Anxiety

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 Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  During an individual session with Nicole, I tried to get to the bottom of her mistrust of Kahlen. She said that she had no real reason to be jealous and she’d never been cheated on. She was usually a trusting and easy-going girlfriend, but once she started dating Kahlen, the 10-year age difference made her feel insecure. To compensate for these emotions, she tried to impress him sexually. “I just want to be sure he has everything he needs at home. I know I go overboard—once I tried to push him into a threesome because I thought that’s what he secretly wanted.” Nicole talked about how frustrated she felt. “I’m so in charge in every other part of my life, but with Kahlen I’m out of control. I can’t make him love me or stay faithful to me, so I act like a porn star to stop him from fantasizing about anyone else.”

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  Meredith said she couldn’t remember the last time when she “properly” enjoyed sex or felt truly sexy. She said she always found it difficult to switch off from work. “When Kyle and I have sex, it tends to be late at night—I usually try to have an orgasm quickly just so I can go to sleep and feel OK in the morning.” Kyle said that he was starting to find Meredith’s brisk and mechanical approach a turn off. “Sometimes it’s like she just can’t loosen up, even after a glass of wine. Sex feels robotic—I penetrate her, she has an orgasm, and then I ejaculate. It all functions OK, but I can’t say it’s sexy.” When I asked Meredith and Kyle if they had a healthy fantasy life, they both scoffed. “A fantasy to me would be a day off work to do whatever I wanted,” said Meredith, “Or better yet, a whole week off,” Kyle said. After some hesitation she said she liked the idea of being “taken” by Kyle. “I’d like him to be in total control of my body with no work on my part. It would be amazing to be completely submissive.”

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  Morgan and Derek came to see me after Derek had a near brush with infidelity. Morgan had discovered some private emails that Derek had been sending to a colleague. Although not overtly sexual in nature, the emails contained enough affection and emotional intimacy to make Morgan concerned. … In addition, they hadn’t had sex in months, and cuddling, kissing, and affection had all but disappeared. In my personal session with Morgan, I asked her if there had been any clues beyond a nonexistent sex life that might suggest Derek wasn’t happy. “I don’t know,” she replied, “I’ve got three kids at home. The girls have been ill, and before that Max was having problems at school. I have a part-time job too.” It became clear that Morgan and Derek didn’t spend any time together without the kids. “We’re supposed to do a date night once a week, but it never happens. Something always comes up.” When I spoke to Morgan about the emails to his colleague he explained that he liked feeling attractive and wanted. “At home Morgan ignores me and talks to the kids, or she talks to me about the kids. Or she gives me chores and then nags me about them.” What happened? Derek cut off contact with his colleague, and, after just one hot bath together, Morgan and Derek ended their long sex drought.

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  "Once, Teddy had drunkenly whispered to Yale, like it was the best secret: 'You know why I don't have it? You can't get it if you always top.' And Yale had tried to give him data, had said that was like girls who thought you couldn't get pregnant in summer. That you couldn't apply rules to a virus this random. Yale said, 'Look, you ever get soap up in there? Things go both ways.' If Teddy didn't already know, deep down, that he had it, he had to know now. They were human dominoes. How could Teddy not know he was the next domino in line?"

• From When Breath Becomes Air (2016)

  Suddenly, the edges of my vision dimmed. I put down my instruments and stepped back from the table. The blackness encroached farther as a feeling of lightness overcame me. "Sorry, sir," I told the attending, "I'm feeling a little faint. I think I need to lie down. Jack, my junior resident, will finish the case." […] I sipped some orange juice in the lounge, lying on the couch. After twenty minutes, I began to feel better. "Neurocardiogenic syncope," I whispered to myself. The autonomic nervous system briefly shutting down the heart. Or, as it's more commonly known, a case of the nerves. A rookie problem. This was not how I'd envisioned my return to the OR.

• From The Ultimate Guide to Orgasm for Women: How to Become Orgasmic for a Lifetime (2011)

  People who are not already empowered don’t realize that they can make conscious choices about where and when to feel this energy. If they stumble upon it unexpectedly, get caught up in the hysteria of the moment, and unthinkingly attempt to recreate whatever it was that first gave them that wonderful feeling, what may result are religious zealots, sports fanatics, bigots, and “patriots.” Find something that looks like it might be a good cause, find someone with a charismatic presence, and you will find people marching in unison, cheering and stomping their feet. They are experiencing their collective energy as very powerful, and it may be the only time in their lives that they feel such a sense of power. It gives them a rush. They feel energized and alive. They have found a way of tapping into the energy of life. Like a woman who falls in love with someone with whom she experiences a great sexual rush, disempowered people fall in love with whatever it is that creates that rush, and like a woman in love, they want to make it last forever. They lose the ability to discriminate between good sense and manipulative lies. They fail to understand that the ecstasy comes from within themselves. But worst of all, they often get caught up in a kind of mass hysteria that can quickly become violent. Developing the ability to tap into conscious empowerment enables us to make choices, to channel that energy into love and creativity instead of violence and destruction. Empowerment We’ve got to help people understand that the level of ecstasy and passion they undoubtedly feel when they are standing in crowds being carried by a crazy orator is not so different from the transcendental experience we have in our very best sexual encounter. —JOANI BLANK An individual who is aware of her (or his) personal power does not lose herself in an energy rush. She does not lose herself at all. Power is simply another word for energy. She knows she can recreate that sense of quickening energy whenever she wants, because she experiences herself as powerful; she is aware of the flow of power within herself. A person who is aware of her inner power is aware of the life-force energy that comes from inside, and this internal energy works in conjunction with external energy.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She wades through the sea of T-shirts, Caitlin’s and Bru’s faces smiling at her from all directions, and takes The Chicago Boys by surprise. “Cough Drop!” Gus gives her a tight hug. Unlike Sharkey, he has no fear of pressing his body close to hers or of kissing her too close to her mouth. “Good to see you.” And for once, she’s glad to see him. The summer sister and the summer brother. Daniel holds her by the shoulders and plants a cool kiss near her ear. “How are you, Vix?” It’s driving her crazy, all these condolences. She can’t stand the idea of them thinking she’s been betrayed. It’s important to set the record straight, to let everyone know once and for all that whatever she and Bru had, it’s officially over, it’s been over for a long time. He’s free to marry whomever, even Caitlin. Okay, so it’s awkward. But look … is she falling apart? No, goddamn it! Can’t they see she’s fine? That she’s one hundred percent! “So …” Gus says, “is your boyfriend here?” “My boyfriend?” She pauses, thinking she should have brought someone. Why didn’t she? Earl would have come with her. He’d have found enough material here for at least two new plays. But she says, “No … he couldn’t make it. What about your girlfriend?” “What girlfriend?” Gus asks. “I’m still trying to get over you. You were my first love.” This time she laughs for real. “You don’t believe me? Ask the Baumer if it’s not true.” Daniel gives her his haughty look. “God help us … it’s true.” “Well, Gus … here’s to what might have been,” Vix says, downing a third glass of champagne. This one is a mistake. She knows it the minute she sets the empty glass on the tray. It goes straight to her head, making her dizzy and slightly nauseous. The Chicago Boys escort her outside, where the three of them sit on a log on the beach. DanielVIX IS LOOKING GOOD . Lost that baby fat. You can see her cheekbones now. Not his type though. He prefers cool blondes. Sleek. The last one told him, You’re just too intense for me, Daniel. I need someone, you know, with less intensity . He’s working on it but given his genes he doesn’t expect to wind up anywhere near loose. Not like Gus with his easygoing humor. Women find him irresistible. Don’t mind his unkempt look. Maybe they dream about making him over, about buying him clothes. You never can tell with women. Look at Ab … Who’d have guessed his mother had it in her? Drives his father nuts that she’s done so well for herself. Not just the part about Lamb and the money. The other stuff, the philanthropy. She sits on the boards of four major organizations. Lamb’s turned out to be a decent guy. Bought Ab’s folks a place on Longboat Key. Grandma’s the queen of the condo set.

• From The Genius of Judy: How Judy Blume Rewrote Childhood for All of Us (2023)

  Roe was one of the feminist movement’s flashiest victories, representing years of grassroots activism and advocacy to shore up public support for the procedure. The decision was controversial, but not among the justices. The court ruled 7-2 that from a constitutional standpoint, a woman’s right to an abortion was justified by her well-established legal right to privacy. Another landmark case, decided less than a year earlier, had a major impact, too. Eisenstadt v. Baird declared that unmarried people should have access to contraception. Until this ruling in 1972, the Pill—which came on the market in 1960—was only available to married women. Eisenstadt v. Baird changed sex for the Michaels and Katherines of the world. For the first time, a young woman could be completely in control of her fertility. After Katherine makes the choice to have sex and receives guidance from Diana and Hallie, she calls Planned Parenthood in the city to schedule an appointment. She’s nervous, and when the medical receptionist on the other end of the line asks her age, she answers, “Does it matter?” The Planned Parenthood rep assures her that she doesn’t need parental permission to come in, but they have “special sessions” for teenagers. Katherine is just shy of eighteen, which qualifies her for a group chat with a doctor and social worker. Blume devotes an entire chapter to Katherine’s Planned Parenthood visit, as if she’s making a point of showing readers how nonthreatening an appointment like this can be. After the group session, Katherine meets with a social worker for private counseling, during which she answers questions about her sex life and her menstrual cycle. Then it’s on to the exam, where the male gynecologist patiently walks her through the steps, showing her the speculum and letting her see her own cervix. She’s nervous but still confident enough to advocate for herself. When the social worker suggests that a diaphragm might be the best birth control method for her, Katherine firmly states her preference: “I’d rather take the Pill.” The office respects her wishes and gives her a two-month supply of birth control pills, plus a prescription. She hasn’t yet told Michael about the Planned Parenthood visit and she can’t wait to surprise him with the news. For a girl like Katherine, there’s nothing wrong with indicating that she intends to have sex with him again. The dance is over—as is the phase in which Michael is clearly taking the lead. Unbeknownst to him, Katherine is setting the stage for a whole new act. What’s amazing about Forever , Rachel Lotus said, is that it foregrounds Katherine’s enthusiastic consent. “Katherine absolutely wants it and is in touch with her own desire and feels ready,” Lotus said. “They both are going into this situation knowing that that’s what they want… and how refreshing. To have her take ownership of her own experience in that way.” The next week, Michael invites Katherine to his house.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  fans cheer and jeer at me. Some people also think I’m mean. But I’m not. Our fans boo. I apologize and Romaine taps my fists with his. We’re both on our feet now. My nose is dripping when the whistle blows. I fake a lockup and dive for a leg. Romaine is ready. I don’t get much of a hold and he comes with a cross-face that bends my head back and makes me release the leg and go back to my feet. Blood’s all down my top and onto my tights. Romaine hesitates and looks at the ref. He blows his whistle and motions to our bench. The L.C. crowd has flipped out. They’re jumping up and down and pounding each other on the back. Our crowd is pretty quiet. I could lose my first match in two and a half years if my platelets don’t start promoting some coagulation. I’m aware of it, but I’m not self-conscious or scared. I’m wrestling the best I can. Coach puts the pressure on my nose again. “Get him to lock up, then take your fireman’s carry,” he says. “Okay.” I nod. The pressure on my nose feels good. I breathe deep and slow through my mouth. Our bench and crowd yell me a lot of support when I walk back to the circle. L.C. is screaming for Romaine. I get a little look at Carla, calm and smiling. I don’t really hear the whistle. Romaine starts for me slowly and I just wait. He reaches for an arm, but I pull away. I look up at the clock. There’s a minute left in the round and I think about stalling it out. I move forward and Romaine moves to meet me. We lock up loosely. I back away a bit, then blast forward, hooking his arm and dropping for the leg. I pull him over my shoulders and slam him down, maybe too hard. But there’s no whistle. I go for the half nelson and crotch as Romaine tries to roll on his side. I cinch up good on the half nelson and keep him on his back. I kick my legs out wide and get up on my toes to be just as heavy on his chest as I can. I lift on his head and crotch and press down with my chest. His jersey is covered with blood. I can’t hear a thing the crowd is so loud. I close my eyes and sink the half nelson deeper and cinch up with all I’ve got. A tremendous cheer bursts from somewhere. A hand taps my back and I let loose and roll off Romaine and onto my back, swallowing blood. The ref motions for me to get up. Romaine and I shake hands and then the ref raises my arm. I turn toward the bench and see the clock with just six seconds left. Everybody’s waiting for me at the edge of the mat.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  Damian heard the buzzer that let him know he was to bring out the rum punches. Richard was a good actor. He widened his eyes and looked stunned. “You have a nude houseboy.” Stan smiled. “Do you like him? He’s stupid, but he’s a benefit.” Richard sipped his drink. “Benefit? In what way?” “You get to fuck him as much as you want. He can’t ever say no. It’s all he’s good for.” Damian trembled, worried he might give up the game. “Well, let me see this fellow.” Richard got up from his chair. As he approached Damian, he caught his toe on Stan’s lounger and spilled rum punch on Stan’s face and bathrobe. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That robe looks like it costs a fortune. I hope it doesn’t stain.” Damian saw Richard drip something from what looked like an eyedrop bottle into Stan’s punch. Damian immediately grabbed a towel and began drying Stan’s head and face, hoping to keep Stan from seeing what Richard was doing. He also positioned himself so his backside blocked Bob’s view. “That’s fucking enough, Damian!” Stan bellowed. “Get on all fours now!” Damian complied. “Why don’t you enjoy Damian’s ass?” Stan said. Richard balked. “Right now? In front of you?” “Of course. We’re all very open here. I’ll show you. I’ll go first.” Stan, fully erect, slid off the soiled robe. Damian bent his head in shame, knowing Richard was about to see him humiliated. “He’s already lubed?” Richard asked as Stan slid inside Damian in one long stroke. “He lets you bareback his ass?” Stan grunted. “Lubed, yes. He’s lubed twenty-four/seven. Bareback. He doesn’t have a choice.” Damian felt his face flush, wondering if Richard would still want him now. “C’mon, get naked and get inside him, buddy.” Stan waved Richard over. “No need to be shy. You look like you have a great body under that suit.” Stan stopped fucking to gulp his drink. Richard hadn’t budged. “If you want the job, you need to start pumping his rump.” Richard nodded and stepped forward to stroke Damian’s flank. “As soon as you’re done, I’ll fuck him like a madman.” “Fuck his ass now or get out of my house.” Stan guzzled more rum punch. Richard stripped off his shirt and had begun to unzip his pants when Damian felt Stan slow his thrusting. Stan mumbled something about his head and then slumped over, his dick popping out of Damian’s ass. Richard pulled Damian upright. “Quick, get some clothes!” Damian shook his head. “Bob is watching! Look out, he’s coming now!” Bob was bigger and meaner than Stan, and Damian braced himself to witness him punching out Richard. But as the big man came at the doctor like a bull, Richard reached into his pocket, whipped around and struck Bob in the neck. Bob went down instantly. “What hap—” “Taser. It won’t keep him down long. Get clothes now.” “I don’t have any. They got rid of them all!”

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  But I also know people who’ve lost twenty friends. Entire apartment buildings devastated.” And Yale, stupidly, desperately, had thought maybe he’d fall into that first category. It didn’t help that, through Charlie, he knew practically everyone in Boystown. It didn’t help that his friends were all overachievers—and that they seemed to be overachieving in this terrible new way as well. It was Yale’s saving grace, and Charlie’s, that they’d met when they had, fallen in love so quickly. They’d been together since February of ’81 and—to the bemusement of nearly everyone—exclusive since fall of the same year. Nineteen eighty-one wasn’t too soon to get infected, not by a long shot, but then this wasn’t San Francisco, it wasn’t New York. Things, thank God, moved slower here. How had Yale forgotten he hated rum? It always made him moody, dehydrated, hot. His stomach a mess. He found a closet-size bathroom off this room and sat on the cool toilet, head between his knees. On his list of people who might get sick, who weren’t careful enough, who might even already be sick: Well, Julian, for sure. Richard. Asher Glass. Teddy—for Christ’s sake, Teddy Naples, who claimed that once he managed to avoid checking out of the Man’s World bathhouse for fifty-two hours, just napped (through the sounds of sex and pumping music) in the private rooms various older men had rented for their liaisons, subsisting on Snickers bars from the vending machine. Teddy opposed the test, worried names could get matched with test results and used by the government, used like those lists of Jews. At least this was what he said. Maybe he was just terrified, like everyone. Teddy was earning his PhD in philosophy at Loyola, and he tended to come up with elaborate philosophical covers for terribly average feelings. Teddy and Julian would occasionally have a “thing” on, but mostly Teddy just floated between Kierkegaard and bars and clubs. Yale always suspected that Teddy had at least seven distinct groups of friends and didn’t rank this one very highly. Witness his leaving the party. Maybe the slides were too much for him, as they’d been for Yale; maybe he’d stepped out to walk around the block, but Yale doubted it. Teddy had other places to be, better parties to attend. And then there was the list of acquaintances already sick, hiding the lesions on their arms but not their faces, coughing horribly, growing thin, waiting to get worse—or lying in the hospital, or flown home to die near their parents, to be written up in their local papers as having died of pneumonia. Just a few right now, but there was room on that list. Far too much room. When Yale finally moved again, it was to cup water from the sink, splash it over his face. He looked frightful in the mirror: rings under his eyes, skin gone pale olive. His heart felt funny, but then his heart always felt funny.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  We had a tank full of gas so we could keep the motor running and the heater going all night, and Dad and I triple-checked the exhaust system for leaks. Some snowshoed and industrious ax murderer might have gotten us, but carbon monoxide didn’t have a prayer. We wore our longies and our parkas and brought along two down sleeping bags and our pillows. We pulled up about thirty yards from a salt lick and turned off the headlights. We left the dash lights on low for the soft green glow they have. It was plenty dark, but still early evening. There weren’t any deer around yet, so Carla figured it would be a good time to get out and put Katzen’s dinner to warming on the exhaust manifold. Way back last summer when Carla and I took our first camping trip together, about a half hour from the campground I pulled the pickup off the road and wired a can of beef stew to the exhaust manifold. After we pitched our tent we had hot stew ready for us without starting a fire or pumping a stove. Carla got sold on the idea and now keeps a can of hash or stew or meatballs and gravy in the trunk in case of emergency hunger, which is the only kind of hunger under which, she says, such canned crap should be consumed. I learned cooking on the manifold from the cat skinners on the Trapper Peak fire. I spent two weeks on the fire line during the summer of my sophomore year, just before I found work at the hotel. Every day about an hour before lunch the manifolds of the big cats would be ringed with cans. From a distance they looked like Hawaiian leis strung around the big diesel engines. And it looked like a rowdy luau when a can would explode because somebody forgot to punch a hole in it so the heat could get out. I could only take two weeks of firefighting. The money was great and the work was fun and exciting and good for me, but the life up there was just too dirty and uncomfortable. I may look like one rough country sonofabitch, but inside I’m all wall-to-wall carpet and big soft chairs. It could also get dangerous. A few days after I got home I heard on the news that a couple guys got killed up there. The fire started to run and a ranger went to see if anybody was left in its way. He must have misjudged the fire’s speed, because it got around him and cut him off. One of the dozer drivers got to the ranger, but the fire was burning so hard by then they couldn’t get out. So the dozer driver scooped out a hole and drove the cat over it, and he and the ranger crawled in.

• From Action (2014)

  While it may seem obvious that consent extends to far more than “Can I sexually freaq your bod now, or…?” too many of us have been with people who don’t understand that getting prior clearance can be as necessary for relatively low-impact activities, like kissing, as it is for sexual bod-freaqing. In moments spent with those types of people, the inside of my younger brain mostly neurosis’d out thusly: Wait, what the literal heck, I thought this person LIKED ME, so WHY IS HE TRYING TO HARASS MY LAP OUT OF NOWHERE, do I go along with this weird crotchvasion or risk losing his company forever??? Can we just go back to thinking that biting each other’s lips was the most torrid this was going to get, please? Plus, am I strong enough to overpower him if I have to? This is not what the internal monologue of a person given over to erotic ecstasy sounds like, Alex-from-the-bar-on-the-corner-whom-I-made-out-with-because-I-was-bored! Thanks for the panic attack! When someone instigates sexual contact that you haven’t agreed to, it can be tough to negotiate how to feel—let alone what to do. First of all, that’s totally normal, and second of all, it has got to change, because I want you to have fulfilling, electrifyingly hot encounters of the flesh (ew, this lasciviously horrible turn of phrase) without feeling pressured, uncomfortable, or, heaven forbid, endangered along the way. Or like you’re some kind of frumped-out killjoy for simply saying no, because YOU AREN’T. Orrrrr like you can’t have rough sex AND non-negotiable boundaries at the same time. You know better than anyone else what feels good and manageable to you and what doesn’t. (And this would be true even if Mark Ruffalo somehow merged with Sappho into a single, sexually masterful entity, and that being sidled up to you all like, “… Hhhhello there, allow me to playfully lick you on the forearm, my dove.”) You have the absolute right to broadcast these non-negotiable preferences to every individual to whom you decide to affix your various and sundry (and sultry, my dove) body parts. No lap-harassment or weird crotchvasions necessary. Unless that’s what you’re into. On the whole, my bod-freaqing, et cetera, has been wild enjoyable. (I know, I am a very cool sex-haver, CHECK OUT MY COOL-GUY HAIRSTYLE AND STYLISH DENIM JEANS.) I’ve also had some less-than-sterling, and occasionally downright awful, experiences with partners who didn’t seem to consider whether I was all right with what was happening between us—and there have definitely been times when I was too pushy, and we’ll talk about all of these occasions in a little. First, though, an abridged list of illustrative quotations from Remembrances of Bone Zones Past (RoBZP), my mental encyclopedia of belt notches (this is not to be confused with Proust’s classic literary masterpiece, which was definitely at high risk of happening here): • “I didn’t think you wanted me to use a condom.” • “Just relax. You’ll like it.”

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  The fact that I’ve waited until now to call your attention to these signposts in no way diminishes their significance. On the contrary, my choice of timing comes from years of observing when growing people naturally tend to bring these aspects of eroticism most productively to the fore. There’s no doubt these issues are relevant at all levels of erotic development—and are thus basic. Yet they acquire a far deeper significance for those who have first investigated their eroticism. With greater self-awareness comes an increasing need to grapple with these crucial questions, and to define where we stand. The dual quality of these signposts—both basic and advanced—means that anyone can benefit from considering them. Those who have already dedicated themselves to conscious eroticism, however, are prepared to gain the most. CLARIFYING PERSONAL VALUESThroughout this book I’ve encouraged you to set aside judgments—including moral ones—so that you might perceive more accurately the breadth of the erotic experience. To the extent you’ve been able to do this, you have undoubtedly encountered crucial truths that only accepting eyes can see. But as you discover the benefits of examining eroticism with an open mind, what becomes of your moral beliefs and values? Some people confuse a conscious suspension of criticisms with an amoral, anything-goes attitude toward sex. However, the vast of majority of people I work with have a very different response. They find that a courageous, nonjudgmental exploration of their eroticism ultimately prompts them to think more deeply about how to define and promote what might be called right sexual conduct. The goal of right conduct is to bring one’s behavior into alignment with one’s values—not perfectly, of course, but as closely as possible. As you’ve probed the inner workings of your erotic mind and cultivated a greater respect for its irrational power, you’ve built a strong foundation upon which to explore and commit to an ethical approach to erotic life. When moral questions arise in the context of active self-examination, you may be dismayed to discover—as most of my clients have been—that your early moral training was so fundamentally antierotic that it’s of limited use to you now. The sad truth is that conventional morality asks neither that we understand nor that we respect our eroticism. Instead it insists that we treat certain sexual desires with mistrust while blindly adhering to rigid codes of conduct. Most of the time these codes focus on prohibited acts such as nonreproductive sex, sex outside marriage, homosexuality, masturbation, oral or anal sex, and so on. Because it fails to come to terms with the multidimensional nature of eros and invests so much energy into fearing and suppressing its disturbing or potentially destructive aspects, conventional morality often works against healthy eroticism rather than fostering it.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  After a break, switch roles and see how it feels to be on the receiving end. It’s helpful if your partner asks what you like, but practice volunteering information by making pleasurable sounds when something feels good or requesting to be touched more firmly or gently, faster or slower, or in a different location. Relatively few people are easily proficient at this kind of direct communication. Even long-term couples find it difficult. Recognizing this fact can help you avoid yet another source of pressure: the need to be a perfect communicator. Some couples complain that these experiments are too clinical. Anything new feels unnatural at first, but if you are willing to stay with it, soon self-consciousness will give way to playful fun. Exchanging pleasure-oriented massage is not only enjoyable, it’s also a terrific way of learning about each other’s preferences. No special training in massage is necessary. If, however, you wish to learn more about how to use the magic of touch to enhance your pleasure or to help solve problems, excellent books are available to guide you.4 CONFRONTING PLEASURE ANXIETYIt’s common knowledge that too much anxiety inhibits pleasure. What isn’t so well understood is that too much pleasure sometimes provokes anxiety. It should come as no surprise that children who are taught to mistrust their bodies grow up feeling uneasy with sensuous pleasures. Similarly, those whose bodies have been violated through severe corporal punishment or sexual abuse learn to think of their bodies as sources of pain rather than enjoyment. Others believe it’s “selfish” to receive too much pleasure and therefore deflect touch away from themselves. Men and women who are self-conscious about their physical imperfections—and such feelings are difficult to avoid given the constant parade of perfect bodies in the mass media—may feel they’re not sufficiently attractive to deserve extensive pleasuring or that no one could genuinely enjoy touching them. Pleasure anxiety causes people to “numb out” because blunted sensations are easier to tolerate. One common strategy is to develop a rigid armor of tense muscles that act as an invisible shield against both pleasure and pain. Before anything can be done about pleasure anxiety it must be acknowledged with compassion and understanding. Once recognized, however, it’s crucial to create opportunities to stop avoiding pleasure and learn how to relax and receive it. This is no small feat for those who are wary of the body’s delights. But without a comfortable relationship with one’s sensuality, the erotic adventure is ultimately doomed to be unfulfilling. Nancy and Burt Revisited: Touching for self-discovery When you met Nancy and Burt in Chapter 6 they had both stopped drinking but their sex life was in shambles. Nancy had realized that without alcohol she was too inhibited to act the sexual adventurer role she had perfected during the freewheeling 1970s. Instead a resurgence of guilt from her strict Catholic upbringing was turning her off completely. And Burt was wrestling with an old belief that he was boring and unattractive.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  When we were all comfortable and ready to watch deer, Carla looked out the window and smiled and her eyes got big because the deer had come up to the feed while we were rearranging ourselves and stood around the car, none of them more than twenty yards away. We could hear them chewing. I believe in preparing for things. Even little things like seeing the deer can be more fun if you cut down the number of potentially unpleasant variables. For example, we had a full tank of gas and a good heater and a perfect exhaust system. We had lots of warm clothes and warm and comfortable coverings and some good stuff to eat and drink. We had music we liked, and some baby food and a reliable bear to pacify Katzen if she got colicky or whatever baby animals get that might make them raise a racket. We had the trunk filled with sandbags to keep us from getting stuck, but just in case I’d brought along a couple shovels. And I had a few flares. Carla goes along with this, especially the music and vegetables, but she is only lukewarm about my last variable limiter, the 9mm Luger that I stow under the seat and sleep with on almost all camping trips. I admit I am not completely sold on the idea of having a gun along, but I am committed to it for now because I just believe our lives are too important to leave even relatively unprotected. I mean, I’m pretty strong and probably fairly up to fighting for our lives, but I can’t punch out a bullet or turn knife steel to rubber. Also, there are guys around who could beat me to death in a very few minutes with nothing but their fists and feet. I mean, we’re vulnerable enough just in relation to things like disease and bad moods, without leaving ourselves open to attacks by other human beings. Animals don’t worry me. The problem, of course—and this is another variable—is that someone trying to hurt us might get to the gun first. I mean there are some arch motherfucking weirdos running around—even in the Northwest. Last summer, a social worker in a Triumph Spitfire picked up two hitchhikers near Missoula, and they killed him and cut off his fingers and ears for jewelry and ate his heart. This fall, some poor crazy asshole strapped a dozen sticks of dynamite around his middle and walked into a schoolhouse up on the reservation and hugged his estranged wife, who was substitute teaching, and blew the whole fucking place into the happy hunting ground. And that was three or four miles from our cabin on Loon Lake. But you can’t let stuff like that worry you into a preoccupation. It would diminish all the neat stuff about being alive. I just try to forget about it but still be ready. I really didn’t make a very active deer watcher last night.

• From Working Girl: On Selling Art and Selling Sex (2023)

  My father brought up this image to me around my own artwork. I was telling him about my interpretation of the work of Andrea Fraser, whom he had never heard of, and he asked if I knew Benglis’s. I said I did; I remembered reading a New Inquiry piece about the ad, written by a woman who taught an experimental sex education class I participated in a few years back. My dad brought it up as a kind of warning around my own public sexual experimentation, albeit kindly: “Women are often only remembered for that,” he said. “It took years for her to be recognized primarily as a sculptor, after that.” While Benglis wasn’t advertising a sexual service, her piece evokes sex ads, even more so by virtue of appearing in the advertising pages. Such analysis, though, is largely and curiously absent from critical reflections on the work, perhaps because her decision to publish it as an ad was not her original intention. Richard Meyer explains, According to Benglis, Artforum insisted that the name of a gallery appear somewhere in the ad so that readers would not think that the artist was advertising herself. With Cooper’s permission, Benglis included [Paula Cooper’s Gallery] but did so in “white [print], very very small, on black glossy ground, and the figure was on the other side of the page.” However, Benglis was not advertising an upcoming show, and paid for the placement herself. Readers were scandalized; schools canceled their subscriptions; five out of six editors condemned Benglis’s work in the following issue, and two subsequently resigned. In their December 1974 letter, the editors wrote, “For the first time in the 13 years of Artforum’s existence, a group of associate editors feel compelled to dissociate themselves publicly from a portion of the magazine’s content, specifically the copyrighted advertisement of Lynda Benglis photographed by Arthur Gordon …” They went on to specify their belief that Artforum was committed to women’s liberation, and that Benglis’s ad “reads as a shabby mockery of the aims of that movement, as well as pictur[ing] the journal’s role as devoted to the self-promotion of artists in the most debased sense of that term.” The editors’ disavowal of Benglis’s work while being “aware of the economic interdependencies which govern the entire chain of artistic production and distribution” is plainly disingenuous. They simply disliked the mode in which Benglis chose to engage in self-promotion, which is ingenious, given the aforementioned economic interdependencies. Benglis herself described her work as a satire of “the art-star system, and the way artists use themselves, their persona, to sell the work.”

• From What My Bones Know (2022)

  I could not survive in a world where I simply fought, negotiated, and worked toward perfection. I needed play. I needed release. So I handled that like I handled everything else. I made the time for it. All it required was popping Sudafed before I went to bed—baby meth, to keep me awake. After I heard my parents go to bed, I snuck down to the family computer and lurked on the internet until four a.m. most nights. [...] Yes, I fell asleep every time a teacher put a movie on. Yes, I had a really difficult time remembering any Chinese vocabulary words, and sometimes I got dizzy when I stood up and kind of fell over a little bit. But I could handle it all. This is what needed to be done.

• From The Ultimate Guide to Orgasm for Women: How to Become Orgasmic for a Lifetime (2011)

  Someone who is not already perfectly comfortable with deep penetration (five fingers) is not going to be able to take a fist, so don’t even try. But if you have been enjoying deep penetration and can take all five of your partner’s fingers without discomfort, then slipping past the third set of knuckles is quite possible. However, you do need to be in an emotional space where you can completely relax. You must trust your partner. Make sure she or he fully understands how to do it. Being fisted requires a profound level of surrender. Set aside time for foreplay that really turns you on. Give your partner plenty of verbal feedback about how it feels and what you want. Be prepared for a little cramping the first time you are fisted. Stop at once if you experience any severe pain. The same warnings apply to fisting as to all sexual activities: be willing to let go of the idea if it becomes uncomfortable or painful. It does no good for your head to decide today will be the day if your body is not in agreement. Put aside your agenda, and don’t be in a hurry. You can always try again another day. There have been times when my head wants my vagina to take a fist, and my body has refused it. Why my body sometimes refuses a fist is a matter for conjecture since my body doesn’t form words except under instruction from my head. But I would say it is because there are some unresolved emotional issues with my lover, usually issues that have nothing to do with sex, and often issues that I think I have already dealt with. But my body responds on a physical level, as bodies tend to do, by not letting her in physically. The How-tos of Vaginal Fisting You have to be careful with fisting; there is a thin edge between what you want and what your body can take. You get so into it that you want to have a sense of something driving up through your eyeballs. You really have to trust someone to let yourself experience that. With fisting you have to consciously consent to the whole sexual experience, not just to orgasm.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Having reached a point where they actively avoided all touch except friendly hugs and kisses for fear that they would repeat the cycle of expectation, rejection, and frustration, they were ideal candidates for sensate focus. They both liked the idea of pressure-free touching and eagerly made their first date for a nonsexual massage. Even though they both said they enjoyed the massage, neither showed much interest in trying it again. Week after week other responsibilities always took precedence. If anything, they touched less often than before. People avoid touching experiments for all kinds of reasons, including a fear of raising expectations, the embarrassment of not getting turned on, the concern that one partner may feel more sexual than the other, or worries about not doing it right, to name just a few. None of these seemed to explain Nancy and Burt’s avoidance. It was Nancy who first hinted at the truth. “I know this is supposed to be pleasurable,” she said, “but I just can’t seem to relax.” “Me neither,” chimed in Burt. “You’d think I was a teenager on my first date. Back then I might have been nervous as hell, but at least I was determined to get inside her pants. I have no idea how it feels to touch for no reason other than it feels good.” When I asked them whether they felt more comfortable giving or receiving touch, both answered in unison, “Giving.” Once their uneasiness about receiving became an open subject, they were willing to continue experimenting, especially when I encouraged them to pay close attention to what they were thinking and feeling. Like most people, they were under the impression that sensate focus is only successful for those who are able to ignore or suppress “mental chatter” and concentrate solely on physical sensations. Although it can be wonderful to do just that, watching random thoughts, feelings, and memories come and go is harmless, completely normal, and sometimes very instructive. Nancy observed what professional body therapists know: the most potent messages, memories, and emotions from childhood aren’t simply stored in deep recesses of the brain, but are somehow etched directly into the tissues of the body. Once she began paying attention, she couldn’t help noticing that the better Burt’s touches felt, the more tense and guilty she became. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she mused, “my body is convinced that pleasure is wrong, wrong, wrong!”—shocking words from a former sexual liberationist.