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.

Page 261 of 344 · 20 per page

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  A savage seeing the phenomenon explains it as the result of an attraction or love between the magnet and the filings. But let a card cover the poles of the magnet, and the filings will press forever against its surface without its ever occurring to them to pass around its sides and thus come into more direct contact with the object of their love. Blow bubbles through a tube into the bottom of a pail of water, they will rise to the surface and mingle with the air. Their action may again be poetically interpreted as due to a longing to recombine with the mother-atmosphere above the surface. But if you invert a jar full of water over the pail, they will rise and remain lodged beneath its bottom, shut in from the outer air, although a slight deflection from their course at the outset, or a re-descent towards the rim of the jar, when they found their upward course impeded, could easily have set them free. If now we pass from such actions as these to those of living things, we notice a striking difference. Romeo wants Juliet as the filings want the magnet; and if no obstacles intervene he moves towards her by as straight a line as they. But Romeo and Juliet, if a wall be built between them, do not remain idiotically pressing their faces against its opposite sides like the magnet and the filings with the card. Romeo soon finds a circuitous way, by scaling the wall or otherwise, of touching Juliet's lips directly. With the filings the path is fixed; whether it reaches the end depends on accidents. With the lover it is the end which is fixed, the path may be modified indefinitely. Suppose a living frog in the position in which we placed our bubbles of air, namely, at the bottom of a jar of water. The want of breath will soon make him also long to rejoin the mother-atmosphere, and he will take the shortest path to his end by swimming straight upwards. But if a jar full of water be inverted over him, he will not, like the bubbles, perpetually press his nose against its unyielding roof, but will restlessly explore the neighborhood until by re-descending again he has discovered a path around its brim to the goal of his desires. Again the fixed end, the varying means! Such contrasts between living and inanimate performances end by leading men to deny that in the physical world final purposes exist at all.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  In the mixed associations which we have hitherto studied, the parts of each object which form the pivots on which our thoughts successively turn have their interest largely determined by their connection with some general interest which for the time has seized upon the mind. If we call Z the brain-tract of general interest, then, if the object abc turns up, and b has more associations with Z than have either a or c , b will become the object's interesting, pivotal portion, and will call up its own associates exclusively. For the energy of b 's brain-tract will be augmented by Z's activity,—an activity which, from lack of previous connection between Z and a or c , does not influence a or c . If, for instance, I think of Paris whilst I am hungry , I shall not improbably find that its restaurants have become the pivot of my thought, etc., etc. But in the theoretic as well as in the practical life there are interests of a more acute sort, taking the form of definite images of some achievement, be it action or acquisition, which we desire to effect. The train of ideas arising under the influence of such an interest constitutes usually the thought of the means by which the end shall be attained. If the end by its simple presence does not instantaneously suggest the means, the search for the latter becomes an intellectual problem . The solution of problems is the most characteristic and peculiar sort of voluntary thinking. Where the end thought of is some outward deed or gain, the solution is largely composed of the actual motor processes, walking, speaking, writing, etc., which lead up to it. Where the end is in the first instance only ideal, as in laying out a place of operations, the steps are purely imaginary. In both of these cases the discovery of the means may form a new sort of end, of an entirely peculiar nature, an end, namely, which we intensely desire before we have attained it, but of the nature of which, even whilst most strongly craving it, we have no distinct imagination whatever. Such an end is a problem. The same state of things occurs whenever we seek to recall something forgotten, or to state the reason for a judgment which we have made intuitively. The desire strains and presses in a direction which it feels to be right but towards a point which it is unable to see. In short, the absence of an item is a determinant of our representations quite as positive as its presence can ever be. The gap becomes no mere void, but what is called an aching void.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  But as we have no imagination, whereof we have not formerly had sense, in whole or in parts; so we have no transition from one imagination to another, whereof we never had the like before in our senses. The reason whereof is this. All fancies are motions within us, relics of those made in the sense: and those motions that immediately succeeded one another in the sense continue also together after sense: insomuch as the former coming again to take place, and be predominant, the latter followeth, by coherence of the matter moved, in such manner, as water upon a plane table is drawn which way any one part of it is guided by the finger. But because in sense, to one and the same thing perceived, sometimes one thing, sometimes another succeedeth, it comes to pass in time that, in the imagining of anything, there is no certainty what we shall imagine next; only this is certain, it shall be something that succeeded the same before, at one time or another. This train of thoughts, or mental discourse, is of two sorts. The first is unguided, without design , and inconstant; wherein there is no passionate thought, to govern and direct those that follow, to itself, as the end and scope of some desire, or other passion. . . . The second is more constant; as being regulated by some desire and design. For the impression made by such things as we desire, or fear, is strong and permanent, or, if it cease for a time, of quick return: so strong is it, sometimes, as to hinder and break our sleep. From desire ariseth the thought of some means we have seen produce the like of that which we aim at; and from the thought of that, the thought of means to that mean; and so continually, till we come to some beginning within our own power. And because the end, by the greatness of the impression, comes often to mind, in case our thoughts begin to wander, they are quickly again reduced into the way: which observed by one of the seven wise men, made him give men this precept, which is now worn out, Respice finem ; that is to say, in all your actions, look often upon what you would have, as the thing that directs all your thoughts in the way to attain it. "The train of regulated thoughts is of two kinds; one, when of an effect imagined we seek the causes, or means that produce it: and this is common to man and beast. The other is, when imagining anything whatsoever, we seek all the possible effects that can by it be produced; that is to say, we imagine what we can do with it, when we have it.

• From The Hours (1998)

  Small bubbles of clear spit form at the sides of his mouth whenever he speaks at length. Laura imagines (it’s impossible not to) that when they make love he must spurt rivers, as opposed to her own husband’s modest burble. Why, then, are there still no children? “He’s fine,” Kitty says. “He’s Ray. He’s the same.” “Dan’s the same, too,” Laura says kindly, empathically. “These guys are something, aren’t they?” She thinks of the gifts she’s bought her husband; the gifts he will appreciate, even cherish, but which he does not in any way want. Why did she marry him? She married him out of love. She married him out of guilt; out of fear of being alone; out of patriotism. He was simply too good, too kind, too earnest, too sweet-smelling not to marry. He had suffered so much. He wanted her. She touches her belly. Kitty says, “You can say that again.” “Don’t you ever wonder what makes them tick? I mean, Dan’s like a bulldozer. Nothing seems to bother him.” Kitty shrugs dramatically, rolls her eyes. She and Laura, at this moment, could be high-school girls, best friends, complaining about boys who will soon be replaced by other boys. Laura would like to ask Kitty a question, one she can’t quite phrase. The question has to do with subterfuge and, more obscurely, with brilliance. She would like to know if Kitty feels like a strange woman, powerful and unbalanced the way artists are said to be, full of vision, full of rage, committed above all to creating . . . what? This. This kitchen, this birthday cake, this conversation. This revived world. Laura says, “We’ve got to get together soon, really. It’s been ages.” “This is such good coffee,” Kitty says, sipping. “What brand do you use?” “I don’t know. No, of course I know. Folgers. What brand do you use?” “Maxwell House. It’s good, too.” “Mm-hm.” “Still. I’m thinking of switching. I don’t know why, really.” “Well. This is Folgers.” “Right. It’s good.” Kitty looks into her coffee cup with elaborately false, foolish absorption. She seems, briefly, like a simple, ordinary woman seated at a kitchen table. Her magic evaporates; it is possible to see how she’ll look at fifty—she’ll be fat, mannish, leathery, wry and ironic about her marriage, one of those women of whom people say, She used to be quite pretty, you know. The world is already, subtly, beginning to leave her behind. Laura stabs out her cigarette, thinks of lighting another, decides against it. She makes good coffee carelessly; she takes good care of her husband and child; she lives in this house where no one wants, no one owes, no one suffers. She is pregnant with another child.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  " Two reasons, madam, have hindered me hitherto from declaring the strong passion I feel for you : one is, that I wished to make it known to you by long services, and the other, that I was afraid you would regard it as a great vanity that a simple gentleman like myself should raise his desires so high. Even though my birth were as illustrious as your own, a heart so true as yours would take it ill that any other than he on whom you have be- stowed it, the son of the Fortunate Infante, should talk to you of love. But, madam, as in war necessity often compels the belligerent to destroy his own property, and ruin his standing crops that the enemy may not profit by them, so I venture to forestall the fruit which I hoped ^8 THE HEPTAMERON OF THE [Novel lo.

• From Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953)

  And this so strangely depressed him that he could scarcely speak to Deborah at dinner, and they walked all the way to church in silence. Deborah watched him out of the corner of her eye, as was her silent and exasperating habit. It was her way of conveying respect for his calling; and she would have said, had it ever occurred to him to tax her with it, that she did not wish to distract him when the Lord had laid something on his heart. To-night, since he was to preach, it could not be doubted that the Lord was speaking more than usual; and it behoved her, therefore, as the helpmeet of the Lord’s anointed, as the caretaker, so to speak, of the sanctified temple, to keep silence. Yet, in fact, he would have liked to talk. He would have liked to ask her—so many things; to have listened to her voice, and watched her face while she told him of her day, her hopes, her doubts, her life, and her love. But he and Deborah never talked. The voice to which he listened in his mind, and the face he watched with so much love and care, belonged not to Deborah, but to Esther. Again he felt this strange chill in him, implying disaster and delight: and then he hoped that she would not come, that something would happen that would make it impossible for him ever to see her again. She came, however; late, just before the pastor was about to present the speaker of the hour to the congregation. She did not come alone, but had brought her mother with her—promising what spectacle Gabriel could not imagine, nor could he imagine how she had escaped her young man of the evening. But she had; she was here; she preferred, then, to hear him preach the gospel than to linger with others in carnal delight. She was here, and his heart was uplifted; something exploded in his heart when the opening door revealed her, smiling faintly and with eyes downcast, moving directly to a seat in the back of the congregation. She did not look at him at all, and yet he knew immediately that she had seen him. And in a moment he imagined her, because of the sermon that he would preach, on her knees before the altar, and then her mother and that gambling, loud-talking stepfather of hers, brought by Esther into the service of the Lord. Heads turned when they came in, and a murmur, barely audible, of astonishment and pleasure swept over the church.

• From Love & Sex: A Christian Guide to Healthy Intimacy (2018)

  Men, especially after your wife has a baby, you have to tune into her more, not less. I know it’s hard. Husbands can feel like they have been replaced with this little person who is having a love affair with your woman, or maybe your wife is having postpartum depression. It’s not easy; be patient and sensitive. God has provided a beautiful opportunity to mature you into a sensitive partner to the woman He has given you. Be present with her; ask her what she needs and how you can support her. Tell her you miss being sexually close with her and what that means to you, but reassure her you will wait until she is ready. Connect with her emotionally. It’s really tempting after children come for the husband to just work more hours because he feels neglected. Move in toward her, not away. Sexy takes on new meaning for a woman once she has children. Helping her with the kids is the sexiest thing you can do. I remember watching Ron playing with the boys and thinking, Wow, that man is the sexiest thing on the earth and I can’t wait to get him alone after those kids of ours go to bed! I am telling you, woo her by helping her. Women, I want to caution you, it’s so easy to judge a man and think all he wants is sex; or the other extreme, he never wants me anymore. Get into your own solid self and pursue him sexually. Men want to be wanted as much as a woman wants to be wanted. No one wants to be judged for his or her sexual desires or lack of desire. If you don’t want him pawing at you then give him reassurance that he is desirable by pursuing him. In the Song of Solomon it is the woman who opens the book by saying, “Kiss me—full on the mouth! Yes! For your love is better than wine, headier than your aromatic oils” (Song of Sol. 1:2). If you carefully read this book about marital sexual love and desire, you will find she frequently pursues him. She openly desires him. She asks for his affection. She regards him. She freely loves him pleasuring her body. She allows herself to soak in and receive sexual pleasure. They say men love to make their women happy. Let him make you happy! This Song of Solomon woman says, “When my King-Lover lay down beside me, my fragrance filled the room, His head resting between my breasts the head of my lover was a sachet of sweet myrrh, my beloved is a bouquet of wildflowers picked just for me from the fields of Engedi” (Song of Sol. 1:12–14). Maybe part of the problem we women have with finding, maintaining, and expressing sexual desire is because of the way we think and what we say to ourselves about our man. She calls him my King-Lover.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  with whom she Hved happily. Though she was but three-and-twenty, yet, as her husband was nearly fifty, she dressed so modestly that she had more the appear- j ance of a widow than of a married woman She was never seen at weddings or festivities but with her hus- band, whose worth she prized so highly that she pre- ferred it to the good looks of all other men. The hus- band, on his side, knew her to be so discreet, and had so much confidence in her, that he entrusted all the affairs of the house to her prudence. This rich man and his wife were one day invited to the wedding of one of their female relations. D'Avannes was present to do honour to the bridal, and also because he was fond of dancing, in which he ac- quitted himself better than any man of his day. When dinner was over and the ball began, the rich man begged D'Avannes to dance. The latter asked with whom he would have him dance : whereupon the rich man, taking his wife by the hand, presented her to D'Avannes, and said, ''■ If there was a handsomer lady in the room, mon- sieur, or one so much at my disposal, I would present her to you as I do this one, begging you, monsieur, to do me the honour to dance with her." The prince gladly complied ; and he was still so young that he took more pleasure in dancing and skipping than in gazing on ladies' charms. It was not so with his partner, who paid more attention to the handsome figure and good looks of her cavalier than to the dance ; but she took care not to let this appear. Supper time being come, M. D'Avannes took leave of the company and retired to the chateau. The rich man escorted him thither, mounted on his mule, and said to him on the way, " Monsieur, you have to-day done so much honour to my relations and myself that I Third day. \ Q UEEN OP NA VARRE. 2 1; ^ should be ungrateful if I did not make you every offer- ing in my power. I know, monsieur, that lords like you, who have strict and close-handed fathers, have often more need of money than we, who, with our small retinue and good management, do nothing but amass. God, who has given me everything that could be desired in a wife, has thought fit to leave me still something to wish for in this world, since I am deprived of the joy which fathers derive from children. I know, monsieur, that it does not belong to me to adopt you ; but if you please to re- gard me as your servant, and confide your little affairs to me, as far as a hundred thousand crowns may go you shall never want for aid in your need."

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  The poor man, deHghted with the honour the prince did him by this familiar visit, begged him to enter his room, and told his wife to prepare a collation of the best fruits and the most exquisite confections she could find ; which she did right gladly, with all possible daintiness. Though she was in kerchief and mantle, and appeared to more than usual advantage in that nigligey the prince affected not to look at her, but talked continually about his business to her husband, who had always had the management of it. Whilst the wife knelt before the prince to present him some confections, and the husband was going to the buffet to fetch him something to drink, she found time to tell him not to fail on departing to enter a garderobe on the right, where she would soon join him. When he had drunk, he thanked the advocate, who wished by all means to accompany him : but this the prince would not allow, assuring him he was going to a place where he had no need of company. Then turn- ing to the wife, he said, " I will not deprive you of your good husband, who is one of my old servants. You are so happy in having him that you have reason to thank God. You must serve and obey him well ; and if you did otherwise you would be very ungrateful." So saying, he went out, shut the door after him, that he might not be followed to the staircase, and entered the garderobe, where the fair one joined him as soon as her husband was asleep. She took him into a cabinet as elegant as could be, but in truth there was nothing in it handsomer than he and she ; and I doubt not that she kept word with him as to all she had promised. He left her at the hour he had told his people, and found them at the place where he had desired them to wait for him. She was in kerchief and mantle, and appeared to more than usual advantage in that negligee Photographed from Lift Copyright. 1002, by D. Treiiot. Third day.] QUEEN OF NA VARRE. atjl

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  I then proceeded by a succession of distinct and inexorable moves, shifting into the place between us and at the same time pushing his bag along the floor to where I had been sitting. I sensed some anxiety abour this, but he carried on looking at the screen. Next I slid my arm along the back of his seat, and as he remained immobile I made it as clear as I could in the dark that I had my cock out and was playing with it. Then I leant over him more, and ran my hand over his chest. His heart was racing, and I felt all the tension in his fixed posture between excitement and fear, and knew that I could take control of him. He had on a kind of bomber jacket, and under that a shirt. I let my hand linger at his waist, and admired his hard, ridged stomach, slipping my fingers between his shirt buttons, and running my hand up over his smooth skin. He had beautiful, muscular tits, with small, frosted nipples, quite hairless. My left hand gently rubbed the base of his thick neck; he seemed to have almost a crew-cut and the back of his head was softly bristly. I leant close to him and drooled my tongue up his jaw and into his ear. At this he could no longer remain impassive. He turned towards me with a gulp, and I felt his fingertips shyly slide on to my knee and shortly after touch my cock. ‘Oh no,’ I think he said under his breath, as he tried to get his hand around it, and then jerked it tentatively a few times. I continued stroking the back of his neck, thinking it might relax him, but he kept on feeling my dick in a very polite sort of way, so I brought pressure to bear, and pushed his head firmly down into my lap. He had to struggle around to get his stocky form into the new position, encumbered by the padded arm between our seats; but once there he took the crown of my cock into his mouth and with me moving his head puppet-like up and down, sucked it after a fashion.

• From Dirty Pretty Things (2014)

  It’s Complicated I am here, you are there, it really is perplexing. We cannot touch, in real time much, there’s nothing quite as vexing. Like sex fulfilled in bits and bytes, and endless late-night texting. Kindness Do you know what really turns me on? What I find incredibly sexy? Kindness. The Mermaid She came from the ocean, this wild girl from the sea, her hair flowing southward, she walked toward me. A west to east smile, with eyes steely gray, like a storm in the distance, rolling in from the bay. We kissed with the sunrise, made love when it set, a promise by moonlight, came dawn, my regret. He left for the ocean, this boy from the land, his spirit soars northward, his heart in her hands. The Kiss Crashing waves on an empty beach, the rhythm of our hearts, two drowning lovers lost at sea, my lips adrift in yours. The Muse Body framed with arms outstretched, wrists roped, and roughly bound. From a tiny mouth, and pretty lips, you utter not a sound. I paint with words, a canvas stretched, laid bare, upon the ground. Perfume Her perfume reminded me of freshly picked flowers and sticky candy floss, mixed with a gentle hint of debauchery. Stillness There is a certain stillness, when even the gentle flutter of a butterfly’s wing feels like a hurricane. The moment when crashing waves fall asleep, peaceful, lost to the serenity of salty dreams. When tall trees stand to attention and every leaf pauses, takes a deep breath, and holds it. It is here, beneath the maddening silence I hear your name. An echo of you. Fantasies Fantasies. Like having your own entertainment channel that you can cut, edit, and replay—anytime, anywhere. Open Invitation You have such a pretty mouth. To feed it only kisses would be a wasted opportunity. Second Chance We kissed beneath the twisted trees, our lips between the stars, tiny ripples in a lake, this love, once lost, is ours. Words Words are powerful things. They can break hearts and make panties wet. Seduction The more buttons you undo, she said, the faster I become undone. The Conversation Let’s continue this conversation in bed, she whispered. My legs can’t wait to hear what your hands have to say.

• From Talk Dirty to Me: An Intimate Philosophy of Sex (1994)

  In the middle of the last Olympics I noticed a sudden change in the population of my fantasies. Everyone in them, male and female both, sprouted muscles. So did I, in my dreams: big, shiny muscles bulging out of tank tops and nylon running shorts, genitals outlined behind silver spandex suits. All those bodies I’d been watching were idealized physical machines, fit and enduring, self-aware. I’d been lifting weights a little and watching the wiry, sinewy old men and muscular women in my funky YMCA weight room, which always smells a bit of old sweat and chalk. I’d been learning to grunt from the lower belly with each lift, then coming home to watch the skiers with their potent thighs and short haircuts and quick, cheerful smiles; it all blended together, health and sex, hygiene and sweat, and the extreme limits of duration. What a simple creature I am, really. Nancy Friday quotes a thirty-two-year-old woman who remembers reading the story of Prometheus at the age of eight. Prometheus remains her most intense sexual fantasy. “Sometimes I am Prometheus, sometimes I am the eagle, and sometimes I am a combination, or an observer. The god-giant-titan Prometheus, immortal, beautiful, primitive, instinctual, animal, is chained to the lonely cliff as punishment for caring for the fragile, barely surviving human race.” Prometheus watches the eagles arrive, and I imagine Friday’s unnamed informant moaning with pleasure at their appearance, “growing slowly larger as they home in on their rightful meal, that which is destined to be theirs every day, that delicious living immortal meat torn from the perfect breast.… When they have rested a little from their flight, they rip into the chest, exposing the vitals to the burning sun. The reddish, dark, vital liver awaits them. Blood runs from the opening down his chest. Slowly, coolly, the eagles set about the business of gorging themselves.…” This dream has rather more in common with fantasies of big pricks and tied-up nuns and medieval harems than it might seem. All this agony and meat, the dark, vital organs and the blood—that’s texture; the fantasy’s eternal oscillation, its insatiability, is the ground. The fantasy repeats, and repeats; the body is whole, and rended, and whole again; the hero is bound, helpless, punished, and repaired. The orgasm leaves us shaking, spent, but somehow complete.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  He addressed himself to a lady near Pampeluna, who had a house in the town, and had married a young man whose ruling passion was horses, dogs, and hawks. For her sake he gave a thousand entertainments, such as tournaments, games, races, wrestling-matches, masque- rades, balls, &c. ; but as the husband was of a jealous temper, and the lady's father and mother knew her to be fair and frolicsome, and were afraid of her trip- ping, they watched her so closely that all M. D'Avannes could do was to whisper a word or two in her ear at a ball, although he well knew, and this made the matter still more provoking, that nothing but time and place was wanting for the consummation of their mutual in- clinations. He went to his good father, told him he had a mind to visit Notre Dame de Montferrat, and begged he would receive his whole retinue into his house, for it was his wish to go alone. This request was instantly granted ; but as love is a great prophet, and as the wife was under the influence of that power, she guessed the truth at once, and could not help saying to M. D'Avan- nes, " The Notre Dame you adore, monsieur, is not out- side the walls of this town. Take care of your health, I beseech you." M. D'Avannes, who, as I have already said, feared and loved her, blushed so much at these words that he tacitly betrayed the truth, and went away. After buying two handsome Spanish horses, he dressed himself as a groom, and disguised himself so well, that no one could have known him. The husband of the wanton lady, bemg fond of horses above all things, saw the two belonging to M. D'Avannes, and imme- Third day \ Q UEEN OF NA VARRE. 359

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  It was not until we had passed through the desert of Lancaster Gate and Queensway that there was a major upheaval; at Notting Hill Gate the seat beside mine became empty and the remarkable and inevitable thing happened, as my older admirer, smirking and hesitating, seemed about to take the seat beside me, and the boy from the Corry, materialising suddenly in front of me, and appearing as it were in second place, managed to slip by, almost risking having the older man sit on his lap, and occupied the seat towards which his rival was already lowering his suited rump. Confusion and apology were inadmissible in so bold an action, and he wisely comported himself as if there had never been any question of anyone but him sitting beside me. I drummed my fingers on my knees, and turned to him with a slow, sly grin. The other man’s face grew clenched and red, and he barged away to another part of the car. Only thirty seconds or so were left before we reached Holland Park, though I could decide, as I had done on occasion before, to stick with somebody I was cruising right through to a station miles beyond my own, where, if the cruise was unsuccessful, I might find myself marooned in a distant suburb, with boys mending their push-bikes on the front paths, shouts of far-off footballers on the breeze, and beyond, the fields and woods of semi-country. So, as the train began to slow up, I tentatively gathered Charles’s bag to me in a hint, which was reversible if need be, that my stop was next. I was relieved to see, while we agreed that the Corry was indeed too crowded these days, that he also bent forward, ready to stand up. As we elbowed our way out and started along the platform I spotted my other suitor again, savouring the last seconds he might ever see me, and looking almost nauseous as the train pulled away past us and bore him off. ‘Do you live round here, then?’ I said to the boy, across another funny kind of distance. ‘Not exactly, no,’ he said, with something complacent about him that brought back to me my original impression that he wasn’t very nice. I smiled interrogatively. ‘I thought I might come and check out your place, actually,’ he explained.

• From Dirty Pretty Things (2014)

  Confession Sticky fingers on sugary lips; a criminal returns to the scene of a crime. A wry smile, betrays her innocence; a signed confession witnessed by blushing cheeks and auburn hair. Naked guilt, a punishment dealt; over a wooden table, where a jam doughnut is noticeably absent. Whispers Some nights I close my eyes and imagine feeling your lips on mine, your whispered words slowly pushing my legs apart. Uncharted Think of me as an uncharted map. I want your hands to explore every single city, town, and village. Dying Flowers Love came as it often does, all smiles and fragrant flowers, but when it left it left behind, the fallen petals of what was ours. Kiss Me Yes, I dream of many things, she said, and the thought of your hand between my legs is just one of them. Now shut up and kiss me. Pretty Torments I love, how you like to tease. Slowly crawling, while your legs do the talking, with knees that blush, on wooden floors. Dropping a pencil, and picking it up. Overwhelmed I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, she said, but I have an overwhelming urge to fuck you — right here, right now. Ice Cream Would you prefer chocolate or strawberry ice cream? I’m surprised I even have a choice, she replied. You don’t — Now close those eyes and open your pretty mouth. Changing Tides Sometimes if I stop to think, this life we share could drown and sink, beneath the waves — I contemplate, about the love we do create. Good Night May you fall asleep in the arms of a dream, so beautiful, you’ll wake up crying. The Thief It wasn’t right, you know it’s wrong, the heart you took, did not belong. But now it’s gone, it’s yours to keep, for another’s loss, is theirs to weep. Red She was obsessed with the color red, this dangerous girl with scarlet lips. Her reckless kisses written in blood upon a page I could not turn. Stars Magic tumbled from her pretty lips and when she spoke the language of the universe — the stars sighed in unison. Wet Dreams Such a gorgeous tangle your legs in mine a fantasy is sold. Our outstretched arms explore the charms of desire and sex well told. We live this dream of moans and screams, a life in bed all spent. Spring She wore the scent of early spring on her delicate neck and every kiss I stole tasted of bright yellow flowers and buzzing bees. Melancholia I am alone, love passes by. Crying tears, I wonder why — I cannot find what others found. First Kiss The first kiss is the last to be forgotten.

• From Love & Sex: A Christian Guide to Healthy Intimacy (2018)

  Okay, I get it, she is marrying the most powerful man in the world, but what man doesn’t want to feel like he is the man you look up to, adore, and respect. What man doesn’t want to be his wife’s lover. She thinks so highly of him she is turned on just thinking about him—right? I mean she says, when he lies down beside her, her fragrance fills the room—she is saying, she is wet with arousal—just saying. Remember the brain is the female’s most important sex organ. Whatever you are saying to yourself about this man of yours will translate directly into how you feel sexually about him and yourself. When he lays his head between her breasts, she just breathes him in and recalls the beautiful love they make together. She isn’t focusing on how he leaves his dirty clothes on the floor or the bodily noises he seems to enjoy making. No, she focuses on how he makes her body feel and the amazing things he does to her. It’s a sensual feast. She engages her sense of smell and taste, and what she hears and sees, which ignites her sexually. And men, this is one smart lover in that he talks to her. He tells her how beautiful she is. He says things like, “You remind me of Pharaoh’s well-groomed and satiny mares. Pendant earrings line the elegance of your checks, strands of jewels illumine the curve of your throat. I’m making jewelry for you, gold and silver jewelry that will mark and accent your beauty” (Song of Sol. 1:9–11). This man pays attention; he notices. Have you stood and admired a field of beautiful, satiny mares recently? If you haven’t you should. The muscles, the intricate details of a well-groomed horse, are beyond beautiful—it’s majestic. My dad raised thoroughbred race horses, and they have the most beautiful legs created. I think Solomon was taking time to notice his woman. He even noticed her earrings and decided to make her more pairs to accent her beautiful cheeks. Guys, stop at Anthropologie and get the woman a pair of earrings. It goes a long way when she has been home all day wiping your darling children’s bottoms and sweeping the cheerios off the floor for the fifth time in one day. Seriously, you absolutely cannot take her for granted and think she is going to want to make love to you. You have to make love to her heart first, and then she will happily open up and make love to your body.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  I was turning to leave when I spotted a lone Arab boy wandering along, hands in the pockets of his anorak, fairly unremarkable, yet with something about him which made me feel I must have him. I was convinced that he had noticed me, and I felt a delicious surplus of lust and satisfaction at the idea of fucking him while another boy waited for me at home. To test him out I dawdled off behind the pavilion to where some public lavatories, over-frequented by lonely middle-aged men, are tucked into the ivy-covered, pine-darkened bank of the main road. I went down the tiled steps between the tiled walls, and a hygienic, surprisingly sweet smell surrounded me. It was all very clean, and at several of the stalls under the burnished copper pipes (to which someone must attach all their pride), men were standing, raincoats shrouding from the innocent visitor or the suspicious policeman their hour-long footlings. I felt a faint revulsion—not disapproval, but a fear of one day being like that. Their heads seemed grey and loveless to me as they turned in automatic anticipation. What long investment they made for what paltry returns … Did they nod to one another, the old hands, as they took up their positions, day by day, alongside each other in whatever station in their underground cycle of conveniences they had reached? Did anything ever happen, did they, despairing of whatever it was they sought, which could surely never be sex, but at most a glimpse of something memorable, ever make do with each other? I felt certain they didn’t; they were engaged, in a silently agreed silence, in looking out endlessly for something they couldn’t have. I was not shy but too proud and priggish to take up my place among them, and it was with only a moment’s hesitation that I resolved not to do so.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  reputation of a saint, and who, in spite of his austerity and his macerations, was neither so meagre nor so pale but that he was one of the handsomest men in the world, was to preach the sermon. The lady listened to him with great devotion, and gazed no less intently on the preacher. Her ears and her eyes lost nothing that was presented to them, and both alike found wherewithal to be gratified. The preacher's words penetrated to her heart through her ears ; and the charms of his counte- nance, passing through her eyes, insinuated themselves so deeply into her mind that she felt as it were in an ecstasy. The sermon being ended, the Cordelier celebrated mass, at which the lady was present, and she took the ashes from his hand, which was as white and shapely as that of any lady. The devotee paid much more attention to the monk's hand than to the ashes he gave her, persuading herself that this spiritual love could not hurt her con- science, whatever pleasure she received from it. She failed not to go every day to the sermon, and to take her husband with her ; and both so highly admired the preacher, that at table and elsewhere they talked of nothing but him. This fire, for all its spirituality, at last became so carnal, that the heart of this poor lady, which was first kindled by it, consumed all the rest. Slow as she had been to feel the flame, she was equally prompt to take fire, and she felt the pleasure of her passion before she was aware that passion had possession of her. Love, which had rendered himself master of the lady, no longer encountered any resistance on her part ; but the mischief was that the physician who might have relieved her pain was not aware of her malady. Banishing, therefore, all fear, and the shame she ought to have felt in exposing her wild fantasy to so sober-minded a man, and her in- Fiurth day\ ' QUEEN OF NA VARRE. 3 1 7 continence to one so saintly and virtuous, she resolved to acquaint him in writing of the love she cherished for him ; which she did as modestly as she could, and gave her letter to a little page, with instructions as to what he was to do, especially enjoining him to take good care that her husband did not see him go to the Cordelier's.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  This was all very good and with my hangover I felt it with electric intensity. But I was aware of his reluctance, and let him stop. He was inexpert, and though he was excited, needed help. We sat back for a while, my hand all the time on his shoulder. I loved the nerve with which I’d done all this, and like most random sex it gave me the feeling I could achieve anything I wanted if I were only determined enough. There was now a fairly complicated set-up on screen, with all six boys doing something interesting, and one of them I realised was Kip Parker, a famous tousle-headed blond teen star. I ran my hand between my new friend’s legs and felt his cock kicking against the tightish cotton of his slacks. He helped me take it out, a short, punchy little number, which I went down on and polished off almost at once. God, he must have been ready. After a shocked recuperation he felt for his bag and went out without a word. I’d had a growing suspicion throughout this sordid but charming little episode, which rose to a near certainty as he opened the door and was caught in a slightly brighter light, that the boy was Phil from the Corry. He had smelt of sweat rather than talcum powder and there was a light stubble on his jaw, so I concluded that if it were Phil he was on his way to rather than from the Club, as I knew he was fastidiously clean, and that he always shaved in the evening before having his shower. I was tempted to follow him at once, to make sure, but I realised it would be easy enough to tell from seeing him later; and besides, a very well-hung kid, who’d already been showing an interest in our activities, moved in to occupy the boy’s former seat, and brought me off epically during the next film, an unthinkably tawdry picture which all took place in a kitchen.

• From What Belongs to You (2016)

  Dobur vecher , he said, a formal greeting, as if he were unsure of his footing, and I repeated it back to him in the same tone. But I wasn’t unhappy to see him. Something in me leapt up at the sight of him, despite his state and my desire to keep a tight rein on my feeling. We stood for a moment looking at each other (what did he see, I wondered, what tale of the two years did the sight of me tell?), and then he jerked his head up a little, indicating the apartment behind me. Mozhe li , he said, may I, and I drew back from the entrance and motioned him in, saying Yes, of course, zapovyadaite , come in. I realized too late that I had used the polite form of the verb, so that my invitation at once welcomed him and held him off. He stepped forward, only now reaching out his hand, and his grip was as I remembered it, strong and cordial, though he didn’t meet my eye with the eager and disarming look I remembered from our first meeting. He looked down at our hands instead, his brown against mine, the ends of his fingers broad and blunt, almost square, and then he bent to unlace his shoes and I took in his smell, wet and unwashed and stinking of alcohol. I followed him into the room, where nothing had changed, the bare table was still by the window, the shabby sofa along the wall, with a street map of Sofia pinned above it. When he glanced at the stove he said I’m sorry, you were having dinner, I’m interrupting, and I looked at him curiously, surprised by a brittle formality I had never seen in him before. What did he think I was feeling, I wondered, that would be pleased or appeased by this; or maybe it was something else, an attempt at dignity, at shoring himself up against whatever had worn him so roughly and brought him finally to my door. He stood in the center of the room with his arms crossed, his hands clamped beneath them, and he was swaying back and forth, whether out of nervousness or a need for warmth I wasn’t sure. I haven’t seen you for a long time, I said finally, lamely, how are you, and at this he did look up, but briefly and without fully lifting his head, so that it was as if from below that he met my eyes. I’m not good, he said, and then more firmly, I’m bad, I need to talk to you, I’ve come to tell you something. Lots of people wouldn’t come, he said, they’d say he’s an American, let him worry about himself, but I’m not like them. What are you talking about, I asked, what’s going on, feeling at once exasperation and dread of what was to come.