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.

Page 64 of 299 · 20 per page

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I was at first a little dismayed to learn that I would not be sharing Diana’s chamber; but I could not stay dismayed for long. The room to which she led me - it was a little way along the corridor - was hardly less imposing than her own, and quite as grand. Its walls were bare and creamy-white, its carpets gold, its screen and bedstead of bamboo; its dressing-table, moreover, was crowded with goods - a cigarette-case of tortoise-shell, a pair of brushes and a comb, a button-hook of ivory, and various jars and bottles of oils and perfumes. A door beside the bed led to a long, low-ceilinged closet: here, draped on a pair of wooden shoulders, was a dressing-gown of crimson silk, to match Diana’s green one; and here, too, was the suit I had been promised: a handsome costume of grey worsted, terribly heavy and terribly smart. Besides this there was a set of drawers, marked links and neckties, collars and studs. These were all full; and on a further rack of shelves, marked linen, there was fold after fold of white lawn shirts. I gazed at all this, then kissed Diana very hard indeed - partly, I must confess, in the hope that she would close her eyes, and thus not see how much I was in awe of her. But when she had gone, I fairly danced about the golden floor in pleasure. I took the suit, and a shirt, and a collar, and a necktie, and laid them all, in proper order, upon the bed. Then I danced again. The bags I had brought with me from Mrs Milne’s I carried to the closet and cast, unopened, into the farthest corner. I wore my suit to supper; it looked, I knew, very well on me. Diana, however, said the cut was not quite right, and that tomorrow she would have Mrs Hooper measure me properly, and send my details to a tailor. I thought her faith in her housekeeper’s discretion quite extraordinary; and when that lady had left us - for, as she had at lunch, she filled our plates and glasses, then stood in grave and (I thought) unnerving attendance until dismissed - I said so. Diana laughed. ‘There’s a secret to that,’ she said; ‘can’t you guess it?’ ‘You pay her a fortune in wages, I suppose.’ ‘Well, perhaps. But didn’t you catch Mrs Hooper, gazing through her lashes at you as she served you your soup? Why, she was practically drooling into your plate!’ ‘You don’t mean - you can’t mean - that she is just - like us?’ She nodded: ‘Of course. And as for little Blake - why, I plucked her, poor child, from a reformatory cell. They had sent her there for corrupting a house-maid ...’

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  He presented me with the first sex I’d ever had that I thought about in words, that I wanted to describe and preserve in words. And so the scribbling began. Every time he came, and left, I went straight to my notebook and wrote it all down. I was experiencing an impossible pleasure, and having it on paper would prove that the impossible existed. I knew something profound had happened to me: I had shifted from being my small, hurt, wounded, and unhappy self to being a conduit of a pleasure that was far greater than myself, a pleasure that I did not own, but that I could feel. And I could not experience this in silence. I had to tell some unknown, undefined audience. Perhaps that audience was really me, my unbelieving atheist self being told by my transformed sexual self about hope . He kisses my belly, inside my thighs, my pubic hair. Eventually with a very soft, very gentle tongue, contact is made with my pussy, my clit. My eyes open. I see his lovely eyes, looking at me, mouth buried in my cunt. My knees drop open 180 degrees, my feet press on the sides of his chest, my pussy is pushed into his mouth, contact, contact, contact. He is there a long time. I have many small, very intense orgasms. He moves his tongue and mouth quickly side to side, then stops on the tip, on my center, a tiny pinpoint where my whole being of emotion, power, and love are centered. Legs and belly convulse, contract, vibrate. Through these releases I know it’s not over, not finished. Possessed, I explode. My torso rises off the table over and over, his tongue works furiously, my legs are all over, my arms flailing. I am crying, whimpering, never before so conscious of tears of joy, that someone had been so kind to me. Every time I called, the pleasure was given and received. His tongue held close and soft and fast on my clitoris became the center of the world. And fingers everywhere—fingers on my clit, fingers in my pussy, fingers up my ass—how many tendrils can one man have? I stopped tipping him. But I did buy a series of ten massages at a reduced rate. He insisted, for his own moral welfare (and perhaps mine), that he always give me a massage—although on more than one occasion the massage came after we did. I was surprised at how much I liked sucking his cock. It was because he had shown me love first, and filled with gratitude, I headed down. I gave this guy the first good blow job I had ever given, one that came from my guts and brought tears into my eyes. It was the first time I was that grateful to a man. We never saw each other outside of the room in my apartment.

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

  Having tried out several other positive psychology interventions, Donna was immediately curious. She asked more about the technique. I shared that what our participants had done was extraordinarily simple—just answer those two questions about their three longest social interactions of the day. Donna soaked up our fresh data with great interest and wondered how her own life might be different if her three longest interactions each day were life-giving rather than life-draining, sources of strength rather than disappointment. Right then, she transformed our accidental finding into her own, self-styled well-being intervention. She set herself a new goal of seeking out at least three interactions each day that held positivity resonance. While she could hardly control the influx of uncertainty and setbacks in her day-to-day life, she could strive to cultivate more loving connections each day. As someone who lives alone, Donna’s new goal was challenging to pull off. But the initial payoff was high enough to keep her engaged. While she’d never kept up with the “three good things” exercise commonly used in positive psychology, in which you write down at the end of each day three things that went well that day and consider why each happened, she did stick with her own “three loving connections” exercise. Several weeks later she wrote me a note to say that she found it made a “huge difference” in her life. She also found that love breeds confidence and strength. The more loving interactions she had, the better prepared she was to face her difficult days at work. Donna observed that her self-styled “three loving connections” activity did two things for her. First, it made her look for people she enjoys being with and inspired her to enhance those relationships. She shared with me, for instance, that after a particularly stressful day, she now would often call her twentysomething niece, just to see what she’s been up to lately and share some giggles. As her phone calls to her niece became more frequent, their relationship grew deeper and stronger. Other family and friends became closer and her relationships with them became more healthy and helpful. The other effect of her “three loving connections” activity was that she now found herself looking for ways to make the difficult relationships in her life better. Her positive and powerful relationships with family and friends had become the new normal in her life, and she strove to make even the difficult relationships in her life better. She had a strong foundation of loving relationships to support her in this endeavor.

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

  You can even deploy silent celebration to transform any minor irritation you might feel at another’s actions into a more buoyant, lighthearted moment. Any of us, despite our generally benevolent attitudes, can grow somewhat impatient with others, even if their only crime is that they march to their own drummer. Perhaps it’s the cashier who tends the long, slow line in which you wait, who chats for a bit too long with each customer, or the restaurant patron at the next table who in her enthusiasm speaks too loudly, or the free spirits who hula hoop in your town square, obstructing your shortcut. For me, it seems like just about every day, while I’m at work in my office, I find my flow of thoughts interrupted by “the campus whistler,” an older gentleman who walks throughout campus and town enjoying music on his headphones while whistling in full force. He’s actually a fantastic whistler. Yet once you’ve heard him once or twice, it gets easy to begrudge his next arrival. I’m not the only one to react this way. My colleague shared with me that when she held her class outside one uncommonly fine day in February, for a moment their discussion was pierced by the campus whistler strolling nearby. Her students groaned and grumbled. Sometimes, when others enjoy themselves in unusual ways, your first reaction can be judgmental. Take two, however, can be more charitable. My campus whistler is joyful after all. When I allow myself to savor this unique musical moment and wish him continued enjoyment, I create my own joy as well. Try it for yourself. See if you notice any new radiance or levity within your heart, or any additional softness or openness within your face. As you experiment with celebratory love, notice how readily you can turn these feelings of loving connection on and off just by bringing in others’ presumed good fortune into your awareness. Notice how others respond to you. Does the face and openness with which you meet the world make a difference? Love 2.0: The View from Here The facts are that all people face both good and bad fortune every year, if not every day. When you look out at others, even without speaking with them or knowing anything specific about them, you can be virtually certain that they are simultaneously blessed by good fortune, however small or large, and also burdened by bad fortune, again, however small or large. Each person we encounter, then, simultaneously merits both our compassionate love and our celebratory love. Love, upgraded as positivity resonance, comes in many flavors. It bends toward compassion when suffering is salient, and toward celebration when good fortune is salient. Above all, love is connection. In connection, you are far more likely to recognize what other people are going through, and meet them where they are, sincerely wishing them the very best.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  But after considerable consideration, I reconsidered: becoming a saint would entail even more pain than I could imagine. And what if one suffered all that pain and still didn’t see God, still didn’t have that mystical union? The risk was very high indeed. Besides, I didn’t want to suffer just to suffer. Dancing had taught me about pain for gain, pain for beauty. Pain for pain was self-indulgent, whereas my youthful masochism was both ambitious and realistic. Saint Teresa of Avila would have no competition from me. Instead, I would stick to dancing and continue plunging my toes into the beautiful, tight, shiny sheaths called pointe shoes. And there was the miracle, made manifest daily on my very own feet. Despite blistered and bloody evidence to the contrary, my feet didn’t hurt at all while ensconced in the shoes, while dancing. They only hurt when the shoes came off, when my foot was released from its satin prison. This curious experience, the ironic marriage of physical discomfort and euphoria, taught me the power of transcendence. My pink pointe shoes became my fetishistic ally, my crown of thorns, my bed of nails. I adored my toe shoes. Alongside my saint obsession, I developed a passion for reading. This passion, I came to believe, detracted from my ultimate success as a dancer by luring me from the circumscribed, nonverbal world of movement to the limitless plains of thought. The Book Phase included: Simone Weil (beyond my scope to emulate); Nietzsche (Thus Spake he to me); Henry Miller (the romance of poverty in Paris!); D. H. Lawrence (John Thomas and Lady Jane); Anaïs Nin (sexual liberation between the sheets and on the page—in Paris); Freud (incest is best—or at least inevitable); Thomas Mann (the poetic profundity of X-rays); Henry James (I am Isabel Archer, living in the wrong era, in the wrong wardrobe); Virginia Woolf (diary after diary right into the river); Erich Fromm; Eric Hoffer; Ernest Becker (The Denial of Death, every page underlined in red); and Søren Kierkegaard (seven tomes in a row, with voluminous notes on either legal pads or index cards . . . I loved Kierkegaard). These books and their revelations constituted my secret life until I was nearly twenty. Then I lost my virginity. And although my deepest interests have perhaps never changed, they immediately became irrevocably diverted to deriving answers—dancing had presented all the questions—from experience, not only books. But while all this reading and searching for external connection went on in the early morning and late at night, my deepest allegiance and dependence belonged elsewhere during the day: on the walls of the dance studio, where I could not escape my savage self. MY MIRROR, MY MASTER

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  It was raining on the roof of the houseboat. At five o’clock Paris always has a current of eroticism in the air. Is it because it is the hour when lovers meet, the five to seven of all French novels? Never at night, it would seem, for all the women are married and free only at “tea time,” the great alibi. At five I always felt shivers of sensuality, shared with the sensual Paris. As soon as the light faded, it seemed to me that every women I saw was running to meet her lover, that every man was running to meet his mistress. When he leaves me, Marcel kisses me on the cheek. His beard touches me like a caress. This kiss on the cheek which is meant to be a brother’s is charged with intensity. We had dinner together. I suggested we go dancing. We went to the Bal Negre. Immediately Marcel was paralyzed. He was afraid of dancing. He was afraid to touch me. I tried to lure him into the dance, but he would not dance. He was awkward. He was afraid. When he finally held me in his arms he was trembling, and I was enjoying the havoc I caused. I felt a joy at being near to him. I felt a joy in the tall slenderness of his body. I said, “Are you sad? Do you want to leave?” “I’m not sad, but I’m blocked. My whole past seems to stop me. I can’t let go. This music is so savage. I feel as if I can inhale but not exhale. I’m just constrained, unnatural.” I did not ask him to dance anymore. I danced with a Negro. When we left then in the cool night, Marcel was talking about the knots, the fears, the paralysis in him. I felt, the miracle has not happened. I will free him by a miracle, not by words, not directly, not with the words I used for the sick ones. What he suffers I know. I suffered it once. But I know the free Marcel. I want Marcel free. But when he came to the houseboat and saw Hans there, when he saw Gustavo arriving at midnight and staying on after he left, Marcel got jealous. I saw his blue eyes grow dark. When he kissed me goodnight, he stared at Gustavo with anger. He said to me, “Come out with me for a moment.” I left the houseboat and walked with him along the dark quays. Once we were alone, he leaned over and kissed me passionately, furiously, his full, big mouth drinking mine. I offered my mouth again. “When will you come to see me?” he asked. “Tomorrow, Marcel, tomorrow I will come to see you.”

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I was, as I have said before, very young. The next day, while Kitty still slept, I rose and made my noiseless way into our parlour. There I did something that I had longed for months to do, but never had the courage. I took a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote a letter to my sister, Alice. I hadn’t written home in weeks. I had told them, once, that I had joined the act; but I had rather played the matter down - I feared they wouldn’t think the life a decent one for their own daughter. They had sent me back a brief, half-hearted, puzzled note; they had talked of travelling to London, to reassure themselves that I was quite content - and at that I had written at once to say, they must not think of coming, I was too busy, my rooms were too small ... In short - so ‘careful’ had Kitty made me! - I was as unwelcoming as it was possible to be, this side of friendliness. Since then, our letters had grown rarer than ever; and the business of my fame upon the stage had been quite lost - I never mentioned it; they did not ask. Now, it was not of the act that I wrote to Alice. I wrote to tell her what had happened between Kitty and me - to tell her that we loved each other, not as friends, but as sweethearts; that we had made our lives together; and that she must be glad for me, for I was happier than I had ever thought it possible to be. It was a long letter, but I wrote it easily; and when I had finished it I felt light as air. I didn’t read it through, but put it in an envelope at once, and ran with it to the post-box. I was back before Kitty had even stirred; and when she woke I didn’t mention it. I didn’t tell her about Alice’s reply, either. This came a few days later - came while Kitty and I were at breakfast, and had to stay unopened in my pocket until I could make time to be alone and read it.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Paso mi pulgar sobre la enorme piedra. Es real. Todo esto es real. —He estado planeando esto por un largo tiempo —dice—. Creerías que sabría qué quería hacer o decir, pero no puedo pensar en nada ahora mismo. —Su aliento cae por mi cabello mientras susurra—: Supongo que debí haberme puesto sobre una rodilla, ¿eh? —No, no me sueltes. —Mi voz tiembla. Trago el bulto en mi garganta y saco el anillo, bajando la caja y probándomelo. La fría banda se desliza perfectamente y tomo su mano, poniéndola sobre el manillar de nuevo con la mía encima. Su dedo todavía no tiene un anillo cuando entrelazo nuestras manos. Pero lo hará. Mi corazón se hincha como si fuera demasiado para que mi pecho lo contuviera, y estoy sin palabras. Ciertamente me sorprendió. No puedo creer que hiciera esto sin darme ni una pista de lo que había preparado. Miro nuestras manos unidas, recostándome contra él e incluso más excitada ahora por todo lo que está por venir. Creo que parte de mí —una pequeña parte—, todavía estaba esperando por él. Siempre estaba en lo profundo de mi mente, ese miedo a que todavía pudiera verme demasiado joven o no preparada para esto o él, pero tiene que saber… Soy feliz cada día. No hay nada que se sienta mejor que él. Una pocas gotas de lluvia golpean mis brazos, las nubes por encima oscureciéndose, y finalmente encuentro mi aliento, inhalando profundamente. —Entonces, vas a decir “sí” o… —Su voz se desvanece. Sonrío ante la pizca de miedo que oigo en su voz ante mi silencio. —Sí. —Me vuelvo y lo beso—. Me haces tan feliz. Te amo. Presiona su frente contra la mía. —Te amo tanto que duele, nena. Su boca se hunde en la mía de nuevo y toma mi rostro en sus manos, besándome y provocando a mi lengua a donde lo siento en todas partes. Mi aliento se vuelve irregular y estoy a punto de sugerir que llevemos esto a la camioneta, ya que estamos completamente solos aquí, pero la lluvia aumenta, golpeando mi cuerpo mucho más rápido ahora. Rompo el beso y alzo la mirada, entrecerrando los ojos contra la lluvia para ver las nubes de tormenta por encima. Las tormentas de verano están empezando temprano este año. Desmonta, ayudándome, y ambos trotamos hacia el lado del pasajero de la camioneta, abre mi puerta para mí. —¿Podemos hacerlo hoy? —pregunto, apartando mi nuevo casco sin usar de mi asiento y dejándolo en el suelo. —¿Casarnos? —pregunta—. Realmente no te importa la boda, ¿cierto? Echo un vistazo para verlo sonriéndome mientras se quita su camiseta embarrada y la arroja a la cama de la camioneta.

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

  Other studies concur. When synchrony is surreptitiously produced in experimental studies—by having people walk, tap, sing, sway, or rock together in time—it breeds liking, cooperation, and compassion, as well as success in joint action. By now, you’ll recognize these various effects as pointing to positivity resonance, your body’s definition of love. From the research you read about in chapter 3 , you can also bet that the synchrony between your chatting neighbors runs deeper than what you can see with your own eyes. Odds are that their synchronized gestures both reflect and trigger synchrony in their brain and oxytocin activity as well. Next I turn to the ripples that love spreads out over time. As you experience positivity resonance more often, day in and day out, it affects all that you become. Becoming Becoming Us. Consider your closest relationships—with your best friend, your spouse, your parent, or your child—the people with whom you feel so interwoven that you freely use words like we and us in everyday conversation. Yet those words didn’t always fit. Even your closest relationships had a starting point prior to which us didn’t apply. Odds are, positivity resonance was part of the origin story for each important relationship that you have today. Think back to those origins for a moment. Was the emotion you first shared together playful amusement or raucous joy? Was it mutual fascination or awe? Or was it instead a peaceful moment of serenity or shared relief? Maybe it was some other flavor on the positivity menu. Although it might be easier to call up the day you first met or “clicked” with your best friend or spouse, the generation-spanning bonds you share with a parent or child were also forged through accumulated micro-moments of felt security and affection, communicated variously through synchronized gaze, touch, and vocalizations. One after the other, micro-moments of positivity resonance like these formed the pathways toward the relationships that you now take for granted as the most solid sources of comfort, support, and companionship in your life. The study that Tanya Vacharkulksemsuk conducted with me, described above, tells us that as relationships are first budding, two people begin to share not only their emotions but also their motions. Spontaneously and nonconsciously, they begin to gesture in synchrony, as a unified duo. Indeed, these nonverbal signs of unity forecast a shared subjective appreciation of oneness, connection, and an embodied sense of rapport. The more that positivity resonance orchestrates shared movements between people, the data show, the more likely a relationship is to take root. Following this logic further, some choices for first dates are better than others.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  In the beginning, I bought the tiny little travel tubes, good for one or two sessions, small, discreet, deniable. Once I knew, initially, the ecstasy of the act, I also knew it could only be a very rare occurrence, sort of like a birthday special. I reasoned that it would not be healthy for my little asshole to be so invaded too frequently. I reasoned that bliss was not free, not plannable, and definitely not something that might come my way very often. Such reasoning led me to buy those little travel tubes. But those tiny tubes kept running out and denial became an effort. Ass-fucking was part of the regular repertoire. The next time he opened the drawer, he pulled out a giant, phallic-sized white-and-blue tube, looked at it, and fell off the bed howling with laughter. It was a risky move for me. Presumptuous. Practical. After several months of using one large tube after another, I put two large tubes in the drawer at the same time. That is how he developed the ritual of dispersing the tubes while I sucked his cock. The beautiful man with a fierce erection tossing large white-and-blue plastic tubes around the room (wherever we land he can fuck my ass, right there, right then, no reaching): it is an image of promise as close to a guarantee as I’ve ever known with a man. The gold band on my left ring finger guaranteed far less. Soon there are as many as five tubes in the drawer at one time, each in a different stage of emptiness, the emptier the better. I still haven’t figured out how many ass-fucks per four-ounce tube. Probably about eleven. At $4.19 a tube, that is about 38 cents a fuck . . . add that to the price of a condom (thirty-six for $14.99) at 42 cents, and the best thing in the world costs less than a buck. Then I found the tubes discounted at Costco, two for $4.00, and bought six. That brings the whole affair down to 60 cents per cum shot. (Ass-fuckers: use dark glasses for K-Y shopping and don’t turn around in the checkout line: they’re all staring at your butt in disbelief. ) I’m going to buy stock in K-Y. The Lexus of lubricants. Grateful for the smooth ride. I heard a television talk-show shrink quizzing a cross-dressing man to test if he was gay or straight. Playing quick word association, she says “football,” he says “beer”; she says . . . he says . . . she says “KY,” he says “Kentucky.” She announces triumphantly that he is heterosexual. And, I would add, clearly not a heterosexual sodomite. Of the liquid lubricants, Astroglide is king. But be forewarned: if you pour Astroglide onto K-Y during a single vigorous ass-fucking, then expect a large amount of froth. Froth everywhere. What do the K and Y stand for?

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

  In short, this was the safest, politest, and, at the same time, the most thorough house of accommodation in town: every thing being conducted so, that decency made no intrenchment upon the most libertine pleasures; in the practice of which, too, the choice familiars of the house had found the secret so rare and difficult, of reconciling even all the refinements of taste and delicacy, with the most gross and determinate gratifications of sensuality. After having consumed the morning in the dear endearments and instructions of my new acquaintance, we went to dinner, when Mrs. Cole, presiding at the head of her club, gave me the first idea of her management and address, in inspiring these girls with so sensible a love and respect for her. There was no stiffness, no reserve, no airs of pique, or little jealousies, but all was unaffectedly gay, cheerful and easy. After dinner, Mrs. Cole, seconded by the young ladies, acquainted me that there was a chapter to be held that night in form, for the ceremony of my reception into the sisterhood; and in which, with all due reserve to my maidenhead, that was to be occasionally cooked up for the first proper chapman. I was to undergo a ceremonial of initiation they were sure I should not be displeased with. Embarked as I was, and moreover captivated with the charms of my new companions, I was too much prejudiced in favour of any proposal they could make, to as much as hesitate an assent; which, therefore, readily giving in the style of a carte blanche, I received fresh kisses of compliment from them all, in approval of my docility and good nature. Now I was “a sweet girl... I came into things with a good grace... I was not affectedly coy... I should be the pride of the house,” and the like.

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

  The landlord, however, had no reason to complain of any thing, but of a procedure in Charles too liberal not to make him regret the loss of us. Arrived at our new lodging, I remember I thought them extremely fine, though ordinary enough, even at that price; but, had it been a dungeon that Charles had brought me to, his presence would have made a little Versailles. The landlady, Mrs. Jones, waited on us to our apartment, and with great volubility of tongue, explained to us all its conveniences: “that her own maid should wait on us... that the best of quality had lodged at her house... that her first floor was let to a foreign secretary of an embassy, and his lady... that I looked like a very good natured lady...” At the word lady, I blushed out of flattered vanity: this was strong for a girl of my condition; for though Charles had the precaution of dressing me in a less tawdry flaunting style than were the clothes I escaped to him in, and of passing me for his wife, that she had secretly married, and kept private (the old story) on account of his friends, I dare swear this appeared extremely apocryphal to a woman who knew the town so well as she did; but that was the least of her concern: it was impossible to be less scruple-ridden than she was; and the advantage of letting her rooms being her sole object, the truth itself would have far from scandalized her, or broke her bargain. A sketch of her picture, and personal history, will dispose you to account for the part she is to act in my concern. She was about forty six years old, tall, meagre, red-haired, with one of those trivial ordinary faces you meet with every where, and go about unheeded and un-mentioned. In her youth she had been kept by a gentleman, who, dying, left her forty pounds a year during her life, in consideration of a daughter he had by her: which daughter, at the age of seventeen, she sold, for not a very considerable sum neither, to a gentleman who was going on envoy abroad, and took his purchase with him, where he used her with the utmost tenderness, and it is thought, was secretly married to her: but had constantly made a point of her not keeping up the least correspondence with a mother base enough to make a market of her own flesh and blood.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  It is revealed in the spaces of time when the self is penetrated so deeply that it is pried wide open and love rushes in like an ocean through a porthole. And Paradise, once known, becomes the goal of every waking moment, its loss inherent in every waking moment. This is the burden of Paradise found. #262 He’s back! He was gone but now he’s back. A phone call and he’s over. Declarations. Tears. Hilarity. Clarity. In front of the blazing fire, insane kissing, sucking, and fucking. Insane. Completely insane. I am clear. Clearly blinded. I am his mother, sister, daughter, and friend. He is my father, brother, son, and friend. After, we watch the flames and he says, “See what we’ve done?” “What?” “We’ve created love out of sex . . . And we’ve only just begun.” “Yeah,” I say, “Maybe I’ll fuck you in the ass next.” He grins, pauses, and tells me to stand in front of him, turn around . . . and he bends me over . . . No dice with A-Man. REAR-ENDED Where do you go once in Paradise? What happens when Adam and Eve enter Eden? And eat the apple? I will tell you. Perfection cannot be maintained. With time, cracks appear in the walls of the Garden—and reality, insipid reality, slithers in with its insidious poison. The snake of knowledge. At some point well past the two-year mark, my relentless attempts to trust that A-Man was real and really in my life paid off. I had finally convinced myself that there was some form of unpredictable continuity to our connection. Before, I had only one focus: the need to believe in our existence. But once I finally accepted “reality,” the rest of the world soon followed. I tried to plug the leaks, ignore the signs, deny the chaos—but the world proved to be even stronger than my passion for A-Man. He was constantly leaving town for work; sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months. I found his absences increasingly difficult to manage. One time, I hired a pretty woman in a pink-sequined minidress to come to my house and pray for me, while I cried, for a hundred and fifty dollars. That’s how bad it was. Then he called. Prayer answered. All’s well, he says, except one thing. His cock won’t reach across four states into my ass. Things are funny and good again, for a few hours. And I don’t tell him just how difficult things are for me. Never told him. Ever. Why would I? Reality was oozing in anyway, but why open the door wide? Another time I consulted with a friend, afraid that after his three-month absence he wouldn’t return to me as before. My friend laughed: “Two-hundred and sixty-something ass-fucks and you need more evidence?”

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

  Having worked hard to cultivate a more accepting and lighthearted attitude toward herself, when she was called up to solo on that last day of camp, Erika thoroughly enjoyed it. She also played differently from that day forward. She became “truly open and ready” to take her music to the next level, to learn how to listen deeply to other musicians as they played together, and to improvise with them in fresh ways. Building on these experiences, when Erika returned to camp the following summer, she had what she called one of the “peak musical experiences” of her life in a small workshop on “Chemistry.” The band member who led the workshop emphasized that musical chemistry didn’t come from musical skill alone. Even two great musicians can completely miss out on it. Hearing Erika recount the take on musical chemistry she’d absorbed here, I couldn’t stop seeing it as an amplified form of positivity resonance: The bodily vibes that resonate between and among people during micro-moments of love could be amplified and made audible by musical instruments. After the band member’s brief discussion of his own experiences and observations of musical chemistry, each student in turn took a chance to improvise with him as he played the drums. While some musical connections emerged, they were all getting the sense that true chemistry is hard to predict. Then Erika took her turn. She started off introducing an idea by playing a few notes in a particular way on her guitar. Her teacher responded on drums. They each listened, they each responded, and eventually they started playing, playfully, together at the same time. It was immensely enjoyable “the way a good conversation would flow, we were on the same page and could finish each other’s ideas.” They played together like this for only three to four minutes, yet when they finished and looked up at each other the teacher pronounced to the class, “Okay, now that’s chemistry.” Full self-acceptance is what allowed Erika to make the most out of the safety that the camp created. She’s found that lightening up on herself has been essential for getting the most joy out of her music, which comes especially when she’s jamming and improvising with fellow musicians. It’s a lesson that she finds applies to the rest of life as well. Truth is, however much they may try, other people can’t make you feel safe. Only you can do that. When you do, you spring open countless opportunities to forge fresh instances of that elusive state we call chemistry. Love 2.0: The View from Here

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Instead of reaching right to the center of her body, Leila’s voice and touch had enveloped her in a voluptuous mantle of new sensations, something in suspense that did not seek fulfillment but prolongation. It was like this room, affecting one by its mysterious lights, its rich odors, its shadowy niches, its half-seen forms, its mysterious enjoyments. A dream. Opium could not have enlarged or dilated her senses any more than they were, could not have given her a greater sense of joy. Her hand reached out to Leila’s. Mary was smoking already with her eyes closed. Leila was lying back, with her eyes open, looking at Elena. She took Elena’s hand, held it for a while, and then she slipped it under her kimono. She placed it over her breasts. Elena began caressing her. Leila had opened her tailored suit; she wore no blouse. But the rest of her body was sheathed in a tight skirt. Then Elena felt Leila’s hand running delicately under her dress, seeking for an opening between the tops of her stockings and her underwear. Elena turned gently on her left side, so that she could place her head over Leila’s breast and kiss it. She was afraid Mary might open her eyes and get angry. Now and then she looked at her. Leila smiled. Then she turned over to whisper to Elena: “We will meet sometime and be together. Do you want it? Will you come to my place tomorrow? Mary will not be there.” Elena smiled, assented with a nod, stole one more kiss and lay back. But Leila did not withdraw her hand. She watched Mary and continued to caress Elena. Elena was dissolving under her fingers. It seemed to Elena they had been lying there only a moment, but then she noticed the studio was growing colder and morning had come. She sprang up, surprised. The others seemed to be asleep. Even Leila had fallen back and slept now. Elena slipped on her coat and left. The early dawn revived her. She wanted to talk to someone. She saw that she was quite near to Miguel’s studio. Miguel was asleep with Donald. She woke him and sat at the foot of the bed. She talked. Miguel could barely understand her. He thought she was drunk. “Why is my love for Pierre not strong enough to keep me from this?” she kept repeating. “Why is it throwing me into other loves? And loves for a woman? Why?” Miguel smiled. “Why are you so afraid of a little detour? It’s nothing. It will pass. Pierre’s love has awakened your real nature. You’re too full of love, you will love many people.” “I don’t want to, Miguel. I want to be whole.” “That’s not such a great infidelity, Elena. In another woman you’re only seeking yourself.”

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

  By opening the doors of perception, positive emotions provide you with the much-needed space to recognize disparate points of view and weigh your various options for action. Positivity resonance allows you access to the wisdom of your past experiences and, more generally, makes you intellectually sharper. Spend just ten minutes in pleasant conversation with someone else and your performance on a subsequent IQ test gets a boost. Conversing with valued others makes you wiser on the fundamental pragmatics of life as well. Suppose you’ve been called on to offer advice. Say an older colleague of yours at work confides in you that he hasn’t achieved what he had once planned to achieve. What would you advise him to do and consider? Or your fourteen-year-old niece calls you to say that she absolutely wants to move out of her family home immediately. What would you advise her to do and consider? While your off-the-cuff advice to these troubled souls may not be altogether bad, studies suggest that you’d be considerably more pragmatic and discerning if you could first discuss these dilemmas for a few minutes with someone whose perspective you really value, say your spouse, your best friend, or a mentor, and then think about the situation a bit more on your own. More generally, studies show that positivity resonance unlocks collective brainstorming power, making it easier for you to solve difficult problems when working and laughing together with others, compared to when you face those problems alone. Love, then, defined as positivity resonance, momentarily expands your awareness, which boosts your IQ and unlocks your wisdom. Beyond these momentary effects, however, positivity resonance also triggers enduring, long-term gains in cognitive abilities and wisdom. The more frequently older adults connect with others, the lower their risks for cognitive decline and Alzheimer’s disease. Yet love isn’t just about staving off age- related cognitive decline. Scientists have also demonstrated clear links between how often people connect socially with friends, neighbors, and relatives, and their lab-tested cognitive functioning, even in far younger people who are in their twenties or thirties. One way that your recurrent connections with loved ones make you lastingly wiser is by giving you inner voices to consult. Suppose you’re called on to navigate some particularly difficult life dilemma, your own, or that of a close confidant. You yearn to talk matters over with your mentor, spouse, or best friend. Yet, for whatever reason, you can’t get a hold of these valued others—perhaps they’re traveling, busy, or even deceased. Research shows that simply imagining having a conversation with them is as good as actually talking with them. So consult them in your mind. Ask them what advice they’d offer. In this way, a cherished parent or mentor, even if deceased, leaves you with an inner voice that guides you through challenging times.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero ahora los finales han terminado y también las clases hasta el próximo otoño, y soy toda suya. Su camioneta está estacionada delante, y su cuadriciclo todavía está en el tráiler unido, limpio y brillando como nuevo. Se detiene y apaga el motor, enterrando sus labios en mi cuello y besándome. —Tengo un regalo para ti —se burla. Vuelvo mi cabeza, rozando su mejilla con mis labios. —Ya me diste mi regalo. —Paso mis dedos por los manillares de mi nuevo cuadriciclo y también recuerdo el orgasmo que tuve a las seis de la mañana. Ha sido un muy buen cumpleaños hasta ahora. —En realidad, el cuadriciclo era solo una excusa para comprarme uno — explica. Mordisqueo su mandíbula. —Entonces, ¿qué es? ¿Más antigüedades para mi colección? —Las cintas de casete no son antigüedades, Jordan —declara con firmeza. Me rio. —Tienes razón, tienes razón. Son consideradas clásicas. Como los autos de más de treinta años. ¡Como tú! —trino—. Eres clásico. Pone su mano sobre mi boca, amortiguando mi risa y sacudiendo la cabeza. No está ofendido por mi broma. Solo me burlo sobre su edad porque todavía piensa que es un problema, y estoy intentando aligerar el humor. Y para algunas personas en la ciudad, es extraño. Pero no significan nada para nosotros. Cole, mi hermana y Shel han llegado a estar de acuerdo, no obstante Cole un poco más lento que los otros, pero son todo lo que importa. Muerdo sus dedos, jugando, pero de repente, sostiene una pequeña caja de cuero negro frente a mí y me detengo. Mi rostro cae y ya no me rio. Bajando su mano de mi rostro, permanece en silencio mientras miro fijamente la caja. Un millón de diferentes pensamientos recorren mi cabeza ahora mismo, pero apenas puedo oírlos porque el pulso en mis oídos es ensordecedor. Oh, Dios mío. No es un… anillo, ¿cierto? Quiero decir, no hemos hablado sobre esto. Siempre esperé que llegara a esto, pero Pike no da grandes pasos sin un poco de ayuda. No tenía ni idea… Extendiendo la mano lentamente, tomo la caja y la abro. Mi boca está tan seca como un desierto, cuando veo el anillo de diamantes dentro. Lágrimas pican en mis ojos y mi boca se abre. Es una rosa. Como las de mi pastel de cumpleaños que me compró el año pasado y las flores que planté alrededor de la casa esta primavera. Un diamante enorme se asienta en medio de los pétalos de platino, adornados con pequeñas piedras, y es diferente de cualquier cosa que haya visto jamás. Hermoso y especial y completamente mío. ¿Quiere casarse conmigo? Dejo escapar un pequeño sollozo, abrumada. —¿Te estás burlando de mí ahora mismo? —espeto—. ¡Estoy cubierta de barro! ¿Está haciendo esto ahora? ¿Cuando hubo cientos de cenas y desayunos en la cama este último año cuando estaba linda y limpia? Su pecho se sacude con una risa detrás de mí y envuelve su brazo en mi cintura. —Eres hermosa.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  At the last moment, as I leaned from the carriage to embrace him, he drew a little chamois bag from his pocket and placed it in my hand, and closed my fingers over it. It held coins - sovereigns - six of them, and more, I knew, than he could afford to part with; but by the time I had drawn open the neck of the bag and seen the gleam of the gold inside it, the train had begun to move, and it was too late to thrust them back. Instead, I could only shout my thanks, and kiss my fingers to him, and watch as he raised his hat and waved it; then place my cheek against the window-glass when he was gone from sight, and wonder when I should see him next. I did not wonder for long, I am afraid to say, for the thrill of being with Kitty - of hearing her talk again of the rooms we were to share, and the kind of life we were to have together in the city, where she was to make her fortune - soon overcame my grief. My family would have thought me cruel, I know, to see me laugh while they were sad at home without me; but oh! I could no more not have smiled, that afternoon, than not drawn breath, or sweated. And soon, too, I had London to gaze at and marvel over; for in an hour we had arrived at Charing Cross. Here Kitty found a porter to help us with our bags and boxes, and while he loaded them on to a trolley we looked round anxiously for Mr Bliss. At last, ‘There he is!’ cried Kitty, and her pointing finger showed him striding up the platform, his whiskers and his coat-tails flying and his face very red. ‘Miss Butler!’ he cried when he reached us. ‘What a pleasure! What a pleasure! I feared I would be late; but here you are exactly as we planned, and even more charming than before.’ He turned to me, then removed his hat - the silk, again - and made me a low, theatrical bow. ‘“Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wrench!’” he said, rather loudly. ‘Miss Astley - late of Whitstable, I believe?’ He took my hand and gripped it briefly. Then he snapped his fingers at the porter, and offered us each an arm. He had left a carriage waiting for us on the Strand; the driver touched his whip to his cap when we approached, and jumped from his seat to place our luggage on the roof. I looked about me.

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

  A sizable grain of truth, then, lives on in the closing lines of English poet John Masefield’s poem “Biography” in which he muses on how his own life’s meaning will be utterly missed by historians who reduce his life “to lists of dates and facts” without knowing “the golden instants and bright days”: Best trust the happy moments. What they gave Makes man less fearful of a certain grave, And gives his work compassion and new eyes. The days that make us happy make us wise. Becoming Healthy. Love is not a magic bullet. You can no more expect to become healthier through a single, isolated micro-moment of positivity resonance than you can by eating just one piece of broccoli per year. Yet just as a steady diet of a wide range of fresh fruits and vegetables does indeed make you healthier, so does a steady diet of a wide range of loving moments. Some of the most direct causal evidence that love improves your bodily systems in lasting ways comes from that experiment that recently emerged from my PEP Lab, first described in chapter 3. People in that study were randomized to either learn how to self-generate love more frequently or not. Participants’ daily reports of love and social connection diverged across the two groups, and these differences accounted for significant improvements in people’s resting levels of vagal tone. Random assignment to the “love” condition, we learned, lastingly benefits the functioning of the physical heart. Your vagal tone is a key indicator of the health of your parasympathetic nervous system. It helps down-regulate your racing heart so that you can regain calm after a fright or take advantage of a much-needed break in the action. With heart disease being by far the leading cause of death in the United States, your physician can use knowledge of your vagal tone to forecast with some accuracy your likelihood of heart failure, as well as your odds of surviving such a catastrophic health event. Your vagal tone also reflects the strength of your immune system, with a particular tie to chronic inflammation, a known risk factor for not only heart failure but also stroke, arthritis, diabetes, and even some cancers. What our experiment suggests, then, is that by learning to love more frequently, you reduce your risks for many of the worst health conditions that we all dread.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Pierre was always surprised when Elena was willing to give him pleasure without taking it herself. There were times after their excesses when he was tired, less potent, and yet wanted to repeat the sensation of annihilation. Then he would stir her with caresses, with an agility of the hands that approached masturbation. Meanwhile her own hands would circle around his penis like a delicate spider with knowing fingertips, which touched the most hidden nerves of response. Slowly, the fingers closed upon the penis, at first stroking its flesh shell; then feeling the inrush of dense blood stretching it; feeling the slight swell of the nerves, the sudden tautness of the muscles; feeling as if they were playing upon a stringed instrument. By the degree of tautness Elena knew when Pierre could not sustain sufficient hardness to penetrate her, she knew when he could only respond to her nervous fingers, when he wanted to be masturbated, and soon his own pleasure would slow down the activity of his hands on her. Then he would be drugged by her hands, close his eyes and abandon himself to her caresses. Once or twice he would try, as if in sleep, to continue the motion of his own hands, but then he lay passively, to feel better the knowing manipulations, the increasing tension. “Now, now,” he would murmur. “Now.” This meant that her hand must become swifter to keep pace with the fever pulsing within him. Her fingers ran in rhythm with the quickening blood beats, as his voice begged, “Now, now, now.” Blind to all but his pleasure, she bent over him, her hair falling, her mouth near his penis, continuing the motion of her hands and at the same time licking the tip of the penis each time it passed within reach of her tongue—this, until his body began to tremble and raised itself to be consumed by her hands and mouth, to be annihilated, and the semen would come, like little waves breaking on the sand, one rolling upon another, little waves of salty foam unrolling on the beach of her hands. Then she enclosed the spent penis tenderly in her mouth, to cull the precious liquid of love. His pleasure gave her such a joy that she was surprised when he began to kiss her with gratitude, as he said, “But you, you didn’t have any pleasure.” “Oh, yes,” said Elena, in a voice he could not doubt. She marveled at the continuity of their exaltation. She wondered when their love would enter a period of repose.