Desire

Passages

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

Page 43 of 344 · 20 per page

• From Little Birds (1979)

  Before her astonished face, he took hold of his erect penis and caressed it, giving himself all the pleasure he could extract, sometimes using only two fingers around the tip of it, sometimes the whole hand, and Jeanette could see every contraction and expansion. It was as if he held a palpitating bird in his hand, a captive bird that tried to leap at her but that Pierre kept for his own pleasure. She gazed at Pierre’s penis, fascinated. She drew her face nearer. But his anger at her for darting out of the room to Jean was still fresh in him. She knelt in front of him. Although she was throbbing between the legs, she felt if she could at least kiss his penis she might satisfy her desire. Pierre let her kneel. He seemed about to offer his penis to her mouth, but he did not. He continued to massage it, angrily enjoying his own motions, as if to say, “I don’t need you.” Jeanette threw herself on the bed and became hysterical. Her wild gestures, the way she pressed her head back into the pillow so she could no longer see Pierre caressing himself, the way her body lay arched upwards—all of this stirred Pierre. But still he did not give her his penis. Instead, he buried his face between her legs. Jeanette fell back and grew quieter. She murmured softly. Pierre’s mouth gathered the fresh foam between her legs, but he would not let her reach her pleasure. He teased her. As soon as he felt the rhythm of her pleasure starting he stopped. He held her legs apart. His hair fell on her belly and caressed her. His left hand reached for one of her breasts. Jeanette lay almost swooning. He knew now that Jean could come in and she would not notice him. Jean could even make love to her, and she would not notice him. She was completely under the spell of Pierre’s fingers, awaiting pleasure from him. When finally his erect penis touched her soft body, it was as if he had burned her; she trembled. He had never seen her body so abandoned, so unconscious of all but the desire to be taken and satisfied. She bloomed under his caresses, no longer the girl but the woman already being born. [image file=image_rsrcWZ.jpg] About the AuthorANAÏS NIN (1903–1977) was born in Paris and aspired at an early age to be a writer. An influential artist and thinker, she was the author of several novels, short stories, critical studies, a collection of essays, two volumes of erotica, and nine published volumes of her Diary. Connect with HMH on Social MediaFollow us for book news, reviews, author updates, exclusive content, giveaways, and more. [image "HMH on Twitter" file=image_rsrcX0.jpg] [image "HMH on Facebook" file=image_rsrcX1.jpg] [image "HMH on Tumblr" file=image_rsrcX2.jpg] [image "HMH on Pinterest" file=image_rsrcX3.jpg] [image "HMH on Instagram" file=image_rsrcX4.jpg] [image "HMH on YouTube" file=image_rsrcX5.jpg] [image "Houghton Mifflin Harcourt" file=image_rsrcX6.jpg] Footnotes*Adapted from the introduction to the story published as “Marianne” in Delta of Venus. [back]

• From Little Birds (1979)

  For ten days we worked out in the open, lying in the sun. The sun would warm my body, as Reynolds waited for me to close my eyes. Sometimes I pretended I wanted him to do more to me. I thought that if I closed my eyes he would take me. I liked the way he would walk up to me, like a hunter, making no sound and lying at my side. Sometimes he lifted my dress first and looked at me for a long time. Then he would touch me lightly, as if he did not want to awaken me, until the moisture came. His fingers would quicken. We kept our mouths together, our tongues caressing. I learned to take his penis in my mouth. This excited him terribly. He would lose all his gentleness, push his penis into my mouth, and I was afraid of choking. Once I bit him, hurt him, but he did not mind. I swallowed the white foam. When he kissed me, our faces were covered with it. The marvelous smell of sex impregnated my fingers. I did not want to wash my hands. I felt that we shared a magnetic current, but at the same time nothing else bound us together. Reynolds had promised to drive me back to New York. He could not stay in the country much longer. I had to find work. During the drive back Reynolds stopped the car and we lay on a blanket in the woods, resting. We caressed. He said, “Are you happy?” “Yes.” “Can you continue to be happy, this way? As we are?” “Why, Reynolds, what is it?” “Listen, I love you. You know that, but I can’t take you. I did that to a girl once, and she got pregnant and had an abortion. She bled to death. Since then I haven’t been able to take a woman. I’m afraid. If that should happen to you, I would kill myself.” I had never thought of things like this. I was silent. We kissed for a long time. For the first time he kissed me between the legs instead of caressing me, kissed me until I felt the orgasm. We were happy. He said, “This little wound women have . . . it frightens me.” In New York it was hot and all the artists were still away. I found myself without work. I took up modeling in dress shops. I could easily get work, but when they asked me to go out in the evenings with the buyers I would refuse and lose the job. Finally I was taken into a big place near Thirty-fourth Street where they employed six models. This place was frightening and gray. There were long rows of clothes and a few benches for us to sit on. We waited in our slips, to be ready for quick changes. When our numbers were called, we helped one another dress.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “Instead of going into the kitchen when you leave us, will you go into the bathroom for a while, and look at the mirror?” Donald consented. His friend, John, arrived. He was a magnificent man physically, but in his face there was a strange quality of decadence, a laxity about the eyes and mouth, something on the verge of perverseness, which fascinated Dorothy. It was as if none of the ordinary pleasures of love could satisfy him. In his face there was a peculiar insatiability, curiosity—he had something of the animal. His lips bared his teeth. He seemed startled at the sight of Dorothy. “I like women of fine breed,” he said immediately and looked gratefully at Donald for the gift, the surprise of her presence. Dorothy was all in fur from head to toe—hat, muff, gloves, even fur on her shoes. Her perfume had already filled the room. John stood above her, smiling. His gestures were growing more festive. Suddenly he bent forward like some stage director and said: “I have something to ask you. You are so beautiful. I hate the clothes which conceal a woman. Yet I hate to take them off. Will you do something for me, something exceptionally wonderful? Please take your clothes off in the other room and come back here in only your furs. Will you? I’ll tell you why I ask you this. Only thoroughbred women look beautiful in furs, and you are a thoroughbred.” Dorothy went into the bathroom, slipped out of her clothes and returned in her furs, keeping on only her stockings and little fur-trimmed shoes. John’s eyes glittered with pleasure. He could only sit and look at her. His excitement was so strong and contagious that Dorothy began to feel her breasts growing sensitive at the tips. She had a feeling that she wanted to expose them, that she wanted to open the fur and watch John’s pleasure. Usually the warmth and stirring of the nipples occurred together with the warmth and stirring of the sex mouth. Today she could feel only her breasts, the compulsion to expose them, to raise them with her hands, to offer them. John leaned over and put his mouth to them.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  She gratified this man because she loved him. She learned to seek out his penis and touch it until he was aroused, to seek his mouth and stir his tongue, to press her body against his, to incite him. Sometimes they would be lying down and talking. She would place her hand over his penis and find it hard. Yet he made no move towards her. Slowly then, she became used to expressing her own desire, her own moods. She lost all her reserve, her timidity. One night at a party in Montparnasse, she met a Mexican painter, a huge dark man with heavy charcoal eyes, eyebrows and hair. He was drunk. She was to discover that he was almost always drunk. But the sight of her gave him a profound shock. He pulled himself up from his faltering, tottering posture and faced her as if he were a big lion facing a tamer. Something about her made him stand still and try to become sober again, to rise from the fog and fumes in which he lived continuously. Something about her face made him stand ashamed of his unkempt clothes, the paint under his nails, the uncombed black hair. She, on the other hand, was struck by this image of a demon, the demon she had imagined to exist behind the work of the American writer. He was huge, restless, destructive, loved no one, was attached to nothing, a tramp and an adventurer. He would paint at the studios of friends, borrowing oils and canvas, then leave his work there and go off. Most of the time he lived with the gypsies on the outskirts of Paris. With them he shared their life in the gypsy carts, traveling all through France. He respected their laws, never made love to the gypsy women, played the guitar with them at night clubs when they needed money, ate their meals—very often made of stolen chicken. When he met Hilda he had his own gypsy cart just outside one of the gates of Paris, near the ancient barricades, which were now crumbling. The cart had belonged to a Portuguese who had covered its walls with painted leather. The bed was hung at the back of the cart, suspended like a ship’s bunk. The windows were arched. The ceiling was so low it was difficult for one to stand up. At the party that evening, Rango did not invite Hilda to dance, although friends of his were providing the music for the night. The lights in the studio had been put out because enough light came from the street, and couples stood on the balcony with their arms around each other. The music was languid and dissolving.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “As he presses his pants carefully, meticulously, my friend imagines how he will make love to this woman—and it excites him. He knows how he will grip her. He likes to push his penis in from behind and raise the woman’s legs, and then get her to turn just a little so that he can see it moving in and out. He likes the woman to squeeze the base of his penis at the same time; her fingers press harder than the mouth of her sex, and that excites him. She will also touch his balls as he moves, and he will touch her clitoris, because that gives her a double pleasure. He will make her gasp and shake from head to foot and beg for more. “By the time he has envisioned all this standing there, half naked, pressing his pants, my friend has a hard on. It is all he wants. He puts away the pants, the iron and the ironing board, and he gets into bed again, lying back and smoking, thinking over this scene until each detail of it is perfect and a drop of semen appears at the head of his penis, which he strokes while he lies smoking and dreaming of pursuing other women. “I envy him because he can get so much excitement from thinking all this. He questions me. He wants to know how my women are made, how they behave . . .” Lena laughed. She said, “It’s hot. I will take my corset off.” And she went into the alcove. When she came back her body looked free and lax. She sat down, crossed her bare legs, her blouse half-open. One of her friends sat where he could see her. Another one, a handsome man, stood near me as I was posing and whispered compliments. He said, “I love you because you remind me of Europe—Paris especially. I don’t know what there is about Paris, but there is sensuality in the air there. It is contagious. It is such a human city. I don’t know whether it is because couples are always kissing in the streets, at tables in the cafés, in the movies, in the parks. They embrace each other so freely. They stop for long complete kisses in the middle of the sidewalk, at the subway entrances. Perhaps it is that, or the softness of the air. I don’t know. In the dark, in each doorway at night there is a man and a woman almost melted into one another. The whores watch for you every moment . . . they touch you. “One day I was standing on a platform bus, looking up idly at the houses. I saw a window open and a man and woman lying on a bed. The woman was sitting over the man.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  Wrinkling his brow, Jan looked intently to find the outline, but he did not see it. He began to draw at random, following rough ragged edges and confused lines, and what began to take form was a dog who was climbing over the woman, and, with one last ironic stroke of the charcoal, he drew in the dog’s knifelike sex almost touching the woman’s pubic hair. Laura said, “I see another dog.” “I don’t see it,” said Jan, and he lay back fully on the bed to admire his drawing, while Laura stood up and began to draw a dog that was climbing over Jan’s dog from behind, in the most classical of poses, his shaggy head of hair buried in the other’s back as if he were devouring it. Then with the charcoal Laura began to search for a man. At all cost she wanted a man in this picture. She wanted a man to look at while Jan was looking at the woman with her skirt raised. She began to draw, cautiously, for the lines could not be invented, and if they wavered too much and too faithfully and according to the contours of the plaster, she would have a tree, or a bush, or a monkey. But slowly the man’s torso emerged. True, he was legless, and his head was small, but all this was amply compensated for by the largeness of his sex, which was quite obviously in an aggressive mood as he watched the dogs coupling almost on top of the reclining woman. And then Laura was satisfied and lay back. They both looked at the drawing, laughing, and as they did so, Jan with his big hands still full of drying paint, began to explore under her skirt as if he were drawing, molding the contours with a pencil, touching each line amorously, very gradually traveling up the legs, making sure of having caressed every region and of having gone around every curve. Laura’s legs were half pressed together like the legs of the woman on the ceiling, toes pointed like a ballet dancer’s, so when Jan’s hand reached her thighs and wanted to be allowed between them, he had to part them with a little force. Laura was nervously resisting, as if she did not want to be anything but the woman on the ceiling, merely exposed, the sex closed, the legs rigid. Jan labored to melt this rigidity, this firmness, and he set about doing it with utmost gentleness and persistence, making magic circles with his fingers on the flesh, as if he could make the blood turn in eddies a little faster, and then yet a little faster.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  Manuel watched them for a few moments, his face glowing and expanding in a smile. He was taken with a slight trembling, like that of a man anticipating great pleasures. He wanted to move into the apartment immediately, but when evening came and he persuaded Thérèse to come and inspect it, she saw nothing but two uninhabitable rooms, dirty and neglected. Manuel repeated, “But there is light, there is light for painting, and there is a terrace.” Thérèse shrugged her shoulders and said, “I wouldn’t live here.” Then Manuel became crafty. He bought paint, cement and wood. He rented the two rooms and devoted himself to fixing them. He had never liked work, yet this time he set about doing the most meticulous carpentry and paint job ever seen, to make the place beautiful for Thérèse. As he painted, patched, cemented and hammered, he could hear the laughter of the little girls playing in the yard. But he contained himself, waiting for the right moment. He spun fantasies of what his life would be in this apartment across from a girls’ school. In two weeks the place was transformed. The walls were white, the doors closed properly, the closets could be used, the floors no longer had holes in them. Then he brought Thérèse to see it. She was quite overwhelmed and immediately agreed to move. In one day their belongings were brought on a cart. In this new place, Manuel said, he could paint because of the light. He was dancing about, gay and changed. Thérèse was happy to see him in such a mood. The next morning, when things were but half-unpacked and they had slept on beds without sheets, Thérèse went to her trapeze work and Manuel was left alone to arrange things. But instead of unpacking he went downstairs and walked to the bird market. There he spent the grocery money that Thérèse had given him to buy a cage and two tropical birds. He went home and hung the cage outside on the terrace. He looked down for a moment at the little girls playing, watching their legs under the fluttering skirts. How they fell upon each other in games, how their hair flew behind as they ran! Their tiny new breasts were already beginning to show in their very plumpness. His face was flushed, but he did not linger. He had a plan, and it was too perfect to surrender now. For three days he spent the food money on birds of every kind. The terrace was now alive with birds. Each morning at ten o’clock Thérèse was off to work, and the apartment was filled with sunlight and the laughter and cries of little girls.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  The fourth day Manuel stepped out on the terrace. Ten o’clock was the recreation hour. The schoolyard was animated. To Manuel it was an orgy of legs and very short skirts, which revealed white panties during the games. He was growing feverish, standing there among his birds, but finally the plan succeeded; the girls looked up. Manuel called, “Why don’t you come and see? There are birds from all over the world. There is even a bird from Brazil with the head of a monkey.” The girls laughed, but after school, impelled by curiosity, several of them ran up to his apartment. Manuel was afraid that Thérèse would come in. So he just let them watch the birds and be amused by their colored beaks and antics and odd cries. He let them chatter and look, familiarize themselves with the place. By the time Thérèse came at one-thirty, he had won from the girls the promise that they would come and see him the next day at noon as soon as school was over. At the appointed hour they arrived to watch the birds, four little girls of all sizes—one with long blond hair, another with curls, the third plump and languid and the fourth slender and shy, with big eyes. As they stood there watching the birds, Manuel became more and more nervous and excited. He said, “Excuse me, I have to go and pee.” He left the door of the toilet open so that they could see him. Only one of them, the shy one, turned her face and fixed her eyes on him. Manuel had his back to the girls but looked over his shoulder to see if they were watching him. When he noticed the shy girl, with her enormous eyes, she glanced away. Manuel was obliged to button himself up. He wanted to have his pleasure cautiously. That was enough for today. Having seen the big eyes upon him set him dreaming for the rest of the day, offering his restless penis to the mirror, shaking it like a candy or a fruit or a gift. Manuel was well aware that he was highly endowed by nature in the matter of size. If it was true that his penis wilted as soon as he came too close to a woman, as soon as he lay at a woman’s side; if it was true that it failed him whenever he wanted to give Thérèse what she wanted, it was equally true that if a woman looked at him, it would grow to enormous proportion and behave in the most vivacious way. It was then that he was at his best.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  Then he saw that one of the cottages was lighted. It was set into the woods, isolated. It intrigued him that anyone should be up so late. He approached it soundlessly, his footsteps lost in the sand. The Venetian blinds were down but not tightly closed, so he could see right into the room. And his eyes met with the most amazing sight: a very wide bed, profusely covered with pillows and rumpled blankets, as if it already had been the scene of a great battle; a man, seemingly cornered in a pile of pillows, as if pushed there after a series of attacks, reclining like a pasha in a harem, very calm and contented, naked, his legs folded out; and a woman, also naked, whom Louis could see only from the back, contorting herself before this pasha, undulating and deriving such pleasure from whatever she was doing with her head between his legs that her ass would shake tremulously, her legs tighten as if she were about to leap. Now and then the man placed his hand over her head as if to restrain her frenzy. He tried to move away. Then she leaped with great agility and placed herself over him, kneeling over his face. He no longer moved. His face was directly under her sex, which, her stomach curved outwards, she held before him. As he was pinned under her, she was the one to move within reach of his mouth, which had not touched her yet. Louis saw the man’s sex rise and lengthen, and he tried with an embrace to bring her down upon him. But she remained at a short distance, looking, enjoying the spectacle of her own beautiful stomach and hair and sex so near to his mouth. Then slowly, slowly she moved towards him and, with her head bowed, watched the melting of his mouth between her legs. For a long while they maintained this position. Louis was in such a turmoil that he left the window. Had he remained longer he would have had to throw himself on the ground and somehow satisfy his burning desire, and this he did not want to do. He began to feel that in every cottage something was taking place that he would like to be sharing. He walked faster, haunted by the image of the man and woman, the round firm belly of the woman as she arched herself over the man . . . Then he reached the sand dunes and complete solitude. The dunes shone like snowy hills in the clear night. Behind them lay the ocean, whose rhythmic movements he could hear. He walked in the white moonlight. And then he caught sight of a figure walking before him, walking fast and lightly. It was a woman. She wore some kind of cape, which the wind billowed like a sail, and seemed propelled by it. He would never catch up with her.

• From Satyricon (1)

  “(In the meantime,) by breaking this vow, I had cut myself off from the avenue of access which I had contrived, but I returned to the attack, all the same, when the opportunity came. In a few days, a similar occasion brought about the very same conditions as before, and the instant I heard his father snoring, I began pleading with the lad to receive me again into his good graces, that is to say, that he ought to suffer me to satisfy myself with him, and he in turn could do whatever his own distended member desired. He was very angry, however, and would say nothing at all except, ‘Either you go to sleep, or I’ll call father!’ But no obstacle is so difficult that depravity cannot twist around it and even while he threatened ‘I’ll call father,’ I slipped into his bed and took my pleasure in spite of his half-hearted resistance. Nor was he displeased with my improper conduct for, although he complained for a while, that he had been cheated and made a laughing-stock, and that his companions, to whom he had bragged of his wealthy friend, had made sport of him. ‘But you’ll see that I’ll not be like you,’ he whispered; ‘do it again, if you want to!’ All misunderstandings were forgotten and I was readmitted into the lad’s good graces. Then I slipped off to sleep, after profiting by his complaisance. But the youth, in the very flower of maturity, and just at the best age for passive pleasure, was by no means satisfied with only one repetition, so he roused me out of a heavy sleep. ‘Isn’t there something you’d like to do?’ he whispered! The pastime had not begun to cloy, as yet, and, somehow or other, what with panting and sweating and wriggling, he got what he wanted and, worn out with pleasure, I dropped off to sleep again. Less than an hour had passed when he began to punch me with his hand. ‘Why are we not busy,’ he whispered! I flew into a violent rage at being disturbed so many times, and threatened him in his own words, ‘Either you go to sleep, or I’ll call father!’” CHAPTER THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH.

• From Satyricon (1)

  She was delighted and so bewitchingly did she smile that I seemed to see the full moon showing her face from behind a cloud. Then, punctuating her words with her fingers, “Dear boy, if you are not too critical to enjoy a woman of wealth who has but this year known her first man, I offer you a sister,” said she. “You have a brother already, I know, for I didn’t disdain to ask, but what is to prevent your adopting a sister, too? I will come in on the same footing only deem my kisses worthy of recognition and caress me at your own pleasure!” “Rather let me implore you by your beauty,” I replied. “Do not scorn to admit an alien among your worshipers: If you permit me to kneel before your shrine you will find me a true votary and, that you may not think I approach this temple of love without a gift, I make you a present of my brother!” “What,” she exclaimed, “would you really sacrifice the only one without whom you could not live? The one upon whose kisses your happiness depends. Him whom you love as I would have you love me?” Such sweetness permeated her voice as she said this, so entrancing was the sound upon the listening air that you would have believed the Sirens’ harmonies were floating in the breeze. I was struck with wonder and dazzled by I know not what light that shone upon me, brighter than the whole heaven, but I made bold to inquire the name of my divinity. “Why, didn’t my maid tell you that I am called Circe?” she replied. “But I am not the sun-child nor has my mother ever stayed the revolving world in its course at her pleasure; but if the Fates bring us two together I will owe heaven a favor. I don’t know what it is, but some god’s silent purpose is beneath this. Circe loves not Polyaenos without some reason; a great torch is always flaming when these names meet! Take me in your arms then, if you will; there’s no prying stranger to fear, and your ‘brother’ is far away from this spot!” So saying, Circe clasped me in arms that were softer than down and drew me to the ground which was covered with colored flowers. With flowers like these did Mother Earth great Ida’s summit strew When Jupiter, his heart aflame, enjoyed his lawful love; There glowed the rose, the flowering rush, the violet’s deep blue, From out green meadows snow-white lilies laughed. Then from above, This setting summoned Venus to the green and tender sod, Bright day smiled kindly on the secret amour of the God. Side by side upon the grassy plot we lay, exchanging a thousand kisses, the prelude to more poignant pleasure, (but alas! My sudden loss of vigor disappointed Circe!) CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “Somehow or other even the hair of a whore seems impregnated with sex. This woman’s hair . . . it was the most sensual hair I have ever seen. Medusa must have had hair like this and with it seduced the men who fell under her spell. It was full of life, heavy, and as pungent as if it had been bathed in sperm. To me it always felt as if it had been wrapped around a penis and soaked in secretions. It was the kind of hair I wanted to wrap around my own sex. It was warm and musky, oily, strong. It was the hair of an animal. It bristled when it was touched. Merely to pass my fingers through it could give me an erection. I would have been content just touching her hair. “But it was not her hair alone. Her skin was erotic, too. She would lie for hours letting me stroke her, lie like an animal, absolutely quiet, languid . . . The transparence of her skin showed turquoise-blue threads interlacing her body, and I felt that I was not only touching satin but living veins, veins so alive that when I touched her skin I could feel the movement underneath. I used to like lying against her buttocks and caressing her, to feel the contractions of the muscles, which betrayed her responsiveness. “Her skin was dry like some dessert sand. When we first lay in bed it was cool, and then it would become warm and feverish. Her eyes—it is impossible to describe her eyes except by saying that they were the eyes of an orgasm. What constantly happened in her eyes was something so feverish, so incendiary, so intense that at times when I looked straight at her and felt my penis rising and palpitating, I also felt as if something were palpitating in her eyes. With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness . . . something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “The women who are unabashedly sexual, with the womb written all over their faces, who arouse in a man the desire to fling his penis at them immediately; the women for whom clothes are only a means of making certain fragments of the body more prominent, like the women who wore bustles to exaggerate their asses, and the women who wore corsets that thrust their breasts out of their clothes; the women who throw their sex out at us, from the hair, the eyes, the noses, the mouth, the whole body—these are the women I love. “The others . . . how you have to search for the animal in them. They have diluted it, disguised it, perfumed it, so it will smell like something else—like what? angels? “Let me tell you what happened to me once with Bijou. Bijou was naturally faithless. She asked me to paint her up for the Art Ball. It was a year when the painters and models were supposed to go dressed as African savages. So Bijou asked me to paint her up artistically, and for this purpose she came to my studio a few hours before the ball. “I set about decorating her body with African designs of my own invention. She stood stark naked before me, and at first I stood up and began to paint her shoulders and breasts, and then I crouched to paint the belly and back, then I kneeled and began to paint the lower part of the body and legs . . . I painted her lovingly, adoringly, like an act of worship. “Her back was broad, strong, like the back of a circus horse. I could have mounted her and she would not have bent under the burden. I could have sat on this back and slid down and given it to her from behind, like a whip. I wanted to. Even more, perhaps, I wanted to squeeze her breasts until all the paint came off, caressed them clean so that I could kiss them . . . But I restrained myself and continued to paint her into a savage. “When she moved, the bright designs now moved with her, like an oily sea with undercurrents. Her nipples were hard like berries under the touch of the brush. Every curve gave me a delight. I unfastened my pants. I let my penis free. She never looked at me. She stood there without moving. As I painted the hips and then the valley leading to the pubic hair, she realized I would not be able to finish my task and said, “You will spoil the whole thing if you touch me. You can’t touch me. After it is dry, you will be the first. I will wait for you at the ball. But not now.” And she smiled at me.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  As he made a step towards her, Dorothy was taken with a strange trembling. She felt herself craving to move towards him. They fell upon each other. He half dragged, half carried her to the bed. It was like the continuation of their struggle, for she fought him, but her every movement only made him increase the pressure of his knees, of his hands, of his mouth. Robert was wild with a desire to hurt, to bend her to his will, her resistance warming his muscles, his anger. As he took her, breaking through the virginity, he bit into her, adding pain. She was oblivious to it because of the effect of his body on hers. Wherever he touched her, she burned; after the initial pain it seemed as if her womb was inflamed too. When it was over, she craved him again. It was she who took his penis between her hands and pushed it in again, and stronger than the pain was the ecstasy of his moving inside of her. Robert had discovered a stronger sensation, a stronger flavor—the smell of Dorothy’s hair, of her body, the strength of her as she enclosed him. In one hour she had obliterated his feelings for Edna. Afterwards, Dorothy was like one possessed as she remembered Robert lying over her body, moving up so that he could rub his penis between her breasts, moving towards her mouth, and she felt the dizziness one experiences before an abyss, a sense of falling, of annihilation. She did not know how to face Edna. She was torn with jealousy. She was afraid Robert would try to keep them both. But with Edna he only felt like becoming a child, lying at her side, putting his head on her breast and confessing everything to her, out of a need for a mother, not thinking at all of the hurt it would cause her. But he realized he could not stay. He invented a trip. He begged Dorothy to go with him. Dorothy said that she would leave later. He went to London. Edna followed him there. Dorothy went to Paris. She was now trying to escape from Robert because of her love for Edna. She began having an affair with a young American, Donald, because he resembled Robert. Robert wrote her that he could not make love to Edna anymore, that he had to pretend all the time. He had found out she was born the same day as his mother, and she was becoming more and more identified with his mother, which paralyzed him. He wouldn’t tell her the truth.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “As he presses his pants carefully, meticulously, my friend imagines how he will make love to this woman—and it excites him. He knows how he will grip her. He likes to push his penis in from behind and raise the woman’s legs, and then get her to turn just a little so that he can see it moving in and out. He likes the woman to squeeze the base of his penis at the same time; her fingers press harder than the mouth of her sex, and that excites him. She will also touch his balls as he moves, and he will touch her clitoris, because that gives her a double pleasure. He will make her gasp and shake from head to foot and beg for more. “By the time he has envisioned all this standing there, half naked, pressing his pants, my friend has a hard on. It is all he wants. He puts away the pants, the iron and the ironing board, and he gets into bed again, lying back and smoking, thinking over this scene until each detail of it is perfect and a drop of semen appears at the head of his penis, which he strokes while he lies smoking and dreaming of pursuing other women. “I envy him because he can get so much excitement from thinking all this. He questions me. He wants to know how my women are made, how they behave . . .” Lena laughed. She said, “It’s hot. I will take my corset off.” And she went into the alcove. When she came back her body looked free and lax. She sat down, crossed her bare legs, her blouse half-open. One of her friends sat where he could see her. Another one, a handsome man, stood near me as I was posing and whispered compliments. He said, “I love you because you remind me of Europe—Paris especially. I don’t know what there is about Paris, but there is sensuality in the air there. It is contagious. It is such a human city. I don’t know whether it is because couples are always kissing in the streets, at tables in the cafés, in the movies, in the parks. They embrace each other so freely. They stop for long complete kisses in the middle of the sidewalk, at the subway entrances. Perhaps it is that, or the softness of the air. I don’t know. In the dark, in each doorway at night there is a man and a woman almost melted into one another. The whores watch for you every moment . . . they touch you. “One day I was standing on a platform bus, looking up idly at the houses. I saw a window open and a man and woman lying on a bed. The woman was sitting over the man.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “There are other ways of making love between women.” “But I won’t have it, I won’t have it.” Then one day I said, “Why don’t you come with me and visit Michel? I want you to see his explorer’s den.” Michel had said to me, “Bring her, I will hypnotize her. You will see.” She consented. We went up to his apartment. He had been burning incense, but an incense I did not know. Lina was quite nervous when she saw his place. The erotic atmosphere disturbed her. She sat down on the fur-covered couch. She looked like a beautiful animal, one well worth capturing. I could see that Michel wanted to dominate her. The incense was making us slightly drowsy. Lina wanted to open the window. But Michel came over and sat between us and began talking to her. His voice was gentle and enveloping. He was telling stories of his voyages. I saw that Lina was listening, that she had ceased twitching and smoking feverishly, that she was lying back and dreaming over his endless stories. Her eyes were half-closed. Then she fell asleep. “What did you do, Michel?” I felt quite drowsy myself. He smiled, “I burned a Japanese incense that makes one sleepy. It’s an aphrodisiac. It is not harmful.” He was smiling mischievously. I laughed. Lina was not altogether asleep. She had crossed her knees. Michel climbed over her and tried to open them gently with his hands, but they remained tightly closed. Then he inserted his own knee between her thighs and parted them. I was roused by the sight of Lina so yielding and open now. I began caressing her, undressing her. She knew what I was doing but she was enjoying it. She kept her mouth on mine and her eyes closed and let Michel and me undress her completely. Her rich breasts covered Michel’s face. He bit the nipples. She let Michel kiss her between her legs and insert his penis, and she let me kiss her breasts and caress them. She had wonderful firm round buttocks. Michel kept pushing her legs apart and biting into her soft flesh until she began to moan. She would have nothing but the penis. So Michel took her and when she had enjoyed him he wanted to take me. She sat up, opened her eyes and watched us wonderingly for a moment, then took Michel’s penis out of me and would not let him insert it again. She threw herself on me with a sexual fury, caressing me with her mouth and her hands. Michel took her again from behind. When we came out on the street, Lina and I, holding each other by the waist, she pretended not to remember anything that had happened. I let her. The next day she left Paris.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “Don’t you feel this?” she asked with concern, pressing the lips between her fingers. “No,” I said, watching her. “Don’t you feel this?” She passed her fingers now around the tip of the clitoris, making tiny circles. “I don’t feel anything.” She became eager to see if I had lost my sensibility and increased her caresses, rubbing the clitoris with one hand while she vibrated the tip with the other. She stroked my pubic hair and tender skin around it. Finally I felt her, wildly, and I began to move. She was panting over me, watching me and saying, “Wonderful, wonderful, you can feel there . . .” I was remembering this as I sat on the dummy horse and noticed that the pommel was quite accentuated. So the painter could see what he wanted to paint, I slid forward, and as I did so my sex rubbed against the leather prominence. The painter was observing me. “Do you like my horse?” he said. “Do you know that I can make it move?” “Can you?” He came near me and set the dummy in motion, and indeed it was perfectly constructed to move like a horse. “I like it,” I said. “It reminds me of the times I rode horseback when I was a girl.” I noticed that he stopped painting now to watch me. The motion of the horse pushed my sex against the saddle even harder and gave me great pleasure. I thought that he would notice it, and so I said, “Stop it now.” But he smiled and did not stop it. “Don’t you like it?” he said. I did like it. Each movement brought the leather against my clitoris, and I thought I could not hold back an orgasm if it went on. I begged him to stop. My face was flushed. The painter was carefully watching me, watching every expression of a pleasure I could not control, and now it increased so that I abandoned myself to the motion of the horse, let myself rub against the leather, until I felt the orgasm and I came, riding this way in front of him. Only then did I know that he expected it, that he had done all this to see me enjoy it. He knew when to stop the machinery. “You can rest now,” he said. SOON AFTER, I went to pose for a woman illustrator, Lena, I had met at a party. She liked company. Actors and actresses came to see her, writers. She painted for magazine covers. The door was always open. People brought drinks. The talk was acid, cruel. It seemed to me that all her friends were caricaturists. Everyone’s weaknesses were immediately exposed. Or they exposed their own. One beautiful young man, dressed with great elegance, made no secret of his profession. He sat around at the big hotels, waited for old women who were alone and took them out to dance. Very often they invited him back to their rooms.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  She felt Robert’s antagonism exultantly. She loved the fire and angry demons in him, biting, snarling at her. What she hated above all was that most men in her presence wilted, grew small and feeble. Only the timid ones approached her, as if to seek her strength. She wanted to shatter them, seeing the way they crawled toward her treelike body. The idea of letting them push their penis between her legs was like allowing some insect to crawl over her. Whereas she gloried in the struggle to push Robert out of Edna’s life, to humiliate him, demolish him. The three of them would sit together, Edna hiding her feelings about Harry, Robert not offering to take her away, not thinking, living only in the romantic present—dreamer. Dorothy accused him of this. Edna defended him; all the time she sat there thinking of the fiery way Robert took her the first time, the narrow little couch on which they lay, the dusty rug on which they rolled; thinking of his hands, the way they penetrated her. Edna said to her sister, “You cannot understand. You have never been in love like this.” Then Dorothy was silenced. The two sisters slept in adjoining rooms. There was a big bathroom between the rooms. Harry had gone again for six months. Edna let Robert come to her room at night. One morning looking out of the window, Dorothy saw Edna leave the house. She did not know that Robert was still in her room asleep. She went into the bathroom to take a bath. Edna had left her door open, and Dorothy, thinking herself alone, did not trouble to close it. On this door there was a mirror. Dorothy came into the bathroom and dropped her kimono. She pinned her hair up, she made up her face. Her body was magnificent. Every movement she made before the mirror brought out the provocative full, taut curves of her breasts and buttocks. Her hair was full of lights; she brushed it. Her breasts danced as she moved. She stood on her toes to make up her eyelashes. And Robert, on awakening, found himself looking at this spectacle from the bed, everything mirrored before him. Suddenly his whole body flushed with warmth. He threw off the covers. Dorothy was still visible in the mirror. She was leaning over to pick up her hairbrush. Robert could not bear any more. He went to the bathroom and stood there. Dorothy made no outcry. He was naked, his penis thrust out towards her, his brown eyes burning her.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  She is as opulent as a burlesque queen. As she stands on her toes to lean towards the mirror and paint her eyelashes more carefully, I am again affected by her body. I come up behind her and watch her. I feel a little timid. She isn’t as inviting as Mary. She is, in fact, sexless, like the women at the beach or at the Turkish bath, who think nothing of their nakedness. I try a light kiss on her shoulder. She smiles at me and says, “I wish Paul were not so irritable. I would have liked to try the bathing suit on you. I would love to see you wearing it.” She returns my kiss, on the mouth, taking care not to disturb her lipstick outline. I do not know what to do next. I want to take hold of her. I stay near her. Then Paul comes into the bathroom without knocking and says, “Miriam, how can you walk around like this? You mustn’t mind, Mandra. It is a habit with her. She is possessed with the need to go around without clothes. Get dressed, Miriam.” Miriam goes into her room and slips on a dress, with nothing underneath, then a fox cape, and says, “I’m ready.” In the car she places her hand over mine. Then she draws my hand under the fur, into a pocket of the dress, and I find myself touching her sex. We drive on in the dark. Miriam says she wants to drive through the park first. She wants air. Paul wants to go directly to the nightclub, but he gives in and we drive through the park, I with my hand on Miriam’s sex, fondling it and feeling my own excitement gaining so that I can hardly talk. Miriam talks, wittily, continuously. I think to myself, “You won’t be able to go on talking in a little while.” But she does, all the time that I am caressing her in the dark, beneath the satin and the fur. I can feel her moving upwards to my touch, opening her legs a little so I can fit my entire hand between her legs. Then she grows tense under my fingers, stretching herself, and I know she is taking her pleasure. It is contagious. I feel my own orgasm without even being touched. I am so wet that I am afraid it will show through my dress. And it must show through Miriam’s dress, too. We both keep our coats on as we go into the nightclub. Miriam’s eyes are brilliant, deep. Paul leaves us for a while and we go into the ladies’ room. This time Miriam kisses my mouth fully, boldly. We arrange ourselves and return to the table. RunawayPierre was sharing an apartment with a much younger man, Jean. One day Jean brought home a young girl he had found wandering in the streets. He had seen that she was not a prostitute.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  During the hours when the girls were shut in their classrooms he would frequent the pissoirs of Paris, of which there were so many—the little round kiosks, the labyrinths without doors, out of which would always come men boldly buttoning themselves while staring straight into the face of a very elegant woman, a perfumed and chic woman, who would not be immediately aware that the man was coming out of a pissoir and who would then drop her eyes. This was one of Manuel’s greatest delights. He would also stand there against the urinal and look up at the houses above his head, where often there would be a woman leaning out of a window or standing on a balcony, and from up there they would see him holding his penis. He derived no pleasure from being stared at by men or else this would have been a paradise for him, for all men knew the trick of pissing away quietly while looking at his neighbor performing the same operation. And young boys would come in for no other reason but to see and perhaps help each other along in the act. The day when the shy girl had looked at Manuel he was very happy. He thought that now it would be easier to satisfy himself fully if only he could control himself. What he feared was the impetuous desire that took hold of him to show himself no matter what the cost, and then all would be spoiled. This was the moment for another visit, and the little girls were coming up the stairs. Manuel had donned a kimono, one that could easily slip open, by accident. The birds were performing quite beautifully, bickering and kissing and quarreling. Manuel stood behind the girls. Suddenly his kimono opened, and when he found himself touching long blond hair, he lost his head. Instead of wrapping his kimono, he opened it wider, and as the girls turned they all saw him standing there in a trance, his big penis erect, pointing at them. They all took fright, like little birds, and ran away. The Woman on the DunesLouis could not sleep. He turned over in his bed to lie on his stomach and, burying his face in the pillow, moved against the hot sheets as if he were lying over the woman. But when the friction increased the fever in his body, he stopped himself. He got out of bed and looked at his watch. It was two o’clock. What could he do to appease his fever? He left his studio. The moon was shining and he could see the roads clearly. The place, a beach town in Normandy, was full of little cottages, which people could rent for a night or a week. Louis wandered aimlessly.