The revolutionary woman knows the world she seeks to overthrow is precisely one in which love between equal human beings is well nigh impossible. We are still part of the ironical working-out of this, our own cruel contradiction. One of the most compelling facts which can unite women and make us act is the overwhelming indignity or bitter hurt of being regarded as simply __he other_, __n object_, __ommodity_, __hing_. We act directly from a consciousness of the impossibility of loving or being loved without distortion. But we must still demand now the preconditions of what is impossible at the moment. It is a most disturbing dialectic, our praxis of pain.

When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

He'd never considered sweet and conservative to be so hot, but damn, Emma wore it well.

It's hard to unlock a door with a condom," Emma shot back.His brilliant smile stole her heart. "Honey, you'd be surprised how many doors those babies have unlocked.

I__ going to kiss you.__nother whimper, but she didn__ jerk from his hold. __ know, and that__ an extremely bad idea.

She reeked of respectability and sophistication, and he went hard on a helpless surge of lust.