“Once, as he inhaled with his customary vehemence, I had a thought that made my armpits come alive.”

“My whole life, I had thought that my story was, again and again: Once upon a time, there was a boy, and he had to risk everything to keep what he loved. But really, the story was: Once upon a time, there was a boy, and his fear ate him alive.”

“No sex?" He looked at me in disbelief. "Well if you can't have ze sex, what can you do?"For the sake of simplicity I took my left arm and lined it up just under my collarbones. "Nothing below here," I said. I took my right arm and lined it up to my knees. "Nothing above here.""What about your armpit?" he asked. "Can your boyfriend do anything he wants to your armpit?"I thought about it. Armpits seemed pretty harmless. "Yeah," I said optimistically. "My boyfriend can do anything he wants to my armpit.""This is good," the Frenchman said. "He can stick his penis in and out of your armpit, and if you grow hair there it is almost like vagine."Is it too late to change my answer? I wondered, pulling a cardigan over my bare shoulders and covering any hint of an invitation.”

“In his autobiography Stravinsky relates that the first music he remembers was made by a peasant, working his hand in his armpit to produce a rhytmic farting.”

“At my disbelieving look he sighed again. I thought about offering him an inhaler, but he continued.”

“I hold his name close as my own blood and I will never let it out. I only spoke it that once so he would know he was alive.”