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.

Page 6 of 47 · 20 per page

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I nod, as if in agreement. Inwardly, I pine. Oh, Kate…I wish I could tell you everything, everything about this strange, sad, kinky guy, and you could tell me to forget about him. Stop me from being a fool. “I guess it’s all a little overwhelming,” I say. That’s the understatement of the year. Because I don’t want to talk about Christian anymore, I ask her about Elliot. Katherine’s whole demeanor changes at the mere mention of his name. She lights up from within, beaming. “He’s coming over early Saturday to help load up.” She hugs the hairbrush—boy, has she got it bad—and that familiar faint stab of envy surfaces. Kate has found herself a normal man, and she looks so happy. I turn and hug her. “Oh, I meant to say. Your dad called while you were…er, occupied. Apparently, Bob has sustained some injury, so he and your mom can’t make graduation. But your dad will be here Thursday. He wants you to call.” “Oh…my mom never called me. Is Bob okay?” “Yes. Call her in the morning. It’s late now.” “Thanks, Kate. I’m okay now. I’ll call Ray in the morning, too. I think I’ll just turn in.” She smiles, but her eyes crinkle at the corners with concern. After she’s gone, I sit and read the contract again, making more notes as I go. When I’ve finished, I fire up the laptop, ready to respond. There’s an email from Christian in my inbox. From: Christian Grey Subject: This Evening Date: May 23 2011 23:16 To: Anastasia Steele Miss Steele, I look forward to receiving your notes on the contract. Until then, sleep well, baby. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Issues Date: May 24 2011 00:02 To: Christian Grey Dear Mr. Grey, Here is my list of issues. I look forward to discussing them more fully at dinner on Wednesday. The numbers refer to clauses: 2: Not sure why this is solely for MY benefit—i.e., to explore MY sensuality and limits. I’m sure I wouldn’t need a ten-page contract to do that! Surely this is for YOUR benefit. 4: As you are aware, you are my only sexual partner. I don’t take drugs, and I’ve not had any blood transfusions. I’m probably safe. What about you? 8: I can terminate at any time if I don’t think you’re sticking to the agreed limits. Okay—I like this. 9: Obey you in all things? Accept without hesitation your discipline? We need to talk about this. 11: One-month trial period. Not three. 12: I cannot commit every weekend. I do have a life, or will have. Perhaps three out of four? 15.2: Using my body as you see fit sexually or otherwise—please define “or otherwise.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I move on quickly: some with business associates, then picture after glorious picture of the most photogenic man I know intimately. Intimately? Do I know Christian intimately? I know him sexually, and I figure there’s a lot more to discover there. I know he’s moody, difficult, funny, cold, warm… The man is a walking mass of contradictions. I click to the next page. He’s still on his own in all these photographs, and I remember Kate mentioning that she couldn’t find any photographs of him with a date, prompting her gay question. Then, on the third page, there’s a picture of me, with him, at my graduation. His only picture with a woman, and it’s me. Holy cow! I’m on the internet! I stare at us together. I look surprised by the camera, nervous, off balance. This was just before I agreed to try. For his part, Christian looks impossibly handsome, calm, and collected, and he’s wearing that tie. I gaze at him, such a beautiful face, a beautiful face that could be staring at Mrs. Damned Robinson right now. I save the picture in my favorites and click through all eighteen pages of search results. Nothing. I won’t find Mrs. Robinson online. But I have to know if he’s with her. I type a quick email to Christian. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Suitable Dinner Companions Date: May 31 2011 23:58 ET To: Christian Grey I hope you and your friend had a very pleasant dinner. Ana P.S. Was it Mrs. Robinson? I press send and climb despondently back into bed, resolving to ask Christian about his relationship with that woman. Part of me is desperate to know more, and another part wants to forget he ever told me. And my period has started, so I must remember to take my pill in the morning. I quickly program an alarm into the calendar on my BlackBerry. Setting it aside on the bedside table, I lie down and eventually drift into an uneasy sleep, wishing we were in the same city, not twenty-five hundred miles apart. After a morning of shopping and an afternoon back at the beach, my mother has decreed we should spend the evening in a bar. Abandoning Bob to the TV, we find ourselves in the upscale bar of Savannah’s most exclusive hotel. I am on my second Cosmopolitan. My mother is on her third. She is offering more insights into the fragile male ego. It’s very disconcerting. “You see, Ana, men think that anything that comes out of a woman’s mouth is a problem to be solved. Not some vague idea that we’d like to kick around and talk about for a while and then forget. Men prefer action.” “Mom, why are telling me this?” I ask, failing to hide my exasperation. She’s been like this all day.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position. Oh my. Christian Grey’s lost look. “Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. “My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.” “Okay.” I grin up at him. Kate is going to be thrilled. “Ana!” Paul has materialized at the other end of the aisle. He’s Mr. Clayton’s youngest brother. I’d heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn’t expecting to see him today. “Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey.” Grey frowns as I turn away from him. Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-charts attractive control freak Grey, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal. Paul hugs me hard, taking me by surprise. “Ana, hi, it’s so good to see you!” he gushes. “Hello, Paul, how are you? You home for your brother’s birthday?” “Yep. You’re looking well, Ana. Really well.” He grins as he examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Paul, but he’s always been overfamiliar. When I glance up at Christian Grey, he’s watching us like a hawk, his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line. He’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else—someone cold and distant. “Paul, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grey’s expression. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they size each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic. “Er…Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more. “I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Princeton, where he’s studying business administration.” I’m babbling… Stop now! “Mr. Clayton.” Grey holds his hand out, his look unreadable. “Mr. Grey.” Paul returns his handshake. “Wait up—not the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?” Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grey gives him a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wow—is there anything I can get you?” “Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She’s been very attentive.” His expression is impassive, but his words… It’s like he’s saying something else entirely. It’s baffling. “Cool,” Paul responds. “Catch you later, Ana.” “Sure, Paul.” I watch him disappear toward the stockroom. “Anything else, Mr. Grey?”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Christian glares at her in a butt-out-of-this-Kavanagh kind of way. Even Kate wilts under his stare. “Just about my trip to Georgia,” I say sweetly, hoping to defuse their mutual hostility. Kate smiles, a wicked gleam in her eye. “How was José when you went to the bar with him on Friday?” Holy fuck, Kate. I widen my eyes at her. What is she doing? She widens her eyes back at me, and I realize she’s trying to make Christian jealous. How little she knows. I thought I’d gotten away with this. “He was fine,” I murmur. Christian leans over. “Palm-twitchingly mad. Especially now.” His tone is quiet and deadly. Oh no. I squirm. Grace reappears carrying two plates, followed by a pretty young woman with blond pigtails, dressed smartly in pale blue, carrying a tray of plates. Her eyes immediately find Christian in the room. She blushes and gazes at him from under her long mascara-covered lashes. What? Somewhere in the house the phone starts ringing. “Excuse me.” Mr. Grey rises again and exits. “Thank you, Gretchen,” Grace says gently, frowning as Mr. Grey exits. “Just leave the tray on the console.” Gretchen nods, and with another furtive glance at Christian, she leaves. So the Greys have staff, and the staff are eyeing up my would-be Dominant. Can this evening get any worse? I scowl at my hands in my lap. Mr. Grey returns. “Call for you, darling. It’s the hospital,” he says to Grace. “Please start, everyone.” Grace smiles as she hands me a plate and leaves. It smells delicious—chorizo and scallops with roasted red peppers and shallots, sprinkled with flat-leaf parsley. And despite the fact that my stomach is churning from Christian’s veiled threats, the surreptitious glances from pretty little Miss Pigtails, and the debacle of my missing underwear, I am starving. I flush as I realize it’s the physical effort of this afternoon that’s given me such an appetite. Moments later Grace returns, her brow furrowed. Mr. Grey cocks his head to one side…like Christian. “Everything okay?” “Another measles case.” Grace sighs. “Oh no.” “Yes, a child. The fourth case this month. If only people would get their kids vaccinated.” She shakes her head sadly, then smiles. “I’m so glad our children never went through that. They never caught anything worse than chicken pox, thank goodness. Poor Elliot,” she says as she sits down, smiling indulgently at her son. Elliot frowns midchew and squirms uncomfortably. “Christian and Mia were lucky. They got it so mildly, only a spot to share between them.” Mia giggles, and Christian rolls his eyes. “So, did you catch the Mariners game, Dad?” Elliot’s clearly eager to move the conversation on.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I’ll pick you up at eight.” He turns to leave, opening the front door and stepping out onto the porch. Elliot follows him to the car but turns and blows Kate another kiss, and I feel an unwelcome pang of jealousy. “So, did you?” Kate asks as we watch them climb into the car and drive off, the burning curiosity evident in her voice. “No,” I snap irritably, hoping that will halt the questions. We head back into the apartment. “You obviously did, though.” I can’t contain my envy. Kate always manages to ensnare men. She is irresistible, beautiful, sexy, funny, forward…all the things I’m not. But her answering grin is infectious. “And I’m seeing him again this evening.” She claps her hands and jumps up and down like a small child. She cannot contain her excitement and happiness, and I can’t help but feel happy for her. A happy Kate… This is going to be interesting. “Christian is taking me to Seattle this evening.” “Seattle?” “Yes.” “Maybe you will then?” “Oh, I hope so.” “You like him, then?” “Yes.” “Like him enough to…?” “Yes.” She raises her eyebrows. “Wow. Ana Steele, finally falling for a man, and it’s Christian Grey—hot, sexy billionaire.” “Oh yeah—it’s all about the money.” I smirk, and we both fall into a fit of giggles. “Is that a new blouse?” she asks, and I let her have all the unexciting details about my night. “Has he kissed you yet?” she asks as she makes coffee. I blush. “Once.” “Once!” she scoffs. I nod, rather shamefaced. “He’s very reserved.” She frowns. “That’s odd.” “I don’t think ‘odd’ covers it, really.” “We need to make sure you’re simply irresistible for this evening,” she says with determination. Oh no… This sounds like it will be time-consuming, humiliating, and painful. “I have to be at work in an hour.” “I can work with that time frame. Come on.” Kate grabs my hand and takes me into her bedroom. The day drags at Clayton’s even though we’re busy. We’ve hit the summer season, so I have to spend two hours restocking the shelves once the shop is closed. It’s mindless work, and it gives me too much time to think. I’ve not really had a chance all day. Under Kate’s tireless and frankly intrusive instruction, my legs and underarms are shaved to perfection, my eyebrows plucked, and I am buffed all over. It has been a most unpleasant experience. But she assures me that this is what men expect these days. What else will he expect? I have to convince Kate that this is what I want to do. For some strange reason, she doesn’t trust him, maybe because he’s so stiff and formal. She says she can’t put her finger on it, but I have promised to text her when I arrive in Seattle. I haven’t told her about the helicopter; she’d freak.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Her theme is “What Next After College?” Oh, what next indeed. Christian is watching Kate, his eyebrows raised—in surprise, I think. Yes, it could have been Kate who went to interview him. And it could have been Kate who he was now making indecent proposals to. Beautiful Kate and beautiful Christian, together. I could be like the two girls beside me, admiring him from afar. I know Kate wouldn’t have given him the time of day. What did she call him the other day? Creepy. The thought of a confrontation between Kate and Christian makes me uncomfortable. I have to say I don’t know which of them I would put my money on. Kate concludes her speech with a flourish, and spontaneously everyone stands, applauding and cheering, her first standing ovation. I beam at her and cheer, and she grins back at me. Good job, Kate. She sits, as does the audience, and the chancellor rises and introduces Christian, touching briefly on Christian’s achievements: CEO of his own extraordinarily successful company, a real self-made man. “…and also a major benefactor to our university. Please welcome Mr. Christian Grey.” The chancellor pumps Christian’s hand, and there is a swell of polite applause. My heart’s in my throat. He approaches the lectern and surveys the hall. He looks so confident standing in front of us all, as Kate did before him. The two girls beside me lean in, enraptured. In fact, I think most of the female members of the audience inch closer—and a few of the men. He begins, his voice soft, measured, and mesmerizing. “I’m profoundly grateful and touched by the great compliment accorded to me by the authorities of WSU today. It offers me a rare opportunity to talk about the impressive work of the Environmental Science Department here at the university. Our aim is to develop viable and ecologically sustainable methods of farming for developing countries; our ultimate goal is to help eradicate hunger and poverty across the globe. Over a billion people, mainly in sub-Saharan Africa, South Asia, and Latin America, live in abject poverty. Agricultural dysfunction is rife within these parts of the world, and the result is ecological and social destruction. I have known what it’s like to be profoundly hungry. This is a very personal journey for me…” My jaw falls to the floor. What? Christian was hungry once. Holy crap. Well, that explains a great deal. And I recall the interview; he really does want to feed the world. I desperately rack my brains to remember what Kate had written in her article. Adopted at age four, I think. I can’t imagine that Grace starved him, so it must have been before then, as a little boy. I swallow, my heart constricting at the thought of a hungry, gray-eyed toddler.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  You shouldn’t have done it. But we all let her go, really,” he said, and I wondered what the hell he meant by that, but I didn’t have time to ask before he said to me, “So you think it was suicide?” “Maybe,” I said. “I don’t see how she could have hit the cop by accident unless she was asleep.” “Maybe she was going to visit her father,” Takumi said. “Vine Station is on the way.” “Maybe,” I said. “Everything’s a maybe, isn’t it?” The Colonel reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Well, here’s another one: Maybe Jake has the answers,” he said. “We’ve exhausted other strategies, so I’m calling him tomorrow, okay?” I wanted answers now, too, but not to some questions. “Yeah, okay,” I said. “But listen—don’t tell me anything that’s not relevant. I don’t want to know anything unless it’s going to help me know where she was going and why.” “Me neither, actually,” Takumi said. “I feel like maybe some of that shit should stay private.” The Colonel stuffed a towel under the door, lit a cigarette, and said, “Fair enough, kids. We’ll work on a need-to-know basis.” twenty-nine days after AS I WALKED HOME from classes the next day, I saw the Colonel sitting on the bench outside the pay phone, scribbling into a notebook balanced on his knees as he cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder. I hurried into Room 43, where I found Takumi playing the racing game on mute. “How long has he been on the phone?” I asked. “Dunno. He was on when I got here twenty minutes ago. He must have skipped Smart Boy Math. Why, are you scared Jake’s gonna drive down here and kick your ass for letting her go?” “Whatever,” I said, thinking, This is precisely why we shouldn’t have told him. I walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and lit a cigarette. Takumi came in not long after. “What’s up?” he said. “Nothing. I just want to know what happened to her.” “Like you really want to know the truth? Or like you want to find out that she fought with him and was on her way to break up with him and was going to come back here and fall into your arms and you were going to make hot, sweet love and have genius babies who memorized last words and poetry?” “If you’re pissed at me, just say so.” “I’m not pissed at you for letting her go. But I’m tired of you acting like you were the only guy who ever wanted her. Like you had some monopoly on liking her,” Takumi answered. I stood up, lifted the toilet seat, and flushed my unfinished cigarette. I stared at him for a moment, and then said, “I kissed her that night, and I’ve got a monopoly on that.” “What?” he stammered. “I kissed her.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  the suggestion, Ellington played along. For several minutes he talked to the mother on the telephone, lavishing her with compliments on the charming daughter she had raised, and telling her not to worry—he was taking good Men despise women who care of the girl. The daughter got back on the phone and said, "We're fine love too much and because we're with Mr. Ellington and he's such a perfect gentleman." As unwisely. soon as she hung up, the three of them resumed the naughtiness they had — L U C I A N , DIALOGUES started. To the two girls, it later seemed an innocent but unforgettable night OF THE COURTESANS, T R A N S L A T E D B Y A . L . H . of pleasure. Sometimes several of these far-flung mistresses would show up at the same concert. Ellington would go up and kiss each of them four times (a I shall endeavor briefly to habit of his designed for just this dilemma). And each of the ladies would outline to you how a love assume she was the one with whom the kisses really mattered. when gained can be deepened. They say it can be increased in particular by making it an infrequent Interpretation. Duke Ellington had two passions: music and women. The and difficult business for two were interrelated. His endless affairs were a constant inspiration for his lovers to set eyes on each music; he also treated them as if they were theater, a work of art in them-other, for the greater the difficulty of offering and selves. When it came time to separate, he always managed it with a theatri-receiving shared cal touch. A clever remark and a gift would make it seem that for him the consolations, the greater affair was hardly over. Song lyrics referring to their night together would become the desire for, and feeling of love. Love also keep up the aesthetic atmosphere long after he had left town. No wonder grows if one of the lovers women kept coming back for more. This was not a sexual affair, a tawdry shows anger to the other, one-nighter, but a heightened moment in the woman's life. And his care-for a lover is at once sorely afraid that a partner's free attitude made it impossible to feel guilty; thoughts of one's mother or Beware the Aftereffects • 423 husband would not spoil the illusion. Ellington was never defensive or wrath when roused may apologetic about his appetite for women; it was his nature and never the harden indefinitely. Love fault of the woman that he was unfaithful. And if he could not help his de-again experiences increase when genuine jealousy sires, how could she hold him responsible? It was impossible to hold a preoccupies one of the grudge against such a man or complain about his behavior. lovers, for jealousy is called

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Christian Grey’s iPod. This should be interesting. I scroll through the touch screen and find the perfect song. I press play. I wouldn’t have figured him for a Britney fan. The club-mix, techno beat assaults us both, and Christian turns the volume down. Maybe it’s too early for this: Britney’s at her most sultry. “‘Toxic,’ eh?” Christian grins. “I don’t know what you mean.” I feign innocence. He turns the music down a little more, and inside I am hugging myself. My inner goddess is standing on the podium awaiting her gold medal. He turned the music down. Victory! “I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” he says casually and puts his foot down so I am thrown back into my seat as the car accelerates along the freeway. What? He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. Who did? And I have to listen to Britney going on and on. Who…who? The song ends and the iPod shuffles to Damien Rice being mournful. Who? Who? I stare out the window, my stomach churning. Who? “It was Leila,” he answers my unspoken thoughts. How does he do that? “Leila?” “An ex, who put the song on my iPod.” Damien warbles away in the background as I sit stunned. An ex…ex-submissive? An ex— “One of the fifteen?” I ask. “Yes.” “What happened to her?” “We finished.” “Why?” It’s too early for this kind of conversation. But he looks relaxed, happy even, and, what’s more, talkative. “She wanted more.” His voice is low, introspective even, and he leaves the sentence hanging between us, ending it with that powerful little word again. “And you didn’t?” I ask before I can employ my brain-to-mouth filter. Shit, do I want to know? He shakes his head. “I’ve never wanted more, until I met you.” I gasp, reeling. Isn’t this what I want? He wants more. He wants it, too! My inner goddess has backflipped off the podium and is doing cartwheels around the stadium. It’s not just me. “What happened to the other fourteen?” I ask. Jeez, he’s talking—take advantage. “You want a list? Divorced, beheaded, died?” “You’re not Henry VIII.” “Okay. In no particular order, I’ve only had long-term relationships with four women, apart from Elena.” “Elena?” “Mrs. Robinson to you.” He half smiles his secret-private-joke smile. Elena! Holy fuck. The evil one has a name and it’s all foreign sounding. A vision of a glorious, pale-skinned vamp with raven hair and ruby-red lips comes to mind, and I know she’s beautiful. I must not dwell. I must not dwell. “What happened to the four?” I ask to distract myself. “So inquisitive, so eager for information, Miss Steele,” he scolds playfully. “Oh, Mr. When Is Your Period Due?” “Anastasia, a man needs to know these things.” “Does he?” “I do.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want you to get pregnant.” “Neither do I. Well, not for a few years yet.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  are natural enemies. Love may unite them briefly to form one mind, one heart, one will, but all too soon Interpretation. Don Mateo and Conchita Perez are characters in the 1896 they are torn asunder. And novella Woman and Puppet, by Pierre Louÿs. Based on a true story—the this you know better than "Miss Charpillon" episode in Casanova's Memoirs—the novella has served as I: either one of them must bend the other to his will, the basis for two films: Josef von Sternberg's Devil Is a Woman, with Mar- or else he must let himself lene Dietrich, and Luis Buñuel's That Obscure Object of Desire. In Louÿs's be trampled underfoot. " • story, Conchita takes a proud and aggressive older man and in the space of a "Under the woman's foot, few months turns him into an abject slave. Her method is simple: she stimu- of course," said Lady Venus impertinently. "And lates as many emotions as possible, including heavy doses of pain. She ex- that you know better than cites his lust, then makes him feel base for taking advantage of her. She gets I." • "Of course, that is him to play the protector, then makes him feel guilty for trying to buy her. why I have no illusions." • "In other words you are Her sudden disappearance anguishes him—he has lost her—so that when now my slave without she reappears (never by accident) he feels intense joy; which, however, she illusions, and I shall 374 • The Art of Seduction trample you mercilessly. " • quickly turns back into tears. Jealousy and humiliation then precede the fi- "Madam!" • "You do not nal moment when she gives him her virginity. (Even after this, according to know me yet. I admit that the story, she finds ways to continue to torment him.) Each low she I am cruel— since the word gives you so much inspires—guilt, despair, jealousy, emptiness—creates the space for a more delight— but am I not intense high. He becomes an addict, hooked on the alternation of charge entitled to be so? It is man and withdrawal. who desires, woman who is Your seduction should never follow a simple course upward toward desired; this is woman's only advantage, but it is a pleasure and harmony. The climax will come too soon, and the pleasure decisive one. By making will be weak. What makes us intensely appreciate something is previous man so vulnerable to suffering. A brush with death makes us fall in love with life; a long journey passion, nature has placed him at woman's mercy, and makes a return home that much more pleasurable. Your task is to create she who has not the sense moments of sadness, despair, and anguish, to create the tension that allows to treat him like a humble for a great release. Do not worry about making people angry; anger is a subject, a slave, a

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  His withdrawal from the world had the effect of only heightening the devotion of his followers. Coquetry depends on developing a pattern to keep the other person off balance. The strategy is extremely effective. Experiencing a pleasure once, we yearn to repeat it; so the Coquette gives us pleasure, then withdraws it. The alternation of heat and cold is the most common pattern, and has sev- eral variations. The eighth-century Chinese Coquette Yang Kuei-Fei to- tally enslaved the Emperor Ming Huang through a pattern of kindness and bitterness: having charmed him with kindness, she would suddenly get an- gry, blaming him harshly for the slightest mistake. Unable to live without the pleasure she gave him, the emperor would turn the court upside down to please her when she was angry or upset. Her tears had a similar effect: what had he done, why was she so sad? He eventually ruined himself and his kingdom trying to keep her happy. Tears, anger, and the production of guilt are all the tools of the Coquette. A similar dynamic appears in a lover's quarrel: when a couple fights, then reconciles, the joys of reconciliation only make the attachment stronger. Sadness of any sort is also seductive, particularly if it seems deep-rooted, even spiritual, rather than needy or pathetic—it makes people come to you. Coquettes are never jealous—that would undermine their image of fundamental self-sufficiency. But they are masters at inciting jealousy: by paying attention to a third party, creating a triangle of desire, they signal to their victims that they may not be that interested. This triangulation is ex- tremely seductive, in social contexts as well as erotic ones. Interested in nar- cissistic women, Freud was a narcissist himself, and his aloofness drove his disciples crazy. (They even had a name for it—his "god complex.") Behav- ing like a kind of messiah, too lofty for petty emotions, Freud always main- tained a distance between himself and his students, hardly ever inviting them over for dinner, say, and keeping his private life shrouded in mystery. Yet he would occasionally choose an acolyte to confide in—Carl Jung, Otto Rank, Lou Andreas-Salomé. The result was that his disciples went berserk trying to win his favor, to be the one he chose. Their jealousy when he suddenly favored one of them only increased his power over them.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Yet he would occasionally choose an acolyte to confide in—Carl Jung, Otto Rank, Lou Andreas-Salomé. The result was that his disciples went berserk trying to win his favor, to be the one he chose. Their jealousy when he suddenly favored one of them only increased his power over them. People's natural insecurities are heightened in group settings; by The Coquette • 77 maintaining aloofness, Coquettes start a competition to win their favor. If the ability to use third parties to make targets jealous is a critical seductive skill, Sigmund Freud was a grand Coquette. All of the tactics of the Coquette have been adapted by political leaders to make the public fall in love. While exciting the masses, these leaders remain inwardly detached, which keeps them in control. The political scientist Roberto Michels has even referred to such politicians as Cold Coquettes. Napoleon played the Coquette with the French: after the grand successes of the Italian campaign had made him a beloved hero, he left France to conquer Egypt, knowing that in his absence the government would fall apart, the people would hunger for his return, and their love would serve as the base for an expansion of his power. After exciting the masses with a rousing speech, Mao Zedong would disappear from sight for days on end, making himself an object of cultish worship. And no one was more of a Coquette than Yugoslav leader Josef Tito, who alternated between distance from and emotional identification with his people. All of these political leaders were confirmed narcissists. In times of trouble, when people feel insecure, the effect of such political coquetry is even more powerful. It is important to realize that coquetry is extremely effective on a group, stimulating jealousy, love, and intense devotion. If you play such a role with a group, remember to keep an emotional and physical distance. This will allow you to cry and laugh on command, project self-sufficiency, and with such detachment you will be able play people's emotions like a piano. Symbol: The Shadow. It cannot be grasped. Chase your shadow and it will flee; turn your back on it and it will follow you. It is also a person's dark side, the thing that makes them mysterious. After they have given us pleasure, the shadow of their withdrawal makes us yearn for their return, much as clouds make us yearn for the sun. 78 • The Art of Seduction Dangers Coquettes face an obvious danger: they play with volatile emotions.

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  And send her to me in the upstairs parlor." SERVING MAID BEAUTY COULD not believe her bad luck when, entering the upstairs parlor, she saw the lovely Lady Juliana was playing chess with the Prince, and that other beautiful Ladies were seated about at various chessboards, and that there were several Lords as well, including an old man with white hair that flowed down over his shoulders. Why did it have to be this Lady Juliana, so full of airy gestures and sunshine, her thick braids done tonight with crimson ribbon, her breasts beautifully molded by the velvet gown, and her laughter already filling the air as the Prince whispered to her some little witticism. Beauty did not know what she felt. Was it jealousy? Was it merely the usual humiliation? And Beauty had been adorned so cruelly by Leon, it was better to be naked. First Leon had scrubbed away all the Prince's fluids, then he had braided only a thick lock of Beauty's hair on either side, pinning back these braids so that most of her hair still hung free. Then he had put little jeweled clamps on her nipples, but these were connected to each other by two strands of fine gold chain like a necklace. The clamps hurt and the chains moved as the bells had with Beauty's every breath. But she had been quite horrified to discover this was not all. Leon's quick, graceful fingers had probed her navel, then smoothed into it a paste in which he set a glittering brooch, a fine jewel surrounded by pearls. Beauty had gasped. She felt as if someone were pressing her there, trying to enter her, as if her navel had become a vagina. And the feeling continued. She could feel it now. Then her ears must be hung with heavy jewels on tight gold clamps that stroked her neck when she moved, and her pubic lips of course could not be spared but must wear the same adornment. There were snake bracelets for her upper arms, and jeweled cuffs for her wrists, the effect to make her feel all the more exposed. Adorned and yet exposed. It was mystifying. About her neck finally a choker of jewels, and then on her left cheek a little jewel in paste like a beauty mark. It caused her such annoyance. She wanted to wipe it away and could imagine it glittering. It seemed she could even see it out of the corner of her eye.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  Oh, I had to keep a very sharp eye on Lo, little limp Lo! Owing perhaps to constant amorous exercise, she radiated, despite her very childish appearance, some special languorous glow which threw garage fellows, hotel pages, vacationists, goons in luxurious cars, maroon morons near blued pools, into fits of concupiscence which might have tickled my pride, had it not incensed my jealousy. For little Lo was aware of that glow of hers, and I would often catch her coulant un regard in the direction of some amiable male, some grease monkey, with a sinewy golden-brown forearm and watch-braceleted wrist, and hardly had I turned my back to go and buy this very Lo a lollipop, than I would hear her and the fair mechanic burst into a perfect love song of wisecracks. When, during our longer stops, I would relax after a particularly violent morning in bed, and out of the goodness of my lulled heart allow her—indulgent Hum!—to visit the rose garden or children’s library across the street with a motor court neighbor’s plain little Mary and Mary’s eight-year-old brother, Lo would come back an hour late, with barefoot Mary trailing far behind, and the little boy metamorphosed into two gangling, golden-haired high school uglies, all muscles and gonorrhea. The reader may well imagine what I answered my pet when—rather uncertainly, I admit—she would ask me if she could go with Carl and Al here to the roller-skating rink. I remember the first time, a dusty windy afternoon, I did let her go to one such rink. Cruelly she said it would be no fun if I accompanied her, since that time of day was reserved for teenagers. We wrangled out a compromise: I remained in the car, among other (empty) cars with their noses to the canvas-topped open-air rink, where some fifty young people, many in pairs, were endlessly rolling round and round to mechanical music, and the wind silvered the trees. Dolly wore blue jeans and white high shoes, as most of the other girls did. I kept counting the revolutions of the rolling crowd—and suddenly she was missing. When she rolled past again, she was together with three hoodlums whom I had heard analyze a moment before the girl skaters from the outside—and jeer at a lovely leggy young thing who had arrived clad in red shorts instead of those jeans or slacks.

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  She was plump and dark-haired and (according to him) had this most annoying habit of falling into a dead sleep after getting laid. She had gone to Paris to get away from him, and had a French boyfriend who lived with her on the Rue de la Harpe (Charlie seemed to know the particulars pretty well for someone who no longer gave a damn). But if all that was true, then why did she sign her letters to him “I love you"? Was it just to keep an ace in the hole? And how about him? Was she his ace (or ass) in the hole? Or was I? I’ve always felt that reading other people’s mail is the lowest of the low, but jealousy drives you to strange things. One sad morning in the East Village, when Charlie left early to teach his music students, I snuck out of bed like a spy and (with my heart booming like one of Saul Goodman’s kettle drums) I searched his apartment. I was looking, of course, for Paris postmarks—and I found them, right under Charlie’s tattletale gray jockey shorts. Judging from her letters, Salome Weinfeld (named for her grandpa Sol?) was a literary type. She was also involved in the game of driving Charlie wild with jealousy while holding onto him with little doles of affection. Cher Charles [she wrote]: We [we!] are living here on the sixth floor (seventh to you) of a charming seedy dump called the Hotel de la Harper while we look for cheaper digs. Paris is divine—Jean-Paul Sartre practically around the corner, Simone de Beauvoir, Beckett, Genět—tout le monde, in short. Darling, I love you. Don’t think that just because I’m living with Sebastien (who, incidentally, makes superb couscous)—I have stopped caring for you. It’s just that I need time to experiment, to breathe, to live, to stretch, to flex my muscles [guess which!] without you. I miss you day and night, think of you, even dream of you. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is to live with a man who doesn’t know what a B.L.T. is, who never ate a blintz, who thinks The Charles is a former king of England! Nevertheless he (Sebastien) is sweet and devoted and [a whole line was inked out blackly here] makes me realize daily how much I still love you. Attends-moi, cheri Sally Attends-moi yourself! But how could I confront Charlie with a letter which I had ferreted out from among his not-too-clean underwear? So instead I adopted a Fabian policy of watchful waiting. I kept my resentment secret. I was determined to win him, gradually, from his secret pen pal.

• From My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018)

  Ironically, her desire to be classy had always been the déclassé thorn in her side. “Studied grace is not grace,” I once tried to explain. “Charm is not a hairstyle. You either have it or you don’t. The more you try to be fashionable, the tackier you’ll look.” Nothing hurt Reva more than effortless beauty, like mine. When we’d watched Before Sunrise on video one day, she’d said, “Did you know Julie Delpy’s a feminist? I wonder if that’s why she’s not skinnier. No way they’d cast her in this role if she were American. See how soft her arms are? Nobody here tolerates arm flab. Arm flab is a killer. It’s like the SAT’s. You don’t even exist if you’re below 1400.” “Does it make you happy that Julie Delpy has arm flab?” I’d asked her. “No,” she’d said after some consideration. “Happiness is not what I’d call it. More like satisfaction.” Jealousy was one thing Reva didn’t seem to feel the need to hide from me. Ever since we’d formed a friendship, if I told her that something good happened, she’d whine “No fair” often enough that it became a kind of catchphrase that she would toss off casually, her voice flat. It was an automatic response to my good grade, a new shade of lipstick, the last popsicle, my expensive haircut. “No fair.” I’d make my fingers like a cross and hold them out between us, as though to protect me from her envy and wrath. I once asked her whether her jealousy had anything to do with her being Jewish, if she thought things came easier to me because I was a WASP. “It’s not because I’m Jewish,” I remember her saying. This was right around graduation, when I’d made the dean’s list despite having skipped more than half my classes senior year, and Reva had bombed the GRE. “It’s because I’m fat.” She really wasn’t. She was very pretty, in fact. “And I wish you’d take better care of yourself,” she said one day visiting me in my half-awake state at my apartment. “I can’t do it for you, you know. What do you like so much about Whoopi Goldberg? She’s not even funny. You need to be watching movies that are going to cheer you up. Like Austin Powers. Or that one with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. You’re like Winona Ryder from Girl, Interrupted all of a sudden. But you look more like Angelina Jolie. She’s blond in that.” This was how she expressed her concern for my well-being. She also didn’t like the fact that I was “on drugs.” “You really shouldn’t mix alcohol with all your medications,” she said, finishing the wine. I let Reva have all the wine. In college, she’d called hitting the bars “going to therapy.” She could suck a whiskey sour down in one sip. She popped Advil between drinks. She said it kept her tolerance up.

• From My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018)

  I imagined her disgust at the cheapness of things, the mustiness of the air. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to ask her. I had no burning urge to proclaim any fury or sadness. “Hello,” was as far as I got in our hypothetical dialogue. I got up out of bed and fished through one of the cardboard boxes on Reva’s bureau. In her senior yearbook, I found only one photo of her, the standard portrait. Hers stood out in the rows of boring faces. She had big frizzy hair, chubby cheeks, overplucked eyebrows that zoomed across her forehead like crooked arrows, dark lipstick, thick black eyeliner. Her gaze was slightly off center, vague, unhappy, possessed. She looked like she’d been much more interesting before she left for college—a Goth, a freak, a punk, a reject, a delinquent, an outcast, a fuckup. As long as I’d known her, she’d been a follower, a plebeian, straitlaced and conformist. But it seemed as though she’d had a rich, secretive interior life in high school, with desires beyond the usual drinking and foosball soirees suburban Long Island had to offer. So, I gathered, Reva moved to Manhattan to go to college and decided she’d try to fit in—get skinny, be pretty, talk like all the other skinny, pretty girls. It made sense that she’d want me as her best friend. Maybe her best friend in high school had been one of the weirdos, like her. Maybe she’d had some kind of disability—a gimp arm, Tourette’s, Coke-bottle glasses, alopecia. I imagined the two of them together in that black basement bedroom listening to music: Joy Division. Siouxsie and the Banshees. It made me a little jealous to think of Reva being depressed and dependent on anyone but me. After my mother’s funeral, I went back to school. My sorority sisters didn’t ask if I was okay, if I wanted to talk. They all avoided me. Only a few left notes under my door. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this!” Of course, I was grateful to be spared the humiliation of a patronizing confrontation by a dozen young women who would probably have just shamed me for not “being more open.” They weren’t my friends. Reva and I were in French class together that year. We were conversation partners. She took notes for me while I was away, and when I came back, she wasn’t afraid to ask questions. In class, she diverged from the curriculum to ask, in halting, bad French, how I was doing, what had happened, if I felt sad or angry, if I wanted to get together outside of class to speak in English. I agreed. She wanted to know every detail of the whole ordeal with my parents, hear the deep insights I had gleaned, how I felt, how I’d mourned. I gave her the basic gist. Talking to Reva about misery was insufferable. “Look on the bright side,” was what she wanted everyone to do.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  So rid yourself of your nasty habit of avoiding conflict, which is in any excite but not requite the desire of the princess; he delighted in making her jealous, or pretending to be jealous himself. He would often drive her to tears. Gradually he forced her into the position of doing nothing without his leave, even trifles of no importance. Sometimes, when she was ready to go to the Opera, he insisted that she stay at home; and sometimes he made her go there against her will. He obliged her to grant favours to ladies she did not like or of whom she was jealous. She was not even free to dress as she chose; he would amuse himself by making her change her coiffure or her dress at the last minute; he did this so often and so publicly that she became accustomed to take his orders in the evening for what she would do and wear the following day; then the next day he would alter everything, and the princess would cry all the more. In the end she took to sending him messages by trusted footmen, for from the first he had taken up residence in Luxembourg; messages which continued throughout her toilette, to know what ribbons she would wear, what gown and other ornaments; almost invariably he made her wear something she did not wish to. When she occasionally dared to do anything, however small, without his leave, he treated her like a servant, and she was in tears for several days. • . . . Before assembled company he would give her such brusque replies that everyone lowered their eyes, and the Duchess would blush, though her passion Mix Pleasure with Pain • 377 case unnatural. You are most often nice not out of your own inner good- ness but out of fear of displeasing, out of insecurity. Go beyond that fear and you suddenly have options—the freedom to create pain, then magically dissolve it. Your seductive powers will increase tenfold. People will be less upset by your hurtful actions than you might imag- ine. In the world today, we often feel starved for experience. We crave emotion, even if it is negative. The pain you cause your targets, then, is bracing—it makes them feel more alive. They have something to complain about, they get to play the victim. As a result, once you have turned the pain into pleasure they will readily forgive you. Stir up their jealousy, make them feel insecure, and the validation you later give their ego by preferring them over their rivals is doubly delightful. Remember: you have more to fear by boring your targets than by shaking them up.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  For indeed the two sisters had so good an under- standing between them and did so generously lend a hand to each other and so obligingly play sentinel to one another, that no ill hap did ever occur. And he swore to me, being my very intimate friend as he was, that never in his days of greatest liberty had he enjoyed so excellent entertainment or felt keener ardor or better appetite for it than in the said prison—which truly was a right good prison for him, albeit folk say no prison can be good. And this happy time did continue for the space of eight months, till the truce was made betwixt the Emperor and Henri II., King of France, whereby all prisoners did leave their dungeons and were released. He sware that never was he more grieved than at quitting this good prison of his, but was exceeding sorry to leave these fair maids, with whom he was in such high favor, and who did express all possible regrets at his departing. —SEIGNEUR DE BRANTÔME, LIVES OF FAIR & GALLANT LADIES, TRANSLATED BY A. R. ALLINSON Disarm Through Strategic Weakness and Vulnerability • 293 Reversal T iming is everything in seduction; you should always look for signs that the target is falling under your spell. A person falling in love tends to ignore the other person's weaknesses, or to see them as endearing. An unseduced, rational person, on the other hand, may find bashfulness or emotional outbursts pathetic. There are also certain weaknesses that have no seductive value, no matter how in love the target may be. The great seventeenth-century courtesan Ninon de l'Enclos liked men with a soft side. But sometimes a man would go too far, complaining that she did not love him enough, that she was too fickle and independent, that he was being mistreated and wronged. For Ninon, such behavior would break the spell, and she would quickly end the relationship. Complaining, whining, neediness, and actively appealing for sympathy will appear to your targets not as charming weaknesses but as manipulative attempts at a kind of negative power. So when you play the victim, do it subtly, without overad- vertising it. The only weaknesses worth playing up are the ones that will make you seem lovable. All others should be repressed and eradicated at all costs. Confuse Desire and Reality— The Perfect Illusion To compensate for the difficulties in their lives, people spend a lot of their time daydreaming, imag- ining a future full of adventure, success, and romance. If you can create the illusion that through you they can live out their dreams, you will have them at your mercy. It is im- portant to start slowly, gaining their trust, and gradually constructing the fantasy that matches their desires. Aim at secret wishes that have been thwarted or repressed, stirring up uncontrollable emotions, clouding their powers of reason.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Then, at one soiree, she was friendly and attentive, as usual—except that she was equally friendly to another man there, a former aristocrat, like Josephine, the kind of man that Napoleon could never compete with when it came to manners and wit. Doubts and jealousies began to stir within. As a military man, he knew the value of going on the offensive, and after a few weeks of a swift and aggressive campaign he had her all to himself, eventu- ally marrying her. Of course Josephine, a clever seductress, had set it all up. She did not say she was interested in another man, but his mere presence at her house, a look here and there, subtle gestures, made it seem that way. There is no more powerful way to hint that you are losing your desire. Make your interest in another too obvious, though, and it could backfire. This is not the situation in which you want to seem cruel; doubt and anxiety are the effects you are after. Make your possible interest in another barely perceptible to the naked eye. Once someone has fallen for you, any physical absence will create un- ease. You are literally creating space. The Russian seductress Lou Andreas- Salomé had an intense presence; when a man was with her, he felt her eyes boring into him, and often became entranced with her coquettish ways and spirit. But then, almost invariably, something would come up—she would have to leave town for a while, or would be too busy to see him. It was during her absences that men fell hopelessly in love with her, and vowed to be more aggressive next time they were with her. Your absences at this latter point of the seduction should seem at least somewhat justified. You are insinuating not a blatant brush-off but a slight doubt: perhaps you could have found some reason to stay, perhaps you are losing interest, per- haps there is someone else. In your absence, their appreciation of you will grow. They will forget your faults, forgive your sins. The moment you re- turn, they will chase after you as you desire. It will be as if you had come back from the dead. According to the psychologist Theodor Reik, we learn to love only through rejection. As infants, we are showered with love by our mother— we know nothing else. But when we get a little older, we begin to sense that her love is not unconditional. If we do not behave, if we do not please her, she can withdraw it.