Embarrassment

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 Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  But the truth was, Mrs. Brown did not care that I should be seen or talked to by any, either of her customers, or her Does (as they called the girls provided for them), till she secured a good market for my maidenhead, which I had at least all the appearances of having brought into her Ladyship’s service. To slip over minutes of no importance to the main of my story, I pass the interval to bed time, in which I was more and more pleased with the views that opened to me, of an easy service under these good people; and after supper being shewed up to bed, Miss Phœbe, who observed a kind of reluctance in me to strip and go to bed, in my shift, before her, now the maid was withdrawn, came up to me, and beginning with unpinning my handkerchief and gown, soon encouraged me to go on with undressing myself; and, blushing at now seeing myself naked to my shift, I hurried to get under the bed-clothes out of sight. Phœbe laughed and was not long before she placed herself by my side. She was about five and twenty, by her most suspicious account, in which, according to all appearances, she must have sunk at least ten good years; allowance, too, being made for the havoc which a long course of hackneyship and hot waters must have made of her constitution, and which had already brought on, upon the spur, that stale stage in which those of her profession are reduced to think of showing company, instead of seeing it. No sooner then was this precious substitute of my mistress laid down, but she, who was never out of her way when any occasion of lewdness presented itself, turned to me, embraced and kissed me with great eagerness. This was new, this was odd; but imputing it to nothing but pure kindness, which, for ought I knew, it might be the London way to express in that manner, I was determined not to be behind-hand with her, and returned her the kiss and embrace, with all the fervour that perfect innocence knew. Encouraged by this, her hands became extremely free, and wandered over my whole body, with touches, squeezes, pressures, that rather warmed and surprised me with their novelty, than they either shocked or alarmed me.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I blink at him. Are we really talking about my hair? I feel self-conscious about my white streak. I make sure it’s tucked away, behind my ear. “I grew it out.” Put food in mouth, chew, swallow, put food in mouth, chew, swallow. We don’t speak about my hair anymore. When I am finished eating, I announce that I need to use the restroom. I ask him to come with me. The only bathroom in the house is the one in the bedroom where I found Isaac. He waits outside the door, knife in hand. Before we leave the kitchen he upgrades to a larger one. It is almost funny, but not. Big knife, big wound. I had settled for a steak knife myself. They are easy to handle and sharp as hell. I relieve myself and step over to the sink to wash my hands. There is a mirror hanging above it. I look at myself and flinch. My hair is limp and greasy, the inch-wide streak of grey that showed up when I was twelve is startling against my pale face. I have done everything to rid myself of it: dying it, cutting it, pulling it out strand by strand. Color won’t take to the grey. I have sat in dozens of chairs over the years and every stylist has said the same thing. “It doesn’t make sense … it won’t take the color.” No matter what I do, it always comes back like a stubborn weed. Eventually, I let it be. The old part of me won out. I turn on the water, it sputters like the croup for several seconds before a weak brown stream comes dribbling out. I splash it over my face, drink some. It tastes funny—like rust and dirt. When I walk out of the bathroom, Isaac hands me his butcher knife. I have to put my knife down to hold it, since my wrist is a gimp. “Me too,” he says. “Don’t let the bad guys get us.” I grin—I actually grin—as he closes the door. His humor always shows up at the oddest moments. I thought I was the bad guy, I didn’t think I’d ever be at the mercy of one. When he comes out, his face has been washed, too, and his hair is damp. There is a trickle of water running from his temple. “Now what?” I say. “Are you tired? We could take turns. Do you want to sleep?” “Hell no!” He laughs. “Yeah, I get ya.” There is a long awkward pause. “I’d like to take a shower,” I say. What I don’t add is, in case the sick fuck touched me…

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  He’s been living all by himself for the last six months, tucked away in a cheap little room— probably holding telepathic communication with Cronstadt. He talks about the line falling back, the sector evacuated, and so on and so forth, as though he were dug into a trench and writing a report to headquarters. He probably had his frock coat on when he sat down to pen this missive, and he probably rubbed his hands a few times as he used to do when a customer was calling to rent the apartment. “The reason I wanted you to commit suicide...” he begins again. At that I burst out laughing. He used to walk up and down with one hand stuck in the tail flap of his frock coat at the Villa Borghese, or at Cronstadt’s—wherever there was deck space, as it were—and reel off this nonsense about living and dying to his heart’s content. I never understood a word of it, I must confess, but it was a good show and, being a Gentile, I was naturally interested in what went on in that menagerie of a brainpan. Sometimes he would he on his couch full length, exhausted by the surge of ideas that swept through his noodle. His feet just grazed the bookrack where he kept his Plato and Spinoza—he couldn’t understand why I had no use for them. I must say he made them sound interesting, though what it was all about I hadn’t the least idea. Sometimes I would glance at a volume furtively, to check up on these wild ideas which he imputed to them—but the connection was frail, tenuous. He had a language all his own, Boris, that is, when I had him alone; but when I listened to Cronstadt it seemed to me that Boris had plagiarized his wonderful ideas. They talked a sort of higher mathematics, these two. Nothing of flesh and blood ever crept in; it was weird, ghostly, ghoulishly abstract. When they got on to the dying business it sounded a little more concrete: after all, a cleaver or a meat ax has to have a handle. I enjoyed those sessions immensely. It was the first time in my life that death had ever seemed fascinating to me—all these abstract deaths which involved a bloodless sort of agony. Now and then they would compliment me on being alive, but in such a way that I felt embarrassed. They made me feel that I was alive in the nineteenth century, a sort of atavistic remnant, a romantic shred, a soulful Pithecanthropus erectus. Boris especially seemed to get a great kick out of touching me; he wanted me to be alive so that he could die to his heart’s content. You would think that all those millions in the street were nothing but dead cows the way he looked at me and touched me.

• From Between Us

  Who wanted those revelations? (No one!) I often realized that there was no need to share my feelings and thoughts in an American context, only after having divulged my inner self. After decades of living in the United States I still catch myself doing it occasionally. My American friends punctuate my self-disclosure, as when my friend Ann Kring pointedly commented “Thank you for sharing” after I had explained in great detail some convoluted story about my emotions (how I had felt rejected when I thought I was not included in some breakfast arrangement, only to discover that people had tried to include me, and that I was mistaken). She did me a service, the Dutch way, by telling me that my self-disclosure was inappropriate, and in the process, socializing me. Everybody’s Emotions Are Cultured Coming to America made me aware, for the first time, that my own emotions were not like those of people from this other culture. This would not have been remarkable, because it was the first time I had lived outside of the European continent—save for a small, but important detail: I had just spent the preceding six years studying cultural variations in emotions. Given that my research expertise was the role of culture in emotion, my failure to recognize my own emotions as cultured goes to show the difficulty of recognizing our own emotions as anything but natural. Even to me, as a cultural psychologist who studied emotions for a living, it was impossible to see my own emotions as products of culture, until I had a real stake in being part of another culture —until I became an immigrant to the United States. Many an ethnographer has similarly run “into painful reminders, of [her] failure to share emotional assumptions or commitments” of the people with whom they stayed. The late anthropologist Jean Briggs described in her now-famous ethnography Never in Anger how, only after she got ostracized, she fully grasped how different (and inappropriate) her own emotions must have been from the perspective of the Utku Inuit, who lived in the Canadian Northwest Territories. It was then that she realized that her own emotions were cultured, and unfit to the Utku social relationships. The Utku Inuit valued equanimity and generosity, and considered anger to be dangerous. “Satan . . . takes people who get angry easily and puts them in a fiery place . . . We do not get angry here,” her Inuit foster father informed Briggs. Getting angry was considered offensive, immoral even. It was hard for Briggs to suppress her everyday irritations.

• From Between Us

  At that point his behavior made me cringe. Friends, coming to visit from the Netherlands, were friendly and jovial with waiters and shopkeepers, but without praising or thanking them. Their jokes and joviality emphasized the connections between everyone involved, but failed to mark the efforts of the service person. More interesting yet: Dutch friends and relatives privately commented to me that the American emotions they encountered seemed “fake” or “exaggerated.” My son’s schoolteacher, Jill, exclaimed excitedly to my mom, who was visiting, how wonderful it was that my mom came to spend time with her grandchildren. She next asked my mom if she were enjoying herself. My mom confided to me that the teacher’s excitement seemed “fake.” On another occasion, my American colleagues praised the presentation of a visiting European scholar, saying it was brilliant. The European scholar shrugged and later told me that their praise “meant nothing,” and that is was likely “fake,” or “exaggerated.” How else would a European explain the unfailing generosity, interest, praise, and enthusiasm that, in their eyes, many Americans display in circumstances that from a Dutch perspective do not “naturally” give rise to those emotions? As individuals from these two Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, and Democratic (WEIRD) countries, the United States and the Netherlands, we experienced emotions that were different enough that each party judged the other’s emotions negatively, as either “rude” or “fake.” People from the same national cultures arguably would not have condemned them. The emotional differences at first seemed random to me, but over time they gained meaning. I came to understand these emotional differences as serving divergent relationship goals. Pleasant emotions that would be appropriate in the Dutch context prioritize the connection between equals. At the end of a dinner party (or throughout, actually), you would emphasize the connectedness between people, referring to the get-together as gezellig, a Dutch word that has become a collector’s item of culture-specific emotion words. Derived from the word for “friend” (gezel), gezellig describes both the physical circumstances—being snug in a warm and homely place surrounded by good friends (it is impossible to be gezellig alone)—and an emotional state of feeling “held” and “comfortable.” Stressing the connection is prioritized over acknowledging the host’s efforts. In U.S. contexts, by contrast, appropriate positive emotions often prioritize the articulation of the unique efforts, talents, and contributions of another person. Friends and acquaintances contribute to each other’s sense of value or self-esteem.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "I heard first a groan of ease and of comfort, followed by a splash and a waterfall, then a screech, and I saw my English damsel, not sitting, but perched upon the closet seat. "The engine whistled, the bell rang, the guard blew his horn, the train was moving. "I ran back as fast as I could, regardless of consequences, holding my falling trousers in my hands, and followed by the wrathful screeching English old maid, very much like a wee chicken running away from an old hen." "And —— " "Everyone was at the carriage windows laughing at my misadventure. "A few days afterwards I was with my parents at the Pension Bellevue, at the baths of N —— , when, on going down to the table d'hôte dinner, I was surprised to find the young lady in question seated with her mother, almost opposite to the place usually occupied by my parents. Upon seeing her, I, of course, blushed scarlet, I sat down, and she and the elderly lady exchanged glances and smiled. I wriggled on my chair in a most uncomfortable way, and I dropped the spoon which I had taken up. "'What is the matter with you, Camille?' asked my mother, seeing me grow red and pale. "'Oh, nothing! Only I—I—that is to say, my—my stomach is rather out of order,' said I, in a whisper, finding no better excuse on the spur of the moment. "'Your stomach again?' said my mother, in an under-tone. "'What, Camille! have you the belly-ache?' said my father, in his off-hand way, and with his stentorian voice. "I was so ashamed of myself and so upset, that, hungry as I was, my stomach began to make the most fearful rumbling noises. "Everyone at table, I think, was giggling, when all at once I heard a well-known snarling, barking, shrill voice say— "'Gaason, demandez that monseer not to parler cochonneries at table.' "I cast a glance towards the side whence the voice proceeded, and, sure enough, that horrible, wandering English old maid was there. "I felt as if I could have sunk under the table for shame, seeing everyone stare at me. Anyhow, I had to bear it; and at last the lengthy meal came to an end. I went up to my room, and, for that day, I saw nothing more of my acquaintances. "On the morrow I met the young girl out with her mother. When she saw me, her laughing eyes had a merrier twinkle than ever.

• From Between Us

  There is not much research on how we learn the emotions of another culture, but late-life socialization may not be fundamentally different from early-life socialization of emotions; it comes outside-in. One of my socializing experiences occurred when I first arrived at the University of Michigan. I attended a seminar on emotions where most of the other participants were graduate students; I was a postdoctoral student. In a general round of self-introductions, I stated I was interested in “culture and emotion.” The senior professor supplemented my understated (Dutch) introduction, saying that I was one of the world experts on the topic of culture and emotions. In doing so, he created an opportunity for “pride.” It was not much different from the way in which, many years later, Oliver’s father and I created opportunity for his feeling pride, or Didi’s mother and sister created opportunity for shame. If not literally create, others may also categorize emotional episodes in the new culture’s way. As an immigrant you learn new emotions, because others in the new culture categorize emotional events according to shared emotion concepts. Again, this is not so different from the way children learn to do “emotions.” Other people also show and tell you how to do emotions. I remember that same first time with the senior professor, I looked down in embarrassment, and mumbled that “expert” was a big word. I did not know how to take my place in this emotional interaction that was creating an occasion for “pride.” Rather than joining my host in his effort by being pleased and thanking him—the American scenario, I later learned—I reciprocated with a Dutch scenario, showing myself “no better than anybody else.” I danced the tango, when my interaction partner invited me to the waltz that was common in the my new (North American) environment. Gradually, by observing others gracefully taking their place to shine, I learned to take opportunities to feel pride when they were offered. Taking part in majority contexts also teaches you when interactions are smooth. I learned because, clearly, interactions were less awkward if I did American-style “pride.” Similarly, noticing that my indignation was not shared, and my anger ignored in the American South, made me express (and ultimately feel) less of these emotions. If others consistently make waltz steps, the music that is playing is waltz music, and your tango steps are not reciprocated, you learn to waltz; your “emotions” get calibrated, though not all at once, and not flawlessly.

• From Between Us

  I hope you now understand that we can neither directly read emotions from other people’s faces, nor simply “catch” the emotions of other people. We can think we can, but our perception need not match the interpretation of the target—even less so when they are from a different culture. It is challenging to “meditate on someone else’s motives, beliefs and history,” as Zaki suggests we do, when the distance with your own motives, beliefs, and history is large. Just imagining how you would feel in a similar situation will not do the job. If you tried, you would almost certainly make sense of a given situation in a way that fits your culture’s values and relationship goals. You would be likely to have emotions that are “right” in your culture. You would interact with others who draw from the same collective repertoire of emotional episodes as you do. As Coates points out: “It is funny when you have never been in that environment, but very serious when you don’t have anything else to lean on, if you are from a place where all you have is like the basic, physical respect.” Projecting your own feelings is of limited value when you try to understand emotions that are embedded in another cultural reality. I met Hazel Markus thirty years ago at a conference that she and Shinobu Kitayama organized on the topic of culture and emotion. Neither of us knew at the time that Markus was to become my American mentor, but right away I felt we meshed. When we ran into each other in the women’s restroom, I showed my empathy, or so I thought: she had so much on her mind being one of the organizers—I had seen her really busy. So I looked at her warmly, and said: “You look a little tired.” Upon which Hazel looked startled, turned to the mirror and confirmed that, yes, she needed to refresh her lipstick. I stumbled, and added that I did not mean to suggest she looked bad.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I blink at him. Are we really talking about my hair? I feel self-conscious about my white streak. I make sure it’s tucked away, behind my ear. “I grew it out.” Put food in mouth, chew, swallow, put food in mouth, chew, swallow. We don’t speak about my hair anymore. When I am finished eating, I announce that I need to use the restroom. I ask him to come with me. The only bathroom in the house is the one in the bedroom where I found Isaac. He waits outside the door, knife in hand. Before we leave the kitchen he upgrades to a larger one. It is almost funny, but not. Big knife, big wound. I had settled for a steak knife myself. They are easy to handle and sharp as hell. I relieve myself and step over to the sink to wash my hands. There is a mirror hanging above it. I look at myself and flinch. My hair is limp and greasy, the inch-wide streak of grey that showed up when I was twelve is startling against my pale face. I have done everything to rid myself of it: dying it, cutting it, pulling it out strand by strand. Color won’t take to the grey. I have sat in dozens of chairs over the years and every stylist has said the same thing. “It doesn’t make sense … it won’t take the color.” No matter what I do, it always comes back like a stubborn weed. Eventually, I let it be. The old part of me won out. I turn on the water, it sputters like the croup for several seconds before a weak brown stream comes dribbling out. I splash it over my face, drink some. It tastes funny—like rust and dirt. When I walk out of the bathroom, Isaac hands me his butcher knife. I have to put my knife down to hold it, since my wrist is a gimp. “Me too,” he says. “Don’t let the bad guys get us.” I grin—I actually grin—as he closes the door. His humor always shows up at the oddest moments. I thought I was the bad guy, I didn’t think I’d ever be at the mercy of one. When he comes out, his face has been washed, too, and his hair is damp. There is a trickle of water running from his temple. “Now what?” I say. “Are you tired? We could take turns. Do you want to sleep?” “Hell no!” He laughs. “Yeah, I get ya.” There is a long awkward pause. “I’d like to take a shower,” I say. What I don’t add is, in case the sick fuck touched me…

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  For our purposes, however, I’m going to focus on those kisses given and received with the sole intention of stirring the embers of passion—before, during, and after lovemaking. It should never be forgotten that when it comes to romance, there are few tools available to us more powerful than the kiss. For that reason, you must be mindful of every kiss you give and every kiss you receive. Kisses send messages—especially in romance. Being mindful of your kisses simply means to be aware of the language that is spoken at all times and to never allow your lips to speak anything other than the truth. And although kissing, just like loving, comes to us instinctively, both benefit greatly from instruction and practice. That Tingling FeelingIn spite of what your darling mother may have told you, a “fresh” mouth is a good thing. If it sounds remedial to say that your mouth and breath should be clean before kissing, forgive me for stating the obvious. But we’ve all been in situations where either our partner’s breath isn’t nearly as desirable as he is, or we can sense that ours isn’t. And it’s not just breath. Food that has, for some reason, decided to remain outside the mouth, rather than join the rest of the party inside, may leave deleterious leftovers. That rebellious piece of spinach, that flamboyant bit of caviar, or the lone black bean that insists on making a spectacle of itself by adhering to your or his front-most tooth may also be a culprit. It’s not the least bit cute and can be a real mood killer. But bad breath and food stuck in our teeth can happen to the best of us, and when they do, the only way to handle them is with kindness and humor, removing them as quickly as possible. No one should be made to feel badly about being human. On the other hand, if your lover’s breath is a bit offensive—say something. I know you wouldn’t consider kissing somebody who didn’t care if he offended you, so help him out. And be gracious when he does the same for you. These little problems are easy to fix and any momentary embarrassment can be quelled with, “And now my dear, you are perfect … once again.” The following is a list of tips and suggestions I’ve picked up from clients on how to remedy or prevent these potential kiss stoppers: • When brushing your teeth, don’t forget to brush your tongue and the roof of your mouth. They are the repositories of bad-breath germs and must be swept clean. Brushing these areas will keep your breath fresher for much longer. • Collect those little bottles of mouthwash you get in hotels and keep one in every purse. You can also purchase them in grocery and drugstores where they display travel and trial-size products. • Never leave home without mints.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Our conversation meanders for hours, about his complicated upbringing and my own, about podcasts, religion, dating and his passion for cooking and surfing and fishing. He is easy to talk to, funny, and he listens, really listens. He picks up the check when it arrives and comes around the table to help me put on my jacket, saying once again, “Chivalry is not dead.” We walk back toward my apartment, passing his apartment on the way, and he asks if I want to come up. His apartment is sparsely furnished and he is apologetic, saying he just moved in three months ago. I sit on one end of the sofa, curling my feet beneath me, and he sits on the other. I am waiting for him to make a move, but he doesn’t. I try every trick in my short book, tilting my head to the side, widening my eyes, gently shrugging my shoulder, which Lauren insists is my signature move, but nothing. We just talk. After an hour, he asks, “What time do you turn into a pumpkin?” “I am pumpkin-proof tonight, Hudson is out with friends,” I say. We talk for a few more minutes until he repeats his concern that my curfew is looming. I take the hint that I’m being seen more as Cinderella approaching the strike of midnight than the sexy vixen for which I was aiming. He walks me outside; a taxi is approaching as we exit the building and Alan raises his hand for it to stop. Our goodbye is quick and clumsy, with my thanking him for dinner while he gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek and quickly closes the door once I’m in the taxi. I wish I could crawl under the seat as I give the driver my address, a mere ten blocks away, as I am so embarrassed. A less than subtle suggestion that I head home and then not even a kiss goodbye? I can’t figure out at which point the date took a wrong turn. My experience so far has been that everyone wants at least a kiss goodnight. CHAPTER 27InstinctsIn the taxi, I check my phone and see several missed calls from #5 and a series of texts from him starting with “How’s your night?” and ending with “Not cool that you’re not answering me.” I call him and he answers on the first ring. He sounds drunk, is talking loudly and angrily, accusing me of lying to him and demanding to know where I’ve been. I did indeed lie to him, which makes me feel bad, but I also question what I’m doing spending time with someone about whom I don’t care enough to be honest. Being spoken to like this is not worth the great sex – I mean, a little bit it is, but rationally, I know that it’s not really enough. I tell him that I won’t talk to him until he calms down and I hang up.

• From Between Us

  In retrospect, the problem was that my emotions were not “right” in this context. Crying belongs to the context of close relationships where people take care of each other, but does not belong in a professional meeting in, what still is, an environment governed by male gender roles. Mind you, I was not the only person to be emotional at the meeting, but my male colleagues did do their emotions very differently: the debate was heated, and people raised their voices and claimed that parts of the proposal were ill-conceived and unacceptable. This way of doing emotions was meant to not cede control to each other. My crying in the moment did not fit that logic but instead appealed to others’ understanding and help, which my colleagues in the meeting clearly resisted. I ceded some responsibility for my well-being to my colleagues. I was dancing the tango when everybody else was dancing the waltz. This is only one person’s experience—mine—but it would not surprise me if many women in a male professional environments have had to learn to feel, express, and manage emotions to be acceptable and effective in these latter environments, pretty much like people in minoritized positions acculturating to majority emotions. The relational goals governing these contexts are different. It may equally be true that female gender roles for emotions are still rewarding and acceptable at home, even if they are not in traditionally male professional environments. If they are, then many women would be switching emotional cultures in their everyday lives, just like people in minoritized positions switch emotions when moving from majority to heritage cultural contexts. Context-switching may not be exclusive to women and minorities either. Perhaps everyone who moves across different spheres of life will have cultivated (slightly) different emotional understandings, expressions, and management strategies for these different contexts. The close relationship expert Margaret Clark gives the following example: Imagine you are dining out with your romantic partner. You spill your wine all over the table and your partner harshly ridicules you for having done so. You’re likely to feel hurt, perhaps angry, perhaps both. But what if the person who ridiculed you is a total stranger sitting at a nearby table? You’re very unlikely to feel hurt; you may feel angry, or you may just think the stranger is a jerk and brush him off as irrelevant. Our point is that the emotions you experience (or do not experience) in the face of identical ridicule will almost certainly differ if the ridicule comes from a close partner compared to coming from a stranger.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  If you’re a person who doesn’t fantasize, don’t be concerned. As you read on, try to keep an open mind. You may not be accustomed to noticing the sexy images that flash through your mind. Like many people, you may not have detailed fantasies, just fragments of erotic thoughts that easily go unnoticed. Moreover, like so many of us, you may have been taught that it’s wrong to have sexual daydreams. Be patient and self-accepting. Gradually, you’ll become more familiar and comfortable with the way your erotic imagination works. As you contemplate your fantasies, don’t be surprised if you feel embarrassed. After all, you’re zeroing in on extremely intimate material. Most of us will tell a friend details about an exciting encounter much more readily than we’ll talk about what truly arouses us in our private thoughts. If you can open the door only slightly to this line of self-exploration, in time you’ll discover how much your fantasies can teach you about your eroticism. A WORD ABOUT PEAKS AND PROBLEMSAt one time or another most of us experience problems with our sexuality. In fact, one of your motivations for reading this book may be to understand or to resolve your own sexual concerns or those of someone you love. I bring this up now because you need to be aware that in the five chapters of Part I our goal is to unravel some of the mysteries of the erotic mind. We’ll do that primarily by focusing on peak erotic experiences. This is a different approach from the one most books about sex follow. Like many of my clients, you might find it difficult to set aside your concerns for a while and see what you can learn from your own and others’ peak turn-ons. I’m certainly not suggesting that you ignore your problems or pretend you don’t have them; that would be counterproductive, not to mention impossible. It’s best if you remain aware of your problems in the back of your mind while you focus on your potentials. I can assure you that your patience will pay off. By the time you reach Part II, “Troublesome Turn-ons,” you will have developed the insights necessary for understanding and resolving a variety of prevalent erotic problems from a whole new perspective. EROTIC MEMORABILITYNow you are ready to begin examining your peak erotic experiences. Think of them using two seemingly mismatched metaphors. Peak turn-ons are precious jewels. To fully appreciate their glittering facets, it is necessary to gaze at them from different angles. Yet peak experiences are also onionlike. As each layer is peeled away you uncover additional information not visible on the surface.

• From In Search of Paul: How Jesus's Apostle Opposed Rome's Empire with God's Kingdom (2005)

  Those moral laws were, however, Augustus’s greatest political disaster. They were vociferously opposed, ignored, and eventually repealed or modified in court, and certainly Augustus’s only child, Julia, was an embarrassing poster child for his morality campaign. Augustus banished her from Rome in 2 B.C.E. for her many alleged affairs. Aptly, Augustus’s contemporary Livy described the “present time” in the preface to his History of Rome as one “when we can endure neither our vices nor their cure” (9). Augustus himself continually pleaded with the two orders of the Roman nobility to restore family values. Suetonius’s The Lives of the Caesars records in The Deified Augustus how “he even read entire volumes to the senate and called the attention of the people to them by proclamations; for example, the speeches of Quintus Metellus ‘On Increasing the Family’” (89.2). Cassius Dio’s Roman History tells how Augustus “assembled in one part of the Forum the unmarried men of their [the equestrians’] number, and in another those who were married, including those who also had children. Then, perceiving that the latter were much fewer in number than the former, he was filled with grief.” The fewer married and fertile ones are first praised because, “we were at first a mere handful, you know, but when we had recourse to marriage and begot us children, we came to surpass all mankind not only in manliness of our citizens but in the size of our population as well” (56.2.2). The more numerous unmarried ones are accused of committing murder in not begetting in the first place those who ought to be your descendants; you are committing sacrilege in putting an end to the names and honours of your ancestors; and you are guilty of impiety in that you are abolishing your families…. Moreover, you are destroying the state by disobeying its laws, and you are betraying your country by rendering her barren and childless…. What you want is complete liberty to lead an undisciplined and promiscuous life…. For it is human beings that constitute a city, we are told, not houses or porticoes or marketplaces empty of men. (56.5.1–3) Remember those speeches when later in this chapter we move to the historical Paul. He would agree against promiscuity, disagree about celibacy, and leave a tradition not exactly in continuity with idealized Romanitas. And what then?

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Many of the demonstrators were wearing what has now become the signature of the Anonymous movement—the Guy Fawkes mask, taken from the film V for Vendetta. At the center of the controversy was the beleaguered Tom Cruise. An unflattering, unauthorized biography by the British writer Andrew Morton was published days after the YouTube video of Cruise appeared, creating a new round of headlines—“Cruise Out of Control,” “Explosive Claims on Cruise Baby,” “German Historian Likens Cruise Speech to Goebbels”—that were intensely personal and insulting. Questions of his religion, his sexual orientation, his relationship with his wife, even the paternity of his daughter were laid out like a banquet for public consumption. Several top executives at United Artists, including Cruise’s partner, Paula Wagner, decided to leave. Haggis was in his office in Santa Monica when he got a call from Cruise. He hadn’t heard a word from him since writing the apology for his wisecrack to Spielberg. Haggis still had his deal at United Artists, which Cruise was running. Now the star had a favor to ask. He wanted to gather a group of top Scientologists in Hollywood—Kirstie Alley, Anne Archer, and Haggis—to go on Oprah or Larry King Live to denounce the attacks on Cruise as religious persecution. Haggis told Cruise that was a terrible idea. He said that Cruise should stop trying to be a mouthpiece for the church and go back to doing what he does best— being a movie star. People love him for that, not for having the answers to all of life’s problems. He also advised the star to have a sense of humor about himself—something that is often lacking in Scientology. Instead of constantly going on the attack, he might simply say, “Yeah, I get that it sounds crazy, but it works for me.” 3 Cruise didn’t want to hear what Haggis had to say at the time, but soon after this conversation, he took a wildly comic turn in the Ben Stiller film Tropic Thunder, playing a profane studio executive who reminded a number of Hollywood insiders of Sumner Redstone. He also went back on the Today show for another interview with Matt Lauer. This time, he was chastened and introspective. “I came across as arrogant,” he admitted, when reflecting on their previous interview three years earlier. “That’s not who I am. That’s not the person I am.... I’m here to entertain people. That’s who I am and what I want to do.” Outside the windows of the studio, a crowd of people in the plaza of Rockefeller Center waved and blew kisses. HAGGIS WAS CASTING The Next Three Days in the summer of 2009, and he asked Jason Beghe to read for the part of a detective. Beghe’s best- known film role was as the love interest for Demi Moore in G.I.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Try the same experiment as you read The Group’s stories. You may have found some of them a bit kinky. As you read on you will encounter even more unconventional turn-ons, in other people and perhaps in yourself. Pretending to be open-minded is of little use. It’s much better to acknowledge whatever you find disturbing or difficult to accept. Jot down how you feel in your journal. When you come across a story that stimulates a particularly strong reaction, ask yourself how you might feel about the story if you approached it with an attitude of neutral curiosity. When you adopt such an attitude, if only for a moment, you’ll notice something quite remarkable: behaviors and fantasies that initially seemed weird or unacceptable become increasingly comprehensible. KEEPING PEAKS IN PERSPECTIVEAlmost three-quarters of The Group say their peak turn-ons are much more or dramatically more arousing than their typical sexual experiences. This discrepancy raises important questions: What is the relationship between peak arousal and the regular, everyday kind? Does studying particularly exciting sex help us produce additional satisfying experiences, or is there a danger that we might end up feeling disappointed with simpler, less earthshaking pleasures? How unfortunate if we use the perfection of our best experiences to devalue more mundane sex. Sex therapists regularly see clients who have converted moments of special pleasure into sources of disappointment and frustration by using them to create higher standards and, in turn, greater pressures to perform. Tragically, they have turned the beauty of their peaks into painful reminders of their inadequacy. What is the alternative? Peak turn-ons bestow their gifts most generously when each is recognized as one-of-a-kind. All peak experiences spring from total involvement in the moment, which is lost if you split your attention by comparing one moment to another. However, when you savor each magical memory on its own terms, your recollections help you to become more fully available for a wider variety peak erotic experiences. 2THE EROTIC EQUATIONFlames of passion are fueled by a mixture of attractions and obstacles to overcome. In the latter part of the 1970s my professional interests and personal struggles coincided as never before. On the personal side I had just extricated myself from the most painful yet sexually exhilarating relationship of my life. At one moment we would be lost in passion. Then, without warning, my lover would vanish, apparently overwhelmed by our closeness. For years I had come back for more until, devastated and humiliated, I eventually broke it off for good. As I mourned my loss, I wondered whether—if I ever let myself fall in love again—I was destined to repeat the same drama.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  In this section we are concerned with men and women for whom certain emotions have become so strong and central to their arousal that they are unable to shield themselves from their disruptive effects. Typically, these are people whose erotic development took place in atmospheres thick with anxiety and guilt. Over time their erotic minds learned to transmute these feelings into erotic fuel. They became so adept at using their emotions for excitation that they stopped noticing how frightened or guilty they really were. Perhaps without realizing it they came to require strong doses of guilt or anxiety to become highly aroused. Unfortunately, some eventually reach the point where the same feelings that have always turned them on begin disrupting their sexual functioning or inhibiting their desire. Brian: Relaxation and arousal don’t mix With great embarrassment Brian told me that about six months earlier he had “flunked out of sex therapy,” where he had been trying to solve a distressing problem. Unpredictably and without warning his penis would go limp when he was about to start intercourse. It didn’t seem to matter whether he was with Julia, his primary sex partner for almost three years, or any of the other women he sporadically dated. Although he had occasionally worried about his erections over the years, recently sex was becoming more worrisome than fun. And Julia was convinced that Brian was losing interest in her. Their previous therapist had suggested that they work as a couple with some of sex therapy’s famous comfort-building exercises. In their first few home assignments they took turns stroking each other sensuously and affectionately, bypassing the genitals to avoid performance pressures. These massages went fairly well, although Brian was painfully aware that he was not getting aroused. Before long Brian began avoiding the exercises but couldn’t explain why. All he knew was that he felt completely nonsexual and was unshakably convinced that this approach couldn’t possibly work. His entire being was shouting a silent but resounding “no!” to the therapy. Brian had heard me speaking about emotional aphrodisiacs at a conference and had a strong intuition that much of what I said applied to him. “Especially,” he told me over the phone, “the stuff about danger as a turn-on—that’s me all over.” We agreed to meet on a one-to-one basis and invite Julia to join us later, when and if that seemed appropriate. Like most people, Brian didn’t talk easily about the things that aroused him. Slowly, however, as he used his peak turn-ons as avenues for self-discovery, the dramatic themes that animated his inner erotic life became apparent.

• From Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (1989)

  It's an u nfo rtunate side effect of this that we actaully suffer. Couldn't God have d esigned a painless signallin g system? Plainly this wouldn't have worked, arg ues Hutcheson. You need somethin g which not only warns people bu t also stimula tes them to take remedial action. Even as thing s are, we see that f e ver a nd racking sores don't always deter peop l e from vice. 16 Well then, how about God intervening in the system whenever the u nfortuna te feature isn't required? Suppose he made pain milder for more v irt u ous people, who don't n eed to be goaded into reformation. That, thinks Hutcheson, is ruled out because then there would no longer be, properly speaking, an order of things. One of the bene fit s of an order i s that we ca n count on it; this is what allow s u s to achieve our good through the exercise of our characteristic powers, those of instrumental reason. If God wer e constantly to adjus t the laws to particular cases, then this "would immediatel y su percede all contrivance and forethought of men, and all prudent action", 1 7 not t o speak of the fact that removing all obstacles to their well-being would allo w no more place for active virtu e. Th e design of an order for the good of instrumentally rational creatures leaves God no choice, as it were, but to establish laws which he will lea ve to operate without interference. He shows his goodness in refraining from m iracles. So the paramountcy of order excludes miraculous interventions. But it also marginalizes history. The 'historical' nature of Judaism, Christianity , Islam -that is, the fact that allegiance an d p iety are focussed on key historical ev ents: Sinai, the Incarnation, the giving of the Quran-is intrinsically con n ected with their recognition of the extra dimension. These events are the er uptions of God's affirming power in human life, and its continued force in our lives requires that we maintain unbroken continuity with these moments t hrough tradition. O nce the notion of order becomes paramount, it makes no more sense to gi v e them a crucial status in religious life. It be comes a n e mb a rra ssmen t to relig io n that it should be bound to belief in particular ev en t s which d ivide one gr.oup from another and are in a ny case open to cavil. The grea t truths of religion are all univ er sal. Reason extracts these from t h e g en eral c ou rs e of th ings.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Father and I are currently working on our family tree, and he tells me something about each person as we go along. I’ve begun my schoolwork. I’m working hard at French, cramming five irregular verbs into my head every day. But I’ve forgotten much too much of what I learned in school. Peter has taken up his English with great reluctance. A few schoolbooks have just arrived, and I brought a large supply of notebooks, pencils, erasers and labels from home. Pim (that’s our pet name for Father) wants me to help him with his Dutch lessons. I’m perfectly willing to tutor him in exchange for his assistance with French and other subjects. But he makes the most unbelievable mistakes! I sometimes listen to the Dutch broadcasts from London. Prince Bernhard recently announced that Princess juliana is expecting a baby in January, which I think is wonderful. No one here understands why I take such an interest in the Royal Family. A few nights ago I was the topic of discussion, and we all decided I was an ignoramus. As a result, I threw myself into my schoolwork the next day, since I have little desire to still be a freshman when I’m fourteen or fifteen. The fact that I’m hardly allowed to read anything was also discussed. At the moment, Mother’s reading Gentlemen, Wives and Servants, and of course I’m not allowed to read it (though Margot is!). First I have to be more intellectually developed, like my genius of a sister. Then we discussed my ignorance of philosophy, psychology and physiology (I immediately looked up these big words in the dictionary!). It’s true, I don’t know anything about these subjects. But maybe I’ll be smarter next year! I’ve come to the shocking conclusion that I have only one long-sleeved dress and three cardigans to wear in the winter. Father’s given me permission to knit a white wool sweater; the yarn isn’t very pretty, but it’ll be warm, and that’s what counts. Some of our clothing was left with friends, but unfortunately we won’t be able to get to it until after the war. Provided it’s still there, of course. I’d just finished writing something about Mrs. van Daan when she walked into the room. Thump, I slammed the book shut. “Hey, Anne, can’t I even take a peek?” “No, Mrs. van Daan.” “Just the last page then?” “No, not even the last page, Mrs. van Daan.” Of course, I nearly died, since that particular page contained a rather unflattering description of her. There’s something happening every day, but I’m too tired and lazy to write it all down. Yours, Anne FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1942 Dearest Kitty, Father has a friend, a man in his mid-seventies named Mr. Dreher, who’s sick, poor and deaf as a post.

• From Disrupted: My Misadventure in the Start-Up Bubble (2014)

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck , a little voice inside my head keeps saying as I follow Zack and his gelled hair down the hall, my pulse thrumming in my temples. Nine months ago I was the technology editor of Newsweek . In that job I did not even notice people like Zack, or Wingman, or even Cranium. They are the kind of people whose calls I would not return, whose emails I deleted without opening. Even Halligan and Shah were such small fry that I probably would not have taken time to meet them for coffee, and I certainly would not have written about them. And Zack? Good grief. He’s five years out of college, and his work experience consists of two journalism internships and three years in an entry-level job in a regional Google ad sales office. Zack takes me to a cramped little shoebox of a room, about fifteen feet wide and thirty feet long, where twenty young women are packed into two rows, staring at laptops. This is the content factory. That is literally what they call it. These people are content creators. That is literally what they call themselves. “Hungry for more content? Click here to get some!” is something they write on little boxes that they place next to blog posts, hoping that the promise of “more content” will entice readers to stay on the site. I smile and shake hands and go down the line, past a blur of Ashleys, Amandas, Brittanys, and Courtneys, realizing as I do that I am literally twice the age of these people, in some cases more than twice their age. “So where were you before this?” I ask some of them, who give me a strange look and say, “Uh, college?” I stop asking that question. They’re all women, they’re all white, and they’re all wearing jeans and sporting the same straight, shoulder-length hair. They all seem baffled by my presence. What is this old guy doing here? I smile and realize that I already cannot remember anyone’s name. Next, Zack introduces me to the blog team, the people I will be working most closely with—Marcia, Jan, and Ashley. I’ve read their work already. They say things like totes magotes and awesomesauce , and produce blog articles like “5 Ways to Make Your Landing Pages Awesome,” and “7 Tips to Improve Your Lead Quality.” They write in a folksy style: “Hey, blogging’s hard , right? You don’t have to tell us!! But didya know there’s a remedy for those summer blogging blues? Well, there is, and we’re gonna tell you about it, so read on!” I’m not sure what my relationship to these women will be. I’m not their boss. Zack is. Zack points to an empty desk. “I guess you can sit there,” he says. Instead of a chair, there is a big rubber ball—orange, of course—on a rolling frame. I’m not quite sure what to do.