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 Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  Joy is like a river [says Miller], it flows ceaselessly. It seems to me that this is the message which the clown is trying to convey to us, that we should participate through ceaseless flow and movement, that we should not stop to reflect, compare, analyze, possess, but flow on and through, endlessly, like music. This is the gift of surrender, and the clown makes it symbolically. It is for us to make it real. At no time in the history of man has the world been so full of pain and anguish. Here and there, however, we meet with individuals who are untouched, unsullied, by the common grief. They are not heartless individuals, far from it! They are emancipated beings. For them the world is not what it seems to us. They see with other eyes. We say of them that they have died to the world. They live in the moment, fully, and the radiance which emanates from them is a perpetual song of joy. And Miller is certainly one of these who have died to the world, like the clown. The ponderous absurdities of modern literature and the world it perpetuates dissolve in the hilarities of this almost unknown American author; this poet who dissociates himself from the so-called modern age and whose one aim is to give literature back to life. There are not many of these emancipated beings left in our world, these clowns and clairvoyants, celebrants of the soul and of the flesh and of the still-remaining promise of America. And of these few great souls the greatest is—the Patagonian. —Karl Shapiro PrefaceHere is a book which, if such a thing were possible, might restore our appetite for the fundamental realities. The predominant note will seem one of bitterness, and bitterness there is, to the full. But there is also a wild extravagance, a mad gaiety, a verve, a gusto, at times almost a delirium. A continual oscillation between extremes, with bare stretches that taste like brass and leave the full flavor of emptiness. It is beyond optimism or pessimism. The author has given us the last frisson. Pain has no more secret recesses . In a world grown paralyzed with introspection and constipated by delicate mental meals this brutal exposure of the substantial body comes as a vitalizing current of blood. The violence and obscenity are left unadulterated, as manifestation of the mystery and pain which ever accompanies the act of creation . The restorative value of experience, prime source of wisdom and creation, is reasserted. There remain waste areas of unfinished thought and action, a bundle of shreds and fibers with which the over critical may strangle themselves. Referring to his Wilhelm Meister Goethe once said: “People seek a central point: that is hard, and not even right.

• From The Power of Myth (1988)

  MOYERS By doing what? CAMPBELL: By holding to your own ideals for yourself and, like Luke Skywalker, rejecting the system’s impersonal claims upon you. MOYERS: When I took our two sons to see Star Wars , they did the same thing the audience did at that moment when the voice of Ben Kenobi says to Skywalker in the climactic moment of the last fight, “Turn off your computer, turn off your machine and do it yourself, follow your feelings, trust your feelings.” And when he did, he achieved success, and the audience broke out into applause. CAMPBELL: Well, you see, that movie communicates. It is in a language that talks to young people, and that’s what counts. It asks, Are you going to be a person of heart and humanity—because that’s where the life is, from the heart—or are you going to do whatever seems to be required of you by what might be called “intentional power”? When Ben Kenobi says, “May the Force be with you,” he’s speaking of the power and energy of life, not of programmed political intentions. MOYERS: I was intrigued by the definition of the Force. Ben Kenobi says, “The Force is an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us, it penetrates us, it binds the galaxy together.” And I’ve read in The Hero with a Thousand Faces similar descriptions of the world navel, of the sacred place, of the power that is at the moment of creation. CAMPBELL: Yes, of course, the Force moves from within. But the force of the Empire is based on an intention to overcome and master. Star Wars is not a

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  Your life may be centered in a spiritual practice within a community of others who are likewise engaged in spiritual development. Perhaps you study Tantra, joining your sexuality and spirituality. You may be part of a circle of women who meet monthly for erotic massage. Perhaps you enjoy workshops and group events—Body Electric, Burning Man, lesbian Tantra classes, seasonal rituals and retreats. You are happiest when you can move in groups of women and men who share your values about the role of spirituality in our sexual lives—and vice versa. Whatever is going on in your personal life at the moment, these are the relationships you know sustain you. You Make It HappenA vital sexual partnership is something you generate. Regardless of whether you have one partner or three, keeping your sex life alive is something you do, not something that happens to you. Think of your partner as your collaborator in creating your shared erotic life. You each bring your strengths (and weaknesses), your experiences and histories, needs and wishes to the sexual relationship. This is true whether you are frequent fuck buddies or domestic partners. In real life, we are busy. We have personal goals—education, jobs, travel. Children, friends, other lovers demand our time and attention. We may have aging parents, health concerns, demanding work, stress about money. Over the years, a sameness may settle over your sexual activities. With less excitement in your life, you may experience a decline in libido. Inertia sets in. The days between sexual encounters can stretch into weeks and months. Erotic exploration seems more and more unlikely. Fifteen Ways to Heat Up Your Marriage The mystery is gone, you say? Well, perhaps the challenge of the chase is over, but what’s more challenging than sustaining sexual intensity with the woman whose toothbrush drips dry each morning next to yours? Here are some suggestions to help wake up your sex life: 1. Indulge…yourself! Read erotica, watch porn, masturbate. Fantasize. Undress the pretty girls on the bus. Fixate on that FedEx woman who dashes into your office every morning. Like any other talent, without exercise your libido will atrophy. 2. Take responsibility for yourself. Remember when your sexuality was yours alone—and not marital property? Regardless of your marriage vows, your girlfriend is not in charge of your inner life or who you dream about when you pleasure yourself. 3. Take a vacation together. Send the kids to your favorite PFLAG mom. Leave town. Don’t take your dog. Or stay at home—no phone, no TV, no car, no shopping. 4. Tell each other a story. The most outrageous fantasy I ever had…. Then make it true. 5. Take your girlfriend sex toy shopping—online or at your favorite sex toy boutique. Giggle. Be embarrassed together. Not interested in toys? Browse the DVD section instead. 6. Use lube. Lots of lube.

• From Times Square Red, Times Square Blue (1999)

  Still another time, it was a young woman casting director who needed someone to play the small part of a fisherman in a film she was working on. She decided I would be perfect for it, and I found myself with a weekend acting job. One Saturday morning in January ’98, my vacuum cleaner shorted out and an hour later I set it on the street by the gate before the garbage cans for my building, after making a mental note to shop for a replacement that weekend. Forty minutes on, at my local copy center, I was getting a set of photocopies for an earlier draft of this very piece, when a broad-faced, gray-eyed Italian American in his late thirties, wearing a shiny red and blue jacket, wandered in: “Anyone wanna buy a wet-dry vacuum cleaner? Ten bucks.” My first suspicion was that he was reselling the one I’d just abandoned. My second was that the one he was selling didn’t work. A look disproved the first. Plugging his machine into an outlet in the shop’s baseboard for a minute disproved the second. So I went home once more with a vacuum cleaner: Contact. Contact encounters so dramatic are rare—but real. The more ordinary sorts of contact yield their payoff in moments of crisis: When there is a fire in your building (of the sort I mentioned above), it may be the people who have been exchanging pleasantries with you for years who take you into their home for an hour or a day, or even overnight. Contact includes the good Samaritans at traffic accidents (the two women who picked me up and got me a cab when my cane gave way and I fell on the street, dislocating a finger), or even the neighbor who, when you’ve forgotten your keys at the office and are locked out of your apartment, invites you in for coffee and lets you use her phone to call a locksmith; or, as once happened to me in the mid-sixties when my then-neighborhood, the Lower East Side, was at its most neighborly and under the influence of the counterculture, a London guest arrived on Wednesday when I was out of town and expecting him on Thursday. Someone living across the street, who didn’t know me at all, saw a stranger with two suitcases on my apartment stoop looking bewildered, invited him in to wait for me, then eventually put him up for a night until I returned.

• From Wild (2012)

  They had a trail name: the Three Young Bucks, which they’d been given by other hikers in southern California, they told me. The name fit. They were three young and buckish men. They’d come all the way from the Mexican border. They hadn’t skipped the snow like everyone else. They’d hiked over it, right through it—regardless of the fact that it was a record snow year—and because they’d done so, they were at the back of the Mexico-to-Canada thru-hiker pack, which is how, at this late date, they’d met me. They hadn’t met Tom, Doug, Greg, Matt, Albert, Brent, Stacy, Trina, Rex, Sam, Helen, John, or Sarah. They hadn’t even stopped in Ashland. They hadn’t danced to the Dead or eaten chewable opium or had sex with anyone pressed up against a rock on a beach. They’d just plowed right on through, hiking twenty-some miles a day, gaining on me since the moment I’d leapfrogged north of them when I’d bypassed to Sierra City. They weren’t just three young bucks. They were three young extraordinary hiking machines. Being in their company felt like a holiday. We walked to the campsite the store set aside for us, where the Three Young Bucks had already ditched their packs, and we cooked dinner and talked and told stories about things both on and off the trail. I liked them immensely. We clicked. They were sweet, cute, funny, kind guys and they made me forget how ruined I’d felt just an hour before. In their honor, I made the freeze-dried raspberry cobbler I’d been carrying for weeks, saving it for a special occasion. When it was done, we ate it with four spoons from my pot and then slept in a row under the stars. In the morning, we collected our boxes and took them back to our camp to reorganize our packs before heading on. I opened my box and pushed my hands through the smooth ziplock bags of food, feeling for the envelope that would contain my twenty-dollar bill. It had become such a familiar thrill for me now, that envelope with the money inside, but this time I couldn’t find it. I dumped everything out and ran my fingers along the folds inside the box, searching for it, but it wasn’t there. I didn’t know why. It just wasn’t. I had six dollars and twelve cents. “Shit,” I said. “What?” asked one of the Young Bucks. “Nothing,” I said. It was embarrassing to me that I was constantly broke, that no one was standing invisibly behind me with a credit card or a bank account.

• From The Great Believers (2018)

  The whole thing felt confusing to Yale, but bigger was better, according to Asher. “If we’re not fighting for poor black women who need beds at County,” Asher said, “we’re as bad as the fucking Republicans. You don’t just go into this looking out for yourself. And Yale,” he’d said, and Yale was slightly surprised that Asher had remembered his presence, remembered he wasn’t just giving a speech to the ether, “I think you’d be great at this, long term. Maybe behind the scenes, but we need you. We’re gonna need new leaders all the time. The problem with this movement is the leaders keep dying. We gotta have subs.” There’d been a drop of wax rolling down Asher’s candle, getting dangerously close to his hand. Yale had reached out and stopped it with his thumbnail. Which is probably when Fiona had realized, if she hadn’t already. —The crowd was indeed on the move by the time Yale and Fiona joined it, streaming north over the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Some of the protestors wore doctors’ coats, a nice touch, and most carried signs—“Death by Loophole,” “Bloody Money,” an elaborate one about George Bush having a drug czar but no AIDS czar—and Yale felt like a bland supernumerary. No one wore double backpacks, not a single person; he was glad he hadn’t showed up looking like an overprepared kid. But Fiona eagerly joined the chanting, and once Yale did, too, he found that the rhythm of his feet on the pavement matched the rhythm of what he was shouting and soon his heart fell into sync, as it used to when he’d go out dancing. “People with AIDS,” a woman with a megaphone would yell, “under attack! What do we do?” And together they yelled, “ACT UP! Fight back! ” Yale watched for people he knew, but he’d have to be patient; there were thousands of protestors, and in fact it was nice that these faces didn’t all have the look of someone he’d seen around Boystown for years but just couldn’t place. It was good to be part of a horde, a wave of humans. A chant would die out and then stop, as if it had been cut off by an invisible conductor, and then a new one would travel toward them up the street, fuzzy at first, and then he’d hear it clearly once through before joining in. As they passed the Tribune Tower, with dazed tourists looking on: Health! Care! Is a right! Health care is a right! Outside the Blue Cross building, right on the Magnificent Mile: We’re here! We’re queer! We’re not going shopping! Walking down State, the crowd tighter now, louder: Hey, Hey, AMA! How many people died today? Three laughing teenagers ran right near Yale and Fiona for a while, doing a limp-wristed mocking dance that no one paid attention to. Someone threw an empty cigarette packet out a car window, and it bounced off Fiona’s shoulder.

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  Finally, my favorite place to stare at naked bodies is actually the one place where such behavior is socially appropriate—and even encouraged. Sex parties and sex clubs provide great lessons in humanity. All those naked people! Such abundant flesh! The smells of women’s arousal mingling with sweat. The sounds of bodies slapping together, women laughing and coming. (And at S/M play parties, the sounds of floggers thudding against backs, paddles smacking buttocks, and big, hearty screams.) At a sex party, you’ll see women you find less attractive than yourself being treated like sex goddesses. And you’ll see women you find too stunning to approach getting no more (or less) attention than you. The resources section at the back of this book lists local contact information for group sex events. My ass! Definitely I like my ass! I got a nice big old round booty that looks good either in clothes or out. Get Into Your BodyThe more active I am, the more positive feelings I have for my body. It’s nice to feel powerful—to feel how my body can move me around and give me joy, through lovers, self-love, running, kung-fu punching, and dancing. Move your body. Breathe. Feel your heart pumping. Let your skin heat up. Get into your body. Can you feel your bones? Muscles and tissue? You can learn how to feel yourself from the inside. You can do this whether you’re athletic or not. Even if the closest you’ve ever come to meditation is a 20-minute nap, you can become conscious of yourself as a sensate being. You don’t have to be able to get up out of your chair to have a positive relationship with your body. Perhaps the most obvious (and readily available) form of bodywork is massage. Following a masseuse’s hands as she works your body can help you become aware of every bit of you—from the backs of your knees to the wings of your shoulder blades. If you don’t feel comfortable being touched by a stranger or can’t afford a professional massage, you can trade with a good friend. This has the added advantage of giving you an opportunity to explore another person’s body while enhancing your friendship. Former shy girl Carol Queen recommends solo dancing. Get out of your clothes, pop in your favorite CD, and move. In Exhibitionism for the Shy, Queen writes, “Feel your body move; disconnect your head from all the worries about how you look, and concentrate on letting the music sink into your limbs…. Dancing can lead you into your body perhaps further than you’ve ever been before.” 1 Been dancing alone for too long? Hit the clubs. Go dancing. Not only will you get to move your body and shake that booty—you’ll get out of the house. If you don’t like to move to a club beat, find a swing, two-step, or country western group.

• From What My Bones Know (2022)

  We’d been seeing each other for only a few months when the holidays rolled around. I told him, “I’m not really into the Christmas Industrial Complex because that shit is for people with families.” He nodded, listening, but was suspiciously quiet. When I next visited his apartment, it was decked out—a pot roast on the stove, lights, garlands, and a bare tree next to a box of his parents’ ornaments. It was like I’d wandered into a Lifetime Christmas movie, and even though I usually turned my nose up at these things, there was something different this time: I wasn’t walking into someone else’s Christmas. It was all just for me. A few days later, he handed me a hot chocolate and took me to a neighborhood famous for its Christmas lights. And a week after that, on Christmas Eve, he insisted I come to Queens for his family’s two-day Christmas celebration. When I arrived, his family smiled and introduced themselves to me, hugged me hello…and then his dad immediately brandished a wet, briny bag. “Do you know how to make clams?” “Um…yeah? Like, clams with white wine and garlic?” “I dunno. Clams. I picked these up, no idea what to do with them.” He dropped the bag into my hands. “Here, you make ’em.” It was the craziest Christmas I’d ever crashed. There were no quiet, warm snuggles while the parents took the food out of the oven in a timely manner. Instead, his little sibling started yelling that nobody understood them, his father went on a rant about the lamestream media, his mother couldn’t find her glasses and shuffled around bumping into things, the eggplant was embroiled in chaos and drama, and the dog shat on the floor. No, that last part’s not true. Since the kitchen was under construction, the dog shat on the enormous cardboard mat that was the floor. Instead of wiping it up, they cut a square around the poop with an X-Acto knife and kept moving. There was no room to be socially awkward because most social rules were out the window—and around the corner and maybe a few neighborhoods away. Because of the remodel, we all had to sit on the floor around the coffee table in the living room to eat, but the food was plentiful and good, and his family was hilarious and loving and so excited I was there and repeated it hastily every time they passed me on the way to clean up the next mess.

• From Wild (2012)

  One night I made camp in a grassy spot from which I could see the evidence of those fires: a hazy scrim of smoke blanketing the westward view. I sat in my chair for an hour, looking out across the land as the sun faded into the smoke. I’d seen a lot of breathtaking sunsets in my evenings on the PCT, but this one was more spectacular than any in a while, the light made indistinct, melting into a thousand shades of yellow, pink, orange, and purple over the waves of green land. I could’ve been reading Dubliners or falling off to sleep in the cocoon of my sleeping bag, but on this night the sky was too mesmerizing to leave. As I watched it, I realized I’d passed the midpoint of my hike. I’d been out on the trail for fifty-some days. If all went as planned, in another fifty days I’d be done with the PCT. Whatever was going to happen to me out here would have happened. “Oh remember the Red River Valley and the cowboy who loved you so true …,’ ” I sang, my voice trailing off, not knowing the rest of the words. Images of Kyle’s little face and hands came to me, reverberations of his flawless voice. I wondered if I would ever be a mother and what kind of “horrible situation” Kyle’s mother was in, where his father might be and where mine was. What is he doing right this minute? I’d thought occasionally throughout my life, but I was never able to imagine it. I didn’t know my own father’s life. He was there, but invisible, a shadow beast in the woods; a fire so far away it’s nothing but smoke. That was my father: the man who hadn’t fathered me. It amazed me every time. Again and again and again. Of all the wild things, his failure to love me the way he should have had always been the wildest thing of all. But on that night as I gazed out over the darkening land fifty-some nights out on the PCT, it occurred to me that I didn’t have to be amazed by him anymore. There were so many other amazing things in this world. They opened up inside of me like a river. Like I didn’t know I could take a breath and then I breathed. I laughed with the joy of it, and the next moment I was crying my first tears on the PCT. I cried and I cried and I cried. I wasn’t crying because I was happy. I wasn’t crying because I was sad. I wasn’t crying because of my mother or my father or Paul. I was crying because I was full. Of those fifty-some hard days on the trail and of the 9,760 days that had come before them too.

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  We’ve been together for 27 years and still very much enjoy an active sex life. We have a fun game of keeping track of how many different places we can have sex. We have made love in 40 states and 11 countries. LESBIAN, BISEXUAL, AND QUEER WOMEN have all kinds of sexual partnerships. We have lovers, play partners, longtime sweethearts, regular fuck buddies, domestic partners, Daddies, bois, girls, Mistresses, Masters, slaves, Tops, bottoms, and in some locales, legally recognized wedded spouses. We have sex with women and men, partners who identify as transgendered, traditionally gendered, and ambiguously gendered—and partners who reject the notion of gender altogether. We may dream of committed life partners, two dogs and a cat, the house with the garden (and maybe a child or two), and we may attempt this with a number of partners over the course of a lifetime. We enjoy longtime friendships with occasional forays into erotic play and decades-long monogamous relationships. We live in committed polyamorous relationships, where our network of lovers—and their lovers, ex-lovers, best friends, and roommates—become our extended family. We have sex with exes and exes of exes. In our S/M play, we may negotiate for hours with a new partner with whom we expect to share a one-time scene. Or we may engage in ongoing negotiations with a regular partner with the intention of building toward a 24/7 relationship. We may negotiate a contract with a slave or Master that spells out in numbered articles and paragraphs the duties and privileges of each of our roles. Erotic IntimacyClearly, sex in the context of a relationship is something many of us value highly—and while our definition of the word relationship varies as widely as our sexual interests, we have in common the desire for ongoing, intimate sexual connection. It’s the interplay of two (or more) people bringing their whole selves to sex that compels many of us. You can, of course, enjoy that erotic exchange with a brand-new lover or someone with whom you intend to share one night of sex—and one night only. But it is the element of time that creates those possibilities many of us are drawn to explore. You can expand and deepen your erotic life with the encouragement of a supportive partner. Cheering on your partner’s erotic discoveries may give you permission to further your own sexual explorations. She may bring to the relationship sexual experience and interests that will enrich your sex life. You may discover gratification in teaching your partner a thing or two—many of us take delight in showing a partner new sources of pleasure.

• From The Principle of Desire (2013)

  “Teasing. I was teasing,” she assured him. “I wasn’t fishing. I do feel a little awkward, though, because I wasn’t thinking too clearly right then, and, well...” She picked at the opposite corner of the page, folding the paper over and over until it was worn along the seam. “I forgot to ask you about your history. Whether you’re clean, stuff like that. I lost my head.” Hehe. Head. “I’m clean, as far as I know. It’s been a while since my last girlfriend. Months...almost a year, maybe. I’ve been kind of busy at work and I don’t meet too many new people anyway, so I’ve just been relying on wanking and porn since then.” He almost smacked himself on the forehead once the words left his mouth. She did not need to hear that. Now she’s going to walk out in disgust. “God, tell me about it. I hope my friends know to delete my internet history if anything happens to me.” “You’re the perfect woman.” Beth snorted, nearly choking on the swig of soda she’d just taken. “Because of porn?” “You just...you are. Because of everything. I can’t even be cool about it.” He wanted to do more, somehow, show her that he meant what he said in a profound way. It wasn’t just the falling-in-lust feeling at work—he really, really liked her. That was harder to explain than lust, however. He did the next logical thing, which was to lean over the table and kiss her. In his haste, he pushed on the character sheet, which shoved all the dice to the floor with a raucous clatter just as their lips met. * * * Beth giggled as Ed bent to scoop the dice from the floor. The irregular shapes had scattered farther than she would have thought, and by the time he had collected them all, the waiter was glaring at him. But the kiss had come at the right moment to defuse some of her tension. He’d said she was the perfect woman, and she wasn’t sure how to process that. If he’d said it a few days ago, before she’d gotten to know him, she would have assumed he was just desperate to get laid. Now, though, she suspected Ed was telling the truth; he simply hadn’t had the time to go out and find another partner, and easier alternatives had been at hand for his most pressing needs. She knew how appeal worked, and she knew Ed’s appeal was growing on her. It stood to reason she wasn’t the only one who’d spotted his better qualities through the scruffy, grumpy haze. If he’d really wanted to, he could have probably scored with any number of women since the last one. Ed had a good sense of humor, strong hands, a good grasp of his own place in the world. Those things meant a lot. Ed was also cute, in his own special way. Cuddly. A great kisser.

• From The Fixed Stars (0)

  One night she said I could touch her. I worked my hand slowly down the silk of her belly until I found the place where she was wet. A quiet flare of recognition behind my eyes: the body under my fingers felt like my own. This didn’t happen with a man, with a man’s body, because it couldn’t. She was a heat I wanted to be inside, a hot bath. Her pelvis rose under my hand, pressure meeting pressure. Her thighs shook as she came. In the dark I beamed, phosphorescent with her pleasure. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] I never entered her, and I never tried. She was naked with me only once, the first time we had sex. On that occasion I’d cupped my hand around her breast, felt her flinch. Do you like this? I asked. Should I not? No, no—it’s fine. No, but do you like having your breasts touched? I want to know what you like. Yeah, she said. I do. But there was something here. Did she not feel safe? Had I done something, had something happened to her? Was there something about her body—her breasts, her vagina, the womanly costume of her skin? I tried to ask. Queer sex isn’t like straight sex, she said. You can’t just rip each other’s clothes off. Y-You can’t? I stammered. Could this be right? I know some queer people, I thought. I’ve read books, watched shows, seen movies. I’m pretty sure queer people do rip each other’s clothes off sometimes. Why make some broad claim about queerness? That can’t be true, can it? Irritation prickled at the back of my throat. If she needs sex to be a certain way, why doesn’t she just say it? Or maybe she is saying it. Yes. She is saying what she wants. She is telling me about herself to the best of her ability. I felt the irritation give way to shame, hard as a lozenge. I didn’t know how to be queer. I didn’t know anything. What do you mean exactly, I asked, about not ripping each other’s clothes off? I don’t understand. Are you talking about consent? Queer sex just doesn’t work this way, she said. I wanted our sex to be a conversation, but we talked more than we fucked. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] Kind of gross, even dangerous, isn’t it, to bitch about a woman who won’t have sex with you? I felt gross for wanting anything. Nora could do, or not do, whatever she pleased with her body. She was a person, not my fantasy. Surely she’d be happier with a person who knew the rules. But I wanted to be her person, and she seemed to want me to be. I wasn’t good, but she could make me good. I should hurry to catch up, to get it right.

• From Three Women (2019)

  He starts putting his own pants back on without showering. His crotch is sticky with her blood and his semen. Hey, bud, she says. Dontcha wanna clean up before you go home? But Aidan says he doesn’t have to, that he’s been sleeping with the dogs the past few nights. Lina guesses that means he’s been passing out in the living room or the basement. His wife won’t smell the blood of another woman on him. Only the dogs will. maggieMaggie walks, atremble, into Knodel’s speech and debate classroom. This is first day of school after the break and she has missed all of her classes, except this one. Earlier that morning she’d found out her cousin passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly, the night before. She is shocked and unmoored, but she could not miss this class. She could not not see him. It’s the only thing that might help. She wears her fallen cousin’s old yellow soccer shirt and a pair of maroon University of Minnesota sweatpants, because she really wants to go to school there. She hasn’t seen her teacher in weeks and yet everything between them is changed. She wonders if it’s all been in her head. It has, in any case, been in her phone. She worries about how he will act toward her, if he’ll be distant. She can feel her heart breaking in anticipation. She finds her seat and then she looks at him, and it’s perfect. The way he looks at her is absolutely perfect. He has this way of normalizing a situation while also acknowledging the spark. It’s hard to put her finger on what, exactly, it is that he does. She is in thrall to it. The way he smiles at her as he would at any other student, yet with an added tilt of his head that seems to say, Here I am, and there you are. He slips a DVD into the player. It’s The Great Debaters, a movie Maggie had recommended to him the year before. She can barely concentrate on the screen. She feels him watching her the whole time. When their eyes meet, he grins. He is utterly comfortable. Here is a man at man’s best, she thinks. Divinely sensible, wholesomely carnal, wearing a drugstore cologne but possessing the strut of a movie star. He watches with his rear on the edge of his desk and his palms on either side of his legs, the way that young male teachers sit. Holy shit, she thinks, did he make it a movie day so that he could look at me and we could share these thoughts in the dark?

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  How do you achieve multiple orgasms? In The Good Vibrations Guide to Sex, Cathy Winks and Anne Semans offer three rules for achieving multiple orgasms: “back off, breathe, and move.” After you come, and your clit is too sensitive to touch, back off without entirely ceasing stimulation. Winks and Semans suggest switching to a lighter or less direct touch. Then, breathe. Breathing oxygenates your body and keeps the energy flowing. And move—move your pelvis, your legs, your feet. “Let the energy build back up in your genitals. Within a few minutes, excruciating overstimulation may well give way to excruciating pleasure….”1 The only way I reach multiple orgasms is if my partner just doesn’t stop when I tell her to. Then they’re in rapid-fire succession. Tantra and Extended OrgasmsYou may experience extended orgasms, one long delicious coming that seems to last and last. Or you may ride the edge of the plateau almost indefinitely, without actually coming. What if we viewed orgasm not as a peak (sharp rise, sharp drop) but as a wave or flow of sensation and energy? Margo Anand, author of the classic The Art of Sexual Ecstasy: The Path of Sacred Sexuality for Western Lovers, suggests that instead of thinking of orgasm as an explosion—sending energy outward—we think of it as an implosion and redirect the energy upward and through the chakras, or energy centers, of the body.2 Mikaya Heart distinguishes between multiple and extended orgasms. In her book When the Earth Moves: Women and Orgasm, she defines extended orgasm as a state of “continual sensation” that can last up to six hours, while multiple orgasms are discrete “ongoing individual orgasms with a break between each one, and then more stimulation to bring on the next one.”3 You may experience energy orgasms or whole-body orgasms. “Many women think that if an orgasm doesn’t feel like a clitoral orgasm, then it must not be an orgasm,” writes Annie Sprinkle. “They are limiting themselves.” 4 Sometimes when I’m being fucked, I feel my head separate from my torso—and not in any sort of get-thee-to-therapy dissociative way, but rather in an ecstatic rush of sheer exquisite sensation. Annie Sprinkle delineates seven different kinds of orgasms—among them, whole-body orgasms, energy orgasms, and “megagasms”—“the tsunami of all orgasms…an intense full body experience, a deeply emotional experience, and for some a deeply spiritual experience.”5 Want to expand your experience of orgasm? Expand your attention. You may think that more attention to your pussy is the answer to improving your orgasmic capacity—and it well might be. But for an experience of orgasm that enlarges your entire understanding of sex, expand your awareness to include your whole body: cunt, torso, face, limbs, ass, muscles, organs, juices, and breath. Especially breath. Tantra teachers and orgasm coaches all agree: Through conscious breathing practices, you can become aware of energy as it moves through your body. You can also become more aware of your sensations.

• From The Fixed Stars (0)

  We went to my house, and at the front door I took their hand and led them down the hall. I switched on the lamp, kissed their upper lip first and then their lower. Ash tugged at my shirt where it knotted in the back. Under their T-shirt they wore a sports bra, and I slid a finger under the elastic in front, up where the skin rose gently, like a foothill, to Ash's breast. They unfastened their watch, knelt to step out of their jeans. Ash's breasts were small and neat, like a textbook drawing of breasts, two curves as tidy as the arc of a bow. I'd never felt the length of a woman's body against me like this, nothing in between. I felt chosen, a woman chosen by a choosy creature, another woman. We were equal. I began to wonder then what we even were, women or just humans, and then I realized I didn't care enough to finish the thought. We slept all night with our toes touching. Early the next morning Ash appeared beside the bed, standing, and bent close to my face: I loved last night. Thank you. I texted them later. I loved waking up next to you, I said. I felt lucky. Ash replied with two blushing emoji faces. Are we officially dating? they asked. I think so. I hope so, I said. Please? My fingers flew over the keypad. Yes!! they replied.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  In the matter of purgatory, it was decided that immediately at death the blessed pass to the beatific vision, a view the Greeks had rejected. Souls in purgatory are purified by pain and may be aided by the suffrages of the living. At the insistence of the Greeks, material fire as an element of purification was left out. The use of leavened bread was conceded to the Greeks. In the matter of the eucharist, the Greeks, who, after the words, "this is my body," make a petition that the Spirit may turn the bread into Christ’s body, agreed to the view that transubstantiation occurs at the use of the priestly words, but stipulated that the confession be not incorporated in the written articles. The primacy of the Roman bishop offered the most serious difficulty. The article of union acknowledged him as "having a primacy over the whole world, he himself being the successor of Peter, and the true vicar of Christ, the head of the whole Church, the father and teacher of all Christians, to whom, in Peter, Christ gave authority to feed, govern and rule the universal Church."347 This remarkable concession was modified by a clause in the original document, running, "according as it is defined by the acts of the oecumenical councils and by the sacred canons."348 The Latins afterwards changed the clause so as to read, "even as it is defined by the oecumenical councils and the holy canons." The Latin falsification made the early oecumencial councils a witness to the primacy of the Roman pontiff. The articles of union were incorporated in a decree349 beginning Laetentur coeli et exultat terra, "Let the heavens rejoice and the earth be glad." It declared that the middle wall of partition between the Occidental and Oriental churches has been taken down by him who is the cornerstone, Christ. The black darkness of the long schism had passed away before the ray of concord. Mother Church rejoiced to see her divided children reunited in the bonds of peace and love. The union was due to the grace of the Holy Ghost. The articles were signed July 5 by 115 Latins and 33 Greeks, of whom 18 were metropolitans. Archbishop Mark of Ephesus was the only one of the Orientals who refused to sign. The patriarch of Constantinople had died a month before, but wrote approving the union. His body lies buried in S. Maria Novella, Florence. His remains and the original manuscript of the articles, which is preserved in the Laurentian library at Florence, are the only relics left of the union.

• From Three Women (2019)

  The words come out strangled. He is squishing the breath out of her with his great heft. He doesn’t seem to notice how much he is pressing down on her. For her part, she wouldn’t mind dying this way. She reaches between their bodies and grabs his penis, which feels like a ruby, and rubs it against her inner lips, painting the opening with wetness to make it slide in. And then she pulls him deep. And right away he’s slow and not fast like she thought he might be. Slow and doing this rhythm she enjoys so much. It goes on for a long while and she loses her self-consciousness not completely but enough to enjoy sex for the first real time ever. She cannot believe how good it feels, how much even as she is losing herself in the moment she is concurrently feeling every inch of her soul waking up and smiling up at God, for the very first time grateful to be alive. She wants him to come inside her. She feels it will be so much more intimate like that and she hasn’t seen him in years. She wants to reconnect with him in this way. She wants to be flooded. She tells him so. He pulls out and ejaculates onto her stomach. But even after it is over he holds her there, kissing her deeply and slowly. She feels safe, gloriously protected. The fibromyalgia makes her body glow with aches but in the hotel room this night she feels happy and her bones don’t hurt. She can’t believe that she doesn’t feel any pain at all. Perhaps she has died? In addition to the fibromyalgia and the endometriosis, Lina’s doctors told her she may also have polycystic ovary syndrome and joint mobility disorders. They prescribe a load of medications for each of these issues. They tell her never to wear tampons, but to seek out enjoyable activities and take antiseizure drugs if the enjoyable activities don’t work. With Lina’s disorders there is a fine, almost invisible, line between doing noninvasive things to take care of them, like practicing yoga or knitting a scarf, and taking a pretty intense prescription drug, like Lyrica, which may cause hives, weight gain, suicidal thoughts, and certain cancers. Her hormone doctor has told her what he believes her problem is. He has said, Lina, you come from a place where women are taught that their only real value is what they can do for someone else. When you are actively living for yourself, you feel less pain. He sits down so that he is at eye level with her. Lina, he says, this may not be the most clinical thing I can say, but I’ve had many a fibro patient cured with a good orgasm.

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  Asking your partner what she likes will also improve your sex life. You’ll find out exactly how she likes to be touched, which will make you a better lover. You needn’t worry about appearing inexperienced if you ask your lover how she likes her clitoris licked. Even if you’ve gone down on a hundred other women, you still don’t know how she likes it. Asking is the mark of a sophisticated lover. It’s a great way to get used to talking about desire, too. If you’re too shy to open up a dialogue about your needs, start with hers. (Just don’t forget to come back to you.) Talking about sex won’t ruin the mystery or spontaneity of your erotic encounters. The romantic myths that great sex “just happens” and that a skilled lover can intuit your needs are just that—myths. Once you’re open about your sexual practices and fantasies, you can stop wondering whether you’re “normal.” As soon as you start telling friends and lovers the scenarios that fuel your dreams, you’ll find out that you are hardly unique. Many people share your fantasies. In fact, some of your friends may come up with turn-ons even more kinky than yours. Folks in the BDSM community (bondage, dominance/submission, sadomasochism) have elevated sex talk to an art form. Among S/M aficionados, it’s a common practice to negotiate before engaging in play, exploring each partner’s desires, needs, limits, and safety concerns to find a common ground from which to proceed. Even experienced players negotiate prior to each new encounter—as do novices, for whom a single item on a checklist of possibilities can produce hours of wonder and anticipation. Intimate partners find that ongoing negotiation helps to keep their sex life fresh. Negotiating a scene won’t make it less exciting. For instance, you can discuss an abduction scene in great detail without ruining the surprise of the capture or the specific content of what will happen when your partner whisks you away. Negotiation between equals is what makes power play emotionally safe—and what distinguishes it from real-world, nonconsensual power dynamics. Negotiation is best handled in a nonsexual setting rather than in the heat of the moment. Take time to think about what you want from the encounter. You can discuss your hopes and desires, past sexual experiences, likes and dislikes, emotional needs and hot buttons, as well as your limits—the things you don’t wish to do. This is a great time to talk about STDs and safer-sex practices, too. More on negotiation in chapter 15, Play Nice! (…or Else). What traits do sex educators look for in a partner? Expressiveness tops my list. In fact, many women seek out partners who are able to freely articulate their erotic desires. Why? When you talk with a new partner about what you are going to do, you reencounter your own sexuality through her eyes. Sex becomes new for you.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  He came to his death, as it was believed, by poison prepared by Alexander.807 The last of Alexander’s notable achievements for his family was the marriage of Lucretia to Alfonso, son of Hercules, duke of Ferrara, 1502. The young duke was 24, and a widower. The prejudices of his father were removed through the good offices of the king of France and a reduction of the tribute due from Ferrara, as a papal fief, from 400 ducats to 100 florins, the college of cardinals giving their assent. While the negotiations were going on, Alexander, during an absence of three months from Rome, confided his correspondence and the transaction of his business to the hands of his daughter. This appointment made the college of cardinals subject to her. Lucretia entered with zest into the settlement of the preliminaries leading up to the betrothal and into the preparations for the nuptials. When the news of the signing of the marriage contract reached Rome, early in September, 1501, she went to S. Maria del Popolo, accompanied by 300 knights and four bishops, and gave public thanks. On the way she took off her cloak, said to be worth 300 ducats, and gave it to her buffoon. Putting it on, he rode through the streets crying out, "Hurrah for the most illustrious duchess of Ferrara. Hurrah for Alexander VI."808 For three hours the great bell on the capitol was kept ringing, and bonfires were lit through the city to "incite everybody to joy." The pope’s daughter, although she had been four times betrothed and twice married, was only 21 at the time of her last engagement. According to the Ferrarese ambassador, her face was most beautiful and her manners engaging.809 In the brilliant escort sent by Hercules to conduct his future daughter-in-law to her new home, were the duke’s two younger sons, who were entertained at the Vatican. Caesar and 19 cardinals, including Cardinal Hippolytus of Este, met the escort at the Porto del Popolo. Night after night, the Vatican was filled with the merriment of dancing and theatrical plays. At her father’s request, Lucretia performed special dances. The formal ceremony of marriage was performed, December 30th, in St. Peter’s, Don Ferdinand acting as proxy for his brother. Preceded by 50 maids of honor, a duke on each side of her, the bride proceeded to the basilica. Her approach was announced by musicians playing in the portico. Within on his throne sat the pontiff, surrounded by 13 cardinals. After a sermon, which Alexander ordered made short, a ring was put on Lucretia’s finger by Duke Ferdinand. Then the Cardinal d’Este approached, laying on a table 4 other rings, a diamond, an emerald, a turquoise and a ruby, and, at his order, a casket was opened which contained many jewels, including a head-dress of 16 diamonds and 150 large pearls. But with exquisite courtesy, the prelate begged the princess not to spurn the gift, as more gems were awaiting her in Ferrara.

• From White Oleander (1999)

  Joan drove through the strip of funky Melrose shops west of La Brea, with shops of used boots and toys for grown-ups, turned south onto a quiet side street, into an old neighborhood of stucco bungalows and full-growth sycamores with chalky white trunks and leaves like hands. We parked in front of one, and I followed Joan to the door. An enamel plaque under the doorbell read The Richards in script. Joan rang the doorbell. The woman who answered the door reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. Dark hair, long neck, wide radiant smile, about thirty. Her cheeks were flushed as she waved us in. “I’m Claire. We’ve been waiting for you.” She had an old-fashioned kind of voice, velvety, her words completely enunciated, ing instead of in’, the t crisp, precise. Joan carried my suitcase. I had my mother’s books and Uncle Ray’s box, my Olivia things in a bag. “Here, let me help you,” the woman said, taking the bag, setting it on the coffee table. “Put that down anywhere.” I put my things next to the table, looked around the lowceilinged living room painted a pinkish white, its floor stripped to reddish pine planks. I liked it already. There was a painting over the fireplace, a jellyfish on a dark blue background, penetrated with fine bright lines. Art, something painted by hand. I couldn’t believe it. Someone bought a piece of art. And a wall of books with worn spines, CDs, records, and tapes. The free-form couch along two walls looked comfortable, a blue, red, and purple woven design, reading lamp in the center. I was afraid to breathe. This couldn’t be right, it couldn’t be for me. She was going to change her mind. “There are just a few things we need to go over,” Joan said, sitting down on the couch, opening her briefcase. “Astrid, could you excuse us?” “Make yourself at home,” Claire Richards said to me, smiling, reaching out in a gesture of gift. “Please, look around.” She sat down with Joan, who opened my file, but she kept smiling at me, too much, like she was worried what I’d think of her and her home. I wished I could tell her she had nothing to worry about. I went into the kitchen. It was small, tiled red and white, with a pearly-topped table and chrome chairs. A real Leave It to Beaver kitchen, decorated with a salt and pepper shaker collection. Betty Boops and porcelain cows and sets of cacti. It was a kitchen to drink cocoa in, to play checkers. I was afraid of how much I wanted this. I walked out into the small backyard, bright with wide flowerbeds and pots on a wooden deck, a weeping Chinese elm. There was a flying goose windmill, and red poinsettia grew against the house’s white wall in the sun. Kitsch, I heard my mother’s voice in my ear. But it wasn’t, it was charming. Claire Richards was charming, with her wide love-me smile.