Desire

Passages

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

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• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  The strongest example of the objectifying quality of lust is a fetish, a superfocused erotic fascination with an inanimate object—something like underwear or shoes or garter belts—although the popular definition has gradually expanded to include a greater than usual fascination with a particular body part. The fetish object usually has some obvious link to sex, but not always. Yet almost everyone with a fetish knows the circumstances under which it developed and its erotic significance for them. I once worked with a man who was very concerned about his obsession with raincoats, especially yellow plastic ones. His most intense orgasms occurred when he masturbated while wearing a raincoat, of which he had quite a collection. Although dismayed by his fetish, he had no trouble explaining it. As a boy he had received a gift of a little fire truck large enough for him to sit on and drive around the room. With it came firemen’s gear, including a yellow raincoat. There were two things he especially liked about this toy: the tingling sensations he got in his groin when he rode the truck and the imagery of strong, brave firemen he conjured up in his mind as he playacted various rescue scenes. Much later he came to realize that he was gay and that his fire truck sensations and fantasies offered him a compelling focal point for his fascination with men and masculinity. As years went by the masturbatory aspects of his raincoat rituals became more explicit and intense. With the addition of one more ingredient—an ongoing struggle to resist what he judged to be his “sickness”—he developed a full-blown fetish that continued to provide him with anxious pleasures throughout his adult life. This story demonstrates how lust can become focused on a single object and the images that go with it. The fetish object becomes a kind of shorthand or, more accurately, an erotic cue that provides a pinpoint focus for arousal. Although most people don’t attach all their sexual desire to a single object, normal lusty attractions nonetheless have an unmistakably fetishistic quality to them. LUST AMONG MEN AND WOMENThe differences between men’s and women’s attitudes toward lust are often debated. It was once widely believed that women had little if any interest in lust. We now know this isn’t true. The expanding library of books of women’s fantasies is a testament to the potential lustiness of the modern woman. There are, however, very real differences between men’s and women’s lust. The narrowing of focus that is a hallmark of lust operates in both sexes, although it is significantly more pronounced in men. I believe that a major reason for this difference is the penis—an instantaneous and unavoidable arousal feedback system.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  For the first time in his life he’s discovered a girl; for the first time he’s seen that even the biggest pests also have an inner self and a heart, and are transformed as soon as they’re alone with you. For the first time in his life he’s given himself and his friendship to another person. He’s never had a friend before, boy or girl. Now we’ve found each other. I, for that matter, didn’t know him either, had never had someone I could confide in, and it’s led to this . . . The same question keeps nagging me: “Is it right?” Is it right for me to yield so soon, for me to be so passionate, to be filled with as much passion and desire as Peter? Can I, a girl, allow myself to go that far? There’s only one possible answer: “I’m longing so much. . . and have for such a long time. I’m so lonely and now I’ve found comfort!” In the mornings we act normally, in the afternoons too, except now and then. But in the evenings the suppressed longing of the entire day, the happiness and the bliss of all the times before come rushing to the surface, and all we can think about is each other. Every night, after our last kiss, I feel like running away and never looking him in the eyes again. Away, far away into the darkness and alone! And what awaits me at the bottom of those fourteen stairs? Bright lights, questions and laughter. I have to act normally and hope they don’t notice anything. My heart is still too tender to be able to recover so quickly from a shock like the one I had last night. The gentle Anne makes infrequent appearances, and she’s not about to let herself be shoved out the door so soon after she’s arrived. Peter’s reached a part of me that no one has ever reached before, except in my dream! He’s taken hold of me and turned me inside out. Doesn’t everyone need a little quiet time to put themselves to rights again? Oh, Peter, what have you done to me? What do you want from me? Where will this lead? Oh, now I understand Bep. Now, now that I’m going through it myself, I understand her doubts; if I were older and he wanted to marry me, what would my answer be? Anne, be honest! You wouldn’t be able to marry him. But it’s so hard to let go. Peter still has too little character, too little willpower, too little courage and strength. He’s still a child, emotionally no older than I am; all he wants is happiness and peace of mind. Am I really only fourteen? Am I really just a silly schoolgirl? Am I really so inexperienced in everything? I have more experience than most; I’ve experienced something almost no one my age ever has.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Once when I was spending the night at Jacque’s, I could no longer restrain my curiosity about her body, which she’d always hidden from me and which I’d never seen. I asked her whether, as proof of our friendiship, we could touch each other’s breasts. Jacque refused. I also had a terrible desire to kiss her, which I did. Every time I see a female nude, such as the Venus in my art history book, I go into ecstasy. Sometimes I find them so exquisite I have to struggle to hold back my tears. If only I had a girlfriend! THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944 Dearest Kitty, My longing for someone to talk to has become so unbearable that I somehow took it into my head to select Peter for this role. On the few occasions when I have gone to Peter’s room during the day, I’ve always thought it was nice and cozy. But Peter’s too polite to show someone the door when they’re bothering him, so I’ve never dared to stay long. I’ve always been afraid he’d think I was a pest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to linger in his room and get him talking without his noticing, and yesterday I got my chance. Peter, you see, is currently going through a crossword-puzzle craze, and he doesn’t do anything else all day. I was helping him, and we soon wound up sitting across from each other at his table, Peter on the chair and me on the divan. It gave me a wonderful feeling when I looked into his dark blue eyes and saw how bashful my unexpected visit had made him. I could read his innermost thoughts, and in his face I saw a look of helplessness and uncertainty as to how to behave, and at the same time a flicker of awareness of his masculinity. I saw his shyness, and I melted. I wanted to say, “Tell me about yourself. Look beneath my chatty exterior.” But I found that it was easier to think up questions than to ask them. The evening came to a close, and nothing happened, except that I told him about the article on blushing. Not what I wrote you, of course, just that he would grow more secure as he got older. That night I lay in bed and cried my eyes out, all the i while making sure no one could hear me. The idea that I had to beg Peter for favors was simply revolting. But people will do almost anything to satisfy their longings; take me, for example, I’ve made up my mind to visit Peter more often and, somehow, get him to talk to me. You mustn’t think I’m in love with Peter, because I’m not. If the van Daans had had a daughter instead of a son, I’d have tried to make friends with her. This morning I woke up just before seven and immediately remembered what I’d been dreaming about.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Things were definitely looking good. All I had to do was sit there, his hands firm on my breasts, his breath and tongue hot in my ear, and his fine dick ramming me with beautiful precision. I knew this would be the first of many a hot afternoon getting my brains fucked out. Denise ignores her better judgment and forges ahead. The violation of her own values, not to mention her common sense, inevitably produces some guilt. Yet if she’s seriously troubled by what happens, she’s keeping that to herself. It appears as if Denise mentions the inappropriateness of her behavior only to set up the forbidden circumstances of this encounter, which, of course, also includes ambivalent feelings toward her boss. Hers is a tale of ambivalence and guilt transformed into desire, of reluctance converted to the purposes of passion, of restraint replaced with freedom. But how is guilt, the great inhibitor, so thoroughly transformed? The first principle is that when guilt is in the forefront of a sexual situation, it almost always gets in the way. After all, the purpose of guilt is to inhibit. If, however, it can be held in the background, called up only to be overpowered by arousal, it will usually produce a sense of liberation, as it does for Denise. However, when our sexual behavior involves serious violations of our own values, after orgasm guilt will probably return with a vengeance in the form of remorse. The cycle of attraction, guilt, excitement, remorse, attraction is what makes many illicit affairs seem irresistible. For those who place some value on sexual exclusivity, yet have an affair anyway, it is logical to assume that they proceed despite their guilt. But I believe that guilt creates a type of resistance all but impossible within a committed relationship, and thereby provides a significant portion of the erotic fuel that helps make affairs so alluring. June, a church secretary in her early fifties, offers a case in point: I hate to admit it, but I had my most exciting sex during a two-month affair I had with a handsome man who worked with me on a fund-raising event. Most of our meetings were spent in intimate conversation, with very little real work accomplished. We were both unhappy in our marriages and found solace in each other. At first we just hugged and kissed which for me was more than enough to bring on torrents of guilt. Many times we vowed to keep our relationship platonic. But each time we broke our vow our passion grew more reckless. In contrast to my husband who no longer found me attractive anymore (I’m not sure he ever did), “Bill” was excited by me. He was sensuous, romantic, and passionate—everything my husband wasn’t. These reasons explain what I did, but for me they can never justify it. My affair was wrong but neither of us was willing to stop it.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  What is the meaning of the special appeal that multiple-partner fantasies hold for so many men and women? The ubiquitous imagery of two eager women in male pornography undoubtedly reflects and reinforces men’s interest in three-ways. But what about women? Their most popular form of erotica—the romance novel—virtually never includes multiple partners. With rare exceptions, such as when three people fall in love with one another, multiple partners do not easily fit the romantic ideal. Fantasies involving more than one partner typically have a purely lustful quality. Many factors contribute to the popularity of multiple partners—especially three-ways—among The Group’s fantasies. The fantasizer is virtually always the focal point of such scenarios. The role of both partners is to respond to every whim of the fantasizer and in doing so to affirm his or her irresistability. In addition, the fantasizer is always in control, whether he or she chooses to dominate, to submit, or prefers to watch the partners put on a show as they have sex with each other. I believe the most important attraction of three-ways is their ability to amplify whichever characteristics turn the fantasizer on. Typically, both partners are of the same gender and thus provide a double dose of maleness or femaleness. Consequently, straight women and gay men usually imagine two or more men, whereas straight men and lesbians gravitate toward two women. Not surprisingly, bisexuals sometimes enjoy the presence of both genders, but many prefer to take advantage of the amplification effect by fantasizing about two men or two women, depending on their inclination at the moment. Second only to the popularity of multiple partners in favorite fantasies are very casual or anonymous partners. Among most of the subgroups, regardless of gender, 20 to 24 percent of their favorite fantasies involve sexy strangers or casual, chance meetings. Bisexual men have the most fantasies of anonymous sex (40 percent) and lesbians have the fewest (17 percent). In real-life encounters most women want some link between sex and feelings of emotional connection, as compared with a significant number of men who do not necessarily require or even want such a connection. However, this distinction almost completely disappears in fantasy. It is a dramatic reminder that in the realm of the erotic imagination we are frequently exempt from the values and preferences that guide our actual behavior. In only 12 percent of cases does The Group select fantasy partners with whom they have any real involvement beyond their fantasies, whether as dates, boyfriends or girlfriends, or primary partners. Women, however, are more likely than men to fantasize about partners with whom they’re involved (14 percent and 9 percent respectively). An even greater gender difference appears in regard to being infatuated or in love with their fantasy partners. Women mention feelings of love more than three times more frequently than men (14 percent and 4 percent respectively). And once again, lesbians are the most likely (17 percent) to mention loving their fantasy partners.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  In other instances, time is a memorability factor for the opposite reason: because there’s so little of it. Stolen moments with a secret lover, a hurried outdoor tryst, a passionate embrace in an elevator, a “quickie” before running off to work—all stand out because time is scarce. A desire so intense that it demands expression, even when there is insufficient time for it, demonstrates its compelling urgency. Norman recalls with enthusiasm one evening when he and his girlfriend were rushing to get ready for a concert: Tammy and I often disagree about who should initiate sex, when, how often, and how long it should last. Sometimes it can be such a pain in the butt I’d rather avoid the whole thing. But there have been several times when all that crap goes out the window. This usually happens when we’re running late for something. Knowing that nothing will come of it I find it easier to be passionate, like one night when Tammy was dressing for the symphony. I rubbed her shoulders and she tried to push me away. But I wouldn’t quit. I enjoyed turning her on even though she whined, “Norrrrman, we’re going to be late.” Next thing you know I was kissing her neck and reaching in her panties. All of a sudden she became like an animal. She grabbed me and kissed me deep and hard while I rubbed her clit and brought her to an orgasm in a minute or two—much faster than usual. Just a few strokes of my cock and I came too. Then we went flying out the door, laughing like lunatics. At the concert she told me there was lipstick smeared on my face. We couldn’t stop laughing. Now why can’t it be like this all the time? Dr. Maslow noticed a curious phenomenon, difficult to explain or even describe, in his research on all kinds of peak experiences: pleasurable distortions of time and space. He made this observation: Not only does time pass in their ecstasies with a frightening rapidity so that a day may pass as if it were a minute, but also a minute so intensely lived may feel like a day or a year. It’s as if they had, in a way, some place in another world in which time simultaneously stood still and moved with great rapidity.6 Although this sounds rather “cosmic,” if you’ve ever had any kind of peak experience, you probably sense what Maslow’s getting at. PRACTICAL USES OF EROTIC MEMORABILITYJust because peak experiences can’t be ordered on demand, you need not wait passively. Knowledge of which memorability factors have contributed to your arousal in the past can help you cultivate conditions for more fulfilling sex now and in the future.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  I was attracted to a large football player type who was the bouncer at a gay disco. I eventually went on a “date” with him which just meant going to his house for sex. The man turned me on no end, even though the more we talked the more I realized he was a pig-headed jerk. He said he had fathered a couple of children and that women loved to be treated like dirt. But the most unpleasant part was that I was going to get fucked, which I normally would enjoy, except for the size of his penis. Just as they say in dirty magazines—it was the dick of death! Anyway, I suggested some other act but he said he was “sick and tired of hearing this shit from faggots.” So he pinned me down and forcibly fucked me. I’m not sure if he used a lubricant, but the pain was horrible. I lost my erection and prayed he would finish as quickly as possible. Because, I believe, my resistance was a turn-on to him, he did come quickly. Afterward I felt dazed and, amazingly, I was almost affectionate to him as I left, saying something like “I’ll see you soon.” Only later did I realize I had been raped! I would not like to repeat this experience, but even now I sometimes think about it while masturbating. In my fantasy, the pain doesn’t really hurt. But that jerk can still turn me on. Notice how ambivalence combines with intense power dynamics to make this encounter/fantasy memorable in spite of (or because of?) George’s distasteful partner. In a roundabout way, this experience is also energized by a deep longing for the sensitivity and caring that are so noticeably absent. George explains: Even as a kid I admired supermasculine men, the ones who never had to worry about being called a sissy. I remember imagining that one of them—the rougher and tougher the better—would fuck me with love and respect. I knew it would never happen, but I guess that’s what fantasies are for. It’s fascinating how George is able to retain in fantasy the exciting features of the encounter while filtering out the distasteful, hurtful parts. Both men and women report using this technique. THE AMBIVALENCE OF LOVINGSometimes the drama of overcoming ambivalence is most poignant in those on-again, off-again relationships that can be so tempestuous. Notice, for example, how a deep reluctance joins forces with longing for Joyce, a woman who was divorcing her husband. She hadn’t seen him in four months, or had sex with him for even longer: He called me at work to say he needed to see me. I was hesitant because in the past these encounters have led to either fights or outrageous sex. At the time I didn’t want either from him. Yet he was very persuasive so I agreed to meet him in spite of my better judgment.

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

  Dr. Mussey of Cincinnati relates this case: "A few years ago a tippler was put into an almshouse in this State. Within a few days he had devised various expedients to procure rum, but failed. At length, however, he hit upon one which was successful. He went into the wood-yard of the establishment, placed one hand upon the block, and with an axe in the other, struck it off at a single blow. With the stump raised and streaming he ran into the house and cried, 'Get some rum! get some rum! my hand is off!' In the confusion and bustle of the occasion a bowl of rum was brought, into which he plunged the bleeding member of his body, then raising the bowl to his mouth, drank freely, and exultingly exclaimed, 'Now I am satisfied.' Dr. J. E. Turner tells of a man who, while under treatment for inebriety, during four weeks secretly drank the alcohol from six jars containing morbid specimens. On asking him why he had committed this loathsome act, he replied: 'Sir, it is as impossible for me to control this diseased appetite as it is for me to control the pulsations of my heart.'" [491] The passion of love may be called a monomania to which all of us are subject, however otherwise sane. It can coexist with contempt and even hatred for the 'object' which inspires it, and whilst it lasts the whole life of the man is altered by its presence. Alfieri thus describes the struggles of his unusually powerful inhibitive power with his abnormally excited impulses toward a certain lady: "Contemptible in my own eyes, I fell into such a state of melancholy as would, if long continued, inevitably have led to insanity or death. I continued to wear my disgraceful fetters till towards the end of January, 1775, when my rage, which had hitherto so often been restrained within bounds, broke forth with the greatest violence. On returning one evening from the opera (the most insipid and tiresome amusement in Italy), where I had passed several hours in the box of the woman who was by turns the object of my antipathy and my love, I took the firm determination of emancipating myself forever from her yoke.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Here the apostle was confined two whole years (58–60), awaiting his trial before the Sanhedrin, uncondemned, occasionally speaking before Felix, apparently treated with comparative mildness, visited by the Christians, and in some way not known to us promoting the kingdom of God.417 After the accession of the new and better procurator, Festus, who is known to have succeeded Felix in the year 60, Paul, as a Roman citizen, appealed to the tribunal of Caesar and thus opened the way to the fulfilment of his long-cherished desire to preach the Saviour of the world in the metropolis of the world. Having once more testified his innocence, and spoken for Christ in a masterly defence before Festus, King Herod Agrippa II. (the last of the Herods), his sister Bernice, and the most distinguished men of Caesarea, he was sent in the autumn of the year 60 to the emperor. He had a stormy voyage and suffered shipwreck, which detained him over winter at Malta. The voyage is described with singular minuteness and nautical accuracy by Luke as an eye-witness. In the month of March of the year 61, the apostle, with a few faithful companions, reached Rome, a prisoner of Christ, and yet freer and mightier than the emperor on the throne. It was the seventh year of Nero’s reign, when he had already shown his infamous character by the murder of Agrippina, his mother, in the previous year, and other acts of cruelty. In Rome Paul spent at least two years till the spring of 63, in easy confinement, awaiting the decision of his case, and surrounded by friends and fellow- laborers "in his own hired dwelling." He preached the gospel to the soldiers of the imperial body-guard, who attended him; sent letters and messages to his distant churches in Asia Minor and Greece; watched over all their spiritual affairs, and completed in bonds his apostolic fidelity to the Lord and his church.418 In the Roman prison he wrote the Epistles to the Colossians, Ephesians, Philippians, and Philemon. 6. A.D. 63 and 64. With the second year of Paul’s imprisonment in Rome the account of Luke breaks off, rather abruptly, yet appropriately and grandly. Paul’s arrival in Rome secured the triumph of Christianity. In this sense it was true, "Roma locuta est, causa finita est." And he who spoke at Rome is not dead; he is still "preaching (everywhere) the kingdom of God and teaching the things concerning the Lord Jesus Christ, with all boldness, none forbidding him."419 But what became of him after the termination of those two years in the spring of 63? What was the result of the trial so long delayed? Was he condemned to death? or was he released by Nero’s tribunal, and thus permitted to labor for another season? This question is still unsettled among scholars. A vague

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  on the outside! Who will be the first to discover the chink in my armor? It’s just as well that the van Daans don’t have a daughter. My conquest could never be so challenging, so beautiful and so nice with someone of the same sex! Yours, Anne M. Frank PS. You know I’m always honest with you, so I think I should tell you that I live from one encounter to the next. I keep hoping to discover that he’s dying to see me, and I’m in raptures when I notice his bashful attempts. I think he’d like to be able to express himself as easily as I do; little does he know it’s his awkwardness that I find so touching. TUESDAY, MARCH 7,1944 Dearest Kitty, When I think back to my life in 1942, it all seems so unreal. The Anne Frank who enjoyed that heavenly existence was completely different from the one who has grown wise within these walls. Yes, it was heavenly. Five admirers on every street corner, twenty or so friends, the favorite of most of my teachers, spoiled rotten by Father and Mother, bags full of candy and a big allowance. What more could anyone ask for? You’re probably wondering how I could have charmed all those people. Peter says It s ecause I m “attractive,” but that isn’t it entirely. The teachers were amused and entertained by my clever answers, my witty remarks, my smthng face and my critical mind. That’s all I was: a terrible flirt, coquettish and amusing. I had a few plus points, which kept me in everybody’s good graces: I was hardworking, honest and generous. I would never have refused anyone who wanted to peek at my answers, I was magnanimous with my candy, and I wasn’t stuck-up. Would all that admiration eventually have made me overconfident? It’s a good thing that, at the height of my glory, I was suddenly plunged into reality. It took

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  And it was when I moved away from the centre of the spiral that I discovered something: my pleasure was never more intense than when it was the first time, not the first time that I made love with someone, but the first time we kissed; even the first embrace was enough. Obviously there were exceptions. Be that as it may, in most cases, even if what followed was not unpleasant, it was a bit like biting into the cone when you no longer have a mouthful of icecream to melt on your tongue, it had all the attraction of a painting that you admire but on which you are feasting your eyes for the fifteenth time. If I was taken by surprise, the pleasure was overwhelming. It is these situations which provide some of my clearest recollections of orgasms. I can cite them: late at night, crossing the huge lobby of an Intercontinental hotel; the elegant and distinguished assistant who has been travelling across the country with me for two weeks catches hold of my arm when we have just said goodnight to each other, pulls me to him and kisses me on the mouth. ‘In the morning, I’ll come and see you in your room.’ I can feel the spasm rising right up to my stomach and I set off towards the tiny little receptionists in the distance, twisting my ankle as I go. Another time, I dive down onto the carpet next to the master of the house who, slightly drunk, has crashed out on the floor next to some other guests, and who pulls me towards him by tugging under the neck of my sweater, and kisses me slowly with one of those cinema kisses that makes your head roll from side to side; this was not an evening destined to turn into an orgy, his wife was holding a conversation in the next room, one of his friends who was sitting on the floor like us and whose face happened to be on a level with ours, watched us in amazement. I go completely limp. And more: going to see the ‘Dernier Picasso’ exhibition at the Pompidou Centre with Bruno, with him there is always an element of chance. As he goes out of my field of vision while I go up to one of the paintings, his presence becomes all the more vivid and I am caught unawares by a brief but very distinct secretory discharge. As I carry on looking at the exhibition, I can feel the slimy patch on my tights shifting as I walk first against the lips of my vagina, then against the swell of my inner thigh. Now, whereas in an early period of my life I didn’t really care whether I experienced these feelings in more extensive contact, or during penetration, later on, when I had come to understand how singularly limited it was, I started to hope that that faraway tensing of an indefinable part of my lower abdomen and the famous wave that dissipated it could be repeated again and again as a relationship continued.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  I like the atmosphere of a deserted office, there is a feeling of calm which does not represent an end of activity, merely a suspension of it. The harassment of the working day is over, but it still threatens in the shape of a telephone ringing persistently, the gaping jaw of a computer monitor, a file left open. All the tools, all the materials and all the space at my disposal – and mine alone – give me the illusory but calming impression that I have an unlimited capacity for work. As I have already said, when others vacate space, they also vacate time, and it is as if I have all eternity at my disposal to learn how to use every piece of equipment, and to analyse and resolve every problem; it is as if the very fact that I can go into an office without having to introduce myself or apologise smoothes out my fitful, halting life. In these situations, and when I was joined in my solitary pursuit by a colleague who doubled as a sexual partner, I only very occasionally made use of the relative comfort of the carpet. Worktops were more commonly my platforms. You might think it was because that position, with the woman sitting on the edge of a table and the man standing between her legs, is easier to modify if a colleague should burst into the room. This is not so. It was actually because the movements flowed naturally. Vincent used to make up the dummies, and he and I would sometimes stand side by side looking through the page layouts, not thinking to sit down because he was a man in a hurry and perhaps because we felt we could evaluate them better with an extra 30cm distance. The slightest hesitation in the team of our work and I would turn round. One quick hop and, with my buttocks next to the dummies, my pubis was at the right level. And the level matters. Quite often the best moment to slip from a professional discussion to a silent embrace corresponds to a lapse in concentration, when, for example, you need to look for a document in a bottom drawer. As I bend over to get it, I push out my buttocks. All they want is to be grasped by two firm hands. Then they need a desk to lean on; I am always very cautious if I have to clear everything aside to lie on my back. But not all work surfaces are at the correct height, many are too low, and there are some desks I never went back to a second time. One graphic designer I used to go to see at his agency had cleverly addressed the problem by acquiring pedestal chairs whose height can be adjusted to the nearest centimetre. I would sit down on it in front of him, my genitals exactly opposite his. We had arranged to have a table behind him for me to put my feet on. We could stay like that for a long time without either of us tiring, for me it was like lying in a deck chair, while he rolled his supple waist as if he were turning a hula hoop. Intermittently he would substitute his own movement with that of the chair seat, grabbing it with both hands and swinging it fluidly from side to side.

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

  The craving for drink in real dipsomaniacs, or for opium or chloral in those subjugated, is of a strength of which normal persons can form no conception. "Were a keg of rum in one corner of a room and were a cannon constantly discharging balls between me and it, I could not refrain from passing before that cannon in order to get the rum;" "If a bottle of brandy stood at one hand and the pit of hell yawned at the other, and I were convinced that I should be pushed in as sure as I took one glass, I could not refrain:" such statements abound in dipsomaniacs' mouths. Dr. Mussey of Cincinnati relates this case: "A few years ago a tippler was put into an almshouse in this State. Within a few days he had devised various expedients to procure rum, but failed. At length, however, he hit upon one which was successful. He went into the wood-yard of the establishment, placed one hand upon the block, and with an axe in the other, struck it off at a single blow. With the stump raised and streaming he ran into the house and cried, 'Get some rum! get some rum! my hand is off!' In the confusion and bustle of the occasion a bowl of rum was brought, into which he plunged the bleeding member of his body, then raising the bowl to his mouth, drank freely, and exultingly exclaimed, 'Now I am satisfied.' Dr. J. E. Turner tells of a man who, while under treatment for inebriety, during four weeks secretly drank the alcohol from six jars containing morbid specimens. On asking him why he had committed this loathsome act, he replied: 'Sir, it is as impossible for me to control this diseased appetite as it is for me to control the pulsations of my heart.'"[491] The passion of love may be called a monomania to which all of us are subject, however otherwise sane. It can coexist with contempt and even hatred for the 'object' which inspires it, and whilst it lasts the whole life of the man is altered by its presence. Alfieri thus describes the struggles of his unusually powerful inhibitive power with his abnormally excited impulses toward a certain lady:

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  to touch my breasts and listen to the quiet, steady beating of my heart. Unconsciously, I had these feelings even before I came here. Once when I was spending the night at Jacque’s, I could no longer restrain my curiosity about her body, which she’d always hidden from me and which I’d never seen. I asked her whether, as proof of our friendiship, we could touch each other’s breasts. Jacque refused. I also had a terrible desire to kiss her, which I did. Every time I see a female nude, such as the Venus in my art history book, I go into ecstasy. Sometimes I find them so exquisite I have to struggle to hold back my tears. If only I had a girlfriend! THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944 Dearest Kitty, My longing for someone to talk to has become so unbearable that I somehow took it into my head to select Peter for this role. On the few occasions when I have gone to Peter’s room during the day, I’ve always thought it was nice and cozy. But Peter’s too polite to show someone the door when they’re bothering him, so I’ve never dared to stay long. I’ve always been afraid he’d think I was a pest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to linger in his room and get him talking without his noticing, and yesterday I got my chance. Peter, you see, is currently going through a crossword-puzzle craze, and he doesn’t do anything else all day. I was helping him, and we soon wound up sitting across from each other at his table, Peter on the chair and me on the divan. It gave me a wonderful feeling when I looked into his dark blue eyes and saw how bashful my unexpected visit had made him. I could read his innermost thoughts, and in his face I saw a look of helplessness and uncertainty as to how to behave, and at the same time a flicker of awareness of his masculinity. I saw his shyness, and I melted. I wanted to say, “Tell me about yourself. Look beneath my chatty exterior.” But I found that it was easier to think up questions than to ask them. The evening came to a close, and nothing happened, except that I told him about the article on blushing. Not what I wrote you, of course, just that he would grow more secure as he got older.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  spinach, spinach and more spinach. Maybe we’ll end up being as strong as Popeye, though up to now I’ve seen no sign of it! If Miep had taken us along to the party, there wouldn’t have been any rolls left over for the other guests. If we’d been there, we’d have snatched up everything in sight, including the furniture. I tell you, we were practically pulling the words right out of her mouth. We were gathered around her as if we’d never in all our lives heard of ” delicious food or elegant people! And these are the granddaughters of the distinguished millionaire. The world is a crazy place! Yours, Anne M. Frank DTUESDAY, MAY 9, 1944 Dearest Kitty, I’ve finished my story about Ellen, the fairy. I’ve copied it out on nice notepaper, decorated it with red ink and sewn the pages together. The whole thing looks quite pretty, but I don’t know if it’s enough of a birthday present. Margot and Mother have both written poems. Mr. Kugler came upstairs this afternoon with the news that starting Monday, Mrs. Broks would like to spend two hours in the office every afternoon. Just imagine! The office staff won’t be able to come upstairs, the potatoes can’t be delivered, Bep won’t get her dinner, we can’t go to the bathroom, we won’t be able to move and all sorts of other inconveniences! We proposed a variety of ways to get rid of her. Mr. van Daan thought a good laxative in her coffee might do the trick. “No,” Mr. Kleiman answered, “please don’t, or we’ll never get her off the can. A roar of laughter. “The can?” Mrs. van D. asked. “What does that mean?” An explanation was given. “Is it all right to use that word?” she asked in perfect innocence. “Just imagine,” Bep giggled, “there you are shopping at The Bijenkorf and you ask the way to the can. They wouldn’t even know what you were talking about!” Dussel now sits on the “can,” to borrow the expression, every day at twelve- thirty on the dot. This afternoon I boldly took a piece of pink paper and wrote: Mr. Dussel’s Toilet Timetable

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  The other case proves that the sharpest of our sensual experiences can forge a path for itself even through our least sensitive points of access. Even though I have no ear at all, and I only ever go to the opera for reasons that have nothing to do with the art of music, it is thanks to his voice that Jacques first appeared on the horizons of the vast plain of my desire. And yet his does not correspond to the stereotype of a sexy voice, it is neither velvet nor cracked. Someone had recorded him reading a text and then played the tape to me over the telephone. I can still feel the echo it set up within me, radiating out to the most highly receptive point on my body. I gave myself up entirely to this voice which itself seemed to give up entirely every detail of its speaker, a voice with the clarity and the calm rhythm of its brief inflexions, as firm and assured as a hand turning up its palm to mean ‘there you have it’. Some time later I heard it on the telephone again, live this time, pointing out a typo in a catalogue in which Jacques had been involved and on which I was working. Jacques offered to come and help me correct the copies. We spent hours on the work, just inches away from each other in a tiny office, with me very embarrassed by my mistake while he just got on with correcting it. He was attentive without being especially friendly. After one of these tedious sessions, he asked whether I would like to join him for dinner at the home of a close friend of his. After dinner, when several of us were squeezed next to each other on a bed serving as a sofa (which meant adopting an uncomfortable, semi-prone position), he stroked my wrist with the back of his index finger. It was an unexpected, unusual and quite delicious gesture, and it still moves me now, even when it is addressed to someone else’s skin. I followed Jacques to the studio he was living in at the time. In the morning he asked me who I was sleeping with. ‘With lots of people,’ I replied. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to fall in love with a girl who’s sleeping with lots of people.’

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Some of them suggest it would be karmic payback, but I’m not interested in revenge. I am hurt, but what I want from Michael is continued acknowledgement of how deeply he’s wounded me, not vengeance. I don’t want to get back at him, but I do want to experience aspects of life that have been unavailable to me up to this point, like Blaze, the current object of my fantasies. Frugal as I am, I am prepared to shell out big bucks for new bikinis that will help in my hunt. I ask my friend Jen for help. We meet at a bathing suit boutique and carry dozens of options into the fitting room, treating this like a broad science experiment. What will it take to get a breathtaking 30-something man who sits on a beach and witnesses beautiful bodies all day long to notice a petite Jewish woman with a pancake ass who is nearing fifty? I have convinced myself that the secret lies in the suit I pick and attack it as such, finally landing on one bikini I think is adequate. The next week, I fixate on needing another bikini. It’s as if the slate of the past year is going to be washed clean if I can find the perfect bikini. Lauren and I head to Bloomingdale’s, where I try on a string bikini with a tropical floral print. She walks into my fitting room as I am snapping a picture of myself to send to #6 to see if he thinks this will do the trick. My phone rings and I assume it’s #6 weighing in with an opinion, but it’s Michael calling from a bag store I love in Soho to tell me they have a new line of backpacks that would be ideal for the new laptop he got for me and he wants to get me one as a gift. Meanwhile, #6 texts to say the bikini is a winner. Lauren looks at me agape, shaking her head and laughing. “Girl,” she says, “I never want to hear you complain again. Your ex-husband is sending over a fancy new bag for you, you’re going on an all-expenses-paid trip to the Caribbean, you’re sending photos to your boyfriend to advise if you can get a new lover with these bikinis. Talk about being handed lemons and making lemonade! If you ever complain to me about anything again, I will remind you of this moment.” “But—” I start. “No, stop right there. I’ve lived through the past year with you. I’ve seen you at your lowest moments and I’m telling you, what you’ve pulled off is magic.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  He is tall and dark with pale eyes, quite impressive in the darkness. He apologises amicably, he can see that I’m eating, begs me not to stop just because of him… I am ashamed of the crumbs in the corners of my mouth. I say no, no, I’m not really hungry, and I chuck the sandwich away furtively. He takes me away. He drives his convertible along the Grande Corniche above Nice. He takes one hand off the steering wheel to reply to mine rubbing against the rough surface of bulge in his jeans. That swelling impeded by the tight, stiff fabric is an efficient stimulant for me every time. Do I want to go and eat somewhere? No. I think he’s driving a bit further than he needs to, taking detours before getting home. He keeps his eyes on the road as I undo his belt. I recognise that little forward movement of the hips that a driver has to make to make it easier to undo the zip. Then there is the laborious process of extricating the member which has grown too big to slip straight out of the double envelope of cotton. You yourself have to have a wide enough hand to gather up all the parts in one smooth gesture. I am always afraid of hurting. He has to help me. At last I can get on with my conscientious hand job. I never start too quickly, I really prefer following all its length, feeling the elasticity of the fine sheath of flesh. I put my mouth to it. I try to hold my body as far aside as possible so as not to be in his way when he changes gear. I keep to a moderate rhythm. I am conscious of the danger that driving in these conditions could represent, and, as a result, have no inclination to court it. As far as I can remember, it was a very pleasant encounter. Even so, I didn’t want to stay the night with him and he had to take me back to the villa before the gang got back. It is not that I had forbidden myself sleeping out, but that I wanted the time I had spent with him to stay as it was (like when your thoughts wander off into a daydream half way through a conversation), a private place to which the others, for once, would not have access.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  Image and language are in cahoots. It is so stimulating to look in a mirror and measure – to the nearest centimetre – the amount of flesh that your own flesh can swallow, and this is because the show gives rise to words. ‘Oh my! It’s going in so smoothly, so deep! – Hang on, I’m going to leave it there so that you can really see it, I’ll do the business later…’ One kind of dialogue that Jacques and I adopted willingly can be characterised by its purely factual being. If the vocabulary is crude and limited, this is less to do with a desire to provoke each other by upping the obscenity stakes than a need to be accurate in our descriptions. ‘Can you feel how wet I am? Even my thighs are soaked, and my little clit’s all swollen.’ ‘God, you move your arse well! Does it want my prick? Does it?’ ‘Yes, but I want to feel your knob on my clit again first, can I rub you against it?’ ‘Yes, and afterwards we’re going to give the arse a good ramming!’ ‘That’s good. How about you, does your dick like it?’ ‘Yes, he likes it.’ ‘Is it pulling on your balls too?’ ‘Yes, it’s pumping them really well. But, hey, we’re going to give this cunt another really good thrust, aren’t we?’ And so the exchange goes on in a tone of voice which remains, even as we approach the conclusion, fairly measured. In so far as we don’t see or feel the same thing at the same time, each speaks to the other with the intention of adding to their knowledge. You could also say that we were like two dubbing actors, their eyes riveted on the screen where they watch the actions of the characters to whom they give their voices: with our words we relay the actions of the protagonists in the porn film we are watching, and whose names are Arse, Cunt, Balls and Prick.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  For some indiscernible reason, then, the ‘couple culture’ I am describing played out its adventures mainly in bucolic settings. It’s true that fucking in sunken tracks is less risky than in the porches of buildings. That is not to say that, with other lovers, both Jacques and I did not use urban locations. But Métro station corridors (where an employee uses the jostle of the crowd to brush imperceptibly over my buttocks – a tacit invitation to join him in a box-room cluttered with pails and brooms) and little cafés in the suburbs (where joyless men take me in turns on a bench seat in the back room) are places I have visited with Jacques only in my imagination. And even then was I taking him there? I have stopped doing it now, but there was a time when I liked to redecorate the room with my elaborate fantasies, gradually detailing the settings and the positions I adopted, in an almost questioning tone of voice because I would wait for Jacques’ acquiescence, which he would grant in a neutral voice and with the indifferent spontaneity of someone who’s thinking about something else (but he was probably only feigning indifference), while his tool filed sweetly and steadily. I draw two conclusions from these points. The first is that, within a couple, each person brings with them their own fantasies and desires, and that these combine into shared habits which then modulate and adjust to each other and, depending on the extent to which each partner wants them to be realised, cross the barrier between dream and reality without losing any of their intensity. My obsession with numbers found its realisation when I practised group sex with Claude and with Éric, because that was how their own desires fused with mine. On the other hand, I did not feel any frustration at never taking part in group sex with Jacques (even when he told me he had done so without me); it must simply be that that was not the way of our shared sexuality. It was enough for me to tell him about my adventures and to intuit that they found some resonance in his fantasies, just as it was enough for him that I was a willing accomplice for his photographic reportages in those variously polluted landscapes, and an exhibitionist ready to expose herself for his lens – even if my narcissism would have preferred more flattering backgrounds and more stylised portraits …