Exposure Dread

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 Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  Though she kept her eyes glued to the floor, the empress was acutely aware that there were bystanders all around her, observing her every movement with keen interest. Even so, she slipped her hand between her legs to touch herself, shutting her own eyes tightly as she did so. That those staring eyes saw her hand and watched her please herself she doubted not and, as a matter of fact, this heightened her excitement. But still she could not bear to look at them directly. She was too self-conscious of the awkward movements and sounds she was making while thus engaged with the emperor in so intimate an act. But what was the audience’s response to the exhibition? she wondered. What were they thinking as they sat there, silently watching her and the emperor thrash about against each other with such wild abandon? She could feel the exquisite pleasure her husband was giving her, but what did it look like from their point of view? These ruminations only increased her excitement, and suddenly she wanted more than anything to see the faces of the persons who had assembled around the glass room to watch. She turned her head sideways and tentatively looked up. Her whole body convulsed as she looked into the eyes of the multitude who silently stared at her in astonishment. Some were looking at the place where she and her husband were joined. Others watched her dangling breasts. Still others examined her face. Those gaping eyes watched in all different sizes, from normal to extra large, as they peered at her through the various panels for the desired effect. The empress shuddered as she tried to imagine the vision that presented itself from each vantage point. Wave after wave of pleasure seared through her, as she searched one face after the other, watching them watching her. The empress’s response increased her husband’s excitement, and he became more aggressive, using her savagely as his passion continued to build. And throughout the event, those watchful eyes missed nothing. They caught all: from the crushing grip the emperor maintained on the empress’s hips, to the small cries forced from her lips by his violent thrusts, to the poor lady’s loss of footing under her husband’s grueling pace. And even then, to the onlookers’ amazement, the emperor did not relent; even when the empress’s hands slipped from the wall onto the floor while she struggled frantically to right herself, he still continued mercilessly, seemingly unmindful of her plight. It was indeed shocking to see the empress in such a position, bent at the waist, with hands and feet grasping at the floor desperately while the emperor persisted in taking her so determinedly from behind. But most remarkable of all was how the empress, throughout her extraordinary struggles and regardless of everything else, kept continually arching her neck in the direction of the servants, straining to keep sight of them, desperately scanning their faces, and frantically searching their eyes!

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  ‘NAVAJIVAN’ AND ‘YOUNG INDIA’ Thus, whilst this movement for the preserva- tion of non-violence was making steady though slow progress on the one hand, Government’s policy of lawless repression was in full career on the other, and was manifesting itself in the Punjab in all its na- kedness. Leaders were put under arrest, martial law, which in other words meant no law, was proclaimed, special tribunals were set up. These tribunals were not courts of justice but instruments for carrying out the ar- bitrary will of an autocrat. Sentences were passed un- warranted by evidence and in flagrant violation of jus- tice. In Amritsar innocent men and women were made to crawl like worms on their bellies. Before this outrage the Jalianwala Bagh tragedy paled into insignificance in my eyes, though it was this massacre principally that attracted the attention of the people of India and of the world. I was pressed to proceed to the Punjab immediately in disregard of consequences. I wrote and also telegraphed to the Viceroy asking for permission to go there, but in vain. If I proceeded without the necessary permission, I should not be allowed to cross the boundary of the Punjab, but left to find what satisfaction I could from civil disobedience. I was thus confronted by a serious dilemma. As things stood, to break the order against my entry into the Punjab could, it seemed to me, hardly be classed as civil disobedience, for I did not see around me the kind of peaceful atmosphere that I wanted, and the unbridled repression in the Punjab had further served to aggravate and deepen the feelings of resentment. For me, therefore, to offer cicil disobedience at such a time, even if it were possible, would have been like fanning the flame. I therefore decided not to proceed to the Punjab in spite of the suggestion of friends. It was a bitter pill for me to swallow. Tales of rank injustice and oppression came

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Joe approached her, swinging a guard-dog training collar in one hand. Each of its chain links were attached to prongs which would lay flat when the dog’s leash had slack in it. If the dog lunged, the leash would pull the prongs up and make them dig into the dog’s neck. Naked, collared, and with arms bound behind her, she was easy to control. He led her into the bathroom. A douche hose dangled from the shower head, and this familiar sight was so incongruous, she erupted into helpless laughter. Joe grinned, then turned his back on her to hide his expression, twirled the faucets, and tested the temperature of the water flowing through the hose. Mike joined them, sat on the toilet, bent her over his knee and greased her ass, then held her there, keeping the tips of his fingers just barely inside it. She could feel the calluses on his hands. “How far up should we clean?” Joe asked, spurting hose in hand. He could have been an obscene statue in a garden fountain. She barely repressed a hysterical giggle. Don was watching them from the doorway. He had retrieved and relit his cigar. “I don’t know. Hey, bitch-dog. You. Dyke. Ever had a fist up your ass?” “Never!” “Not yet, anyway. How about a cock?” There was a long silence. “Well, well, well. I guess I’m never going to get to fuck me a virgin. How many, fur-pie? Answer me!” “A few.” “Meaning you don’t remember. Well, Joe, I’d say you ought to clean it up to the second sphincter. Mike’s kind of fastidious, and I wouldn’t want him to get any caca on his pretty long schlong. But I don’t think you have to give her a colonic. We haven’t got all week,” While this diagnosis was being made, Joe had maneuvered her into the tiled cubicle, and her bowel had been filling with warm water. He removed the hose, and she yipped with alarm as a small trickle of water escaped along with it. She cried out again as Don’s belt swung overhead and landed right on her ass. “No spills,” he warned her. “You don’t get rid of that until I say so. Now crawl over here and lick my big, fascist boots. Come on, put your ass in the air and pray over ’em.” The belt landed again and again, but she somehow maintained her control and kept the dreadful weight of water bottled inside her guts. His boot-leather was smooth and tasted of fine polish. God, it was good to grovel on the floor and savor them. He didn’t let her up until her ass was bright red and both boots were shiny with her spit.

• From Unbought and Unbossed: Transgressive Black Women, Sexuality, and Representation (2014)

  The magazine cover concretizes, making tangible and real, a fascination of dominant society with the sexualization and display of black women's bodies in that it, literally, "publicizes" a projection of racialized gendered sexual exposure-a black body rendered subject to the gaze, the fascination, the pleasure and titillation-of others even as it, ironically, also attempts to celebrate and, indeed, commemorate the moment in which the United States has as its First Lady a woman only generations removed from slavery. In the photoshopped artwork First Lady, created by the white mixed-media (French/English) artist Karine Percheron-Daniels, what becomes evident is the precarious association of race-racialized and sexualized visa-vis an association with slavery-and the historical as well as contemporaneous public fascination with black women's bodies that extends to a literal and metaphorical voyeurism. Just as the original Portrait d une negresse was Benoist's calculated effort to offer an artistic commentary on larger sociopolitical dynamics, similarly, Percheron-Daniels's superimposed image of Michelle Obama was part of her larger provocative, controversial series of "famous nudes"-including, among others, Abraham Lincoln, President Obama, Princess Diana, and Queen Elizabeth I-created in an effort, she asserts, to provide "an alternative unexpected reality" in which to "view famous individuals in a different way."' What becomes ironic about her attempt, especially when considered within a racialized context, is that the "alternative reality" in which she attempts to present these leading figures regardless of their race, gender, or nationality is not much of an "alternative" for black subjects in the sense that black bodies-regardless of gender, positionality, or post (presidential or otherwise)-are always already sexualized in the precise moment of their racialization. Moreover, while Feura de Serie, alongside Percheron-Daniels, attempts to commemorate First Lady Obama's rising from a genealogical past of slavery to the rank of First Lady, there is significant irony in such an artistic gesture beyond the exposed breast. While the American flag draped behind Michelle Obama in the portrait suggests that black women and black bodies are integral to the United States, they are, far too often, characterized as having an "external" approximation to America. The U.S. flag behind her, rather than around her or as the garb that shrouds her, resonates precisely as such.' [image file=img/img0006.jpg] FIGURE C.2 First Lady, by Karine Percheron-Daniels, the basis for a Fuera de Serie magazine cover. (Courtesy of artist.)

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  It seemed an odd proposition, but when I attended a showing at the Mill Valley Film Festival of Guru , her excellent film about Rajneesh, the manipulative cult leader who led a commune in Oregon, I grew more interested. When I asked her why she had selected me as the subject of a film, she responded that she had felt soiled by her work on Rajneesh and had resolved to make a film about a “decent person.” Decent person —that won me over. We began a period of shooting that lasted more than two years, with Sabine as director, Philip Delaquis as producer, and their marvelous sound and film technicians. The crew made several visits to our home in Palo Alto, to Stanford, and to our family vacations in Hawaii and the South of France, and soon the entire cast felt like part of our family. I was filmed in many situations—while speaking publicly, bicycling, swimming, snorkeling, playing Ping-Pong, and once while soaking in our hot tub with Marilyn. All along I wondered who on earth would want to see a film showing all these mundane aspects of my life. I had no financial investment in the film, but, having grown close to the filmmaker and the producer, I worried about the money they were going to lose. In the end, when my entire family and several close friends saw a private showing of an early version in San Francisco, I was relieved: Sabine and her film editor had done an excellent job winnowing down many dozens of hours into a coherent seventy-four-minute film. Over my protests, it was titled Yalom’s Cure . Still, I puzzled why anyone outside my immediate family and friends would have the slightest interest in seeing it. Moreover, I felt self-conscious and exposed. Though I’ve come to identify myself with my writing and consider my books, especially the stories and novels, to be major chapters of my adult life, the film takes little note of me as a writer and focuses instead on my quotidian activities. And yet, to my surprise, the film proved successful in Europe, ultimately playing in fifty cinemas to several hundred thousand spectators. In the autumn of 2014, when it opened in Zurich, the filmmaker asked Marilyn and me to attend the world premiere. Though I had resolved not to travel overseas anymore, this was an invitation I could not refuse. We flew to Zurich and attended two showings, the first for an invited audience of therapists and dignitaries, and the second for a general audience. At the end of each showing I responded to questions and felt highly exposed, especially at the shots of Marilyn and me in the hot tub, even though only our heads and shoulders were visible. But I was thrilled by the scenes of a family vacation in which our granddaughter Alana and our grandson Desmond compete in a dancing contest.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric had arrived during a break. The musicians were leaping down from the stand, and mopping their brows with large handkerchiefs, and heading for the street door which would remain open for about ten minutes. The heat in the room was terrifying, and the electric fan in the center of the ceiling could have done nothing to alleviate it. And the room stank: of years of dust, of stale, of regurgitated alcohol, of cooking, of urine, of sweat, of lust. People stood three and four deep at the bar, sticky and shining, far happier than the musicians, who had fled to the sidewalk. Most of the people at the tables had not moved, and they seemed quite young; the boys in sport shirts and seersucker trousers, the girls in limp blouses and wide skirts. On the sidewalk, the musicians stood idly together, still fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs, their faces blandly watchful, ignoring the occasional panhandlers, and the policeman who walked up and down with his lips pursed and his eyes blind with unnameable suspicions and fears. He wished he had not come. He was afraid of seeing Vivaldo, he was afraid of meeting Ida; and he began to feel, standing helplessly in the center of this sweltering mob, unbearably odd and visible, unbearably a stranger. It was not a new sensation, but he had not felt it for a long time: he felt marked, as though, presently, someone would notice him and then the entire mob would turn on him, laughing and calling him names. He thought of leaving, but, instead, inched into the bar and ordered a drink. He had no idea how he would go about finding Ida or Vivaldo. He imagined that he would have to wait until she began to sing. But, presumably, they would also be watching for him, for his red hair. And he sipped his drink, standing uncomfortably close to a burly college boy, unpleasantly jostled by the waiter, who was loading his tray next to him. And he was, indeed, beginning to attract a certain, covert attention; he did not look American, exactly: they were wondering how to place him.

• From Confessions of the Flesh (The History of Sexuality, Vol. 4) (2021)

  The exagoreusis that was developed in monasticism—a practice of continual examination of the self linked with an endless confession to the other—is far removed, therefore, despite certain shared traits, from the consultation found in the ancient practice, and from the trust the philosopher’s disciple needed to place in the master of truth and wisdom. First of all, the examination-confession is, in its permanent nature, connected to the duty—also permanent—of obedience. If everything going on in the soul, down to its least stirrings, [must be revealed to the other], this is to ensure a perfect obedience. Neither the seemingly most insignificant act nor the most fleeting thought must escape the power of the other. And in return, unquestioning obedience in all things has the purpose of preventing the inner being from closing back on itself and, basking in its autonomy, letting itself be seduced by the deceiving powers that inhabit it. The general form of obedience and the constant obligation of the examination-confession necessarily go hand in hand. Moreover, this examination-confession doesn’t focus on a specific category of elements (such as acts or infractions). It has an indefinite task in front of it: to delve more deeply into the secrets of the soul; to always seize, as soon as possible, even the most tenuous of thoughts; to take hold of the secrets, and of the secrets lurking behind those secrets, to go as deeply as possible toward the root. In this labor nothing is insignificant—there is no pre-established limit. The practice of examination-confession must follow a slope that inclines it indefinitely toward the almost imperceptible part of oneself. So this involves something different from the verbal recognition of offenses committed. Exagoreusis is not like an admission in court. It does not take place within an apparatus of juridiction; it is not a way for someone who has violated a law to recognize his responsibility in order to lessen the punishment. It is an effort to disclose not only to the other, but also to oneself, what is happening in the mysteries of the heart and in its vague shadows. It’s a matter of exposing as a truth something that was not yet known to anyone. And this in two ways: by bringing to light that which was so dim that no one could grasp it; and by dispelling the illusions that caused counterfeit currency to be taken for the real thing—a suggestion by the devil mistaken for a true inspiration from God. And deliverance itself is the expected outcome of this passage from darkness to light, from the enticing mélange to the rigorous discrimination. Here, one is not in the order of the “juridiction” of acts to which one admits, but that of the “veridiction” of inner secrets that are unclear to oneself.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Quelle étrange requête. À quand remonte la dernière fois que quelqu’un a tenté de le connaître ? Il y a Brigit, bien sûr, qui est la personne à qui il en a raconté le plus, et peut-être aussi le moins. Et Emma, qui a tenté de le connaître à sa façon. Mais il y en a si peu d’autres, car dès l’instant où il est arrivé ici, il a décidé de se défaire de son ancienne vie comme d’une peau. C’est le plus formidable, quand on vit dans un endroit où on n’a pas d’attache. Il n’y a rien pour révéler ce que vous étiez avant votre venue, et les gens ne savent de vous que ce que vous leur révélez. Il était possible de devenir une autre version de lui-même dans le Midwest, une version sans famille et sans passé, inventée entièrement à sa convenance. On ne lui a jamais posé la question si directement, jamais demandé de raconter quelque chose de lui, de se raconter. Miller est en train de perdre son aplomb. Wallace le sent à sa respiration irrégulière. Il n’a qu’à attendre que sa curiosité lui passe, laisser le temps à la question de se transformer en une autre, plus facile, plus supportable. Moins complète, un récit impartial, même, des événements qui l’ont amené ici. Il pourrait dire qu’il est venu en Greyhound. Il pourrait parler du golfe du Mexique ou des montagnes du nord de l’Alabama. Il pourrait parler des champs de coton ou des haricots qui rendaient les mains bleues ou violacées quand on les cueillait. Il y a tant de détails minuscules qu’il pourrait évoquer, reflets incomplets d’un tableau plus vaste et plus terrible. Mais ce n’est pas la question que lui a posée Miller. Ce n’est pas ce qu’il lui a demandé de révéler. Toute l’histoire semble lugubre, et froide, et lointaine, mais elle est en lui, coagulée comme du sang. Miller a gardé les yeux ouverts. Il ne recule pas. « Raconte-moi. Raconte-moi. » Sa voix est insistante, mais douce, comme quand on pose une question en sachant que c’est indiscret. Que va-t-il dire, ou faire ? Que peut-il dire, ou faire ? Cela semble impossible de botter en touche, à ce stade. « Je ne sais même pas par où commencer. — N’importe où. Commence n’importe où. » Miller est stupéfait par sa bonne fortune. Il bluffait, c’était un pari. Les voix de leurs amis de l’autre côté de la vitre s’élèvent vers eux. Encore des rires. Ils se racontent des histoires. « Tu sais déjà tout. — Eh non. — Tu sais que je suis de l’Alabama. — Oui, ça je sais. — C’est tout, en fait. — Non, ce n’est pas tout. — Pourquoi t’as besoin de savoir ? — Parce que j’ai envie de te connaître. — C’est pas parce que tu connaîtras mon passé que tu me connaîtras. Je suis qui tu crois que je suis. Je ne suis pas mystérieux.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Then Vivaldo was stopped on the path by a large, good-natured girl, who was not sober. Rufus and Leona paused, waiting for him. “Your friend’s real nice,” said Leona. “He’s real natural. I feel like we known each other for years.” Without Vivaldo, there was a difference in the eyes which watched them. Villagers, both bound and free, looked them over as though where they stood were an auction block or a stud farm. The pale spring sun seemed very hot on the back of his neck and on his forehead. Leona gleamed before him and seemed to be oblivious of everything and everyone but him. And if there had been any doubt concerning their relationship, her eyes were enough to dispel it. Then he thought, If she could take it so calmly, if she noticed nothing, what was the matter with him? Maybe he was making it all up, maybe nobody gave a damn. Then he raised his eyes and met the eyes of an Italian adolescent. The boy was splashed by the sun falling through the trees. The boy looked at him with hatred; his glance flicked over Leona as though she were a whore; he dropped his eyes slowly and swaggered on—having registered his protest, his backside seemed to snarl, having made his point. “Cock sucker,” Rufus muttered. Then Leona surprised him. “You talking about that boy? He’s just bored and lonely, don’t know no better. You could probably make friends with him real easy if you tried.” He laughed. “Well, that’s what’s the matter with most people,” Leona insisted, plaintively, “ain’t got nobody to be with. That’s what makes them so evil. I’m telling you, boy, I know.” “Don’t call me boy ,” he said. “Well,” she said, looking startled, “I didn’t mean nothing by it, honey.” She took his arm and they turned to look for Vivaldo. The large girl had him by the collar and he was struggling to get away, and laughing. “That Vivaldo,” said Rufus, amused, “he has more trouble with women.” “He’s sure enjoying it,” Leona said. “Look like she’s enjoying it, too.” For now the large girl had let him go and seemed about to collapse on the path with laughter. People, with a tolerant smile, looked up from the benches or the grass or their books, recognizing two Village characters. Then Rufus resented all of them. He wondered if he and Leona would dare to make such a scene in public, if such a day could ever come for them. No one dared to look at Vivaldo, out with any girl whatever, the way they looked at Rufus now; nor would they ever look at the girl the way they looked at Leona. The lowest whore in Manhattan would be protected as long as she had Vivaldo on her arm. This was because Vivaldo was white.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Alas, Bedazzled failed at the box office and the film studio refused to finance Lying on the Couch until he first made a surefire big profit movie, Analyze That —a sequel to his highly successful Analyze This . Unfortunately, Analyze That also bombed. Although Harold Ramis continued to purchase film options on the book for several years, he was never able to obtain sufficient financing for the project. I liked Harold Ramis very much and was saddened by the news of his death in 2014. Another near-life film experience occurred with Wayne Wang, the director of such fine movies as The Joy Luck Club , Smoke , and Maid in Manhattan . He, too, bought the option, but was also unable to find financial backing. Later he made a film called Last Holiday about a woman (Queen Latifah) with a fatal illness and asked me to lead a two-day T-group with the cast in New Orleans to sensitize them to the issues around dealing with a fatal illness. I had a lark working with Queen Latifah, LL Cool J, and Timothy Hutton, all of whom I found refreshingly open, well-informed, serious about their work, and interested in my observations. Finally, Ted Griffin, a talented screenwriter ( Ocean’s Eleven , Matchstick Men ), entered the scene, and he has had the film rights for the past several years. Having written a screenplay, he approached actor Anthony Hopkins—one of my screen idols, with whom I enjoyed conversing by phone. Alas, nothing has yet materialized. Moreover, there’s a part of me dreading a film version, which might ignore the serious messages of the novel and focus excessively, perhaps exclusively, on the conning and sexual parts. I now feel a bit embarrassed by the protagonist’s erotic exuberance. My wife, always my first reader, wrote in caps on the last page of the manuscript: “ISN’T THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WANT TO TELL AMERICA ABOUT YOUR SEXUAL FANTASIES?”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The physician, who had been born and bred at Bologna, understood not their canting terms and accordingly avouched himself well pleased with the lady in question. Not long after this talk, the painters brought him news that he was accepted to member of the company and the day being come before the night appointed for their assembly, he had them both to dinner. When they had dined, he asked them what means it behoved him take to come thither; whereupon quoth Buffalmacco, 'Look you, doctor, it behoveth you have plenty of assurance; for that, an you be not mighty resolute, you may chance to suffer hindrance and do us very great hurt; and in what it behoveth you to approve yourself very stout-hearted you shall hear. You must find means to be this evening, at the season of the first sleep, on one of the raised tombs which have been lately made without Santa Maria Novella, with one of your finest gowns on your back, so you may make an honourable figure for your first appearance before the company and also because, according to what was told us (we were not there after) the Countess is minded, for that you are a man of gentle birth, to make you a Knight of the Bath at her own proper costs and charges; and there you must wait till there cometh for you he whom we shall send. And so you may be apprised of everything, there will come for you a black horned beast, not overbig, which will go capering about the piazza before you and making a great whistling and bounding, to terrify you; but, when he seeth that you are not to be daunted, he will come up to you quietly. Then do you, without any fear, come down from the tomb and mount the beast, naming neither God nor the Saints; and as soon as you are settled on his back, you must cross your hands upon your breast, in the attitude of obeisance, and touch him no more. He will then set off softly and bring you to us; but if you call upon God or the Saints or show fear, I must tell you that he may chance to cast you off or strike you into some place where you are like to stink for it; wherefore, an your heart misgive you and unless you can make sure of being mighty resolute, come not thither, for you would but do us a mischief, without doing yourself any good.'[413] [Footnote 413: Lit. "do _yourself_ a mischief, without doing _us_ any good"; but the sequel shows that the contrary is meant, as in the text.]

• From Another Country (1962)

  He encounters, because he must encounter, those people who see his secrecy before they see anything else, and who drag these secrets out of him; sometimes with the intention of using them against him, sometimes with more benevolent intent; but, whatever the intent, the moment is awful and the accumulating revelation is an unspeakable anguish. The aim of the dreamer, after all, is merely to go on dreaming and not to be molested by the world. His dreams are his protection against the world. But the aims of life are antithetical to those of the dreamer, and the teeth of the world are sharp. How could Eric have known that his fantasies, however unreadable they were for him, were inscribed in every one of his gestures, were betrayed in every inflection of his voice, and lived in his eyes with all the brilliance and beauty and terror of desire? He had always been a heavy, healthy boy, had played like other children, and fought as they did, made friends and enemies and secret pacts and grandiose plans. And yet none of his playmates, after all, had ever sat with Henry in the furnace room, or ever kissed Henry on his salty face. They did not, weighed down with discarded hats, gowns, bags, sashes, earrings, capes, and necklaces, turn themselves into make-believe characters after everyone in their house was asleep. Nor could they possibly, at their most extended, have conceived of the people he, in the privacy of night, became: his mother’s friends, or his mother—his mother as he conceived her to have been when she was young, his mother’s friends as his mother was now; the heroines and heroes of the novels he read, and the movies he saw; or people he simply put together out of his fantasies and the available rags. No doubt, at school, the boy with whom he was wrestling failed to feel the curious stabs of terror and pleasure that Eric felt, as they grappled with each other, as one boy pinned the other to the ground; and if Eric saw the girls at all, he saw mainly their clothes and their hair; they were not, for him, as were the boys, creatures in a hierarchy, to be adored or feared or despised. None of them looked on each other as he looked on all of them. His dreams were different—subtly and cruelly and criminally different: this was not known yet, but it was felt.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Make our excuses, please, to Vivaldo and Ida.” “You can say that the Silenskis, that model couple, were having their Sunday fight,” said Richard; his face very white, breathing hard, staring at Cass. Eric set his drink down, carefully; he wanted to run. “I’ll just say you had to stay in on account of the kids.” “Tell Vivaldo to take it as a warning. This is what happens if you have kids, this is what happens if you get what you want.” And, for a moment, he looked utterly baffled and juvenile. Then, “Hell, I’m sorry, Eric. We never meant to submit you to such a melodramatic afternoon. Please come and see us again; we don’t do this all the time, we really don’t. I’ll walk you to the door.” “It’s all right,” Eric said. “I’m a big boy, I understand.” He walked over to Cass and they shook hands. “It was nice seeing you.” “It was good seeing you. Don’t let all that light fade.” He laughed, but these words chilled him, too. “I’ll try to keep burning,” he said. He and Richard walked to the hall door. Cass stood still in the center of the living room. Richard opened the door. “So long, kid. Can we call you—has Cass got your number?” “Yes. And I have yours.” “Okay. See you soon.” “Sure thing. So long.” “So long.” The door closed behind him. He was again in the anonymous, breathing corridor, surrounded by locked doors. He found his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, thinking of the millions of disputes being waged behind locked doors. He rang for the elevator. It arrived, driven by another, older man who was eating a sandwich; he was dumped into the streets again. The long block on which Cass and Richard lived was quiet and empty now, waiting for the night. He hailed a cab on the Avenue and was whirled downtown. His destination was a bar on the eastern end of the Village, which had, until recently, been merely another neighborhood bar. But now it specialized in jazz, and functioned sometimes as a showcase for younger but not entirely untried or unknown talents or personalities. The current attraction was advertised in the small window by a handprinted, cardboard poster; he recognized the name of a drummer he and Rufus had known years ago, who would not remember him; in the window, too, were excerpts from newspaper columns and magazines, extolling the unorthodox virtues of the place.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The trouble with a secret life is that it is very frequently a secret from the person who lives it and not at all a secret for the people he encounters. He encounters, because he must encounter, those people who see his secrecy before they see anything else, and who drag these secrets out of him; sometimes with the intention of using them against him, sometimes with more benevolent intent; but, whatever the intent, the moment is awful and the accumulating revelation is an unspeakable anguish. The aim of the dreamer, after all, is merely to go on dreaming and not to be molested by the world. His dreams are his protection against the world. But the aims of life are antithetical to those of the dreamer, and the teeth of the world are sharp. How could Eric have known that his fantasies, however unreadable they were for him, were inscribed in every one of his gestures, were betrayed in every inflection of his voice, and lived in his eyes with all the brilliance and beauty and terror of desire? He had always been a heavy, healthy boy, had played like other children, and fought as they did, made friends and enemies and secret pacts and grandiose plans. And yet none of his playmates, after all, had ever sat with Henry in the furnace room, or ever kissed Henry on his salty face. They did not, weighed down with discarded hats, gowns, bags, sashes, earrings, capes, and necklaces, turn themselves into make-believe characters after everyone in their house was asleep. Nor could they possibly, at their most extended, have conceived of the people he, in the privacy of night, became: his mother’s friends, or his mother—his mother as he conceived her to have been when she was young, his mother’s friends as his mother was now; the heroines and heroes of the novels he read, and the movies he saw; or people he simply put together out of his fantasies and the available rags. No doubt, at school, the boy with whom he was wrestling failed to feel the curious stabs of terror and pleasure that Eric felt, as they grappled with each other, as one boy pinned the other to the ground; and if Eric saw the girls at all, he saw mainly their clothes and their hair; they were not, for him, as were the boys, creatures in a hierarchy, to be adored or feared or despised. None of them looked on each other as he looked on all of them. His dreams were different—subtly and cruelly and criminally different: this was not known yet, but it was felt. He was menaced in a way that they were not, and it was perhaps this sense, and the instinct which compels people to move away from the doomed, which accounted for the invincible distance, increasing with the years, which stretched between himself and his contemporaries.

• From Another Country (1962)

  But by this time he knew that everything he did was wrong in the eyes of his parents, and in the eyes of the world, and that, therefore, everything must be lived in secret. The trouble with a secret life is that it is very frequently a secret from the person who lives it and not at all a secret for the people he encounters. He encounters, because he must encounter, those people who see his secrecy before they see anything else, and who drag these secrets out of him; sometimes with the intention of using them against him, sometimes with more benevolent intent; but, whatever the intent, the moment is awful and the accumulating revelation is an unspeakable anguish. The aim of the dreamer, after all, is merely to go on dreaming and not to be molested by the world. His dreams are his protection against the world. But the aims of life are antithetical to those of the dreamer, and the teeth of the world are sharp. How could Eric have known that his fantasies, however unreadable they were for him, were inscribed in every one of his gestures, were betrayed in every inflection of his voice, and lived in his eyes with all the brilliance and beauty and terror of desire? He had always been a heavy, healthy boy, had played like other children, and fought as they did, made friends and enemies and secret pacts and grandiose plans. And yet none of his playmates, after all, had ever sat with Henry in the furnace room, or ever kissed Henry on his salty face. They did not, weighed down with discarded hats, gowns, bags, sashes, earrings, capes, and necklaces, turn themselves into make-believe characters after everyone in their house was asleep. Nor could they possibly, at their most extended, have conceived of the people he, in the privacy of night, became: his mother’s friends, or his mother—his mother as he conceived her to have been when she was young, his mother’s friends as his mother was now; the heroines and heroes of the novels he read, and the movies he saw; or people he simply put together out of his fantasies and the available rags. No doubt, at school, the boy with whom he was wrestling failed to feel the curious stabs of terror and pleasure that Eric felt, as they grappled with each other, as one boy pinned the other to the ground; and if Eric saw the girls at all, he saw mainly their clothes and their hair; they were not, for him, as were the boys, creatures in a hierarchy, to be adored or feared or despised.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The cab stopped in front of Small’s. “Here we go,” said Ida, jauntily, seeming, in an instant, to drag all of herself up from the depths, as though she were about to walk that mile from the wings to the stage. She glanced quickly at the meter, then opened her handbag. “Let me,” said Cass. “It’s just about the only thing that a poor white woman can still do.” Ida looked at her, and smiled. “Now, don’t you be like that,” she said, “because you can suffer, and you’ve got some suffering to do, believe me.” Cass handed the driver a bill. “You stand to lose everything—your home, your husband, even your children.” Cass sat very still, waiting for her change. She looked like a defiant little girl. “I’ll never give up my children,” she said. “They could be taken from you.” “Yes. It could happen. But it won’t.” She tipped the driver, and they got out of the cab. “It happened,” said Ida, mildly, “to my ancestors every day.” “Maybe,” said Cass, with a sudden flash of anger, and very close to tears, “it happened to all of us! Why was my husband ashamed to speak Polish all the years that he was growing up?—and look at him now, he doesn’t know who he is. Maybe we’re worse off than you.” “Oh,” said Ida, “you are. There’s no maybe about that.” “Then have a little mercy.” “You’re asking a lot.” The men on the sidewalk looked at them with a kind of merciless calculation, deciding that they were certainly unattainable, that their studs or their johns were waiting inside; and, anyway, three white policemen, walking abreast, came up the Avenue. Cass felt, suddenly, exposed, and in danger, and wished she had not come. She thought of herself, later, alone, looking for a taxi; but she did not dare say anything to Ida. Ida opened the doors, and they walked in. “We’re really not dressed for this place,” Cass whispered. “It doesn’t matter,” Ida said. She stared imperiously over the heads of the people at the bar, into the farther room, where the bandstand seemed to be, and the raised dance floor. And her arrogance produced, out of the smoke and confusion, a heavy, dark man who approached them with raised eyebrows. “We’re with Mr. Ellis’s party,” said Ida. “Will you lead us to him, please?” He seemed checked; seemed, indeed almost to bow. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Please follow me.”

• From Talk Dirty to Me: An Intimate Philosophy of Sex (1994)

  Measuring a fully erect penis—one at the “final engorgement of late plateau phase”—had to be done quickly, the researchers noted: “measurement frequently was rushed.” I have in mind a slightly balding, slender scientist with bookish glasses and a white lab coat, wearing latex gloves and kneeling with a measuring tape and clipboard beside his subject: a panting naked man who holds his hard-on and his breath impatiently, sweat on his face, toes and face clenched, until permission to finish is granted. The scientist jumps adroitly out of range, just in time, and the next subject, prick in hand, steps up to the mark. Everything we know about the physical aspects of masturbation comes from this kind of observation of people masturbating. So. Go to your room. Close the curtains. Unplug the phone, pull back the bedclothes. Strip. Lie down and touch yourself in whatever private way you prefer, ways no one else ever, ever sees. (Because even if you masturbate in front of a lover, it will have a different style, a different flavor than this solitary moment.) When the tingle begins to fade from your skin, imagine this: Electrodes. Lights. A camera between your still-outspread knees. A man, or a woman, in a lab coat, with a clipboard, taking notes. The world returning. The human body in orgasm looks remarkably consistent, male or female, young or old. The rectal sphincter contracts between two and five times, each contraction lasting about 0.8 seconds; the neck, arm, and leg muscles cramp in involuntary spasms; the big toe juts out and the other toes bend back from the arched sole in a reflex called the carpopedal spasm; the skin turns red, almost rashy, in the “sex flush”; breathing speeds up to hyperventilation; the heart races at 110 to 180 beats per minute; the face is distorted by grimaces and contortions. Both sexes do “full-excursion pelvic thrusting.” In women the vagina and uterus contract at the same speed as the rectal sphincter, as many as ten to fifteen times; in men the penis contracts at the same speed as the rectal sphincter, shooting semen out in several spurts, one to two feet away from the body. Women also sometimes ejaculate, a clear and often copious fluid that used to be called “childish semen.” Though Masters and Johnson noted it, female ejaculation is widely considered imaginary these days.

• From Talk Dirty to Me: An Intimate Philosophy of Sex (1994)

  Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone, the stars of Basic Instinct, have made it clear they can’t stand each other. They simulated sex with each other, anyway—and deliberately fueled the “did they or didn’t they” controversy—because, after all, that’s acting. If you rent a good X-rated film, you can see unsimulated sex between people who might well like each other very much. This is also acting. What exactly is the difference? Now and then I visit my neighborhood adult store to rent a movie or buy a magazine. This is nothing like Good Vibrations, or the local version of Good Vibrations, with incense and crystals and cheerful houseplants. This is a XXX adult dirty-books-and-video store. I am often the only woman there, although more and more lately I see other women, alone, with a man, with another woman. Some days there may be only a single clerk and a few customers; at other times I see a dozen men or more: heavyset workingmen, young men, businessmen. To enter takes a certain pluck, but less so all the time. I pass the neon sign, silvered windows, and go through a blank, reflecting door. I used to imagine eyes on me then, and the eyes were my mother’s eyes, and, worse, my father’s. They watched the little girl inside me and chided her for a naughty girl. But this has disappeared, too. I don’t make eye contact. Neither do the men. I drift from one section of the store to the other, going about my business. I like this particular store because it is large and well lit, and because the owner has made a point of advertising to couples, gay people, and women without pulling the XXX punch. They are his untapped target consumers, and he knows it. The male customers give me sidelong glances as I pass by, and then drop their eyes back to the box in their hands. Pornography, at its roots, is about watching; but no one here openly watches. This is a place of librarian silences. As I move from shelf to shelf, men sometimes gather at the fringes of where I stand. I think they would like to know which movies I will choose. In the large front room with the clerks are glass counters filled with vibrators, promising unguents, candy bowls filled with condoms. On the wall behind the counter where you ask for help are giant dildos, rubber vaginas, rubber faces with slit eyes, all mouth. Here are the more mainstream films, with high production values and name stars. Here is the large and growing amateur section, a small section of straight Japanese movies, a section of gay male films.

• From Iraq's Secret Sex Trade

  He said pleasure marriages allowed a man to do pretty much whatever he wanted. It's illegal to rent a hotel room in Iraq unless you're properly married, but Sayyid Raad said this was no problem. (Atmospheric music) Our team spoke to more than 20 men who said they did brief temporary marriage to get sex. All of them told us the practice was widespread. Ali, not his real name, agreed to give an interview if we didn't show his face. To me, it sounded like prostitution. But Ali said he wanted it to be Halal. As we talked, Ali revealed some men were paying clerics for pleasure marriages with children. (suspenseful music) We were discovering one of Iraq's darkest secrets. Clerics making money helping men who wanted sex with very young girls. Sayyid Raad was prepared to talk about it. Our reporter had told him, he'd met a 13 year virgin and asked whether a pleasure marriage would be Halal. Vaginal sex was forbidden, according to the cleric. But other things he said, were permissible. Ghaith Tamimi says that most Shia Muslims would be horrified at mut'ah marriage being used to enable men to marry children. Sayyid Raad said he was a follower of Grand Ayatollah al-Sistani, Iraq's most senior Shia cleric. Like some other Shia leaders in Iraq, Ayatollah al-Sistani has in the past written that if a child under nine was promised in a marriage or temporary marriage sexual touching was religiously permitted. We approached the Ayatollah's office to clarify his religious advice on this matter. In a statement, he said, times had changed. And this had been erased from his current books. (building string music) To continue our investigation, we've come to the most important site for Shia Muslims. (muffled loudspeaker) This is Karbala. It's the biggest Shia pilgrimage site in the world, tens of millions of pilgrims come here every year. We'd already seen how clerics were helping men break the law, and even doing pleasure marriages with minors. We wanted to know whether the religious authorities in this holy city condoned the practice. I spoke to Sheikh Emad Alassady. So we heard about pleasure marriages, mut'ah marriages. Do you do them here? He said they do still happen in secret, and are allowable under Sharia Law. Don't you think these pleasure marriages exploit vulnerable girls? In the streets around the shrine, our reporter asked four clerics if they would conduct a pleasure marriage. Two said they would. One of them was Sheikh Salawi. (suspenseful music builds) Sheikh Salawi said he had completed extended religious studies, and was a member of one of Iraq's powerful and well-armed Shia militias. Our reporter pretended he'd met a young girl who was still a virgin. We showed this footage to Yanar Mohammed, who runs a network of women's shelters across Iraq. Nine years old... they are just opening a shop for paedophiles, inviting them from all over the world.

• From Iraq's Secret Sex Trade

  He said pleasure marriages allowed a man to do pretty much whatever he wanted. It's illegal to rent a hotel room in Iraq unless you're properly married, but Sayyid Raad said this was no problem. (Atmospheric music) Our team spoke to more than 20 men who said they did brief temporary marriage to get sex. All of them told us the practice was widespread. Ali, not his real name, agreed to give an interview if we didn't show his face. To me, it sounded like prostitution. But Ali said he wanted it to be Halal. As we talked, Ali revealed some men were paying clerics for pleasure marriages with children. (suspenseful music) We were discovering one of Iraq's darkest secrets. Clerics making money helping men who wanted sex with very young girls. Sayyid Raad was prepared to talk about it. Our reporter had told him, he'd met a 13 year virgin and asked whether a pleasure marriage would be Halal. Vaginal sex was forbidden, according to the cleric. But other things he said, were permissible. Ghaith Tamimi says that most Shia Muslims would be horrified at mut'ah marriage being used to enable men to marry children. Sayyid Raad said he was a follower of Grand Ayatollah al-Sistani, Iraq's most senior Shia cleric. Like some other Shia leaders in Iraq, Ayatollah al-Sistani has in the past written that if a child under nine was promised in a marriage or temporary marriage sexual touching was religiously permitted. We approached the Ayatollah's office to clarify his religious advice on this matter. In a statement, he said, times had changed. And this had been erased from his current books. (building string music) To continue our investigation, we've come to the most important site for Shia Muslims. (muffled loudspeaker) This is Karbala. It's the biggest Shia pilgrimage site in the world, tens of millions of pilgrims come here every year. We'd already seen how clerics were helping men break the law, and even doing pleasure marriages with minors. We wanted to know whether the religious authorities in this holy city condoned the practice. I spoke to Sheikh Emad Alassady. So we heard about pleasure marriages, mut'ah marriages. Do you do them here? He said they do still happen in secret, and are allowable under Sharia Law. Don't you think these pleasure marriages exploit vulnerable girls? In the streets around the shrine, our reporter asked four clerics if they would conduct a pleasure marriage. Two said they would. One of them was Sheikh Salawi. (suspenseful music builds) Sheikh Salawi said he had completed extended religious studies, and was a member of one of Iraq's powerful and well-armed Shia militias. Our reporter pretended he'd met a young girl who was still a virgin. We showed this footage to Yanar Mohammed, who runs a network of women's shelters across Iraq. Nine years old... they are just opening a shop for paedophiles, inviting them from all over the world.