We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
Women hold gloved hands over your face, protect you from what really happens in the world, then laugh at your awkwardness.
By Deborah ShouseAugust 1990Calling a live sex line, making her first time be fireworks, loving yourself
By Our ReadersJuly 1990The day with its big arms around me, whispering in my ear.
By Sy SafranskyMay 1990Pounding the keys with my mouth stick, I wrote in my journal as quickly as I could about my experience, then switched off the computer and tried to nap. But I couldn’t. I was too happy. For the first time, I felt glad to be a man.
By Mark O’BrienMay 1990In fourth grade, after the bra-and-girdle notebook affair, we all fell in love with Julia Harris. By “we” I mean the foreign boys in Madame Bouvet’s class, and also Pascal Fourtané, the only French boy we foreigners hung out with.
By Robin GreenMay 1990What Henry wants to be is an actor, but in the meantime he teaches a course called “Great Plagues.” What I want to do is play for the Lakers, engineering the break while Kareem signals for the lob.
By Terry L. TomaApril 1990Then she is walking across the lawn toward you in her silky blue dress. An old woman now, but more handsome than ever with her pure white hair up in a bun, her smile, the little blue vein in her forehead.
By Jim SandefurMarch 1990Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
Subscribe Today