Virgins Funny Quotes

My parents didn't raise me to be religious. The closest we come to worship is the Trinity of Visa, Mastercard, and American Express. I think the Merryweather cheerleaders confuse me because I missed out on Sunday School. It has to be a miracle. There is no other explanation. How else could they sleep with the football team on Saturday night and be reincarnated as virginal goddesses on Monday?

Instead of finding himself in nerd heaven—where every nerd gets fifty-eight virgins to role-play with—he woke up in Robert Wood Johnson with two broken legs and a separated shoulder, feeling like, well, he'd jumped off the New Brunswick train bridge.

She has to agree to have me. It could take some time, but I’m confident I can trick her into it.

The revelation that I’m destined to meet many virgins from the East and the promise of limitless love they hold in their bosoms gives me strength, fortitude, and tenacity—and the wisdom to know that all three are synonyms.

What are you doing here?” All right, he was standing in front of an easel, holding a paint palette and brush. “Taxidermy?” he responded with just a touch of his own sarcasm.

He tends to go for girls who are-Shelby, honey? Put your hands over your ears for just a sec.” Back into the phone he said, “He likes the real slutty ones. Ow!” he yelled when he received a whop to the back of the head.

Whew,” he said. “You clean up good. You don’t look like the same girl.” She frowned right before she laughed. “Do women usually thank you for saying things like that?

We’re adults. I might be a little more of an adult if you’re counting years but I bet I have a lower IQ, so that puts us pretty much even.

For shit’s sake, it wasn’t like there was a twelve-step for being the Scribe Virgin’s kid: Hi, I’m Vishous. I’m her son and I’ve been her son for three hundred years. HI, VISHOUS. She’s done a head job on me again, and I’m trying not to go to the Other Side and scream bloody murder at her. WE UNDERSTAND, VISHOUS. And on the bloody note, I’d like to dig up my father and kill him all over again, but I can’t. So I’m just going to try to keep my sister alive even though she’s paralyzed, and attempt to fight the urge to find some pain so I can deal with this Payne. YOU’RE A STRAIGHT-UP PUSSY, VISHOUS, BUT WE SUPPORT YOUR SORRY ASS.

Why don’t you two take a little walk?” Eleni suggested. “The moon is beautiful tonight.” “That’s a great idea.” Robby stood, releasing Olivia’s hand. “Will ye walk with me, lass?” “Yes.” She grabbed her sweater, pulled it over her head, then fixed the clip that held her hair in place on the back of her head. “No funny stuff,” Eleni warned. “I’ll be watching with the telescope.

It gets worse. Josh tell her that he loves her. She says it back. He touches her. She touches him back. And then they're losing their virginity on the floor of her bedroom beside her pet rabbit, Isis. A rabbit. Josh literally lost his virginity in front of a metaphor for sex.

Wow,” she said. “Do you realise how wonderful you sound?” “Yes, I do,” he said with a firm nod. “And I think I’m underappreciated.

Quote from In Love of Honey, Money....and My Virgin Passport If you think you’ve the most wicked sense of humour, try life!

It was a funny thing: once you tell your story to others it becomes more like fiction and less like truth. A layer of performance is added to it, removing you further from the real thing.

I mean, I don’t want to pass judgment—I just wish my husband didn’t shoot deer.” “Oh, Mel, don’t worry. I’ve been hunting with your husband—the deer are completely safe.

And I sort of felt her...you know." Alan made an exaggerated shape of a heart. "You touched her heart?" Mike queried. "No! Her bum. It's sort of, you know, heart shaped. Big heart." He flexed his fingers, remembering the feel of it. "Soft.

Love is funny. It comes in all different shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s hard to find and sometimes it’s sitting right in front of you, waiting to be recognized. What I learned from all the books I’ve read and from the book that I’m writing is that no matter what, you have to work to find love. It isn’t a given and it isn’t instantaneous. It’s a privilege to find, and should never be taken lightly.

However, I have to warn you, I kind of like that you find me irresistible.” “Did I say that?” he asked, a slight tint creeping up his stubbled cheeks. “I didn’t say that! I find you completely resistible.

You dance?” “I think that might be overly optimistic,” he said. “I do something. I’ll try not to hurt you.

Your big scary husband is crying.

Maybe you're meant to be. Love at first sight. It happened to me" "I don't accept that as a hypothesis." "That's because you're a Virgo." "I thought you said virginity was a construct." "A Virgo, you fucking Virgo nightmare. All this and you still don't believe in things. Typical Virgo bullshit.

The whole idea of losing one's virginity is kind of ridiculous. To lose something implies carelessness. A mistake that you can fix simply by recovering the lost object, like your cell phone or your glasses. Virginity is more like shedding something than losing it. As in, "Don't worry, Mom. You can call off the helicopters and police dogs. Turns out - get this - I didn't actually lose my virginity. I just cast it off somewhere between here and Monterey. Can you believe it? It could be anywhere by now, what with all that wind.

Course you can't fucking see, buddy, it's darker than a nun's virgin anus down here.

I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.

Well, what am I supposed to do?" "Well, you can take a nap, read a little of my book, or close your eyes. Or you could stare--get the thrill of your life." "She put her hands on her hips. "You really wouldn't care, would you?" "Not really. A bath is a serious business when it's that much trouble. And it's pretty quick in winter." He started to chuckle. "What's so funny?" she asked, a little irritated. "I was just thinking. It's cold enough in here, you might not see that much." Her cheeks went hot, so she pretended not to understand. "But in summer, you can lay in the tub all afternoon?" "In summer, I wash in the creek." He grinned at her. "Why don't you comb the snarls out of your hair? You look like a wild banshee." She stared at him a minute, then said, "Don't flirt with me. It won't do you any good." -Marcie and Ian

I’m just not ready to give myself up, Sammy. I mean, there’s something perfect about virginity, and I haven’t found someone who deserves to take that perfection from me…” “You’re loco, Carlos. Insane. Totally crazy… Most guys think they’re imperfect for still being virgins past the age of seventeen.

As the nicknames get shorter, people come closer.

bubbies

I winced. I just said "creamed." I felt so deprived and miserably virginal.

Does Playboy still run fiction?” “I have absolutely no idea, Melinda,” he said, grinning.

Darla shook her head, a small smirk on her lips. “You’re such a mom,” she told Katherine. Katherine stared at her, puzzled. “You’re a mom, too,” she said softly. “No, I gave birth. That doesn’t make me a mom. Not like you.” A look passed between the two women like none they had ever shared before. For a split second, Katherine felt a slight connection. “Well, you rest. I’ll check on you later.” She turned and left the room, a funny, unexplainable feeling inside her.

Sometimes I hate the girl I was back then. It's like how, when you see a horror movie, you can't help but feel contempt for the virgin who goes for a walk in the woods after midnight. How can she be so stupid? Doesn't she know she's about to get gruesomely hacked to death? She should know. That's why it's so hard to watch. Because you want her to know. You want her to defend herself, and you look down on her for not knowing, even though obviously it's the guy who hacks her up who's at fault.

Eros mumbled something. "I'm sorry?" said Aphrodite. "Whatwouldjesusdo." "What would Jesus do?" said Aphrodite. "Let me tell you something. Jesus was a very good boy. He would do exactly what his mother told him to." "But-" "Jesus was supposed to be a god, right?" said Aphrodite. "Ergo, he did revenge. All gods do revenge." "Not exactly. He said you should turn the other-" "What else does your Jesus say?" Aphrodite interrupted. "I thought you didn't care." "Let me see," said Aphrodite. "I remember. 'Honour thy father and mother'." "One, that wasn't Jesus. And two, it's hard to honour your father when there are so many candidates for who he might be." "That's not very nice," said Aphrodite. "You know who your father is. It's your cousin Ares." [...] "I wish the Virgin Mary was my mother," grumbled Eros eventually.

I’m twenty-four, a first grade teacher, have a Yorkie named Pedro, a goldfish named Fish, have never had sex, or a serious boyfriend, and I’m the town lesbian who pukes when she sees a pussy. Nothing really to be jealous of at all.

[Robert] Jensen calls for an end to our current understanding of masculinity. He says, "We men can settle for being men, or we can strive to be human beings." What's funny is that that statement essentially echoes the same hope I have for women: that we can start to see ourselves, and encourage men to see us, as more than just the sum of our sexual parts: not as virgins or whores, as mothers or girlfriends, or as existing only in relation to men, but as people with independent desires, hopes and abilities.

Don't you have virgin blood to drink or something?' 'Virgin blood?' Castor smiled one of those devastating vampire smiles as he shoved a hand through his hair in very devil-may-care fashion. 'What kind of stories have you been reading about me?' 'I don't read any stories about you,' Lala huffed, but Evangeline swore there was a deeper colour on her cheeks. 'So it's just a coincidence that you're quoting one of them?' 'I know you drink blood,' she said. Castor's gaze turned heated. I'd like to drink your blood, it seemed to say.

Funny, how you get a kiss but lose your virginity. I don't feel like anything's been taken or added at all.

Even Sally wound't want to cross fans with the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. The woman had a tongue of steel and drank the blood of young virgins for breakfast.

No one cares how long you kept yourself virgin and how loyal you are, everyone is looking for a hole to play with.

She said he looked hot in uniform. He said she looked hot without clothes. She said he did, too. He agreed.

A girl or woman that drinks or smokes is very unlikely to still be a virgin.

There are a lot of things animals do that we can't," she says, "like flying and camouflage, and we've adapted, through technology ... It's funny when people say something is natural, or not. Compared with what? Compared with when? It's this vanity of humans to think of themselves as special, as being at the height of evolution. We're not. We're obviously still adapting.

Indeed. Oh, and Fal?” “Yeah?” “Get laid, while you’re up there, won’t you?” “Oh, God.” “Seriously. Your hymen’s going to grow back, it’s been so long. Have a fling. It might lighten you up.” “Goodbye, Rache.” Meg Maguire, The Reluctant Nude

New Rule: Death isn’t always sad. This week, the Reverend Jerry Falwell died, and millions of Americans asked, “Why? Why, God? Why…didn’t you take Pat Robertson with him?” I don’t want to say Jerry was disliked by the gay community, but tonight in New York City, at exactly eight o’clock, Broadway theaters along the Great White Way turned their lights up for two minutes. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I think we can make an exception, because speaking ill of the dead was kind of Jerry Falwell’s hobby. He’s the guy who said AIDS was God’s punishment for homosexuality and that 9/11 was brought on by pagans, abortionists, feminists, gays, and the ACLU—or, as I like to call them, my studio audience. It was surreal watching people on the news praise Falwell, followed by a clip package of what he actually said—things like: "Homosexuals are part of a vile and satanic system that will be utterly annihilated." "If you’re not a born-again Christian, you’re a failure as a human being." "Feminists just need a man in the house." "There is no separation of church and state." And, of course, everyone’s favorite: "The purple Teletubby is gay." Jerry Falwell found out you could launder your hate through the cover of “God’s will”—he didn’t hate gays, God does. All Falwell’s power came from name-dropping God, and gay people should steal that trick. Don’t say you want something because it’s your right as a human being—say you want it because it’s your religion. Gay men have been going at things backward. Forget civil right, and just make gayness a religion. I mean, you’re kneeling anyway. And it’s easy to start a religion. Watch, I’ll do it for you. I had a vision last night. The Blessed Virgin Mary came to me—I don’t know how she got past the guards—and she told me it’s time to take the high ground from the Seventh-day Adventists and give it to the twenty-four-hour party people. And that what happens in the confessional stays in the confessional. Gay men, don’t say you’re life partners. Say you’re a nunnery of two. “We weren’t having sex,officer. I was performing a very private mass.Here in my car. I was letting my rod and my staff comfort him.” One can only hope that as Jerry Falwell now approaches the pearly gates, he is met there by God Himself, wearing a Fire Island muscle shirt and nut-hugger shorts, saying to Jerry in a mighty lisp, “I’m not talking to you.

Jackson stood quietly as Alani came into the house. Unlike the other women, she didn’t wear a swimsuit. Shame. He’d love to see her in one. Everyone had duly celebrated Trace’s engagement, and Alani seemed taken with Priss—but then, who wouldn’t be? Priss was funny, smart, cute and—luckily for Trace—stacked. Unaware of Jackson, Alani stopped to look out the patio doors. She looked . . . wistful. Like maybe she wanted to take part, but couldn’t. In so many ways, despite being kidnapped by flesh peddlers, or maybe because of that, she was still an innocent. At just-barely twenty-three, she acted much older. Like a virgin spinster. Every night, in his dreams, they burned up the sheets. Here, in reality, she avoided him. She avoided involvement. But he’d get her over that. Somehow. Suddenly Priss came in, wet hair sleek down her back, rivulets of water trailing between her breasts. She spotted Jackson right off and, after smiling at Alani, asked them both, “Why aren’t you guys coming down to swim?” Alani jerked around to stare at Jackson with big eyes. His crooked smile told her that he had her in his sights. “I was just about to ask Alani that.” Priss laughed. “You’re still dressed.” “I can undress fast enough.” He looked at Alani. “What about you?” Her lips parted. “No, I . . . didn’t bring a suit.” “Pity. Maybe we could move up to the cove and skinny-dip in private?” Pointing a finger at him, Priss said, “Behave, you reprobate!” And then to Alani, “Beware of that one.” Still watching him, Alani nodded.

He muses on the terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center (he muses on them often). Those clowns actually thought they were going to paradise, where they'd live in a kind of eternal luxury hotel being services by gorgeous young virgins. Pretty funny, and the best part? They joke was on them...not that they knew it. What they got was a momentary view of all those windows and a final flash of light. After that, they and their thousands of victims were just gone. Poof. Seeya later, alligator. Off you go, killers and killed alike, off you go into the universe null set that surrounds one lonely blue planet and all its mindlessly bustling denizens. Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That's all history is, after all: scar tissue.

The nineteenth century is the last time when it was possible for an educated person to admit to believing in miracles like the virgin birth without embarrassment. When pressed, many educated Christians today are too loyal to deny the virgin birth and the resurrection. But it embarrasses them because their rational minds know it is absurd, so they would much rather not be asked. Hence, if somebody like me insists on asking the question, it is I who am accused of being ‘nineteenth-century’. It is really quite funny, when you think about it.

The nineteenth-century connection is now clear. The nineteenth century is the last time when it was possible for an educated person to admit to believing in miracles like the virgin birth without embarrassment. When pressed, many educated Christians today are too loyal to deny the virgin birth and the resurrection. But it embarrasses them because their rational minds know it is absurd, so they would much rather not be asked. Hence, if somebody like me insists on asking the question, it is I who am accused of being ‘nineteenth-century’. It is really quite funny, when you think about it.

Instead the only place I got into was the local community college, where I live in a suite in what's not-so-jokingly referred to as the Virgin Vault, with a practicing witch, a klepto, and a girl whose family's religion doesn't allow her to speak to men outside of their faith. I keep assuring Mom it's cool. Another one of our suite mates came out last semester as a lesbian (to the surprise of none of us but herself), and a fifth is sleeping with a guy who's in an actual motorcycle gang. "See, Mom?" I'd told her. "Way better than Harvard. There's so much more diversity!" Like so much of my jokes, she didn't find that one funny.

His heart cracked, and he fell in love. He wondered if she would marry him. "Tu sei pazzo," she told him with a pleasant laugh. "Why am I crazy?" he asked. "Perchè non posso sposare." "Why can't you get married?" "Because I am not a virgin," she answered. "What has that got to do with it?" "Who will marry me? No one wants a girl who is not a virgin." "I will. I'll marry you." "Ma non posso sposarti." "Why can't you marry me?" "Perchè sei pazzo." "Why am I crazy?" "Perchè vuoi sposarmi." Yossarian wrinkled his forehead with quizzical amusement. "You won't marry me because I'm crazy, and you say I'm crazu because I want to marry you? Is that right?" "Sì." "Tu sei pazz'!

We never compromise when we take up a job. We don’t compromise when we buy new jeans. So why should we compromise on relationships that are supposed to be the most important aspect of our lives? When I go to buy something and it doesn’t fit I don’t say, “at least” the colour is right, or if we have to buy a house, we don’t give a crore and say “at least” it’s in a nice locality even if it is too small. We don’t take anything in our lives we’re not completely satisfied and happy with. So why do we take crap from men? Or for that matter, crappy men? Why are we saying “at least” he is funny, or “at least” he is rich? Why do women compromise on the biggest thing of all? The men!

My first impression of him was that he was free spirited, clever, funny. That proved to be completely inaccurate. We left the party together and walked around for hours, lied to each other about our happy lives, ate pizza at midnight, took the Staten Island Ferry back and forth and watched the sun rise. I gave him my phone number at the dorm. By the time he finally called me, two weeks later, I’d become obsessed with him. He kept me on a long, tight leash for months—expensive meals, the occasional opera or ballet. He took my virginity at a ski lodge in Vermont on Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t a pleasurable experience, but I trusted he knew more about sex than I did, so when he rolled off and said, “That was amazing,” I believed him. He was thirty-three, worked for Fuji Bank at the World Trade Center, wore tailored suits, sent cars to pick me up at my dorm, then the sorority house sophomore year, wined and dined me, and asked for head with no shame in the back of cabs he charged to the company account. I took this as proof of his masculine value. My “sisters” all agreed; he was “suave.” And I was impressed by how much he liked talking about his emotions, something I’d never seen a man do. “My mom’s a pothead now, and that’s why I have this deep sadness.” He took frequent trips to Tokyo for work and to San Francisco to visit his twin sister. I suspected she discouraged him from dating me.

She can’t believe she asked Jane out. Jane. Jane of the effortless smiles and subway dance parties, who is probably a fucking poet or, like, a motorcycle mechanic. She probably went home that night and sat at a bar with her equally hot motorcycle poet friends and talked about how funny it was that this weird girl on her train asked her out, and then went to bed with her even hotter girlfriend and had nice, satisfying, un-clumsy sex with someone who isn’t a depressed twenty-three-year-old virgin. They’ll get up in the morning and make their cool and sexy sex-haver toast and drink their well-adjusted coffee and move on with their lives, and eventually, after enough weeks of August avoiding the Q, Jane will forget all about her.

my cell phone rang. Alyssa. “I’m busy,” I answered. “Then why did you pick up the phone?” “Because the sound of my voice makes you wet.” “Funny.” She laughed. “How’s your morning?” “Typical. My secretary just came onto me for the third time this month.” “She sent you another ‘You and me belong together’ note with chocolates?” “No, she offered to suck my dick.” “What?” She gasped. ”You’re kidding!” “Unfortunately not. After that, she told me she was willing to give me her virginity. Needless to say, I’ll be posting a replacement ad pretty soon. Anyone from your office want to work for a better firm? I’ll double the salary.” “How do you know that my firm isn’t better than yours?” “Because you call and ask me for advice on cases all the time—silly cases at that. If your firm was better, you’d never have to ask.

Virginity is like a balloon. One prick and it's gone. ~ Beverly, in The Secret Virgin

Davis, no!” Emma suddenly shoved him away. Dazed, he looked at her. “What−why?” He shook his head as if clearing it. “Nate.” Emma motioned with her head toward the underside of the wagon. “Nate, what?” Davis asked. “Nate’s up there. He can hear everything we do.” She smoothed her hair back, and straightened her nightgown, like a frightened virginal schoolmarm. “He can’t hear anything. We’re down here, he’s up there, and there’s a wooden floor between us. Now stop being silly and come back here.” He reached for her again. Emma moved backwards, holding the neckline of her nightgown in a bunch. “I can’t. I feel too funny. Please?” Davis groaned and lowered his head into his hands. “Emma, you’re killin’ me here.” He sighed and looked into her face, his expression softening. “Honey, you’re my wife. I won’t force myself on you.” He slanted her a look. “Can I try to change your mind?” She shook her head. He dragged his hand down his face. “All right, I can deal with it.” Pulling her to him, they lay down, Davis on his back, with Emma cuddled in the space between his arm and shoulder. ”But that arrogant soldier better heal himself fast,” Davis said as he got comfortable. “He’s been sticking in my craw since I first set eyes on him in Fort Laramie.

Hey,” he said. She turned around and, as quickly, turned back. There had been tears on her face. He frowned. What was this? Trouble in paradise? “Hey,” he said, walking up behind her, squeezing her upper arm with his left hand. “What’s going on?” he asked her. “Nothing,” she said with a sniff. He turned her around to face him. He looked down at her pretty face and for the hundredth time thought, that damn Preacher. I bet he doesn’t know what he has here. “This isn’t nothing,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I can’t talk about it,” she said. “Sure you can. Seems like maybe you’d better. You’re all upset.” “I’ll work it out.” “Preacher do something to hurt you?” She immediately started to cry and leaned forward, her head falling on his chest. He put his good arm around her and said, “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay.” “It’s not okay,” she cried. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” “Maybe if you talk to me, I can help. I’m so good with free advice, you’ll be impressed.” “It’s just that...I care about him. But he just doesn’t find me...” Mike lifted her chin. “What, Paige?” “He doesn’t find me attractive.” “Bull.” “Desirable.” “Paige, that’s nonsense. The way he looks at you, he eats you with his eyes. He’s wacko for you.” “He won’t touch me,” she said, a large tear spilling over. That almost knocked Mike down. “No way.” She nodded pathetically. “Oh, man,” Mike said. He’d thought, everyone thought, they were doing it all night long. The way they looked at each other, like they couldn’t wait for everyone to leave so they could be alone, get it on. Those sweet little kisses on the cheek, the forehead. The way they touched—careful, so no one would see the sparks fly, but the sparks were flying all over this bar! The sexual tension was electric. “Oh, man,” he said again. He put his arm around her. “Paige, he wants you. Wants you so bad it’s showing all over him.” “Then why?” “I don’t know, honey. Preacher’s strange. He’s never been good with women, you know? When we served together, we all managed to find us a woman somewhere. I killed two marriages that way. But not Preacher. It was very rare for him to—” He stopped himself. He was trying to remember—were there women at all? He wasn’t sure; he knew Preacher never had a steady girl. He thought he remembered a woman here, there. It’s not as though he was focused on Preacher’s love life; he was too busy taking care of his own. He probably lacks sexual confidence, Mike thought. It would be hard for him to put the moves on anyone he felt he had to win over. “I bet he’s scared,” Mike heard himself say. “How can he be? I’ve practically thrown myself at him! He knows he isn’t going to face rejection!” She dropped her gaze, lowered her voice to a whisper. “He has to know how much I—” “Oh, brother,” Mike said. “I bet he’s not worried about rejection. Aw, Paige, Preacher’s so shy, sometimes it’s just plain ridiculous. But I promise you, Paige, I’ve known the man a long time—” “He said he’d trust you with his life. That he has...” “Yeah, we have that, it’s true. It’s funny with men—you can trust each other with your lives and never talk about anything personal, you know? Sometimes Preacher seems a little naive in the ways of the world.

But only seconds seemed to have passed before there was a huge blast that caused her to sit up straight and catch her breath. Then the outhouse door opened sharply, and Ian stood there with a startled look on his face and a big gun in his hand. “How long have you been in here?” he asked. “I have no idea,” she said. “I think maybe d-d-days.” He got a sheepish look on his face. “You about done in here?” he asked. She burst into laughter, which brought another coughing spasm, then laughter again. “Yes, Ian,” she finally said. “I’ve widdled and wiped. Can I please go home now?” “Home? Marcie—that car of yours—” “The cabin, Ian.” She laughed. “Jesus, do you have no sense of humor?” “That wasn’t so funny. I can’t imagine what he was doing around here. I don’t keep food out or small livestock…” “He was hanging around the shed. You think maybe he likes chicken soup?” “I’ve never had a problem like that before. That’s bold, getting out where people can see him, challenge him—” “What the hell was that?” “Puma,” he said. “Mountain lion.” “I knew that was a lion.” She stopped suddenly. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?” “Marcie, he wanted to eat you! Are you worried about his soul or something?” “I just wanted him to go away,” she said. “I didn’t want him to go dead.” “I just scared him off. Listen,” he said, walking her quickly to the cabin, “if it had been down to you or him, could you have shot him?” “No,” she said. “No?” he asked. “Well, I’ve never fired a gun, so I don’t like my chances. If I’d had a big gun like that in my hands I could’ve probably shot you or the cabin or shot the crap out of that outhouse…” She burst into laughter at her pun. “But he was way smaller. You have a frying pan, right? A big iron one, right?” “What for?” “So, in future, I can get to the bathroom with some protection. I was once a very good hitter in softball.” He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Jesus, there’s always the blue pot.” “Yeah, but there are some things a lady will risk her life to keep private.” He smiled. He actually smiled. “Is that so?

Wow,” she said. “That’s sure generous, that you’d do all that for me…” “For us, Marcie. I’ll get a bath after you. And tomorrow I’ll stop at the coin laundry and wash up the dirty clothes. I’ll take any of yours you’d like me to. Just because you haven’t been feeling too good…” She shifted from foot to foot, chewing on her lower lip. “What’s the matter? You don’t want a bath?” “I’d die for a bath,” she said. “It’s just that…I couldn’t help but notice, there doesn’t seem to be a separate room with a door that closes… And I also noticed that doesn’t seem to bother you too much.” The corners of his lips lifted. “I’ll load the truck with tomorrow’s wood while you have your bath,” he finally said. She thought about this for a second. “And I could sit in my car during your bath?” she suggested. “I don’t think so—your car is almost an igloo now. Just a little white mound. Not to mention mountain lions.” “Well, what am I supposed to do?” “Well, you can take a nap, read a little of my book, or close your eyes. Or you could stare—get the thrill of your life.” She put her hands on her hips. “You really wouldn’t care, would you?” “Not really. A bath is a serious business when it’s that much trouble. And it’s pretty quick in winter.” He started to chuckle. “What’s so funny?” she asked, a little irritated. “I was just thinking. It’s cold enough in here, you might not see that much.” Her cheeks went hot, so she pretended not to understand. “But in summer, you can lay in the tub all afternoon?” “In summer, I wash in the creek.” He grinned at her. “Why don’t you comb the snarls out of your hair? You look like a wild banshee.” She stared at him a minute, then said, “Don’t flirt with me. It won’t do you any good.” Then she coughed for him, a long string of deep croaks that reminded them both she had had a good, solid flu. Also, it covered what happened to be amused laughter from him. While

How’s that beer?” Jack asked, dishtowel in hand, eyeing the nearly empty glass. “I’m good,” Ian said. “Just let me know,” he said, turning away. “Ah,” Ian said, getting his attention but not exactly calling him back. Jack turned, lifted an eyebrow. Silent. “She tell you to leave me alone?” A small huff of laughter escaped Jack. “Pal, the first thing you learn when you open a bar—talk if they talk, shut up if they don’t.” Ian tilted his head. Maybe he could stand this place once in a while. “She tried to explain me to the librarian in Eureka as an idiot savant.” Jack smiled and Ian felt an odd sensation—it was a funny story; he liked sharing a funny story. He used to make the guys laugh when he wasn’t making them work. “She tell you she was looking for me?” “She did.” For some reason unclear even to him, Ian did something he hadn’t done since finding himself in these mountains—he pushed on it a little bit. “She tell you anything about me?” “Couple of things.” “Like?” “Like, you and me—we were in Fallujah about the same time.” “Should’ve known. You have that jarhead look about you. Just so you’re clear—I don’t talk about that time.” Jack smiled lazily. “Just so you’re clear, neither do I.” *

At about ten Paige swam through the smoke and tapped Preacher on the shoulder. He folded his hand, having nothing anyway, and said, “Be right back.” “God, it’s weird, seeing Preach act like the little husband,” Stephens said. “Little husband?” “You know what I’m saying. All Paige has to do is lift her pinkie finger and he’s on his knees.” “How are your eyes, man? She can lift that little finger my way and I’d get on my knees,” Joe said. “The little husband might pound you into sand,” Jack said. “I meant if she weren’t married. You old farts are starting to act real whipped.” “That’s because we are,” Jack said. “And it’s good. It’s very, very good.” Preacher came back, lifted his cigar and took a pull. “I’m not hunting tomorrow,” he said. “I’m going to have to stay here.” “Why?” “It’s ovulation day,” he said with a straight face. “It’s what?” three men asked in unison. “It’s frickin’ ovulation day, jag-off. We’re trying to make a baby and if I miss ovulation day, who knows how long I’ll have to wait. I don’t feel like waiting. I’ve been waiting.” His explanation was met with completely nonplussed silence—no one at the table knew about this quest, including Jack. And after a moment of stunned silence, laughter erupted that was so loud and wild, the men were nearly falling off their chairs. When the group got a little under control, Preacher asked, “Is there something funny about ovulation day? Because I don’t think it’s funny.” “Nah, it’s not funny, Preach,” Joe said. “It’s cute, that’s what it is.” “But really, Preach, you should hunt and leave me home—I’d probably make a better-looking baby than you, anyway,” Zeke said. “You’ve made enough frickin’ babies, jag-off,” Preacher said. “Your wife sent you up here to hunt so she can catch a break. Whose deal is it anyway?” While

Yeah, I had a dog growing up, too. Big dog—Spike, no kidding. He was almost a perfect animal. But he let my sisters dress him up. That used to make me sick, I’m telling you. The way he let himself be humiliated like that.” Ian shot him a look and a big grin. He was picturing a German shepherd in a tutu and a disgruntled teenage boy. A laugh shot out of him. “It wasn’t funny,” Jack said. “I bet it was,” Ian said.

Come on, Melinda. You can’t avoid it forever. We both know you’re pregnant.” “Ugh,” she said, accepting the cool, wet cloth. She pressed it to her face, her brow, her neck. She didn’t have any more to say. But Jack knew. There had been tears, exhaustion, nausea. She turned watering eyes up to him. He shrugged and said, “You eased up on the breast-feeding, popped an egg and I nailed it.” Her eyes narrowed as if to say she did not appreciate the explanation. He held out a hand to bring her to her feet. “You have to wean David,” he said. “Your body can’t completely nourish two children. You’ll get weak. You’re already exhausted.” “I don’t want to be pregnant right now,” she said. “I’m barely over being pregnant.” “I understand.” “No, you don’t. Because you haven’t ever been pregnant.” He thought this would probably be a bad time to tell her that he did so understand, since he had lived with a pregnant person and listened very attentively to every complaint. “We should go see John right away, so you can find out how pregnant.” “How long have you suspected?” she asked him. “I don’t know. A few weeks. It was a little tougher this time….” “Oh, yeah?” “Well, yeah. Since you haven’t had a period since the first time I laid a hand on you. God, for a supposedly sterile woman, you certainly are fertile.” Then he grinned, fully aware it would have got him smacked if he hadn’t been holding the baby. She whirled away from him and went to sit on their bed. She put her face in her hands and began to cry. Well, he’d been expecting exactly this. There’d been a lot of crying lately and he knew she was going to be mighty pissed off. He sat down beside her, put an arm around her and pulled her close. David patted her head. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I’m not delivering this one. I want that understood.” “Try not to be cute,” she said through her tears. “I think my back already hurts.” “Can I get you something? Soda? Crackers? Arsenic?” “Very funny.” She turned her head to look at him. “Are you upset?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry it happened so soon. Sorry for you. I know there are times you get damned uncomfortable and I wanted you to get a break.” “I should never have gone away with you.” “Nah. You were already pregnant. Wanna bet?” “You knew before that?” “I wondered why you were so emotional, and that was a possible reason. I never bought your whole sterile thing. But I don’t have a problem with it. I wanted more kids. I like the idea of a larger family than the three of us. I come from a big family.” “There will not be five, I can guarantee you that,” she said. Then she bored a hole through him with her eyes. “Snip, snip.” “You’re not going to blame this on me, Mel. I suggested birth control. A couple of times, as a matter of fact. You were the one said it could never happen twice. And then explained that whole business about not ovulating while you’re nursing. How’s that working for you so far? Hmm?” “Screw you,” she said, not sweetly. “Well, obviously…” “I’d like you to understand I wasn’t relying on that breast-feeding thing. I’m a midwife—I know that’s not foolproof. I really didn’t think it possible that… Shit,” she said. She sighed deeply. “I just barely got back into my jeans….” “Yeah, those jeans. Whoa, damn. Those jeans really do it to me. No one wears a pair of jeans like you do.” “Aren’t you getting a little sick of having a fat wife?” “You’re not fat. You’re perfect. I love your body, pregnant and unpregnant. I know you’re trying to get me all worked up, but I’m not going there. You can try to pick a fight with me all day and I just won’t play. It wouldn’t be a fair fight—you’re out to get me and we both know it. Do you have appointments this morning?” “Why?” “Because I want to go to Grace Valley for an ultrasound. I want to know when I have to have the house done.” *

Hey, Preach,” Mel said. “Where’s Jack?” “Eureka.” “How about Mike?” “It’s not my day to watch him,” he said gruffly, going back to the kitchen. “Jeez,” Mel said. She looked at Paige and met twinkling eyes. “Something funny?” “John appears to be a little tense. Amazing he got through so many years without sex every day.” “Every day?” Mel asked. “Well, holy shit, his count must be down to nothing!” She looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. “How’s he handling the drought?” “He’s a little testy,” Paige said, amused. “I keep telling him this is entirely up to him. If it’s too much, we can make a few adjustments. But he wants to do it right.” “Hope he doesn’t explode,” Mel said absently. “He asked if we can close the bar on ovulation day.” Mel’s eyes widened in surprise and they both melted into laughter. *

Things have been really interesting in your little bar,” Mel said. “A little tense and steamy.” He laughed. “Think someone should take Luke aside and warn him about this place?” “I thought you’d finally learned your lesson,” she teased him. “You’ve been in the business of almost every romantic relationship in this town….” “Yeah, but this one’s different. The second Shelby saw him, it was a target lock on. She wants him. Can you see the struggle on his face? He’s getting lines.” “Yeah, what’s that about?” Mel asked. “She’s adorable. You’d think he’d be thrilled.” “Well, the first night he met her he said he took one look at her and thought he was going to be arrested. He might be having a little trouble with her age.” “Phooey,” Mel said. “There’s quite a nice difference in our ages.” She grabbed his thigh. “I’m catching up with you, however.” “Then there’s the general,” Jack said. “Kind of intimidating…” “Oh, Walt’s a pussycat,” she said. “And I think he likes Luke. They have the army in common.” “Luke’s either going to give in or explode,” Jack said. “How do you know he hasn’t? Given in.” “Have you taken a good look at him? At his posture, his eyes? Believe me, he’d be a lot looser. He hasn’t unloaded in a long time.” “Jack!” she said. “And the funny thing is, Shelby’s downright serene,” Jack said, completely ignoring his wife’s scold. “She’s a very unusual woman.” “What do you mean?” “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror when it’s been a long time for us?” he asked. “It’s all over your face when you need to be taken care of.” He grinned at her. “It is not!” she said, giving him a whack on the arm. But she laughed at him, and secretly knew he was right. She also knew why Shelby didn’t look that way. Shelby, virginal, hadn’t been satisfied by a man yet; she didn’t ache with longing for her lover. “It’s hardly ever been a long time for us,” she pointed out. “Which is how I like it,” he said. “Then take the general,” he said. “Talk about a satisfied man…” “You can’t possibly know that. Walt neither looks nor acts any differently than he ever did,” she insisted. “The general looks like a beautiful woman moved in next door and he’s doing his best to be a good neighbor. He’s got a twinkle in his eye and a very sly grin.” Mel turned toward him and narrowed her eyes. “Do you really think you know what facial expressions correspond exactly to a man’s getting laid?” “I do,” he said with a smile. “In fact, I consider myself something of an expert.” She

Wouldn’t a guy feel funny about his girl getting raped? Like maybe not wanting to… You know… Seems like a guy wouldn’t want to touch her after that.” “Like she was dirty? Come on,” he said, laughing. “Don’t think like that. When something bad happens to the girl you love, you just love her that much harder.” “Really?” “Of course, really.” “She

Sean told her about the question Rosie had posed while they were in the parking lot of the grocery. Franci had to lean against the counter, laughing so hard she was doubled over, yet trying to keep quiet lest Rosie come running soaking wet to the kitchen to see who would dare have fun without her. “Yeah, funny,” Sean said. “What would you have said?” She wiped her eyes. “Well, I have a special book about all that. It’s right about time to look at it together, but I didn’t know how to explain you to Rosie, so I’ve been putting it off. I guess I can go ahead with it now.” “A book? Come on!” “No, really. It talks about all the differences in the mommy’s and daddy’s bodies—it’s very cute. Sweet. Non-threatening.” She smiled at him. “If you’re very good, I’ll read it to you later.” “If you’re very good, I’ll show you how it’s done.” He leered at her. “By the way,” he said. “How was it done in this case? We were always very careful. Do you remember?” “Every detail,” she said, turning away from him to put away dishes. He turned her back. “Could I have a couple of details, please?” She took a breath. “Remember I used to go off the pill for a couple of months a year and your job was to be very good about the condoms? Well, there were a couple of times you got real worked up and just let it slide.” She shrugged. “It was as much my doing as yours. I was also a little worked up.” Silence enveloped them for a moment. He leaned forward and kissed her brow. “We were like that,” he whispered. “I’m not sorry about that. Big accident. Huge reward. She’s awesome.” Franci

I, a half naked German, was about to be discovered by her cruel Viking dad in his own bedroom, having smudged his daughter just hours ago. Full of gratitude I contemplated that I would at least not die a virgin.

I've done this sort of thing before. Not prophecies so much, but you'd be surprised how many people want to realign their ancestral lines to seem nobler, or rewrite their family history to remove more morally questionable episodes." He paused to recall a recent rewrite. "One lord wanted the murderers removed from his family line. His family was so corrupt, he ended up with three virgin births, two generations removed entirely and a lady who gave birth at the age of two. Still, no one questions it as there is evidence in the archives." Bubo smugly tapped a book. "There is one thing though, faking a prophecy in the past is easy, you already know the result. How will you make this come true in the future?" "I have someone in mind for it, but I'm not sure he'll go for it. But then prophecy is all optional anyway." Corvid looked up as if a thought had occurred to him. "I'd best go check on my man, I've not met him yet.

God above,” he said in a reverent whisper. “Is this how you looked at me when you were saving my life? When you got me out of my clothes and warmed me?” He shook his head, a naughty smile on his lips. “There was no funny business. This time, there’s definitely going to be funny business.” “Good,

The hot bad boy showing interest in the—let’s face it—inexperienced, sheltered virgin. We’re a cliché, and drunk me finds it funny, but I suspect sober me would be embarrassed as hell.

He muses on the terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center (he muses on them often). Those clowns actually thought they were going to paradise, where they’d live in a kind of eternal luxury hotel being serviced by gorgeous young virgins. Pretty funny, and the best part? The joke was on them… not that they knew it. What they got was a momentary view of all those windows and a final flash of light. After that, they and their thousands of victims were just gone. Poof. Seeya later, alligator. Off you go, killers and killed alike, off you go into the universal null set that surrounds one lonely blue planet and all its mindlessly bustling denizens. Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That’s all history is, after all: scar tissue.

Funny thing, losing your virginity; it sounded like she’d misplaced it somewhere, like she lost it at the mall, or dropped it on the street.

She took a step toward him. “You? Mr. Sexy Ass Bad Boy Extraordinaire. A virgin. And you expect me to believe that?

I lost my virginity when I was fifteen, although lost is a funny word for it. I didn’t misplace it like a homework assignment or a cell phone. It wasn’t like I could find it again and tuck it back in there.

I'd had kisses. Rushed, wet, tasting of beer, right out in the open. I'd messed around with a funny sophomore in my anthropology seminar and a shy journalism grad student, and while these nights were satisfying in their way, the pleasure didn't last past 2:00 am. I missed patience, the sweet, smoky taste of scotch. And the gut thrum of the forbidden. Instead of obscuring my memory of him, the hours I spent with boys at school slid to the edges and collected around it, like a frame.