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 266 of 344 · 20 per page

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Retrocedo rodeándolo hasta volver a estar frente a él, observando mis dedos mientras acarician su musculoso brazo. —Algún día —susurro en respuesta. Realmente quiero saber. Quiero saber todo de él. Pero quizás, me imagino, seguiremos teniendo una razón para encontrarnos el uno al otro si guardamos algunas cosas para más tarde. Y en este momento, estoy desesperada por ver qué más puede hacer su boca, aparte de hablar. Tócame. Por favor. Bésame. Dejo caer la manguera a mi costado y arrastro los dedos de mi mano izquierda por sus abdominales. Se tensan cuando mis uñas se deslizan a lo largo de los músculos y estoy tan asustada de mirarlo. Mi corazón late tan fuerte que duele. Esto está mal. Sé que está mal. Pero Dios, se siente tan bien. Puedo sentir sus ojos sobre mí y cada fibra de mi sostén está irritando mi piel y solo quiero estar desnuda ahora mismo. Quiero que me vea. Cierro mis ojos. Oh, Dios. —Jordan... —Sujeta mi mano y puedo escucharlo respirando fuertemente. Asiento, abriendo mis ojos, pero todavía incapaz de encontrar los suyos. —Lo sé —exhalo—. Lo lamento. Estoy sedienta, mis ojos arden por las lágrimas contenidas y no sé por qué, y hay una necesidad entre mis muslos que es casi dolorosa. Lentamente, levanta mi mentón. Finalmente levanto mi mirada, pero tampoco me está mirando. Sus ojos están bajos y su ceño está contraído con dolor. —Solo estás decaída —dice en voz baja—. Extrañas a Cole y sucede que estoy aquí. Está bien. Me quedo allí inmóvil, mis dedos todavía en su estómago y su mano aún en mi barbilla. Su pecho se mueve arriba y abajo y por un momento, pienso que voy a darme la vuelta y correr. Está inventando excusas para mí. Una fácil detrás de la cual esconderse. Tendría sentido que me sintiera perdida y necesitara a alguien más para refugiarme. Pero, cuál es su excusa. Sé que me mira. Sé que lo hace cuando piensa que no lo veo, pero lo hago. Mis ojos arden, llenándose con lágrimas. —Eso no era por lo que me estaba disculpando —le digo. Levanto mis ojos, encontrándome con los suyos y aunque estoy asustada, tengo que saltar. No puedo contenerme. —Lo lamento, porque —susurro de forma temblorosa—, esta es no es la primera vez que quise que me tocaras. Y su mirada se congela en mí. Sostiene mi mirada, sin moverse a excepción del subir y bajar de su pecho y no tengo idea de qué estará pasando por su cabeza en este momento, pero no creo lamentarlo. No más excusas sobre que esto es sobre mí porque estoy desconsolada por causa de Cole. La atracción ya estaba allí. Lentamente deja que sus dedos caigan de mi barbilla, cierra sus manos en puños y aprieta su mandíbula, luciendo repentinamente enojado.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Then he admitted with a shy grin that he liked his women a little slutty—trashy was the word he used. Admittedly, I couldn’t be a genuine Christian, but I had been practicing slutty and trashy for a few years already. This man’s contradictions were as epic as my own. I asked him just how far could he go sexually before God got mad: “Where is the line?” An hour later, I still hadn’t gotten an answer, just a discernible sigh as his tongue hit my clit on the roof of a nearby car park. He had suggested looking at the view. God was now speaking to me, too, and the time was now and the view superb. And thus, I, too, died and was born again. I have never seen a man before or since look at a pussy the way this guy did. I felt penetrated by his gaze alone. He projected an innocent, open-eyed hunger layered with filthy lust and divine desire. It is forever fixed in my mind’s eye and, easily recalled, can make me come in a jiffy. The risk of being caught in public did wonders for Born Again. One afternoon I sucked his cock in a Denny’s parking lot, just as the lunch crowd of blue-haired ladies was heading for their Pontiacs. He had a great way of staying calm, cool, and on the lookout above while fucking my mouth furiously below. Jekyll and Hyde, sacred and profane, horny man of God. Another time he stuck his hard cock through my vertical mail slot, humping my front door, as I sucked him on the other side while neighbors passed behind him in my courtyard. Perhaps this was a man I could actually date. But shortly afterward he told me that both Darwin and the Dalai Lama were, in general, wrong about most things, and my brief hope for a man who combined the erotic and the spiritual disappeared. When he told me that he didn’t believe in evolution (so I came from a monkey but he didn’t?), I suggested we stop talking entirely and find a nice mail slot through which to communicate. This guy name-dropped God like they were buddies, and his heresies became my self-righteous obsession. Though invited to enter their bliss for a three- way, I simply couldn’t override my own intelligence and do it. Witnessing his religious arrogance in all its shameless glory, however, inspired my own libido to new heights, and every erection became a tangible victory over his troubled piety. Dressed in my red stilettos, fishnet stockings, and a thong, I invited him one night to come into my backyard.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  There is the very normal-looking bikini style—mine are deep purple—that upon closer inspection (which is the aim, after all) sport a very nasty little three-inch, black-lace-lined slit in the middle of the crotch that basically forms a glory hole for a searching tongue—or cock. In their apparent innocence, these are in some ways the naughtiest of the assortment—but then again perhaps not . . . There are the transparent black ones that carry the slit concept to infinity: the slit, red-ribbon-rimmed, simply runs from the waistband in front all the way down and around to the waistband in back. These are actually very practical panties, allowing for clit, cunt, and ass access, although with one’s legs held together, they appear quite decent. Then there is my little-girl pair: white with tiny pink roses. These are stylistically quite complex. While they retain the usual waist of a panty, the entire crotch has been excised, leaving only two delectable little elastics traveling between one’s legs with zippo in between except one’s very own jewelry box. Carefully coiffed pubic hair in front acquires a really lovely triangular frame in this style, and I’m especially charmed by the petite pink bows decorating the crucial junctures where skin and panty meet. Taken as a whole, this truly “crotchless” design is perhaps the most elegant of the bunch, but I’m also fond of a rather amusing pair that has clearly been based on the design of a ballerina’s tutu. Sporting a split thong between the legs and a witty little tutulike black gauze ruffle around the waistband, they are quite adorable. But the very best of all, my favorite, is the Butterfly. I have these in both black and powder pink. These are the most expensive and it is clear why—they have the least fabric of all. These petite, delicate works of art best embody the great irony of this particular garment: they are classy crotchless panties. G-string style, the upper pubic area is designed and woven in the shape of a spread-eagled butterfly complete with wings sprinkled with beads and shimmering sequins. I just adore glitter, pomp, and circumstance around my pussy—I’d wear red velvet curtains with gold-tasseled tiebacks between my legs if I could. But the real pièce de nonrésistance in these particular panties lies in the two slender elastic straps that connect the lower wings of the butterfly to the center of the thin elastic waistband in the back. Properly placed, alongside the outer pussy lips, they pull up ever so slightly, visually accentuating from the front the beginning of one’s slit. But one day those two little straps slipped—ooh la la!—and demonstrated yet again that accident is the mother of invention. With those elastics placed securely inside, on either side of one’s clit and hood, the butterfly soars. Oh my, oh my, oh my—that feels good. And it looks absolutely beyond porn queen, like the summit of high art—like a Modigliani by Mondrian.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  We convened at the redhead’s house at 10:30. Now, this woman knew ambiance like she was born in a harem: red velvet curtains not only on every window but dividing every room; gold fixtures galore; no electric lighting, just candles and incense burning like in a Catholic church; sexy music emanating from unseen speakers; potted palms; naked images of herself in various theatrical guises on the walls; and mirrors, mirrors everywhere—a narcissist’s nirvana. I was learning from this woman already, learning about myself, learning what I liked. After a glass of champagne in crystal flutes at midnight, we ended up on her Persian carpet on some lush pillows watching Fred Astaire in Top Hat. The Young Man had never seen it before. He didn’t see it that night, either. He and I were the first to touch, relinking from earlier that day. As we grasped hand to hand, she watched like a Cheshire cat, and slowly linked herself, too, to me, hands to legs. Before long, they had conspired to remove my clothes, mesmerizing my body with touch. Four hands, two faces, male and female, urgent, loving, sexual, groping, they swept me up in waves of love. Gently, they fought over my pussy; he got there first, but she edged him out. The pleasure was illegal. What’s wrong with girls with girls? Absolutely nothing. But I wanted to come in his mouth, and in my only move, I pulled his face into me. As I gave him all I had and then some, Fred was still twirling in his top hat on the muted black-and-white screen. Then the redhead and I stripped him. He allowed it, willing and erect. She and I gathered like good girlfriends around his cock, which was hard, big, and beautiful. Four hands, two mouths. Every few minutes the Young Man raised his head to look down at the scene of angels praying together over his vertical altar. His eyes rolled back in his head, and with a smile and a groan he fell back into his pleasure. But he never came. She commented on his endurance. He said he’d always been that way. She seemed to know a whole lot about cocks and pussies, and I just sucked it all in. He was one of the blessed, she said, a man who can really take a woman on a ride. I found out later for myself just what kind of ride this could be.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Respiro profundamente, mis músculos se tensan, y estoy cerca. Le doy la vuelta, hambriento de tener el control otra vez, y su cabeza cae a un lado de la cama, demasiado cerca de la mesita de noche. Agarro el borde y lo giro, haciéndola caer, la lámpara y todo estrellándose contra el suelo. Gime y me besa, atrapada en la locura del momento, también. —No pares. —Jadea—. No te detengas. Voy a correrme otra vez. Presiono mi frente contra la suya, ambos malditamente cerca de hiperventilar mientras empujo una y otra vez, tratando de pensar en cualquier cosa que no me hiciera correrme, pero se siente demasiado bien, y estoy demasiado perdido. —Oh, Pike —lloriquea—. Justo ahí. Sí… Mis músculos están ardiendo, mi cabeza está girando, pero no rompo el ritmo, porque si muero ahora mismo, así es como quiero morir. —Ah —gime, su cuerpo se tensa y su respiración tiembla. Se queda en silencio y luego... echa la cabeza hacia atrás y grita. —¡Oh, Dios! La beso con fuerza, verla correrse otra vez es suficiente para empujarme por el borde. Empujo con fuerza, cerrando los ojos y derramándome, zambulléndome dentro de ella una y otra vez mientras el orgasmo se apodera de mi cuerpo y el agotamiento y la euforia se activan al mismo tiempo. El caliente flujo blanco se desliza por mis muslos, y mi polla se mueve, y todo sobre ella es el cielo. Todo parece ser la primera vez. Desciendo, descansando mis codos a cada lado de su cabeza y alejando el cabello de su rostro. Me mira, su rostro enrojecido y brillante con una ligera capa de sudor. —No la besaste, ¿verdad? —pregunta en voz baja. Me río. —¿Y eso es lo que estás pensando en este momento? Tuerce los labios avergonzada, pero presiona de todos modos. —No lo hiciste, ¿verdad? —No —le digo—. Y no hubiera pasado la noche aquí. Estaba tratando de olvidarme de ti y de lo mucho que quería esto, pero no habría sucedido. Tenías razón. Te deseaba a ti. La beso, sorprendido de que, aunque me he corrido, no he terminado con ella. Podría quedarme aquí toda la noche. —¿Y esa pequeña mierda de la fiesta? —cuestiono—. No pasó nada, ¿verdad? Sus débiles hoyuelos se hacen más profundos. —Jordan —advierto, frunciendo el ceño. Se ríe. —No —responde finalmente—. Él no tiene tu cuerpo —me da un beso en la mejilla—, o tus tatuajes —me besa la mandíbula—, o tu boca —besa mis labios—, y cada palabra que sale de ahí se desliza bajo mi piel y me vuelve loca de todas las mejores maneras. Me hundo en ella, besándola larga y duramente. El jodido daño ya está hecho. Me sentiré culpable mañana. —Una cosa, sin embargo —dice, apartando su boca de la mía dejando un rastro de besos en mi mejilla—. Sé que tienes trabajo mañana, y probablemente quieras dormir, pero tengo hambre. ¿Podemos bajar a tomar un helado y luego hacerlo de nuevo antes de acostarnos?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pongo mi trasero en el sofá, poniendo el brazo en el respaldo y tomando otro trago. A la película todavía le quedan unos minutos y se sienta al otro lado del sofá para terminar de verla, pero parece que ya no puedo seguir concentrado. Y tampoco creo que ella la esté viendo. Algo ha cambiado. La conversación era ligera y luego no. Y es mi culpa. Soy frío. De algún modo después de Lindsey y el caos, dejé de ser capaz de abrirme. Me acostumbré demasiado a estar solo. Frunzo el ceño. No quiero que ella me evite por no poder mantener una jodida conversación. Es la novia de Cole y no quiero más muros entre él y yo. Ella podría ayudar con eso. —¿Estás planeando quedarte en la ciudad después de terminar la universidad? —pregunto. Me mira y se encoge ligeramente de hombros. —No estoy segura. Todavía quedan unos cuantos años —responde—. No me importaría quedarme aquí mientras pueda permitirme unas vacaciones de vez en cuando. —Se ríe un poco—. Simplemente no quiero estar en un trabajo sin futuro para siempre, ¿sabes? Si puedo encontrar un trabajo en la zona, entonces podría ser agradable quedarme durante un tiempo por mi hermana y mi sobrino. Hay muchas obras aquí y en las ciudades y suburbios de los alrededores. Por eso me fue fácil quedarme todos estos años. Si se interesa en el diseño de paisajes, es muy posible que tenga buenas oportunidades si se queda en la zona. —¿Alguna vez has viajado? —indago, echándole un vistazo. Pero luego me detengo, olvidando de repente lo que estaba diciendo. Bajo la mirada hacia su trasero, su cuerpo ahora girado mientras está inclinada sobre el brazo del sofá para dejar la cerveza en el suelo. Sus pequeños pantalones cortos abrazan cada curva, sus rodillas están separadas y, por un momento, soy atraído hacia la humedad entre sus piernas. El calor inunda mi ingle y mi polla se remueve. Mierda. Aparto la mirada. Lucho por respirar y el sudor estalla en mi cuello. ¿Qué demonios? Puede que no luzca joven, pero lo es. Es una niña. ¿Qué demonios estoy haciendo? Vuelve a sentarse e inclino mi botella, tomando otro trago para cubrir mis nervios. —No realmente —responde. De nuevo, ¿qué le pregunté? Oh, cierto. Viajar… —Fui a Nueva Orleans con mi hermana cuando tenía quince años y gané una beca para una escuela de verano en Virginia cuando tenía doce años —dice—. Eso es todo. —¿Nueva Orleans a los quince? —bromeo. Debió haber sido interesante. Una conocedora sonrisa cruza su rostro, pero desaparece rápidamente. —Ahí es donde vive mi madre —indica. Oh, sí, cierto. Su padre es Chip Hadley. No le presto mucha atención a los chismes, pero sé que ha estado casado unas cuantas veces. Jordan se aclara la garganta, enderezándose. —Se marchó cuando yo tenía cuatro años. ¿Cuatro? ¿Qué clase de persona la dejaría de ese modo?

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  He said that it was difficult to find a nice Christian wife—the only way he could legitimately have sex again. I didn’t understand; he looked so incredibly eligible. Then he admitted with a shy grin that he liked his women a little slutty—trashy was the word he used. Admittedly, I couldn’t be a genuine Christian, but I had been practicing slutty and trashy for a few years already. This man’s contradictions were as epic as my own. I asked him just how far could he go sexually before God got mad: “Where is the line?” An hour later, I still hadn’t gotten an answer, just a discernible sigh as his tongue hit my clit on the roof of a nearby car park. He had suggested looking at the view. God was now speaking to me, too, and the time was now and the view superb. And thus, I, too, died and was born again. I have never seen a man before or since look at a pussy the way this guy did. I felt penetrated by his gaze alone. He projected an innocent, open-eyed hunger layered with filthy lust and divine desire. It is forever fixed in my mind’s eye and, easily recalled, can make me come in a jiffy. The risk of being caught in public did wonders for Born Again. One afternoon I sucked his cock in a Denny’s parking lot, just as the lunch crowd of blue-haired ladies was heading for their Pontiacs. He had a great way of staying calm, cool, and on the lookout above while fucking my mouth furiously below. Jekyll and Hyde, sacred and profane, horny man of God. Another time he stuck his hard cock through my vertical mail slot, humping my front door, as I sucked him on the other side while neighbors passed behind him in my courtyard. Perhaps this was a man I could actually date. But shortly afterward he told me that both Darwin and the Dalai Lama were, in general, wrong about most things, and my brief hope for a man who combined the erotic and the spiritual disappeared. When he told me that he didn’t believe in evolution (so I came from a monkey but he didn’t?), I suggested we stop talking entirely and find a nice mail slot through which to communicate.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Millard obeyed. His penis did not have much strength, for it was too soon after the first orgasm, but he slipped it in, pushing it with his hand. Then I reached out with my two hands and caressed the balls and put two fingers at the basis of the penis and rubbed as he moved. Millard was instantly aroused, his penis hardened, and he began to move in and out again. Then he stopped himself. “I must not be so demanding,” he said in a strange tone. “You will be tired out for John.” We lay back and rested, smoking. I was wondering if Millard had felt more than sensual desire, whether my love for John weighed on him. But although there was always a hurt sound to his words, he continued to ask me questions. “Did John have you today? Did he take you more than once? How did he take you?” In the weeks to come, Millard taught me many things I had not done with John, and as soon as I learned them I tried them with John. Finally he became suspicious of where I was learning new positions. He knew I had not made love before I met him. The first time I tightened my muscles to clutch at his penis, he was amazed. The two secret relationships became difficult for me, but I enjoyed the danger and the intensity. [image file=image_rsrc1RD.jpg] LilithLilith was sexually cold, and her husband half knew it, in spite of her pretenses. This led to the following incident. She never took sugar because she did not want to grow plumper than she was, and she used a sugar substitute, tiny white pills which she carried in her handbag all the time. One day she ran out of them and asked her husband to buy some on his way home. So he brought her a little vial like the one she had ordered, and she put two of the pills into her coffee after dinner. They were sitting there together and he was looking at her with an expression of mellow tolerance, which he often had in the face of her nervous explosions, her crises of egotism, of self-blame, of panic. To all her dramatic behavior he responded with an unwavering good humor and patience. She was always storming alone, being angry alone, going through vast emotional upheavals in which he did not take part. Possibly this was a symbol of the tension which did not take place between them sexually. He refused all her primitive, violent challenges and hostilities, he refused to enter this emotional arena with her and respond to her need of jealousies, of fears, of battles.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  When I arrived at his place he had dressed himself in his Lapland costume to surprise me. It was like a Russian dress, and he wore a fur hat and high black felt boots, which reached almost to his hips. His room was like a traveler’s den, full of objects from all over the world. The walls were covered with red rugs, the bed was covered with animal furs. The place was close, intimate, voluptuous like the rooms of an opium dream. The furs, the deep-red walls, the objects, like the fetishes of an African priest—everything was violently erotic. I wanted to lie naked on the furs, to be taken there lying on this animal smell, caressed by the fur. I stood there in the red room, and Marcel undressed me. He held my naked waist in his hands. He eagerly explored my body with his hands. He felt the strong fullness of my hips. “For the first time, a real woman,” he said. “So many have come here, but for the first time here is a real woman, someone I can worship.” As I lay on the bed it seemed to me that the smell and feel of the fur and the bestiality of Marcel were combined. Jealousy had broken his timidity. He was like an animal, hungry for every sensation, for every way of knowing me. He kissed me eagerly, he bit my lips. He lay in the animal furs, kissing my breasts, feeling my legs, my sex, my buttocks. Then in the half-light he moved up over me, shoving his penis in my mouth. I felt my teeth catching on it as he pushed it in and out, but he liked it. He was watching and caressing me, his hands all over my body, his fingers everywhere seeking to know me completely, to hold me. I threw my legs up over his shoulder, high, so that he could plunge into me and see it at the same time. He wanted to see everything. He wanted to see how the penis went in and came out glistening and firm, big. I held myself up on my two fists so as to offer my sex more and more to his thrusts. Then he turned me over and lay over me like a dog, pushing his penis in from behind, with his hands cupping my breasts, caressing me and pushing at the same time. He was untiring. He would not come. I was waiting to have the orgasm with him, but he postponed and postponed it. He wanted to linger, to feel my body forever, to be endlessly excited. I was growing tired and I cried out, “Come now, Marcel, come now.” He began then to push violently, moving with me into the wild rising peak of the orgasm, and then I cried out, and he came almost at the same time. We fell back among the furs, released.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Ella mira entre nosotros, y sabe que algo está pasando, porque está siendo jodidamente raro ahora, pero lo maneja con clase. —Oh, no te preocupes —chilla—. Tal vez en otro momento. Le doy una sonrisa y asiento, tratando de recuperarme de mi vergüenza y agradecida cuando finalmente se mueve. Pike y yo nos quedamos allí un momento, y estoy tratando de medir cómo, si aún no hablan de nosotros, lo harán después de eso. —Señor Lawson... —Reprimo, sacudiendo la cabeza. Me giro y empiezo a caminar hacia la casa, y cuando miro hacia atrás, me está siguiendo, con los ojos fijos en mí. —La gente está mirando —le digo—. Será mejor que no me sigas. Se verá raro. Veo que sus ojos se disparan a izquierda y derecha, observando a los vecinos que trabajan en sus jardines, jugando con sus hijos afuera o sentados en sus porches. Realmente no me importa, pero sé que a él sí. Con su larga zancada, está detrás de mí en un santiamén, y siento escalofríos cuando abro la puerta apresuradamente y entro. Su cuerpo me obliga a entrar, la puerta se cierra detrás de nosotros, protegiéndonos del mundo exterior, me da la vuelta y me atrae a sus brazos. Solo tengo un momento para respirar antes que su boca esté en la mía, una de sus manos sosteniéndome la nuca y el otro brazo alrededor de mi cintura, presionándome con tanta fuerza que casi no puedo respirar. Pero Dios, no me importa. Estoy cálida y rodeada de su olor, y se siente tan ido que me lleva con él. Rodeando su cuello con mis brazos, extiendo mis piernas cuando me levanta mientras bloqueo mis tobillos detrás de su espalda. —Mierda, nena, estoy sucio —dice, todavía devorando mis labios—. Debería tomar una ducha. —Tomaremos una después —gimo, alejándome solo un poco. Me lleva a la cocina y me pone sobre la mesa. Levanto su camisa por encima de su cabeza, rompiendo el beso por solo un momento antes que nuestros brazos vuelvan a rodearnos. Se inclina hacia mí, obligándome a retroceder un poco mientras profundiza el beso. —No podía esperar para llegar a casa —susurra—. No sabes cuánto me estaba tratando de controlar hoy. —¿Cuánto? —Trabajo en su cinturón, desesperada por quitárselo. —Estaba en el peor estado de ánimo —gruñe—. No podía sacarte de mi cabeza. Todo lo que quería era esto. —Sus manos bajan por mis costillas, me empuja hacia atrás y levanta mi camisa y sostén sobre mis tetas. Caigo en la mesa y se lanza, mordiendo y lamiendo mis pezones. Cierro los ojos y gimo, retorciéndome debajo de él y arqueando mi espalda, no estoy segura si estoy tratando de acercarme a su boca, o si es demasiado para tomar. Puedo sentir sus labios hasta los pies.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  The more passive and undemonstrative he was, the more she wanted to do violence to him. She dreamed of forcing his will, but how could one force a man’s will? Since she could not tempt him by her presence, how could she make him desire her? She wished that he would fall asleep and she could have a chance to caress him, and that he would take her while he was half-conscious, half-asleep. Or she wished that he would enter the studio while she was dressing and that the sight of her body would arouse him. Once when she expected him, she tried leaving the door ajar while she was dressing, but he looked away and took up a book. He was impossible to arouse except by gazing on him. And Marianne was by now in a frenzy of desire for him. The drawing was coming to an end. She knew every part of his body, the color of his skin, so golden and light, every shape of his muscles and, above all, the constantly erect sex, smooth, polished, firm, tempting. She would approach him to arrange a piece of white cardboard near him that would cast a whiter reflection or more shadows on his body. Then finally she lost control of herself and fell on her knees before the erect sex. She did not touch it, but merely looked and murmured, “How beautiful it is!” At this he was visibly affected. His whole sex became more rigid with pleasure. She kneeled very near it—it was almost within reach of her mouth—but again only said “How beautiful it is!” Since he did not move, she came closer, her lips parted slightly, and delicately, very delicately, she touched the tip of his sex with her tongue. He did not move away. He was still watching her face and the way her tongue nicked out caressingly to touch the tip of his sex. She licked it gently, with the delicacy of a cat, then she inserted a small portion of it in her mouth and closed her lips around it. It was quivering. She restrained herself from doing more, for fear of encountering resistance. And when she stopped, he did not encourage her to continue. He seemed content. Marianne felt that that was all she should ask of him. She sprang to her feet and returned to her work. Inwardly she was in a turmoil. Violent images passed before her eyes. She was remembering penny movies she had seen once in Paris, of figures rolling on the grass, hands fumbling, white pants being opened by eager hands, caresses, caresses, and pleasure making the bodies curl and undulate, pleasure running over their skins like water, causing them to undulate as the wave of pleasure caught their bellies or hips, or as it ran up their spine or down their legs.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  La gente habla a nuestro alrededor, esperando que la película empiece, pero no puedo escuchar lo que están diciendo, y no me importa. Mi piel se siente cálida. —Entonces, ¿qué estudian en Doral State? —pregunta. Le disparo una mirada de sorpresa. ¿Cómo sabe a dónde voy a la escuela? Asesino serial. Pero entonces apunta a mi bolso en el suelo, y veo el llavero colgando de este con el emblema de la universidad grabado. Oh, duh. Me enderezo. —Paisajismo —contesto—. Quiero hacer bonitos los espacios exteriores. —Eso es bueno. Trabajo en construcción. Le muestro una media sonrisa. —Entonces, haces bonitos los espacios interiores. —No, en realidad no. Me rio ante su tono sombrío como si estuviera muy aburrido de lo que hace. —Los hago funcionales —me corrige. Mueve sus ojos avellana hacia mí, cálidos y penetrantes, pero entonces su mirada baja a mi boca por un segundo, y un aleteo llega a mi estómago. Aparta la mirada rápidamente y bajo los ojos, teniendo dificultades para respirar. Aclarándome la garganta, me inclino y saco la caja de donas de mi bolso y las pongo en la bandeja, moviendo la pequeña bandeja frente a mí y levantando la tapa. El dulce aroma golpea mi nariz inmediatamente, y mi estómago gruñe. Vuelvo a mirar a la ventana de proyección, preguntándome si la película comenzará pronto, porque estaba guardándolas para ese momento, pero ahora estoy muerta de hambre. Siento los ojos del tipo sobre mí, y lo miro, explicando el porqué de las donas. —Es mi cumpleaños. Adicional al vino, mi jefa me dio el único pastel que pudo conseguir en un supermercado. Tomo una y me recuesto, subiendo mis pies al reposabrazos frente a mí. —¿Vas a comerte seis donas? —cuestiona. Detengo la dona a unos centímetros de mi boca y lo miro. —¿Eso te disgustaría o algo? —No, solo me pregunto si obtendré una. Sonrío y muevo la caja, indicándole que se sirva. Toma la del glaseado sencillo, y no estoy segura si es porque no le gustan las florituras o solo está tratando de dejarme las que tienen las chispas de colores, pero, de cualquier forma, me gusta. Nos acomodamos, pero no puedo evitar echarle una ojeada de vez en cuando. Su cabello es castaño claro, y sus ojos se ven azules, verdes o avellana dependiendo del tipo de luz que los ilumine desde la pantalla. Tiene un poco de barba en su rostro ovalado, una nariz pulida y mi mirada es atraída a la forma en que su cincelada mandíbula se flexionaba mientras mastica. Hay unas líneas muy débiles alrededor de sus ojos, así que puede que tenga más de treinta, pero podría ser solo por el tiempo de trabajar bajo el sol. Es alto, fuerte, atlético y bronceado, y sus ojos de repente se mueven a un lado como si sintiera que lo estoy mirando. Vuelvo a dirigir la mirada al frente. Demonios.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  4. Outside issues to be carefully avoided: work, friends, and family. 5. Phone calls are for only two purposes: to plan an encounter, or, if desired, a thank-you follow-up call, postencounter. No long, in-depth discussions of any nature on the phone—not about others, not about our relationship, not about current sports events. 6. Both parties are equally free to initiate the next encounter and the one who calls preferably has an “offer,” a “plan.” Examples: Be ready at 6 P.M. Friday with an overnight bag, sunglasses, and a jacket; or meet me at Café Lulu at 9 P.M., I’ll have no panties on; or movie, dinner, and sex; or a 10 P.M. call—I’m coming over to suck your cock; or pick me up and I’ll surprise you; or let’s talk and not have sex. . . . Anything and everything can be an encounter, and imagination is all. 7. While together, refinements, additions, and subtractions to rules can be discussed and negotiated, although avoid getting stuck in having the encounters be entirely about the encounters. 8. All these rules, limitations, and boundaries are designed to enable and protect the possibility of fully, deeply, freely exploring the erotic realm and whatever else goes along with it. 9. Can give gifts to each other, but absolutely no obligation in this area. 10. Any amendments to these rules must be very clearly discussed and agreed upon together. I faxed them over. These rules were a serious, insane attempt to legislate separation, to eliminate all areas of contention, to edit our sex life into our only life. Well, it was worth a try. In truth, #3 was the only rule I really cared about. It legislated hope. Mistressing worked for a few months. One by one he tested every rule like a naughty boy. He bought me dresses and handbags, and in his arrogance thought he would win me from the competition. But it was too late. Show me an arrogant man, and I’ll show you my machete—ah, the legitimized anger of feminism! I had freed myself at last from men whose shit was so deep that I thought it was my own. What I’ve learned from each relationship is how much emotional pain I’m willing to take. This was the last conventional connection I’ve had with a man. This relationship had an unexpected silver lining, however. It goes like this. When I met him, the Boyfriend was deep in therapy with the first shrink of his life. He adored her, praised her, and wanted me to meet her—wanted her approval. I was evidence of how far he had come. Meanwhile I had a shrink, too, who helped me deal with my divorce, but I didn’t adore her. I agreed to meet his. Within a couple of weeks of seeing him, I was already in a state of complete agitation, and so we went to see her together. And I adored her, also. Oh dear.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  I was in a back aisle with a tape measure and a saw trying to cut a seven-foot wood pole in half to use as a curtain rod. The pole kept rolling off the cutting bench, and things were not going well. Finally, as I made the first slice into the wood, my sequined handbag slipped off my shoulder, and the saw went flying out of my hand. He caught it and asked if I would like some help. “Oh yes!” I said, relieved. Well, maybe this was only the carpenter son, but I wasn’t going to fuss about generational details at this crucial moment in the lumber aisle. I just knew that he’d saved me. He was tall, handsome, fair-haired, and soft-spoken. He carried the freshly cut pole to the checkout for me and put it in the trunk of my car. He asked if he could buy me something to eat and we crossed the street to a burger joint. For a four-hour lunch. How can a single, liberated woman have the indescribable pleasure of illicit sex? No, not with a married man: that’s never appealed to me. With a celibate man. Mr. Home Depot was a born-again Christian. And a former “sex addict.” He said he’d often fucked seven or eight different women in a week! Oh my God! Could this be the perfect man? God and Pervert and Hound all neatly packaged in a six-foot-two Texan. And he was handy, too. He told me the story of his conversion. Early one October morning on the beach in the Bahamas, after a night of drugs and debauchery, God—unsolicited—had spoken to him, saying: “The time is now.” Being a seeker myself, I was jealous. Why hadn’t God ever talked to me? I asked if God had spoken out loud—would I have heard Him, too, if I’d been there? But I couldn’t get a clear answer on those details. From that day forward, in any case, he had been sober and celibate. This man hadn’t had sex for fifteen years. My imagination reeled at the thought of all those lonely erections. Nice, too, that he wasn’t newly born-again, but long-term born-again. He knew every book of the Bible, backward, and taught Bible school every week. The Forbidden married to the Unattainable was my magical aphrodisiac: I realized at that first long lunch that Born Again and I would never, ever have sex, and thus my heart began to open and my pussy to yearn. Once again, the impossible had coalesced before me. He had the biggest hands and feet I’d ever seen. Listening to his story, I began feeling a Christian conversion rapidly coming my way.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Despite all this emerging knowledge, convention dies hard and I still kept trying out boyfriends—whom I always bitterly resented afterwards for allowing me to entrap myself. But between these misguided debacles there were several amusing forays. The impossibly handsome actor who modeled Jansen bathing suits but whose riveting blue eyes seemed to look into mine only to see their own reflection. It was the first time I witnessed a man’s narcissism that was undoubtedly greater than mine—how unbecoming, I thought. His cock was huge and, I suppose, impressive, but it smelled antiseptic and I kept away. The big neighbor who looked like Nicolas Cage was a bit of a jerk, but he fucked so slow that I cried at the beauty, at the sadness. Then there was the other neighbor, the biker. I’d never had a Harley man; never done it before on a Harley, over a Harley. Lost an earring I loved. The cute newspaper boy: the cliché was too good to resist. And he did deliver. I tried returning to a former boyfriend. Great friend, not a lover. Then there was the guy who held me fast with one arm, his tongue buried in my mouth, his cock vertical against me while madly waving with his free hand for a cab to take me away. This has become my favorite image of male ambivalence. There was the magician who could produce my jack of hearts out of sealed cement only seconds after I handed it to him but who, remarkably for a trickster, couldn’t eat pussy to save his life. Talents vary. One Paul Newman–like prospect found me at Starbucks and caught me with his eyes. He could ejaculate, stay hard, and come again, often three times in row. Remarkable. I wondered if they were three full orgasms, or if he had simply learned to parse out one big one to impress the girls. He even attempted boyfriend status, but his patronizing butt-patting made me crazy. One evening, when he arrived for a date and asked to hang his clean shirt for the next morning in my closet, I knew I was done with him. What presumption. Sex does not mean breakfast. Happily, the beautiful boys—tall, svelte, toned, thoughtful, loving, full of poetry and music—never considered sleeping over, but they did not yet know how to fuck, either. I was intrigued by two feet guys. Sucking, kissing, rubbing my feet in stilettos, they garnered erections like steel. But was it me or my shoes? I do have some great shoes. They both had big cocks—about the height of my heels, strangely enough—dispelling any misconception I might have had that their fetish was compensatory.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  But she controlled herself with the intuitive knowledge a woman has about the tastes of the man she desires. He remained entranced, his sex erect, his body at times shivering slightly, as if pleasure coursed through it at the memory of her mouth parting to touch the smooth penis. The day after this episode Marianne repeated her worshipful pose, her ecstasy at the beauty of his sex. Again she kneeled and prayed to this strange phallus which demanded only admiration. Again she licked it so neatly and vibrantly, sending shivers of pleasure up from the sex into his body, again she kissed it, enclosing it in her lips like some marvelous fruit, and again he trembled. Then, to her amazement, a tiny drop of a milky-white, salty substance dissolved in her mouth, the precursor of desire, and she increased her pressure and the movements of her tongue. When she saw that he was dissolved with pleasure, she stopped, divining that perhaps if she deprived him now he might make a gesture towards fulfillment. At first he made no motion. His sex was quivering, and he was tormented with desire, then suddenly she was amazed to see his hand moving toward his sex as if he were going to satisfy himself. Marianne grew desperate. She pushed his hand away, took his sex into her mouth again, and with her two hands she encircled his sexual parts, caressed him and absorbed him until he came. He leaned over with gratitude, tenderness, and murmured, “You are the first woman, the first woman, the first woman . . .” FRED MOVED into the studio. But, as Marianne explained, he did not progress from the acceptance of her caresses. They lay in bed, naked, and Fred acted as if she had no sex at all. He received her tributes, frenziedly, but Marianne was left with her desire unanswered. All he would do was to place his hands between her legs. While she caressed him with her mouth his hands opened her sex like some flower and he sought for the pistil. When he felt its contractions, he willingly caressed the palpitating opening. Marianne was able to respond, but somehow this did not satisfy her hunger for his body, for his sex, and she yearned to be possessed by him more completely, to be penetrated. It occurred to her to show him the manuscripts that she was typing. She thought this might incite him. They lay on the bed and read them together. He read the words aloud, with pleasure. He lingered over the descriptions. He read and reread, and again he took his clothes off and showed himself, but no matter what height his excitement reached he would do no more than this. Marianne wanted him to be psychoanalyzed. She told him how much her own analysis had liberated her. He listened with interest but resisted the idea. She urged him to write, too, to write out his experiences.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  They would lie on their stomachs, still dressed, open a new book and read together, with their hands caressing each other. They kissed over erotic pictures. Their mouths, glued together, fell over enormous protruding women’s asses, legs open like a compass, men squatting like dogs, with huge members almost dragging the floor. There was a picture of a tortured woman, impaled on a thick stick which ran into her sex and out of her mouth. It had the appearance of ultimate sexual possession and aroused in Elena a feeling of pleasure. When Pierre took her, it seemed to her that the joy she felt at his penis belaboring her was communicated to her mouth. She opened it, and her tongue protruded, as in the picture, as if she wanted his penis in her mouth at the same time. For days Elena would respond madly, almost like a woman who was about to lose her reason. But Pierre discovered that a quarrel or a cruel word from him could still arrest her orgasm and kill the erotic flame in her eyes. When they had exhausted the novelty of erotica, they found a new realm—the realm of jealousy, terror, doubt, anger, hatred, antagonism, of the struggle human beings undergo at times against the bond to one another. Pierre sought now to make love to the other selves of Elena, the most buried ones, the most delicate ones. He watched her sleep, he watched her dress, he watched her as she combed her hair before the mirror. He sought a spiritual clue to her being, one he could reach with a new form of lovemaking. He no longer spied on her to make certain she had enjoyed an orgasm, for the very simple reason that Elena had now decided to pretend enjoyment even when she did not feel it. She became a consummate actress. She showed all the symptoms of pleasure: the contraction of the vulva, the quickening of the breath, of the pulse, of the heartbeats, the sudden languor, the falling away, the half-fainting fog that followed. She could simulate everything—to her, loving and being loved were so irrevocably mixed with her pleasure that she could achieve a breathless emotional response even if she did not feel physical enjoyment—everything, that is, but the inner palpitation of the orgasm. But this, she knew, was difficult to detect with the penis. She had found Pierre’s struggle to always obtain an orgasm from her destructive, and foresaw that it might well end in taking away his confidence in her love and ultimately separate them. She chose the course of pretense.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Everywhere he became the center of attraction for women. Like the most versatile of actors, he passed from one role to another to please the taste of each of them. He was the most elegant dancer, the most vivacious dinner partner, the most decadent of entertainers in tête-à-têtes; he could sail a boat, ride, drive. He knew each city as though he had lived there all his life. He knew everyone in society. He was indispensable. When he needed money he married a rich woman, plundered her and left for another country. Most of the time the women did not rebel or complain to the police. The few weeks or months they had enjoyed him as a husband left a sensation that was stronger than the shock of losing their money. For a moment they had known what it was to live with strong wings, to fly above the heads of mediocrity. He took them so high, whirled them so fast in his series of enchantments, that his departure still had something of the flight. It seemed almost natural—no partner could follow his great eagle sweeps. The free, uncapturable adventurer, jumping thus from one golden branch to another, almost fell into a trap, a trap of human love, when one night he met the Brazilian dancer Anita at a Peruvian theatre. Her elongated eyes did not close as other women’s eyes did, but like the eyes of tigers, pumas and leopards, the two lids meeting lazily and slowly; and they seemed slightly sewn together towards the nose, making them narrow, with a lascivious, oblique glance falling from them like the glance of a woman who does not want to see what is being done to her body. All this gave her an air of being made love to, which aroused the Baron as soon as he met her. When he went backstage to see her, she was dressing among a profusion of flowers; and for the delight of her admirers who sat around her, she was rouging her sex with her lipstick without permitting them to make a single gesture towards her. When the Baron came in she merely lifted her head and smiled at him. She had one foot on a little table, her elaborate Brazilian dress was lifted, and with her jeweled hands she took up rouging her sex again, laughing at the excitement of the men around her. Her sex was like a giant hothouse flower, larger than any the Baron had seen, and the hair around it abundant and curled, glossy black. It was these lips that she rouged as if they were a mouth, very elaborately so that they became like blood-red camellias, opened by force, showing the closed interior bud, a paler, fine-skinned core of the flower.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  She showed Elena to her room. It opened on a terrace, divided by bamboo partitions, which extended the length of the sunny side of the house, facing the lake. Elena was soon lying exposed to the sun, although she dreaded sun baths. They made her passionate and burningly aware of her whole body. She sometimes caressed herself. Now she closed her eyes and recalled scenes from Lady Chatterley’s Lover. During the following days she took long walks. She would always be late for lunch. Then Madame Kazimir would stare at her angrily and not talk as she served her. People came every day to see Madame Kazimir about mortgage payments on the house. They threatened to sell it. It was clear that if she were deprived of her house, her protective shell, her turtle back, she would die. At the same time, she turned out guests she did not like and refused to take in men. Finally she surrendered at the sight of a family—husband, wife, and a little girl—who arrived one morning straight from the train, captivated by the fantastic appearance of Casutza. Before long they were sitting on the porch next to Elena’s and eating their breakfast in the sun. One day Elena met the man, walking alone up towards the peak of the mountain behind the chalet. He walked fast, smiled at her as he passed, and continued as though pursued by enemies. He had taken his shirt off to receive the rays of the sun fully. She saw a magnificent athlete’s torso already golden. His head was youthful, alert, but covered with graying hair. The eyes were not quite human. They had the fixed, hypnotic gaze of an animal tamer, something authoritative, violent. Elena had seen such an expression in the pimps who stood at the corners of the Montmartre district, with their caps and scarves of bright colors. Apart from his eyes, this man was aristocratic. His movements were youthful and innocent. He swayed as he walked, as though he were a little drunk. All his strength centered in the glance he gave Elena, and then he smiled innocently, easily, and walked on. Elena was stopped by the glance and almost angered by the boldness of it. But his youthful smile dissolved the mordant effect of the eyes and left her with feelings she could not clarify. She turned back. When she reached Casutza, she was uneasy. She wanted to leave. The desire for flight was already asserting itself. By this she recognized that she was facing a danger. She thought of returning to Paris. In the end, she stayed.

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

  Love’s reach turns out to be far wider than we’re typically coaxed to imagine. Even so, love’s timescale is far shorter than we typically think. Love, as you’ll see, is not lasting. It’s actually far more fleeting than most of us would care to acknowledge. On the upside, though, love is forever renewable. And perhaps most challenging of all, love is not unconditional. It doesn’t emerge no matter what, regardless of conditions. To the contrary, you’ll see that the love your body craves is exquisitely sensitive to contextual cues. It obeys preconditions. Yet once you understand those preconditions, you can find love countless times each day. It’s difficult to speak of love in scientific terms, I’ve found, because listeners have so many preexisting and strong beliefs about it. Many of these beliefs reflect our shared cultural heritage, like all those proliferating songs and movies that equate love with infatuation or sexual desire, or with stories that end happily ever after, or even the realistic marriage ceremonies that celebrate love as an exclusive bond and commitment. Other beliefs about love are deeply personal. They reflect your own unique life history, with its interpersonal triumphs and scars, lessons about intimacy learned and not yet learned. Left unaddressed, these preconceptions can derail any serious intellectual discussion of love. They may even keep you from soaking up the full implications of the new findings on it. This Approach Is Different The approach I offer weaves together several new strands of science while keeping an eye toward the spiritual and the practical. With roots extending back millennia to your hunter-gatherer ancestors, this approach also casts forward to your future. It envisions your untapped potential for loving and growth, and your ability to create contexts that nurture love and growth in others, and in the generations to come who will inherit whatever world you help to shape. The bedrock for my approach to love is the science of emotions. For more than two decades, I’ve investigated that subset of emotions that feel good to you, those pleasing states—of joy, amusement, gratitude, hope, and the like—that simultaneously infuse your mind and body. Odds are you shift into and out of states like these dozens of times each day, sometimes when you’re alone, sometimes when you’re with others. What I’ve found is that even though you experience positive emotions as exquisitely subtle and brief, such moments can ignite powerful forces of growth in your life. They do this first by opening you up: Your outlook quite literally expands as you come under the influence of any of several positive emotions.