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 Little Birds (1979)

  She moved against him, inside of the new dress, which made him keenly aware of her aliveness. And when finally they got home, she wanted to be locked in his room with him, to have him appropriate the dress as much as he had her body, not satisfied until by friction, rubbing, undulations, Pierre felt the urge to tear the dress off her. When this was done, she did not remain in his arms, but went all over the room in her underwear, brushing her hair, powdering her face and acting as if that was all she intended to remove, and Pierre would have to be content with her as she was. She still wore her high-heeled shoes, her stockings, her garters, and the flesh showed between the garters and the beginning of her panties, and again between her waist and the little brassiere. After a moment Pierre tried to hold her. He wanted to undress her. He managed only to unfasten the brassiere when she slipped out of his arms again to perform a little dance for him. All the steps she knew she wanted to do for him. Pierre admired her lightness. He caught her as she passed, but she refused to let him touch her panties. She let him take off only her stockings and shoes. But at this moment she heard Jean enter. As she was, she leaped out of Pierre’s room and rushed to meet him. Jean saw her flinging herself into his arms, naked but for the panties. Then he saw Pierre, who had followed her, angry to be deprived of his satisfaction, angry that she should have preferred Jean to him. Jean understood. But he had no desire for Jeanette. He wanted to be free of her. So he rebuffed her, and left them. Then Jeanette turned on Pierre. Pierre tried to calm her. She remained angry. She began to pack, to dress, to leave. Pierre barred her way, carried her to his room and flung her on the bed. He would have her this time, at all cost. The struggle was pleasant, his rough suit against her skin, his buttons against her tender breasts, his shoes against her naked feet. In all this mixture of hardness and softness, coldness and warmth, rigidity and yielding, Jeanette felt for the first time Pierre as master. He sensed this. He tore off her panties, discovered her moisture. And then he was taken with a diabolical desire to hurt her. He inserted only his finger. When he had moved this finger until Jeanette pleaded to be satisfied and rolled with excitement, he stopped.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “You must not give that first surrender so much importance. I think that was created by the people who wanted to preserve their daughters for marriage, the idea that the first man who takes a woman will have complete power over her. I think that is a superstition. It was created to help preserve women from promiscuity. It is actually untrue. If a man can make himself be loved, if he can rouse a woman, then she will be attracted to him. But the mere act of breaking through her virginity is not enough to accomplish this. Any man can do this and leave the woman unaroused. Did you know that many Spaniards take their wives this way and give them many children without completely initiating them sexually just to be sure of their faithfulness? The Spaniard believes in keeping pleasure for his mistress. In fact, if he sees a woman enjoy sensuality, he immediately suspects her of being faithless, even of being a whore.” The illustrator’s words haunted me for days. Then I was faced with a new problem. Summer had come and the painters were leaving for the country, for the beach, for far-off places in all directions. I did not have the money to follow them, and I was not sure how much work I would get. One morning I posed for an illustrator named Ronald. Afterwards he set the phonograph going and asked me to dance. While we were dancing he said, “Why don’t you come to the country for a while? It will do you good, you will get plenty of work, and I will pay for your trip. There are very few good models there. I am sure you will be kept busy.” So I went. I took a little room in a farmhouse. Then I went to see Ronald, who lived down the road in a shed, into which he had built a huge window. The first thing he did was to blow his cigarette smoke into my mouth. I coughed. “Oh,” he said, “you don’t know how to inhale.” “I’m not at all interested,” I said, getting up. “What kind of pose do you want?” “Oh,” he said laughing, “we don’t work so hard here. You will have to learn to enjoy yourself a little. Now, take the smoke from my mouth and inhale it . . . “I don’t like to inhale.” He laughed again. He tried to kiss me. I moved away. “Oh, oh,” he said, “you are not going to be a very pleasant companion for me. I paid for your trip, you know, and I’m lonely down here. I expected you to be very pleasant company. Where is your suitcase?” “I took a room down the road.” “But you were invited to stay with me,” he said. “I understood you wanted me to pose for you.” “For the moment it is not a model I need.”

• From Satyricon (1)

  But, according to Homer, the great interpreter of truth--‘One man is meaner than another in looks, but God crowns his words with beauty, and his hearers gaze upon him with delight, while he speaks unfalteringly with winning modesty, and is conspicuous amongst the assembled folk, who look upon him as a God when he walks through the city.’ And again he says: ‘Your beauteous form is destitute of intelligence; the wise Ulysses is praised more highly than the handsome Nireus.’ How then comes it that the love of wisdom, justice, and the other virtues, which are the heritage of the full-grown man, possess no attraction for you, while the beauty of boys excites the most vehement passion! What! should one love Phoedrus, remembering Lysias, whom he betrayed? Could one love the beauty of Alcibiades, who mutilated the statues of the Gods, and, in the midst of a debauch, betrayed the mysteries of the rites of Eleusis? Who would venture to declare himself his admirer, after Athens was abandoned, and Decelea fortified by the enemy--the admirer of one whose sole aim in life was tyranny? But, as the divine Plato says, as long as his chin was beardless, he was beloved by all; but, when he passed from boyhood to manhood, when his imperfect intelligence had reached its maturity, he was hated by all. Why, then, giving modest names to immodest sentiments, do men call personal beauty virtue, being in reality lovers of youth rather than lovers of wisdom? However, it is not my intention to speak evil of distinguished men. But, to descend from graver topics to the mere question of enjoyment, I will prove that connection with women is far more enjoyable than connection with boys. In the first place, the longer enjoyment lasts, the more delight it affords; too rapid pleasure passes quickly away, and it is over before it is thoroughly appreciated; but, if it lasts, it is thereby enhanced. Would to heaven that grudging Destiny had allotted us a longer lease of life, and that we could enjoy perpetual health without any sorrow to spoil our pleasure; then would our life be one continual feast. But, since jealous Fortune has grudged us greater blessings, those enjoyments that last the longest are the sweetest. Again, a woman, from puberty to middle age, until the last wrinkles furrow her face, is worth embracing and fit for intercourse; and, even though the prime of her beauty be past, her experience can speak more eloquently than the love of boys.

• 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)

  METRO: Please don’t flare up so quickly when you hear something unpleasant. A good woman must put up with everything. It’s all my fault for gossiping. My tongue ought to be cut out; honestly it should: but to get back to the question I asked you a moment ago: who stitched the dildo? Tell me if you love me! What makes you laugh when you look at me? What does your coyness mean? Have you never set eyes on me before? Don’t fib to me now, Koritto, I beg of you. KORITTO: Why do you press me so? Kerdon stitched it. METRO: Which Kerdon? Tell me, because there are two Kerdons, one is that blue-eyed fellow, the neighbor of Myrtaline the daughter of Kylaithis; but he couldn’t even stitch a plectron to a lyre--the other one, who lives near the house of Hermodorus, after you have left the street, was pretty good once, but he’s too old, now; the late lamented Kylaithis--may her kinsfolk never forget her--used to patronize him. KORITTO: He’s neither of those you’ve mentioned, Metro; this fellow is bald headed and short, he comes from Chios or Erythrai, I think--you would mistake him for another Prexinos, one fig could not look more like another, but just hear him talk, and you’ll know that he is Kerdon and not Prexinos. He does business at home, selling his wares on the sly because everyone is afraid of the tax gatherers. My dear! He does do such beautiful work! You would think that what you see is the handiwork of Athena and not that of Kerdon! Do you know that he had two of them when he came here! And when I got a look at them my eyes nearly burst from their sockets through desire. Men never get--I hope we are alone --their tools so stiff; and not only that, but their smoothness was as sweet as sleep and their little straps were as soft as wool. If you went looking for one you would never find another ladies’ cobbler cleverer than he! METRO: Why didn’t you buy the other one, too? KORITTO: What didn’t I do, Metro dear’? And what didn’t I do to persuade him’? I kissed him, I patted his bald head, I poured out some sweet wine for him to drink, I fondled him, the only thing I didn’t do was to give him my body. METRO: But you should have given him that too, if he asked it. KORITTO: Yes, and I would have, but Bitas slave girl commenced grinding in the court, just at the wrong moment; she has reduced our hand mill nearly to powder by grinding day and night for fear she might have four obols to pay for having her own sharpened. METRO: But how did he happen to come to your house, Koritto dear? You’ll tell me the truth won’t you, now?

• From Little Birds (1979)

  Rango stood above Hilda and stared at her. Then he said, “Do you want to walk?” Hilda said yes. Rango walked with his hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was sober now, his head as clear as the night. He was walking towards the outskirts of the city. They came to the ragpickers’ shacks, little shacks built unevenly, crazily, with sloping roofs and no windows—enough air came through the cracked boards and badly built doors. The paths were made of earth. A little farther on stood a row of gypsy carts. It was four in the morning, and people were asleep. Hilda did not talk. She walked in the shadow of Rango with a great feeling of being taken out of herself, of having no will and no knowledge of what was happening to her, merely a pervading sense of flow. Rango’s arms were bare. Hilda was aware of only one thing, that she wanted these bare arms to grip her. He bowed to enter his cart. He lit a candle. He was too tall for the low ceiling, but she was smaller and could stand straight. The candles made huge shadows. His bed was open, merely a blanket thrown back. His clothes were strewn around. There were two guitars. He took one up and began to play, sitting among his clothes. Hilda had the feeling that she was dreaming, that she must keep her eyes on his bare arms, on his throat showing through the open shirt, so that he would feel what she felt, the same magnetism. At the same moment that she felt she was falling into darkness, into his golden-brown flesh, he fell towards her, covered her with kisses, very hot, quick kisses, into which his breath passed. He kissed her behind her ears, on her eyelids, her throat, her shoulders. She was blinded, deafened, made senseless. Every kiss, like a gulp of wine, added to the warmth of her body. Every kiss increased the heat of his lips. But he made no gesture to raise her dress or to undress her. They lay there for a long time. The candle was finished. It sputtered and went out. In the darkness she felt his burning dryness, like desert sand, enveloping her. Then in this darkness, the Hilda who had made this gesture so many times before was impelled to make it once more, out of her dream and drunkenness of kisses. Her hand fumbled for his belt with the cold silver buckle, felt below the belt at the buttons of his pants, felt his desire. Suddenly he pushed her away as if she had wounded him. He stood up, reeling a little, and lit another candle. She could not understand what had happened. She saw that he was angry. His eyes had grown fierce. His high cheeks, which seemed always to be smiling, no longer smiled. His mouth was compressed. “What have I done?” she asked.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “I was enjoying myself,” said Jeanette, startled. “Of course I was. I was only afraid of Jean’s coming and of his hearing me. I thought, if he comes and finds me here, at least if he does not hear me he may think you took me against my will. But if he hears me, he will know I enjoy it and be hurt, for he is the one who keeps saying to me, ‘So you like it, so you like it, say so then, go on, speak, cry out, you like it, eh? It gets you, you enjoy it, enjoy it then, say so, speak, how does it feel?’ I can’t tell him how it feels, but it makes me cry out and then he is happy and that excites him.” Jean should have known what would happen between Jeanette and Pierre while he was out, but he did not believe Pierre could take a real interest in her; she was too much of a child. He was immensely surprised when he returned and found that Jeanette had stayed on and that Pierre was perfectly willing to console her, to take her out. Pierre took pleasure in buying her clothes. For this purpose he accompanied her to the shops and waited as she tried on clothes inside the little booths provided for this. He delighted in seeing through a slit of the hastily drawn curtains not only Jeanette, her girlish body slipping in and out of dresses, but other women too. He would sit quietly in a chair facing the dressing rooms, smoking. He could see portions of shoulders, bare backs, legs, flitting behind the curtains. And Jeanette’s gratitude for the clothes he gave her took the form of a coquetry comparable only to the mannerisms of stripteasers. She could hardly wait to be out of the shop to glue herself to him as they walked, saying, “Look at me. Isn’t it beautiful?” And she would thrust her breasts out provocatively. As soon as they got into a taxi she wanted him to touch the material, to approve the buttons, to straighten the neckline. She stretched her body voluptuously, to see how closely the dress fit her; she caressed the material as if it were her own skin. As eager as she had been to wear the dress, she now seemed eager to take it off, to have it handled by Pierre, to have it wrinkled, to have it baptized by his desire.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  She was walking towards the ocean. He followed her. They walked in the snowlike dunes for a long while. At the ocean’s edge, she flung off her clothes and stood naked in the summer night. She ran into the surf. And Louis, in imitation, discarded his clothes and ran into the water also. Only then did she see him. At first she was still. But when she saw his young body clearly in the moonlight, his fine head, his smile, she was not frightened. He swam towards her. They smiled at each other. His smile, even at night, was dazzling; hers, too. They could scarcely distinguish anything but the brilliant smiles and the outlines of their perfect bodies. He came closer to her. She let him. Suddenly he swam deftly and gracefully over her body, touching it, and passing on. She continued to swim, and he repeated his passage over her. Then she stood up, and he dove down and passed between her legs. They laughed. They both moved with ease in the water. He was deeply excited. He swam with his sex hard. Then they approached each other with a crouching motion, as if for a battle. He brought her body against his, and she felt the tautness of his penis. He placed it between her legs. She touched it. His hands searched her, caressed her everywhere. Then again she moved away, and he had to swim to catch her. Again his penis lay lightly between her legs, then he pressed her more firmly against him and sought to penetrate her. She broke loose and ran out of the water, into the sand dunes. Dripping, shining, laughing, he ran after her. The warmth of the running set him on fire again. She fell on the sand, and he over her. Then at the moment when he most desired her, his power suddenly failed him. She lay waiting for him, smiling and moist, and his desire wilted. Louis was baffled. He had been in a state of desire for days. He wanted to take this woman and he couldn’t. He was deeply humiliated. Strangely enough, her voice grew tender. “There is plenty of time,” she said. “Don’t move away. It’s lovely.” Her warmth passed into him. His desire did not return, but it was sweet to feel her. Their bodies lay together, his belly against hers, his sexual hair brushing against hers, her breasts pointed against his chest, her mouth glued to his. Then slowly he slipped off to look at her—her long, slender, polished legs, her rich pubic hair, her lovely pale glowing skin, her full breasts very high, her long hair, her wide smiling mouth. He was sitting like a Buddha. She leaned over and took his small wilted penis in her mouth. She licked it softly, tenderly, lingering over the tip of it. It stirred.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “I have known other sexual angels. It is wonderful to see the change in them. These clear eyes that you can see through, these bodies that take such beautiful harmonious poses, these delicate hands . . . how they change when desire takes hold of them. The sexual angels! They are wonderful because it is such a surprise, such a change. You, for instance, with your appearance of never having been touched, I can see you biting and scratching . . . I am sure your very voice changes—I have seen such changes. There are women’s voices that sound like poetic, unearthly echoes. Then they change. The eyes change. I believe that all these legends about people changing into animals at night—like the stories of the werewolf, for instance—were invented by men who saw women transform at night from idealized, worshipful creatures into animals and thought that they were possessed. But I know it is something much simpler than that. You are a virgin, aren’t you?” “No, I am married,” I said. “Married or not, you are a virgin. I can tell. I am never deceived. If you are married your husband has not made you a woman yet. Don’t you regret that? Don’t you feel you are wasting time, that real living only begins with sensation, with being a woman . . . ?” This corresponded so exactly to what I had been feeling, to my desire to enter experience, that I was silent. I hated to admit this to a stranger. I was conscious of being alone with the illustrator in an empty studio building. I was sad that Stephen had not understood my desire to become a woman. I was not frightened but fatalistic, desiring only to find someone I might fall in love with. “I know what you are thinking,” he said, “but for me it would not have any meaning unless the woman wanted me. I never could make love to a woman if she did not want me. When I first saw you, I felt how wonderful it would be to initiate you. There is something about you that makes me feel you will have many love affairs. I would like to be the first one. But not unless you wanted it.” I smiled. “That is exactly what I was thinking. It can only be if I want it, and I do not want it.”

• 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)

  She fascinates me because sensuality pours from her. At eight years old she was already having a Lesbian affair with an older cousin. We both share the love of finery, perfume and luxury. She is so lazy, languid—purely a plant, really. I have never seen a woman more yielding. She says that she always expects to find the man who will arouse her. She has to live in a sexual atmosphere even when she feels nothing. It is her climate. Her favorite statement is, “At that time, I was sleeping around with everybody.” If we speak of Paris and of people we knew there, she always says, “I don’t know him. I didn’t sleep with him.” Or, “Oh, yes, he was wonderful in bed.” I have never once heard of her resisting—this, coupled with frigidity! She deceives everybody, including herself. She looks so wet and open that men think she is continuously in a state of near orgasm. But it is not true. The actress in her appears cheerful and calm, and inside she is going to pieces. She drinks and can sleep only by taking drugs. She always comes to me eating candy, like a schoolgirl. She looks about twenty. Her coat is open, her hat is in her hand. Her hair is loose. One day she falls on my bed and knocks off her shoes. She looks at her legs and says, “They are too thick. They are like Renoir legs, I was told once in Paris.” “But I love them,” I say, “I love them.” “Do you like my new stockings?” She raises her skirt to show me. She asks for a whiskey. Then she decides that she will take a bath. She borrows my kimono. I know that she is trying to tempt me. She comes out of the bathroom still humid, leaving the kimono open. Her legs are always held a little apart. She looks so much as if she were about to have an orgasm that one cannot help feeling: only one little caress will drive her wild. As she sits on the edge of my bed to put on her stockings, I cannot withhold any longer. I kneel in front of her and put my hand on the hair between her legs. I stroke it gently, gently, and I say, “The little silver fox, the little silver fox. So soft and beautiful. Oh, Mary, I can’t believe that you do not feel anything there, inside.” She seems on the verge of feeling, the way her flesh looks, open like a flower, the way her legs are spread. Her mouth is so wet, so inviting, the lips of her sex must be the same. She parts her legs and lets me look at it. I touch it gently and spread the lips to see if they are moist. She feels it when I touch her clitoris, but I want her to feel the bigger orgasm.

• From Satyricon (1)

  “When I was attached to the Quaestor’s staff, in Asia, I was quartered with a family at Pergamus. I found things very much to my liking there, not only on account of the refined comfort of my apartments, but also because of the extreme beauty of my host’s son. For the latter reason, I had recourse to strategy, in order that the father should never suspect me of being a seducer. So hotly would I flare up, whenever the abuse of handsome boys was even mentioned at the table, and with such uncompromising sternness would I protest against having my ears insulted by such filthy talk, that I came to be looked upon, especially by the mother, as one of the philosophers. I was conducting the lad to the gymnasium before very long, and superintending his conduct, taking especial care, all the while, that no one who could debauch him should ever enter the house. Then there came a holiday, the school was closed, and our festivities had rendered us too lazy to retire properly, so we lay down in the dining-room. It was just about midnight, and I knew he was awake, so I murmured this vow, in a very low voice, ‘Oh Lady Venus, could I but kiss this lad, and he not know it, I would give him a pair of turtle-doves tomorrow!’ On hearing the price offered for this favor, the boy commenced to snore! Then, bending over the pretending sleeper, I snatched a fleeting kiss or two. Satisfied with this beginning, I arose early in the morning, brought a fine pair of turtle-doves to the eager lad, and absolved myself from my vow.” CHAPTER THE EIGHTY-SIXTH.

• From Satyricon (1)

  (Notwithstanding), however (these caprices of the third person of the trinity) I cannot see why pleasure should be regulated, or why a woman who has surveyed all the charms of a young girl of eighteen years should give herself up to the rude embraces of a man. What comparisons can be made between those red lips, that mouth which breathes pleasure for the first time, those snowy and purplous cheeks whose velvet smoothness is like the Venus flower, half in bloom, that new-born flesh which palpitates softly with desire and voluptuousness, that hand which you press so delicately, those round thighs, those plastic buttocks, that voice sweet and touching,--what comparison can be made between all this and pronounced features, rough beard, hard breast, hairy body, and the strong disagreeable voice of man? Juvenal has wonderfully expended all his bile in depicting, as hideous scenes, these mysteries of the Bona Dea, where the young and beautiful Roman women, far from the eyes of men, give themselves up to mutual caresses. Juvenal has painted the eyes of the Graces with colors which are proper to the Furies; his tableau, moreover, revolts one instead of doing good. The only work of Sappho’s which remains to us is an ode written to one of her loved ones and from it we may judge whether the poetess merited her reputation. It has been translated into all languages; Catullus put it into Latin and Boileau into French. Here follows an imitation of that of Catullus: Peer of a God meseemeth he, Nay passing Gods (and that can be!) Who all the while sits facing thee Sees thee and hears Thy low sweet laughs which (ah me!) daze Mine every sense, and as I gaze Upon thee (Lesbia!) o’er me strays My tongue is dulled, limbs adown Flows subtle flame; with sound its own Rings either ear, and o’er are strown Mine eyes with night. (LI. Burton, tr.) After that we should never again exhort the ministers and moralists to inveigh against love of women for women; never was the interest of men found to be so fully in accord with the precepts of divine law. Here I should like to speak of the brides of the Lord; but I remember “The Nun” of Diderot, and my pen falls from my hand. Oh, who would dare to touch a subject handled by Diderot? V. Giton venait de la deflorer, et de remporter une victoire sanglante. Giton the victor had won a not bloodless victory.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  3 When Luther then published an open letter of congratulation to Koppe, he revealed that he had known all about the plan, which was an impudent snub to his old enemy Duke Georg. The women came from the upper nobility of his lands, but their families were unable to welcome them back for fear of offending their Catholic ruler—or so Luther argued. One of them was Staupitz’s sister. 4 Luther needed to settle the women in respectable marriages as soon as possible, so as to avoid malicious gossip, and thus found himself in the unexpected position of marriage broker. As a result, the situation forced him to think about female desire. In August 1524 he wrote to some nuns, candidly informing them that, although they might not like to think so, God had created them with powerful sexual urges, which they ignored at their peril: “Though womenfolk are ashamed to admit to this, nevertheless Scripture and experience show that among many thousands there is not a one to whom God has given to remain in pure chastity. A woman has no control over herself.” 5 It may have been that the subject came to mind because he was beginning to be tempted himself. The progress of this transformation can be charted through banter with his old friend Spalatin. While in the Wartburg, the subject of marriage had arisen more than once in their correspondence, but Luther insisted he had no sexual desires, and that marriage was not for him. Although Karlstadt, Jonas, and Melanchthon all married, “They won’t force a wife on me,” he had written in 1521: 6 When Luther first returned from the Wartburg he put on his old monastic habit again—the town council even presented him with a new one, specially made. 7 But there was no returning to the monastic life. Most of the monks had left under the impact of Zwilling’s fiery sermons and only the prior and a couple of old monks remained. The monastery was no longer a going concern. In mid-April 1525, having been busily arranging matches for the nuns, Luther could still joke to Spalatin: I do not want you to wonder that a famous lover like me does not marry. It is rather strange that I, who so often write about matrimony and get mixed up with women, have not yet turned into a woman, to say nothing of not having married one.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  From 1523, groups of nuns, convinced by evangelical teachings against monasticism, had begun leaving their convents and arrived in Wittenberg, where it fell to Luther to find lodgings for them and even provide them with new clothes.2 He was not entirely innocent in all this. That year, Leonhard Koppe, a businessman and a relation of his friend Amsdorf, smuggled a group of nuns out of the Nimbschen convent in Duke Georg’s territory and over the border to Wittenberg, hiding them among barrels of herrings.3 When Luther then published an open letter of congratulation to Koppe, he revealed that he had known all about the plan, which was an impudent snub to his old enemy Duke Georg. The women came from the upper nobility of his lands, but their families were unable to welcome them back for fear of offending their Catholic ruler—or so Luther argued. One of them was Staupitz’s sister.4 Luther needed to settle the women in respectable marriages as soon as possible, so as to avoid malicious gossip, and thus found himself in the unexpected position of marriage broker. As a result, the situation forced him to think about female desire. In August 1524 he wrote to some nuns, candidly informing them that, although they might not like to think so, God had created them with powerful sexual urges, which they ignored at their peril: “Though womenfolk are ashamed to admit to this, nevertheless Scripture and experience show that among many thousands there is not a one to whom God has given to remain in pure chastity. A woman has no control over herself.”5 It may have been that the subject came to mind because he was beginning to be tempted himself. The progress of this transformation can be charted through banter with his old friend Spalatin. While in the Wartburg, the subject of marriage had arisen more than once in their correspondence, but Luther insisted he had no sexual desires, and that marriage was not for him. Although Karlstadt, Jonas, and Melanchthon all married, “They won’t force a wife on me,” he had written in 1521:6 When Luther first returned from the Wartburg he put on his old monastic habit again—the town council even presented him with a new one, specially made.7 But there was no returning to the monastic life. Most of the monks had left under the impact of Zwilling’s fiery sermons and only the prior and a couple of old monks remained. The monastery was no longer a going concern. In mid-April 1525, having been busily arranging matches for the nuns, Luther could still joke to Spalatin:

• From Satyricon (1)

  By refusal, however, he was only made more ardent, followed me everywhere, entered my room at night, and, after his entreaties had met with contempt, he had recourse to violence against me, at which I yelled so lustily that I aroused the entire household, and, by the help of Lycurgus, I was delivered from the troublesome assault and escaped. At last, perceiving that the house of Lycurgus was not suitable to the prosecution of his design, he attempted to persuade me to seek his hospitality, and when his suggestion was refused, he made use of Tryphaena’s influence over me. She besought me to comply with Lycas’ desires, and she did this all the more readily as by that she hoped to gain more liberty of action. With affairs in this posture, I follow my love, but Lycurgus, who had renewed his old relations with Ascyltos, would not permit him to leave, so it was decided that he should remain with Lycurgus, but that we would accompany Lycas. Nevertheless, we had it understood among ourselves that whenever the opportunity presented itself, we would each pilfer whatever we could lay hands upon, for the betterment of the common stock. Lycas was highly delighted with my acceptance of his invitation and hastened our departure, so, bidding our friends good-bye, we arrived at his place on the very same day. Lycas had so arranged matters that, on the journey, he sat beside me, while Tryphaena was next to Giton, the reason for this being his knowledge of the woman’s notorious inconstancy; nor was he deceived, for she immediately fell in love with the boy, and I easily perceived it. In addition, Lycas took the trouble of calling my attention to the situation, and laid stress upon the truth of what we saw. On this account, I received his advances more graciously, at which he was overjoyed. He was certain that contempt would be engendered from the inconstancy of my “sister,” with the result that, being piqued at Tryphaena, I would all the more freely receive his advances. Now this was the state of affairs at the house of Lycas, Tryphaena was desperately in love with Giton, Giton’s whole soul was aflame for her, neither of them was a pleasing sight to my eyes, and Lycas, studying to please me, arranged novel entertainments each day, which Doris, his lovely wife, seconded to the best of her ability, and so gracefully that she soon expelled Tryphaena from my heart. A wink of the eye acquainted Doris of my passion, a coquettish glance informed me of the state of her heart, and this silent language, anticipating the office of the tongue, secretly expressed that longing of our souls which we had both experienced at the same instant. The jealousy of Lycas, already well known to me, was the cause of my silence, but love itself revealed to the wife the designs which Lycas had upon me.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  He looked down at the sight of her wide red mouth so beautifully curved around his penis. With one hand she touched his balls, with the other she moved the head of the penis, enclosing it and pulling it gently. Then, sitting against him, she took it and directed it between her legs. She rubbed the penis gently against her clitoris, over and over again. Louis watched the hand, thinking how beautiful it looked, holding the penis as if it were a flower. It stirred but did not harden sufficiently to enter her. He could see at the opening of her sex the moisture of her desire appearing, glistening in the moonlight. She continued to rub. The two bodies, equally beautiful, were bent over this rubbing motion, the small penis feeling the touch of her skin, her warm flesh, enjoying the friction. She said, “Give me your tongue,” and leaned over. Without interrupting the rubbing of his penis, she took his tongue into her mouth and touched the tip of it with her own tongue. Each time the penis touched her clitoris, her tongue touched the tip of his tongue. And Louis felt the warmth running between his tongue and his penis, running back and forth. In a husky voice she said, “Stick your tongue out, out.” He obeyed her. She again cried, “Out, out, out, out . . .” obsessively, and when he did so he felt such a stirring through his body, as if it were his penis extending towards her, to reach into her. She kept her mouth open, two slender fingers around his penis, her legs parted, expectantly. Louis felt a turmoil, the blood running through his body and down to his penis. It hardened. The woman waited. She did not take in his penis at once. She let him, now and then, touch his tongue against hers. She let him pant like a dog in heat, open his being, stretch towards her. He looked at the red mouth of her sex, open and waiting, and suddenly the violence of his desire shook him, completed the hardening of his penis. He threw himself over her, his tongue inside of her mouth, and his penis pressing inside of her. But again he could not come. They rolled together for a long while. Finally they got up and walked, carrying their clothes. Louis’ sex was stretched and taut, and she delighted in the sight. Now and then they fell on the sand, and he took her, and churned her, and left her, moist and hot. And as they again walked, she in front of him, he encircled her in his arms, and threw her on the ground so that they were like dogs coupling, on their hands and knees. He shook inside of her, pushed and vibrated, and kissed her, and held her breasts in his hands. “Do you want it? Do you want it?” he asked.

• From Little Birds (1979)

  She fascinates me because sensuality pours from her. At eight years old she was already having a Lesbian affair with an older cousin. We both share the love of finery, perfume and luxury. She is so lazy, languid—purely a plant, really. I have never seen a woman more yielding. She says that she always expects to find the man who will arouse her. She has to live in a sexual atmosphere even when she feels nothing. It is her climate. Her favorite statement is, “At that time, I was sleeping around with everybody.” If we speak of Paris and of people we knew there, she always says, “I don’t know him. I didn’t sleep with him.” Or, “Oh, yes, he was wonderful in bed.” I have never once heard of her resisting—this, coupled with frigidity! She deceives everybody, including herself. She looks so wet and open that men think she is continuously in a state of near orgasm. But it is not true. The actress in her appears cheerful and calm, and inside she is going to pieces. She drinks and can sleep only by taking drugs. She always comes to me eating candy, like a schoolgirl. She looks about twenty. Her coat is open, her hat is in her hand. Her hair is loose. One day she falls on my bed and knocks off her shoes. She looks at her legs and says, “They are too thick. They are like Renoir legs, I was told once in Paris.” “But I love them,” I say, “I love them.” “Do you like my new stockings?” She raises her skirt to show me. She asks for a whiskey. Then she decides that she will take a bath. She borrows my kimono. I know that she is trying to tempt me. She comes out of the bathroom still humid, leaving the kimono open. Her legs are always held a little apart. She looks so much as if she were about to have an orgasm that one cannot help feeling: only one little caress will drive her wild. As she sits on the edge of my bed to put on her stockings, I cannot withhold any longer. I kneel in front of her and put my hand on the hair between her legs. I stroke it gently, gently, and I say, “The little silver fox, the little silver fox. So soft and beautiful. Oh, Mary, I can’t believe that you do not feel anything there, inside.” She seems on the verge of feeling, the way her flesh looks, open like a flower, the way her legs are spread. Her mouth is so wet, so inviting, the lips of her sex must be the same. She parts her legs and lets me look at it. I touch it gently and spread the lips to see if they are moist. She feels it when I touch her clitoris, but I want her to feel the bigger orgasm.

• From Satyricon (1)

  METRO: Please don’t flare up so quickly when you hear something unpleasant. A good woman must put up with everything. It’s all my fault for gossiping. My tongue ought to be cut out; honestly it should: but to get back to the question I asked you a moment ago: who stitched the dildo? Tell me if you love me! What makes you laugh when you look at me? What does your coyness mean? Have you never set eyes on me before? Don’t fib to me now, Koritto, I beg of you. KORITTO: Why do you press me so? Kerdon stitched it. METRO: Which Kerdon? Tell me, because there are two Kerdons, one is that blue-eyed fellow, the neighbor of Myrtaline the daughter of Kylaithis; but he couldn’t even stitch a plectron to a lyre--the other one, who lives near the house of Hermodorus, after you have left the street, was pretty good once, but he’s too old, now; the late lamented Kylaithis--may her kinsfolk never forget her--used to patronize him. KORITTO: He’s neither of those you’ve mentioned, Metro; this fellow is bald headed and short, he comes from Chios or Erythrai, I think--you would mistake him for another Prexinos, one fig could not look more like another, but just hear him talk, and you’ll know that he is Kerdon and not Prexinos. He does business at home, selling his wares on the sly because everyone is afraid of the tax gatherers. My dear! He does do such beautiful work! You would think that what you see is the handiwork of Athena and not that of Kerdon! Do you know that he had two of them when he came here! And when I got a look at them my eyes nearly burst from their sockets through desire. Men never get--I hope we are alone --their tools so stiff; and not only that, but their smoothness was as sweet as sleep and their little straps were as soft as wool. If you went looking for one you would never find another ladies’ cobbler cleverer than he! METRO: Why didn’t you buy the other one, too? KORITTO: What didn’t I do, Metro dear’? And what didn’t I do to persuade him’? I kissed him, I patted his bald head, I poured out some sweet wine for him to drink, I fondled him, the only thing I didn’t do was to give him my body. METRO: But you should have given him that too, if he asked it. KORITTO: Yes, and I would have, but Bitas slave girl commenced grinding in the court, just at the wrong moment; she has reduced our hand mill nearly to powder by grinding day and night for fear she might have four obols to pay for having her own sharpened. METRO: But how did he happen to come to your house, Koritto dear? You’ll tell me the truth won’t you, now?

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Like Karlstadt and Müntzer, Luther chose a noblewoman, albeit poor. But as he presented it, the initiative to marry had come from her. Katharina had originally fallen in love with Hieronymus Baumgartner, a rich merchant patrician from Nuremberg, but his family had better plans for him than marriage to a runaway nun. Luther had then suggested Caspar Glatz, the man who had supplanted Karlstadt at Orlamünde—hardly an enticing prospect, with his tumbledown house and farm. Indeed, the twenty-six-year-old Katharina rejected Glatz out of hand as an old “miser,” and told Luther’s friend Nikolaus von Amsdorf that she would marry either him or Luther, nobody else.12 However, this account contrasts sharply with Luther’s behavior in all other areas of his life, where he always took the initiative. It seems that on this occasion, he was happy to be seduced, overruled by a strong woman. As he put it in a letter to Amsdorf: “I feel neither passionate love nor burning for my spouse, but I cherish her.”13 This narrative conveniently defended him against any accusations that he was acting out of lust. Luther claimed that he married in order to please his father and give him “the hope of progeny.”14 But his choice would hardly have fit into Hans Luder’s dynastic plans. Katharina did not come from the mining elite, and Luder had carefully married all his children into the small circle of mine owners and smelters at Mansfeld, hoping to buttress his position; indeed, his son’s refusal to follow suit was one of the reasons his monastic vocation had been so resented. Nor did Katharina come from an urban family packed with lawyers, which might at least have provided access to the legal expertise Hans Luder had sought when he destined his son for the law. Luther married up by choosing a poor noblewoman, but not in a way that would benefit his family. However, Katharina was, by all accounts, attractive, feisty, and passionate.