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 The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  He was an acquisitive man of many artistic passions, and others eventually took my place. My reflection became blurred; too many fingerprints upon the once-clear looking glass. Smeared, reduced to a smudge in his mind, I found myself dancing numbly in the black hole one more time. God had turned off the spotlight. Where am I? I cannot see. I cannot feel. I must not be. SEX HISTORY I had my first orgasm, alone, at age sixteen, after going to a French porn movie called Exhibition at an Upper East Side art house in New York City with an equally curious girlfriend. Despite the legitimate location, this was my first moviegoing experience where my feet stuck to the floor in front of my seat; this was rather disturbing to my virgin soul. While watching the woman in this movie masturbate, however, I realized that I had simply not persisted long enough with my own explorations to get to the big bang. I went straight home after the movie and imitated my new mentor, with instant results. Thus began my long and secret career as an aspiring porn star. I continued practicing for my debut, but saw no reason to employ a man for the job. A year later, a geeky young boy put his tongue down my throat at a party while pressing something very hard up against my belly. This confirmed my suspicions. Men were gross. Sometime later, a handsome womanizer who knew I was a virgin persisted in pursuing me, and managed to change all these negative feelings. He was famous, strong, charismatic, and sexy as hell. Don Juan. After much resistance, which amused him, I allowed him in. Excitement, pressure, a pool of blood, and awakening. I had never seen an erect penis before. Totally shocking. But once he started in on me, I got over it. He dominated me—physically, completely—and it was the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to me. I don’t believe, however, that I ever had an orgasm with him: I was too excited. And totally in love with him. He suggested a world beyond my own. I fell in love for two years although the affair lasted less than three months. Looking back, I now realize that his first sexual comment to me was, “You have a great ass.” Must have been my fate, even then. But I didn’t know it for many years. I look good, from the back. After I lost my virginity, my pussy became a place of great interest to me. I had not realized until then that that hidden hole below my waist was the entrance to my heart.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “The honey was pouring from her. As he pushed, his penis made little sucking sounds. All the air was drawn from the womb, the way his penis filled it, and he swung in and out of the honey endlessly, touching the tip of the womb, but as soon as her breathing hastened, he would draw it out, all glistening, and take up another form of caress. He lay back on the bed, legs apart, his penis raised, and he made her sit upon it, swallow it up to the hilt, so that her pubic hair rubbed against his. As he held her, he made her dance circles around his penis. She would fall on him and rub her breasts against his chest, and seek his mouth, then straighten up again and resume her motions around the penis. Sometimes she raised herself a little so that she kept only the head of the penis in her sex, and she moved lightly, very lightly, just enough to keep it inside, touching the edges of her sex, which were red and swollen, and clasped the penis like a mouth. Then suddenly moving downwards, engulfing the whole penis, and gasping with the joy, she would fall over his body and seek his mouth again. His hands remained on her ass all the time, gripping her to force her movements so that she could not suddenly accelerate them and come. “He took her off the bed, laid her on the floor, on her hands and knees, and said, ‘Move.’ She began to crawl about the room, her long blond hair half-covering her, her belt weighing her waist down. Then he knelt behind her and inserted his penis, his whole body over hers, also moving on its iron knees and long arms. After he had enjoyed her from behind, he slipped his head under her so that he could suckle at her luxuriant breasts, as if she were an animal, holding her in place with his hands and mouth. They were both panting and twisting, and only then did he lift her up, carry her to the bed, and put her legs around his shoulders. He took her violently and they shook and trembled as they came together. She fell away suddenly and sobbed hysterically. The orgasm had been so strong that she had thought she would go insane, with a hatred and a joy like nothing she had ever known. He was smiling, panting; they lay back and fell asleep.” THE NEXT DAY Millard told me about the artist Mafouka, the man-woman of Montparnasse.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Three cherries, clanging bells, and twenty … thirty … fifty dollars’ worth of quarters came spilling out. He caught them in a cup as she stood with her hands over her mouth, fighting the urge to jump up and down and shriek. “Some days you just can’t lose,” he said. He was slight, just her height, charming, with bedroom eyes. “Have dinner with me,” he said. When she didn’t answer right away he pulled out his wallet, fished out his driver’s license with its photo ID, held it up for her to see. “Luke Garden,” he told her. “New York City. Thirty-one, single, respectable, straight, Cornell ’80, sports management. I just won big!” So she had dinner. She told him her name was D’Nisha Cross. She told him she worked at ABC, in development. Two things borrowed, nothing blue. “Stay,” he said after dinner. “I’ve got a suite. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. You get to sleep wherever you want. Really. Here …” He pushed a key at her. “Check it out.” So she checked it out. While he filled the Jacuzzi tub, turned on the music, and turned down the lights, she wrapped the piano shawl around her naked body like a strapless gown. When the scene was set he slowly unraveled it, letting it fall to the floor. The next morning he was gone. She found him in the casino, playing blackjack. She took the next bus back to New York and never said a word to anyone. If she were Paisley, she’d write his name on her list. But she didn’t need to write down names. For her there was still only one that counted. Only one she’d loved. A postcard from Caitlin, dated April 4, 1989, Seattle. Ran into some bad luck. Donny sick. Plans for restaurant postponed. Will call when I can . AbbySHE TELLS LAMB they should get on the first plane to Seattle and see what’s going on for themselves. But Lamb says they have to allow Caitlin, and all the grown children, to work out their own lives. To solve their own problems. How else are they going to learn to make their way in the world? This friend of hers, Donny, who’s in hospice care, has the disease. Not that Caitlin’s said anything, but she can read between the lines. She admires Caitlin for wanting to be there for her friend but she can’t help worrying. She’s been reading everything she can find on the subject and it’s horrifying, even if it’s not contagious in the usual way. And really, how can they be sure Caitlin hasn’t been intimate with someone … Another postcard arrives asking them to respect her time with Donny. Please don’t leave messages on her machine. She can’t return their calls right now. And tell Vix, will you, that she’s not out of touch, she’s just … preoccupied.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  This Approach Is Different The approach I offer weaves together several new strands of science while keeping an eye toward the spiritual and the practical. With roots extending back millennia to your hunter-gatherer ancestors, this approach also casts forward to your future. It envisions your untapped potential for loving and growth, and your ability to create contexts that nurture love and growth in others, and in the generations to come who will inherit whatever world you help to shape. The bedrock for my approach to love is the science of emotions. For more than two decades, I’ve investigated that subset of emotions that feel good to you, those pleasing states—of joy, amusement, gratitude, hope, and the like—that simultaneously infuse your mind and body. Odds are you shift into and out of states like these dozens of times each day, sometimes when you’re alone, sometimes when you’re with others. What I’ve found is that even though you experience positive emotions as exquisitely subtle and brief, such moments can ignite powerful forces of growth in your life. They do this first by opening you up: Your outlook quite literally expands as you come under the influence of any of several positive emotions. Put simply, you see more as your vision widens; you see the bigger picture. With this momentarily broadened, more encompassing mind-set, you become more flexible, attuned to others, creative, and wise. Over time, you also become more resourceful. This is because, little by little, these mind-expanding moments of positive emotions add up to reshape your life for the better, making you more knowledgeable, more resilient, more socially integrated, and healthier. In fact, science documents that positive emotions can set off upward spirals in your life, self-sustaining trajectories of growth that lift you up to become a better version of yourself. These two core facts about positive emotions—that they open you up and transform you for the better—form the two anchor points for my broaden-and-build theory of positive emotions, which I wrote about in my first book, Positivity , to show how you can put positive emotions to work as you navigate your days to overcome negativity and thrive. The word positivity is purposefully broad. I chose it to cover the full range of positive emotions and then some. It also spans the psychological conditions that seed your positive emotions as well as their myriad effects—the slowing rhythm of your heart, the opening of your mind, and the relaxed, inviting look on your face. It even encompasses the fruits of positive emotions that ripen for you only a season later—their mounting effects on your relationships, your character, your health and spiritual growth. Here, you could protest and say that I’ve roped too much into this one term. Yet I see real value in using an encompassing word like positivity.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  Quiet came along at just the right moment. I remember reading it and recognizing myself on every page. I was thunderstruck by Susan Cain’s argument that introverts are powerful and valuable. But there was more: the real-life characters, the anecdotes, the mix of research and story—it was captivating. And her work ethic! There were nearly fifty pages of references at the end. At one point in the book, Susan mused that she would have enjoyed being a psychologist. When I read that, I thought, Wait, I am a psychologist. Maybe, just maybe, I could write a book, too. I started throwing a lot of proverbial spaghetti against the wall. Between writing grants and seeing clients at work, I researched how to pitch story ideas to magazines. One hundred percent of my pitches to those same magazines were met with “not a good fit at this time” or worse, silence. I showed up at exactly one meeting of a local writer’s group and got cornered by a talkative aspiring mystery writer. I pitched a not-ready-for-prime-time book idea at a local literary festival. In short, I was flailing. But it was thrilling. I was having zero success, but my husband remarked one day, “You know, you never fret about your career anymore.” Given that Susan had in many ways gotten the ball rolling, I decided to write her a good old-fashioned fan letter. I thanked her, told her how much Quiet meant to me, and asked what advice she would give an aspiring writer. A few days later, she called me. And I missed her call. She left a lovely, encouraging message. I levitated as I kicked myself—a unique mix of emotions. Susan’s generosity and kindheartedness solidified her as my writing role model. More throwing and many walls later, the spaghetti stuck. A podcast network editor took a chance on me and Savvy Psychologist was born. Once hands were shaken and dotted lines were signed, I sat surrounded by sound-absorbing pillows in my bedroom with my shiny new microphone and wondered what I had gotten into. I comforted myself with the reassurance that no one except my mother would likely listen. I mined the research for helpful nuggets, wrote on a weekly deadline, and found my voice, all while pretending each week’s episode floated into space and dissipated like the rubble of silently colliding meteors. Turns out that’s not actually what happens. Instead, some people listened. They found it helpful and kept listening. More people joined them. Some wrote to me and suggested pitch-perfect episode topics. A smart, engaged, savvy community grew and solidified. And after a few years, my book dream poked its head up again like an unfurling spring fern. It was time.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “You were never there,” continued the man, “you never go to cafés. The most haunting woman is the one we cannot find in the crowded café when we are looking for her, the one that we must hunt for, and seek out through the disguises of her stories.” His eyes, smiling, remained on her all the time that he talked. They were fixed on her with the exact knowledge of her evasions and elusiveness, and acted like a catalyst on her, rooting her to the spot where she stood, with the wind lifting her skirt like a ballerina’s, inflating her hair as if she would blow away in full sail. He was aware of her capacities for becoming invisible. But his strength was greater, and he could keep her rooted there as long as he wanted. Only when he turned his head away was she free again. But she was not free to escape him. After three hours of walking, they fell on a bed of pine needles within sight of a chalet. A pianola was playing. He smiled at her and said, “It would be a wonderful place to spend the day and night. Would you like it?” He let her smoke quietly, lying back on the pine needles. She did not answer. She smiled. Then they walked to the chalet and he asked for a meal and a room. The meal was to be brought up to the room. He gave his orders smoothly, leaving no doubt about his wishes. His decisiveness in small acts gave her the feeling that he would equally wave aside all obstacles to his greater desires. She was not tempted to retrace her steps, to elude him. A feeling of exaltation was rising in her, of reaching that pinnacle of emotion which would fling her out of herself for good, which would abandon her to a stranger. She did not even know his name, nor he hers. The nakedness of his eyes on her was like a penetration. On the way upstairs, she was trembling. When they found themselves alone in the room with its immense, heavily carved bed, she first moved towards the balcony, and he followed her. She felt that the gesture he would make would be a possessive one, one that could not be eluded. She waited. What happened, she had not expected. It was not she who hesitated, but this man whose authority had brought her here. He stood before her suddenly slack, awkward, his eyes uneasy. He said with a disarming smile, “You must know, of course, that you are the first real woman I have ever known—a woman I could love. I have forced you here. I want to be sure that you want to be here. I . . .”

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  As far as she’s concerned you can take those years and flush them down the toilet. Revolution , indeed! Make love not war! Where did that get them? And now her house! He’s let this new woman have her way with it. This Jew! It was all more than she could bear. Really. DorsetSHE PRAYS FOR Grandmother’s death. Get it over with while they’re all together so Lamb can take care of the details. She doesn’t wish her pain or suffering. Just closure. So she can take control of her own life. Why does she have to die for you to grow up and take control of your own life? her shrink wants to know. You tell me, Dr. Freud . So far he hasn’t. [image file=Image00006.jpg] WHEN DORSET ASKED for a volunteer to help her run errands, Vix jumped. Last stop on the list was John’s Fish Market, to pick up the poached salmon Abby had ordered for lunch. The second they walked into the fish market Vix stopped dead, because who should be working behind the counter wearing a long white apron but the National Treasure himself. Wouldn’t Caitlin be sorry she hadn’t come! “Well, well …” he said when he finally noticed her. “Look what the cat dragged in.” Vix was flattered he remembered her, although her loyalties lay with Bru. Still, the heat from his smile drifted across the counter and made her fidget. She ran her hand over the lemons sitting in a basket while Dorset asked if Abby’s order was ready. Von disappeared into the back and came out carrying the salmon arranged on a platter, decorated with flowers. He presented it with a flourish, singing, “Ta-da … ” “Flowers …” Dorset said. “How pretty.” “Yeah … and they’re edible,” he said, eyeing Dorset up and down even though she had to be old enough to be his mother. “I never knew you could eat … you know … flowers until I started working here.” Dorset cleared her throat and took her time signing the charge slip. Then she said, “Could you get the door please, Victoria?” “What?” Vix asked, because by then she was locked into a staring contest with Von. “The door,” Dorset repeated. “Oh, sure …” “Wait …” Von called. “I’ve got something for your friend.” He disappeared into the back again. Vix could see Dorset wondering what all of this was about. Von returned and handed her a small brown bag. “Give her this, with my regrets … I mean, regards.” Just when she thought it couldn’t get any better she stepped outside and there, sitting in a parked truck with his feet propped up on the dashboard, was Bru. Oh God, oh God, oh God … she couldn’t believe her luck! “Hey …” he said when he saw her. He was doing something to his finger with a pocketknife, maybe digging out a splinter. “Hey,” she answered. “What’ve you got?” “Got?” “In the bag … I’m starving.” “Oh.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Now Leila, who did not desire men, became caught up by the moods of the two women and tried to embrace Bijou, but Bijou would not have it. She was fascinated with the two penises. Leila tried to kiss Elena also. Then she rubbed her nipples against both women, trying to entice them. She pressed herself against Bijou to profit from her excitement, but Bijou continued to concentrate on the male organs dangled before her. Her mouth was open, and she, too, was dreaming of being taken by a double-sexed monster who could satisfy her two centers of response at once. When the African dropped, exhausted from the dance, Elena and Bijou leaped on him simultaneously. Bijou quickly inserted one penis in her vagina and one in her rectum and then she twisted over his belly wildly and continuously until she fell satisfied, with a long cry of pleasure. Elena pushed her away, and assumed the same position. But seeing the African was tired, she did not move, waiting for him to recuperate his strength. His penis remained erect inside her, and while she waited she began to contract herself, very slowly and gently, fearing to have the orgasm too quickly and bring her pleasure to an end. After a moment he gripped her buttocks and raised her so that she could follow the rapid pulse of his blood. He bent and molded and pushed and pulled her to suit his rhythm until he cried out, and then she moved in a circle around the swollen penis until he came. Next he made Leila crouch over his face as he had done earlier with Bijou and hid his face between her legs. Although Leila had never desired a man, she became aware of a sensation never experienced before as the African’s tongue caressed her. She wanted to be taken from behind. She moved from her position and asked him to introduce the fake penis. She was on her hands and knees now, and he did as she asked. Elena and Bijou watched her with amazement, exposing her buttocks with evident excitement, and the African scratched and bit as he moved the fake penis inside of her. Pain and pleasure mixed in her, for the penis was large, but she remained on her hands and knees, with the African soldered to her, and she moved convulsively until she found her pleasure. Bijou went often to see the African. One day they lay together on his couch and he buried his face under her arms; he inhaled her odor, then instead of kissing her, he began to smell her all over like an animal—first under her arms, then in her hair, then between her legs. As he did this he became excited, but he would not take her.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Meanwhile, the day of the rally drew nearer, our hours grew ever fuller and our tasks more rushed; and I - despite my grumbles - could not help but grow a little eager to see the thing take place at last, and was as excited and as fretful, almost, as Florence herself. ‘If only it does not rain!’ she said, gazing bleakly at the sky from our bedroom window, the night before the appointed Sunday. ‘If it rains, we shall have to have the pageant in a tent; and nobody has rehearsed that. Or suppose it thunders? Then no one will hear the speakers.’ ‘It won’t rain,’ I said. ‘Stop fussing.’ But she continued to frown at the sky; and at length I joined her at the window, and gazed at the clouds myself. ‘If only it doesn’t rain,’ she said again; and to distract her I breathed upon the glass and wrote our initials in the mist, with a fingernail: N.A., F.B., 1895 & Always. I put a heart around them and, piercing the heart, an arrow. It did not rain that Sunday; indeed, the skies above Bethnal Green were so blue and clear you might have been forgiven for thinking God Himself a socialist, the brilliant sun a kind of heavenly blessing. At Quilter Street we all rose early, and bathed and washed our hair and dressed - it was like getting ready for a wedding. I very gallantly decided not to risk my trousers on the crowd - socialists having such a poor name already; instead, I wore a suit of navy-blue, with scarlet frogging on the coat, and a matching necktie, and a billycock hat. As ladies’ outfits went, it was a smart one; even so, I found myself twitching irritably at my skirts as I paced the parlour waiting for Flo - and was soon joined by Ralph, who was dressed up stiff as a clerk, and kept pulling at his collar where it chafed against his throat. Florence herself wore the damson-coloured suit I so admired: I bought a flower for her, on the walk from Bethnal Green, and pinned it to her jacket. It was a daisy, big as a fist, and shone when the sun struck it, like a lamp. ‘You shall certainly,’ she said to me, ‘not lose me in that.’ Victoria Park itself we found transformed.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  When we left the Troc, however, it was to drive to Deacon’s Music Hall, in Islington. This was an altogether different place: small and old, with an audience drawn from the streets and courts of Clerkenwell - and inclined, in consequence, to be rather rough. We didn’t mind a rowdy crowd, as a rule, for it could be unnerving to work the prim West End theatres, where the ladies were too gentle or well-dressed to bang their hands together or to stamp, and where only the drunken swells of the promenade really whistled and shouted as a proper music-hall audience should. We had never worked Deacon’s before, but we had once done a week at Sam Collins’, up the road. There the crowd had been humble and gay - working-people, women with babies in their arms - the kind of audience I liked best of all, because it was the kind of which, until very recently, I had myself been a member. The Deacon’s crowd were noticeably shabbier than the folk at Islington Green, but no less kind; if anything, indeed, they were inclined to be kinder, jollier, more willing to be moved and thrilled and entertained. Our first week there went well - they packed the hall for us. It was on the Saturday night of the second week that the trouble came - on a Saturday night at the end of September, a night of fog - one of those grey-brown evenings, when all the streets and buildings of the city seem to waver a little at the edges. The roads are always choked on such a night, and on this particular evening the traffic between Windmill Street and Islington was horribly slow, for there had been an accident along the way. A van had overturned; a dozen boys had rushed to sit upon the horse’s head, to stop the beast from rising; and our own carriage could not pass for half an hour or more. We arrived at Deacon’s terribly late, to find the place as wild as the street we had just left. The crowd had had to wait for us, and were impatient. Some poor artiste had been sent on to sing a comic song and keep them occupied, but they had started to heckle him quite mercilessly; at last - the fellow had begun a clog dance - two roughs had jumped upon the stage and pulled the boots from him, and tossed them up to the gallery. When we arrived, breathless and flustered but ready to sing, the air was thick with shouts and bellows and screams of laughter. The two roughs had hold of the comic singer by the ankles, and were holding him so that his head dangled over the flames of the footlights, in an attempt to set fire to his hair. The conductor and a couple of stage-hands had hold of the roughs, and were trying to pull them into the wings.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She had to pinch herself to make sure it was real, that she was really going away with Caitlin Somers, that she hadn’t invented the whole thing. Lanie didn’t like the idea. “It’s so unfair!” she cried. “You get to do everything.” Lanie was probably wondering why Caitlin Somers, the biggest deal in the whole school, had invited her to spend the summer. She was wondering the same thing herself. She tried to console Lanie. “Look at it this way … you can have our room all to yourself for the whole summer. You can have friends stay overnight and everything.” “Can I have your Barbies?” “Have? No way.” “Use?” “Use … okay … if you promise you’ll keep them exactly the way they belong. And Barbie’s Dream House is off limits.” “No fair … that’s the best.” “Then no deal.” Lanie pouted. She and Vix shared Tawny’s dark eyes and high cheekbones, a gift from some Cherokee ancestor. But Lanie was the best looking of all of them, with Ed’s auburn hair and fair skin. “Okay … I won’t touch Barbie’s Dream House.” Vix was almost asleep when Lanie whispered, “If you go away you’ll miss your birthday.” “No, I won’t. I’ll just be in a different place.” Phoebe never drove to Albuquerque, even when she was flying somewhere herself, so Caitlin rode down with Vix and her family in the RV, fitted for Nathan’s chair. At the airport, when Vix bent down to hug Nathan goodbye, he said, “Don’t worry … I won’t forget you,” and he gave her his lopsided smile. “I won’t forget you either,” she promised. As she stood up she noticed a woman staring at Nathan. She was used to the way people looked at him, with a mixture of curiosity, pity, and revulsion. They’d look away if she happened to catch their eye. Once they were on the plane, seated and buckled in, Vix pulled a lunch bag out of her backpack. Tawny had packed two bologna sandwiches, several juice cartons, and bags of pretzels and potato chips, as if Vix were going on a camping trip. She unfolded a note scribbled on lined paper. In case you don’t like the airline food. Mother She wasn’t sure if she was going to laugh or cry. “What’s that?” Caitlin asked. “A note from my mother.” “She wrote to you already?” Vix nodded. “Phoebe loves having summers off from being a mother,” Caitlin said proudly. “She’s going to the south of France. She’ll send a postcard and bring me back something great to wear.” Vix was thinking her mother would give anything to go to France. But the Countess never missed opera season in Santa Fe. She’d throw huge parties and Tawny would be responsible for everything. The plane was taxiing down the runway now, picking up speed, faster and faster until they lifted into the air. As they did Vix closed her eyes, said a prayer, and clutched the arms of her seat.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  He stretched himself on the floor. She crouched over his face and held her dress so that it fell and covered his head. With his two hands he held her buttocks like a fruit and passed his tongue between the mounts over and over again. Now he also stroked her clitoris, which made Bijou move forwards and backwards. His tongue felt every response, every contraction. As she crouched over him, she saw his erect penis vibrate with each gasp of pleasure he uttered. There was a knock on the door. Bijou rose quickly, startled, with her lips still wet from the kisses and her hair undone. The clairvoyant answered quietly however: “I am not ready yet.” And then turned and smiled at her. She smiled back. He dressed himself quickly. Soon everything was outwardly in order. They agreed to meet again. Bijou wanted to bring her friends Leila and Elena. Would he like it? He begged her to do this. He said, “Most of the women who come here do not tempt me. They are not beautiful. But you—come whenever you want to. I’ll dance for you.” His dance for the three women took place one evening when all the clients were gone. He stripped himself, showing his gleaming golden-brown body. To his waist he tied a fake penis modeled like his own and the same color. He said, “This is a dance from my own country. We do this for the women on feast days.” In the dimly lit room, where the light shone like a small fire over his skin, he began to move his belly, making the penis wave in a most suggestive way. He jerked his body as if he were entering a woman and simulated the spasms of a man caught in the varied tonalities of an orgasm. One, two, three. The final spasm was wild, like that of a man giving up his life in the act of sex. The three women watched. At first only the fake penis dominated, but then the real one, in the heat of the dance, began to compete in length and weight. Now they both moved in rhythm with his gestures. He closed his eyes as though he had no need of the women. The effect on Bijou was powerful. She took her dress off. She began to dance around him temptingly. But he merely touched her now and then with the tip of his sex, wherever he encountered her, and continued to turn and jerk his body in space like a savage dancing against an invisible body. The teasing affected Elena, too, and she slipped her dress off and kneeled near them, just to be in the orbit of their sexual dance. She suddenly wanted to be taken until she bled, by this big, strong, firm penis dangled in front of her, as he performed a male danse du ventre, with its tantalizing motions.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  The middle of his body was just at the same level as her big mouth. She deftly unbuttoned his pants and took out the small penis. The boy watched her with amazement as she took it into her mouth. Then, as her tongue began to move and the small penis grew larger, the boy was taken with such pleasure that he fell forward over her shoulder and let her mouth take in his whole penis and touch the pubic hair. What he felt was so much more stimulating than when he had tried to manipulate himself. All that Pierre could see now was the big full-lipped mouth working on the delicate penis, now and then letting it halfway out of the cavern, and then swallowing it altogether until nothing showed but the hair around it. The old woman was gluttonous but patient. The boy was exhausted with pleasure, almost swooning over her head, and the blood was coming to her face. Still she vigorously chewed and licked, until the boy began to tremble. She had to put both her arms around him or he might have shaken himself out of her mouth. He began to utter moaning sounds like some cooing bird. She went at him more feverishly, and then it happened. The boy almost fell asleep on her shoulder from exhaustion, and she had to unclasp him gently with her big hands. He smiled wanly and ran out. WHILE HE LAY there Pierre remembered a woman he had known who was already fifty when he was only seventeen. She was a friend of his mother’s. She was eccentric and willful and still dressed in fashions of ten years earlier, which meant wearing an endless number of petticoats, tight corsets, long and heavily laced panties, and full-skirted dresses that were cut very low over her breasts so Pierre could see the little valley between them, a black shadowy line vanishing inside the lace and frills. She was a handsome woman, with luxuriant reddish hair and a fine down over her skin. Her ears were small and delicate, her hands plump. Her mouth was particularly attractive—very red, naturally so, with great fullness and width, and with small, even teeth, which she always showed, as if she were about to bite into something. She came to visit his mother one very rainy day when the servants were out. She shook her filmy umbrella, took off her important hat, and unloosened her veil. As she stood there, her long dress all wet, she began to sneeze. Pierre’s mother was already in bed with the grippe. She called out from her room, “Darling, do take off your clothes if they are wet, and Pierre will dry them for you before the fire. There is a screen in the parlor. You can undress there and Pierre will give you a kimono of mine.”

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  As of June 15 she was out of there to work nights as a word processor while she waited to hear from NYU film school, which meant more student loans, which she’d be paying back for the rest of her life, but hey … so was everybody else she knew. Vix signed up for job interviews on campus. By the time she met Dinah Renko she’d had plenty of practice. She had her anecdotes down. They all liked the story of how she’d learned to swim at fourteen, were mildly interested in her work on the Mondale-Ferraro campaign. Good hair can take you far . And since they all loved Santa Fe there were plenty of questions about quality of life—How about raising kids? Public school or private? Was the sky always so blue? Were drugs a problem? What about job opportunities? Their questions had nothing to do with job opportunities for Vix. She was amazed that these people, who seemed to her to have it made, were already looking for a way out. Dinah worked at Squire-Oates, a large PR firm in New York. “I liked your video,” she told Vix. “That’s really all that matters. The Harvard education doesn’t hurt. It means you’re intelligent. You’ll have ideas. The rest of your resume is very nice, but to tell the truth, it doesn’t interest me.” Dinah was in her forties, with blunt-cut silver hair, a gray pants suit, and red heels that caught Vix’s attention. Vix wore her usual black pants and white shirt. Maia, who’d bought a suit for interviews, told Vix she looked like a waitress. “At least wear a scarf, something to give you some style!” So Vix bought a silk scarf in the Square, an Hermes knockoff, and Maia taught her how to drape it. “Wear those silver earrings and your Santa Fe bracelet.” Dinah twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she spoke. “We’re a very large corporation, Victoria, with offices around the world. There are opportunities for a hardworking, talented young woman like you. You won’t be answering phones or filing. I can promise you that. This is not your typical entry-level job. You’ll be working with captains of industry, editing from the start.” Vix nodded as Dinah spoke, making mental notes. Captains of Industry. Editing from the start. Plays with her hair . “You’ll get a decent, competitive salary and good benefits. You’ll find an apartment share. You’ll enjoy the city. And we’ll be there for you, nurturing your career, moving you up as soon as you’re ready.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to catch the 5:30 shuttle. Can you make quick decisions? Because I’d like a yes or no right now.” Actually, Vix didn’t have a clue. She asked if she could give her an answer the following day. Dinah sighed. “There are others who want this job. I won’t even say how many. That’s how tight the market is.” “I’ll take it,” Vix said.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  But oh, the warmth across her buttocks and between the legs—feeling as if she had been rubbed with alcohol, or with wine, and slightly patted by an experienced masseuse. Each time she rose and fell in the saddle she felt a delicious tingling. Leila liked to ride behind her and watch her figure as it moved on the horse. Not fully trained, Bijou leaned forwards in the saddle and showed her buttocks, round and tight in the jodhpurs, and her shapely legs. The horses were hot and beginning to lather. A strong odor came from them and seeped into the two women’s clothes. Leila’s body seemed to grow lighter. She held her whip nervously. They galloped again, side by side now, with their mouths half-open and the wind on their faces. As her legs gripped the flanks of her horse, Bijou remembered how she had once ridden on the stomach of the Basque. And then she stood up, her feet on his chest and her genitals directly in the line of his vision, and he had maintained her in this position to feast his eyes. Another time he had been on his hands and knees on the floor, and she had ridden on his back and had tried to hurt him with the pressure of her knees on his flanks. Laughing nervously, he had urged her on. Her knees were as strong as those of a man riding a horse, and the Basque had felt such excitement that he had crawled like this all around the room with his penis stretched out. Now and then Leila’s horse raised his tail in the speed of the gallop, and then swatted himself vigorously, exposing glossy hairs in the sun. When they reached the deepest part of the forest, the women stopped and dismounted. They walked their horses to a mossy corner and sat down to rest. They smoked; Leila had kept her riding whip in her hand. Bijou said, “My buttocks are burning hot from the riding.” “Let me see,” said Leila. “For this first time we should not have ridden so much. Let me see how you look.” Bijou unfastened her belt slowly, unbuttoned the trousers, and pulled them down a little, turning over for Leila to see. Leila pulled her over her knees and said, “Let me see.” She finished pulling down the trousers to uncover the buttocks completely. She touched Bijou. “Does it hurt?” she asked. “It does not hurt. It’s just warm, as if it had been toasted.” Leila’s hand cupped the round buttocks. “Poor little things,” she said. “Does it hurt here?” Her hand went deeper into the trousers, deeper between the legs. “It’s warm and burning there,” said Bijou. “Take the trousers off so it will cool,” said Leila, pulling them down a little farther and keeping Bijou over her knees, exposed to the air. “What beautiful skin you have, Bijou. It catches the light and shines. Let the air cool you off there.”

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Pierre hustled about with evident eagerness. He got the kimono from his mother and he opened the screen. In the parlor there was a beautiful fire burning brightly in the fireplace. The room was warm and smelled of narcissus, which filled every vase, of the wood fire, of the visitor’s sandalwood perfume. From behind the screen she handed her dress to Pierre. It was still warm and scented from her body. He held it in his arms and smelled it, intoxicated, before laying it over a chair before the fire. Then she handed him a large, very full petticoat, the hem extremely wet and covered with mud. He sniffed at this with pleasure before placing it, too, before the fire. Meanwhile she talked and smiled and laughed unconcernedly, not noticing his excitement. She threw him another petticoat, a lighter one, warm and musky. Then, with a shy laugh, she threw him her long, lace-edged panties. Suddenly Pierre realized that they were not wet, that this was unnecessary, that she had thrown them at him because she wanted to, and that now she stood nearly naked behind the screen, knowing he was aware of her body. As she looked at him over the top of the screen, he could see her full, rounded shoulders, soft and gleaming, like cushions. She laughed and called out to him, “Give me the kimono now.” “Aren’t your stockings wet, too?” said Pierre. “Yes, indeed they are. I am taking them off.” She leaned down. He could imagine her snapping loose the garters and unrolling the stockings. He wondered what her legs looked like, her feet. He could contain himself no longer and gave the screen a pull. It fell down before her and exposed her in the pose he had pictured. She was leaning down and unrolling her black stockings. Her whole body had the golden color and delicate texture of her face. It was long-waisted, full-breasted, ample, but firm. She was unaffected by the fall of the screen. She said, “Now look what I have done taking my stockings off. Hand me the kimono.” He approached, staring at her—the first naked woman he had seen, so much like paintings he had studied in the museum. She was smiling. Then she covered herself as if nothing had happened and went to the fire, extending her hands to the heat. Pierre was completely unnerved. His body was burning, yet he did not quite know what to do about it. She was careless about holding the kimono around her, intent on warming herself. Pierre sat at her feet and stared at her smiling, open face. Her eyes seemed to invite him. He moved closer to her, still kneeling. Suddenly she opened the kimono, took his head between her hands, placed it on her sex for his mouth to feel. The tendrils of pubic hair touched his lips and maddened him. At that very moment his mother’s voice came from the far-off bedroom. “Pierre! Pierre!”

• 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 Birthday Girl (2018)

  Me paro en la puerta abierta y me encojo de hombros. Al crecer, nunca se me ocurrió preocuparme por una fiesta y ropa elegante. Cuando otras mujeres jóvenes soñaban con los colores y los vestidos de damas de honor, solo quería todo lo que venía después de eso. El marido, los hijos, la casa con el olor a galletas después de la escuela, picnics y viajes por carretera… Subo el escalón, a punto de entrar en la camioneta, pero tira de mí y me vuelve contra él. Caigo contra su pecho desnudo, mis pies todavía plantados en el escalón, y rodeo su cuello con mis brazos. —Como que sí me preocupo por eso —admite, encogiéndose un poco como si se disculpara—. Nunca he estado casado antes, ¿sabes? Me encantaría verte en un vestido. Ahora, ¿cómo puedo decir que no a eso? Asiento, besándolo de nuevo. En realidad, podría ser divertido. ¿Fotos de compromiso en el barro? Sí, por favor. —Estaba pensando en México —me dice, mirándome—. ¿Una playa en el mar de Cortés y solo tú, yo y nuestras personas cercanas? Sonrío. —Diablos, sí. Suena a lo que nos gusta. Tranquilo, privado y perfecto. Y no mentiría si dijera que me entusiasma ir a algún lugar que nunca he visto. Apenas he estado fuera de esta ciudad, y la idea de tener que conseguir un pasaporte me emociona tanto como tener que comprar ese vestido por el que Pike va a morir cuando me vea con él. Ya estoy burbujeando con excitación ante la mirada que espero ver en su rostro. Me mira, guardando silencio y sus ojos serios. —¿Vas a querer hijos? —pregunta. Mi corazón late con fuera, sabiendo que esto es potencialmente un tema sensible. —¿Uno, al menos? —menciono, tímida—. ¿Eso está bien? Entiendo que empezar de nuevo es un mucho que pedirle, pero me encantaría tener a su bebé. Con el tiempo. Para mi sorpresa, apenas duda antes de asentir. —Estoy bien con ello —responde—. Aunque, no puedo esperar demasiado, o recibiré el descuento por persona mayor en la cena de graduación del niño. Estallo en risas. —Sin embargo, después que te gradúes —me dice—, está en marcha, ¿de acuerdo? —De acuerdo. Me siento en el asiento y me quito las botas embarradas, tirándolas en la cama de la camioneta con la camiseta de Pike, y me quito mi gorra, mi cabello cayendo alrededor de mi rostro. —Sabes… —empiezo—. Estoy un poco nerviosa. —¿Oh? Niego, chasqueando la lengua. —Casarme con un hombre mayor con mucha más experiencia… Se acerca a mí, agarrando mis caderas y tirando de mí al borde del asiento y hacia él. Paso mi mano por su pecho desnudo. —No necesito que mi esposa sepa lo que les gusta a otros hombres —declara— . Solo lo que me gusta.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “I’m Evelyn,” said the voice, “come and swim with me!” It was very tempting. Maria could easily take off her white dress and wear only her short white chemise. She looked everywhere. There was no one around. The sea was calm and speckled with moonlight. For the first time Maria understood the European love of midnight bathing. She took off her dress. She had long black hair, a pale face, slanted green eyes, greener than the sea. She was beautifully formed, with high breasts, long legs, a stylized body. She knew how to swim better than any other woman on the island. She slid into the water and began her long easy strokes towards Evelyn. Evelyn swam under the water, came up to her and gripped her legs. In the water they teased each other. The semidarkness and the bathing cap made it difficult to see the face clearly. American women had voices like boys. Evelyn wrestled with Maria, embraced her under the water. They came up for air, laughing, swimming nonchalantly away and back to each other. Maria’s chemise floated up around her shoulders and hampered her movements. Finally it came off altogether and she was left naked. Evelyn swam under and touched her playfully, wrestling and diving under and between her legs. Evelyn would part her legs so that her friend could dive between them and reappear on the other side. She floated and let her friend swim under her arched back. Maria saw that she was naked too. Then suddenly she felt Evelyn embracing her from behind, covering her whole body with hers. The water was lukewarm, like a luxuriant pillow, so salty that it bore them, helped them to float and swim without effort. “You’re beautiful, Maria,” said the deep voice, and Evelyn kept her arms around her. Maria wanted to float away, but she was held by the warmth of the water, the constant touch of her friend’s body. She let herself be embraced. She did not feel breasts on her friend, but, then, she knew young American women she had seen did not have breasts. Maria’s body was languid, and she wanted to close her eyes. Suddenly what she felt between her legs was not a hand but something else, something so unexpected, so disturbing that she screamed. This was no Evelyn but a young man, Evelyn’s younger brother, and he had slipped his erect penis between her legs. She screamed but no one heard, and her scream was only something she had been trained to expect of herself. In reality his embrace seemed to her as lulling and warming and caressing as the water. The water and the penis and the hands conspired to arouse her body. She tried to swim away. But the boy swam under her body, caressed her, gripped her legs, and then mounted her again from behind.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  I had a feeling that Pandora’s box contained the mysteries of woman’s sensuality, so different from man’s and for which man’s language was inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored. D. H. Lawrence began to give instinct a language, he tried to escape the clinical, the scientific, which only captures what the body feels. October, 1941 When Henry came he made several contradictory statements. That he could live on nothing, that he felt so good he could even take a job, that his integrity prevented him from writing scenarios in Hollywood. At the last I said: “And what of the integrity of doing erotica for money?” Henry laughed, admitted the paradox, the contradictions, laughed and dismissed the subject. France has had a tradition of literary erotic writing, in fine, elegant style. When I first began to write for the collector I thought there was a similar tradition here, but found none at all. All I had seen was shoddy, written by second-rate writers. No fine writer seemed ever to have tried his hand at erotica. I told George Barker how Caresse Crosby, Robert, Virginia Admiral and others were writing. It appealed to his sense of humor. The idea of my being the madam of this snobbish literary house of prostitution, from which vulgarity was excluded. Laughing, I said: “I supply paper and carbon, I deliver the manuscript anonymously, I protect everyone’s anonymity.” George Barker felt this was much more humorous and inspiring than begging, borrowing or cajoling meals out of friends. I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery. Harvey Breit, Robert Duncan, George Barker, Caresse Crosby, all of us concentrating our skills in a tour de force, supplying the old man with such an abundance of perverse felicities, that now he begged for more. The homosexuals wrote as if they were women. The timid ones wrote about orgies. The frigid ones about frenzied fulfillments. The most poetic ones indulged in pure bestiality and the purest ones in perversions. We were haunted by the marvelous tales we could not tell. We sat around, imagined this old man, talked of how much we hated him, because he would not allow us to make a fusion of sexuality and feeling, sensuality and emotion. December, 1941 George Barker was terribly poor. He wanted to write more erotica. He wrote eighty-five pages. The collector thought they were too surrealistic. I loved them. His scenes of lovemaking were disheveled and fantastic. Love between trapezes.