#thurber prize
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Congratulations to this year’s winner Steven Rowley for his comedic novel Guncle!
From the bestselling author of Lily and the Octopus and The Editor comes a warm and deeply funny novel about a once-famous sitcom star whose unexpected family tragedy leaves him with his niece and nephew.
Patrick O’Hara has always loved his niece, Maisie, and nephew, Grant — from a safe distance. His Palm Springs home and reclusive lifestyle aren’t exactly welcoming to children. But when tragedy strikes, Patrick finds himself suddenly taking on the role of primary guardian. He regrets his decision to take them in, until he starts to recognize that his outsize lifestyle and unusual life wisdom could bring about a season of healing that redefines their understanding of family, and finally lead Patrick back to himself.
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Thurber's Model — PT. 1 || William Thurber × F!Reader
Word Count: 8.2K
Genre: Romance, Secrecy, Sneaking Around, Off-Limits Reader, Overwhelming Attraction
Warning: Explicit. 18+ Only. unprotected p+v sex, accidental creampie, losing innocence.
Parings: William Thurber x F!Reader
Summary: William runs off to find some solitude to relieve some of the pressured of becoming the winner of this year's student art prize. In his search for the perfect place, he finds you along the way, reading your favorite play by Shakespeare.
A/N: This is for the precious @classicrebound and for our thirsty asses ♡
“Mama says you won the award for the second time this year.” He looked down at the woman on his arm. The new expression on her face was calculating. Bloody hell.
“Who was your inspiration?” she repeated more firmly this time.
“My passion is the one thing that keeps me going,” he said carefully, not caring one bit for the new gleam of interest in her eyes. He didn’t expect many people to attend the museum, compared to last year’s celebration. This one was more grand, possibly because the exhibits are displayed under Dr. Reid’s museum of Arts.
“Hmmm.” She looked over his clothes as if she were taking inventory.
He wore the latest fashion. He didn’t buy clothes often, but when he did, he went for quality. She seemed happy with what she saw if the little nod of approval was any indication.
He desperately wanted to change the subject before she inquired about his other holdings. “So, what play did you attend?”
Her face twisted up in disgust. “It was one of Shakespeare’s I’m afraid. I find them all a dreadful bore, but this one was most appalling. Mother insisted that we leave at intermission and I wholeheartedly agreed.”
He stopped short. He rather enjoyed the Bard’s plays. He couldn’t think of anything in Shakespeare’s plays that would be appalling. His works are literal works of art, “What was wrong with the play?”
“A woman was dressed in men’s clothing! It was obscene!”
“Was the woman pretending to be her brother?” William asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes! It was dreadful.”
“Was the play ‘As you like it’?”
“Yes.” It was one of his favourite plays. That answered that.
“Rebecca, allow me to return you at once to your mother. I find that I need some fresh air.” Her grip on his arm suddenly tightened.
“Fresh air sounds lovely.” She licked her lips, invitingly. Christ almighty, the girl wanted to trap him. William practically dragged her back to her mother and without another word he made his way outside.
He stayed away from the garden and woodland. Those spots were reserved for couples who dared to have an affair in the freezing weather. Just a hundred yards from the main building was the orangery, which was bathed in the warm light of multiple lanterns. On a night like this, it was the ideal place to spend some time away from everything. He seriously doubted any attractive woman would go out in this weather for a tryst. The orangery was the safest place for him, and the fires that were kept going to keep the orange trees from withering would make the interior delightfully toasty.
With the cold wind blowing in his face, he rushed the final twenty yards to the safety of the orangery, where he almost sighed with relief. With the fire crackling and oranges ripening in the background, he felt he could easily pass the next four hours here. Upon taking a closer look at the orange trees, he sighed in dismay at the realisation that this orangery had been erected relatively recently. The orange trees weren't very big, and their fruit was still unripe.
It was unfortunate that he hadn't brought anything to do while waiting, like a book or snacks. Not even an hour after eating, he was starving. It was nothing new. His hunger never subsided. Despite the fact that no one in his family ever completely understood it, at least they'd stopped making fun of him for it long ago. Nothing about spending four hours in the orangery with nothing to do or eat sounded enjoyable to him, but then, neither did going to an awards night, hearing the same compliments over and over again.
A number of oil lamps gave him sufficient light to see by. Because of the overwhelming brightness, couples often avoided coming here. There was no place for them to take cover if they were discovered. A soft noise caught his attention. He cautiously made his way through a grove of orange trees, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw what lay beyond. A woman with gorgeous brown hair that sparkled like the finest silk in the lantern light sat on a cushioned bench, reading a tiny book and laughing gently to herself.
Your laughter was like a balm to his soul, instantly relieving his anxieties even as his heart skipped a beat. As you flipped the page of your book, he didn't see that he'd inched closer to her until you let out a tiny sigh. He had no business intruding. This woman obviously came here to be alone. At last, he backed away from the situation reluctantly. He was so anxious to get out of there without being seen that he accidentally knocked over a bucket, which shattered the tranquillity of the orangery.
“Who’s there?” you demanded as you placed your book down on the bench beside you and stood.
William felt his stomach turn and his breath caught in his throat at the first real view of your face. You were excruciatingly beautiful with brown eyes. You were, without a doubt, the most stunning lady he'd ever seen, and he desperately desired you. He gave his head a slight shake. He didn’t even know this woman. What in the hell was wrong with him?
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
“I can see you, so you might as well come out,” You said, placing your small book on the cushion beside you.
A tall, dark-eyed man with a dashing smile walked forwards, and you studied him with interest. His short, black hair was fashioned in a different way than other men, but it suited him. Just like you, he had a nice tan. Your mother always seemed to find something to moan about, and your skin tone was one of them, but you were too busy enjoying the great outdoors to mind. You wanted the sun's warmth so badly that you ignored the fact that it was changing your skin tone.
“I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll leave,” he said in a deep voice that you found soothing as he bowed slightly before taking a step back to do just that.
“No, please. Do not feel forced to leave. If you just wanted some peace and quiet, I couldn't be so callous as to send you back out into the cold. This orangery, I think, is big enough for the two of us to retreat to in peace,” you said with a smile, hating the idea of turning anyone out into the cold and forcing him to return back to an exhibit that you hadn’t been able to escape fast enough.
“How do you know that I was searching for solitude? Perhaps I was meeting a lover?” he said, regretting it before the last word left his lips.
What the hell was wrong with me? She would probably slap me or faint dead away at my lack of propriety. I truly was an idiot. William thought to himself.
You laughed instead, you actually laughed. It was gentle, mesmerising, and real. Compared to the phoney, tittering laughter of ladies like Rebecca, this was a breath of fresh air. Women like her made up their entire identities so that they would be accepted by the tonne and have a chance at finding a spouse who, like most men, wanted nothing more than a warm body to deliver an heir and didn't want the hassle of a woman with a brain.
“What’s so amusing, Miss? Are you implying that I wouldn't be able to persuade a woman to have a tryst with me?” he drawled, wondering if you knew just how charming your laugh was.
A sigh escaped your lips as you stopped laughing, but at least your smile remained. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sure a man as handsome as you would have no difficulties finding a woman to share your time.”
William was unable to suppress the idiotic grin that twisted up his lips. Naturally, he'd heard the word "handsome" thrown around to describe him before, but for reasons he couldn't explain, he took great pride in your use of it to describe him. “Then what brought you to the conclusion that I was looking for privacy?”
You shrugged as you sat back down, leaning to the side so that you could focus your attention on him. “Well, there’s the fact that this particular orangery is far beyond the appropriate distance from the Museum. No man is going to come out here with a woman unless he’s looking to be trapped.” He couldn’t help but nod in agreement.
“Another factor is the climate. The weather is rather chilly. It's likely that a lady would gripe about having to walk that far to reach the orangery. It's also possible that she'd flat-out reject the idea because she's aware it's too chilly to go outdoors and that she'd be spotted if she tried to recover her shawl.”
Once again William nodded in agreement.
“Then of course there is the obvious.”
“Which is?” he asked, moving closer.
“A gentleman would not meet a woman here. He would escort her here so she wouldn't have time to reconsider or accept an offer from another man. Also, it would take too much time away from the party for both participants. There would be the time spent waiting for the other person to come, the time spent in the meeting itself, and the time spent afterwards by whoever stayed behind so that it didn't look like the two of you had left together."
He couldn’t help grinning. The woman wasn't just beautiful; she was intelligent, too. He cast his eyes around the expansive space as an idea formed in his mind. “Hmm, you’ve given this some thought. Are you perhaps meeting someone here? Or did he already leave?” he asked, making sure to add a teasing note to his tone.
Your smile weakened a bit as you shook your head. “No, there have never been any meetings for me and there probably never will be,” you admitted with a small shrug and a wistful tone that he almost missed.
“Why not?”
“I don’t plan on marrying,” you explained with a small smile.
“Why don’t you wish to marry?” he asked, forcing himself to sound casual. He wasn’t offering. Oh, hell no. It was unlikely he would ever get married unless he really needed an heir to carry on the family name. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life with someone who was constantly in his way and needed him to make her happy.
You looked thoughtful for a moment before you spoke. “I don’t want to be any man’s property."
“I thought that’s why these things,” he gestured back towards the party, “were thrown so that young women could find themselves a husband. So, they could select an appropriate husband, someone to take care of them.”
You shrugged indifferently. “Yes, I dare say that many of the women are here for that reason and would find me utterly foolish, because I don’t wish to find a husband at one of these events.”
“Then why did you come?” He took another step closer.
“Probably for the same reason that you did.”
“Which is?” he prompted. He didn’t want you to stop talking for fear that one of them would have to leave. He wanted to make this last, but more importantly, he wanted to see your smile and hear your laugh one more time before he had to do the right thing and walk away.
“Well,” you looked thoughtful, “in your case I would assume that either your mother or your father persuaded you to attend and critique this exhibition. If I had to guess, I would say that your mother was the one that expected your attendance.”
“Oh?”
You nodded firmly. “Your mother, definitely your mother. If it was your father you would have simply made an appearance, danced with a few women to make him think that you were looking for a wife and be done with it.”
He agreed. “If it was my mother? What reason would I have to attend then?”
“Most mothers wish for their sons to marry for a simple reason, grandchildren. You came here even though you clearly don’t want to be here. You came to make your mother happy, because she requested your attendance and you obviously care a great deal for your mother. Instead of simply leaving, you searched for a place to hide.”
He arched an eyebrow at that. “Or it could be that I came here because I'm the one getting critiqued and can't leave until I hear every single opinion people have to say.” he drawled.
Your eyes slowly moved down his body in an assessing manner, but not in the same way that Rebecca had looked him over. Your gaze didn’t annoy him. Your gaze made him stand straighter as every muscle in his body flexed under your scrutiny, making him feel like an idiot even as he wondered if you liked what you saw.
“You’re obviously a man with means. You could have hired a hack and left. There’s always the card room for escape or you could have simply left with a friend.”
“Or walked,” he added.
You smiled. “I much prefer walks myself. Yes, you could have walked provided that your home was close enough.”
“Two miles.”
“That’s not too far away.”
“No, it’s not.” He rather enjoyed walks. He found himself taking walks every evening. Every night, he went for a walk. He discovered that he still loved strolling even in the bustling city of London when he visited. The obnoxious aromas and bustling crowds of the city did not seem to deter him.
He eyed you carefully. You had a delicate honey tone to your skin. You did not appear too slim or too fit. Your breasts were good size, not too big, but perfect for his hands, and from what he recalled from when you stood, your hips were generous. He was willing to bet your legs were well defined, probably from hours of walking.
“So, you’re here because your parents want you to marry,” he surmised from what little he knew about you and what he knew about women of your station in general.
You gave him a dreamy smile that made his chest tighten. “When I was a little girl I wanted nothing more than to have a season. It all seemed so magical, balls, dancing, and being courted by handsome men,” you added the last with a teasing tone. He grinned.
“Sounds like every girl’s dream to find Prince Charming. What happened to change that dream?” he asked, coming closer. He was now standing only a few feet away from you. His original thought that you were beautiful shattered. You were nothing less than a goddess.
You sighed heavily. “Nicholas.”
He felt a tug of unease. Was it jealousy?
“So, you’re in love with this Nicholas?” Please God, no. You laughed.
“No. He’s my brother-in-law. My sister married for love. She didn’t care about a title or money. He made her happy, still does. They are the happiest couple that I know and their boys are extraordinary.”
“And you want that for yourself,” he surmised.
“It will most likely never happen for me,” you said with a careless shrug that tore at his heart and left him wondering why he cared so much.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
You certainly weren't going to reveal your privileged background to a complete stranger. It could be dangerous if he turned out to be after your money. He only needs to raise the alert for you to be compromised and obliged to take his hand. You couldn't make it through life in a loveless marriage.
“So, if you wish to marry for love, why don’t you enjoy evenings like this more?”
You waved your hand lazily in the air. “This? This is all orchestrated. People come here looking for the right connection, the right amount of money, and the best gossip. No one comes here looking for love. I knew before I came out that I would never find love at a party. It would just happen…..somehow, somewhere.”
He took another step forward. “But you came anyway.”
You looked wistful. “Until the day I marry, I belong to my father and then to my husband. I am considered nothing more than property. If I wish to have certain rights or benefits I must make the man in my life happy first. Then if he is generous I might be allowed to follow my own pursuits.”
Of course that would all change with your inheritance. Without a word, he moved to sit next to you on the padded bench. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Sounds unfair, but I don’t understand what type of pursuits a woman could have that a man would not allow. Surely your father would encourage you to embroider, watercolour, and play the piano.”
“I’m afraid that you would find me quite unusual then.”
“Try me.” He tilted his head to the side to watch you as you blew out a deep breath.
“If I don’t smile, look pretty, attend the right function, accept the attention of the right gentlemen, my father will rule my life with an iron fist. Embroidery is not a hobby of mine. It seems like a better use of my sewing skills to make something warm for people rather than something just for looks, thus I prefer to make quilts. And yet, despite being forbidden to, I find pleasure in the kitchen. Society dictates that no woman should ever enjoy that. We’re meant to like ordering other people to do that for us.” you said with a conspiratorial smile that he found utterly adorable.
“But not you,” he murmured, smiling. “I bet you make delicious biscuits,” he teased.
You grinned devilishly. “My brother-in-law and nephews swear by them.”
He took another look at your slender figure. “You don’t look like someone that enjoys cooking.”
You rolled your eyes in a rather fetching manner. “I like to cook, not to eat.”
“My apologies.” He couldn’t stop smiling near you. William was sure that he looked foolish, but at the moment he truly didn’t care.
“So, tell me what other scandalous pursuits do you enjoy? Smuggling? Piracy?” he teased.
You laughed. “No, I’m not quite that shameful. I enjoy reading, attending the theatre, taking walks, gardening, shooting, and swimming."
His eyes widened in surprise at that.
“I enjoy things that my father believes are best suited for men,” you explained with an impish smile.
“I see.” He nodded, surprised by your list of pursuits. For most women, the idea of another woman enjoying such things would be completely revolting. In all honesty, he knew that most men would feel the same way. It had always baffled him because all of those things were worthwhile.
“I’m sure that you do,” you mumbled. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone that. My father would be furious if he found out that I told you. Not that it matters anymore I suppose.”
“Why doesn’t it matter anymore?” he asked in a soft tone.
“It just doesn't," you said with a shrug.
He was willing to leave it alone for the moment, but he desperately needed you to continue talking. “Have you enjoyed being out in society?”
You nodded. “I’ve enjoyed spending more time with my siblings. It’s been nice being seen as a friend and not just a little sister. They mean the world to me. I’ve enjoyed the theatre, some of the dinners, and even being courted.” you could have sworn he frowned, but it was gone before you could be sure. “All the men that have courted me have turned into dear friends.”
“But you still don’t like being out in society,” he hedged.
You turned your head and met his gaze. Your faces were less than a foot apart. William fought the urge to lower his gaze to your lips.
“Do you?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t like the deceptions. I hate gossip. I don’t like being pursued for my position or money. I hate having women trying to trap me into marriage. I despise the game that I’m expected to play. I don’t want a simpering woman to bow to my every whim. It’s ridiculous.”
You nodded in agreement as you looked away. “Yes, it is.”
After a few moments of surprisingly comfortable silence he spoke. “May I ask why you’re here playing along if you don’t want to marry?”
When you looked back at him his eyes dropped to your lips, your full, deliciously pink lips. He raised his gaze back quickly before he did something that he would regret.
“A bargain, I suppose,” you said simply.
“A bargain? Are they trying to force you into marriage? Is your family in need of money?” Another thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach twist in dread. “You weren’t caught…er…”
Please don’t let her be carrying another man’s child.
You lightly swatted his shoulder and laughed. “No! Goodness no. The men my parents are pushing my way are tiresome men like Johann Smithfield.”
William nearly choked on air.
Your smile disappeared, instantly replaced with a worried frown. “Oh no, he’s a friend of yours and I’ve just insulted him,” you said, sounding truly upset.
He threw his head back and laughed. “Smithfield, a friend? No! The man shows off every minute of the day. I couldn’t imagine a fate worse than spending an hour in that man’s company.”
“Thanks. Your words have been really comforting,” you said dryly, earning another chuckle from him. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d felt so relaxed in another person’s company. He normally kept his guard up, refusing to allow anyone to get the better of him.
You sighed heavily. “I’m afraid my parents aren’t happy with my state of life. I’m twenty-three and while they feel that I should be married by now, I don’t. I’ve turned down every suitor who’s asked for my hand. They’re afraid they’ll end up with another spinster on their hands.” They also didn’t want your inheritance left in your control, but there was no need to tell him that.
“How many men have asked for you?” he asked. He knew that it wasn’t proper to ask, but he somehow knew that you wouldn’t mind. You didn’t seem the type. You seemed honest and forthright. It was a welcome change.
Your face scrunched up delightfully. “Fifty-five.”
“Fifty-five men have asked for your hand and you’re only twenty-three? Good lord!”
You shrugged indifferently. “I’m easy to get along with.”
He liked that. He appreciated that you didn't mention your stunning good looks or the possibility of a dowry (even though he knew that at least some of the suitors were interested in either). You would be a highly sought after prize if you had a substantial dowry to go along with your stunning good looks.
“I believe it.”
Your hand found his. You gave it a small squeeze before releasing it. “I’m sorry. You came out here looking for some solitude.” you flicked your hand casually in the air. “I’ll leave you.” you reached down at your other side and picked up a small book with a well-worn leather cover.
“What are you reading?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation flowing, he didn't want you to leave. It hadn’t escaped his notice that you’d brought a book to an event “You sneak off a lot, don’t you?”
You gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid that I do have a tendency of making myself scarce.”
He noticed the invite card on your wrist. It was full, which didn't surprise him.
“And the book?”
You held it up and shrugged. “It’s one of my favourite plays. It helps me relax. I had a feeling that I would need it tonight by the way that my mother was behaving.”
He couldn’t quite make out the words from the worn cover. “Which play?”
Your whole face lit up. You obviously took great joy from your book. “'As You Like It’ by Shakespeare. It’s my absolute favourite,” you said dreamily.
William groaned. “I’m going to have to kiss you now.”
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
You didn’t have a chance to respond before his lips were touching yours. You were taken aback by the tender touch as he gently caressed your lips with his own, which prevented you from forming any words. Your hands went straight to his chest without any conscious thought. You were prepared to shove him away so that you could leave before someone found you and then were forced into a marriage that you didn’t want when something occurred to you.
What if this was your one and only opportunity to find out what it was like to be with a man, especially one who you really desired? You didn't want to go through life full of things you wished you'd done differently. You didn't want to look back on your life and wonder what you'd be missing out on if you hadn't tied the knot since you knew that's what your future held. You made the decision right at that moment that if you were destined to spend the rest of your life as a bachelorette, then you were going to savour this moment with...whatever his name was and give in to the overpowering attraction that you felt for him. After a moment, you allowed yourself to relax and to enjoy his kisses and the sensations that were teasing and tormenting your body as you lost yourself to his touch.
He brushed his lips over yours once, twice and once again. Your mouth was soft and sweet, but it wasn’t enough. He ran the tip of his tongue over your bottom lip. You gasped in surprise, opening your mouth ever so slightly, but it was enough for him. He tilted his head to the side and deepened the kiss.
You didn’t know what to think when his lips moved against yours except that somehow for some reason it felt right, perfect. His kisses weren’t frantic or sloppy. They were sweet. When he teasingly slid his tongue inside your mouth you were too stunned at first to react to the invasion. Then slowly you began to melt in his arms. Your hands slid up his chest, enjoying the feel of hard muscle beneath his coat until they found his shoulders.
He groaned as he pulled you against him, enjoying himself until his damn conscience nagged at him. As wonderful as it felt to kiss you, he knew by the unpracticed strokes of your tongue and lips that you were innocent. He pulled back and looked into your eyes, praying that you wouldn’t end this. This had to be your choice, because he sure as hell wasn’t about to stop this if he had a choice in the matter.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You watched each other, panting slightly as you waited for the other to put a halt to this insanity. Slowly, he moved in, giving you a chance to stop this even as he prayed that you wouldn't. When his mouth touched yours again it was anything but timid. This kiss was hot, wild, and possessive. Words were beyond them. William pulled you closer until your breasts were pressed more firmly against his chest.
You ran your fingers through his hair, enjoying the soft feel of it. He moved his mouth away from yours, nibbling on your ear and neck. He slipped his fingers beneath the top of your gown and slowly pulled down the material, taking your shift down as well until your breasts were bare to him.
Still neither spoke.
He ran his tongue from your neck down to your breasts, leaving a wet trail behind that had your toes curling. You moaned as you ran your hands down his back, encouraging him to continue when you should be pushing him away and running as fast as your legs could carry you back to the safety of the event. He ran his tongue in a circular motion around one taut nipple before he pulled the hard pebble into his mouth, effectively killing any thoughts you might have had of ending this.
He reached up and cupped your other breast. He weighed it in his hand, squeezed it, and ran his thumb around the firm nipple. He held the breast up for his mouth and, after one last lick of the nipple he’d been worshipping, his mouth greedily accepted the offering. He licked and sucked the large breast until you were moaning louder and digging your fingers into his shoulders, desperate for more.
You thought you were going to die from the pleasure he was giving you. It felt incredible. Better than you’d ever imagined, but something was missing. After a moment you realised what that something was. You needed to touch him, too. Deciding that you weren't going to wait for an invitation, you worked his shirt off, desperate for the contact.
He was surprised when he felt your hands working the buttons of his coat, but immensely pleased nonetheless. Releasing your breasts, he pulled his cravat off and shrugged off his outer garments, leaving only his shirt until that too was gone.
You reached out with trembling hands and ran your fingers down his chest, enjoying the feel of his warm smooth skin over hard muscle. You ran your fingers tentatively over one flat nipple, making him groan. Your hands moved down to trace the muscles that made up his flat stomach. He groaned again, but didn’t say or do anything to stop you.
You wanted to keep touching him, but your arms were effectively pinned to your sides by your dress, limiting your movements. You worried your bottom lip nervously as you pulled your arms out and pushed the dress and shifted down around your waist. You watched as he ran hungry eyes over you. His response gave you the courage to continue. Pushing aside your nervousness, you leaned in and kissed him. William grabbed your waist and held you firmly as both of you kissed almost desperately.
Never breaking the kiss, he helped you to your feet until both of you were standing. He reached behind you and undid the buttons of your dishevelled dress. He slowly pushed it down and waited patiently until you stepped out of your dress, leaving you naked except for your stockings and slippers. Only one person had seen you naked before and that had been your maid. You should be embarrassed, but oddly enough with him you didn’t feel shy or self-conscious. You felt beautiful, wanted and cherished.
You watched as he kneeled down in front of you. He gently rolled your stockings down, taking your slippers off in the process. He pressed hot kisses to your skin as he made his way back up to your mouth. You pulled him into your arms and kissed him hungrily, unable to get enough of him.
His hands roamed over your body, touching your arms, breasts, stomach, back, bottom and legs. Every touch made your stomach tighten and the area between your legs ache. You wanted more, but didn’t know what.
William seemed to know. He moved his mouth to your neck and suckled your skin on the way back to your breasts. Once he found your nipple, his hand worked its way between your legs. He cupped you and ran his fingers through slick folds. You moaned loudly, unable to help yourself.
When he slipped a finger inside you, he found you hot, wet, and ready. He groaned and moved his mouth back to yours while he worked a finger in and out of you. Soon you were moving against his finger, your body desperate for release. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t even think of anything beyond getting inside you.
His other hand worked frantically at his pants. With a groan, he broke off the kiss and removed his hand from the honeyed heaven he couldn't wait to explore. He reached down, pushed his pants down and pulled his boots off until he was naked as well.
His lips quickly made their way back to yours. It was a desperate need that he couldn’t deny. He gasped and then moaned loudly into your mouth when he felt your fingers run curiously over his erection. Never in a million years had he thought that you would be this passionate, hadn’t known that it was possible.
He reached between you and gently wrapped your hand around his length and moved it, showing you what he liked. You did it, making him pant and groan. He slid his hand back between your legs, sliding a second finger inside you until you were moaning and crying softly into his mouth. They stood there for several minutes as pleasure soared through their bodies.
It was too much for any sane man to take. He pulled his hand away and pushed you gently onto the long cushioned bench with his body brushing your hand away. He kissed you deeply as he positioned himself. Part of him was aware that he was very likely about to take your virginity, but he didn’t care. You weren't saying anything and neither was he. Both of you were too far-gone at the moment to care about rules, propriety or the consequences that were most likely going to tear your lives apart.
William aimed himself and pushed in, unable to wait any longer. He heard your gasp of pain and kissed you deeply, trying to distract you. The tip of his shaft came in contact with the proof of your innocence. When you didn't protest, scream, or demand that he get off you, he pulled back and thrust in until he was buried deep inside of you.
Somehow he was able to hold back when everything in him demanded that he move. One look at your beautiful face and he was knocked on his ass. You were heartbreakingly beautiful as you tried to give him a reassuring smile even as tears trailed down your face. He pressed tender kisses to your cheeks, kissing away your tears, wanting to reassure you that he would take care of you.
He moved his mouth back to yours and he kissed you slowly, trying to show you how much being with you meant to him. He’d never felt so much for another person in his entire life and for someone he didn’t know it surprised him. He never allowed anyone to get close to him, and didn't trust anyone. He couldn't understand how you consumed his every wish and desire. He wanted to hold you all night and keep you safe from harm, something that he’d never wanted to do with another woman.
Soon, you grew accustomed to the invasion and began to wiggle beneath him, testing his control. He slowly rolled his hips making sure that you were truly ready for him. He could feel your mouth curve into a smile beneath his and that’s when he realised that he was smiling as well, making him chuckle. For the first time in a long time, he felt carefree. He kissed you deeply as he slowly thrust inside you, enjoying the feel of wet silken walls caressing his cock.
You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to hold him inside you. William cupped your breast, gently squeezing it as his thumb ran over your hard nipple. Moans, crackles of the fire, and the sounds of bodies gently slapping against each other echoed throughout the dimly lit orangery.
William could feel your body tighten like a vice around him. He groaned as he moved harder and faster, making you cry out in pleasure. Your fingernails dug into his back, but he didn’t care. He opened his eyes and watched as your world exploded. He needed you to find your release before he could pull out. He was determined to make this good for you. Your body began squeezing ruthlessly around his length. As good as it felt to have you grip his cock like this, it felt even better knowing that he’d been the one to give you this pleasure. Hell, he wanted to laugh and scream for joy that this beautiful minx found her moment with him. His minx.
The reality of the moment hit him hard. You were still squeezing him and moaning. Your mouth found his neck and kissed it greedily, sucking and licking and driving him out of his goddamn mind. He couldn’t hold back. He desperately needed to pull out. It was getting too close. Just one more thrust he told himself, just one more.
As his release rushed up on him, he gasped, trying to find the strength to pull out of you. Just as he somehow found the willpower to pull out you began squeezing him again, completely shattering his resistance. His head dropped back and he bit back a roar of pleasure as he found his own release. It was the most intense moment of his life. He continued to move until he was sure that you were done. When he felt your walls squeeze gently around him one last time, he fell on you, lazily kissing your neck, chin and mouth. Still neither of you spoke.
William was too weak to speak. It was the oddest way to take a woman’s virginity, without any spoken words of promise or explanation. He’d always been a gentle lover, taking a woman slowly to prolong his release. He'd never even taxed himself before. Right now his body was exhausted and soaked. This was the most intense sexual experience of his life and he didn’t even know your name.
Not that he ever made love to an innocent before, but surely something should have been said. Names should have been exchanged at the very least. It was without question the most passionate night of his life. He’d never been so moved by lust or need before to make him this desperate to make love to a woman.
He pulled back to look at you, expecting you to cry, scream or hit him. He’d been a cad taking your innocence. But instead of doing what he’d expected, what he deserved, you smiled sweetly up at him and pressed a tender kiss to his mouth. William turned the kiss into a slow, deep display of appreciation, passion and need. He was still inside of you and surprised to discover that he was hardening again. He wanted you once more, desperately, but he couldn’t do that to you.
He took a steadying breath and slowly began to pull out, however, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist and trapped him. He raised an eyebrow in question. Then you spoke for the first time since you'd started. “Can we do it again?” you asked shyly.
Will could only chuckle. He leaned down and kissed you. “Yes, minx, we can do it again.” He punctuated every word with a slow thrust of his hardening shaft, "In one condition. . ." He paused his hips from grinding against you.
"What is it?" You whispered breathlessly.
"Let me paint an intimate portrait of you. You'd make a perfect model." Will whispers his condition against your ear, causing electricity to shoot down your spine.
You placed your palms over his chest and pushed him away, "And be showcased in exhibits like this for the world to see? Forget it."
"I didn't say anything about showing it to the world, my lady. It's intimate, it's private. It's only for my eyes to admire." Will lowered his head, his lips grazing yours as he spoke these bold statements.
A broad smile curved in your lips, "I like you."
He took you slowly this time, enjoying every single thrust inside your body. You were passionate, very passionate. You weren't content with lying there while he bedded you. You kissed his mouth, chin, and neck greedily while your hands ran through his hair, down his back, and finally cupped his ass. He could swear that you moaned with pleasure just from touching him.
He broke the kiss and pulled back just far enough away so that he could watch your face. You smiled shyly at him. You were so damn beautiful. He slowed his rhythm and made his thrusts shallower, stressing each movement. You licked your lips hungrily.
“You like that, don’t you, minx?”
“Y-yes, please don’t stop.”
He shook his head. “Never.”
He gently took your hands and held them above your head, entwining your fingers as he made love to you. The gesture made what you were doing feel more intense. Soon you were throwing your head back and whimpering.
William took your mouth, kissing you deeply as he quickened his thrusts inside you. You gripped his hands tightly. He felt your body tighten around him once again. There was no point in pulling out now. The damage was already done. You exploded at the same moment. William didn’t bother trying to hide his pleasure this time. Both of you were too far away from the loud exhibit for anyone to hear you both. Even if they weren’t, there was no way to stop him now.
“Oh God!” he roared.
He collapsed on top of you, sweaty and sated. He didn’t know many women who appreciated a sweaty man on top of them, so he moved to roll off you when your small warm arms wrapped around his shoulders.
His minx pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. You pulled him closer while you ran your hands over his damp back in a soothing motion. He kissed your cheek and was surprised when you sighed with pleasure. He couldn’t help but wonder how women could be so completely different.
You moved your head back so that you could look into his eyes. “Thank you for tonight. I’ll always remember it.” you looked and sounded so grateful. He couldn’t imagine what he'd done for you besides take your innocence without asking. He shouldn’t be thanked. He should be shot.
He sighed, shaking his head. “Minx,-”
“Shhh,” you pressed a finger to his mouth. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about this. It was perfect. This will always be the most passionate night of my life and I will always treasure it. Please don’t be mad. I’m not.”
“Minx,” he began again, “you should be mad…what we did….what I did was inexcusable. I-“
“No, no words, no apologies. Just let it remain this perfect moment between two strangers who found comfort with each other.”
Comfort? It was a hell of lot more than comfort. It was intense, indescribable, and possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever done. He’d just got himself leg shackled to this beautiful stranger.
After a long pause, he reluctantly nodded. There was no sense in arguing with you. He would never force a woman to do anything that you didn’t want to do. He certainly wasn’t about to thank this woman for the most wonderful night of his life by robbing you of your freedom without justification.
“How’s my hair?” you asked after both of you were finished redressing yourselves.
The smile took on a different meaning as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”
“Also, here,” he said suddenly as he searched his pockets. He pulled out a small pencil stub and a small piece of parchment from his jacket pocket and wrote his name and address on it.
With a chuckle, you took the folded piece of parchment and placed it in you reticule. “Happy?”
He smiled. “Extremely.”
“Shall I go first and make my excuses to leave?”
He respectively nodded. “Thank you for a most wonderful evening, minx.”
“The pleasure was mine, sir,” you said, smiling shyly as you turned away and headed for the door.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
You had to force a pleasant smile and a deliberate stride through the crowded halls, even if all you wanted to do was get away from everyone and find a quiet place to help your pounding heart. As you made your way to an office, you avoided the many unwelcome suitors and, more crucially, your mother by blending in with the crowd. With no second thoughts, you slammed the door shut and locked it, then sank to the floor.
It only took a few seconds for reality to sink in. A sensation of your heart pounding in your chest was present. You just lost your virginity at a party to some random bloke you didn't know. While it was an amazing experience, you couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if someone had found both of you or if he had been a fortune hunter. You could at this very moment be forced to announce your engagement to a man that you didn't know.
Your entire future could have been ruined in a matter of minutes all because you allowed yourself to be carried away in a moment of weakness. You'd been so foolish and so incredibly lucky.
How could you have done something so irrational? You had a plan for your life and it most certainly didn’t involve making love to a man you didn't know in a well-lit orangery where anyone could have stumbled upon you. In a matter of months you were going to turn twenty-four and gain control over your inheritance. Then you would move to your north estate where you would live out the rest of your life away from the nonsense of this town.
You'd been such a foolish woman tonight allowing yourself to be swept away by a deep alluring voice, good looks, beautiful eyes and an overwhelming need to do the wrong thing. You'd been helpless to deny him. When his lips had touched yours, it felt like a fire had been lit in your body and you couldn't seem to get enough of him. Your cheeks burned with humiliation. What he must think of you!
A rather disturbing thought occurred to you. What if you ran into each other at another event or a party? Would he expect a repeat of tonight? Would you allow it? It scared you how quickly you were able to answer that question.
Yes, you would. If you were given another opportunity to be in his arms, you would not hesitate even for a minute. You'd risk everything for another moment with him. Knowing how weak you were when it came to the handsome stranger and what was at risk, you decided there was only one course of action left for you. You had to leave Arkham sooner than you'd originally planned.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
“There you are!” One of his professors, Mr. Dixon said brightly, too damn brightly.
William glanced around the large crowded space, hoping to find his minx. True to your word you had left. Now he was left at this dreadful event with memories of you. He could simply ask around about you, but then that would put them in an awkward position. People would want to know why he was interested and tongues would wag.
"Where have you been, boy? Dr. Reid is waiting to see you. Need I remind you that you're the winner of the student art prize?"
"No need, Sir." Will supplied a subtle impatient sigh.
Dixon releases a small grunt and straightens Will's collar and tie, "There, much better. Come along. You wouldn't want to keep him waiting."
No one in this place would suspect that Dixon had William's arm in a death grip that would no doubt leave a large bruise. Not that Will minded. He would have other marks on his body from his minx. He barely stopped himself from grinning like an idiot. You truly were wonderful, he thought just before he spotted Dr. Reid and a few other committee members standing in front of his artworks, making his smile disappear instantly out of nervousness.
“You must be William Thurber,” Dr. Reid said with a warm smile as he reached out and took Will's hand firmly into his own. The man was graying, but still an impressive sight.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Reid,” Will smiled and out of the corner of his eye he saw who he assumed was Dr. Reid's wife whisper something into a young man's ear. The young man shot his mother an annoyed look and walked away, clearly displeased with whatever his mother said.
“I must say that you are one talented artist, my boy. The way you capture beauty in your artwork is truly. . . Captivating. Congratulations.” Dr. Reid said with a warm smile that was nothing like the fake smile his wife currently had plastered to her face.
“Thank you very much,” Will said.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dr. Reid and his wife part. A second later a young woman was practically shoved between them. He saw Joe gasp and his eyes widened. Mr. Dixon looked very pleased, as did his other classmates.
William turned around to see what they were looking at and smiled. His minx.
“Mr. Dixon, William, Joe, I believe none of you have met my youngest daughter, (Y/N)?” Dr. Reid said proudly.
William felt his blood drain away from his head. Oh, hell.
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Creator Spotlight: @lizadonnelly
Liza Donnelly is an award-winning cartoonist and writer for The New Yorker Magazine and a contributor to The NY Times, Washington Post, Medium, CNN, and CBS News. Author of 18 books for adults and children, Women On Men was a finalist for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. Her most recent book is a history, Very Funny Ladies, The New Yorker’s Women Cartoonists, 1925-2021, with a foreword by David Remnick and Emma Allen, and is a respected resource for historians. Liza’s TED talk was translated into 40 languages, she served as a cultural envoy for the US State Department, and has an honorary Ph.D. from UCONN for peace and women’s studies. The innovator of digital visual journalism, she live-draws events such as the Oscars, presidential debates, and White House Press Conferences for major news outlets. She was visiting lecturer at Vassar College and a Barnard College Athena Leadership Fellow. Liza lives in New York.
Check out her interview with us below!
Did you originally have a background in art and writing? If not, how did you start?
I started drawing cartoons really young, around 7 years old, and just loved it so much. As a kid, I would trace the cartoons of James Thurber or Charles Schulz, and others. From there, I developed my own style. After college, I sold my first cartoon to The New Yorker and began doing illustration and books as well. Writing longer form came later, now I love that as well. But cartooning is my first love.
What is one habit you find yourself doing a lot as a creator?
I draw all the time! And I love to people-watch.
Over the years as an artist and writer, what were your biggest inspirations behind your creativity?
I really enjoy looking at other people’s work, looking at drawings and cartoons, examining how they use their pen or stylus in the line work or wash or color. I am inspired by walking in the city (NYC)—the energy and the variety of people inspire me.
What are 3 things you can’t live without as a creator?
Pens, paper (or stylus and tablet), coffee!
What is your favorite piece of all time? Why?
You mean of mine? I don’t have one! They are all my babies, and I cannot pick one!
What do you wish you knew when you first started out creating content that you know now?
I wish I had more confidence in my ideas when I was younger, and I wish I knew that failure is part of succeeding. I get rejected a lot, but it all leads to better work, and you learn what your voice really is the more you draw.
Do you do warm ups before creating a piece or do you dive right in?
It depends on what I’m creating. I do enjoy diving right in, and I am fond of work (my own and others) that comes straight from the heart: no sketching beforehand, just mind to pen. It has a looseness that I love and a feeling of authenticity. Other times, if I am doing an illustration job, I often sketch first and either use a light box or draw over the pencil lines and erase. I also use a tablet a lot, and that is trickier in terms of sketches and finished art, but I make it work.
Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?
I was thrilled to learn that @neil-gaiman is on Tumblr! He's an inspiration to me.
Thank you for stopping by, Liza! Check out more of her work over at @lizadonnelly.
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Steve Hely, writer for The Office and American Dad , and recipient of the Thurber Prize for American Humor, presents a travel book about his journey through Central and South America. Part travel book, part pop history, part comic memoir, Hely's writing will make readers want to reach for their backpack and hiking boots. The Wonder Trail is the story of a trip from Los Angeles to the bottom of South America, presented in 102 short chapters. From Mexico City to Oaxaca; into ancient Mayan ruins; the jungles, coffee plantations, and remote beaches of Central America; across the Panama Canal; by sea to Colombia; to the wild Easter celebration of Popay n; to the Amazon rainforest; the Inca sites of Cuzco and Machu Picchu; to the Gal pagos Islands; the Atacama Desert of Chile; and down to wind-worn Patagonia at the bottom of the Western Hemisphere; Steve traveled collecting stories, adventures, oddities, marvels, bits of history and biography, tales of weirdos, fun facts, and anything else interesting or illuminating. Steve's plan was to discover the unusual, wonderful, and absurd in Central and South America, to seek and find the incredible, delightful people and experiences that came his way. And the book that resulted is just as fun. A blend of travel writing, history, and comic memoir, The Wonder Trail will inspire, inform, and delight.
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This New Brunswick town was crowned Canada’s most active community for 2023
While they might be small, the Town of Salisbury, N.B., has proven they are mighty.
With a population of just 7,800 people, Salisbury has been crowned Canada’s most active community for 2023.
“I think it speaks volumes to our community spirit here in Salisbury and shows just how active our community is, the fact that we can compete with municipalities that are even more populated than our entire province,” said Austin Henderson, the chief administrative officer for the town.
Throughout the month of June, over 750 community members got moving for ParticipACTION, a national physical activity and sport initiative that aims to make exercise a part of every-day life.
“I never knew how much I did in a month until I filled everything in that I had to do and that I did do and it was great,” said Bill Thurber, one of the local participants.
“We’d walk and walk and walk and when it was raining, we went around 10x around the loop in the home and we played with the young kids that would come over on Fridays, we loved that. We’d play axes, and throwing the bean bags,” added Alice Jones, another participant.
During the challenge, the town held over 70 free events to encourage everyone to get involved, including walking groups, Learn to Play Clinics, and age-friendly activities at local nursing homes.
Between organized activities and people tracking their individual exercise, officials say Salisbury held the number one spot in New Brunswick for the entire month starting June 2 and fluctuated from first to fifth place nationally before clinching the gold at the end.
“I think it’s great. I think it’s the greatest thing that’s happened,” said Thurber.
In total, Salisbury residents and organizations had over 10.4 million minutes of physical activity for the month of June.
“Just really proud of everybody and super excited about how everybody came together,” said Donna Hunswick Hopper, the Recreation Coordinator for the town.
“I guess it kind of gives you goosebumps.”
While the town has definitely earned bragging rights, the first place win also came with a $100,000 prize. Officials say that money will now be added to the $15,000 prize Salisbury won last year for being number one provincially.
“It will make a huge difference here in a small community… and ultimately, because our residence won this challenge collectively, we’re going to see what they want to do with this money,” said Henderson.
“We’re hoping to put together five or six [options], everything from trail connectivity, to upgraded playgrounds, to maybe even an upgraded outdoor skating rink and then we’ll ask them to rank them and hope that they have their say and see what the community wants us to spend their money on.”
He adds the hope is to put money towards multiple projects in order to spread it as far as they can.
“It just showed me how many people in Salisbury are willing to get out and be active and that we can just grow it and grow it from here because I think everybody should be active, it’s the best thing you can do for your health,” said Fran Bowdrige, another participant.
While the town is currently focusing on celebrating, there is already ambition growing when it comes to next year’s ParticipACTION competition.
“Part of me said ‘yay we won, we don’t have to do it next year,’ but now I realize that we can win two years in a row. So it’s like ‘bring it on, we can do this again,’” said Bowdrige.
For more New Brunswick news visit our dedicated provincial page.
from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/B6mS2Ju
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Pod-Alization: Second Season Of “Stuck With Damon Young”; “Hard Fork” Examines Google’s AI Disaster
Stuck With Damon Young releases trailer ahead of second season premiere
There are so many people talking on podcasts these days. Almost all the time, these conversations are characterized or marketed as being culturally relevant and intellectually stimulating. All too often, this dialogue is feckless and frivolous babbling about future tattoos, “a personal search for meaning,” and going green by purchasing a Tesla Roadster.
Thankfully for listeners and for the culture, Damon Young doesn’t do superficial in his podcast, Stuck With Damon Young.
Last week, Spotify and Gimlet announced that their podcast, Stuck with Damon Young, will be returning for its second season on February 16, 2023.
The trailer for season two is available, and you can check it out HERE.
If you don’t know, Damon Young is a writer, critic, and satirist whose debut memoir What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker: A Memoir In Essays won the 2020 Thurber Prize for American Humor and Barnes & Noble’s 2019 Discover Award.
In season two, Young returns with more off-the-cuff conversations, and with round ups of Damon-approved listener-submitted questions. In season two, Young will be joined by special guests Kiese Laymon, Roy Wood Jr., Elaine Welteroth, Nikole Hannah-Jones and others. With weekly episodes dropping each Thursday, listeners can explore the uncomfortable, hideous, and hilarious absurdity of human behavior.
NYT’s Hard Fork podcast examines how Google’s response to Bing was such a disaster
In the most recent episode of The New York Times’s podcast, Hard Fork, hosts Kevin Roose and Casey Newton speak with OpenAI’s CEO Sam Altman and Microsoft’s CTO Kevin Scott on why Microsoft’s release of a ChatGPT-powered Bing signifies a new era in search.
Then, they discuss how a disastrous preview of Bard — Google’s answer to ChatGPT — caused the company’s stocks to slide 7 percent.
The full transcript of the episode is available here, with highlights below.
Kevin Roose: Sam, there are people, including some at OpenAI, who are worried about the pace of all of this deployment of AI into tools that are used by billions of people, people who worry that maybe it’s going too fast, that corners may be getting cut, that some of the safety work is not as robust as maybe it should be. So what do you say to those people who worry that this is all going too fast for society to adjust or for the necessary guardrails to be put in?
Sam Altman:
I also share a concern about the speed of this and the pace. You know, we make a lot of decisions to hold things back, slow them down. You know, you can believe whatever you want or not believe about rumors, but, you know, maybe we’ve had some powerful models ready for a long time that, for these reasons, we have not yet released. But I feel two things very strongly.
Number one, everyone has got to have the opportunity to understand these tools. The pluses and minuses, the upsides and downsides, how they’re going to be used, decide what this future looks like, co-create it together. And the idea that this technology should be kept in like a narrow slice of the tech industry because those are the people who we can trust, and the other people just aren’t ready for it — you hear different versions of this in corners of the community, but I like I deeply reject that. That is like not a world that I think we should be excited about. And given how strongly I believe this is going to change many, maybe the great majority of aspects of society, people need to be included early and they need to see it, you know, imperfections at all as we get better, and participate in the conversation about where it should go, what we should change, what we should improve, what we shouldn’t do. And keeping it hidden in a lab bench and only showing it to like, you know, the people that like, we think are ready for it or whatever, that feels wrong.
The second is, in all the history of technology I have seen, you cannot predict all the wonderful things that will happen and the misuse without contact with reality. And so by deploying these systems and by learning and by, you know, getting the human feedback to improve, we have made models that are much, much better. And what I hope is that everything we deploy gets to a higher and higher level of alignment. We are not — at Microsoft and OpenAI — we are not the companies that are rushing these things out. We’ve been working on this and studying this for years and years, and we have, I think, a very responsible approach. But we do believe society has got to be brought into the tent early. […]
Casey Newton: We’ve been hitting you pretty hard on the the safety and responsibility questions, but I wonder if you want to sketch out a little bit more of a utopian vision here for once you get this stuff into the hands of hundreds of millions of people and this does become part of their everyday life. What is the brighter future that you’re hoping to see this stuff create?
Sam Altman: I think Kevin and I both very deeply believe that if you give people better tools, if you make them more creative, if you help them think better, faster, be able to do more, like build technology that extends human will, people will change the world in unbelievably positive ways, and there will be a big handful of advanced A.I. efforts in the world. […] And that tool, […] will be as big of a deal as any of the great technological revolutions that have come before it in terms of what it means for enabling human potential and the economic empowerment, the kind of creative and fulfillment empowerment that will happen. I think it’s going to be jaw-droppingly positive. We could hit a wall in the technology, you know, don’t want to promise we’ve got everything figured out. We certainly don’t. But the trajectory looks really good.
Kevin Scott: And the trajectory is towards more accessibility. Like the thing that I come to over and over again is the first machine learning code that I wrote 20 years ago, took, you know, a graduate degree and a bunch of grad textbooks and a bunch of research papers and six months worth of work. And like that same effect that I produced back then, a motivated high school student could do in a few hours on a weekend. And so, like, the tools are putting more power in the hands of people.
Check out Hard Fork here.
FYI: This article was written by a real person, not an AI intelligence.
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Christopher buckley supreme courtship
CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY SUPREME COURTSHIP MOVIE
At a time of high political absurdity, Buckley remains our sharpest guide to the capital, and amore serious one than we may suppose."- Blake Wilson, New York Times Review of Books Each of his novels may be light as air, but bit by bit they're building up into a significant social portrait, the beginnings of a vast Comédie-Washingtonienne. Buckley's heart belongs to the outsiders and mavericks who see through all the spin. His villains are Washington's ideologues, left and right, whose principles always boil down to self-regard. And he's admirably fair-minded, skewering politically correct crusaders on one page and holy-rolling bigots on the next. His own libertarian-leaning politics shine through his narratives without weighing them down. But he's more an anthropologist than a settler of scores. Bush, he knows the monograms on the linens and has supped with kings. Buckley has fun with the court's fractious politics and even more fun riffing on the strange creatures and customs of its marble halls. And once again he delivers serious insights along with antics. "Once again, Buckley returns to his pet theme: the vanity and perfidy of the capital's ruling elite. "An accomplished comic novelist and raucously funny political satirist."- Sunday Times of London He received the Washington Irving Prize for Literary Excellence and the Thurber Prize for American Humor. He has written for the New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, the New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, Time, Newsweek, Vanity Fair, National Geographic, New York Magazine, the Washington Monthly, Forbes, Esquire, Vogue, Daily Beast, and other publications. Most have been named New York Times Notable Books of the Year.
CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY SUPREME COURTSHIP MOVIE
They include: Steaming To Bamboola, The White House Mess, Wet Work, God Is My Broker, Little Green Men, No Way To Treat a First Lady, Florence of Arabia, Boomsday, Supreme Courtship, Losing Mum And Pup: A Memoir and Thank You For Smoking, which was made into a movie in 2005. He is the author of fifteen books, which have translated into sixteen languages. He was the founding editor of Forbes FYI magazine (now ForbesLife), where he is now editor-at-large. At age 24 he was managing editor of Esquire magazine at 29, chief speechwriter to the Vice President of the United States, George H.W. He was educated at Portsmouth Abbey, worked on a Norwegian tramp freighter and graduated cum laude from Yale. Supreme Courtship is another classic Christopher Buckley comedy about the Washington institutions most deserving of ridicule.Ĭhristopher Buckley was born in New York City in 1952. Soon, Pepper finds herself in the middle of a constitutional crisis, a presidential reelection campaign that the president is determined to lose, and oral arguments of a romantic nature. Will Pepper, a straight-talking Texan, survive a confirmation battle in the Senate? Will becoming one of the most powerful women in the world ruin her love life? And even if she can make it to the Supreme Court, how will she get along with her eight highly skeptical colleagues, including a floundering Chief Justice who, after legalizing gay marriage, learns that his wife has left him for another woman. After one nominee is rejected for insufficiently appreciating To Kill A Mockingbird, the president chooses someone so beloved by voters that the Senate won't have the guts to reject her - Judge Pepper Cartwright, the star of the nation's most popular reality show, Courtroom Six. President of the United States Donald Vanderdamp is having a hell of a time getting his nominees appointed to the Supreme Court.
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[Download Book] Cult Classic - Sloane Crosley
Download Or Read PDF Cult Classic - Sloane Crosley Free Full Pages Online With Audiobook.
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Cult Classic is a comic mystery about love, memory, and mind control from New York Times-bestselling author and two-time Thurber Prize finalist Sloane Crosley.One idle weeknight in New York?s Chinatown, our heroine is at a reunion dinner with her former colleagues when she ducks out to buy cigarettes. On the way back, she runs into a former boyfriend. And then another. And...another. Nothing is quite what it seems as the city becomes awash with ghosts of heartbreaks past. What would normally pass for coincidence becomes something far stranger as Lola must contend not only with the viability of her current relationship but the fact that both her best friend and former boss, a magazine editor-turned-mystical-guru, might have an acutely unhealthy investment in the outcome. Memories of the past swirl and converge in ways both comic and eerie, as Lola is forced to decide if she will buy into the tenets of romantic love, change who she is to do it and surrender herself to one very
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777. Sloane Crosley
Sloane Crosley is the author of the novel Cult Classic, available from MCD/FSG.
Crosley is the author of The New York Times bestselling essay collections, I Was Told There’d Be Cake (a 2009 finalist for The Thurber Prize for American Humor) and How Did You Get This Number, as well as Look Alive Out There (a 2019 finalist for The Thurber Prize for American Humor) and the bestselling novel, The Clasp. She served as editor of The Best American Travel Writing series and is featured in The Library of America's 50 Funniest American Writers, The Best American Nonrequired Reading, Phillip Lopate’s The Contemporary American Essay and others. She was the inaugural columnist for The New York Times Op-Ed "Townies" series, a contributing editor at Interview Magazine, and a columnist for The Village Voice, Vanity Fair, The Independent, Black Book, Departures and The New York Observer. She is a contributing editor at Vanity Fair. Her next nonfiction book, Grief Is for People, will be published in 2023. She lives in New York City.
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The Defection and Subsequent Resurrection of Nikolai Pushkin
A novel by Ken Pisani
CHAPTER ONE: NIKOLAI
On the day of Nikolai Pushkin’s scheduled flight to the United States, a van pulled up to the US embassy in Stockholm, Sweden, and four men with unsavory reputations and faces like pounded meat exited the vehicle. Another remained inside, maintaining his stranglehold on the steering wheel. Two of the four lumbered into the Embassy while the other two stood watch; minutes later, the first pair exited flanking a nervous young man, his face shielded by dark glasses and a Buffalo Sabres baseball cap. They all piled into the van, which sank noticeably under their weight, and took off at a high rate of speed. Right behind them was a rented Saab driven by a large KGB agent stuffed into the driver’s seat.
It was just ten days earlier that twenty-year-old Nikolai Pushkin had led the Soviet team to the gold medal at the 1989 Ice Hockey World Championship, scoring seven goals with five assists in the tournament. No contest, really, as the Soviets won all ten of their games, leaving the world’s best hockey players skittering like seals under the assault of a polar bear. It was the Soviets’ sixth consecutive World Championship and twenty-second overall, just two fewer than America’s New York Yankee baseball club. The team celebrated with a trip to a shopping mall in Stockholm, where a pair of KGB agents trailed Nikolai like a clumsy shadow.
Did they know? Had they guessed? Or was this just reasonable suspicion: one year earlier Nikolai had been drafted by the Buffalo Sabres in the 1988 NHL draft—a wasted gesture, albeit with the eighty-ninth pick in round five. Other teams followed suit as the Capitals used their sixth-round pick and the Nordiques their seventh on Soviet players; by the final pick of the draft eight more Soviet players had been earmarked by NHL teams—wasted late-round picks gambled against the history that no Soviet had ever played in the National Hockey League. And it remained unlikely, even in the waning days of the Cold War, that any might be allowed to leave the Motherland to join that capitalist enterprise.
Nikolai lifted a blazer off the rack without a look, pastel colored and big shouldered and two sizes too small. As he headed into the dressing room the two agents pretended to riffle through the shirt rack; quickly entranced by the unfamiliar fashions, they soon stopped pretending.
“Magnum P.I.,” the shorter one said in Russian, holding a Hawaiian shirt against himself, and the taller one laughed.
But the tall man’s mind was elsewhere, in the dressing room with Nikolai—not as a function of his job as it should have been, but in imagining him naked. During the course of the championship, he’d seen, under the guise of surveillance, all these sturdy young men in varying degrees of nudity in their locker room. On more than one occasion, he’d had to conceal or physically restrain his erection.
Alone in the dressing room, Nikolai stared at his reflection. He’d known fear in his life: fear of failure, or being cut from the team, of his coach’s wrath and the state’s power over him. In his youth he feared hunger, cold, the disapproval of his mother and the fate of his father to be inconsequential. And he harbored a terrible fear of flying. But nothing like the terror of what he was about to do, fright etched on the face that looked back at him like a soundless shriek.
It took a moment for both agents to realize that Nikolai had exited the opposite end of the dressing room and was covering ground in increasingly quicker strides toward the Gallerian’s exit. As they floundered to catch up Nikolai broke into a run, leaving the pair of them behind as he had so many defensemen on a breakaway. The revolving door slowed him like a full body check, and he emerged, stumbling, on the other side, startling the executive from the Buffalo Sabres waiting by the car, Don Woolf. Woolf waved and shouted, the cigarette dropping from his mouth, and both jumped into the vehicle and sped off as the two agents lurched from the same quadrant of the revolving door, the shorter one losing his shoe and watching it spin back inside the store. The taller one swore in Russian.
It wasn’t until he was several blocks away that Nikolai realized how, in addition to having just defected from the Soviet Union, he’d also stolen an ill-fitting blazer from the Gallerian.
Two weeks earlier Don Woolf, head of player development for the Sabres, had received a phone call from Nikolai, whom he’d met at the World Juniors in 1988 and presented with his business card of inscrutable letters to a teenager schooled in Cyrillic. Nikolai had called to tell him in fractured English that he wanted to “come over” to the Sabres of New York. It took a moment for Woolf to realize that he meant “defect.” Woolf couldn’t be sure the voice belonged to Nikolai and not a pretender for the Nordiques—a prank phone call would be just like them, the fucking frogs. He asked “Nikolai” to tell him something only he could know about their meeting.
Nikolai replied something about Woolf’s hands—like hockey mitts, and that his own had disappeared in Woolf’s handshake.
Woolf had in fact remarked at the time about Nikolai’s hands, surprisingly delicate for a hockey player. But Nikolai’s power wasn’t in his fists; he was all about speed and motion, a blur on skates with breakaway speed, Soviet discipline, and the indefatigable energy of youth. Woolf believed Nikolai was a shortcut to beating Edmonton, and he wanted him enough to risk an international incident.
The Sabres had been eliminated in the first round just a week earlier, losing to Boston for the fourth time in as many playoffs, and Woolf had little interest in watching the eight teams still chasing the Stanley Cup. The next day he and Sabres general manager Jack Horstmeyer were on a plane to Sweden, and shortly thereafter in a car speeding away from the Gallerian, and now at the United States Embassy, where a career consular officer tried to talk all three of them out of their plan.
“I’m not sure he qualifies for political asylum,” she said. “This isn’t exactly Svetlana Alliluyeva we have here. He’s a hockey player.”
“America’s taken grandmasters of chess, ballerinas, conductors, playwrights, violinists, tenors, pianists…” Horstmeyer noted. “This man is an artist with a hockey stick.”
“Who the hell is Svetlana Ali-who-ha?” Woolf asked.
“Are you really sure that you want to leave home?” she turned her attention to Nikolai, imagining that he might wish to be included in this discussion of his future. “You’ve got a family there, and you’ll never see them again. Also, as a member of the Red Army this isn’t just a defection—you’ll be charged as a deserter.”
Nikolai’s fear was gone now, dispersed in the act of his defection. He explained his desire to win the Stanley Cup, see Cats, meet Koch.
“Koch?” Woolf wondered.
“Ed Koch, mayor of New York?” she asked. “You understand that Buffalo, New York, isn’t the same as—”
“America’s greatest state,” Horstmeyer interrupted. “Everyone heartsNew York. You can do all those things if you come with us.”
“You’re Jewish,” Woolf realized why he wanted to meet Koch.
“Yes! Yes he is,” Horstmeyer took his opening and ran with it. “Fleeing the well-documented persecution of Soviet Jews.”
The consular official scribbled something, adding with undisguised skepticism, “And if in so fleeing, he happens to do so in the direction of this Stanley Cup…?”
She wasn’t really certain what a Stanley Cup was, but she could tell by the way the three men lapsed into a dreamlike state in the silence following her unfinished sentence that it was more important to them than politics, international relations, or world peace.
“This is a big step,” she pleaded with Nikolai to understand, sensing the worldview of a twenty-year-old Russian hockey player to be as small as the gap between the sutures in his brow. “Have you really thought this through?”
Nikolai repeated the phrases Stanley Cup, Cats,and Koch, and with that plans were put in motion to whisk him to Buffalo where none of those things had ever been present…but with Nikolai’s help, perhaps one of them might.
There remained obstacles: Nikolai was without his passport. It was routine for Soviet players traveling internationally to surrender their passports to the KGB agents who traveled with them against the eventuality Nikolai had just committed. It would take time to secure the necessary paperwork for Nikolai to travel and enter the United States. In the meantime, the consular officer assured them, it was likely KGB agents would attempt to stop Nikolai’s defection.
“The Soviets fear every defection might lead to a wave,” she declared. “It’s also a terrible propaganda blow, for America to flaunt as proof that our way of life is better.”
“Which it is,” Woolf urged, hoping to dispel any second thoughts in Nikolai, who had none.
The means by which the Soviets might undermine his defection were these: they’d attempt to contact Nikolai, give him a final chance to change his mind before committing an irrevocable act; they’d take advantage of his youth and naivety, and if the idea of never seeing his family weren’t enough, they’d add the threat of reprisals against them for his act of treason. And if persuasion failed, the KGB might even attempt to kidnap him, international law be damned.
The final hurdle belonged to Nikolai, as he was terrified of flying.
He could cite casualties of the year’s flight accidents so far: a British Airways crash in England, 47 people dead; an Italian charter in the Azores, 144 tourists killed; a cargo door blown off a flight near Hawaii, 9 passengers pulled to their deaths. He concluded with Pan Am,Lockerbie, bomb, delivered with the same affect but none of the hope with which he’d intoned Stanley Cup, Cats, Koch.
“You didn’t walk here to Stockholm, son,” Woolf reminded Nikolai.
Nikolai had in fact flown to Stockholm the same way he’d always traveled internationally with the Soviet team by air: heavily sedated, and carried onboard by his teammates. On arrival, propped up between two of them long enough to pass customs, he was dumped on a skycap’s cart and wheeled through Stockholm’s Arlanda Airport to a waiting bus.
(Nikolai was never available for practice on a travel day but with the recuperative powers of youth, he’d play with speed and accuracy a day later as if nothing had happened. It was like removing the batteries from a toy before shipping, and replacing them on arrival to watch it perform perfectly.)
The American embassy would offer no safe haven for Nikolai while it prepared his paperwork, a task that could take as long as a week. Having arranged only to spend a couple of days in Stockholm, Woolf and Horstmeyer had only their overnight bags; Nikolai was even less well prepared for a lengthier stay on the run—beyond the clothes on his back, all he owned in the world wasthe too-snug blazer he’d stolen from the Gallerian, and his gold medal from the Worlds. Woolf’s solution to that immediate problem was to purchase a stack of T-shirts from a street vendor, allowing them to blend in with the rest of the tourists touting Swedish icons Garbo, Björn Borg, and ABBA.
They headed to the Swedish countryside to stay in small motels and inns for a single night only before moving on to another, continuous motion designed to confound pursuit. While a pair of middle-aged Americans and a youth of indeterminate origin who rarely spoke were arguably more conspicuous in these smaller locales, it seemed preferable to the city where the Soviet team had dominated the news for the past two weeks and Nikolai was likely to be recognized.
(Not that Woolf or Horstmeyer were happy with the plan. One of the perks of their positions with the Sabres was the opportunity to escape Buffalo under the guise of player development. Aside from adding a speedy Soviet to their roster, both had been eager to flee “The City of No Illusions” and enjoy the pleasures of Stockholm, global metropolis and birthplace of the Nobel Prize, home of museums, concert halls, Jugend architecture, an opera house, and even a jazz festival. None of which they gave a shit about; they were far more interested in Stockholm’s more than one thousand bars and restaurants, and a world-class brothel left winger Mikael Andersson used to brag about before they’d traded him to Hartford after scoring one lousy goal against fucking Edmonton in the playoffs last year.)
By the third day both Horstmeyer and Woolf were struggling with insomnia, an effect of the northernmost situation of the region that, at this time of year, saw the sun rising at just after four in the morning and remaining aloft and bright for eighteen hours before not quite setting around 9:30 p.m. Even then, the sky never darkened completely, retaining an azure glow until the cycle repeated.
None of this seemed to faze Nikolai, who slept well and ate even better, feeding the enormous appetite of youth on reindeer and meatballs (both incongruously served with jam), fruit soups made of rose hips and blueberries, gravlax, and an uncountable variety of pickled herring. The kid would eat anything, even blodpalt, dumplings made from animal blood. A traditional Swedish breakfast in the countryside consisted of sandwiches of hard cheese, cold cuts, cucumber and tomatoes served on crisp bread, and soupy adornments of porridge, yogurt, marmalade, chocolate. Woolf and Horstmeyer would have killed for a plate of bacon, but at least the coffee was strong.
Nikolai stayed fit with a series of calisthenics overseen by Woolf: squats, sit-ups, push-ups, core twists, butt lifts, and sprints. They avoided skating at the risk of calling attention to themselves, but on the fifth day they passed a rink and neither Sabres executive could resist the opportunity to see in action the player for whom they’d flown across the ocean and spent the past five days eating gravlax and porridge.
Nikolai strapped on a pair of rented skates and proceeded to blister the ice into shavings. He could stop on a dime and change direction like a darting fish, and skate backward faster than most of the Sabres could skate forward at full speed. By the time he started mimicking shooting with an invisible stick, a small crowd had gathered to watch and Horstmeyer put an end to their impromptu workout…but neither he nor Woolf could stop grinning.
Nikolai was always quiet, but at night he’d withdraw to a near-invisible state. It was in this quietude, away from workouts and skating and moving from place to place, that his family invaded his thoughts. He’d grown up with his younger sister Valeriya in the small village of Kalach, located at the terminus of a nineteenth-century railway built to transport lumber from the region’s dense forests. The villagers drew their water from wells, no one owned a car, and there were no telephones. Not that there was anyone to call in the vast outside world, nor was anyone interested in calling them. Because Kalach also had no schools, Nikolai traveled by train to nearby Sankin for his education, while his father Yuri remained functionally illiterate. Yuri trained dancing bears for a living, a staple of rural Russian entertainment, which Nikolai’s mother had found delightful as a sixteen-year-old peasant but less so as children and the future came.
Nikolai’s athleticism gave the family prominence. He was recruited by the state and drilled in the rigors of the Soviet hockey system, and finally inducted into the Red Army where he skated alongside Russia’s great stars. The Pushkins were placed in a Moscow apartment, one they had all to themselves while many of their neighbors did not. Willfully ignoring her early life among squalor and dancing bears, Valeriya grew up a true Muscovite, a child of minor privilege in a place where privilege was no minor thing.
Nikolai’s hockey prowess had pulled his family from the bog of poverty like a tractor. It was unavoidable that they were all about to suffer for Nikolai’s sins.
Watching from the embassy window, Woolf and Horstmeyer were pleased to see the quartet of thugs they’d hired, along with their imposter defector, drive away in the decoy van. Also watching with them was Nikolai, grinning stupidly, greatly amused in his sedation to somehow see himself borne away. He’d remember none of this; nor would he recall the drive to the airport or the struggle to remain standing, propped under each arm by Woolf and Horstmeyer as they made their way through the terminal and onto the waiting TWA flight to Buffalo via JFK International Airport. He wouldn’t remember the swivel seats in first class, or how Horstmeyer and Woolf visibly relaxed once the plane was aloft, or the celebratory cigars and bourbon that followed. He wouldn’t remember the brief, adrenal fear that came with becoming suddenly aware of his airborne state, or yet another pill pressed between his lips by Woolf and washed down with bourbon as he passed out once more.
He wouldn’t even remember being half-carried early the next morning through JFK, where they dodged a waiting phalanx of reporters, or attempts to rouse him from his stupor with several cups of steaming coffee so he could respond more lucidly to waiting immigration officials about his unresolved alien status.
Horstmeyer presented documents from the US Embassy in Sweden and stated Nikolai’s intention to apply for political asylum. Nikolai nodded dully in agreement. When asked about the consequences of returning to the Soviet Union should his petition be denied, it was Woolf who answered:
“Seven years in prison and a death sentence.”
Whether it was the sudden realization of the consequences of his actions, or a combination of jet lag and a pot of coffee, Nikolai’s response was to vomit the contents of his stomach. To the immigration officials administering the interview, this seemed only to reinforce Nikolai’s case, and he was granted entry into the United States. He seemed relieved until informed there was one more flight to Buffalo.
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Priestdaddy: A Memoir
Patricia Lockwood
**NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW 10 BEST BOOKS OF 2017
****SELECTED AS A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: **
***The Washington Post ** Elle ** NPR * *New York Magazine * Boston Globe * Nylon * Slate * The Cut The New Yorker* Chicago Tribune*
WINNER OF THE 2018 THURBER PRIZE FOR AMERICAN HUMOR
****** “Affectionate and very funny . . . wonderfully grounded and authentic. This book proves Lockwood to be a formidably gifted writer who can do pretty much anything she pleases.” – The New York Times Book Review
From Patricia Lockwood—a writer acclaimed for her wildly original voice—a vivid, heartbreakingly funny memoir about balancing identity with family and tradition.
Father Greg Lockwood is unlike any Catholic priest you have ever met—a man who lounges in boxer shorts, loves action movies, and whose constant jamming on the guitar reverberates “like a whole band dying in a plane crash in 1972.” His daughter is an irreverent poet who long ago left the Church’s country. When an unexpected crisis leads her and her husband to move back into her parents’ rectory, their two worlds collide.
In Priestdaddy, Lockwood interweaves emblematic moments from her childhood and adolescence—from an ill-fated family hunting trip and an abortion clinic sit-in where her father was arrested to her involvement in a cultlike Catholic youth group—with scenes that chronicle the eight-month adventure she and her husband had in her parents’ household after a decade of living on their own. Lockwood details her education of a seminarian who is also living at the rectory, tries to explain Catholicism to her husband, who is mystified by its bloodthirstiness and arcane laws, and encounters a mysterious substance on a hotel bed with her mother.
Lockwood pivots from the raunchy to the sublime, from the comic to the deeply serious, exploring issues of belief, belonging, and personhood. Priestdaddy is an entertaining, unforgettable portrait of a deeply odd religious upbringing, and how one balances a hard-won identity with the weight of family and tradition.
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