hand grasped a lance. His face was dark, but this did not surprise Shasta because all the people of Calormen are like that; what did surprise him was the man’s beard which was dyed crimson, and curled and gleaming with scented oil. But Arsheesh knew by the gold on the stranger’s bare arm that he was a Tarkaan or great lord, and he bowed kneeling before him till his beard touched the earth, and made signs to Shasta to kneel also. The stranger demanded hospitality for the night which of course the fisherman dared not refuse. All the best they had was set before the Tarkaan for supper (and he didn’t think much of it) and Shasta, as always happened when the fisherman had company, was given a hunk of bread and turned out of the cottage. On these occasions he usually slept with the donkey in its little thatched stable. But it was much too early to go to sleep yet, and Shasta, who had never learned that it is wrong to listen behind doors, sat down with his ear to a crack in the wooden wall of the cottage to hear what the grown-ups were talking about.

When I went in the military, they asked, 'What race are you?' I had no idea what they were talking about because in Hawaii we don't question a man's race. They said, 'Where are your parents from?' I said they were born in Hawaii. 'Your grandparents?' They were born in Hawaii. 'How about your great-grandparents?' I said they're from Europe. Some from Spain, some from Wales. They said, 'You're Caucasian.' I said, 'What's that?' They said, 'You're white.' I looked at my skin. I was pretty dark, tanned by the sun. I said, 'You're kidding.' They put me down as Caucasian and separated me from the rest of the Hawaiians. … Some of my new buddies asked me not to talk to three of the men. I asked why. They said, 'They're Jews.' I said, 'What's a Jew?' They said, 'Don't you know? They killed Jesus Christ.' I says, 'You mean them guys? They don't look old enough.' They said, 'You're tryin' to get smart?' I said, 'No. It's my understanding he was killed about nineteen hundred years ago.' pp. 19-20.

We had to go to stew school for five weeks. We’d go through a whole week of make-up and poise. I didn’t like this. They make you feel like you’ve never been out in public. They showed you how to smoke a cigarette, when to smoke a cigarette, how to look at a man’s eyes. Our teacher, she had this idea we had to be sexy. One day in class she was showing us how to accept a light for a cigarette from a man and never blow it out. When he lights it, just look in his eyes. It was really funny, all the girls laughed.

Barnacles stud the smooth dark skin, and crabs scurry across it. That black back must be slippery, treacherous like rock … But you see the hole in its back, the breath going in and out, and you think of all the blowholes along this coast; how a clever man can slip into them, fly inland one moment, back to ocean the next. Always curious, always brave, you take one step and the whale is underfoot. Two steps more and you are sliding, sliding deep into a dark and breathing cave that resonates with whale song. Beside you beats a blood-filled heart so warm it could be fire. Plunge your hands into that whale heart, lean into it and squeeze and let your voice join the whale’s roar. Sing that song your father taught you as the whale dives, down, deep. How dark it is beneath the sea, and looking through the whale’s eyes you see bubbles slide past you like … But there was none of that. Bobby was only imagining, only writing. Held in the sky on a rocky headland, Bobby drew chalk circles on slate, drew bubbles. Bubelz. Roze a wail. He erased the marks with the heel of his hand. It wasn’t true, it was just an old story, and he couldn’t even remember the proper song.

What a dreadful experience for a young boy who just wanted the company of his dad, who just wanted to whack at baseballs in the backyard with the old man, who just wanted to be taught to use a circular saw, who just wanted to learn the rudiments of five-card stud or blackjack, who just wanted to understand the precise location of the clitoris or how to pronounce clitoris, or who wanted to learn how to order meat from a waiter, or who wanted to say the word meat with great gusto, or who wanted to learn the proper way to mix and shake a martini, or who wanted to learn to say good little piece of tail, or who wanted to contemplate the necessity of moving on, or who wanted to neglect to shave, or who wanted to learn the specifics of firearms, wanted to be able to eject a used shell, to drive with one hand and dangle the other out the window, to belch without shame, who wanted to drink in the morning, who wanted not to bother flushing the toilet, who wanted to learn to walk naked from the bathroom without worrying about who saw him, and who wanted to cut down his colleagues, his personal friends, in midsentence when he had to. Who would not want his dad when his dad was gone?

The first movie star I met was Norma Shearer. I was eight years old at the time and going to school with Irving Thalberg Jr. His father, the longtime production chief at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, devoted a large part of his creative life to making Norma a star, and he succeeded splendidly. Unfortunately, Thalberg had died suddenly in 1936, and his wife's career had begun to slowly deflate. Just like kids everywhere else, Hollywood kids had playdates at each other's houses, and one day I went to the Thalberg house in Santa Monica, where Irving Sr. had died eighteen months before. Norma was in bed, where, I was given to understand, she spent quite a bit of time so that on those occasions when she worked or went out in public she would look as rested as possible. She was making Marie Antoinette at the time, and to see her in the flesh was overwhelming. She very kindly autographed a picture for me, which I still have: "To Cadet Wagner, with my very best wishes. Norma Shearer." Years later I would be with her and Martin Arrouge, her second husband, at Sun Valley. No matter who the nominal hostess was, Norma was always the queen, and no matter what time the party was to begin, Norma was always late, because she would sit for hours—hours!—to do her makeup, then make the grand entrance. She was always and forever the star. She had to be that way, really, because she became a star by force of will—hers and Thalberg's. Better-looking on the screen than in life, Norma Shearer was certainly not a beauty on the level of Paulette Goddard, who didn't need makeup, didn't need anything. Paulette could simply toss her hair and walk out the front door, and strong men grew weak in the knees. Norma found the perfect husband in Martin. He was a lovely man, a really fine athlete—Martin was a superb skier—and totally devoted to her. In the circles they moved in, there were always backbiting comments when a woman married a younger man—" the stud ski instructor," that sort of thing. But Martin, who was twelve years younger than Norma and was indeed a ski instructor, never acknowledged any of that and was a thorough gentleman all his life. He had a superficial facial resemblance to Irving Thalberg, but Thalberg had a rheumatic heart and was a thin, nonathletic kind of man—intellectually vital, but physically weak. Martin was just the opposite—strong and virile, with a high energy level. Coming after years of being married to Thalberg and having to worry about his health, Martin must have been a delicious change for Norma.

The speaker standing on an upturned barrel at the intersection of 135th Street and Seventh Avenue was shouting monotonously: “BLACK POWER! BLACK POWER! Is you is? Or is you ain’t? We gonna march this night! March! March! March! Oh, when the saints — yeah, baby! We gonna march this night!” Spit flew from his looselipped mouth. His flabby jowls flopped up and down. His rough brown skin was greasy with sweat. His dull red eyes looked tired. “Mistah Charley been scared of BLACK POWER since the day one. That’s why Noah shuffled us off to Africa the time of the flood. And all this time we been laughing to keep from whaling.” He mopped his sweating face with a red bandanna handkerchief. He belched and swallowed. His eyes looked vacant. His mouth hung open as though searching for words. “Can’t keep this up,” he said under his breath. No one heard him. No one noticed his behavior. No one cared. He swallowed loudly and screamed. “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT! We launch our whale boats. Iss the night of the great white whale. You dig me, baby?” He was a big man and flabby all over like his jowls. Night had fallen but the black night air was as hot as the bright day air, only there was less of it. His white short-sleeved shirt was sopping wet. A ring of sweat had formed about the waist of his black alpaca pants as though the top of his potbelly had begun to melt. “You want a good house? You got to whale! You want a good car? You got to whale! You want a good job? You got to whale! You dig me?” His conked hair was dripping sweat. For a big flabby middle-aged man who would have looked more at home in a stud poker game, he was unbelievably hysterical. He waved his arms like an erratic windmill. He cut a dance step. He shuffled like a prizefighter. He shadowed with clenched fists. He shouted. Spit flew. “Whale! Whale! WHALE, WHITEY! WE GOT THE POWER! WE IS BLACK! WE IS PURE!” A crowd of Harlem citizens dressed in holiday garb had assembled to listen. They crowded across the sidewalks, into the street, blocking traffic. They were clad in the chaotic colors of a South American jungle. They could have been flowers growing on the banks of the Amazon, wild orchids of all colors. Except for their voices. “What’s he talking ’bout?” a high-yellow chick with bright red hair wearing a bright green dress that came down just below her buttocks asked the tall slim black man with smooth carved features and etched hair. “Hush yo’ mouth an’ lissen,” he replied harshly, giving her a furious look from the corners of muddy, almond-shaped eyes. “He tellin’ us what black power mean!

On that particular evening there stood in the portico of the temple of Melmoth two remarkable figures who were the centre of observation for a considerable fringe of Phœnician idlers. One of these men was clearly by his face and demeanour a great chieftain. His strongly-marked features were those of a man who had led an adventurous life, and were suggestive of every virile quality from brave resolve to desperate execution. His broad, high brow and contemplative eyes showed that he was a man of wisdom as well as of valour. He was clad, as became a Greek nobleman of the period, with a pure white linen tunic, a gold-studded belt supporting a short sword, and a purple cloak.

Madam, you can’t be more desperate than I.” He wound his arms around her and grunted. “The evidence is drooling on your stomach. I have not lost this erection for five days. Doral looks at me and winces. You have obliterated my dignity in front of my staff. I have become a laughingstock, a by-word for ‘pussy-whipped male’. Every time I walk into a room, the conversation dies. I entered the mess hall, yesterday—530 officers and enlisted men. Silence, Fleur. Dead silence.” She sniffed. By the gods, this must be a unique experience for him. I’m certain he has never been the butt of the joke before. “I don’t think you appreciate the torture and humiliation you inflict. Do you know how uncomfortable it is to ride a horse when I’m like this? Do you know how disconcerting it is to discuss cavalry deployment with Major Truillo while I’m sporting a cockstand to rival a stud horse? I couldn't get the man to look me in the face. Worse, he thought I reacted to him.” She nuzzled her face into Ari’s chest and tried to contain her amusement. Her imagination supplied the picture of the very handsome, very homosexual, very short Major Truillo standing with covetous eyes riveted to Ari’s substantial erection, all the while discussing the dry topic of cavalry placement. “For half an hour all I saw was the top of his head.” He paused for a moment then threw out, “He has a bald spot.

I want you to know that life will try to crack you like an egg and your silence will eventually break. Someday you will spill some of those painful secrets and taste a modicum of much-needed freedom. You will lose a great deal as a result but the gains will outweigh every loss. You will love and be loved by a beautiful man in a place where your mutual passion won’t be a marker of shame but pride. You will be awkward and alone and alien for a long time but you will transform these qualities, which is to say yourself, into a work of art. You will wear your awkwardness, your aloneness and your alienness in your hair like gold thread. You will adorn your wonkiness on your wrist like a charm bracelet studded with stars.

...wandered into a shoe store. A lone customer stood at the display rack, turning the shoes over, one after another, to look at their soles. Jessica recalled the proverb "Hell is a stylish shoe." A salesman greeted her at the door, a young man with a shaved head and a black turtleneck. Too intimate from the start, he held each selection so close to her face that she had to lean back to get a better look. She felt his breath as he pressed some studded sparkly sneakers on her. Jessica found it fascinating that he thought she would want these, or the next pair he held up--stiletto-heeled jobs that seemed lewd, as did his smirk. The salesman didn't conceal his disappointment when she bought a pair of marked-down Vera Wang flats. She bought them because they seemed so pedestrian. Men preferred women teetering so she chose to walk like a Neanderthal.

And woman," I said, "had the power been hers, would she have used it to sweeter purpose? Where is your evidence? Your Cleopatras, Pompadours, Jezebels; your Catherines of Russia, late Empresses of China; your Faustines of all ages and all climes; your Mother Brownriggs; your Lucretia Borgias, Salomes—I could weary you with names. Your Roman task-mistresses; your drivers of lodging-house slaveys; your ladies who whipped their pages to death in the Middle Ages; your modern dames of fashion, decked with the plumage of the tortured grove. There have been other women also—noble women, their names like beacon-lights studding the dark waste of history. So there have been noble men—saints, martyrs, heroes. The sex-line divides us physically, not morally. Woman has been man's accomplice in too many crimes to claim to be his judge. 'Male and female created He them'—like and like, for good and evil.

The next four weeks of solitary confinement were among the happiest of Paul's life. The physical comforts were certainly meagre, but at the Ritz Paul had learned to appreciate the inadequacy of purely physical comfort. It was so exhilarating, he found, never to have to make any decision on any subject, to be wholly relieved from the smallest consideration of time, meals, or clothes, to have no anxiety ever about what kind of impression he was making; in fact, to be free. At some rather chilly time in the early morning a bell would ring, and the warder would say, "Slops outside!"; he would rise, roll up his bedding, and dress; there was no need to shave, no hesitation about what tie he should wear, none of the fidgeting with studs and collars and links that so distracts the waking moments of civilized man. He felt like the happy people in the advertisements for shaving soap who seem to have achieved very simply that peace of mind so distant and so desirable in the early morning.

To state the proposition, generally, at the outset, I assert that the whole end and object of the Etiquette of Courtship and Matrimony is to insult, persecute, and degrade the bridegroom. I first became satisfied of this disgraceful fact at page thirty-six of the Hand Book or Manual. In the earlier part of the volume it was assumed that I had fallen in love, had made my offer, and had been accepted by my young woman and her family. Etiquette is hard on my heels all through those preliminary processes, and finally runs me down as soon as I appear in the character of an engaged man. My behaviour in my future wife’s company is of the last importance and there Etiquette has me, and never lets me go again. “In private,” says the Manual, “the slightest approach to familiarity must be avoided, as it will always be resented by a woman who deserves to be a wife.” So! I may be brimming over with affection; I may even have put on a soft waistcoat expressly for the purpose; but I am never to clasp my future wife with rapture to my bosom; I am never to print upon her soft cheek a momentary impression of the pattern of my upper shirt-stud! She is to keep me at arm’s length, in private as well as in public and I am actually expected to believe, all the time, that she is devotedly attached to me! First insult.

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay... When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo! With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay... But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay... I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and - Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay... Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! O the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay !

July I watch eagerly a certain country graveyard that I pass in driving to and from my farm. It is time for a prairie birthday, and in one corner of this graveyard lives a surviving celebrant of that once important event. It is an ordinary graveyard, bordered by the usual spruces, and studded with the usual pink granite or white marble headstones, each with the usual Sunday bouquet of red or pink geraniums. It is extraordinary only in being triangular instead of square, and in harboring, within the sharp angle of its fence, a pin-point remnant of the native prairie on which the graveyard was established in the 1840’s. Heretofore unreachable by scythe or mower, this yard-square relic of original Wisconsin gives birth, each July, to a man-high stalk of compass plant or cutleaf Silphium, spangled with saucer-sized yellow blooms resembling sunflowers. It is the sole remnant of this plant along this highway, and perhaps the sole remnant in the western half of our county. What a thousand acres of Silphiums looked like when they tickled the bellies of the buffalo is a question never again to be answered, and perhaps not even asked. This year I found the Silphium in first bloom on 24 July, a week later than usual; during the last six years the average date was 15 July. When I passed the graveyard again on 3 August, the fence had been removed by a road crew, and the Silphium cut. It is easy now to predict the future; for a few years my Silphium will try in vain to rise above the mowing machine, and then it will die. With it will die the prairie epoch. The Highway Department says that 100,000 cars pass yearly over this route during the three summer months when the Silphium is in bloom. In them must ride at least 100,000 people who have ‘taken’ what is called history, and perhaps 25,000 who have ‘taken’ what is called botany. Yet I doubt whether a dozen have seen the Silphium, and of these hardly one will notice its demise. If I were to tell a preacher of the adjoining church that the road crew has been burning history books in his cemetery, under the guise of mowing weeds, he would be amazed and uncomprehending. How could a weed be a book? This is one little episode in the funeral of the native flora, which in turn is one episode in the funeral of the floras of the world. Mechanized man, oblivious of floras, is proud of his progress in cleaning up the landscape on which, willy-nilly, he must live out his days. It might be wise to prohibit at once all teaching of real botany and real history, lest some future citizen suffer qualms about the floristic price of his good life. * * *

announced that Otis Redding and the Bar-Kays would be performing in Madison, two friends and I cut class and raced to the Factory, where we plunked down three bucks apiece for tickets. In the weeks leading up to the concert, Steve Kruvant, Rick Kleiner, and I wore out the grooves of Otis’s Live in Europe LP. From the emcee’s introductory cheerleading (“Gimme an O!”) to the final horn blasts

Even though I made solid contributions

Eugenie looked great, her short spiky auburn hair edged with conservative blond tips and her face wearing a minimum of makeup. Must be Mr. Natural’s influence. I gave her a hug and turned to meet Quince, who was sitting across from her. Okay, I could see the attraction. He had thick, honey-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail not unlike my own, and a green gemstone stud in one ear. He reached out a grasped my hand, shaking it firmly. “It’s great to meet you. Eugenie talks about you all the time.” “She talks a lot about you too, Quince.” The man had no idea. He smiled and his blue-green eyes were almost enthralling. “Most people call me Rand, but Eugenie likes my real name better than my nickname.” After a half hour of small talk, I wasn’t sure I liked Quince Randolph. He was drop-dead gorgeous, no question about that. But there was something off about him I couldn’t quite pinpoint. He stared too hard when he talked to you, made my eye contact than a normal person. I tried to dig into his head a little but came up blank, which was weird, except I’d done a heavy grounding ritual this morning. “You know, I just noticed something.” Eugenie had a funny look on her face. “You guys have the same hair and eye colo. I’d never realized it till I saw you sitting there across from each other.” “Maybe we’re very distantly related.” Rand smiled. “I doubt it,” I said, frowning. “I don’t have much family. And if we were related, I’d be pissed off that you have better cheekbones.

I’d ask why you don’t want to be whipped, but I sense there’s a long heartfelt story behind it and I’ll feel sorry for you and I’m not really in the mood to feel pity. Maybe after a few more orgasms, I can fake sympathy. We’re just not there yet, champ.” “I like that nickname,” I said, taking her hand between mine. “Stud works too. King Cock is another favorite.” “How about Cock-A-Doodle-Doo?" “Too cartoony. I need something manlier. Cockinator.” Laughing, Raven yanked her hand away. “How about Robo Cock or White Cock Down? Ooh, Cockageddon.” “Independence Cock,” I suggested, laughing as I drank my juice. “Cock Hard or Cocky. You know the third one where Cocky goes to Russia.” Raven snorted. “Cocks on a Plane. No, Planet of the Cocks.” “Kindergarten Cock,” I said and Raven balked. “Did I take that too far?” “Perv. Oh, how about World War C?” “Too subtle.” “Iron Cock or Cock of Steel. You know, if you’re interested in the superhero route.” “Star Trek and superheroes. I sense the nerd is strong in this one.” “Fuck off. I saw the videogames at your stag shack.” “Wanna come over and play sometime?” I asked, giving her a wink. “Then, after we’re done playing, we can do that videogame thing you mentioned.” “Hang out time like you shared with Judd?” Expression hardening, I glared at her. “I never fucked Judd.” “Why? He’s hot.” Unable to keep up the façade, I laughed. “He’s a pretty fucker, ain’t he?” “Oh, yeah,” she sighed and I stopped laughing. Raven noticed and it was her turn to laugh. “He’s got those beautiful eyes.” “They’re beady rat eyes.” “He’s so strong.” “Puny girly man.” Raven licked her lips. “I bet he hung too.” I showed her my pinkie finger. “He’s barely this big when hard.” “And how do you know that if you two never fucked?” “Fine, we fucked, but we were pretty drunk and he is really pretty.” Raven nearly fell off her chair laughing. I felt intensely proud to make her lose her cool so thoroughly. After calming down, Raven threw up her hand and I high fived her. “You win,” she said, catching her breath. “I’ll play videogames at your place after fucking your brains out. Make you forget all about sexy Judd.

At 31 years of age, Fred West was a big man trapped in a little man’s body. He thought himself to be a gynecologist and Warren Beatty look-a-like all rolled into one … the surgeon and the stud.

Now the oppa is the object of romantic affection—the manly man, the stud. You

A man walks into a bar after a long day at work. As he drinks his beer he hears a quiet voice say, “Wow! You look great!” The man looks around but can’t see where the voice is coming from. A minute later he hears the same soft voice say, “You’re so handsome!” The man looks everywhere but still can’t see where the voice is coming from. As he sips his beer he hears the voice again. “What a stud you are!” The man is baffled and asks the bartender, “What the hell is going on?” “Don’t worry,” the bartender says, “it’s just the nuts. They’re complimentary.

throughout the open space, and a two-story fireplace. The bedrooms all have mountain vistas, and the patio has a multimillion-dollar view of a great, green, tree-studded lawn. Edmund Washburn, a big teddy bear of a man, had fired up the

Georgia gulped as the entire doorway suddenly filled with a man she didn't recognize. She'd been expecting Jesper MacMillian. This was definitely not Jesper MacMillian. This man had a rich black complexion. His head was bald- whether by nature or design, she couldn't be sure. Tiny studs flashed in his ears. He wore a beautiful black suit, painstakingly tailored to fit his massive shoulders. Dark tattoos curled just above his pressed white collar, and down below the edges of his cuffs. His face was neither kind nor unkind. He studied her with vague disinterest, his eyes quiet and guarded beneath solid brows.

Today, I know we are merely humans. Two flawed, imperfect, mortal beings, whose bones will one day crumble to dust. Just a woman and a man.

My phone dings. Probably my mother, who has mom-radar and always knows when I’m up to no good. Undoubtedly asking how many Hail Marys she needs to say for me today. I grab my phone just to make sure it’s not a somebody died text, and almost fall off my stool. Tarzan here. Looking for Ms. P. This her? I close my eyes, blow out a slow breath. One, if he’s texting me, his date with Lila Valentine probably didn’t produce a second, which makes me happier than I have any right to be. Two, I’m not asking the guy to marry me. I’m asking him to be a hot piece of ass to make me look good. And three, I’m suddenly worried that my bad taste in men is making an unfortunate appearance again. What man in his right mind would text back a woman who made that proposition last weekend? Am I wrong about his date with the auction winner? Did I leave something behind at the hotel, and he’s just returning it? Or does he actually have some secret fetish that’ll play out wrong in the middle of my class reunion? "Who’s that?" Sia demands. "Tele-texter," I lie. I ignore the glares from my friends and type a quick reply. Yes, this is Parker. Except my phone hates me, and it autocorrects to Trying. This is Parking. Thanks, phone. Y E S, I type. Damn autocorrect. I hit send, and "Ohmygod." "What? What?" My friends all peer around me, and I jump off my stool to keep them from seeing my screen. Autocorrect just autocorrected to autocunnilingus. I just told Tarzan I’m eating myself. What have I done? Does that count as sexting? I don’t know. This is why I can’t have nice things.

We have all made mistakes." "Not you, surely." That elicited a wry smile from him. "Especially me." Her blue eyes were alert. "What kind of mistakes?" The question amused him. He liked her for her fearlessness, as well as the layer of vulnerability beneath. "None that you need to know about, Miss Sydney." She smiled slowly. "Then I remain skeptical as to your having made any." It was the kind of smile a woman might wear in the sultry aftermath of lovemaking. Very few women possessed such effortless sensuality, a natural warmth that made a man feel like a prize stallion on a stud farm.

Kitsune Art: Fanboy’s Delight.” Kağan’s body became stock still. His posture stiffened, spine straightening like a nutcracker. A shudder went through his body, visible even through the thick, black fur. It went all the way up from his toes to his head, and then back down again. Small twitches soon followed. Tiny muscles spasms that made his body look like quivering jello. Like a man suffering an epileptic seizure, the spasming grew more intense with each passing second, until the cat yōkai fell onto his back, twitching and jerking, his body seizing up. Froth started pouring from his mouth. Then his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. Several seconds later, Kağan lay still, unmoving save for the stuttering of his chest. Kevin blinked. Once. Then he looked at Iris as she walked over to him. “What kind of illusion did you just cast on him?” Iris’s grin was the kind someone had only when they were immensely pleased with themselves. “I made him watch twenty-four hours of Boku no Pico compressed into six seconds.” Kevin turned green. “I regret asking already. Oh, gods. I think I’m gonna be sick.” “Don’t worry, Stud.” Iris’s reassuring smile did nothing to reassure him. If anything, it did the opposite. “I would never cast that on you.” “I suppose that’s something to feel grateful about.” “After all, if you suddenly became a vegetable, then I would never be able to convince Lily-pad to let me join you two in a threesome.” The sound of Kevin’s palm meeting his face echoed several decibels louder than it should have through the mostly empty street. ***

Brr, you were right, Stud. It is cold.” Without a hint of shame, she pressed herself against him. “Warm me up, will you?” “I don’t know how you expect me to do that,” Kevin said with a straight face. “Uhuhuhu, I can think of a few things.” “Please stop it with the perverted old man laugh. It’s creepy.” “That’s a harsh thing to say to the woman you share a bed with.” “I share a bed with Lilian. You’re just an extra.” “Now that’s just cruel. I think I trained you a little too well.” “You wouldn’t know how to train a garden snake to find a hole—and yes,” Kevin interrupted before she could speak, “that was an innuendo.

Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered? Not the fellow who used to tell such wonderful tales at parties, about dragons and goblins and giants and the rescue of princesses and the unexpected luck of widows' sons? Not the man that used to make such particularly excellent fireworks!

Yes, I would. I can read the arrest report now. Two blind men fighting over a hot, gay stud-muffin. My mom would freak out and her gaggle of friends would make sure that everybody in town knew about her blind, gay son beating someone down over a man.

Inside the club, Alex immediately heads for the dance floor with me. I ignore the gawking stares from Fairfield students from my side of town as I pull Alex close to me and we move as one to the beat. We move together as if we’ve been a couple forever, every movement in sync with each other. For the first time I’m not afraid of what people think of me and Alex together. Next year, in college, it won’t matter who came from what side of town. Troy, a boy I danced with the last time I came to Club Mystique, taps me on the shoulder as the music makes the dance floor vibrate. “Who’s the new stud?” he asks. “Troy, this is my boyfriend, Alex. Alex, this is Troy.” “Hey, man,” Alex says as he holds out his hand and quickly shakes Troy’s. “I have a feeling this guy won’t make the same mistake the other one did,” Troy says to me. I don’t answer, because I feel Alex’s hands around my waist and back and it feels so right to have him here with me. I think he liked me calling him my boyfriend, and it felt so good to say it out loud. I lean my back against his chest and close my eyes, letting the rhythm of the music and the movement of our bodies mold together.

¡Carajoǃ” Paco says, throwing down his lunch. “They think they can buy a U-shaped shell, stuff it, and call it a taco, but those cafeteria workers wouldn’t know taco meat from a piece of shit. That’s what this tastes like, Alex.” “You’re makin’ me sick, man,” I tell him. I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to Paco everything looks like mierda now. Disgusted, I shove what’s left of my lunch into my brown paper bag. “Want some of it?” Paco says with a grin as he holds out the shitty taco to me. “Bring that one inch closer to me and you’ll be sorry,” I threaten. “I’m shakin’ in my pants.” Paco wiggles the offending taco, goading me. He should seriously know better. “If any of that gets on me--” “What’cha gonna do, kick my ass?” Paco sings sarcastically, still shaking the taco. Maybe I should punch him in the face, knocking him out so I won’t have to deal with him right now. As I have that thought, I feel something drop on my pants. I look down even though I know what I’ll see. Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy stuff passing as taco meat lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans. “Fuck,” Paco says, his face quickly turning from amusement to shock. “Want me to clean it off for you?” “If your fingers come anywhere close to my dick, I’m gonna personally shoot you in the huevos,” I growl through clenched teeth. I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers. I turn back to Paco. “You got ten minutes to get me a new pair of pants.” “How the hell am I s’posed to do that?” “Be creative.” “Take mine.” Paco stands and brings his fingers to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning right in the middle of the courtyard. “Maybe I wasn’t specific enough,” I tell him, wondering how I’m going to act like the cool guy in chem class when it looks like I’ve peed in my pants. “I meant, get me a new pair of pants that will fit me, pendejo. You’re so short you could audition to be one of Santa Claus’s elves.” “I’m toleratin’ your insults because we’re like brothers.” “Nine minutes and thirty seconds.” It doesn’t take Paco more than that to start running toward the school parking lot. I seriously don’t give a crap how I get the pants; just that I get ‘em before my next class. A wet crotch is not the way to show Brittany I’m a stud.

What chord would you be?” she mused, playing one chord after another. I listened as she experimented. “Oh, here’s a good, sad one,” she said, strumming softly. “You think I’m sad?” I asked. “Nah. Definitely not. That’s not your chord. No minor chords for you.” “Absolutely not. I’m a major chord all the way. A major chord and a major stud.” She laughed and I sighed. I didn’t know what time it was, but the golden glow of the nearby lamp and the warm strings made my eyes heavy and my heart light. “This is Henry’s chord.” Millie played something dissonant and curious, and I laughed out loud because it made total sense. “But you would be something deeper,” she added. “Because I’m a sexy man,” I drawled. “Yep. Because you’re a sexy man. And we would want something with a little twang to it.” “Because I’m a sexy Texan.” “A sexy Utah Texan.” She tried a few more, laughing and scrunching up her nose as she tried to find just the right chord. “And we need something sweet.” “Sweet and violent?” I asked. “Sexy, twangy, sweet and violent. This might be more difficult than I thought,” she said, still giggling. She strummed something full and throaty, picking over each string and then strumming them together. “There it is, hear that? That’s Tag.” “I like it,” I said, pleased. She stretched her hand, her pinky finger clinging to the bottom string and the chord changed subtly, another layer, a slightly different sound, like the chord wasn’t quite yet resolved. “And that’s David.

What the hell do you know? You don’t understand what Hollywood wants. I need to be skinny.” “Okay. Okay. How about a salad?” “No! Salad will bloat me.” “So, you’ll fart. Problem solved.

Would you like to hack out with me, Eve?” The smile disappeared. “I’m not dressed appropriately. Thank you for the invitation, nonetheless.” He hadn’t expected her to accept, though he had wanted to hear her reply. He shifted closer to her in the stall, close enough that he could stretch out a hand to his horse and not be overheard by the lads. “I’d put you up on Willy here. He’s gentle as a lamb under saddle.” “You’d let me ride your prize racing stud?” The longing in her voice was palpable. “I don’t think he’s going to hear, see, or obey anybody else when you’re in the vicinity. Willy’s in love.” The blighted beast nickered deep in its chest as if in agreement. “What a charming fellow.” Eve’s bare hand scratched right behind Willy’s ear, and if he’d been a dog, the stallion’s back leg would have twitched with pleasure. What was wrong with a man when he wanted to tell his horse: She petted me first, so don’t get any ideas? “I’d love to see you on him, Lucas. I’ll bet he has marvelous paces.” Now the smile was aimed at Deene, and even the horse seemed to be looking at him beseechingly. “I cannot disappoint a guest. We’ll have some luncheon up at the house, and the lads can saddle him up.” As Deene escorted the lady from the loose box, Willy managed to look crestfallen before he went back to desultorily lipping at his hay. “Some

The point to bottoming isn’t to fill your orifice. It’s to experience the presence of another man inside your body.

My ideal top isn’t just physical. It’s about emotional, and passionate love making. Give and take, making love furiously, intensely. No matter how you cut it, a man opening himself up for another man to enter him is the ultimate in submission.

In walked a vision of elegance that might have just stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. She didn't even bother trying not to stare. Peach Gallagher had arrived. And all her expectations exploded. Not only did he appear to understand the meaning of black tie, he walked into the reception room as if he had invented the look---a perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket and matching trousers, a shirt with studs and cuff links, an expertly tied bow tie, and black laced oxfords. His long hair managed to make the attire seem more formal. He was every crush she'd ever had from junior high onward. Every album cover she'd stared at, listening to torch songs until she cried. Every mooned-over heartthrob she could never have.

The love affair between Lisa and Tony was inevitable, or so Tony said. Cheaply predictable, Paul said. Benjamin said nothing at all. She was nineteen years old. Not to excuse her, just that she was at an age that needs a good talking to. She loved it when Tony said things like “We were meant for each other. Our eyebrows both grow together in the middle…” One night when Benjamin came home she said, “Ben. I want words! I want words! I want a word with you!” He looked at her. He took off his bow tie and the nine ruby studs from his tuxedo shirt. He took off his jacket and his shoes and sat down next to her on the rollaway bed. “Babs,” he said. (He used to call her Babs.) He was silent then, taking off his pants and shorts and socks. He sat naked on the bed, tired, and she knew what a good man he was. “I’m a man of few words,” he said. He held her head in his piano-playing hands. “I love you,” he said. “I love you with all my heart. Don’t you know that?” “Yes,” she said and she turned over and cried herself to sleep.

The strike of 1931 revolved around readers in the factory. The workers themselves used to pay twenty-five to fifty cents a week and would hire a man to read to them during work. A cigar factory is one enormous open area, with tables at which people work. A platform would be erected, so that he’d look down at the cigar makers as he read to them some four hours a day. He would read from newspapers and magazines and a book would be read as a serial. The choice of the book was democratically decided. Some of the readers were marvelous natural actors. They wouldn’t just read a book. They’d act out the scenes. Consequently, many cigar makers, who were illiterate, knew the novels of Zola and Dickens and Cervantes and Tolstoy. And the works of the anarchist, Kropotkin. Among the newspapers read were The Daily Worker and the Socialist Call.

The more Spencer learned of the man, the more he was convinced Bellamy’s provenance was a direct line back to the gutters of London.

The man is larger than life and all muscle, and when he cracks his knuckles, his biceps flex and strain under his tight v-neck t-shirt. He’s wearing all black from head to toe, but what sets him apart are the black studded leather belts he wears wrapped around his forearms. I know this man. Those belts aren’t decorations. They’re weapons. Weapons I’ve seen him wrap around a neck or two during the few occasions Belly had brought me with him up to Logan’s Beach for reasons that always started with killing and ended with one fuck of a good party. “King,” I greet, with a tip of my chin.

There were “prostitutes” whom the sisters did despise, but not those mentioned in The Gentleman’s Companion: they were scathing about the underlying hypocrisy of high-society women who sold themselves for profitable marriages. “What a commentary upon the divinity of marriage are the watering places during the summer seasons!” scoffed Victoria. “The mercenary ‘mammas’ trot out their daughters on exhibition, as though they were so many stud of horses, to be hawked to the highest bidder. It’s the man who can pay the most money who is sought; it makes no difference how he got it, nor what are his antecedents… To him who bids highest… the article is knocked down… this is the ruling spirit, not at watering places only but in so-called best society everywhere. Marriages of love become rarer year after year, while those of convenience are proportionately on the increase… and we prate of the holy marriage covenant!