Contentment

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 118 of 189 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She knows she’s not a bad mother, just not a very good one. But she and Caity get along. Sharkey, on the other hand, is a complete mystery. Grown men she can understand, she knows what they want, what they expect, but this is something else. Maybe they’re all odd at fourteen. She’s sure he’ll appreciate her when he’s older. He’ll be glad then to have a live wire for a mother. They both will be. Funny about this girl Caity took away for the summer. Another of her impulsive decisions? Last year’s friend lasted just ten days. Ten days and she’d flown home, and as far as she knew Caity hadn’t given her a second thought. After the summer, when she’d asked What happened? Caity told her, She just didn’t get it . Get what, Caity? Come on, Phoeb … you know . But she didn’t. Ah well, it wasn’t her problem, was it? Let Lamb work it out. Ten months a year is enough to be a parent. Everyone needs time off to rejuvenate. Tonight she’ll be in New York, tomorrow night, Paris. 3IT WAS THE KIND OF SUMMER you don’t write home about. Vix didn’t exactly lie, but like Caitlin, she began to practice selective truth telling. What her family didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. The house was dark and messy, a place where nobody cared how much sand was on the floor or in your bed. Caitlin called it Psycho House. Vix could see why. Their room had unpainted wooden walls, twin beds with squeaky springs, faded red bedspreads, and pillows that smelled worse than the damp sponge used to clean off the lunch tables at school. The shelves were crammed full of headless Barbies, Legos, board games with missing pieces, tennis racquets with broken strings, starfish, hermit crab shells, jars of dead insects, pyramids of rocks. The bathroom was down the hall. They shared it with Sharkey. When Vix sat in the claw-footed tub she could look out over Tashmoo Pond, which was a mile long. It opened into the Sound, allowing boats to come and go. In the pond things floated, brown things that looked like turds. Caitlin swore they weren’t but Vix wasn’t so sure. Caitlin swam every day in her purple tank suit. Vix’s suit was blue and white with red stars. She hated it. Her mother said there was no point in buying a new one if she didn’t plan on getting it wet. And she didn’t. She’d be like Sharkey. He never went anywhere near the water. He never even wore a bathing suit. Another thing about him and Caitlin, they hardly ever changed their clothes. But the really disgusting part was Caitlin didn’t change her underpants. Sometimes she didn’t even wear underpants. She hadn’t taken a bath or shower since they’d arrived. Her hair needed shampooing. She and Sharkey were both starting to smell of unwashed feet and something else, something Vix couldn’t identify. But it wasn’t good.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Después de aproximadamente una hora y otra cerveza, la multitud se ha reducido un poco y estoy bastante animado con la música de los 80s. Jordan parece estar bien y no estoy seguro de por qué pensé que necesitaba protección. Simplemente debería irme. Pero justo entonces, aparece una Corona frente a mí y levanto la mirada para ver a Jordan parada a mi lado. —Hola —dice, su expresión es suave y gentil. Estoy seguro que sería así todo el tiempo si simplemente dejara de joderlo todo. —¿Estás bien, cariño? —le pregunta Dutch. Ella lo mira y sonríe y luego vuelve a mirarme. —En realidad, iba a llamarte —dice, bajando la voz—. No sé si te vas a quedar hasta tarde, pero me preguntaba si había alguna forma de que pudieras llevarme a casa esta noche. No salgo hasta las dos. ¿Es demasiado tarde? Sus ojos se disculpan como si temiera ser un inconveniente, pero por supuesto, le dije que me dijera si necesitaba que la llevaran a casa. Estoy feliz de hacerlo. —No hay problema. Aquí estaré. Pero Dutch empuja mi codo. —Tenemos que estar en el sitio a las cinco de la mañana, solo recuerda. —Está bien —digo secamente, apenas mirándolo. Por supuesto, me encantaría dormir más de un par de horas, pero esta no es una elección. Jordan da un paso atrás. —¿Estás seguro? —pregunta nuevamente—. Podría preguntarle a Shel. Está un poco fuera de su camino, pero no quiero que pierdas horas de sueño. —Está bien —le aseguro—. Aquí estaré. —Bueno, ¿por qué no simplemente le das tus llaves? —dice Dutch—. Te dejaré en casa y ella puede llevarse tu camioneta. De todos modos, me iré de aquí pronto. Hijo de... ¿Cuál es su maldito problema? Pero Jordan se apresura a intervenir, disculpándose. —No, no, está bien. Puedo... —Mierda, dije que estaba bien —digo bruscamente, callando a todos. Luego miro a Dutch—. ¿Te podrías callar? Se da vuelta, frunciendo los labios, porque quiere malditamente sonreír como si supiera algo. Todos se quedan quietos por un momento, sacudo la cabeza, sacando mis llaves del bolsillo. No hay ninguna razón lógica para esperarla si Dutch me ofrece un aventón ahora. Le entrego las llaves. —Aquí tienes. Funciona a la perfección. —¿Estás...? —Sí, estoy seguro —le digo—. Está bien. Desliza las llaves en su bolsillo. —Gracias. —La camioneta está estacionada a la vuelta de la esquina. Asiente y se dirige de regreso hacia la barra, mirándome una vez. Reviso mi teléfono, viendo que es casi medianoche y si Dutch me va a dar un aventón preferiría terminar con esto ahora. Tomo un trago largo de la Corona, bebiéndome aproximadamente la mitad. No escapó a mi atención el hecho que también recordara qué cerveza me gusta. Sacando un poco de dinero, tiro unos cuantos billetes en la mesa por lo que sea que haya bebido y le digo a Dutch: —Vamos.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Siempre fue una decepción que me quedara en este pueblo y trabajara en algo que pensaban que requería más fuerza que cerebro. Sin embargo, cuando fundé Lawson Construction, mi propio negocio, y construí mi propio hogar, siempre me miraban como si quisieran algo mejor, pero sabían que era inútil decir algo. Se habían dado por vencidos. No es que odiaran lo que hice, o que no estuvieran contentos con el hombre en el que me he convertido. Lloraron mis oportunidades perdidas y todavía estaban preocupados por la felicidad de su hijo. Lo que no se dieron cuenta, sin embargo, es que ahora tengo mi propio hijo y su felicidad es lo primero. Y realmente amo muchas cosas sobre lo que hago. Consigo horas de aire fresco todos los días, el sol, el ejercicio… Es una buena vida. Duermo bien por la noche. Es agradable ver que otra persona lo disfrute como yo. —Mi día está arruinado ahora —dice Jordan—. Nada sobrepasará eso. —¿Sobrepasar qué? —respondo—. ¿Mojarte bajo la lluvia? —Y jugar en el barro. Sonrío y sacudo la cabeza cuando entro en mi calzada. —Eso no es jugar en el barro. Se vuelve hacia mí. —Oh, ¿te refieres a enlodarse? ¿Por eso tu camioneta se ve tan desagradable? Me burlo y apago el auto, lanzándola una mirada. —Niña, si puedes decir de qué color es la pintura, entonces no estás usando tu camioneta correctamente. ¿Lo entiendes? Pone los ojos en blanco y abre la puerta del auto. Los dos bajamos y nos dirigimos al porche. Ahora que lo pienso, si no le importara mojarse y ensuciarse hoy, probablemente le encantaría enlodarse. No lo he hecho en mucho tiempo. Mi camioneta solo se ve desagradable porque nunca la lavo. Eso no es natural. —¿Alguna vez has llevado a Cole? —pregunta, subiendo los escalones. —Algunas veces mientras crecía, sí. Extiendo la mano antes que llegue a la puerta y la abra, manteniéndola abierta para que entre primero. Pero se da vuelta, mirándome antes de entrar. —Quizás puedas llevarnos a los dos la próxima vez que vayas —sugiere—. Mientras pueda conducir. No eres muy posesivo con tu camioneta, ¿verdad? —No. Una camioneta está hecha para ser usada. Adelante. Solo me pondré el cinturón de seguridad. Sonríe suavemente y me mira por un momento, algo que no puedo descifrar cruza su rostro. ¿Dije algo? La miro por un momento, notando cómo sus ojos se ven casi como una acuarela. Azul medianoche, pero cada vez más claro cuanto más se acercan a la pupila. Miro hacia otro lado, aclarando mi garganta. —¡Jordan! —grita Cole de repente desde el piso de arriba—. Nena, ¿estás en casa? ¡Ven acá! Me encuentro con su mirada otra vez, y se aleja, mostrándome una sonrisa de disculpa. —Tengo que ir a prepararme para el trabajo. Gracias por permitirme ayudar hoy. Asiento, pero me quedo en la puerta, viéndola cruzar la sala de estar y desaparecer por las escaleras. Un sentimiento extraño me invade mientras la miro.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  In Edgartown she and Vix waited for the tiny car ferry to shuttle them across to Chappy, then Caitlin drove for miles, as if she knew exactly where she was going, as if she’d been there a million times before, though Vix couldn’t imagine when. Finally the ocean came into view, as calm and blue as Vix had ever seen it, rimmed by a long white sandy beach, almost deserted. Bru and Von were already there, waiting. Caitlin was wearing her black bikini that day, the one with the bottom cut up to her waist. She coated herself with suntan lotion, slowly, asking Von to do her back. He lifted her hair to get her neck and her shoulders, and as he did she stood with her face upturned to the sun, her eyes closed. Something about it was so sensual Vix felt uncomfortable and turned away, meeting Bru’s gaze. The midsummer heat wave was making headlines and the temperature of the ocean made it feel like a pond. Vix always kept both feet on the ground in the ocean, fearful not just of the waves washing over her, suffocating her, but of the undertow and, even worse, a riptide. If you were caught in a riptide and weren’t able to swim parallel to shore it could carry you out so far you’d never be able to get back. Her worst nightmare was to be trapped underwater like Mary Jo, the senator’s friend. But today, with no surf and hardly any undertow, she floated on her back as the water gently lifted then released her, like a seesaw. With Bru watching there was no reason to be afraid. Late in the day, she and Bru walked hand in hand along the water’s edge, stopping once to lie in the wet sand, their bodies pressed together, his hand pushing up the top of her bikini as they kissed hot, salty kisses. When he promised a surprise for her birthday, she smiled. After all, wasn’t he what she wanted more than anything? But not here, not now. It would happen later, after dark, with the stars overhead and Stevie Nicks singing. By the time they got back Caitlin and Von had the picnic supper spread out on Abby’s best blue and white cloth. “I know you’ll be disappointed,” Von told them, “but Caitlin forgot the tofu.” This had become a running joke between them since Caitlin had convinced Von to give up his Marlboros. She’d told him how she hated the smell and the taste of tobacco and just like that, he’d gone cold turkey. Hey … what guy in his right mind wouldn’t trade his Marlboros for Caitlin? he wanted to know. But give up his barbecued chicken, greasy burgers, and fries? Give a guy a break . There was a limit to his adoration. He came up behind Caitlin, his arms around her waist, his mouth against her neck.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  And he does so with a weapon of singular penetration. #156 He hangs a large gilt mirror in my bedroom and then I suck his cock in front of it, profile, testing the reflection—it proves worthy. He then sits on the bed and says, “Now just slide back up onto my cock . . .” We’re facing the same way. Obedient, I move too fast, too eager, and my ass is pierced with that anal virgin pain. “Okay, okay,” he soothes, “I’ll do everything . . .” He turns me over, places me on Pink Square, and rests his cock at the entrance to my ass. Not moving, he reaches around, finds my clit, and pulses her until my ass releases. He then pumps my ass to kingdom come. THE LESSON One day we had a conversation. Having discovered how to surrender, I was committed to continue doing so. This entailed remaining passive, ready to submit, willing to let him manhandle me, to let him enter my ass. On this particular afternoon, he said that he loved fucking me—and my ass—that everything was terrific, and if it stayed as it was, he would still love it. But, he continued, if I learned how to suck his cock really well, that would be a real bonus. After swallowing my pride, I said, “Okay, teach me.” And he did. So well. And then I started adding things of my own. Sucking a dick is an art form. He gave me some basics. Wet, wet, wet, the wetter the better. Circling the base above the balls with a strong grip is good. So is circling the cock and balls with a one-handed grip. Mouth: no teeth, ever. Smooth, wet, tongue in, or better, tongue long and licking. Then we got to variations of movement, speed, tension, and rhythm. Change course, he suggested—surprise is good. Don’t just do one movement over and over. Do one movement over and over and then switch. For example: base circled by the thumb-middle-finger cock ring, soft lips around his cock, down his cock, build up a consistent rhythm, watch his face, see him get closer, then pull out and lick down the back side of his cock, over the balls, and then suction them into your mouth one ball at a time, wet, wet, and with a mouthful of balls roll them around on your tongue like almonds, then lick back up the spine and deep- throat the whole throbbing thing. And variations on this. Deep is good. Gagging is good. If you won’t gag for your man, how can you really love him? Juices more slippery than saliva come up through the throat and coat his cock. It is the throat orgasm. My blow jobs also made yet another marked improvement in the visual arena, after I sucked his cock in front of several different mirrors. Experimenting with various angles, I learned showmanship, delineation of movement, clarity of intent.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  So much so that I abandoned my crusty attitude toward marriage and chose to dive right in. I used to uphold love as that constant, steady force that defines my relationship with Jeff. Of course that constant, steady force still exists between us. Yet upgrading my vision of love, I now see that steady force, not as love per se, but as the bond he and I share, and the commitments we two have made to each other, to be loyal and trusting to the end. That bond and these commitments forge a deep and abiding sense of safety within our relationship, a safety that tills the soil for frequent moments of love. Knowing now that, from our bodies’ perspective, love is positivity resonance—nutrient-rich bursts that accrue to make Jeff, me, and the bond we share healthier—shakes us out of any complacency that tempts us to take our love for granted, as a mere attribute of our relationship. Love, this new view tells us with some urgency, is something we should recultivate every morning, every afternoon, and every evening. Seeing love as positivity resonance motivates us to reach out for a hug more often or share an inspiring or silly idea or image over breakfast. In these small ways, we plant additional seeds of love that help our bodies, our well-being, and our marriage to grow stronger. And here’s something that’s hard to admit: If I take my body’s perspective on love seriously, it means that right now—at this very moment in which I’m crafting this sentence—I do not love my husband. Our positivity resonance, after all, only lasts as long as we two are engaged with each other. Bonds last. Love doesn’t. The same goes for you and your loved ones. Unless you’re cuddled up with someone reading these words aloud to him or her, right now, as far as your body knows, you don’t love anyone. Of course, you have affection for many, and bonds with a subset of these. And you may even be experiencing strong feelings of positivity now that will prime the pump for later, bona fide and bodily felt love. But right now—within this very moment that you are reading this sentence—your body is loveless. Moreover, love, as you’ve seen, obeys conditions. If you feel unsafe, or fail to find the time or contexts to truly connect with others, the delicate pas de deux of positivity resonance won’t commence. Beyond these obstacles, something more insidious may also be barring you from love. It’s your reaction to the L-word itself. Although you may be intrigued by the concept of positivity resonance, when it really comes down to it, you might hesitate to call that feeling love. You’d rather reserve this powerful word for your exclusive relationships—to describe your relationship to your spouse, your mother, or your kids—or at most for the micro-moments of positivity resonance you experience within those exclusive relationships.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  We then processed the blood samples in my collaborator Karen Grewen’s lab at Carolina, and later shipped them to my newest collaborator, Steve Cole, the director of UCLA’s Social Genomics Core Laboratory. Using sophisticated computational techniques, Cole analyzed each person’s RNA to determine whether any differences in gene expression uniquely predicted whether people had especially positive reactions to LKM. A compelling pattern of differences emerged. While it’s too soon to say exactly what this pattern of differences means, it is consistent with the more general hypothesis that my team has been testing: that certain biomarkers, like cardiac vagal tone, inflammation, gene expression patterns, and perhaps even body mass index, can either amplify or muffle the good feelings you get when you try to cultivate love. To the extent that love in turn reshapes these biomarkers—a prediction we’re poised to test in the coming year—upward spiral dynamics ensue, in which love and health dynamically cocreate each other. How, then, your DNA gets translated into your cells next season may to some degree be up to you. By practicing healthy patterns of emotional expression, you may be able to sculpt healthy patterns of gene expression. Countless times in this book I’ve suggested that your body was designed for love’s positivity resonance and indeed cries out for it. My team is currently homing in on ever more precise statements about which of your genes, differentially expressed in your cells, contribute to this cry the loudest. Pilot Yourself How can you tune in to your body’s cravings and hear its subtle cries for love? It hardly sounds possible. Actually, becoming attuned to these cellular messages may be easier than you think. By nature’s design, you come equipped with a ready indicator of whether or not you’re meeting your body’s basic needs. Feeling good is that indicator. What’s more, the biochemistry of your brain has been carefully orchestrated by natural selection to keep close track of the contexts in which your good feelings arise, even when you’re busy thinking of other things. That’s because good feelings trigger a cascade of neurochemicals that makes you like whatever caused it. It’s as if feeling good sets off a localized firework that comes to cover the people and objects in its radius with enduring glitter dust. The new sparkle draws your eye and pulls you back toward them, impulses that operate even outside your conscious awareness. Think of this as your innate and automatic positivity-fueled navigation system. If you follow it, you’ll find yourself enticed back, time and again, to circumstances that enliven you most, including those life-giving micro-moments of positivity resonance.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Try these practices and watch what then unfolds between you and others, using your own body as your tuning fork to spot love’s presence. With any of the practices that I offer in this chapter, you take steps toward shifting your attention away from yourself and toward others, a shift that in itself opens countless opportunities for love. Notice how this shift feels inside your body. Notice how energized you get in a bona fide moment of positivity resonance. Conversations become deeper and more meaningful, connections stronger. You’ll begin to see each new interaction as an opportunity, not as an obligation or obstacle. Your more open stance will be amply reinforced by the positive feelings that you share in the brightened moments spent with others. Aware now of the ingredients and potency of positivity resonance, you have new lenses through which to view each and every encounter you have with others. True, you are unlikely to elevate all of your interpersonal encounters into moments of positivity resonance. After all, you can only reshape your side of each interpersonal interchange. So don’t judge yourself against unrealistically high standards. Do notice, however, whether you’ve been able to upgrade one, two, or even three ordinary interchanges each day into acts of love. These are the small changes that can add up to big improvements in your health and happiness. CHAPTER 6 Loving Self I EXIST AS I AM, THAT IS ENOUGH. IF NO OTHER IN THE WORLD BE AWARE I SIT CONTENT. AND IF EACH AND ALL BE AWARE I SIT CONTENT. —Walt Whitman The old saying tells us that we can’t love others unless we first love ourselves. It’s true. Even though love is defined throughout this book as moments of positivity shared between and among people, the positivity shared between knower and known—between I and me—provides a vital foundation for all other forms of love. We first need to accept ourselves fully, as worthy partners in positivity, before we can freely enjoy the many other fruits of positivity resonance that we can share with others. Like all forms of positivity resonance, self-love requires both safety and connection. Either of two obstacles may stand in the way. For some people, both obstacles are fused together into one mammoth and seemingly insurmountable boulder. The first is self-diminishment, or not believing yourself to be worthy of love or acceptance. At an implicit, unspoken level, you may dismiss your good qualities as insignificant and stay locked in on your shortcomings. You may feel it necessary to fill those gaps in your character before you can fully accept and love yourself. You may think, “If only I were _______.” You can fill in the blank with any of your usual suspects, those ideals against which you judge yourself: “thinner, kinder, wealthier, smarter, more energetic, more productive, more organized, more successful, more thoughtful . . .” Then you wait.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pienso en mis abuelos, haciéndose reír constantemente el uno al otro y en todas las mujeres con las que he estado y cómo nunca sentí eso. Ni siquiera con Lindsey. Probablemente fui incapaz. —Simplemente no parecía forzado, ¿sabes? —continúo, girando hacia ella—. Establecieron estándares altos. Es difícil encontrar esa persona que hable tu mismo lenguaje. Baja la mirada, aparentando estar sumida en sus pensamientos. Continúo, cambiando de tema. —¿Qué hay de ti? —indago—. ¿Alguna idea de cómo quieres que sea tu vida algún día? Tu matrimonio, la boda, el día perfecto… ¿El vestido perfecto? Simplemente suspira y toma un trago de la botella. —Realmente no me preocupo por la boda —responde, volviendo a mirar la televisión—. Solo quiero una buena vida. Buena vida. Esas palabras golpean con fuerza y no sé por qué. Tal vez porque todavía estoy esperando lo mismo. Una semana después y la casa se ha organizado en una rutina, gracias a nuestra pizza y la noche de película. Normalmente Jordan ya está levantada cuando bajo por la mañana, y noto que hay un agradable brillo en las encimeras y en las puertas de los armarios que no estuvo ahí la noche anterior. Los suelos se sienten limpios, el refrigerador está mágicamente libre de mala comida y sobras de hace tres días, y los electrodomésticos brillan. También todo huele increíble y a veces es porque hace muffins o hotcakes, y otras veces por las velas aromáticas, las que ya no me preocupan que queme la casa. Usa una cafetera francesa para el café y yo he dejado de usar mi Keurig en favor de eso. Cualquier cosa que Cole deje en la sala de estar la noche anterior, como zapatos o latas de soda, desaparece repentinamente y no puedo recordar la última vez que tuve que usar la lavadora. Y no, ni por un momento creo que sea gracias a mi hijo. Se ha convertido en un jodido perezoso y parece que, no me había dado cuenta de cuánto había cambiado. Cuanto más crecía menos tiempo quería pasar conmigo, y veo muestras de cómo era su madre conmigo en la forma que trata ahora a Jordan. Es descuidado, y me encuentro apretando los dientes para mantener mi boca cerrada y guardarme mis opiniones. Amo a mi hijo, pero es difícil ver por qué la merece. Difícilmente está en casa excepto para dormir, y cuando lo está, Jordan está en el trabajo hasta las dos de la mañana. Estaba preocupado por encontrarlos teniendo sexo en el sofá o algo así cuando ofrecí dejarlos vivir aquí, pero gracias a Dios, sus horarios no compaginan bien, así que difícilmente están aquí al mismo tiempo. Y si lo están, estoy en el trabajo y no tengo que escuchar o ver algo.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I think, one night, I might have stood outside the Britannia, collecting money for the dockers...’ She smiled. ‘I should have liked a chocolate sovereign, though.’ ‘Well, I should have made sure to throw you one...’ She lifted her glass to her lips, then thought of something else. ‘What happened,’ she asked, ‘to make you leave the theatre? If you were doing so well, why did you stop? What did you do?’ I had admitted to some things; but I wasn’t ready to admit to them all. I pushed my plate towards her. ‘Eat this pie for me,’ I said. Then I leaned past her and called down the table. ‘I say, Annie. Give me a cigarette, will you? This one’s a dud.’ ‘Well, since you’re a celebrity...’ Florence ate the pie, helped out by Ruth. The singers at the piano grew weary and hoarse, and went back to their billiards. The gay girls in the stall next door got up, and pinned on their hats: they were off, I suppose, to start work, in the more ordinary publics of Wapping and Limehouse. Nora yawned and, seeing her, we all yawned, and Florence gave a sigh. ‘Shall we go?’ she asked. ‘I think it must be very late.’ ‘It is almost midnight,’ said Miss Raymond. We stood, to button our coats on. ‘I must just have a word with Mrs Swindles,’ I said, ‘to thank her for my pie’; and when I had done that - and been seized and saluted by half-a-dozen women on the way — I wandered over to the billiard corner, and nodded to Jenny. ‘Good-night to you,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you won your shilling.’ She took my hand and shook it. ‘Good-night to you, Miss King! The shilling was nothing compared to the pleasure of having you here among us all.’ ‘Shall we see you here again, Nan?’ her friend with the tattoo called then. I nodded: ‘I hope so.’ ‘But you must sing us a proper song next time, on your own, in all your gentleman’s toggery.’ ‘Oh yes, you must!’ I made no answer, only smiled, and took a step away from them; then I thought of something, and beckoned to Jenny again. ‘That picture,’ I said quietly when she was close. ‘Do you think - would Mrs Swindles mind - do you think that I might have it, for myself?’ She put her hand to her pocket at once, and drew out the creased and faded photograph, and passed it to me. ‘You take it,’ she said; then she could not help but ask, a little wonderingly, ‘But have you none of your own?

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Mathilde laughed as she remembered the young Peruvian sailor who had told her this story, how he had described lying over her as if she were an air mattress, and how she made him bounce off her sometimes by sheer resilience. Mathilde felt exactly like this rubber woman when she took opium. How pleasurable was the feeling of utter abandon! Her only occupation was to count the money that her friends left her. One of them, Antonio, did not seem content with the luxury of her room. He was always begging her to visit him. He was a prizefighter and looked like the man who knows how to make women work for his living. He had at once the necessary elegance to make women proud of him, a groomed air of the man of leisure and a suave manner that, one felt, could turn to violence at the necessary moment. And in his eyes he had the look of the cat who inspires a desire to caress but loves no one, who never feels he must respond to the impulses he arouses. He had a mistress who matched him well, who was equal to his strength and vigor, able to take blows lustily; a woman who wore her femaleness with honor and who did not demand pity from men; a real woman who knew that a vigorous fight was a marvelous stimulant to the blood (pity only dilutes the blood) and that the best reconciliations could come only after combat. She knew that when Antonio was not with her he was at the Frenchwoman’s taking opium, but she did not mind that as much as not knowing where he was at all. Today he had just finished brushing his mustache with satisfaction and was preparing himself for an opium feast. To placate his mistress he started to pinch and pat her buttocks. She was an unusual-looking woman with some African blood in her. Her breasts were higher than any woman’s he had ever seen, placed almost parallel with the shoulder line, and they were absolutely round and big. It was these breasts which had first attracted him. Their being placed so provocatively, so near the mouth, pointing upwards, somehow awakened in him a direct response. It was as if his sex had a peculiar affinity with these breasts, and as soon as they showed themselves in the whorehouse where he had found her, his sex raised itself to challenge them on equal terms. Every time he had gone into the whorehouse, he experienced the same condition. He finally took the woman out of the house and lived with her. At first he could only make love to her breasts. They haunted him, obsessed him. When he inserted his penis into her mouth they seemed to be pointing hungrily towards it, and would rest it between her breasts, holding them against the penis with his hands. The nipples were large and would harden like a fruit pit in his mouth.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Dancing is about being in service to the choreographer, to the steps, to the music. Allowing this man into my ass reproduces this dynamic of service, of yielding to something greater than myself. Learning to go past—way past—one’s physical comfort level, and to love that moment of going past, is intrinsic to a dancer’s training. It is only in passing this place that one finds that Edge where Risk is real and Rapture resides. If you have a ballerina’s tight ass like mine, the pain and pleasure of the internal pressure of sodomy are inseparable. Ballet school perfects the desire to be perfect, and you can end up a delightful and disciplined little slave. I understand that receiving a cock in your ass goes right in tandem with the psychology of perfectionism that afflicts high achievers like myself. To begin with, we need it: being perfect results in a very tight ass. Secondly, the challenge to remain perfect while being anally penetrated is one of the greatest challenges one could entertain. To succeed surely proves one’s inner and outer perfection of being, shape, health, and resilient attitude. Recipient sodomy is a perfectionist’s dream, a masochist’s nirvana. But—as with most things anal—the opposite is also true. Getting ass-fucked while wearing one’s metaphorical tutu is perhaps the ballerina’s most propitious—and scandalous—debut. But it is also her crucifixion, her ultimate sacrifice to transcend the human to find the divine. Never on the stage, however, did I feel as safe as I do when I obey A-Man completely and he covers my face with his big, strong hand and rocks my ass onto his cock. An incredible sense of relief—I have completely let go not only of all control but all responsibility and have given it to him. The sense of safety is so high with him because any time spent with him is the only waking time when my anxiety is gone, when I am not afraid. #175 Well, I did just give him a truly insane blow job—cock, balls, asshole—the full run over and over, ending every now and then with full cock-throat immersion. Every blow job for me is an act of insanity because I feel every one could be the last, and so every one contains all I have. Fuck on the edge. Suck on the edge. All ways. OLD ORGASMS Is anal sex sex? I keep on wondering about this. My connection to him is primarily penetrative and, specifically, anal. Is this sex? Or merely an act of spiritual submission, divine submission?

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  We achieve a kind of gravity-free coordination, complete transcendence of the “fight”—the fight that is life—total trust allowing his deep, hard, long, and fast plunges entirely without self-protective gripping. Undulating . . . and great inner peace as I am rocked like a mermaid in the ocean. THE DOUBLE-SPHINCTER THEORY More mechanics: the inner anal sphincter is not within conscious control. It is regulated by the brain in the gut, the enteric nervous system, and is reflexive, opening on demand. The external sphincter, the internal’s sister sphincter, is, however, connected to the conscious brain, regulated by conscious control—witness the ability to grip and hold when necessary, when angry, when scared, when stressed. Unconscious internal sphincter, conscious external sphincter, only centimeters apart. Where else is one’s unconscious and conscious mind so intimately connected, so readily regulated, so easily probed? It is a psychological playground of the most intriguing potential. Put an ass on the couch and much is revealed. But the external sphincter did not begin with consciousness. For the first year or so of life it was unconscious, reacting in conjunction with the internal and letting go on demand—hence diapers. The brain and spinal cord at birth are not yet developed enough for conscious control. And then comes toilet training. When the brain is sophisticated enough and the parents encourage (or scream) enough, the little eighteen-month-old becomes conscious of that external anal sphincter and learns to grip it, control it, and not to let the shit fly at every urge. Shame is born. All this is to say that when I get fucked in the ass, I have learned to play with, and even reverse, that long-ago, probably traumatic coming to consciousness about gripping my ass, holding on to it, showing it to no one. After all, Freud hypothesized that one’s shit is the first gift one offers one’s parents—one’s first creative production. Only now—ninety-seven ass fucks later—is the enormity of the power that lies in this area dawning on me. It is emotional and physical therapy on the deepest level: revisiting and literally learning to trust enough to open the forbidden exit and enter the forbidden zone. As a baby, the first big resounding NO from the world as we know it is the NO perpetrated upon a loose and unconscious external anal sphincter. Getting ass-fucked is the most extreme form of rebellion against one’s parents in which one could possibly indulge—returning not to adolescent transgressions, but rather to the original injury.

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

  By contrast, the second coach not only will get his kid to come back next week but also will turn him into a good swimmer. The coach is supportive but not just an empty cheerleader. He took the time to correct him when he was doing something less than effective, and did it in a supportive way. There was encouragement to practice, an understanding that skill takes time, and a clear and positive regard for the kid. The supportive coach is not only more pleasant to be around; he’s also much more effective. And therein lies the crux of the next tool: we are much more likely to reach our goals in a supportive environment than a punitive one. The first coach sounds surprisingly like the Inner Critic. It’s as if they both went to the University of Mean. Yet we talk to ourselves this way all the time. Somehow we think harsh criticism will motivate us, convince us to change, or that it’s necessary to punish ourselves into some sort of submission. And while we instinctively know the coach insulting the kid is wrong, it’s not so easy to realize the Inner Critic is wrong, too. Not only wrong, but ineffective. Telling ourselves we can’t do it, that we don’t have it in us, that we shouldn’t bother trying only makes us want to hide. To conceal. To avoid. So how should we talk to ourselves instead? In short, like the second coach. If arguing with our Inner Critic and changing our dire thoughts and fears was Replace, creating for ourselves a supportive environment from which we can try hard things is Embrace. This time, we don’t challenge the thoughts head-on. Instead, we acknowledge them for what they are and give ourselves the psychological equivalent of a warm, supportive hug. Here’s how to do it. As a guy named Ringo once asked, What would you do if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me? In the face of lyrical anxiety, Ringo comes up with a good idea: I get by with a little help from my friends. With Embrace, you get the same effect, but instead of from your friends, it comes from within. Your friends may not be available 24/7, after all, but you are. This is self-compassion. At its essence, Embrace is simply giving yourself the same support, warmth, and kindness you would get from a good friend or that you would offer a good friend. It’s a little help when you need it the most.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Asiento, entendiendo. El calor es igual para mí. El aire acondicionado debe ajustarse a dieciocho grados todas las noches para poder dormir. Está en la punta de mi lengua preguntarle si la temperatura la molestó anoche, pero realmente no tiene sentido. Necesito dormir, no voy a cambiarlo, y sabe dónde están las mantas extra si necesita algo. Nos quedamos en silencio por un momento, y luego finalmente parpadea y hace un gesto a la cocina detrás de mí. —Hay, mmm… magdalenas de arándanos si tienes hambre —indica—. Son precocinadas, pero son bastante buenas. Giro la cabeza y, por supuesto, un molde de magdalenas que no es mío está en la parte superior de la cocina, cada molde rebosa con una magdalena dorada. Extiendo la mano y agarro una, ocultando mi sonrisa. Entonces, no son velas perfumadas que despiertan falsas esperanzas, después de todo. Creo que ella me gusta. Se da vuelta y comienza a salir de la cocina, pero la llamo. —¿Crees que puedas levantar a Cole muy rápido, por favor? La lluvia realmente está en mi horario de trabajo, y aún estamos sentando los cimientos, así que hoy necesito ayuda con los sacos de arena. Me mira por encima del hombro, curiosa. —¿Cimientos? —Del sitio que me contrataron para construir —aclaro—. Hoy no puedo trabajar con el clima, pero tenemos que asegurarnos que el sótano no se inunde. Me vendría bien la ayuda de Cole. Cae en cuenta y la confusión en su rostro desaparece. —Cierto. Claro. —Asiente y sale rápidamente de la habitación, sus pasos resuenan en las escaleras con determinación. Si no hubiera estado despierta, probablemente no habría pensado en pedirle a Cole que viniera a ayudar, pero la oportunidad de pedir el favor por medio de ella era demasiado buena. Si pregunto, lo enojaré. Si ella pregunta, podría ir mejor. Y, además, él sabe que esto es parte del acuerdo. Él y Jordan limpian lo suyo, ayudan con la cocina, hacen el trabajo de jardinería y hacen otras cosas que puedan necesitarse, y yo pago las cuentas. No es pedir demasiado. Arreglo la tapa de mi taza para llevar y pongo dos capsulas más para llenar mi termo antes de ir a la puerta donde están las botas de trabajo. Sentado en el banco junto a la puerta, dejo mis cosas y me pongo los zapatos, tomo mis llaves, y saco mi chaqueta negra para la lluvia del armario de la entrada, poniéndomela. Recojo mi taza y el termo. —¡Cole! —grito, listo para irme. El techo sobre mí cruje, y escucho pasos rápidos. Luego se produce un ruido sordo antes que una puerta se cierre de golpe, y puedo decir que finalmente está bajando las escaleras. Agarro la manija de la puerta y miro por encima del hombro. —Tengo café extra. Podemos ir a comprar algo de desayuno si quieres algo para comer rápidamente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Los músculos en su brazo se flexionan mientras sujeta mi maleta, y no puedo evitar deslizar la mirada por los tatuajes a lo largo de ellos. Se ven ligeramente descoloridos, como si se los hubiera hecho cuando era un adolescente. ¿Cómo era a la edad de Cole? Es difícil imaginárselo como… bueno, un chico, supongo. Es muy serio. Casi en exceso. Pero es sincero. —La próxima vez que necesites un aventón… o cualquier cosa —dice—, ¿prometes que me llamarás? Asiento de nuevo y me giro de vuelta hacia las semillas, emocionada por el verano que se acerca. 6Home Depot: Es una empresa minorista estadounidense de mejoramiento del hogar, bricolaje y materiales de construcción. —Dos —le digo a Dutch y le lanzo las cartas que no quiero. Apartando sus ojos de sus cartas, me tira dos más, las coloco en mi palma y las examino. Es una mierda, pero tengo dos sietes, así que no es una pérdida total. No es que me importe. No soy un hombre competitivo —al menos no en lo que respecta al póker— pero organizar estas reuniones una vez al mes en mi casa nos da algo que hacer mientras hablamos. Dirijo mi mirada hacia Dutch y luego deslizo mis ojos alrededor de la mesa, viendo a Todd, uno de mis supervisores, así como a Eddie, John y Schuster intercambiando y reorganizando las cartas. Todos ponen unos cuantos dólares en el medio, y Todd sube la apuesta por tres más. Todos aceptan… esperando que sea un engaño. —No me entusiasma que mis hijas crezcan, te diré —dice Dutch, mostrándome una mirada divertida. —¿Por qué? Solo niega, suspirando. —Ese ruido me volvería loco. Por ahora, todo lo que tengo que soportar es una pijamada ocasional con un montón de niñas de ocho años que se ríen tontamente. Me río suavemente, los golpes en el piso de arriba comienzan a parecer muros derrumbándose. Me estremezco. Son solo alrededor de las nueve y media. Si continúa así de ruidoso en una hora, le diré a Cole que baje la música o el vecindario estará sobre mí. No se suponía que fuera una fiesta, pero los alenté a él y a Jordan para que invitaran a sus amigos, así que es mi culpa, supongo. —No hace mucho tiempo nos gustaba también el ruido —menciono, lanzándole una sonrisa. Los muchachos se ríen y murmuran concordando. Todos nos graduamos juntos, y fue un feliz acontecimiento que algunos trabajáramos juntos ahora, aunque John y Schuster no lo hacen, siendo un policía y un techador, respectivamente. No hacía mucho tiempo que nos parecíamos mucho a Cole, haciendo desastres y divirtiéndonos demasiado con nuestros errores. Fui el primero en ser empujado a la adultez, pero aun así nos mantuvimos cerca con los años. Matrimonios, niños, un divorcio, todos habíamos pasado por algo, y fue una llamada de alerta un día,

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  In the beginning, I bought the tiny little travel tubes, good for one or two sessions, small, discreet, deniable. Once I knew, initially, the ecstasy of the act, I also knew it could only be a very rare occurrence, sort of like a birthday special. I reasoned that it would not be healthy for my little asshole to be so invaded too frequently. I reasoned that bliss was not free, not plannable, and definitely not something that might come my way very often. Such reasoning led me to buy those little travel tubes. But those tiny tubes kept running out and denial became an effort. Ass-fucking was part of the regular repertoire. The next time he opened the drawer, he pulled out a giant, phallic-sized white-and-blue tube, looked at it, and fell off the bed howling with laughter. It was a risky move for me. Presumptuous. Practical. After several months of using one large tube after another, I put two large tubes in the drawer at the same time. That is how he developed the ritual of dispersing the tubes while I sucked his cock. The beautiful man with a fierce erection tossing large white-and-blue plastic tubes around the room (wherever we land he can fuck my ass, right there, right then, no reaching): it is an image of promise as close to a guarantee as I’ve ever known with a man. The gold band on my left ring finger guaranteed far less. Soon there are as many as five tubes in the drawer at one time, each in a different stage of emptiness, the emptier the better. I still haven’t figured out how many ass-fucks per four-ounce tube. Probably about eleven. At $4.19 a tube, that is about 38 cents a fuck . . . add that to the price of a condom (thirty-six for $14.99) at 42 cents, and the best thing in the world costs less than a buck. Then I found the tubes discounted at Costco, two for $4.00, and bought six. That brings the whole affair down to 60 cents per cum shot. (Ass-fuckers: use dark glasses for K-Y shopping and don’t turn around in the checkout line: they’re all staring at your butt in disbelief.) I’m going to buy stock in K-Y. The Lexus of lubricants. Grateful for the smooth ride. I heard a television talk-show shrink quizzing a cross-dressing man to test if he was gay or straight. Playing quick word association, she says “football,” he says “beer”; she says . . . he says . . . she says “KY,” he says “Kentucky.” She announces triumphantly that he is heterosexual. And, I would add, clearly not a heterosexual sodomite. Of the liquid lubricants, Astroglide is king. But be forewarned: if you pour Astroglide onto K-Y during a single vigorous ass-fucking, then expect a large amount of froth. Froth everywhere.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  The truth is that there’s no such ladder. When it comes to the things that matter most, others are neither beneath you nor above you. Time and again, studies show that the happiest among us are the ones who’ve simply shed this pernicious habit of social comparison. When you learn to see others through the lens of sameness, instead of through the lenses of downward and upward comparisons, you come to recognize that others’ difficulties are also your own difficulties, either at present, or at some past or plausible future moment. You also recognize that their good fortune doesn’t subtract from your own, and it does you no harm whatsoever to celebrate it. Indeed, you multiply your own riches when you do so. Love’s boundaries, as we’ve seen, need not be constricted, its vision need not be myopic. Love is both open and caring. While love like this obeys the bedrock preconditions of safety and connection, and is in part defined by some form of shared positivity, it does not hinge at all on you and another sharing precisely the same positive emotional state. Given the many factors that shape each person’s emotions, an exact matching of inner experience would be exceedingly rare and can hardly be expected. Fortunately, love doesn’t require the absence of unpleasantness or misfortune. Nor does it require the presence of any certain form of pleasantness or good fortune. Awareness of these fundamental truths opens the entire spectrum of human experience as opportune moments to cultivate positivity resonance. Whether in sickness or in health, good fate or bad, love remains possible. In this chapter, I share techniques for accessing two forms of love that may perhaps be less intuitive to you: loving through and despite another’s suffering, and loving through and despite another’s good fortune. Compassion: Meeting Suffering with Love By nature’s design, we all recoil from pain. Suppose you’re cooking dinner with brand-new cookware and mistakenly pick up that fancy, all-metal, oven-ready pot lid, forgetting to use a pot holder. It’s only natural that you drop the lid in a clamor as you yank your hand away. The haste of your recoil probably spares several layers of skin. And so it may seem with suffering of all sorts. Your first instinct may often be to look, leap, or pull away, or otherwise hang back. Increasing your distance from the source of pain can seem like the best way to spare yourself the added suffering that may come from being too close to it.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Lamento eso —dice tomando de nuevo su hamburguesa—. No sucederá mucho. Cole es muy bueno evitando los lugares donde estoy. Asiento, sin saber qué más decir. De todos modos, tengo la sensación de que no estaré aquí mucho tiempo. Ya siento que estoy caminando por la cuerda floja. Me obligo a comer, porque esto no sabrá bien como sobras mañana. La música se escucha desde afuera, el zumbido de una podadora cobra vida en la distancia, y el aroma del césped golpea el fondo de mi garganta cuando entra por las ventanas abiertas, las sencillas cortinas beige de la casa de Pike se mueven con la brisa que entra. Escalofríos cubren mis brazos. Verano. Un teléfono suena, y veo a Pike estirarse y tomar su teléfono de la isla. —Hola —responde. Suena la voz de un hombre del otro lado, pero no puedo escuchar lo que dice. Pike se levanta, cargando su plato hacia el fregadero con una mano y sosteniendo el teléfono con la otra, y echo una ojeada mientras está distraído. Las bromas de Cam sobre él siguen viniendo a mí, calentándome las mejillas, pero no es así. Pike es un misterio. Vi fotografías de él y Cole en la sala de estar, de bebé y de niño, pero aparte de eso, la casa no tiene mucho de su padre. Sé que es un tipo soltero, pero no hay libros sobre la mesa de centro que muestren sus intereses, no hay recuerdos de vacaciones, ni mascotas, ni arte, ni adornos, ni revistas, ninguna parafernalia que indique sus pasatiempos como deportes, juegos, o música… es una casa hermosa, pero es como una casa de exhibición donde en realidad no vive una familia. —No, necesito otra excavadora y al menos cien bolsas más de cemento —le dice al tipo, sosteniendo el teléfono entre su hombro y oreja, y subiendo más sus mangas abre el grifo. Sonrío para mí misma. Está lavando los platos. ¿Sin que se le pida? Suelto un suspiro y me levanto del asiento. Supongo que normalmente vive solo, después de todo. ¿Quién más lo haría? Se ríe ante algo que le dice el tipo y sacude la cabeza, mientras limpio mi plato en la basura. —Dile a ese imbécil que no está enfermo —exige al teléfono—, y que si no sale de donde sea que esté metido en la mañana, iré y lo buscaré yo mismo. Quiero seguir adelantado a la programación. Voy a su lado y suavemente dejo mi plato en el mostrador antes de poner la limonada y condimentos de regreso en el refrigerador. —Sí, sí… —lo escucho mientras enjuaga los platos, y los pone en el lavaplatos—, bien, te veré por la mañana. Cuelga y deja el teléfono, y le lanzo otra rápida mirada. —¿Trabajo? —pregunto. Asiente, echando algo en un vaso y tirándolo.

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

  Another peculiarity of taste he had, which was to present me with a dozen pairs of the whitest kid gloves at a time: these he would divert himself with drawing on me, and then biting off their finger ends; all which fooleries of a silly appetite, the old gentleman paid more liberally for, than most others did for more essential favours. This lasted till a violent cough, seizing and laying him up, delivered me from this most innocent and insipid trifler, for I never heard more of him after his first retreat. You may be sure a by-job of this sort interfered with no other pursuit, or plan of life; which I led, in truth, with a modesty and reserve that was less the work of virtue than of exhausted novelty, a glut of pleasure, and easy circumstances, that made me indifferent to any engagements in which pleasure and profit were not eminently united; and such I could, with the less impatience, wait for at the hands of time and fortune, as I was satisfied I could never mend my pennyworths, having evidently been served at the top of the market, and even been pampered with dainties: besides that, in the sacrifice of a few momentary impulses, I found a secret satisfaction in respecting myself, as well as preserving the life and freshness of my complexion. Louisa and Emily did not carry indeed their reserve so high as I did; but still they were far from cheap or abandoned, though two of their adventures seemed to contradict this general character, which, for their singularity, I shall give you in course, beginning first with Emily’s: Louisa and she went one night to a ball, the first in the habit of a shepherdess, Emily in that of a shepherd: I saw them in their dresses before they went, and nothing in nature could represent a prettier boy than this last did, being so fair and well limbed.