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turns out you were quite rightly ashamed of yourself.” “That’s where you’re wrong. Shame is for people with self-respect.”
Oliver put his arm round me, tucking me against his side. And, God knows the hell why, I let myself be tucked. “Will this do?” “D-do for what?” “Touching. In public.” He cleared his throat. “Not all the time, obviously. It would make going through doors difficult.” Right now, I could live without doors. I turned my head, for the smallest of moments, breathing him in. And almost thought, imagined probably, his lips brushed my temple. “I guess it’ll do,” I said. Because what else could I say? That the moments when it nearly worked made all the times it didn’t feel just a little worse. All the
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We stripped my bed, which I honestly think was less gross than Oliver was making out, although I super wished my, um, personal pleasure device hadn’t bounced out of the sheets and landed right at Oliver’s feet like a dog wanting to go walkies. Except, y’know, up my bum. I shoved it hastily in my bedside drawer which, unfortunately, involved revealing yet more of my, now I thought about it, depressingly onanistic collection. Whether out of embarrassment or gallantry, Oliver said nothing. Just got on with crimping down the edges of my new sheets until they were glass smooth and hotel room
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onanism /ˈōnəˌnizəm/ I. noun 1. ‹formal› masturbation. 2. ‹formal› coitus interruptus. II. derivatives 1. onanist /ˈōnənəst / noun 2. onanistic /ˌōnəˈnistik / adjective – origin early 18th cent.: from French onanisme or modern Latin onanismus, from the biblical story of Onan (Gen. 38:8).
Onan[a] was a figure detailed in the Book of Genesis chapter 38,[1] as the second son of Judah who married the daughter of Shuah the Canaanite. Onan had an older brother Er and a younger brother, Shelah as well.
Story of Onan
For other uses, see Onan (disambiguation).
Onan was commanded by his father, Judah, to perform his duty as a husband's brother according to the custom of levirate marriage with Er's widow Tamar. Onan refused to perform his duty as a levirate and instead "spilled his seed on the ground whenever he went in" because "the offspring would not be his", and was thus put to death by Yahweh.[2] This act is detailed as retribution for being "displeasing in the sight of Lord".[3][4] Onan's crime is often misinterpreted as being masturbation, but it is universally agreed among biblical scholars that Onan's death is attributed to his refusal to fulfill his obligation of levirate marriage with Tamar by committing coitus interruptus.[5][6]
This right here was why you had sex. So you were too tired to randomly tell people personal shit at three in the morning. “Besides, when all you see of yourself is what the tabloids show you, it’s hard to believe in anything else.” I felt the faintest stirring of air close to my face, as if he’d reached out to me but thought better of it. “You’re beautiful, Lucien. I’ve always thought so. Like an early self-portrait of Robert Mapplethorpe. Um”—I practically heard him blush—“not the one with the bullwhip in his anus, obviously.” I wasn’t sure, but I thought Oliver Blackwood had just called me
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If, for whatever reason, Oliver had decided he couldn’t do this, it probably wouldn’t ruin my life. I’d had some good publicity already. And by the time the tabloids noticed they hadn’t seen us together for a while, it’d be too late for them to run the inevitable Gay Playboy Fleming Kid Drives Away Nice Lawyer Man headlines before the Beetle Drive. Besides, if Oliver was breaking it off, it said more about the situation than it did about me. And, honestly, we’d be both better off not having to navigate this whole weird pretending-to-be-going-out-with-each-other thing that I should never have
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It was the longest week ever. Which made no sense because I’d only had a pretend boyfriend for ten minutes. And it wasn’t like I’d ever been Mr. Knows What to Do with Himself—it’s just that before Oliver came along, I’d been resigned to a lifetime of cruising Grindr, then freaking out in case I got recognised and ended up in the papers again, and deciding instead to spend my evenings half-dressed under a pile of blankets binge-watching Scandi-noir on Netflix and hating myself. And now I…I don’t know… I guess I wasn’t? He still texted because, of course he would. Though mainly he said things
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“Well, fuck me sideways with a baked aubergine.” “Something I can help you with, Luc?” Rhys Jones Bowen, who had been passing on the way to either the coffee machine or the burns unit, stuck his head round the door. “I mean, not with that. Not that I’m judging.” “It was a rhetorical aubergine, Rhys.” “I’m not sure that makes it any better. Now what’s the issue?” “Just”—I waved a dismissive hand—“donor stuff.” He came in uninvited and plonked himself in the spare chair. “Well, let me hear it. A problem shared is a problem two people have.” “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to do much good
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As in most conversations with Rhys Jones Bowen, I really wasn’t sure how we’d got here. “Anyway, back to you saving my vegan bacon substitute. This Bronwyn who used to be a vegetarian from Aberystwyth and is now a vegan in Islington, is she…how do I put this…actually any good?” He scratched absently at his beard. “She won the South Wales Echo Food and Drink Award a couple of years back. Though she did marry an Englishwoman so her taste is questionable.” “Wait. Bronwyn’s a lesbian?” “It’d be a bit strange of her to marry a woman if she wasn’t.” “No, I just kind of assumed all your friends would
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That evening, as I was pushing the mess around my flat like a half-arsed Sisyphus, I got a text and an attachment from Oliver. And was briefly really excited until I found myself staring into the kindly, twinkly eyes of the late Sir Richard Attenborough. Wtf is this? I sent back. A dick pic. You are not funny, I told him, laughing. And I definitely don’t miss you now A few minutes later: I’m glad you chose to reach out to your father. I’m not I can see you’re handling this well. I’m insecure. Tell me how mature I’m being I think—and somehow I could hear him like a voice-over—genuinely mature
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Sisyphus /ˈsisəfəs / ‹Greek Mythology› the son of Aeolus, punished in Hades for his misdeeds in life by being condemned to the eternal task of rolling a large stone to the top of a hill, from which it always rolled down again.
In Greek mythology, Sisyphus or Sisyphos (/ˈsɪsɪfəs/ ⓘ; Ancient Greek: Σίσυφος, romanized: Sísyphos) is the founder and king of Ephyra (now known as Corinth). He reveals Zeus's abduction of Aegina to the river god Asopus, thereby incurring Zeus's wrath. His subsequent cheating of death earns him eternal punishment in the underworld, once he dies of old age. The gods forced him to roll an immense boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down every time it neared the top, repeating this action for eternity. Through the classical influence on contemporary culture, tasks that are both laborious and futile are therefore described as Sisyphean (/sɪsɪˈfiːən/).[2]
That evening, as I was pushing the mess around my flat like a half-arsed Sisyphus, I got a text and an attachment from Oliver. And was briefly really excited until I found myself staring into the kindly, twinkly eyes of the late Sir Richard Attenborough. Wtf is this? I sent back. A dick pic. You are not funny, I told him, laughing. And I definitely don’t miss you now A few minutes later: I’m glad you chose to reach out to your father. I’m not I can see you’re handling this well. I’m insecure. Tell me how mature I’m being I think—and somehow I could hear him like a voice-over—genuinely mature
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scull1 /skəl/ I. noun 1. each of a pair of small oars used by a single rower. 2. an oar placed over the stern of a boat to propel it by a side-to-side motion, reversing the blade at each turn. 3. a light, narrow boat propelled with a scull or a pair of sculls. 4. (sculls) — a race between boats in which each participant uses a pair of oars. II. verb — [no obj.] 1. propel a boat with sculls. 2. [with obj.] — transport (someone) in a boat propelled with sculls. 3. (of an aquatic animal) propel itself with fins or flippers. – origin Middle English: of unknown origin.
Sculling is the use of oars to propel a boat by moving them through the water on both sides of the craft, or moving one oar over the stern. A long, narrow boat with sliding seats, rigged with two oars per rower may be referred to as a scull, its oars may be referred to as sculls and a person rowing it referred to as sculler.[1]
Sculler ready to catch with blades squared
Sculling is distinguished from sweep rowing, whereby each boat crew member employs an oar, complemented by another crew member on the opposite side with an oar, usually with each pulling it with two hands and from stern sculling, which uses an oar to propel a vessel with side-to-side movements from the stern.[2][3]
Overview
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Sculling oars for competitive rowing
Sculling is a form of rowing in which a boat is propelled by one or more rowers, each of whom operates two oars, one held in the fingers and upper palm of each hand.[4] This contrasts with the other common method of rowing, sweep rowing, in which each rower may use both hands to operate a single oar on either the port or starboard side of the boat.[5] Sculling is generally considered the more technically complex of the two disciplines. Sculling can either be competitive or recreational, but the watercraft used will vary between the two as the racing shells of competitive rowing are built for speed rather than stability. Racing shells are also far more expensive and fragile than what is suitable for the recreational rower; a typical racing shell sells for thousands[6] of dollars while recreational sculling boats may cost significantly less.
In crew
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Quad, Germany, 1982. Stroke Seat: Martin Winter. 3 Seat: Uwe Heppner. 2 Seat: Uwe Mund. Bow Seat: Karl-Heinz Bußert.
Sculling, one of the two major divisions of crew (or competitive rowing), is composed of races between small, sculled boats crewed by various numbers of rowers. Generally, one, two, or four athletes row these shells. These shells are classified according to the number of rowers that they can hold: singles have one seat, doubles have two, and quads have four. In keeping with this pattern, quads rowed by three people (due, for instance, to a temporary shortage of rowers) are often colloquially referred to as "triples". The boat manufacturer 'Stampflï' has created a triple with only three seats (rather than using a quad occupied by three people). A rare sculling shell is the octuple, rowed by an eight-man crew, which is sometimes used by large rowing programs to teach novice rowers how to scull in a balanced, coxed boat.
The physical movement of sculling is split into two main parts: the drive and the recovery. These two parts are separated by what is called the "catch" and the "finish". The drive is the section of the rowing stroke where the face of the oars, also known as blades, are firmly placed in the water and the rower is propelling the boat forwards by pulling against the anchor the oars provide. The recovery is the section where the rower's blades are not in the water, but instead gliding above it as the rower prepares for the next stroke. The catch is the moment the blades are dropped into the water at the end of the recovery and the start of the drive, while the finish is when the blades are slipping out after the drive is done and the recovery is beginning. In order to improve balance on the recovery, the blades are feathered, or held parallel to the surface of the water, at the finish, and squared (perpendicular to the water surface) at the catch.
Competitive crew requires an efficient stroke with all rowers matching the cadence and movements of the stroke seat, the rower closest to the shell's stern. The shell may have a coxswain, or "cox", to steer the boat, encourage the crew, and monitor the rate, though coxswains are highly uncommon in competitive sculling shells and the rower in bow seat usually takes on these responsibilities instead. The bow-most rower may have equipment that attaches the skeg of the shell to one of the bow's shoes to aid with the steering; without such equipment, a sculling boat is directed by uneven pressure applied to the opposing blades.
A key technical difference between sculling and sweeping in crew is that the sculling oar handles overlap twice during the stroke cycle (sweep oar handles never overlap during normal rowing because each sweeper usually holds only one oar). The overlap occurs at the midpoint of the drive and again during the recovery; because of this, scullers must hold one hand (conventionally the left hand) higher than the other at the point of overlap. To prevent this from impacting the balance of the boat, one oarlock (conventionally the starboard one, to the rower's lefthand side) is rigged higher than the other prior to rowing.[4] This prevents the oar handles and the sculler's thumbs from colliding with one another and causing a crab or other problems.
“Are you feeling okay?” “Fine. Why?” “I can’t remember the last time you said something nice about, well, anything.” I thought about this for slightly longer than I was comfortable having to think about it. “When you got that new haircut. The one with the cute fringe. I told you it looked really good on you.” “That was three years ago.” I gasped. “It was not.” “Luc, I can remember when fringes were in.” “Jesus.” I sank down onto the arm of my sofa. “I’m sorry.” “It’s all right. I’m saving these stories for when I’m best man at your wedding.” “You might be saving them for a long time.” “Then
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“I have no idea how Priya wound up with someone so much less of an arsehole than her.” “I’m a tortured artist,” Priya shot back. “And I’m fucking incredible in bed. Now how do we tackle the pile of unadulterated skank you call your home?”
James Royce-Royce had spread a red-and-white-checked picnic blanket across my newly visible living room floor. It was laden with goodies, and there were even clean plates to eat them off. Been a while since I’d seen those. We all flopped down and waited semipatiently for James Royce-Royce to introduce the food. I’d never quite figured out if it was a chef thing or a him thing, but he got borderline huffy if you tried to eat something he’d made for you before he’d told you all about it. “So,” he announced, “this is a traditional pork pie with hot-water crust pastry. Sorry, not suitable for
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Eventually, Theresa—who clearly had better manners than the rest of us—said, “Priya tells me you have a new boyfriend, Luc. Will he be joining us?” “He’s got a work thing.” I waved a hunk of James Royce-Royce’s delicious home-made bread slightly sheepishly. “He’s a barrister.” “What speciality?” Help. I hadn’t prepared for the quiz. “Um…criminal stuff? He defends them and stuff.” “That’s very admirable. I had a friend from university who went into criminal law, but he recently moved into consultancy. I understand it can be very draining and not particularly lucrative.” “Well, Oliver’s got a
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I found myself surreptitiously checking my phone. Turned out while I’d been dragging bags of rubbish between flat and truck and truck and dump, I’d missed a text from Oliver. He’d sent me a picture of Richard Chamberlain. Nice Dick, I sent back. “Oh my God, Luc,” cried James Royce-Royce. “What’s happened to your mouth?” I glanced up, startled. “If there’s hummus on my face, just tell me.” “It’s far worse than that. You were smiling.” “W-was I?” “At your phone.” From the uncomfortable hot feeling and the way everyone was looking at me, I was pretty sure I was blushing. “I saw something funny on
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“Surprise?” He glanced from me to the lack of filth to me again. “You cleaned?” “Yes. I mean, I had help.” “You didn’t do this for me, did you?” “For myself. And a bit for you.” He looked genuinely overwhelmed. “Oh, Lucien.” “It’s…it’s not a big de—” He kissed me. And it was the most Oliver kiss, his hands cupping my face gently to draw me to him, and his lips covering mine with a deliberate care that was its own kind of passion. The way you’d eat a really expensive chocolate, savouring it because you knew you might never get another. He smelled of familiarity, of homecoming, and of the night
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Pulling on Oliver’s dressing gown, I headed downstairs. Oliver was eating something scarily healthy-looking from a mason jar, and reading the Financial Times on his iPad. God, he was adorable. “There’s toast.” He glanced up, looking like some kind of weird and highly specific porno for people who are really into incredibly cut men and funny-coloured newspapers. “Or fruit. Or bircher. I can make porridge if you prefer.” I was still a bit too emotioned out for that much fibre. So I helped myself to a banana, from a bunch that hung from what appeared to be a bespoke banana hanging place, next to,
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“Fine. So I’m being silly.” “You are, but explicably so. And you are being rather charming about it.”
laconic
laconic /ləˈkänik/ I. adjective (of a person, speech, or style of writing) using very few words • his laconic reply suggested a lack of interest in the topic. II. derivatives 1. laconically /ləˈkänək(ə)lē / adverb 2. laconicism /ləˈkänəˌsizəm / noun 3. laconism /ˈlakəˌnizəm / noun – origin mid 16th cent. (in the sense ‘Laconian’): via Latin from Greek Lakōnikos, from Lakōn ‘Laconia, Sparta,’ the Spartans being known for their terse speech.
A laconic phrase or laconism is a concise or terse statement, especially a blunt and elliptical rejoinder.[1][2] It is named after Laconia, the region of Greece including the city of Sparta, whose ancient inhabitants had a reputation for verbal austerity and were famous for their often pithy remarks.
laconic.
