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Maybe he just wanted to know where both of my hands were. Leah was in bed but not asleep when I went home. Some nights she slept naked; tonight she was wearing something as sheer and weightless as ectoplasm. I saw the line of her shoulder silhouetted in filmy silver-white, somehow more erotic than the curve of her hip or breast.

I sat on the edge of the bed. It was our custom for me to tell her a tale before we fell asleep at night: sometimes just a shred of hotel gossip or a memory from childhood, sometimes a dream, one of the plans I only told her and Cleve, one of my schemes to get away from the kitchen and into a grander, larger, more leisurely world. These were made of the finest ego-spun gossamer and collapsed in the telling; nonetheless it was pleasurable to tell her, like placing a drop of my heartblood on her lips.

I could kiss her anywhere, manipulate her knees and elbows and the strong curve of her back, pretend she was a department-store mannequin I was posing for some pornographic window display.

She would press her face into a pillow and whimper, enjoying the power of pretended helplessness. I could dine on her tangy juices all night if I wished, I could stay inside her as long as I pleased, come when I wanted to.

Ethereal Desire

Only when I asked her what she wanted would Leah get angry. She had to be the little girl; she had to have someone take control.

Not on the morning of her operation. I woke in the still, stuffy light of predawn, unsure what had caused me to surface.

I thought I had heard a distant sound, something separate from the intermittent cacophony of voices and sirens that punctuated the night. A train whistle miles away, or a telephone ringing in a far-off room.

Then, before I even knew Leah was awake, she sat up and in one liquid movement was straddling me. I had not felt her body close to mine in so long that it startled me into immobility. She tensed above me. In the waxing light I saw surprise on her face, and faint annoyance. She began to grind against me. In the unfamiliar position I could not think how to respond.

Leah hardly ever got on top—maybe five or six times in the three years we had been together. She had told me that one of the things she liked best about Cleve was his bigness.

His hands could enfold hers as if her hands were baby birds.

Her bones felt more delicate when she pressed them against the solid bulk of him. My overactive imagination served me up plenty of Leah-and-Cleve snapshots, plenty of inevitable intimate moments, generous helpings of feverish speculation.

I was helpless to push these out of my mind once they held sway, but that was not the worst thing about them. The worst thing about them was that occasionally—usually when I was feeling low and tired and ugly—these thoughts would give me a moment of masochistic excitement. I thought of him kneeling above her, his back covering hers, his big hands cupping the tender weight of her breasts.

I knew Cleve preferred to fuck doggy-style. He was a confirmed butt man, loved to ride between those sweet snowy globes. I thought of him just barely entering her, the petals of her opening for him, slicking him with her juice.

Cleve had a thick penis, heavily veined and solid-looking; he told me the only time a girl had blatantly propositioned him was once when he had been modeling for an art class. Imagining it going into Leah, searching out the fruit of her heaven, I began to get hard too. She grabbed me and then suddenly I was deep inside her. One thrust upward and I felt I was pushing at the heart of her womb.

She came the way women do when they only need one good deep touch: quick and hard, with an animal groan instead of the little feathery noises she often made. I thought of the lump of meat that grew inside her, thought of bathing it with my sperm, melting away its rudimentary flesh, melting away the past few months and their caustic veneer of pain.

Then I did come. The months of pain did not melt away. The lump of meat remained—it would have to be scraped away, not drowned in the seed of sorrow. As she was pulling away from me, the telephone did ring.

Leah hunched over the receiver. Her breasts hung ripe as eggs when she leaned over. She scratched something on the cover of the magazine. I rolled my head sideways on the pillow and looked. An address in the disused industrial district of the city. The weak light was growing brighter behind the dirty curtains. Leah got out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. I was still lying there when she came out thirty minutes later. She did not look at me.

She pulled fishnet stockings the color of smoke up over her long smooth thighs, fastened a wisp of a garter belt around her waist, zipped up a sleeveless, black-lace shift. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and cried. I held her hand and touched her face with all the tenderness I could summon. Her mascara did not run—some new waterproof kind, I supposed. Her lipstick was perfect. I tried to comfort her, and all I could see in my mind was Leah lying back on a stainless steel operating table, some black-rubber vacuum-tube apparatus snaking up into her.

Her labia were stretched wide as a screaming mouth and she was wearing nothing but the lacy garter belt and the fishnet stockings. It was an image Cleve would have appreciated.

But you know what you have? Only that damned little-boy sweetness.

Only my arguments with Leah could convince me that Cleve had ever meant me any harm, and only then could I say cruel things about him. Walking through the abandoned factory district made me tense—the landscape was falling to waste, long stretches of broken glass gleaming dully here and there like quicksilver sketched onto a monochromatic gray photograph. The silence in the empty, shabby streets seemed deafening.

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The buildings here loomed low and oppressive, blotting out the sun. Years ago this place had been a toxic hell of factories and mills. We passed smokestacks blackened halfway down their towering stalks with soot and char. We passed burned-out lots that made me think of cremation grounds.

The smell of death was here too—the odor of burning crude oil is somehow as humanly filthy as the odor of corrupted flesh. Out there you could live your whole life shuttling between a superhighway, an exit sign, a gleaming building made of immaculate silver glass, a house and a yard and a wide-screen TV and the superhighway again.

Some of them went on for blocks and blocks, and I could not help but imagine what it would be like to walk through them—endless mazes of broken glass and spiderweb and soft sifting ash, with the corners laved in shadow, with the pipes and beams zigzagging crazily overhead.

I thought of a poem I had written once for some long-ago college class, in some idealistic day when the city was far away and I only cooked the food I wanted to eat. Hold me, Jonny. Her lips were lush, her tongue was moist and searching, and again I was reminded of loving her.

Desire Magazine Issue 37 December 2011

Not the sterile and functional fuck this morning, but the real love we had once shared: the soft friction of skin, the good long thrusts, the liquid sounds of pleasure. But these memories were receding rapidly. Soon they would be just a point of brightness on a dark horizon, and I knew now that they could never return.

As I kissed Leah I became conscious of the rough bricks at my back, of the vast empty space behind me. I grasped her shoulders and gently pushed her away. What are we looking for—Payne Street? We kept walking.

Now it seemed we were alone. The streets grew ever shabbier and emptier; a few of them had signs whose letters were half-obliterated, spelling out cryptic messages, pointing to nowhere.

None of them looked like they might have ever said Payne Street. At one corner, a long spray of dirt lay across the sidewalk. Leah could not quite step all the way over it, and when we were past I saw a dark crumb stuck to the heel of her shoe. The delicate tired lines around her mouth and eyes seemed etched in dust. I began to feel that the landscape was encroaching upon her; she would leave here forever marked.

If it could erase the mark of Cleve from her, or rather the mark of her love for Cleve, then I would bless this blasted landscape.

Maybe then I could love her again. I thought I wanted to. Soon, it was obvious that we were getting to the fringes of the industrial section. The buildings here were more cramped and ramshackle.

If anything walked here, it would be the wraith of a drudge worked to death in the sweatshops, dead of blood poisoning from a needle run through her finger. Or perhaps a tattered ghost, a hungry soul mangled by machinery from a time that knew no safety regulations.

The sidewalk was fissured with deep cracks and broken into shards, as if someone had gone at it with a sledgehammer. I saw weeds sprouting at the edges of the vacant lots, leaves barely tinged with green, as furtive and sunless as mushrooms.

Leah disliked getting around the city, and when she had to find a place by herself, she got panicky and sometimes mean. It was supposed to be three blocks down past the cotton factory. Appointments with a private doctor who would perform this particular operation were difficult to get, so difficult that if Leah missed this chance, she might be too far along by the time she could get another. Like the middle-class home, it was a space that reflected and re-enforced accepted sociaUy-constracted definitions of womanhood, female sexuality, and femininity.

Hers is not the first study to recognize the role of the popular press as a powerful tool for constructing gender, and it seems an obvious point after twenty years of feminist scholarship and Foucaultian Uterary criticism.

And yet, despite the hegemonic importance of die nineteentii-century women's magazine, until recently, very few studies specifically analyzed die development and ideological importance ofpopular domestic magazines for women.


Thus, Beetham's work addresses a surprisingly neglected topic, offering an important contribution to the history of British women, journalism, advertising and die growtii of the popular press. This study is particularly valuable because it spans the entire nineteenth-century, enabling a better understanding of how the woman's press developed over time, and how it both reflected and reacted to changing definitions of Victorian femininity.

Beetham's historical narrative and thematic discussions of class, education and employment are enlivened by the case studies of several successful Victorian women's magazines, including the Beetons' pioneering Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine and Annie Swann's intimate Woman at Home. By situating the case studies witiiin their historical context she successfully explores a number ofrelated tiiemes, including die rise of Protestant evangelicalism, die spread of female education and literacy, the expansion of the popular press and die professionaUzation ofjournalism, the development of die feminine fashion industry, and die growth of the business of advertising.

In both theory and method, Beetiiam acknowledges her debt to the academic disciplines ofcultural studies and women's studies, particularly Barthes' definition of cultural texts. It always happened.

During the war, all of the Muslims in the region were either killed or expelled. Their homes were deliberately targeted and destroyed in order to prevent their return. Some of the most brutal atrocities of the conflict took place at a number of concentration camps in Prijedor municipality - notably in Prijedor proper, Omarska, and Sanski Most.

In one notorious incident, over residents of Partisan Street were executed in a single night, and over homes destroyed. Although Prijedor is now in Republika Srpska -- the majority-Serb entity within Bosnia-Herzegovina -- Muslim former residents have been returning in recent years.

Although all the mosques were destroyed during the conflict, several new mosques have been built or are nearing completion. According to locals, most of the Muslims have returned to the area. However, there is still conflict between the Muslims and the Serbs. Children do not get along or play together and when the different groups are in the same bar, a fight usually ensues.

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The famous Mostar Bridge, uniting the Muslim east bank and Croatian west bank, was destroyed in but was rebuilt in and now serves as a symbol of Balkan reconstruction.

I arrived late in Mostar at a hotel right beside the infamous bridge. For Friday night it was peculiarly silent. Although most European cities seem to flourish with a vibrant nightlife, Mostar was still and silent. Only the sounds of a few distant groups at the private cafes, a garbage truck, and the flowing water could be heard. I was the only person in the streets. In the morning, the town centre flourished with life, hardly resembling the desolate city of the night previous.

All of the shops were open and accommodating tourists with all sorts of Bosnia and Mostar souvenirs. Tourists were on the Mostar Bridge taking photographs. There were even two young men in swimsuits charging to get their photo taken diving off the historic bridge.In that moment Cleve might never have touched her, never have tasted her. Sexual activity is more acceptable for US boys than for H3a: A greater gender difference for sexual desire i.

Good for enjoying now or keeping another 5 or 10 years. What attracted me most to Spain was the history of its owners. The carbon fibre G60 is built by the same impassioned team who build our world beating race cars, indeed it shares the same 3.

He decided to spend the day playing with his damned pictures. Distance and direction of a golf shot are determined at the point of impact. Her breasts hung ripe as eggs when she leaned over.