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.

Page 84 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  She observed the creases in her skirt, the specks of dust on her sandals. She felt that Pierre would know, if he made love to her, that it was Jean’s essence which flowed together with her own moisture. She eluded his caresses and suggested they visit Balzac’s house in Passy. It was a soft rainy afternoon, with that gray Parisian melancholy that drove people indoors, that created an erotic atmosphere because it fell like a ceiling over the city, enclosing them all in a nerveless air, as in an alcove; and everywhere, some reminder of the erotic life—a shop, half-hidden, showing underwear and black garters and black boots; the Parisian woman’s provocative walk; taxis carrying embracing lovers. Balzac’s house stood at the top of a hilly street in Passy, overlooking the Seine. First they had to ring at the door of an apartment house, then descend a flight of stairs that seemed to lead to a cellar but opened instead on a garden. Then they had to traverse the garden and ring at another door. This was the door of his house, concealed in the garden of the apartment house, a secret and mysterious house, so hidden and isolated in the heart of Paris. The woman who opened the door was like a ghost from the past—faded face, faded hair and clothes, bloodless. Living with Balzac’s manuscripts, pictures, engravings of the women he had loved, first editions, she was permeated with a vanished past, and all the blood had ebbed from her. Her very voice was distant, ghostly. She slept in this house filled with dead souvenirs. She had become equally dead to the present. It was as if each night she laid herself away in the tomb of Balzac, to sleep with him. She guided them through the rooms, and then to the back of the house. She came to a trap door, slipped her long bony fingers through the ring and lifted it for Elena and Pierre to see. It opened on a little stairway. This was the trap door Balzac had built so that the women who visited him could escape from the surveillance or suspicions of their husbands. He, too, used it to escape from his harassing creditors. The stairway led to a path and then to a gate that opened on an isolated street that in turn led to the Seine. One could escape before the person at the front door of the house had enough time to traverse the first room. For Elena and Pierre, the effect of this trap door so evoked Balzac’s love of life that it affected them like an aphrodisiac. Pierre whispered to her, “I would like to take you on the floor, right here.” The ghost woman did not hear these words, uttered with the directness of an apache, but she caught the glance which accompanied them. The mood of the visitors was not in harmony with the sacredness of the place, and she hurried them out.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I did go there wunst; but I don’t know as I can quite recall the partic’lar number. I do know as it was a place rather close to the Angel, Islington.’ ‘Near Sam Collins’s?’ I asked. ‘Past Sam Collins’s, on Upper Street. Not so far as the post office. A little doorway on the left-hand side, somewhere between a public-house and a tailor’s ...’ This was all he could recall; I thought it might be enough. I thanked him, and he smiled. ‘What a lovely black eye,’ he said again, but to his daughter this time. ‘Just like the song - ain’t it, Betty?’ By now I felt as if I had been on my feet for a month. I suspected that my boots had worn their way right through my stockings, and had started on the bare flesh of my toes and heels and ankles. But I did not stop at another bench, and untie my laces, in order to find out. The wind had picked up a little and, though it was only two o’clock or so, the sky was grey as lead. I wasn’t sure what time the charity offices might close; I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to find them; I didn’t know if Florence would even be there, when I did. So I walked rather quickly up Pentonville Hill, and let my feet be rubbed to puddings, and tried to plan what I would say to her when I found her. This, however, proved difficult. After all, she was a girl I hardly knew; worse - I could not help but recall this, now - I had once arranged to meet her, then let her down. Would she, even, remember me at all? In that gloomy Green Street passageway I had been certain that she would. But with every burning step, I grew less sure of it. It did not, as it turned out, take me very long to find the right office. The man’s memory was a good one, and Upper Street itself seemed wonderfully unchanged since his last visit there: the public-house and the tailor’s were quite as he had described them, close together on the left-hand side of the street, just past the music hall. In between them were three or four doors, leading to the rooms and offices above; and upon one of these was screwed a little enamel plaque, which said: Ponsonby’s Model Dwelling Houses. Directress Miss J. A. D. Derby - I remembered this very well now as the name of the lady with the mandolin. Beneath the plaque was a hand-written, rain-spattered note with an arrow pointing to a bell-pull at the side of the door. Please Ring, it said, and Enter. So, with some trepidation, I did both.

• From A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (1921)

  On *56eXov, cf. 'EM T 33; Rob. 885 /. The wish is evidently regarded as impracticable, though not distinctly characterised as such by the language. <5?ptt with more sharply defined reference to the present moment than vuv means "at this very moment." The clause Stc . . . Iv fiitfv "suggests for <fcXXdc?cci rfyv <pfc>v^v y,ou the meaning "to change my tone according to the situation." But the absence of a limiting phrase such as XCCT* dvayxatov is against this and necessitates understanding it to mean, "to modify my tone," i. e.> to adopt a dif- ferent one; yet certainly not different from the immediately preceding language of strong affection: to express this wish would be unaccount- ably harsh. The reference can only be to a tone different from that, doubtless less considerate, manner of speech which he had used when Be told them the truth (v.*«; c/. note on that v. and reference to i9). 8n dbcopouiJiat, giving the reason for ^BeXov, etc., probably has chief refer- ence to Tcapetvae icpb$ 5^; because of his perplexity about them, lie wishes he were even now present with them. 8<£ is slightly adver- sative. Though justifying his attitude towards the Galatians when ne was present with them as having been Iv xa74 (v- "), he yet wishes that he could now speak in a different tone. dbcopoGixat is middle (the middle and passive forms are thus used with nearly the same meaning as the active in Dem. 8303, etc.; Sir. 18* Lk. 24* Jn. 13" Acts 25*° 2 Cor. 4*). Iv 5jitv means "in respect to you," as in 2 Cor, 7", IV, 20 251

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero sé que servir es el trabajo, que su jefe hace que tomen las chicas, mientras las convence para que comiencen a bailar en el escenario. Y no haré eso. Tampoco veré a mi hermana hacer eso todas las noches. Mi cuerpo es privado. Es personal para mí y para quien quiera mostrárselo. Me quedaré en Grounders, gracias. —Estoy bien donde estoy —reitero—. Lo tengo bajo control. Suspira. —Está bien —cede, rindiéndose por ahora—. Solo prepárate si esto no funciona, ¿de acuerdo? Esto, es decir que Cole y yo vivamos en la casa de su padre. Me muevo a su alrededor para sacar un poco de limonada del refrigerador y de repente escucho el ruido sordo de un motor cada vez más cerca. Me detengo, mirando hacia la ventana y veo la esquina de una camioneta negra entrar en la calzada. El mismo Chevy Cheyenne del 71 al que subí después de la película la otra noche para llegar con Cole a la estación de policía. Mi corazón golpea mi pecho, pero lo ignoro y cierro rápidamente el refrigerador. —Llegó su padre —le digo, agarrando su bolso del mostrador y empujándolo hacia ella—. Tienes que irte. —¿Por qué? —Porque esta no es mi casa —mascullo, empujándola hacia el cuarto de lavado y a la puerta de atrás—. Al menos déjame esperar una semana antes que me imponga en su espacio con todos mis amigos. —Soy tu hermana. Oigo el portazo de un auto. Sigo empujándola hacia la parte posterior, pero está clavando sus talones al suelo. —Y será mejor que me mantengas informada —exige—. No voy a dejar que permitas que un pervertido de mediana edad y barriga cervecera que estuvo feliz con dejar que una adolescente sexy se mudara a su casa comience a exigir un poco más a su nueva inquilina. —Cállate. —Pero no puedo evitar reír un poco. Sí, no tiene panza, ni es de mediana edad, ni es un pervertido. No lo creo, de todos modos.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero no es él quien rodea la esquina. Jordan está vestida con unos vaqueros ajustados de color azul oscuro, enrollados en la parte inferior, con Chucks, y se está recogiendo el cabello en una coleta mientras intenta sostener un impermeable amarillo bajo su brazo. Estrecho mis ojos hacía ella. —¿Dónde está Cole? —Está, eh… no se siente muy bien —responde, poniéndose la chaqueta—. Sin embargo, iré y te ayudaré. No se siente bien. ¿Código para resaca? —No, está bien —le digo—. Quédate aquí. Es más seguro. Aunque, gracias. Alza los ojos, se concentran en mí y luego se estrechan. —¿Más seguro? —pregunta como si acabara de decir que saldré a hacerme la pedicura—. ¿O simplemente te preocupa que pases más tiempo sosteniendo mi mano que haciendo algo del trabajo? Intento mantener una expresión seria. Es muy inteligente. De acuerdo, sí, lo siento, cariño, pero sí. Al menos Cole tiene algo de experiencia, un poco, que yo sepa, pero algo, al ayudarme durante los veranos y los fines de semana. No necesito desviarme para explicar las instrucciones en lugar de darlas hoy. —Te diré qué… —Se abrocha el impermeable, su actitud dulce y tímida es reemplazada lentamente por una actitud más determinada—. Si la señorita no puede soportar un poco de lluvia en el cabello o el barro debajo de las uñas, entonces volverá a la camioneta y te esperará. Donde es seguro. ¿De acuerdo? Y luego arquea una ceja hacia mí como si ni siquiera debiera responder a eso. Ni siquiera sé cómo hacerlo, porque mi cerebro ahora está en blanco, y olvido por qué tengo un termo en la mano. Sacudo la cabeza para despejarla y abro la puerta. —Está bien. Sube a la camioneta. Esta maldita tormenta vino de la nada. Siempre miro el clima porque a veces determina si podemos trabajar en todo ese día, así que es muy importante. Especialmente durante el verano. Sin embargo, pensé que esta tormenta se desviaría y se dirigiría hacia el norte. Apago el motor y subo la cremallera de mi chaqueta, escudriñando por el parabrisas delantero. El aguacero está difuminando todo más allá del cristal, pero veo un destello naranja y un casco amarillo que flota unos metros más adelante y sé que algunos de los muchachos ya están aquí. Jordan levanta su capucha a mi lado, pero no la miro ni le digo qué hacer. Puede seguir mi ejemplo si quiere estar aquí.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Between the search, the conquest, the fucking itself, the residual emotions, and the desire for repetition, my sex life was almost a full-time job: without it, I could save a great deal of time and energy. A very great deal. For what? Compassion for all rather than obsession with one? But after months and months of all this “spiritual” work, I still wanted A-Man in my ass—as frequently and as predictably as possible. I was, it appeared, incurable. There I was—searching, searching, searching for the solution to my pain to no avail. Then she found me. HER One day, walking into the locker room at the gym, I saw the quiet brunette, the one I assumed A-Man fucked on occasion. I said my usual warm hello, but instead of her usual warm smile back, I was greeted with an icy stare and sulky silence. The next time I saw A-Man, I recounted the exchange. Did he know why she might have snarled at me? Well, yes, he did know. Apparently she had recently confronted him, demanding to be told if he was fucking anyone besides her. (Surely, I thought smugly to myself, she already knew the answer to that particular question.) He said that he asked her if she was certain she wanted an answer, and she insisted that she did. So he said yes. But she didn’t stop there. She wanted to know who. So he told her about me. Apparently this was a total surprise to her. She had known we were friends, but I guess she didn’t know the whole of it. Or the half of it. Or the back half of it. Well, he told me, she couldn’t stop crying. He clearly didn’t feel good about this, but he also knew that he’d only told her what she’d insisted on hearing. Was she sorry, I wondered, that she’d asked? It seemed like such an obvious error on her part. She was not, apparently, only snarling at me, but very angry at him as well. I was slower to realize that I, too, had asked about something better left alone; if I had never queried him about my encounter with the mousy brunette, A-Man would never have mentioned their blowup. It was us women asking for information that we didn’t really want that precipitated the events that followed. On that day, however, I just listened, feeling somewhat aloof. If anything, I enjoyed that slight thrill of drama in our midst as we proceeded into the glory of ass-fuck #272. But the next day, and the one after that, I realized that I had been given unsolicited confirmation that he was fucking her on occasion and I really hadn’t wanted to know that. This made her real to me in a way that she never had been before. Were we competing for A-Man? She clearly thought so, and was putting up some sort of fight, or at least a protest.

• From Bigorexia

  [chest press machine softly rattles] [gym equipment rattles] [Craig] What is my typical day like? I wake up, I eat breakfast, I relax, eat again, relax a little bit more, let my food settle, go to the gym, eat again. Come home, eat again, relax, take a protein shake, go to sleep. [weight plates rattle] For me, I'm into the mass monster look and, you know, I'm trying to keep it somewhat alive to show the world that the monsters do exist. [upbeat rock music] [man 1] Go ahead, go ahead, go ahead. You got this. -[man 2] Bring down. -[man 3] One and a half inches. Go! -[Janae grunts] -[man 3] Hold it. [man 1] Good! [weigh plates rattle] [Janae coughs and laughs] -[muffled chat] -[music continues] -[man 3] I give you that one. -Yeah. Check that up. [laughs] -[coughs and chuckles] -[wristband unfastens] -[sighs] -[man 4] It was pooling up in your eye a little bit. Oh, dude, it was, I couldn't even see out of that eye. [gentle music] [plastic bottle cracks] [upbeat music] [Janae] I was always drawn into sports and, specifically, lifting an-- and wanting to be big and strong. Big muscles and strength was something I was always drawn to. Those two things were these two strong desires that were with me my whole life. To some point, still, it's still something that, you know, trying to balance is tricky. [interviewer] What are your feelings on bigorexia? I think it's a real thing. I'm certainly in it. I-- I would say that I can totally relate. I think it's very common. I think a lot of the bigger athletes feel that to some degree. I know I did myself. You'd walk into a room, and there's a bunch of other athletes in there, but I could be the biggest one, and I would know that in my head, but I would look at them and I would always feel like they were bigger than me, and I would always feel insecure, like, back then, the way I picked out all of my clothes was what made me look biggest. Psychologically, it was a big struggle for me too, because I'm still feeling like I'm supposed to be female, but yet, now I'm putting more male hormones into my body. And some of those things I really struggled with. Lifting was more important than my career, more important than anything else. It was just a big part of who I am, but now, like, the need to figure out my gender and figure out all these things was kind of surpassing that. So I was struggling. Those issues became this balancing act. What's most important to me and what things am I willing to give up. If I want to transition and, you know, I pretty much have to walk away my lifting career, which was something that was very fulfilling and something I love doing. So it's just really complicated.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Vix vowed then and there not to be a person who didn’t get it. Whatever it was. The drive seemed to take forever. Lamb tapped the steering wheel, keeping time to the music on the tape deck. “Hey, Jude.” They came to a bridge with a sign that read, Feeling desperate? Call the Samaritans. It gave a phone number. Did that mean desperate enough to jump? Suddenly, a wave of homesickness washed over her. What was she doing here? Who was Caitlin, really? It was almost sunset as they pulled onto the ferry, another first for Vix. She’d never seen so much water in one place but Caitlin assured her this was not the ocean. Seabirds circled the boat as the ferry glided along and Caitlin warned Vix to stay alert because when they let out their stuff it went flying. Forty-five minutes later, when they docked, Vix sensed that this would not be the tropical island she’d conjured up in her fantasies. The night air was far from sultry, there was no reggae music, and the trees were pines and oaks, not palms. The phone was ringing as Lamb unlocked the door to the house. He ran for it, then handed it to Vix. “For you, kiddo.” “You were supposed to call,” her mother said. “I know, but—” She didn’t give Vix a chance to explain that they’d just arrived. “I expect you to do what you’re told, Victoria.” “I will, it’s just that …” Lamb turned on a light and Vix saw they were in the kitchen. There was an old stove, shelves but no cabinets, red linoleum on the floor, a table whose yellow paint had cracked and peeled. “How was the plane trip?” her mother asked. Caitlin was motioning for her to hurry. She pointed across the room to eerie-looking shadows dancing across the windows. “The plane?” Vix asked. “Yes, the plane,” her mother repeated. Caitlin threw a towel over her head and walked toward Vix, arms outstretched like a zombie. Sweetie started barking, excited by Caitlin’s antics. “The plane was okay,” she told her mother. Already, it felt like ages ago. Her first trip on a plane. She wondered if all the firsts in her life would go by so quickly, and be forgotten just as quickly. PhoebeSHE SINGS ALONG with Paul Simon as she packs her bags. Just slip out the back, Jack, Make a new plan, Stan … She twirls over to the dresser, grabs an armload of lingerie—lace bras with matching bikinis, long satin nightgowns, teddies. She dumps everything onto her Habitat, a sleek, white, four-sided bed topped by a Mylar mirror. She’s always had wanderlust. Not like Caity, who never wants to go anywhere unless it’s to be with Lamb. She’s beginning to think it was a mistake to take her away from him all those years ago. Of course, if Caity wanted, she could live with Lamb. All she’d have to do is ask. She won’t be hurt. Really .

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Then he called. Prayer answered. All’s well, he says, except one thing. His cock won’t reach across four states into my ass. Things are funny and good again, for a few hours. And I don’t tell him just how difficult things are for me. Never told him. Ever. Why would I? Reality was oozing in anyway, but why open the door wide? Another time I consulted with a friend, afraid that after his three-month absence he wouldn’t return to me as before. My friend laughed: “Two-hundred and sixty-something ass-fucks and you need more evidence?” The only one that counts, I explain, is the next one. And I am dead serious. I then explored a sex and love addiction twelve-step program, went to a few meetings, and read the textbook. From its point of view—which I tried adopting for a week or so—he is my drug, I am an addict, and abstinence is the beginning of recovery. This information was horrifying—my situation was an illness! And comforting—I could follow their plan to heal from this illness, in the company of similarly sick people, and get all the support I wanted. But I was assailed by doubts. When is it love and when is it addiction? Did I, once again, want to pathologize myself, especially after my hard-won sexual liberation? Did I wish to regard the great opening of my heart and ass as a problem to be solved rather than a gift to be honored? Did I wish to view this flawed, flesh-and-blood man as nothing but a projection of my own illusions, obsessions, conflicts, and screaming sexual desires? This felt like a limited perspective. Besides, the first thing a sex addict must do is to stop having sex. I’d suffered celibacy in my ten-year marriage; was I now going to choose it voluntarily? The textbook had a whole chapter on just what hell to expect from withdrawal—I found little solace in it. It would be hell indeed to withdraw from loving whom I loved. Perhaps this was not the pain of an addict in the grip of disease but simply the pain of a woman in love confronted with the loss of her beloved. (When I told A-Man, much later, after #270, that I was “addicted” to him, he looked highly amused and responded without missing a beat, “You damn well better be.”) There were other disincentives to “recovery.” The meetings were mostly attended by men with a lot of compulsive-masturbation and Internet-porn obsessions. I imagined their computer monitors stained with crusty semen drips and their sexual fantasies running wild as they shared their distraught and ambivalent hopes of abstinence. It felt dangerous to be an attractive woman in their presence. Then, at the end of one meeting, a reforming addict held my hand with just a little too much sympathy and I never went back. My problem was love; his was lechery.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Simplemente tienes todo resuelto y yo no —le digo—. Me preocupo por todo. ¿Superaré la escuela? ¿Seré quien quiero ser? ¿Tendré amigos y contribuiré con el mundo o simplemente terminaré haciendo un trabajo que odio como mi hermana, mi padre y todos los demás que conozco? —Lo miro de nuevo—. Todos menos tú, claro. Da la impresión que estás justo donde quieres estar contigo mismo, y no te arrepientes de nada. Me arrepiento de todo. Suelto una pequeña risa. —Bueno, no todo —me corrijo—. Sin embargo, me siento un poco estúpida. Acerca de las palabras que digo en cuanto salen de mi boca, cosas que hago, decisiones que tomo, siempre estoy dudando de mí. Como si tal vez fuera más feliz si me quedara en silencio y mantuviera mi maldita boca cerrada y mi cabeza baja. Su brazo se aprieta a mí alrededor. —¿Más feliz o más segura? ¿No son lo mismo? Pero no, sé lo que está diciendo. Un barco en el puerto es seguro, pero eso no es para lo que son los barcos. —Creo que tienes miedo, porque la gente ha trabajado duro para hacerte pensar que no mereces su atención, Jordan —dice—. Tus padres, ese ex tuyo de la escuela secundaria... incluso Cole. Les diste a las personas una oportunidad, y abusaron de ella. Esa es su culpa, no la tuya. —Inclina mi barbilla hacia arriba para que mis ojos se encuentren con los suyos—. No pienses que tiene algo que ver con quién eres. Y no dejes que nadie te haga temerte. Eres increíble. Mi sonrisa se asoma, y aunque pasan por mi cabeza mil dudas sobre a dónde nos dirigimos él y yo, estoy tomando una noche a la vez. Necesitaba escuchar eso. La única persona que me habla así es mi hermana. Pero Pike es mejor, porque también puedo besarlo. —Y me convertí en lo que soy, porque no tenía otra opción —señala—. Si las cosas hubieran sido diferentes, me hubiera gustado ir a la universidad. Viajar. Tal vez usar un traje para trabajar. —Su cuerpo se pone rígido—. Te envidio. Sigues creciendo, y aún puedes ser quién quieras. Tienes todas las opciones en el mundo delante de ti. No había pensado en eso. Qué diferente sería su vida si Cole nunca hubiera venido. —Te recuerdo en ese traje —reflexiono—. Deberías llevarme a una cita. Nunca me has visto con un vestido. Se queda en silencio, su pulgar frota arriba y abajo de mi brazo, y sé lo que no está diciendo. No puede llevarme a menos que vayamos a algún lugar fuera de la ciudad. Respiro hondo, empujando la preocupación hacia el fondo de mi mente. —Cuando te vi por primera vez, sentí que me habían golpeado —susurra—. Tienes un cuerpo que me hace sentir como si estuviera en una montaña rusa cuando lo toco. Sonrío y me quito las bragas antes de balancear una pierna sobre él, quedando a horcajadas y sentándome. Exhala, agarrando mis caderas.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Gracias. —Le doy una sonrisa y entro al club, el pequeño nudo en mi estómago se tensa aún más. Nunca he molestado a Cam aquí, a menos que tuviese que hacerlo. Algunas de las hermanas de las chicas o amigas se sentarán en la parte de atrás con otras bailarinas para quedar y socializar, pero es difícil para mí. Puedo soportar ver a mi hermana desnuda, pero tengo un problema viendo a otros viéndola desnuda. Padres de amigos de la escuela, un antiguo novio… incluso mujeres de la ciudad que vienen en grupo para una noche de chicas “para hacer algo diferente”, pero sé que se irán y solo hablarán mierda sobre las bailarinas al día siguiente con cualquiera que las escuche. Mirar desde detrás del telón y ver al conductor del autobús de mi escuela infantil o algo así me desconcertaría. No sé cómo lo hace. La habitación está llena de luces estroboscópicas, rotando de arriba hacia abajo y alrededor, hay bombillas alineadas en los bordes del escenario que sobresale entre la multitud y está rodeado por mesas a ambos lados. No es un lugar grande, pero hay dos pedestales independientes con barras y sus propias luces, donde las bailarinas pueden seguir más entre la audiencia, lejos del acto principal. Deteniéndome en la barra justo en la entrada, busco el cabello castaño de Cam, probablemente peinado lo suficientemente alto para que cualquier mujer de Texas sienta celos. Esta noche hay un buen número de clientes. Algunas personas solas, unas cuantas parejas, las cabinas llenas de hombres, con apariencia de recién salidos de la oficina, devorando filetes y hamburguesas, y una gran fiesta de chicos jóvenes que no reconozco. Gwen, una de las amigas de Cam, pone sus manos en los brazos de una silla y baja hacia el asiento. Y sobre el regazo de un hombre ya sentado ahí. Apoyándose en sus brazos, se mueve y se frota, balanceando las caderas y echando la cabeza hacia atrás sobre el hombro de él. Mi piel se calienta y mi respiración se acelera. Ya la he visto, a ella o a cualquiera de las otras chicas, hacer esto una docena de veces. Sin embargo, es él quien me tiene cautivada. Su cliente parece de veintitantos, un hombre joven vestido de jeans y una camiseta, pero es guapo y en forma. Tiene la mirada hacia abajo, mirando sobre el hombro de ella y descendiendo sobre el frente de su cuerpo mientras se mueve sobre él. Sus manos, incapaces de tocarla, están aferradas a los brazos de la silla, y alzo la mirada, viéndolo apretar la mandíbula. Burlándose, provocando, cautivando su atención y poniendo algo que desea justo frente a él y después alejándolo, porque no puede tenerlo… En este breve momento, me pregunto si sería tan buena. —Ya veo algunos ojos sobre ti.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Un mesero sale de la cocina con comida y camino alrededor de uno de los otros meseros que regresa con una nueva botella de Captain del armario de licores. Pienso por un momento, intentando determinar qué puedo hacer después y finalmente me agacho para recuperar un paquete de servilletas de un gabinete. Abriéndolo, empiezo a rellenar uno de los contenedores en la barra. —Vete a casa —dice Shel, poniendo su mano sobre el contenedor—. Duerme un poco. —Estoy bien. Prefiero estar aquí. —Si no vas a casa, entonces ve a casa de tu hermana —sugiere—. Solo, por favor, descansa un poco. Si trabajas más horas hoy, no podrás conducir a casa esta noche. Te veré mañana. Abro mi boca para discutir, pero simplemente sacude su cabeza hacia mí, sabiendo lo que estoy a punto de decir. —No soy tu mamá —señala—, pero soy tan buena como una. Necesitas dormir. Consigue algo de comida de la cocina y vete. Por favor. **** Hago lo que dice Shel, me preparo un sándwich que no tengo ganas de comerme y subo a mi auto, encendiendo el motor. Una canción de Alice Cooper está sonando en la estación de los 80’s que tengo sintonizada, pero la apago, no estoy de humor para el escape que generalmente anhelo. Casa. Me toma unos buenos veinte minutos conducir sin rumbo por la ciudad, perdida en mi cabeza, antes de decidir a qué casa es a la que voy. Necesito ropa y mis libros escolares y aunque no quiero ver a Pike, ni a Cole, ni a su madre, no puedo utilizar el maquillaje de mi hermana por otro día. Todo tiene brillos en él. Al llegar a Windy Park Place, observo el flujo de autos y camionetas que bordean ambos lados de la calle, así como todo el camino de la entrada de Pike. Algunos vehículos los reconozco, otros no, pero me meto en un espacio entre dos autos frente a la casa de Cramer y veo las luces que salen por encima de la cerca de Pike en su patio trasero. Cole debe estar teniendo una fiesta. Súper. Dejo mi bolso en el auto, tomo mis llaves, lo cierro con llave, y camino hacia la casa, queriendo estar en cualquier lugar menos aquí, pero sabiendo que tengo que hacer esto. Mi piel zumba con conciencia, y el vello en mis brazos se eriza cuando la música me inunda los oídos. Pero cargo los escalones del porche, todavía vestida con mi blusa sin espalda del trabajo. Me aprieto la coleta y espero que con toda la gente de aquí, Pike y Cole no se den cuenta que vengo y me voy. Entro a la casa y miro alrededor, viendo que la puerta trasera se cierra cuando alguien sale y luego escucho que la puerta del baño se cierra en el cuarto de lavado.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Qué demonios? —Lo tomo de su mano y abanico los billetes, viendo muchos de uno, pero una impresionante cantidad de decenas y veinte también. —Ese es el aspecto que tiene hacer tu alquiler en una noche, cariño. —Me lo quita de la mano—. Tuvimos una despedida de soltero. 3 Un “screwdriver” es una popular bebida hecha con jugo de naranja y vodka. Muchos tipos borrachos tirando dinero. La veo volver a deslizar el dinero dentro de su bolsillo trasero y frunzo el ceño ante el brillo de sus ojos. Tiene sentido que haga muchísimo más que yo. Yo trabajo en un bar. Ella trabaja en un club. Ella entretiene. Yo sirvo bebidas. Sin embargo, debe ser agradable irse a casa esta noche, sabiendo que puedes pagar tus cuentas mañana. Que puedes ir a la tienda de comestibles y poner lo que quieras en tu carrito. Alzo la vista a sus ojos, y puedo decir que está pensando exactamente lo mismo. También podría ser más fácil para mí si acepto la oferta de trabajo de su jefe. No haré tanto como mi hermana siendo camarera allí, pero ganaría más que aquí. Pero, aunque The Hook puede ofrecer dinero rápido, nada sobre ese lugar es fácil. Los hombres miran a Cam como una comida gratis, y soporta mucha mierda. Aun así, sin embargo… estoy cansada de preocuparme por el dinero cada maldito día. Vuelvo a trabajar, pero puedo sentir sus ojos en mí. Piensa que soy un hámster en una rueda. —Cállate —murmuro. Resopla. —No dije nada. Ni una sola cosa. —Gracias —digo, saliendo del Mustang de Cam poco más de una hora después. Doblo el asiento delantero y agarro mi bolso de la parte de atrás, miro rápidamente por encima del hombro para ver si el auto de Cole está en el camino de entrada. No está. Solo la camioneta de Pike. Sacudo la cabeza. —No trabajas mañana, ¿verdad? —pregunta Cam. Me vuelvo. —No, pero lo hago el sábado a la noche. Te enviaré un mensaje de texto con mi agenda más tarde. —Bueno. Cierro la puerta y busco la llave de la casa en mi bolsillo. —Te amo. Adiós —grito. —¡Oh, compré algo para ti, por cierto! —chilla Cam a través de la ventana abierta del lado del pasajero—. Mira en tu mochila cuando entres en tu habitación. Pruébalo. Mira cómo se siente. Me detengo, doy media vuelta y clavo los ojos en ella. —No otro vibrador… —gimoteo. Echa la cabeza hacia atrás y se ríe del presente que me regaló por mi cumpleaños número dieciocho el año pasado. No habría sido tan malo si no me hubiera dejado abrirlo en una fiesta llena de gente. —No eso —asegura—. Pero definitivamente es algo que tú y Cole pueden disfrutar juntos. —Y luego mueve su barbilla hacia la oscura casa detrás de mí—. O, mmm… tal vez al hombre de la casa también le guste. Me refiero al otro hombre de la casa.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  When the slimeball and his girlfriend came home in a huff that afternoon and found Caitlin and Vix still cleaning up, listening to Stevie Nicks on the tape deck, he exploded. Vix wanted to take off before it got serious, but Caitlin looked right at him and said, “I believe you’re responsible for the cost of replacing the dishes.” He reached into his pocket and began to throw hundred-dollar bills at them while his girlfriend tugged on his arm crying, “Honey, stop … honey, please …” Hundred-dollar bills, five of them, two of which they pocketed, as he yelled, “Replace the goddamn dishes and get the fuck out of this house!” AbbySHE CAN’T SLEEP . The strain of having all five of them in the house is taking its toll. She’s worried sick, especially about Caitlin and Vix. She has the feeling, from the way they get themselves up at night, there are boys in the picture this summer. But who are they? What are they doing together? And just because Daniel has finished a year at Princeton, and Gus, at Northwestern, they think they’re grownup, beyond rules. Gus has turned into a man overnight. Last summer he’d still been a teenager, her son’s best friend. Now, when he looks at her she sometimes feels herself blush. How can she possibly tell him what to do? She supposes she’ll have to learn to let go, as Lamb says, learn how to live with grown children. But where’s the manual on that? She’s grateful they all have jobs. Not that she’s thrilled Daniel and Gus are working nights, bussing tables at the Harborview, never getting home before midnight, never getting out of bed before noon. The girls are another story. Out of the house at seven every morning, home after work to shower and snack but never sitting down to a proper meal. The only one she doesn’t fret over is Sharkey. At least she knows where he is—working at the garage all day, locked up in his room at night with the new computer. Sharkey, who went off to Reed a year ago and has never said a word about it, not to her anyway. He doesn’t give her any trouble. Maybe she should be worried about that! [image file=Image00006.jpg] ABBY INVITED VIX to try her new yellow kayak. Lamb had surprised her with it at the start of the summer. They’d christened it with a bottle of champagne. Now Abby could paddle off her anxieties in the pond. On their way down to the dock Abby said, “You know, Vix … I’d like to think if I had a daughter she’d be a lot like you.” She took off her sunglasses and wiped the lenses with her T-shirt. “That’s a compliment. I hope you take it as one.” Vix stammered. “I do … absolutely.” “I consider you a person of real values and ethics.” She paused, then added, “That’s a compliment, too.” Real values and ethics?

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  From then on the struggle of their love was to defeat this coldness which lay dormant in her and which a word, a small wound, a doubt, could bring out to destroy their possession of each other. Pierre became obsessed with it. He was more intent on watching her moods and predispositions than his own. Even as he enjoyed her, his eyes searched her for a sign of that future clouding, always hanging over them. He exhausted himself waiting for her pleasure. He withheld his. He stormed against this unconquerable core of her being, which could close at will against him. He began to understand some of men’s perverse devotions to frigid women. The citadel—the impregnable virgin woman: The conqueror in Pierre, who had never burst forth to carry out a real revolution, gave itself to this conquest, to once and forever break down this barrier that she could erect against him. Their lovers’ meetings became a secret battle between two wills, a series of ruses. If they had a quarrel (and he quarreled over her intimate association with Miguel and Donald, because he said they were making love to her through the bodies of each other) then he knew she would withhold her orgasm from him. He stormed and sought to conquer her with the wildest caresses. He treated her brutally at times, as if she were a whore and he could pay for her submission. At other times he tried to melt her with tenderness. He made himself small, almost a child in her arms. He surrounded her with erotic atmosphere. He made of their room a den, covered with rugs and tapestries, perfumed. He sought to reach her through her response to beauty, luxury, odors. He bought her erotic books, which they read together. This was his latest form of conquest—to arouse a sexual fever in her so potent that she could never resist his touch. As they lay on the couch together and read, their hands wandered over each other’s body, to the places described in the book. They exhausted themselves in excesses of all kinds, seeking every pleasure known to lovers, fired by images and words and descriptions of new positions. Pierre believed he had awakened in her such a sexual obsession that she could never control herself again. And Elena did seem corrupted. Her eyes began to shine in an extraordinary way, not with the effulgence of day, but with a disquieting light like that of a tubercular patient, with a fever so intense that it burned rings around them. Now he ceased to leave the room in darkness. He liked to see her arrive with this fever in her eyes. Her body seemed to have become heavier. Her nipples were always hard, as if she were constantly in a state of erotic excitement. Her skin had become so hypersensitive that as soon as he touched her it rippled under his fingers. A shiver passed through her back, touching every nerve.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Finally her hand closed around his throbbing penis. And it was a shock of such intense pleasure that he sighed. His own hand went out, blindly fumbling through her clothes. He, too, wanted to touch the core of her sensations. He, too, wanted to glide along and enter into her secret places. He fumbled with her clothes. He found an opening. He touched her pubic hair and the rivulet between the leg and the mount of Venus, felt the tender flesh, found moisture and dipped his finger into it. Then in a frenzy he tried to push his penis into her. He saw all the soldiers charging into her. The blood rushed to his head. She thrust him away and would not let him take her. She whispered in his ear, “Only with the hands,” and then lay open to him while continuing to caress him inside his pants. When he again turned over to push his wild sex against her she pushed him away, angrily this time. Her hand aroused him, and he could not lie still. She said, “I will make you come this way. Enjoy yourself.” He lay back quietly enjoying the caresses. But as soon as he closed his eyes he saw the soldiers bending over her naked body, he saw her legs forced apart, the opening dripping from the attacks, and what he felt resembled the furious panting desire of the soldiers. Mary Ann suddenly closed her robe and stood up. She had grown completely cold now. She sent him away, and he was never allowed to see her again. AT FORTY Pierre was still a very handsome man, whose successes with women, and the long and now broken liaison with Elena, had given the local people much to talk about in the small country place where he had settled. He was now married to a very delicate and charming woman, but two years after their marriage her health had grown poor and she was a semi-invalid. Pierre had loved her ardently, and his passion at first seemed to revive her but slowly had become a danger to her weak heart. Finally her doctor advised against all lovemaking, and poor Sylvia entered into a long period of chastity. Pierre, too, was suddenly deprived of his sexual life. Sylvia was naturally forbidden to have children, and so she and Pierre finally decided to adopt two from the village orphanage. It was a great day for Sylvia, and she dressed lavishly for the occasion. It was a great day for the orphanage, too, because all the children knew that Pierre and his wife had a beautiful house, a big estate, and that they were reputed to be kind. It was Sylvia who chose the children—John, a delicate fair-haired boy, and Martha, a dark and vivid girl, both about sixteen years of age. The two had been inseparable in the orphanage, as close as a brother and sister.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Tampoco he hablado con Cole desde ayer, pero por alguna razón, eso no me molesta. Así es como funcionamos. Se fue ayer, para ayudar a un amigo con su auto, y para cuando llegó a casa yo estaba en el bar. Dormí hasta tarde esta mañana, más como un esfuerzo por evitar a Pike en casa, y solo desperté una vez cuando Cole dejó un beso de despedida en mi mejilla antes de irse a trabajar. He tenido un nudo en el estómago toda la mañana. ¿Por qué diablos estaba Pike tan enojado? Pensé que nos llevábamos bien. No hice nada malo. De hecho, estaba cortando su maldito césped, y lo siguiente que supe fue que estaba regañándome como si estuviera tomando el sol semidesnuda en el jardín delantero mientras niños de seis años andaban en sus bicicletas por la calle. Es tan volátil. Muy diferente a su hijo, que nunca se toma nada en serio. Salgo del auto de Cole, uno de sus amigos le dio un aventón esta mañana así yo podría ir a la biblioteca. Agarro la lonchera con el almuerzo de Pike que dejó en casa y echo un vistazo alrededor del sitio de trabajo. Está más ajetreado que la última vez que estuve aquí. Los trabajadores se mueven de un lado a otro, usando cascos de seguridad, con cinturones de herramientas de cuero marrón colgando de sus caderas, y el polvo se levanta por los camiones que entran y salen del área. Los martillos golpean el acero y hombres con botas sucias y jeans rasgados están sentados a horcajadas en las vigas, suspendidas en el aire, mientras hacen lo que sea que hacen para convertir los materiales en un edificio. No muchos llegan a ver los huesos desnudos. Me pregunto por qué Cole no trabaja para su padre. Este empleo tiene que ser bien remunerado. Después de todo, conozco a algunos de estos chicos. Mantienen a sus familias con este empleo. Mi mirada deambula, buscando a alguien accesible con quien dejar la lonchera, pero también estoy un poco alerta buscando los tatuajes de Pike. No quiero verlo, de verdad. Mi plan, cuando vi que había dejado su lonchera en casa esta mañana, era hacer una buena acción, entregarla, y dejar la pelota en su cancha para superar la discusión al tener que buscarme y decir “gracias”. Quiero superar cualquier incomodidad entre nosotros. Caminando por la suciedad y los escombros, me dirijo hacia la estructura y veo a su amigo, Dutch, inclinándose para recoger algo justo adentro. Me nota y se levanta. ―Hola, Dutch. ―Sonrío―. ¿Está Pike? Sus ojos se deslizan hacia la bolsa térmica negra en mi mano. ―¿Su almuerzo? ―Lo dejó en la mesa de la cocina. ―La levanto ―. Pensé en dejarlo mientras estoy haciendo recados. ―Eso es amable de tu parte. ―Pero no toma la lonchera. En cambio, lanza una herramienta en una caja y me hace un gesto―. Vamos, te llevaré.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  What do the K and Y stand for? According to Johnson & Johnson, which has been manufacturing the jelly since 1910—their service reps were very friendly on the phone—they don’t stand for anything, just arbitrary letters assigned by the original research scientists. But they have come to mean plenty. TRACELESS Now that I have fallen into both sin and love, my scribbled daily testimonies serve to keep my anxiety of loss just barely at bay. With him I live on the ledge of the abyss. The terror that this experience might end competes with the even worse terror that it might be lost forever. Because he and I are not fused, except during sexual contact, I must constantly confront the spaces between us. He never overstays his welcome, and thus cultivates an air of scarcity, an erotic component of powerful and paradoxical consequences. On the one hand, the element of instability is clearly an essential factor, perhaps the central factor, in generating the total thrill of each and every encounter. The lost heat that monogamous couples constantly mourn is always there for us. And yet this unpredictability also leaves me with ample time and space for the insecurities of love to blossom. Thus I doubt, I question, I worry and heap indignities upon myself for which there is neither evidence nor refutation. The lingering voice of convention is always attempting to diminish and deride my own transcendent experience. And yet I have never tried to control him in order to avoid this anxiety; I have always known that he is not an extension of me but a clearly separate human being. Besides, I am well aware by now that if a man exhibits too many signs of attachment I lose interest and the sex becomes laden with obligation. Desire is sexy, a show of free will; attachment is the enemy of free will. A-Man, with his scarcity, has become the first man to keep me poised at that delectable point where I both thrive and suffer: always-in-desire, never-having-enough. It is easier to want something than to have it—and so often when you do get the thing you’ve wanted so long, you’re busy with numerous substitutes. With him somehow the wanting and the having combine, simultaneously. He is my very real yet eternally impossible fantasy: a man I can respect. Living entirely in the moment, he leaves no traces. He is here when he is here. He is gone when he is gone. Others linger when they are gone, like a bad smell, even when they were never really here in the first place. He is the most present, and as a result, the most emphatically, painfully absent.

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

  For your own learning, maybe getting bullied taught you that peers are mean and critical. Maybe you learned never to ask for help because, your parents warned, people would think you’re weak. Maybe living in a Western culture that idealizes extroverts taught you, as Susan Cain puts it, that your quiet temperament fell “somewhere between a disappointment and a pathology.” However social anxiety worked its way into your brain, you somehow learned to believe that people would judge you and find you lacking. And of course, just like Jim hiding from Deena, you learned to avoid. Maybe being the center of attention as a kid made you so uncomfortable you’ve avoided it ever since and never had the opportunity to learn you could handle it just fine. Perhaps you bolt at the end of the meeting to miss the ensuing small talk, feign illness so you don’t have to go to the holiday party, or stare at your phone whenever you feel nervous, all of which inadvertently keeps you stuck. You don’t get the chance to discover this social stuff isn’t as bad as you think and maybe, just maybe, you got this. Second, with introversion, solitude makes you feel good. But with social anxiety, it just makes you less anxious. It’s a fine distinction—feeling less anxious feels good, too—so let’s look a little closer. Introverts gain energy by being alone, one-to-one, or in a small group of trusted confidants. If you’re an introvert, being in solitude is refreshing and recharges your batteries. By contrast, with social anxiety being alone makes you less anxious, which might feel good, but it’s more a sense of relief than contentment. You may tell yourself, “I don’t care,” about missing the reunion or turning down the invitation to karaoke, but deep down, avoiding people leaves you lonely or filled with regret. But the drive to make anxiety go away is strong. So you may avoid events you’d otherwise love to attend because you’re worried about making a fool of yourself, getting rejected, or feeling awkward. We might say to ourselves, “Parties freak me out,” “I’m worried I’m going to say something stupid,” “I always feel like I have nothing to say,” while the non-anxious introvert simply says, “It’s not my scene,” “It’s not my style,” and then invites a friend over to hang out the next day. Third, social anxiety thrives on perfectionism. We’ll cover this one in chapter 13, but here’s a sneak peak. With perfectionism, far from fifty shades of gray, you think your social performance is black or white. As you see it, only a flawless social showing can stave off harsh criticism. You’re either perfect—you come off as witty, articulate, and cool as a cucumber—or you’re a stammering idiot whom everyone sneers at and turns their backs on. And that kind of pressure is paralyzing; we think we’ll be rejected unless we come off as the paragon of effortless social banter, which instead just makes us clam up.

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

  This is important: Derrick assumed the empty gym was the result of his social skills. And indeed, when self-consciousness gets the best of us we may think our empty weekend, empty calendar, or empty bed is the result of our lack of social skills. We think there’s some rule we don’t know, some magic we’re not privy to. This brings us to the fifth myth: I have lousy social skills. Getting sucked into social anxiety makes us say things like “I don’t know how to make conversation,” “I’m not very good at small talk,” “I have nothing to say,” “I always end up doing something stupid,” or, like Rosie, claim not to know how to be normal. Skill is part of the equation, but it’s small. There are basic rules that Western culture has created, like greeting with a smile and a firm handshake or, say, not giving unwanted shoulder rubs to female world leaders at a G8 summit. Now, it is possible your skills are underdeveloped due to avoiding social situations. You may be rusty, but you’re not hopeless. As with Derrick, it’s not I don’t have it in me. If anything holds you back, it’s anxiety, which simply keeps you from accessing your skills. Think how you behave around those with whom you are comfortable. Are your social skills still lacking? Probably not. As with Derrick, most often the apparent disappearance of our social skills is the fault of the Inner Critic. If you’re actively worried about coming across as creepy or weird or awkward or idiotic, the Inner Critic is going to berate you into a lot of false positives. Or, like Derrick (or Rosie or Vivian, for that matter), if you put a lot of pressure on yourself for things to go perfectly, you’re guaranteed to feel stifled. Then the resulting inhibition feels like you don’t have skills. It feels like we have no idea what to do, feels like we have nothing to say, feels like we’re going to screw up or do something stupid. But the feeling that we have no social skills is the result of anxiety, not the other way around.1 * * *