Excitement

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 Summer Sisters (1998)

  She doesn’t quite get the relationship between Victoria and the Somers. Victoria calls them her surrogate family. Surrogate as in Baby M? She’d love to know but she doesn’t ask. At dinner she’s seated next to the Democratic State Chair. She takes this opportunity to expound on the state of politics in the U.S. of A. She lets him know exactly what she thinks of Nancy Reagan and her Just Say No campaign. As if simplistic slogans can solve the problems of the world! She’s worried about the state of this country. Really. Someone has to take action before it’s too late! He’s dazzled by her sharp thinking, she can tell, and encourages her to join the Young Democrats. A bright young woman like you can go far. Have you thought of running for office one day? Run for office? Is he out of his mind? She’s got other plans. And was that his hand on her thigh or was it just her imagination? [image file=Image00006.jpg] The Young Dems love having a southern girl like her aboard. Of course, they don’t know shit about the South. Half of them don’t know what state Charleston’s in. And this is Harvard! Which proves geography’s another thing going down the tubes in the U.S. of A. 28VIX AND PAISLEY worked their tails off trying to get out the vote for the Mondale-Ferraro ticket and were devastated by the landslide presidential election. “Welcome to the eighties,” Maia, the only Republican among them, sang. “The eighties are half-over,” Paisley reminded her. “Too bad,” Maia said. Paisley groaned. “Four more years of Adolfo suits and tight smiles. Do you think she goes down on him?” “Please!” Maia said. “She’s the First Lady.” They were living in Leverett House. Vix had thought, when she’d signed up with Paisley last spring, she’d be getting away from Maia. But now they had two classes together and Vix was surprised by Maia’s intelligence. Not only that, but they both enjoyed Mexican food, the hotter, the better, foreign movies, even bad ones, and Joan Armatrading. Besides, they weren’t sharing a room, which made it easier. And Maia swore she was going to conquer her nail-biting habit. [image file=Image00006.jpg] Caitlin called from London on election night. “Politics are such a bore,” she said when Vix griped about the results. “Look at it this way … anyone who’s willing to run, I’m not willing to vote for.” “But you had an absentee ballot, didn’t you? You voted.” “No, I didn’t vote. I just told you.” “That’s why we lost! Because people like you just don’t care enough.” “People like me? Should I be offended by that remark?” “No … well, maybe … sorry. I’m just disappointed. And tired. What are you doing in London anyway? I thought you were at the Sorbonne.” “I’m here to see a play. The producer invited me. I’ll be back at school on Thursday.” “Are you coming home for the holidays?” “I’m going to Gstaad with Phoebe.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She and Caitlin elbowed each other and tried not to laugh. Who said thirteen isn’t a lucky number? Even though he wasn’t totally gorgeous like Von, and his lips weren’t the kind you’d suck on all night if you were inclined to suck on lips at all, there was something about Bru that appealed to Vix even more. His eyes were a warm golden brown and his hair, the same color, fell below his ears. She wished she could touch it. He didn’t smile all the time like Von, but when he did it was a slow smile, the kind that sneaked up and took you by surprise. She had no trouble imagining those sinewy arms wrapped around her. “How many games?” he asked again. “Two,” Caitlin told him, digging her money out of the pocket of her dress. He handed them two scorecards and a pencil, acting as if he’d never seen them before. “What color balls?” That sent them into gales of laughter. “Okay … okay …” he said. “Let’s get this over with. Pink, orange, yellow, green, blue …” That made it worse yet. Finally Caitlin pointed to pink and Vix pointed to yellow. They were still convulsed as they started walking away. Then Caitlin pulled herself together, turned back and said, “I can’t believe you don’t remember us.” That caught his interest. But after a long look all he came up with was “Can’t say I do.” “Double Trouble …” Caitlin told him. “Does that ring a bell?” When he still looked blank she added, “You and Von gave us a ride …” He was waiting on someone else now, a young couple with a little boy. But he stopped and gave them the once-over again. “Double Trouble … yeah, maybe … but you look different …” Of course they looked different! They were wearing matching sundresses with strapless bras underneath, sandals that tied around their ankles, strawberry-flavored lip gloss, and dangling skunk earrings—the official scent of Martha’s Vineyard, as the bumper stickers claimed—all purchased with Lamb’s credit card, which Caitlin had borrowed to take Vix on a shopping spree for her birthday. And they smelled different, too, of Charlie, which they’d splashed all over themselves. Caitlin tilted her head and threw him a smile. “See you around,” she called. “Not if I see you first,” he answered. The father with the little kid was drumming his fingers on the counter. “Could we get going here?” “Sure,” Bru told him. “What color balls?” They exploded again, laughing even harder than the first time. While they were waiting to tee off Caitlin said, “Someday they’re going to fall in love with me.” “Who?” Vix asked. “Bru and Von.” “Why both?” Vix said. “Why not just one?” “Because it’s more interesting if it’s both,” Caitlin answered. But that didn’t strike Vix as fair so she pushed Caitlin to choose. “Let’s say you could only have one.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “She was a very cheerful young woman, smiling, good-natured. She had dyed her hair blond. But her eyelashes were of deep black and bushy like a man’s. She had a soft little bit of hair on her upper lip. She must have been a dark, hairy southern girl before she dyed her hair. Her one good leg was sturdy, firm, her body quite beautiful. But I could not bring myself to ask her. As I looked at her I remembered a painting by Courbet I had seen. It was a painting commissioned by a rich man long ago, who had asked him to paint a woman in the act of sex. Courbet, who was a great realist, painted a woman’s sex and nothing else. He left out the head, the arms, the legs. He painted a torso, with a carefully designed sex, in contortions of pleasure, clutching at a penis that came out of a bush of very black hair. That was all. I felt that with this whore it would be the same, one would only think of the sex, try not to look down at the legs or at anything else. And perhaps that would be exciting. As I stood in the corner deliberating with myself, another whore came up to me, a very young one. A young whore is rare in Paris. She spoke to the one with the wooden leg. It was beginning to rain. The young one was saying, ‘I’ve been walking in the rain for two hours now. My shoes are ruined. And not a single client.’ I suddenly felt sorry for her. I said, ‘Will you have a coffee with me?’ She accepted joyously. She said, ‘What are you, a painter?’ “‘I’m not a painter,’ I said, ‘but I was thinking about a painting I saw.’ “‘There are wonderful paintings in the Café Wepler,’ she said. ‘And look at this one.’ She took out of her pocketbook what looked like a delicate handkerchief. She held it opened. There was painted on it a big woman’s ass, placed so as to reveal the sex fully, and an equally large penis. She tugged at the handkerchief, which was elastic, and it looked as if the ass were moving, the penis too. Then she turned it over, and now the penis was still heaving but it looked as if it had gone inside of the sex. She gave it a certain movement which made the whole picture active. I laughed, but the sight aroused me, so that we never got to the Café Wepler and the girl offered to let me go to her room. It was in a very shabby house of Montmartre, where all the circus and vaudeville people stayed. We had to climb five flights.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Hablando de trajes... —dice, deslizando una mano dentro de mi chaqueta y acariciando mi pecho—. Podría acostumbrarme a esta apariencia en ti. —No —le advierto—. Es solo para ocasiones especiales. —¿Y soy una ocasión especial? —Creo que sabes que lo eres —bromeo—. No amplío mi zona de confort por cualquiera. Le lanzo una sonrisa burlona, ni un poco molesto porque haya vuelto al revés todo mi aburrido y cuidadosamente construido mundo. Estoy haciendo cosas que normalmente no haría solo para complacerla, pero también me hace sentir cosas que no había sentido en mucho tiempo. Algunas de ellas, nunca. De hecho, hoy me encontré considerando una lista mental de todas las cosas que quiero hacer con ella. Llevarla a juegos de béisbol, viajes por carretera, y hoy investigué en el jodido eBay cintas de casete de los 80 con las que pensé que podría sorprenderla, como si fuera a estar cerca en las festividades importantes y su próximo cumpleaños, por todos los cielos. Hace que me emocione por todo lo que vendrá. Sea lo que sea. Me vuelvo hacia ella, tratando de mantener un ojo en el camino y besarla al mismo tiempo, pero acabo riendo. —Cinturón de seguridad. Me vas a meter en problemas. Retrocede y se aparta un poco, poniéndose el cinturón de seguridad. —Oh —le digo, mirándola—, y sé que Mick quiere contratarte. No vas a trabajar allí. ¿Entendido? Descansa su cabeza en el asiento, mirando por el parabrisas. —Oh, ¿estás poniendo las reglas ahora? —No me gusta preocuparme. Esto se soluciona ahora. Realmente no creo que hable en serio, pero me gustan las cosas talladas en piedra. Solo se encoge de hombros. —Mi hermana gana mucho dinero. No está lastimando a nadie, y no voy a dejar que nadie me mantenga. —Hace una pausa y luego continúa—. Creo que haré lo que tenga que hacer. Realmente no necesito tu permiso, ¿sabes? Frunzo el ceño, la irritación de esta situación arrastrándose por mi espalda.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Marcel was in ecstasy, holding me as if he would break me, bending over me, his knees between mine, his penis erect. In five minutes people only had time to get a little friction. When the lights went on everybody looked disturbed, A few faces looked apoplectic, others pale. Marcel’s hair was tousled. One woman’s linen shorts were wrinkled. One man’s linen trousers were wrinkled. The atmosphere was sultry, animal, electric. At the same time there was a surface of refinement to be maintained, a form, an elegance. Some people, who were shocked, were leaving. Some waited as if for a storm. Others waited with a light in their eyes. “Do you think one of them will scream, turn into a beast, lose his control?” I asked. “I may,” said Marcel. The second dance began. The lights went out. The voice of the band leader said, “This is the quart d’heure de passion. Messieurs, mesdames, you now have ten minutes of it, and then you will have fifteen.” There were stifled little screams in the audience, women protesting. Marcel and I were clutched like two tango dancers, and at each moment of the dance I thought I would unleash the orgasm. Then the lights went on, and the disorder and feeling in the place was even greater. “This will turn into an orgy,” said Marcel. People sat down with eyes dazed, as if by the lights. Eyes dazed with the turmoil of the blood, the nerves. One could no longer tell the difference between the whores, the society women, the bohemians, the town girls. The town girls were beautiful, with the sultry beauty of the south. Every woman was sunburnt and Tahitian, covered with shells and flowers. In the pressure of the dance some of the shells had broken and lay on the dance floor. Marcel said, “I don’t think I can go through the next dance. I will rape you.” His hand was slipping into my shorts and feeling me. His eyes were burning. Bodies. Legs, so many legs, all brown and glossy, some hairy as foxes’. One man had such a hairy chest that he wore a net shirt to show it off. He looked like an ape. His arms were long and encircled his dance partner as if he would devour her. The last dance. The lights went out. One woman let out a little bird cry. Another began to defend herself.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  The Basque was sliding back and forth. The bed rocked as they rolled, clutching and folding, all curves filled, the machine of Bijou’s voluptuous body yielding honey. Ripples extended from the roots of their hair to the tips of their toes. Their toes sought each other and intertwined. Their tongues projected like pistils. Bijou’s cries now mounted in endless spirals, ah, ah, ah, ah, widening, expanding, becoming more savage. The Basque answered every cry with only a deeper plunge. They were oblivious to the twisted bodies near them; he must now possess her to annihilation—Bijou, this whore, with a thousand tentacles on his body, lying first under him and then over him, and seeming to be everywhere inside of him, her fingers everywhere, her breasts in his mouth. She cried as if he had murdered her. She lay back. The Basque stood up, drunk, burning. His lance still erect, red, inflamed. The disordered clothes of the foreign woman lured him. He could not see her face, which was hidden under her raised skirts. The man was lying over Viviane, belaboring her. The woman was lying over both of them, her legs kicking in the air. The Basque pulled her down by the legs to take her. But she screamed and stood up. She said, “I only wanted to look.” She arranged her clothes. The man abandoned Viviane. Disheveled as they were, they bowed ceremoniously and hurriedly left. Bijou was sitting up, laughing, her tilted eyes long and narrow. The Basque said: “We gave them a good spectacle. Now you get dressed and follow me. I’m going to take you home. I’m going to paint you. I’ll pay Maman whatever she wants.” And he took her home to live with him.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  We were tired. We closed the window. We rested for a little while. We began to talk in the dark, dreaming and remembering. “A few hours ago, Marcel, I entered the subway at the rush hour, which I rarely do. I was pushed by the waves of people, jammed, and stood there. Suddenly I remembered a subway adventure Alraune told me about, when she was convinced that Hans had taken advantage of the crowdedness to caress a woman. At the very same moment, I felt a hand very lightly touch my dress, as if by accident. My coat was open, my dress thin, and this hand was brushing lightly through my dress just at the tip of my sex. I did not move away. The man in front of me was so tall that I could not see his face. I did not want to look up. I was not sure it was he, I did not want to know who it was. The hand caressed the dress, then very lightly it increased its pressure, feeling for the sex. I made a very slight movement to raise the sex toward the fingers. The fingers became firmer, following the shape of the lips deftly, lightly. I felt a wave of pleasure. As a lurch of the subway pushed us together I pressed against the whole hand, and he made a bolder gesture, gripping the lips of the sex. Now I was frenzied with pleasure, I felt the orgasm approaching, I rubbed against the hand, imperceptibly. The hand seemed to feel what I felt and continued its caress until I came. The orgasm shook my body. The subway stopped and a river of people pushed out. The man disappeared.” WAR IS DECLARED. Women are weeping in the streets. The very first night there was a black-out. We had seen rehearsals of this, but the real black-out was quite different. The rehearsals had been gay. Now Paris was serious. The streets were absolutely black. Here and there a tiny blue or green or red watch light, small and dim, like the little ikon lights in Russian churches. All the windows were covered with black cloth. The café windows were covered or painted in dark blue. It was a soft September night. Because of the darkness it seemed even softer. There was something very strange in the atmosphere—an expectancy, a suspense.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Father came back to the Parlour full-time, and I spent the day in the kitchen, gutting and filleting. We worked till almost seven: I had just enough time between the closing of the shop and the leaving of the Canterbury train to change my dress, to pull on a pair of elastic-sided boots and to sit down with Father and Mother, Alice, Davy and Rhoda for a hasty supper. They thought it more than strange, I knew, that I should be returning to the Palace yet again; Rhoda, in particular, seemed greatly tickled by the story of my ‘mash’. ‘Don’t you mind her going, Mrs Astley?’ she asked. ‘My mother would never let me go so far alone; and I am two years older. But then, Nancy is such a steady sort of girl, I suppose.’ I had been a steady girl; it was over Alice - saucy Alice - that my parents usually worried. But at Rhoda’s words I saw Mother look me over and grow thoughtful. I had on my Sunday dress, and my new hat trimmed with lavender; and I had a lavender bow at the end of my plait of hair, and a bow of the same ribbon sewn on each of my white linen gloves. My boots were black with a wonderful shine. I had put a spot of Alice’s perfume - eau de rose - behind each ear; and I had darkened my lashes with castor oil from the kitchen. Mother said, ‘Nancy, do you really think -?’ But as she spoke the clock on the mantel gave a ting! It was a quarter-past seven, I should miss my train. I said, ‘Good-bye! Good-bye!’ - and fled, before she could delay me. I missed my train anyway, and had to wait at the station till the later one came. When I reached the Palace the show had begun: I took my seat to find the acrobats already on the stage forming their loop, their spangles gleaming, their white suits dusty at the knees.

• From City of Night (1963)

  But Neil is already saying: “Now we’re ready. Now we can really begin The Initiation.” Like a well-trained acolyte, he bowed. His actions revolt and fascinate me. I am overwhelmed by the ritualistic attention, excited by the image of myself in the mirror. He knows it too. But I am sure hes misinterpreting that excitement, which is merely for myself in these clothes, narcissistically, not for what the clothes themselves must represent to him. He approached me slowly. Fascinatedly, he moved around me, arranging the mirrors so that both of us can see the reflections from different angles; careful, always, to be in the framed image. He led me to the elaborately carved chair before the mirror. He knelt. Without warning, he flung himself stomach down on the floor, and now all his actions will become astonishingly feverish. His head burrowed between the boots; his tongue glides hungrily over the glossy surface; his hands caress the leather, reach now for the belt. He looped his fingers urgently behind it. Releasing the belt, his hands move treasuringly down the costume. His mouth gnaws into the opening at the top of one boot, then the other, his teeth cling to the straps inside. Frenziedly, he raised my foot with one hand, turned himself face up on the floor. And he held the boot poised over his face. From his throat emanate gasping groans; his eyes are deliriously wide, as if to magnify the scene beyond his ordinary vision. With one desperate hand, he pressed down on my leg from the knee, attempting to bring the boot against his craving mouth. Swiftly—angered—I moved away from him—leaving him a shattered heap of studs and leather straps sprawled grotesquely on the floor. “What’s the matter?” he whispered almost inaudibly. “Im not interested,” I said harshly. As I took off the clothes he had dressed me in, to leave, he eyed me curiously from where he still lay pitifully like a smashed doll on the floor. 2 But I came back. He indicated not the slightest embarrassment over what had occurred the first time. In fact, he seemed to have been expecting me. “Im glad you came over. I want to take some photographs of you,” he said. Today hes dressed in a vaguely Western costume. “Oh, dont worry—I’ll just dress you up for the pictures,” he promised. “Nothing else.” But he eyed me slyly. He knows now that I am, at least, intrigued by his masquerade. When he presents me to myself in the mirror (again: “You as you would like to be!”), Im an exaggerated cowboy, with spurs, chaps. Looking at myself, I feel slightly silly; but soon the seducing attention obliterates the feeling of absurdity: I feed hungrily on his glorified adulation, as Neil, speaking this time in a Western drawl, prepares to take the pictures. We move into the other room.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  keep the time difference straight, no matter how many times she reminded her. And hanging up, just to teach her a lesson as Maia had suggested more than once, seemed harsh. Maia was now a law student at Columbia. Do you know what happens to the sleep deprived? “I’m going into business,” Caitlin said. “A restaurant. I feel I’ve finally found my calling. And my partners are fantastic. James and Donny? I think I’ve mentioned them to you. They’re a couple. Anyway, it’s going to be down by the water. Lots of glass, clean, spare. We’ve hired a fabulous architect. And we’re bringing in one of the finest chefs in the city. But here’s the best ... we’re calling it Eurotrash. After me. Don’t you love it? We’re hoping to open in June. It sounds so far away, but really, it’s not. So start calling the airlines to get the best deal. I’m going to work the front. I’ll wear all black, only black, very chic ... very elegant. Of course if you’d made the move you’d be doing our PR. But that’s beside the point now. So what do you think?” She sounded so happy and excited Vix had to wish her well. “And guess what else? I’ve sworn off sex. James and Donny are helping me. They make me happier than any straight man ever could. I was an addict, you know? Like some guy following his pointer through life. But now I’m free.” Vix hadn’t exactly sworn off sex but it had been a long time since Bru. She dutifully went out on blind dates with sons of Abby’s friends, not that she could remember one from the other they were all so alike. And one night she’d gone to a downtown party with Jocelyn and had wound up in the bathroom with a scruffy, sexy filmmaker who’d kissed her breasts while she gave him a hand job. They hadn’t exchanged names or numbers and when she thought about it the next day she was glad. Too dangerous. A heartbreaker. Instead, she satisfied herself with fantasy lovers—sometimes reliving the moment in the truck with Bru and the peonies. And once, but only once, playing out the night of Caitlin’s flamenco dance and how it might have ended. Paisley was conducting a flirtation with an older man at ABC and Maia ... Maia worried every time she met a new guy about how it would end, how bad she’d feel when it did, how long it would take her to get over him, whether it was even worth the trouble in the first place. She

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Think what you’re saying. You come from families where everybody is an actor. You live all your lives in houses like this, where even the dam’ dog is a dancing one. Four months ago I was an oyster-girl in Whitstable!’ ‘Four months before Bessie Bellwood made her debut,’ Walter replied, ‘she was a rabbit-skinner in the New Cut!’ He put his hand upon my arm. ‘Nan,’ he said kindly, ‘I am not pressing you, but let us see if this thing will work, at least. Will you just go and take a suit of Kitty’s, and try it on properly? And Kitty, you go and get fitted up, too. And then we’ll see what the two of you look like, side by side.’ I turned to Kitty. She gave a shrug. ‘Why not?’ she said. It seems strange to think that, in all my weeks of handling so many lovely costumes, I had never thought to try one on myself; but I had not. The piece of sport with the jacket and the boater had been a novel one, born of the gaiety of that marvellous morning; until then Kitty’s suits had seemed too handsome, too special - above all, too peculiarly hers, too fundamental to her own particular magic and swank - for me to fool with. I had cared for them and kept them neat; but I had never so much as held one up in front of me, before the glass. Now I found myself half-naked in our chilly bedroom, with Kitty beside me with a costume in her hand, and our roles quite reversed. I had removed my dress and petticoats, and buttoned a shirt over my stays. Kitty had found a morning-suit of black and grey for me to wear, and had a similar costume ready for herself. She looked me over. ‘You must take your drawers off,’ she said quietly - the door was shut fast, but Walter was audibly pacing the little parlour beyond it - ‘or else they’ll bunch, beneath the trousers.’ I blushed, then slid the drawers down my thighs and kicked them off, so that I stood clad only in the shirt and a pair of stockings, gartered at the knee. I had once, as a girl, worn a suit of my brother’s to a masquerade at a party. That, however, had been many years before; it was quite different, now, to pull Kitty’s handsome trousers up my naked hips, and button them over that delicate place that Kitty herself had so recently set smarting.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Now I felt more awkward than ever. I looked at Kitty and she gave a nervous kind of laugh. Walter, however, had lost his frown, and his eyes looked blue and wide as a child’s. ‘Damn it, Ma,’ he said, ‘but you’re right!’ He put his hand to his brow, then stepped to the door: we heard his heavy, rapid tread upon the stairs, heard footsteps in the room above our heads - Sims’s and Percy’s room - and then the slam of a door, higher up. When he returned he held a strange assortment of objects: a pair of gentleman’s shoes, a sewing-basket, a couple of ribbons, and Kitty’s make-up box. These he dumped about me on the carpet. Then, with a hasty ‘Pardon me, Nancy’, he pulled the jacket from me, and the boots. The jacket he handed to Kitty, along with the sewing-basket: ‘Put a few tucks down the inside of that waist,’ he said, pointing to the seam. The boots he cast aside, and replaced with the pair of shoes - Sims’s shoes they were, and small, low-heeled and rather dainty; and Walter made them daintier still by tying ribbons in a bow at the laces. To advertise the bows a bit - and because, without my boots, I was now a little shorter - he caught hold of the bottom of my trouser-legs, and gave them cuffs. Next he seized my head and tilted it back, and worked upon my lips and lashes with carmine and spit-black from Kitty’s box: he did this gently as a girl. Then he plucked the cigarette from behind my ear and cast it on to the mantel. Finally he turned to Kitty and snapped his fingers. She, infected by his air of haste and purpose, had begun to sew as he had shown her. Now she raised the jacket to her cheek to bite the final length of cotton from it, and when that was done he took it from her and shrugged me into it and buttoned it over my breast. Then he stood back, and cocked his head. I gazed down at myself once again. My new shoes looked quaint and girlish, like a principal boy’s in a pantomime. The trousers were shorter, their line rather spoiled. The jacket flared a little, above and below the waist, quite as if I had hips and a bosom - but it felt tighter than before, and not a half as comfortable. My face, of course, I could not see: I had to turn and squint into a picture over the hearth, and saw it reflected there - all eyes and lips - over the red nose and whiskers of ‘Rackity Jack’. I looked at the others. Mrs Dendy and the Professor smiled, Kitty did not look at all nervous, now. Walter was flushed, and seemed awed by his own handiwork.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Linda was pursued by two men. The first of them did all he could to arouse her by kissing her mouth and breasts, while the other, with more success, caressed her legs under her long dress, until she revealed by a shudder that she was aroused. Then he wanted to carry her off into the darkness. The first man protested but was too drunk to compete. She was carried away from the group to where the trees made dark shadows and lowered onto the moss. From nearby there were cries of resistance, there were grunts, there was a woman shrieking, “Do it, do it, I can’t wait anymore, do it, do it to me!” The orgy was in full bloom. Women caressed one another. Two men would set about teasing a woman into a frenzy and then stop merely to enjoy the sight of her, with her dress half-undone, a shoulder strap fallen, a breast uncovered, while she tried to satisfy herself by pressing obscenely against the men, rubbing against them, begging, lifting her dress. Linda was astonished by the bestiality of her aggressor. She, who had known only the voluptuous caresses of her husband, found herself now in the grip of something infinitely more powerful, a desire so violent it seemed devouring. His hands gripped her like claws, he lifted her sex to meet his penis as if he did not care if he broke her bones in doing so. He used coups de belier, truly like a horn entering her, a goring that did not hurt but which made her want to retaliate with the same fury. After he had satisfied himself once with a wildness and violence that stunned her, he whispered, “Now I want you to satisfy yourself, fully, do you hear me? As you never did before.” He held his erect penis like a primitive wooden symbol, held it out for her to use as she wished. He incited her to unleash her most violent appetite on him. She was hardly aware of biting into his flesh. He panted in her ears, “Go on, go on, I know you women, you never really let yourself take a man as you want to.” From some depths of her body that she had never known, there came a savage fever that would not spend itself, that could not have enough of his mouth, his tongue, his penis inside of her, a fever that was not content with an orgasm. She felt his teeth buried in her shoulder, as her teeth bit into his neck, and then she fell backwards and lost consciousness.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Right after that, Buddy came in with a score. Miss Destiny says shes sorry but theyll have to use the head. The score is obviously disappointed. A few minutes later and we hear the score coughing spitting. Lola says acidly she despises amateurs and queers. Now they come out, and the score is not only disappointed but nervous, afraid of the scene. As he started toward the door, Trudi calls out, “Dont be nervous, dear—blame the beads!”—and Skipper is going to Talk to him—but Buddy said no he got all the bread himself—and: “Did you hear the square spitting, man? did you?—” indignantly “—Christ, and I only pretended to shoot!” Darling Dolly is doing an imitation strip, proud of her smooth girlskin and figure, and everytime she bumps (like the queen at the 1-2-3 earlier), she says, “Sssssssssssufferrrrrrrrr....” Trudi’s daddy is giggling almost hysterically now, opening drinks, passing pills, joints. Suddenly theres a racket outside the window, like someone throwing a bottle, and Miss Destiny says, “It’s that psycho bitch!” and pulls the shades from the nails and theres the sex-hungry nympho in the next building hanging out the window in her half slip and brassiere (and she isnt badlooking) saying whats going on we’re disturbing the peace. Her piece, giggles Trudi, smothering herself cozily in her stole. And Miss Destiny coos, “Come on over, dear, come on over,” to placate her, and the sexhungry woman almost jumps through the window—“I’ll be right over, hear?” “Hoddawg!” said Chuck, and this puts Miss Destiny on. In just a few minutes heres the nympho and says it’s so warm she’ll take off her blouse if you dont mind, and I mean she wasted no time. Appalled at such uncouth effrontery, Darling Dolly Dane, smoking elegantly, inhaled accidentally and almost choked. To top it all off for Miss Destiny, who was becoming Most Depressed, heres another queen at the door: Miss Bobbi, with a drunk who tries to sober up immediately, rejects the scene, turns to leave—but Skipper gets a chance to Talk to him. “Cool it, cholly,” is all Skipper said, and the man reached for his wallet nervously, hands the money to Skipper, and stumbles out hurriedly. Miss Bobbi says icily hand over the bread which rightly belongs to her. Skipper gave her a nofooling? look. Miss Bobbi says she brought the score here, after all! Skipper says who got it? Miss Bobbi says she was going to until Skipper came on so bigassedly. Skipper says the score would have clipped her , and you saw it, jack, the score gave the bread to him. Miss Bobbie swished out in a huff.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Bueno, eso está bien, supongo —murmura—. Claramente no sabes lo que tienes aquí y estos habrían terminado en el fondo de un basurero, por el amor de Dios. Tu padre era un tipo genial. Sonrío, estoy de acuerdo. Coloca cuidadosamente la cinta Guns en su estuche y saca la cinta Def Leppard. —¿Puedo? —pregunta, haciendo un gesto hacia la casetera. Me río entre dientes y cambio de velocidad cuando salimos a la carretera. —Adelante. Escuchamos dos canciones de camino a casa, entramos al pueblo y tomamos un atajo más allá del puente del ferrocarril sobre el río a nuestra derecha. —Vaya, mira eso —dice. Bajo la velocidad y sigo su mirada hacia la derecha, por la ventanilla del lado del pasajero, y veo que el río ha aumentado considerablemente. En lugar del metro ochenta normal de espacio libre entre el puente y el agua, ahora el agua corre como una amenaza justo debajo del fondo del puente. Afortunadamente, la lluvia se ha ralentizado, por lo que no debería subir más. Piso de nuevo el acelerador, llevándonos a casa. —Eso fue divertido —comenta—. Hoy, quiero decir. Arqueó las cejas y la miro. —Quiero decir... —Parpadea, corrigiéndose—. No me refiero a que fue divertido. Quiero decir, espero que no te retrases ni pierdas dinero, pero... —Inhala y exhala, moviendo sus ojos a la ventana—. Un par de veces casi sentí que mi vida estaba en peligro. También parece estar demasiado complacida con eso, y puedo decir por su tono que está sonriendo. —¿Y eso es divertido? —cuestiono. Vuelve a mirar por el parabrisas y se encoge de hombros, la diversión tira de la esquina de su boca. Me río. —Sí, fue divertido. Gracias por ayudar. Me aseguraré de avisarte cuando la próxima tormenta esté a punto de llegar, para que puedas entrar en acción. —Genial. Continúo conduciendo por la carretera hacia nuestra tranquila ciudad, girando a la izquierda y luego a la derecha hacia mi vecindario, contento por primera vez

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —No puedo creer que nunca hayas hecho esto —dice, mirándome como si necesitara redimir mi carnet de chica de pueblo pequeño—. En mis días, este era el lugar al que llevabas a una chica para mostrarle qué tan rudo eras en tu camioneta. Me tambaleo hacia la izquierda y luego hacia la derecha mientras la camioneta pasa por todas las pendientes enlodadas y los charcos. Me deja tener completo control del equipo de sonido y Glory Days de Bruce Springsteen suena en el casete que puse. Subo el volumen y me agarro al tablero. —Todavía lo es —le informo—. Aunque en mis días se está volviendo cada vez más difícil que los chicos con los que sales mantengan válidas sus licencias para conducir. Sonríe. —Te creo. Llueve y el lodo se levanta a nuestro alrededor y puedo ver manchas de ambas cosas golpeando las mangas de mi impermeable más cerca a la puerta y mi muslo desnudo. Pike insistió en que bajáramos las ventanas, sin importarle en absoluto que el interior pudiera ensuciarse. Dijo que eso mejoraría la experiencia. —¿Has traído a tus citas aquí? —pregunto. —De vez en cuando. Frunzo la esquina de mi boca en una sonrisa conocedora. —¿Y después las llevabas a Hammond Lock para luego besuquearse? Mueve su mirada rápidamente hacia mí, luciendo sorprendido. —¿Qué sabes tú sobre Hammond Lock? Me encojo de hombros. —Oh, escuché que es donde los viejos llevaban a sus citas hace algún tiempo, eso es todo. Simula un ceño fruncido y revoluciona el motor, bajándonos a toda velocidad por otra zanja. Mi estómago cae a mis pies y grito de nuevo, riéndome. —¡Detente! —suplico—. ¡Vas a hacernos volcar! El frente del guardafangos choca contra el fondo, lanzando una ola de barro y agua frente a nosotros. Mi cuerpo se lanza con violencia contra el cinturón de seguridad y grito emocionada, entrecerrando mis ojos. ¡Mierda! Pero no puedo dejar de reírme. Tiene razón. ¿Cómo es que nunca he hecho esto? Me lo he estado perdiendo. La fría lluvia cae suavemente a través de la ventana, rociando mi pierna y abro mis ojos de nuevo y limpio mi mejilla, viendo manchas de barro en mi mano. Girándome hacia él, veo sus ojos encontrándose con los míos, los cuerpos de ambos se sacuden con carcajadas silenciosas. —¡Está bien, es mi turno! —suelto emocionadamente. Desabrochando mi cinturón de seguridad, jalo la manija de la puerta, moviéndome para salir. —No, solo deslízate —me dice—. Saldré y daré la vuelta. Me detengo y giro, viéndolo abrir su puerta y en vez de bajarse, se levanta y da la vuelta por la caja de la camioneta detrás de nosotros. Me deslizo rápidamente hacia el otro lado del asiento y frente al volante. La ventaja de que su camioneta sea tan vieja es que tiene un solo asiento completo al frente. Y no necesito pasar por encima de una consola.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  The Basque suddenly opened the door. He bowed and said, “You wanted a man and here I am.” He threw off his clothes. Viviane looked at him gratefully. The Basque realized she was in heat. Two virilities would satisfy her more than that teasing, elusive one. He threw himself between the women. Everywhere the man and woman looked something was happening that enthralled them. A hand was opening someone’s buttocks and slipping in an inquisitive finger. A mouth was closing upon a leaping, charging penis. Another mouth was enclosing a nipple. Faces were covered by breasts or buried in pubic hair. Legs were closing over a burrowing hand. A glistening wet penis would appear and plunge again into flesh. The ivory skin and the gypsy skin were tangled with the man’s muscular body. Then a strange thing happened. Bijou lay full length under the Basque. Viviane was abandoned for a moment. The Basque was crouching over this woman who bloomed under him like some hothouse flower, odorous, moist, with erotic eyes and wet lips, a full-blown woman, ripe and voluptuous; yet her rubber penis stood erect between them, and the Basque was overtaken with an odd feeling. The penis touched his own and defended the opening of the woman like a lance. He commanded almost angrily: “Take it off.” She slid her hands under her back, unfastened the belt and pulled the rubber penis off. Then he threw himself on her, and she, still holding the penis, held it over the buttocks of the man who was now buried inside of her. When he raised himself to thump into her again, she pushed the rubber penis inside of his buttocks. He leaped like a wild animal and attacked her only more furiously. Each time he raised himself, he found himself attacked from behind. He felt the breasts of the woman crushed beneath him, rolling under his chest, her ivory-skinned belly heaving under his, her hips against his, her moist vagina engulfing him; and each time she plunged the penis into him, he felt not only his turmoil but hers as well. He thought the doubled sensation would drive him mad. Viviane lay there watching them, panting. The foreign man and woman, still clothed, had fallen over her and were rubbing against her frantically, too confused in wild sensations to seek an opening.

• From City of Night (1963)

  He interprets my silence as acquiescence. With sureness, he removes clothes from the closet, becoming progressively more excited as he touches them adoringly, worshipingly, reverently. His trembling hands reject an elaborately studded jacket, which he held treasuringly for a long moment—choosing more “conventional” clothes; admonishing himself: “Not the first time, not the first time”—but vaunting each idolized piece of clothes he nevertheless rejects. He has forgotten the restrained movements that the clothes hes wearing demand. His shirt is bulging out over his stomach. He has loosened the belt, the vest. Straps dangle. The shirt protrudes in a satanic tail behind him. Hes becoming sadly disheveled. The whole costume sags. Prespiration runs down his flushed face. Hes huffing. Ritualistically, like a servant who adores his job, whose purpose in life is subservience, he begins to remove my clothes (not as another person might, for the sake of the nakedness emphasizing the sexuality of the act: no, not at all like that: with him, it seems to be the actual act of obeisance that is exciting him). He had led me carefully away from the mirrors. When Im stripped, he doesnt touch my body, hardly even glances at me. First a pair of skintight black denim pants; a tapered shirt, russet-colored, which he leaves open halfway down my stomach. I wonder what this costume will ultimately be. It seems he is improvising for over-all effect: to create a fantasy which, like the furniture, will merely suggest something rather than be anything specific.... A pair of black boots which come to the knees; when he slips the boots onto my feet, his head bends brushing the slick leather with his cheek.... Black leather gloves. A hat which arches slightly on the sides. He added a thick large-buckled belt about my waist. Rushing to the leather box in the closet, he removed a long coiled whip, which he planted firmly in my hand. And he announced apocalyptically: “A plantation overseer!” Automatically I turn to face the panel of mirrors; but Neil blocks my view quickly. “Not yet!” After a few moments, he steps aside dramatically. “I present you to you—to You as You have always wanted to be,” he said solemnly. Clearly, this is me as he wants to see me. But I feel excited by the reflection of myself. Possibly noticing this, Neil stands before me again, once more blacking my reflection, as though my own fascination threatens to shut him out of the fantasy. “It’s just a hint,” he said in that awed tone. “Nothing extraordinary. Another time, I’ll Really Show You!” I notice his voice is changing strangely. What is he trying to convey by those vaguely recognizable accents? With a jolt of awareness which almost took my breath I realize that he is now speaking in the slightly slurred Southern sounds of a field hand! My first impulse was to laugh; my next, to remove the clothes and leave this fantastic man.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Simula un ceño fruncido y revoluciona el motor, bajándonos a toda velocidad por otra zanja. Mi estómago cae a mis pies y grito de nuevo, riéndome. —¡Detente! —suplico—. ¡Vas a hacernos volcar! El frente del guardafangos choca contra el fondo, lanzando una ola de barro y agua frente a nosotros. Mi cuerpo se lanza con violencia contra el cinturón de seguridad y grito emocionada, entrecerrando mis ojos. ¡Mierda! Pero no puedo dejar de reírme. Tiene razón. ¿Cómo es que nunca he hecho esto? Me lo he estado perdiendo. La fría lluvia cae suavemente a través de la ventana, rociando mi pierna y abro mis ojos de nuevo y limpio mi mejilla, viendo manchas de barro en mi mano. Girándome hacia él, veo sus ojos encontrándose con los míos, los cuerpos de ambos se sacuden con carcajadas silenciosas. —¡Está bien, es mi turno! —suelto emocionadamente. Desabrochando mi cinturón de seguridad, jalo la manija de la puerta, moviéndome para salir. —No, solo deslízate —me dice—. Saldré y daré la vuelta. Me detengo y giro, viéndolo abrir su puerta y en vez de bajarse, se levanta y da la vuelta por la caja de la camioneta detrás de nosotros. Me deslizo rápidamente hacia el otro lado del asiento y frente al volante. La ventaja de que su camioneta sea tan vieja es que tiene un solo asiento completo al frente. Y no necesito pasar por encima de una consola. Abrocho mi cinturón de seguridad y doy un vistazo por el parabrisas, una ola de calor cubriendo mi estómago mientras sonrío. —¡Cuidado con el lodo! —le grito por la ventana. No tengo idea cuán profundo es en el exterior del lado de la puerta del pasajero. Pero espero mientras la camioneta se sacude por sus movimientos en la parte trasera y entonces la puerta del lado del pasajero se abre, su mano aparece en la manija y salta al interior, sin tocar ni una sola vez el suelo. Deslizándose en el asiento junto al mío, cierra la puerta de un golpe y pasa su mano por su ahora húmedo cabello. Mis ojos caen a su camiseta moldeada contra su pecho, definiendo su clavícula y los músculos de sus pectorales y sus hombros anchos. Se gira hacia mí. —¿Qué? Parpadeo y aclaro mi garganta, recuperándome. —Nada. Solo que todavía eres bastante ágil para tu edad, ¿eh? Sus ojos resplandecen. Pasa su mano por la parte externa de la puerta de la camioneta, la mete de regreso y la sacude hacia mí, lodo deslizándose por mi rostro. Jadeo, cerrando mis ojos por reflejo y retorciéndome para alejarme. —¡Detente! —Río, extendiendo mis manos hacia el frente mientras más lodo viene volando—. ¡Sólo estaba bromeando! —¿Desde cuándo treinta y ocho años te convierte en un maldito ciudadano anciano? —gruñe, pero puedo escuchar la diversión en su voz. Más lodo vuela hacia mí y me encojo con mi espalda girada hacia él, intentando protegerme. —¡Lo siento! ¡No fue lo que quise decir! Pero no puedo dejar de reírme.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Todavía no te has ensuciado —se burla—. Ponte el cinturón. **** Media hora después, estoy gritando y agarrando la manija encima de la puerta mientras él baja por el enlodado canal. Gira con brusquedad el volante, así que saltamos por el costado y entramos de regreso a terreno alto, y río, rebotando en mi asiento. Oh, Dios mío, esto es divertido. Siento como si fuera a morir. Mis ojos lagrimean y estoy riéndome a carcajadas. —No puedo creer que nunca hayas hecho esto —dice, mirándome como si necesitara redimir mi carnet de chica de pueblo pequeño—. En mis días, este era el lugar al que llevabas a una chica para mostrarle qué tan rudo eras en tu camioneta. Me tambaleo hacia la izquierda y luego hacia la derecha mientras la camioneta pasa por todas las pendientes enlodadas y los charcos. Me deja tener completo control del equipo de sonido y Glory Days de Bruce Springsteen suena en el casete que puse. Subo el volumen y me agarro al tablero. —Todavía lo es —le informo—. Aunque en mis días se está volviendo cada vez más difícil que los chicos con los que sales mantengan válidas sus licencias para conducir. Sonríe. —Te creo. Llueve y el lodo se levanta a nuestro alrededor y puedo ver manchas de ambas cosas golpeando las mangas de mi impermeable más cerca a la puerta y mi muslo desnudo. Pike insistió en que bajáramos las ventanas, sin importarle en absoluto que el interior pudiera ensuciarse. Dijo que eso mejoraría la experiencia. —¿Has traído a tus citas aquí? —pregunto. —De vez en cuando. Frunzo la esquina de mi boca en una sonrisa conocedora. —¿Y después las llevabas a Hammond Lock para luego besuquearse? Mueve su mirada rápidamente hacia mí, luciendo sorprendido. —¿Qué sabes tú sobre Hammond Lock? Me encojo de hombros. —Oh, escuché que es donde los viejos llevaban a sus citas hace algún tiempo, eso es todo.