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 Delta of Venus (1977)

  Millard wanted to be with me again, but not in his studio where we might be surprised by his wife, so I let him find another place. It belonged to a friend. The bed was set in a deep alcove and there were mirrors above the bed and small dim lamps. Millard wanted all the lights out, he said he wanted to be in the dark with me. “I have seen your body and I know it so well, now I want to feel it, with my eyes closed, just to feel the skin and the softness of the flesh. Your legs are so firm and strong, but so soft to the touch. I love your feet with the toes free and set apart like the fingers of a hand, not cramped—and the toenails so beautifully lacquered—and the down on your legs.” He passed his hand all over my body, slowly, pressing into the flesh, feeling every curve. “If my hand stays here between the legs,” he said, “do you feel it, do you like it, do you want it nearer?” “Nearer, nearer,” I said. “I want to teach you something,” said Millard. “Do you want to let me do it?” He inserted his finger inside my sex. “Now, I want you to contract around my finger. There is a muscle there that can be made to contract and expand around the penis. Try.” I tried. His finger there was tantalizing. Since he was not moving it, I tried to move inside of my womb, and I felt the muscle that he mentioned, weakly at first, opening and closing around the finger. Millard said, “Yes, like that. Do it stronger, stronger.” So I did, opening, closing, opening, closing. It was like a little mouth inside, tightening around the finger. I wanted to take it in, suckle at it and so I continued to try. Then Millard said that he would insert his penis and not move and that I should continue to move inside. I tried with more and more strength to clutch at him. The motion was exciting me, and I felt that at any moment I would reach the orgasm, but after I had clutched at him several times, sucking his penis in, he suddenly groaned with pleasure and began to push quickly, as he himself could not hold back the orgasm. I merely continued the inner motion and I felt the orgasm, too, in the most marvelous deep way, deep inside of the womb. He said, “Did John ever show you this?” “No.” “What has he shown you?” “This,” I said. “You kneel over me and push.”

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Learning to suck his cock was about concentration. This is the act now, and the only one; it is not a warm-up, it is the main event in that moment. I took these few pointers and practiced, and practiced, and practiced. It’s all practice, like ballet, nothing but practice. The more I practiced, the more I discovered, the more I adored his cock, the more I adored myself, the more I adored him, the more I loved sucking his cock, the happier he got. Now he gets so happy that his eyes travel from mine and roll up into his head and his breathing changes and his cheeks flush and I fill with joy like an empty tank at a gas station. It was while preparing to suck his cock one sunny afternoon that another pillow besides Pink Square found its place. I had been given a tiny, decorative heart-shaped pillow one year for Valentine’s Day. It measured only nine inches across, was firmly stuffed, and boasted pink, black, and gold satin stripes on its cover with pink tassels around the circumference. The first time A-Man saw this rather silly little example of female frivolity, he grabbed it in his palm like a football, asked with amused bewilderment, “What’s this?,” and promptly tossed it off the bed. 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.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Turning out the legs from the hips just winds up that pelvic floor like a corkscrew. I worked my gut all my life standing at that ballet barre. Now it is being unworked. His cock, my ass, unwinding. Divine. As he enters me I let go, millimeter by millimeter, of the tensing, pulling, tightening, gripping. I am addicted to extreme physical endurance, the marathon of uncoiling intensity. I release my muscles, my tendons, my flesh, my anger, my ego, my rules, my censors, my parents, my cells, my life. At the same time I pull and suck and draw him inward. Opening out and sucking in, one thing. Bliss, I learned from being sodomized, is an experience of eternity in a moment of real time. Sodomy is the ultimate sexual act of trust. I mean you could really get hurt—if you resist. But pushing past that fear, by passing through it, literally, ah the joy that lies on the other side of convention. The peace that is past the pain. Going past the pain is key. Once absorbed, it is neutralized and allows for transformation. Pleasure alone is mere temporary indulgence, a subtle distraction, an anesthetization while on the path to something higher, deeper, lower. Eternity lies far, far beyond pleasure. And beyond pain. The edge of my ass is the sexual event horizon, the boundary to that beyond from which there is no escape. Not for me, anyway. I am an atheist, by inheritance. I came to know God experientially, from being fucked in the ass—over and over and over again. I am a slow learner— and a gluttonous hedonist. I am serious. Very serious. And I was even more surprised than you are now by this curiously rude awakening to a mystic state. There it was: God’s big surprise, His subtle humor and potent presence, manifested in my ass—well, it sure is one way to get a skeptic’s attention. Anal sex is about cooperation. Cooperation in an endeavor of aristocratic politics, involving rigid hierarchies, feudal positions, and monarchist attitudes. One is in charge, the other obedient. Entirely in charge, entirely obedient. There is no democratic, affirmative-action safety net swinging below ass-fuckers. But they’d best be of firm action, very firm. You can’t half-ass butt-fuck. It would be a travesty. There are no understudies, no backups, for anal Cirque du Soleil. It’s a high-wire act—all the way up. The truth always shows itself with the ass. A cock in an ass operates like the arrow on a lie-detector test. The ass doesn’t know how to lie, it can’t lie: it hurts, physically, if you lie. The pussy, on the other hand, can lie at the mere entry of a dick in the room—does so all the time. Pussies are designed to fool men with their beckoning waters, ready opening, and angry owners.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  We both looked down on her, the delicate little redhead, as he fucked her, and I saw myself: pale, vulnerable, and pierced. But I was also him, fucking her with a big beautiful cock, riding his back as he pulsed in her, me. Later I lay on my back and she climbed on top of me, small, white, fragile. Breast to breast, mouth to mouth, we lined up our pussies, redhead and brunette, hers mine, mine hers. Over her, he entered me, six legs atop one another. I looked up at their two faces beaming down on me as he fucked me. I held them both and knew that this was one of the great moments of my life—of being overwhelmed, ensconced in love. He is me is she is he and we are rolling, fucking, oozing, laughing, being. This layered, fucking sex sandwich became the image for my final theory of us three. He and I deeply connected, with her as our midwife, our buffer, our catalyst, our crazy glue. As Colette observed, “Certain women need women in order to preserve their taste for men.” She lightened us, separated us, and spread around the shattering intensity between us. She diminished the terrible anxiety of love. Several months later, he announced he was leaving town for a job—for months and months, maybe forever. We hastily arranged a rendezvous. After he arrived, she called to suggest we begin without her, she would be late. She knocked just as we finished fucking. We greeted her naked, but she was in red velvet and green silk with freshly cut white baby roses strewn in her hair, like Ophelia. They told me to just lie there, and relax, as they connected over their prey. He had fingers on my clit, up my pussy, and inside my ass, while she leaned over me, soft, with red, silky hair everywhere, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you . . .” The waves started coming and still he continued, still she whispered, caressing my face, “I love you, I love you, I love you . . .” The waves continued, on and on, with orgasms so sweet building to ones less sweet but more intense. And then it happened. A wave began in my feet and legs, traveled up my belly, my chest, my throat, and my soul burst out the crown of my head. It was the deepest experience of pleasure-love I had ever known—or witnessed. She later explained the technical name was a “Kamikazi-Mega-Hiawatha.” That sounded precisely right. Then he left town. Gone. Gone. She and I met one sunny afternoon holding each other in her bed, with wandering fingers—but I missed him. Sweet sisters without a cock between us. MAN OF GOD The loss felt devastating. Would such joy never be more than momentary? Probably not. My inability to tolerate this knowledge led me into yet another flirtation with God.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Sucking a dick is an art form. He gave me some basics. Wet, wet, wet, the wetter the better. Circling the base above the balls with a strong grip is good. So is circling the cock and balls with a one-handed grip. Mouth: no teeth, ever. Smooth, wet, tongue in, or better, tongue long and licking. Then we got to variations of movement, speed, tension, and rhythm. Change course, he suggested—surprise is good. Don’t just do one movement over and over. Do one movement over and over and then switch. For example: base circled by the thumb-middle-finger cock ring, soft lips around his cock, down his cock, build up a consistent rhythm, watch his face, see him get closer, then pull out and lick down the back side of his cock, over the balls, and then suction them into your mouth one ball at a time, wet, wet, and with a mouthful of balls roll them around on your tongue like almonds, then lick back up the spine and deep-throat the whole throbbing thing. And variations on this. Deep is good. Gagging is good. If you won’t gag for your man, how can you really love him? Juices more slippery than saliva come up through the throat and coat his cock. It is the throat orgasm. My blow jobs also made yet another marked improvement in the visual arena, after I sucked his cock in front of several different mirrors. Experimenting with various angles, I learned showmanship, delineation of movement, clarity of intent. Learning to suck his cock was about concentration. This is the act now, and the only one; it is not a warm-up, it is the main event in that moment. I took these few pointers and practiced, and practiced, and practiced. It’s all practice, like ballet, nothing but practice. The more I practiced, the more I discovered, the more I adored his cock, the more I adored myself, the more I adored him, the more I loved sucking his cock, the happier he got. Now he gets so happy that his eyes travel from mine and roll up into his head and his breathing changes and his cheeks flush and I fill with joy like an empty tank at a gas station. It was while preparing to suck his cock one sunny afternoon that another pillow besides Pink Square found its place. I had been given a tiny, decorative heart-shaped pillow one year for Valentine’s Day. It measured only nine inches across, was firmly stuffed, and boasted pink, black, and gold satin stripes on its cover with pink tassels around the circumference. The first time A-Man saw this rather silly little example of female frivolity, he grabbed it in his palm like a football, asked with amused bewilderment, “What’s this?,” and promptly tossed it off the bed.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  The Belgian girl was shy, but she didn’t shy away. The redhead and the Young Man looked at each other slyly, and before I knew it they had lined me and the beautiful Belgian up on the bed side by side; he devoured my pussy while the redhead ate hers. I looked to my left, catching eyes and hands with the Belgian. I felt so safe. Later he and I lay faceup underneath the soft white ass of the kneeling Belgian, our lips close to hers, as we took turns licking her. “Eat her,” I say, and watch him dive and suck and drink pussy, another pussy. It made me wild with joy. Later we rolled out another futon and slept, all four, side by side. In the morning I climbed on his hard cock while the other two watched, the Belgian reaching out and holding his hand while we fucked for her, for us. Loving and hot . . . like hell on fire. That was New Year’s Day. This was my unmarried life. The Young Man and I fucked alone as well. But when the redhead told me she had seduced him without me, I didn’t like it—no, not one bit. It was legal and democratic—the three of us had no rules—but it felt horrid to be left out of the party. And horrid, in my newfound sexual bravado, to experience something so shameful as jealousy. I had never felt this particular pain before, having only been with faithful men. The three of us met at his place and tried to talk about what was hurting me. I was playing with fire all right, but it burned so brightly that I could not, and would not, acknowledge the warning that had just come my way. Between all the forbidden ecstasy I was having, I was still weeping on a regular basis over my marriage, and still interpreting all grief as emotional weakness. It seemed such an awful bore to be jealous, so bourgeois. Surely I could overcome this feeling with practice, with the right bohemian attitude. They countered my fear—fear of loss of him, of her, of our magic triangle—by telling me how much they both loved me. I told them that I loved them, too . . . and that I wanted to see them fuck. I put the condom on him and, leaning over his back, guided his cock between her legs and into her. We both looked down on her, the delicate little redhead, as he fucked her, and I saw myself: pale, vulnerable, and pierced. But I was also him, fucking her with a big beautiful cock, riding his back as he pulsed in her, me.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  In the taxi, sitting next to her, Elena felt not her strength but her secret wound. She ventured a gesture of tenderness. She took the royal hand and kept it. Leila did not let it lie there, but responded to the pressure with a nervous power. Already Elena knew what this power failed to obtain for her: fulfillment. Surely, the whimpering voice of Mary and her obvious little ruses could not satisfy Leila. Women were not as tolerant as men towards women who made themselves small and weak by calculation, thinking to inspire an active love. Leila must suffer more than a man, because of her lucidity about women, her incapacity to be deceived. When they reached the studio, Elena smelled a curious odor of burnt cacao, of fresh truffle. They entered what seemed to be a smoke-filled Arabian mosque. It was a huge room surrounded by a gallery of alcoves furnished only with mats and little lamps. Everybody was wearing kimonos. Elena was handed one. And then she understood. This was an opium den: the lights veiled; people lying down, indifferent to newcomers; a great peace; no sustained conversations, but a sign now and then. A few for whom opium awakened desire lay in the darkest corners, spoon-fashion, as if asleep. But in the silence, the voice of a woman began what seemed at first to be a song, and then turned out to be another sort of vocalizing, the vocalizing of the exotic bird finally caught in the mating season. Two young men held each other, whispering. Elena heard at times the fall of pillows on the floor, the crushing of silks and cottons. The woman’s vocalizing became clearer, firmer, rising in harmony with her pleasure, so even in its rhythm that Elena accompanied it with a movement of her head, until it reached its height. Elena saw that this cadenza irritated Leila. She did not want to hear it. It was so explicit, so female, betraying women’s soft cushion of love pierced by the male, uttering with each thrust a little cry of the ecstatic wound. No matter what women did to each other, they could never bring forth this rising cadenza, this vaginal song; only a sequence of stabbings, man’s repeated assault, could produce this. The three women fell on little mattresses, side by side. Mary wanted to lie close to Leila. Leila would not let her. The host offered them opium pipes. Elena refused one. She was sufficiently drugged by the veiled lamps, the smoky atmosphere, the exotic hangings, the odors, the muffled sounds of caresses. Her face was so entranced that Leila herself believed Elena was under the influence of some other drug. She did not realize that the pressure of Leila’s hand in the taxi had plunged Elena into a state that was unlike anything Pierre had ever aroused in her.

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

  Your mutual sense of trust, perhaps reinforced by your commitments of loyalty to each other, allows each of you to be more open with each other than either of you would be elsewhere. Within these safe environs of intimacy, love can spring up in the most unlikely moments. More than a decade ago, for instance, I was driving through my then-hometown with my husband, finding my way to a corner store I’d been to only once or twice before. Coming up on the back side of the store, I turned left into what I figured was the back entrance, planning to make my way around the parking lot to the storefront. Only it wasn’t really an entrance. It was just a short gravel road that led nowhere. I stopped the car and stared at the distant storefront. I’m sure I was only frozen like that for a matter of seconds, but my husband found it amusing. “Stuck on a gravel road?” he chided. We shared a laugh at my stunned response. I can’t tell you how many times in the years since Jeff has resurrected this phrase to gently tease me for being a bit slow to figure out an unexpected situation. Knowing me so well, he gets that surprises can make me deer-in-the-headlights stuck for a moment (or six). Yet instead of taking this recurrence as a character flaw to overlook, or as cause for annoyance or criticism, he has made it our running inside joke. Ever an alchemist, he transforms predicaments like these into micro- moments of love. Love that not only brings me swiftly back into action but also reinforces the safety of our bond. This silly example points to yet another thing that your intimates uniquely offer you: shared history. Earlier this year I took a late-night cab ride at a conference with my former office mate from graduate school, whom I’d just run into for the first time in nearly a decade. Although we’d lost touch for so long, within a matter of minutes, we were laughing uproariously in the back of that cab about old times, conjuring up our old goofy sayings and antics. In the short commute to our respective hotels we were transported back to the late 1980s as well, and to the fun times we’d had together. Wiping the tears of laughter away as we said our good-byes, we dreamed up ways we might reconnect again in the future. Your intimates offer you history, safety, trust, and openness in addition to the frequent opportunity to connect.

• 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 The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Later I lay on my back and she climbed on top of me, small, white, fragile. Breast to breast, mouth to mouth, we lined up our pussies, redhead and brunette, hers mine, mine hers. Over her, he entered me, six legs atop one another. I looked up at their two faces beaming down on me as he fucked me. I held them both and knew that this was one of the great moments of my life—of being overwhelmed, ensconced in love. He is me is she is he and we are rolling, fucking, oozing, laughing, being. This layered, fucking sex sandwich became the image for my final theory of us three. He and I deeply connected, with her as our midwife, our buffer, our catalyst, our crazy glue. As Colette observed, “Certain women need women in order to preserve their taste for men.” She lightened us, separated us, and spread around the shattering intensity between us. She diminished the terrible anxiety of love. Several months later, he announced he was leaving town for a job—for months and months, maybe forever. We hastily arranged a rendezvous. After he arrived, she called to suggest we begin without her, she would be late. She knocked just as we finished fucking. We greeted her naked, but she was in red velvet and green silk with freshly cut white baby roses strewn in her hair, like Ophelia. They told me to just lie there, and relax, as they connected over their prey. He had fingers on my clit, up my pussy, and inside my ass, while she leaned over me, soft, with red, silky hair everywhere, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you . . .” The waves started coming and still he continued, still she whispered, caressing my face, “I love you, I love you, I love you . . .” The waves continued, on and on, with orgasms so sweet building to ones less sweet but more intense. And then it happened. A wave began in my feet and legs, traveled up my belly, my chest, my throat, and my soul burst out the crown of my head. It was the deepest experience of pleasure-love I had ever known—or witnessed. She later explained the technical name was a “Kamikazi-Mega-Hiawatha.” That sounded precisely right. Then he left town. Gone. Gone. She and I met one sunny afternoon holding each other in her bed, with wandering fingers—but I missed him. Sweet sisters without a cock between us. MAN OF GOD The loss felt devastating. Would such joy never be more than momentary? Probably not. My inability to tolerate this knowledge led me into yet another flirtation with God. This time I met him at Home Depot.

• From Less (2017)

  Mandern, Arthur Less marveled that he would not be returning, as he had his entire life, from the east but from the mysterious west. And during this odyssey, he was certain he would not think about Freddy Pelu at all. New York is a city of eight million people, approximately seven million of whom will be furious when they hear you were in town and didn’t meet them for an expensive dinner, five million furious you didn’t visit their new baby, three million furious you didn’t see their new show, one million furious you didn’t call for sex, but only five actually available to meet you. It is completely reasonable to call none of them. You could instead sneak off to a terrible, treacly Broadway show that you will never admit you paid two hundred dollars to see. This is what Less does on his first night, eating a hot dog dinner to make up for the extravagance. You cannot call it a guilty pleasure when the lights go down and the curtain goes up, when the adolescent heart begins to beat along with the orchestra, not when you feel no guilt. And he feels none; he feels only the shiver of delight when there is nobody around to judge you. It is a bad musical, but, like a bad lay, a bad musical can still do its job perfectly well. By the end, Arthur Less is in tears, sobbing in his seat, and he thinks he has been sobbing quietly until the lights come up and the woman seated beside him turns and says, “Honey, I don’t know what happened in your life, but I am so so sorry,” and gives him a lilac-scented embrace. Nothing happened to me, he wants to say to her. Nothing happened to me. I’m just a homosexual at a Broadway show. Next morning: the coffeemaker in his hotel room is a hungry little mollusk, snapping open its jaws to devour pods and subsequently secreting coffee into a mug. The instructions on care and feeding are clear, and yet somehow Less manages to produce, on the first go, nothing but steam and, on the second, a melted version of the pod itself. A sigh from Less. It is an autumn New York morning, and therefore glorious; it is his first day of his long journey, the day before the interview, and his clothes are still clean and neat, socks still paired, blue suit unwrinkled, toothpaste still American and not some strange foreign flavor. Bright-lemon New York light flashing off the skyscrapers, onto the quilted aluminum sides of food carts, and from there onto Arthur Less himself. Even the mean delighted look from the lady who would not hold the elevator, the humor-free girl at the coffee shop, the tourists standing stock-still on busy Fifth Avenue, the revved-up accosting hawkers (“Mister, you like comedy? Everybody likes comedy!”), the toothache sensation of jackhammers in concrete—none of it can dull the day.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Turning out the legs from the hips just winds up that pelvic floor like a corkscrew. I worked my gut all my life standing at that ballet barre. Now it is being unworked. His cock, my ass, unwinding. Divine. As he enters me I let go, millimeter by millimeter, of the tensing, pulling, tightening, gripping. I am addicted to extreme physical endurance, the marathon of uncoiling intensity. I release my muscles, my tendons, my flesh, my anger, my ego, my rules, my censors, my parents, my cells, my life. At the same time I pull and suck and draw him inward. Opening out and sucking in, one thing. Bliss, I learned from being sodomized, is an experience of eternity in a moment of real time. Sodomy is the ultimate sexual act of trust. I mean you could really get hurt—if you resist. But pushing past that fear, by passing through it, literally, ah the joy that lies on the other side of convention. The peace that is past the pain. Going past the pain is key. Once absorbed, it is neutralized and allows for transformation. Pleasure alone is mere temporary indulgence, a subtle distraction, an anesthetization while on the path to something higher, deeper, lower. Eternity lies far, far beyond pleasure. And beyond pain. The edge of my ass is the sexual event horizon, the boundary to that beyond from which there is no escape. Not for me, anyway. I am an atheist, by inheritance. I came to know God experientially, from being fucked in the ass—over and over and over again. I am a slow learner—and a gluttonous hedonist. I am serious. Very serious. And I was even more surprised than you are now by this curiously rude awakening to a mystic state. There it was: God’s big surprise, His subtle humor and potent presence, manifested in my ass—well, it sure is one way to get a skeptic’s attention. Anal sex is about cooperation. Cooperation in an endeavor of aristocratic politics, involving rigid hierarchies, feudal positions, and monarchist attitudes. One is in charge, the other obedient. Entirely in charge, entirely obedient. There is no democratic, affirmative- action safety net swinging below ass-fuckers. But they’d best be of firm action, very firm. You can’t half-ass butt-fuck. It would be a travesty. There are no understudies, no backups, for anal Cirque du Soleil. It’s a high-wire act—all the way up. The truth always shows itself with the ass. A cock in an ass operates like the arrow on a lie-detector test. The ass doesn’t know how to lie, it can’t lie: it hurts, physically, if you lie. The pussy, on the other hand, can lie at the mere entry of a dick in the room—does so all the time. Pussies are designed to fool men with their beckoning waters, ready opening, and angry owners.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “Try it on,” Caitlin said. “Try it on … now?” “Yes …” “But I’ve got citronella … and sunscreen …” “It’s washable,” Caitlin said and now she was laughing, too. “I made sure before I bought it … that it was … you know … washable.” “Washable …” “Yes … washable.” This struck Vix as hysterically funny. She wondered why Bru and Von didn’t get it, didn’t get that this dress, or whatever it was, that was suitable for a princess to wear to a garden party, was washable. The word itself—washable —was enough to send her into gales of laughter. Caitlin held out her hand. Vix took it and Caitlin pulled her to her feet, then led her behind the dunes. Vix tossed Bru’s shirt up in the air, still laughing. She untied her bikini top and flung that aside, too. Caitlin dropped the dress over her head. It fell around her, cool and smooth, a perfect fit. Well, maybe it was cut dangerously low in front, but so what? Who was going to see it besides Caitlin and Bru and maybe Von, but he had eyes only for Caitlin. Caitlin adjusted the silky rose centered between Vix’s breasts. “Here …” she said, “I think it goes more like this …” and she eased the dress off her shoulders. She stepped back to admire her work. “God, Vix … you look so beautiful!” Then they were dancing on the beach, Caitlin and Vix, twirling to “Wild thing … you make my heart sing …” Vix had never felt more beautiful, more desirable. She couldn’t wait to be with Bru! Couldn’t wait to actually make love, to feel him inside her. Was she stoned? Maybe … probably … but so what? For once she wasn’t self-conscious about her body. She was proud of her lush breasts, her shapely legs glistening with oil, her long dark hair swinging back and forth as she twirled, growing more and more dizzy. It was her birthday, she was seventeen, dancing on the beach in the moonlight as her lover watched, watched with desire written all over his face. Tonight she was the wild thing . The temptress. Then they were all dancing together, all four of them, and she was thinking, It can’t get any better than this … ever! They were hugging and kissing, so much in love. This will be my best Vineyard memory. This will be the one I remember all my life . The kissing grew more serious, deeper, hungrier. Vix let her eyes close and she moaned softly, turned on by hot breath, soft lips, hands sliding the dress from her shoulders, hands on her naked breasts. She felt the hardness inside his shorts and reached down. “Vix …” he whispered. “Oh baby …” Oh baby … oh baby? Wait! Something was wrong with this picture. The hands on her body weren’t Bru’s, the lips on her lips weren’t his.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  In April 2004, it was proposed that Clear Channel Communications, the nation’s largest radio broadcaster, be fined no less than $495,000 by the Federal Communications Commission for a single twenty- minute segment of the Howard Stern Show in which Stern discussed, at some length, what he refers to as “anal.” (It probably didn’t help matters that the conversation was frequently punctuated by fart noises.) Thank God that having anal sex is so much cheaper than talking about it. Despite this new trend of sodomitic censorship, ass-fucking has made several auspicious appearances recently on screens both big and small. The subject came up regularly in the popular TV series Sex and the City, whose heroines discussed not only men’s growing interest in “the ass” but also their own willingness to accommodate those interests, the appropriateness of doing so on a first date, and the basic lube how-tos. Perhaps even more surprising was its mention in the Hollywood hit Bridget Jones’s Diary. At one point, when Bridget is lying in bed after having sex with her caddish lover, Daniel Cleaver, she reminds him that what they just did is illegal in several countries. To which he replies, without missing a beat, that that’s one of the reasons he’s so pleased to be living in England today. Is Daniel Cleaver the latest incarnation of the bad-boy lover, the zipless fuck for the twenty-first century? After all, the zipless ass-fuck simply takes zipless to a new hole level. So does missionary-position ass-fucking. The term itself conjures up such perfect contradiction: the most patriarchal position, the most biblically sanctioned, and yet, well, what a difference an inch can make. The experience on the other hand—best achieved with a nice firm pillow under the ass—makes me feel downright missionary. After all, here I am spreading the word, sharing the epiphany like a born-again believer, a convert, an anal zealot. #145 and #146 We just completed both 145 and 146 consecutively in the course of an hour and a half. He never went down. I grabbed the base of his cock shortly after he had pulled out and shot vertically up my arched back, arcing over my face. His jizz landed squarely on a black velvet pillow with a satisfying splat. That look was still in his eye, that crazy fucking look, and I asked, “May I lick your cock?” “Yes,” he said gently, generously. And we did the whole thing all over again. Double bliss, double cum, exponential fun. GETTING READY If you want the whole thing, the Gods will give it to you.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I did not speak, but only nodded wonderingly. ‘I came,’ she said, ‘to make them. I wore my smartest frock, so they would think me grander than I am. I thought, they might be the meanest and most miserable family in all of Kent; yet I will work so hard at being nice, they’ll trust me like a daughter. ‘But oh, Nan, they’re not miserable or mean, and I didn’t have to play at being nice at all! They are the kindest family I ever met; and you are all the world to them. I cannot ask you to give them up ...’ My heart seemed to stop - and then to pound, like a piston. ‘What do you mean?’ I said. She looked away. ‘I meant to ask you to come with me. To London.’ I blinked. ‘To go with you? But how?’ ‘As my dresser,’ she said, ‘if you’d care to. As my - anything, I don’t know. I have spoken to Mr Bliss: he says there will not be much money for you at first - but enough, if you share my diggings.’ ‘Why?’ I said then. She raised her eyes to mine. ‘Because I - like you. Because you are good for me, and bring me luck. And because London will be strange; and Mr Bliss may not be all that he seems; and I shall have no one...’ ‘And you truly thought,’ I said slowly, ‘that I would say no?’ ‘This afternoon - yes. Last night, and this morning, I believed - Oh, it was so different in the dressing-room, when it was just the two of us! I didn’t know then how it was for you here. I didn’t know then that you had a - a chap.’ Her words made me bold. I drew my hand away from hers and got to my feet. I walked to the head of the bed, where there was a little cabinet, with a drawer in it. I opened it, and took something from it, and showed it to her. ‘Do you know this?’ I said, and she smiled. ‘It’s the flower I gave you.’ She took it from me, and held it. It was dry and limp, and its petals were brown at the edges and coming loose; and it was rather flat, because I had slept many nights with it beneath my pillow. ‘When you threw this to me,’ I said to her, ‘my life changed. I think I must have been - asleep - till that moment: asleep, or dead.

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

  In other words, when one partner’s good news and enthusiasm ignites to become the other partner’s good news and enthusiasm as well, a micro-moment of positivity resonance is born. Studies show that these moments of back-and-forth positivity resonance are not only satisfying in and of themselves, providing boosts to each partner’s own mood, but they also further fortify the relationship, making it more intimate, committed, and passionate next season than it is today. Another person’s expression of positivity, from this perspective, can be seen as a bid for connection and love. If you answer that bid, the ensuing positivity resonance will nourish you both. Two ways to fortify your intimate relationships, then, are to bring your own good news home to share, and to celebrate your partner’s good news. Regardless of who initiates, the key is to connect to create a shared experience, one that allows positivity to resonate between you for a spell, momentarily synchronizing your gestures and your biorhythms and creating the warm glow of mutual care. Sharing or celebrating the joy of some personal good fortune is certainly not the only way to foster the micro-moments of love that strengthen relationships. Any positive emotion, if shared, can do the same. In collaboration with my colleague Sara Algoe, for instance, I’ve explored how kindness and appreciation flow back and forth in couples, creating tender moments of positivity resonance that also serve to nourish intimacy and relationship growth. In particular, we’ve examined how people habitually express appreciation to their partners. We learned from this work that some people tend to say “thanks” better than others. Genuine feelings of appreciation or gratitude, after all, well up when you recognize that someone else went out of his or her way to do something nice for you. Another way to say this is that the script for gratitude involves both a benefit , or kind deed, and a benefactor , the kind person behind the kind deed. Whereas many people express their appreciation to others by shining a spotlight on the benefit they received—the gift, favor, or the kind deed itself—we discovered that, by contrast, the best “thank-yous” simply use the benefit as a springboard toward shining a spotlight on the good qualities of the other person, their benefactor. Done well, then, expressing appreciation for your partner’s kindness to you can become a kind gesture in return, one that conveys that you see and appreciate in your partner’s actions his or her good and inspiring qualities. How did we know that this is the best way to convey appreciation?

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  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. But I did buy a series of ten massages at a reduced rate. He insisted, for his own moral welfare (and perhaps mine), that he always give me a massage—although on more than one occasion the massage came after we did. I was surprised at how much I liked sucking his cock. It was because he had shown me love first, and filled with gratitude, I headed down. I gave this guy the first good blow job I had ever given, one that came from my guts and brought tears into my eyes. It was the first time I was that grateful to a man. We never saw each other outside of the room in my apartment. We stayed in the bedroom, only going to the kitchen for liquids and the bathroom for rinses. The bedroom was the world. No dinners, no dates, only phone calls to make an appointment. Because my damaged hip had ended my dance career, the massages were paid for by insurance. Insurance for the resurrection of my deeply injured sexual desire.

• 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.