Anger

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Camouflaged in my bushes, he spied through the bedroom window into the candlelight as I pranced, stripped, and touched myself. All was quiet but I could see his hypocrisy harden as his hand moved furiously back and forth on his cock. Was God watching now as my pussy took precedence over Him? I couldn’t have God myself, so I settled for treating Him like the competition. In fact, each time Born Again touched me in public, I felt a kind of religious potency emanating from my pussy. I was angry at Born Again for not being who he thought he was. And who I hoped he was. I wanted him to be for real, a real Man of God. Once again, I found myself not fucked by God but fucked over by His apostle. This man’s flaws shone all the brighter in the light of my massive expectations and subsequent frustration. I had, you see, loved him. A little. He couldn’t win with me, and eventually the games wore out and I ended our X-rated morality play. The Holy Fuck never took place. Perhaps this was how he kept things straight with his buddy. THE LAST BOYFRIEND Contrary to appearances, perhaps, I was by now finally beginning to acquire some semblance of romantic discipline. After the disappointment of the truck- driving, gun-toting, sex-addicted Republican Christian, it was time for the Volvo-leasing, pot-smoking, monogamous, left-wing atheist. And a liberal lesson in disappointment. I refused to mourn for the impossible Young Man and the crazy Christian. So I attempted the possible—a boyfriend with an out-of-control dick—and found this, too, impossible, but in a different way. There are two types of out-of-control dicks: the first one insatiable, the second merely undisciplined and poorly behaved. I prefer the former, but often found myself with the latter. In some strange, inexplicable throwback to my premarriage years, I had agreed to be monogamous with this guy after one mad make-out session on my couch on the first date. He asked and I delivered. Perhaps I was having a conventional moment of my own after the transcendent Trinity and the byzantine Christian affair. Naughtiness in the moment was definitely the most fun, the most erotic, but it had a price—the anxiety of impermanence. Immediately, however, I was reminded of something even worse: the anxiety of permanence. I had hitched myself to a single flawed human being. What was I thinking? Weekly therapy, where I howled bloody murder, kept me “working” on the “relationship” for more than the usual six weeks. For over a year I tried to be his girlfriend, kicking and screaming every step of the way. I even considered Prozac in this last attempt to be “normal” and “conventional.”

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Both parties are equally free to initiate the next encounter and the one who calls preferably has an “offer,” a “plan.” Examples: Be ready at 6 P.M. Friday with an overnight bag, sunglasses, and a jacket; or meet me at Café Lulu at 9 P.M., I’ll have no panties on; or movie, dinner, and sex; or a 10 P.M. call —I’m coming over to suck your cock; or pick me up and I’ll surprise you; or let’s talk and not have sex. . . . Anything and everything can be an encounter, and imagination is all. 7. While together, refinements, additions, and subtractions to rules can be discussed and negotiated, although avoid getting stuck in having the encounters be entirely about the encounters. 8. All these rules, limitations, and boundaries are designed to enable and protect the possibility of fully, deeply, freely exploring the erotic realm and whatever else goes along with it. 9. Can give gifts to each other, but absolutely no obligation in this area. 10. Any amendments to these rules must be very clearly discussed and agreed upon together. I faxed them over. These rules were a serious, insane attempt to legislate separation, to eliminate all areas of contention, to edit our sex life into our only life. Well, it was worth a try. In truth, #3 was the only rule I really cared about. It legislated hope. Mistressing worked for a few months. One by one he tested every rule like a naughty boy. He bought me dresses and handbags, and in his arrogance thought he would win me from the competition. But it was too late. Show me an arrogant man, and I’ll show you my machete—ah, the legitimized anger of feminism! I had freed myself at last from men whose shit was so deep that I thought it was my own. What I’ve learned from each relationship is how much emotional pain I’m willing to take. This was the last conventional connection I’ve had with a man. This relationship had an unexpected silver lining, however. It goes like this. When I met him, the Boyfriend was deep in therapy with the first shrink of his life. He adored her, praised her, and wanted me to meet her—wanted her approval. I was evidence of how far he had come. Meanwhile I had a shrink, too, who helped me deal with my divorce, but I didn’t adore her. I agreed to meet his. Within a couple of weeks of seeing him, I was already in a state of complete agitation, and so we went to see her together. And I adored her, also. Oh dear. “Can’t I see her, too? You know, separately?”

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  So let’s tackle the root of the problem: the Inner Critic. Ready? Here we go. 5 Think Different: Replace There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. —SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET There’s a courtroom in your brain. You wouldn’t expect that all that dark wood paneling, a judge’s bench, a jury box, and a guy who looks like Bull from Night Court could fit, but there we have it. What’s more, there’s a trial under way. It’s actually been going on for years. It’s a trial to determine whether your fears will come true or not—that you’ll sweat through your shirt and people will slowly back away, that everyone will stare at you in bewilderment as you speak, or that people would rather watch C-SPAN 2 than listen to your stories. The prosecution’s star witness, of course, is the Inner Critic. It’s been up there on the stand for years, yammering away, and frankly, it’s time for it to be cross-examined—its annoying voice has been slandering you big time, and to quote the esteemed legal scholar Twisted Sister, we’re not gonna take it anymore. In order to challenge the Inner Critic, the plan is to shift how you respond to the Critic’s admonishments—to change how you think when the Inner Critic gets loud and obnoxious. As the iconic, if ungrammatical, late-’90s Apple ads remind us: think different. To do that, we’ll use two tools. These two tools are very different, but they both serve the same purpose: to respond to the Inner Critic rather than letting it convince us that hiding behind a bush or in the bathroom is the best option. Consider them the first of your new collection of tools. The first tool is called Replace. Here, in chapter 5, we’ll argue back to the Inner Critic (or at least be politely assertive—confrontation isn’t my style, either) with the goal of changing its threats. Then, in chapter 6, I’ll introduce another tool that falls under a different category: Embrace. There, rather than fighting with the Critic, we’ll make peace with it. We’ll extend ourselves some of the compassion we’re so adept at offering everyone else. In order to start off Replace with some finely honed arguments, let’s bring in our defense attorney. She (or he—you choose) is fresh faced and, truth be told, a bit green. She hasn’t really had much experience at this, but she’s eager and hungry and it’s time to let her test her chops. Maybe, just maybe, she has some moves that can slow the rush of the Inner Critic’s criticism to a trickle. Importantly, she’s not here to think positively—positive thinking or positive affirmations don’t get you far in the courtroom of your brain. Indeed, reassurance like, “You’ll be great! Just be yourself!” feels like a lie. So this ain’t no pep talk. Instead, our defense attorney is here to help us think clearly. So let’s help her face down our Critic for a bit, shall we?

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  When someone came home late he would clap his hands together and call for the watchman. The watchman would open the door. While the Indian was away at work the watchman and the woman chatted together innocently. He told her about a crime that had recently taken place in the village: The Indians who left the mountain and their work on the haciendas and went down to the jungle became wild and beastlike. Their faces changed from lean, noble contours to bestial grossness. Such a transformation had just taken place in an Indian who had once been the handsomest man of the village, gracious, silent, with a strange humor and a reserved sensuality. He had gone down to the jungle and made money hunting. Now he had returned. He was homesick. He came back poor and wandered about homeless. No one recognized or remembered him. Then he had caught a little girl on the road and ripped her sexual parts with a long knife used for skinning animals. He had not violated her, but had taken the knife and inserted it into her sex, and belabored her with it. The whole village was in a turmoil. They could not decide how to punish him. A very old Indian practice was to be revived for his sake. His wounds would be parted and wax, mixed with a biting acid the Indians knew of, inserted into them so that the pain would be doubled. Then he was to be flogged to death. As the watchman told this story to the woman, her lover returned from his work. He saw her leaning out of the window and looking at the watchman. He rushed up to her room and appeared before her with his black hair wild around his face, his eyes full of lightning bolts of anger and jealousy. He began to curse her and torture her with questions and doubts. Ever since the accident with the ring his penis had remained sensitive. The lovemaking was accompanied with pain, and so he could not indulge in it as often as he wanted. His penis would swell and hurt him for days. He was always afraid he was not satisfying his mistress and that she might love another. When he saw the tall watchman talking to her, he was sure they were carrying on an affair behind his back. He wanted to hurt her, he wanted her to suffer bodily in some way, as he had suffered for her. He forced her to go downstairs with him to the cellar where the wines were kept in vats under beamed ceilings. He tied a rope to one of the beams. The woman thought he was going to beat her. She could not understand why he was preparing a pulley. Then he tied her hands and began pulling on the rope so that her body was raised in the air and the whole weight of it hung on her wrists, and the pain was great.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Afterwards Elena remembered nothing of this trip except a sensation of tremendous bodily warmth, as if she had drunk a whole bottle of the very choicest Burgundy, and a feeling of great anger at the discovery of a secret which it seemed to her was criminally withheld from all people. She discovered first of all that she had never known the sensations described by Lawrence, and second, that this was the nature of her hunger. But there was another truth she was now fully aware of. Something had created in her a state of perpetual defense against the very possibilities of experience, an urge for flight which took her away from the scenes of pleasure and expansion. She had stood many times on the very edge, and then had run away. She herself was to blame for what she had lost, ignored. It was the submerged woman of Lawrence’s book that lay coiled within her, at last exposed, sensitized, prepared as if by a multitude of caresses for the arrival of someone. A new woman emerged from the train at Caux. This was not the place she would have liked to begin her journey. Caux was a mountain top, isolated, looking down upon Lake Geneva. It was spring, the snow was melting, and as the little train panted up the mountain, Elena felt irritation about its slowness, the slow gestures of the Swiss, the slow movements of the animals, the static, heavy landscape, while her moods and her feelings were rushing like newborn torrents. She did not plan to stay very long. She would rest until her new book was ready to be published. From the station she walked to a chalet that looked like a fairy tale house, and the woman who opened the door looked like a witch. She stared with coal-black eyes at Elena, and then asked her to come in. It seemed to Elena that the whole house was built for her, with doors and furniture smaller than usual. It was no illusion, for the woman turned to her and said, “I cut down the legs of my tables and chairs. Do you like my house? I call it Casutza—‘little house,’ in Roumanian.” Elena stumbled on a mass of snow shoes, jackets, fur hats, capes and sticks near the entrance. These things had overflowed from the closet and were left there on the floor. The dishes from breakfast were still on the table. The witch’s shoes sounded like wooden shoes as she walked up the stairs. She had the voice of a man, and a small black rim of hair around her lips, like an adolescent’s mustache. Her voice was intense, heavy.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  There was another cause of dissatisfaction even among the more moderate, which brought on the crisis. Farel in his iconoclastic zeal had, before the arrival of Calvin, abolished all holidays except Sunday, the baptismal fonts, and the unleavened bread in the communion, all of which were retained by the Reformed Church in Bern.487 A synod of Lausanne, under the influence of Bern, recommended the restoration of the old Bernese customs, as they were called. The Council enforced this decision. Calvin himself regarded such matters as in themselves indifferent, but would not forsake his colleagues. Stormy scenes took place in the general assembly of citizens, Nov. 15, 1537. In the popular elections on Feb. 3, 1538, the anti-clerical party succeeded in the election of four syndics and a majority of the Council.488 The new rulers proceeded with caution. They appointed new preachers for the country, which was much needed. They prohibited indecent songs and broils in the streets, and going out at night after nine. They took Bern for their model. They enforced the decision of the Council of Lausanne concerning the Church festivals and baptismal fonts. But the preachers were determined to die rather than to yield an inch. They continued to thunder against the popular vices, and censured the Council for want of energy in suppressing them. The result was that they were warned not to meddle in politics (March 12).489 Courauld, who surpassed even Farel in vehemence, was forbidden to preach, but ascended the pulpit again, April 7, denounced Geneva and its citizens in a rude and insulting manner,490 was imprisoned, and six days afterwards banished in spite of the energetic protests of Calvin and Farel. The old man retired to Thonon, on the lake of Geneva, was elected minister at Orbe, and died there Oct. 4 in the same year. Calvin and Farel were emboldened by this harsh treatment of their colleague. They attacked the Council from the pulpit. Even Calvin went so far as to denounce it as the Devil’s Council. Libels were circulated against the preachers. They often heard the cry late in the evening, "To the Rhone with the traitors," and in the night they were disturbed by violent knocks at the door of their dwelling.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  How exhortation, where the contradicter has to expect banishment and death?" With equal truth Hilary confronts the emperor with the wrong of his course, in the words: "With the gold of the state thou burdenest the sanctuary of God, and what is torn from the temples, or gained by confiscation, or extorted by punishment, thou obtrudest upon God." By the laws of history the forced Christianity of Constantius must provoke a reaction of heathenism. And such reaction in fact ensued, though only for a brief period immediately after this emperor’s death. § 4. Julian the Apostate, and the Reaction of Paganism. A.D. 361–363. SOURCES. These agree in all the principal facts, even to unimportant details, but differ entirely in spirit and in judgment; Julian himself exhibiting the vanity of self- praise, Libanius and Zosimus the extreme of passionate admiration, Gregory and Cyril the opposite extreme of hatred and abhorrence, Ammianus

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Although Tom and Nicole split custody of their children, both Isabella and Connor soon chose to live exclusively with their father. Rathbun says this was because the Scientology staff, especially Tommy Davis, quietly worked to turn the children against Kidman. “ Tommy told them over and over again their mother was a sociopath and after a while they believed him,” he recalled. “They had daily sessions with Tommy. I was there. I saw it.” According to several former Sea Org members, Rathbun’s auditing sessions with Cruise were videotaped. Tom De Vocht, a former church official, said Miscavige would watch them and then regale his inner circle, over his nightly whiskey, with stories of Cruise’s confessions, dwelling especially on his sex life.1 Rathbun was opposed to the endless courtship of Cruise. In his opinion, there was no need for it once Cruise was securely back on the Bridge. Rathbun told Miscavige, “ I think I’m done with this guy.” Miscavige responded, “He’ll be done when he calls me.” The leader was galled by the fact that Cruise had never contacted him when he came back for counseling. Rathbun continually urged Cruise to call “COB,” as Miscavige is known in the church—Chairman of the Board. At one point Cruise asked for Miscavige’s number, but then failed to call. His tentativeness was worrisome. Whatever restraint Cruise felt about Miscavige eventually fell away, however, and Miscavige was once again folded into the star’s inner circle. There were movie nights in Cruise’s mansion. Miscavige flew with Cruise in the Warner Bros. jet to a test screening of The Last Samurai in Arizona. The two men became closer than ever. Cruise later said of Miscavige, “ I have never met a more competent, a more intelligent, a more compassionate being outside of what I have experienced from LRH. And I’ve met the leaders of leaders. I’ve met them all.” Cruise’s renewed dedication to Scientology permanently changed the relationship between the church and the Hollywood celebrity community. Cruise poured millions of dollars into the church—$3 million in 2004 alone. He was not simply a figurehead; he was an activist with an international following. He could take the church into places it had never been before. Whenever Cruise traveled abroad to promote his movies, he used the opportunity to lobby foreign leaders and American ambassadors to promote Scientology. Davis usually accompanied him on these diplomatic and lobbying missions. Cruise repeatedly consulted with former president Clinton, lobbying him to get prime minister Tony Blair’s help in getting the Church of Scientology declared a tax-deductible charitable organization in the United Kingdom. Rathbun was present for one telephone call in which Clinton advised Cruise he would be better served by contacting Blair’s wife, Cherie, rather than the prime minister, because she was a lawyer and “ would understand the details.” Later, Cruise went to London, where he met with a couple of Blair’s representatives, although nothing came of those efforts.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  However, anxious to curb Nestorius’s rising star, Cyril, patriarch of Alexandria, vehemently accused him of outright heresy, arguing that when God stooped to save us, he did not go halfway, as Nestorius seemed to suggest, but embraced our humanity in all its physicality and mortality. At the Council of Ephesus (431) that met to decide the issue, each side accused the other of “tyranny.” Nestorius claimed that Cyril had sent a horde of “fanatical monks” to attack him and that he had been compelled to surround his house with an armed guard. 96 Contemporary historians had no respect for either side, dismissing Nestorius as a “firebrand” and Cyril as “power-hungry.” 97 There was no serious doctrinal conflict, argued Palladius; these men “tore the church asunder” simply “to satisfy their desire for the episcopal office or even the primacy of the episcopate.” 98 In 449 Eutyches, a revered monastic leader in Constantinople, maintained that Jesus had only one nature (mono physis), since his humanity had been so thoroughly deified that it was no longer like our own. He accused his opponents—quite inaccurately—of “Nestorianism.” Flavian, his bishop, tried to settle the matter quietly but Eutyches was a favorite of the emperor and insisted on making a legal case of it. 99 The result was a virtual civil war over doctrine, in which emperor and monks formed an unholy alliance against the more moderate bishops. A second council was convened at Ephesus in 449 to settle the “Monophysite” problem, headed by the “tyrant-bishop” Dioscorus, patriarch of Alexandria, who was determined to use the council to establish himself as primate of the Eastern Church. To make matters worse, Theodosius brought the monk Barsauma and his crew to Ephesus, ostensibly to represent “all the monks and pious people of the east” but actually to be his storm troopers. 100 Twenty years earlier Barsauma and his monastic thugs had ritually reenacted Joshua’s campaign in Palestine and Transjordan, systematically destroying synagogues and temples at all the holy places along the route, and in 438 they had killed Jewish pilgrims on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. “He has sent thousands of monks against us,” his victims complained later; “he has devastated all of Syria; he is a murderer and a slayer of bishops.”

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  THEOLOGICAL CONTROVERSIES, AND DEVELOPMENT OF THE ECUMENICAL ORTHODOXY. § 117. General Observations. Doctrinal Importance of the Period. Influence of the Ancient Philosophy. The Nicene and Chalcedonian age is the period of the formation and ecclesiastical settlement of the ecumenical orthodoxy; that is, the doctrines of the holy trinity and of the incarnation and the divine-human person of Christ, in which the Greek, Latin, and evangelical churches to this day in their symbolical books agree, in opposition to the heresies of Arianism and Apollinarianism, Nestorianism and Eutychianism. Besides these trinitarian and christological doctrines, anthropology also, and soteriology, particularly the doctrines of sin and grace, in opposition to Pelagianism and Semi-Pelagianism were developed and brought to a relative settlement; only, however, in the Latin church, for the Greek took very little part in the Pelagian controversy. The fundamental nature of these doctrines, the greatness of the church fathers who were occupied with them, and the importance of the result, give this period the first place after the apostolic in the history of theology. In no period, excepting the Reformation of the sixteenth century, have there been so momentous and earnest controversies in doctrine, and so lively an interest in them. The church was now in possession of the ancient philosophy and learning of the Roman empire, and applied them to the unfolding and vindication of the Christian truth. In the lead of these controversies stood church teachers of imposing talents and energetic piety, not mere book men, but venerable theological characters, men all of a piece, as great in acting and suffering as in thinking. To them theology was a sacred business of heart and life,1283 and upon them we may pass the judgment of Eusebius respecting Origen: "Their life was as their word, and their word was as their life." The theological controversies absorbed the intellectual activity of that time, and shook the foundations of the church and the empire. With the purest zeal for truth were mingled much of the odium and rabies theologorum, and the whole host of theological passions; which are the deepest and most bitter of passions, because religion is concerned with eternal interests. The leading personages in these controversies were of course bishops and priests. By their side fought the monks, as a standing army, with fanatical zeal for the victory of orthodoxy, or not seldom in behalf even of heresy. Emperors and civil officers also mixed in the business of theology, but for the most part to the prejudice of its free, internal development; for they imparted to all theological questions a political character, and entangled them with the cabals of court and the secular interests of the day.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Dioscurus, on his part, endeavored to stir up the court in Constantinople against the whole church of Eastern Asia. Domnus and Theodoret likewise betook themselves to the capital, to justify their doctrine. The controversy now broke forth with greater violence, and concentrated on the person of Eutyches in Constantinople. At a local synod of the patriarch Flavian at Constantinople in 4481608 Eutyches was charged with his error by Eusebius, bishop of Dorylaeum in Phrygia, and upon his wilful refusal, after repeated challenges, to admit the dyophysitism after the incarnation, and the consubstantiality of Christ’s body with our own, he was deposed and put under the ban of the church. On his way home, he was publicly insulted by the populace. The council confessed its faith that "Christ, after the incarnation, consisted of two natures1609 in one hypostasis and in one person, one Christ, one Son, one Lord." Both parties endeavored to gain the public opinion, and addressed themselves to distant bishops, especially to Leo I. of Rome. Leo, in 449, confirmed the decision of the council in several epistles, especially in a letter to Flavian, which forms an epoch in the history, of Christology, and in which he gave a masterly, profound, and clear analysis of the orthodox doctrine of two natures in one person.1610 But Eutyches had powerful friends among the monks and at the court, and a special patron in Dioscurus of Alexandria, who induced the emperor Theodosius II. to convoke a general council. This synod met at Ephesus, in August, 449, and consisted of one hundred and thirty-five bishops. It occupies a notorious place in the chronique scandaleuse of church history. Dioscurus presided, with brutal violence, protected by monks and an armed soldiery; while Flavian and his friends hardly dared open their lips, and Theodoret was entirely excluded. When an explanation from Eusebius of Dorylaeum, who had been the accuser of Eutyches at the council of Constantinople, was presented, many voices exclaimed: "Let Eusebius be burnt; let him be burnt alive. As he has cut Christ in two, so let him be cut in two."1611 The council affirmed the orthodoxy and sanctity of Eutyches, who defended himself in person; adopted the twelve anathematisms of Cyril; condemned dyophysitism as a heresy, and deposed and excommunicated its advocates, including Theodoret, Flavian, and Leo. The three Roman delegates (the bishops Julius and Renatus, and the deacon Hilarus) dared not even read before the council the epistle addressed to it by Leo,1612 and departed secretly, that they might not be compelled to subscribe its decisions.1613 Flavian was so grossly maltreated by furious monks that he died of his wounds a few days later, in banishment, having first appealed to a new council. In his stead the deacon Anatolius, a friend and agent of Dioscurus, was chosen patriarch of Constantinople. He, however, afterwards went over to the orthodox party, and effaced the infamy of his elevation by his exquisite Greek hymns.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I felt the need of giving free course to my violence and ‘the joy of wrath.’ “No, they did not finish. That other thing was going to begin, of which he was afraid, and was going to annihilate what they wanted to say. I threw myself upon her, still hiding the dagger, that he might not prevent me from striking where I desired, in her bosom, under the breast. At that moment he saw . . . and, what I did not expect on his part, he quickly seized my hand, and cried: “‘Come to your senses! What are you doing? Help! Help!’ “I tore my hands from his grasp, and leaped upon him. I must have been very terrible, for he turned as white as a sheet, to his lips. His eyes scintillated singularly, and—again what I did not expect of him—he scrambled under the piano, toward the other room. I tried to follow him, but a very heavy weight fell upon my left arm. It was she. “I made an effort to clear myself. She clung more heavily than ever, refusing to let go. This unexpected obstacle, this burden, and this repugnant touch only irritated me the more. I perceived that I was completely mad, that I must be frightful, and I was glad of it. With a sudden impulse, and with all my strength, I dealt her, with my left elbow, a blow squarely in the face. “She uttered a cry and let go my arm. I wanted to follow the other, but I felt that it would be ridiculous to pursue in my stockings the lover of my wife, and I did not wish to be grotesque, I wished to be terrible. In spite of my extreme rage, I was all the time conscious of the impression that I was making upon others, and even this impression partially guided me. “I turned toward her. She had fallen on the long easy chair, and, covering her face at the spot where I had struck her, she looked at me. Her features exhibited fear and hatred toward me, her enemy, such as the rat exhibits when one lifts the rat-trap. At least, I saw nothing in her but that fear and hatred, the fear and hatred which love for another had provoked. Perhaps I still should have restrained myself, and should not have gone to the last extremity, if she had maintained silence. But suddenly she began to speak; she grasped my hand that held the dagger. “‘Come to your senses! What are you doing? What is the matter with you?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Una unidad de aire acondicionado sobresale por la ventana de enfrente, una cerca de madera desvencijada y vieja rodea la base, hay partes caídas y rotas sobre el césped o simplemente hay secciones faltantes y el porche está lleno de porquerías al azar, ropa y un par de bolsas llenas de basura. Tres jóvenes están de pie en el porche, fumando y hablando. —¿Aquí? —Me volteo y le pregunto. Pero solo se desabrocha el cinturón de seguridad, preparándose para bajarse. —¿Quiénes son esos tipos? —digo. Levanta la mirada solo por un momento antes de apartar sus ojos de nuevo, tomando su bolso. —Probablemente sean mi hermanastro y un par de sus amigos. Me detengo frente al tráiler, dado que la pequeña entrada para auto está ocupada y apago el motor. —¿Tienes un hermanastro? —No lo ha mencionado. Solo se encoge de hombros. —En el sentido técnico —dice, esbozando una sonrisa—. No hablo mucho con él. —Pero vive aquí —digo intentado conseguir algo de claridad. Asiente y antes que pueda decir algo más, se baja de la camioneta, llevando su bolso con ella. Bueno, ¿cuántas habitaciones puede tener este lugar, si hay otro chico viviendo aquí? ¿Siquiera tiene una cama? Saca una maleta de la parte trasera, pasa su bolso por encima de su cabeza, y guía el camino. Tomo una caja y la sigo, apretando mis dientes para mantener mi jodida boca bajo control. No sé si estoy furioso o preocupado o qué, y no sé si tengo derecho de sentir esas cosas o si cualquier preocupación está justificada. Probablemente estará bien. Esta es su familia. Yo solo... Siento como si fuera a explotar en cualquier segundo. Subimos los pocos escalones hacia la puerta principal y Jordan apenas si mira a su hermanastro y sus amigos mientras abre la puerta. —Ryan, este es el papá de Cole —murmura—. Pike, este es mi hermanastro, Ryan. Me giro hacia el chico y se endereza, tendiéndome su mano. —Qué tal, hombre. Muevo la caja en mis brazos y logro estrechar su mano. —Hola. Es bajo y fornido para ser un chico, de la estatura de Jordan, pero intenta compensarlo con un tatuaje en el cuello y una chaqueta de cuero negra. En verano. —Así qué, ¿ahora estás en casa? —le dice, tomando un trago de su cerveza. —Sí. Uno de los amigos de Ryan le da un codazo. —¿Ella es la que es desnudista? Aprieto mis dedos alrededor de la caja. Resopla, casi escupiendo su cerveza. —No, hombre. Esa es la otra. —Pero entonces sus ojos van hacia Jordan, moviéndose de arriba abajo con una sonrisita—. Aunque, esta también puede bailar un poco. Todos se ríen y siento un bulto subiendo por mi garganta como un gruñido. Tranquilizándome, me volteo y abro la puerta para Jordan, obligándola a entrar. Debo ser más indulgente. No es como si yo no fuera el ocasional idiota de tiempo en tiempo mientras crecía. ¿Cómo demonios sabe cómo baila?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Se suponía que el imbécil de tu hijo la recogería en el trabajo anoche después de trabajar un turno de diez horas —me dice—. Se emborrachó en una fiesta y adivina quién vino a buscarla en su lugar. Jay McCabe, su ex, quien pensó que era divertido golpearla después de haber perdido un juego, cuando estaban en la escuela secundaria. ¿Qué? —Se negó a estar en un auto con él —masculla Shel—. En cambio, la encontré acurrucada, durmiendo en la sucia mesa de billar esta mañana porque no tenía a nadie más a quien llamar anoche. —Y luego entrecierra los ojos—. No quería que averiguaras lo perdedor que es tu hijo. Me quedo quieto, sin poder moverme. No respiro, y no puedo parpadear, la ira amenaza con desbordarse. Él la golpeó. ¿Él la golpeó? Mis puños se cierran y me arden los pulmones. Cada músculo quema. Hijo de puta. ¿Y Cole estaba en la misma fiesta? ¿Lo envió a buscarla? ¿Qué diablos? ¿Cómo puede estar cerca de una bolsa de mierda como esa? La visión de un pequeño y cobarde punk agarrando a Jordan, lastimándola, haciéndola llorar... Yo... Cierro mis ojos. Acabo de hacerla llorar. —Es una buena niña con un corazón realmente bueno —continúa Shel—. Y merece muchísimo más que los imbéciles de esta ciudad, incluido tu hijo. Espero que los deje a todos y nunca mire hacia atrás. Jesucristo. ¿En qué estaba pensando? Doy vuelta y camino hacia donde Jordan desapareció por el pasillo. Tengo que hablar con ella ahora. Todo lo que tenía sentido en mi instinto hace unos minutos ahora parece ridículo. ¿Por qué iba a saltar a conclusiones de las que no tengo ninguna prueba? ¡Maldita sea, Cole! No puedo creerlo. Camino por el pasillo, viendo los baños, una oficina y otra habitación con la puerta entreabierta. Probablemente esté en el baño, pero antes de decidir esperar, abro la otra puerta para comprobar ahí primero. Está de pie en el centro de la pequeña habitación, de espaldas hacia mí, pero puedo notar que se está limpiando los ojos. Los estantes de piso a techo están alineados en las paredes, almacenan botellas de licor, batidoras, jugos y otros suministros como servilletas, pajitas y velas. Me paro en la puerta y la escucho sollozar. —¿Jordan? —digo vacilante. Se endereza instantáneamente, girando lo suficiente para poder ver un lado de su rostro. —¿En serio? —dice, tratando de endurecer su voz—. Solo vete. ¿Quieres que me vaya? Lo tienes, ¿está bien? Me iré. Doy un paso hacia adelante. —Jordan, lo siento mucho. No sé en qué estaba pensando. —Solo vete. —Debiste haberme llamado —le digo, dando un paso más—. Hubiera estado aquí en un abrir y cerrar de ojos. Lo siento. Yo solo… Pero de repente se da vuelta, mirándome. —¿Sabes algo de los hombres? —pregunta, limpiándose los ojos, con una dureza en la mandíbula—. Creen que pueden tratarte mal, porque lo soportarás.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Qué problema tienes con esto? —cuestiona, caminando de regreso a la mesa—. Soy un hombre adulto que ha estado teniendo relaciones sexuales desde antes que nacieras. Estoy acostumbrado a tenerlo siempre que quiero, y no respondo ante ti, ¿me oyes? —Sus palabras muerden, y me siento pequeña—. Seguiré haciendo lo que quiera, independientemente de las opiniones de una niña que vive bajo mi techo. La palabra "niña" me golpea como un martillo, y mi corazón se hunde. Aprieto los dientes, convirtiendo el dolor en enojo. —Lo entiendo. —Lo miro—. Me iré a mi habitación entonces. Me levanto, y sus ojos se posan inmediatamente en mi estómago desnudo. La camiseta cae muy por encima de mi ombligo, y disfruto de la forma en que su cuerpo se congela y tiene que apartar los ojos. Doy vuelta alrededor de la mesa, hacia la sala de estar, pero recuerdo la vela encendida. Dando la vuelta, me inclino sobre la mesa ovalada, arqueo mi espalda y siento cómo mis pantalones cortos descienden para dejar al descubierto la correa roja dela misma tanga que usé cuando salimos al patio hace una semana. —Me olvidé de la vela —le digo, alzando mis ojos ardientes hacia él—. Pero puedo dejarla encendida si quieres. Sé que el rojo es tu favorito. ¿La vela roja o la tanga roja? No se necesita más de una suposición para saber en cuál está su atención. Traga y sus tímidos ojos miran la seda roja que se asoma sobre los pantalones cortos. Esbozo una sonrisa, y sus ojos se clavan en los míos, estrechándose. —Me estás haciendo enojar a cada segundo. —Su ronco gruñido suena peligroso—. Arruinaste mi noche, y todavía tengo mucha energía para desahogarme, así que ten cuidado. Cierro los ojos, formulando mi deseo, y apago la vela antes de volver a enderezarme. —Esta “niña” es la razón por la que tienes tanta energía para desahogarte, ¿no? —me burlo—. Eres un mentiroso. Cuadra sus hombros, respirando con dificultad. —Ve a tu habitación, Jordan. —Afortunadamente —retrocedo, burlándome de él—, tengo un vibrador con pelotas más grandes que tú. Corre hacia mí y me levanta, lanzándome sobre su hombro, y gruño cuando me quedo sin aire y su hombro se clava en mi estómago. ¿Qué demonios? Sube las escaleras, y siento que voy a caer entre más subimos. —¡Pike, detente! —grito. —¡Entonces deja de presionarme! —grita, y una palmada aterriza en mi culo. Grito, la quemadura se extiende por mi mejilla izquierda. Hijo de…. Extiendo la mano y trato de cubrir mi trasero en caso que me azote de nuevo. Suena como si abriera de un puntapié la puerta de mi habitación, y lo siguiente que sé, es que estoy volando sobre su hombro y chocando contra mi cama. Clavo los codos en el colchón y muevo mi cabeza hacia adelante, haciendo que mi cabello caiga sobre mi rostro. —¡Ahora vete a la cama! —gruñe. Me quito el cabello de los ojos y lo veo salir. —¿Me arropas?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Hola. —Me quito la camiseta aún húmeda por la cabeza y la tiro en un banco de trabajo. Sacando un gato de debajo de una mesa, salgo del garaje hacia el VW verde desvaído. Dutch saca una silla de jardín y la lleva a la hierba junto al auto de Jordan. —¿A las cinco mañana? —pregunta. —Sí. Como perdimos tiempo hoy, sabe que mañana querré comenzar temprano. —Entonces, los muchachos estaban pensando en ir a Grounders en un rato. Tomar algunas cervezas, escuchar música… —me dice—. No hay nada más que hacer con este clima. Giro la llave inglesa pero lo miro. —¿Grounders? ¿Desde cuándo vas allí? ¿Se cerró Poor Red's? —No —responde, encogiéndose de hombros—. Simplemente se dieron cuenta que hay con qué alimentar el ojo en el Grounders. Miro hacia él, sonríe y señala con la cabeza hacia la casa y a quien está dentro. —Sí, cállate. —Aprieto la llave—. Esa es la chica de mi hijo. Déjenla en paz. —¡No voy a hacer nada! —Alza sus manos en defensa—. Estoy casado. —Ni siquiera quiero que la vean —afirmo, poniéndome de pie y dejando la herramienta. De acuerdo, yo he estado mirando, pero no sabía quién era cuando nos conocimos. Me limpio las manos con el trapo del taller. —¿Entendido? Dejen a la chica en paz. Solo se burla, recostándose en su asiento y echando la cabeza hacia atrás. — La chica, estoy seguro, ya ha tratado con mucha atención masculina, trabajando en ese bar. Y estoy seguro que no le importaría un poco de ingresos extra esta noche. La hace sonar como una prostituta. Pero supongo que tiene razón. Evitar la atención no deseada tiene que ser una habilidad, especialmente trabajando en un hoyo como ese Aun así, no puedo verlo. La chica tiene una gran boca, pero es bastante inocente y dulce, también. Imaginarla en ese ambiente es imposible. —Hola —chilla una voz femenina. Me inclino y miro alrededor del capó, viendo a la misma joven que estuvo aquí anoche. De nuevo, ¿cuál era su nombre? —Pike, ¿verdad? —menciona, poniendo una mano sobre su pecho—. Cam, ¿recuerdas? Soy la hermana de Jordan. Dutch la está mirando fijamente, con la boca ligeramente abierta. —Solo vine para llevarla al trabajo —dice Cam y luego sus ojos bajan por mi torso y mis brazos—. Tienes unos tatuajes geniales. Sus ojos se iluminan cuando asiente en aprobación. Noto que también tiene algunos en la parte superior de su brazo y un fénix en el costado de su torso. Lo cual solo puedo ver, porque casi no lleva ropa, vestida con una minifalda negra y una camiseta sin mangas negra cortada justo debajo de sus pechos. ¿Dónde demonios está tu padre? En serio… Detrás de ella, un Mustang descapotable blanco nuevo está estacionado junto a la acera, el auto está lleno con otras dos mujeres, todas vestidas de forma similar por lo que puedo ver. Tienen mucho cabello, y desde aquí puedo sentir la brisa de sus pestañas cuando parpadean.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Or they were so big it hurt and my anger would increase with every thrust until I became the victim of a monstrous rage. Besides, I almost never had an orgasm from fucking except for the one guy who would direct me to climb on top and “make” myself come. He would just lie there, rigid in body and cock, and I would follow his directive and rub my clit on his pubic bone. But, I thought, this was not coming from intercourse, this was masturbating with a live dildo. I ended up resenting his orders until my only defense, ironically, was not to come. Every man who fucked me risked my contempt—and most earned it. The smart ones stayed away or insisted on friendship, while the arrogant ones plunged in to their enormous satisfaction—and eternal regret. There were also, of course, the romantics, who thought they wanted a woman like me—but they didn’t, not really, not once they’d seen my version of romance. Was I gay and wasting my time with men? I adore beautiful, feminine, bright women: if I was so anti-penetration and so clitorally oriented, maybe they were the way to go. But conquering men—or, rather my resentment of them—has always seemed a far more interesting challenge. I reckon every woman wants a cock between her legs, ultimately. The question is: Does she want one of her own, or can she tolerate one belonging to a man? SCANTY PANTIES It is perhaps no surprise, given my theatrical background, that props, costumes, and ceremony became increasingly essential components of my newly expanded private life. My bed became the stage for that intense human drama called sexual interplay. I knew from public performance that artifice, ambiance, and ritual could propel the participant into a state of truth and beauty far more effectively than thoughts or good intentions. In my bedroom, where I exchanged my tutus for corsets, my tiaras and toe shoes for blindfolds and stilettos, the poetic logic was obvious. And crotchless panties fit perfectly (they always do) into the tragicomedy that was now my sex life. This vastly underrated, overlooked undergarment is so rarely celebrated, or even mentioned, that I must digress for just a moment to rectify this enormous oversight. While the thong has been elevated to a sexual status far beyond its actual utility, the crotchless panty is really where it’s at, or at least where my clit is at. I actually—optimistically and sadly—bought my first pair while still married. Black, transparent little nylon bikinis without any crotch between the leg elastics. The moment I saw them—draped over a red silk hanger at a sex store I visited while in Copenhagen on vacation—I got a warm rush. Ah, another Danish souvenir to bring home along with my crotchless Little Mermaid statue.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Muevo mis ojos hacia ella, la respuesta a esa pregunta viene tan fácilmente y es tan pesada en la punta de mi lengua que quiero decirle. Pero no lo hago. Y se queda mirándome fijamente, mi respuesta no dicha colgando entre nosotros. Titubea, la comprensión suavizando sus ojos. —Solo entra a la camioneta —le digo con los dientes apretados—, y vayamos a casa. —Pero... —¡Ahora, Jordan! —Golpeo el volante con la palma de mi mano. Toma una respiración con sus ojos encendidos. No sé si la asusté o si está preocupada por hacer una escena, pero se sube rápidamente a la camioneta y cierra la puerta de golpe. Está tensa y enojada y probablemente piensa que lidiará conmigo más tarde, lejos de las miradas indiscretas de los demás, pero no me importa. Ya la tengo y vamos a salir de aquí. Muevo la camioneta y me pongo en marcha, girando y luego retrocediendo para dar una vuelta en U. Finalmente de frente hacia el camino por donde llegamos, presiono el acelerador y nos saco de allí, conduciendo de regreso por el sendero y entrando a la calle que nos llevará de regreso al pueblo. No tengo idea de lo que su hermanastro o hermanastra probablemente estaban pensando y realmente no me importa en absoluto. Que piensen lo que quieran durante los próximos cinco minutos, porque es exactamente ese tiempo lo que les tomará olvidar que existe de nuevo. No hay duda de por qué se mudó de aquí en primer lugar. No creo que fuera abusada o cualquier otra cosa así, nunca escuché hablar alguna cosa así sobre su padre, pero definitivamente fue desatendida y descuidada. Se merece algo mejor. Los árboles se ciernen a ambos lados de la oscura autopista y bajo mi ventana por algo del muy necesitado aire. No dice nada, solo se queda ahí sentada, inmóvil y podría patearme, porque debí haber hablado con ella en la casa en lugar de pasar por todo esto. Sabía cómo iba a terminar esto. No había forma de que se quedara en Meadow Lakes. Realmente no la estaba ayudando a mudarse en serio esta noche. Estaba encontrando mi coraje. Pero ¿y si quería mudarse con su hermana? ¿O quedarse con una amiga? Aun así habría peleado con ella. Sé que lo habría hecho. No es que no pueda cuidar de sí misma. Sé muy bien que puede hacerlo. Simplemente, no quiero que tenga que hacerlo. En algún momento del camino me comprometí a ello. Nadie más en su vida puede darle lo que merece y hasta que pueda mantenerse por su cuenta, tomaré esa responsabilidad. A la mierda todo. Se merece lo mejor. Va a obtener lo mejor. Miro fijamente hacia adelante y apoyo mi codo en la puerta, pasando mi mano por mi cabello. Aunque no es mi decisión. ¿Cierto? Presionarla no me hace mejor que nadie más en su vida.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Ajá. —Chasquea los dedos—. Tengo que ganar dinero mientras pueda. La miro a los ojos, y es solo por un momento, pero es suficiente para ver la vacilación en su humor. La forma en que su sonrisa desconcertada parece una disculpa y la forma en que parpadea, llenando el silencio mientras sus torpes palabras cuelgan en el aire. Y cómo tira del dobladillo de su blusa hacia abajo para cubrir la mayor parte de su estómago en presencia de su hermana menor. Mi hermana odia lo que hace para ganarse la vida, pero le gusta más el dinero. Finalmente vuelve su atención a mí, su tono suena casi acusador. —Entonces, ¿qué estás haciendo, por cierto? —Haciendo la cena. Sacude la cabeza, poniendo los ojos en blanco. —Entonces, ¿no solo no dejas al hombre con el que estás, sino que ahora estás sirviéndole a otro? Coloco un par de aros de cebolla en la primera hamburguesa doble con queso y la cubro con un panecillo. —No lo hago. —Sí, lo haces. La miro con furia. —Nos quedaremos aquí, en este fabuloso vecindario, imagínate, libre de alquiler. Lo menos que puedo hacer es asegurarme de mantener nuestro acuerdo. Limpiamos y compartimos algunos de los deberes de la cocina. Eso es todo. Arquea con severidad la ceja derecha y se cruza de brazos, sin creérselo. Oh, por todos los santos. De hecho, creo que estamos obteniendo la mejor parte de este trato que Pike Lawson, después de todo. Aire acondicionado, televisión por cable y Wi-Fi, un armario-vestidor… Extiendo la mano por encima del mostrador y tiro de las persianas, espetando para que deje de molestarme. —¡Tiene una piscina, Cam! Quiero decir, por favor. Abre los ojos de par en par. —¿De verdad? Se levanta de la silla y se acerca, mirando hacia el patio trasero. La piscina es perfecta. Con forma de reloj de arena, las baldosas multicolores en la cubierta son de estilo mediterráneo, y tiene una entrada con un piso de mosaico. El padre de Cole todavía debe estar trabajando en eso porque hay una pantalla en el otro extremo de la piscina con macizos para flores sin flores y picos para mini cascadas que todavía no están instalados. Hay una mesa y sillas colocadas al azar alrededor del perímetro, y el resto del patio trasero cubierto de hierba tiene varios muebles de jardín que aún no están acomodados de manera discernible. Una sombrilla de mesa se encuentra a la derecha, al lado de la manguera, y una parrilla de barbacoa está cubierta con una lona a la izquierda. Mi hermana asiente con aprobación. —Esto es bonito. Siempre quisiste vivir en una casa como esta. —¿Quién no? —respondo. Todos deberían ser tan afortunados. Aunque todavía se siente mal estar aquí. Sin embargo, me preocupo mucho por Cole, y prefiero estar con él que en casa de mi padre. Termino las hamburguesas, mientras ella se da la vuelta, agarrando ambos costados del mostrador y mirándome.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  But the peeling of the figs was interrupted. Dalvedo rose and said, “You have the most seductive little mole on your chin.” She thought that he would try to kiss her. But he didn’t. He unbuttoned himself quickly, took his penis out and, with the gesture of an apache to a woman of the streets, said, “Kneel.” And Mathilde again struck, then moved towards the door. “Don’t go,” he begged, “you drive me crazy. Look at the state you put me in. I was like this all evening when I danced with you. You can’t leave me now.” He tried to embrace her. As she struggled to elude him, he came all over her dress. She had to cover herself with her evening cape to regain her cabin. As soon as Mathilde arrived in Lima, however, she attained her dream. Men approached her with flowery words, disguising their intent with great charm and adornments. This prelude to the sexual act satisfied her. She liked a little incense. In Lima she received much of it, it was a part of the ritual. She was raised on a pedestal of poetry so that her falling into the final embrace might seem more of a miracle. She sold many more of her nights than hats. Lima at that time was strongly influenced by its large Chinese population. Opium-smoking was prevalent. Rich young men traveled in bands from bordello to bordello, or they spent their nights in the opium dens, where prostitutes were available, or they rented absolutely bare rooms in the prostitute quarters, where they could take drugs in groups, and the prostitutes visited them there. The young men liked to visit Mathilde. She turned her shop into a boudoir, full of chaise longues, lace and satin, curtains, and pillows. Martinez, a Peruvian aristocrat, initiated her to opium. He brought his friends there to smoke. At times they spent two or three days lost to the world, to their families. The curtains were kept closed. The atmosphere was dark, slumberous. They shared Mathilde among them. The opium made them more voluptuous than sensual. They could spend hours caressing her legs. One of them would take one of her breasts, another would sink his kisses into the soft flesh of her neck, pressing her with the lips only, because the opium heightened every sensation. A kiss could throw shivers throughout her body. Mathilde would lie naked on the floor. All the movements were slow. The three or four young men lay back among the pillows. Lazily one finger would seek her sex, enter it, lie there between the lips of the vulva, not moving. Another hand would seek it out too, content itself with circles around the sex, seek another orifice. One man would offer his penis to her mouth. She would suckle at it very slowly, every touch magnified by the drug. Then for hours they might lie still, dreaming.