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 From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  He beeped his car horn as soon as she came out. She hurried over and waited for him to open the door. His chivalrous nature never made the trip. He flung the door open from the inside. She started to speak; his hand stopped her. He drove down a couple of streets before making a quick right down Thurgood Road. She’d heard about it. She watched the crowds change before her eyes. Near the bank, people were light as the day. As he rolled closer and closer toward downtown, their shades got dark, like her fantasies. She didn’t mind seeing it from a distance. She realized her fantasy was reality when his car came to a screeching halt near a bodega where three black men sat outside smoking and playing dominoes. “Get the fuck out!” She clutched her pocketbook. He cut the engine, grabbed his dick, and slid his seat back. He reached overhead and flipped his visor down. A tightly rolled cigar fell into his lap. He pushed his car lighter in and waited. He pressed his cigar into the cave of the lighter. He blew a steady stream her way. She choked and remembered the smell. Her ex-boyfriend used to smoke weed every day after class and before sex. She likened Pretty to him. “Get the fuck out!” She looked toward the men who continued to play games. “I’m not getting out here.” Pretty placed his smoke inside the ashtray and started his car up again. He never looked her way. “I’ll take you back.” She watched him reach for the gears. She grabbed his hand. “Wait. Just tell me why I have to get out here?” Pretty finally blessed her with eye contact. She felt his connection again. She watched him put his cigar back to his mouth. She dreamed about the places his full lips could kiss. His eyebrows were thick and tamed. His jaw was square and his goatee rode it from ear to ear. She wanted to ride him from here to there. His interest wasn’t the same as before. She wanted to get him back to that level and she knew she had to eat a few slices of humble pie. Resistance always made her come quicker. He took a slow drag. His car filled with chocolate flavor. He rubbed his moustache and watched her squirm. He played his part. He would ask for his Oscar later. “You want the hood, right?” Her banter was awkward. “I don’t know.” Her fingers trailed his thigh. He slapped them away. “No touching. I want you to walk down the block, go to number 114, ring the third bell from the bottom, and walk upstairs to apartment 3.” She looked up and down the street. He figured she had more questions. He jumped in and pointed behind her. “Walk down that way. Don’t talk to anyone. When you’re in the crib, I want you to strip in the middle of the floor. You got it?”

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Chandra sucked me at three different speeds, licked my balls, and tried to lick my ass. I stopped her before it got too crazy and moved on to the main event. Slipping on a Magnum condom, I got back into my kneeling position in front of Chandra. I spread her big thighs and tickled her clit with the head of my dick. Chandra tried to squirm onto my dick, but I backed away. My show, my way. “Beg for it.” “Please,” she whimpered, pawing at my dick. Chandra had a look in her eyes that went beyond want or need. Her eyes was filled with the desperation that you see in a junkie who needs a quick fix. There was no doubt in my mind that if I didn’t break Chandra off, she was gonna try her best to take the dick. I ran my fingernails along Chandra’s thighs, barely touching her skin. Chandra sighed as a tremble went through her body. I started out just slipping the head of my dick inside her. I can’t even front, Chandra’s pussy was tight. Even with the lubricated condom, and her pussy now running like a faucet, I had a little trouble getting the head in. I began stroking her slowly, careful not to let her feel the whole thing just yet. By the time I got my dick halfway in, Chandra was hissing like a viper. “Yeah, this pussy is tight,” I huffed, keeping a steady rhythm. I hadn’t had a pussy that tight since high school. There was even a moment that I had the urge to cum prematurely, but you know I was too cool for that. Chandra’s husband either had a little dick, or he wasn’t hitting it much. I slipped my dick about three quarters of the way in before I hit her vaginal wall. Chandra let out a yelp, but made no attempt to stop me. “You like this dick, don’t you?” I whispered into her ear. “Yes,” she sobbed. “Tell me you love this dick, bitch. Tell me you love it.” I demanded. “I love it. Goddammit! I love this dick!” she shrieked. I continued to give it to Chandra, alternating from a slow grind to a rapid pounding. She cursed and grunted, throwing it back at me. I knew she was about to cum because I felt the walls of her pussy start to tighten around my dick. Just before she reached her climax, I pulled out. Chandra looked at me as if she could strangle my ass, but I paid her no mind. “Turn over,” I ordered, and she flipped onto her stomach real quick.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  I gave Chandra a playful wink and headed toward the bathroom. Once inside, I closed the door and locked it. I proceeded to ramble through the medicine cabinet, garbage pail, and even peeked under the toilet seat looking for piss stains. I made it a rule never to roll into an apartment or house that a woman shared with a man. That was sure nuff asking to get got. I’d learned over the years that what a chick says and what’s real can often be two different things. I had broken this rule once, and ended up getting stabbed in the back by a hater boyfriend. That’s the reason why I started carrying a gat when I went to see a trick. I use the term trick, as opposed to client, because that’s what I did. I tricked women into believing they needed what I was selling. Most of these women should have realized that they were fine and strong enough not to need a man like me, or any man, to make them feel good. The thing was, the majority of them never really looked deep enough within themselves to find that inner strength. Relying on a man for strength or happiness was a shortcut. This worked for me, because it insured that as long as my dick could get hard, I’d never be pressed for cash. After making sure that there wasn’t a dude either living there or squatting, I went back into the living room. Chandra was standing in the spot where I had left her, rubbing her hands together nervously. From the look in her eyes she probably knew what drill I had really conducted in her bathroom. I gave her a sexy grin to set her mind at ease, and took a seat on the couch. “Would you like something to—?” “Take your shit off,” I cut her off, totally catching her off guard. Chandra stood there with her mouth open. She tried to read my face to see if I was joking, which I wasn’t. “I figured you might’a wanted to talk for a minute. You know, get to know each other a little bit?” she said, trying to buy herself some time. “What’s there to talk about? We both know what time it is.” My cinnamon brown eyes ensnared her, causing her to turn away. “Time is money, love. Come up out that dress.” She hesitated for a quick second, then started to undress. Chandra began undoing her black Versace dress. Her pudgy hands fumbled with the clasp at the shoulder, but finally managed to unclamp it. I admired her full breasts, pushed up by the black Victoria’s Secret bra. The formfitting dress gave her some trouble coming down over those wide hips, but slid off smoothly past that point.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Harmony undid my belt and began fondling my dick as we continued to try to suck the breath out of each other. I could tell that she was surprised at my length as she stroked me. Running my hand up her back, I began playing in her soft hair. Before she knew what was going on I was guiding her head down to my lap. She didn’t seem to mind as she ran her tongue along the head of my dick. My eyes rolled back in my head as she worked her lips down the side of my shaft and tickled my balls. She sucked on my sack like she was trying to get the last bit of meat out of a snow-crab leg, drawing a low moan from me. Gripping a fistful of her hair I began fucking Harmony’s mouth. Her warm breath felt like heaven on my throbbing cock. She bobbed up and down on me expertly, letting a stream of saliva run down my dick and settle on my balls. “Damn, you really do taste like chocolate,” she gasped, before continuing to suck me off. I let her continue with her little show before pulling her head up and gazing into her pretty green eyes. Behind those eyes I saw a hunger that matched the one building up inside of me. “Fuck this pussy, Chocolate,” she demanded, laying back on the rock and hiking her sundress up. I pulled Harmony’s thong to the side and admired her bush. It was hairy, but she kept it neatly trimmed. I watched carefully as she began sliding her finger in and out of her pussy, inviting me to take the plunge. I was so thirsty to run up in this little tender that my hands were nearly trembling as I ripped the condom wrapper open. Gripping her ass cheeks, I lifted her slightly off the rock and slid her onto my dick. I had no problem running up in Harmony’s soaking wet pussy. She winced a little when I reached her rear walls, but that didn’t stop her from trying to pull me deeper. Her small hands gripped the collar of my shirt, almost popping the buttons off as I pounded her. “Ooh, get this pussy you black muthafucka,” she grunted, throwing it back at me. My face contorted into a mask of something hideous as I appreciated her hot box. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Fuck me, Chocolate. Fuck me!” Now, I had always considered myself as somewhat of a pussy wrecker, but Harmony was no slouch. For as hard as I tried to dig into her, she threw it back equally hard. I placed Harmony on her side and spread her legs into a scissor. She braced one foot against the top of the rock and let me go as far as I could into her.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  On her knees, she stopped, dropped, and humped the floor as Robert sprinkled her with oil. Rubbing her skin, she slathered her body, ran her hand down to her triangle, and squeezed her phatness through her now oily G-string. Her eyes never left the vic. Although Power was on her mind, her focus was on Robert. He was her one and only way out. The hidden camera, tucked in a far-off corner, had been capturing their images for weeks. Her, pole dancing on the bar he’d had installed in the apartment. Robert, thirstily lapping her parted coochie lips for one more drop of her nectar. Her, riding his white stallion backwards like an untamed bull. She had just about everything she needed on tape. Almost every blackmailing detail that would make his wife run to the divorce lawyer demanding half her husband’s shit, Flame had recorded live and in living color. Now all she needed to do was wait for Power’s call that would confirm that the game was over, and make Robert tell her he loved her. She knew from experience that many women could forgive their husband’s sexual infidelities, but she’d never met one who could overlook their man falling in love with another woman. She grinned, her iced-out gold crown gleaming in the light. Either Robert would get served by his Mrs. or he’d dish out Flame’s demands. Tsking, she found herself almost feeling sorry for him as he jacked away at his erect, pink dick, but she quickly recovered. Robert had had no remorse when he’d rented an on-the-low fuck spot for them to get their mash on, and his wife wasn’t even a fleeting thought when he was pounding and stirring in Flame’s sweetness. No, he was just another dick who was trickin’ for her treat. An attorney who broke the laws of his marriage when he left the office. Robert had played for almost a month, but now he’d either come up short a grip because he’d fallen for the slip, or he’d have to cut his wife a check for a lifetime. It was his call. Either way, Flame was going to get hers, or she’d sell his bitch the videotape to play in front of the judge. Moving back an inch more, Flame squeezed her muscles until her pussy sucked the breath out of his nostrils, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. She shivered as he exhaled hot air against her entrance, blasts of excited, warm breath climbing her walls. “Breathe for me, baby. Now blow in my booty,” she said, closing her eyes. If she imagined hard enough, her mind could transform Robert into Power so she could really enjoy fucking. “Yes, honey,” Robert panted. “I’ll blow wherever you want me to. Even your cunt. Tell me that you want me to blow in your cunt. Say it, my chocolate whore.”

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  It was Thursday morning, and I was ten minutes late, but my boss always gave me some leeway. He’d had an innocent crush on me since the day I started. I worked in Brentwood, Long Island, far away from my home in the Baisley Housing Projects in Jamaica, Queens. I had to travel, but I loved going to work every day, because it was a change of environment for me. I’d lived in the inner city all my life, and working in Long Island was the best. It was so tranquil out there that it made you forget that you were still in New York. And I enjoyed driving the distance to work. For me, it was the only way to escape the bullshit that I was putting up with at home. In the projects I was constantly surrounded by thugs and drugs. But at work, I was surrounded by white America, especially the corporate men who kissed my sexy ass every day, lusting for some dark chocolate. I rushed into the office and Patty, the receptionist, told me that Mr. Robinson wanted to see me in his office right away. I was a bit nervous. I put my stuff on my desk and quickly headed for my boss’s office. Mr. Robinson was a black man holding down a very lucrative position in the company. He was in his mid-forties and still fine as hell. I knocked on the polished wood-grain door to his office and immediately heard, “Come in.” I walked into his plush corner-view office and immediately noticed a man seated on the stylish imported-leather green couch near Mr. Robinson’s desk. “Ayeesha, I’ve been waiting for you,” Mr. Robinson said, peering at me from his lavish leather chair. “This is Raheem Mitchell,” he introduced me to the man. Damn! I thought, gazing at this fine specimen of what a real man should look like. He was tall, dark, sporting a gray three-piece business suit, and had a trimmed dark goatee. His lips were full, his head was bald, and his posture was strong and positive. He stood up and shook my hand firmly saying, “Nice to meet you.” I held his gaze for a moment. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, because he was definitely eye candy. I noticed the diamond-studded watch on his wrist, and I knew he had money. “Ayeesha, I need you to draw up the deposition for the Clemens account soon as possible, and work with Mr. Mitchell here. We might have him as a new account to this agency,” Mr. Robinson said, smiling from his chair. “And before you start anything, can you please get Mr. Mitchell and myself some coffee?” “Not a problem,” I said. I slowly backed toward the door, staring and smiling at Raheem Mitchell with my flirty ass. His eyes never left mine and I walked out of Mr. Robinson’s office with that same tingling sensation between my legs that I’d had this morning.

• From The Girls (2016)

  “Can’t you hurry up?” I hissed at Teddy, and he made a muffled reply, rummaging farther, until he finally pulled out some new-looking bills. He shoved the box back onto the high shelf, breathing hard, while I counted. “Sixty-five,” I said. Neatening the stack, folding it to a more substantial thickness. “Isn’t that enough?” I could tell by his face, the effort of his breathing, that if I demanded more, he would find a way to get it. Part of me almost wanted to. To gorge myself on this new power, see how long I could keep it going. But then Tiki trotted in the doorway, startling us both. The dog panting as he nudged at Teddy’s legs. Even the dog’s tongue was spotted, I saw, the crimped pink freckled with black. “This’ll be fine,” I said, putting the money in my pocket. My damp shorts gave off an itch of chlorine. “So when will I get the stuff?” Teddy said. It took a second to understand the significant look he gave me: the dope I’d promised. I’d almost forgotten that I hadn’t just demanded money. When he saw my expression, he corrected himself. “I mean, no rush. If it takes time or whatever.” “Hard to say.” Tiki was sniffing at my crotch; I pushed his nose away more roughly than I’d meant to, his snout wetting my palm. My desire to get out of the room was suddenly overwhelming. “Pretty soon, probably,” I said, starting to back toward the door. “I’ll bring it over when I get it.” “Oh, yeah,” Teddy said. “Yeah, okay.” —I had the uncomfortable sense, at the front door, that Teddy was the guest and I was the host. The wind chime over the porch rippling a thin song. The sun and trees and blond hills beyond seemed to promise great freedoms, and I could already start to forget what I’d done, washed over by other concerns. The pleasing meaty rectangle of the folded bills in my pocket. When I looked at Teddy’s freckled face, a surge of impulsive, virtuous affection passed through me—he was like a little brother. The gentle way he’d mothered the barn kitten. “I’ll see you,” I said, leaning to kiss him on the cheek. I was congratulating myself for the sweetness of my gesture, the kindness, but then Teddy adjusted his hips, hunching them protectively; when I pulled away, I saw his erection pushing stubbornly against his jeans. 7I could ride my bike most of the way there. Adobe Road empty of cars, except for the occasional motorcycle or horse trailer. If a car passed, it was usually heading to the ranch, and they’d give me a lift, my bicycle half hanging out a window. Girls in shorts and wood sandals and plastic rings from the dispensers outside the Rexall. Boys who kept losing their train of thought, then coming to with a stunned smile, as if returned from cosmic tourism.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Lil’ Lee was a liar. He was a pro. Gripping, he cupped my ass and lifted it in the air until it met his mouth. With a long tongue, he parted my cheeks, then dug in like it was a holiday feast, burying his face between the firm softness. He ate the bottom like most men eat pussy. Savoring it, he sucked, dipped in and out of it, lingered on the spot that made me jump and buck, all while playing with my clit. He was a nasty nucka, and I was two heartbeats away from letting him push in my bush. Panting, I pushed him off me. He had to go. I couldn’t be in charge of anything if I was succumbing to his wicked tongue. Before Lil’ Lee could tuck his bobbing hardness into his pants, 12 snatched him up and deposited him on the other side of the door. Turning the lock, he signaled Runner on the walkie-talkie to put his ass out. Brutally. I sat up, heat still throbbing. “Enjoy the show?” “Not as much as you did. You was gonna break him off. I could tell,” he said, walking toward me. “Now why would I do something like that?” He stuck his long, thick finger deep inside me, swirled it around, then took it out and licked it. “I can’t tell . . .” he replied, dropping his pants and boxers, revealing the biggest dick I’d ever laid eyes on, “. . . not when I got all this here.” My heart dropped to my knees at the sight of him. As many times as I’d seen him naked, I still couldn’t get used to his size. “Fill it, 12. Give this fat, juicy poonany sumthin’ to hold on to,” I whispered in his ear, wrapping my legs around him as he carried me from the desk to a chaise. “Homeboy got it ready and wet for me, Sweets?” he asked, positioning my ass on the cushion and putting my legs on his shoulders. Nodding, I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as he pushed his weight on the back of my thighs, making my knees touch my shoulders. “Watch,” he demanded. “No,” I replied breathlessly. 12 knew I wanted to feel the experience, not see it. Fuckin’ one of my boys wasn’t right, but it was necessary—needed—after I’d had my ass blessed. The body heat between my legs cooled when 12 removed his hands from my legs and his midsection from above mine. “Gimme what I want, you’ll get what’chu want,” he said, crossing his arms. I shook my head in disbelief. 12 was strong-arming me, and he knew it. We’d gone through this before, but he’d never pulled away. This time he was serious. And I was in desperate need of feeling his hardness penetrate my softness. So although my mind said no, my body told it to shut the fuck up. “A’ight,” I gave in, knowing I’d regret it later.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  I told him he was crazy. Telly wasn’t playing, though. “You don’t want the best of both worlds? Hard to believe you haven’t explored the other side; your sex drive is so high.” “My sex drive don’t mean shit. Maybe one day I’ll try it, but not now.” “Are you feeling this girl?” “She’s cool. Pretty and thick. I’m not gone lie, she turns me on. I have never looked at a bitch like I looked at her.” Telly sat back and stared at me, but didn’t say shit. He just listened as I went on about how Brooklyn had made my pussy jump. • • • Summer had finally hit, and it was hot as hell outside as Telly and I made our way through his boy’s crowded backyard where the bar-b-que party of the summer was being held. The music was blasting, and ma’fuckas was walking around half-ass naked by the pool. A couple of girls hawked Telly, then looked me up and down, turning up their noses. Not giving two fucks about their jealousy, I grabbed Telly’s hand to let them know he was taken. Yeah, he still rocked that wedding band on his finger, but it was me he wore on his arm. As far as I could tell, I was his wife. We were there about a good twenty minutes when I spotted Dino, a nigga I’d met when I was stripping, coming our way. I turned my head, hoping he’d keep it moving, but no such luck. He had sweated me back in the day, and it seemed things hadn’t changed. I’d given him the pussy once, and he had fucked like a jackrabbit. A straight turnoff that caused me to cut him off. Dino walked up to Telly and gave him dap. He looked at me and nodded. “Let me holla at you for a sec,” Dino said to Telly. They stepped away from me and started talking. I knew Dino’s hating ass was going to tell him he knew me, but I didn’t care. Telly knew what I was all about from the begin ning. Telly nodded, kept shooting me looks. I rolled my eyes, then made my way to the bathroom. I was washing my hands when Telly’s crazy ass bust through the door. “Did you fuck that nigga?” The look in his eyes told me he was serious. I didn’t want to lie to him so I stayed quiet. Telly pushed me against the wall, and tugged on my shorts. Putting his hands down them, he found my pussy. Fingered my clit. “Did he make you feel like I do?”

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  She whispered something to herself, lowered her head, and raised it with renewed vigor. Her top fell. He couldn’t tell what color mixed with blue made red, so he concentrated on the bra’s design. It was silky, half-cut, and her nipples made a strong attempt to burst through. They were the size of nickels, her breasts like cantaloupes. He loved his fruits and vegetables. He watched her undo her pants and ease them off. Her thighs were well trained and her skin was a smooth tan all the way through. He thought about Mr. Patterson. Thought about what he was going to do with his wife. Wondered what he would do when he got done and went back to work tomorrow. His hand went to his pocket and traced the swell of the envelope. He imagined if she’d come this far, no telling how far she would go. Three thousand was great, but more was better. He decided to give her that “string you out” dick. He knew if she was willing to pay for a stranger, she would pay dearly for “That Nigga!” He filled his space with gray smoke and pushed it into her blue sphere. She acted like it was Febreze, the way she inhaled and closed her eyes, swaying to the music. He walked over, grabbed her attention and seized the moment. His grip was demanding; his scowl spoke volumes of what was about to transpire. She let her arm go limp inside his hand. She gave in to her money. With a flick of the wrist, he flung her around and checked out her goods. He rubbed his chin. He was going to enjoy laying pipe to her dreams. She wanted the hood; he would give her a reason to come back. He pushed her to the ground by leading her with her shoulders. She popped back up and looked down. There was nothing to comfort her fall. Nothing to soften the blow. “You want a pillow?” he asked. He was more affectionate than earlier. She smiled. “Yes.” His mood went back to being distant and obtrusive. “Husbands give pillows. Niggas give direction. That’s what you want, right?” She didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted to control his controlling behavior. Her mind wandered; her fantasy was interrupted. He noticed regression and picked up the pace. “I’ll show you why they call me Pretty,” he said as he reached for his belt. Her eyes dropped to his hands. She watched him expertly pull his belt without looking. She loved introductions. Most men whipped it out, hoping it would impress. He was different. He slid his belt from around his waist and let it hit the ground. He watched her watch him. He knew she was into the slow, tantalizing introduction. She loved his ruggedness. She was intrigued by his name and its meaning. He would play it for all it was worth. Three thousand dollars’ worth.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I have moved the typewriter into the next room where I can see myself in the mirror as I write. Tania is like Irène. She expects fat letters. But there is another Tania, a Tania like a big seed, who scatters pollen everywhere—or, let us say, a little bit of Tolstoy, a stable scene in which the fetus is dug up. Tania is a fever, too—les voies urinaires , Café de la Liberté, Place des Vosges, bright neckties on the Boulevard Montparnasse, dark bathrooms, Porto Sec, Abdullah cigarettes, the adagio sonata Pathétique , aural amplificators, anecdotal seances, burnt sienna breasts, heavy garters, what time is it, golden pheasants stuffed with chestnuts, taffeta fingers, vaporish twilights turning to ilex, acromegaly, cancer and delirium, warm veils, poker chips, carpets of blood and soft thighs. Tania says so that every one may hear: “I love him!” And while Boris scalds himself with whisky she says: “Sit down here! O Boris… Russia … what’ll I do? I’m bursting with it!”

• From The Girls (2016)

  Connie mumbling in her sleep, as she often did, sometimes announcing a number like an addled bingo player. “You can get under the blankets if you’re cold,” he said, caping open the covers so I saw his bare chest, his nakedness. I got in beside him with ritual silence. It was as easy as this—I’d entered a possibility that had always been there. He didn’t speak, after that, and neither did I. He hitched me close so my back was pressed against his chest and I could feel his dick rear against my thighs. I didn’t want to breathe, feeling that it would be an imposition on him, even the fact of my ribs rising and falling too much of a bother. I was taking tiny breaths through my nose, a light-headedness overtaking me. The strident rank of him in the dark, his blankets, his sheets—it was what Pamela got all the time, this easy occupation of his presence. His arm was around me, a weight I kept identifying as the weight of a boy’s arm. Peter acted like he was going to sleep, the casual sigh and shuffle, but that kept the whole thing together. You had to act as if nothing strange were happening. When he brushed my nipple with his finger, I kept very still. I could feel his steady breath on my neck. His hand taking an impersonal measurement. Twisting the nipple so I inhaled audibly, and he hesitated for a moment but kept going. His dick smearing at my bare thighs. I would be shunted along whatever would happen, I understood. However he piloted the night. And there wasn’t fear, just a feeling adjacent to excitement, a viewing from the wings. What would happen to Evie? When the floorboards creaked from the hall, the spell cracked. Peter withdrew his hand, rolling abruptly onto his back. Staring at the ceiling so I could see his eyes. “I’ve gotta get some sleep,” he said in a voice carefully drained. A voice like an eraser, its insistent dullness meant to make me wonder if anything had happened. And I was slow to get to my feet, a little stunned, but also in a happy swoon, like even that little bit had fed me. —The boys played the slot machine for what seemed like hours. Connie and I sat on the bench, vibrating with forced inattention. I kept waiting for some acknowledgment from Peter of what had happened. A catch in the eye, a glance serrated with our history. But he didn’t look at me. The humid garage smelled of chilly concrete and the funk of camping tents, folded while still wet. The gas station calendar on the wall: a woman in a hot tub with the stilled eyes and bared teeth of taxidermy. I was grateful for Pamela’s absence that night. There’d been some fight between her and Peter, Connie had told me.

• From The Girls (2016)

  The looping horns of Paul Revere and the Raiders sounding from his bedroom, how he’d sometimes stumble around with a proud, overt secrecy, so I would know he had taken acid. Filling and refilling a glass of water in the kitchen with extravagant care. I’d gone into Peter’s bedroom while Connie was showering. It reeked of what I’d later identify as masturbation, a damp rupture in the air. All his possessions suffused with a mysterious import: his low futon, a plastic bag full of ashy-looking nugs by his pillow. Manuals to become a trainee mechanic. The glass on the floor, greased with fingerprints, was half-full of stale-looking water, and there was a line of smooth river stones on the top of his dresser. A cheap copper bracelet I had seen him wear sometimes. I took in everything as if I could decode the private meaning of each object, puzzle together the interior architecture of his life. So much of desire, at that age, was a willful act. Trying so hard to slur the rough, disappointing edges of boys into the shape of someone we could love. We spoke of our desperate need for them with rote and familiar words, like we were reading lines from a play. Later I would see this: how impersonal and grasping our love was, pinging around the universe, hoping for a host to give form to our wishes. —When I was young, I’d seen magazines in a drawer of the bathroom, my father’s magazines, the pages bloated with humidity. The insides crowded with women. The tautness of mesh pulled across crotches, the gauzy light that made their skin illuminate and pale. My favorite girl had a gingham ribbon tied around her throat in a bow. It was so odd and stirring that someone could be naked but also wear a ribbon around her neck. It made her nakedness formal. I visited the magazine with the regularity of a penitent, replacing it carefully each time. Locking the bathroom door with breathless, ill pleasure that quickly morphed into rubbing my crotch along the seams of carpets, the seam of my mattress. The back of a couch. How did it work, even? That by holding the hovering image of the girl in my mind, I could build the sensation, a sheet of pleasure that grew until it was compulsive, the desire to feel that way again and again. It seemed strange that it was a girl I was imagining, not a boy. And that the feeling could be reignited by other oddities: a color-plate illustration in my fairy-tale book of a girl trapped in a spider’s web. The faceted eyes of evil creatures, watching her. The memory of my father cupping a neighbor’s ass through her wet swimsuit. I’d done things before—not quite sex, but close. The dry fumbles in the hallways of school dances. The overheated suffocation of a parent’s couch, the backs of my knees sweaty.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Not long afterward, a petite little whore opened the door and left carrying some phony package like she’d been sent to pick up something for the mailroom. About two minutes later my boss made an appearance. He glanced over my shoulder, and I fought to pretend as if I didn’t know shit. I began tapping away on the keyboard, acting as if I’d been typing an important correspondence to some high-government official the entire time. “How’s the document coming, Yani?” he asked in a professional voice. “Fine,” I answered. I squeezed my legs together tight like I was doing some fitness exercise on a thigh-toning machine. I knew he saw my legs quiver and make my skirt bunch up in between my gap. His whore/work/break session went down three days out of every work week, and I suspected he called the same pimp to send him different girls who were known for their various “talents.” Hell, I didn’t know how much longer I could take keeping my horny ass in the background. The last time a paid pussy came around, she jerked him off while he was taking a conference call. The one before that brought a “co-worker” along to give him the best damn sex show a pair of high-priced hoes could offer. They both got fucked and sucked for two full hours—lucky hoes! “Yani, your blouse is open,” my boss said. I’d forgotten to fix my clothes after I groped and licked on my fat melons in the bathroom. “I guess you’re right. I did miss a few buttons. Oops—excuse me,” I said, flashing him a warm smile. I stuck my left hand inside of my shirt and arranged my big juicy titties in my bra before buttoning my blouse. My boss was busy taking notice and I could feel his eyes burning my cocoa skin, despite the silence. I got so nervous I buttoned it up crooked and had to start over again because of the way his eyes were wandering all over my cleavage. By my second attempt, I buttoned it correctly. “Do you need me for anything else?” I asked, smoothing the fabric down. “No, that’ll be all for now, except I should let you know that I’m headed out for a meeting,” he answered, still staring at my chest. “Okay.” “Then again, there may be something else.” My boss looked me up and down. “Yes, sir. What is it?” “It’s recently come to my attention that there may be some reasons that could justify giving you a raise,” he said. “Think of some good reasons to convince me, Ms. Parker.”

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  “I feel you inside me. I feel you inside me, Papi,” I said, finding myself picking up on his accent. It was a force of habit. After only hearing Papi say a few words to me, I found myself replying to him with a slight accent myself. He never took it as though I was trying to imitate or make fun of him, though. As a matter of fact, it made him even more excited. I think he probably pictured a nice, coconut-complected, clammy Boriqua, with her hair sweated out, sprawled across her bed, him plunging his dick inside her pussy and bustin’ a nut deep up inside of her hole instead of inside his fist. “You feel it? You feel that shit, puta?” he moaned, breathing heavily into my ear. “You’re hurting me, Papi. Not so hard.” “Shut the fuck up and take this shit like a real puta!” “Oh, Papi!” I let out a screech that sounded as though it was on the verge of pleasure and pain. “Yeah, that’s right. See, it hurts so good, don’t it?” “Yes, yes, yes. It hurts so good, but I can take it. I can take all of it. Give it to me, Papi. Give it to me harder!” I began damn near yelling at the top of my lungs. “Oh shit,” he yelled. I could hear the thumping of him jacking off. “Oh yeah.” He got louder. I knew it was time. “Oh, Papi, I want you to pull out and nut all over me. I want your babies all over me. I want to rub it in like lotion, Papi. Come on, Papi. Now! Now! Now!” “Oh shit,” I heard him yell. I then heard a large thump, the phone dropping. Because of the distance Papi was now away from the phone, his muffled tone informed me that he was cumming. Over and over he screamed it. “I’m cummin’. I’m cummin’. Oh, you fuckin’ cunt, look what you made me do!” “Here, listen to this,” I said in a whisper as I took the phone off my ear and put it next to Sam’s, who was sitting right there next to me in the bed, butt naked, and working on a crossword puzzle. I watched Sam’s eyes light up at the drama going down on the other end of the line. The laughter that wanted to burst out of Sam’s mouth had to be contained, and I quickly placed my hand over those gorgeous lips. Sam looked at me with sparkling gray eyes, bright and full of life, listening in amusement at how I had just made Papi nut all over himself with my bomb-ass phone sex skills.

• From Laura Middleton; Her Brother and Her Lover (1890)

  This, however, I did not allow, but I sat down on the arm of the chair allowing him to put his arm round my waist. He exhibited some more illustrations of luscious scenes, many of which were new to me, and I did not attempt to conceal the effect which was produced upon me, while I told him, which was the case, that I had never seen anything of the kind more beautifully designed and executed. I could see that he was watching the impression made not only on my face but also on another part of my person, which had now become somewhat prominent. He seemed satisfied with this, and then opened the other packet, which was a series of drawings executed by a first-rate artist in the most admirable style delineating the seduction of a beautiful young boy of about fifteen by another handsome youth a few years older. Every scene in the progress was illustrated by an appropriate and admirably drawn portrait of the two characters, commencing with taking him on his knee and impressing the first amorous kiss; the laying of his hand upon the organ of pleasure; the maiden bashfulness of first feeling the naked weapon grasped by a strange hand; the first starting out of the beautiful object on the trousers being unloosened; the full development of all its beauties on their being removed; the drawing his bridle over the fiery little head of the charger; the playing with the beautiful little appendices; the opening the thighs to get a glimpse of the seat of pleasure behind; the turning him round to obtain a full view of the exquisite hindquarters; the first exposure to his gaze of the second actor in the scene of pleasure; the making him caress and play with it; the complete exposure of all their naked charms as their shirts are drawn over their heads; the close embrace as they strain each other in their arms; the turning him round to present the altar for the sacrifice; the entrance; the combat; the extasy; the offering the recompensing pleasure; the introducing the virgin weapon for the first time; the ardour of the first enjoyment; the first tribute and the mutual embrace of thanks as they kissed and caressed each other's organs of pleasure after the work happily was accomplished. All these were depicted with a beauty and a truth to nature that forcibly reminded me of my own sweet experience of similar enjoyment on my first initiation in the secrets of pleasure. As I gazed with admiration upon them, he could not help observing how much I was interested, and was no doubt encouraged to think, as I intended he should be, that there would be little objection on my part to his proceeding to enact a similar scene. His hand gradually slipped down over my stiffly distended weapon. I made a little faint resistance, but gradually allowed him, without much difficulty, to handle and feel it, to unloosen my trousers and make it appear on the stage. He had no sooner got possession of it, than he loaded it with kisses and caresses, declaring that he had never seen anything to surpass it in beauty. He had not much more difficulty in loosening my braces and completely removing my trousers so as to give him a full opportunity of seeing and handling my naked person.

• From Trash (1988)

  Let me set the scene for you, me in my hunger for her great strong hands and perfect thighs, and her in her deliberate disregard. When feeling particularly cruel, Bobby would even insist on doing her full twenty-minute workout while I lay on the bed tearing at the sheets with my nails. I was young, unsure of myself, and so I put up with it, sometimes even enjoyed it, though what I truly wanted was her in a rage, under spotlights in a stadium, fucking to the cadence of a lesbian rock-and-roll band. But it was years ago, and if I was too aggressive, she wouldn’t let me touch her. So I waited, and watched her, and calculated. I’d start my efforts on the couch, finding excuses to play with her thighs. Rolling joints and reaching over to drop a few shreds on her lap, I scrambled for every leaf on her jeans. “Don’t want to waste any,” I told her, and licked my fingers to catch the fine grains that caught in her seams. I progressed to stroking her crotch. “For the grass,” I said, going on to her inseam, her knees, and the backs of her thighs. “Perhaps some slipped under here, honey. Let me see.” I got her used to the feel of my hands legitimately wandering, while her eyes never left the TV screen. I got her used to the heat of my palms, the slight scent of the sweat on my upper lip, the firm pressure of my wrists sliding past her hips. I was as calculated as any woman who knows what she wants, but I cannot tell you what magic I used to finally get her to sit still for me going down on my knees and licking that denim. It wasn’t through begging. Bobby recognized begging as a sexual practice, therefore to be discouraged outside the darkened bedroom. I didn’t wrestle her for it. That, too, was allowed only in the bedroom. Bobby was the perfect withholding butch, I tell you, so I played the perfect compromising femme. I think what finally got to her was the tears.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  We were brought up on Schumann and Hugo Wolf and sauerkraut and kümmel and potato dumplings. Toward evening we’re sitting around a big table with the curtains drawn and some fool two-headed wench is rapping for Jesus Christ. We’re holding hands under the table and the dame next to me has two fingers in my fly. And finally we lie on the floor, behind the piano, while someone sings a dreary song. The air is stifling and her breath is boozy. The pedal is moving up and down, stiffly, automatically, a crazy, futile movement, like a tower of dung that takes twenty-seven years to build but keeps perfect time. I pull her over me with the sounding board in my ears; the room is dark and the carpet is sticky with the kümmel that has been spilled about. Suddenly it seems as if the dawn were coming: it is like water purling over ice and the ice is blue with a rising mist, glaciers sunk in emerald green, chamois and antelope, golden groupers, sea cows mooching along and the amber jack leaping over the Arctic rim. … Elsa is sitting in my lap. Her eyes are like little belly-buttons. I look at her large mouth, so wet and glistening, and I cover it. She is humming now “Es wär’ so schön gewesen . …” Ah, Elsa, you don’t know yet what that means to me, your Trompeter von Säckingen . German Singing Societies, Schwaben Hall, the Turnverein… links um, rechts um … and then a whack over the ass with the end of a rope. Ah, the Germans! They take you all over like an omnibus. They give you indigestion. In the same night one cannot visit the morgue, the infirmary, the zoo, the signs of the zodiac, the limbos of philosophy, the caves of epistemology, the arcana of Freud and Stekel. … On the merry-go-round one doesn’t get anywhere, whereas with the Germans one can go from Vega to Lope de Vega, all in one night, and come away as foolish as Parsifal. As I say, the day began gloriously. It was only this morning that I became conscious again of this physical Paris of which I have been unaware for weeks. Perhaps it is because the book has begun to grow inside me. I am carrying it around with me everywhere. I walk through the streets big with child and the cops escort me across the street. Women get up to offer me their seats. Nobody pushes me rudely any more. I am pregnant. I waddle awkwardly, my big stomach pressed against the weight of the world. It was this morning, on our way to the Post Office, that we gave the book its final imprimatur. We have evolved a new cosmogony of literature, Boris and I. It is to be a new Bible—The Last Book . All those who have anything to say will say it here—anonymously . We will exhaust the age.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I don’t want to write about Montparnasse. … I want to write my life, my thoughts. I want to get the dirt out of my belly. … Listen, get that one over there! I had her a long time ago. She used to be down near Les Halles. A funny bitch. She lay on the edge of the bed and pulled her dress up. Ever try it that way? Not bad. She didn’t hurry me either. She just lay back and played with her hat while I slugged away at her. And when I come she says sort of bored like—‘Are you through?’ Like it didn’t make any difference at all. Of course, it doesn’t make any difference, I know that goddamn well… but the cold-blooded way she had… I sort of liked it… it was fascinating, you know? When she goes to wipe herself she begins to sing. Going out of the hotel she was still singing. Didn’t even say Au revoir! Walks off swinging her hat and humming to herself like. That’s a whore for you! A good lay though. I think I liked her better than my virgin. There’s something depraved about screwing a woman who doesn’t give a fuck about it. It heats your blood. …” And then, after a moment’s meditation—“Can you imagine what she’d be like if she had any feelings?” “Listen,” he says, “I want you to come to the Club with me tomorrow afternoon… there’s a dance on.” “I can’t tomorrow, Joe. I promised to help Carl out. …” “Listen, forget that prick! I want you to do me a favor. It’s like this”—he commences to mold his hands again. “I’ve got a cunt lined up… she promised to stay with me on my night off. But I’m not positive about her yet. She’s got a mother, you see… some shit of a painter, she chews my ear off every time I see her. I think the truth is, the mother’s jealous. I don’t think she’d mind so much if I gave her a lay first. You know how it is. … Anyway, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind taking the mother… she’s not so bad… if I hadn’t seen the daughter I might have considered her myself. The daughter’s nice and young, fresh like, you know what I mean? There’s a clean smell to her. …” “Listen, Joe, you’d better find somebody else. …” “Aw, don’t take it like that! I know how you feel about it. It’s only a little favor I’m asking you to do for me. I don’t know to get rid of the old hen. I thought first I’d get drunk and ditch her—but I don’t think the young one’d like that. They’re sentimental like. They come from Minnesota or somewhere. Anyway, come around tomorrow and wake me up, will you? Otherwise I’ll oversleep. And besides, I want you to help me find a room. You know I’m helpless.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I could see from the way Fillmore looked at her that she must have given an unusual performance and I began to feel lecherous myself. Fillmore must have sensed how I felt, and what an ordeal it was to sit and look on all night, for suddenly he pulled a hundred franc note out of his pocket and slapping it in front of me, he said: “Look here, you probably need a lay more than any of us. Take that and pick someone out for yourself.” Somehow that gesture endeared him more to me than anything he had ever done for me, and he had done considerable. I accepted the money in the spirit it was given and promptly signaled to the Negress to get ready for another lay. That enraged the princess more than anything, it appeared. She wanted to know if there wasn’t anyone in the place good enough for us except this Negress. I told her bluntly NO. And it was so—the Negress was the queen of the harem. You had only to look at her to get an erection. Her eyes seemed to be swimming in sperm. She was drunk with all the demands made upon her. She couldn’t walk straight any more—at least, it seemed that way to me. Going up the narrow winding stairs behind her I couldn’t resist the temptation to slide my hand up her crotch; we continued up the stairs that way, she looking back at me with a cheerful smile and wiggling her ass a bit when it tickled her too much. It was a good session all around. Everyone was happy. Macha seemed to be in a good mood too. And so the next evening, after she had had her ration of champagne and caviar, after she had given us another chapter out of the history of her life, Fillmore went to work on her. It seemed as though he was going to get his reward at last. She had ceased to put up a fight any more. She lay back with her legs apart and she let him fool around and fool around and then, just as he was climbing over her, just as he was going to slip it in, she informs him nonchalantly that she has a dose of clap. He rolled off her like a log. I heard him fumbling around in the kitchen for the black soap he used on special occasions, and in a few moments he was standing by my bed with a towel in his hands and saying—“can you beat that? that son-of-a-bitch of a princess has the clap!” He seemed pretty well scared about it. The princess meanwhile was munching an apple and calling for her Russian newspapers. It was quite a joke to her. “There are worse things than that,” she said, lying there in her bed and talking to us through the open door.