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 287 of 344 · 20 per page

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When the pot exploded everyone blamed everyone else. Everyone started to fight. Some said that the pot was left on the fire for too long. Some said that the bellows were not strong enough. Then everyone looked at me, because that is my department. ‘Not true,’ said a third. ‘The metals were not mixed correctly.’ ‘Bollocks,’ said a fourth. ‘Stop squabbling and listen to me. The fire should have been kindled from logs of beech, not logs of oak. That is the reason.’ I could never tell who was right or wrong. I only know that the argument went on and on. ‘Enough,’ said our master. ‘What is past cure is past care. I will be more vigilant next time. I am sure that the pot was cracked. That was the cause of the trouble. Well, let it go. Don’t get depressed about it. Cheer up. It’s not the end of the world, is it?’ Then all the debris was swept up in a heap. We put some canvas sheeting on the floor, and piled the debris on to it. Then we picked through the pieces of metal and chemicals, looking for anything we might retrieve. ‘Look,’ one of our number said, ‘there is some of the metal. It is not intact, but we can still use it again. Things may have turned out badly this time, but we will succeed in the end. We have to trust our luck. No merchant is prosperous all the time. There will be occasions when he loses his cargo at sea, and there will be occasions when he sees it safely landed.’ ‘All right,’ our master said, ‘you have made your point. I will make sure that everything is done properly next time. If I am wrong, then lay the blame on me. There was something the matter, I know that much.’ Then the argument began again. One man said that the fire was too hot, for example. Hot or cold, it never worked. We never got the desired result, however hard we tried. Still we carried on with the madness. We were lunatic with greed and desire. When we were all together, we looked on one another as Solomon the Wise. Have you heard this proverb - ‘All that glisters is not gold’? Not every apple is good for eating, however sweet it looks. So it was with us. The greatest fool among us was deemed to be the wisest. The most honest and honoured was in fact the biggest thief. You will learn the truth of this before I leave your company. Just listen to my tale. PART TWO

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Back to my story. So Phoebus does all he can to please her, hoping that all his attentions and all his affection will stop her from chasing after any other man. But God knows that you cannot thwart the course of nature. You cannot crush the force of instinct. Put any wild bird in a cage. You can feed it, give it water, hang little bells from the bars, attend to it in every possible way, it will make no difference. It will still wish to be free. The cage might be made out of gold. The bird would still prefer to be in a wild wood, feeding off worms and dirt. It will try as hard as it can to escape. It desires only its liberty. I give you the example of the cat. You can feed it with the choicest meats, and the richest milk. You can make a bed for it with the finest silks. As soon as it sees a mouse, it forgets all about its creature comforts. It is not interested in cuts of ham or beef. It wants only to eat the mouse. Nature holds dominion. Need knows no law. Think of the she-wolf. When desire moves her, she wishes to mate with the foulest wolf she can find. That is her appetite. I have cited these examples to prove the faithlessness of the male, not of the female. We all know that men lust after the lowest of the low. Their wives may be beautiful and noble and loving. It makes no difference. They want fresh meat. They delight in novelty. They sicken at the thought of their virtuous wives. Phoebus Apollo was different, of course. But for all his innocence he was deceived. His wife had fallen for another man. He was of low reputation, and far beneath Phoebus in every respect. It is the kind of situation that happens all the time, and is always a cause of grief and misery. So whenever Phoebus was away from home, his wife invited this man to come and fuck her. Fuck her? Sorry. That is vulgar. I suppose I should apologize. But it is the truth. Plato said that the word should always fit the deed. If I am going to tell my story properly, I need to use the appropriate terms. I am a plain man of plain speaking. And there really isn’t any difference between a common woman and a lady of high degree if she is free with her body. They are both steeped in sin. Oh, there is one difference. The high-born lady is deemed to be a ‘lover’, while the common woman is called a ‘slut’. In truth, of course, one lies as low as the other. They are both on their backs.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mi dedo está húmedo y lo vuelvo a sacar y froto mi clítoris de nuevo. Quiero correrme. Está justo ahí. Pero no puedo. Los músculos en mi brazo se tensan y mis pulmones duelen por la falta de aire. Por favor. Pero no llega. Mis dedos se ralentizan y exhalo, lágrimas quemando la parte posterior de mis ojos. Muerdo mi labio de nuevo, deseándolo desesperadamente. Estoy tan mojada. Y entonces, mi mente en una neblina y mi voluntad desaparecida, me arrastro al interior de mi mente, a donde nadie más puede ver excepto yo. Me escondo y cedo, porque nadie más que yo tiene que saberlo. En ese momento. En mis sucios pensamientos y pequeña tórrida fantasía, lo deseo a él. Quiero estar con él. Nuestro pequeño secreto. Oculto. —Una niña tan buena —susurra una nueva voz en mi oído. La voz de Pike. Ahora su cuerpo está detrás del mío, más grande y más alto, atrapándome contra la pared. Su mano toma un puñado de mi cabello y lentamente lleva mi cabeza hacia atrás, inclinándose para lamer mi labio con su lengua. Gimoteo. —Ocupándote de la casa del modo que me gusta —se burla y mi mano se convierte en la suya en mi cabeza mientras comienza a masturbarme con el dedo—. Preparando mis comidas del modo que me gusta. Una cosa bonita a la que mirar. Lo estás haciendo muy bien, Jordan. Mantengo mis ojos cerrados, sintiendo sus labios, todo mi cuerpo pulsando con una corriente eléctrica ante el sabor de su boca caliente y el agua de la ducha cayendo en cascada sobre su piel caliente. Puedo sentir su polla, dura y preparada detrás de mí. —Ahora necesito que hagas todo lo que hace una mujer —instruye—. Todo lo que una chica buena hace por un hombre. ¿Puedes hacer eso? Asiento, jadeando. —Sí. Mi orgasmo está creciendo de nuevo, mis pezones están presionados dolorosamente contra la pared de baldosas y se siente muy bien entre mis piernas. Lo deseo. Lo deseo sobre mí. Quiero saber cómo se siente. Estirándome detrás de mí, no pienso. Tomo una esponja y la deslizo entre mis piernas. La red roza mi clítoris de un modo que me envía sobre el borde. Ruedo mis caderas contra ella, deseando sentir algo, porque en mi cabeza es él y eso es suficiente. Su olor me rodea, su boca chupa mi cuello y me levanta, así puede deslizarse dentro de mí. Es rudo y fuerte, sus manos están en mis tetas en un instante y su boca robándome el aliento al siguiente. Dios, su lengua sabe bien. El orgasmo hormiguea en lo profundo, construyéndose más y más y el padre de Cole me está follando tan bien. Me corro, la ola me recorre y grito en silencio, respirando con dificultad, pero sin hacer ningún sonido. Dios. Colapso contra la pared, casi derrumbándome mientras me estremezco, el orgasmo baja por mis piernas debilitando mis rodillas.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Then he picked up three sticks and, bidding them to draw in turn, put them tightly within his fist. The youngest of them chose the longest stick and so, according to the plan, he ran off towards the town as quickly as he could. As soon as he was out of sight the one who had conceived the plan turned to his friend. ‘You know that you are my sworn brother,’ he said in a low voice. ‘So I will tell you something to your advantage. We are alone. He has gone into town. You saw him. There is plenty of gold here to share among the three of us. No doubt about it. But what if I arranged it so that only two of us would benefit? Wouldn’t that be a friendly thing to do?’ The other one was puzzled. ‘How are you going to do that? He knows that the two of us are guarding the gold until his return. What are we going to do? What are we going to tell him?’ ‘If you swear to keep this secret,’ he whispered, ‘I will tell you in a few words what has to be done.’ ‘I swear. I will never betray you.’ ‘Listen closely then. Two people are stronger than one. Is that not so? When he comes back, get up as if you were about to play; pretend to wrestle with him, and at the same time I will stab him in the back. You must use your knife on him, too. Then we will be able to share out the gold between us, my dear friend, just you and me. We will be able to indulge ourselves. Why, we will dice all the day long!’ So these two scoundrels agreed to kill their friend and newly sworn brother. The youngest man, who had gone into town, had also been considering the situation. All he could see, and think of, were those glistening piles of coin. ‘Lord,’ he said to himself, ‘if only I could keep all that treasure for myself! No one in God’s world would be more pleased and happy.’ It was at this point that Satan, the foul enemy of mankind, whispered to him that he should procure poison and feed it to his two friends. When a man is living in such sin as he was, the fiend is permitted to tempt him even further. So he determined, there and then, to purchase poison and do murder without compunction or regret. He went to an apothecary in the town, and told him that he wanted to buy poison to exterminate some rats; he said that he also wanted to get rid of a weasel that killed the chickens in his yard, as well as all the other household vermin that creep out by night.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘My husband is so full of jealousy that we have to be careful. We have to wait. Otherwise he will kill me. I am not joking. We have to keep this a secret.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘A scholar can outwit a carpenter any time. What else is the use of education?’ So they agreed with one another to bide their time, and wait for the right moment. Nicholas gave her a kiss, and ran his hands up and down the inside of her thighs. Then he went back to his chamber, took up his harp and began to play a lively melody. Now it so happened that, on the next holy day, Alison went to the parish church in order to worship the Saviour. She had finished her work, and had made sure to wash her face so that it shone, as any good wife would. In this church there was a clerk in holy orders, with the name of Absolon. He had the most lovely blond curls, which were stretched out like a halo all over his head. But he was no saint. His hair was carefully parted, with more art than nature. His complexion was ruddy, and his eyes as grey as a dove’s wing. He had tracery on his shoes, as if they were stained-glass windows. And he wore red hose, tight and shapely. His clothes were tight, too, the better to show off his figure; he wore a tunic of light blue, its laces knotted at the waist. Above that he donned a fine surplice, as white as the blossom on the bough. God knows he was a sprightly young man. He cheerfully performed all the duties pertaining to a clerk. He could let blood with the best of them; he knew how to cut hair and how to shave the chin; he could draw up deeds and contracts without any fuss. He knew twenty different dance steps, too, and in the Oxford style he would kick up his legs in every direction. He could play the fiddle, and sing along in a light falsetto, and he knew how to strum a guitar. He knew all the inns and taverns of the city; he knew every pretty barmaid, of course, and he could be very intimate and entertaining. He had one or two little foibles. He did not like to fart in public and, secondly, he was very prim in conversation. So on this particular holy day Absolon came out swinging his censer, and made sure to point it in the direction of the females of the parish. He could have pointed something else at them, too. He looked them up and down as they were wreathed in sweet smoke, and then presently he noticed the carpenter’s young wife. Wow. He could look at her all day. She was so pretty, so sweet, so, so, inviting.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Paisley SHE AND MAIA take Victoria to dinner to celebrate her job. She’s the first of them to know what she’s doing next year. When Maia asks, What does Bru think? Victoria knocks over her glass of red wine. It spills on the white cloth and onto Victoria’s lap. In the commotion that follows, the question never gets answered. She assumes that means Victoria hasn’t told Bru yet. But she’s sure he’ll follow her anywhere. She’s decided Victoria is impossibly lucky. Ever since she spent Labor Day weekend on the Vineyard and had the chance to get to know Bru, she’s developed a teensy crush on him herself. Obviously, she’s careful to keep these feelings to herself. She would never act on them except in her fantasies and fantasies don’t count. Or maybe what it’s really about is seeing her friend adored by a great guy. Either way, Victoria has it made. BRU CAME TO SEE VIX the first weekend in May, during a freak spring storm that began as wet snow, turned into a serious thunderstorm, and knocked out half the power in Cambridge. Not that they cared. They were in bed most of the time. Bru pinned her wrists above her head and watched her face as he drove into her. It was fierce, possessive sex and it made her uneasy. Not that it didn’t turn her on. Put her near Bru and like a knee-jerk response, her juices ran, her Power lit up. Her attraction to him never wavered. When the rain ended they ventured out to walk along the muddy banks of the Charles. Vix longed for sunshine. She tied her new silk scarf

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Gracias. —Le doy una sonrisa y entro al club, el pequeño nudo en mi estómago se tensa aún más. Nunca he molestado a Cam aquí, a menos que tuviese que hacerlo. Algunas de las hermanas de las chicas o amigas se sentarán en la parte de atrás con otras bailarinas para quedar y socializar, pero es difícil para mí. Puedo soportar ver a mi hermana desnuda, pero tengo un problema viendo a otros viéndola desnuda. Padres de amigos de la escuela, un antiguo novio… incluso mujeres de la ciudad que vienen en grupo para una noche de chicas “para hacer algo diferente”, pero sé que se irán y solo hablarán mierda sobre las bailarinas al día siguiente con cualquiera que las escuche. Mirar desde detrás del telón y ver al conductor del autobús de mi escuela infantil o algo así me desconcertaría. No sé cómo lo hace. La habitación está llena de luces estroboscópicas, rotando de arriba hacia abajo y alrededor, hay bombillas alineadas en los bordes del escenario que sobresale entre la multitud y está rodeado por mesas a ambos lados. No es un lugar grande, pero hay dos pedestales independientes con barras y sus propias luces, donde las bailarinas pueden seguir más entre la audiencia, lejos del acto principal. Deteniéndome en la barra justo en la entrada, busco el cabello castaño de Cam, probablemente peinado lo suficientemente alto para que cualquier mujer de Texas sienta celos. Esta noche hay un buen número de clientes. Algunas personas solas, unas cuantas parejas, las cabinas llenas de hombres, con apariencia de recién salidos de la oficina, devorando filetes y hamburguesas, y una gran fiesta de chicos jóvenes que no reconozco. Gwen, una de las amigas de Cam, pone sus manos en los brazos de una silla y baja hacia el asiento. Y sobre el regazo de un hombre ya sentado ahí. Apoyándose en sus brazos, se mueve y se frota, balanceando las caderas y echando la cabeza hacia atrás sobre el hombro de él. Mi piel se calienta y mi respiración se acelera. Ya la he visto, a ella o a cualquiera de las otras chicas, hacer esto una docena de veces. Sin embargo, es él quien me tiene cautivada. Su cliente parece de veintitantos, un hombre joven vestido de jeans y una camiseta, pero es guapo y en forma. Tiene la mirada hacia abajo, mirando sobre el hombro de ella y descendiendo sobre el frente de su cuerpo mientras se mueve sobre él. Sus manos, incapaces de tocarla, están aferradas a los brazos de la silla, y alzo la mirada, viéndolo apretar la mandíbula. Burlándose, provocando, cautivando su atención y poniendo algo que desea justo frente a él y después alejándolo, porque no puede tenerlo… En este breve momento, me pregunto si sería tan buena. —Ya veo algunos ojos sobre ti.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Tal vez a las chicas no —responde, con un ligero humor en su voz que aprecio—. Me parece que estás lejos de ser aburrido. Deberías salir más. Hay escasez de hombres en esta ciudad. Demasiados chicos. Sonrío para mí mismo. Me ve como un hombre, no solo como el padre de alguien. Eso no debería gustarme tanto. Y sí, puede haber muchos chicos, pero también hay muchas mujeres, y ninguna de ellas es para mí. Créanme, si mi futura esposa viviera en esta ciudad, la habría encontrado a estas alturas. Corta una de sus secciones por la mitad y la gira de lado para cortar triángulos de a dos. Hago lo mismo. Afuera, una mujer joven con una larga cola de caballo marrón se desliza por la piscina, su bikini naranja hace que su piel bronceada parezca más oscura. Muevo mi barbilla. —¿Debería ir tras ella? Jordan mira a la chica que está fuera de la ventana, baja la vista otra vez, y sigue cortando la fruta. —Es demasiado sexy para ti. —¿Crees que no puedo manejarla? —bromeo, cortando dos triángulos más—. He tenido bastante experiencia, ¿sabes? —Mucha a tu edad, estoy segura. ¿Ya necesitas una siesta? Por qué, pequeña… Corto la fruta, y el cuchillo cae, su punta se clava justo en el interior del dedo medio en mi mano izquierda. —¡Mierda! —Dejo caer el cuchillo y levanto mi mano, el dolor hundiéndose hasta el hueso. Respiro profundamente. Maldición. —Oh. —Jadea Jordan y también suelta su cuchillo, secándose las manos—. Lo siento —ofrece una pequeña risa arrepentida—. Ven, ven aquí. Me chupo la sangre del dedo, sin darme cuenta que me ha empujado hacia un taburete de la barra en la isla mientras toma los vendajes del armario. ¿Los coloqué ahí? No lo hice. Corriendo hacia mí, abre un paquete, y veo que es una toallita húmeda, probablemente con “antibacterial”, o algo así. —Puedo hacerlo. —Extiendo mi mano. Pero se acerca de todos modos, inspeccionando la gota de sangre del tamaño de un guisante en mi dedo otra vez. —Lo sé —dice—. Simplemente me siento mal. No quise molestarte y distraerte. Solo estaba bromeando. Siseo por lo que sea que haya en la toallita tocando mi herida abierta. —No me molestas —le digo, pero sale como un gruñido—. Bueno, lo hiciste, supongo. Siempre lo haces, pero es en un buen sentido. —¿En un buen sentido? —Frunce el ceño. Sí, como, ya sabes, divertido. Eres divertida. Y algo graciosa. Y bastante interesante. No sé cómo hace que mi temperamento se eleve tan rápido, y por cosas estúpidas e insignificantes, y no puedo explicar por qué, pero me gusta. Sin embargo, no sé cómo decírselo. Suena extraño. Cuando no respondo la pregunta, continúa, su voz es tranquila y seria. —Sabes —dice, sin mirarme—, si estás interesado en ella, puedo traerla más seguido. Si quieres. ¿La chica del bikini naranja? —¿Traerla? Asiente, aún secándome el dedo. —Una fiesta de pijamas o algo así. No tendrás que hacer un movimiento. Te saltará encima.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Realmente quiero... —¿Quieres qué? Abro mi boca, susurrando contra sus labios mientras nuestros cuerpos se encuentran una y otra vez. —Quiero chuparte. —Froto mis labios sobre los suyos, burlándome de él—. Quiero sentirte en mi boca. Exhala con fuerza, mostrando los dientes y cerrando los ojos. —Jordan... —Sacude la cabeza casi como una advertencia. Lo beso, nuestros labios se ciernen uno sobre el otro mientras el sudor se desliza por mi espalda. —¿Quieres tu polla en mi boca? —susurro. Muerde mi labio inferior suavemente y lo suelta. —Dilo otra vez. —Quiero chuparte la polla —digo de nuevo. Su polla me golpea como un martillo, y curvo los dedos de mis pies, sintiendo la cima de mi orgasmo. —Quiero lamerte —le susurro—, saborearte y hacer que te corras. Sus dedos se clavan en mi carne, y me duele la parte superior de mis muslos donde siguen golpeando la mesa, pero está haciendo que me corra de nuevo, y nada en el mundo se ha sentido tan bien. Estoy casi allí. Muevo su labio con mi lengua, sintiendo el fuego extenderse a través de mis muslos y sacudir mi interior. —¿Por favor? —susurro, retrocediendo en su polla y persiguiéndolo, también—. ¿Follarías mi boca esta noche? —¡Jordan, Jesús! —grita, y agarra mi hombro cerca del cuello y me golpea con tanta fuerza, que no puedo hablar, incluso si quisiera. Los dos nos corremos, mis nudillos se vuelven blancos mientras clavo las uñas en la mesa de madera, tensándome y apretando cada maldito músculo de mi cuerpo. —¡Pike! —grito—. Oh, Dios. Caigo sobre la mesa, abrazándome, cerrando los ojos y sintiéndolo pulsar dentro de mí. Su mano está plantada al lado de mi cabeza, y se cierne sobre mí, respirando con dificultad y sacudiéndose en mi interior un par de veces más.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  all night. He never stops combing his hair and looking at himself in the mirror. He sends notes to her by go-betweens and messengers. He swears to serve her faithfully. He sings to her, trilling like some nightingale. He sends her spiced wine, mead and ale; he even offers her money, to spend in town. Some women can be won by cash, you see, just as some can be lured by kindness or taken by force. It depends on the circumstances. There was even a time when, to show his prowess as a performer, he agreed to take the part of Herod in the pageant plays. But what was the good of all this posturing? The point is that Alison loved another. No. Not the carpenter. Of course she could not love her husband. She loved the clerk and lodger, Nicholas. Absolon might as well go whistle in the wind. She treated him as a joke. She turned him into her pet monkey, and laughed at his screechings. The proverb is quite right. The one who is closest comes first. Out of sight is out of mind. Lively Nicholas was there in the house with her, while poor distraught Absolon was on the other side of town. You might say that Nicholas stood in his light. So good luck to you, young scholar, even though Absolon will wail ‘Alas!’ It happened that one Saturday the carpenter had gone back to Osney Abbey. Alison and Nicholas took advantage of his absence and conferred together. This was their plan. Nicholas would come up with a ruse to beguile the jealous old sod; if everything went well, then she would nestle in his arms all night. That was what both of them wanted. So without more ado Nicholas left her, and took up on a platter enough meat and drink to sustain him in his chamber for a day or two. If the carpenter asked after him, she was to say that she did not know where he was. That she had not seen him. That she had not heard from him. That she even wondered if he was ill - the maid had called for him, but there had been no answer from him. So all that Saturday there was silence. Nicholas lay very quietly in his chamber, eating and drinking and doing anything else he fancied. I could not say what. This lasted until Sunday evening. The old carpenter was by now in a state of some alarm, and wondered if his lodger had taken ill. Could it be the white death? ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘by the bones of all the saints. Something is wrong with Nicholas. God forbid that he should have died suddenly! This wicked world is uncertain enough. I saw today a corpse borne to church, who last Monday I saw at work.’ Then he turned to his servant-boy, Robin. ‘Go upstairs,’ he said, ‘and shout for him at his door.

• From Memoirs of Fanny Hill (1749)

  “According to practical maxims of life, I ought to boast of my birth, since I owe it to pure love, without marriage; but this I know, it was scarce possible to inherit a stronger propensity to that cause of my being than I did. I was the rare production of the first essay of a journeyman cabinet-maker, on his master’s maid: the consequence of which was a big belly, and the loss of a place. He was not in circumstances to do much for her; and yet, after all this blemish, she found means, after she had dropt her burthen, and disposed of me to a poor relation in the country, to repair it by marrying a pastry-cook here in London, in thriving business; on whom she soon, under favour of the complete ascendant he had given her over him, passed me for a child she had by her first husband. I had, on that footing, been taken home, and was not six years old when this father-in-law died, and left my mother in tolerable circumstances, and without any children by him. As to my natural father, he had betaken himself to the sea; where, when the truth of things came out, I was told that he died, not immensely rich you may think, since he was no more than a common sailor. As I grew up, under the eyes of my mother, who kept on the business, I could not but see, in her severe watchfulness, the marks of a slip, which she did not care should be hereditary; but we no more choose our passions than our features or complexions, and the bent of mine was so strong to the forbidden pleasure, that it got the better, at length, of all her care and precaution. I was scarce twelve years old, before that part which she wanted so much to keep out of harm’s way, made me feel its impatience to be taken notice of, and come into play; already had it put forth the signs of forwardness in the sprout of a soft down over it, which had often fluttered, and I might also say, grown under my constant touch and visitation, so pleased was I with what I took to be a kind of title to womanhood, that state I pined to be entered of, for the pleasures I conceived were annexed to it; and now the growing importance of that part to me, and the new sensations in it, demolished at once all my girlish play-things and amusements. Nature now pointed me strongly to more solid diversions, while all the stings of desire settled so fiercely in that little centre of them, that I could not mistake the spot I wanted a playfellow in.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Me siento en el asiento y me quito las botas embarradas, tirándolas en la cama de la camioneta con la camiseta de Pike, y me quito mi gorra, mi cabello cayendo alrededor de mi rostro. —Sabes... —empiezo—. Estoy un poco nerviosa. —¿Oh? Niego, chasqueando la lengua. —Casarme con un hombre mayor con mucha más experiencia... Se acerca a mí, agarrando mis caderas y tirando de mí al borde del asiento y hacia él. Paso mi mano por su pecho desnudo. —No necesito que mi esposa sepa lo que les gusta a otros hombres —declara— . Solo lo que me gusta. Mis cejas se alzan, teniendo una idea. Lentamente, desabotono la camisa de franela que llevo y veo sus ojos ensancharse cuando ve que no llevo nada debajo. La abro ligeramente, invitando a sus ojos a posarse en mis pechos desnudos. —¿Y qué te gusta? —lo provoco como esa noche en la cocina cuando le puse una tirita en el dedo. Su mirada está posada en mi pecho y dejo que la camisa caiga por mis brazos, mis pezones están duros por el frío de la lluvia en el aire. Dejo caer mi voz a un susurro. —Creo que necesito más práctica. Sus ojos se oscurecen y se llenan de deseo mientras me mira. Impulsándose en el escalón, entra en la camioneta y fuera de la lluvia, bajando su cuerpo sobre el mío. Caigo hacia atrás en el asiento, abriendo mis piernas para él mientras trabajo en desabrochar su cinturón. Nuestros labios se ciernen sobre los del otro. —Lo que sea que la cumpleañera quiera —susurra.

• From Memoirs of Fanny Hill (1749)

  Phœbe, who had more experience, and to whom such sights were not so new, could not however, be unmoved at so warm a scene; and drawing me away softly from the peeping hole, for fear of being overheard, guided me as the door as possible, all passive and obedient to her least signals. Here was no room either to sit or lie, but making me stand with my back towards the door, she lifted up my petticoats, and with her busy fingers fell to visit and explore that part of me, where I was perfectly sick and ready to die with desire; that the bare touch of her finger, in that critical place, had the effect of a fire to a train, and her hand instantly made her sensible to what a pitch I was wound up, and melted by the sight she had thus procured me. Satisfied then with her success, in allaying a heat that would have made me impatient of seeing the continuation of the transactions between our amourous couple, she brought me again to the crevice, so favourable to our curiosity. We had certainly been but a few instants away from it, and yet on our return we saw everything in good forwardness for recommencing the tender hostilities. The young foreigner was sitting down, fronting us, on the coach, with Polly upon one knee, who had her arms round his neck, whilst the extreme whiteness of her skin was not undelightfully contrasted by the smooth glossy brown of her lover’s. But who could count the fierce, unnumbered kisses given and taken? In which I could often discover their mouths were double tongued, and seemed to favour the mutual insertion with the greatest gust and delight. In the meantime, his red-headed champion, that had so lately fled the pit, quelled and abashed, was now recovered to the top of his condition, perked and crested up between Polly’s thighs, who was not wanting, on her part, to coax and keep it in good humour, stroking it, with her head down, and receiving even its velvet tip between the lips of not its proper mouth: whether it was to render it more glib and easy of entrance, I could not tell; but it had such an effect, that the young gentleman seemed by his eyes, that sparkled with more excited lustre, and his inflamed countenance, to receive increase of pleasure. He got up, and taking Polly in his arms, embraced her, and said something too softly for me to hear, leading her withal to the foot of the couch, and taking delight to slap her thighs and posteriors with that stiff sinew of his, which hit them with a spring that he gave it with his hand, and made them resound again, but her about as much as he meant to hurt her, for she seemed to have as frolic a taste as himself.

• From City of Night (1963)

  And nightly a game of charades is played at Harry’s. Unlike the ones who haunt the streets, even the most masculine scores here usually—but not always—become effeminate in groups, their gestures progressively more airy as the night advances toward the desperation of after-midnight; as the liquor releases the feminine self. And the hustler emphasizes his masculinity in one of various poses—one leg propped against the wall; cigarette held between thumb and finger—eyes veiledly following a likely prospect: the rehearsed, inviting Tough Look.... Bodies sprawl on the benches along the booths. There is the swaggering unceasing exodus to the smelly toilet at the end of the long bar—a gaping toothless mouth.... An air of determination is in every gesture here, in every look, every move. People come to Harry’s primarily for one of two purposes: to buy or to be bought. Occasionally the femmequeens from the 1-2-3 or Ji-Ji’s breeze in like wilted flowers, carried on the currents of smoke: giggling, regally scanning the bar—making studied defiant exits with great airs, grand queenly shrieks of exiled laughter. And they indicate a kind of contempt for those other men in the bar who only desire other males, without posing, as far as the law allows them, as real women the way the queens do.... The skinny man has been raking the bar, putting everyone down with a bitchy comment. Defensively, he must reject this alluring, disturbing world to which the fatman is connivingly exposing him. “My God!” the skinny man says, “look at that one—his pants are about to fall off his waist!... And there goes that one to the restroom again!”... Suddenly, his eyes abruptly stopping their swirl about the bar, he blurted unexpectedly, as if his thoughts had pushed the words out without his control: “I like that one!” He points with his cigarette holder at Skipper, who is standing by the jukebox while obviously avoiding buying his own drink. The fatman slapped his forehead in affected amazement, and in a highpitched, incongruous voice shrieked: “Oh, no, Mary, you cant mean that one!” His blubbery lips envelop the stub of the cigar, almost swallowing it. “You dont mean the one in the black T-shirt!” “Yes, I do mean the blond one,” said the skinny one, having gone this far. Then he said to the fatman: “And dont call me ‘Mary’.” Skipper, aware of the skinny man’s interest, brings his hands together, fingers intertwined, and flexes his body slowly. The light from the jukebox weaves colors sinuously on him—and from the distance he looks like a very youngman, a boy.... “Honey,” the fatman was going on, addressing the skinny one, who still holds the cigarette aimed at Skipper as if it were a magic wand thai would bring him over, “I could have had him when he was Young and Pretty!”

• From City of Night (1963)

  — and it is, because now Im in Echo Park, where a queen, camping by the head, calls out, “Hi babe — welcome to Jenny’s tearoom — and, you understand, Im Jenny, and this is my tearoom” — indicating the head (across the street from Aimee Semple McPherson’s Temple of appropriately Brotherly Love); going on: “I come here, oh, every day,” brazenly, “And I run away all those other hungry nelly queens first so I can have my pick of the cute tricks — and so, sweetie-love, if youve got A Mind To, would you join me in my tearoom for a few happy Wholesome moments?” — and soon after (mornings afternoons, nights fusing into a boundary-less existence) Im sitting in the balcony of a moviehouse in Hollywood — waiting purposely for someone to come on, turning him off to replace him with someone else — needfully adding numbers; and I leave the theater — alone — going back to that rented room in fulfilled — but only momentarily fulfilled — Awareness; and I meet a youngman, high on grass, and we drive to the hills, where the houses being built are mere skeleton frames against the grayish ghost-moon, where we turn on, smoking under the oppressive sky, and he comes on right there while I smoke looking at the stars, so few that I begin to count them — no longer looking at those stars now at a party that lasts two smoky nights, where I get so drunk I forget who I came here with, where I wake in a rumpled room, with people sleeping on chairs — and a pale wide-eyed, opportunistic, up-two-nights-in-a-row queen is saying to me almost worriedly: “You feel better now, honey?” — and I wonder what Ive said or done — but I no longer wonder when, only minutes later (or so it seemed — but it could have been hours), Im on Mulholland Drive in the parked car of a man just met: cramped in the car by the edge of a cliff overlooking the city — and another scene follows that rapidly, this time at Westlake, where two anxious fairies cruise me — one coming up saying hurriedly, “Right here — behind those trees — my “sister” will watch out for us” — and the sexnoises are stifled by the sounds of the ducks nearby shivering out of the lake-water, sounds of cars rushing along Wilshire — the park so dark, so dark, so dark, under now a starless night — that starless heaven soon replaced by the smoke-hugging ceiling in the bar where Im with a man Ive just scored from, where another score, with a youngman, talks to the man Im with about exchanging partners, and we all four go — and now coming out of a theater (the dungeon sex-head where they exchange partners, too), Im stopped by a man whos followed me and offers me “ten bills for just a few minutes — just a short time” — and I feel depressed, and I put him down, regretting it lonesomely as I go home and try to sleep and feel the Terror like a heavy blanket smothering me; but soon — and it's an afternoon — Im hitchhiking again on Sunset (not going anywhere — or, rather, going anywhere!), picked up this time by a very young fairy, with whom — because, he explains, he has A Jealous Lover — I go, instead, to the house of a friend of his — who surprisingly turns out to be a dark girl with gobbling eyes: the three of us making it, the nympho coming on like a starved fairy but not wanting to be screwed: and Im wondering why as I ride in a car with three men who will soon now come on, and I will feel hugely excited and momentarily surfeited, to be, oneway, the object of their desire — but surfeited, again, only for those few moments; and out on the streets to add more numbers, I get stopped, instead, by two cops — one frisking me Intimately against the car with the red light like an angry science-fiction eye; frisking me, his hands sliding between my legs, and I say, high on Sex: “Are you getting your kicks?” — which gets met aken to the station — not booked but fingerprinted illegally — and the cop, searching records to find a suspect who fits my description, says I gave him a fuck-you finger as he passed in His Car (which is not true), causing the detective there (more cool than most and not too fond of the paranoic cop anyway ...

• From City of Night (1963)

  He was still staring into the park. “Huh?” he said. “Man—” he starts. “Well, man—” And then, as he turned toward me briefly, the hat pushed back to get whatever still lingered of the smoggy sun, I saw the familiar smile gracing his face radiantly.... Had he even understood my question? I wondered, as, following his gaze, I realized why he is staring intently into the park.... Alone, about 17 or 18 years old—buttocks firm and saucy sculptured by a tight black skirt—her face heavily painted but still that of a very young girl—coy, a flirt, aware of her attractiveness—a cute young girl is walking in our direction, through the park.... And as she passes us now, she smiles. She walks to the water faucet, bends over to drink, staying there very long, casting surreptitious glances in our direction—exhibiting her little butt, stuck out toward us. Now, shaking her hair, which is vibrantly red and long to her shoulders, she stands by the faucet, waiting in posed bewilderment as if wondering where she will go next. “Hoddawg?” Chuck said, jumping off the railing in a sudden burst of energy. “Dig the smart little butt on that chick, man!” And pushing his widehat rakishly to one side of his head, he began to walk toward her, where she is now making her way slowly through the less-thick part of the park. And afterwards—? Suddenly the question I had asked made no difference. A short distance away, Chuck turned back to look at me, pushed the hat momentarily back on his head, and his mouth formed the word again: “Hoddawg!” He winked broadly—and then in a genuine cowboy gait, he swaggered toward the girl, who, aware now that he was coming after her, wiggled her butt cutely. CITY OF NIGHT AMONG THE BANDS OF MALEHUSTLERS that hang out in downtown Los Angeles, there are often a few stray girls: They are quite young, usually prematurely hardened, toughlooking even when theyre pretty. They know all about the youngmen they make it with and sometimes live with: that those youngmen hustle and clip other males. And aware of this, they dont seem to care. Occasionally, one of those girls will go into the park with a malehustler, sitting there until he will maybe spot a score; and then, as if by tacit agreement, theyll split: the youngman going off with the score, the girl back to Hooper’s coffee-and-donuts, where, in the afternoons at that time, they usually hung out.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  La dualidad de su traje de baño tiene a mi cerebro dando vueltas retorciéndose más y más, y estoy tan confundido. Usa negro en la parte inferior. Adulto, sexy y hermoso contra su piel bronceada. Y rosa en la parte superior. Inocente, dulce y enteramente Jordan, porque puede ser tan femenina. Sus tonificados y suaves muslos, y la expresión linda y estudiosa en su rostro mientras frunce el ceño y se concentra en su tarea. Todo sobre ella es joven. Excepto sus ojos. Unos ojos que pueden ser tan pacientes, porque ha tenido años de práctica siendo decepcionada, pero unos ojos que también pueden estar enojados, porque sabes que la mierda ha estado golpeando al ventilador en su vida desde el primer día y no ha disminuido un poco. Puedes ver su cerebro trabajando con cada decisión y cada interacción, porque ahora es tan buena para evaluar las consecuencias y el peligro que ahora se ha convertido en una segunda naturaleza. Sabe que el tiempo siempre pasa y su día llegará. Solo hay que esperar. Tiene la piel suave y el cuerpo de una mujer joven, pero los ojos de alguien que ha visto décadas. Mis ojos se deslizan hacia su boca, recordando la sensación de sus besos, y otra ráfaga de calor cubre mi pecho justo debajo de mi piel. Me alejo, deslizando mi mano por mi cabello mojado. No fue un golpe de suerte. La deseo. Me encanta su olor en la casa, la forma en que se sienta a mi lado, aquí o en el cine esa primera noche, tan fácil y cómodamente como si fuéramos dos guisantes en una puta vainita, y cómo me emociono al despertar todos los días sabiendo que puedo verla. —Jesucristo —digo en voz baja. Estoy teniendo mi primer enamoramiento en veinte años. —¿Qué? —La escucho preguntar. Alzo mi cabeza, girando es su dirección. ¿Lo dije en voz alta? —Nada —respondo rápidamente. Me mira mientras vacía la última pistola, y saco los flotadores de la piscina y los arrojo sobre la cubierta para evadir sus ojos. Quiero más de lo que sucedió la noche anterior, y no sé qué voy a hacer. Un teléfono comienza a sonar en la mesa de picnic otra vez, y miro hacia ella. —Tu teléfono está sonando de nuevo. Asiente, frunciendo levemente el ceño. —Sí, sé quién es. Mis cejas se elevan un poco. ¿A quién está tratando de evitar? El teléfono había sonado varias veces desde que había estado en casa y, que yo sepa, no había respondido. Me echa un vistazo, sin duda viéndome observarla con una mirada inquisitiva. Solo se ríe para sí misma y explica: —Los muchachos de la ciudad creen que soy fácil de seducir ahora que Cole y yo hemos terminado. —Desliza sus dedos por su cabello, dejando los mechones húmedos—. Están abalanzándose para consolarme. Dice lo último con comillas en el aire, y mi armadura se endurece al instante como el acero. ¿Consolarla?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Los dos sabemos muy bien que arruiné su noche cuando estuvo aquí la última vez, por lo que puede estar "ayudando" todo lo que quiera, pero lo que realmente está haciendo es ayudarse a sí misma al sacarme de su camino. —¿Y qué le dijiste? —pregunta, inclinando la cabeza hacia atrás bajo el rocío y humedeciéndose el cabello. —Dije que lo pensaría. —Pero puedes ahorrar más dinero quedándote aquí por un tiempo —señala— . Creo que es lo mejor. ¿No? Me río, enjabonando mi esponja. Sus motivos tampoco son exactamente desinteresados. —Le preocupaba que pudiera sentirme incómoda —le explico—. Nosotros aquí solos, juntos... Me empuja contra la pared, y respiro hondo, dejando caer la esponja vegetal. Su mano se hunde entre mis piernas, y levanta mi rodilla, abriéndome para él. Suave y lentamente frota mi clítoris en círculos, haciéndome pulsar y debilitándome las rodillas. —¿Estás incómoda? —pregunta, su voz baja y ronca. —No. —Mi respiración tiembla—. ¿Pero tal vez echas de menos tener el lugar para ti? Tal vez pensó que estaba molestándote. Sus ojos acalorados se clavan en los míos, y sacude la cabeza lentamente. —Si te vas, no tendré todo lo que necesito en esta casa. Aumenta su velocidad, pasando su boca sobre la mía, y luego desliza un dedo en mi interior. Jadeo, cerrando mis ojos, y sus labios se hunden en los míos, besándome suave y lentamente mientras entra en mi cuerpo una y otra vez. Su lengua muerde mi labio superior, y luego susurra: —¿Cómo podría no querer volver a casa por esto todos los días? Tan jodidamente dulce. Se aparta de mí y luego se desliza dentro, esta vez con dos dedos, lento y gentil, mientras me clava en la pared. Dejo caer mi cabeza hacia atrás, gimiendo mientras mira mi rostro. Dios, es bueno. Me estiro entre nosotros y acaricio su polla. —Tiene razón en cuidarte, Jordan —dice mordiéndome el labio inferior—. Eres demasiado joven para todas las malditas cosas que quiero hacerte. —No soy tan joven —me burlo—. Tengo edad suficiente para muchas, de hecho. —¿Sí? —gime, poniéndose más grande y duro en mí mano—. Aguanta, cariño. Saca sus dedos, agarra la parte posterior de mis muslos, y me levanta, presionándome contra la pared. Su polla es larga, dura y lista, y lo siento provocando mi entrada. Sí. —¡Oye, Pike! —grita Dutch. Los dos levantamos la cabeza, Pike me baja al suelo, y vuelve la cabeza, mirando por el cristal esmerilado. —¡Estoy en la ducha! —gruñe, protegiendo mi cuerpo de la vista. —Sí, duh —bromea su amigo—. Tu teléfono sonó un par de veces. Parece Lindsay. Voy a ponerlo en el mostrador aquí. Pike presiona su cuerpo sobre mí, por lo que Dutch solo vería un cuerpo aquí si mirara el cristal. —Sí, gracias —dice secamente. Me muerdo el labio inferior, sintiéndome traviesa. Me apoyo en él, besando su mandíbula y acariciándolo. —Jordan... —gruñe entre dientes. Me río en silencio. —Shhh... —Escucho que me regaña.

• From City of Night (1963)

  As I lean against the bar—for protection from the crushing mobs—leaning there next to Chi-Chi until the strategic time when I can move away—another queen, tossed out of the main current of the struggling bodies, spots Chi-Chi incredulously; but toning down the incredulity, she welcomed her to the queen sorority of the French Quarter. “Im—whew!—Echoes and Encores,” she says to the blond owl. “I never—whew!—seen you in the Quarter, but then—whew!—I just got here myself—and, well, I think We Girls—whew!—have got to stick together—or—whew!—we are Lost!... Oh, damn this maddening crowd anyway. Why dont they go home!” she shouted. She squeezed in next to me, smiling at me—Bewitchingly, she thinks—and lets her hand drop casually so that it floated tenuously over my groin. “Dont I know you from the 1-2-3 in L.A., doll?” she asked me. The floating hand finally cupped my crotch. I said maybe. “Well, it’s closed now, you know—so is Ji-Ji’s—the heat is on in downtown L.A. something fierce.” She emphasized the ferocity of heat-heavy Los Angeles with an intimate press of her searching hand.... She turns to the owlqueen Chi-Chi: “What is your name, sweetie?” she asks her. The owlqueen answered: “Chi-Chi.... And where did you get such a crazy handle like Echoes and Encores?” Holding herself as if a hundred cameras are focusing on her nonexistent beauty to record this revelatory moment, Echoes and Encores answers: “Well!... My Life Has Been Just That: a long, long series of echoes and encores.... Oh, Chi-Chi, honey,” she said dramatically as her hand more openly and with assurance now explores my thighs since I havent knocked it off, “I just got to tell you about a positively shattering experience I had just a while ago.” Suddenly she develops a thick, inconsistent Southern accent: “Ahm still shakin from it.” She held out her free hand—gloved (shes an elegant lady)—to prove it. “Ah saw this cute butch numbuh—and Ah wouldda swore hes a hustluh—and Ah thought: Well, your mothuh’s gonna go aftuh that one!... Well, honey, that butch numbuh turns out to be a les-bay-an—the butchest dam diesel dike y’evuh haid yuh gay eyes on!” Now she grinds her squirming butt against my pelvis and goes on: “I wanna tell you, Miss Chi-Chi: that dike was so dam butch if Ah wahnt such a lady muhself, why, I wouldda turned straight for huh.... Why, they are gettin butchuh and butchuh each yeah—those dam buildikes. And Ah don mine tellin you Ah personally think it is ob-see-an: girls dressed like men!” “Dikes gotta live too,” Chi-Chi growled hostilely at Echoes and Encores. “But, oh, me-oh-my!” shrieks Echoes and Encores, reaching out delightedly to touch Chi-Chi’s massively muscled arm. “Nevuh you mine about girls!... Ah just wanna ask you , Chi-Chi: Where did you get those Shoulders? And those Muscles—I swan! Rippling—thats what they are!... Honey, you just take off that dress and that paint and I’ll marry you!”

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Me muero por probarte —le digo—. Y sentirte. Cada día se hace más difícil ignorar lo que mi cuerpo quiere. Me despierto tan mojada, Pike. —Muevo mi boca hacia la suya, cubriendo nuestros labios—. Quiero que me desees. Quiero verte deseándome y corriéndote sobre mí. Puedo sentir la humedad escurriéndose entre mis piernas, y su aliento es tan caliente. Me apoyo nuevamente sobre mis pies, pero mantengo mis ojos en los suyos. —Me encanta cómo te preocupas por mí y cómo quieres protegerme —le digo—. Pero una niña también tiene necesidades, y eventualmente, tendré que buscar a otro hombre que pueda hacer mejor tu trabajo. La rabia arde detrás de su mirada congelada, pero no pestañea. —Otro hombre me besará. —Suspiro—. Y me quitará la ropa y me mirará en su cama, en su ducha, y me extenderá sobre la mesa de la cocina para desayunar... Los labios de Pike están casi retorcidos en un gruñido, y está respirando con fuerza, dentro y fuera, dentro y fuera mientras me fulmina con la mirada. Está ahí. Puedo sentirlo. Es como si estuviéramos envueltos juntos, el calor entre nosotros es casi sofocante, y todo lo que tiene que hacer es tender la mano y tomarme en sus brazos. Tómame. Espero. Soy tuya. Solo extiende la mano y tómame. Pero no lo hace. Solo se queda allí, y las lágrimas arden en la parte posterior de mis ojos mientras se mantiene inmóvil. Poco dispuesto. Mi corazón está rompiéndose. Sacudo la cabeza. —No tienes ni idea de qué hacer conmigo, ¿verdad? Me burlo y me alejo, pero de repente, agarra mis brazos y me lleva de vuelta hacia él. Jadeo mientras pone sus manos bajo mis brazos y me levanta sobre mis pies, llevándome cara a cara con él como si tuviera cinco años. —Oh, puedo estar fuera de práctica, pequeña niña —dice en tono amenazante—, pero creo que lo resolveré. Y me atrae hacia sí, besándome y robando mi aliento tan duramente que lo único que puedo hacer es envolver mis piernas a su alrededor y aguantar. Maldición, sí. Maldita sea ella. Maldita sea. No me voy a detener. A la mierda. No puedo. Siguió presionando y presionando, presionando todos mis botones, todo lo que sabía me traería a esto, y yo quería que lo hiciera. En el fondo de mi mente, siempre supe que no podría no tenerla. Agarro su trasero y caemos en su cama. Abre sus piernas y se sienta a horcajadas sobre mí, nuestros labios nunca rompen el contacto. Amo su boca. Caliente y dulce, y se burla de mí con esa lengua, meneando y deslizándose de maneras que me vuelven loco. —Odiaba sentirme así. —Jadea. —¿Así cómo? —Deslizo mis manos sobre ella, agarrando y apretando mientras respira por mi boca y me aprieta, poniéndome dolorosamente duro. —Celosa —dice.