Joy

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  And it is the birth of love. His cock is my laser healer. Every point it probes inside me pierces my armor, the armor of self-protection, and the two fears—love and death—momentarily lose their grip and I experience a moment of immortality. #75 Vertical fucking. Upside down, legs over my head, knees by my ears, ass up, he perches over me like an acrobat and points his cock down into me. He thrusts downward to Earth’s center, and I am grounded. I point upward, outward to the sky, to the Milky Way, to heaven’s gate, and I see clearly between my legs his cock pumping like a piston. Angle is everything. We achieve a kind of gravity-free coordination, complete transcendence of the “fight”—the fight that is life—total trust allowing his deep, hard, long, and fast plunges entirely without self-protective gripping. Undulating . . . and great inner peace as I am rocked like a mermaid in the ocean. THE DOUBLE-SPHINCTER THEORY More mechanics: the inner anal sphincter is not within conscious control. It is regulated by the brain in the gut, the enteric nervous system, and is reflexive, opening on demand. The external sphincter, the internal’s sister sphincter, is, however, connected to the conscious brain, regulated by conscious control— witness the ability to grip and hold when necessary, when angry, when scared, when stressed. Unconscious internal sphincter, conscious external sphincter, only centimeters apart. Where else is one’s unconscious and conscious mind so intimately connected, so readily regulated, so easily probed? It is a psychological playground of the most intriguing potential. Put an ass on the couch and much is revealed. But the external sphincter did not begin with consciousness. For the first year or so of life it was unconscious, reacting in conjunction with the internal and letting go on demand—hence diapers. The brain and spinal cord at birth are not yet developed enough for conscious control. And then comes toilet training. When the brain is sophisticated enough and the parents encourage (or scream) enough, the little eighteen-month-old becomes conscious of that external anal sphincter and learns to grip it, control it, and not to let the shit fly at every urge. Shame is born. All this is to say that when I get fucked in the ass, I have learned to play with, and even reverse, that long-ago, probably traumatic coming to consciousness about gripping my ass, holding on to it, showing it to no one. After all, Freud hypothesized that one’s shit is the first gift one offers one’s parents—one’s first creative production.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Now, gently call forth the visual image of someone for whom you know something good has happened. This good event may be big or small. Perhaps this person’s family has been expanded to include a healthy newborn child. Or maybe he or she got a raise or had an important project at work meet with success. Or maybe this person is simply feeling healthy and strong, and enjoying a sense of ease in daily life. No matter the circumstances, let your mind slowly absorb the scope of this person’s good fortune, knowing that, like all events—good and bad—this, too, shall fade with time. Then, lightly remind yourself of how people worldwide yearn to be happy, and that—at this particular moment, for this particular person—this universal wish is coming true. Into this context, say the following classic phrase, or your own version of it, speaking from your heart: May your happiness and good fortune continue. Repeat this ancient wish over and again, with each new breath you take. Let the phrase infuse and soften your heart and your face. Visualize yourself supporting this person, celebrating his or her unexpected good fortune, coaxing whatever goodness he or she experiences to linger just a bit longer. As your practice deepens, try out new ways to soften and expand your heart’s capacity. Take in new people, ranging from those you know well to those you don’t know at all. Remember that your aim is not to make this or any other person’s good fortune last forever. That’s hardly possible. All things pass, and it does no good to expect otherwise. Instead, your aim is simply to condition your own heart to appreciate others’ blessings when you become aware of them, to open to them, so that you may lovingly celebrate with them. Try This Micro-moment Practice: Create Celebratory Love in Daily Life

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  She smiled. “If you had said ‘never again,’ I wouldn’t have done my job. My job is for you to have a good experience.” She squeezed his hand and disappeared to find her next student. Jim leaned against the wall. He had done it. Yet again, he was experiencing The Moment. Thinking back, he remembers, “It was one of the greatest moments of my life.” * * * A couple of days later, Mayumi handed him the envelope from the judge. “Does it say I’m a mess? If he could have seen inside my brain he would have seen that I was a mess.” Mayumi looked at him. “You always assume that you’re the only one who’s anxious and no one else is.” “But they look so calm,” he protested. “So do you.” She ripped open the envelope and put the paper in his hands. At the top of the page, in big letters, was written: “VERY RELAXED.” Jim never would have guessed that, at fifty-two, he would essentially start living a new life. He thought it was too late, that the lessons of Dorchester and decades of avoidance would have settled in irreversibly. But it’s never too late to move forward. Whether you’re thirteen or eighty-three, an old dog really can be taught new tricks. Jim’s story still isn’t over. He keeps in touch with Deena, holding strong their shared connection and mutual respect from over forty years prior. It’s unclear what the future will bring, but for now Jim is satisfied with the turns his life has taken. From Dorchester to the dance floor, Jim’s journey over the mountain of social anxiety and down the other side is one he never knew was in him. * * *

• From Less (2017)

  Arthur Less has left the room while remaining in it. Now he is alone in the bedroom of the shack, standing before the mirror and tying his bow tie. It is the day of the Wilde and Stein awards, and he is thinking, briefly, of what he will say when he wins, and, briefly, his face grows golden with delight. Three raps on the front door and the sound of a key in the lock. “Arthur!” Less is adjusting both the tie and his expectations. “Arthur!” Freddy comes around the corner, then produces, from the pocket of his Parisian suit (so new it is still partially sewn shut) a flat little box. It is a present: a polka-dot bow tie. So now the tie must be undone and this new one knotted. Freddy, looking at his mirror image. “What will you say when you win?” And further: “You think it’s love, Arthur? It isn’t love.” Robert ranting in their hotel room before the lunchtime Pulitzer ceremony in New York. Tall and lean as the day they met; gone gray, of course, his face worn with age (“I’m dog-eared as a book”), but still the figure of elegance and intellectual fury. Standing here in silver hair before the bright window: “Prizes aren’t love. Because people who never met you can’t love you. The slots for winners are already set, from here until Judgment Day. They know the kind of poet who’s going to win, and if you happen to fit the slot, then bully for you! It’s like fitting a hand-me-down suit. It’s luck, not love. Not that it isn’t nice to have luck. Maybe the only way to think about it is being at the center of all beauty. Just by chance, today we get to be in the center of all beauty. It doesn’t mean I don’t want it—it’s a desperate way to get off—but I do. I’m a narcissist; desperate is what we do. Getting off is what we do. You look handsome in your suit. I don’t know why you’re shacked up with a man in his fifties. Oh, I know, you like a finished product. You don’t want to add a pearl. Let’s have champagne before we go. I know it’s noon. I need you to do my bow tie. I forget how because I know you never will. Prizes aren’t love, but this is love. What Frank wrote: It’s a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything in the world. ” More thunder unsettles Less from his thoughts. But it isn’t thunder; it is applause, and the young writer is pulling at Less’s coat sleeve. For Arthur Less has won. Less German A phone call, translated from German into English: “Good afternoon, Pegasus Publications. This is Petra.” “Good morning. Here is Mr. Arthur Less. There is a fence in my book.” “Mr. Less?” “There is a fence in my book. You are to correct, please.”

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “Agreed?” “Agreed.” At that moment Vix felt like the luckiest person on earth. She was the chosen one, chosen for reasons beyond her comprehension to be Caitlin’s friend, so if Caitlin wanted her to swear she would never be ordinary, fine, she’d do it. She made her mark in the sand, a heart with a V inside, while Caitlin drew an elaborate lightning bolt around her initials. Caitlin was impressed by how dark Vix’s skin turned in just a few weeks. “It’s my Native American gene,” Vix explained. “I’m one-sixteenth Cherokee on my mother’s side.” She wasn’t sure of the exact fraction. She just knew it was something to be proud of. “God, that is so interesting! I wish I had unusual genes.” “I’m sure you do,” Vix said, thinking of Phoebe and Lamb. When Caitlin swam Vix watched over her until she was just a dot, bobbing in the sea like a lobsterman’s buoy. “I can’t swim,” Vix confessed to Sweetie. “So you’ll have to save her if she needs saving. Okay?” Sweetie didn’t seem concerned. She cocked her head as if listening carefully, then ran off to find something to roll in, something dead or decaying. Whatever it was, it would leave her fur smelling like old fish. Caitlin shook herself off like a dog when she came out of the water, then wrapped a beach towel around her waist so it dragged in the sand like a long skirt. “Did I ever tell you that in my former life I was a mermaid?” “But in this life you’re a human,” Vix reminded her, just in case she forgot. “And I wish you wouldn’t go out so far.” She drizzled turrets of wet sand onto their elaborate castle. “I like the way you worry about me,” Caitlin said. “Somebody has to.” In their room at night they played Mermaids, using the makeup Caitlin bought on Lamb’s charge at Leslie’s Pharmacy to paint their lips dark red and outline their eyes in coal black. The mirror on the wall above the bathroom sink was as old as the house, with a crack that stretched diagonally across it, making them look as if they had scars running across their faces. They vamped and sang to Abba, the Eagles, Shaun Cassidy—“Da Doo Ron Ron”—socks stuffed into the tops of their bathing suits to see how they’d look with big breasts. Caitlin was still totally flat but Vix had tiny mounds, the beginning of something. Caitlin was fascinated by Vix’s pubic hairs. “Lay down,” she said, “and I’ll count them for you.” “What for?” “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know how many you have?” “Curiosity killed the cat,” Vix said. Caitlin looked at her as if she were beyond hope. “A person without curiosity may as well be dead.” Vix wished somebody would explain that to her mother.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Now I’m traveling on the fast train to paradise. Unschooled as I am in the process, tears often fall out of my eyes. Like a true gentleman, he will shield my eyes with his broad hand, giving me privacy, while he fucks me harder and harder, faster and faster, squeezing out the tears. When I finally release everything, not one centimeter of my being holding on to anything at all, when my ego is annihilated, then the laughing begins. It can begin while I’m still crying, the energies are the same, though the tears are more familiar. But somewhere, somehow, along the way, my unconscious bursts open and I laugh and laugh and laugh. The harder I laugh the harder he fucks my ass until the whole thing makes no sense at all. Now we are really having fun. He looks at me laughing, and then, content that I’m on the road with him, he fucks me some more, ever vigilant, ever present. My laugh sometimes deepens and I laugh like I never laughed before. I recognized it immediately the first time it happened—the cackle of the crone. It is the sound of a woman who is caught inside the mystery of the universe, in the irony of the angst, in the place that ego abhors. Bliss. At first the pleasure was unbearable and I’d try to pull away, try to know what was happening. But he doesn’t let me, fucking me so relentlessly that any attempt to backtrack to control is useless. It is here that his domination is complete. I am his slave and he forces harmony upon me, against my ferocious fear. With repetition I have come to accept it, and now I don’t only visit but have learned how to stay there. Meanwhile he is looking at me, all tears, giggles, and gut-laughs, and says, “You are CRAZY, girl.” He looks a little dazed himself, but unlike me, he maintains total control, total awareness. I look up as he kneels above me, deep inside me, and I see the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Like Michelangelo’s David, his chest is broad, his skin is smooth, his hands are huge, his face beatific. I see the beauty of this man, the beauty of man. I never saw this before. #220 I fell madly, quickly, and completely, forever, the first time he fucked my ass. Now it’s #220 and my love has only deepened—220 times deeper. I adore him, for good and better (it’s never worse), and it is a kind of rapturous indulgence to so unconditionally adore the entire skin surface of another human being’s body. Before I liked men in parts—their lips or eyes, their hands or chest, only occasionally the cock itself. With him I love all those and every nook, cranny, and space in between—and his cock, balls, and asshole most of all.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  He had never seen anything so completely useless being called a pillow; a pillow was for support and comfort, and this particular item promised neither. Until that inspired afternoon when the ostracized little pillow suddenly came into its own. As A-Man sat up at the end of the bed, I grabbed the heart pillow out of his way and, angling the pointed tip toward his ass, placed his balls on it. And there they sat, supported, cock on top, like a royal offering surrounded by shimmering gold threads and dangling pink tassels. We both looked down at the scene in silence. After a brief pause, he announced triumphantly, “It’s the Ball Pillow!” We both laughed so hard that his imminent cocksucking was delayed for quite some time. And after that day, he always asked, along with Pink Square, for the Ball Pillow. He never, ever comes in my mouth. I can suck his cock for forty minutes and he’ll hold his power throughout, allowing me to give more, allowing me to love him. Receiving as he does really is a gift to me. I didn’t know what a great art cocksucking could be, or what a practitioner I could be, until I found a man who could withstand so much pleasure for such extended lengths of time. So difficult with those guys who come at the mere sight of your mouth on the tip of their cock. It leaves me disabled, impotent. After I suck his cock more fabulously than ever before, that much deeper, that much slower, that much faster, with a bunch of ball sucking, then, after his eyes roll up into his head several times over and he looks seriously disoriented, he takes my head firmly in his hands, refocuses, looks me straight in the eye and says, “Good girl.” To think I’ve been through all this, come this far, just to find out that all I ever really wanted was to be a good girl, Daddy’s good girl. Finally. THE UNFORTUNATE AND BORING PLIGHT OF SO MANY WOMEN I am the victim of the unfortunate and boring plight of so many women—Daddy didn’t love me enough way back when. And my life with men has become the long trail of my mostly subconscious and sometimes desperate attempts to fill that gap, to feel that love, to heal that hurt, to address that loss. Daddy loves me now, accepts me now, respects me now—and I love him. But this is irrelevant. That hole was dug early and is now part of me. My father can no longer fill it.

• From A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (1921)

  Phil., chap. 3, or to the influence of Rom. 4'°. On the force of 971s, see note on atwva (v.%), 264 GALATIANS 27. vyéyparra yap “ EidpavOntt, orelpa ov TikTovoa: pytov Kai Bdnaov, 7 ovK @divovoa: bri TOAAA TA TEKVA TIS épymou “adXov 7) THS éyovons Tov dvdpa.” ‘For it is written, Rejoice thou barren woman that bearest not, break forth and shout, thou that travailest not. For more are the children of the desolate than of her that hath the husband.” The quota- tion is from Isa. 541, and follows exactly the text of the Lxx (BNAQ), which neglects to translate the 3, “rejoicing,” “singing,” of the Hebrew. In the prophet the words are prob- ably to be joined with 52”; they are conceived of as addressed to the ideal Zion, bidding her rejoice in the return of the exiles, Yahweh leading (cf. 527). The barren woman is Jerusalem in the absence of the exiles, the woman that hath a husband is Jerusalem before the exile; and the comparison signifies that her prosperity after the return from exile was to exceed that which she had enjoyed before the captivity. There may possibly underlie the words of the prophet a reference to Sarah and Hagar as suggesting the symbolism of the passage (cf. 51), but there is no clear indication of this. The apostle, also, in quot- ing them may have thought of the barren woman as corre- sponding to Sarah, who till late in life had no child, and the woman that hath a husband to Hagar. But his chief thought is of the O. T. passage as justifying or illustrating his concep- tion of a new redeemed Jerusalem whose glory is to surpass that of the old, the language being all the more appropriate for his purpose because it involved the same figure of Jerusalem as a mother, which he had himself just employed, unless, indeed, v.76 is itself suggested by the passage which was about to be quoted. There is a possible further basis for the apostle’s use of the passage in the fact that its context expresses the thought that God is the redeemer not of Israel after the flesh, but of those in whose heart is his law (cf. 511-8, esp. v.7). But whether the apostle had this context in mind is not indicated. The yap is doubtless confirmatory, and connects the whole statement with y7ts éorly pntnp nuov. 28. vuets b¢, adedgol, kata ’Iloadk érayyeNdias tékva éoré: “And ye, brethren, like Isaac, are children of promise.”

• From A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (1921)

  Continuation of the argument for the inferiority of the condition under law, with the use of the illus- tration of guardianship (41-7). Still pursuing his purpose of persuading the Galatians that they would lose, not gain, by putting themselves under the law, Paul compares the condition under law to that of an heir who is placed under a guardian for a period fixed by the father and in that time has no freedom of action, and describes it as a bondage under the elements of the world. Over against this he sets forth the condition into which they are brought by Christ as that of sons of God, living in filial and joyous fellow- ship with God. 1Now I say, so long as the heir is a child, he differs in no way from a slave, though he is lord of all, *but is under guardians and stewards until the time set by the father. *So also we, when we were children, were enslaved under the elements of the world. ‘But when the fulness of the time came, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, made subject to law, *that he might deliver those that were Im, 20-IV, -2 211 under law, that we might receive the adoption. *%And because ye are sons, God sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying, Abba, Father. ‘So that thou art no longer a slave but a son, and if son, then heir through God. 1. Adyw dé, "ed? Bc0v ypovoy 6 Krnpovdpos vimids éoTW, ovdey Suadéper SovrAov KUpios TavTwy wy, 2. GAA Ud ém- Tpdrous éoTl Kal oixovduous aypt THS mpobecpuias Tod matpds. ‘Now I say, so long as the heir is a child, he differs in no way from a slave, though he is lord of all, but is under guardians and stewards until the time set by the father.”

• From A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (1921)

  Burton, Spirit, Soul, and Flesh, p. 189. Pre- cisely to what extent this experiential identification of the heavenly Christ and the Spirit of God has caused a numerical identification of them as personalities is difficult to say. Apparently the apostle Paul, while clearly distinguishing Christ from God the Father (see 1 Cor. 8¢ Phil. 28, etc.) and less sharply distinguishing the Spirit from God (Rom. 5° 87 & % 1 15), is not careful to distinguish the Spirit and Christ, yet never explicitly identifies them. Cf. Wood, The Spirit of God in Biblical Literature, pp. 229-231. The choice of td xvedua tod vi0d aitod for this passage in preference to any of its equivalents is due, on the one side to the necessity of distinguishing the fact referred to from the historic coming of the Christ (44), which excludes toy utdy adcod Iv, 6 223 and Xoerotév, and on the other to the desire to connect this experience closely with the gift of Christ, which excludes tb xveduc or cd rvetua tov Deod. On cis tas xaedtas qudv, added to emphasise the transition from the objective sonship to the subjective experience, see Rom. 55 1 Cor. 2% Eph. 317, It is in the heart, as the seat of intellectual and spiritual life in general (1 Cor. 2? Rom. 9? 1o!, etc.) and in particular of the moral and spiritual life (2 Cor. 48 Rom. 1, »), that the Spirit of God operates. The use of the expression here shows that é&anxéotethev refers (not as the same word in v.‘ does) to a single historic fact (the day of Pente- cost, e. g.), but to the successive bestowals of the Spirit on individuals (cf. 38), the aor. being, therefore, a collective historical aor. (BMT 30). On the translation of an aor. in such a case, see BMT 46, 52. On tydy, undoubtedly to be preferred to byay, a Western and Syrian reading, see on v.’, kpavov ’ABBd 6 matnp. “crying, Abba, Father.” The rec- ognition of God as Father is the distinguishing mark of the filial spirit. The participle kpafov agreeing with mvedua as- cribes the cry to the Spirit of God’s Son; yet it is undoubtedly the apostle’s thought that it is the expression of the believer’s attitude also. For the Spirit that dwells in us dominates our lives. See chap. 22° 5%, and cf. Rom. 8: éAadBete mvevpa viobecias, ev @ Kpafouev "ABBa o tatnp. The use of Kpagor, usually employed of a loud or earnest cry (Mt. 9?’ Acts 14" Rom. 92’) or of a public announcement (Jn. 7%%: *7), in the Lxx often of prayer addressed to God (Ps. 3° 107"), emphasises the earnestness and intensity of the utterance of the Spirit within us. Though the word xpafov itself conveys no suggestion of joy, it can hardly be doubted that the intensity which the word reflects is in this case to be conceived of as the intensity of joy.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Whenever I looked at that condom, and I looked a lot, I felt the rush of his beauty. I’ve always been a sucker for symbolism; this dangling rubber provided me with the opaque evidence of what was, and will be again. I clung to his DNA until given the next deposit—as if my subconscious took refuge in the theoretical knowledge that there was a possibility at all times of re-creating his essence. Those condoms comforted me, reminding me of the fourth dimension, the dimension beyond bills, anxiety, self-loathing, and desire, the dimension where bliss reigns, and I am its babbling slave. #200 Always before, I doubt. Always after, I don’t. Two hundred entries into my bowels, two hundred times I doubt and then believe. What’s it going to take? Two hundred and one. FOREPLAY Knock . . . knock . . . knock. When I open the front door, he is always slow to enter. He is in no rush; A-Man knows where he’s going. And where he’s coming, too. He steps inside, I lock the door, and we are sealed inside together. I feel the warmth rising already. Then the hug, the holding. The full-body holding that starts the coming, his and mine. Strong, enveloping, possessive. I start moaning and I feel his cock pushing at me. He grabs my hips and presses them into, onto, his cock. It’s hard to break the hug, but we must get to the bedroom; it’s imperative. If we don’t make it there, tchotchkes always get smashed. The bedroom is our padded cell, where insanity can be unleashed without excessive material damage. Sometimes he just turns me around, facing forward, his cock pressed up against my ass, and keeping the contact, leads me to the bedroom as we synchronize our walk so as not to break position. But before the first step, I find my speaking voice, and ask if he wants any food, if he’s hungry. He always declines, but I always ask. We are very polite with each other. Once we’re in the bedroom, the hug is often revisited. Those first hugs establish Loveland, but now it’s time to leave that invisible place and travel to Lustland, where things are visible and tangible and so unreal. Now he’s totally hard, his pants aren’t fitting right at all. He backs away from me and slowly, carefully, deliberately takes off all his clothes, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. I just watch and wait. He’ll let me know what he wants. He always does.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  For the transformation scene of Cinderella they dressed one hundred girls in suits of gauze and bullion fringe, then harnessed them to moving wires and had them swoop above the stalls. On the stage they set up fountains, which they lit, each with a different coloured lime. Dolly, as Cinderella in her wedding-gown, wore a frock of gold, with glitter on the bodice. Kitty had golden pantaloons, a shining waistcoat, and a three-cornered hat, and I wore breeches and a vest of velvet, and square-toed shoes with silver buckles. Standing at Kitty’s side while the fountains played, the fairies swooped, and the pigmy horses pranced and trotted, I was never sure I had not died on my way to the theatre and woken up in paradise. There is a particular scent that ponies give off, when they are set too long beneath a too-hot lamp. I smelled it every night at the Brit, mingled with that familiar music-hall reek of dust and grease-paint, tobacco and beer. Even now, if you were to ask me, quickly, ‘What is heaven like?’ I should have to say that it must smell of over-heated horsehair, and be filled with angels in spangles and gauze, and decorated with fountains of scarlet and blue ... But not, perhaps, have Kitty in it. I did not think this then, of course. I was only extraordinarily glad to have a place in such a business, and with my true love at my side; and everything that Kitty said or did only seemed to show that she felt just the same. I believe we spent more hours at the Brit that winter than at our new home in Stamford Hill - more time in velvet suits and powdered wigs than out of them. We made friends with all the theatre people - with the ballerinas and the wardrobe-girls, the gas-men, the property-men, the carpenters and the call-boys. Flora, our dresser, even found herself a beau amongst them. He was a black fellow, who had run away from a sailing family in Wapping to join a minstrel troupe; not having the voice for it, however, he had become a stage-hand instead. His name, I believe, was Albert - but he paid about as much heed to that as anybody in the business, and was known, universally, as ‘Billy-Boy’. He loved the theatre more than any of us, and spent all his hours there, playing cards with the door-men and the carpenters, hanging about in the flies, twitching ropes, turning handles. He was good-looking, and Flora was very keen on him; he spent a deal of time, in consequence, at our dressing-room door, waiting to take her home after the show - and so we came to know him very well. I liked him because he came from the river, and had left his family for the theatre’s sake, as I had.

• From Less (2017)

  He finds the black signless storefront, the single golden doorbell, and he touches its nipple before ringing it. And is admitted. Two hours later: Arthur Less stands before the mirror. To the left of him, on the white leather couch: a finished espresso and a glass of champagne. To the right: Enrico, the small bearded sorcerer who welcomed him and offered a place to sit while he brought “special things.” How different from the Piemontese tailor (sea otter mustache) who wordlessly took his measurements for the second part of his Italian prize—a tailored suit—and then, when Arthur discovered, to his delight, a fabric in his exact shade of blue, said, “Too young. Too bright. You wear gray.” When Less insisted, the man shrugged: We shall see. Less gave the address of a Kyoto hotel where he would be staying four months hence and headed to Berlin feeling cheated of his prize. But here is Paris: a dressing room filled with treasures. And in the mirror: a new Less. From Enrico: “I have…no words…” It is a traveler’s fallacy that one should shop for clothing while abroad. Those white linen tunics, so elegant in Greece, emerge from the suitcase as mere hippie rags; the beautiful striped shirts of Rome are confined to the closet; and the delicate hand batiks of Bali are first cruise wear, then curtains, then signs of impending madness. And then there is Paris. Less wears a pair of natural leather wingtips, a paint stroke of green on each toe, black fitted linen trousers with a spiraling seam, a gray inside-out T-shirt, and a hoodie jacket whose leather has been tenderly furred to the soft nubbin of an old eraser. He looks like a Fire Island supervillain rapper. Nearly fifty, nearly fifty. But in this country, in this city, in this quarter, in this room—filled with exquisite outrages of fur and leather, subtleties of hidden buttons and seams, colors shaded only from film noir classics, with the rain-speckled skylight above and the natural fir flooring below, the few warm bulbs like angels hanged from the rafters, and Enrico clearly a bit in love with this charming American—Less looks transformed. More handsome, more confident. The beauty of his youth somehow taken from its winter storage and given back to him in middle age. Do I really look like this?

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

  That her excitement increased could be visibly seen by the shivering of the lips which he had no need to open as he pressed down upon her, for they parted of themselves to give entrance to the little blind God of Love. "With one thrust he introduced himself within the precincts of Love's temple; with another, the rod was halfway in; with the third, he reached the very bottom of the den of pleasure; for, though she was no longer in the first days of earliest youth, still she had hardly reached her prime, and her flesh was not only firm, but she was so tight that he was fairly clasped and sucked by those pulpy lips; so, after moving up and down a few times, thrusting himself always further, he crushed her down with his full weight; for both his hands were either handling her breasts, or else, having slipped them under her, he was opening her buttocks; and then, lifting her firmly upon him, he thrust a finger in her backside hole, thus wedging her on both sides, making her feel a more intense pleasure by thus sodomizing her. "After a few seconds of this little game he began to breathe strongly—to pant. The milky fluid that had for days accumulated itself now rushed out in thick jets, coursing up into her very womb. She, thus flooded, shewed her hysteric enjoyment by her screams, her tears, her sighs. Finally, all strength gave way; arms and legs stiffened themselves; she fell lifeless on the couch; whilst he remained stretched over her at the risk of giving the Count, her husband, an heir of gipsy blood. "He soon recovered his strength, and rose. She was then recalled to her senses, but only to melt into a flood of tears. "A bumper of champagne brought them both, however, to a less gloomy sense of life. A few partridge sandwiches, some lobster patties, a caviare salad, with a few more glasses of champagne, together with many marrons glacés , and a punch made of maraschino, pineapple juice and whisky, drunk out of the same goblet soon finished by dispelling their gloominess. "'Why should we not put ourselves at our ease, my dear?' said he. 'I'll set you the example, shall I?' "'By all means.' "Thereupon Teleny took off his white tie, that stiff and uncomfortable useless appendage invented by fashion only to torture mankind, yclept a shirt collar, then his coat and waistcoat, and he remained only in his shirt and trousers. "'Now, my dear, allow me to act as your maid.' "The beautiful woman at first refused, but yielded after some kisses; and, little by little, nothing was left of all her clothing but an almost transparent crêpe de Chine chemise, dark steel-blue silk stockings, and satin slippers.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No la he visto en un rato. El arrepentimiento comienza a abrirse paso en mi estómago. Debí haberle dado algún tipo de instrucción aquí. Probablemente no sabe cómo moverse. Es fácil que la gente se lastime si no están entrenados. Caminando por un costado, veo todas las bolsas alineadas como deberían estar, las lonas aún intactas, incluso con el viento, y la plataforma de cemento prolijamente cubierta. Escucho voces y recorro la parte de atrás, al instante viendo a Jordan ayudando a llevar los insertos de las ventanas al remolque, uno de los chicos asegurándose que estén cubiertos, también. Está sonriendo. Como loca. Con ojos que brillan de emoción y como si estuviera a punto de saltar en las puntas de sus pies, por el amor Dios. ¿Se está divirtiendo? Su capucha se ha caído, y su coleta cuelga empapada mientras los mechones de cabello se pegan a su rostro. Sus zapatos están empapados, sus jeans están embarrados, y gracias a Cristo no está usando una camiseta blanca, porque el impermeable está haciendo muy poco para mantener los ojos de los muchachos alejados de ella como está. Miro a Dale, Bryan y Donny, que llevan equipo al remolque mientras miran hacia ella, sonriendo, y luego se miran, riéndose de algo que no puedo oír. —Dense prisa —les grito y se ponen firmes, continuando. Jordan camina hacia donde estoy de pie, al lado del edificio y se agacha, metiendo la lona debajo de una viga. —Entonces, tú eres el jefe, ¿eh? —Me mira inquisitivamente. Algo en su expresión parece más suave que esta mañana. Más feliz. Más a gusto. ¿Cole no le dijo que soy dueño de una empresa de construcción? ¿Habla de mí en absoluto? Un dolor serpentea por mis entrañas. —Bueno, trata de serlo —bromea Dutch, respondiendo su pregunta. Le echo una mirada, pero estoy tentado de sonreír. Bromear es lo nuestro, pero me gustaría que el imbécil no lo hiciera en el trabajo. Me deja como un tonto, maldita sea. —¡Mierda! —exclama Jordan de repente. Levanto mis ojos hacia ella y veo agua de lluvia cayendo sobre su cabeza como una cascada. La lona se rasgó en la parte superior del marco y derramó en su grieta toda el agua que había recogido. Salta, escapando del aguacero, y la alcanza, tratando de volver a colocarla en su lugar. Pero no puede alcanzarla. Colocándome detrás de ella, me estiro y la agarro, sosteniéndola en su lugar mientras giro mi cabeza y hago un gesto con mi barbilla hacia Dutch. Asiente y se marcha para recuperar la pistola de grapas de nuevo. Jordan suelta la lona y se desliza entre mis brazos, dando un paso hacia un lado y riéndose para sí misma. —¿Estás bien? —pregunto. Asiente, secándose el rostro y sacudiendo su chaqueta. —Sí. Supongo que el impermeable era inútil, ¿eh?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Soy Teresa —dice, rodando la lengua en la r y mirándome por encima del hombro con una sonrisa. Gesticula con mis bandejas—. ¿Esto es queso crema? —Oh, sí. —Sííí —canturrea, guiándonos a las mesas de comida. Todo está dispuesto como un buffet, tres largas mesas alineadas y llenas de comida. Hay varias neveras al final, y el olor a hamburguesa rostizada golpea el fondo de mi garganta, y mi boca se hace agua. Grupos de personas se relajan sentados en sus patios o en la calle bloqueada, y los niños corren por todas partes, juegan a la pelota o ruedan por las colinas de algunos prados. Unos cuantos adolescentes, no mucho más jóvenes que yo, están sentados alrededor jugando con sus teléfonos, mientras los adultos se ríen y conversan, de vez en cuando se detienen a gritar órdenes a uno de sus hijos. Puede que aún no sea técnicamente el verano, pero el calor nos golpea y solo se ve atenuado por la capa de nubes esporádicas. Es un hermoso día. —Vamos —dice Dutch, dándole un codazo a Pike. Pike me mira, probablemente para asegurarse que estoy bien, y finalmente deja la ensalada antes de irse. Se detiene, estrechando la mano de algunos amigos y quitándole la tapa a una cerveza que alguien le da. Me acerco a Teresa mientras coloca todo sobre la mesa. —¿Hace cuánto tiempo que tú y Dutch están casados? —pregunto. Suspira. —Catorce años. —Me mira—. Y tres niños más tarde, todavía quiero matarlo todos los días, pero prepara buenos espaguetis, así que… Resoplo. Estoy segura que solo está tratando de ser graciosa, porque dudo que pueda explicarlo. Ella se ve bastante elegante, mientras que él usa una franela y unas botas de trabajo pesado. —Esto se ve tan bien —dice, quitando el papel de envoltura—. Gracias por traer tanto. No durará mucho. Justo en ese momento, un brazo se interpone entre nosotras, toma cuatro rollitos por los palillos de dientes y se los roba. Reconozco la tinta en el brazo de inmediato. —Oye —regaño a Pike, pero no puedo dejar de sonreír. Me mira con los párpados pesados y se ve completamente sexy. —Discúlpame —susurra y se voltea alejándose, caminando de regreso hacia sus amigos. Me devuelve la mirada, sonriéndome con satisfacción, y levanto una ceja. Debí haber sabido que iba a estar asustado porque los rollitos fueran comidos antes de tener la oportunidad de probarlos. —Escuche que tú y Cole se están quedando con Pike por un tiempo —dice Teresa. —Sí. —Muevo nuestra nevera con las otras y saco una botella de agua—. Parece que pagar nuestro propio apartamento fue demasiado adulto para nosotros —bromeo. Asiente intencionalmente.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Marcel’s head fell on my shoulders and he began to bite my shoulder, hard. We pressed against each other and moved against each other. I closed my eyes. I was reeling with pleasure. I was carried by a wave of desire, which came from all the other dancers, from the night, from the music. I thought I would have the orgasm then. Marcel continued to bite me, and I was afraid we would fall on the floor. But then drunkenness saved us, the drunkenness kept us suspended over the act, enjoying all that lay behind the act. When the lights went on everybody was drunk, tottering with nervous excitement. Marcel said, “They like this better than the actual thing. Most of them like this better. It makes it last so long. But I can’t stand any more of it. Let them sit there and enjoy the way they feel, they like to be tickled, they like to sit there with their erections and the women all open and moist, but I want to finish if off, I can’t wait. Let’s go to the beach.” At the beach the coolness quieted us. We lay on the sand, still hearing the rhythm of the jazz from afar, like a heart thumping, like a penis thumping inside of a woman, and while the waves rolled at our feet, the waves inside of us rolled us over and over each other until we came together, rolling in the sand, to the same thumping of the jazz beats. Marcel was remembering this, too. He said, “What a marvelous summer. I think everybody knew it would be the last drop of pleasure.” About the AuthorANAÏS NIN (1903–1977) was born in Paris and aspired at an early age to be a writer. An influential artist and thinker, she was the author of several novels, short stories, critical studies, a collection of essays, two volumes of erotica, and nine published volumes of her Diary. Connect with HMH on Social MediaFollow us for book news, reviews, author updates, exclusive content, giveaways, and more. [image file=image_rsrc1RE.jpg] [image file=image_rsrc1RF.jpg] [image file=image_rsrc1RG.jpg] [image file=image_rsrc1RH.jpg] [image file=image_rsrc1RJ.jpg] [image file=image_rsrc1RK.jpg] [image file=image_rsrc1RM.jpg] Footnotes* Adapted from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume III [back]

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No puede serlo. Estoy con su hijo. Caminando hacia una de las sillas en la mesa de la cocina, saco mi teléfono de mi bolsa y abro mi aplicación, Jessie's Girl, empezando inmediatamente donde quedó, después de mi carrera esta mañana. Hago un escaneo de la cocina, así como de la sala de estar, asegurándome que ninguna de nuestras cosas esté por ahí. No quiero molestar a su padre más de lo que ya lo hacemos. Camino hacia el refrigerador, pasando la mano por la encimera de la isla de paso. Mientras que los otros mostradores son de un granito marrón con pizcas de negro, la parte superior de la isla está hecha de madera gruesa. La madera suave está cálida bajo las yemas de mis dedos, y no siento ningún surco de tallado. Toda la cocina parece renovada recientemente, así que tal vez no haya usado mucho la tabla de cortar. O tal vez no es un gran cocinero. Una práctica lámpara de bronce cuelga sobre la isla, y doy un pequeño giro antes de llegar al refrigerador, riendo en voz baja. Es agradable poder moverse sin toparse con algo. Lo único que necesita esta cocina para hacerme pasar de una inclinación de cabeza poco impresionada a abanicarme del calor, sería una pared de azulejos contra salpicaduras. Los azulejos son sexys. Al llegar al refrigerador, saco la carne picada, la mantequilla y la mozzarella, doy una patada a la puerta con el pie mientras doy la vuelta y pongo todo sobre la isla. Recojo las dos cebollas que dejé en el mostrador antes y bailo con la música, deslizándome y balanceándome, mientras tomo un cuchillo de carnicero del bloque y comienzo a cortarlas en finas rebanadas. La música en mis oídos aumenta, el vello en mis brazos se eriza, y siento un estallido de energía en mis piernas, porque quiero bailar, pero no me lo permitiré. Espero que Pike Lawson esté de acuerdo con la música de los 80 en su casa de vez en cuando. En el teatro, no dijo que no le gustaba, pero tampoco contaba con que viviríamos con él. Me limito a mover los labios y mover la cabeza mientras formo cinco hamburguesas grandes en mis manos y las comienzo a poner en una sartén limpia, ya calentada y cubierta con mantequilla derretida. Estoy balanceando las caderas de lado a lado cuando siento un cosquilleo que se abre paso alrededor de mi cintura. Salto, mi corazón salta en mi pecho mientras un jadeo se aloja en mi garganta. Dándome vuelta, veo a mi hermana detrás de mí. —¡Cam! —me quejo. —Te atrapé —se burla, sonriendo de oreja a oreja y pellizcándome en las costillas de nuevo. Detengo la música en mi teléfono. —¿Cómo entraste? No escuché el timbre. Rodea la isla y se sienta en un taburete, apoyando los codos y levantando un aro de cebolla. —Vi a Cole afuera —explica—. Me dijo que entrara.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  One day he suggested a couple of rules—he’d been thinking, like me, about how to make this thing happen when it shouldn’t happen. He didn’t play with clients: I was the first, so keep it quiet, very quiet. Of course. The other rule: no intercourse. No problem. “We’re just going to play,” he explained, and I came to understand just what playing really was. Fucking wasn’t so interesting to me, anyway. At best it was a return offering for receiving a good licking. Now licking was the sole activity. And he never, ever, in all the time I knew him, took off his shoes. His shoes became our mutual marker that we were still within our limits of decency. Sort of. He presented me with the first sex I’d ever had that I thought about in words, that I wanted to describe and preserve in words. And so the scribbling began. Every time he came, and left, I went straight to my notebook and wrote it all down. I was experiencing an impossible pleasure, and having it on paper would prove that the impossible existed. I knew something profound had happened to me: I had shifted from being my small, hurt, wounded, and unhappy self to being a conduit of a pleasure that was far greater than myself, a pleasure that I did not own, but that I could feel. And I could not experience this in silence. I had to tell some unknown, undefined audience. Perhaps that audience was really me, my unbelieving atheist self being told by my transformed sexual self about hope. He kisses my belly, inside my thighs, my pubic hair. Eventually with a very soft, very gentle tongue, contact is made with my pussy, my clit. My eyes open. I see his lovely eyes, looking at me, mouth buried in my cunt. My knees drop open 180 degrees, my feet press on the sides of his chest, my pussy is pushed into his mouth, contact, contact, contact. He is there a long time. I have many small, very intense orgasms. He moves his tongue and mouth quickly side to side, then stops on the tip, on my center, a tiny pinpoint where my whole being of emotion, power, and love are centered. Legs and belly convulse, contract, vibrate. Through these releases I know it’s not over, not finished. Possessed, I explode. My torso rises off the table over and over, his tongue works furiously, my legs are all over, my arms flailing. I am crying, whimpering, never before so conscious of tears of joy, that someone had been so kind to me. Every time I called, the pleasure was given and received. His tongue held close and soft and fast on my clitoris became the center of the world. And fingers everywhere—fingers on my clit, fingers in my pussy, fingers up my ass—how many tendrils can one man have? I stopped tipping him.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  When he left I was dazed: never had I been so receptive. My clit had come out of hibernation, no longer hiding, no longer scared, but reaching out, reaching for direct contact with heaven. For the first time, I was in submission to my own orgasms, trying only to survive the contractions, to stay conscious despite annihilating pleasure. I knew right then that my decision to leave my marriage and break those vows taken before God was worth it. Worth it all for those two hours. I was sure, of course, that it would not happen again. Why would I be so blessed when I also felt so guilty? Guilt, pleasure, and the impossible man: the ingredients of sexual ecstasy were becoming apparent. I waited the requisite week, counting the days, and called for another massage, expecting nothing, wanting everything. I jumped when the doorbell rang: bathed, perfumed, and obsessed. Again it happened. Again, and again, and again. One day he suggested a couple of rules—he’d been thinking, like me, about how to make this thing happen when it shouldn’t happen. He didn’t play with clients: I was the first, so keep it quiet, very quiet. Of course. The other rule: no intercourse. No problem. “We’re just going to play,” he explained, and I came to understand just what playing really was. Fucking wasn’t so interesting to me, anyway. At best it was a return offering for receiving a good licking. Now licking was the sole activity. And he never, ever, in all the time I knew him, took off his shoes. His shoes became our mutual marker that we were still within our limits of decency. Sort of. He presented me with the first sex I’d ever had that I thought about in words, that I wanted to describe and preserve in words. And so the scribbling began. Every time he came, and left, I went straight to my notebook and wrote it all down. I was experiencing an impossible pleasure, and having it on paper would prove that the impossible existed. I knew something profound had happened to me: I had shifted from being my small, hurt, wounded, and unhappy self to being a conduit of a pleasure that was far greater than myself, a pleasure that I did not own, but that I could feel. And I could not experience this in silence. I had to tell some unknown, undefined audience. Perhaps that audience was really me, my unbelieving atheist self being told by my transformed sexual self about hope.