Desire

Passages

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

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• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

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

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

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

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

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

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

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

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mis hombros se relajan un poco. Sabía que era solo una trama estúpida para que viniera aquí. Está bien. Me muevo entre la gente, intentado encontrar a Dutch y a los chicos, pero luego veo a Jordan alejarse de la máquina de música y regresar a la barra, y ahí es cuando la veo entre la multitud y veo lo que lleva puesto. Mis ojos se encienden. Jordan, Jesús... Sus jeans le quedan tan ajustados como siempre, las curvas de su trasero en forma de corazón son perfectas, pero sus malditos pechos amenazan con salirse de su... corsé. ¿Por qué demonios está usando lencería? Es una blusa blanca, brillante y atada al frente en un corpiño en forma de corazón con pequeños volantes de apariencia recatada a lo largo de los bordes. Mis ojos caen a su escote, mi cabeza gira con imágenes de lo que se derramará cuando lo desamarre esa noche. El corsé ni siquiera llega a la parte superior de sus jeans, sino que se detiene justo por encima de sus caderas, su cintura estrecha y su vientre atraen la atención de cada hombre junto al que pasa. Los cordones se ven ajustados, dándole un aspecto de reloj de arena que solo mendiga las manos de un hombre. Empuño las mías. La piel de sus hombros desnudos, su cabello cayendo por su espalda, el balanceo de sus caderas mientras camina... Arranco mis ojos antes de ser atrapado. Se abre paso hacia detrás de la barra de nuevo e ignoro algunas de las sonrisas satisfechas de los hombres que están en la habitación mientras la siguen con la mirada y trato de no preguntarme qué es lo que sus silenciosos susurros se dicen entre sí. Veo una mano agitándose en la esquina de mi visión y muevo mi mirada rápidamente hacia Dutch sentado con los chicos en una butaca. Me acerco. —¿Qué diablos lleva puesto? —refunfuño, deslizándome dentro de la butaca. Dutch gira su cabeza hacia mí, con su bebida a escasos centímetros de sus labios. —Es el espectáculo de lencería —me dice—. Lo tienen todos los jueves por la noche. Las cantineras y las camareras se ponen camisones o corsés y sirven bebidas y comida. Es divertido. No, en realidad no. Pero miro a mi alrededor y veo a otras mujeres que llevan aperitivos y traen bebidas, algunas de ellas con atuendos muy delgados. Al menos el corsé de Jordan parece tan delgado como una armadura. —Pero Jordan nunca lo ha hecho antes —continúa—. Eso es lo que me sorprendió. Pensé que deberías saberlo. —¿Por qué diablos querría saberlo? —Saco una cerveza del cubo de hielo sobre la mesa. —Sí, lo siento. —Se da vuelta, murmurando en su vaso—. Parece que no te puede importar menos. Lo miro de reojo, escuchando la risa en sus palabras.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mi corazón da un brinco. Me alegra no haber sido la única que lo disfrutó. Me alegra que le gustara pasar tiempo conmigo, porque... Porque me estoy acostumbrando a él. Me encuentro mirando el reloj y emocionándome más todos los días a medida que se acercan las cinco de la tarde. Lo espero con ansias y desearía no hacerlo. Con el tiempo me iré. No quiero encariñarme. La ducha pasa por mi mente y recuerdo su esponja y me arden las mejillas. Me siento bien con él y estoy agradecida que se sienta bien conmigo. Solo que no puedo sentirme tan bien. Vamos alrededor de la parte de atrás de la casa, hacia la puerta trasera y me agacho para abrir la llave del agua. El agua sale por la manguera y la levanto del suelo. Enderezándome, paso mi mano por debajo del chorro de la manguera, agradecida porque el agua todavía siga caliente debido al sol del día. Se la paso y la toma. —Gracias por venir hoy —dice en voz baja—. Necesitábamos la ayuda. Asiento, quitándome mis zapatillas deportivas y mi gorra. —También es mi pueblo. Enjuaga su rostro, brazos y botas de construcción y noto el agua derramándose en su ropa y todavía goteando lodo. Solo lo estamos empeorando. —Hay algunas toallas en la secadora —digo distraídamente. Puede ir adentro y ponerse una toalla mientras me quedo afuera y me enjuago. Se quita su camiseta y la tomo, torciéndola en mis puños para exprimirle el agua, mientras pasa la manguera por encima de su hombro y la baja por su espalda. —¿Ya se ha quitado todo el lodo? —pregunta. Se da la vuelta, todavía sosteniendo la manguera y mostrándome su espalda y repentinamente, puedo sentir el calor de su cuerpo junto al mío. Mi sangre empieza a calentarse debajo de mi piel y tengo miedo de mirarlo. —Sí —digo, apenas audiblemente. Me quito una de mis bandas para el cabello y empiezo a deshacer una trenza, mi piel está ardiendo. Me está mirando. Cierro mis ojos por un momento, absorbiéndolo. Quiero que me mire. Aunque lo escucho soltar una risita, abro mis ojos para verlo estirarse y tomar mi otra trenza en su mano. Levanta la manguera y enjuaga el extremo. Oh, el lodo... —Sí, gracias por eso, por cierto. —Obligo un tono sarcástico. —Tú lo pediste. Sí. Lo hice. Está feliz de burlarse. Siento cosquillas en mi cuero cabelludo por su toque y aunque ya no estoy relajada, estoy sonriendo de nuevo. Solo está tocando los extremos de algunos mechones de mi cabello y estoy mareada. Me trago el nudo en mi garganta y giro lentamente, susurrando: —¿Podrías revisar mi espalda? Espero un momento, mi pulso acelerándose en mis oídos y el sonido del agua derramándose de la manguera hacia el suelo. Pero entonces lo siento. Los suaves y ligeros roces de sus dedos a lo largo de mi camiseta y el agua fría filtrándose a través de la tela mientras limpia el lodo.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “Because I fell in love with an Arab once. I visited him several times. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. He had a dark skin and enormous jet eyes, an expression of such emotion and fervor that it swept me off my feet. He had a thundering voice and the softest manner. Whenever he talked to anyone, he would stand, even in the street, holding their two hands, tenderly, as if he wanted to touch all human beings with the same great softness and tenderness. I was completely seduced, but . . .” “What happened?” “One day, when it was extremely hot, we sat drinking mint tea in his garden and he took off his turban. His head was completely shaved. It is the tradition of the Arabs. It seems that all their heads are completely shaved. That somehow cured me of my infatuation.” The stranger laughed. With perfect synchronization, they got up and started to walk together. Linda was as much affected by the perfume, which came from the man’s hair, as she would have been by a glass of wine. Her legs felt unsteady, her head foggy. Her breasts swelled and fell with the deep breaths she took. The stranger watched the heaving of her breasts as if he were watching the sea unfolding at his feet. At the edge of the Bois he stopped. “I live right up there,” he said, pointing with his cane to an apartment with many balconies. “Would you care to come in and have an aperitif with me on my terrace?” Linda accepted. It seemed to her that, were she deprived of the perfume which enchanted her, she would suffocate. They sat on his terrace, quietly drinking. Linda leaned back languidly. The stranger continued to watch her breasts. Then he closed his eyes. Neither of them made a movement. Both had fallen into a dream. He was the first to move. As he kissed her Linda was carried back to Fez, to the garden of the tall Arab. She remembered her sensations of that day, the desire to be enfolded in the white cape of the Arab, the desire for his potent voice and his burning eyes. The smile of the stranger was brilliant, like the smile of the Arab. The stranger was the Arab, the Arab with thick black hair, perfumed like the city of Fez. Two men were making love to her. She kept her eyes closed. The Arab was undressing her. The Arab was touching her with fiery hands. Waves of perfume dilated her body, opened it, prepared her to yield. Her nerves were set for a climax, tense, responsive. She half opened her eyes and saw the dazzling teeth about to bite into her flesh. And then his sex touched her and entered her. It was like something electrically charged, each thrust sending currents throughout her body.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Recuerdo que está conectado a mi cargador al lado de mi cama, y vuelvo a subir las escaleras y cruzo el pasillo, entro en mi habitación y lo desconecto. Al menos la mayoría de la fiesta se ha despejado, por lo que parece. No debería ser demasiado difícil deshacerse de los restantes ocho o algo así. Pero el patio trasero es un desastre, y he sido más que amable con esto. Es mejor que no pida otra maldita fiesta durante mucho tiempo. Bajando las escaleras, llamo a Cole con mi teléfono mientras me detengo dentro de la cocina. Sosteniéndolo en mi oído, escucho cuando suena su línea. Pero pronto escucho un tintineo que viene de algún lugar en la sala de estar y miro detrás de mí para ver una luz que viene del brazo del sofá. Es el teléfono de Cole que se enciende con mi llamada. Maldita sea. Mientras cuelgo, muevo mi pulgar y hago clic en el nombre de Jordan, llamándola. Pero cuando estoy a punto de presionar Llamar, miro hacia arriba y de repente me detengo. Esta allí. De pie en el extremo poco profundo de la piscina, hundida hasta los muslos, con los brazos unidos en la parte delantera de su cuerpo, tratando de mantener la parte superior puesta mientras Cole tira de los lazos en la parte posterior de su cuello. Se para frente a ella, mirando hacia abajo, mientras ella sacude la cabeza, tratando de resistir, pero sonriendo de todos modos. Puedo ver su vergüenza desde aquí. Una oleada de sentimientos me golpea, y muchos pensamientos nadan en mi cabeza mientras trato de mirar hacia otro lado, pero no puedo. No la mires, me digo. Y mi puño se cierra alrededor de mi teléfono, deseando que Cole también la deje en paz. A ella obviamente no le gusta. Y a mí no me gusta. Pero no puedo evitar que mis ojos se vuelvan a levantar hacia ella, viendo el bikini rosado que lleva puesto y las delgadas correas que se deslizan lentamente sobre su piel. Dios, es hermosa. Siento un nudo doloroso dentro de mí, observando su largo cabello cayendo contra su cuerpo desnudo, y sus brazos, lo único que sostiene los trozos de tela que la cubren. Deslizo mi mano por mi rostro, tratando de borrar la vergüenza, porque si fuera Cole, la trataría igual, pero mucho más en privado. No quisiera que nadie más viera lo que solo yo puedo ver. Soltando un suspiro, bajo mi mirada. Esta noche debe terminar. Tal vez debería cortar la electricidad, para que todos se vayan. Pero antes de tener la oportunidad de moverme, veo que Jordan está fuera de la piscina y se mueve hacia la ventana. Sostiene la parte superior de su bikini con una mano y se vuelve a poner mi vieja camiseta con la otra, estirándose y atando las tiras de su bikini una vez que se pone la camiseta.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Deslizo mis dedos por mi cabello, olvidándome de darle un estilo. Se queda en silencio por un momento, y no la miro mientras saco mi teléfono del cargador y lo guardo en el bolsillo. Se para a mi lado y toma mi barbilla, forzándome a enfrentarla. Me alejo. —¿Qué? —Estás sonrojado. —Hace calor —le respondo. Pero debajo de mi piel, mi sangre se calienta y mi corazón late con más fuerza. Recojo mi café, tomando un sorbo para ocultar mi nerviosismo. La mujer es un tiburón. Puede oler sangre a través de un océano. —Sé cómo luces después de correrte —acusa—. Entonces, la pregunta es... ¿es ese dulce pedazo de culo adolescente que está arriba o alguien nuevo? Bajo mi taza de golpe, mirándola. —Suficiente. Maldita sea. Olvidé lo inteligente que es. Ni siquiera he salido de la casa, y ni siquiera puedo entender lo que siento por la única persona con la que me he encontrado. Increíble. Dirigiéndome a la mesa, me siento, me pongo los calcetines y las botas y recojo todo lo que necesito para el día. —Cole renunció a su trabajo en la planta —dice finalmente—. Hace tres días. Miro hacia arriba, deteniendo lo que estoy haciendo. ¿Tres días? —Déjame darte un consejo. —Se vuelve condesciende—. La crianza de los hijos no se detiene cuando cumplen los dieciocho años y cuando ya no tienes que pagar manutención. Él todavía te necesita. —Perdóname si no tomo lecciones de crianza de una mujer que se embarazó para tener un boleto de comida por el resto de su vida. —Me vuelvo hacia ella, inmovilizándola con mi mirada—. Tal vez renunció para no tener que trabajar por nada ya que lo haces sentir culpable para que te dé la mitad de sus cheques de pago. Me da una bofetada, y mi cabeza se mueve a un lado. Pero solo me río. Por supuesto que estoy preocupado. Él ha estado sin trabajo y no ha estado en casa, pero no voy a soportar una conferencia de ella. Lo usó, y he tenido suficiente de su mierda. —Esa es la razón por la que no dejas que trabaje para mí, ¿no es así? — pregunto, sin dar marcha atrás—. Porque a cambio, iba a pagar sus cuentas y darle un estipendio para asegurarme que no pondrías tus manos en todo su maldito salario. Sólo te preocupas por él cuando viene con dinero en efectivo. —Recojo mi mierda y camino hacia la puerta, abriéndola—. ¿Sabes de quién estoy realmente celoso? De todos los hombres que se escaparon antes que los atraparas con un niño. No lamento tener a Cole, sino que haya sido contigo. Vete. Estoy orgulloso de haber mantenido mi voz baja y haber podido controlarme un poco, pero estoy furioso por dentro. Ella entra a mi casa, acusándome de ser un mal padre y luego me golpea. No es mi esposa y nunca lo ha sido. Tengo que aguantarla, pero no del todo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Girándola sobre su espalda, sigo deslizando mis manos por su cuerpo, pero empiezo a mover mi boca sobre su piel también. Respirando a través de su cuello y a través de su pequeña camisa negra, tipo top, sobre sus pechos y los pezones duros llamándome a través de la tela, pero me resisto. Me arrastro por su estómago, moviendo mis labios por su ombligo, y por un momento, salen mis dientes, muriendo por tomar un pedazo de ella en mi boca, pero gime, y miro hacia arriba, viendo los montículos de sus pechos asomarse desde debajo de la pequeña camiseta. El agua de la ducha se derrama sobre mi rostro y mi barbilla, y quiero que esto sea real. La quiero en mi maldita cama. —¿Mejor? —le pregunto. Asiente con sus ojos todavía cerrados. —Mmmm —dice ella—. Aunque, ¿puedes seguir haciéndolo? Todavía tengo frío. Demonios sí. Agarro sus muslos mientras me doy la vuelta sobre mi espalda, poniéndola encima de mí. —Ven aquí, bebé. No puedo tenerla toda, pero tomaré esto. Froto sus muslos y deslizo mis manos más arriba por su cuerpo, burlándome justo debajo de su camisa. Está usando un top negro y bragas negras, y bromeo: —Pensé que te gustaba el rosa. No puedo ver su sonrisa, pero lo escucho en su voz. —¿Quieres rosa? —se burla. Y luego levanta su camiseta corta, colocándola justo encima de sus hermosos pechos. Roza sus pezones, mostrándome dónde está su rosa. Me levanto, envolviendo mi brazo alrededor de su cintura y tomo uno en mi boca, tirando de él y luego chupándolo en mi boca. Siento que la sangre corre por mi polla, y ya estoy tan cerca. Abro mi boca, como si realmente pudiera sentir su suave piel entre mis dientes. Jesús, quiero saber cómo sabe ella realmente. —¿Más caliente? —pregunto, sabiendo malditamente bien que su piel está caliente ahora. Siento su asentimiento y sé que tengo que detener esto. Lo dejé pasar demasiado tiempo. —Jordan, tenemos que detenernos. Pero puedo sentir que está empapada. Comienza a molerse contra mí, rodando ese culo suyo mientras sus palabras caen sobre mi frente. —Está bien —susurra—. Nadie tiene que saberlo. Comienza a montarme con la ropa puesta cada vez más rápido, sus gemidos son cada vez más fuertes y más pesados, y aquí estamos, solos, está oscuro, y nadie tiene que saberlo. —Jordan. —Jadeo, mi mundo inclinándose sobre su eje por el maldito placer— . Bebé, no podemos. ¿Qué estás haciendo? —Te pondré más duro. Sí, no, mierda. Me masturbo con más fuerza, el calor inunda mi ingle y el fuego se extiende desde mi estómago hasta mis muslos. Clava sus uñas en mis hombros, y aprieto sus caderas mientras se aleja de mí. —Bebé, tienes que detenerte —le ruego. Dios, me voy a correr. —Pero se siente tan bien cuando está duro. Sacudo la cabeza, susurrando contra sus labios. —No soy para ti. Algún otro hombre va a... No podemos.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “She was a very cheerful young woman, smiling, good-natured. She had dyed her hair blond. But her eyelashes were of deep black and bushy like a man’s. She had a soft little bit of hair on her upper lip. She must have been a dark, hairy southern girl before she dyed her hair. Her one good leg was sturdy, firm, her body quite beautiful. But I could not bring myself to ask her. As I looked at her I remembered a painting by Courbet I had seen. It was a painting commissioned by a rich man long ago, who had asked him to paint a woman in the act of sex. Courbet, who was a great realist, painted a woman’s sex and nothing else. He left out the head, the arms, the legs. He painted a torso, with a carefully designed sex, in contortions of pleasure, clutching at a penis that came out of a bush of very black hair. That was all. I felt that with this whore it would be the same, one would only think of the sex, try not to look down at the legs or at anything else. And perhaps that would be exciting. As I stood in the corner deliberating with myself, another whore came up to me, a very young one. A young whore is rare in Paris. She spoke to the one with the wooden leg. It was beginning to rain. The young one was saying, ‘I’ve been walking in the rain for two hours now. My shoes are ruined. And not a single client.’ I suddenly felt sorry for her. I said, ‘Will you have a coffee with me?’ She accepted joyously. She said, ‘What are you, a painter?’ “‘I’m not a painter,’ I said, ‘but I was thinking about a painting I saw.’ “‘There are wonderful paintings in the Café Wepler,’ she said. ‘And look at this one.’ She took out of her pocketbook what looked like a delicate handkerchief. She held it opened. There was painted on it a big woman’s ass, placed so as to reveal the sex fully, and an equally large penis. She tugged at the handkerchief, which was elastic, and it looked as if the ass were moving, the penis too. Then she turned it over, and now the penis was still heaving but it looked as if it had gone inside of the sex. She gave it a certain movement which made the whole picture active. I laughed, but the sight aroused me, so that we never got to the Café Wepler and the girl offered to let me go to her room. It was in a very shabby house of Montmartre, where all the circus and vaudeville people stayed. We had to climb five flights.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Aroused by his caresses, she was left with the lower half of her body completely disregarded. Her legs would shake, begging violence, the sex would open, but he gave no attention to it. He filled his mouth with her breasts and rested his penis there; he liked to see the sperm spraying them. The rest of her body would writhe in space, legs and sex curling like a leaf at each caress, beating the air, and finally she would put her own hands there and masturbate. This morning as he was about to leave, he repeated his caresses. He bit into her breasts. She offered her sex to him but he would not have it. He made her kneel before him and take his penis into her mouth. She rubbed her breasts against him. Sometimes this made her come. Then he went out and walked leisurely to Mathilde’s place. He found the door partially open. He walked in with his catlike steps, which made no sound on the carpet. He found Mathilde lying on the floor in front of a mirror. She was on her hands and knees looking between her legs at the mirror. He said, “Don’t move, Mathilde. That’s a pose I love.” He crouched over her like a giant cat, and his penis went into her. He gave Mathilde what he would not give his mistress. His weight finally made her sink down and sprawl on the rug. He raised her ass with his two hands and fell on her again and again. His penis seemed made of hot iron. It was long and narrow, and he moved it in all directions, and leaped inside of her with an agility she had never known. He quickened his gestures even more and said hoarsely, “Come now, come now, come, I tell you. Give it all to me, now. Give it to me. Like you never did before. Give yourself now.” At these words she began to fling herself against him, furiously, and the orgasm came like lightning striking them together. The others found them still entangled on the rug. They laughed at seeing the mirror which had witnessed the embrace. They began to prepare their opium pipes. Mathilde was languid. Martinez began his dream of distended, open-sexed women. Antonio retained his erection and asked Mathilde to sit over him, which she did. When this opium feast was over and all but Antonio had gone, he repeated his request that she accompany him to his special den. Mathilde’s womb still burned from his plowing and churnings, and she yielded, for she wanted to be with him and to repeat this embrace.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Alcanzando detrás de mí, cierro la puerta con llave y la miro fijamente, mientras la luz de la luna entrando por la ventana a ilumina. Está sentada con las rodillas dobladas y las manos colocadas tras de sí, apoyándose en sí misma. Sus labios están hinchados por los besos, y ya la estoy imaginando desnuda entre mis sábanas. —Dios, eres tan tierna —digo en voz baja. Una sonrisa tímida juega en sus labios. —En realidad no. Arqueo una ceja ante su desafío. —Entonces, ¿qué te gusta? —¿Qué haces? Una pequeña mierda. Regresando hacia la cama, me inclino sobre ella y me empuño sus bragas. —Dijiste que querías que comiera algo —le recuerdo—. ¿Dónde quieres mi boca? Baja su mirada a mis labios. —Sí… —Traga y acaricia su muslo interno, moviendo su mano hacia su entrepierna—. Aquí abajo. —¿Y qué hay ahí abajo? —Juego con ella, manteniéndome fuera de su alcance cada vez que se acerca a besarme—. Usa tus palabras para adultos, Jordan. ¿Qué quieres que bese? —Um… —balbucea, excitándose y muriéndose por ello—. Um, mi... ¿Mi…? Busca mi boca otra vez, pero me alejo, haciéndola descubrir sus dientes con un pequeño gruñido. —Mi… —¿Sí? —Mi, um... mi coño —susurra. Mis cejas se disparan, sorprendido. No esperaba esa palabra, en realidad, pero está bien. —Quiero que me beses y me chupes —susurra, suplicando—. ¿Haz que me corra? Y cierro mis ojos con fuerza por un momento, mi polla luchando contra mis jeans por espacio. Mierda. Todo lo que quieras. Apretando mi mano alrededor de sus bragas, les doy un tirón y las rompo. La tela se desgarra y la arrojo al otro lado de la habitación mientras toma aliento. Luego me quito mi propia camiseta y me sumerjo, llevando su lindo coño a mi boca. —Pike. —Gime, agarrando mi cabeza contra su cuerpo y cayendo sobre la cama. Jesús, estoy jodidamente drogado. He deseado esto por tanto tiempo, y finalmente la tengo, con las piernas extendidas sobre mi cama, su cuerpo rogándome. Primero chupo su clítoris, estirándolo en mi boca y volviendo una y otra vez, haciéndola retorcerse y desesperarse por correrse. Lamo de arriba hacia abajo, girando mi lengua alrededor de su protuberancia y emborrachándome con su aroma y sabor. Sin embargo, después de un minuto pierdo el control, y la estoy besando y mordisqueando en todas partes. Curvo mi brazo debajo de su muslo y lo agarro por apoyo mientras me alimento de ella, haciéndolo tanto para mí como para ella. Su espalda se arquea cuando la golpeo con la lengua y gime. Sigo haciendo eso hasta que jadea tan rápido que sé que está lista para desmoronarse. Palmeando uno de sus pechos, mantengo mi cabeza enterrada entre sus piernas hasta que siento que su estómago comienza a temblar y luego toma una respiración profunda y se congela cuando el orgasmo se afianza. Grita, dejándolo ir, y continúo lamiendo sin parar hasta que comienza a calmarse.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Women tended to run from him. He had to beg them to stay and resorted to all kinds of tricks. He would pose as a model and look for work in women’s studios. But the condition he got into as he stood there under the eyes of the female students made the men throw him out into the street. If he were invited to a party, he would first try to get one of the women alone somewhere in an empty room or on a balcony. Then he would take down his pants. If the woman was interested he would fall into ecstasy. If not, he would run after her, with his erection, and come back to the party and stand there, hoping to create curiosity. He was not a beautiful sight but a highly incongruous one. Since the penis did not seem to belong to the austere religious face and body, it acquired a greater prominence—as it were, an apartness. He finally found the wife of a poor literary agent who was dying of starvation and overwork, with whom he reached the following arrangement. He would come in the morning and do all her housework for her, wash her dishes, sweep her studio, run errands, on condition that when all this was over he could exhibit himself. In this case he demanded all her attention. He wanted her to watch him unfasten his belt, unbutton his pants, pull them down. He wore no underwear. He would take out his penis and shake it like a person weighing a thing of value. She had to stand near him and watch every gesture. She had to look at his penis as she would look at food she liked. This woman developed the art of satisfying him completely. She would become absorbed in the penis, saying, “It’s a beautiful penis you have there, the biggest I have seen in Montparnasse. It’s so smooth and hard. It’s beautiful.” As she said these words, Manuel continued to shake his penis like a pot of gold under her eyes, and saliva came to his mouth. He admired it himself. As they both bent over it to admire it his pleasure would become so keen that he would close his eyes and be taken with a bodily trembling from head to foot, still holding his penis and shaking it under her face. Then the trembling would turn into undulation and he would fall on the floor and roll himself into a ball as he came, sometimes all over his own face.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Millard wanted to be with me again, but not in his studio where we might be surprised by his wife, so I let him find another place. It belonged to a friend. The bed was set in a deep alcove and there were mirrors above the bed and small dim lamps. Millard wanted all the lights out, he said he wanted to be in the dark with me. “I have seen your body and I know it so well, now I want to feel it, with my eyes closed, just to feel the skin and the softness of the flesh. Your legs are so firm and strong, but so soft to the touch. I love your feet with the toes free and set apart like the fingers of a hand, not cramped—and the toenails so beautifully lacquered—and the down on your legs.” He passed his hand all over my body, slowly, pressing into the flesh, feeling every curve. “If my hand stays here between the legs,” he said, “do you feel it, do you like it, do you want it nearer?” “Nearer, nearer,” I said. “I want to teach you something,” said Millard. “Do you want to let me do it?” He inserted his finger inside my sex. “Now, I want you to contract around my finger. There is a muscle there that can be made to contract and expand around the penis. Try.” I tried. His finger there was tantalizing. Since he was not moving it, I tried to move inside of my womb, and I felt the muscle that he mentioned, weakly at first, opening and closing around the finger. Millard said, “Yes, like that. Do it stronger, stronger.” So I did, opening, closing, opening, closing. It was like a little mouth inside, tightening around the finger. I wanted to take it in, suckle at it and so I continued to try. Then Millard said that he would insert his penis and not move and that I should continue to move inside. I tried with more and more strength to clutch at him. The motion was exciting me, and I felt that at any moment I would reach the orgasm, but after I had clutched at him several times, sucking his penis in, he suddenly groaned with pleasure and began to push quickly, as he himself could not hold back the orgasm. I merely continued the inner motion and I felt the orgasm, too, in the most marvelous deep way, deep inside of the womb. He said, “Did John ever show you this?” “No.” “What has he shown you?” “This,” I said. “You kneel over me and push.”

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Kissing the mole and not the vulva, while sensing how it responded to the kisses given a little space away, traveling under the skin, from the mole to the tip of the vulva, which opened and closed as his mouth came near. He buried his head there, drugged by the sandalwood smells, seashell smells; by the caress of her pubic hair, the fox’s bush, one strand losing itself inside of his mouth, another losing itself among the bed clothes, where he found it later, shining, electric. Often their pubic hairs mingled. Bathing afterwards, Elena would find strands of Pierre’s hair curled among hers, his hair longer, thicker and stronger. Elena let his mouth and hands find all kinds of secret shelters and nooks, and rest there, falling into a dream of enveloping caresses, bowing her head over his when he placed his mouth on her throat, kissing the words she could not utter. He seemed to divine where she wanted a kiss to fall next, what part of her body demanded to be warmed. Her eyes fell on her own feet, and then his kisses went there, or below her arm, or in the hollow of her back, or where the belly ran into a valley, where the pubic hairs began, small and light and sparse. Pierre stretched out his arm as a cat might, to be stroked. He threw his head back at times, closed his eyes, and let her cover him with moth kisses that were only a promise of more violent ones to come. When he could no longer bear the silky light touches, he opened his eyes and offered his mouth like a ripe fruit to bite, and she fell hungrily on it, as if to draw from it the very source of life. When desire had permeated every little pore and hair of the body, then they abandoned themselves to violent caresses. At times she could hear her bones crack as he raised her legs above his shoulders, she could hear the suction of the kisses, the raindrop sound of the lips and tongues, the moisture spreading in the warmth of the mouth as if they were eating into a fruit which melted and dissolved. He could hear her strange muffled crooning sound, like that of some exotic bird in ecstasy; and she, his breath, which came more heavily as his blood grew denser, richer.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  We were tired. We closed the window. We rested for a little while. We began to talk in the dark, dreaming and remembering. “A few hours ago, Marcel, I entered the subway at the rush hour, which I rarely do. I was pushed by the waves of people, jammed, and stood there. Suddenly I remembered a subway adventure Alraune told me about, when she was convinced that Hans had taken advantage of the crowdedness to caress a woman. At the very same moment, I felt a hand very lightly touch my dress, as if by accident. My coat was open, my dress thin, and this hand was brushing lightly through my dress just at the tip of my sex. I did not move away. The man in front of me was so tall that I could not see his face. I did not want to look up. I was not sure it was he, I did not want to know who it was. The hand caressed the dress, then very lightly it increased its pressure, feeling for the sex. I made a very slight movement to raise the sex toward the fingers. The fingers became firmer, following the shape of the lips deftly, lightly. I felt a wave of pleasure. As a lurch of the subway pushed us together I pressed against the whole hand, and he made a bolder gesture, gripping the lips of the sex. Now I was frenzied with pleasure, I felt the orgasm approaching, I rubbed against the hand, imperceptibly. The hand seemed to feel what I felt and continued its caress until I came. The orgasm shook my body. The subway stopped and a river of people pushed out. The man disappeared.” WAR IS DECLARED. Women are weeping in the streets. The very first night there was a black-out. We had seen rehearsals of this, but the real black-out was quite different. The rehearsals had been gay. Now Paris was serious. The streets were absolutely black. Here and there a tiny blue or green or red watch light, small and dim, like the little ikon lights in Russian churches. All the windows were covered with black cloth. The café windows were covered or painted in dark blue. It was a soft September night. Because of the darkness it seemed even softer. There was something very strange in the atmosphere—an expectancy, a suspense.