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 53 of 344 · 20 per page

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Ned watched Woo flip his cock up. Tendresse pulled his slouchy hairless satchel toward her face and jostled its contents. “Nice size, nice movement,” she said. She closed her eyes and sniffed. “Mmmmm, yes. Rainy ruins. Frogs. Cement statuary. Gongs. Tractor tires. Mushrooms.” Pleased, Woo said, “So do I have magic sperm?” “No, sorry, no,” said Tendresse. “But your balls are well shaped. Very nice pair. Thank you so much. You can pull your boxers up now.” Woo seemed disappointed. “Sometimes I do kinky things,” he said defensively. “Once I let a girlfriend place a cucumber in my back end. It was a long British cucumber. They have the plastic sheath, and we thought that was safer.” “And how was it for you?” asked Tendresse. “Good, but I had to go to the bathroom afterward.” “Please,” said Ned. “Now it’s your turn,” said Tendresse, turning to Ned. Ned held his cock up against his abdomen and stood with his legs a little apart so that Tendresse, still blindfolded, could smell his balls. She made several long sniffing sounds. “Mmmm, warm granite, campfires, catcher’s mitts, Play-Doh, padded mailers. Very subtle. I think I know a good woman for you. I’ve sniffed hundreds of crotches, men’s and women’s. One couple I sniffed and matched got married. May I taste?” “What on earth?” said Woo, outraged. “By all means,” said Ned. Tendresse flicked her tongue over Ned’s crinkled scro-tatiousness, and then she drew the entire left ball into her mouth like a new potato. “Yow!” Ned said. His cock responded enthusiastically, although he had had a nice orgasm in the shower that morning. She suckled his other ball. Then she threw her head back and opened her mouth wide. “Now both together,” she said. “Fill my mouth with the manly warmth of your nutbag.” “Very well,” said Ned. He fed his manly nutbag into her mouth, and she made muffled gobbling and gargling noises. “Just plain disgusting,” said Woo, bending to get a better look. “Now drop the cock,” she said. “Drop it on my face, Ned. I want it.” Ned, canting his hips forward, let his cock fall gently against her nose. “Mmmmmmmm,” said Tendresse, inhaling. “You do not have magic sperm, but I know several women for you. Come, let’s meet Lila.” [image "decoration" file=image_rsrc2SW.jpg] Luna Goes to a Concert [image "decoration" file=image_rsrc2SX.jpg] Luna met a man named Chuck at the soup kitchen. He was manning the sink and she was unloading the dishwasher, which wasn’t an easy job because the steam was hot. They developed a nice wordless rhythm together of unloading and drying and stacking. Then, wiping the edge of the sink with a clean dish towel, Chuck directed his restless blue eyes directly at her and asked her if she would like to go with him to the Masturboats. Just like that, all of a sudden: “Would you like to go with me to the Masturboats?”

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  She thought, then frowned. “I’m going to idolize their cockpoles,” she said. “I’m going to slide their foreskins back, so that the heads of their cocks pop out all pink and heart shaped. I’m going to gorge myself on as much of their deliciousness as I can stuff into my mouth without gagging. I don’t enjoy gagging. I’m going to look up into their eyes and feel them pump their come down my throat.” “Yee.” Cardell tried not to look shocked, although he was a little. “Maybe I could tag along and sort of—watch? We could get some dinner first?” He touched a menu. Jackie heard the brokenness and despair, but also the excitement, in his voice. She took pity on him. “Everybody’s got to find their own porthole,” she said. “It’s harder for men to get in than women unless they pay and pay. Although you’re pretty cute—you’ll have a chance.” “Any hints on where to find a porthole?” “Try the fourth dryer from the left at the laundromat at the corner of 18th Street and Grover Avenue,” said Jackie. She waved. “Bye.” Her face began to blur and liquefy, and then she poured herself down into her straw and was gone. Cardell picked up the straw and looked through it. There was no blockage. “Jackie?” he said. The bartender stood watching him, holding a glass. “What just happened?” Cardell said. “Your lady friend seems to have been sucked into her straw,” the bartender said. “That’s what I think, too,” Cardell said. The bartender shrugged. “It happens, man.” “Well,” Cardell said, “I guess I’ll be heading out.” “Have a good night.” Cardell dropped a twenty in the brandy snifter and waved at the pianist, humming along to Hoagy Carmichael. In the elevator down, Cardell smelled his fingers. Then he felt in his pocket. Yes, the silver egg was still there. Shandee Learns How to Wash a Peni s S handee climbed the steps to the porch of the House of Holes and rang the doorbell. A dreamy leggy woman, barefoot, wearing only a man’s blue shirt and yellow wooden beads, opened the screen door. Her name tag read “Zilka—Intake and Interview.” “I’m here to find the man who belongs to this arm,” said Shandee, holding up Dave’s arm. Zilka, toying with her beads, looked Shandee over and led her to a waiting room, where she gave her a clipboard with a legal agreement to sign. “Lila will see you soon,” she said. “She’s the director.” She walked away. The waiting room was empty. There were two couches and some lamps with fringed lampshades and some pictures on the wall of sheep in fields.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Muriel spent a lot of her time over there too, where used copies of Byron and Gertrude Stein could be bought at the Strand one week and traded in for a little less at the Pine down the street a week later. Books were not so much in excess then; I remember trading a birthday copy of Lindbergh for a handful of used paperbacks, two hardcover volumes of minor poets, and a first issue of MAD magazine, which cost ten cents. In June, Lynn came to live with us. We hadn’t planned it that way, that’s just the way it worked out. Muriel and I had reestablished a guarded communication with Bea, and Lynn was her ex-lover whom we had first met on that infamous New Year’s Eve. She came to call unexpectedly from Philadelphia one Sunday evening in early summer, her long blonde hair streaming around her short sturdy neck, and an overstuffed duffle bag slung across one shoulder. Rumpled army fatigues covered her ample hips. Lynn had a sly smile and screwed up her face whenever she laughed. She was broad, and squat, and very sexy, and in terrible emotional shape. She was the same age I was, twenty-one, but had lived a very hectic life. Lynn’s young husband, on army leave, had died three months before, burned in a truck accident from which he had thrown her clear. They had been moving Lynn’s belongings to her new lover’s house in Philly. Lynn arrived on our doorstep with no place to go. She and Bea had broken up for reasons I knew only too well, and Lynn had followed the gay lorelei to New York. Jittery with dexedrine and crazed with exhaustion, she was afraid to go to sleep because of her nightmares of death and dying and the burning wreck from which arose billows of guilt over Ralph’s death. Nobody I knew could have remained immune to this game little girl-woman’s piteous story. This was a chance to put into practice the kind of sisterhood that we talked and dreamed about for the future. Muriel and I took Lynn into our home to live with us. For a while that summer, we had a vision and possibility of women living together collectively and sharing each other’s lives and work and love. It almost worked. But none of us knew quite enough about ourselves; we had no patterns to follow, except our own needs and our own unthought-out dreams. Those dreams did not steer us wrong, but sometimes they were not enough. I found myself day-dreaming over the library catalogue, imaging Lynn’s malocclusion, and I had to finally admit to myself how physically attracted to her I was. I was frightened and embarrassed as well as perplexed by this strange and unexpected turn of events.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Dancing with her this time, I felt who I was and where my body was going, and that feeling was more important to me than any lead or follow. The room felt very warm even though it was only just spring, and Kitty and I smiled at each other as the number ended. We stood waiting for the next record to drop and the next dance to begin. It was a slow Sinatra. Our belt buckles kept getting in the way as we moved in close to the oiled music, and we slid them around to the side of our waists when no one was looking. For the last few months since Muriel had moved out, my skin had felt cold and hard and essential, like thin frozen leather that was keeping the shape expected. That night on the dance floor of the Page Three as Kitty and I touched our bodies together in dancing, I could feel my carapace soften slowly and then finally melt, until I felt myself covered in a warm, almost forgotten, slip of anticipation, that ebbed and flowed at each contact of our moving bodies. I could feel something slowly shift in her also, as if a taut string was becoming undone, and finally we didn’t start back to the bar at all between dances, but just stood on the floor waiting for the next record, dancing only with each other. A little after midnight, in a silent and mutual decision, we split the Page together, walking blocks through the West Village to Hudson Street where her car was parked. She had invited me up to her house for a drink. The sweat beneath my breasts from our dancing was turning cold in the sharpness of the night air as we crossed Sheridan Square. I paused to wave to the steadies through the plate glass windows of Jim Atkins’s on the corner of Christopher Street. In her car, I tried not to think about what I was doing as we rode uptown almost in silence. There was an ache in the well beneath my stomach, spreading out and down between my legs like mercury. The smell of her warm body, mixed with the smell of feathery cologne and lavender pomade, anointed the car. My eyes rested on the sight of her coconut-spicy hands on the steering wheel, and the curve of her lashes as she attended the roadway. They made it easy for me to coast beneath her sporadic bursts of conversation with only an occasional friendly grunt. “I haven’t been downtown to the bars in a while, you know? It’s funny. I don’t know why I don’t go downtown more often. But every once in a while, something tells me go and I go. I guess it must be different when you live around there all the time.” She turned her gold-flecked smile upon me. Crossing 59th Street, I had an acute moment of panic. Who was this woman?

• From Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953)

  But later, when he was on fire with whisky, he looked again directly at her, and saw immediately that she had also been thinking of him. There were not so many people with her—it was as though she had been making room for him. He had already been told that she was a widow from the North, in town for only a few days to visit her people. When he looked at her she looked at him and, as though it were part of the joking conversation she was having with her friends, she laughed aloud. She had the lie-gap between her teeth, and a big mouth; when she laughed, she belatedly caught her lower lip in her teeth, as though she were ashamed of so large a mouth, and her breasts shook. It was not like the riot that occurred when big, fat women laughed—her breasts rose and fell against the tight cloth of her dress. She was much older than he—around Deborah’s age, perhaps thirty-odd—and she was not really pretty. Yet the distance between them was abruptly charged with her, and her smell was in his nostrils. Almost, he felt those moving breasts beneath his hand. And he drank again, allowing, unconsciously, or nearly, his face to fall into the lines of innocence and power which his experience with women had told him made their love come down. Well (walking homewards, cold and tingling) yes, they did the thing. Lord, how they rocked in their bed of sin, and how she cried and shivered; Lord how her love came down! Yes (walking homewards through the fleeing mist, with the cold sweat standing on his brow), yet, in vanity and the pride of conquest, he thought of her, of her smell, the heat of her body beneath his hands, of her voice, and her tongue, like the tongue of a cat, and her teeth, and her swelling breasts, and how she moved for him, and held him, and laboured with him, and how they fell, trembling and groaning, and locked together, into the world again. And, thinking of this, his body freezing with his sweat, and yet altogether violent with the memory of lust, he came to a tree on a gentle rise, beyond which, and out of sight, lay home, where his mother lay. And there leaped into his mind, with the violence of water that has burst the dams and covered the banks, rushing uncontrolled toward the doomed, immobile houses—on which, on rooftops and windows, the sun yet palely shivers—the memory of all the mornings he had mounted here and passed this tree, caught for a moment between sins committed and sins to be committed. The mist on this rise had fled away, and he felt that he stood, as he faced the lone tree, beneath the naked eye of Heaven.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  I loved Muriel like my own life; we were pledged to each other. How could I desire another woman physically? But I did. Naturally, the thing to do was to examine this new state of affairs in all of its endless ramifications, and to discuss each one of them in detail. That is what the three of us did, endlessly, over and over until all hours of the morning. Muriel thought it was an exciting idea, possible in a new world of women. Lynn wanted to sleep with us both and no more to-do about it. I knew what I wanted, which was everybody one at a time, and since my wants felt contradictory, I had to figure out some way I could have everything that I wanted and still be safe. That was very difficult, because we were in uncharted territory. What we were trying to build was dangerous, and could have enormous consequences for Muriel and me. But our love was strong enough to be tested, strong enough to provide a base for loving and extended relationships. I always used to say that I believed in sleeping with my friends. Well, here was a chance to put theory into practice. Besides, every time Lynn laughed her slightly hysterical laugh or wrinkled her nose, my knees turned to pudding. I could smell her like wilted fall flowers throughout the house as soon as I opened the door of the apartment from work. Our conversations went on all night. Sometimes I arrived at the library without having slept at all, looking like something the cat dragged in and the kittens wouldn’t eat. I said that my boyfriend Oliver had a fatal disease and had been sick all night and his sister Muriel and I had stayed up to nurse him. Mrs. Johnson, head of the children’s room, looked at me with a very funny eye, but never said a word. I think she was gay too. So all in all, I was rather relieved one day when I opened the door after work to find Muriel and Lynn just getting out of bed together. A piece of me was furious (What, another woman’s hands on Muriel’s body?), and another piece of me was afraid (Well! Now I’d really have to fish or cut bait). But a large piece of me was just relieved that we had moved beyond talking, and that the direction of that movement was out of my hands. The three of us kissed and held hands and had dinner, which Lynn cooked for the first time. Then Muriel went to Laurel’s for a beer, and I found out that Lynn was every bit as delicious as I had fantasized her to be. Our new living arrangement called for a celebration, so I took the next two days off from work.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Throughout the day, Rose came by each machine regularly and spot-checked crystals from each of our racks, checking to make sure that no one racked unread crystals, or rushed through crystals with incorrect readings in order to raise our counts and make bonus. The first two weeks I worked in the RR I talked to no one, raced my readings every day, never flipped the shield, and made three dollars in bonus. I decided I would have to reassess the situation. Ginger and I talked about it one night. “You’d better slow down a little at work. The word’s going out you’re an eager beaver, brown-nosing Rose.” I was offended. “I’m not ass-kissing, I’m trying to make some money. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” “Don’t you know those rates are set high like that so nobody can beat them? If you break your ass to read so many, you’re going to show up the other girls, and before you know it they’re going to raise the day rate again, figuring if you can do it so can everybody. And that just makes everybody look bad. They’re never going to let you make any money in that place. All the books you read and you don’t know that yet?” Ginger rolled over and tapped the book I was reading on my pillow. But I was determined. I knew I could not take Keystone Electronics for much longer, and I knew I needed some money put aside before I left. Where would I go when I got back to New York? Where would I live until I got a job? And how long would I have to look for work? And on the horizon like a dim star, was my hope of going to Mexico. I had to make some money. Ginger and Ada, her new workmate, went to the movies more and more often now that I was living at the Thurmans’, and I was determined not to care. But my sixth sense told me I had to get away, and soon. My daily rate of crystals began to increase steadily. Rose came by more and more often to my machine, but could find nothing wrong with my crystals, nor their slotting. She even went so far as to ask me to turn out my jeans pockets one evening. I was outraged, but complied. By the next payday, I had made an additional thirty dollars in bonus money for two weeks. That was almost as much as my weekly wages. It became the talk of the RR women. “How does she manage to do all those?” “Just wait and see.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Sometimes I feel jealousy. But I want him to have as good a time as he can have, and I have to do an oil change on three of the other guys.” “What’s an oil change?” “All the bodily necessities—we have to flush them out every other day to keep them healthy.” “This is pretty impressive but pretty nutty,” Reese said. “I can get used to anything,” said Kathy. “They’re nice men.” She paused just before she closed the door. “I can tell from the way he’s humping the bed that he’s got a big hard-on,” she said. “Turn him on his side, and you’ll have a nice present. ” She closed the door. Reese sat next to Nedbody for a moment, looking at the smooth muscular expanse of his back. His arms were flung wide. She smelled his underarms, which though Kathy had washed him had a whiff of man scent. She pulled on the hair, and he shrugged. Then she couldn’t stand it—she had to bring out one of her trusty erotic romances. It was Tastefully Done, one from the Untamed Wanderer series. She read Nedbody a passage as he slept, gently caressing his perfect bottom as she did and feeling his muscles involuntarily tighten as he dry humped the bed. “Shadow’s thighs registered the heat of his haughty stare,” she read. “He seized her roughly and lifted the burning torch of her sex to his mouth. ‘Shadow, I have craved your salt taste for three long years,’ he said, his lips red as embers in the deepening dusk.” “Whoo!” she said. “That’s the stuff! Nedbody, baby, do you mind if I kind of help you turn over?” He didn’t seem to mind, and she eased her fingers under one of the thick muscles of his upper thigh and pulled gently, feeling like a camel driver. He drew his arms in and turned, and she had her first glance at his cock, which lay like a railroad tie hanging out from his body. It moved with his heartbeat. She watched it for a moment, wondering at its independent spirit. “It looks like you have something major going on there, Nedbody,” she said. She found that she couldn’t help herself, and she curled her fingers around the fullness of what remained of his intelligence. “Think with your dick,” she whispered, moving her mouth closer.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Women really pay attention to their clothes.” “I have to say the ass-squeezer’s license does very little for me,” said Loxie. “What else happens at the House of Holes?” Pendle picked up a chunk of mulch and rolled it in his fingers. “There’s the Porndecahedron, which is this special twelve-screen projection theater.” “Porn, ugh. So sick of it. What else?” “Oh, let’s see. There are the darkrooms, where it’s all pitch-black and you talk. And there’s the International Couch. Daggett showed me that one last.” “That sounds interesting.” “Yeah, it’s a whole lot of women from all countries, all ages, all weights, Finnish women, French, Chilean, Canadian—Toronto women are so hot, I think—and they’re all kneeling on this superlong stretch couch with their asses up, waiting, toying with their tender bits, and you get to hump your way right down the line.” “You mean you just say hello and start fucking?” said Loxie. “Isn’t that a little cold?” “No, it’s more like, ‘Hello, how are you today? What a lovely warm Tuesday afternoon.’ And she says, ‘Allo,’ or ‘Hi,’ and you say, ‘May I?’ And she says yes, and then you ease yourself into her for fifteen seconds, and you get the incredible sensation of those first few humps—I call them the groaners. You get that fantastic new groaning feeling, oh, oh, fuuuhck, oh, and she holds very still or maybe not, maybe she tosses her hair around, and then you pull out and give your cock a quick breather so that it doesn’t come, which it’s threatening to do, and you say, ‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ and you move down one and do it again. Groan it in.” “Hm, I wonder how much the women enjoy the international stretch couch.” “I think it depends on a number of factors.” They were silent for a while. Then Loxie asked, “I take it there’s something similar for women?” “It’s called the Squat Line. All these international dudes are lying on beach towels on the grass, aroused, with their dicks doing the Hokey Pokey, and the woman sinks down on one dude, humps him for a bit, then pulls off, goes to the next, humps that guy, etcetera.” Loxie sat up. “The Squat Line? Don’t you think we should go together? I’d love to work my way down that line of guys and then maybe you’d be at the end, and I’d feel myself opening to take your hot wanky stick inside for a look around.” Pendle lay back on the grass and laughed. His erection was doing obvious things in his jeans, but he didn’t care. “I wish that could happen, but I still have a thousand dollars to earn.

• From Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953)

  But he did not move—he could not move. ‘But I can’t help it,’ she said, after a moment, maliciously teasing, ‘if you done things that you’s ashamed of, Reverend.’ He held on to her hands as though he were in the middle of the sea and her hands were the lifeline that would drag him in to shore. ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,’ he prayed, ‘oh, Jesus, Jesus. Help me to stand.’ He thought that he was pulling back against her hands—but he was pulling her to him. And he saw in her eyes now a look that he had not seen for many a long day and night, a look that was never in Deborah’s eyes. ‘ Yes, you know,’ he said, ‘why I’m all the time worrying about you—why I’m all the time miserable when I look at you.’ ‘But you ain’t never told me none of this,’ she said. One hand moved to her waist, and lingered there. The tips of her breasts touched his coat, burning in like acid and closing his throat. Soon it would be too late; he wanted it to be too late. That river, his infernal need, rose, flooded, sweeping him forward as though he were a long-drowned corpse. ‘ You know,’ he whispered, and touched her breasts and buried his face in her neck. So he had fallen: for the first time since his conversion, for the last time in his life. Fallen: he and Esther in the white folks’ kitchen, the light burning, the door half-open, grappling and burning beside the sink. Fallen indeed: time was no more, and sin, death, Hell, the judgment were blotted out. There was only Esther, who contained in her narrow body all mystery and all passion, and who answered all his need. Time, snarling so swiftly past, had caused him to forget the clumsiness, and sweat, and dirt of their first coupling; how his shaking hands undressed her, standing where they stood, how her dress fell at length like a snare about her feet; how his hands tore at her undergarments so that the naked, vivid flesh might meet his hands; how she protested: ‘Not here, not here’; how he worried, in some buried part of his mind, about the open door, about the sermon he was to preach, about his life, about Deborah; how the table got in their way, how his collar, until her fingers loosened it, threatened to choke him; how they found themselves on the floor at last, sweating and groaning and locked together; locked away from all others, all heavenly or human help. Only they could help each other. They were alone in the world. Had Royal, his son, been conceived that night? Or the next night? Or the next? It had lasted only nine days.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  The more she insulted the penis, the stiffer it got. It was remarkable. She said, “Do you want to see me brush my hair?” The dick nodded yes. So she got her hairbrush out of her purse. “I have lots of dark hair,” she said, “and this is how I brush it, like this. And I like to toss it around, like this. Do you like it when I pass my hair over you, Chief Cock? Hm?” She said, “I like when men look at my hair and then they go home and they beat off their gnarly dicks thinking about me brushing my hair.” She said, “But you can’t beat off, can you?” And she circled her hand around behind his balls and cock, so that she had him. “You’re stuck out here with me, and you can’t beat off, no matter how bad you want to, you hopeless sadsack dickjerker.” By now, after all this abuse, the penis was truly huge. “That’s quite a heavy piece of machinery you’ve got,” said Polly. “You are a fucking grotesque cuntsplitter.” She put her lips close to it. “Do you like it when a suck strumpet like me talks nasty to you with my soft red lips? Do you see how full they are and how ready they are to glue themselves onto your knob? Hm? See how ready I am to take that big stiff fleshbone and jerk it off onto these soft full lips?” The penis went boing, boing. She said, “I bet you’re crazy to see my tits, too. You can’t stand it, can you? See that? That’s my right tit. Sometimes I squeeze it a little bit. Sometimes I pinch my nipple through the fabric, mmm, like that. Sometimes I spank my tits a little bit, like this. Ouch, bad titties. They like to be spanked. Are you married?” The penis nodded. “How many kids?” Polly asked. The penis waggled three times. “You monstrosity! Three kids you’ve got? And you’re here hanging out of this hole in the wall? Can you see me?” The penis nodded again. “High-tech, are you, you sick demented voyeuristic plaster-fucker!” She was amazed. It was like his penis had a telescoping action—the more she taunted and reviled it, the more it kept adding intermediate sections. It was like a subway improvement project. And it had these knobby veins all over it. She couldn’t resist holding it, so she pinched the skin right underneath its head, and the whole penis immediately leapt away like a shying racehorse. “Don’t fight me now, shitbird,” she said. She pinched the skin again, harder, and rolled it between her fingers so that its monocular eye gazed crazily around the room. And then she said, “You want me to jerk you off now?”

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Now I make sculptures of women. I use very smooth hardwood. The women I carve have wide faces, and I always drill deep into their asses. I think the reason why it is so important to drill deep into their asses in my sculpture is because I pooped out the boycone when I was young.” “Maybe, maybe,” said Wade. “I would like to touch you.” “Okay.” Wade felt her fingers move lightly over his arms and chest. They converged and found his cock. Koizumi made a little startled happy sound. “Oh, that is lusty,” she said. “I feel like a lusty lady when I hold your cock. I get a very special feeling in my anus.” “I’m glad you like it,” said Wade. “Would you like to know what my wooden women look like when I carve them?” Wade said he would. “They are posed in the kundalini pose, like this.” Koizumi threw off the covers and put her round bottom high, with her knees together and her wrists crossed at her ankles. A wisp of black hair fell across her face and stuck to her lips. “I believe that the anus is the center of life energy and of consciousness,” she said. “I need to be drilled by a cock now. I hope your cock can be hard enough to fill my ass and anus.” “I hope so, too, for both our sakes,” Wade said. She had something in her hand. “I brought you a pinecone,” she said. “Pull off a seed and chew it. It will make your penis very stiff, and then if you come inside my bowel I will make you a special souvenir.” “Oh, wow,” said Wade. He pulled off a pinecone seed and chewed it. Almost immediately he developed a huge, almost painful hard-on. “Jeez, my cock’s straining at the leash.” “Good,” said Koizumi. She handed him a small vial of liquid. “Now put some of this on your finger and circle it around on my anus.” Wade did what she asked. She clenched her bottom cheeks and did a whimpery dance on her knees. “It almost tickles,” she said. “Now drill me with your cock,” she said. “Unh, unh, unh, put it right down into me. Sink it into me, please,” she said. Wade found her anus and pointed the almost sharp head of his dick into it. He let some of his weight begin to drive it in. He heard a buzzing. She’d brought a little vibrator that she’d clipped to her finger. She began a mewing kind of chant. “Moon . . . moon . . . moon,” she said slowly. “It’s big, it’s very huge, ouch, ah, slowly, drive it in. Moon. My kundalini body likes to be fucked in the ass,” she said. Wade began to do hip jerks that weren’t entirely voluntary—they happened as his cock went deeper and deeper with each pull and push.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Swim at Your Own Risk.” Wade Learns about the Cloth of Ka-Chian g W ade’s vesicles were jumping, and he felt sunny inside. He wanted to be near a woman he didn’t know, but he felt a little shy, so he called up the House of Holes and said, “Hi, this is Wade, and I’d like to be able to be friendly with a woman.” Wade was transferred to Lila, who said, “Honey, why don’t you come on by?” Wade said, “Because I don’t know how.” “Do you have a penis, Wade?” Wade said he did. “Then grab hold of it.” Wade grabbed hold of it. Lila said, “Now make it hard and stare it down. Is it hard yet?” Wade said, “No, it shrank way down while I was making this call.” Lila said, “Well, you’re not going to get anywhere without a dependable boner. ” Wade said, “I realize that. Okay, here it goes. It’s hard now.” “Good, now stare right down at the hole in it. That’ll open up time and spice for you. We’re out here in spicetime.” Wade stared at his cockhole and zoomed down into it. It was kind of an odd, juicy, self-referential experience, but at the end he emerged as himself in the waiting room outside Lila’s office. Lila’s assistant for the day, an intern named Crackers, opened the door and asked him in. Wade said hi to her. Crackers, dressed in black pipe-stem jeans, was not bad at all—in fact, she was perfect—and he wanted to fondle her or touch her shoulder but it didn’t seem the right moment. He sat down in the office chair. There at her desk was the famous Lila, a large and lovely gal of a certain age. “I’d like to be able to help you, Wade,” said Lila. “How long are you going to want to be busy here at the House of Holes?” “I’d say three, four days,” said Wade. He was tightening and loosening his thighs while Kegeling his love muscle, making his balls rearrange themselves. It all felt good in a crowded sort of way. “I figure maybe a girl will take a liking to me, and then I’ll get over my shyness and go home with her and then I’ll have a girlfriend.” “Now there’s a plan, Wade. Four days, nine thousand dollars a day,” said Lila, calculating. “That’ll be thirty-six thousand dollars for room and board.” “That’s too much. I can’t pay it.” Lila said, “Can you drive a truck? Because if you look good enough naked I can offer you a half-time paid gig here in which you drive the sludge truck.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Cardell went and got the screwdriver, and then he sat and read part of an article about crampons. He heard the shower going for a while in the pipes, and then he heard it turn off. Betsy emerged wearing a loose gray cotton dress with her hair turbaned and a different color of lipstick on. She was carrying a tube of something. She walked near him, and he smelled her smell of warm clean wet skin and Kentucky bourbon. He heard a drawer close in the kitchen, and she emerged with one latex glove. “Now, Card, I gave it some thought in the shower, and here’s what I think we might do. You sit in that chair, facing away from me, and I’ll sit here on the couch like so. You put the handle of the screwdriver into one finger of this glove and hand it back it to me.” “Right now?” “Why not? Here’s your drink. I’ll just take up my usual assplay position on the couch.” “This is where you usually play with your ass?” “Yes, I like to do it in the living room because it’s nastier that way.” “I got it. Here.” Cardell handed her the glove with the screwdriver in it. “I figured go with the middle finger.” She smiled. “Ah, the long fuckfinger of the night. Tried and true. Don’t turn around, now! You can’t look, you horny boy. Now.” He heard sounds. “I just pull up my dress and scooch down, and then I just squirt a whole mess of Push on the screwdriver finger, like so, mmhm, get it all ready, and then some more right around my asshole, mmhm.” “What’s ‘Push’?” “It’s a kind of organic lubricant. Really thick but really slippery. Magic stuff. Unscented. Ooh, I’m tingly now. And one thing: I’m not a fan of the word ‘enema,’ but let me just inform you that I’m very clean.” “You mean you squirted a bunch of warm water up your butt and all that?” “I did, used the syringe and the old red two-quart bottle. It was my grandmother’s hot-water bottle. She was a pretty wild lady. Passed it down to me. I used to fill it with hot water and hump it on cold nights. Now, though, mmm. I love to get savage with my ass, but it’s got to be squeaky clean. I hate shit, just hate it.” “No, I agree, shit’s bad. It’s not good.” “So now you want me to fuck myself in the ass while I play with Monsieur Twinklestump?” “Who’s Monsieur Twinklestump? A sex toy?” “My clit.” “Oh. Yes, if that’s what you most want to do, yeah.”

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “They were about seventeen, but very tiny. We rubbed them and massaged them, and after half an hour they grew to one quarter size, then half size, and then they were full-size long-legged boys, but their eyes were still closed. They were sleeping. So we looked them all over while they gathered strength, and they had the most beautiful penises and thatchy patches. Then their eyes opened, and mine said, ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ and he stretched. I stroked his chest, and I knelt over him and held the sides of his face and looked at his eyes. He was in the tent of my hair, and I could feel his hips trying to find a way in. He was very ready, so I let him in. He became my boyfriend that summer, and then unfortunately he went away. Now I make sculptures of women. I use very smooth hardwood. The women I carve have wide faces, and I always drill deep into their asses. I think the reason why it is so important to drill deep into their asses in my sculpture is because I pooped out the boycone when I was young.” “Maybe, maybe,” said Wade. “I would like to touch you.” “Okay.” Wade felt her fingers move lightly over his arms and chest. They converged and found his cock. Koizumi made a little startled happy sound. “Oh, that is lusty,” she said. “I feel like a lusty lady when I hold your cock. I get a very special feeling in my anus.” “I’m glad you like it,” said Wade. “Would you like to know what my wooden women look like when I carve them?” Wade said he would. “They are posed in the kundalini pose, like this.” Koizumi threw off the covers and put her round bottom high, with her knees together and her wrists crossed at her ankles. A wisp of black hair fell across her face and stuck to her lips. “I believe that the anus is the center of life energy and of consciousness,” she said. “I need to be drilled by a cock now. I hope your cock can be hard enough to fill my ass and anus.” “I hope so, too, for both our sakes,” Wade said. She had something in her hand. “I brought you a pinecone,” she said. “Pull off a seed and chew it. It will make your penis very stiff, and then if you come inside my bowel I will make you a special souvenir.” “Oh, wow,” said Wade. He pulled off a pinecone seed and chewed it. Almost immediately he developed a huge, almost painful hard-on. “Jeez, my cock’s straining at the leash.” “Good,” said Koizumi. She handed him a small vial of liquid. “Now put some of this on your finger and circle it around on my anus.”

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Most of the dip and the carrots and celery had been eaten. She took a cracker and cracked it in her hand. “Which are yours?” she asked. He touched her back, directing her to a wall with five paintings. They were all of women sitting on chairs, wearing pants but not wearing anything over their breasts. Some sat relaxedly, some seemed tense. He’d caught something unusual in their expressions, which were sad and human. “I like their faces,” Jessica said. “Thanks, will you excuse me for a moment? My underpants are wet with my come, and I’m just going to take them off and throw them out.” Bosco went into the back and reemerged in a few minutes. Jessica had stood standing, looking at the women. She sensed someone looking at her, and when she turned she saw that he was staring once again. “Do you offer a modeling fee?” she asked, in order to preserve her dignity. “Name it,” he said. “When I modeled for the photographer, he paid me two hundred dollars.” He shook his head. “I’ll sell the painting for eight thousand, of which the gallery will take fifty percent. So I will gross four thousand dollars. Nothing that I paint would exist without your beauty. How about two thousand for you, two thousand for me?” She thought. “That’s generous. But sure, yes.” He nodded. “Good. Now?” She took a moment to reflect. “I’m kind of sweaty from walking,” she said. “Take a shower at my studio,” he said. He said he wouldn’t bother her or make any moves. He just wanted to paint her in her cuffed shorts, he said—but topless. “You know I’ve just had an orgasm so I’m obviously not going to wig out and attack you or something,” he said. Jessica said okay, and then she had a thought. There was a store across the street. “I’m just going to run in there and get some panties,” she said. “I hate getting out of the shower and putting on the same pair. Wait here.” She bought a three-pack of panties, and they walked four blocks over to his studio. He said that he’d been painting for fifteen years. He was a little older than she’d thought at first—maybe thirty-eight, fit and kind of craggy with a confused boyish look that she liked. Every so often as they walked he’d lean toward her and say something like, “This is the best day of my life. I’m so eager to get painting. I understand everything about beauty now, now that I’ve seen you.” His studio was on the third floor. There were ten chairs on one side of the room and a bunch of canvases leaning against the wall.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Cardell wanted to be closer to her, so he began to move sideways. He looked at the roller-ball pens, and then moved sideways some more, to the pastel gel pens. And then he was at the metallics. He was quiet for a while, and she was quiet, as if by mutual agreement. Finally Cardell cleared his throat. “I’m going to the coffee shop,” he said, “and I need a pen to write with. Do you have a recommendation?” She pointed to the roller-balls. “If you just want to jot down notes, then I’d say go with one of those.” She had a soft, thoughtful voice, with a hint of South Carolina in it. “What kinds of things are you going to be writing?” “Oh,” said Cardell, “everything I want in a woman, I guess.” The woman looked him up and down and then said, “Is that an egg in your pocket?” Cardell nodded. “I guessed as much,” she said. “You’ll want something a little more exotic, then.” She shook the pen that she’d been holding. “These are the best.” Cardell glanced at the package. “Silver gel,” he said. He looked at her questioningly. She leaned toward him. “You know that if a man signs his name with one of these,” she whispered, “something interesting happens. When he comes, his come squirts out molten silver.” Cardell was surprised. “Permanently?” “No, for a day or two. I had a friend a while back who showed me.” “Do you have a friend now?” “Well, I have a husband,” she said. “He’s very wonderful and very successful and very jealous. Sometimes we rent a condo at the House of Holes beach, and when we’re there I get a little—ah—urgie-splurgey.” She squeezed his biceps muscle. Cardell thought it was time for a compliment. “Has anyone told you that you look a lot like Marlo Thomas in her prime?” She thanked him. “Buy the gel pen,” she said. “See you later, I hope. I’m Betsy.” Cardell watched her small bottom cheeks shake under the dress as she walked quickly away. He bought the pen and a notebook in a hurry. When he went out to the parking lot, her car was already gone.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “When we leave together in about ten minutes to kiss and look into each other’s eyes while we fondle each other and tie colorful scarves around our knees. Oops, did I say that?” “Hold on.” Jackie squinted and grabbed his arm again. “I think it’s coming.” Again she pushed back on the bar stool and turned red. A vein stood out in her neck. “Get behind me again, and slide your hand in my pantyhose and hold it right at my pussyhole.” Cardell obliged, cupping her bush, which was slick and swollen. “Good,” she said, “this time it’s really happ—” Her throat squeezed to silence and she made a strained pushing sound, turning even redder. “Now! Uhhhhh!” Something heavy and smooth and warm fell into Cardell’s cupped hand. “There you go,” she said, straightening and sighing with relief. Cardell pulled his hand from under her skirt. He was holding an egg. It was silver in color. She handed him a bar napkin. “Wipe it down. Don’t let people see. Put it out of sight.” “Is it a silver egg?” he asked, pocketing it in his jacket. “Yes.” “Is it solid?” “No, there’s a tiny silver man and a tiny silver woman inside. You can watch them make love if you like that sort of thing.” “I do,” Cardell said. “Me, too,” said Jackie, and she giggled and shook herself. “Phew, egg laying takes it out of me.” She ate half of a pretzel. “Cardell, I’m sorry to be a tease, because you’ve been nice, but I’m buzzed now, and I’m going to have to say good-bye.” “Forever?” “No, of course not forever. I’m just going to make an excursion to the House of Holes, where I can be a total tramp for a day or two. They let you do what you want there, you know.” “And what is it you want?” She leaned forward confidingly. “I want two lovely Brazilian stonemasons in overalls, with huge smiles and warm hands—four warm strong hands that know how to fit stones together—and sad brown eyes.” “And they can offer you that kind of specificity at this so-called House of Holes?” Jackie moved her lips to her straw, remembering something good. Cardell asked, “Well, what are you going to do with these men? I like a woman who knows what she wants.” She thought, then frowned. “I’m going to idolize their cockpoles,” she said. “I’m going to slide their foreskins back, so that the heads of their cocks pop out all pink and heart shaped. I’m going to gorge myself on as much of their deliciousness as I can stuff into my mouth without gagging. I don’t enjoy gagging. I’m going to look up into their eyes and feel them pump their come down my throat.” “Yee.” Cardell tried not to look shocked, although he was a little. “Maybe I could tag along and sort of—watch? We could get some dinner first?” He touched a menu.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “One sec.” Betsy dialed her husband’s number again. “Hon, I’m out on the back deck with Cardell, that’s his name, and I’ve been explaining to him how you and I make love. I know. I know, hon. I know. But he’s gotten a little aroused, the poor boy, as I have, and I wondered if it would be all right if he took out his dick and played with it, just for a moment or two, in a tasteful way, while I continued to tell him about us and what we do, so I thought I should ask you—” She listened for a moment. “Okay, no. I understand. Okay.” She clicked the phone off. “He says no. But!” She got a shrewd expression. “He didn’t say you couldn’t do what you need to do in your bathing suit.” “You mean reach in?” “Precisely. Reach in. Just don’t ‘bring it out.’ ” Cardell reached in, and as he did she came over. “But I’d like to have a peek,” she said. He pulled on his waistband so that she could peer into the depths of his bathing suit. She saw his fist in the green shadows, clutching his swollen packmule. “Oooh,” she said, “I’d like to have a taste of that big hunk of badness. But sadly—it is not to be.” “Why don’t you keep telling me how you and he fool around? That was going pretty good.” “Okay, well.” She closed her eyes and thought. “Somewhere along the way my panties have been scooted down and kicked off in the bottom of the bed, which means that after we’re done I have to hunt around for them for five minutes or give up and get a clean pair and figure I’ll find them in the morning.” “Then what?” “Ah, well, then there comes a point, always, inevitably, where I have to go on my knees and put my ass up. I don’t know why it is, but I need to feel the pressure of the bed on my knees and elbows and the high-up feeling of my ass pointing straight up! I can’t help it. It simply must go up! Always has.” “Does he like that?” “Yes, it makes him crazy.” She looked at him. “Do you want to see?” He smiled. She put her ass up. She was still wearing the light-blue shorts she wore over her bathing suit. She looked entrancingly suggestive, and Cardell began breathing noisily through his nose. “Does he cram it directly in?” “Not right away. By the way, does my eye look swollen?” Cardell leaned and peered at her. “Not too swollen. A little red, maybe, in the corner. Have you been crying?” “No, just a bug bite this morning. Annoying. Anyway, yes, his cock is knobby, so sometimes he rubs it against my thigh for a second and spanks it against my asscheek, because he likes me to know how big and warm and ass-slappy and hard it is. So hard.”

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  On the very infrequent occasions that my mother would allow one of us three girls to choose a meal—as opposed to helping to prepare it, which was a daily routine—on those occasions my sisters would usually choose one of those proscribed dishes so dear to our hearts remembered from our relatives’ tables, contraband, and so very rare in our house. They might ask for hot dogs, perhaps, smothered in ketchup sauce, or with crusty Boston-baked beans; or american chicken, breaded first and fried crispy the way the southern people did it; or creamed something-or-other that one of my sisters had tasted at school; what-have-you croquettes or anything fritters; or once even a daring outrageous request for slices of fresh watermelon, hawked from the back of a rickety wooden pickup truck with the southern road-dust still on her slatted sides, from which a young bony Black man with a turned-around baseball cap on his head would hang and half-yell, half-yodel—“Wahr—deeeeeee-mayyyyyyy-lawnnnnnnn.” There were many american dishes I longed for too, but on the one or two occasions a year that I got to choose a meal, I would always ask for souse. That way, I knew that I would get to use my mother’s mortar, and this in itself was more treat for me than any of the forbidden foods. Besides, if I really wanted hot dogs or anything croquettes badly enough, I could steal some money from my father’s pocket and buy them in the school lunch. “Mother, let’s have souse,” I’d say, and never even stop to think about it. The anticipated taste of the soft spicy meat had become inseparable in my mind from the tactile pleasures of using my mother’s mortar. “But what makes you think anybody can find time to mash up all that stuff?” My mother would cut her hawk-grey eyes at me from beneath their heavy black brows. “Among-you children never stop to think,” and she’d turn back to whatever it was she had been doing. If she had just come from the office with my father, she might be checking the day’s receipts, or she might be washing the endless piles of dirty linen that always seemed to issue from rooming-houses. “Oh, I’ll pound the garlic, Mommy!” would be my next line in the script written by some ancient and secret hand, and off I’d go to the cabinet to get down the heavy wooden mortar and pestle.