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 Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "I stood hesitating, looking first at my nakedness, then upon his. He smiled, and kissed me. "'You don't feel cold, do you?' "'No, but——' "'Well, then, don't be afraid; there is no one in the house. Everyone is asleep on the other flats, and, besides, every window is tightly shut, and all the curtains are down.' "He dragged me with him into a neighbouring room all covered with thick, soft, and silky carpets, the prevailing tone of which was dull Turkish red. "In the centre of this apartment hung a curiously-wrought, star-shaped lamp, which the faithful—even now-a-days—light on Friday eve. "We sat down on a soft-cushioned divan, in front of one of those ebony Arab tables all inlaid with coloured ivory and iridiscent mother-of-pearl. "'I cannot give you a banquet, although I expected you; still, there is enough to satisfy your hunger, I hope.' "There were some luscious Cancale oysters—few, but of an immense size; a dusty bottle of Sauterne, then a paté de foie gras highly scented with Périgord truffles; a partridge, with paprika or Hungarian curry, and a salad made out of a huge Piedmont truffle, as thinly sliced as shavings, and a bottle of exquisite dry sherry. "All these delicacies were served in dainty blue old Delft and Savona ware, for he had already heard of my hobby for old majolica. "Then came a dish of Seville oranges, bananas, and pineapples, flavoured with Maraschino and covered with sifted sugar. It was a savoury, tasty, tart and sweet medley, combining together the flavour and perfume of all these delicious fruits. "After having washed it down with a bottle of sparkling champagne, we then sipped some tiny cups of fragrant and scalding Mocha coffee; then he lighted a narghilè, or Turkish water pipe, and we puffed at intervals the odorous Latakiah, inhaling it with our ever-hungry kisses from each other's mouths. "The fumes of the smoke and those of the wine rose up to our heads, and in our re-awakened sensuality we soon had between our lips a far more fleshy mouth-piece.than the amber one of the Turkish pipe. "Our heads were again soon lost between each other's thighs. We had once more but one body between us, juggling with one another, ever seeking new caresses, new sensations, a sharper and more inebriating kind of lewdness, in our anxiety not only to enjoy ourselves but to make the other one feel. We were, therefore, very soon the prey of a blasting lust, and only some inarticulate sounds expressed the climax of our voluptuous state, until, more dead than alive, we fell upon each other—a mingled mass of shivering flesh. "After half an hour's rest and a bowl of arrak, curaçoa and whisky punch, flavoured with many hot, invigorating spices, our mouths were again pressed together.

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

  I got to the street door, the key whereof was always laid on the chair by our bed side, in trust with Phœbe, who having not the least suspicion of my entertaining any design to go from them (nor, indeed, had I, but the day before), made no reserve or concealment of it from me. I opened the door with great ease; love, that emboldened, protected me too: and now, got safe into the street, I saw my new guardian angel waiting at a coach door, ready open. How I got to him I know not: I suppose I flew; but I was in the coach in a trice, and he by the side of me, with his arms clasped round me, and giving me the kiss of welcome. The coachman had his orders, and drove to them. My eyes were instantly filled with tears, but tears of the most delicious delight; to find myself in the arms of that beauteous youth, was a rapture that my little hear swam in; past or future were equally out of the question with me; the present was as much as all my powers of life were sufficient to bear the transport of, without fainting. Nor were the most tender embraces, the most soothing expressions wanting on his side, to assure me of his love, and of never giving me cause to repent the bold step I had taken, in throwing myself thus entirely upon his honour and generosity. But, alas! this was no merit in me, for I was drove to it by a passion too impetuous for me to resist, and, I did what I did, because I could not help it. In an instant, for time was now annihilated with me, we were landed at a public house in Chelsea, hospitably commodious for the reception of duet parties of pleasure, where a breakfast of chocolate was prepared for us. An old jolly stager, who kept it, and understood life perfectly well, breakfasted with us, and leering archly at me, gave us both joy, and said, “we were well paired, i’ faith! that a great many gentlemen and ladies used his house, but he had never seen a handsomer couple... he was sure I was a fresh piece... I looked so country, so innocent! well my spouse was a lucky man!...” all which, common landlord’s cant, not only pleased and soothed me, but helped to diver my confusion at being with my new sovereign, whom, the minute approached, I began to fear to be alone with: a timidity which true love had a greater share in than even maiden bashful-ness.

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

  The first object then, that my eyes opened on, was their supreme idol, and my supreme wish, Charles, on one knee, holding me fast by the hand and gazing on me with a transport of fondness. Observing my recovery, he attempted to speak, and give vent to his patience of hearing my voice again, to satisfy him once more that it was I; but the mightiness and suddenness of the surprise continuing to stun him, choked his utterance: he could only stammer out a few broken, half-formed, filtering accents, which my ears greedily drinking in, spelt, and put together, so as to make out their sense: “After so long!... so cruel an absence!... my dearest Fanny!... can it?... can it be you?...” stifling me at the time with kisses, that, stopping my opening mouth, at once prevented the answer that he panted for, and increased the delicious disorder in which all my senses were rapturously lost. However, amidst this crowd of ideas, and all blissful ones, there obtruded only one cruel doubt that poisoned nearly all the transcendant happiness: and what was it, but my dread of its being too excessive to be real? I trembled now with my fear of its being no more than a dream, and of waking out of it into the horrors of finding it one. Under this fond apprehension, imagining I could not make too much of the present prodigious joy, before it would vanish and leave me in the desert again, nor verify its reality too strongly, I clung to him, I clasped him, as if to hinder him from escaping me again: “Where have you been?... how could you... could you leave me?... Say you are still mine... that you still love me... and thus! thus!” (kissing him as if I would consolidated lips with him) “I forgive you... forgive my hard fortune in favour of this restoration.” All these interjections breaking from me, in that wildness of expression that justly passes for eloquence in love, drew from him all the returns my fond heart could wish or require. Our caresses, our questions, our answers, for some time observed no order; all crossing, or interrupting one another in sweet confusion, whilst we exchanged hearts at our eyes, and renewed the ratifications of a love unabated by time or absence: not a breath, not a motion, not a gesture on either side, but what was strongly impressed with it. Our hands, locked in each other, repeated the most passionate squeezes, so that their fiery thrill went to the heart again.

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

  As soon as he had disengaged, the charming Emily got up, and we crowded round her with congratulations and other officious little services; for it is to be noted, that though all modesty and reserve were banished from the transaction of these pleasures, good manners and politeness were inviolably observed: there was no gross ribaldry, no offensive or rude behaviour, or ungenerous reproaches to the girls for their compliance with the humours and desires of the men. On the contrary, nothing was wanting to soothe, encourage, and soften the sense of their condition to them. Men know not in general how much they destroy of their own pleasure, when they break through the respect and tenderness due to our sex, and even to those of it who live only by pleasing them. And this was a maxim perfectly well understood by these polite voluptuaries, these profound adepts in the great art and science of pleasure, who never shewed these votaries of theirs a more tender respect than at the time of those exercises of their complaisance, when they unlocked their treasures of concealed beauty, and shewed out in the pride of their native charms, ever more touching surely than when they parade it in the artificial ones of dress and ornament. The frolic was now come round to me, and it being my turn of subscription to the will and pleasure of my particular elect, as well as to that of the company, he came to me, and saluting me very tenderly, with a flattering eagerness, put me in mind of the compliances my presence there authorized the hopes of, and at the same time repeated to me, “that if all this force of example had not surmounted any repugnance I might have to concur with the humours and desires of the company, that though the play was bespoke for my benefit, and great as his own private disappointment might be, he would suffer any thing, sooner than be the instrument of imposing a disagreeable task.” To this I answered, without the least hesitation, or mincing grimace, “that had I not even contracted a kind of engagement to be at his disposal without the least reserve, the example of such agreeable companions would alone determine me, and that I was in no pain about any thing but my appearing to so great a disadvantage after such superior beauties.” And take notice that I thought, as I spoke. The frankness of the answer pleased them all; my particular was complimented on his acquisition, and, by way of indirect flattery to me, openly envied me.

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

  Here I laved and wantoned with the water, or sportively played with my companion, leaving Emily to deal with hers at discretion. Mine, at length, not content with making me take the plunge over head and ears, kept splashing me, and provoking me with all the little playful tricks he could devise, and which I strove not to remain in his debt for. We gave, in short, a loose to mirth; and now, nothing would serve him but giving his hand the regale of going over every part of me, neck, breast, belly, thighs, and all the et cætera, so dear to the imagination, under the pretext of washing and rubbing them; as we both stood in the water, no higher now than the pit of our stomachs, and which did not hinder him from feeling, and toying with that leak that distinguishes our sex, and it so wonderfully water-tight: for his fingers, in vain dilating and opening it, only let more flame than water into it, be it said without a figure. At the same time he made me feel his own engine, which was so well wound up, as to stand even the working in water, and he accordingly threw one arm round my neck, and was endeavouring to get the better of that harsher construction bred by the surrounding fluid; and had in effect one his way so far as to make me sensible of the pleasing stretch of those nether lips, from the in-driving machine; when, independent of my not liking that awkward mode of enjoyment, I could not help interrupting him, in order to become joint spectators of a plan of joy, in hot operation between Emily and her partner; who impatient of the fooleries and dalliance of the bath, had led his nymph to one of the benches on the green bank, where he was very cordially proceeding to teach her the difference betwixt jest and earnest.

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

  Giddy and intoxicated as I was with such satiating draughts of pleasure, I still lay on the couch, supinely stretched out, in a delicious languor diffused over all my limbs, hugging myself for being thus revenged to my heart’s content, and that in a manner so precisely alike, and on the identical spot in which I had received the supposed injury. No reflections on the consequences ever once perplexed me, nor did I make myself one single reproach for having, by this step, completely entered myself into a profession more decried than disused. I should have held it ingratitude to the pleasure I had received, to have repented of it; and since I was now over the bar, I thought, by plunging head and ears into the stream I was hurried away by, to drown all sense of shame or reflection. Whilst I was thus making these laudable dispositions, and whispering to myself a kind of tacit vow of incontinency, enters Mr. H... The consciousness of what I had been doing deepened yet the glowing of my cheeks, flushed with the warmth of the late action, which, joined to the piquant air of my dishabile, drew from Mr. H.... a compliment on my looks, which he was proceeding to bask the sincerity of with proofs, and that with so brisk an action, as made me tremble for fear of a discovery from the condition those parts were left in from their late severe handling: the orifice dilated and inflamed, the lips swollen with their uncommon distension, the ringlets pressed down, crushed and uncurled with the over flowing moisture that had wet everything round it; in short, the different feel and state of things would hardly have passed upon one of Mr. H.....’s nicety and experience unaccounted for but by the real cause. But here the woman saved me: I pretended a violent disorder of my head, and a feverish heat, that indisposed me too much to receive his embraces. He gave in to this, and good naturedly desisted. Soon after, an old lady coming in made a third, very apropos for the confusion I was in, and Mr. H...., after bidding me take care of myself, and recommending me to my repose, left me much at ease and relieved by his absence. In the close of the evening, I took care to have prepared for me a warm bath of aromatik and sweet herbs; in which having fully laved and solaced myself, I came out voluptuously refreshed in body and spirit. The next morning waking pretty early, after a night’s perfect rest and composure, it was not without some dread and uneasiness that I thought of what innovation that tender soft system of mine might have sustained, from the shock of a machine so sized for its destruction. Struck with this apprehension, I scarce dared to carry my hand thither, to inform myself of the state and posture of things. But I was soon agreeably cured of my fears.

• From The Liars' Club: A Memoir (1995)

  Lucy went on to whip up a blender of brandy alexanders for the purpose of putting tallow on my flat little heinie. She plunked a few extra filberts in my lowball glass of foam. By the time her soap opera came on about two, I was affably drunk. The cat clocks’ offbeat tails twitching overhead didn’t faze me a bit. I was the bodhisattva of brandy, the crown princess of alexander. I woke with my damp cheek flat to the bar. I’d somehow crossed from my original joy into drunkenness, and beyond that into a sugar coma. Hours had passed. My bird’s nest of hair tipped sideways. It seemed to be drawing my worrisome headache far beyond the parameters of my skull. I looked around while Lucy poured me a collins glass of water. The stools beside me had been untipped. A shallow paper bowl of Goldfish sat before each one. At back tables, folks stared intently at the domino tiles they’d lined up into short walls. I drained my glass and slid it back to Lucy, who arched a thin brow penciled the color of coffee and caught me up on Daddy’s pool game. The neat stack of dollars on the table’s edge had once belonged to Dole and now belonged to Daddy. The cowboy had responded to this by getting sidewinding drunk. He stabbed at the balls in hard, mean little pokes. He was also shooting too high, his cuestick sailing upwards in an arc so it whacked the hanging metal lampshade a few times, sending it sideways. And he didn’t bother to sight along the stick or hunker down so his eye could work out angles. He just sucked his front teeth and jabbed, pissing away every shot. Daddy was probably just as drunk, but that only made him walk straighter. He took aim with the slow concentration of a man underwater. Nearly every ball he stood behind eventually moved slow to the pocket he’d picked for it. When Dole started making sissy shots—trying to jump one ball over another or shooting behind his back, Daddy said let’s wrap this deal up, which the cowboy snorted at. “You took my money,” he said. Daddy just grinned. “Hell, brother, you set the stakes.” Suddenly Dole was at the bar next to me, pounding on the sparkling Formica with his meaty fist. His features seemed scrunched in the center of his round, red face, crowding each other for room. “Beer here, barkeep,” he said. “You’re eighty-sixed,” Lucy said. “Cut off. No more for you.” “What for?” “’Cause I said. That’s what for.” She’d had both hands on the bar when he strode over. Now she dropped one out of sight with a move so smooth I wondered if she kept some ballbat or other equalizer under the counter. Dole jerked his thumb over at Daddy. “What about Tonto back there?” “Tonto’s still drinking,” Daddy said. But, in fact, his glass sat empty.

• From Manhunt (2022)

  She pushed her glasses up onto her forehead. Fran’s stomach clenched around a lump of quivering anxiety. She still felt a little queasy after last night’s party, and the fluorescents flickering over the walk up from her room had made her head swim. Maybe I’ll get to help Indi in her lab. Premed isn’t nothing. They won’t make me dig ditches. Why would they even need ditches? “As we ramp up estrogen refining, we’re going to want to open a new line of trade with Seabrook.” The other woman retrieved a thick ledger from a drawer in her desk and set it down in front of Fran, flipping it open. Page after page of minute handwriting filled the cells and columns within. Dates. Goods. Weights. Names. “They’ve got fish, waste removal and disposal, freshwater springs, some master craftsmen we haven’t been able to poach—we’ve got the medication to keep their kids and PCOS patients from going feral. Unless they want to start a large-scale horse piss concentration facility, they’ve got to deal with us.” “So do you want me, like, out with the hunters?” “No, no, nothing like that.” Penn State shook her head. She’d set her clipboard down. Fran could see the blank “Sex” boxes on the intake form, twin islands all-encompassing in a sea of ephemera. How many times had she dithered in the blank quarter inch between them? “Sophie thinks you’d be a good fit to help with managing our relationship with the Seabrook city council.” Fran blinked, looking up from the sheet. “The Legion—” “They aren’t going to strip-search our people. We’ve dealt with them before, and we don’t allow it.” With a smile she checked the box next to the “F” on the form. Fran’s heart leapt in joy and terror as she took it. Her token. Her proof. All at once the bunker seemed to open up around her, its blank walls limitlessly clean, its every unmet inhabitant a new best friend just waiting to be taken by the hand and led sprinting into fields of wildflowers and waving grass. I’m going to be a woman here. I’m going to be real. Penn State signed the form with a decisive flourish. “Whatever they might suspect about you, a suspicion is all it’s going to be.” IV. Safe Space IV SAFE SPACE Beth liked farm shift, even in the late September heat. Since her leg had healed up enough that it no longer woke her in the night, she’d had no problem lugging pails of slops, cracked corn, and the chipped offal and bones of the animals that passed through the slaughterhouse at the north end of the compound. Indi said that soon she wouldn’t even have a limp.

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

  "Anyhow, that overpowering weariness, that loathsomeness of life, had now quite passed away. I was blithe, merry, happy. Teleny was my lover; I was his. "Far from being ashamed of my crime, I felt that I should like to proclaim it to the world. For the first time in my life I understood that lovers could be so foolish as to entwine their initials together. I felt like carving his name on the bark of trees, that the birds seeing it might twitter it from morn till eventide; that the breeze might lisp it to the rustling leaves of the forest. I wished to write it on the shingle of the beach, that the ocean itself might know of my love for him, and murmur it everlastingly." "Still I had thought that on the morrow—the intoxication passed—you would have shuddered at the thought of having a man for a lover?" "Why? Had I committed a crime against nature when my own nature found peace and happiness thereby? If I was thus, surely it was the fault of my blood, not myself. Who had planted nettles in my garden? Not I. They had grown there unawares, from my very childhood. I began to feel their carnal stings long before I could understand what conclusion they imported. When I had tried to bridle my lust, was it my fault if the scale of reason was far too light to balance that of sensuality? Was I to blame if I could not argue down my raging motion? Fate, Iago-like, had clearly shewed me that if I would damn myself, I could do so in a more delicate way than drowning. I yielded to my destiny, and encompassed my joy. "Withal, I never said with Iago,—'Virtue, a fig!' No, virtue is the sweet flavour of the peach: vice, the tiny droplet of prussic-acid—its delicious savour. Life, without either, would be sapidless." "Still, not having, like most of us, been inured to sodomy from your school-days, I should have thought that you would have been loath to have yielded your body to another man's pleasure." "Loath? Ask the virgin if she regrets having given up her maidenhood to the lover she dotes on, and who fully returns her love? She has lost a treasure that all the wealth of Golconda cannot buy again; she is no longer what the world calls a pure, spotless, immaculate lily, and not having had the serpent's guile in her, society—the lilies—will brand her with an infamous name; profligates will leer at her, the pure will turn away in scorn. Still, does the girl regret having yielded her body for love—the only thing worth living for? No. Well, no more did I. Let 'clay-cold heads and lukewarm hearts' scourge me with their wrath if they will.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I love it here in Montana. It’s beautiful. Yesterday, I rode a horse for the first time. Indians still ride horses in Montana. I’m still looking for a job. I’ve sent applications to all the restaurants on the reservation. Yep, the Flathead Rez has about twenty restaurants. It’s weird. They have six or seven towns, too. Can you believe that? That’s a lot of towns for one rez! And you know what’s really weird? Some of the towns on the rez are filled with white people. I don’t know how that happened. But the people who live in those white towns don’t always like Indians much. One of those towns, called Polson, tried to secede (that means quit, I looked it up) from the rez. Really. It was like the Civil War. Even though the town is in the middle of the rez, the white folks in that town decided they didn’t want to be a part of the rez. Crazy. But most of the people here are nice. The whites and Indians. And you know the best part? There’s this really great hotel where hubby and I had our honeymoon. It’s on Flathead Lake and we had a suite, a hotel room with its own separate bedroom! And there was a phone in the bathroom! Really! I could have called you from the bathoom. But that’s not even the most crazy part. We decide to order room service, to have the food delivered to our room, and guess what they had on the menu? Indian fry bread! Yep. For five dollars, you could get fry bread. Crazy! So I ordered up two pieces. I didn’t think it would be any good, especially not as good as grandma’s. But let me tell you. It was great. Almost as good as grandma’s. And they had the fry bread on this fancy plate and so I ate it with this fancy fork and knife. And I just kept imagining there was some Flathead Indian grandma in the kitchen, just making fry bread for all the room-service people. It was a dream come true! I love my life! I love my husband! I love Montana! I love you! Your sis, Mary Thanksgiving [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] It was a snowless Thanksgiving. We had a turkey, and Mom cooked it perfectly. We also had mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, corn, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. It was a feast. I always think it’s funny when Indians celebrate Thanksgiving. I mean, sure, the Indians and Pilgrims were best friends during that first Thanksgiving, but a few years later, the Pilgrims were shooting Indians. So I’m never quite sure why we eat turkey like everybody else. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “What do Indians have to be so thankful for?” “We should give thanks that they didn’t kill all of us.” We laughed like crazy. It was a good day. Dad was sober. Mom was getting ready to nap. Grandma was already napping.

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

  Resuming now my history, you may please to know, that what with a competent number of repetitions, all in the same strain (and, by the bye, we have a certain natural sense that those repetitions are very much to the taste), what with a circle of pleasures delicately varied, there was not a moment lost to joy all the time we staid there, till late in the night we were re-escorted home by our esquires, who delivered us safe to Mrs. Cole, with generous thanks for our company. This too was Emily’s last adventure in our way: for scarce a week after, she was, by an accident too trivial to detail to you the particulars, found out by her parents, who were in good circumstances, and who had been punished for their partiality to their son, in the loss of him, occasioned by a circumstance of their over indulgence to his appetite; upon which the so long engrossed stream of fondness, running violently in favour of this lost and inhumanly abandoned child whom if they had not neglected enquiry about, they might long before have recovered, they were now so over-joyed at the retrieval of her, that, I presume, it made them much less strict in examining the bottom of things: for they seemed very glad to take for granted, in the lump, every thing that the grave and decent Mrs. Cole was pleased to pass upon them; and soon afterwards sent her, from the country, handsome acknowledgment.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  [image "A comic strip titled ‘How to Pretend You’re Not Poor’ features characters having a conversation about various scenarios like no lunch money, field trip excuses, and bake sale comments." file=image_rsrc4SS.jpg] Because I didn’t have money for gas, and because I couldn’t have driven the car if I wanted to, and because I didn’t want to double date, I told Penelope I’d meet her at the gym for the dance. She wasn’t too happy about that. But the worst thing is that I had to wear one of Dad’s old suits: [image "An illustration of a person in a suit with bell-bottoms and a tie featuring polka dots and stripes, labeled as ‘unintentional disco freak’, with notes about the suit’s origin in the 1970s." file=image_rsrc4ST.jpg] I was worried that people would make fun of me, right? And they probably would have if Penelope hadn’t immediately squealed with delight when she first saw me walk into the gym. “Oh, my, God!” she yelled for everybody to hear. “That suit is so beautiful. It’s so retroactive. It’s so retroactive that it’s radioactive!” And every dude in the joint immediately wished he’d worn his father’s lame polyester suit. And I imagined that every girl was immediately breathless and horny at the sight of my bell-bottom slacks. So, drunk with my sudden power, I pulled off some lame disco dance moves that sent the place into hysterics. Even Roger, the huge dude I’d punched in the face, was suddenly my buddy. Penelope and I were so happy to be alive, and so happy to be alive TOGETHER, even if we were only a semi-hot item, and we danced every single dance. Nineteen dances; nineteen songs. Twelve fast songs; seven slow ones. Eleven country hits; five rock songs; three hip-hop tunes. It was the best night of my life. Of course, I was a sweaty mess inside that hot polyester suit. But it didn’t matter. Penelope thought I was beautiful and so I felt beautiful. And then the dance was over. The lights flicked on. And Penelope suddenly realized we’d forgotten to get our picture taken by the professional dude. “Oh, my God!” she yelled. “We forgot to get our picture taken! That sucks!” She was sad for a moment, but then she realized that she’d had so much fun that a photograph of the evening was completely beside the point. A photograph would be just a lame souvenir. I was completely relieved that we’d forgotten. I wouldn’t have been able to pay for the photographs. I knew that. And I’d rehearsed a speech about losing my wallet. I’d made it through the evening without revealing my poverty.

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

  "The Rubicon was crossed; the column began to slide softly in; he could begin his pleasurable work. Soon the whole penis slipped in; the pain that tortured me was deadened; the delight was ever so much increased. I felt the little god moving within me; it seemed to be tickling the very core of my being; he had shoved the whole of it into me, down to its very root; I felt his hair crushed against mine, his testicles gently rubbing against me. "I then saw his beautiful eyes gazing deep into mine. What unfathomable eyes they were! Like the sky or the main, they seemed to reflect the infinite. Never again shall I see eyes so full of burning love, of such smouldering langour. His glances had a mesmeric spell over me; they bereft me of my reason; they did even more—they changed sharp pain into delight. "I was in a state of ecstatic joy; all my nerves contracted and twitched. As he felt himself thus clasped and gripped, he shivered, he ground his teeth; he was unable to bear such a strong shock; his outstretched arms held fast on my shoulders; he dug his nails into my flesh; he tried to move, but he was so tightly wedged and grasped that it was impossible to push himself any further in. Moreover, his strength was beginning to fail him, and he could then hardly stand upon his feet. "As he tried to give another jerk, I myself, that very moment squeezed the whole rod with all the strength of my muscles, and a most violent jet, like a hot geyser, escaped from him, and coursed within me like some scorching, corroding poison; it seemed to set my blood on fire, and transmuted it into some kind of hot, intoxicating alcohol. His breath was thick and convulsive; his sobs choked him; he was utterly done up. "'I am dying!' he gasped out, his chest heaving with emotion; 'it is too much.' And he fell senseless in my arms. "After half an hour's rest he woke up, and began at once to kiss me with rapture, whilst his loving eyes beamed with thankfulness. "'You have made me feel what I never felt before. "'Nor I either,' quoth I, smiling. "'I really did not know whether I was in heaven or in hell. I had quite lost my senses.' "He stopped for a moment to look at me, and then,—'How I love you, my Camille!' he went on, showering kisses on me; 'I have loved you to distraction from the very moment I saw you.' "Then I began to tell him how I had suffered in trying to overcome my love for him; how I was haunted by his presence day and night; how happy I was at last.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “There are three thousand four hundred and twelve books here,” Gordy said. “I know that because I counted them.” “Okay, now you’re officially a freak,” I said. “Yes, it’s a small library. It’s a tiny one. But if you read one of these books a day, it would still take you almost ten years to finish.” “What’s your point?” “The world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don’t know.” Wow. That was a huge idea. Any town, even one as small as Reardan, was a place of mystery. And that meant that Wellpinit, that smaller, Indian town, was also a place of mystery. “Okay, so it’s like each of these books is a mystery. Every book is a mystery. And if you read all the books ever written, it’s like you’ve read one giant mystery. And no matter how much you learn, you just keep on learning there is so much more you need to learn.” “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Gordy said. “Now doesn’t that give you a boner?” “I am rock hard,” I said. Gordy blushed. “Well, I don’t mean boner in the sexual sense,” Gordy said. “I don’t think you should run through life with a real erect penis. But you should approach each book—you should approach life—with the real possibility that you might get a metaphorical boner at any point.” “A metaphorical boner!” I shouted. “What the heck is a metaphorical boner?” Gordy laughed. “When I say boner, I really mean joy,” he said. “Then why didn’t you say joy? You didn’t have to say boner. Whenever I think about boners, I get confused.” “Boner is funnier. And more joyful.” Gordy and I laughed. He was an extremely weird dude. But he was the smartest person I’d ever known. He would always be the smartest person I’d ever known. And he certainly helped me through school. He not only tutored me and challenged me, but he made me realize that hard work—that the act of finishing, of completing, of accomplishing a task—is joyous. In Wellpinit, I was a freak because I loved books. In Reardan, I was a joyous freak. And my sister, she was a traveling freak. We were the freakiest brother and sister in history. My Sister Sends Me an E-mail [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] -----Original Message----- From: Mary Sent: Thursday, November 16, 2006 4:41 PM To: Junior Subject: Hi! Dear Junior:

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “I can do it.” Do you understand how amazing it is to hear that from an adult? Do you know how amazing it is to hear that from anybody? It’s one of the simplest sentences in the world, just four words, but they’re the four hugest words in the world when they’re put together. You can do it. I can do it. Let’s do it. We all screamed like maniacs as we ran out of the locker room and onto the basketball court, where two thousand maniac fans were also screaming. The Reardan band was rocking some Led Zeppelin. As we ran through our warm-up layup drills, I looked up into the crowd to see if my dad was in his usual place, high up in the northwest corner. And there he was. I waved at him. He waved back. Yep, my daddy was an undependable drunk. But he’d never missed any of my organized games, concerts, plays, or picnics. He may not have loved me perfectly, but he loved me as well as he could. My mom was sitting in her usual place on the opposite side of the court from Dad. Funny how they did that. Mom always said that Dad made her too nervous; Dad always said that Mom made him too nervous. Penelope was yelling and screaming like crazy, too. I waved at her; she blew me a kiss. Great, now I was going to have to play the game with a boner. Ha-ha, just kidding. So we ran through layups and three-on-three weave drills and free throws and pick and rolls, and then the evil Wellpinit five came running out of the visitors’ locker room. Man, you never heard such booing. Our crowd was as loud as a jet. They were just pitching the Wellpinit players some serious crap. You want to know what it sounded like? It sounded like this: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! We couldn’t even hear each other. I worried that all of us were going to have permanent hearing damage. I kept glancing over at Wellpinit as they ran their layup drills. And I noticed that Rowdy kept glancing over at us. At me. Rowdy and I pretended that we weren’t looking at each other. But, man, oh, man, we were sending some serious hate signals across the gym. I mean, you have to love somebody that much to also hate them that much, too. Our captains, Roger and Jeff, ran out to the center circle to have the game talk with the refs. Then our band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” And then our five starters, including me, ran out to the center circle to go to battle against Wellpinit’s five. Rowdy smirked at me as I took my position next to him. “Wow,” he said. “You guys must be desperate if you’re starting.” “I’m guarding you,” I said. “What?” “I’m guarding you tonight.” “You can’t stop me. I’ve been kicking your ass for fourteen years.”

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  SA: Well, think of the books that we read when we were kids and how formative they are. I think of It by Stephen King or The Snowy Day when I was much younger, the picture book by Ezra Jack Keats. I didn’t have imaginary playmates growing up like some kids did; I had books. Books were my imaginary playmates. Books were my siblings and sometimes books were the best version of a parent I could have. So to think I might have even a fraction of that power for a kid with True Diary is amazing. JW: You must see it. I see kids carrying the book around. You must get letters from kids that just blow you away. SA: The most powerful ones are the ones I get from the teachers or the kids themselves about reluctant readers. The thing I hear all the time is, “This is the first book I ever finished,” which is on one level very sad, an indictment of our education system, but on the other level, you think, well, maybe I’m the gateway book, the gateway drug. Maybe my book will lead this kid into other books. But to have had that influence on somebody who didn’t like books, who didn’t like to read and then all of a sudden I get these letters from these kids: “This is the first book I’ve finished.” “I stole it from the library.” I get very excited. And teachers write me letters and say, “I can’t keep this in my classroom because all these kids steal it.” JW: Oh, that’s so great. SA: One of the great moments for me was maybe about six or seven years ago, I read in New York and this entire class of kids from the Bronx came. It was a public school in the Bronx, so it was all brown kids of various ethnicities and races and countries, you know, a lot of them are first-generation immigrants. It was really amazing to see this incredibly diverse group of kids so identify with this reservation Indian boy. And you know, we’re from the same place in the world, I mean, Eastern Washington from Springdale and Wellpinit, from the rez and just off the rez, and to think that we could have any standing or any influence over anybody, let alone some kid in the Bronx? It’s astonishing. It never fails to astonish me.

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

  "The very quintessence of love was in these kisses. All that was excellent in us—the essential part of our beings—kept rising and evaporating from our lips like the fumes of an ethereal, intoxicating, ambrosial fluid. "Nature, hushed and silent, seemed to hold her breath to look upon us, for such ecstacy of bliss had seldom, if ever, been felt here below. I was subdued, prostrated, shattered. The earth was spinning round me, sinking under my feet. I had no longer strength enough to stand. I felt sick and faint. Was I dying? If so, death must be the happiest moment of our life, for such rapturous joy could never be felt again. "How long did I remain senseless? I cannot tell. All I know is that I awoke in the midst of a whirlwind, hearing the rushing of waters around me. Little by little I came back to consciousness. I tried to free myself from his grasp. "'Leave me! Leave me alone! Why did you not let me die? This world is hateful to me, why should I drag on a life I loathe?' "'Why? For my sake.' Thereupon he whispered softly, in that unknown tongue of his, some magic words which seemed to sink into my soul. Then he added, 'Nature has formed us for each other; why withstand her? I can only find happiness in your love, and in your's alone; it is not only my heart but my soul that panteth for your's.' "With an effort of my whole being I pushed him away from me, and staggered back. "'No, no!' I cried, 'do not tempt me beyond my strength; let me rather die.' "'Thy will be done, but we shall die together, so that at least in death we may not be parted. There is an after-life, we may then, at least, cleave to one another like Dante's Francesca and her lover Paulo. Here,' said he, unwinding a silken scarf that he wore round his waist, 'let us bind ourselves closely together, and leap into the flood.' "I looked at him, and shuddered. So young, so beautiful, and I was thus to murder him! The vision of Antinöus as I had seen it the first time he played appeared before me. "He had tied the scarf tightly round his waist, and he was about to pass it around me. "'Come.' "The die was cast. I had not the right to accept such a sacrifice from him. "'No,' quoth I, 'let us live.' "'Live,' added he, 'and then?' "He did not speak for some moments, as if waiting for a reply to that question which had not been framed in words. In answer to his mute appeal I stretched out my hands towards him. He—as if frightened that I should escape him—hugged me tightly with all the strength of irrepressible desire. "'I love you!' he whispered, 'I love you madly! I cannot live without you any longer.'

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

  She slowly descended the stairs, and I could watch her with a calmness in which not a single atom of torment or desire was intermingled. I could see her plunge into and rise out of the crystalline water, and the wavelets which she herself raised played about her like tender lovers. Our nihilistic aesthetician is right when he says: a real apple is more beautiful than a painted one, and a living woman is more beautiful than a Venus of stone. And when she left the bath, and the silvery drops and the roseate light rippled down her body, I was seized with silent rapture. I wrapped the linen sheets about her, drying her glorious body. The calm bliss remained with me, even now when one foot upon me as upon a footstool, she rested on the cushions in her large velvet cloak. The lithe sables nestled desirously against her cold marble-like body. Her left arm on which she supported herself lay like a sleeping swan in the dark fur of the sleeve, while her left hand played carelessly with the whip. By chance my look fell on the massive mirror on the wall opposite, and I cried out, for I saw the two of us in its golden frame as in a picture. The picture was so marvellously beautiful, so strange, so imaginative, that I was filled with deep sorrow at the thought that its lines and colors would have to dissolve like mist. “What is the matter?” asked Wanda. I pointed to the mirror. “Ah, that is really beautiful,” she exclaimed, “too bad one can’t capture the moment and make it permanent.” “And why not?” I asked. “Would not any artist, even the most famous, be proud if you gave him leave to paint you and make you immortal by means of his brush. “The very thought that this extra-ordinary beauty is to be lost to the world,” I continued still watching her enthusiastically, “is horrible—all this glorious facial expression, this mysterious eye with its green fires, this demonic hair, this magnificence of body. The idea fills me with a horror of death, of annihilation. But the hand of an artist shall snatch you from this. You shall not like the rest of us disappear absolutely and forever, without leaving a trace of your having been. Your picture must live, even when you yourself have long fallen to dust; your beauty must triumph beyond death!” Wanda smiled. “Too bad, that present-day Italy hasn’t a Titian or Raphael,” she said, “but, perhaps, love will make amends for genius, who knows; our little German might do?” She pondered. “Yes, he shall paint you, and I will see to it that the god of love mixes his colors.” * * * * *

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

  She smiled graciously at me and called me back, when I was about to withdraw respectfully. “Come, Gregor, have your breakfast quickly too,” she said, “then we will go house-hunting. I don’t want to stay in the hotel any longer than I have to. It is very embarassing here. If I chat with you for more than a minute, people will immediately say: ‘The fair Russian is having an affair with her servant, you see, the race of Catherines isn’t extinct yet.’” Half an hour later we went out; Wanda was in her cloth-gown with the Russian cap, and I in my Cracovian costume. We created quite a stir. I walked about ten paces behind, looking very solemn, but expected momentarily to have to break out into loud laughter. There was scarcely a street in which one or the other of the attractive houses did not bear the sign camere ammobiliate. Wanda always sent me upstairs, and only when the apartment seemed to answer her requirements did she herself ascend. By noon I was as tired as a stag- hound after the hunt. We entered a new house and left it again without having found a suitable habitation. Wanda was already somewhat out of humor. Suddenly she said to me: “Severin, the seriousness with which you play your part is charming, and the restrictions, which we have placed upon each other are really annoying me. I can’t stand it any longer, I do love you, I must kiss you. Let’s go into one of the houses.” “But, my lady—” I interposed. “Gregor?” She entered the next open corridor and ascended a few steps of the dark stair-way; then she threw her arms about me with passionate tenderness and kissed me. “Oh, Severin, you were very wise. You are much more dangerous as slave than I would have imagined; you are positively irrestible, and I am afraid I shall have to fall in love with you again.” “Don’t you love me any longer then,” I asked seized by a sudden fright. She solemnly shook her head, but kissed me again with her swelling, adorable lips. We returned to the hotel. Wanda had luncheon, and ordered me also quickly to get something to eat. Of course, I wasn’t served as quickly as she, and so it happened that just as I was carrying the second bite of my steak to my mouth, the waiter entered and called out with his theatrical gesture: “Madame wants you, at once.” I took a rapid and painful leave of my food, and, tired and hungry, hurried toward Wanda, who was already on the street. “I wouldn’t have imagined you could be so cruel,” I said reproachfully. “With all these, fatiguing duties you don’t even leave me time to eat in peace.” Wanda laughed gaily. “I thought you had finished,” she said, “but never mind. Man was born to suffer, and you in particular. The martyrs didn’t have any beefsteaks either.”

• From Manhunt (2022)

  She kneaded Indi’s breast as her free hand slipped between the rolls of her waist, fingers walking gently over tender skin. “Am I hurting you?” Indi whispered, pulling her fingers free to stroke Beth’s cheek and leaving a warm streak of saliva down almost to her chin. Beth wriggled, smiling. “Not enough.” “Fuckin’ bullshit!” Leda cried from across the firepit, where stacked driftwood burned just above the tide mark in a circle of dark stones. She had a low, lazy-sounding voice, all vocal fry. Her six-year-old, George, sat curled asleep in her lap, his breath stirring his long brown curls where they fell across his little mouth. “There is no fuckin’ way, Steph.” “I’m telling you I saw him,” said Steph, who was tiny and doughy and had something distinctively trailer-parky about her under the purple hair and lime-green tights and the DYKE knuckle tattoo on her left hand. “He was in a ShopRite in Norwalk, like, six months after T. Day. He was looting beans.” “Steve fucking Martin did not survive the apocalypse.” Fran, wrapped in an old wool blanket at the edge of the circle of firelight, ran again and again through the feeling that had raced up from the pit of her stomach into her throat when she’d held that laminated card with its little XX. She’d had a few puffs of the joint they were passing around, hoping it would mellow her out, but instead it seemed to have stuck her in a short, deep rut. She kept imagining her fingers inside Sophie, the times she’d put her cock in the other girl ( because she promised you a cunt ), and then the body. Dead. Zia leaned forward into the firelight, grinning evilly. “Fuck Steve Martin. Have the new girls heard what happened to the Harry Potter lady?” Most of the women around the fire groaned, though a few straightened up attentively. Beth shook her head, blushing at being made the center of attention. Her bruises were fading from dark purple to brown and yellow, as though someone had spray painted her for autumn camouflage. She sat leaning against Indi’s side, hands in the pouch of her hoodie. It felt so fucking weird to sit on the rocky beach as the stars came out, swapping stories about what had happened to the world’s celebrities when the big one hit. It felt like the end of the world was prowling the limits of the firelight, waiting for the embers to go out. “Okay, so, first off she ended up being a crazy TERF, like, super intense.