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 294 of 344 · 20 per page

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  He parted her legs as if he wanted to break them apart. His hair fell on her face. Smelling it, she felt the orgasm coming and called out to him to increase his thrusts so that they could come together. At the moment of the orgasm he cried out in a tiger’s roar, a tremendous sound of joy, ecstasy and furious enjoyment such as she had never heard. It was as she had imagined the Arab would cry, like some jungle animal, satisfied with his prey, who roars with pleasure. She opened her eyes. Her face was covered with his black hair. She took it into her mouth. Their bodies were completely tangled. Her panties had been so hurriedly pulled down that they had fallen the length of her legs and lay around her ankles, and he had somehow inserted his foot into one half of the panties. They looked at their legs bound together by this bit of black chiffon, and they laughed. She returned many times to his apartment. Her desire would begin long before each meeting, as she dressed for him. At all hours of the day his perfume would issue from some mysterious source and haunt her. Sometimes as she was about to cross a street, she would remember his scent so vividly that the turmoil between her legs would make her stand there, helpless, dilated. Something of it clung to her body and disturbed her at night when she was sleeping alone. She had never been so easily aroused. She had always needed time and caresses, but for the Arab, as she called him to herself, it seemed as if she were always erotically prepared, so much so that she was aroused long before he touched her, and what she feared was that she would come at the very first touch of his finger on her sex. That happened once. She arrived at his apartment moist and trembling. The lips of her sex were as stiff as if they had been caressed, her nipples hard, her whole body quivering, and as he kissed her he felt her turmoil and slipped his hand directly to her sex. The sensation was so acute that she came. And then one day, about two months after their liaison, she went to him and when he took her in his arms she felt no desire. He did not seem to be the same man. As he stood in front of her she coldly observed his elegance and his ordinariness. He looked like any elegant Frenchman one could see walking down the Champs Élysées, or at opening nights, or at the races.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Está tan callado y es tan ruidoso que está palpitando en mis oídos. Al inicio, es rápido. Envuelvo mis brazos al frente de mi cuerpo, nerviosa como si esta fuera la primera vez que me tocan. Pero entonces se hace más lento, su mano se queda en mi hombro por más tiempo y aumenta la presión mientras presiona mis curvas y pasa sus dedos por la pendiente de mi cuello, mi columna y luego mis caderas. El pulso entre mis piernas empieza a palpitar y mis parpados se agitan. Su mano llega a la piel desnuda de mi cadera, deteniéndose ahí por un momento y dejo salir el aire, tan nerviosa en este momento, pero excitada. No estoy imaginando esto. No estoy imaginado la forma en que se siente su toque. Tragando saliva, miro lentamente hacia el costado, viendo su cuerpo por encima de mi hombro y estiro mi brazo, tomando el dobladillo de mi camiseta, vacilando solo durante un momento antes de pasarla por encima de mi cabeza. Luego, rápidamente, me estiro y tomo una de las toallas limpias de las escaleras, abrazándola frente a mi cuerpo. Quiero que me vea, pero estoy tan asustada de que me aparte. Dejo caer mi camiseta empapada y me quedo ahí parada, miedo y deseo consumiendo cualquier pensamiento racional. Durante un rato, el chorro continuo de agua solo cae, excavando un agujero en el césped. Y entonces, está sobre mí. Cayendo en cascada sobre mi hombro, bajando por el filo de mi espalda, mientras su mano sigue la caída del agua, limpiando cualquier suciedad que todavía permaneciera. Cierro mis ojos, mareada. Es cálido en mi espalda y me doy cuenta que ahora está más cerca, cerniéndose por encima de mí desde atrás. Lo escucho tragar saliva. —La toalla se va a mojar —dice, su voz suena rasposa. Una sonrisa tira de mis labios, pero no la dejo mostrarse por completo. Abriendo mis ojos, alejo la toalla de mi cuerpo y la lanzo de regreso hacia las escaleras, la excitación como una corriente eléctrica bajo cada centímetro de mi piel. No recuerdo alguna vez desear tanto algo como esto. Limpia mi espalda, mis brazos y también inclina mi cabeza de lado a lado para asegurarse que no haya suciedad allí. Termino de destrenzar mi cabello y paso mis dedos por él para peinarlo, sintiendo algunos mechones húmedos revueltos con los que están secos. Quiero verlo y saber lo que está pensando, pero estoy asustada de romper el hechizo, y si lo miro, ambos podríamos ser ahuyentados. Y esto se siente tan bien. —¿Mis piernas están limpias? —pregunto por encima de mi hombro. Sé que estoy siendo malvada, pero todavía no quiero que termine. Solo toma un momento, pero entonces siento el agua golpear la parte de atrás de mis piernas, y lentamente, toma una rodilla intentado obtener un mejor punto de vista.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Aunque repentinamente, agarra la parte posterior de mis muslos y me levanta, obligando a que mis piernas se envuelvan alrededor de él. Fijándome contra la pared, me mira y niega con la cabeza. —No vas a ir ninguna parte. Y luego se lanza hacia mí, capturando la parte inferior de mi barbilla en su boca. Jadeo, mi cabeza cae hacia atrás y mis párpados se cierran, mientras muerde y besa, enviando cosquillas a lo largo de mis brazos. Me aferro a sus hombros y cedo, retorciéndome contra él y anhelando la fricción de él entre mis piernas. Uno de sus brazos me sostiene mientras el otro se arrastra hasta el tirante de mi sostén, tirando hacia abajo, así puede besar la piel de mi hombro. Jadeo, desesperada. —Quítalo. Por favor. Su mano se mueve a mi espalda, pero en lugar de desabrocharlo, tira del tirante y lo lleva hacia abajo. Sin embargo, solo estoy desnuda por un momento antes que ambos escuchemos una puerta cerrándose de golpe en el interior de la casa y nos sobresaltamos. —¿Papá? —dice Cole en voz alta—. ¿Estás despierto? —Mierda —sisea Pike entre dientes. —Oh, Dios. —Me retuerzo fuera de su agarre y me suelta. Me agacho, recogiendo mi camiseta y mis zapatos de nuevo, levantándolos para cubrirme. Veo la luz de la cocina encendiéndose a través de la puerta trasera y rodeo el costado de la casa, escondiéndome fuera de vista. Mi corazón late con fuerza en mis oídos y no puedo tragar. Echo un vistazo alrededor de la esquina hacia Pike y él mira alrededor como si no estuviera seguro de qué hacer, pero finalmente toma la manguera, el agua sigue corriendo y continúa lavando sus brazos y manos ya limpios. —¡Sí, aquí afuera! —llama, su manzana de Adán rebota de arriba abajo. Oigo el crujir de la puerta mosquitera al abrirse y me retraigo, asegurándome de estar fuera de la vista. —Hola, ¿qué estás haciendo? —pregunta Cole. Rápidamente vuelvo a abrochar mi sujetador y me pongo de nuevo mi camiseta empapada. —Solo limpiando —responde Pike—. El río casi inundó al puerto hoy. Intenté llamarte. —Sí, lo siento. Hay un momento de silencio y todo lo que puedo escuchar es el agua derramándose sobre la hierba ahora inundada. —¿Dónde está Jordan? —dice Cole. —No sé... ¿adentro? Mis ojos caen y la culpa me golpea como una puñalada. Tuvo que mentirle. Quiero decir, por supuesto que lo haría. Yo también lo hubiera hecho. Pero la realidad se asienta respecto a que puedo dejar a Cole y alejarme y la vida continuará. Pike no puede hacer eso. Es su hijo. —¿Te quedas? —pregunta Pike. —Solo voy a recoger algunas cosas —explica Cole, sonando solemne—. No creo que ella me quiera cerca por lo menos durante un tiempo. Gracias por dejarla quedarse aquí. La voz de Pike apenas está por encima de un susurro. —No hay problema. Hay más silencio y luego escucho que el agua se detiene y algo de movimiento.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

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

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

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

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Llevo mi bolso a la cocina, lo coloco junto a mi modelo sobre la mesa, y luego saco una botella de agua del refrigerador y me dirijo al piso de arriba. Saco una toalla del armario del pasillo, camino por la habitación de Pike y me dirijo a su baño privado. El baño principal está terminado, pero aún no he sacado mis cosas, y no tengo planes de hacerlo. Cerrando la puerta, me desvisto hasta quedar en sujetador y bragas, inicio la aplicación en mi teléfono, reproduciendo Hurts So Good, y mojo mi cepillo de dientes antes de ponerle un poco de pasta dental. La puerta se abre, y me incorporo, momentáneamente sobresaltada hasta que veo que es Pike. Cierra detrás de él. —Eso no fue divertido —dice, mirándome severamente. —No estaba tratando de hacerte reír —murmuro sobre el cepillo de dientes. Sus labios se curvan con leve diversión mientras viene detrás de mí, dándome la vuelta y empujándome hacia el fregadero. —¿Tratando de sacarme de mi zona de confort entonces? Sonrío. —Lo haces con mucha frecuencia —acusa, pero sé que no está enojado. Me encojo de hombros y me doy vuelta, escupiendo la pasta de dientes y enjuagándome la boca. —No puedo evitarlo —le digo, secándome la boca con la toalla en el fregadero y mirándolo a través del espejo—. No me gusta tu zona de confort. Está muy apretado allí para los dos. Sus manos recorren mi estómago, y me abraza a su pecho desnudo mientras besa mi cuello. —Pero me gustan los lugares apretados —susurra. Me giro y sostengo su mirada mientras desabrocho su cinturón. —Necesitas una ducha —le digo—. ¿Todavía está aquí? Toma mis manos, deteniéndome. —Sí, por desgracia... Camino hacia la ducha, abro la puerta y enciendo el agua. —Sabes —le digo—, si soy demasiados problemas, puedo salir de tu vista. April me llamó hoy. Me hizo una oferta. Se da vuelta y cruza sus brazos sobre su pecho, recostándose en el fregadero. —¿April? —repite—. ¿Cómo consiguió tu número? ¿Y qué tipo de oferta? Desabrocho mi sujetador, dejándolo caer al suelo, y empujo mi ropa interior por mis piernas. Sus ojos se posan en mí, descansando en mis pechos, su parte favorita, y continúo. —Su hermano es dueño de una casa y no ha tenido suerte alquilándola —le explico—. Pensó que sería genial para que me mudara. El alquiler es barato a cambio de limpiar el lugar. Toda una casa para mí sola. Entro en la ducha, pero cuando trato de cerrar la puerta, Pike la mantiene abierta. —Bueno, fue muy amable por su parte —dice, sin parecer nada feliz. Luego comienza a desabotonar sus jeans, de repente decide unirse a mí, supongo. Asiento inocentemente. —Mmm-hmm —digo—. Ella es un ángel. Muy desinteresada. —Correcto. —Frunce una ceja y entra, cerrando la puerta.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  One heroic diver would come over, eat me out, slowly, slowly, daring me not to come. Sometimes I’d last over an hour. How wonderful to be in the position of trying to hold back, of not praying to come. There was one thing he did want, to lick my ass. Okay, I said, go ahead. But he didn’t just lick my ass, he fucked my ass with his tongue, very impressive indeed, never had a tongue deeper to date. He never took his clothes off, and he had the good taste to never kiss me on the mouth. There is risk, however, with the Pussy Hounds. The final fading of my respect has sometimes happened when a man is so eager to suck my pussy that I know he indulges his need to please rather than an actual love of pussy. It’s distracting. Intention is all—I can feel it with my clit. It is more important to me that a man love pussy in general than mine in particular. After all, if he likes them as a whole, then mine is a slam dunk. But if a man likes only mine and not all the others, well, I just don’t trust him. With this type of man I have learned to guide my orgasm with fantasy, and, like him, play the using game. While he licks furiously, indulging his codependence, I file through my Rolodex of every man I’ve ever known, all in the audience, erections puncturing the air, watching this one lap at the altar they all still covet. Works every time. It is my altruism, not my narcissism, that fosters this fantasy. After all, a man can acquire such wisdom at the source of a woman’s orgasm: how to slow down, speed up, be consistent, be nonlinear, be persistent, be unpredictable, be patient, be outrageous, be generous, be witty. There is, in fact, nothing of value, philosophically and practically, that he can’t learn if he can turn the delta of Venus into the site of Vesuvius. Most men will lick and suck and drink a pussy—and I’m not complaining. But it is the rare man who does so with his whole consciousness poised on his tongue. It is this awareness that will move a woman; when her consciousness—on her clit—encounters his, orgasm marks their meeting. Ultimately, it is here—or rather, down there—that a man will learn how to be a winner or a loser, with women as in life. TRINITY If old-fashioned fucking-for-two remained a minefield for me, fucking-for-three continued to be a delight. The Pre-Raphaelite redhead plotted reunions, and we three got together every month or so with unplanned regularity for over a year. I returned to my New Year’s Eve lovers again and again, hungry for love and freedom—a previously impossible duet in my experience. Says Jesus in the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas:

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Under their feet was a big white fur. They fell on this, the three bodies in accord, moving against each other to feel breast against breast and belly against belly. They ceased to be three bodies. They became all mouths and fingers and tongues and senses. Their mouths sought another mouth, a nipple, a clitoris. They lay entangled, moving very slowly. They kissed until the kissing became a torture and the body grew restless. Their hands always found yielding flesh, an opening. The fur they lay on gave off an animal odor, which mingled with the odors of sex. Elena sought the fuller body of Bijou. Leila was more aggressive. She had Bijou lying on her side, with one leg thrown over Leila’s shoulder, and she was kissing Bijou between the legs. Now and then Bijou jerked backwards, away from the stinging kisses and bites, the tongue that was as hard as a man’s sex. When she moved thus, her buttocks were thrown fully against Elena’s face. With her hands Elena had been enjoying the shape of them, and now she inserted her finger into the tight little aperture. There she could feel every contraction caused by Leila’s kisses, as if she were touching the wall against which Leila moved her tongue. Bijou, withdrawing from the tongue that searched her, moved into a finger which gave her joy. Her pleasure was expressed in melodious ripples of her voice, and now and then, like a savage being taunted, she bared her teeth and tried to bite the one who was tantalizing her. When she was about to come and could no longer defend herself against her pleasure, Leila stopping kissing her, leaving Bijou halfway on the peak of an excruciating sensation, half-crazed. Elena had stopped at the same moment. Uncontrollable now, like some magnificent maniac, Bijou threw herself over Elena’s body, parted her legs, placed herself between them, glued her sex to Elena’s, and moved, moved with desperation. Like a man now, she thumped against Elena, to feel the two sexes meeting, soldering. Then as she felt her pleasure coming she stopped herself, to prolong it, fell backwards and opened her mouth to Leila’s breast, to burning nipples that were seeking to be caressed.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Once or twice in the middle of the night he awakened, and he drew his body close and breathlessly fondled her. Her body was limp and warm in sleep. He dared to lift her nightgown by the hem, to raise it high over her breasts and pass his hand over her body to feel the outline of it. She did not awaken. This gave him courage. He did nothing more than stroke her, softly feeling the curves of her body with care, every line of it, until he knew just where the skin grew softer, where the fullest flesh lay, where the valleys were, where the pubic hair began. What he did not know was that Martha was half awake and enjoying his caresses, but never moving for fear of frightening him. Once she was so warmed with the searching of his hands that she almost reached an orgasm. And once he dared to place his erect desire against her buttocks, but no more. Each night he dared a little more, surprised that he did not waken her. His desire was constant, and Martha was kept in such a state of erotic fever that she marveled at her own power of deception. John became bolder. He had learned to slip his sex between her legs and to rub very gently without penetrating her. The pleasure was so great he then began to understand all the lovers of the world. Tantalized by so many nights of repression, John one night forgot his precautions and took the half-sleeping Martha like a thief, and was amazed to hear little sounds of pleasure coming from her throat at his thrusts. He did not go into the army. And Martha kept her two lovers satisfied, Pierre during the day and John at night. [image file=image_rsrc1RD.jpg] ManuelManuel had developed a peculiar form of enjoyment that caused his family to repudiate him, and he lived like a bohemian in Montparnasse. When not obsessed with his erotic exigencies, he was an astrologer, an extraordinary cook, a great conversationalist and an excellent café companion. But not one of these occupations could divert his mind from his obsession. Sooner or later Manuel had to open his pants and exhibit his rather formidable member. The more people there were, the better. The more refined the party, the better. If he got among the painters and models, he waited until everybody was a little drunk and gay, and then he undressed himself completely. His ascetic face, dreamy and poetic eyes and lean monklike body were so much in dissonance with his behavior that it startled everyone. If they turned away from him, he had no pleasure. If they looked at him for any time at all, then he would fall into a trance, his face would become ecstatic, and soon he would be rolling on the floor in a crisis of orgasm.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  She saw him hastening his movements. Then he stopped himself. He turned and began undressing her very gently. Bijou thought that now he had lost interest in the nightgown and would make love to her. He took her stockings off, leaving her garters on her naked flesh. Next he lifted off the dress, which was still warm from the contact with her body. To please him Bijou was wearing black panties. These he slowly pulled down, and stopped halfway to look at the emerging ivory flesh, part of her ass, the beginning of the dimpled valley. There, he kissed her, slipping his tongue along the delicious crevice, as he continued to pull off the panties. He left no part unkissed as he drew them along her thighs, and the silk felt like another hand on her flesh. As she raised one leg to free herself from the panties, he could see fully into her sex. He kissed her there, and then she raised her other leg and rested them both on his shoulders. He held the panties in his hand and continued to kiss her, leaving her moist and panting. Then he turned away and buried his face in the panties, in the nightgown, wrapped the stockings around his penis, laid the black silk dress over his belly. The clothes seemed to have on him the same effect as a hand. He was convulsed with excitement. Bijou again tried to touch his penis with her mouth, her hands, but he repulsed her. She lay naked and hungry at his side, watching his pleasure. It was tantalizing and cruel. She tried to kiss the rest of his body, but he did not respond. He continued to caress and kiss and smell the clothes until his body began to tremble. He lay back, his penis shaking in the air, with nothing to encircle it, hold it. He shook with pleasure from head to foot, biting into the panties, chewing on them, all the time his erect penis near Bijou’s mouth, yet inaccessible to her. Finally the penis shuddered violently, and as the white foam appeared at the tip of it, Bijou threw herself on it to gather the last spurts. One afternoon when Bijou and the African were together, and Bijou had found it impossible to attract his desire to her own body, she said in exasperation, “Look, I am getting an overdeveloped vulva from your constant kissing and biting there; you pull at the lips as if they were nipples. They are growing longer.” He took the lips between his thumb and forefinger, and examined them. He spread them open like the petals of a flower, and said: “One could pierce them and hang an earring on them, as we do in Africa. I want to do that to you.”

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  It was always just the right balance of that element of not being sure that kept me so in love, so full of desire, so very excited about him. He had never bent to my will, and that wasn’t going to change now. He had always shown me his love; but he wouldn’t confirm it on demand. It was clear to me that A-Man was going to do nothing to resolve this problem. So I had to do something. I got this idea in my head to discuss with the mousy brunette, in a girlie kind of way, the problem, our problem: him. This woman’s agony was now threatening the safety of my world with A-Man, and perhaps if we talked, she and I could work something out. Besides, it wasn’t just her pain anymore; it was also mine. The story was becoming about her and me, with A-Man watching from the sidelines. Was this some unresolved Electra thing? Maybe, but I had no time to think about mythology right now. This was war. And, with her, I had no intention of surrendering. Contriving to run into her at the gym, I approached her boldly in my carefully planned outfit and asked if we had “something to talk about.” Although she was not sure that we did, she said she was willing to talk. I asked her what had happened. She said that she had been so unhappy with him, with having so little of him, that she’d asked him about the other women in his life. The Truth Will Set You Free Strategy: she’d suspected that his answer would hurt her, but she’d hoped that it would give her the courage to stop seeing him. Well, clearly it hadn’t, because almost immediately she was trying the same strategy again with me, asking me all these intensely personal questions. How often did he and I fuck? Did he sleep over? Did we eat dinner together? And I found myself doing the most awful thing. I found myself answering her, praying that this time her strategy would succeed, even though I knew it wouldn’t. And so we all limped along: no monogamy, no threesome, more fucking, no resolution. #276 He directed me onto all fours. He stood behind me and gently but insistently tapped my pubic bone skyward. I raised my ass to meet him. He tapped the insides of both thighs. I separated my legs. I laid my head down on the bed, ass high, back arched. He parted my pussy, found my little clit, and began looking and sucking and flicking. I imagined that other chick, the one with the wide ass, sitting in a chair, naked, legs spread, as he knelt before her pussy.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Title : The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir Author: Bentley, Toni The Surrender An Erotic Memoir Toni Bentley [image file=image_rsrc1FY.jpg] Dedication Virginia Woolf believed that no woman had succeeded in writing the truth of the experience of her own body—that women and language both would have to change considerably before anything like that could happen. —Claudia Roth Pierpont Contents Dedication Prologue THE HOLY FUCK BEFORE THE SEARCH MY MIRROR, MY MASTER SEX HISTORY THE MASSEUR NEW YEAR’S EVE MEN SCANTY PANTIES HOUND SEX TRINITY MAN OF GOD THE LAST BOYFRIEND DURING A-MAN WHY THERE? #41 ENTERING THE EXIT #75 THE DOUBLE-SPHINCTER THEORY #98 PROFILE OF AN ASS-FUCKER OBITUARY #101 THE UNWRITTEN RULES #121 K-Y TRACELESS Why him? Four things: STATISTICS PUBLIC INTEREST #145 and #146 GETTING READY New Year’s Arithmetic HIS COCK THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT #156 THE LESSON THE UNFORTUNATE AND BORING PLIGHT OF SO MANY WOMEN #162 DEVOTION RAZING THE BARRE #175 OLD ORGASMS #181 SOUVENIRS #200 FOREPLAY REAR ENTRY #220 ANAL ORGASM #246 THE BOX PARADISE #262 REAR-ENDED HER WAR #276 THE BANANA #291 SAVING FACE AFTER ACCOUNTING RECLAMATION BACKDOOR BUDDHA HEELED Acknowledgments About the Author Praise for The Surrender Also by Toni Bentley Credits Copyright About the Publisher Prologue I once loved a man so much that I no longer existed—all Him, no Me. Now I love myself just enough that no man exists—all Me, no Them. They all used to be God, and I used to be a figment of my own imagination; now men are figments of my imagination. Same game, different positions. I don’t know how to play any other way. Someone must be on top, someone on bottom. Side by side is a bore. I tried it once for a few wildly disorienting minutes. Equality negates progress, prevents action. But a top and a bottom, well, they can get to the moon and back before equals can negotiate who pays, who gets laid, and who gets the blame. My transformation, however, was not from bottom to top, but from bottom to bottom: from my wretched emotional submission to my blessed sexual submission. This is the story of my switch—and of paying its price. Very expensive. Priceless. THE HOLY FUCK This pleasure is such that nothing can interfere with it, and the object that serves it cannot, in savoring it, fail to be transported to the third heaven. No other is as good, no other can satisfy as fully both of the individuals who indulge in it, and those who have experienced it can revert to other things only with difficulty. —DONATIEN DE SADE His was first. In my ass.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

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

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

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

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

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

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

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

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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