Desire

Passages

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

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• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  You might not get very far with Veronica herself, but with what she had to give you could travel far and no mistake about it. Once you came within earshot of her it was like you had gotten an overdose of Spanish fly. Nothing on earth could bring it down again, unless you put it under a sledge-hammer. It was going on this way all the time, even though every word I say is a lie. It was a personal tour in the impersonal world, a man with a tiny trowel in his hand digging a tunnel through the earth to get to the other side. The idea was to tunnel through and find at last the Culebra Cut, the ne plus ultra, of the honeymoon of flesh. And of course there was no end to the digging. The best I might hope for was to get stuck in the dead center of the earth, where the pressure was strongest and most even all around, and stay stuck there forever. That would give me the feeling of Ixion on the wheel, which is one sort of salvation and not entirely to be sneezed at. On the other hand I was a metaphysician of the instinctivist sort: it was impossible for me to stay stuck anywhere, even in the dead center of the earth. It was most imperative to find and to enjoy the metaphysical fuck, and for that I would be obliged to come out on to a wholly new tableland, a mesa of sweet alfalfa and polished monoliths, where the eagles and the vultures flew at random. Sometimes sitting in the park of an evening, especially a park littered with papers and bits of food, I would see one pass by, one that seemed to be going toward Tibet, and I would follow her with the round eye, hoping that suddenly she would begin to fly, for if she did that, if she would begin to fly, I knew I would be able to fly also, and that would mean an end to the digging and the wallowing. Sometimes, probably because of twilight or other disturbances, it seemed as though she actually did fly on rounding a corner. That is, she would suddenly be lifted from the ground for the space of a few feet, like a plane too heavily loaded; but just that sudden involuntary lift whether real or imaginary it didn’t matter, gave me hope, gave me courage to keep the still round eye riveted on the spot. There were megaphones inside which yelled “Go on, keep going, stick it out,” and all that nonsense. But why? To what end? Whither? Whence? I would set the alarm clock in order to be up and about at a certain hour, but why up and about?

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Then I lay with my head between her legs and lapped up the drool that was pouring from her. She was moaning now and clutching wildly with her hands; her hair had come completely undone and was lying over her bare abdomen. To make it short, I got it in again, and I held it a long time, for which she must have been damned grateful because she came I don’t know how many times—it was like a pack of firecrackers going off, and with it all she sunk her teeth into me, bruised my lips, clawed me, ripped my shirt and what the hell not. I was branded like a steer when I got home and took a look at myself in the mirror. It was wonderful while it lasted, but it didn’t last long. A month later the Niessens moved to another city, and I never saw Lola again. But I hung her sporran over the bed and I prayed to it every night. And whenever I began the Czerny stuff I would get an erection, thinking of Lola lying in the grass, thinking of her long black hair, the bun at the nape of her neck, the groans she vented and the juice that poured out of her. Playing the piano was just one long vicarious fuck for me. I had to wait another two years before I would get my end in again, as they say, and then it wasn’t so good because I got a beautiful dose with it, and besides it wasn’t in the grass and it wasn’t summer, and there was no heat in it but just a cold mechanical fuck for a buck in a dirty little hotel room, the bastard trying to pretend she was coming and not coming any more than Christmas was coming. And maybe it wasn’t her that gave me the clap, but her pal in the next room who was laying up with my friend Simmons. It was like this—I had finished so quick with my mechanical fuck that I thought I’d go in and see how it was going with my friend Simmons. Lo and behold, they were still at it, and they were going strong. She was a Czech, his girl, and a bit sappy; she hadn’t been at it very long, apparently, and she used to forget herself and enjoy the act. Watching her hand it out, I decided to wait and have a go at her myself. And so I did. And before the week was out I had a discharge, and after that I figured it would be blueballs or rocks in the groin. Another year or so and I was giving lessons myself, and as luck would have it, the mother of the girl I’m teaching is a slut, a tramp and a trollop if ever there was one. She was living with a nigger, as I later found out. Seems she couldn’t get a prick big enough to satisfy her.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Once I tried to get my brother to fuck me; you know what a sissy he is—he gives everybody a pain. I don’t remember exactly how it was any more, but anyway we were in the house alone and I was passionate that day. He came into my bedroom to ask me for something. I was lying there with my dress up, thinking about it and wanting it terribly, and when he came in I didn’t give a damn about his being my brother, I just thought of him as a man, and so I lay there with my skirt up and I told him I wasn’t feeling well, that I had a pain in my stomach. He wanted to run right out and get something for me but I told him no, just to rub my stomach a bit, that would do it good. I opened my waist and made him rub my bare skin. He was trying to keep his eyes on the wall, the big idiot, and rubbing me as though I were a piece of wood. ‘It’s not there, you chump,’ I said, ‘it’s lower down . . . what are you afraid of?’ And I pretended that I was in agony. Finally he touched me accidentally. ‘There! that’s it!’ I shouted. ‘Oh do rub it, it feels so good!’ Do you know, the big sap actually massaged me for five minutes without realizing that it was all a game? I was so exasperated that I told him to get the hell out and leave me alone. ‘You’re a eunuch,’ I said, but he was such a sap I don’t think he knew what the word meant.” She laughed, thinking what a ninny her brother was. She said he probably still had his maiden. What did I think about it—was it so terribly bad? Of course she knew I wouldn’t think anything of the kind. “Listen, Francie,” I said, “did you ever tell that story to the cop you’re going with?” She guessed she hadn’t. “I guess so too,” I said. “He’d beat the piss out of you if he ever heard that yarn.” “He’s socked me already,” she answered promptly. “What?” I said, “you let him beat you up?” “I don’t ask him to,” she said, “but you know how quick-tempered he is. I don’t let anybody else sock me but somehow coming from him I don’t mind it so much. Sometimes it makes me feel good inside. . . . I don’t know, maybe a woman ought to get beaten up once in a while. It doesn’t hurt so much, if you really like a guy. And afterwards he’s so damned gentle—I almost feel ashamed of myself. . . .” It isn’t often you get a cunt who’ll admit such things—I mean a regular cunt and not a moron.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  He stripped off his clothes and dropped them in the middle of the floor. He lay on his back and put one hand on his cock. He imagined dozens of intriguing images, perusing the possible nuance of each circumstance. There was Cecilia. There was the girl at the bar. There was Sara. “Get my belt,” he had said to her. She hesitated. “Don’t you think you deserve it?” He masturbated watching spread-legged Sara arch her neck and rub her injured-looking vagina. He finished. He mopped his abdomen with a “snot rag.” A memory separated from the fantasy and lingered. “I love you,” said Sara. “It’s not real,” he said. “It’s puppy love.” “No. I love you.” She nuzzled his cheek with her nose and lips, and her tenderness pierced him. The image became tiny and unnaturally white, was surrounded by darkness, then faded like the picture on a turned-off TV. Something Nice “What’s your name, sir?” The freckled woman wore green stretch pants, and had her red hair tucked under a neat pink scarf. “Fred?” She was making her naturally coarse voice go soft and moist as warm mayonnaise. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriends, Fred.” The four girls stared at him. Two sat up and smiled, holding their purses with tight fingers, their legs pinched together at the knees. A beautiful black-haired girl, with jutting cheekbones and a lush, full mouth, lolled in an orange beanbag chair, her long legs sprawled rudely on the floor, half open and tenting her tight silk dress so you could almost see between her legs. She gawked at him with open disgust. “Sit up, Jasmine,” snapped the stretch-pants woman through her smile. She held out her freckled hands toward the last girl, who sat with one leg tucked underneath her, looking out the window. “And this is Lisette.” The girl wore a short red-and-black-checked dress, white ankle socks and black pumps. Her bobbed brown hair was curly. When she turned to face him, her expression was mildly friendly and normal; she could’ve been looking at anybody or anything. The strangeness of it all delighted and fascinated him: the falsely gentle voice, the helpless contempt, the choosing of a bored, unknown girl sitting on her ankle, looking out the window. “Do you see a lady who you’d like to visit with?” “I’ll see Lisette.” The girl stood up and walked toward him as if he were a dentist, except she was smiling. The room was pale green. The air in it was bloated with sweat and canned air freshener. There was a bed table set with a plastic container sprouting damp Handi Wipes, a radio, an ashtray, a Kleenex box and a slimy bottle of oil. The bed was covered by a designer sheet patterned with beige, brown and tan lions lazing happily on the branches of trees or swatting each other. There was an aluminum chair.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Time, time, endless time on our hands and nothing to fill it but lies. Well, I don’t want to rehearse the whole of my life leading up to the fatal moment—it is too long and too painful. Besides, did my life really lead up to this culminating moment? I doubt it. I think there were innumerable moments when I had the chance to make a beginning, but I lacked the strength and the faith. On the evening in question I deliberately walked out on myself: I walked right out of the old life and into the new. There wasn’t the slightest effort involved. I was thirty then. I had a wife and child and what is called a “responsible” position. These are the facts and facts mean nothing. The truth is my desire was so great it became a reality. At such a moment what a man does is of no great importance, it’s what he is that counts. It’s at such a moment that a man becomes an angel. That is precisely what happened to me: I became an angel . It is not the purity of an angel which is so valuable, as the fact it can fly. An angel can break the pattern anywhere at any moment and find its heaven; it has the power to descend into the lowest matter and to extricate itself at will. The night in question I understood it perfectly. I was pure and inhuman, I was detached, I had wings. I was depossessed of the past and I had no concern about the future. I was beyond ecstasy. When I left the office I folded my wings and hid them beneath my coat. The dance hall was just opposite the side entrance of the theater where I used to sit in the afternoons instead of looking for work. It was a street of theaters and I used to sit there for hours at a time dreaming the most violent dreams. The whole theatrical life of New York was concentrated in that one street, so it seemed. It was Broadway, it was success, fame, glitter, paint, the asbestos curtain and the hole in the curtain. Sitting on the steps of the theater I used to stare at the dance hall opposite, at the string of red lanterns which even in the summer afternoons were lit up. In every window there was a spinning ventilator which seemed to waft the music into the street, where it was broken by the jangled din of traffic. Opposite the other side of the dance hall was a comfort station and here too I used to sit now and then, hoping either to make a woman or make a touch. Above the comfort station, on the street level, was a kiosk with foreign papers and magazines; the very sight of these papers, of the strange languages in which they were printed, was sufficient to dislocate me for the day.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  I could have taken her home to my place, as I was alone at the time, but no, I had a notion to bring her back to her own home, stand her up in the vestibule and give her a fuck right under Maxie’s nose—which I did. In the midst of it I thought again of the mannikin in the show window and of the way he had laughed that afternoon when I let drop the word quim. I was on the point of laughing aloud when suddenly I felt she was coming, one of those long drawn out orgasms such as you get now and then in a Jewish cunt. I had my hands under her buttocks, the tips of my fingers just inside her cunt, in the lining, as it were; as she began to shudder I lifted her from the ground and raised her gently up and down on the end of my cock. I thought she would go off her nut completely, the way she began to carry on. She must have had four or five orgasms like that in the air, before I put her feet down on the ground. I took it out without spilling a drop and made her lie down in the vestibule. Her hat had rolled off into a corner and her handbag had spilled open and a few coins had tumbled out. I note this because just before I gave it to her good and proper I made a mental note to pocket a few coins for my carfare home. Anyway, it was only a few hours since I had said to Maxie in the bathhouse that I would like to take a look at his sister’s quim, and here it was now smack up against me, sopping wet and throwing out one squirt after another. If she had been fucked before she had never been fucked properly, that’s a cinch. And I myself was never in such a fine cool collected scientific frame of mind as now lying on the floor of the vestibule right under Maxie’s nose, pumping it into the private, sacred, and extraordinary quim of his sister Rita. I could have held it in indefinitely—it was incredible how detached I was and yet thoroughly aware of every quiver and jolt she made. But somebody had to pay for making me walk around in the rain grubbing a dime. Somebody had to pay for the ecstasy produced by the germination of all those unwritten books inside me. Somebody had to verify the authenticity of this private, concealed cunt which had been plaguing me for weeks and months.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  The burgundy-headed girl curled her legs up on the couch and turned back to her Monopoly game with the contemptuous black-haired girl, who lay across the couch like an eel on a market stand. The stretch-pants woman tried to talk to him. “Do you work around here, Fred?” “No.” “What kind of business are you in?” “Nothing. I mean, I’m retired.” The patches of shirt under his arms were glued with sweaty hair-lace. Jane was being mauled by a fat oaf who didn’t care that you could feel her innermost life on her skin. The stretch-pants woman asked him to step into the kitchen. This house advertised its discretion and made sure men did not meet each other. He saw only the man’s dismal black-suited shape through the slats of the swinging kitchen door as he stood there holding his drink, the ice cubes melting into a depressing fizz. He heard the black shape’s blurred rumble and Jane’s indifferent voice. She sounded much nicer when she said good-bye to him. The pale-eyed hostess opened the swinging door and gave him a flat smile. “Okay, sir, would you like to step out?” Jane stood smiling in her checked dress, her hands behind her back, one white-socked ankle crossing the other, her chin tilted up. He remembered how he had seen her first, how she could’ve been any girl, any bland, half-friendly face behind any counter. He felt a funny-bone twinge as he realized how her body, her voice, her every fussy gesture had become part of a Jane network, a world of smells, sounds and touches that found its most acute focus when she had her legs around his back. — The minute she came into the room, he went to her and put his arms around her hips. “Hello, Jane.” “Hi.” “It was strange not seeing you out there waiting for me.” She looked puzzled. “I guess I somehow got used to thinking of you as my own little girl. I didn’t like the idea that you were with some other guy. Silly, huh?” “Yes.” She broke away and snapped the sheet out over the bed. “Do you say things like that because you think I like to hear them?” “Maybe. Some of the girls do, you know.” He could feel the sarcasm of her silence. He watched her pull her dress off over her head and drop it on the aluminum chair. “I guess it’s only natural that you’ve begun to get jaded.” She snorted. “I wouldn’t call it that.” “What would you call it?” She didn’t answer. She sat on the bed and bent to take off her heels, leaving her socks on. When she looked at him again she said, “Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to come to see me every night? It’s awfully expensive. I know lawyers make a lot of money, but still. Won’t your wife wonder where it’s going?”

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Anyway, every time I started to go home she’d hold me up at the door and rub it up against me. I was afraid of starting in with her because rumor had it that she was full of syph, but what the hell are you going to do when a hot bitch like that plasters her cunt up against you and slips her tongue halfway down your throat. I used to fuck her standing up in the vestibule, which wasn’t so difficult because she was light and I could hold her in my hands like a doll. And like that I’m holding her one night when suddenly I hear a key being fitted into the lock, and she hears it too and she’s frightened stiff. There’s nowhere to go. Fortunately there’s a portiere hanging at the doorway and I hide behind that. Then I hear her black buck kissing her and saying how are yer, honey? and she’s saying how she had been waiting up for him and better come right upstairs because she can’t wait and so on. And when the stairs stop squeaking I gently open the door and sally out, and then by God I have a real fright because if that black buck ever finds out I’ll have my throat slit and no mistake about it. And so I stop giving lessons at that joint, but soon the daughter is after me—just turning sixteen—and won’t I come and give her lessons at a friend’s house? We begin the Czerny exercises all over again, sparks and everything. It’s the first smell of fresh cunt I’ve had, and it’s wonderful, like newmown hay. We fuck our way through one lesson after another and in between lessons we do a little extra fucking. And then one day it’s the sad story —she’s knocked up and what to do about it? I have to get a Jewboy to help me out, and he wants twenty-five bucks for the job and I’ve never seen twenty-five bucks in my life. Besides, she’s under age. Besides, she might have blood poisoning. I give him five bucks on account and beat it to the Adirondacks for a couple of weeks. In the Adirondacks I meet a schoolteacher who’s dying to take lessons. More velocity exercises, more condoms and conundrums. Every time I touched the piano I seemed to shake a cunt loose. If there was a party I had to bring the fucking music roll along; to me it was just like wrapping my penis in a handkerchief and slinging it under my arm. In vacation time, at a farmhouse or an inn, where there was always a surplus of cunt, the music had an extraordinary effect. Vacation time was a period I looked forward to the whole year, not because of the cunts so much as because it meant no work. Once out of harness I became a clown.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 3: Further, it is said (Acts 10:43) that “all the prophets give testimony” to Christ. Therefore not only Moses and Elias, but also all the prophets, should have been present as witnesses. Objection 4: Further, Christ’s glory is promised as a reward to all the faithful (2 Cor. 3:18; Phil. 3:21), in whom He wished by His transfiguration to enkindle a desire of that glory. Therefore He should have taken not only Peter, James, and John, but all His disciples, to be witnesses of His transfiguration. On the contrary is the authority of the Gospel. I answer that, Christ wished to be transfigured in order to show men His glory, and to arouse men to a desire of it, as stated above [4226](A[1]). Now men are brought to the glory of eternal beatitude by Christ—not only those who lived after Him, but also those who preceded Him; therefore, when He was approaching His Passion, both “the multitude that followed” and that “which went before, cried saying: ‘Hosanna,’” as related Mat. 21:9, beseeching Him, as it were, to save them. Consequently it was fitting that witnesses should be present from among those who preceded Him—namely, Moses and Elias—and from those who followed after Him—namely, Peter, James, and John—that “in the mouth of two or three witnesses” this word might stand. Reply to Objection 1: By His transfiguration Christ manifested to His disciples the glory of His body, which belongs to men only. It was therefore fitting that He should choose men and not angels as witnesses. Reply to Objection 2: This gloss is said to be taken from a book entitled On the Marvels of Holy Scripture. It is not an authentic work, but is wrongly ascribed to St. Augustine; consequently we need not stand by it. For Jerome says on Mat. 17:3: “Observe that when the Scribes and Pharisees asked for a sign from heaven, He refused to give one; whereas here in order to increase the apostles’ faith, He gives a sign from heaven, Elias coming down thence, whither he had ascended, and Moses arising from the nether world.” This is not to be understood as though the soul of Moses was reunited to his body, but that his soul appeared through some assumed body, just as the angels do. But Elias appeared in his own body, not that he was brought down from the empyrean heaven, but from some place on high whither he was taken up in the fiery chariot.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  Joey looked around; they really had torn up the apartment. Dead plants were turned over in their broken pots, slashed pillows spilled yellow foam out onto the floor, cardboard boxes lay with their lids yanked open, their contents exposed and strewn. The filing cabinet was tipped over, its open drawers freeing a white dance of paper. At least the broken bottles had been swept safely into piles. Eliot’s rare book collection was preserved in a prim stack beside the couch. Joey could see the three Bartolovs he’d sold him. Eliot had been awed when he’d discovered that Joey’s pill connection was Alexander Bartolov, the famous poet. “Oh, come on Rita, just a little blow job,” said Eliot. “I won’t come or anything.” “Forget it,” said Rita. She lay back into the couch, her spidery white hand over her eyes. Her long limp legs recalled the flying grasshopper on Daisy’s valentine. “She’s still hot for you, you know,” said Eliot. “I still have to hear about the times you tied her up and spanked her.” “Can’t we change the subject?” said Joey. “Okay,” said Eliot cheerfully. “I’m going to the bathroom anyway. I’m nauseous.” “Don’t relax,” said Rita. “He’ll be back in a minute.” “It’s all right with me,” said Joey. He took a magazine off the table. It was open to a picture of a masked woman dressed in a red rubber suit that a man was inflating with a pump. On the next page, a naked girl was tied with belts in a kneeling position on a bathroom floor. An ornery-looking young fellow approached her from behind with a rubber hose; she looked over her shoulder, her lips parted in a look of coy fear. He was surprised at how pretty she was. Her cheekbones and shoulders were like Daisy’s. — Daisy and Joey emerged from the movie theater holding hands. “We have no place to go,” said Daisy. “It’s been a month since we’ve been alone in a room. And David won’t leave.” They walked, still holding hands. “I feel so terrible about David,” she said. “He’s such a lovely, innocent person. He’s the purest person I know.” “There are no pure people.” “You haven’t seen David. He has such naked eyes. When you touch him, it’s like there’s nothing between you and him.” She looked at him quizzically. “You’re not like that. When I touch you, I don’t feel you at all.” “There’s nothing to feel.” “Don’t say that about yourself.” She dropped his hand and rubbed his back with her mittened hand. “Anyway, it’s good you’re not like David. Even as you are, I worry about you being too nice to me.” He put his hand around her neck. “I don’t know what makes you think I have any intention of being nice to you.” She turned and kissed him. He took a handful of her hair in his fist and pulled her head tautly back while he kissed her.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  If we went dancing and she got too hot in the pants she would drag me to a telephone booth and, queer girl that she was, she’d actually talk to some one, some one like Agnes, for example while pulling off the trick. She seemed to get a special pleasure out of doing it under people’s noses; she said there was more fun in it if you didn’t think about it too hard. In the crowded subway, coming home from the beach, say, she’d slip her dress around so that the slit was in the middle and take my hand and put it right on her cunt. If the train was tightly packed and we were safely wedged in a corner she’d take my cock out of my fly and hold it in her two hands, as though it were a bird. Sometimes she’d get playful and hang her bag on it, as though to prove that there wasn’t the least danger. Another thing about her was that she didn’t pretend that I was the only guy she had on the string. Whether she told me everything I don’t know, but she certainly told me plenty. She told me about her affairs laughingly, while she was climbing over me or when I had it in her, or just when I was about to come. She would tell me how they went about it, how big they were or how small, what they said when they got excited and so on and so forth, giving me every possible detail, just as though I were going to write a textbook on the subject. She didn’t seem to have the least feeling of sacredness about her own body or her feelings or anything connected with herself. “Francie, you bloody fucker,” I used to say, “you’ve got the morals of a clam.” “But you like me, don’t you?” she’d answer. “Men like to fuck, and so do women. It doesn’t harm anybody and it doesn’t mean you have to love everyone you fuck, does it? I wouldn’t want to be in love; it must be terrible to have to fuck the same man all the time, don’t you think? Listen, if you didn’t fuck anybody but me all the time you’d get tired of me quick, wouldn’t you? Sometimes it’s nice to be fucked by some one you don’t know at all. Yes, I think that’s the best of all,” she added—“there’s no complications, no telephone numbers, no love letters, no scraps, what? Listen, do you think this is very bad?

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Sometimes it felt as though he were right inside her womb, so soft and fluffy it was, and those soft teeth biting away at his pecker and making him delirious. They used to lie scissors-fashion and look up at the ceiling. To keep from coming he would think about the office, about the little worries which plagued him and kept his bowels tied up in a knot. In between orgasms he would let his mind dwell on someone else, so that when she’d start working on him again he might imagine he was having a brand new fuck with a brand new cunt. He used to arrange it so that he could look out the window while it was going on. He was getting so adept at it that he could undress a woman on the boulevard there under his window and transport her to the bed; not only that, but he could actually make her change places with his wife, all without un-cunting. Sometimes he’d fuck away like that for a couple of hours and never even bother to shoot off. Why waste it! he would say. Steve Romero, on the other hand, had a hell of a time holding it in. Steve was built like a bull and he scattered his seed freely. We used to compare notes sometimes sitting in the chop suey joint around the corner from the office. It was a strange atmosphere. Maybe it was because there was no wine. Maybe it was the funny little black mushrooms they served us. Anyway it wasn’t difficult to get started on the subject. By the time Steve met us he would already have had his workout, a shower and a rubdown. He was clean inside and out. Almost a perfect specimen of a man. Not very bright, to be sure, but a good egg, a companion. Hymie, on the other hand, was like a toad. He seemed to come to the table direct from the swamps where he had passed a mucky day. Filth rolled off his lips like honey. In fact, you couldn’t call it filth, in his case, because there wasn’t any other ingredient with which you might compare it. It was all one fluid, a slimy, sticky substance made entirely of sex. When he looked at his food he saw it as potential sperm; if the weather were warm he would say it was good for the balls; if he took a trolley ride he knew in advance that the rhythmic movement of the trolley would stimulate his appetite, would give him a slow, “personal” hard on, as he put it. Why “personal” I never found out, but that was his expression. He liked to go out with us because we were always reasonably sure of picking up something decent. Left to himself he didn’t always fare so well.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Whether the Mother of God took a vow of virginity?Objection 1: It would seem that the Mother of God did not take a vow of virginity. For it is written (Dt. 7:14): “No one shall be barren among you of either sex.” But sterility is a consequence of virginity. Therefore the keeping of virginity was contrary to the commandment of the Old Law. But before Christ was born the old law was still in force. Therefore at that time the Blessed Virgin could not lawfully take a vow of virginity. Objection 2: Further, the Apostle says (1 Cor. 7:25): “Concerning virgins I have no commandment of the Lord; but I give counsel.” But the perfection of the counsels was to take its beginning from Christ, who is the “end of the Law,” as the Apostle says (Rom. 10:4). It was not therefore becoming that the Virgin should take a vow of virginity. Objection 3: Further, the gloss of Jerome says on 1 Tim. 5:12, that “for those who are vowed to virginity, it is reprehensible not only to marry, but also to desire to be married.” But the Mother of Christ committed no sin for which she could be reprehended, as stated above ([4133]Q[27], A[4]). Since therefore she was “espoused,” as related by Lk. 1:27 it seems that she did not take a vow of virginity. On the contrary, Augustine says (De Sanct. Virg. iv): “Mary answered the announcing angel: ‘How shall this be done, because I know not man?’ She would not have said this unless she had already vowed her virginity to God.” I answer that, As we have stated in the [4134]SS, Q[88], A[6], works of perfection are more praiseworthy when performed in fulfilment of a vow. Now it is clear that for reasons already given ([4135]AA[1],2,3) virginity had a special place in the Mother of God. It was therefore fitting that her virginity should be consecrated to God by vow. Nevertheless because, while the Law was in force both men and women were bound to attend to the duty of begetting, since the worship of God was spread according to carnal origin, until Christ was born of that people; the Mother of God is not believed to have taken an absolute vow of virginity, before being espoused to Joseph, although she desired to do so, yet yielding her own will to God’s judgment. Afterwards, however, having taken a husband, according as the custom of the time required, together with him she took a vow of virginity. Reply to Objection 1: Because it seemed to be forbidden by the law not to take the necessary steps for leaving a posterity on earth, therefore the Mother of God did not vow virginity absolutely, but under the condition that it were pleasing to God. When, however, she knew that it was acceptable to God, she made the vow absolute, before the angel’s Annunciation.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  It was almost a metaphysical cunt, so to speak. It was a cunt which thought out problems, and not only that, but a special kind of thinking it was, with a metronome going. For this species of displaced rhythmic lucubration a peculiar dim light was essential. It had to be just about dark enough for a bat and yet light enough to find a button if one happened to come undone and roll on the floor of the vestibule. You can see what I mean. A vague yet meticulous precision, a steely awareness that simulated absent-mindedness. And fluttery and fluky at the same time, so that you could never determine whether it was fish or fowl. What is this I hold in my hand? Fine or superfine? The answer was always duck soup. If you grabbed her by the boobies she would squawk like a parrot: if you got under her dress she would wriggle like an eel; if you held her too tight she would bite like a ferret. She lingered and lingered and lingered. Why? What was she after? Would she give in after an hour or two? Not a chance in a million. She was like a pigeon trying to fly with its legs caught in a steel trap. She pretended she had no legs. But if you made a move to set her free she would threaten to moult on you. Because she had such a marvelous ass and because it was also so damned inaccessible I used to think of her as the Pons Asinorum. Every schoolboy knows that the Pons Asinorum is not to be crossed except by two white donkeys led by a blind man. I don’t know why it is so, but that’s the rule as it was laid down by old Euclid. He was so full of knowledge, the old buzzard, that one day —I suppose purely to amuse himself—he built a bridge which no living mortal could ever cross. He called it the Pons Asinorum because he was the owner of a pair of beautiful white donkeys, and so attached was he to these donkeys that he would let nobody take possession of them. And so he conjured a dream in which he, the blind man, would one day lead the donkeys over the bridge and into the happy hunting grounds for donkeys. Well, Veronica was very much in the same boat. She thought so much of her beautiful white ass that she wouldn’t part with it for anything. She wanted to take it with her to Paradise when the time came.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  That too was highly incongruous. Why Balzac? Well, that was her affair. Anyway she’d have enough to eat with, until she met another guy. But a kid like that thinking about becoming a writer! Well, why not? Everybody had illusions of one sort or another. Monica too wanted to be a writer. Everybody was becoming a writer. A writer! Jesus, how futile it seemed! I dozed off . . . When I woke up I had an erection. The sun seemed to be burning right into my fly. I got up and I washed my face at the drinking fountain. It was still as hot and sultry as ever. The asphalt was soft as mush, the flies were biting, the garbage was rotting in the gutter. I walked about between the pushcarts and looked at things with an empty eye. I had a sort of lingering hard on all the while, but no definite object in mind. It was only when I got back to Second Avenue that I suddenly remembered the Egyptian Jewess from lunch time. I remembered her saying that she lived over the Russian restaurant near Twelfth Street. Still I hadn’t any definite idea of what I was going to do. Just browsing about, killing time. My feet nevertheless were dragging me northward, toward Fourteenth Street. When I got abreast of the Russian restaurant I paused a moment and then I ran up the stairs three at a time. The hall door was open. I climbed up a couple of flights scanning the names on the doors. She was on the top floor and there was a man’s name under hers. I knocked softly. No answer. I knocked again, a little harder. This time I heard some one moving about. Then a voice close to the door, asking who is it and at the same time the knob turning. I pushed the door open and stumbled into the darkened room. Stumbled right into her arms and felt her naked under the half-opened kimono. She must have come out of a sound sleep and only half realized who was holding her in his arms. When she realized it was me she tried to break away but I had her tight and I began kissing her passionately and at the same time backing her up toward the couch near the window. She mumbled something about the door being open but I wasn’t taking any chance on letting her slip out of my arms. So I made a slight detour and little by little I edged her toward the door and made her shove it to with her ass. I locked it with my one free hand and then I moved her into the center of the room and with the free hand I unbuttoned my fly and got my pecker out and into position.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  HOMILY X THINGS FORSAKEN AND FOLLOWED FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.—(FROM THE GOSPEL)“They forsook all, and followed Him.”—S. Luke 5:11. TWO things are necessary for us for the following of Him. Firstly, that we should turn away from a changing good by despising it; secondly, that we should turn towards an unchanging good in loving and imitating it. Both these things are noted in the Gospel—the first, “they forsook all;” the second, “and followed Him.” I. On the first head, it is noticed that we ought to forsake four things if we wish to follow Christ—(1) in forsaking earthly things by despising them, S. Luke 14:33, “Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be My disciple;” (2) in leaving kinsfolk and parents for the sake of God, S. Matt. 10:37, “He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me,” &c.; (3) in abandoning his own body by mortifying it; (4) in denying his own will. Of these two, S. Luke 9:23, “If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow Me.” II. On the second head, it is noted that we ought to imitate Christ in four ways—(1) in humility, S. Matt. 11:29, “Learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly in heart;” (2) in piety, S. Luke 6:36, “Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father is also merciful;” (3) in charity, S. John 15:17, “These things I command you, that ye love one another;” (4) in the bitterness of tribulations, 1 S. Peter 2:21, “Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that ye should follow His steps.” There are two right wayst hrough which man walks to the kingdom of heaven, Wisd. 10:10, “She conducted the just through the right way, and shewed him the kingdom of God.” To which kingdom may we, &c. HOMILY XI MAN’S TWOFOLD STATE SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.—(FROM THE EPISTLE)“For if we have been planted together in the likeness of His death, we shall be also in the likeness of His resurrection.”—Romans 6:5. THE Apostle makes mention of two things in these words. Firstly, he expresses the excellence that we ought to have, “We have been planted together in the likeness of His death.” This is our merit that we may have in ourselves the likeness of His, that is of Christ’s, death. Secondly, he expresses what we ought to receive on account of this excellence, “We shall be also in the likeness of His resurrection.” This is our reward, that we may have the likeness of the resurrection of Christ.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  I think she was waiting for me to waylay her—I think that was what she wanted. Anyway, one night I was lying in the grass near the railroad tracks; it was a sweltering summer’s night and people were lying about anywhere and everywhere, like panting dogs. I wasn’t thinking of Lola at all—I was just mooning there, too hot to think about anything. Suddenly I see a woman coming along the narrow cinder-path. I’m lying sprawled out on the embankment and nobody around that I can notice. The woman is coming along slowly, head down, as though she were dreaming. As she gets close I recognize her. “Lola!” I call. “Lola!” She seems to be really astonished to see me there. “Why, what are you doing here?” she says, and with that she sits down beside me on the embankment. I didn’t bother to answer her, I didn’t say a word—I just crawled over her and flattened her. “Not here, please,” she begged, but I paid no attention. I got my hand between her legs, all tangled up in that thick sporran of hers, and she was sopping wet, like a horse slavering. It was my first fuck, by Jesus, and it had to be that a train would come along and shower hot sparks over us. Lola was terrified. It was her first fuck too, I guess, and she probably needed it more than I, but when she felt the sparks she wanted to tear loose. It was like trying to hold down a wild mare. I couldn’t keep her down, no matter how I wrestled with her. She got up, shook her clothes down, and adjusted the bun at the nape of her neck. “You must go home,” she says. “I’m not going home,” I said, and with that I took her by the arm and started walking. We walked along in dead silence for quite a distance. Neither of us seemed to be noticing where we were going. Finally we were out on the highway and up above us were the reservoirs and near the reservoirs was a pond. Instinctively I headed toward the pond. We had to pass under some low-hanging trees as we neared the pond. I was helping Lola to stoop down when suddenly she slipped, dragging me with her. She made no effort to get up; instead she caught hold of me and pressed me to her, and to my complete amazement I also felt her slip her hand in my fly. She caressed me so wonderfully that in a jiffy I came in her hand. Then she took my hand and put it between her legs. She lay back completely relaxed and opened her legs wide. I bent over and kissed every hair on her cunt; I put my tongue in her navel and licked it clean.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He wanted to lift her into his arms and cart her off to the bedroom to celebrate. As if she knew what he was thinking, she gave him a mischievous smile. “I’m not embarrassing you, am I?” she asked, as he tried to casually shift his food around on his plate. A sultry, suggestive look took up residence on her face and her lips glistened. How was a man supposed to think about food when she was given him such an obvious green light? The woman he’d dreamed of getting close to for the past several weeks was practically stating they were going to have sex. “I appreciate your directness.” Samuel put his fork aside. He didn’t want to eat. He wanted to bask in her presence. “And I appreciate your cooking, among other things,” she responded, and chuckled. The sound was earthly and sensuous, like everything about her. “I’m flattered.” He truly was. She ate the food as if it was heavenly, as if it was the best meal she ever had and she was with the man she wanted to be with. Did she know how that was affecting him? Samuel had his suspicions. There was a playful look in her eyes, and she seemed to be assessing him in some way. That made his temperature rise. “This is why they always put me on the advertising accounts for food products, at work,” she explained. “It’s the flavors, they set my imagination on fire.” Her gaze drifted over him. The conversation was making his blood head south, but he wasn’t complaining. “I can see the sense in that,” he murmured. “I’ll let you in on a secret.” She leaned forward, conspiratorially. “I think my taste buds are one of my most powerful erogenous zones.” There was absolutely no mistaking the naughty look in her eyes. Lifting his eyebrows, he said, “Oh, is that the case?” “Uh huh. When it’s a meal I really like, and I love spicy food, it really turns me on.” Samuel stared across at her as the implications slid fully into place. His inquisitive mind began to delve deeper, wondering to what extent that arousal manifested. Did she get wet? Did she want full-on sex as a result of it? The questions evaporated when Cassie held his gaze and reached for her fork, lifting another mouthful of Thai green curry. He watched as her glossy lips moved appreciatively while she ate the food. Another long mmm soon followed. He noticed then how she moved against the chair she was sitting on—it was a very real physical response. His erection built when he wondered what it would be like to have her sit on his lap while she ate—what it would be like to feed her himself. “My ex-husband hated it,” she added. “It’s a wonder we lasted nine years together.” She chuckled again.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He held it above me and I jolted, emitting a soundless squeal, as cold water dripped on to my naked breasts. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “Or I’ll tie you down. Keep perfectly still.” It was almost impossible not to squirm or shield my upper body as each drop fell delicately and with deadly impact onto my stiffening nipples or goosepimpling belly. I balled my hands into fists and tried to hold my breath—one thing I’m very good at—until he relented, poured some warmer water into the basin from a jug and loaded the sponge with soothing suds. They glided over my body, leaving their trail of foam, as Matthew washed me from my neck downward, moving the sponge with loving expertise between and beneath my breasts, round and round the elliptical mound of my abdomen and then onward. “Let’s get you nice and clean,” he said, under his breath as if talking to himself. “And ready. Ready for your treatment.” My pussy hardly needed the sponge to dampen it; his words and his calm, authoritative manner had already set the juices flowing. But he washed between my thighs diligently, moving the sponge closer and closer until it parted my lower lips, dabbing the foam on and around my clit, making it sting just a little bit. I sucked in air and jiggled my hips. “Oh dear. You moved. Legs wider, please, I think we’ll need a little more attention to this area.” I didn’t want more soap on my clit, but I did as I was told, somehow making it through the extra cruel ablutions, though I don’t think I managed to keep as still as he required me to. “I hope I don’t need to tell you,” he said, picking up a razor and beginning to scrape away the three-day growth of hair from my genital area, “that you are forbidden to strain your voice. Any crying out or making a sound will be punished.” I cursed my bedridden horniness. I might have known Matthew would be a terrible doctor. But despite my apprehension, my stomach was curling over and over inside, tautening into a knot of sheer lustful excitement. “Right,” he said briskly, discarding the razor. “On to your stomach.” This was always a dangerous position to be in if you were in Matthew’s vicinity, but I rolled over and presented him with my rear view. The warm soapy water spilled deliciously from my shoulder blades down into the hollow of my back, pooling in the crease of my buttocks. Matthew swabbed away at the cheeks he made such endless use of, wiping them clean and finishing with a deep cleansing sweep of the crack between. I heard the sponge splash back into the basin and then I blanched as Matthew’s fingers kept my bum cheeks spread. “Now, about that fever,” he murmured. “We need to make sure your temperature’s down before we go any further.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “In a minute, baby.” His voice was a low, sexy growl that made my pussy cream even harder. “I’ll touch you again when your pussy is ready. When your clit’s so sensitive you scream when I touch it.” He was as good as his word. He raised and lowered me on his cock, fucking me over him while he played with my nipples, getting all those special spots deep inside me so sensitized I was almost going to come from that touch alone. “Please,” I wailed. “Please, now!” He pulled me down onto his cock, rocking his hips and parting my pussy lips with one hand. “Look at the window,” he growled. “Look at us.” And he touched his finger to my clit. I screamed as the orgasm washed through me, wailed again and again as his finger circled, my eyes locked on his as he shouted and bucked into me so hard the chair rocked against the floor. “I love you,” he panted as I shuddered in his arms. “Always, baby. I’m yours.” “I l-love you, t-too.” It was hard to speak. I couldn’t stop shaking. Eric’s cock twitched inside me. I shuddered as I came again. And again. When I finally quit trembling, when my pussy finally quit spasming, Eric stood us up and lifted me into his arms. He stripped me naked and took me to bed. Then he traced the rose over my nipples and licked my pussy until I finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I fell asleep in his arms and when we woke up, I took him into my mouth and loved him with my lips and tongue and throat until he was as wasted as I was. We made love all night. And in the morning, we called Melissa and Janelle and told them we were engaged. Everybody else found out through their Facebook status updates, because Eric and I cleared our calendars for the rest of the week, turned off our computers and phones, and damn well spent most of that time in bed and getting to know each other again. We’re getting married next year, after he’s transferred to the Minneapolis office. We’ll use traditional invitations—and at Melissa’s instigation, we’ll also have a Facebook RSVP option for those who can’t break away from their computers, because God help me, we’re inviting everybody. We’re even having a somewhat traditional wedding night, though only Eric and I know that. As we left the hotel at the end of our extended holiday, Eric turned to me and asked, “Have you ever had anal sex?” My blush gave him his answer even before I stammered out, “Um, no.” “Me, either,” he grinned. “How about we save that for our wedding night? I know some very interesting things we can do in the interim so we’re ready for it.” I looked pointedly at his butt. “Okay.”