Jealousy

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 Birthday Girl (2018)

  Quiero que ella y Cole se reconcilien y sean amigos de nuevo eventualmente, pero no quiero que estén juntos, solos, toda la noche. Eran una pareja, maldición. Él conoce su cuerpo tan bien como yo. ¿Qué pasaría si comienzan a sentir lo que sintieron cuando estuvieron juntos por primera vez y todo fue bien? ¿Qué pasa si ella comienza a pensar que necesita a alguien... más joven? Ellos tienen historia. No voy a tener celos de mi hijo. No estamos compitiendo, pero la conoce mucho más. ¿Qué pasa si hablan y vuelven a conectar? Está en la punta de mi lengua simplemente decirlo de una vez. Es mía y no compartirá la cama con otro hombre. Pero miro a Lindsay y al desastre que ha sido, y cómo, en los últimos seis años, él se ha puesto de su parte en repetidas ocasiones. Ella siempre jugó como la víctima y lo hizo sentir culpable para que la defendiera, y la defenderá otra vez porque sabe que puedo defenderme por mi cuenta. Estaría muy feliz de descubrir que estaba follando a Jordan a espaldas de Cole. Ella solo está buscando algo que odiar, y no pondré a Jordan en medio de eso. Dejo caer los ojos, apenas capaz de abrir mi mandíbula. —Jordan, hay mantas en el sofá —digo en voz baja—. Avísame si tienes frío. Empiezo a caminar fuera de la habitación, pero luego escucho que Jordan finalmente habla. —No, Cole tiene razón —responde—. Es una cama, será para dormir, y es solo por una noche o dos. Estoy bien con eso. Me detengo y la miro, pero solo se enfoca hacia adelante, totalmente tranquila. Aprieto mi puño derecho y salgo de la habitación, dirigiéndome escaleras arriba. Son apenas las siete de un viernes por la noche, pero si no tengo espacio, haré algo estúpido. Como elegir la pelea que tan desesperadamente quiero con ella ahora mismo, frente a todos. En algún momento después de la medianoche me quedo dormido. Estuve a punto de delatarnos media docena de veces esta noche, pero el riesgo de arrepentirme de haberlo hecho fue demasiado grande. Ahora no. No frente a mi ex. Esto es una aventura. Una aventura sucia y sórdida, ¿verdad? Al menos eso es lo que todos pensarán. Y rompería el corazón de Cole. Estoy seguro que espera que ella siga adelante en algún momento. Después de todo, no se había preocupado demasiado por ella desde que se fue. Pero saber que entré, jugué con uno de sus juguetes, y que hay una posibilidad de que yo la haga más feliz... Sí, hablando por experiencia, siempre hay una parte de ti que siente que tienes más derecho a una ex novia que cualquier otra persona, incluso después de la ruptura. Verá esto como una traición. Como si estuviera de su lado y tratando de hacerlo mejor donde él no pudo. Y estaría en lo cierto. Cada sentimiento que tendría lo entendería.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  I did not want to control him. I remembered him saying once, “You go out with a chick, you sleep with her once, and she hands you an armful of ‘do nots,’ and you’re looking at her great tits and her hot pussy and you’re looking at the ‘do nots’ in your arms and you hand them back. ‘Hey, I think these are yours.’” I had admired that—that’s why he was A-Man and not Any Man. He was not going to compromise himself for pussy, like so many men do. And I didn’t want to compromise a man with my pussy, I wanted a man to be true to himself . . . while desperately wanting my pussy. But this was only idle speculation, for I knew that A-Man would not be monogamous, even if I asked. He had told me long ago that he had tried being a boyfriend several times and always failed miserably. Better not to even try. I agreed. Failure is the great anti-aphrodisiac. Besides, if I wanted him to be only with me then I would have to return the favor and be only with him. And I knew that I couldn’t do that. I loved him too much. I was too vulnerable to give myself entirely to him. Without a commitment that might be broken, at least any pangs I might be feeling about the mousy brunette were not compounded by the self-righteous pain and anger of betrayal. So, I told myself, Do you know what you have to be if you’re not monogamous? Not jealous? No, jealousy is inevitable. Worth it. You’ve got to be worth it. He’s got to be worth it. The fucking has got to be worth it. Worth the occasional, gut-ripping insanity of jealousy. WAR As the days passed, however, I started feeling this overwhelming need to assert my authority over the mousy brunette. When I next saw A-Man I slyly suggested that we all get in bed together to assuage everyone’s pain with love and sperm. He smiled at me, loving that I was the kind of woman who would solve a problem with an orgy. Well, better than bayonets. He then said that he had actually suggested this to her during that first confrontation but that she had only cried harder in response, confessing that she would be too jealous. Damn. I knew if we could get her in bed, I could win. Suddenly winning became imperative. Winning what, exactly, I wasn’t sure, but the stakes seemed very high indeed. It was not about having him exclusively, it never had been; it was about knowing I was the most beloved.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  But when she had the hooks fastened tight, she leaned and gently blew upon the singer’s throat, where the power had clogged; and then she whispered something to her, and they laughed together with their heads very close ... and I knew, as surely as if they had pasted the words upon the dressing-room wall, that they were lovers.. The knowledge made me blush like a beacon. I looked at Kitty, and saw that she had caught the gesture, too; her eyes, however, were lowered, and her mouth was tight. When the comic singer passed us on her way to the stage, she gave me a wink: ‘Off to please the public,’ she said, and her dresser laughed again. When she came back and took her make-up off, she wandered over with a cigarette and asked for a light; then, as she drew on her fag, she looked me over. ‘Are you going,’ she said, ‘to Barbara’s party, after the show?’ I said I didn’t know who Barbara was. She waved her hand: ‘Oh, Barbara won’t mind. You come along with Ella and me: you and your friend.’ Here she nodded - very pleasantly, I thought - to Kitty. But Kitty, who had had her head bent all this time, working at the fastenings of her skirt, now looked up and gave a prim little smile. ‘How nice of you to ask,’ she said; ‘but we are spoken for tonight. Our agent, Mr Bliss, is due to take us out to supper.’ I stared: we had no arrangement that I knew of. But the singer only gave a shrug. ‘Too bad,’ she said. Then she looked at me. ‘You don’t want to leave your pal to her agent, and come on alone, with me and Ella?’ ‘Miss King will be busy with Mr Bliss,’ said Kitty, before I could answer; and she said it so tightly the singer gave a sniff, then turned and went over to where her dresser waited with their baskets. I watched them leave - they didn’t look back at me. When we returned to the theatre the next night, Kitty chose a hook that was far from theirs; and on the night after that, they had moved on to another hall ... At home, in bed, I said I thought it was a shame. ‘Why did you tell them Walter was coming?’ I asked Kitty. She said: ‘I didn’t care for them.’ ‘Why not? They were nice. They were funny. They were - like us.’ I had my arm about her, and felt her stiffen at my words. She pulled away from me and raised her head. We had left a candle burning and her face, I saw, was white and shocked. ‘Nan!’ she said. ‘They’re not like us! They’re not like us, at all. They’re toms.’ ‘Toms?’ I remember this moment very distinctly, for I had never heard the word before.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pike vacila por un momento, y puedo ver sus puños apretados alrededor de la silla al otro lado de la mesa, pero no lo miraré a los ojos. Sé que acabo de actuar como una mocosa maleducada, y estoy un poquito avergonzada, especialmente porque no lo engañé, pero… Pudo haberla llevado a cualquier parte. La trajo aquí con la esperanza de que los viera juntos. La acompaña afuera, y no puedo oír las pocas palabras apagadas que intercambian, pero en cuanto se cierra la puerta y oigo el clic de la cerradura, exhalo. Se ha ido. Camina de regreso a la cocina hacia el refrigerador, y noto que todavía usa la camiseta azul marino y los jeans de antes con sus botas de trabajo todavía puestas. No está ni un poco desnudo, así que es una buena señal. —Lo siento si fue incómodo —me dice, sacando un refresco—. De hecho, acabamos de llegar por nuestra cuenta. Ella se detuvo para... —Es tu casa. No me importa —le digo, fingiendo estar concentrada en mi tarea—. Haz lo que quieras. —¿Estás segura? —pregunta con tono divertido—. Estabas golpeando las puertas de la lavadora y secadora y poniendo la música a todo volumen a las diez de la noche. Pareces... irritada. Sacudo la cabeza, encogiéndome de hombros. —Por supuesto que no. No esperaría que cambies tu estilo de vida solo porque estoy aquí. Adelante. Guarda silencio, y puedo verlo por el rabillo del ojo por un momento, simplemente allí de pie. Ahora, me siento mal por estar eufórica de que vaya a la cama solo. Quiero que él tenga a alguien. Alguien que lo ame y lo haga sentir bien. Pero… No ella. Y nadie más, en realidad. Me estoy enamorando de él. Quiero que me tenga a mí. Y es tan terco, que hizo eso esta noche solo para probar lo mucho que no me desea. —Pero creí que tendrías mejor gusto, por el amor de Dios —comento, pegando más césped debajo del árbol falso. —¿Disculpa? Levanto la mirada. —¿Sabías que terminó con el matrimonio de Marcus Weathers? —le pregunto—. Ella merodea por el bar, esperando ver quién la llevará a su casa una noche determinada, y no es exigente. Casados, tomados, lo que sea... —Lo bueno es que no estoy tomado entonces —replica—. No hay problema. Bajo la mirada y vuelvo a tomar el pegamento, dándome cuenta que perdí esa ronda. —Puedes conseguir algo mejor —murmuro finalmente. No es que odie a April. No me importaba lo que le hizo al matrimonio de él antes. Se necesitan dos para bailar tango, ¿no? Y Marcus Weathers también fue el culpable. Pero me importa ahora que está poniendo el blanco demasiado cerca de casa. Pike está tomado.

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

  "'Imbecile,' she hissed like a snake, as she slipped out of my arms and was beyond my reach. "'Wait till next time, and you will then see who is the imbecile,' said I, but she was already out of hearing." "I must own you were somewhat of a greenhorn; I suppose, however, that you had your revenge, next time." "My revenge, if it can be called by that name, was a fearful one. "Our coachman, a young, stalwart, broad-shouldered and brawny fellow, whose fondness had hitherto expended itself on his horses, had fallen in love with this slight girl, who looked as sapless as a holly twig. "He had tried to woo her in honourable fashion in every possible way. His former continence and his newly-born passion had softened all that was boorish in him, he had plied her with flowers, ribbons and trinkets, but she had scornfully refused all his presents. "He had offered to marry her at once; he had gone so far as to make her a free gift of a cottage and a bit of land he possessed in his country. "She exasperated him by treating him almost with scorn, resenting his love as an insult. An irresistible longing was in his eyes, in her's a vacant stare. "Goaded to madness by her indifference, he had tried by strength what he could not obtain by love, and had had to understand that the fairer sex is not always the weaker one. "After his attempt and failure she tantalized him all the more. Whenever she met him she would put her thumb-nail up to her top teeth and emit a slight sound. "The cook, who had a latent fondness for this strong and sinewy young fellow, and who must have had an inkling that something had taken place between this girl and myself, evidently informed him of the fact, arousing thereby in him an ungovernable fit of jealousy. "Stung to the quick, he hardly knew whether he loved or hated this girl most, and he cared but little what became of him provided he could satisfy his craving for her. All the softness which love had awakened gave way to the sexual energy of the male. "Unperceived, or probably let in by the cook, he stealthily secreted himself in her room, and ensconced himself behind an old screen, which, together with other lumber, had been stowed away there. "His intention was to remain hidden till she was fast asleep, and then to get into her bed, and, nolens volens, to pass the night with her. "After waiting there some time in mortal anxiety—for every minute was like an hour to him—he finally saw her come in. "As she did so, she shut and locked the door behind her.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Will you mind it, if I tell her?’ ‘No, Flo,’ I said. ‘You may tell who you like.’ Then she went, still shaking her head; and I sat, and listened to her climb the stairs and creak about in the room above my head. Then I took some tobacco and a paper, and rolled myself a cigarette from a tin upon the mantel, and lit it; then I ground it upon the hearth, and threw it into the fire, and put my head against my arm, and groaned. What a fool I’d been! I had blundered into Florence’s life, too full of my own petty bitternesses to notice her great grief. I had thrust myself upon her and her brother, and thought myself so sly and charming; I had thought that I was putting my mark upon their house, and making it mine. I had believed myself playing in one kind of story, when all the time, the plot had been a different one - when all the time, I was only clumsily rehearsing what the fascinating Lilian had done so well and cleverly before me! I gazed about the room - at the washed blue walls, the hideous rug, the portraits: I saw them suddenly for what they were - details in a shrine to Lilian’s memory, that I, all unwittingly, had been tending. I caught hold of the little picture of Eleanor Marx - except it was not Eleanor Marx I saw, of course; it was her, with Eleanor Marx’s features. I turned it in my hands, and read the back of it: F.B., my comrade, it said, in large, looped letters, my comrade for ever. L.V. I groaned still louder. I wanted to chuck the damn picture into the grate along with my half-smoked fag - I had to return it quickly to its frame in case I did so. I was jealous, of Lilian! I was more jealous than I had ever been, of anyone! Not because of the house; not because of Cyril, or even Ralph - who had been kind to me, but who had wept for her, and wrung his hands in grief when she lay dying; but because of Florence. Because it was Florence, above all, whom Lilian’s story seemed both to have given me, and to have robbed me of for ever. I thought of my labours of the past few months. I had not made Florence fat and happy, as I had supposed: it had only been time, making her grief less keen, her memories duller. Do you remember how we said that we would meet, she had asked me tonight, and how you didn’t come... ?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Lo veo bajar la cabeza y está respirando tan fuerte, como si estuviera casi sin combustible. Se da vuelta, calmando su voz solo un poco. —¿Qué diablos te está pasando esta noche? ¿Está bromeando? Me bajo de la cama de un tirón y me paro frente a él. —La trajiste aquí, eso es lo que pasa. —¡Es mi casa! Sacudo la cabeza. —Ella no te satisfará —le digo—. Ella no es lo que quieres. —Entonces, ¿estás celosa? Bajo mi voz, acercándome a él. —Tienes todo lo que necesitas en esta casa. No hay razón para buscar en otro lado... —dejo caer la cabeza, un poco avergonzada de repente—, cualquier cosa que necesites —le digo. Soy todo lo que necesita. Su pecho sube y baja frente a mis ojos, y aspiro su aroma que es único, solo de él. Sol, madera y las débiles fragancias de su cuerpo, champú y el jabón con el que ha lavado su ropa. Huele a una calurosa noche de verano y a como me hubiera gustado que fuera mi primera vez, y la disfruto mientras puedo porque en cualquier momento se irá. —Entonces, ¿tuviste una pequeña rabieta a propósito? —dice, sin preguntar realmente—. ¿Porque querías ser quien estuviera en mi cama esta noche? Levanto mis ojos, estrechándolos. —Porque la invitaste para hacerme daño, pero conozco tu juego y serás tú quien pierda —replico. Me acerco el último centímetro entre nosotros, mi camisa rozando la suya. Su mentón cae cuando me mira, y mi corazón late contra mi pecho. —Porque incluso si se quedaba y te llevaba a otro mundo toda la noche —le digo—, todavía despertarías pensando en mí antes que siquiera recordaras que ella está en la cama junto a ti. Su respiración se hace más pesada, y puedo ver que se está debilitando. Continúo: —Te estarás preguntando qué estoy haciendo en mi cama sola, si estoy despierta y caliente, o… —me pongo de puntillas y cierro la boca sobre su mandíbula mientras susurro—, si me estoy tocando y soñando con que vienes y me comes a través de mis bragas. Toma aire, cierra los ojos y puedo sentirlo endurecerse a través de sus jeans. —Jordan, por favor —suplica, sonando desesperado—. Maldición. Trato de mantener mi sonrisa para mí, pero estoy muy feliz. Sé que me desea. Engancho mis dedos en la cintura de sus jeans, empujando su barbilla con mi nariz para provocarlo: —Sé que lo deseas —susurro de nuevo—. Quieres agarrarme tanto. Me quedo allí, junto a él, pero le quito las manos de encima y deslizo mis dedos en mi propia cinturilla, quitándome suave y lentamente mis pantalones cortos. Caen a mis pies, y cierro mis manos en puños, mi cuerpo tan vivo de miedo, deseo y necesidad. Mírame. Tócame.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —No he estado allí en mucho tiempo —comento—. ¿Por qué no? Solo déjame decirle a la persona que me trajo. Él y sus amigos se dirigen a sus autos al final de la calle y corro hacia las sillas de jardín llenas de personas en el centro de la carretera. Pike está sentado dándome la espalda, mientras Dutch está en el suelo a su lado con su esposa sobre su regazo, y unos pocos más en un círculo que puedo reconocer del juego de póker en casa de Pike. —Hola —digo, llegando al lado de Pike—. Algunos amigos van al A&W. Cervezas de raíz con helado y eso. Me invitaron a ir. No le estoy pidiendo permiso, pero de alguna manera sale así. No me está mirando, solo levanta su cerveza y toma un sorbo. —¿Cerveza de raíz con helado? —repite con severidad—. ¿Cuántos años tienes... cinco? Idiota. —Noooooooooooo —digo—, pero así es como te gusta tratarme algunas veces. Dutch se ríe silenciosamente a su lado pero alza la voz en mi defensa. —Oye, todavía amo la cerveza de raíz. Le pongo los ojos en blanco a Pike, y veo a Teresa, sonriendo. —Muchas gracias por la invitación —le digo—. Fue agradable. —Gracias por venir, cariño. Y gracias por la comida. —¿Cómo volverás a casa? —interrumpe Pike, todavía ignorando mi mirada. —Yo la llevaré. Echo un vistazo para ver a Carter acercándose a nosotros, Pike gira su cabeza solo un poco para verlo antes de darse la vuelta de nuevo. Levanto la esquina de mi boca en una pequeña sonrisa de suficiencia, y me agacho hablándole a pocos centímetros de su oreja. —¿Tengo toque de queda? Dutch resopla, y veo un pequeño gruñido brotando de la boca de Pike antes de desaparecer. —Diviértete —dice severamente. Me pongo de pie de nuevo, y me doy la vuelta siguiendo a Carter a su camioneta mientras la diversión aligera mi humor. Pike está celoso.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  On days when she found Pierre weak, passive, uncertain, his body lax, eluding even the effort of dressing, of walking out into the street, then she felt herself incisive, active. She had strange feelings when they fell asleep together. In sleep he seemed vulnerable. She felt her strength aroused. She wanted then to enter him, like a man, take possession of him. She wanted to penetrate him with a knifelike thrust. She lay between sleep and wakefulness, identified with his virility, imagined herself becoming him and taking him as he took her. And then, at other times, she fell back, became herself—sea and sand and moisture, and no embrace then seemed violent enough, brutal enough, bestial enough. But if after Pierre’s jealousy their lovemaking was more violent, at the same time the air was dense; their feelings were in tumult; there was hostility, confusion, pain. Elena did not know whether their love had grown a root or absorbed a poison that would hasten its decay. Was there an obscure joy in this that she missed, as she missed so many morbid, masochistic tastes other people had for defeat, misery, poverty, humiliation, entanglements, failures? Pierre had said once, “What I remember most are the great pains of my life. The pleasant moments I have forgotten.” Then Kay came to see Elena, a newborn Kay, glittering. Her air of living among many lovers was finally a reality. She had come to tell Elena how she had balanced her life between her hasty lover and a woman. They sat on Elena’s bed, smoking, talking. Kay said, “You know the woman. It’s Leila.” Elena could not help thinking, So Leila loves a little woman again. Will she never love an equal? Someone as strong as she? She was wounded with jealousy. She wanted to be in Kay’s place being loved by Leila. She asked, “What is it like to be loved by Leila?” “It’s incredibly marvelous, Elena. Something incredible. In the first place, she always knows what one wants, what mood I’m in, what I desire. She is always accurate. She looks at me when we meet and she knows. To make love she takes so much time. She locks one up in some marvelous place—it must be a marvelous place first of all, she says. Once we were driven to use a hotel room, because Mary was staying in her apartment. The lamp was too strong. She covered it with her underwear. She makes love to the breasts first. We stay for hours merely kissing. She waits until we are drunk with kissing. She wants all our clothes removed, and then we lie glued together, rolling over each other, still kissing. She sits over me as if she were on horseback and then moves against me, rubbing. She does not let me come for a long time. Until it becomes excruciating. Such long, drawn-out lovemaking, Elena. It leaves you tingling, it leaves you wanting more.”

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  After a while she added, “We talked about you. She wanted to know about your love life. I told her you were obsessed with Pierre.” “What did she say?” “She said she had never known Pierre to be anything but the lover of women like the prostitute Bijou.” “Pierre loved Bijou?” “Oh, for a few days.” The image of Pierre making love to the celebrated Bijou effaced the image of Leila making love to Kay. It was a day of jealousies. Was love to become one long train of jealousies? Every day Kay brought new details. Elena could not refuse to hear them. All through them, she hated Kay’s femininity and she loved Leila’s masculinity. She divined Leila’s struggle to be fulfilled and her defeat. She saw Leila donning her man’s silk shirt and silver cuff links. She wanted to ask Kay what her underwear was like. She wanted to see Leila dressing. It seemed to Elena that, just as the passive homosexual male became a caricature of a woman for the active male homosexual, women who submitted to dominant Lesbian love became a caricature of women’s pettiest qualities. Kay was showing this, exaggerating her whims—loving herself through Leila, really. Tormenting Leila, too, as she would not have dared torment a man. Feeling that the woman in Leila would be indulgent. Elena was sure that Leila was suffering from the mediocrity of the women she could make love to. The relationship could never be magnificent enough, with its taint of infantilism. Kay would arrive, eating candy out of her pocket like a schoolgirl. She pouted. She hesitated at a restaurant before ordering, and then changed her order, to play the cabotine, the woman with irresistible caprices. Soon Elena began to elude her. She began to understand the tragedy behind all Leila’s affairs. Leila had acquired a new sex by growing beyond man and woman. She thought of Leila as a mythic figure, enlarged, magnified. Leila haunted her. Led by an obscure intuition, she decided to go to an English tearoom above a book shop on the Rue de Rivoli, where homosexuals and Lesbians liked to congregate. They sat in separate groups. Solitary middle-aged men looked for young boys; mature Lesbians were seeking young women. The light was dim, the tea fragrant, the cake properly decadent. As Elena entered she saw Miguel and Donald sitting together and joined them. Donald was intent upon his whore role. He liked to show Miguel how he could attract men, how he could easily be paid for his favors. He was excited because a gray-haired Englishman of great distinction, a man who was known to pay sumptuously for his pleasures, stared at him. Donald spread his charms before him, giving oblique glances like the glances of a woman behind a veil. Miguel was half-angry. He said, “If you only knew what this man requires of his boys, you would stop flirting with him.” “What?” asked Donald, with a morbid curiosity.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  He surprised her with gifts of perfume and scarves and other little vanities. Sylvia never left her bedroom now, and only occasionally sat in a chair in the garden on exceptional, sunny days. John was becoming absorbed in scientific studies and had been giving less attention to Martha. Pierre had a car in which he did all the errands for the supervision of the farm. He had always gone alone. Now he began to take Martha with him. She was seventeen, beautifully formed by a healthy life, with a clear skin and brilliant black hair. Her eyes were fiery and ardent and rested lingeringly upon the slender body of John—too often, thought Pierre as he watched her. Obviously she was in love with John, but John did not notice it. Pierre felt a pang of jealousy. He looked at himself in the mirror and compared himself with John. The comparison was rather in his favor, for if John was a handsome youth, at the same time there was a coldness in his appearance, whereas Pierre’s green eyes were still compelling to women, and his body exuded great warmth and charm. Subtly he began his courtship of Martha, with compliments and attentiveness, becoming her confidant in all matters, until she even confessed her attraction to John, but added, “He is absolutely inhuman.” One day John insulted her openly in Pierre’s presence. She had been dancing and running, and looking exuberant and alive. Suddenly John looked at her reproachfully and said, “What an animal you are. You will never sublimate your energy.” Sublimation! So that was what he wanted. He wanted to take Martha into his world of studies and theories and researches, to deny the flame in her. Martha looked at him angrily. Nature was working in favor of Pierre’s humanness. The summer made Martha languid, the summer undressed her. Wearing fewer clothes, she was becoming more and more aware of her own body. The breeze seemed to touch her skin like a hand. At night she tossed in bed with a restlessness she could not understand. Her hair was unbraided, and she felt as if a hand had loosened it around her throat and were touching it.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  lentamente, así que con un poco de suerte, si la barrera para inundaciones no es suficiente, los sacos de arena sí lo serán. Las personas en este vecindario no pueden darse el lujo de irse, mucho menos de perder sus casas. El río corre hacia el sur, creciendo en velocidad y me estremezco un poco, cada centímetro de mí está empapado. Gotas de lluvia caen de la visera de mi gorra y la lluvia corre por mis piernas. —¿Agua? Pike me tiende una botella y doy un vistazo desde abajo de la visera de mi gorra y sonrío, tomándola. —Gracias. Me rodea sin decir una palabra más, tomando un saco de arena y lanzándoselo al tipo que sigue en la fila. Hemos estado aquí por tres horas y no hemos podido contactar a Cole, aunque no puedo decir que lo intentara demasiado. No quiero verlo justo en este momento, así que lo dejo timbrar tres veces y luego cuelgo. Miro la botella de agua en mi mano. Mi boca es como un desierto. Desenrosco la tapa, trago la mitad del agua, respiro profundamente y trago dos sorbos más. Queda solo un par de centímetros más, así que la meto en el bolsillo de mi chaqueta para terminármela después. —Hola, Jordan —llama una voz alegre, pasando junto a mí. Veo a April Lester poniéndose un par de guantes de trabajo y bajando por las rocas hacia Pike, vestida en jeans que abrazan cada centímetro de sus piernas y una linda camiseta de camuflaje y un sombrero. Una cola de caballo negra cuelga del agujero en la parte trasera. Se ve linda y tierna. Estoy tan acostumbrada a verla en su ropa “para salir” en el bar. Saco un saco de arena de la caja de carga del camión y llevo el saco de dieciocho kilos hacia el siguiente hombre en la fila y giro de nuevo hacia el camión, repitiendo la tarea. Cada saco hace su camino de un par de manos al siguiente hasta que llega a su lugar a la orilla del río. Noto a April en otra fila de ensamblaje, justo frente a Pike y está hablando con él. Intento mantener mis ojos alejados porque no es asunto mío, pero me encuentro lanzando miradas de soslayo y no sé por qué. Calor líquido recorre mi pecho y siento un sudor frío aparecer en mi frente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Además eres mi hermana —declara—. No quiero ponerte celosa al pasar el rato con él. —¿Por qué estaría celosa? —digo rápidamente, terminando con la última patata—. En serio. Tengo novio. A quién se folle Pike Lawson no tiene relevancia para mí. Ve por él. Girándome, seco mis manos, la rodeo y tomo la olla de agua con las patatas y la pongo sobre la estufa, encendiendo el fuego. Las chuletas de cerdo se están marinando. La masa para las galletas se está asentando. Repaso mi lista mental de tareas tan rápido como puedo para mantener mi mente ocupada. Y alejada de él. Puede ver a quien quiera. Esta es su casa. —Bueno. —Escucho decir a Cam—. Si te parece bien, entonces... Permanezco en la estufa, fingiendo revisar el fuego, pero mi mano aprieta el mango, el miedo retorciendo mi interior. Lo siguiente que escucho es la puerta trasera chocando con el marco y me enderezo de golpe, viendo que ha salido de la cocina. Hija de... Volviendo hacia el fregadero, miro por la ventana y veo a Cam cruzando el patio hacia donde Pike está trabajando. Me lanza una mirada por encima de su hombro como si supiera que estoy mirando. Sonríe con satisfacción y frunzo mi ceño. No lo decía en serio. La idea de las manos de ella sobre él... los brazos de él alrededor de ella... no quiero ver eso. Es mi hermana. La siente acercarse y baja la mirada hacia ella, apagando la herramienta y observo mientras escucha, probablemente preguntándose por qué lo está molestando. Tal vez se lo está preguntando, eso es. Mi hermana es atractiva y no muchos hombres la rechazarían, si pone sus ojos en ellos. ¿Tal vez Pike esté atraído por ella? Es un hombre, como dijo ella. No es una “niñita”. Cruza sus brazos sobre su pecho, moviendo un poco sus pies, dando la impresión de modestia y sacudo mi cabeza porque Cam no es modesta. En absoluto. Simplemente es muy buena leyendo a las personas. Sabe que acercándose demasiado fuerte lo asustará.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  They sat at a humble café table. The waitress spilled the vermouth. Annoyed, he demanded that the table be wiped, as if Elena were a princess. Elena said, “I feel a little like the moon who took possession of you for a moment and then returned your soul to you. You should not love me. One ought not to love the moon. If you come too near me, I will hurt you.” But she saw in his eyes that she had already hurt him. He walked stubbornly beside her, almost to the very door of Pierre’s apartment house. She found him with a ravaged face. He had seen them in the street, had followed them from the little café. He had watched every gesture and expression that had passed between them. He said, “There were quite a few emotional gestures between you.” He was like a wild animal, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes haggard. For an hour he was dark, beside himself with anger and doubt. She pleaded, pleaded with love, took his head and laid it on her breast, lulling him. Out of sheer exhaustion he fell asleep. She then slid out of the bed and stood by his window. The charm of the sculptor had faded. Everything faded beside the depth of Pierre’s jealousy. She thought of Pierre’s flesh, his flavor, the love they had, and at the same time she heard Jean’s adolescent laughter, trusting, sensitive, and she saw the potent charm of Leila. She was afraid. She was afraid because she was no longer securely tied to Pierre but to an unknown woman lying down, yielding, open, spreading. Pierre awakened. He stretched out his arms and said, “It is over now.” Then she wept. She wanted to beg him to keep her imprisoned, to let no one lure her away. They kissed passionately. He answered her desire by locking her in his arms with such a force that her bones cracked. She laughed and said, “You’re suffocating me.” She lay dissolved, then, by a maternal feeling, a feeling that she wanted to protect him from pain; he, on the other hand, seemed to feel he could possess her once and for all. His jealousy incited him to a kind of fury. The sap rose in him with such vigor that he did not wait for her pleasure. And she did not want this pleasure. She felt herself as a mother receiving a child into herself, drawing him in to lull him, to protect him. She felt no sexual urge but the urge to open, to receive, to enfold only.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Chapter 18 I n the days and weeks following Florence’s sad disclosure I became aware that things at Quilter Street were rather changed. Florence herself seemed gayer, lighter - as if, in telling me her history, she had rid herself of some huge burden, and was now flexing limbs that had been cramped and numbed, straightening a back that had been bowed. She was still gloomy, sometimes, and she still went off for walks, alone, and came back wistful. But she did not try to hide her melancholy now, or to disguise its cause - letting me know, for example, that her trips were (as I might have guessed) to Lilian’s grave. In time she even began to speak of her dead friend, quite routinely. ‘How Lilian would have laughed to hear of that!’ she would say; or, ‘Now, if Lily were only here, we might ask her, and she’d be sure to know.’ Her new, sweeter mood had an effect upon us all. The atmosphere of our little house - which I had always thought easy enough, before, but which I now saw to have been quite choked with the memory of Lilian, and with Ralph and Florence’s sorrow - seemed to clear and brighten: it was as if we were passing not into the fogs and frosts of winter, but into springtime, with all its mildnesses and balms. I would see Ralph gazing at his sister as she smiled or hummed or caught at Cyril and tickled him, and his gaze would be soft, and he would sometimes lean to kiss her cheek, in pleasure. Even Cyril himself seemed to feel the change, and to grow bonnier and more content. And I, in contrast, became ever more pinched and secretive and fretful. I could not help it. It was as if, in casting off her own old load, Florence had burdened me with a new one; my feelings - which had been stirred, on the night of her confession, into such a curious mixture - only seemed to grow queerer and more contradictory as the weeks went by. I had been sorry for her, and was as glad as her brother to see her rather lighter-hearted now; I was also pleased and touched that she had confided in me at last, and told me all. But oh, how I wished her story had been different! I could never learn to like the tragic Lilian, and had to bite back my crossness when she was spoken of so reverently. Perhaps I pictured her as Kitty - it was certainly Walter’s face I saw, whenever I thought of her cowardly man-friend; but it made me hot and giddy to think of her, commanding Florence’s passion, sleeping beside her night after night - and never so much as turning he face to her friend, to kiss her mouth.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “The woman never ceased looking at me. Would she make a sign? Did it excite her to watch me? It must have. The next day I awaited her appearance with anxiety. She emerged at the same hour, sat on her balcony and looked towards me. From this distance I could not tell if she was smiling or not. I lay on my bed again. “We did not try to meet in the street, though we were neighbors. All I remember was the pleasure I derived from this, which no other pleasure ever equaled. At the mere recollection of these episodes, I get excited. Marianne gives me somewhat the same pleasure. I like the hungry way she looks at me, admiring, worshiping me.” When Marianne read this, she felt she would never overcome his passivity. She wept a little, feeling betrayed as a woman. Yet she loved him. He was sensitive, gentle, tender. He never hurt her feelings. He was not exactly protective, but he was fraternal, responsive to her moods. He treated her like the artist of the family, was respectful of her painting, carried her canvases, wanted to be useful to her. She was a monitor in a painting class. He loved to accompany her there in the morning with the pretext of carrying her paints. But soon she saw that he had another purpose. He was passionately interested in the models. Not in them personally, but in their experience of posing. He wanted to be a model. At this Marianne rebelled. If he had not derived a sexual pleasure from being looked at, she might not have minded. But knowing this, it was as if he were giving himself to the whole class. She could not bear the thought. She fought him. But he was possessed by the idea and finally was accepted as a model. That day Marianne refused to go to the class. She stayed at home and wept like a jealous woman who knows her lover is with another woman. She raged. She tore up her drawings of him as if to tear his image from her eyes, the image of his golden, smooth, perfect body. Even if the students were indifferent to the models, he was reacting to their eyes, and Marianne could not bear it. This incident began to separate them. It seemed as if the more pleasure she gave him, the more he succumbed to his vice, and sought it unceasingly. Soon they were completely estranged. And Marianne was left alone to type our erotica.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Qué te hace pensar que todavía no tengo una mujer, Jordan? Su voz es burlona, y puedo sentirlo hasta los pies. Mi boca se seca. —¿La tienes? —pregunto. Quiero decir, solo estaba bromeando. ¿No sería incómodo tener a dos mujeres caminando por la casa? Ya tengo mis quehaceres, y hago la mayor parte de la cocina. Esa isla con bloques de carnicero y yo tenemos una relación ahora. Podría ponerme un poco celosa si otra mujer la toca. —No me has conocido desde hace mucho tiempo —dice juguetón—. Debo ocuparme de mis necesidades de vez en cuando. Soy humano, después de todo. Se me revuelve el estómago y frunzo las cejas. ¿Sus necesidades? Una imagen de cómo se ve cuando tiene que satisfacer esas necesidades destella en mi mente. La aparto. Mmm, sí. Bueno. De repente, se ríe. —Estoy bromeando —dice—. Sí, salgo de vez en cuando, pero no veo a nadie ahora. No tienes que preocuparte por encontrarte con una mujer que no conoces en la casa. —O mujeres —digo—. ¿Cierto? Se burla, y solo puedo imaginar su rostro. —¿De verdad me ves siendo capaz de hacer malabares con más de una mujer? ¿Alguna vez? —No, te gusta tomarte tu tiempo. —Exactamente. Mi corazón se calienta y sabía que estaba en lo cierto. La madre de Cole lo alimentó con tonterías para que su hijo rivalizara con su padre. Está en la punta de mi lengua decir algo sobre Cole, pero si Pike lo confronta, con las mentiras que probablemente le contó su madre, Cole lo verá como que traicioné su confianza. Y podría avergonzar a Pike. Ellos no son mi familia No es mi lugar. Un bostezo estira mi rostro, y dejo escapar un pequeño gemido, mis ojos se vuelven más pesados. —Bueno, supongo que te dejaré ir —dice Pike—. Diviértanse, ¿de acuerdo? Cuídate. —Lo haremos. —Mis párpados se cierran, su voz persiste en mi oreja—. Y recuerda —le digo—, presiona el botón dos veces. Resopla. —Sí, señora. —Hasta luego —digo. Se detiene un momento antes de contestar. —Buenas noches, Jordan. Cuelga, y dejo mi teléfono, bostezando nuevamente y sin molestarme en volver a encender la aplicación del ventilador. Una sonrisa estira las comisuras de mis labios. ¿Cómo puede un hombre de treinta y ocho años no saber cómo hacer palomitas de maíz para microondas? Es literalmente a prueba de idiotas. Me río, mis párpados se vuelven pesados y somnolientos mientras me olvido de Jay y Cole, de lo incómoda que es esta mesa de billar o lo exhausta que probablemente estaré mañana. Pike recorre mi mente y todo lo que dijo, lo profunda que era su voz cuando me dijo “buenas noches, Jordan”, y cómo se me puso la piel de gallina en los brazos. Y que esta es la tercera noche, de esta semana, en que él ha sido la última persona con quien hablo antes de dormirme por la noche.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  I’d say, “How could I not be supportive? It’s just so darn gright.” But I always wanted to ask, “Could I have the names and numbers of some of your other friends?” Sometimes I would get off the phone and cry. After a while I started asking people for help. One person reminded me of what Jean Rhys once wrote, that all of us writers are little rivers running into one lake, that what is good for one is good for all, that we all collectively share in one another’s success and acclaim. I said, “You are a very, very angry person.” My therapist said that jealousy is a secondary emotion, that it is born out of feeling excluded and deprived, and that if I worked on those age-old feelings, I would probably break through the jealousy. I tried to get her to give me a prescription for Prozac, but she said that this other writer was in my life to help me heal my past. She said this writer had helped bring up a lifetime’s worth of feeling that other families were happier than ours, that other families had some owner’s manual to go by. She said it was once again that business of comparing my insides to other people’s outsides. She said to go ahead and feel the feelings. I did. They felt like shit. My friend, the writer I was so jealous of, would call and say, like some Southern belle, “I just don’t know why God is giving me so much money this year.” And I would do my Lamaze for a moment, and say, “Isn’t that gright?” I have never felt like such a loser in my life. I called a very wise writer I know who’s been in Alcoholics Anonymous for years, who spends half his time helping others get sober. I asked him what he would tell a newcomer who was in the throes of insanity or, say hypothetically, jealousy. “I just listen,” he said. “They all tell me these incredibly long, self-important, convoluted stories. And then I say one of three things: I say, ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, ‘Hmmm,’ I say, Too bad.’ ” I laughed. Then I started telling him about this awful friend I had who was doing so well. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Uh-huh.” Next I talked to my slightly overweight alcoholic gay Catholic priest friend. I said, “Do you get jealous?” He said, “When I see a man my own age in great shape, and I feel all conflicted, wishing I were that thin and yet at the same time wanting to lick him, is that jealousy or is that appreciation?” It was hard to get anyone to say anything that would make the jealousy go away or change into something else. I felt like the wicked stepsister in a fairy tale.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  La mira. —Hola. Y después, para mi sorpresa, su mirada regresa a mí por un momento antes de mirar el correo sobre el mostrador y comienza a hojearlo como si no estuviéramos aquí. Parpadeo, un poco confundida. Cam es una atracción de feria. Puede que sea más joven que él, pero sin duda es una mujer, y la mayoría de los hombres dejan que sus ojos se detengan sobre ella, sus largas piernas y los pechos turgentes y grandes que tiene debajo de esa camiseta sin mangas. Él no. —Sí, encantada de conocerte —dice—. Gracias por recibirla. Nos lanza una mirada rápida y una media sonrisa antes de tomar todos los sobres y meterlos en un cajón del correo. Cam comienza a salir de la cocina, y la sigo mientras entra al cuarto de lavado. Una vez que está fuera de su línea de visión, gira, diciéndome con un brillo travieso en sus ojos abiertos: —Oh, Dios mío. Aprieto la mandíbula, sacudiendo mi barbilla para que siga caminando. Ahora va a estar aquí todos los días coqueteando con él. Escucho a Pike detrás de mí, abriendo uno de los hornos, y me doy vuelta. —Estaba preparando la cena —le digo—. Para nosotros tres. ¿Está bien? Cierra el horno, y veo un atisbo de alivio en su rostro. —Sí, eso es genial, en realidad. —Suspira—. Gracias. Estoy hambriento. —Estará lista en quince minutos. Alcanza el refrigerador y saca una Corona, mete la tapa debajo de un abridor clavado debajo de la isla y la quita, dejando caer la tapa en la basura. —Suficiente tiempo para ducharme —responde, mirándonos—. Disculpen. Y luego sale de la cocina, con la botella colgando de sus dedos mientras sale con solo medio paso. Me detengo, y de nuevo caigo en cuenta de lo alto que es. Esta es una casa de buen tamaño, también, pero sería imposible no notarlo en una habitación. —Ahora lo entiendo —me susurra mi hermana con burla al oído—. Y aquí estaba yo, preocupada porque sufrieras avances indeseados de un viejo sudoroso y gordo. —Cállate. —Cierro los ojos con exasperación. Escucho que se abre la puerta trasera y el humor se adueña de su voz mientras bromea: —Ahora cuídate de tus hombres. Me giro para cerrarle la puerta de golpe en el rostro, pero grita, cerrándola antes que tenga oportunidad.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Jealousy is such a direct attack on whatever measure of confidence you’ve been able to muster. But if you continue to write, you are probably going to have to deal with it, because some wonderful, dazzling successes are going to happen for some of the most awful, angry, undeserving writers you know—people who are, in other words, not you. This is going to happen because the public herd mentality is not swayed by the magic that happens when mind and heart and muse and hand and paper work together. Rather, it is guided by talk shows and movie producers and TV commercials. Still, you’d probably like the caribou herd to run in your direction for a while. Most of us secretly want this. But maybe the herd is going to stuff itself on lichen and then waddle after some really undeserving writers instead. Those writers will get the place on the best-seller list, the movie sales, the huge advances, and the nice big glossy pictures in the national magazines where the photo editors have airbrushed out the excessively long eyeteeth, the wrinkles, and the horns. The writer you most admire in the world will give them rave reviews in the Times or blurbs for the paperback edition. They will buy houses, big houses, or second houses that are actually as nice, or nicer, than the first ones. And you are going to want to throw yourself down the back stairs, especially if the person is a friend. You are going to feel awful beyond words. You are going to have a number of days in a row where you hate everyone and don’t believe in anything. If you do know the author whose turn it is, he or she will inevitably say that it will be your turn next, which is what the bride always says to you at each successive wedding, while you grow older and more decayed. It can wreak just the tiniest bit of havoc with your self-esteem to find that you are hoping for small bad things to happen to this friend—for, say, her head to blow up. Or for him to wake up one morning with a pain in his prostate, because I don’t care how rich and successful someone is, if you wake up having to call your doctor and ask for a finger massage, it’s going to be a long day. You get all caught up in such fantasies because you feel, once again, like the kid outside the candy-store window, and you believe that this friend, this friend whom you now hate, has all the candy. You believe that success is bringing this friend inordinate joy and serenity and security and that her days are easier. She’s going to live to be one hundred and twenty, he’s never going to die—the people who are going to die are the good people, like you. But this is not true.