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 Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  342 Lecture 51: Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz Lecture 51 In this lecture, we turn to the work of Mexican writer Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz. In Molière’s 1662 comedy, L’Ecole des femmes, A School for Wives, a character mocks women’s desire for education. “She has no need, whatever she may think, of writing table, paper, pen, or ink.” T he Enlightenment was not confi ned to Europe, nor was it a thoroughly masculine enterprise. The voice of women can be heard—in countries far from France or England—and in an occupation the least resembling the public intellectual. Sor Juana, a Mexican nun, claims for herself and other women the right to pursue an intellectual life, despite her recognition that such a pursuit may well con fl ict not only with her religious devotions but also with the social roles assigned to women. In this lecture, we will study Sor Juana’s “Reply to Sor Filotea de la Cruz” (1691), a text written in response to her bishop’s suggestion that she focus her learning on religious matters rather than on philosophical commentaries and other secular forms, such as lyric poetry and drama. Sor Juana’s insistence that she can be both the bride of Christ and a scholar prefi gures the determination of many women, even into the 21 st century, who confront a similar tension between their gender and their desire for knowledge. What kind of life could an intellectual woman expect to lead in the 17th and 18 th centuries? The 17 th-century Mexican composer, poetess, dramatist, philosopher, feminist, and Catholic nun, Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz, represents both the ful fi llment of, and the exception to, her culture’s expectations. All models of what constitutes excellence in literature (as in life) were drawn from classical traditions that speci fi cally excluded women. Some exceptions existed, however: Restoration playwright Aphra Behn, or novelist Eliza Haywood, or feminist philosopher Mary Astell. Sister Juana Inés was born in 1648, the daughter of a Spanish gentleman and an illiterate mother. She learned to read and write at age 3, read everything she could from her grandfather’s library, and when she found that the most desirable books were in Latin, mastered the language. Juana went to her

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  3. Every intelligence naturally desires the vision of the divine substance (Chapp.XXV,L ). But a natural desire cannot be in vain. Any and every created intelligence then can arrive at the vision of the divine substance; and inferiority of nature is no impediment. Hence the Lord promises to man the glory of the angels: They shall be as the angels of God in Heaven (Matt. xxii, 30); and in the Apocalypse the same measure is said to be of man and angel: the measure of a man, that is, of an angel (Apoc. xxi, 17). Therefore often in Holy Scripture the angels are described in the form of men, either entirely so, as with the angels who appeared to Abraham (Gen. xviii), or partially, as with the living creatures of whom it is said that the hand of a man was under their wings (Ezech. i, 8). CHAPTER LVIII THAT ONE MAY SEE GOD MORE PERFECTLY THAN ANOTHERTHE light of glory raises to the vision of God in this, that it is a certain likeness to the divine understanding (Chap.LIII). But a thing may be likened to God with more or less of closeness. Therefore one may see the divine substance with more or less of perfection. 4. The end must correspond to the means taken to gain it. But not all subsistent intelligences are equally prepared for their end, which is the vision of the divine substance: for some are of greater virtue, some of less, virtue being the way to happiness. Therefore there must be a diversity in their vision of God. Hence it is said: in my Father’s House there are many mansions (John xiv, 2). In the mode of vision then there appear diverse grades of glory among the Blessed, but in respect of the object of vision their glory is the same. Hence to all the labourers in the vineyard, though they have not laboured equally, the Lord tells us that the same reward, or penny, is to be given, because the same object is given to all to see and enjoy, namely, God. CHAPTER LIX HOW THEY WHO SEE THE DIVINE SUBSTANCE SEE ALL THINGSSINCE the vision of the divine substance is the final end of every subsistent intelligence, and the natural desire of every being is at rest when it has attained to its final end, the natural desire of every intelligence that sees the divine substance must be perfectly set at rest. But it is the mind’s natural desire to know the genera and species and capabilities of all things and the whole order of the universe, as is shown by the zeal of mankind in trying to find out all these things. Every one therefore of those who see the divine substance will know all the above-mentioned objects.

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  349 Despite his father’s wishes that he become a Nonconformist minister, Defoe turned to trade, but his risky business ventures forced him into bankruptcy in 1692. He eventually turned to his pen to support his family. Defoe produced more than 500 separate works, as well as several periodical series, for which he wrote two or three essays a week. It was not until 1719, when he was 59 years old, that Defoe found a way of making money that released him from writing and working for both political parties: publishing the novel Robinson Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe is based on Scottish sailor Alexander Selkirk’s account of his fi ve years on the island of Juan Fernandez. Like Faust, Don Quixote, or Don Juan, Robinson Crusoe, the man, represents much more than his own story of shipwreck and survival. The novel was enormously popular: Between April and August 1719, 80,000 copies were sold and four editions were published; the book was immediately translated into French and German; and by the end of the 19 th century, more than 700 editions and translations had appeared. According to French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), Robinson Crusoe was the only book that afforded “a complete treatise on natural education.” Even today, the mere image of a solitary foot in the sand or the name Friday will conjure up Crusoe’s narrative, most recently represented in the movie Cast Away (2000). Despite its mythic quality, the story is emphatically English: The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe marks a moment in the history of English literature when a “true-born Englishman” represents something essential about the nation of his birth. According to 20 th-century Irish myth-maker James Joyce, Robinson Crusoe is the English Ulysses. Crusoe’s insatiable desire for the sea and for making a fortune is a mark of his inappropriate longing for a condition other than that “middle State” into which he was born. Overwhelmed with remorse, Crusoe recalls his father’s warning that if he rejected his place in God’s order, he would suffer God’s reproach.

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

  2. “Attachment—Attachment is when we allow ourselves to connect deeply to another person. Anxiety and avoidance are acknowledged and overcome by practicing vulnerability and openness about fears. Help is asked for and sought, when one or both partners find themselves stuck in negative relational patterns. Each take personal responsibility to do his or her own growth work. They avoid the blame game and instead ask themselves the question, What is my part in this? Attachment takes time to build and includes commitment and covenant. To form a secure, solid attachment, people want to know three things: 1) Do you have my back? 2) Can I count on you? 3) Are you there for me? When those three questions are answered, secure attachment can form. Secure attachment makes possible true, lasting, sexual passion. 3. “Passion—To build passion, fear of closeness is acknowledged and processed, and both spouses are willing to be naked and unashamed, because trust has been built. This couple has built a solid friendship which includes empathic caring, listening, and emotional closeness. They have figured out how to be connected but separate. They do not avoid or cling, but celebrate differences and self-differentiation, which develops through secure attachment. Because of this, they have the potential to become lovers—where they share their bodies, welcome sexual arousal, desire, curiosity, and play. “Together and separately, they have worked on becoming well-defined, mature lovers, able to communicate likes and pleasurable feelings, make requests, and ask for what is desired sexually. Passion is allowed to ebb and flow and develop over time. False sexual expectations are worked through and bridges are built to overcome sexual dysfunctions and difficulties. Grace for the humanity of the other is extended and practiced, so passion has fertile soil in which to grow. “We realize that anything beautiful takes time to build. Intimacy, attachment, and passion, are not grown overnight or casually, but take deliberate pursuit. It’s true that anything worth creating takes time, effort, and diligence. “How do we get to intimacy, attachment, and passion? Let’s unpack the term intimacy. Genesis 4:1 says, “Adam knew his wife Eve.” Adam yada Eve, a Greek term meaning to perceive, to know intimately, to understand, to experience. It means Adam sexually knew, experienced, and understood his wife Eve. “Genesis 18:19 says, ‘God said, For I have known (chosen) him’ (Amplified Bible Translation). God is saying He knew Abraham personally and intimately. Yada also speaks of man knowing God. Moses asked the Lord to teach him His ways so he may know Him; to know Him is to have an experiential knowledge of Him. Paul said in Philippians 3:10, ‘I desire to know Him and the power of His resurrection.’ Paul desired to intimately know God.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  Yet while the papacy might defy Byzantium, which seemed increasingly distant and feeble, and assume the trappings of sovereignty itself, it lacked the physical means to act like a sovereign power. It needed protection, and from the early eighth century it looked increasingly to the emergent power north of the Alps to provide it. The desire of the papacy for close alliance with the chief secular authority in western Europe coincided with a comparable urge, on the part of barbarian kings, to obtain the highest Christian sanction for their authority. Under paganism, these royal lines had claimed descent from mythical gods. Then came Christianization; and when, and if, the line failed, because of a lack of heirs, or defeat in battle, or poverty, the new royal house which succeeded needed the introduction of a religious ceremony as an initiation into the powers of kingship. Sacramental grace was poured into the new king as a substitute for the royal blood he lacked. Some primitive form of Christian service to mark the accession of kings no doubt developed in the West as early as the sixth century; and it is possible that a king, in Spain, received a Christian coronation anointing as early as 672. But in the eighth century events transformed the situation. By the 740s, the Merovingian kings of the Franks had lost their power in all but name. They had parted with their estates and thus could no longer afford to reward followers with land. Effective power was in the hands of the hereditary Mayors of the Palace. The head of the house, Pepin, asked the Pope’s opinion whether a king who could not effectively discharge his duties was in truth a king at all. The Pope replied, with abundant biblical quotations, that a king must rule in order to reign. Immediately this reply was received, Pepin and the court ecclesiastics acted. The last of the Merovingians, and his son, had their long kingly locks cut off, were tonsured, and imprisoned in a monastery. Pepin was anointed as king, in 751, by Archbishop Boniface, as the Pope’s special envoy with plenitudo potestatis; and three years later the Pope himself travelled north to repeat the ceremony. It is not absolutely clear how those concerned saw the function of the anointing. It may be that it served to absolve Pepin from the vow of fidelity to the fallen monarch. What is certain, however, is that king and Pope both regarded Christian sacramental intervention as in some way ending the magic of the old line and transferring it to the new. The Pope had now become a king-maker. The rapid expansion of the Frankish dominions in the second half of the eighth century, and the development of papal theory based on the forged Donation of Constantine, suggested that the Pope could

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I am amazed you let me take control,” I shout. “You’d be amazed what I’d let you do, Miss Steele. Back to me now.” I feel the joystick move suddenly, and I let go as we spiral down several feet, my ears starting to pop again. The ground is getting closer, and it feels like we could be hitting it shortly. Whoa, that’s scary. Christian sounds his usual authoritative self as he talks to the tower. The tower squawks back at him over the radio, but I don’t understand what they say. We sail around again in a wide circle, sinking slowly to the ground. I can see the airport, the landing strips, and we’re flying back over Interstate 95. “Hang on, baby. This can get bumpy.” After another circle we dip, and suddenly we are on the ground with a brief thump, racing along the grass. Holy shit. My teeth chatter as we bump at an alarming speed along the ground, until we finally come to a stop. The plane sways then dips to the right. I take a deep lungful of air while Christian leans over and opens the cockpit lid, clambering out and stretching. “How was that?” he asks, and his eyes are a shining, dazzling silver gray. He leans down to unbuckle me. “That was extraordinary. Thank you.” “Was it more?” he asks, his voice tinged with hope. “Much more,” I exclaim, and he grins. “Come.” He holds out his hand for me, and I clamber out of the cockpit. As soon as I’m out, he grabs me and holds me flush against his body. Suddenly his hand is in my hair, tugging it so my head tips back, and his other hand travels down to the base of my spine. He kisses me, long, hard, and passionately, his tongue in my mouth. His breathing is mounting, his ardor. Holy cow, his erection… We’re in a field. But I don’t care. My hands twist in his hair, anchoring him to me. I want him, here, now, on the ground. He breaks away and gazes down at me, his eyes dark and luminous in the early morning light, full of raw, arrogant sensuality. Wow. He takes my breath away. “Breakfast,” he whispers, making it sound deliciously erotic. How can he make bacon and eggs sound like forbidden fruit? It’s an extraordinary skill. He turns, clasping my hand, and we head back toward the car. “What about the glider?” “Someone will take care of that,” he says dismissively. “We’ll eat now.” His tone is unequivocal. Food! He’s talking food, when really all I want is him. “Come.” He smiles.

• From Lower than the Angels: A History of Sex and Christianity (2024)

  The Patarine crisis in Milan had revealed both the challenges and the opportunities for the reforming Papacy in extending its programme of reform of marriage across clergy and laity. The biggest prize to win was a grand bargain with rulers and aristocrats to eliminate the ‘resource polygyny’ that northern European elites regarded as the natural way to live and persuade them to accept the Church’s control and regulation of marriage. The Church could offer a new stability for landowners in a new economic situation: if landed estates were to survive as economic units, it was important not to break them up by the old custom of letting all members of the family take their share (partible inheritance). A new inheritance custom of ‘eldest takes all’ (primogeniture) became widely established by the twelfth century. Now an aristocrat could view the Church, its concern for legitimate marriage and its rapidly developing legal system as helpfully identifying a true heir under primogeniture. Nobility might also be drawn to see allied advantages for dynastic succession in the celibacy imposed on those members of their families who were senior Churchmen, limiting claims on their lands. They might even consider all this a more cost-effective way to control inheritance than the alarmingly frequent aristocratic custom of forcibly castrating or blinding rival claimants to estates.[42] Thus by 1139, when the second of a series of Councils of bishops to be called at the Lateran Palace (the main papal residence in Rome) declared all clerical marriages not only unlawful but invalid, the other half of the Gregorian sexual revolution was also fully launched. It hinged on a stark symmetry of opposites, emphasizing the gulf between clergy and laity. Lineage and inheritance were being eliminated from the Church (at least in legal theory), while for laymen and women, they were being stabilized, defined and enshrined within canon law. An essential part of this process was to refine a system of prohibitions on whom a layperson could not marry without committing the sin of incest. This was naturally something that had concerned ancient Judaeans, so the Old Testament gave some useful guidance, but the interesting feature of Gregorian Christianity was how far it extended the biblical system of proscriptions to mesh with primogeniture and to police the possibilities of marriage.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  It was an odd moment, because in our five years of marriage we had managed to elude a serious discussion about having children of our own. His three children, by now attending college or having graduated, were the focus of his energy, and I played my part as a supportive stepmother. He seemed content; I was not. But it was only a matter of days before he jumped on board and for the next four years we moved heaven and earth, engaging the most renowned specialists to bring to fruition what had been my, and now became our, dream. It wasn’t without its moments of grief with unsuccessful attempts at pregnancy. But there were also moments of hilarity. After one particular whirlwind business trip, I regaled my husband with the tale of how I’d headed off to the airplane lavatory to drive a two-inch needle into my backside as the airplane was going through a particularly rough patch of weather because the hour had struck for my next hormone injection. After three years of emotional ups and downs, science and religion, in the form of doctors and prayers, collaborated in producing a successful pregnancy. I worked until two days before my delivery when, at the age of forty-five, I gave birth to our healthy twins, Caroline and Jim. You can stop climbing the corporate ladder , I told myself during my three months’ maternity leave, and I really tried. Now ten-day trips were crammed into four so that I could be home before (I hoped) the children had time to realize I was gone. I found a way to work from home a day or two each week and for a while it worked. But the corporate world is ruthless, and opportunities passed up can prove fatal to one’s career. The tireless work was rewarding. But I was fully aware of the downside—I was not seeing enough of my children. My husband brought the reality home to me when we were on a late summer vacation. “This isn’t a vacation for you,” he said. “I’m at the beach with the children [now five years old] and you’re on conference calls.” He was right. I lay awake for much of the night thinking of his words and when I awoke to the sun pouring into our bedroom, it was with a new energy. [image file=Image00037.jpg] “Darling,” I said, “on Tuesday morning when I get back into the office, I’m going to quit. I promise you I will be retired by the end of the year.” It was 1999.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  He watched as her chin lifted with defiance and her dark eyes met his without fear. She was tall and slender, with blonde curls tumbling down from a once-stylish arrangement. Her lovely watered-silk dress was torn at the shoulder, revealing a tempting display of creamy breast. A sooty handprint marred her flesh, and unable to help himself, Sebastian reached out and rubbed the offending mark away with gentle strokes of his thumb. She stiffened, and lifted her bound hands to knock his away. He met her gaze and held it. “Tell me your name again,” he murmured, his hand tingling just from that simple contact with her satin skin. She licked her bottom lip, and his blood heated further. “My name is Olivia Merrick, Countess of Merrick. My husband is Sebastian Blake, Earl of Merrick and future Marquess of Dunsmore.” He lifted her hands and stared at her ring finger, noting his crest etched in the simple gold band she wore. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away, striding to the nearest open window for a deep breath of salt-tinged air. Staring out at the water, he espied the debris from her ship bobbing in the waves. “Where is your husband, Lady Merrick?” he asked, keeping his back to her. Hope tinged her voice. “He awaits me in London.” “I see.” But he didn’t, not at all. “How long have you been married, my lady?” “I fail to see—” “How long?” he barked. “Nearly two weeks.” His chest expanded on a deep breath. “I remind you that we are in the West Indies, Lady Merrick. It is impossible that you were married only a fortnight ago. Your husband would not be able to await you in England if that were true.” She was silent behind him, and finally he turned to face her again. It was a mistake to have done so. Her beauty hit him with the force of a fist in his gut. “Would you care to explain?” he prodded, relieved he sounded so unaffected. For the first time, her bravado left her, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “We were married by proxy,” she confessed. “But I assure you, he will pay whatever ransom you desire despite the unusual circumstances of our marriage.” Sebastian moved toward her. His calloused fingers caressed the elegant curve of her cheekbone and entwined in her hair. Her breath caught, and her lips parted in response to his gentle touch. “I’m certain he would pay a king’s ransom for beauty such as yours.” Through the smoky smell that clung to her, he could detect the arousing scent of soft woman, warm and luxurious. He reached for the blade strapped to his thigh and withdrew it. She flinched away. “Easy,” he soothed. Sebastian held out his hand and waited patiently for her to step forward again. When she did, he sliced through the rope that tied her hands together, and sheathed his knife. He rubbed the marks on her delicate wrists.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  She’d never seen a bare-chested man. Even on her father’s plantation, the workers were required to remain clothed, her doting father’s way of shielding her maidenly sensibilities. Despite this lack of knowledge, she was certain no other male could claim Phoenix’s magnificent form. Olivia snapped her mouth shut and waited until he was close enough so she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. It took everything she had to resist touching him, to resist burying her face in his chest and breathing him in. He smelled wonderful, a sun-warmed and salted male in his prime. His hands came toward her, his hot gaze dropping to the exposed curve of her breast. “Hell’s teeth!” he growled as the edge of his blade met his aroused cock. Incredulous, Phoenix looked down at her hand, then again at her face. He released a slow, wary breath. “I wouldn’t recommend castrating me, sweetheart. One of your duties, after all, is to bear my heirs.” She inhaled a shuddering breath. “I do not believe for even a moment, Captain, that you are Lord Merrick.” But the idea was not distasteful. Romantic notions and girlish fantasies— Phoenix met both of those and so much more. Her father would never have approved of this man, a pirate worlds apart from the carefully selected earl she’d been told to expect. The pirate would not be to any father’s taste, but he suited her secret desire perfectly. Phoenix’s brow arched in sardonic amusement. “But you cannot be certain. Have you ever met your husband?” Her hand shook nervously, and he winced. “Steady, love,” he cautioned. “You may one day desire the appendage you are so grievously threatening.” “The only appendage of that nature I’ll be desiring is my husband’s,” she retorted. She watched his grin come back in full force, revealing a dimple on the left side of his lush mouth. How could a pirate have a dimple? “I’m relieved to hear that.” His voice was deep and seductive, purring like a predatory cat. “I wouldn’t be agreeable to an adulterous wife.” “I am not your wife!” she snapped, flustered by his charm and her response to it. “If what you say is true, then you are indeed my countess. And despite—,” he shot a pointed glance at his blade, “—your charming introduction, you are not displeased with me as a spouse.” “How can you say that?” “I didn’t. Your nipples did. They are hard and aching for my touch, pressing so delightfully against the bodice of your gown.” With a horrified gasp, Olivia covered her breasts, and he easily plucked the wicked knife from her fingers. He handed her his shirt. “Here. Cover yourself until I can locate your trunks. I have no wish to display your bountiful charms to my men. We’ve been at sea for months, and their control is stretched.” He eyed her appraisingly for a long moment and then chuckled. “Bold as you please,” he murmured.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  He was briefly surprised at how easily he used his title to refer to her, and then hastily shoved the thought away. “Aye, Captain.” Will’s laughter followed him below deck. Sebastian rapped on his cabin door. “My lady? ’Tis I. I’m coming in.” He entered cautiously, peeking his head around the door and searching out her shapely form. He found Olivia sitting at his desk, drowning in his shirt, leveling a pistol at his chest. The mere sight of her made him ache. Golden and determined, she was a tigress. “Do you know what you’re doing with that?” he asked. “Yes, of course.” He kicked the door shut behind him and headed toward the sideboard for a much-needed libation. Her gaze burned into his back, causing him to smile. “Care for a brandy, sweet wife?” “Is there any proof you are my husband?” she asked curtly. “Is there any proof you’re my wife?” he retorted, pouring her a glass of the deep red liquid with the hope that it would soothe her ill humor. “The ring . . .” Sebastian held his hand over his shoulder and waggled his ringed finger at her. She snorted. “Who taught you the use of a pistol?” he queried as he warmed the liquor over a candle. “The foreman on my father’s plantation.” When he turned to face her, he found his gun resting on the desk and Olivia staring pensively out the window. “Your father approved?” “My father doesn’t know. I wanted to learn. There was no cause to distress him.” Withholding a smile, Sebastian moved toward her, admiring her elegant profile, with its pert nose and obstinate chin. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, and the thought of claiming that lush mouth with various parts of his body nearly made him hard. He set her brandy atop his nautical charts and propped his hip against the desk. “What are you thinking, love?” he prodded gently. She reached for the snifter without looking, and he pushed it into her hand. “That you should put on a shirt.” “I’m quite comfortable, but I’m touched by your wifely concern.” In the midst of a large swallow, Olivia choked. He thumped her back until she waved him off. “I’m fine!” she gasped. Wiping the tears from her lashes, she glared at him. “What are your intentions, Phoenix?” Sebastian reached over slowly, giving her time to draw away. She didn’t. The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered wildly as he rubbed the cuff of his shirt, brushing the edge of his finger deliberately along her bared wrist. He felt her shiver and hid his satisfaction. The attraction, it appeared, was mutual.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  “My grandmother and mother puzzled about it for years but never solved the mystery. My grandmother consulted another doctor, Dr. Brill, a famous New York psychiatrist, but he regarded her as out of touch with reality. Hysterical psychosis was his diagnosis, and he advised her to take the Weir rest cure—one to two years of total rest in a sanitarium. Given my grandmother’s finances and the nature of Merges’s curse, it is obvious that it was Dr. Brill who was out of touch with reality.” As Artemis began to put away the dishes, Ernest stopped her. “We can do that later.” “Perhaps, Ernest,” Artemis said, her voice tight and strained, “now that dinner is over, you might like to come upstairs.” After a pause, she added, “You know now that I cannot keep myself from asking this.” “Excuse me,” Ernest said, rising and heading for the front door. “Good-bye, then,” Artemis called after him. “I know. I understand completely. No excuses necessary. And no guilt, please.” “What do you know, Artemis?” asked Ernest, looking back from the open door. “Where am I going?” “You’re going far away as fast as you can. And who can blame you? I know why you go. And I understand, Ernest.” “You see, Artemis, as I told you before, you don’t know as much as you think you do. I’m going just twenty feet to my car, from which I intend to fetch my overnight bag.” When he returned, she was upstairs bathing. He cleared the dinner table, packed up the remaining food, and then, bag in hand, ascended the stairs. The next hour in the bedroom proved one thing: it wasn’t the chanterelle stew. All was as before. The warm, lush lust, the cat-licking, the sensuous tongue, the Fourth of July fireworks slowly building up to their pyrotechnic climax, the incandescent roman candles, the roar of the howitzer. For a few moments Ernest was visited by extraordinary flashbacks: all the past orgasms of his life swooooshing through him, years of jerking spasms into palms and towels and sinks and then watching a procession of the large-breasted lovers, lovely vessels of consolation, into whom he had drained the cares of his life. Gratitude! Gratitude! And then blackness as he fell into the sleep of the dead. Ernest was awakened by Merges’s howling. Again he felt the room shake; again the scratching and scraping at the wall of the house. Fear flickered, but he got quickly out of bed and—shaking his head vigorously and inhaling deeply—calmly opened the window wide, leaned out, and called, “This way, this way, Merges. Save your claws. The window is open.” Sudden silence. Then Merges bounded in, ripping and shredding the thin linen curtains. Hissing, his head raised, his red eyes blazing, his glistening claws unsheathed, he circled Ernest.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  “For all the reasons I agreed to the marriage in the first place,” she murmured. “To please my father, to run my own household, to have children and the security of a man’s name.” She ran a fingertip over a delicately arched brow before locking gazes with him again. “No one knows your secret, and I certainly won’t enlighten anyone. I will have the protection and status of your name, with none of the inconveniences of a husband. In fact,” she said, obviously warming up to the topic, “if you are indeed Sebastian Blake, the situation pleases me in a way it didn’t before.” He stroked his hand down the center of his chest, noting the way her eyes followed the movement with ravenous attention. “You would maintain my house, bear my name and my children?” “Of course,” she replied, blushing as her gaze returned to his. “I am aware of my responsibilities as your . . . er . . . Lord Merrick’s wife.” “You would have to welcome me to your bed.” He paused for emphasis. “Often.” Her eyebrow lifted. “If you are who you claim to be, I would welcome you eagerly.” Sebastian stilled at that. In fact, he couldn’t move. The image her words brought to mind had him throbbing painfully. “My title would elicit eagerness in you?” “I am not that shallow,” she said, with a lift of her chin. “Then my form is what you find so attractive?” Olivia snorted. “Attractive? You are a heathen.” He shot up, setting the hammock swaying perilously. “A heathen?” “Yes, look at you.” She waved in his direction. “Your hair is unfashionably long. Damn near as long as mine.” “It is nowhere near that long!” he argued, put out. “And don’t swear!” “And your muscles,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “What about my muscles?” he growled. “They’re huge. You look like a savage.” She rose from the chair and moved to stand in front of the window. “A savage?” he sputtered, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. “Most definitely.” She coughed, her shoulders shaking. Sebastian stalked toward her. “I’ll have you know, most women find me irresistible.” “Really?” she drawled, sounding unimpressed. “Yes, really. I was quite the rake when I resided in London,” he bragged, unaccountably upset by her dislike of his appearance. “I’m certain you thought you were,” she choked out. “Or perhaps you were more civilized at that time.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. He spun Olivia around to face him, only to discover she was laughing, her lovely eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. “You’re mocking me.” He smiled against his will. “Just a little,” she gasped, clutching her stomach.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  She was either mad from the stress of the day’s events or . . . enchanting. Sebastian became engrossed in the intimacy of their shared amusement, the rest of their problems fading into obscurity. His hand came up and drew a line down the bridge of her pert nose, which she wrinkled when he tapped the tip. Olivia stared at him with admiration in her dark eyes, a look that salved the sting his ego had felt mere moments ago. “A savage with a delightful dimple,” she murmured under her breath, brushing her fingertip along his cheek. “Why are you out here?” she asked almost breathlessly. “You, a nobleman of vast wealth and prestige. Why turn to piracy?” “Ah . . .” He ached to pull her closer. His throat tight, his hand dropped to her shoulder. “You believe me.” She snorted again, a thoroughly unladylike sound that he found charming. “I’m just foxed is all, and willing to indulge you for the moment.” “My lady, you should pay greater attention to your choice of wording. You have no notion of the indulgences I require.” At her confused frown, Sebastian clarified, “I am no gentleman.” “You are an earl, my lord.” “It’s a title, Lady Merrick, and it has nothing to do with my character.” “You have been trained and bred for your—” “I have been cursed,” he said hotly. “My older brother, Edmund, was to bear the title, but he was killed in a duel five years ago.” “A duel?” she repeated, her eyes widening. “How dreadful! I am sorry.” “Yes, well . . . so am I, I assure you. Especially since he was defending my honor.” He gave a harsh laugh. “As if I had any to quibble over.” “He must have loved you very much.” “Edmund loved the title,” Sebastian scoffed. Olivia met his intense gaze without flinching. “What happened?” He longed to make some flip, roguish, or snide comment to deflect her prying. He wanted to sneer at her and cut her, scare her, and push her away. But his next words would do the deed just as well. “I foolishly compromised a young lady. When her older brother came to me and demanded that I marry the chit, I refused. She was no innocent, as I knew firsthand. And the way we were caught left no doubt in my mind that I’d been snared in a trap.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Hi, my name’s Leandra. What can I get for you…er…folks…er…today, this mornin’?” Her voice trails off, stumbling over her words as she gets an eyeful of Mr. Beautiful opposite me. She flushes scarlet, and a small ounce of sympathy for her bubbles unwelcome into my consciousness because he still does that to me. Her presence allows me to escape briefly from his sensual glare. “Anastasia?” he prompts me, ignoring her, and I don’t think anyone could squeeze as much carnality into my name as he does at that moment. I swallow, praying that I don’t turn the same color as poor Leandra. “I told you, I want what you want.” I keep my voice soft, low, and he looks at me hungrily. My inner goddess swoons. Am I up to this game? Leandra looks from me to him and back again. She’s practically the same color as her shiny red hair. “Shall I give you folks another minute to decide?” “No. We know what we want.” Christian’s mouth twitches with a small, sexy smile. “We’ll have two portions of the original buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup and bacon on the side, two glasses of orange juice, one black coffee with skim milk, and one English breakfast tea, if you have it,” says Christian, not taking his eyes off me. “Thank you, sir. Will that be all?” Leandra whispers, looking anywhere but at the two of us. We both turn to stare at her, and she flushes crimson again and scuttles away. “You know, it’s really not fair.” I glance down at the Formica tabletop, tracing a pattern on it with my index finger, trying to sound nonchalant. “What’s not fair?” “How you disarm people. Women. Me.” “Do I disarm you?” I snort. “All the time.” “It’s just looks, Anastasia,” he says mildly. “No, Christian, it’s much more than that.” His brow creases. “You disarm me totally, Miss Steele. Your innocence. It cuts through all the crap.” “Is that why you’ve changed your mind?” “Changed my mind?” “Yes—about…er…us?” He strokes his chin thoughtfully with his long, skilled fingers. “I don’t think I’ve changed my mind per se. We just need to redefine our parameters, redraw our battle lines, if you will. We can make this work, I’m sure. I want you submissive in my playroom. I will punish you if you digress from the rules. Other than that…well, I think it’s all up for discussion. Those are my requirements, Miss Steele. What say you to that?” “So I get to sleep with you? In your bed?” “Is that what you want?” “Yes.” “I agree, then. Besides, I sleep very well when you’re in my bed. I had no idea.” His brow creases as his voice fades. “I was frightened you’d leave me if I didn’t agree to all of it,” I whisper.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  I stuffed my hands inside my jacket pockets, then turned around to face the guy. He was a straight thug and I was definitely attracted to that type. His Timberland boots, baggy jeans, black North Face coat, and fresh cornrows made him look sexy as hell. But when he opened his mouth, no gold flashed from his grill. He didn’t sport a Caesar haircut, or a gold bracelet or gold chain either. Still, I ignored his fine ass because his whole package reminded me of the nigga who had me out on a dick hunt tonight in the first place. Instead of acknowledging him, I got in line and waited to be admitted into the club. Although I liked his urban flavor, I pretended as if he did nothing for me and quickly dismissed him like a buster. When I got inside the club I paid the cover charge and found the coat check. I roamed around the club feeling free. Although I knew that a lot of business professionals hung out at the club, I wasn’t interested in a brotha who sat in a cubicle pushing a pen for a living. All of them seemed to want to escape from their 9-to-5 worlds and were stressed out just like me. But at the same time, I wasn’t in the mood to find a carbon copy of Smooth Willie. I had a taste for something and someone else. Someone speckled with spice, edge, and sexual openness. Someone with strong hands and a talented tongue who wasn’t ashamed to admit his love of gritty, hot sex. Someone who would tell me bluntly that he wanted to fuck the shit out of me, and make me scream each and every time we had hot sex, then hold me until dawn. But I also wanted more of something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. When I touched that spot, I’d know my finger was laid down right on it. As sensuous R&B beats and killer rap lyrics played, I roamed around the club and kept running into the anonymous thug, exchanging looks with him. I rolled my eyes at him with mega-attitude, convincing myself that he was probably a drug dealer or menace to society, just like my Smooth. Yep, Smooth was pushing weight up and down the East Coast. Dope was his mistress, although I had begged him to end that relationship. He always asked me how could a man with a ninth-grade education do that if he was making paper so long, he’d put my boss’s check to shame. Smooth was addicted to the hustle, and it would take a miracle to change his outlook. As I pushed my way through the thick crowd, I felt someone gently pull at the bottom of my shoulder-length curls. “You wanna dance?” he asked. I looked up at him. My Thug. He was a sexy, tall ’n thick big daddy, and was holding a fat cigar in his right hand.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  “Sure. Why not?” As we grooved to “Lean Wit It, Rock Wit It,” by Dem Franchize Boyz, the energy of the crowd became electrified. People were emptying champagne bottles, drinks were flowing at the bar, and women were scanning the room for ballers. The place seemed packed to its maximum capacity, and that didn’t even count the VIP room. I noticed how the scandalous chickenheads arched their backs to make their breasts poke out and their asses appear bigger, as they whispered to their girlfriends. “This part right here is my shit!” I yelled out when the second verse began. I swung my hips, dropped to the floor, and got low, then sprung up, passing his crotch. I became wet and longed to fondle myself—or better yet, his nice hard dick. Instead I pretended as if the sexiness of the nightlife didn’t shake my libido up too much. My plump breasts pressed against his chest and he grabbed my hand while I fantasized about him. When he pulled me toward the edge of the crowd like he knew me, I followed him. “What I gotta do to get you to take my number?” he asked. “Who said I want your number? I have someone at home,” I replied. “I never said I was available, thank you. Just to be clear, I’m taken,” I added as my attention-starved pussy throbbed. “Why you acting so rude to a brother?” “I’m not. Your opinion is yours, and mine is mine.” “Look, I don’t want to hold you up—I just wanted to holla atchu. Maybe talk with you later. Is that a crime?” I tried to ignore the fact that my panties were soaking wet in the crotch. I told him my cell number and he pulled out his and punched it in. I nodded when I felt my phone vibrating in my purse. “Now I got your number,” I said like I really hadn’t wanted it. He laughed. “You know you really wanna call me, so just use the number and stop fronting.” I thought he was going to keep on pressing me, but he walked away and disappeared into the crowd. A few minutes later I realized I could no longer curb that craving I had. I sped home and pleased myself in my typical way, thinking about him the whole time. • • • The next morning I was bored. I scrolled through my received-calls log, found the number I was looking for, then pressed SEND. He didn’t answer, and I called back two more times. Each time I hung up after a few rings. I saw no point in leaving a message when I hadn’t even gotten his name at the club. Besides, he had my number too. I’d already kissed Smooth’s ass for years. I didn’t want no new nigga to get any ideas. But something told me to try again anyway, and this time he answered. “Yo, what’s up? I knew you would call,” he said.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  CHRYSOSTOM. By what He had said, He brought His disciples to have a desire towards Him, shewing them His unspeakable excellence; and now He invites them to Him, saying, Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden. AUGUSTINE. (Serm. 69. 1.) Whence do we all thus labour, but that we are mortal men, bearing vessels of clay which cause us much difficulty. But if the vessels of flesh are straitened, the regions of love will be enlarged. To what end then does He say, Come unto me, all ye that labour, but that ye should not labour? HILARY. He calls to Him those that were labouring under the hardships of the Law, and those who are burdened with the sins of this world. JEROME. That the burden of sin is heavy the Prophet Zachariah bears witness, saying, that wickedness sitteth upon a talent of lead. (Zech. 5:7.) And the Psalmist fills it up, Thy iniquities are grown heavy upon me. (Ps. 38:4) GREGORY. (Mor. xxx. 15.) For a cruel yoke and hard weight of servitude it is to be subject to the things of time, to be ambitious of the things of earth, to cling to falling things, to seek to stand in things that stand not, to desire things that pass away, but to be unwilling to pass away with them. For while all things fly away against our wish, those things which had first harassed the mind in desire of gaining them, now oppress it with fear of losing them. CHRYSOSTOM. He said not, Come ye, this man and that man, but All whosoever are in trouble, in sorrow, or in sin, not that I may exact punishment of you, but that I may remit your sins. Come ye, not that I have need of your glory, but that I seek your salvation. And I will refresh you; not, I will save you, only; but that is much greater, I will refresh you, that is, I will set you in all quietness. RABANUS. (non occ.) I will not only take from you your burden, but will satisfy you with inward refreshment. REMIGIUS. Come, He says, not with the feet, but with the life, not in the body, but in faith. For that is a spiritual approach by which any man approaches God; and therefore it follows, Take my yoke upon you. RABANUS. The yoke of Christ is Christ’s Gospel, which joins and yokes together Jews and Gentiles in the unity of the faith. This we are commanded to take upon us, that is, to have in honour; lest perchance setting it beneath us, that is wrongly despising it, we should trample upon it with the miry feet of unholiness; wherefore He adds, Learn of me.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  A young man Stood watching these two graceful silhouettes. He could not see their faces, and was curious to know what beautiful boys they might be. He had great longing to see their delightful faces. Then an old servant woman came out of the tent, and called to them: 'Dear maidens, dear Ofuji and Oyoshi.'The young man was disappointed to find that the two graceful persons were women and not young men. He went swiftly to the town of Sendai, the capital of that Province. At the end of one of the Streets of this town, called Bashyoja Fsuojji, there was a druggist's shop, the owner of which was a certain Hiusuke Ronishi. As our young man passed the shop, a delicious scent of incense escaped from the black curtains at the back of it, separating the commercial part from the living-rooms. The perfume was sweeter than that famous White Chrysanthemum incense which only the Lord of the Province possessed. The young man had a keen taste in incense, and was attracted by the perfume. So he entered the shop and, after buying some common perfumes, said to the proprietor: 'I should like to buy that incense which you are now burning behind the shop. Its perfume is exquisite. Will you give me a little? 'But the proprietor answered: 'That incense is my son's favourite, and we cannot sell it.' The young man was cast down, and lingered for a moment in the shop; for he could not tear himself from the delicious odour; and it was with regret that he withdrew. His name was Itjikuro Ban, and he was a Guard of the Province of Tsugaru, and immensely rich. He was passionately addicted to pederasty and did not waste a thought on women. He was at that particular time going to Yedo to see a celebrated young actor named Dekijima, whose beauty was attracting many men's admiration. His servant had received a letter from a friend at Yedo, praising Dekijima's beauty, and Itjikuro had at once set out to see him. He was a person of great refinement and dignity, of a rank which is seldom met with in so distant a country.

• From What Do Women Want?: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire (2013)

  At last, with Deidrah tapping her crazed Morse code on the dirt, Oppenheimer reached out. Standing behind her, he set his hands on her hips. And suddenly she had what she sought, his swift thrusts. He pumped back and forth in a flurry. Then he paused, pulled out briefly, touched her flanks, and slid inside her again for another bout of thrusting. He humped and pulled out repeatedly. When he came, thighs quivering and eyes going fuzzy, she twisted, turned her face to his, smacked her lips at high speed, reached back to seize him, and yanked him violently forward. Her fulfillment was short-lived. Within minutes, she was hounding him again. At other moments, she might have moved on to the other male. “She has sex,” Wallen said, about rhesus females on the whole, “and when he goes into his post-ejaculatory snooze, what does she do? She immediately gets up and goes off and finds another.” Tracking the action of the compound, he asked himself, as he had so many times, whether the libido in women has similar drive, and whether “because of social conventions and imperatives, women frequently don’t act on or even recognize the intensity of motivation that monkeys obey.” He answered, “I feel confident that this is true.” Wallen didn’t mean to imply perfect correspondence between Deidrah and the average human female. The distinctions included the impact of ovulation, so much more subtle in women. He and his former doctoral student Heather Rupp had been trying to grasp the ways that women’s monthly hormones spur the neurotransmitters of desire. In one study, they had taken three groups of straight females and showed them hundreds of similar pornographic pictures—all featuring women with men—in three rounds, at different points in the women’s cycles. Again, Wallen and Rupp used viewing time as a measure of the subjects’ interest in the porn. One result was predictable: in the first round, the women who were near ovulation stared longer than the other subjects. But something else caught them by surprise. These same women, whose first round of porn came at mid-cycle, when testosterone and estrogen peaked, stayed riveted when they returned to the lab for their second and third rounds, as the month wore on and these hormones faded. The women whose initial viewing came during lower hormonal stretches didn’t become transfixed when they ovulated. They continued to be less moved. Maybe, Wallen thought, some kind of conditioned arousal or indifference took hold. In later rounds, he guessed, the subjects still unconsciously linked the surroundings of the lab, the equipment, the porn to their reaction to their first viewing. “One lesson,” he said, “is that you don’t want a woman to form her first impression of you when she’s in the wrong menstrual phase. You’ll never recover.” He laughed.