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 Going Clear (2013)

  Stevie Wonder phoned in and sang “I Just Called to Say I Love You” as the crowd cheered. The most notable presence in Portland was John Travolta. It was a decisive moment in his relationship with the religion. The church had made enormous efforts to persuade him to attend. Two years before the Portland crusade, Travolta had told Rolling Stone that although he still believed in Scientology, he had not had any auditing for the past year and a half. When asked if he was being exploited by the church to promote its cause, he responded, “ I’ve been something of an ostrich about how it’s used me, because I haven’t investigated exactly what the organization’s done. One part of me says that if somebody gets some good out of it, maybe it’s all right. The other part of me says that I hope it uses some taste and discretion. I wish I could defend Scientology better, but I don’t think it even deserves to be defended, in a sense.” But here he was in Portland, unshaven and exhausted, having flown his own plane in at midnight for a two-hour visit. “ Once in a while you have to stand up for what you believe in, and I’m here tonight, I’ve had counseling, I give counseling, and I don’t want to lose that,” he declared. “And it’s as simple as that.” The Portland march was one of the greatest triumphs in Scientology’s history, capped by the judge’s declaration of a mistrial. He ruled that Christofferson Titchbourne’s lawyers had presented prejudicial arguments to the jury by saying that Hubbard was a sociopath and that Scientology was not a religion but a terrorist organization. Church members who had been in Portland would always feel an ecstatic sense of kinship. (A year and a half later, the church settled with Christofferson Titchbourne for an undisclosed sum.) FOR YEARS , Hubbard’s declining health was a secret known to few in the upper levels of the church. Only a handful of his closest followers were allowed to see him. He had made no clear arrangements for a successor, nor was there any open talk of it. There was an unstated belief that Operating Thetans did not grow frail or lose their mental faculties. Old age and illness were embarrassing refutations of Scientology’s core beliefs. Death was a subject that Hubbard rarely addressed, assuring Scientologists that it was of little importance: “ If you had an automobile sitting out here on the street and you came out totally expecting to find this automobile there and it’s gone, it’s been stolen and so forth, you’d be upset,” he said in 1957, reflecting on the death of one of his close followers. “Well, that’s just about the frame of mind a thetan is usually in when he finds his body dead.” The thetan has to report to a “ between-lives” area, Hubbard later explained, which for most of them is the planet Mars.

• From Between Us

  In one experimental study, psychologist Jeanne Tsai found that individuals who were told they would be “influencers” in an interactive task chose to be excited. This was true for “influencers” from very different cultures. Tsai argues that the white American preference for a happiness with energetic overtones stems from a culture in which individuals encounter many opportunities to influence and exert control over their environment. This kind of happiness is ingrained in Americans from an early age. American mothers stimulate their babies by repositioning, playing, and chatting with them, thus planting the seeds for bouncy happiness. American parents are strongly encouraged to ensure a level of entertainment for their children, in this way eliciting activated happiness as well. Children should have fun (high arousal), rather than being bored (low arousal). They are kept busy and excited with innumerable toys, a variety of extracurricular activities, trips to amusement parks, and other forms of entertainment. As adults, Americans continue to seek this energized happiness. One of Tsai’s studies found that, on their vacations, white Americans wanted to “explore and do exciting things” rather than go to a place where they could totally relax. They also preferred coffee over chamomile tea. And finally, those using illicit drugs preferred stimulants (such as cocaine and amphetamines) over narcotics (heroin). All of these preferences can be interpreted as ways to promote an excited (i.e., outgoing, active, energetic, approach-oriented) kind of happiness that helps you take control. Happiness is also important because it informs choice, a third cultural pillar of American culture. Happiness has not always served choice. Psychologist Shige Oishi and his colleagues tracked the changing meanings of “happiness” in State of the Union addresses and books from around 1800 onwards, and found that the use of happiness to describe an individual, rather than the nation, is recent. Happiness came to describe the satisfaction of desire and self-expression just around the time consumer culture was on the rise—in the 1920s. It was then advertisements started to show smiling people, promising a product would give you pleasure. Happiness became a compass for choice: what you choose is who you are. FIGURE 5.1 Happiness as the standard of good choice; an ad from 1949. (Image courtesy of Candy Hoover Group, SRL) In one study, white American students were more likely to choose to play basketball over throwing darts when they remembered that playing basketball two weeks earlier had gone well, and had made them happy. “Do what will make you happy.” This advice reflects the options open to a segment of contemporary society, but would have been ill-suited (and irrelevant) in a time where children took over the family business, or had no choice but to work in the nearest factory, or serve the nearest rich family. Happiness is so interwoven with the pillars of the American Dream—success, control, and choice—that it is a “right” emotion. It shows an individual’s perception of self-worth, and reflects a desirable status quo.

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

  But so provokingly predisposed and primed as we were, by all the moving sights of the night, our imagination was too much heated not to melt us of the soonest; and accordingly I no sooner felt the warm spray darted up my inwards from him, but I was punctually on flow, to share the momentary extasy; but I had yet greater reason to boast of our harmony: for finding that all the flames of desire were not yet quenched within me, but that rather, like wetted coals, I glowed the fiercer for this sprinkling, my hot-mettled spark, sympathizing with me, and loaded for a double fire, recontinued the sweet battery with undying vigour; greatly encouraged to accommodate all my motions to his best advantage and delight; kisses, squeezes, tender murmurs, all came into play, till our joys growing more turbulent and riotous, threw us into a fond disorder, and as they raged to a point, bore us far from our selves into an ocean of boundless pleasures, into which we both plunged together in a transport of taste. Now all the impressions of burning desire, from the lively scenes I had been spectatress of, ripened the heat of this exercise, and collecting to a head, throbbed and agitated me with insupportable irritations: I perfectly fevered and maddened with their excess. I bid not now enjoy a calm of reason enough to perceive, but I ecstatically, indeed, felt the power of such rare and exquisite provocatives, as the examples of the night had proved towards thus exalting our pleasures: which, with great joy, I sensibly found my gallant shared in, by his nervous and home expressions of it: his eyes flashing eloquent flames, his action infuriated with the stings of it, all conspiring to raise my delight, by assuring me of his. Lifted then to the utmost pitch of joy that human life can bear, undestroyed by excess, I touched that sweetly critical point, whence scarce prevented by the injection from my partner, I dissolved, and breaking out into a deep drawn sigh, sent my whole sensitive soul down to that passage where escape was denied it, by its being so deliciously plugged and choked up.

• From An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness (1995)

  The chancellor’s garden party was given annually to welcome new faculty members to UCLA. By coincidence the man who was to become my psychiatrist also happened to be attending the garden party, having himself just joined the adjunct medical school faculty. It proved to be an interesting example of the divide between one’s self-perception and the cooler, more measured observations of an experienced clinician who suddenly found himself in a social situation watching a somewhat wild-eyed and frenzied former intern that he, as the recent chief resident, had supervised the preceding year. My recollection of the situation was that I was perhaps a bit high, but primarily I remember talking to scads of people, feeling that I was irresistibly charming, and zipping around from hors d’oeuvre to hors d’oeuvre, and drink to drink. I talked with the chancellor for a long time; he, of course, had absolutely no idea who I was, but he was either being exceedingly polite by talking to me for so long or simply holding true to his reputation as having a penchant for young women. Whatever he actually felt, I was sure he was finding me captivating. I also had an extended and rather odd conversation with the chairman of my department—odd, but a conversation I found delightful. My chairman was himself a not unexpansive person, and he harbored a very imaginative mind that did not always keep within the common grazing lands of academic medicine. He was somewhat notorious within psychopharmacology circles for having accidentally killed a rented circus elephant with LSD—a complicated, rather improbable story involving large land mammals in must, temporal lobe glands, the effects of hallucinogenic drugs on violent behavior, and miscalculated volumes and surface areas—and we started a long, dendritic discussion about doing research on elephants and hyraxes. Hyraxes are small African animals that bear no resemblance whatsoever to elephants but, based on the patterning of their teeth, are thought to be their closest living relatives. I cannot begin to remember the detailed arguments and common interests underlying this strange and extremely animated conversation—except that I immediately, and with great gusto, took upon myself the task of tracking down every article, and there were hundreds, ever written about hyraxes. I also volunteered to work on animal behavior studies at the Los Angeles Zoo, as well as to co-teach a course in ethology and yet another one in pharmacology and ethology. My memories of the garden party were that I had had a fabulous, bubbly, seductive, assured time. My psychiatrist, however, in talking with me about it much later, recollected it very differently. I was, he said, dressed in a remarkably provocative way, totally unlike the conservative manner in which he had seen me dressed over the preceding year. I had on much more makeup than usual and seemed, to him, to be frenetic and far too talkative. He says he remembers having thought to himself, Kay looks manic. I, on the other hand, had thought I was splendid.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  With what I had in my pocket I could afford to have two taxis waiting for me. I took a good look around but I didn’t see anything worth while. What I wanted was something fresh and unused—something from Alaska or the Virgin Islands. A clean fresh pelt with a natural fragrance to it. Needless to say, there wasn’t anything like that walking about. I wasn’t terribly disappointed. I didn’t give a fuck whether I found anything or not. The thing is, never to be too anxious. Everything comes in due time. We drove on past the Arc de Triomphe. A few sightseers were loitering around the remains of the Unknown Soldier. Going through the Bois I looked at all the rich cunts promenading in their limousines. They were whizzing by as if they had some destination. Do that, no doubt, to look important—to show the world how smooth run their Rolls Royces and their Hispano Suizas. Inside me things were running smoother than any Rolls Royce ever ran. It was just like velvet inside. Velvet cortex and velvet vertebrae. And velvet axle grease, what! It’s a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor. You feel as though the world is yours. And the best part of it is, you don’t know what to do with it. You can sit back and let the meter run wild, you can let the wind blow through your hair, you can stop and have a drink, you can give a big tip, and you can swagger off as though it were an everyday occurrence. But you can’t create a revolution. You can’t wash all the dirt out of your belly. When we got to the Porte d’Auteuil I made him head for the Seine. At the Pont de Sèvres I got out and started walking along the river, toward the Auteuil Viaduct. It’s about the size of a creek along here and the trees come right down to the river’s bank. The water was green and glassy, especially near the other side. Now and then a scow chugged by. Bathers in tights were standing in the grass sunning themselves. Everything was close and palpitant, and vibrant with the strong light. Passing a beer garden I saw a group of cyclists sitting at a table. I took a seat nearby and ordered a demi . Hearing them jabber away I thought for a moment of Ginette. I saw her stamping up and down the room, tearing her hair, and sobbing and bleating, in that beastlike way of hers. I saw his hat on the rack. I wondered if his clothes would fit me. He had a raglan that I particularly liked. Well, by now he was on his way. In a little while the boat would be rocking under him. English! He wanted to hear English spoken. What an idea!

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I turned at once to Marcelle and began to flatter the ass off her. We stood at the corner of the bar, pretending to dance, and mauled each other ferociously. Jimmie gave me a big horse-wink and nodded his head approvingly. She was a lascivious bitch, this Marcelle, and pleasant at the same time. She soon got rid of the other girl, I noticed, and then we settled down for a long and intimate conversation which was interrupted unfortunately by the announcement that dinner was ready. There were about twenty of us at the table, and Marcelle and I were placed at one end opposite Jimmie and his wife. It began with the popping of champagne corks and was quickly followed by drunken speeches, during the course of which Marcelle and I played with each other under the table. When it came my turn to stand up and deliver a few words I had to hold the napkin in front of me. It was painful and exhilarating at the same time. I had to cut the speech very short because Marcelle was tickling me in the crotch all the while. The dinner lasted until almost midnight. I was looking forward to spending the night with Marcelle in that beautiful home up on the cliff. But it was not to be. Collins had planned to show us about and I couldn’t very well refuse. “Don’t worry about her,” he said. “You’ll have a bellyful of it before you leave. Tell her to wait here for you until we get back.” She was a bit peeved at this, Marcelle, but when we informed her that we had several days ahead of us she brightened up. When we got outdoors Fillmore very solemnly took us by the arm and said he had a little confession to make. He looked pale and worried. “Well, what is it?” said Collins cheerfully. “Spit it out!” Fillmore couldn’t spit it out like that, all at once. He hemmed and hawed and finally he blurted out—“Well, when I went to the closet just a minute ago I noticed something. ...” “Then you’ve got it!” said Collins triumphantly, and with that he flourished the bottle of “Vénétienne.” “Don’t go to a doctor,” he added venomously. “They’ll bleed you to death, the greedy bastards. And don’t stop drinking either. That’s all hooey. Take this twice a day ... shake it well before using. And nothing’s worse than worry, do you understand?

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

  Phœbe, at this, gave me a gentle jog, to prepare me for a whisper question: “Whether I thought my little maiden-head was much less?” But my attention was too much engrossed, too much inwrapped with all I saw, to be able to give her any answer. By this time the young gentelman had changed her posture from lying breadth to length-wise on the coach: but her thighs were still spread, and the mark lay fair for him, who now kneeling between them, displayed to us a side view of that fierce erect machine of his, which threatened no less than splitting the tender victim, who lay smiling at the uplifted stroke, nor seemed to decline it. He looked upon his weapon himself with some pleasure, and guiding it with his hand to the inviting; slit, drew aside the lips, and lodged it (after some thrusts, which Polly seemed even to assist) about half way; but there it stuck, I suppose from its growing thickness: he draws it again, and just wetting it with spittle, re-enters, and with ease sheathed it now up to the hilt, at which Polly gave a deep sigh, which was quite another tone than one of pain; he thrusts, she heaves, at first gently, and in a regular cadence; but presently the transport began to be too violent to observe any order or measure; their motions were too rapid, their kisses too fierce’ and fervent for nature to support such fury long: both seemed to me out of themselves: their eyes darted fires: “Oh! oh! I can’t bear it. It is too much. I die. I am going,” were Polly’s expressions of extasy: his joys were more silent: but soon broken murmurs, sighs heart-fetched, and at length a dispatching thrust, as if he would have forced himself up her body, and then the motionless languor of all his limbs, all shewed that the die-away moment was come upon him; which she gave signs of joining with by, the wild throwing of her hands about, closing her eyes, and giving a deep sob, in which she seemed to expire in an agony of bliss.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  My legs bounce all the way back. Flashes, doors, questions hurled up my driveway. Once again, I have him pull into the garage. He helps me this time, stacking everything just inside the door that leads into the foyer. I hand him the rest of the wad from my cookie tin. “For one day,” I say. His eyes bulge. He thinks I’m crazy, but hey, I’m handing him lots of money. He leaves before I can change my mind. I watch him pull out and quickly close the garage door. I grab an armload of my purchases and nudge the stereo with my toe as I walk past it. The first song Isaac ever gave me kicks on. It’s loud. I make it louder until it’s pounding through the house. I’m sure they can hear it outside: a one-man party. I carry everything to the white room and pry off the lids of the cans with a butter knife: crimson, yellow, cobalt, bubblegum pink, deep purple—like a bruise—and three different greens to match the summer leaves. I stick my hand in the red paint first, and rub my fingertips together. It falls heavy, spilling on my clothes and the floor where I am kneeling. I scoop up more, ‘til my hands are brimming. Then I throw it—a handful of red paint at my white, white wall. Color explodes. It spreads. It runs. I take more—I take all of the colors—and I stain my white room. I stain it with all the colors of Isaac, as Florence Welch sings me her song. It’s then that my phone rings. I don’t pick it up, but when I listen to the message later that night, Detective soft s Garrison informs me that Saphira is dead. Dead by her own hand. Good, I think at first, but then my chest aches. He doesn’t tell me how she did it but something tells me she opened her own veins. Bled out. She liked her patients to bleed out their thoughts and feelings; she would have chosen to go that way. Saphira and her god-complex would never have tolerated being tried in a court of law. She thought people were stupid. It would have been beneath her to be judged. I call him the next morning. There would be no trial. He sounds disappointed when he tells me, but I feel relieved. It’s an end to the nightmare. I couldn’t have handled months and months of a trial. Wasting my last days seeking human justice. I think I forgive her for believing she was God, I’m not sure God will. Garrison informs me that there is an ongoing investigation into Saphira’s accomplices. “Everyone we have questioned is shocked. She was well respected in the mental health community. No family in the country. No friends. She seems to have just snapped, lost touch with reality.” Who has time for friends when you’re performing human experiments? I think.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  She looked at me with a look of incredulity. And then she laughed. “Are you asking me if I have ever read a Pulitzer Prize winner?” Shit. “You’re going to have to try a little harder with me, Luke.” God, I loved this woman. “What about Joseph Conrad?” More snickers. “ Heart of Darkness, Nostromo . Come on.” The meeting started, and we had to stop. But my mind continued. I started compiling a list in my head of authors that I could try to use against her. I wasn’t about to lose this easily. I paid attention to nothing that was said during the meeting. A passing mention was made about my return, I think. But my mind was occupied. As soon as we got out into the hallway and started our walk together to our classes, I picked up again where we had left off. “D.H. Lawrence?” “ Lady Chatterley’s Lover . I read that in high school because I thought it would be particularly scandalous. It wasn’t what I expected.” “E.M. Forster?” She actually stopped when I said his name. “Any person worth a damn has read Howard’s End . Fact.” I glanced around quickly to make sure no one was around to hear the damn . Thankfully, no one was on our end of the hallway. “Less casual swearing in the hallway, ma’am. You don’t want to get fired before you even get hired.” “Are you going to turn me in?” she asked, and I could have sworn she batted her eyes. “No, ma’am,” I said, knowing that even though I wasn’t a blusher, I was probably blushing now. She was sexy. “There you go with that ‘ma’am’ shit again,” she said, putting very clear emphasis on the word shit . She wasn’t going to back down. “Are you normally this defiant?” I asked, wanting to jump her right there in the hallway. She shook her head, slightly. “I guess you just bring out the best of me,” she said. With that, she turned and walked into her classroom, giving me a splendid look at her ass. God, when did I become an ass guy? Better yet, when did I become the kind of guy who had the hots for a married co-worker? Classes may have started but that didn’t keep us from communicating. I felt a little childish for basically texting her as soon as I sat down at my desk. Wharton... I figured I could judge by the amount of time it would take her to answer whether or not she was looking the author up. Even if she had read it, if she took a while I would just assume so and hold it against her. Her response was immediate. I thought we already discussed you asking me about Pulitzer winners? Dammit. Age of Innocence . I needed someone who hadn’t received any significant awards. Time for a curveball. Collins. Who? she asked. Then followed with, Jackie Collins?

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

  "'Camille is abashed,' said Teleny, smiling. "'Then come in masked,' said the painter, dragging us down, and giving us each a black velvet half-mask before ushering us in. "The announcement that supper was waiting in the next room had almost brought the revel to a stand-still. "As we entered the studio, the sight of our dark suits and masks seemed to throw a dampness on everyone. We were, however, soon surrounded by a number of young men who came to welcome and to fondle us, some of whom were old acquaintances. "After a few questions Teleny was known, and his mask was at once snatched off; but no one for a long, time could make out who I was. I, in the meanwhile, kept ogling the middle parts of the naked men around me, the thick and curly hair of which sometimes covered the stomach and the thighs. Nay, that unusual sight excited me in such a way that I could hardly forbear handling those tempting organs; and had it not been for the love I bore Teleny, I should have done something more than finger them. "One phallus, especially—that of the Viscount—caused my intense admiration. It was of such a size that had a Roman lady possessed it she would never have asked for an ass. In fact, every whore was frightened at it; and it was said that once, abroad, a woman had been ripped up by it, for he had thrust his tremendous instrument up into her womb, and slit the partition between the front and the back hole, so that the poor wretch had died in consequence of the wound received. "His lover, however, throve upon it, for he was not only artificially but also naturally of a most florid complexion. As this young man saw that I seemed to doubt what sex he belonged to, he pulled up the skirts he wore and shewed me a dainty, pink-and-white penis, all surrounded by a mass of dark golden hair. "Just when everybody was begging me to take off my mask, and I was about to comply, Dr. Charles—usually called Charlemagne—who had been rubbing himself against me like an over-heated cat, all at once clasped me in his arms and kissed me lustily. "'Well, Briancourt,' said he, 'I congratulate you upon your new acquisition. Nobody's presence could have given me more pleasure than Des Grieux's.' "Hardly had these words been uttered than a nimble hand snatched off my mask. "Ten mouths at least were ready to kiss me, a score of hands were fondling me; but Briancourt put himself between them and me. "'For this evening,' said he, 'Camille is like a sugar-plum on a cake, something to be looked at and not touched.

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

  Come, shall we go?' "'One moment more. Do tell me who is that man with eyes on fire? He seems, indeed, lust incarnate, and is evidently past-master in lewdness. His face is familiar, and still I cannot remember where I have seen him.' "'He is a young man who having spent his fortune in the most unbridled debauchery without any damage to his constitution, has enlisted in the Spahis to see what new pleasures Algiers could afford him. That man is indeed a volcano. But here is Briancourt.' "'Well,' said he, 'are you going to stay up here in the dark all the evening?' "'Camille is abashed,' said Teleny, smiling. "'Then come in masked,' said the painter, dragging us down, and giving us each a black velvet half-mask before ushering us in. "The announcement that supper was waiting in the next room had almost brought the revel to a stand-still. "As we entered the studio, the sight of our dark suits and masks seemed to throw a dampness on everyone. We were, however, soon surrounded by a number of young men who came to welcome and to fondle us, some of whom were old acquaintances. "After a few questions Teleny was known, and his mask was at once snatched off; but no one for a long, time could make out who I was. I, in the meanwhile, kept ogling the middle parts of the naked men around me, the thick and curly hair of which sometimes covered the stomach and the thighs. Nay, that unusual sight excited me in such a way that I could hardly forbear handling those tempting organs; and had it not been for the love I bore Teleny, I should have done something more than finger them. "One phallus, especially—that of the Viscount—caused my intense admiration. It was of such a size that had a Roman lady possessed it she would never have asked for an ass. In fact, every whore was frightened at it; and it was said that once, abroad, a woman had been ripped up by it, for he had thrust his tremendous instrument up into her womb, and slit the partition between the front and the back hole, so that the poor wretch had died in consequence of the wound received. "His lover, however, throve upon it, for he was not only artificially but also naturally of a most florid complexion. As this young man saw that I seemed to doubt what sex he belonged to, he pulled up the skirts he wore and shewed me a dainty, pink-and-white penis, all surrounded by a mass of dark golden hair. "Just when everybody was begging me to take off my mask, and I was about to comply, Dr. Charles—usually called Charlemagne—who had been rubbing himself against me like an over-heated cat, all at once clasped me in his arms and kissed me lustily.

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

  "It finally reached the apex; then the slit gaped, the tiny lips parted, and the pearly, creamy viscous fluid oozed out—not all at once in a gushing jet, but at intervals, and in huge, burning tears. "At every drop that escaped out of the body, a creepy almost unbearable feeling started from the tips of the fingers, from the ends of the toes, especially from the innermost cells of the brain; the marrow in the spine and within all the bones seemed to melt; and when the different currents—either coursing with the blood or running rapidly up the nervous fibres—met within the phallus (that small instrument made out of muscles and blood-vessels) a tremendous shock took place; a convulsion which annihilated both mind and matter, a quivering delight which everyone has felt, to a greater or less degree—often a thrill almost too intense to be pleasurable. "Pressed against each other, all we could do was to try and smother our groans as the fiery drops slowly followed one another. "The prostration which followed the excessive strain of the nerves had set in, when the carriage stopped before the door of Teleny's house—that door at which I had madly struck with my fist a short time before. "We dragged ourselves wearily out of the carriage, but hardly had the portal shut itself upon us than we were again kissing and fondling each other with renewed energy. "After some moments, feeling that our desire was too powerful to be withstood any longer,—'Come,' said he, 'why should we linger any longer, and waste precious time here in the darkness and in the cold?' "'Is it dark and is it cold?' was my reply. "He kissed me fondly. "'In the gloom you are my light; in the cold you are my fire; the frozen wastes of the Pole would be a Garden of Eden for me, if you were there,' I continued. "We then groped our way upstairs in the dark, for I would not allow him to light a wax match. I therefore went along, stumbling against him; not that I could not see, but because I was intoxicated with mad desire as a drunken man is with wine. "Soon we were in his apartment. When we found ourselves in the small, dimly-lighted antechamber, he opened his arms and stretched them out towards me. "'Welcome!' said he. 'May this home be ever thine.' Then he added, in a low tone, in that unknown, musical tongue, 'My body hungereth for thee, soul of my soul, life of my life!' "He had barely finished these words before we were lovingly caressing each other. "After thus fondling each other for a few moments,—'Do you know,' said he, 'that I have been expecting you to-day?' "'Expecting me?' "'Yes, I knew that sooner or later you would be mine. Moreover, I felt that you would be coming to-day.' "'How so?' "'I had a presentiment.' "'And had I not come?'

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

  "We sat down on a soft-cushioned divan, in front of one of those ebony Arab tables all inlaid with coloured ivory and iridiscent mother-of-pearl. "'I cannot give you a banquet, although I expected you; still, there is enough to satisfy your hunger, I hope.' "There were some luscious Cancale oysters—few, but of an immense size; a dusty bottle of Sauterne, then a paté de foie gras highly scented with Périgord truffles; a partridge, with paprika or Hungarian curry, and a salad made out of a huge Piedmont truffle, as thinly sliced as shavings, and a bottle of exquisite dry sherry. "All these delicacies were served in dainty blue old Delft and Savona ware, for he had already heard of my hobby for old majolica. "Then came a dish of Seville oranges, bananas, and pineapples, flavoured with Maraschino and covered with sifted sugar. It was a savoury, tasty, tart and sweet medley, combining together the flavour and perfume of all these delicious fruits. "After having washed it down with a bottle of sparkling champagne, we then sipped some tiny cups of fragrant and scalding Mocha coffee; then he lighted a narghilè, or Turkish water pipe, and we puffed at intervals the odorous Latakiah, inhaling it with our ever-hungry kisses from each other's mouths. "The fumes of the smoke and those of the wine rose up to our heads, and in our re-awakened sensuality we soon had between our lips a far more fleshy mouth-piece.than the amber one of the Turkish pipe. "Our heads were again soon lost between each other's thighs. We had once more but one body between us, juggling with one another, ever seeking new caresses, new sensations, a sharper and more inebriating kind of lewdness, in our anxiety not only to enjoy ourselves but to make the other one feel. We were, therefore, very soon the prey of a blasting lust, and only some inarticulate sounds expressed the climax of our voluptuous state, until, more dead than alive, we fell upon each other—a mingled mass of shivering flesh. "After half an hour's rest and a bowl of arrak, curaçoa and whisky punch, flavoured with many hot, invigorating spices, our mouths were again pressed together.

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

  On this she asked me if I knew Polly Phillips? “Undoubterly,” says I, “the fair girl which was so tender of me when I was sick, and has been, as you told me, but two months in the house.” “The same,” says Phœbe. “You must know then, she is kept by a young Genoes merchant, whom his uncle, who is immensely rich, and whose darling he is, on a pretex of settling some accounts, but in reality to humour his inclinations for travelling, and seeing the world. He met casually with this Polly once in company, and taking a likning to her, makes it worth her while to keep entirely to him. He comes to her here twice or thrice a week, and she receives him in the light closet up one pair of stairs, where he enjoys her in a taste, I suppose, peculiar to the heat, or perhaps the caprices of his own country, I say no more, but to-morrow being his day, you shall see what passes between them, from a place only known to your mistress and myself.” You may be sure, in the ply I was now taking, I had no objection to the proposal, and was rather a tip-toe for its accomplishments. At five in the evening next day, Phœbe, punctual to her promise, came to me as I sat alone in my own room, and beckoned me to follow her. We went down the back stairs very softly, and opening the door of a dark closet, where there was some old furniture kept, and some cases of liquor, she drew me in after her, and fastened the door upon us, we had no light but what came through a long crevice in the partition between ours and the light closet, where the scene of action lay; so that sitting on those low cases, we could, with the greatest ease, as well as clearness, see all objects (ourselves unseen), only by applying our eyes close to the crevice, where the moulding of a panel had warped, or started a little on the other side. The young gentleman was the first person I saw, with his back directly towards me, looking at a print. Polly was not yet come: in less than a minute though, the door opened, and she came in; and at the noise the door made he turned about, and come to meet her, with an air of the greatest tenderness and satisfaction.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  An entirely different polity, however, had emerged in the foothills of the Himalayas and on the edge of the Ganges plain: the gana-sanghas or “tribal republics” that rejected monarchy and were ruled by assemblies of clan chieftains. They may have been founded by independent-minded aristocrats, who were unhappy with the autocracy of the kingdoms and wanted to live in a more egalitarian community. The tribal republics rejected Vedic orthodoxy and had no interest in paying for expensive sacrifices; instead they invested in trade, agriculture, and warfare, and power was wielded not by a king but by a small ruling class.52 Because they had no priestly caste, there were only two classes: a Kshatriya aristocracy and the dasa-karmakaru, “slaves and laborers,” who had no rights or access to resources, although it was possible for enterprising merchants and artisans to achieve higher social status. With their large standing armies, the tribal republics were a significant challenge to the Aryan kingdoms and proved to be remarkably resilient, surviving well into the middle of the first millennium CE.53 Clearly their independence and at least nominal egalitarianism appealed to something fundamental in the Indian psyche. The kingdoms and sanghas were both still mainly reliant on agriculture, but the Ganges region was also experiencing a commercial revolution, which produced a merchant class and a money economy. Cities linked by new roads and canals—Savatthi, Saketa, Kosambi, Varanasi, Rajagaha, and Changa—were becoming centers of industry and business. This challenged the structural violence of the class system, since most of the nouveau riche merchants and bankers were vaishyas, and some were even shudras.54 A new class of “untouchables” (chandalas), who had been thrown off their land by the incoming Aryans, now took the place of these aspiring workers at the bottom of the social hierarchy.55 City life was exciting. The streets were crowded with brightly painted carriages and huge elephants carrying merchandise from distant lands. People of all classes and ethnicities mingled freely in the marketplace, and new ideas began to challenge the traditional Vedic system. The Brahmins, therefore, whose roots were in the countryside, began to seem irrelevant.56

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Campbell characterized these instructions as “unshakeable post-hypnotic commands of tremendous force,” which governed much of his subsequent behavior. “The neighbor bratlings could tease me unmercifully—and did—because I couldn’t fight,” he told Heinlein; his mother would often attempt to console him by telling him that he would forget the painful experiences of his childhood soon enough, with the result that many of the most important moments of his life were lost to him. “Ron’s technique consists of bringing these old memories into view, and then erasing the memory,” Campbell explained. He writes that although he now doesn’t remember his actual birth, he does remember retrieving it and relating it to Hubbard, who then erased the real memory, with its painful associations, leaving Campbell with the experience of knowing what happened to him without actually having the memory continue its sinister influence. Obviously, the line between a real memory and an implanted one, or a confabulation, was very difficult to draw. This was the most potent medicine ever discovered, Campbell continued, but also the most dangerous weapon imaginable if not properly handled. “With the knowledge I now have, I could turn most ordinary people into homicidal maniacs within one hour.” And yet, as an editor, Campbell recognized the commercial possibilities: “This is the greatest story in the world—far bigger than the atomic bomb.” He added in a postscript that he had also lost twenty pounds in twenty-five days— another commercial bonanza. Campbell was beside himself because Hubbard had yet to actually start writing the book. “The key to world sanity is in Ron Hubbard’s head, and there isn’t even an adequate written record!” In December, Ron and Sara moved into what Hubbard termed “a little old shack” in Bayhead, New Jersey, with eight bedrooms, near the beach. In March 1950, he sent the Heinleins a handmade miniature book catalogue from “Hubbard House” publishers, proclaiming the spring collection: Announcing A New Hubbard Edition Completely New Material Not a revision Co-Authors—Ron & Sara Hubbard Release Date March 8, ’50—11:50 A.M. Weight—9 lbs. 2 oz . — Height—21 in. Alexis Valerie Has received rave notices from all reviewers! Alexis was the image of her father, who delighted in her pre- cociousness. “Ron is going at a little less than the speed of light all day and every day,” Sara wrote to the Heinleins, “then, in the middle of the night he goes in and tells Alexis all about it.” Ron promised to send Heinlein a galley of Dianetics as soon as it was available. He reported that it was 180,000 words, “begun Jan. 12, ’50, finished Feb.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I wish I could see his face. I want to see if he’s offended that I asked him to do something he hated giving up. Or maybe if he’s relieved to be asked. I just want to see his face. I do the strangest thing, then. I reach out and touch his face with my fingertips. His eyes close when I trace my way from his forehead, down over his eyes and around his lips. He’s serious. Always so serious. Dr. Isaac Asterholder. I want to meet the drummer, Isaac. He disappears for an hour. When he comes back his arms are stacked with things I can’t make out in the dark. I sit up straighter in bed and my mind hums with excitement. He works in front of the fire so that he won’t have to use the flashlight. I watch him unload what he’s brought up with him: two buckets, one smaller than the other, a metal skillet and a metal pot, duct tape, rubber bands, a pencil and two sticks. The sticks look smooth—like real drumsticks. I wonder if he’s been carving them secretly while he disappears downstairs every day. I wouldn’t blame him. I’ve been wanting to carve my skin for days. He is making things. I can’t tell what they are, but I hear the rip of the duct tape every few minutes. He swears a couple times. It’s a soundtrack: rriiiip … swear … bang … rriiiip … swear … bang. Finally, after what seems like hours, he stands up to examine his work. “Help me up,” I beg him. “Just this once so I can see.” He puts another log on the fire, and reluctantly comes over to my bed. I mouth, please, please, please, please. He picks me up before I can protest the help and carries me to what he made. I stare in wonder at his creation, my leg jutting in front of me awkwardly. He’s taped the larger bucket to a makeshift stand he’s made out of some logs. The smaller bucket sits upside down next to it. On the opposite side are the two pots—both faced down. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a mess of a thing on the floor. “That’s my pedal. I wrapped rubber around a pencil. I cut out the sole of one of my shoes for the actual pedal.” “Where did you get the rubber?” “From the fridge.” I nod. Genius. “That’s my snare.” He points to the smaller bucket. “And bass…” The larger one, turned on its side. “Can you stand me against the wall? I promise I won’t put weight on my cast.” He props me against the wall near to where his drum set sits. I lean back, thrilled to be out of bed and on my … foot. Isaac sits on the edge of the window seat. He leans down to test his pedal, then he plays.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Short stories, mostly depressing.” “Sounds like my kind of pleasure reading.” “Oh shut up. You’ll love them. He’s my favorite author.” “That’s a pretty bold statement coming from someone who has read so many different books.” “I can be a fairly bold person.” “I can see that,” I said, wondering why certain things she said gave me goose bumps—the good kind. “So you promise you’ll read it?” she asked as we neared the lunchroom. The sound of the students waiting in line was almost as offensive as the smell of fried food wafting through the halls. “I do. I’ll just have to hit up my local public library and find it. It’s probably covered in dust.” She jabbed me with her elbow. “I have two copies at the house. Come by after work sometime tonight and I’ll let you borrow one.” “Are you sure your husband won’t mind if I stopped by?” “He won’t be home.” And with that, she smiled and walked into the lunchroom.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  AmbienceDon’t despair, you don’t have to be Michelangelo to come up with creative ideas to add sparks to your lovemaking. There is nothing more exhilarating than being creative about how to love. You and your partner must decide, based on your individual personal styles, what whets your appetites. The secret to your success is not to do what he would expect, but to step outside the box and go to a place you’ve never been before. Secret from Lou’s Archives TV is the biggest robber of intimacy because it draws your attention out of the room and away from the person you’re with. If you want to keep your partner’s attention available, try quieter activities, like reading or listening to music. A sensual environment is not limited to the bedroom and can be any environment where the two of you are inspired to engage in sexual activity. Candlelight, a roaring fire, fine champagne, and soft music are lovely touches, of course. But if that’s the only type of scene that inspires your libido, you may find yourself waiting an awfully long time between sexual encounters. Remember, unlike our male counterparts, the longer we women go without an orgasm, the longer we usually can go without one. And the more often we have them, the more often it seems we want them. While I haven’t seen this phenomenon documented scientifically, it’s no secret that the longer men go without a release, the more intense their need to have one becomes. Power of LightsMen are visual creatures and they will respond to visual cues. So ladies, don’t think you’re alone in believing that soft lighting is synonymous with romance. In the movies, rare is the love scene that doesn’t take place in front of the fire, surrounded by candlelight, in the glow of a sunset, under twinkling stars, or during the innocence of daybreak. Thanks to modern technology, the association between dim lights and love is deeply ingrained in the human psyche. But let’s be honest, the sensuous effects of firelight date as far back as the Stone Age. Hollywood simply knew a good thing when they heard about it and embellished on a concept that already worked. The most obvious benefit of soft lighting is the change in mood it automatically elicits. Our voices become lower, enticing us to move nearer to each other and requiring us to listen more carefully. These small details—gentle conversation, closer physical contact, and the willingness to hear what someone else is saying—are very important steps on the path to romance.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  You must realize, assuming you’re both healthy and that you genuinely care for one another, sexual intensity (or lack thereof) is a personal choice. It’s not a condition. It can be created or recreated very quickly. The only prerequisites for a truly sensuous and fulfilling sex life for both of you are desire and a little inspiration. The following ideas were conceived and pulled off successfully by women in the seminar in order to stimulate the sexual flow of their relationships. I’m sharing them with you, hoping they might inspire your own creative juices. Remember, your sensual environment belongs to you and your partner. What works for another couple will not necessarily work for the two of you, nor should it. Yet sometimes, stepping outside those boundaries of the sexual box you’re accustomed to is exactly what it takes to reignite the flames of passion. For her husband’s thirty-fifth birthday, a housewife from a suburb outside of New York City decided to greet him with a little surprise when he’d returned home after being out of town on business for several days. When he entered the front door, he found a note waiting for him on the foyer table. It read, “Happy Birthday Darling, Follow Directions Explicitly: turn up the heat to 85; totally disrobe; put on the David Sanborn CD; and sit in the Eames chair [which was covered with a towel]; blindfold yourself, and don’t say a word. When you are ready, clap your hands.” At which point, the woman came into the room and proceeded to massage him with warm oil and feed him olives, grapes, and apricots. Then she did a hot/cold shift with her mouth (see Chapter 7) while performing oral sex. “My husband told me it was the most amazing sensation experience he’d ever experienced. And it totally revved up our sex life.” Another woman, in her mid-forties and from Los Angeles, recounted this story: “I had been taking a class in signing for the deaf, so my husband had been used to me being gone every Tuesday and Thursday evening. So the night of The Sexuality Seminar I told him a white lie and said I had a special study class for signing. The next morning, I called him and confessed that I really hadn’t been at my regular class the night before, but I’d gone to The Sexuality Seminar instead. At first he didn’t believe me. Then I said ‘Meet me at home, be nude, and I’ll prove it to you.’ ” He did and she told me that it was one of the best afternoons of lovemaking they’d had since they’d gotten married.