Tango Me Quotes

Nix to Declan: Begin transcript— Testing. Hello, hellooo, anybody out there? Check, check, one, two. Soft pee. Puh, puh. Resonance! Sooooooft pee. Alpha bravo disco tango duck. This is Nïx! I’m the Ever-Knowing One, a goddess incandescent, incomparable, and irresistible. But enough about what you think of me. It’s a beautiful day in New Orleans. The wind is out of the east at a steady five knots and clouds look like rabbits … But enough about what you think of me! Now, down to business— Squirrel! Where was I? [Long pause] Why am I in Regin’s car? Bertil, you crawl right back out of that bong this minute! Oh, I remember! I am hereby laying down this track for Magister Declan Chase. If you are a mortal of the recorder peon class, know that Dekko and I go waaaaay back, and he’ll go berserk (snicker snicker) if he doesn’t receive this transmittal. … Chase, riddle me this: what’s beautiful but monstrous, long of tooth but sharp of tooth and soft of mind, and can never ever tell a lie? That’s right. The Enemy of Old can be very useful to you. So use him already. P.S. Your middle name’s about to be spelled r-e-g-r-e-t. And with that, I must bid you adieu. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up very soon. … [Muffled] Who’s mummy’s wittle echolocator? That’s right—you are! —End transcript

I'm so glad you're okay." "So, how do we celebrate my okayness? It's my day off. Let's go crazy. Glow-in-the-dark bowling?" "No" "I'll let you use the kiddie ball." "Shut up. I do NOT need the kiddie ball." "The way you bowl, I think you might." He grabbed her in an exaggerated formal dance pose and whirled her around, backpack and all, which didn't make her any more graceful. "Ballroom dancing?" "Are you INSANE?" "Hey, girls who tango are hot." "You think I'm not hot because I don't tango?" He dropped the act. Shane was a smart boy. "I think you are too hot for ballroom or bowling. So you tell me. What do you want to do? And don't say study.

In a restaurant, tangoing couples circled past, and the look in Hale's eyes was especially mischievous when he told her, "Oh, I see. You brought me here so you can have your way with me on the dance floor.

I can't dance, remember?" I whispered. "It's just a tango. It is like sex, except with clothes on." Then, squeezing me closer: "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot, you do not know how to do that either.

Show me a person who found love in his life and did not celebrate it with a dance.

What do I do?” “Give me a chance to catch up.” I just stared at him, trying to keep my cool. Took two to tango, yada yada. “I’m serious.” His shoulders heaved up and down. “Just give me a chance to catch up and I promise, Lizzy, I will have your back.

If this were a musical, this would signal the start of a dance number. Angry girls sexy danse in unison around the bull pen. Men stride up and grab a partner to a choreographed tango." Nolan held his hand out. "Give me your man card. You have never sounded more like a girl than right now.

You are not going to like what I have to say,” Sean said. “Just give it to me fast, I’d rather have you kick me square in the nuts then squeeze and twist on them all afternoon.

You're too sane for a lunatic girl like me. You live in reality, while I tango in the jungle of my imagination making love to firecracker dreams.

I’ll tell you all my secrets But I lie about my past So send me off to bed for evermore —TOM WAITS, “TANGO TILL THEY’RE SORE

You’re a beautiful mess to me,” he said. “Like wildflowers, growing up in the middle of a tire, along the side of the road. You’re not like prize roses, carefully planted in the right soil and pruned back at the right times. You’re wild, and you’re free. And you smell like heaven. When I look at you, I believe in… I don’t know. I just believe.

The devil never sleeps. He keeps me company.

Let's roll out, Batman." "I'm Batman and you're Robin?" "Don't make me laugh. I'm Spider-Man." "Then we live in different universes. I'm DC and you're Marvel." Duncan rolled his eyes. "Can't we all get along? And since when are there different universes?

You’re quite the spirited dancer,” Gabrielle told Jason as they walked leisurely around the dance floor. “You never did tell me the name.” “It’s called the tango,” Jason said. “Is it well known, in your world?” “It’s probably the most famous dance there is. It was my older sister who taught me to dance. I wasn’t very interested until my father gave me some sage advice. He told me that if I wanted to be successful in love, I needed to learn three things. How to dance, how to cook, and how to keep my damn mouth shut.” “How did that work out?” “Well,” Jason said, “I can dance and I can cook.

He was like some prophet of old, scourging the sins of the people. He leaped about in a frenzy of inspiration till I feared he would do himself an injury. Sometimes he expressed himself in a somewhat odd manner, but every word carried conviction. He showed me New York in its true colours. He showed me the vanity and wickedness of sitting in gilded haunts of vice, eating lobster when decent people should be in bed. 'He said that the tango and the fox-trot were devices of the devil to drag people down into the Bottomless Pit. He said that there was more sin in ten minutes with a negro banjo orchestra than in all the ancient revels of Nineveh and Babylon. And when he stood on one leg and pointed right at where I was sitting and shouted "This means you!" I could have sunk through the floor.

She helps me to the bathroom, helps me wash, then helps me put a gazillion tangles in my hair while she shampoos it. And she actually thinks we’re going to leave it that way. “I’m not going downstairs looking like a hobo,” I tell her. “We have to comb it.” “That thick mess will break this flimsy comb. Can’t you just run your fingers through it?” It’s weird to be arguing about my hair when we still haven’t discussed my wound, how I got it, and how I came to be snoring in Galen’s bed. We both seem to appreciate the bizarreness at the same time. Mom raises a brow. “Don’t think you get special treatment just because you can make a whale do the tango. I’m still your mother.” We both laugh so hard I think I feel a tiny rip in my newly dressed wound. Without warning, Mom throws her arms around me, careful to avoid touching it. “I’m so proud of you, Emma. And I know your father would be, too. Your grandfather can’t stop talking about it. You were amazing.” Ah, the bonding power of tangled hair and dancing whales. She releases me the second before it gets awkward. “Let’s get you dressed. We have a lot to discuss. And I get you’re starving. Rachel made you…uh…Upchuck Eggs.” “She gets an A for effort.

Tonight I will exhaust you, sate you and make you hungrier at the same time. You will think of nothing but my cock until you come, begging me to do it all over again.

We tangoed every night, while I was blinded by the scent of you, I’m Frankie Slade, shoot my head, you held me back.

Me tocó una compañera muy seguidora, que iba como adivinándome la intención. El tango hacía su voluntá con nosotros y nos arriaba y nos perdía y nos ordenaba y nos volvía a encontrar.

Good luck on your date, then,” she said at last. “Much appreciated, but I don’t need good luck; I need assistance,” said Magnus. “Just because I’m going on this date does not mean it will go well. I’m very charming, but it does take two to tango.” “Magnus, remember what happened the last time you tried to tango. Your shoe flew off and nearly killed someone.” “It was a metaphor. He’s a Shadowhunter, he’s a Lightwood, and he’s into blonds. He’s a dating hazard. I need an escape strategy. If the date is a complete disaster, I’ll text you. I’ll say ‘Blue Squirrel, this is Hot Fox. Mission to be aborted with extreme prejudice.’ Then you call me and you tell me that there is a terrible emergency that requires my expert warlock assistance.

There is a storytelling element in there. The tango form is a little like the blues in that you have a kind of structure. It’s not as rigid as twelve bar, but it's very much a storytelling medium -- and there’s an element of call-and-response, and a particular arc in the musical form, that suggest a story. It's about being in the moment, with the music; and responding to your partner, and the particular feeling and momentum in her body in any one moment. It’s a very concentrated thing; you can’t think about anything else while you are doing it. If you try to hold a conversation, it just kind of falls apart. The music was what really drew me into tango. Everyone knows a few of the more popular tango classics, but once you get into it, there’s such a rich field. It’s astonishing, this kind of miraculous musical form that developed in a very small locality: two cities on either side of the River Plate, in Argentina and Urugauy. It started in the 1880s or '90s, and there are all kinds of mysteries, myths and stories, about how tango started and developed. It was first of all considered really low-life, almost reptilian. Something to be avoided and not talked about. And then it became this word wide phenomena. . .and I could go on talking about tango forever. . . . but its also to do with movement. I try to get that into my pictures: a sense of movement, something flowing through. A while ago, I realised how much I'd been drawing dancing figures in the corners of my sketchbooks for years before I discovered tango!

Forget about that and kiss me," I say. I weave my hands in her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck as I trace the valley between her lips with my tongue. Parting her lips, I deepen the kiss. It's like a tango, first moving slow and rhythmic and then, when we're both panting and our tongues collide, the kiss turns into a hot, fast dance I never want to end. Carmen's kisses may have been hot, but Brittany's are more sensual, sexy, and extremely addictive. We're still in the car, but it's cramped and the front seats don't give us enough room. Before I know it, we've moved to the backseat. Still not ideal, but I hardly notice. I'm so getting into her moans and kisses and hands in my hair. And the smell of vanilla cookies. I'm not going to push her too far tonight. But without thinking, my hand slowly moves up her bare thigh. "It feels so good," she says breathlessly. I lean her back while my hands explore on their own. My lips caress the hollow of her neck as I ease down the strap to her dress and bra. In response, she unbuttons my shirt. When it's open, her fingers roam over my chest and shoulders, searing my skin. "You're . . . perfect," she pants. Right now I'm not gonna argue with her. Moving lower, my tongue follows a path down to her silky skin exposed to the night air. She grabs the back of my hair, urging me on. She tastes so damn good. Too good. !Caramelo! I pull away a few inches and capture her gaze with mine, those shining sapphires glowing with desire. Talk about perfect. "I want you, chula," I say, my voice hoarse.

Muy nervioso, como es de suponer, yo me situé detrás de la pantalla con un gramófono y, durante la proyección, alternaba los tangos argentinos con Tristán e Isolda. Me había puesto unas piedras en el bolsillo, para tirárselas al público si la película era un fracaso.

I was extremely shy of approaching my hero but he, as I found out, was sorely in need of company. By then almost completely blind, he was claustrated and even a little confused and this may help explain the rather shocking attitude that he took to the blunt trauma that was being inflicted in the streets and squares around him. 'This was my country and it might be yet,' he intoned to me when the topic first came up, as it had to: 'But something came between it and the sun.' This couplet he claimed (I have never been able to locate it) was from Edmund Blunden, whose gnarled hand I had been so excited to shake all those years ago, but it was not the Videla junta that Borges meant by the allusion. It was the pre-existing rule of Juan Perón, which he felt had depraved and corrupted Argentine society. I didn't disagree with this at all—and Perón had victimized Borges's mother and sister as well as having Borges himself fired from his job at the National Library—but it was nonetheless sad to hear the old man saying that he heartily preferred the new uniformed regime, as being one of 'gentlemen' as opposed to 'pimps.' This was a touch like listening to Evelyn Waugh at his most liverish and bufferish. (It was also partly redeemed by a piece of learned philology or etymology concerning the Buenos Aires dockside slang for pimp: canfinflero. 'A canfinfla, you see,' said Borges with perfect composure, 'is a pussy or more exactly a cunt. So a canfinflero is a trafficker in cunt: in Anglo-Saxon we might say a 'cunter."' Had not the very tango itself been evolved in a brothel in 1880? Borges could talk indefinitely about this sort of thing, perhaps in revenge for having had an oversolicitous mother who tyrannized him all his life.)

OK! Let's get started," Mariela announced brightly. "Now, can anyone tell me the meaning of 'tango'--the actual word?" Helen, of course, knew. "In Latin, it means 'I touch." Mariela nodded emphatically. "'I touch.' Or 'I play.' As in playing an instrument only here our instrument is ourselves," Mariela paused, allowing this insight to sink in. "And it means, 'I touch. I touch my partner in embrace," Dan and Mariela faced each other in an opening stance, "also called an abrazo--" and danced a simple eight step. "And I touch my inner life. I touch the core of my essence. Tango is not just learning or following steps." "It's improvisation," Barry said in a deep baritone. "That's right. There's a saying that tango is a 'sad thought danced.' But that's only part of it. It's touching the sadness in you, the pain, yes--but also the joy, the humor, the everything life has. It's touching everything.

An interesting parade of expressions passed across Drake’s face. I ran across the floor to him, putting my hands on his chest as I leaned into him. “Trust goes both ways, Drake. You have to learn to trust that I know what I’m doing.” “It’s not your abilities I doubt,” he said slowly, his eyes dark. “It is not easy to let you go in this manner.” “I know it’s not. But it’ll get easier. OK?” The anger on his face faded into annoyance, which did a brief tango with stubbornness, and finally morphed into resignation. I gave him a swift kiss. “That was a hell of a battle you fought, but I appreciate your faith in me.” “I have always had faith in you, kincsem. It is all others I distrust.

¿Sabes cuál es la única diferencia entre una mujer débil y una mujer fuerte, Malena? —me preguntó Magda, y yo negué con la cabeza—. Que las débiles siempre se pueden montar en la chepa de la fuerte que tengan más a mano para chuparle la sangre, pero las fuertes no tenemos ninguna chepa en la que montarnos, porque los hombres no valen para eso, y cuando

Scared?” Terrified. “Of you? Nah. If you grow claws, I might get my sword, but I’ve fought you in your human shape.” It took all my will to shrug. “You aren’t that impressive.” He cleared the distance between us in a single leap. I barely had time to jump to my feet. Steel fingers grasped my left wrist. His left arm clasped my waist. I fought, but he outmuscled me with ridiculous ease, pulling me close as if to tango. “Curran! Let . . . “ I recognized the angle of his hip but I could do nothing about it. He pulled me forward and flipped me in a classic hip-toss throw. Textbook perfect. I flew through the air, guided by his hands, and landed on my back. The air burst from my lungs in a startled gasp. Ow. “Impressed yet?” he asked with a big smile. Playing. He was playing. Not a real fight. He could’ve slammed me down hard enough to break my neck. Instead he had held me to the end, to make sure I landed right. He leaned forward a little. “Big bad merc, down with a basic hip toss. In your place I’d be blushing.” I gasped, trying to draw air into my lungs. “I could kill you right now. It wouldn’t take much. I think I’m actually embarrassed on your behalf. At least do some magic or something.” As you wish. I gasped and spat my new power word. “Osanda.” Kneel, Your Majesty. He grunted like a man trying to lift a crushing weight that fell on his shoulders. His face shook with strain. Ha-ha. He wasn’t the only one who got a boost from a flare. I got up to my feet with some leisure. Curran stood locked, the muscles of his legs bulging his sweatpants. He didn’t kneel. He wouldn’t kneel. I hit him with a power word in the middle of a bloody flare and it didn’t work. When he snapped out of it, he would probably kill me. All sorts of alarms blared in my head. My good sense screamed, Get out of the room, stupid! Instead I stepped close to him and whispered in his ear, “Still not impressed.” His eyebrows came together, as a grimace claimed his face. He strained, the muscles on his hard frame trembling with effort. With a guttural sigh, he straightened. I beat a hasty retreat to the rear of the room, passing Slayer on the way. I wanted to swipe it so bad, my palm itched. But the rules of the game were clear: no claws, no saber. The second I picked up the sword, I’d have signed my own death warrant. He squared his shoulders. “Shall we continue?” “It would be my pleasure.” He started toward me. I waited, light on my feet, ready to leap aside. He was stronger than a pair of oxen, and he’d try to grapple. If he got ahold of me, it would be over. If all else failed, I could always try the window. A forty-foot drop was a small price to pay to get away from him. Curran grabbed at me. I twisted past him and kicked his knee from the side. It was a good solid kick; I’d turned into it. It would’ve broken the leg of any normal human. “Cute,” Curran said, grabbed my arm, and casually threw me across the room. I went airborne for a second, fell, rolled, and came to my feet to be greeted by Curran’s smug face. “You’re fun to play with. You make a good mouse.” Mouse? “I was always kind of partial to toy mice.” He smiled. “Sometimes they’re filled with catnip. It’s a nice bonus.” “I’m not filled with catnip.” “Let’s find out.” He squared his shoulders and headed in my direction. Houston, we have a problem. Judging by the look in his eyes, a kick to the face simply wouldn’t faze him. “I can stop you with one word,” I said. He swiped me into a bear hug and I got an intimate insight into how a nut feels just before the nutcracker crushes it to pieces. “Do,” he said. “Wedding.” All humor fled his eyes. He let go and just like that, the game was over.

Kanga e përndimit Kangë Pëmdimi, kangë njeriu të dehun nga besimi në vete Kanga e tij një fe tjetër, me tempuj të tjerë, me meshë solemne, ku prej mëngjesit deri në mbramje shkrihen ndjesitë tmtë njerzore n'apoteozën e hekurit; shpirtënt përshkohen në tymore, të cilat në fishkllim i përqeshen zotit të vjetër edhe qiellit e me re të ndyt' tymi të dendun ndriçimin ia vrasin diellit. Fe tjetër, fe e çmendun e Pëmdimit të mrekullueshëm... 1 ekzaltuem shklet njeriu në delirium të pakuptueshëm. Dëgjon zanin q'i thotë feja. Plagos qiellën, e shpon tokën, i shkyn horizontet e bardhë, zhvesh natyrën - ia heq kotllën. Kult' i tij - kult i zhveshun! Nuk ia bren ma trutë enigmi - e varros, mbi varr ia vë një shej përbuzje o nderimi. Kangë Pëmdimi, kangë njeriu të dehun nga besimi në vete Kanga e tij shpres' e bukur, me flatra të një tjetërjete në të cilën dielli do ndrrojë udhën: ka për t'u lindë nga Pëmdimi - por deh! nga lumnia tash humb kokën rruzullimi. Me një "tango" qejfi tash ia ngatrron fijet zotit të vjetër ka me ia skandalizue të birtë besnikë në planetë të tjeter, Kanga Pëmdimi, kangë njeriu të dehun nga besimi në vete... Le të dëgjojmë kangën që mshtillet në shllung' avulli në pika djerse.

Zane knew that he and Phoebe were no longer talking about the same thing. At least not when it came to hunger. She would be thinking fish and chips, and he was thinking more along the lines of naked. He wanted to tell himself it was simply because he was a man and she was a woman, but he knew it was more than that. As he’d admitted, he liked her. She was cute and funny. When she looked at him with her big brown eyes, he wanted to grab Tango and ride his horse into the sunset to save something for her. Talk about idiotic. He barely knew her. Yet there was something about Phoebe Kitzke. An innocence, maybe. No, that wasn’t right. It was how she seemed trusting. More fool her. Or maybe him.

I’ll be good,” he repeated. “Something tells me you’ve told that particular fib more than once.” “Mostly when I’m making deals with God.” “How’s that working out for you?” “I haven’t been struck by lightning yet.” He shook his head. “Last month, on the golf course. In the thunderstorm. I was in mortal danger, wasn’t I?” “You almost died,” I whispered.

I love banned books. I used to read as many to you as I could when you were little, Mac.” “You read me banned books?” I say this sarcastically because I know he’s making it up. “Almost exclusively,” he answers—dead serious. “Charlotte’s Web and the poetry book by—uh—Silverstein—uh.” “Where the Sidewalk Ends?” I say. “And Reynolds—brave … uh …” “As Brave as You? No! How could anyone ban that?” “Yeah. And Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia. Remember that one?” “I cried for a whole day.” Mom says, “Where the Wild Things Are. And Tango Makes Three. Melissa.” “Captain Underpants!” Grandad adds. “A lot of younger books you loved. I Am Rosa Parks,” Mom says. “And Last Stop on Market Street and Henry’s Freedom Box, and …” Grandad says, “Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry!

Fake it till you become it. My first Argentine tango was with Lil’ Kim, and again, I was completely learning it as I went along. Now it’s become one of my favorite dances to do. Whenever people say to me, “You’re such a great choreographer,” or I look at my Emmy learning it in my apartment, I remind myself that I came into DWTS with no experience, no education in many of these dances, and certainly no clue how to teach anything to anybody. I simply committed to learning them and then taught them to my partners. I drew upon how I had been taught and what I thought my partners would respond to. I felt my way along, just as they did, till I became the teacher I wanted to be. I threw myself into the effort without hesitation because I had no choice. There were only two options: I could go out there and throw my hands up and say, “Just kidding! I’m a phony,” or get it done. I couldn’t let myself or my partners down. This was the stage I was given, and I always want to be the best at whatever I’m doing. I never wanted my partners to feel they couldn’t rely on me. I had to go in there and make it happen. With that mentality, I found a way.

Homie caught a body Got a naughty shawty Throw her in the trunk of my purple buggati Opps on my tail damn making this a party Firing shots man I think they might’ve got me Bleeding and speeding on the 401 This is hood economics 101 Got that gangsta archetype like Carl Yung Damn making me ask who am I running from? When I know I got balls and a fuckin loaded gun Roll out on the freeway while takin some heat One cop two cop three’s on his feet Yeah bullseye put one his knee Cryin oh please don’t hurt me you know I got family Put him to sleep with nice slick kick As I head to his home to go meet his kids His wife’s crying in the corner as I fire from the hip Yeah there’s heart in this clip I put my all in this shit Leaving their home while unfulfilled Got a taste for killing need more blood to spill God looking down asking me to chill Fire shots in the air tellin him no deal Already dug my grave and wrote my will Therapist tells me just stay home and masturbate man Tell him fuck off you know I’m Patrick Bateman Killers don’t discriminate you know I still kill women Brutally beat them into mush on the pavement Screaming for help with no-one here to save them My life has purpose and I know who I am A cold blooded killer with two glocks in his hands Better run mothafucka you know you stand no chance Cause it takes two to tango and damn I wanna dance

I struggle with an embarrassing affliction, one that as far as I know doesn’t have a website or support group despite its disabling effects on the lives of those of us who’ve somehow contracted it. I can’t remember exactly when I started noticing the symptoms—it’s just one of those things you learn to live with, I guess. You make adjustments. You hope people don’t notice. The irony, obviously, is having gone into a line of work in which this particular infirmity is most likely to stand out, like being a gimpy tango instructor or an acrophobic flight attendant. The affliction I’m speaking of is moral relativism, and you can imagine the catastrophic effects on a critic’s career if the thing were left to run its course unfettered or I had to rely on my own inner compass alone. To be honest, calling it moral relativism may dignify it too much; it’s more like moral wishy-washiness. Critics are supposed to have deeply felt moral outrage about things, be ready to pronounce on or condemn other people’s foibles and failures at a moment’s notice whenever an editor emails requesting twelve hundred words by the day after tomorrow. The severity of your condemnation is the measure of your intellectual seriousness (especially when it comes to other people’s literary or aesthetic failures, which, for our best critics, register as nothing short of moral turpitude in itself). That’s how critics make their reputations: having take-no-prisoners convictions and expressing them in brutal mots justes. You’d better be right there with that verdict or you’d better just shut the fuck up. But when it comes to moral turpitude and ethical lapses (which happen to be subjects I’ve written on frequently, perversely drawn to the topics likely to expose me at my most irresolute)—it’s like I’m shooting outrage blanks. There I sit, fingers poised on keyboard, one part of me (the ambitious, careerist part) itching to strike, but in my truest soul limply equivocal, particularly when it comes to the many lapses I suspect I’m capable of committing myself, from bad prose to adultery. Every once in a while I succeed in landing a feeble blow or two, but for the most part it’s the limp equivocator who rules the roost—contextualizing, identifying, dithering. And here’s another confession while I’m at it—wow, it feels good to finally come clean about it all. It’s that … once in a while, when I’m feeling especially jellylike, I’ve found myself loitering on the Internet in hopes of—this is embarrassing—cadging a bit of other people’s moral outrage (not exactly in short supply online) concerning whatever subject I’m supposed to be addressing. Sometimes you just need a little shot in the arm, you know? It’s not like I’d crib anyone’s actual sentences (though frankly I have a tough time getting as worked up about plagiarism as other people seem to get—that’s how deep this horrible affliction runs). No, it’s the tranquillity of their moral authority I’m hoping will rub off on me. I confess to having a bit of an online “thing,” for this reason, about New Republic editor-columnist Leon Wieseltier—as everyone knows, one of our leading critical voices and always in high dudgeon about something or other: never fearing to lambaste anyone no matter how far beneath him in the pecking order, never fearing for a moment, when he calls someone out for being preening or self-congratulatory, as he frequently does, that it might be true of himself as well. When I’m in the depths of soft-heartedness, a little dose of Leon is all I need to feel like clambering back on the horse of critical judgment and denouncing someone for something.

I heard a thunk that sounded like Lend’s head against the door. “This is stupid. Let my dad take care of it. He’s been contacting everyone he knows who is still with IPCA, and—” I walked over and put my own head against the door, pretending there wasn’t anything between us. “And it doesn’t matter. IPCA isn’t the same. There are new people in charge, and they aren’t messing around. I can help her. Raquel would do the same for me. She has done the same for me.” “I don’t see what good it’s going to do for you to waltz back in there and—” “Can I tango back in there, instead? So much sexier than the waltz.” “Evie, I’m serious! You just broke out of IPCA! You’re going to get tased and tagged again.” “I really doubt it. Faerie backup, remember?” I went to the window and looked down into the yard, where Reth stood in the midst of the dead brown grass, looking like a god of spring and sunshine who had seriously lost his way. He was staring straight up at me, although how he knew I’d look straight down that instant I had no idea. Creeper. I shivered a little, still not breaking eye contact with Reth. I was in over my head, I knew that, and I knew I’d owe him even more after this. I had no doubt I’d pay in a way I really didn’t want to, and soon. The door shook as Lend kicked it. “Pretty much the only idea I like less than you walking back into IPCA is you walking back into IPCA with only Jack and Reth for protection.” “They owe me.” “True,” Jack said, standing up and swaying slightly as he shook his head to clear it. “Plus, I’m pretty sure Reth’s threat to remove my hands if I don’t help Evie is still under effect. And I’m always up for making hell at IPCA. It’s a favorite pastime of mine.” Lend kicked the door again, harder. “Along with abandoning people in the Faerie Paths?” “One time! I do that one time and no one’s going to let me live it down? Just off the top of my head I can name five worse things I’ve done in the last year.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Probably not the best way to get back in our good graces.

He was the son of a very wealthy industrialist who was to play a rather important part in the organizing of the next International Exhibition. I was struck by how knowledgeable this young man and the other few male friends of the girls were in things like clothes, ways of wearing them, cigars, English drinks, horses—a form of erudition that in him was highly developed, which he wore with a proud infallibility, reminiscent of the scholar’s modest reticence—an expertise that was quite selfsufficient, without the slightest need for any accompanying intellectual cultivation. He could not be faulted on the appropriate occasions for wearing dinner jacket or pajamas, but he had no idea of how to use certain words, or even of the most elementary rules of good grammar. That disparity between two cultures must have been shared by his father, who, in his capacity as president of the Association of Property Owners of Balbec, had written an open letter to his constituents, now to be seen as a placard on all the walls, in which he said, “I was desirous of talking to the Mayor about this matter, however, he was of a mind to not hear me out on my just demands.” At the Casino, Octave won prizes in all the dancing competitions—the Boston dip, the tango, and so on—a qualification, if he should ever need one, for a good marriage, among seaside society, a milieu in which a young girl quite literally ends up married to her “partner.” He lit a cigar and said to Albertine, “If you don’t mind,” as one excuses oneself for going on with an urgent piece of work in the presence of someone. For he always “had to be doing something,” though in fact he never did anything. Just as a total lack of activity can eventually have the same effects as overwork, whether in the emotional domain or in the domain of the body and its muscles, the constant intellectual vacuum that resided behind the pensive forehead of Octave had had the result, despite his undisturbed air, of giving him ineffectual urges to think, which kept him awake at night, as though he were a metaphysician with too much on his mind.

That's because those pages got torn to shreds when you left, now you both are in different chapters. He wants you - like always, and you want the hot guy down the street. Typical Frankie and Brody style. You guys dance one wild tango, if you ask me.

Ode no cinquentenário do poeta brasileiro Esse incessante morrer que nos teus versos encontro é tua vida, poeta, e por ele te comunicas com o mundo em que te esvais. Debruço-me em teus poemas e nelo percebo as ilhas em que nem tu nem nós habitamos (ou jamais habitaremos!) e nessas ilhas me banho num sol que não é dos trópicos, numa água que não é das fontes mas que ambos refletem a imagem de um mundo amoroso e patético. Tua violenta ternura, tua infinita polícia, tua trágica existência no entanto sem nenhum sulco exterior – salvo tuas rugas, tua gravidade simples, a acidez e o carinho simples que desbordam em teus retratos, que capturo em teus poemas, são razões por que te amamos e por que nos fazes sofrer… Certamente não sabias que nos fazes sofrer. É didícil explicar esse sofrimento seco, sem qualquer lágrima de amor, sentiment de homens juntos, que se comunicam sem gesto e sem palavras se invadem, se aproximam, se compreendem e se calam sem orgulho. Não é o canto da andorinha, debruçada nos telhados da Lapa, anunciando que a tua vida passou à toa, à toa. Não é o médico mandando exclusivamente tocar um tango argentino, diante da escavação no pulmão esquerdo e do pulmão direito infiltrado. Não são os carvoeirinhos raquíticos voltando encarapitados nos burros velhos. Não são os mortos do recife dormindo profundamente na noite. Nem é tua vida, nem a vida do major veterano da guerra do Paraguai, a de Bentinho Jararaca ou a de Christina Georgina Rossetti: és tu mesmo, é tua poesia, tua pungengente, inefável poesia, ferindo as almas, fogo celeste, ao visitá-las; é o fenômeno poético, de que te constituíste o misterioso portador e que vem trazer-nos na aurora o sopro quente dos mundos, das armadas exuberantes e das situaçãoes exemplares que não suspeitávamos. Por isso sofremos: pela mensagem que nos confias entre ônibus, abafada pelo pregão dos jornais e mil queixas operárias; essa insistente mas discreta mensagem que, aos cinquenta anos, poeta, nos trazes; e essa fidelidade a ti mesmo com que nos apareces sem uma queixa, no rosto entretanto experiente, mão firme estendida para o aperto fraterno - o poeta acima da guerra e do ódio entre os homens -, o poeta ainda capaz de amar Esmeraldas embora a alma anoiteça, o poeta melhor que nós todos, o poeta mais forte - mas haverá lugar para a poesia? Efetivamente o poeta Rimbaud fartou-se de escrever, o poeta Maiakovski suicidou-se, o poeta Schmidt abastece de água o Distrito Federal… Em meio a palavras melancólicas, ouve-se o surdo rumor de combates longínquos (cada vez mais perto, mais, daqui a pouco dentro de nós). E enquanto homens suspiram, combatem ou simplesmente ganham dinheiro, ninguém perecebe que o poeta faz cinquenta anos, que o poeta permanece o mesmo, embora alguma coisa de extraordinário se houvesse passado, alguma coisa encoberta de nós, que nem os olhos traíram nem as mãos apalparam, susto, emoção, enternecimento, desejo de dizer: Emanuel, disfarçado na meiguice elática doa abraços,e uma confiança maior no poeta e um pedido lancinante para que não nos deixe sozinhos nesta cidade em que nos sentimos pequenos à espera dos maiores acontecimentos. Que o poeta nos encaminhe e nos proteja e que o seu canto confidencial ressoe para consolo de muitos e esperança de todos, os delicados e os oprimidos, acima das profissões e dos vãos disfarces do homem. Que o poeta Manuel Bandeira escute este apelo de um homem humilde.

What a sight we must be right now, a ritzy, pretty thing laid out, a dirtbag with dried blood and grease slicked on his hands standing over her, railing her perfectly pink pussy while she tangos on my rock-hard cock. Fuck, I want to talk to her. Tell her how good she feels. How tight this pussy is, how her arousal is coating me, allowing me in even deeper. I want to tell her my dick loves the feel of her and that, for the first time in a long fucking time, I want to stay buried where I am, grind my piercings at every angle in her heat and watch her fucking thrash beneath me, pleading for more.

Deprive a cat of sleep and it would die in two weeks. Deprive a human and he would become psychotic. His work was killing people. How was he supposed to frighten these guys? Run up behind them in a halloween mask and shout boo? He never saw the point of views -- what did it matter if it was an ocean or a brick wall you were looking at? People travelled hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles to commit suicide someplace with a beautiful view. Did a view matter when oblivion beckoned? They could put him in a garbage bin after he was gone, for all he cared. That's all the human race was anyway. Garbage with attitude. A cutting word is worse than a bowstring. A cut may heal but a cut of the tongue does not. The Sakawa students were all from poor, underprivileged backgrounds. Sakawa was a mix of religious juju and modern internet technology. They were taught, in structured classes, the art of online fraud as well as arcane African rituals -- which included animal sacrifice -- to have a voodoo effect on their victims, ensuring the success of each fraud. of which there was a wide variety. The British Empire spend five hundred years plundering the world. The word is 'thanks'. 'That's what it is, Roy! He won't come out, he has locked the doors! What if he self-harms, Roy! I mean -- what if he kills himself?' 'I will have to take him off my Christmas list.' "Any chance you can recover any of it?' 'You sitting near a window, Gerry?' 'Near a window? Sure, right by a window?' 'Can you see the sky?' 'Uh-huh. Got a clear view.' 'See any pigs flying past?' To dream of death is good for those in fear, for the death have no more fears. '...Cleo took me to the opera once. I spent the whole time praying for a fat lady to come on stage and start singing. Or a heart attack --whichever come sooner.' '..there is something strongly powerful -- almost magnetic -- about internet romances. A connection that is far stronger than a traditional meeting of two people. Maybe because on the internet you can lie all the time, each person gives the other their good side. It's intoxicating. That's one of the things which makes it so dangerous -- and such easy pickings for fraudsters.' He was more than a little pleased that he was about to ruin his boss's morning -- and, with a bit of luck, his entire day. ..a guy who had been born angry and had just got even angrier with each passing year. '...Then at some point in the future, I'll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they couldn't find a defibrillator. 'Give me your hand, bro,' the shorter one said. 'That one, the right one, yeah.' On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, 'Now with a sharp knife...' Jules de Copland drove away from Gatwick Airport in.a new car, a small Kia, hired under a different name and card, from a different rental firm, Avis. 'I was talking about her attitude. But I'll tell you this, Roy. The day I can't say a woman -- or a man -- is plug ugly, that's the day I want to be taken out and shot.' It seems to me the world is in a strange place where everyone chooses to be offended all the time. 'But not too much in the way of brains,' GlennBranson chipped in. 'Would have needed the old Specialist Search Unite to find any trace of them.' 'Ever heard of knocking on a door?' 'Dunno that film -- was it on Netflix?' 'One word, four letters. Begins with an S for Sierra, ends with a T for Tango. Or if you'd like the longest version, we've been one word, six letters, begins with F for Foxtrot, ends with D for Delta.' No Cop liked entering a prison. In general there was a deep cultural dislike of all police officers by the inmates. And every officer entering.a prison, for whatever purposes, was always aware that if a riot kicked off while they were there, they could be both an instant hostage and a prime target for violence.

Deprive a cat of sleep and it would die in two weeks. Deprive a human and he would become psychotic. His work was killing people. How was he supposed to frighten these guys? Run up behind them in a halloween mask and shout boo? He never saw the point of views -- what did it matter if it was an ocean or a brick wall you were looking at? People travelled hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles to commit suicide someplace with a beautiful view. Did a view matter when oblivion beckoned? They could put him in a garbage bin after he was gone, for all he cared. That's all the human race was anyway. Garbage with attitude. A cutting word is worse than a bowstring. A cut may heal but a cut of the tongue does not. The Sakawa students were all from poor, underprivileged backgrounds. Sakawa was a mix of religious juju and modern internet technology. They were taught, in structured classes, the art of online fraud as well as arcane African rituals -- which included animal sacrifice -- to have a voodoo effect on their victims, ensuring the success of each fraud. of which there was a wide variety. The British Empire spend five hundred years plundering the world. The word is 'thanks'. 'That's what it is, Roy! He won't come out, he has locked the doors! What if he self-harms, Roy! I mean -- what if he kills himself?' 'I will have to take him off my Christmas list.' "Any chance you can recover any of it?' 'You sitting near a window, Gerry?' 'Near a window? Sure, right by a window?' 'Can you see the sky?' 'Uh-huh. Got a clear view.' 'See any pigs flying past?' To dream of death is good for those in fear, for the death have no more fears. '...Cleo took me to the opera once. I spent the whole time praying for a fat lady to come on stage and start singing. Or a heart attack --whichever come sooner.' '..there is something strongly powerful -- almost magnetic -- about internet romances. A connection that is far stronger than a traditional meeting of two people. Maybe because on the internet you can lie all the time, each person gives the other their good side. It's intoxicating. That's one of the things which makes it so dangerous -- and such easy pickings for fraudsters.' He was more than a little pleased that he was about to ruin his boss's morning -- and, with a bit of luck, his entire day. ..a guy who had been born angry and had just got even angrier with each passing year. '...Then at some point in the future, I'll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they couldn't find a defibrillator. 'Give me your hand, bro,' the shorter one said. 'That one, the right one, yeah.' On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, 'Now with a sharp knife...' Jules de Copland drove away from Gatwick Airport in.a new car, a small Kia, hired under a different name and card, from a different rental firm, Avis. 'I was talking about her attitude. But I'll tell you this, Roy. The day I can't say a woman -- or a man -- is plug ugly, that's the day I want to be taken out and shot.' It seems to me the world is in a strange place where everyone chooses to be offended all the time. 'But not too much in the way of brains,' GlennBranson chipped in. 'Would have needed the old Specialist Search Unite to find any trace of them.' 'Ever heard of knocking on a door?' 'Dunno that film -- was it on Netflix?' 'One word, four letters. Begins with an S for Sierra, ends with a T for Tango. Or if you'd like the longest version, we've been one word, six letters, begins with F for Foxtrot, ends with D for Delta.' No Cop liked entering a prison. In general there was a deep cultural dislike of all police officers by the inmates. And every officer entering.a prison, for whatever purposes, was always aware that if a riot kicked off while they were there, they could be both an instant hostage and a prime target for violence.

Lucky for you, it was. I took lessons from an Edger who taught me Weird dances. I can tango, too.” “Lucky for me?” “You put me into this mess. I would’ve been perfectly happy just sneaking into the castle.” “And being shot. Try to keep up.” “I told you, I took lessons. As long as you don’t start doing the cajun stomp, we’ll be fine.” “Cajun stomp?” “You heard me, swamper. And keep your hands to yourself.

I’m not easy or simple or entirely light. My sunshine dances the tango with my tornado by the light of a blood-red moon. I am daisy chains and cauldron fire. I am the space where shame is shed. I like my desire fast and hard and my sacred so holy you’ll swear for the rest of your life that your body turned cathedral under my hands. If you come to me, come ready to be revealed. Offer me bare skin, not armor. Bring me the whole and holy of you and arrive ready for worship. I am a crystal-clear mirror. Beware, you will not leave me without bearing witness to your own beauty. I fear there’s a damn good chance you’re not ready for what happens next.

Car insurance,” said Serge. “Watch any channel on TV for any length of time, and every other commercial is a British lizard, an upwardly mobile caveman, a calcified chick named Flo, the anthropomorphic jerk named Mayhem who tricks you into accidents, the guy in a hard hat who hits cars with sledgehammers, the character who played the president in the show 24 saying, ‘That’s Allstate’s stand,’ ‘Nationwide is on your side,’ ‘Fifteen minutes could save you some shit.’ ” “I like Mayhem,” said Coleman. “He makes me not feel so bad about breaking stuff.” “And yet we’re still not manufacturing anything you can hold in your hands,” said Serge.

You know me, Louie, I never take sides.' 'Your kiosk is a moral Switzerland.

About thirty centimeters high, the figure appeared to be dancing a tango with a rather scantily clad girl who reminded me a lot of Anita Berber. Anita had been the queen of Berlin’s nude dancers at the White Mouse Club on Jägerstrasse until the night she’d laid out one of the patrons with an empty champagne bottle. The story was he’d objected to her pissing on his table, which used to be her shtick. I missed the old Berlin.

Come here,” I say softly when I park in the auto body’s back lot. She leans over the middle console, closing the distance between us. “I had an amazing time,” she whispers. “Well, besides when I hid in the bathroom…and you threatened that guy.” “Forget about that and kiss me,” I say. I weave my hands in her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck as I trace the valley between her lips with my tongue. Parting her lips, I deepen the kiss. It’s like a tango, first moving slow and rhythmic and then, when we’re both panting and our tongues collide, the kiss turns into a hot, fast dance I never want to end. Carmen’s kisses may have been hot, but Brittany’s are more sensual, sexy, and extremely addictive. We’re still in the car, but it’s cramped and the front seats don’t give us enough room. Before I know it, we’ve moved to the backseat. Still not ideal, but I hardly notice. I’m so getting into her moans and kisses and hands in my hair. And the smell of vanilla cookies. I’m not going to push her too far tonight. But without thinking, my hand slowly moves up her bare thigh. “It feels so good,” she says breathlessly. I lean her back while my hands explore on their own. My lips caress the hollow of her neck as I ease down the strap to her dress and bra. In response, she unbuttons my shirt. When it’s open, her fingers roam over my chest and shoulders, searing my skin. “You’re…perfect,” she pants. Right now I’m not gonna argue with her. Moving lower, my tongue follows a path down to her silky skin exposed to the night air. She grabs the back of my hair, urging me on. She tastes so damn good. Too good. ¡Carameloǃ I pull away a few inches and capture her gaze with mine, those shining sapphires glowing with desire. Talk about perfect. “I want you, chula,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Jeese, I thought, fear choking me. I was being targeted by a ‘tangoed’ psychopath!

He looked out the window. It seemed to me that he was thinking of Bhutto’s widower, Zardari, his onetime ally and now rival, a man universally considered cunning at business who many felt had outsmarted Sharif in their recent political tango. “No. Who wants cunning?” “Anything else?” he asked. “What about his appearance?” “I don’t really care. Not fat. Athletic.” We shook hands, and I left. In all my strange interviews with Sharif, that definitely was the strangest. Pakistan’s spies soon seemed to kick up their interest in me, maybe because I had written a few controversial stories, maybe because of Sharif. Sitting in my living room, I complained to several friends about a man named Qazi, a former army colonel who worked as part of intelligence over foreigners.

Therefore it came as no surprise when Andy wrote: My dearest Young, Your correspondence brings an abundance of joy to my heart. Although we’ve both grown older (and hopefully wiser), you are still the boy I knew and the boy I left behind many years ago in London. I love listening to your experiences after our separation. Keep them coming, it’s like listening to your sweet voice all over again. As I mentioned in my previous email, I should have ended my relationship with Toby before it began. Our four-year relationship lasted with a copious amount of quarreling, disgruntlement and resentment. I wanted to end the relationship three months after our sexual rendezvous, but Toby threatened suicide if I left. Those years were not easy for either of us. Pettifoggery often led to intense bickering, and he would sulk for days, waiting for me to kiss and make up with him. I resented having to admit that the squabbles were my fault and having to apologize to keep peace. These prolonged melodramas sent me into a psychological and physical tailspin. I had difficulty concentrating on my studies. One day, I told the boy I wanted to end our relationship. He was devastated and immediately started to blame me for the pain I caused him. He did not listen to what I had to say before he stormed back to our lodging. I was speechless. I felt guilty for what I had done, even though it was the best solution for us. I tried explaining that I loved you and I had mistakenly used him as a substitute, but it was no use. Toby proceeded to use this as ammunition, accusing me of perjury. Instead of being sound of reason, he turned the tables around, saying that I had falsely led him to fall in love with me. As you are well aware, it takes two to tango. Toby reminded me of Oscar’s charge, Srihan. Their parents spoiled them materialistically when what they most needed was love. Toby grew up not knowing how to love. Love, to him, was about taking; he knew nothing about giving. Unlike our relationship which was built on mature love, Toby’s and my relationship was the complete opposite…

As we continued our French kisses, I reached in to caress his hardness. I released his throbbing protrusion from its confines. He too wasted no time wrenching off my remaining cover, baring me to nature’s elements. Like an unhampered bird, I felt the freedom of the gentle breezes that brushed against my nakedness. Andy lifted me up to straddle him. Leaning me against a massive tree truck, he balanced me on his sturdy arms, easing his tantalizing organ into my willing orifice.               Saddling him, I jounced on his pulsating organ as if taming a wild bull. He bounced my buttocks to the fiery strokes of our love dance. Our synchronized tango palpitated with each rhythmic perforation, as I squeezed and released my inner sanctum to my lover’s pressing necessities. As much as we craved for release, our tantric preoccupations deterred us from surrendering ourselves to love’s triviality. We wanted to bathe in the heavenly glow of our sexual continence, to merge as a single entity where our peripheries dissolved into nothingness.

2012 My Response to Andy’s Message     Thank you, Andy, for your candidness. I’m sure you will not fail to attract the right man into your life again when the time is ripe, or are you still waiting for my hand? LOL!               On a more serious note, would you like to give your impression of our time in India? I’m sure readers of A Harem Boy’s Saga would love to see your side of the story. I, too, would like to know in greater detail what transpired in your life during our years of absence. As the saying goes, it takes two to tango. I will reciprocate if you take me up on this.☺               Your adoring ex-lover and ex-charge, Young

Jabril’s epicurean tongue rimmed at my anal receptacle before jabbing into my tunnel of love with abandon. His commanding lividity drove my tilting pelvis to receive slivers of his dripping saliva. He was preparing me for the feast of the gods. And I was delighted to suffice. Much like my Valet relishing the helmsman’s mightiness, Victor devoured the captain’s prowess with avid ferocity. Spittle of beaming wetness coated their organs. Tad led me above deck while the men followed suit. Pulling me atop a comfortable mattress, I straddled the athlete with aplomb, kissing his succulent mouth with wanton fervency. Quivers of euphoric rhapsody surged through my body when his tumid avidity eased into my passageway of forbidden love. His bouncing gyrations commingled with my lustful kisses brought our hankering spirits into a unified entity. Just as this newfound vivacity took hold, I felt another force in my core. This elevated double entry catapulted me into an uncharted and blissful realm. The captain and the champion tantalized my tightness with symmetrical cadences as we tangoed to the rhythm of the lapping waves. Tad’s provocative expertise, coalescing with Fahrib’s rousing mastery, hurled my frenzied soul to an intensified crescendo of erotic gratification. Rainbows of aesthetic enthusiasm flashed before me as Andy and Victor mirrored one another as the Levantine logerez himself onto their throbbing hardness simultaneously. He was at once in agony and ecstasy before his misshapen expression transformed into gleeful entrancement. Heaving sighs of euphoric relief, he accommodated both obelisks with pride.

Tango had helped me forget, if only temporarily. Perhaps it was the having to concentrate so damn hard, but it seemed more than that. Something about the connection, the struggling to sense with the palms of my hands which way my partner wanted me to move, the being with another person so completely, the comfort of our contact.

If you listen to tango music then you’ll discover it matches your mood. When you want to find it gloomy then you will, but it can as easily be soulful, passionate or uplifting. For me that evening the music wasn’t beautiful at all. It nagged me, reminded me that time was passing; it set me on edge; it was relentless. I watched the dancing, waited for Angelo to come, and felt nothing but sadness.

I think you must ask yourself what will make you happy. Not anyone else. You.’ I stared at her. ‘I suppose you think that sounds selfish, but it’s how I’ve lived my own life. Each morning I wake up and the first thing I think is what can I do today to make myself happy. You’d be surprised how hardly anyone else does that.’ ‘Actually I wouldn’t.’ ‘Most people think only about what they have to do. They don’t stop to ask if they really want to. Me, I dance the tango to be happy, I make love to be happy, look at art, listen to music, wear beautiful clothes, enjoy all my passions as often as I can. I make happiness the thing that matters most.

Generally speaking, of course, any pursuit of art in camp was somewhat grotesque. I would say that the real impression made by anything connected with art arose only from the ghostlike contrast between the performance and the background of desolate camp life. I shall never forget how I awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion on my second night in Auschwitz—roused by music. The senior warden of the hut had some kind of celebration in his room, which was near the entrance of the hut. Tipsy voices bawled some hackneyed tunes. Suddenly there was a silence and into the night a violin sang a desperately sad tango, an unusual tune not spoiled by frequent playing. The violin wept and a part of me wept with it, for on that same day someone had a twenty-fourth birthday. That someone lay in another part of the Auschwitz camp, possibly only a few hundred or a thousand yards away, and yet completely out of reach. That someone was my wife.

The tango is all about your troubles. It’s where you go to process your troubles. Tango is one big trouble with a twenty-four-hour soundtrack. Tango reminds you that if you don’t currently have troubles of a romantic, existential, financial or any other kind – well, sooner or later, you will. Believe me, you will. The good news is, tango makes trouble exciting. You want to be part of the action, no matter how troubled. What is tango like? Tango is introverted, brooding, physically controlled, mentally involved, musically complex and emotionally dark.

The Invitation There are lives in which nothing goes right. The would-be suicide takes a bottle of pills and immediately throws up. He tries to hang himself but gets his arm caught in the noose. He tries to throw himself under a subway but misses the last train. He walks home. It is raining. He catches a cold and dies. Once in heaven it is no better. He mops the marble staircase and accidentally jams his foot in the pail. All his harp strings break. His halo slips down over his neck and nearly chokes him. Why is he here? demands one of the noble dead, an archbishop or general, a leader of men: If a loser like that can enter heaven, then how is it an honor for us to be here as well – those of us who are totally deserving? But the would-be suicide knows none of this. In the evening, he returns to his little cloud house and watches the sun set over the planet Earth. He stares down at the cities filled with people and thinks how sad it is that they should rush backwards and forwards as if they had some great destination when their only destination is death itself – a place to be reached by sitting as well as running. He thinks about his own life with its betrayals and disappointments. Regret, regret – how he never made a softball team, how his favorite shirts always shrank in the wash. His eyes moisten and he sheds a few tears, but secretly, because in heaven crying is forbidden. Still, the tears tumble down through all those layers of blue sky and strike a salesman rushing between Point A and Point B. The salesman slips, staggers, and stops as if slapped in the face. People on the street think he’s crazy or drunk. Why am I selling ten thousand ballpoint pens? he asks himself. Suddenly his only wish is to dance the tango. He sees how the setting sun caresses the cold faces of the buildings. He sees a beautiful woman and desperately wants to ask her to stroll in the park. Maybe he will kiss her cheek; maybe she will love him back. You maniac, she tells him, didn’t you know I was only waiting for you to ask me?

Mercy’s a good listener,” Tango said in a small voice.               “Yeah, he is.” Ghost became gentle, seeming to choose his words. “And he’s, well, he loves hard. So his heart is in the right place. But there’s snakes in his head. Big ones. Man-eating ones.” His eyes widened for emphasis. “It kinda spooks me, thinking about the sort of advice he might give.”               Tango

Siz hiç Fransız Yahudisi gördünüz mü? Ben gördüm, eğer kendisi söylemeseydi, Allah bilir sittin sene Yahu di olduğunu anlayamazdım: Konuşmasıyla, kültürüy le, davranışıyla tam bir Fransız. Şimdi ona sorsam ne diyecek, Yahudi miyim, yoksa Fransız mı? Denediğim için biliyorum, önce Franstzım diyor, sonra ilâve ediyor, Musevi asıllıyım. Bunu yalnız Yahudiler yapmaz, ora da Anadolu’dan gitme hayli Ermeni de vardır, çocukla rı, torunları elbet o ülkede doğmuş, o ülkenin uyruğu na geçmişler, kısacası Fransızlaşmalar, oysa dinleri Hı 94 ristiyan ama mezhepleri Ortodoks, dahası Gregoryen, ana dilleri de farklı, Ermenice konuşuyor, kendi arala rında hâttâ okuyup yazıyorlar. Peki bunlar ne, Ermeni mi Fransız mı? Daha 1950’de, Heybeliada’dan Paris’e düşmüş Ermeni dostum Barkef Şemikyaıı’a sormuş, boyumuzun ölçüsünü almıştık: Fransızım diyor, ilâve ediyorlar, Ermeni asıllıyım. Daha ilginci, dışardan gel me olmayıp, Fransa toprağında yaşayan, ama değişik dilleri, kendilerine özgü kültürleriyle belirli azınlıkları oluşturan kümelerin davranışları. Evet, sık sık yazarım, Fransa’da, o toprağın halkından olup, dili başka, kül türü farklı, göreneği kendine göre, hayli ‘etnik grup’ vardır: Brötonlar, Basklar, Korsikalılar, Alzaslılar vb. Üç aşağı beş yukarı hepsiyle temasım olmuştur. Hotel le Tango’nun yöneticisi Bröton’du, Fransızcasını zor an lardım, üstüne varırsanız Fransızım derdi, Bröton asıl lıyım. Mari-France Normand’dır (sahi, onları unuttuk), onun da sorunuza vereceği cevap öbürlerinden farklı mı olacaktır sanırsınız? Paris Polis Müdüriyeti’nde ikamet izni alabilmem için bana ‘torpil yapan’ Baba Sanguinet- ri Korsikalıydı ama, ana dili bal gibi İtalyanca olduğu halde, Fransa için dövüşmüş, yaralanmış, tutsak düş müştü. Benzeri sözleri size İngiltere’de yaşamış bir Türk de tekrarlayabilir. Orada da İskoçlar, Galler, İrlandalılar vardır, kimisinin dili farklı, kimisinin dini başkadır. Sorduğunuz zaman hepsi Britanyalıyım der, ama İskoç asıllıyım, ya da İrlanda asıllıyım. Gerçekte bu saptama, çağdaş uluslarda bizdeki birtakım salakların tartıştık ları ‘halklar’ sorununun hangi düzeyde çözüldüğünü pek güzel göstermektedir. İnsan gruplarını ırksal köken lerine göre ayırmaz da, tarihsel yazgı beraberliklerine, ekonomik ortaklıklarına, kültür birikimlerine göre bir 95 likte düşünürsen, çağdaş ulus anlayışı ortaya çıkar, bun da da esas, yurttaşın kendini içinde yaşadığı ulusun his setmesidir, böyle hissetti mi, bitti, o ulusun çocuğudur, ama şu ya da bu asıldandır, fark etmez. Mustafa Kemal Meclis’teki milletvekillerine seslenirken, onun için ‘Bu radaki öğeler yalnız Türk değildir, Kürt değildir, Çerkez değildir, Lâz değildir’ diyor, onun için yıllar sonra Türk milliyetçiliğini tanımlarken ‘Ne mutlu Türk’üm diye ne’ diyecektir. Türklüğü kişinin benimsemesine bıraka caktır. Acaba bilir misiniz, Anadolu’dan şu ya da bu neden le Avrupa’ya, Amerika’ya dağılmış Musevi ya da Erme- nilerin kendi soydaşlan arasındaki adları Türk’tür. Bes belli yüzyıllarca Türk kaderini paylaştıkları için. Hiç unutmam, Paris’te İstanbul’dan gitme Madam Victoire’i bana tanıtan, Fransız Musevisi dostum, ‘Türk’tür’ diye tanıtmıştı, Madam Victoire da, (toprağı bol olsun) da ha ilk sözünde bana kahveyi orta mı şekerli mi içeceği mi sorduğuna göre, elbette Türk’tü. Salonunda Boğaz resimleri, sofrasında tahin helvası, gramofonunda De niz Kızı Eftalya’nın plakları olan bir Türk. Emperya lizm, Osmanlı’yı dağıtmak için Ermeni’yi, Rum’u, Ya hudi’yi doğduğu toprağa düşman edip, kökeninden ko pararak, bin beter kötü bir talihe mahkûm etmiştir. En azılı Türk dü�

With a wicked smirk, I part the Devil's lips. He invites me eagerly with want, drinking me in like salted chocolate, savoring my blood on his tongue. He thinks he has me. My muscles tense when he weakens, my power growing as his desire burgeons. It shifts too suddenly. I gasp as he grabs me by the waist, pulling me firmly against his body. His hand coils around my neck, lifting my lips to his. My eyes shut instinctually, tasting the blood and honey on his tongue. The taste deepens, layered like spiced sangria. I want more. I want it so much, it consumes me. I press into him harder. He's ravenous, squeezing me, threading his fingers through my hair, ruining my curls. No. My eyes burst open, but I don't shatter his fantasy. Not yet. I come up for breath as his lips find their way to my neck. I tilt my head back, glancing at the stained glass ceiling. The upper hand is mine again when I push him against the stone wall, furiously feeding him kisses to satiate his hunger. He grabs my leg, pulling it around his waist. I balance myself against the cave, and with my touch, crystals start to sprout. Citrine, ruby, and amber. They form into points, my own glittering weapons. Once they're not long enough, I snap a piece off. The Devil mistakes my destruction as rapture. I play into it further. Grabbing him by the collar, I spin us away from the wall, continuing our tango over to the balcony. Wisps of my gossamer gown pool around my thighs as he explores me. My fingers twist into his hair, pulling, stringing up his appetite until he begs for more. And, once I have him truly at my mercy, I jab the crystal straight into his back.

Still, both Rent and Spring Awakening ultimately use gay characters to bolster heteronormativity. Angel serves as the emotional touchstone of Rent, endlessly generous and hopeful, caring and sensitive. All mourn his death, which compels the other characters to look at their lives and choices. That Angel’s death enables the other characters to learn about themselves replicates a typical (tired) trope in which an Other (usually a person of color or a person with a disability) aids in the self-actualization of the principal character. Also, Collins and Angel have the most loving and healthy relationship, which the musical needs to eliminate so as not to valorize the gay male couple above all else. In addition, Joanne and Maureen sing a lively number, “Take Me or Leave Me,” but the musical doesn’t take their relationship seriously. Maureen is presented as a fickle, emotionally abusive, yet irresistible lover (Joanne and Mark’s duet, “The Tango Maureen”) and a less-than-accomplished artist (her “The Cow Jumped over the Moon” is a parody of performance art).15 In contrast, Mimi and Roger’s relationship lasts through the end of the musical, since Mimi comes back to life. This choice, one of the few that differs from Puccini’s La Bohème (which provides the primary situational basis for Rent), shows how beholden twentieth-century musicals—even tragedies—are to the convention of a heterosexually happy ending.

XI. MAKE YOUR CUTS IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE LIVING JOINTS OF THE FORM SAID SOCRATES TO PHAEDRUS WHEN THEY WERE DISSECTING A SPEECH ABOUT LOVE. Why did nature give me to this creature-- don't call it my choice, I was ventured: by some pure gravity of existence itself, conspirancy of being! We were fifteen. It was Latin class, late spring, late afternoon, the passive periphrastic, for some reason I turned my seat and there he was. You know how they say a Zen butcher makes one correct cut and the whole ox falls apart like a puzzle. Yes a cliché.

Rent creates new possibilities for characters’ sexualities in musicals by representing multiple gay and lesbian characters with frank and casual openness. Rent is peopled with a gay male couple (Angel and Collins) and a lesbian couple (Maureen and Joanne) and it takes those sexualities for granted in the musical’s world of NYC’s East Village circa 1990. Rent’s structure—a single protagonist, Mark, surrounded by a close-knit community—borrows formal conventions of ensemble musicals of the late 1960s and 1970s, including Hair, Company, Godspell, and A Chorus Line. This structure enables the musical to nod to nonheterosexual identities and relationships, an ideological gesture that speaks to its (successful) intention to address musical theater’s wide range of spectators and even make them feel politically progressive. This device of including a few gay characters in a community-based story is repeated with the gay male couples in Avenue Q and Spring Awakening, and perhaps foretells a musical theater future with a more consistent nod to gay people (or gay men, at least).14 Still, both Rent and Spring Awakening ultimately use gay characters to bolster heteronormativity. Angel serves as the emotional touchstone of Rent, endlessly generous and hopeful, caring and sensitive. All mourn his death, which compels the other characters to look at their lives and choices. That Angel’s death enables the other characters to learn about themselves replicates a typical (tired) trope in which an Other (usually a person of color or a person with a disability) aids in the self-actualization of the principal character. Also, Collins and Angel have the most loving and healthy relationship, which the musical needs to eliminate so as not to valorize the gay male couple above all else. In addition, Joanne and Maureen sing a lively number, “Take Me or Leave Me,” but the musical doesn’t take their relationship seriously. Maureen is presented as a fickle, emotionally abusive, yet irresistible lover (Joanne and Mark’s duet, “The Tango Maureen”) and a less-than-accomplished artist (her “The Cow Jumped over the Moon” is a parody of performance art).15 In contrast, Mimi

Juan Pablo II señalaba en Familiaris Consortio que los divorciados deben ser acogidos, integrados, acompañados en la Iglesia. A esto sumé el principio del discernimiento. Y dije que queda en manos de la autoridad eclesiástica el análisis de cada caso. Insisto: en Santo Tomás esta consideración aparece como moral general. Debemos salir de la moral de la casuística en el sentido de aplicar, sin más, un principio general a casos particulares, y debemos retomar el pensamiento moral de la Iglesia de su época más brillante. El capítulo donde me refiero a esta cuestión no solo fue revisado por los teólogos, sino también, letra por letra, por el cardenal Christoph Schönborn, un brillante tomista que fue secretario de la Congregación para la Doctrina de la Fe. Pero bueno… esto escandaliza a los que abrazan esa moral de la casuística. Y que me recuerda la letra de un tango: “¿Ha visto señora, qué poca vergüenza? ¡Vestirse de blanco, después que pecó!”.

Yo me dejaba apresar, una vez más, en la trampa del deseo ajeno, que a menudo se ha comportado como el más rabioso, pero traidor, acicate de mi propio deseo.

¿Sabes cuál es la única diferencia entre una mujer débil y una mujer fuerte, Malena? —me preguntó Magda, y yo negué con la cabeza—. Que las débiles siempre se pueden montar en la chepa de la fuerte que tengan más a mano para chuparle la sangre, pero las fuertes no tenemos ninguna chepa en la que montarnos, porque los hombres no valen para eso, y cuando no queda más remedio, tenemos que bebernos la nuestra, nuestra propia sangre, y así nos va.

Well, there’s a point now. You’re my mate, and as such, we should be living together. I have a house—a big, lovely house I’ve spent years restoring. I… I love my house, and I don’t want to leave it. There’s plenty of room too.” Remi shut the suitcase with a snap. “What exactly are you asking me, Remi?” “Well, it sounds to me like I’m asking you to move in with me.” Okay, wow. I cringed. That sucked. On the romance scale, that was probably a negative one. “Let me see if I have this right.” Marshell advanced on me. “You’re asking me if I want to leave this dumpy little home I rent? This place which has next to no furniture in it.” “Um….” I backed up until my ass hit the dresser. “You want me to leave all this so I can move into that beautiful, grand old home of yours? You’re asking me if I want to spend my days, and more importantly, my nights with you? You’re asking me”—Marshell waved at the urine-soaked bedding and the little dinky room—“to leave all this?” “Um… yeah?” “Thank fuck.

I’ve made my decision.” Remi flinched, but I didn’t. Dolf stuck out his hand. “Welcome, Marshell.” I knew before he opened his mouth—I saw the acceptance in his eyes. I didn’t often see that on the faces of other paranormals, so when I saw it, I knew it. “Oh, thank the goddess.” Remi dropped his head on the table. As we shook hands, Dolf looked down at Remi, who was very calmly beating his head against the table. “Stop being so damn dramatic. That’s Heller’s job.” Remi jerked his head off the table. “You did not just call me a diva.” “So does this mean I can start calling you Cinderfella?” Remi scowled at me. “You do, and I will kick your ass.” “I’ll pencil you in.” “Ass,” Remi retorted. “I didn’t hear any complaints about that particular part of my anatomy from you earlier.” Oh yeah, I was smirking. Dolf tapped on the table. “Children….

EBB: As I recall, “Cell Block Tango” was a very difficult number to write. It’s not so much a song as a musical scene for six women, and each has to tell her personal story in the course of a musical refrain that keeps repeating. It was difficult because each of the stories had to be entertaining and also meaningful. Each one had to be of a length that didn’t go on too long and run the risk of being boring. We kept rewriting and rewriting those stories that the women told to go with the refrain— He had it coming He had it coming He only had himself to blame. If you’d have been there If you’d have seen it I betcha would have done the same! KANDER: When Gwen was sick during Chicago, Liza took over for eight weeks and she came close to making the show a hit. EBB: She did all of Gwen’s blocking. KANDER: She learned that show in a week. EBB: I guess I should confess this. I had been with Liza in California, and when we were on our way back to New York on the plane, when I knew Liza was going to do Chicago, I was egging her on to get little things back into the show that I lost during my collaboration with Fosse. I desperately wanted “My Own Best Friend” to be a song just for Roxie. That was the way it was originally supposed to be done. But Bobby took that song and added Chita as Velma. He had them at the edge of the stage, obviously mocking the high-end cabaret singers with their phony Oh-look-at-me attitude. He hated songs like— KANDER: “I Did It My Way.” EBB: And “I Gotta Be Me.” He hated them.

¿Cómo viviste estos años? —¿Los del fracaso?... Replegándome despacio hasta donde me ves. Como un ejército derrotado que combate mientras se deshace poco a poco.

briefly on the lips. ‘I do trust you. As I said before, it’s Garrick that concerns me.’ ‘It takes two to tango.’ She kissed his chin. ‘True.

Bucket o' Mangoes by Maisie Aletha Smikle A bucket full of mangoes to go A bucket full of fries won't flow Flood me with mangoes up to the rim Fill the buckets to the brim A bucket full of mangoes sliced thin You may leave the seeds within Forgo the topping and cream Serve it plain add no cream Mangoes left fries steaming Hot fries were beaming Steam running hot Mangoes left fries in the pot Fries got jealous of mangoes' spot And vowed to reclaim its spot at the top Fries chanted Mangoes panted Mangoes got cool and smooth Fries got crispy hot Mangoes tango in buckets Fries paired with nuggets Mangoes swam in smoothies Dived in fruity punches Careened into buckets Fries seethed and smothered Hot steam from its empty air pockets In bags paired with nuggets Fries bowed with nuggets And hit the bucket

El crecimiento de la radio coincidió con la década dorada del tango. Músicos como Pascual Contursi, Juan D’Arienzo, Juan Carlos Cobián, Julio De Caro y Osvaldo Fresedo; y cantantes como Ignacio Corsini, Sofía Bozán, Rosa Quiroga y Agustín Magaldi integraron la «nueva guardia» del tango de los años cuarenta. Las grandes orquestas de Osvaldo Pugliese, Aníbal Troilo o Carlos Di Sarli actuaban tanto en los cabarés del centro y salones barriales como en las emisoras radiales. Creció así la industria discográfica y se escribieron en esos años las mejores composiciones de tango con letristas como Enrique Santos Discépolo, Homero Manzi y Enrique Cadícamo. En los años cuarenta, la radio se politiza; tanto en el golpe militar de 1943 como en la campaña electoral de 1946 que llevó a Juan Domingo Perón a la presidencia del país, el papel de la radio fue decisivo. Por ejemplo, en 1944 se emitió el programa Hacia un futuro mejor, encabezado por Eva Duarte, que consistía en la difusión de la obra del gobierno; los libretos estaban escritos por Antonio Giménez y Francisco Muñoz Azpiri, quien, posteriormente, ocuparía el cargo de director de la Sección Propaganda de la Subsecretaría de Informaciones de la Presidencia. A finales de la década, Enrique Santos Discépolo —autor de emblemáticos tangos como Cambalache, Yira, yira y Qué vachaché— creó un personaje radial llamado Mordisquito que, en su programa político titulado ¿A mí me la vas a contar?, personificaba la figura del opositor recalcitrante al gobierno, incapaz de aceptar ninguno de los logros del peronismo. Entre luces y sonidos Con el estreno de las películas ¡Tango!, de Luis Moglia Barth, y Los tres berretines, de

Além dessas, escutávamos todo tipo de programas: informativos, de perguntas e respostas, humorísticos, e, é claro, de música. Nicola Paone me dominava. Mas não havia distinções: toda música era a minha favorita, pelo menos enquanto a estava ouvindo. Até dos tangos, que em geral entediam as crianças, eu gostava. A música me parecia maravilhosa pelo vigor com que tomava posse de seu presente, e dele expulsava tudo o mais. Qualquer melodia que escutasse me parecia a mais bonita do mundo, a melhor, a única. Era o instante elevado à sua máxima potência. Era uma fascinação do presente, um hipnotismo (outro!). Eu me obstinava em colocá-lo à prova sempre; queria pensar em outras músicas, outros ritmos, comparar, recordar, e não podia, estava inundada por esse presente transformado em música,

Me gustan los desafíos y las cosas nuevas que estimulan mi cerebro.

Just as I got to the door, Dolf opened it, read my shirt, and promptly burst out laughing. “You have got to tell me where you get those.” Smirking, I shook my head. “It’s a well-guarded secret.” Today I wore a black shirt with white writing: Be careful when you follow the masses…. Sometimes the M is silent. “Masses” was in light blue, as was the letter M, to draw attention to the play on words. I’d been known to follow an ass or two in my day. Those days were over now.

Oh, come on. You know damn well he isn’t going to reject you.” “You do know they’re meeting”—I made a show of looking at my watch—“right now, as a matter of fact. And no, I don’t know he won’t. Heller rejected you.” “Heller….” Lawson stared into his cup. “That was a special case. There are things I can’t go into because it’s not my story to tell, but trust me, Heller had his reasons. Besides, Remi’s—” “Stable? Unlike Heller?” I interjected. Okay, I couldn’t resist. That’s what Lawson got for leaving me such an opening. The sex must have fried his brain. Lucky bastard. “Oh, aren’t you a funny guy. I was going to say ‘less traumatized,’ smartass.” Suddenly I didn’t feel like joking around anymore. “What if they won’t accept me? They all know I’m stronger than their Alpha. If they refuse me, then—” “Then they lose me, and through me, Heller.” Lawson reached out and clasped my hand. “We stand with you.” “Are you insane?” I reared back, shocked. I couldn’t believe my ears. We were close, but this…. I never thought he’d do this. “You can’t expect Heller to give up all he’s known because you’ve got a wild hair up your ass about me.” Lawson narrowed his eyes. “Want to bet? Do you think I’d throw this out there if we hadn’t talked about it? Come on, you know me better than that.” “You’re nuts. Completely nuts.

You sound surprised.” “Not surprised, really. It’s just that….” Heller flashed me a sheepish look. “I haven’t actually told him I love him.” “Really?” I assumed he had. Didn’t mates do that? “Really, and I don’t know why I haven’t since I started falling in love with him the moment I looked into those sexy gunmetal eyes of his. Gods, those eyes of his. It’s like rolling in catnip.” I leaned against my truck. Oh, this was almost too good. “Is this you waxing poetically?” “Don’t hate me because I have great hair and a way with words. Jeez, Remi, I do. I do love him. Wow.” Heller looked at me, a happy smile plastered on his face. “I feel so much lighter now that I said it. I love him.” “Of course you do. He’s your mate.” Heller’s smiled dipped. “It’s not that simple, and you damn well know it. Are you saying you love Marshell?” “Whoa, there.” I held up my hands—like that was going to stop him. “I just met him.

You listen to me! Marshell, fucking look at me! Now, or so help me, I’ll show you pain.” I knew that scent. Over the pain and the need consuming me, that scent reached out to me. Beckoning me. I knew that scent. Home. Safety. Love. I… I needed to… to do something, but the blistering pain refused to let me go. Kill, kill, kill, it chanted. “Look at me!” I’d look at them, all right. Then rip their throat out and— “You must try. Please, you have to try. Please. You…. Marshell? Your mate needs you.” Mate? My mate? The monster that consumed my control eased back. A mate. That’s right, I had a mate. A beautiful, sexy cat who… needed me? He needed me? I fought the pain back further. It couldn’t have me. I refused to let it have me. My mate needed me. I couldn’t let him down, couldn’t escape into the ether that fogged my brain and promised escape from the torment. My mate needed me. He was my everything. “Come on, that’s it. Come on. There you go. Come back to us, please. Fight it. I know you can. Come on, talk to me. Let me know you’re in your right mind.

When I fantasized about this, I never stopped to truly think about what exactly I was asking from the other person, and what I was also asking from myself. I always thought about how hot it would be to have somebody totally helpless to me. I never realized how worthy that would make me feel. I hadn’t stopped to think about the gift he ended up giving me: the gift of his submission. His trust. He submitted to me, but I’d given him my heart. My heart thumped hard against my ribs. Remi… Remi was my life. Maybe I should start saying “goddess,” because goddess help me, I’d fallen in love with him. So how the hell had he ended up with me? I wasn’t good or noble or even remotely levelheaded. Remi narrowed his eyes, and I shook my thoughts off. Then he crossed his eyes, and that startled a laugh out of me. Remi moved his lips, which meant my venom was wearing off. Soon he would be back to his normal assertive self and I… and I… I was a chickenshit of the first order. I had to do this fast. I looked back at Remi, who was now frowning at me. “You’re probably going to kick my ass later for what I’m about to do, but what the hell. I love you.

Holy shit.” “Yeah. If sex with you is that good, it may kill me,” I laughed. Remi jerked back, a scowl on his face, and then punched me. Well, shit, he certainly hadn’t pulled the hit, but I guess I deserved it. Fuck, what was I thinking? I knew immediately that was the wrong choice of words. “Not funny. Seriously not funny.” “Sorry. That was really…. Yeah. My bad.” I kissed his forehead. “Say something like that again and you won’t have to worry about the sex killing you.” Remi took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. “I will.” “Point taken

Shit.” Remi leaned back and stared at me. “There you are.” I remembered it all, and I was horrified. This was not how I wanted our first time to be. “Remi. I… I…. Are you okay?” “I’m perfectly fine. You were very careful and gentle with me.” Remi brushed a few of my braids back. “Besides, I’m not the one who was stabbed in the chest. Are you okay now?” “Better. I’m better, but not okay. I need human blood.” “I’m glad you’re—” Remi gulped, shivered, and then the tears started. He wrapped his trembling arms around me. He didn’t yell or scream, but his body shook violently as he silently cried. Such control. It pained me, him hurting. Even a silver knife to the chest didn’t hurt this bad. I wanted to do something, make it better somehow. I ran my hands up and down his back, wishing he hadn’t seen this. No one should have to deal with what he had to, and so soon in our relationship too. “Hey. Hey, now. I’m okay. Seriously I’m going to be fine.” Remi burrowed closer. “I thought… I thought…. I was terrified I’d lost you. I’d just found you and, and….” Remi grasped my shirt. “I thought you were dead, and… and…. Gods! I’m so glad you’re not.” I laughed slightly as I held him. The torrent of tears didn’t last long. “I’m glad I’m not dead too.” Remi sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Jeez, I sound unhinged.

Going to come…. I need…. You need to….” “Come for me, you hot fucker!” Marshell ordered. He dropped down over me and sealed his mouth over mine in a scorching kiss, then jerked back. I tilted my head a little to the left, and he struck. Sharp pain exploded as he sunk his fangs into me, and then it faded. Pleasure quickly overrode everything else. I felt him suck, heard him swallow, and then he growled as he came inside me. I lost control and came too, shooting all over my stomach. Finally he stopped taking my blood and withdrew his fangs. He danced his tongue over my skin, and I assumed he was closing the holes. Panting, he leaned back so we could make eye contact. His braids covered both of our faces, and we stared at each other until he finally softened and slipped out. “Wow,” I whispered. “Please tell me that’s a good wow,” Marshell said. I lifted my hand and traced his jaw. “Absolutely. It was as good as good can get, and yes, we will definitely be doing this again. Thank you for making it special.” The relief on his face touched me. “Always.” With a sigh, he eased down next to me and pulled me against his body. He wrapped his arm around me. I lay there, enjoying the moment. We’d mated. He was mine, and I was his—no matter what the future held

Suddenly Heller turned serious and stepped away from Lawson. He came straight at me—okay, what the hell was he doing?—and I about swallowed my tongue. Heller hugged me like a long-lost brother. “Thank you for protecting my mate,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re welcome. You mean the world to him, you know?” I left it at that because, really, what more was there to say? “Yeah, I do know. Now he needs to know.” Heller stepped back from me, then turned around to face Lawson. Then he went down on one knee. Lawson gasped, Remi thrust his fist in the air and yelled, “Yes,” and I rolled my eyes. Of course, that was more for show than anything. I did have a reputation to keep up “Lawson?” Heller held his hand out to Lawson, who took it. “You’re my everything, but I’ve told you that. My life would be… would be incomplete without you. You’re my mate—my one and only. What I haven’t done is tell you that… that… I love you, and I don’t know why I haven’t. I think… no, I know I fell in love with you the moment I looked into those beautiful gunmetal-gray eyes of yours at your shop.” “Jesus, Heller,” Lawson gasped. Heller pulled a small box out of his front pocket. “Shifters don’t marry… not like humans. Sometimes we have to shift with next to no warning, so we don’t wear jewelry.” “But… you don’t shift, and being part human, I guessed marriage means a lot to you. It does, right?” Lawson wiped his eyes. “Oh God, yes, it does. Especially since now gays can marry.” “Will… will you wear my ring? Will you… will you wear it so the whole world can see that you’re taken?” “Fuck.” Lawson dropped to his knees and threw his arms around Heller, sobbing into his neck. “Dammit, hellcat! I love you. I love you so much.” Lawson pulled back to look at Heller. “Yes, yes, I will wear your ring. Oh my God, you’re unbelievable! Put it on me!” Remi eased his arm around me and rested his head on my shoulder. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I turned my head and kissed his hair. “They worked hard for this.” “Yes, they did. How many times do you think he rehearsed this speech?” “At least ten.” After a passionate kiss I thought I might have to break up before they set the rug on fire, the four of us munched on goodies, drank a couple of beers, and spent what was left of the evening watching movies. Things were going exceptionally well. I couldn’t help but wonder when the other shoe would drop

MY FAMILY unit had increased by one. Janelle was of my blood, and I loved her dearly. Lawson was the brother I’d never had. His mate, Heller, was Lawson’s whole world, so of course Heller was now important to me also. But Remi? Remi came before them all. He was my mate. Mine. I would kill for him. I would die for him. Because of me he might be giving up everything he knew

Oh, look at you. That was absolutely meowtastic.” Scowling, Remi punched me in the shoulder. “Oh, bite me.” I let my eyes change, and my fangs dropped. Grinning from ear to ear, I lunged at Remi and managed to wrestle him flat on his back. Good God, I never got tired of the strength he wielded so perfectly. Or that banging body. I might be stronger than him, but he always gave me a run for my money. He was more important to me than even the blood I needed to survive because, without him, I was nothing. I loved this man more than life itself, and he loved me, which never failed to leave me breathless and amazed. Straddling him, I looked down at my mate. “Thought you’d never ask.

Let me put it this way. Kirk was human. Lawson was human. You didn’t belong to a group or a pack. Each of you was willing to join our clowder.” “Okay, and…?” “He’s an Alpha. A werewolf Alpha, like I said. Just like Dolf, Alpha Lovelock has a group of shifters he’s responsible for. He isn’t going to join our clowder.” “No, I wouldn’t,” said Carter. “So that means if they mate, Aidric would join them.” Dolf’s tone said he clearly didn’t relish the thought. Marshell raised an eyebrow. “Really?” “I’m afraid so,” I said. “Then there’s the fact he’s a cat,” Temple added, lips pursed. His gaze danced between Marshell and Dolf. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Just what exactly does that mean?” “It means cats and dogs”—Dolf paused at a low growl—“sorry. Cats and wolves go together about as well as oil and water.” Dolf pushed the plate of food away from him. “So what now, Carter?” “I… I wasn’t expecting….” Carter picked up his drink and swallowed half of it in one gulp. “We don’t worship the same goddess as you, but we do understand the importance of mates. We feel they are a gift from Fenrir

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m a wimp. I admit it. But it hit me, just now, what a good person you are. How noble you are. You’re down-to-earth and likable. I see it everywhere you go. Me? Yeah, not so much. People fear me, even if they don’t know what I am. Those who do? Yeah, then they really fear me. “So I sit here looking at you, thinking what a wonderful person you are, and it hits me right between the eyes. I need you like I need blood to survive. I need you to survive. I didn’t believe I could fall this fast for somebody, even though I know about the mate-draw thing. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll damn sure fight to keep—” There was a blur of movement, and I found myself flat on my back, both of my arms held above my head. I stared at Remi. Whoa. “You love me? You tell me that while I am spread out and helpless?” “Um, not looking too helpless now.” “I ought to shake you senseless. No, I ought to chain you down and beat your ass, then shake you senseless. And what was that rot you were spewing about me being so good and you being so not? Do not put me up on some damn pedestal. I’m not perfect. I’m as far from perfect as I can get. I’m no better than you, you fanged fucker.” “Fanged fucker?” I snorted, then got serious. “Look, I—” Remi released my wrists and put a finger to my lips… a finger with a nice sharp claw on the end. Well, hell. I found myself looking into the brightly glowing electric-blue eyes of his cat “I love you too. I don’t care what you’ve done in your past. Also don’t care about whatever you’ve done to survive. You are all I care about. “When that asshole stabbed you, I thought I lost you. I thought I lost everything. Yes, what I feel hit me quickly, and the intensity sometimes scares me, but I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep you. I’ll also gladly kick your ass when I think you need reminding.” I hiked an eyebrow at him. “You’ll try to kick my ass.” “No, I will.” Remi rubbed his cheek against mine, then sat up. “Together we can handle anything.” I caressed that strong jawline of his. “You love me?” “I love you. In fact, I love you more.” “Not too sure of that.” My world finally settled in place around me. He was right. Together we could handle anything. “I love you too.” “Good. Now that we’ve got that straightened out, let’s go take a shower. I, ah… yeah.” Remi pulled me up off the bed. “To the shower we go.” Laughing, I followed him. I had every intention of helping him get totally and intimately clean, then taking his ass back to bed.

Remi’s lips parted as he panted. His eyes darkened. “Yes. I want you.” “Then what else is there? Mate me.” “Oh goddess. Yes!” Remi shuddered. “I… I’m going to bite you and take your blood. Then I’m going to make love to you—going to claim you. Take what’s mine. Then… then you’re going to do the same… exact… thing to me.” Holy. Fuck. Emotions flooded me, but I couldn’t seem to grasp any one thing. Desire, anxiety, confusion, need. They were all there. I wanted him. I wanted him desperately, but all this talk about making love… I had never made love. Oh, I fucked. A lot, actually. I couldn’t count the men and women who’d been in my bed. None of them I made love to, though. I damn sure hadn’t given my ass to any one of them either. Remi would be my first. “Can’t wait. Remi, I’ve never….” “I know. You’ve never… and my first experience was less than pleasant. What a pair we make.” Remi kissed my cockhead. “But I will do everything I can to make sure you like it.” My partners always came—I made sure of it and prided myself on my skills. I often took over and, well… controlled the whole thing. But for once I was going to lie back and let someone else do the work. No, not someone else. Remi. I was giving him control. Remi explored as much as he wanted, and I didn’t try to take over. He purred softly as he nosed my cock. I clenched the bedding. Oh God, please just…. He licked the tip, and my eyes rolled. I liked getting my cock sucked as well as the next dude, but this…. I had never been so desperate to have a mouth on me.

Who can let me be me,” I said to Aidric. “Who can accept who and what I am—the good and the bad. The ugly too. Who isn’t scared of me, and who isn’t afraid to take me on. I don’t intimidate Remi any more than I intimidate this table. He trusts me, trusts me with his heart and his body. You have no idea how I treasure that.” Remi took my hand. “Sexy fucker.” “Hot bastard,” I shot right back. Aidric lifted his head and shook it at us. “That edge of violence might work for you two, but not for me.” “Hold up,” Remi demanded. “It’s not violence, Aidric. Come on, man, stop being so damn stuffy and open your mind some. We happen to both be very toppy. This works for us.” “I… I didn’t mean to insult you. I just….” “Don’t like change,” Dolf finished for Aidric. “You never have.” Aidric scrubbed his hands over his face. “I always assumed my mate would be another werecat. Someone who was quiet and composed—” “Restrained, stoic, and prudish,” Brier interrupted. “Dull.” “Wow, thanks for making me sound boring. Appreciate it,” Aidric snapped. “The thing is I’m not. You don’t know anything about me and what I like. It just so happens I like to be… cautious.” Remi rested his chin on his hand. “Okay, you’re right. But that’s how you come across. As far as me not knowing anything about you? You’re right, I don’t. Whose fault is that?” Aidric sighed. “Mine

I’d assumed my mate would be female. As Alpha it’s my responsibility to provide an heir.” “So your problem is he’s male? Or is it because he’s a werecat? Or do you even know, Alpha Lovelock?” I snapped because really, it was beginning to sound like this dumbass was going to reject his mate. Was it an epidemic happening with rejecting mates lately? Dolf cut his eyes at me. “Remi, that’s not how you speak to—” “Watch your tone when speaking to my Alpha,” Temple snapped. “Why should I when it sounds like your Alpha’s on the verge of rejecting my friend?” I hissed at Temple. “Beta Remi.” Carter’s voice was calm when he spoke. That quieted me quicker than anything. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, and I appreciate your quick defense of your friend. Understand, please, I didn’t mean to imply I planned to reject Aidric. To be honest I’m somewhat in shock.” “Damn, have you ever been with a man?” I asked. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I have,” Alpha Lovelock said. “I’m bi.” “Um, I don’t want to rain on anybody’s parade either, but this might be a good time to point out who is not taking part in this discussion,” Marshell said. “I imagine he’s also in shock,” Dolf added. “As we all are.

Then I smelled it—the sweet scent of vanilla flooded the kitchen. “Aw shit,” I huffed. I’d smelled Aidric’s desire enough through the years to recognize it. “Mate,” Carter growled, taking a step toward Aidric. Aidric squeaked. That was the best way to describe the sound that came out of him. “Goddess,” Dolf muttered. “Oh, fuck me,” Temple said at the same time. Marshell burst out laughing. Of course. That seemed to break the tension in the kitchen. The rest of us all started talking at once while Carter and Aidric stared at each other. I was pretty sure nothing else existed around them. Finally Dolf rapped his knuckles on the table, and that seemed to break whatever hold the two other men were in. Carter took a deep breath and ran one of those huge paws he called a hand over his bald head. Aidric started breathing again. But that didn’t seem to be enough. He took another breath and then another… and pretty soon he was panting. Oh, that wasn’t good. I edged my way closer to him while keeping an eye on the other Alpha

WELL, THAT went well. Not. Remi all but ran out of here. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed, but damn it to the pit and back, the scent of his desire was driving me mad. He wanted me. I wanted him. Neither of us wanted to bottom, so how the hell was that going to work? Okay, to be fair, I’d never tried it. It’s just… the whole dynamics of bottoming made me uncomfortable. Allowing a man to top me meant I’d have to give up control, and that was hard for me. Especially for me. I knew being a bottom didn’t necessarily mean a man was submissive, either in the bedroom or in everyday life. It didn’t make him less of a man. Likewise, being a top didn’t mean a man was inclined to be dominant in his interactions with others. It didn’t make him more of a man. I got that. I really did… but. But I knew myself well enough to know I couldn’t just let anyone into my body. It wasn’t all about the fear of being penetrated, but that was some of it. It’s why I took time to open my partner up. To get him riled up and desperate. What was the point of sex if it didn’t feel good? Then, of course, there were the usual perceptions: big, muscular black man… of course he’d only top. Of course he had to be hung like a horse too. I hated it when guys talked about me as if I were nothing more than a big black cock.

Take me instead,' Mrs. Dang said, holding on to my arm tightly. 'I can fight if I have to. Leave my boy out of this.' 'Not a possibility,' he told her. 'In the old days, whenever I tangoed with Death, I needed my men. Death is here right now, and your son will do just fine.

The goddess gave me Marshell as a mate. I wasn’t exactly sure why she thought we were perfect for each other, but I wasn’t going to question it. I’d already come close to losing him once, and I’d be damned if it was going to happen again. He was mine, and if Dolf didn’t want to lose me, then he better get with the program and accept Marshell. I flipped over to my other side, and Marshell immediately pulled me back against him. I was never much of a cuddler in my human form, but this was nice. My cat meowed happily. Yup, I could grow to like this.

We’re getting off track,” Dolf said. “My point was that our goddess doesn’t make mistakes, and she’s not punishing you. Yes, the werewolves have a reputation of being assholes. Yes, they can be speciesist… and the same could be and has been said of us. Maybe it’s time for them to make a change too.” “I’m supposed to be the instrument of that change? I’m not brave like Kirk or Lawson. Marshell can just about kick anybody’s ass. Me? I’m a beta. I’m not even the strongest beta here.” Aidric’s voice rose. “But you’re steady,” Brier said. “And steady wins the race,” Remi added. “Oh, are you for real? This is not the turtle and the hare fairy tale the humans use to teach kids with,” Aidric snapped. “No, but I bet you can make that were cry wolf,” Remi said quietly. “You are the most unrelenting of all of us. You never give up. Never. That’s your strength.” Aidric laid his head on the table. “I’d have to leave here.” Dolf ran his hand over Aidric’s hair. “Eventually, yes, you would. That kills me, but I want what’s best for you.” “You think this is it?” Aidric sniffed. “Bast doesn’t make mistakes. What she does she does for a reason. We just might not be able to see it at first. As much as I’d hate losing you, this is your future and your decision. You’ll always be welcome here, you know that,” Dolf said. Aidric sat up and hugged Dolf. “Thank you

My clothes aren’t going to get dried until you wash them. Which involves putting them in the washer, and that involves picking them off the floor.” Marshell wiggled his eyebrows at me, then turned and stepped into the shower. I did drool when I got a look at his ass. “Oh my….” Did I mention I was an ass man? “Remi?” “Uh-huh?” My vocabulary had taken a hike, it appeared. “I can smell your desire. If you’re still here by the count of five, I’m getting out and coming after you. One of us is going to get fucked in this awesome shower of yours, so….” Marshell said from the shower. “One.” The sound I made was a cross between a squeak and a growl, thanks to acres and acres of wet, glistening skin. I wanted to run my tongue over every square— “Two…. “Three….” I grabbed his jeans and ran. The softly whispered word “chicken” followed me out of there. I was halfway to the laundry room before I could take a deep breath. Then it hit me what I’d done. I ran out on him. Honestly calling me a chicken was too kind. I was a coward. The only reason I ran was because I was afraid to bottom. I was a top. I always topped. I threw his clothes in the washer, tossed in one of those little pods, and turned it on. Then banged my head against it. What was I doing? Why was I standing here and not in the shower with him? Yes, I topped because I was afraid to do anything else. My one and only experience with bottoming was an unmitigated disaster. A painful, excruciating, unbearable disaster, and I hadn’t repeated the experience since. “I’m an idiot.” What happened was a long time ago. A really, really long time ago, and I let it shape me. Not only shape me, but run my life. I knew that, but it didn’t really seem to matter. The males I hooked up with were bottoms. They wanted me to top, so it was never an issue. Now things had changed. Marshell was my mate. I knew perfectly well he’d take care not to hurt me. How did I know? Because when I got a chance at that ass of his—and I certainly planned to—I’d take care not to hurt him either. All I had to do was… trust him. Trust him. But I really didn’t know him. Then again, I nearly lost him too. My goddess wouldn’t match me with someone I couldn’t love. Maybe I needed to trust her. Maybe… maybe I needed to trust myself. Something deep inside me said Marshell was a good man. I hurried out of the laundry and back to the bathroom.