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

  Mikala’s favorite sex toy was the Bullet. It was a small silver vibrator that had a cord attached to it with a control switch that allowed you to adjust the intensity of the vibration. It could go hard and fast, if you wanted to feel a throbbing motion like a man was pounding on your pussy nonstop, or it could go slow if you wanted to take your time to savor your orgasm. That lil’ gadget was the truth! If the Bullet couldn’t make a woman cum, then a bitch had something wrong with the nerves in her coochie! Mikala held the Bullet in her hand and took a bottle of Pure Satisfaction oil outta her shoe box and then placed the box back under the bed. She slid off her thong and unhooked her bra to get a little bit more comfortable as she reclined on the silk sheets with her head resting on the fluffy pillows. She took a few drops of the oil and placed it on the tips of her fingers. She gently rubbed it on her clit and slowly the oil began to heat up. Goose bumps rose on her arms. She adjusted the level of the Bullet until it was just right and placed it up against her clit as her mind slid off into a world of ecstasy. Within a few minutes, she could feel the juices begin to run from her warm vagina. She caressed her nipples one at a time. She lifted them toward her, then used her tongue to bring them to full attention as she licked and sucked with delight. Her ass cheeks clenched tighter as the Bullet vibrated. The sensual sounds coming from the stereo made the episode that much more erotic. In her mind, Mikala was getting down with a masked stranger who packed a big dick. She’d had this fantasy many times before, and it got better each time she relived it. Since her man refused to address her needs, she used her imagination to create the ideal man that could do the job. At first, she felt like she was cheating on Jamel to have thoughts of sleeping with another man, but, over time, that feeling faded. She called the brothah in her fantasy Borne. He was baldheaded and had dark brown, island-tanned skin. Jail-house tattoos were all over his chest and back. His hands were rough, like he worked construction or something, and they sent chills up and down her spine when he touched her flesh. He was muscular from head to toe and had an ass that she loved to dig her nails into. She didn’t give a damn what Borne’s face looked like because it was about the way he made her body feel and riding his big dick until she got hers.

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

  She gagged. Rode his toe for all it was worth. She reached another high. Beautiful Tiffany clenched her pussy and the white bitch gagged. He lost sight. Everything was black. Her mouth professed her love for his meat with moans. His dick tightened in its skin. It expanded and he could feel the pressure. He grabbed her ears and brought himself closer. He invaded her throat. She allowed him. “Fucking dumb bitch,” he yelled. She was a good bitch, the way she joined him. They both had threesomes. She forgot about the pain in her back, the pulling of her hair, the stubby stabbing of her pussy, and the vile names he called her. It all meshed. His grip reached her throat and went to her shoulders. She allowed this. “Shit!” was screamed by both. He pumped and released. He held her head still. She quit stroking his digit and allowed him to coat her mouth. He tasted sweet. Almost beautiful. When he was done, so was she. She had mastered the art of the quiet come. She lifted herself and cleaned his toe with her panties. She never looked his way. Servants weren’t supposed to give eye contact. The movie wasn’t over. She would get her supporting actress role later. She stuffed her panties in her bag and walked to the door. He sat in the middle of the blue hue like a weathered saxophone player after a long set. He never looked her way. She opened the door. Her smile was absent. “I’ll be waiting by the bodega on the corner whenever you’re ready, sir.” He looked up and smiled. “Watch the Rodriguezes’ dog.” He paused. “Bitch.” HOMEY, LOVER, FRIEND Thomas Long “Wake ya tired ass up, girl,” Chastity yelled into the phone. “I ain’t sleep, fool. I’m just sitting up in here chillin’. Waiting on nothing. What’s up with you?” her friend Mikala asked. “I’m ain’t doing nothing special. What you getting into tomorrow?” “I’m probably going out to Arundel Mills Mall to do some shopping. Why? Are you tryin’ to tag along?” “Hell, yeah! The one thing I like best—next to gettin’ some dick—is spending money on new clothes!” “Girl, you crazy like a fox. Let’s hook up around one o’clock. I need to get outta this house just to clear my head, ya know what I’m sayin’?” “Is that nigga still trippin’? You need to get rid of his ass before it’s too late. Jamel ain’t the only fish in the sea. You can find you another man who knows how to twirk that thing,” Chastity said, putting her nose into Mikala’s personal business.

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

  She nodded. He reached over and opened her door. She got out with hesitancy. He watched her look around before pulling her coat shut. She hurried past the old men and began her journey down the darkest street in the neighborhood. He spun his car around and drove to his house, never once checking on her. He jogged up the few flights of stairs and rushed inside. He put a few things away before settling in his favorite chair. He lit his smoke again, and waited. He listened to the hustle and bustle of the street and wondered where she was. She would probably jump out of her skin when she passed the Rodriguezes’. They kept their vicious pit bulls outside on a leash that was long enough for them to munch on those who were too scared to walk near the street. Dallas and his boys would definitely harass that fresh white meat when she strolled by. No telling who would jump out of the alley a few houses up and ask to shine her shoes for a buck. He knew she needed the whole experience of the hood, not just the dick. Years ago Pretty would have done her right in the office and took her money right then and there. Now she would get it where and when he wanted to give it. He would show her what separated him from the rest of the pigeons she was used to dealing with. He turned off all of the lights and left a blue track light on. He positioned it in the middle of the floor. He impressed himself with his ability to make women perform at a higher level. He lit his cigar again and blew smoke up his own ass. He heard noises, and then the steady patter of feet approaching. He pulled his chair behind the light. He watched the door swing open slowly. Her movements showed hesitancy, perhaps unsure that she was in the right spot. He gave assurance with a “Hello.” She heard his voice, relaxed, but still stood motionless by the door. She looked out of place with her expensive clothes, her timid smile, and her unsteady stance. She wobbled. He barked out orders. She followed his directions and walked toward the spotlight. She looked better under the blue light. It gave her color and presence. It made her shape glisten. Made her feel like she was onstage. She would transform into his bitch on command. She wished her husband made her do what he wanted to do. He always asked. She heard shuffling and then soft music played. “Strip!”

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

  I rode up to the eighth floor in silence. That threat Tears liked to make about me cheating on him came to mind. Fuck him! I said to myself. He should’ve taken the pussy this morning. I got off the elevator and continued down the posh, carpeted hallway. I looked for room 825 and my heart beating like crazy the closer I came to the room. “825, it’s a suite,” I said to myself in a whisper. The door was slightly open and I took a deep breath and slowly made my way inside. The room was dim with the shades pulled down and it was quiet. I glanced around the suite and didn’t see Raheem. I stayed my ass near the door, and moved no further into the room. Behind me, the door slammed suddenly, and out of the blue I felt a pair of masculine arms reach around my waist and pull me closer into his embrace. “I’m glad you came,” I heard Raheem say behind me. “You nervous?” “Yeah. A little bit,” I admitted, but pressed my ass against him anyway. “I gotta be back at work at two.” “Don’t worry, we have enough time.” He slowly began undoing my blouse, and then I felt his hand reach inside my bra and cup my breast. I moaned with pleasure as he pulled up my skirt. His hand moved between my moist thighs and rested against my throbbing pussy. I shivered as he pushed my panties to the side and slid two fingers into my wet pussy. “Oooh, ooh,” I moaned, feeling him dig into me. I clamped my love muscles around his fingers and continued to squeeze. “Um, your shit feels so tight, Ayeesha,” he whispered in my ear. His breath was warm and smelled like Winter Fresh gum. I turned my head, facing him slightly, and he turned too, and we tongued each other down as he continued to finger my pussy tenderly. His tongue was long and hot and he tried to push it down my throat. He kissed me like he loved my ass. His strong hands fondled my breasts, then continued to molest that part of me down low. I finally turned all the way around and saw that he was in a thick white terry-cloth bathrobe. I wrapped my arms around him and continued to kiss him hotly, just like I used to kiss my boo. It was already 1:25 P.M. and I didn’t have much more time for my lunch break. I took off my boots, and began unfastening my skirt, giving Raheem a little show. I dropped my skirt to the floor and stood in front of him in my white blouse, bra, and some lacy pink panties. “Damn! You are the bomb, Ayeesha,” he stated. I continued to strip, shedding my clothing gradually until I stood stark naked in front of him. I smiled, moving my hands across my flawless brown skin. “Your turn,” I said.

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

  “Do something for me, baby,” Life asked. “Reach down, stick two fingers inside of that pussy, and suck them juices from your pretty fingertips. Lemme see you do that.” I did what Life asked of me. I felt like a movie star. Before I knew it he pulled his tool out and began stroking it openly. “Look at what I got for you,” he said, working his dick up into a nice thick, long pole. “Put that thing ’way. That’s not a good idea,” I told him. The sight of Life’s sexy dick made me feel like Jell-O inside. “You can’t even look at my dick. You’re nervous as hell. You think there’s something wrong with a man stroking his shit?” “No—I never said that. There’s nothing wrong with . . . well. Never mind, Life.” “Before you say no to something, you should at least see what you’re turning down,” he said, stroking it gently. I finally took a really good look at Life’s dick and my mouth began to water like I smelled good food burnin’ at a soul-food spot! “I’m in a committed relationship. I told you that from day one,” I said weakly. “Yani, the man you got ain’t living up to the meaning of a man. He has you hanging your head down and holding back on what you wanna do. If you were satisfied in every way, you wouldn’t be writing poetry about me, wondering how I work my dick, or shaking yo ass in my face. So you tryna tell me you half-naked but I’m feeling sparks up in this motherfucker alone?” I didn’t answer. “Girl, what you really want right now is a thug nigga like me to hit it like I’m gonna break you in half! From the way you’ve explained things here and there, the situation you’re in is fucked up. I know you need to get fucked, licked, and sucked right—it’s been written all over your face since the night I saw you in the club. If you need time, I got time. But don’t you think it’s about time you just let go, for you? I ain’t that nigga that’s got you stressin’. If you want this dick, get ready to sit down on it and enjoy it,” Life said, tearing open a condom. I was nearly salivating at the thought of sitting down on his massive dick. But just when I was about to take him up on his offer, something snapped me out of the fuckin’ mood. The phone rang. “Yo, Yani! I’m on my way over. I just wrapped up some business and I’ma come through and holla atchu. Put on some heels and some sexy shit. I wanna see you looking good when I come through the spot for that wet wet,” Smooth Willie said. “Oh shit!” I told Life when I hung up. “That was Smooth!”

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

  His voice was mellow. “Do you like it or love it?” He dug after he questioned. His dick scraped the bottom. He pushed deep and lifted her with his stroke. She touched the air. He asked her to squeeze. She closed her eyes tight as if that made her squeeze harder. Those muscles had nothing to do with those muscles. She hugged tight. Didn’t want to lose the feeling. She closed her eyes even tighter to take the picture. Dark muscular back. Felt like something good to hold on while being pleased. She knew what he liked. She eased him out by sitting up. She ate her mess. After she cleaned him her spin was slow. She went to her knees and spread her arms across the bed. Her back had arch, two dimples and shape. The color was premium; like she bought the deepest brown they had to offer. He grabbed each cheek and kneaded them. She needed this. His right hand pressed hard and rode its way up to her neck. He left it there and gripped the back of her neck. He pushed her head to the bed. She couldn’t breathe. She would worry about breath later. His hands hurt her neck, but she wouldn’t dare move. She would feel any residual pain later, after her body bucked ferociously, her senses emptied, and her world collapsed. He filled her with one stroke. She jumped. Almost lost her breath. Her body shook violently. It was brutal, almost savage the way he filled her cavity. She wouldn’t have it any other way. He stayed still. Didn’t move an inch. She felt every one. She opened her eyes and watched his shadow against the wall. The shadow was bigger, but wasn’t as defined. His pumps were smooth against the lightly flickering wall. Her ass looked even bigger. Not better. He began a slow thrust that popped when he reached her capacity. On her neck, she felt the power in his hand. She wanted to be held down. She wanted to be forced to take everything he knew. He spoke confidently, “You can keep your money if you don’t come when I say.” He knew she loved what she couldn’t have. She loved the battle, and didn’t care who won the war. She didn’t care if he knew her body; she was a winner either way. “You got sixty seconds.” His voice was buttery, like he was singing instructions. The bass in it hit her spine. The confidence hit her sex. She wanted it raw, no chaser.

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

  That spot between my thighs was tingling in my sleep. I wanted to be touched. I was wet with excitement, so I rested my head against the spongy hay, then parted my legs and was just about to get it on with myself when something made me look up. Walking out of the circle of stallions came this tall, dark, and gorgeous guy. He had the physique of a well-sculpted ironman with a six-pack, buff arms, and firm thighs. He was naked, and his dick hung down on him like an anaconda. Shit, he was packing just as much as those horses were. He didn’t say a word, and I couldn’t talk either. He walked up to me, then got down on his knees and parted my thighs, eating me deliciously while the horses watched. His tongue swam around in me like he was trying to dig for something. I panted loudly as I fondled my breast with one hand and gripped his gleaming bald head with the other. I was loud, so loud that I began stirring up the horses as they watched this fine man eat me out on a pile of hay. The horses started leaping up in the air on their hind legs, but we kept going and paid them no mind. The guy ate me to death as he gripped my right leg strongly. He spread my legs wider as his head swirled between my thighs. “Aaaaaahhh . . . aaaaaahhh . . . aaaaaahhh,” I panted, feeling myself sinking deeper into the hay. He lifted his head up and stared at me with this strange dim gaze. He climbed on top of me and positioned himself between my wet thighs. We sank deeper into the hay as he pressed against me; I felt the tip of his big dick touching against my warm and inviting lips. His huge erection opening me up wide, and he pushed inch by inch of his vast size up inside me. I cried out. “Ahhh . . . Oh, God!” My nameless dream-man thrust and thrust into me as I straddled him and dug my manicured nails into his bare skin. I felt myself sinking lower and lower into the hay as he fucked me and fucked me. Then suddenly I heard a voice call out . . . Ayeesha! I opened my eyes, surprised that my dream had seemed so real. The sheet between my legs was damp, and I was horny as hell. I heard my husband in the shower and wished he was next to me, ready to fuck, just like I was right now. I lay my head back against the pillow, and slowly moved my hand between my thighs, pulling up my silk-and-lace pink slip as I touched myself lightly. My husband had come to bed last night without even noticing what I had on.

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

  I worked with Raheem all morning. He was thinking about bringing a new account to the agency, which would be worth forty-five million dollars, and Mr. Robinson was kissing his ass. We talked and got to know each other, and all I knew was there was a serious attraction between us. Raheem asked me all kinds of personal questions like he was dying to know my business. I told him that I was hooked up, with no kids, and had been with my man for about two years. I left out the part about how I was dancing onstage when I met Tears, and how wild I was. Raheem said he wasn’t with anybody and didn’t have any kids either. He was so damn fine he made my panties melt. With all of his money he still had a deep gangsta voice, and I loved the way he talked. “Your man is lucky,” he told me. “You’re every damn thing a black woman should look like.” I smiled real big and the flirting between us went back and forth. He made me feel hot. He made me feel wanted. And after that incident with Tears, he made me feel like he wanted to fuck me. Hours passed, and it was soon time for my lunch break. I glanced at my desk clock and saw that I had fifteen more minutes until my one o’ clock lunch. Raheem was in the office with my boss, and I was dying to see and talk to him again. A few minutes later the door to my boss’s office opened and Raheem came walking out. He looked like a male model striding toward my desk. I waited for him to say something, but instead he dropped a note on my desk and walked away without uttering one word. I picked up the note he’d dropped, and it read: Meet me at the Sheraton Hotel, room 825, during your lunch hour. I was shocked. I read the note three times, and then stuffed it in my purse. I had a devilish smile on my face as I wondered what he wanted with me. I was definitely gonna find out! The Sheraton was a few blocks from my job, so it wasn’t a problem. I jumped into my Lexus and made it to the hotel in five minutes. I walked into the lobby strutting in my brown A-line boot-length skirt, black leather boots, a white blouse, and my light denim jacket draped over my forearm. I had never been in this hotel, but the lobby was beautiful. It was vast, with a large crystal chandelier suspended above marble floors, antique Georgian mahogany carver chairs with scroll arms and saber legs, and a swanky seating arrangement. I strutted past the two female clerks and went straight for the elevators. I pressed 8 and waited. I was burning with anticipation and wondering what Raheem had planned for me.

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

  He beeped his car horn as soon as she came out. She hurried over and waited for him to open the door. His chivalrous nature never made the trip. He flung the door open from the inside. She started to speak; his hand stopped her. He drove down a couple of streets before making a quick right down Thurgood Road. She’d heard about it. She watched the crowds change before her eyes. Near the bank, people were light as the day. As he rolled closer and closer toward downtown, their shades got dark, like her fantasies. She didn’t mind seeing it from a distance. She realized her fantasy was reality when his car came to a screeching halt near a bodega where three black men sat outside smoking and playing dominoes. “Get the fuck out!” She clutched her pocketbook. He cut the engine, grabbed his dick, and slid his seat back. He reached overhead and flipped his visor down. A tightly rolled cigar fell into his lap. He pushed his car lighter in and waited. He pressed his cigar into the cave of the lighter. He blew a steady stream her way. She choked and remembered the smell. Her ex-boyfriend used to smoke weed every day after class and before sex. She likened Pretty to him. “Get the fuck out!” She looked toward the men who continued to play games. “I’m not getting out here.” Pretty placed his smoke inside the ashtray and started his car up again. He never looked her way. “I’ll take you back.” She watched him reach for the gears. She grabbed his hand. “Wait. Just tell me why I have to get out here?” Pretty finally blessed her with eye contact. She felt his connection again. She watched him put his cigar back to his mouth. She dreamed about the places his full lips could kiss. His eyebrows were thick and tamed. His jaw was square and his goatee rode it from ear to ear. She wanted to ride him from here to there. His interest wasn’t the same as before. She wanted to get him back to that level and she knew she had to eat a few slices of humble pie. Resistance always made her come quicker. He took a slow drag. His car filled with chocolate flavor. He rubbed his moustache and watched her squirm. He played his part. He would ask for his Oscar later. “You want the hood, right?” Her banter was awkward. “I don’t know.” Her fingers trailed his thigh. He slapped them away. “No touching. I want you to walk down the block, go to number 114, ring the third bell from the bottom, and walk upstairs to apartment 3.” She looked up and down the street. He figured she had more questions. He jumped in and pointed behind her. “Walk down that way. Don’t talk to anyone. When you’re in the crib, I want you to strip in the middle of the floor. You got it?”

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

  Chandra sucked me at three different speeds, licked my balls, and tried to lick my ass. I stopped her before it got too crazy and moved on to the main event. Slipping on a Magnum condom, I got back into my kneeling position in front of Chandra. I spread her big thighs and tickled her clit with the head of my dick. Chandra tried to squirm onto my dick, but I backed away. My show, my way. “Beg for it.” “Please,” she whimpered, pawing at my dick. Chandra had a look in her eyes that went beyond want or need. Her eyes was filled with the desperation that you see in a junkie who needs a quick fix. There was no doubt in my mind that if I didn’t break Chandra off, she was gonna try her best to take the dick. I ran my fingernails along Chandra’s thighs, barely touching her skin. Chandra sighed as a tremble went through her body. I started out just slipping the head of my dick inside her. I can’t even front, Chandra’s pussy was tight. Even with the lubricated condom, and her pussy now running like a faucet, I had a little trouble getting the head in. I began stroking her slowly, careful not to let her feel the whole thing just yet. By the time I got my dick halfway in, Chandra was hissing like a viper. “Yeah, this pussy is tight,” I huffed, keeping a steady rhythm. I hadn’t had a pussy that tight since high school. There was even a moment that I had the urge to cum prematurely, but you know I was too cool for that. Chandra’s husband either had a little dick, or he wasn’t hitting it much. I slipped my dick about three quarters of the way in before I hit her vaginal wall. Chandra let out a yelp, but made no attempt to stop me. “You like this dick, don’t you?” I whispered into her ear. “Yes,” she sobbed. “Tell me you love this dick, bitch. Tell me you love it.” I demanded. “I love it. Goddammit! I love this dick!” she shrieked. I continued to give it to Chandra, alternating from a slow grind to a rapid pounding. She cursed and grunted, throwing it back at me. I knew she was about to cum because I felt the walls of her pussy start to tighten around my dick. Just before she reached her climax, I pulled out. Chandra looked at me as if she could strangle my ass, but I paid her no mind. “Turn over,” I ordered, and she flipped onto her stomach real quick.

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

  I gave Chandra a playful wink and headed toward the bathroom. Once inside, I closed the door and locked it. I proceeded to ramble through the medicine cabinet, garbage pail, and even peeked under the toilet seat looking for piss stains. I made it a rule never to roll into an apartment or house that a woman shared with a man. That was sure nuff asking to get got. I’d learned over the years that what a chick says and what’s real can often be two different things. I had broken this rule once, and ended up getting stabbed in the back by a hater boyfriend. That’s the reason why I started carrying a gat when I went to see a trick. I use the term trick, as opposed to client, because that’s what I did. I tricked women into believing they needed what I was selling. Most of these women should have realized that they were fine and strong enough not to need a man like me, or any man, to make them feel good. The thing was, the majority of them never really looked deep enough within themselves to find that inner strength. Relying on a man for strength or happiness was a shortcut. This worked for me, because it insured that as long as my dick could get hard, I’d never be pressed for cash. After making sure that there wasn’t a dude either living there or squatting, I went back into the living room. Chandra was standing in the spot where I had left her, rubbing her hands together nervously. From the look in her eyes she probably knew what drill I had really conducted in her bathroom. I gave her a sexy grin to set her mind at ease, and took a seat on the couch. “Would you like something to—?” “Take your shit off,” I cut her off, totally catching her off guard. Chandra stood there with her mouth open. She tried to read my face to see if I was joking, which I wasn’t. “I figured you might’a wanted to talk for a minute. You know, get to know each other a little bit?” she said, trying to buy herself some time. “What’s there to talk about? We both know what time it is.” My cinnamon brown eyes ensnared her, causing her to turn away. “Time is money, love. Come up out that dress.” She hesitated for a quick second, then started to undress. Chandra began undoing her black Versace dress. Her pudgy hands fumbled with the clasp at the shoulder, but finally managed to unclamp it. I admired her full breasts, pushed up by the black Victoria’s Secret bra. The formfitting dress gave her some trouble coming down over those wide hips, but slid off smoothly past that point.

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

  Harmony undid my belt and began fondling my dick as we continued to try to suck the breath out of each other. I could tell that she was surprised at my length as she stroked me. Running my hand up her back, I began playing in her soft hair. Before she knew what was going on I was guiding her head down to my lap. She didn’t seem to mind as she ran her tongue along the head of my dick. My eyes rolled back in my head as she worked her lips down the side of my shaft and tickled my balls. She sucked on my sack like she was trying to get the last bit of meat out of a snow-crab leg, drawing a low moan from me. Gripping a fistful of her hair I began fucking Harmony’s mouth. Her warm breath felt like heaven on my throbbing cock. She bobbed up and down on me expertly, letting a stream of saliva run down my dick and settle on my balls. “Damn, you really do taste like chocolate,” she gasped, before continuing to suck me off. I let her continue with her little show before pulling her head up and gazing into her pretty green eyes. Behind those eyes I saw a hunger that matched the one building up inside of me. “Fuck this pussy, Chocolate,” she demanded, laying back on the rock and hiking her sundress up. I pulled Harmony’s thong to the side and admired her bush. It was hairy, but she kept it neatly trimmed. I watched carefully as she began sliding her finger in and out of her pussy, inviting me to take the plunge. I was so thirsty to run up in this little tender that my hands were nearly trembling as I ripped the condom wrapper open. Gripping her ass cheeks, I lifted her slightly off the rock and slid her onto my dick. I had no problem running up in Harmony’s soaking wet pussy. She winced a little when I reached her rear walls, but that didn’t stop her from trying to pull me deeper. Her small hands gripped the collar of my shirt, almost popping the buttons off as I pounded her. “Ooh, get this pussy you black muthafucka,” she grunted, throwing it back at me. My face contorted into a mask of something hideous as I appreciated her hot box. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Fuck me, Chocolate. Fuck me!” Now, I had always considered myself as somewhat of a pussy wrecker, but Harmony was no slouch. For as hard as I tried to dig into her, she threw it back equally hard. I placed Harmony on her side and spread her legs into a scissor. She braced one foot against the top of the rock and let me go as far as I could into her.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  The trouble with Irène is that she has a valise instead of a cunt. She wants fat letters to shove in her valise. Immense, avec des choses inouïes . Llona now, she had a cunt. I know because she sent us some hairs from down below. Llona—a wild ass snuffing pleasure out of the wind. On every high hill she played the harlot—and sometimes in telephone booths and toilets. She bought a bed for King Carol and a shaving mug with his initials on it. She lay in Tottenham Court Road with her dress pulled up and fingered herself. She used candles, Roman candles, and door knobs. Not a prick in the land big enough for her… not one . Men went inside her and curled up. She wanted extension pricks, self-exploding rockets, hot boiling oil made of wax and creosote. She would cut off your prick and keep it inside her forever, if you gave her permission. One cunt out of a million, Llona! A laboratory cunt and no litmus paper that could take her color. She was a liar, too, this Llona. She never bought a bed

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  112 Lecture 15: The Extension of Christian Culture 1. Comment on this proposition: With establishment as the imperial religion, Christianity’s worship expanded to fill the space and time allotted it. 2. In what ways did Christianity maintain roots in Judaism? How did the two rival traditions grow apart rather than closer? Questions to Consider 113 monasticism as Radical Christianity Lecture 16 T he new conditions of Christians within an imperially approved and sponsored religion were not regarded by all as uniformly positive. With legitimacy, benefaction, and privilege came both security and prosperity at the material level. This meant that Christianity was increasingly “conformed to the world,” rather than its critic, and the bearer of culture, rather than countercultural. The response of some Christians was the desire to return to what they perceived as a more radical existence. This radical edge—now in reaction to an established imperial church—emerged in the 4 th century in diverse forms of flight from society and asceticism that are gathered under the term “monasticism.” The Turn to Monasticism • The desire for a more radical existence among some Christians was continuous with elements in the New Testament that exhorted believers “not to be conformed to this age” (Rom. 12:2), and to “go outside the camp” to suffer as Jesus did outside the city, “for here we have no lasting city” (Heb. 13:13). Likewise, some Christians looked back at the portrayal of the first believers as sharing all their possessions and having nothing they called their own (Acts 2:41– 47, 4:32–37). • The desire was continuous, as well, with those elements of radical Christianity that persisted through the age of persecution: the boldness of those facing martyrdom, who chose Christ rather than Caesar; the representation of the apostles as subverters of the social order, who challenged the stability of both household and state; the New Prophecy that looked to a heavenly Jerusalem; the forms of Gnosticism that rejected all outward forms to cultivate the spirit. • Some precedent for “living apart” in community had been set already by certain Greco-Roman philosophical schools. The Epicureans and the Pythagoreans had a long history of “life

• From The Girls (2016)

  The illustrations of the bound girl stirred me so I had to parcel how long I could look at them. I wished I could draw something like that, like the terrifying inside of someone’s own mind. Or draw the face of the black-haired girl I’d seen in town—studying her long enough so I could see how the features worked together. The hours I lost to masturbation, face pressed into my pillow, passing some point of caring. I’d get a headache after a while, muscles jumpy, my legs quivering and tender. My underpants wet, the tops of my thighs. Another book: a silversmith accidentally spills molten silver on his hand. His arm and hand probably looked skinned after the burn had scabbed over and peeled. The skin tight and pink and fresh, without hair or freckles. I thought of Willie and his stump, the warm hose water he sloshed over his car. How the puddles would slowly evaporate from the asphalt. I practiced peeling an orange as if my arm were burned to the elbow and I had no fingernails. Death seemed to me like a lobby in a hotel. Some civilized, well-lit room you could easily enter or leave. A boy in town had shot himself in his finished basement after getting caught selling counterfeit raffle tickets: I didn’t think of the gore, the wet insides, but only the ease of the moment before he pulled the trigger, how clean and winnowed the world must have seemed. All the disappointments, all of regular life with its punishments and indignities, made surplus in one orderly motion. —The aisles of the store seemed new to me, my thoughts formless from drinking. The constant flickering of the lights, stale lemon drops in a bin, the makeup arranged in pleasing, fetishistic groupings. I uncapped a lipstick, to test it on my wrist like I’d read I should. The door rang its chime of commerce. I looked up. It was the black-haired girl from the park, in denim sneakers, a dress whose sleeves had been cut at the shoulder. Excitement moved through me. Already I was trying to imagine what I would say to her. Her sudden appearance made the day seem tightly wound with synchronicity, the angle of sunlight newly weighted. The girl wasn’t beautiful, I realized, seeing her again. It was something else. Like pictures I had seen of the actor John Huston’s daughter. Her face could have been an error, but some other process was at work. It was better than beauty. The man behind the counter scowled. “I told you,” he said. “I won’t let any of you in here, not anymore. Get on.” The girl gave him a lazy smile, holding up her hands. I saw a prick of hair in her armpits. “Hey,” she said, “I’m just trying to buy toilet paper.” “You stole from me,” the man said, shading red. “You and your friends. Not wearing shoes, running around with your filthy feet.

• From The Girls (2016)

  Or Pamela and the girls on the high school steps, waiting for the lazy agitation of their boyfriends’ idling cars, the signal to leap to their feet. To brush off their seat and trip out into the full sun, waving goodbye to the ones left behind. —Soon after that day, I’d gone to Peter’s room while Connie was sleeping. His comment to me in the kitchen felt like a time-stamped invitation I had to redeem before it slipped away. Connie and I had drunk beer before bed, lounging against the wicker legs of her furniture and scooping cottage cheese from a tub with our fingers. I drank much more than she had. I wanted some other momentum to take over, forcing action. I didn’t want to be like Connie, never changing, waiting around for something to happen, eating an entire sleeve of sesame crackers, then doing ten jumping jacks in her room. I stayed awake after Connie passed into her deep, twitchy sleep. Listening for Peter’s footsteps on the stairs. He crashed to his room, finally, and I waited for what seemed like a long time before I followed. Creeping along the hallway like a specter in shortie pajamas, their polyester slickness stuck in the broody stretch between princess costumes and lingerie. The silence of the house was a living thing, oppressive and present but also coloring everything with a foreign freedom, filling the rooms like a denser air. Peter’s form under the blankets was still, his knobby man’s feet exposed. I heard his breathing, brambled from the aftereffects of whatever drugs he’d taken. His room seemed to cradle him. This might have been enough—to watch him sleep as a parent would, indulging the privilege of imagining happy dreams. His breaths like the beads of a rosary, each in and out a comfort. But I didn’t want it to be enough. When I got closer, his face clarified, his features completing as I adjusted to the dark. I let myself watch him without shame. Peter opened his eyes, suddenly, and somehow didn’t seem startled by my presence at his bedside. Giving me a look as mild as a glass of milk. “Boyd,” he said, his voice still drifty from sleep, but he blinked and there was a resignation in the way he said my name that made me feel he’d been waiting for me. That he’d known I would come. I was embarrassed to be standing like I was. “You can sit,” he said. I crouched by the futon, hovering foolishly. My legs already starting to burn with effort. Peter reached a hand to pull me fully onto the mattress and I smiled, though I wasn’t sure he could even see my face. He was quiet and so was I. His room looked strange, as seen from the floor; the bulk of the dresser, the slivered doorway. I couldn’t imagine Connie in the rooms beyond.

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

  Back in the day, when our moms were friends, me, Dushawn, and his lil’ sister, Camille, used to walk to school together. Me and Cami were tighter than tight. We did er’ything together. Sometimes in middle school we even dressed alike. We had matchin’ diaries when we were teens. Some kinda way our diaries got mixed up. Her nosy-ass mama called herself snoopin’ through Cami’s diary and ended up readin’ mine. At the time, I had a King Kong crush on Dushawn. Every page was covered with fuck fantasies about him and me, but we hadn’t even held hands. Mrs. Lambert invited my mom by—to talk. She was cool with her conversation at first, but she started dropping nasty lugs on my mom about gettin’ pregnant in high school and never gettin’ married, and living on the “rough” side of Compton. She ended up tellin’ Mom that if I was tryin’ to trap Dushawn the same way she had tried to trap my father, it wasn’t gonna work. Momma snapped into bitch mode and called her every kinda bitch/cunt/ho she could think of. When we left, Momma slammed their door so hard it sounded like a bomb went off, and it cracked their big front window. So much for the “nice” long talk to smooth things out. From then on, we weren’t supposed to see each other anymore, but me and Camille were like sisters. We did a lot of sneakin’ and we never lost friendship. Dushawn would wave but that was it. Back then, I lived just to see him wave from across the street. When Cami told me he got shot in a drive-by at Campanella Park, I snuck by to see him every day on the way to school for two weeks. After that, whenever he saw me he would stop and talk if his mom wasn’t around. Whenever we talked, I could tell he was really feelin’ me. For the longest time, I waited for him to make a move and here we were—ready to finally get our fuck on—and he brings up that shit. I was pissed—actually more hurt than anything. I choked back a lump of disappointment the size of Texas and said, “Look, I don’t want no muthafucka who don’t want me. Either you want me—or ya don’t.” “You know I want you. I just don’t want you to get things twisted.” I threw up my hand. I spoke slow and clear. “If you want this pussy, you better jump the fuck on in this bitch! I’ll deal with tomorrow when it get here. Who knows, you might be the muthafucka that gets sprung.”

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

  “I’ll just bet.” She smiled, pinching my cheek playfully. “With the rain gone, it’s nice out now,” she remarked, looking up at the clearing sky. “A night for lovin’,” I replied, tracing my fingers along her arm, barely touching her skin. I felt that telltale shudder run through her and knew that the gauntlet had been laid down. There was a moment when all sound ceased and Harmony and I just stared at each other. She opened her mouth to break the silence, but I hushed her with a finger over her lips. Harmony kissed it softly then began sucking on it. Feeling her warm mouth on my finger I imagined what her lips would feel like on my dick. My vivid imagination caused a small pup tent to rise in my jeans. “Let me find out about that lovin’,” she said, looking down at the bulge. “That’s what I’m hoping,” I said, placing her hand on my dick so she could see what a nigga was working with. I thought she’d pull away, but she didn’t. Harmony firmly pressed her hand against my crotch and gave a smile that said she was pleased. “Let me see it,” she asked, playfully. “Shame on your ass, girl,” I laughed. “We don’t even know each other.” She laughed back. “Stop fronting, Chocolate,” she said, gripping my dick through the jeans. “I seen how you was looking at me all night. You’re just as curious about how wet my pussy is as I am as to how deep your dick can go. We’re both grown, so ain’t no need to play games.” I was a little thrown off by her directness, but turned on at the same time. There was nothing I liked more than a chick who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. I leaned in and kissed Harmony deeply. I usually didn’t like kissing, but her full lips were so sexy that I couldn’t help myself. As our tongues performed a mating dance I let my hand roam up her sundress. Even through her thong panties I could feel the heat radiating from her pussy. I slipped my middle finger inside her and began to explore her love nest. Harmony breathed deeply and slid further down onto my finger. It was like dipping my finger into a warm pie. She was so wet that I could feel the moisture building in my hand like a thin film of sweat.

• From Trash (1988)

  Jay lifted a little off me. I opened stinging eyes to see her face, her intent and startling expression. I held my breath, waiting. I felt it before I understood it, and when I did understand I went on lying still under her, barely breathing. It burned me, ran all over my belly and legs. She put both hands down, brought them up, poured bitter yellow piss into my eyes, my ears, my shuddering mouth. “Swallow it,” she said again, but I held it in my mouth, pushed up against her and clawed her back with my nails. She whistled between her teeth. My hips jerked and rocked against her, making a wet sucking sound. I pushed my face to hers, my lips to hers, and forced my tongue into her mouth. I gripped her hard and rolled her over, my tongue sliding across her teeth, the taste of all her juices between us. I bit her lips and shoved her legs apart with my knee. “Taste it,” I hissed at her. “Swallow it.” I ran my hands over her body. My skin burned. She licked my face, growling deep in her throat. I pushed both hands between her legs, my fingertips opened her and my thumbs caught her clit under the soft sheath of its hood. “Go on, go on,” I insisted. Tears were running down her face. I licked them. Her mouth was at my ear, her tongue trailing through the sweat at my hairline. When she came her teeth clamped down on my earlobe. I pulled but could not free myself. She was a thousand miles away, rocking back and forth on my hand, and the stink of her all over us both. When her teeth freed my ear, I slumped. It felt as if I had come with her. My thighs shook and my teeth ached. She was mumbling with her eyes closed. “Gonna bathe you,” she whispered, “put you in a tub of hot lemonade. Drink it off you. Eat you for dinner.” Her hands dug into my shoulders, rolled me onto my back. She drew a long, deep breath with her head back and then looked down at me, put one hand into my cunt, and brought it up slick with my juice. “Swallow it,” Jay said. “Swallow it.” The year we held the great Southeastern Feminist Conference, I was still following around behind Lee. She volunteered us to handle the food for the two hundred women that were expected. Lee wanted us to serve “healthy food”—her vegetarian spaghetti sauce, whole-wheat pasta, and salad with cold fresh vegetables.

• From Trash (1988)

  They were probably talking about food. When I couldn’t sleep I read Franz Kafka in my hotel room, thinking about him working for the social security administration in Prague. Kafka would work late and eat Polish sausage for dinner, sitting over a notebook in which he would write all night. I wrote letters like novels that I never mailed. When the chairman of the local office promised us all a real treat, I finally rebelled and refused to eat the raw clams Mr. McCollum said were “the best in the world.” While everyone around me sliced lemons and slurped up pink-and-gray morsels, I filled myself up with little white oyster crackers and tried not to look at the lobsters waiting to die, thrashing around in their plastic tanks. “It’s good to watch you eat,” Mona told me, serving me dill bread, sour cream, and fresh tomatoes. “You do it with such obvious enjoyment.” She drove us up to visit her family in Georgia, talking about what a great cook her mama was. My mouth watered, and we stopped three times for boiled peanuts. I wanted to make love in the backseat of her old DeSoto but she was saving it up to do it in her own bed at home. When we arrived her mama came out to the car and said, “You girls must be hungry,” and took us in to the lunch table. There was three-bean salad from cans packed with vinaigrette, pickle loaf on thin sliced white bread, American and Swiss cheese in slices, and antipasto from a jar sent directly from an uncle still living in New York City. “Deli food,” her mama kept saying, “is the best food in the world.” I nodded, chewing white bread and a slice of American cheese, the peanuts in my belly weighing me down like a mess of little stones. Mona picked at the pickle loaf and pushed her ankle up into my lap where her mother couldn’t see. I choked on the white bread and broke out in a sweat. Lee wore her hair pushed up like the whorls on scallop shells. She toasted mushrooms instead of marshmallows, and tried to persuade me of the value of cabbage and eggplant, but she cooked with no fat; everything tasted of safflower oil. I loved Lee but hated the cabbage—it seemed an anemic cousin of real greens—and I only got into the eggplant after Lee brought home a basketful insisting I help her to cook it up for freezing. “You got to get it to sweat out the poisons.” She sliced the big purple fruits as she talked. “Salt it up so the bitter stuff will come off.” She layered the salted slices between paper towels, changing the towels on the ones she’d cut up earlier.