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 History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  37 o Distinctions from Jews were harder, because they shared the same symbolic world of Torah. Should believers, then, be circumcised, or observe the Sabbath, or practice purity regulations? • The assembly that meets “in Christ” has egalitarian ideals: There is not Jew or Greek, male or female, slave or free (Gal. 3:28), but meeting in the stratified location of the household (oikos) meant complications for those ideals. o Did the Jew have an advantage over the Gentile? Why or why not? What did that mean for common table fellowship? o Did males continue to have supremacy in all matters or only those in the household? Did the Spirit represent a liberation for females? o If all are “brothers and sisters” within the worship assembly, why did that not change the social status of master and slave when the worship ended? o The rich should not be honored if poverty is the ideal, but rich members of the community served as benefactors. Should they not be leaders, as well? The Vibrancy of the Early Christian Movement • Paul’s letters also bear witness to the vibrancy and energy of the nascent Christian movement as it exploded across the empire. • If early Christianity were simply the “Jesus movement” as a sect within Judaism, many of these issues would not have been raised; Jesus would simply have been another prophet or teacher. It was the power of the religious experience of the Resurrection that generated these great tensions. • Paul’s vision of the church as a “new creation” in which members are a “new humanity” in the “body of Christ” is a utopian conception 38 Lecture 5: Paul and Christianity’s First Expansion of community that had great appeal, but it also had the capacity to disrupt the order of society. • Already in Paul’s letters, it is possible to see how Christianity forced open accustomed cultural values and began to reshape them—not all at once, never completely, and not always successfully, but it is difficult to account for Christianity’s appeal through the centuries without recognizing this power for social change as one of its elements. Hemer, The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hellenistic Historiography. Meeks and Fitzgerald, The Writings of Saint Paul. Murphy-O’Connor, Paul: A Critical Life. 1. How is the diversity of earliest Christianity—reflected in the writings of the New Testament—grounded in the conditions of its first expansion? 2. Discuss the proposition that Paul is the real “founder” of Christianity. Does this accurately capture his role? Suggested Reading Questions to Consider

• From The Girls (2016)

  There was sourness in his tone, a sting of real resentment. Maybe I should have been frightened of him. This older man who saw that I was alone, who felt like I owed him something, which was the worst thing a man like that could feel. But I wasn’t afraid. I was protected, a hilarious and untouchable giddiness overtaking me. I was going back to the ranch. I would see Suzanne. Claude seemed barely real to me: a paper clown, innocuous and laughable. —“This good?” Claude said. He’d pulled over near the campus in Berkeley, the clock tower and stair-step houses thickening the hills behind. He turned off the ignition. I felt the heat outside, the close wend of traffic. “Thanks,” I said, gathering my purse and duffel. “Slow down,” he said as I started to open the door. “Just sit with me a second, hm?” I sighed but sat back in the seat. I could see the dry hills above Berkeley and remembered, with a start, that brief time in winter when the hills were green and plump and wet. I hadn’t even known Suzanne then. I could feel Claude looking at me sideways. “Listen.” Claude scratched at his neck. “If you need some money—” “I don’t need money.” I was unafraid, shrugging a quick goodbye and opening the door. “Thanks again,” I said. “For the ride.” “Wait,” he said, grabbing my wrist. “Fuck off,” I said, wrenching my arm away from the bracelet of his grasp, an unfamiliar heat in my voice. Before I slammed the door, I saw Claude’s weak and sputtering face. I was walking away, breathless. Almost laughing. The sidewalk radiating even heat, the pulse of the abrupt sunshine. I was buoyed by the exchange, as if suddenly allowed more space in the world. “Bitch,” Claude called, but I didn’t turn back to look. —Telegraph was packed: people selling tables of incense or concho jewelry, leather purses hung from an alley fence. The city of Berkeley was redoing all the roads that summer, so piles of rubble collected on the sidewalks, trenches cracking through the asphalt like a disaster movie. A group in floor-length robes fluttered pamphlets at me. Boys with no shirts, their arms pressed with faint bruising, looked me up and down. Girls my age lugged carpetbags that banged against their knees, wearing velvet frock coats in the August heat. Even after what had happened with Claude, I wasn’t afraid of hitchhiking. Claude was just a harmless floater in the corner of my vision, drifting peacefully into the void. Tom was the sixth person I approached, tapping his shoulder as he ducked into his car. He seemed flattered by my request for a ride, like it was an excuse I’d made up to be near him. He hurriedly brushed off the passenger seat, raining silent crumbs onto the carpet. “It could be cleaner,” he said. Apologetic, as if I might possibly be picky.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Harlem is too hot. It’s time to get the fuck out, she thought, her body undulating with movements on its own. She’d been working the G-Spot for over two years now, and she couldn’t believe how fast her luck had suddenly changed. That dumb bitch Juicy had fucked around and betrayed G by getting caught on camera suckin’ off his very own son, and right now Granite McKay’s main bitch was downstairs chained to a bed in the Dungeon, beat down and fucked the hell out. That left all the room in the world for Monique and Pluto to take over the G-Spot2 when it opened in Baltimore, the same joint that G was fronting all the money for and had been planning to hand over to his son, Gino. Monique was down on the floor now. Laying on her side, her right leg doing a wide scissor dance as niggahs drooled and tried to push their eyeballs up into her uterus. She rolled over on her back and slid her body around the long way. She knew how delicious she looked from the side. Bodacious titties rising into the air like two firm brown hills, each one with a shiny little cherry on top. Her shoulders were pressed back and her waist arched up high, a gap of light showing between her lower back and the stage floor due to the thick mound of ass she was packing. She waved her legs in the air. They were shapely and in perfect proportion. Already Monique could see herself flossin’ down there in B-More. She’d step up in that brand-new territory like a bad-ass bitch for real. She’d shop for some fly New York gear before she left, then take all her banging fashions right down I-95 along with her. Of course she’d come back to Harlem to get her hair whipped all the time, but no more poles and stages and fuck rooms for her. She’d be too busy managing her own stable of strippers and hoes. She’d be pushing Pluto’s Porsche and staying iced the fuck out seven days a week. The excitement of her thoughts had Monique moving her body on the floor like a snake, slithering and shivering as her nipples hardened and her pussy began to leak. Just imagining herself as a classy bitch running a high-powered joint kicked her sex-o-meter into automatic. Her heat was turned up extra-high, and every niggah in the room was dying to stick his tongue in the pool of hot juices that were bubbling between her thighs. Monique closed her eyes and tuned out the noise of the crowd. C-notes fluttered down on her body, some of the green bills sticking to the dampness of her skin. She bounced her ass to the beat, then shocked them all by spinning around on her butt until she was facing the crowd with her curvy legs gapped wide open.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  “What?” Rasheeda was shocked. “Awwwww . . . I see a bitch is gonna have to . . .” She walked over to the nightstand at the side of the bed and retrieved a small metallic container. She got back between my legs and opened the container. A can of Altoids. “Awwwww shit!” I exclaimed. “Uhhhhh-huh!” she replied as she put six Altoids in her mouth and a few cubes of ice she took from a cup. “Awwwwwww shit!” I yelled out again. Rasheeda attacked the dick. Holding it firmly at the base while going up and down on it at a frantic pace. Monster felt as if he was burning and freezing at the same time. I had never felt a sensation like that before and my mind fought to record everything I was feeling from my numb dick. Rasheeda kept at it as she dripped melted ice and liquefied mint out of her mouth. It ran down the length of me, leaving hot/cold sensations on Monster as it trickled down between my legs. “Whose dick is this?” she asked again. I looked down and deep into her eyes before I replied, “You don’t know her!” Holding my dick, she inched off the bed until her knees were on the floor. Since she held my most prized possession hostage, I had no choice but to follow her. When my butt was at the edge of the bed, she got on all fours, looking up into my eyes as she prepared to suck my dick in the position where it could be done best. She stuck her tongue out and licked my balls in an upward motion to the very tip of my love muscle. My body shuddered uncontrollably after just the first lick. “Whose dick is this?” “You . . . don’t . . . know . . . her!” I grunted through gritted teeth. Monster was so hard that he pointed at the ceiling. “Dick,” Rasheeda said simply. I pushed the tip of Monster down until he was pointed at Rasheeda’s full lips. She rocked forward on her knees and slurped at the tip of my dick. “Ohhhhh fuck!” Sluuurp! “Whose dick is this?” “Ohhh fuck! I’m . . . gonna . . . cum . . . all ova ya face . . .” I breathed, warning her. Sluuuurp! “A bitch might like—” The second I knew Rasheeda didn’t mind me cumming on her, Monster threw a bolt of pearl white lightning onto her face. “Uuugghh!” I groaned as Monster flexed. He flexed his muscles again, casting another bolt of white lightning. Rasheeda moaned loudly as my liquid heat dripped from her face. Monster cast another bolt and her eyes snapped open. “Damn, baby!” she exclaimed, aroused by the abundance of semen splashing on her. She cooed and took my dick back into her mouth, absorbing the rest of my liquid bolts down her throat. I growled loudly then fell back on the bed, spent.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  The whore fantasies were prolific and my fee enormous. I found it fascinating that the man who materialized in these heated encounters was more often than not almost physically repugnant to me—a beast-man. Being a sucker for beauty in general, I gave this unexpected scenario a great deal of thought. I concluded that every woman must have a man—real or imaginary—to whom she is a whore, for whom she is a whore. I have always wanted, alas, to be some man’s bimbo. I don’t mean just acting like a slut or being desired for sex alone, although these are both excellent goals. I mean that the sex is for profit—be it financial or otherwise—more than for physical desire. If a woman is driven by a physical craving, she is vulnerable; with a beast-man, obviously, she retains her power. But that is not the most interesting part. I also discovered that imaginary sex with a man for gain is incredibly sexy. One’s inner whore gets a real workout, so to speak. Selling one’s sexuality, by choice, frees a woman’s desires from the incriminations, restrictions, and suppressions of good-girlness that proliferate when one is “in love.” And thus the paradoxical surprise: love is released as gratitude in great gushes of incredible uncensored sexual energy. With my fantasy beast-men I achieved orgasms that were, finally, entirely guiltless; they were, after all, my job. You see, I have an impeccable work ethic, whereas in matters of the heart I have no idea of my rights, much less their application. When sex becomes my work, I’m home free—cash in hand. I found that if I allowed these various fantasies to rove uncensored, they would uncover parts of myself that were otherwise entirely hidden. I became particularly interested in the fraction of time that preceded the moment of orgasmic inevitability. What thought, what dynamic, what image would cause that final, magical, loss of control? That was the pivotal moment that seemed to join consciousness to the divine—and more often than not, I found this lofty pathway to be inspired by completely slutty activities (see above—and below). This meeting of the galaxies in the gutter fascinates me still. I learned, for example, that I often reach the point of inevitability through the inspiration of a dire “last-resort” thought or image that renders me, my pussy, my clit, the most exposed, the most seen, the most helpless. Loss of responsibility—it’s-not-my-fault—does it every time.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  There is the very normal-looking bikini style—mine are deep purple—that upon closer inspection (which is the aim, after all) sport a very nasty little three-inch, black-lace-lined slit in the middle of the crotch that basically forms a glory hole for a searching tongue—or cock. In their apparent innocence, these are in some ways the naughtiest of the assortment—but then again perhaps not . . . There are the transparent black ones that carry the slit concept to infinity: the slit, red-ribbon-rimmed, simply runs from the waistband in front all the way down and around to the waistband in back. These are actually very practical panties, allowing for clit, cunt, and ass access, although with one’s legs held together, they appear quite decent. Then there is my little-girl pair: white with tiny pink roses. These are stylistically quite complex. While they retain the usual waist of a panty, the entire crotch has been excised, leaving only two delectable little elastics traveling between one’s legs with zippo in between except one’s very own jewelry box. Carefully coiffed pubic hair in front acquires a really lovely triangular frame in this style, and I’m especially charmed by the petite pink bows decorating the crucial junctures where skin and panty meet. Taken as a whole, this truly “crotchless” design is perhaps the most elegant of the bunch, but I’m also fond of a rather amusing pair that has clearly been based on the design of a ballerina’s tutu. Sporting a split thong between the legs and a witty little tutulike black gauze ruffle around the waistband, they are quite adorable. But the very best of all, my favorite, is the Butterfly. I have these in both black and powder pink. These are the most expensive and it is clear why—they have the least fabric of all. These petite, delicate works of art best embody the great irony of this particular garment: they are classy crotchless panties. G-string style, the upper pubic area is designed and woven in the shape of a spread-eagled butterfly complete with wings sprinkled with beads and shimmering sequins. I just adore glitter, pomp, and circumstance around my pussy—I’d wear red velvet curtains with gold-tasseled tiebacks between my legs if I could. But the real pièce de nonrésistance in these particular panties lies in the two slender elastic straps that connect the lower wings of the butterfly to the center of the thin elastic waistband in the back. Properly placed, alongside the outer pussy lips, they pull up ever so slightly, visually accentuating from the front the beginning of one’s slit. But one day those two little straps slipped—ooh la la!—and demonstrated yet again that accident is the mother of invention. With those elastics placed securely inside, on either side of one’s clit and hood, the butterfly soars. Oh my, oh my, oh my—that feels good. And it looks absolutely beyond porn queen, like the summit of high art—like a Modigliani by Mondrian.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  It is perhaps no surprise, given my theatrical background, that props, costumes, and ceremony became increasingly essential components of my newly expanded private life. My bed became the stage for that intense human drama called sexual interplay. I knew from public performance that artifice, ambiance, and ritual could propel the participant into a state of truth and beauty far more effectively than thoughts or good intentions. In my bedroom, where I exchanged my tutus for corsets, my tiaras and toe shoes for blindfolds and stilettos, the poetic logic was obvious. And crotchless panties fit perfectly (they always do) into the tragicomedy that was now my sex life. This vastly underrated, overlooked undergarment is so rarely celebrated, or even mentioned, that I must digress for just a moment to rectify this enormous oversight. While the thong has been elevated to a sexual status far beyond its actual utility, the crotchless panty is really where it’s at, or at least where my clit is at. I actually—optimistically and sadly—bought my first pair while still married. Black, transparent little nylon bikinis without any crotch between the leg elastics. The moment I saw them—draped over a red silk hanger at a sex store I visited while in Copenhagen on vacation—I got a warm rush. Ah, another Danish souvenir to bring home along with my crotchless Little Mermaid statue. But this lonely item simply ended up gathering dust in the back of my underwear drawer—until found, washed, and resurrected in my new single life, years later. The first time I put them on for a lover was a brave day indeed. But they received a most encouraging reaction. I needed another pair. But where to shop? Crotchless panties are usually found in sex-toy stores and occasionally, in small supply, at Frederick’s of Hollywood, where the variety is also quite limited. Despite their titillating sell, Victoria’s Secret stops just short of offering their slutty little panties with crotch slits. But where, after all, is “Victoria’s Secret”? It sure isn’t at their return address in Ohio. I guess this is where those masters at monitoring the boundary between decency and vulgarity draw the line to maintain their legitimacy. But the sex stores have a different reputation to maintain, and they are well stocked. Costing on average just slightly more than your basic cotton thong but far less than La Perla’s little nothings, these crotchless wonders will definitely get you more bang for your buck. Crotchless panties are actually little works of art, and the art is clearly in the details—or carefully placed lack of detail. They are, in short, pussy-framing devices—hence their great potential for lovers, even going so far as to guide those who are directionally challenged right into the center of the playing field. Contrary to popular assumption, they come in many different styles—each with its own je ne sais quoi. I currently own five styles, with a few duplicates of my favorites.

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  DWIGHT DROVE US down to Seattle early the next morning. He stopped on the bridge leading out of camp so we could see the salmon in the water below. He pointed them out to us, dark shapes among the rocks. They had come all the way from the ocean to spawn here, Dwight said, and then they would die. They were already dying. The change from salt to fresh water had turned their flesh rotten. Long strips of it hung off their bodies, waving in the current. Taylor and Silver and I sometimes hung out in the bathroom during lunch hour. We smoked cigarettes and combed our hair and exchanged interesting facts not available to the general public about women. It was just after Thanksgiving. I told Taylor and Silver and a couple of weed fiends who practically lived in the bathroom the story of how I’d killed the turkey in Chinook. “I mean I blew it off, man—I blew his fucking head right off!” At first nobody responded. Silver did the French inhale, then slowly blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “With a .22,” he said. “Fuckin’ A,” I said. “Winchester .22. Pump.” “Wolff,” he said, “you are so full of shit.” “Fuck you, Silver. I don’t care what you think.” “All a .22 would do is just make a hole in his head.” I took a drag and let the smoke come out of my mouth as I talked. “One bullet, maybe.” “Oh. Oh, I see—you hit him more than once. While he was flying. In the head.” I nodded. Silver howled. The other guys were also manifesting signs of disbelief. “Fuck you, Silver,” I said, and when he howled again I said, “Fuck. You. Fuck. You.” Still saying this, I went over to the wall, which had just been repainted, and took out my comb. It was a girl’s comb. We all carried them, tails sticking out of our back pockets. With the tail of the comb I scratched FUCK YOU into the soft paint and once more told Silver, “Fuck you.” The two weed fiends ditched their cigarettes and cleared out. So did Silver and Taylor. I threw away the comb and followed.

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  Then it hit me. Perhaps I should write it myself. I resumed my pacing, but this time thinking furiously. My book could set the Prophet in the context of his time, and I could angle it to a Western person who was confused by the controversy and had an inbuilt cultural suspicion of Islam. In the West we took it for granted that Islam was the religion of the sword; I myself had assumed that it was an inherently violent religion until I had started to study Islam seriously. In the new book, I could deal with this question when telling the story of Muhammad’s war with Mecca. When I described the Prophet’s relationship with his wives, I could discuss the position of women in Islam. I could look into the real meaning of the episode of the so-called Satanic verses that had inspired Rushdie’s novel, talk about the nature of scripture and what was entailed in the concept of divine inspiration. Feeling more excited and positive than I had felt for a long time, I went upstairs to my study, typed out an eight-page proposal, and faxed it to Felicity Bryan so that she could see it as soon as she came into the office on Monday morning. I was eager to begin, but it was months before we could find a publisher. Once again, most people who saw the proposal turned it down flat, convinced that the topic was too dangerous and that I would be joining Rushdie in hiding. There were the usual gloomy jeremiads. “Muslims won’t like it, you know,” a friend warned me solemnly. “They’ll see it as provocative to have not only a Westerner, but a Western woman, writing about their Prophet!” Others could not see why I wanted to get involved at all. I would appear to be siding with Islam, a position that would put me even further beyond the pale in London at the present time. It was just not politically correct right now. Finally, however, Liz Knights of Gollancz saw that the project had possibilities, and offered a small advance. Because I felt that time was of the essence, I agreed to deliver the manuscript on New Year’s Day 1991.

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  We got away with it. A week later we came back after a movie to break some more windows, then chickened out when a car turned into the parking lot and sat there with its engine running for a few minutes before driving away. Instead of making us more careful, the interest of the police in what we’d done elated us. We became selfimportant, cocksure, insane in our arrogance. We broke windows. We broke streetlights. We opened the doors of cars parked on hills and released the emergency brakes so they smashed into the cars below. We set bags of shit on fire and left them on doorsteps, but people didn’t stamp them out as they were supposed to do; instead they waited with weary expressions as the bags burned, now and then looking up to scan the shadows from which they felt us watching them. We did these things in darkness and in the light of day, moving always to the sound of breaking glass and yowling cats and grinding metal. And we stole. At first we stole as part of our general hoodlum routine, and for Taylor and Silver it never had any more importance than that. But for me the stealing was serious business, so much so that I dissembled its seriousness, not letting Taylor and Silver see the hold it had on me. I was a thief. By my own estimation, a master thief. When I cruised the aisles of dime stores, lingering over jackknives and model cars, a bland expression on my face, looking more innocent than an innocent person has any business looking, I imagined that the saleswomen who sometimes glanced over at me saw an earnest young shopper instead of a transparent little klepto. And when I finally managed to steal something I figured I was getting away with it because I was so sharp, and not because these women had been on their feet all day and were too tired to deal with a shoplifter and the trouble he would cause them: his false outrage, then his terror, his weeping, the triumphant descent of the manager, policemen, paperwork, the hollowness they would feel when it was over. I hid the things I stole. Now and then I took them out and turned them over in my hands, dully considering them. Out of the store they did not interest me, except for the jackknives, which I threw at trees until the blades broke off. A FEW MONTHS after we moved into the house Marian got engaged to her marine boyfriend. Then Kathy got engaged to a man in her office. Marian thought my mother should get engaged too, and tried to fix her up. She set in motion a brief parade of suitors. One by one they came up the walk, stared at the broken steps,

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  “How can anyone believe all this stuff?” John or Nick would ask incredulously, and we would look at one another, wide-eyed in genuine astonishment. It did indeed seem incredible that in the late twentieth century people could still accept the idea that a personalized deity had brought the world into being and supervised human history, or that a young Jewish teacher who had died in an obscure province of the Roman Empire had been divine. And if you could give no credence to these doctrines—and I could not— you had lost your faith. That was the end of the matter, and truth demanded that you should say so honestly. I was convinced that I had not been alone in my doubts: there must be hundreds—thousands—of Christians who suppressed similar misgivings, stamped on their rebellious thoughts, and felt all the while a sinking loss of intellectual and personal integrity. These people must be crippling their minds as I had done by confining them within an untenable doctrinal system. Channel 4 had commissioned me to liberate them. I would show the absurdity of these dogmatic constraints. People could walk free and rediscover the joy of an unfettered mind, as I was doing right now. This was arrogant, of course, but I still felt slightly intoxicated by my newly recovered mental agility and I wanted others to feel this way too. I could not get over my luck in getting this commission; it was a privilege, and I wanted to spread the “gospel” that had, I thought, saved me. So I was not simply carried away by the flattery, the attention, and the expense-account lunches. I was a woman with a mission.

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  streaming down the window I could see him talking, talking, and my mother smiling and shaking her head. Then they both got out and he took our bags from the trunk. “You’re sure, now?” he said to her. She nodded. When she tried to pay him he said that her money was no good, not to him it wasn’t, but she held it out again and he took it. My mother broke out laughing after he drove away. “Of all things,” she said. She kept laughing to herself as we hauled the bags inside, where she settled me on a bench and went to the ticket window. The station was empty except for a family of Indians. All of them, even the children, looked straight ahead and said nothing. A few minutes later my mother came back with our tickets. The Phoenix bus had left already and the next one didn’t come through until late that night, but we were in luck—there was a bus leaving for Portland in a couple of hours, and from there we could make an easy connection to Seattle. I tried to conceal my disappointment but my mother saw it and bought me off with a handful of change. I played the pinball machines for a while and then stocked up on candy bars for the trip, Milk Duds and Sugar Babies and Idaho Spuds, most of which were already curdling in my stomach when at dusk we boarded our bus and stood in the dazed regard of the other passengers. We hesitated for a moment as if we might get off. Then my mother took my hand and we made our way down the aisle, nodding to anyone who looked at us, smiling to show we meant well. Uncool____

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  It was a clever piece, and I use that word advisedly. There was truth and insight there, but it was not profound. It was also very angry. As I spoke, I realized that I still had a lot of scores to settle with the church. When I had finished, the cameraman raised himself slowly into an upright position and gazed at me. “Phew!” he breathed, wiping his brow. When I went out into the control room, I found the rest of the crew staring at me dumbstruck, even the cool Nick. “Wow!” he said. And then he grinned. “You,” he told me, “are embarrassingly good!” Apparently nobody else had been able to do this. Without a TelePrompTer, most of the contributors had dried up after a few minutes. “And what you said was terrific,” Nick continued. “We’ll call it The Body of Christ. John is going to love it!” John apparently was the commissioning editor for religion at Channel 4. “But surely, if he’s religious, he won’t like this?” I asked. “No, no! You don’t understand.” Nick beamed at me. “John loathes religion! He’ll really go for this. Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind doing it again? Just so we can show him the best of two pilots?” As I drove back to North London, I felt not merely lighthearted but elated. After the second filming, which had gone even better than the first, Nick had swept me off with the crew for a celebration lunch. All kinds of nice things had been said, but the flattery, though very welcome, was of secondary importance. It was only when I was on my way home that I realized what I had done. I had walked into a studio and talked for twenty minutes about an idea of my own. Nobody had suggested the theme to me; it was an eccentric, perhaps even original, idea that I had thought up for myself. I remembered all those years at Oxford when I had sat tongue-tied in class, my mind able to function only when somebody else had kick-started it. In one small but vital respect, I had recovered. And the wonderful thing was that it had seemed so effortless. It had never occurred to me that I would not be able to talk coherently and persuasively. The healing had happened without my realizing it.

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  suitcases. She asked me why I wasn’t at archery. There was no suspicion behind the question. “They canceled it,” I told her. “Great,” she said. “Now I won’t have to go looking for you. Why don’t you check your room and make sure I’ve got everything.” “We going somewhere?” “Yes.” She smoothed out a dress. “We sure are.” “Where?” She laughed. “I don’t know. Any suggestions?” “Phoenix,” I said immediately. She didn’t ask why. She hung the dress in a garment bag and said, “That’s a real coincidence, because I was thinking about Phoenix myself. I even got the Phoenix paper. They have lots of opportunities there. Seattle too. What do you think about Seattle?” I sat down on the bed. It was starting to take hold of me too, the giddiness of flight. My knees shook and I felt myself grin. Everything was racing. I said, “What about Roy?” She kept on packing. “What about him?” “I don’t know. Is he coming too?” “Not if I can help it, he isn’t.” She said she hoped that was okay with me. I didn’t answer. I was afraid of saying something she would remember if they got back together. But I was glad to be once more on the run and glad that I would have her to myself again. “I know you two are close,” she said. “Not that close.” She said there wasn’t time to explain everything now, but later on she would. She tried to sound serious, but she was close to laughing and so was I. “Better check your room,” my mother said again. “When are we leaving?”

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  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. Others came to the now-opened gate, and I proceeded to have what everyone else seemed to be having: consecutive monogamous relationships of varying lengths. It never occurred to me that you didn’t have to become monogamous the moment a guy put his tongue in your mouth. That’s just the way it was—sealed with saliva—and I didn’t have enough experience to think that I might have a choice in the matter. The second and third boyfriends—both “nice” and “appropriate” young men—introduced me to orgasms through oral sex and I became hooked on that, on their tongues, but not so much on them. The intercourse that followed just seemed like their part of the deal. And there were a few more boyfriends after them. Same thing. The only time I had sex that was not defined by monogamy was with a stagehand I met in a bar. Long blond hair, gruff language, tattoos. I was having a drink with friends one night when he turned to me and whispered, “I want you to sit on my face.” “Excuse me?” I said. I had no idea what he was talking about. He thought I must be joking, but I wasn’t. So he explained. I had another vodka, left the bar with him, and sat on his face. I’d never done that before. He had big hands that handled me like meat, prime. It was my second taste of being with a man who was “wrong” for me, a man with whom I knew there would be no “relationship.” Fucking him, I felt the fantastic power of a completely other being crashing into mine. I could not lose myself with a peer, only with a man who was impossible. But then I fell deeply, suddenly, and totally in love with the man who became my husband—it was like being hit with a cement block on the head, crash, and there I was at the altar—and bad boys were banished. It never even occurred to me to have an affair while I was married. I loved him too much, it was unthinkable. He was my fate, my husband.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  The Book Phase included: Simone Weil (beyond my scope to emulate); Nietzsche (Thus Spake he to me); Henry Miller (the romance of poverty in Paris!); D. H. Lawrence (John Thomas and Lady Jane); Anaïs Nin (sexual liberation between the sheets and on the page—in Paris); Freud (incest is best—or at least inevitable); Thomas Mann (the poetic profundity of X-rays); Henry James (I am Isabel Archer, living in the wrong era, in the wrong wardrobe); Virginia Woolf (diary after diary right into the river); Erich Fromm; Eric Hoffer; Ernest Becker ( The Denial of Death, every page underlined in red); and Søren Kierkegaard (seven tomes in a row, with voluminous notes on either legal pads or index cards . . . I loved Kierkegaard). These books and their revelations constituted my secret life until I was nearly twenty. Then I lost my virginity. And although my deepest interests have perhaps never changed, they immediately became irrevocably diverted to deriving answers—dancing had presented all the questions—from experience, not only books. But while all this reading and searching for external connection went on in the early morning and late at night, my deepest allegiance and dependence belonged elsewhere during the day: on the walls of the dance studio, where I could not escape my savage self. 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.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  My OB-GYN fantasy works extremely well: I am the guinea pig, for a fee of five hundred dollars—I really need the money; it’s only for the money—for the final semester of classes for the advanced medical students. I am behind a big white sheet, just doing it for the dough, awake, and above it all—this is work. On the other side of the sheet my feet are in stirrups, my thighs are wide, and my pussy is spread for show-and-tell. The doctor teaching the class first uses a pointing rod to direct the ten students to the sites of the female sexual anatomy. Then, naughty doctor, he starts to use his fingers to better explain the details. And all those students, male and female, are gazing intently at my shaved, pink little pussy while I read the New York Times Arts & Leisure section on the other side of the sheet, blasé and anonymous, feeling nothing . . . I think. The final class is devoted to the clit and female sexual excitement, with the doctor suggesting that for thorough knowledge each student get up real close for a single, well-earned lick before their lunch break. By now I am somewhat distracted and wondering why the Times doesn’t have a horoscope section, and then the good doctor finishes me off, showing all those young men and women just how expert a physician he really is. Now I know my horoscope: it’s a “good day,” full of “unusual opportunity” with a “tempting offer” for “a lucrative position promising unexpected personal reward.” About anonymity and sex. I find it very shortsighted to dismiss the concept of “anonymous” sex—real or imagined—as “impersonal,” and shamefully indicative of one’s unresolved “intimacy issues.” This is a terrible misunderstanding based on the post-Freudian world where “individuality” and “self-expression” have been raised to unworthy heights of worthiness that leave one saddled with the heavy burden of “being oneself” at all times. Who can be “themselves” during sex? Not me. In anonymity lies freedom from oppression—from the personality of one’s partner, and from one’s own demanding ego. Blindfolds are your friends, concealing your shame and the identity of your all-too-human lover. Anonymous sex is not about avoidance. For me, it is about a kind of harmless grandiosity: when I am anonymous, I exist as something far greater than my particulars. I become an archetype, a myth, a Joseph Campbell goddess spreading my legs for the benefit of all mankind for all time. This imagined generosity brings me the most profound orgasms.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “What do you think of a truce?” “It reminds me of when the Germans demanded that the U.S. surrender at the Battle of the Bulge,” I said. “I guess I’d say to this truce offer what General McAuliffe said to that one: Nuts.” “Why would you try to kill this guy, Kevin? He’s a genius. Nuts to your truce.” “Come on, dude. I know you ratted them out, and we had to defend our friend, and now it’s over. Let’s end it.” He seemed very sincere, perhaps due to the Colonel’s reputation for pranking. “I’ll make you a deal. You pick one dead American president. If Pudge doesn’t know that guy’s last words, truce. If he does, you spend the rest of your life lamenting the day you pissed in my shoes.” “That’s retarded.” “All right, no truce,” the Colonel shot back. “Fine. Millard Fillmore,” Kevin said. The Colonel looked at me hurriedly, his eyes saying, Was that guy a president? I just smiled. “When Fillmore was dying, he was super hungry. But his doctor was trying to starve his fever or whatever. Fillmore wouldn’t shut up about wanting to eat, though, so finally the doctor gave him a tiny teaspoon of soup. And all sarcastic, Fillmore said, ‘The nourishment is palatable,’ and then died. No truce.” Kevin rolled his eyes and walked away, and it occurred to me that I could have made up any last words for Millard Fillmore and Kevin probably would have believed me if I’d used that same tone of voice, the Colonel’s confidence rubbing off on me. “That was your first badass moment!” The Colonel laughed. “Now, it’s true that I gave you an easy target. But still. Well done.” — Unfortunately for the Culver Creek Nothings, we weren’t playing the deaf-and-blind school. We were playing some Christian school from downtown Birmingham, a team stocked with huge, gargantuan apemen with thick beards and a strong distaste for turning the other cheek. At the end of the first quarter: 20–4. And that’s when the fun started. The Colonel led all of the cheers. “Cornbread!” he screamed. “CHICKEN!” the crowd responded. “Rice!” “PEAS!” And then, all together: “WE GOT HIGHER SATs.” “Hip Hip Hip Hooray!” the Colonel cried. “YOU’LL BE WORKIN’ FOR US SOMEDAY!” The opposing team’s cheerleaders tried to answer our cheers with “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! Hell is in your future if you give in to desire,” but we could always do them one better. “Buy!” “SELL!” “Trade!” “BARTER!” “YOU’RE MUCH BIGGER, BUT WE ARE SMARTER!” When the visitors shoot a free throw on most every court in the country, the fans make a lot of noise, screaming and stomping their feet. It doesn’t work, because players learn to tune out white noise. At Culver Creek, we had a much better strategy. At first, everyone yelled and screamed like in a normal game. But then everyone said, “Shh!” and there was absolute silence.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  He spends slack time doing pushups and situps in his rubber sweat suit under his bunch of wool blankets. You’ll come off the mat after a drill and off in a corner will be a boy-sized green heap with gold trim pumping furiously up and down. We often wonder aloud about the true nature of these movements. It’s reported that his girl is denying Sausage his strokes and that Sausage has taken to throbbing his cob more frequently than may be healthy. Otto sneaks one way and I sneak the other. Coach is talking about Romaine Lewis, L.C.’s man at fifty-four. Coach looks around for me. I stop my stealthy crawl and pop up behind Kenny Schmoozler, our man at 133. Carla thinks Schmoozler’s name is awfully cute. She says that with a name like that, Schmoozler should be a little animal. I assure her that he is. “Lewis will take you down, you let yourself get weak!” Coach yells. “I feel great, Coach.” I gleam. “That Romaine Lettuce is a doper. He won’t take me down. I’ll dance, sing, dice him, slice him. I’ll counsel him on the dangers of snorting hair straightener. His internal environment is polluted. Lettuce won’t take me down.” Coach covers his eyes. He knows when the team is feeling right. “Did you eat?” he growls. “I ate, I ate. Two carob bars and a can of Nutrament,” I reply. “Lean and mean, Coach! Lean and mean!” I chant. Otto snorts like a wild pig. “Lean and mean, lean and mean!” He’s worked his way around to Sausage and kicks him through his blankets. “Lean and mean! Lean and mean!” the Sausage Man pipes. Now all of us are rooting around the mats on all fours, bumping into each other, grunting like frenzied swine, chanting, “Lean and mean! Lean and mean!” Coach lets us go for about a minute, then continues with the scouting report. We stop. We’ve got to conserve. There’s a tough practice ahead. Otto and I sit with our arms resting on Thuringer. He peeks his head out at Otto, then leers at me. “Don’t fuck with me,” the Sausage Man warns. “Damon,” I say. “Damon, my boy. Otto and I have only come to congratulate you on your captaincy.” “Bite ass, Swain,” Sausage says. “Just bite ass.” Otto is offended by this unfriendliness. He tweaks Sausage’s nose and pushes his head under the blankets. “Sausage Man,” Otto coos. “We know what you do under your blankies. No more hacking your lizard in the privacy of your little nest. Self-abuse saps your strength, Sausage. Take heed: thou shalt not pump thy pepperoni.” “You fuckers better not hurt my lip. I haven’t got my mouthpiece,” Sausage informs us. Being a good flute player, Sausage really has to take care of his lip. “Your mouthpiece is in a safe place, Damon,” I reply. The Sausage Man groans from beneath his blankets. He knows where that safe place is.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  One of the many advantages of a hand job is that it can be done in a variety of places. Intercourse and fellatio (forgive me ladies, “blow job” just isn’t my favorite term), even excessive kissing, are difficult to overlook when being done in public. However, a good hand job can practically be done under the nose of a stranger without detection. It’s been known to happen in such places as restaurants (providing the tablecloth is long enough), in airplanes (those little blankets are good for something), and on amusement park rides (though you may have to go around more than once). Although admittedly, the risk involved is part of the thrill, by all means, do be careful. Being arrested is another serious mood killer. Basically, men are thrilled by a good hand job outside of their bedrooms. Consider these reported favorite locations: • stairwells of hotels, libraries, or office buildings • boardroom tables • the boss’s desk (who knew this was so popular!) • a restaurant powder room • laundry rooms • under the beach blanket • the kitchen counter, when on your way out of the house for the evening Secret from Lou’s Archives Be careful of giving a hand job in an enclosed space: the characteristic smell of semen is often strong and others may catch on to what you’re up to. THE STATE OF THE HANDS Always keep in mind presentation, presentation, presentation! And in the case of manual stimulation, your hands are the center of attention—well, almost the center. In most of the techniques I describe below, you’ll be using both your hands, so it’s of the utmost importance that they look and feel their best. As I just mentioned, you’ll be handling the most tender and sensitive parts of a man’s body. Psychologically, he’ll make a connection between the way you take care of your hands and the care your hands will take of him. Needless to say, cleanliness is also key. You wouldn’t want him to touch you with dirty hands, so show him the same courtesy. You’ll want your hands to be smooth, void of any rough spots. For soft, healthy skin, I suggest moisturizing your hands (avoid using perfumed lotions) every morning and evening before you turn in for the night. Your nails should be impeccable and well manicured. The tiniest nick could cause him extreme discomfort. The length and color of your nails are a matter of personal preference, but according to my male surveys, less is often more. And as for your beautiful baubles: unless your rings or bracelets are perfectly smooth to the touch, I would take them off beforehand.