Longing

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 136 of 170 · 20 per page

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Alice would be twenty-five. They would all be celebrating the turning of the year, today, without me - wondering, perhaps, where I was, and how I did; and Kitty and Walter might be doing the same. I thought: Let them wonder. When Mrs Milne raised her glass at the dinner-table, and wished the three of us all the luck of the Season and the New Year, I gave her a smile, and then a kiss upon the cheek. ‘What a Christmas!’ she said. ‘Here I am, with my two best girls beside me. What a lucky day it was for me and Grace, Nance, the day you knocked upon our door!’ Her eyes glistened a little; she had said this sort of thing before, but never so feelingly. I knew what she was thinking. I knew she had begun to look upon me as a kind of daughter — as a sister, anyway, to her real daughter: a kindly older sister who might be relied upon, perhaps, to care for Gracie when she herself was dead and gone ... The idea, at that moment, made me shiver - and yet I had no other plans; no other family, now; no sister of my own; and certainly no sweetheart. So, ‘What a lucky day it was for me,’ I answered. ‘If only everything might stay just as it is, for ever!’ Mrs Milne blinked her tears away and took my soft white hand in her old, hardened one. Gracie gazed at us, pleased, but distracted by the splendours of the day, her hair shining in the candle-light like gold. That night I went as usual to Leicester Square. There are gents there, looking for renters, even at Christmas. The trade is poor, though, in the winter months. The fogs and the early darkness are kind to the furtive; but no one likes unbuttoning himself when there are icicles upon the wall — nor did I much care for kneeling on slippery cobbles, or wandering around the West End in a short jacket merely for the sake of showing off my lovely bum and the roll of the hankie at the fork of my trousers.

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

  Building on these and other evolutionary accounts, I think it’s appropriate to widen the spotlight further still, to illuminate not just either the smiler or the smilee , but instead the emerging connection between the two people who come to share a smile. One person’s sincere, heartfelt smile can trigger a powerful and reverberating state between two people, one characterized by the trio of love’s features: a now shared positive emotion, a synchrony of actions and biochemistry, and a feeling of mutual care. Put succinctly, smiles may well have evolved to make love, to create positivity resonance. Love, then, requires connection. This means that when you’re alone, thinking about those you love, reflecting on past loving connections, yearning for more, or even when you’re practicing loving-kindness meditation or writing an impassioned love letter, you are not in that moment experiencing true love. It’s true that the strong feelings you experience when by yourself are important and absolutely vital to your health and well-being. But they are not (yet) shared, and so they lack the critical and undeniably physical ingredient of resonance. Physical presence is key to love, to positivity resonance. The problem is that all too often, you simply don’t take the time that’s needed to truly connect with others. To the contrary, contemporary society, with its fast-changing technology and oppressive workloads, baits you to speed through your day at a pace that’s completely antithetical to connection. Feeling pressured to accomplish more each day, you multitask just to stay afloat. Any given moment finds you plotting your next move. What’s next on your never-ending to-do list? What do you need and from whom? Increasingly, you converse with others through e-mails, texts, tweets, and other ways that don’t require speaking, let alone seeing one another. Yet these can’t fulfill your body’s craving for connection. Love requires you to be physically and emotionally present. It also requires that you slow down. My second-born was such a good sleeper that my husband or I could place him in his crib awake and he’d happily drift off to sleep all on his own. Our firstborn was altogether different. He needed to be in our arms while he drifted off. He also needed a particular motion, one that we couldn’t achieve in the comfort of a rocking chair, but only by walking. For at least the first year of his life, then, my husband or I would slowly pace across the tiny nursery, holding him in our arms, for up to thirty minutes or more. He trained us well.

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

  He now adds that in so doing he gains a new power for the achievement of that purpose, thus further justifying his course. Saying that it is no longer “I” that live, he implies that under law it was the “J” that lived, and the emphatic é¢y# is the same as in Rom. 715-20, There, indeed, it stands in vv.!7 2° in direct antithesis to the duaptia which is inherited from the past (cf. Rom. 5”), here over against the Christ who is the power for good in the life of one who, leaving law, turns to him in faith. But the éyo is the same, the natural man having good impulses and willing the good which the law commands, but opposed by the inherited evil impulse and under law unable to do the good. On the significance of the expression €v €uol, see Rom. 8% 1 t Cor. 216 Cols 127-29 Eph. 31619, It is, of course, the heavenly Christ of whom he speaks, who in religious experience is not distinguishable from the Spirit of God (cf. chap. 51% 18 2), With this spiritual being Paul feels himself to be living in such intimate fellowship, by him his whole life is so controlled, that he conceives him to be resident in him, imparting to him im- pulse and power, transforming him morally and working through him for and upon other men. Cf. 41°. Substantially the same fact of fellowship with Christ by which he becomes the con- trolling factor of the life is expressed, with a difference of form 138 GALATIANS of thought rather than of essential conception of the nature of the relation, by the phrase €v Xpio7@, which is more frequent in Paul than év euod. Cf. 1 326 28 54, and Frame on 1 Thes. 1}, and references there given to modern literature. 5 dé viv 60 ev capi, év wiote $@ “and the life that I now live in the flesh, I live in faith.” The sentence is continuative and epexegetic of the preceding, explaining the life which, despite his preceding affirmation that he is no longer living, he obviously still lives, by declaring that it is not an independent life of his own, but a life of faith, of dependence on the Son of God. See below.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  I didn’t want, afterward, just a memory. Memory would inevitably mar the truth with the vanity of nostalgia and the self-pity of lost desire. I wanted documentation, like a police log, which noted at the time—or moments later, an hour at most—the details of the crime, the crime of breaking and entering my ass, my heart. This record would say: this did happen, this did indeed come to pass in my own life, under my own watch. Besides, if I didn’t write it all down, no one would ever believe it—least of all me. I didn’t believe it two hours after he left my bed. So I wrote it all down to make it last longer. To make it real. Words seemed the only way to mark the spot, to preserve my transitory experience of eternity. This is a testamentary document. Do not miss the message, distracted by the profanity of the act. I am, you see, a woman who has been in search of surrender my whole life—to find something, someone, to whom I could subsume my ego, my will, my miserable mortality. I tried various religions and various men. I even tried a religious man. And then he found me, the agnostic who demanded my submission. “Bend over,” he’d say, gently, firmly. I can hear it now—echoing in the bowels of my being. Ass-fucking is the great anti-romantic gesture—unless of course, like me, your idea of romance begins on your knees with your face in a pillow. Poetry, flowers, and promises till-death-do-us-part have no place in the backland. Ass-entry involves the hard edge of truth, not the soft folds of sentimentality inherent in romantic love. But butt-fucking is more intimate than pussy-fucking. You risk showing your shit, as metaphor and reality. You let a man into your bowels—your deepest space, the space that all of your life you are taught to ignore, hide, keep quiet about—and consciousness is born. Who needs diamonds, pearls, and furs? Those who’ve never been where I have been. The promised land, the Kingdom. If you can let a man ass-fuck you—and only the truly sensitive lover should have that privilege—you will learn to trust not only him but yourself, totally out of control. And beyond control lies God. Humiliation is my greatest devil, but when the eye of my terror is entered, I experience my fear as unfounded. It is through this physical surrender, this forbidden pathway, that I have found my self, my voice, my spirit, my courage—and the cackle of the crone. This is no feminist treatise about equality. This is the truth about the beauty of submission. The power in submission. To me, you see, I have happened upon the great cosmic joke, God’s supreme irony. Enter the exit. Paradise waits. BEFORE THE SEARCH

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  You’re not getting enough sex, are you?” Vix laughed. “Maybe I look tired from too much.” “No,” Caitlin said. “Not enough. I can always tell. Are you seeing anyone?” “I’ve only been in the city a few months.” “A few months can be a long time. It used to feel like a long time when we were kids. Sometimes I wish we were twelve again. Don’t you?” “No. I wouldn’t want to go through all that twice.” At the Carlyle Caitlin collapsed on the sofa in the living room. “Do you realize I left Buenos Aires twenty-two hours ago and I haven’t really slept or had a proper meal since?” She picked up the phone and ordered dinner for two—shrimp and scallops over linguine, an arugula and radicchio salad, lemon tarts for dessert. While they waited she opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured them each a glass. “I want to hear everything about your work.” But when Vix began to talk Caitlin’s eyes glazed over and Vix could tell she wasn’t really that interested. Or maybe she was as genuinely tired as she claimed because halfway through dinner she put down her plate, stretched out on the sofa, and fell asleep. Vix covered Caitlin with a blanket, finished her meal, and carried the plates of uneaten food to the tiny kitchen, where she set them in the empty fridge. Then she turned out the lights and sat in the darkness watching Caitlin sleep, the beautiful face relaxed, the long, lithe body curled up like a cat. Later, on her way to the bedroom, she touched Caitlin’s hair, touched her cool cheek, the way she’d dreamed of touching her when they were children. The next day Caitlin slept till noon. Vix had already finished the Times crossword puzzle and one of the lemon tarts left over from dinner. “Thanks for last night,” Caitlin said when she awoke. “I didn’t do anything.” “Yes, you did. You let me sleep.” She wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Oh good. You saved everything.” She came back with a plateful of cold linguine. “So now I want to hear all about your life,” she said, slurping up a mouthful, “starting with Bru’s proposal.” “There’s not that much to tell.” “But he gave you a ring and you said no?” Caitlin prompted. “I said I wasn’t ready.” “It’s supposed to be guys who aren’t ready … guys who can’t commit.” “I guess I’m an exception to the rule.” “You surprise me. I always thought you’d wind up married to him with a houseful of kids by the time you were thirty … leading an incredibly boring, ordinary life.” “How could I? I signed the NBO pact, remember?” Caitlin laughed. “NBO or die! So you’re really over him?” “Yes, totally!” She was pleased at how sure of herself she sounded, considering that she’d called him just weeks ago, on a night she’d felt so blue, so alone, she could hardly bear it.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Moderadoras: Traductoras Correctoras Revisión Final: Diseño: PLAYLIST SINOPSIS CAPÍTULO 1 CAPÍTULO 2 CAPÍTULO 3 CAPÍTULO 4 CAPÍTULO 5 CAPÍTULO 6 CAPÍTULO 7 CAPÍTULO 8 CAPÍTULO 9 CAPÍTULO 10 CAPÍTULO 11 CAPÍTULO 12 CAPÍTULO 13 CAPÍTULO 14 CAPÍTULO 15 CAPÍTULO 16 CAPÍTULO 17 CAPÍTULO 18 CAPÍTULO 19 CAPÍTULO 20 CAPÍTULO 21 CAPÍTULO 22 CAPÍTULO 23 CAPÍTULO 24 CAPÍTULO 25 CAPÍTULO 26 CAPÍTULO 27 CAPÍTULO 28 CAPÍTULO 29 EPÍLOGO SOBRE EL AUTOR “Addicted to Love” by Robert Palmer “All She Wants to Do Is Dance” by Don Henley “Bad Medicine” by Bon Jovi “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen “Guys My Age” by Hey, Violet “Hurts So Good” by John Mellencamp “I Love Rock ‘n Roll” by Joan Jett & The Blackhearts “I’m on Fire” by Bruce Springsteen “Jessie’s Girl” by Rick Springfield “Pity Party” by Melanie Martinez “Poison” by Alice Cooper “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard “Run to You” by Bryan Adams “The Girl Gets Around” by Sammy Hagar “The Distance” by Cake “Cuando creces, muere tu corazón”. Allison Reynolds, The Breakfast Club De la autora éxito en ventas del New York Times, Penélope Douglas, llega una nueva historia de amor prohibido... Él me recogió cuando no tenía otro lugar a donde ir. Él no me utiliza, me lastima o se olvida de mí. No me trata como si no fuera nada, me subestima o me hace sentir insegura. Él me recuerda, se ríe conmigo y me mira. Él me escucha, me protege y me ve. Puedo sentir sus ojos sobre mí en la mesa del desayuno, y mi corazón late tan fuerte cuando lo escucho estacionar en la entrada después del trabajo. Tengo que detener esto. No puede suceder. Mi hermana me dijo una vez que no hay hombres buenos, y si encuentras uno, él probablemente no esté disponible. Solo que Pike Lawson no es el que no está disponible. Yo soy. La llevé, porque pensé que yo estaba ayudando. Ella cocinaba algunas comidas y limpiaba un poco. Fue un arreglo fácil. A medida que pasan los días, sin embargo, se está convirtiendo en algo menos fácil. Debo evitar que mi mente se desvíe hacia ella y dejar de contener la respiración cada vez que me tropiezo con ella en la casa. No puedo tocarla, y no debería desearlo. Sin embargo, cuanto más encuentro mi camino cruzando el de ella, más se está convirtiendo en parte de mí. Pero no somos libres de ceder a esto. Ella tiene diecinueve años y yo tengo treinta y ocho. Y el padre de su novio. Desafortunadamente, ambos se mudaron a mi casa. *BIRTHDAY GIRL es un romance independiente y contemporáneo apto para mayores de 18 años.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Después de un largo rato, trago saliva. —Buenas noches —digo. Pero antes de llegar a la sala de estar, escucho su voz a mis espaldas. —¿Qué quisiste decir con “en un buen sentido”? Sus ojos están sobre mí de nuevo, y levanto la esquina de mi boca en una pequeña sonrisa. No estoy seguro de qué decir que no suene completamente inapropiado. Finalmente, simplemente me decido por soltar la respuesta más sencilla, dándome la vuelta y dirigiéndome hacia las escaleras. —Me gusta hablar contigo —digo por encima de mi hombro. ¿Me gusta hablar contigo? ¿Qué he dicho que fuera tan fascinante? Resoplo, sacudiendo mi cabeza mientras pelo las patatas para la cena. Tal vez es una falta de opciones. ¿Ha vivido solo durante tanto tiempo que cualquier conversación parece interesante? No tenemos absolutamente nada en común. Pero, la verdad es... me encantó escucharlo. ¿Por qué deseo tanto gustarle? Y también, ¿por qué la fiesta era el último lugar donde quería estar anoche cuando me di cuenta que él no estaría allí? Levanto mi mirada y lo veo en el patio trasero a través de la ventana frente a mí. Trabaja recortando el árbol junto a la valla que separa su patio del de Cramer, sosteniendo un largo aparato de mano que se extiende hacia arriba hasta las ramas altas. Mencioné que no está llegando suficiente sol al jardín, así que se ocupó de resolver el problema. Sin siquiera habérselo pedido. Me encanta el jardín más de lo que se lo admito. Es como mi propio espacio pequeño y todavía estará ahí después que me vaya. Es reconfortante. Las semillas están plantadas y los aspersores riegan la tierra durante unos minutos todas las mañanas y todas las noches puntualmente. Ha comenzado a gustarme escucharlos encenderse a primera hora, cuando todavía está oscuro y soy la única persona despierta y en la cocina con mi café. Todo está comenzando a sentirse familiar y cálido aquí. Como un hogar. Corto la piel de la patata, con dureza y fuerza. Típico. Siempre me apego a las cosas que no son para siempre. La idea de mi madre regresando cuando era pequeña, Nick, Jay, mi apartamento y el deseo de hacer un hogar para mí... Me sorprendo de cuán absolutamente patética sigo siendo. Clavo el cuchillo en la tabla de cortar y saco de la bolsa unas cuantas patatas más. Y para empeorar las cosas, no he podido dejar de pensar sobre anoche en todo el día y la fiesta es lo último de ello. El pastel de cumpleaños, las cintas, bromear con él... La forma en que recordó que tenía que soplar una vela y pedir un deseo. Un revoloteo alcanza mi corazón y sonrío, luego frunzo el ceño, confundida y no queriendo esos sentimientos. Apagué el cerillo anoche, deseando lo mismo que deseé en el cine aquella noche. Me encantó cómo me sentí en ese momento y esperaba poder sentirme de ese modo todos los días. Eso es todo lo que quería.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Soy bueno en algunas cosas, ¿no? Inclina mi barbilla hacia atrás y se sumerge en mi cuello, su boca caliente besa y muerde. Escalofríos se extienden por mis brazos, y jadeo. —Cole… Bien, sí. No eres completamente terrible en todo. Siempre ha sido capaz de hacerme sonreír, y es bueno besando. Solo desearía que lo hiciera más en casa. No me ha estado tocando mucho últimamente. Y ahora saldrá de nuevo esta noche. Giro la cabeza, lo beso y tengo hambre de la conexión, pero luego me aparto rápidamente, empujándolo con una sonrisa. —No aquí —lo regaño. Me giro y quito un par de botellas de cerveza de la barra, tirándolas. —Lo siento mucho, ¿sabes? —me dice a la oreja—. No quise que nos echaran de allí y nos pusieran en esta situación con mi padre. Asiento, bastante segura que lo dice en serio. Es buena persona, y lo he visto en su mejor momento. En este momento, está en una mala racha, pero estuvo a mi lado cuando nadie más lo estuvo, así que quiero creer que se enderezará. Miro a Jay, recordando cómo Cole fue mi único amigo después de romper con ese imbécil. Todos los demás se pusieron de parte de Jay. —Entonces, ¿mi padre es amable contigo? —pregunta, alejándose y soltándome. —Por supuesto. ¿Por qué no lo sería? Se encoge de hombros. —Solo estoy asegurándome. Antes solía ser un imbécil. Engañaba mucho a mi madre, y por eso no nos llevamos bien. —Hace una pausa y luego agrega—: Solo para explicar la tensión que probablemente sientas entre nosotros. ¿Engañar? ¿Por qué no me dijo esto antes? Jesús. Sin embargo, Pike no parece ser de esa forma. No me parece tan superficial. Pero las personas crecen y cambian. Quizás fue un hombre diferente hace veinte años. Pero espera… —Pensé que dijiste que tus padres se separaron cuando tenías dos —le pregunto. Si era tan joven, ¿cómo lo recordaría? —Sí. —Empieza a caminar hacia el final de la barra—. Solo sé lo que me dijo ella. Al parecer no era bonito, así que no le creas ninguna mierda. Le gusta presionar a las mujeres, lo que probablemente sea la razón por la que todavía está soltero. Bueno, su padre sí parecía confundido hoy cuando trató de decirme que me quedara en casa, y me planté en mi sitio. Creo que está acostumbrado a que la gente siga sus órdenes. La última declaración de Cole suena como verdadera. —Vamos a ir al Cue —me dice Cole, abriendo la partición y caminando hacia el otro lado de la barra—. Te veré en casa. —No llegues tarde —murmuro. Su turno no comienza hasta las diez de la mañana, pero quiero verlo cuando llegue a casa. No hemos tenido mucho tiempo juntos hoy.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Había tenido la idea después de enlodarnos y notar cómo la manguera había hecho más barro, así que decidí que sería divertido poner una caja de piedras lisas junto a la manguera, así ahora podemos estar de pie con la manguera funcionado y mantener nuestros pies limpios al mismo tiempo. También drena el agua excepcionalmente bien, y será práctica. Cuando vayamos a enlodarnos de nuevo. Ha pasado una semana desde esa noche, y seis días desde que los hijos de Kyle estuvieron de visita nadando, y he intentado transformar lo que pasó entre nosotros, en solo un extraño accidente por estar despechada y vulnerable por atención o algo así, pero eso no ha evitado que crezca lo que he empezado a sentir por él. Es un enamoramiento. Estamos a solas demasiado tiempo, y es comprensible que formemos un lazo. Con suerte, asistir a esta fiesta del barrio, donde llevamos comida para compartir, salir de la casa y estar cerca de otras personas, pondrá las cosas en perspectiva nuevamente. —Y no es tocino de pavo, ¿verdad? —espeta, de repente. ¿Ah? —¿En los rollitos? —aclara, y puedo ver por el rabillo de mis ojos, que me está mirando. Jesús, ¿todavía está pensando en la comida? —Y no le pusiste a hurtadillas nada extraño, como germen de trigo o usaste coliflor en lugar de papas reales en la ensalada de papas como lo hacen algunas de esas malditas dietas bajas en calorías ¿verdad? —continúa. Estallo en carcajadas, dejando caer mi cabeza hacia atrás, mi teléfono cae en mi regazo y cierro mis ojos. Oh, Dios mío. —Jordan, lo digo en serio —me regaña—. He estado esperando esto toda la semana. Mi cuerpo se convulsiona cuando sacudo la cabeza y sonrío. Él es tan raro. Y me divierte que anhele las cosas que hice con tanta vehemencia. Termino riéndome en silencio y entierro mi nariz en mi teléfono otra vez. —Todo es grasoso, salado y delicioso —le digo—. No te preocupes. Te voy a dar un día libre de dieta. Puedes obstruir tus arterias hasta el cansancio. Siento cómo asiente. —Bien. —Hay una breve pausa y luego vuelve a hablar—. Si te sientes incómoda, avísame. Puedo llevarte a casa. —Estaré bien —respondo—. Hablo con gente todo el tiempo en el trabajo. Sé cómo hacer conversación. Dutch y su esposa nos invitaron a Pike, Cole y a mí, pero Cole dijo que tenía que trabajar un turno extra hoy y que no podría venir. Pero cuando estoy revisando la página principal, me encuentro una foto de Patrick’s Last Ditch, la súper tienda de conveniencia a las afueras de la ciudad, y reconozco el automóvil de Cole en la estación de gasolina. Es su publicación. ¡Salimos de la ciudad por el día! ¡Yuhuuuuu! Trabajando, mi trasero. Pero sí parece inusualmente ambicioso por parte de él.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  In Paris …” Vix cut her off. “Everything’s in bloom.” Caitlin laughed. “It’s so good to see you! I miss you every single day of my life.” Vix had been a wreck, charged with nervous anticipation all day, like a child expecting the return of a long-lost parent. If Caitlin felt Vix’s cold shoulder, punishment for having abandoned her in the first place, she didn’t show it. “I have so much to tell you,” she said, “but it will have to wait until after the party. You’ll spend the night, won’t you?” “I didn’t bring …” “Never mind. I’ll give you a toothbrush. Do you still gag?” “Only if I stick it down my throat.” “I wasn’t talking about toothbrushes.” “I was.” Caitlin grabbed Vix’s arm and led her through the crowd already gathered inside the house. “Fifty guests for fifty years. Is that cute or what? Sharkey’s here and Daniel but I don’t think Gus made it. What do you think of my hair? I hate it. I’m letting it grow. Lamb doesn’t look fifty, does he?” Vix began to melt. All through the buffet supper Caitlin clung to her. “I need you tonight. Don’t desert me. This is so hard.” “What is?” “Being here. I feel like everyone’s judging me.” Vix couldn’t imagine who might be judging her or why Caitlin would suddenly care. SharkeyHE’S JET-LAGGED . Feels like shit. Took the red-eye from L.A. where the big guys at Cal Tech tried to convince him to do his graduate work. But M.I.T.’s after him, too. He’s going to meet with them on Monday. Until then he’s not going to make his decision. Abby’s asked him to make a toast to Lamb. Something short, she said. Something humorous. He’s promised to try. He’s been rehearsing it in his mind. He hates the idea of standing up in front of all those people. When the time comes he raises his glass of champagne. To Lamb … he says, a father who knows when to leave well enough alone . The crowd grows quiet, like he’s said something disrespectful when he meant to convey how lucky he feels that Lamb never pushed, that Lamb accepted him as he was, as he is. He was just trying to thank him, that’s all. So how come they’re all looking at him like that? Before he has the chance to figure it out Lamb is at his side, his arm around his shoulders. Thanks, Shark , he says. No father could ask for a better son! Then it’s Caitlin’s turn and every guy in the room is drooling. And she’s smiling at all of them, letting them think it’s a possibility. To Lamb … she says, the best man I’ve ever known. And I’ve known more than my share . DanielAT LEAST he stands up and makes a proper toast, which is more than he can say for the bitch .

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Se sienta en silencio, aparentando como si estuviera pensando, y la urgencia de tomarla entre mis brazos me recorre. Ahora mismo. —Cuando mi hermana se graduó de la secundaria, la encontramos —explica— , e hicimos un viaje por carretera ese verano para visitarla. —¿Cómo resultó? Se encoge de hombros. —Bien, supongo. Estaba trabajando de camarera, tenía un pequeño apartamento y estaba viviendo su vida. Estaba encantada de vernos. Ahora que habíamos crecido y no necesitábamos muchos cuidados, supongo —añade. Finalmente me mira, portando una sonrisa triste. —¿Le preguntaste por qué se fue? —pregunto. Pero simplemente sacude la cabeza. —No, solía querer saberlo, pero luego cuando la conocí, realmente ya no me importaba. —Se detiene y luego añade—: Ella no me gustó. La observo, permaneciendo en silencio. ¿Cole tiene esos pensamientos sobre mí? —Así que, ¿has estado casado? —Su voz es ligera, y me doy cuenta que está intentando cambiar de tema. Me enderezo, respirando profundamente y poniendo los ojos en blanco para mí mismo. —La madre de Cole y yo no duramos mucho tiempo después que él nació —le digo—, y no lo sé… me quedé atrapado intentando crear un sustento… un futuro. Me acostumbré a estar solo. Deslizo mis dedos por mi cuero cabelludo, finalmente apoyando mi cabeza en mi mano y mirándola. Pero parece escéptica, estudiándome con cierta cautela en sus ojos, como si no creyera que esa sea la razón por la que todavía estoy soltero. —Hubo oportunidades de casarme —le aseguro—, pero supongo que incluso en la secundaria nunca quise ser parte de las estadísticas y hacer lo que se supone que debía hacer, ¿sabes? Graduarme, conseguir un trabajo, casarme, tener hijos… morir. Dejo salir una risa, pero sorprendentemente, ahora las palabras salen con facilidad. —Mi abuelo, quien también fumaba cigarros —aclaro—, murió cuando yo tenía nueve años, pero todavía recuerdo esa fiesta en casa que mis padres organizaron cuando mi padre terminó la universidad. Estaba en sus treinta, el primero de la familia en ir a la universidad, así que fue algo importante. Se recuesta, sosteniendo la botella con ambas manos y escuchando. —Creo que tenía unos seis años en aquel entonces —le cuento—. Mis abuelos estaban allí, y todo el mundo estaba hablando y riendo, pero lo que más recuerdo es a mi abuelo, de sesenta años, metro ochenta de altura y ciento quince kilos de peso haciendo temblar los cimientos de la casa porque estaba bailando Jump De Pointer Sisters. Rompe en una sonrisa. Sí, puedes imaginarlo. —Mi abuela observaba desde la mesa, riendo con los demás con esa mirada de felicidad. —Trago saliva, recordando la gran sonrisa en su rostro—. Todo el mundo estaba simplemente tan feliz, incluso a su edad, seguían creciendo, divirtiéndose, siendo tontos… —Me detengo—. No lo sé. Me gustó eso, supongo. — Quieres eso —dice Jordan en voz baja.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Denying myself food all day long while dancing all day long seemed a good place to begin trying, however. At least I was exercising some self-control, making sure that my body would be as svelte as those belonging to the believing girls. I could do that part without God. Just don’t eat until the evening. It felt good. Powerful. With food—or, rather, without food—I could compete with the believers. Why, I could even be thinner than a few of them. I learned early how to transcend pain, deny pain: the bloody toes and strained tendons, the horrid loneliness of being an atheist. Very useful. If I could deny enough, I reasoned, perhaps I could even deny my denial of God. I became a professional dancer at age seventeen and began performing in public eight times a week. It was then that I started crossing myself before going onstage. I had seen the best dancer in all the world do this, and I thought perhaps this was her secret. So I tried it, in the wings, alone, unseen, before an entrance. It was like performing one more step in the ballet. I wanted it to mean something. And it did. Though it did not bring God into my consciousness, it did demonstrate my belief that ritual was the way to invoke Him, in the unlikely event that He should ever be willing to take me on. On tour in Paris one summer, I started collecting rosaries from the antique stores on the Boulevard St. Germain—old ones, with chips in the mother-of-pearl. I figured that if they were old and European they would already be suffused by the faith of previous believers and thus, despite my miserable Darwinism, some of their faith might rub off on me. I wore one as a necklace for a while, though I was told it was sacrilege. No matter, I needed that rosary around my neck, massaging its history into my heathen skin. The rosaries led me to the saints. By age eighteen, I was reading voraciously about them all—Francis, Thomas, Jerome, the two Teresas—but I then honed in on the women who starved, who bled, who beat themselves with birch branches, who licked the oozing wounds of lepers, who woke up screaming in the middle of the night, pierced by God’s love. This was really interesting stuff. I briefly entertained the idea of switching professions from ballet dancing—already rather nunlike in its dedications—to being a saint. Certainly nothing seemed more worthwhile, and sainthood appeared to demand the disciplines with which I already had substantial experience: self-control and self-denial. Just how much pain and suffering could I endure, could I choose, could I cause for myself? Testing my strength in this way sounded immensely attractive.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Lo único que sé, es que me estoy quedando sin ideas. Ya construí una mesa de picnic con hielera integrada en la mitad, la pinté y agregué las bancas. También había puesto un pozo para fogatas, un camino de piedra que llevaba de la puerta trasera al portón de atrás, una cama de flores, antorchas alrededor de la alberca, una pérgola, una hamaca, un pequeño estanque con un jardín de piedras. Seguía moviéndome de un proyecto al otro, para no tener tiempo de pensar, no voy a hacerlo. Supongo que lo disfrutaré cuando termine. —Se ve diferente aquí atrás —dice alguien. Miró hacia arriba, viendo a Kyle Cramer de pie en el balcón de su habitación y mirando hacia mi patio. ¿Este tipo tiene obsesión conmigo o qué? ¿Por qué siempre está intentando hablarme? —¿Tienes tiempo libre, huh? —pregunta—. Noté que ha estado más tranquilo en las últimas semanas. Le dirijo otra mirada, dándole una sonrisa de cortesía. Quizás si le respondo, me dejará en paz. Y sí, ha estado más tranquilo. Hasta ahora. —Entonces, um —comienza, y gruño entre dientes—. Te vi a ti y a Jordan una noche. Me detengo y vuelvo a levantar los ojos, mirándolo. Calor sube por mi cuello al escuchar su nombre. No he hablado sobre ella con nadie en meses. —Mi cocina está frente a la tuya —explica—, era tarde, y ustedes estaban en el lavaplatos. Mi cuerpo se calienta, recordando eso. La vista de ella caminando desnuda a la cocina una noche, y como no la dejé tomar un bocadillo de media noche hasta que yo tuviera el mío. Estaba tan hermosa. Me enderezo, apretando los dientes. —¿Observaste? —No. —Suelta como si nunca se atreviera. Y luego se encoje de hombros—. Quiero decir, lo hubiera hecho si no hubieran terminado en el suelo eventualmente y fuera de mi línea de visión. Continua con una risa, y si pudiera volar, estaría sobre su cerca en este momento, estrangulándolo. Parece notar mi ira e intenta calmarme. —Escucha, no pretendía ver nada, ¿está bien? Sabes, podrías intentar permanecer alejado de las ventanas. —Mueve la cabeza—. Solo digo que creo que es la primera vez que te vi sonreír. Ciertamente parece que te hizo feliz. En realidad no podría creer que ella no fuera capaz de hacer feliz a cualquier otro hombre. —Cállate de una jodida vez —murmuro, inclinándome y recogiendo las herramientas, tirándolas en la pequeña caja. ¿De verdad? ¿Cómo pudimos ser tan descuidados? Él es la última persona cuyos ojos quiero sobre ella. —Entonces, ¿a dónde fue? —pregunta—. ¿No funcionó para ustedes? Lo ignoro, reuniendo mi mierda, para poder escapar adentro. —¿Cómo lo echaste a perder, hombre? —Se ríe, tomando un sorbo de su cerveza—. Si encuentras a una mujer así, joven y ardiente con un cuerpo en buena forma, no la pierdes. Lanzo la llave al suelo, moviéndome hacia adelante sin tener a dónde ir. —Voy a patear tu trasero. Cierra la maldita boca. —Entonces, está disponible ahora, ¿verdad? —Hijo de perra —gruño.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

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

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero de vez en cuando, aparecía en mi cabeza cuando hacía dip de taco para Danni durante un largo turno del sábado, o escuchaba una canción o cuando veía mi impermeable aún con manchas de lodo de cuando jugamos. Ni siquiera he encendido ninguna vela, porque no sé qué desear cuando tenga que apagarlas. El desear sentir lo que sentía cuando estaba con él, vuelve a darle poder sobre mí, pero en el fondo, es lo que todavía quiero. Sentirme bien una vez más. Solo que ahora tendrá que ser con alguien más. —Entonces… —Danni empuja otro banco—. ¿Tus clases de otoño no inician pronto? Salgo del juego gratis, evitando su mirada. —Sí. Espera a que diga más, pero no estoy segura de qué decir. Mi apoyo financiero llegó, así que mis clases ya están pagadas y tengo lo suficiente para conseguir un departamento cuando regrese a casa, pero se siente casi como dar un paso hacia atrás. Él llamó cuando me fui, pero después de unos días dejó de hacerlo, y no he escuchado nada desde entonces. Odio admitirlo, pero me pregunto demasiado qué está haciendo, si está viendo a alguien más, si me extraña… Si voy a casa, puede que me encuentre con él. ¿Cómo será? Estoy orgullosa de mí por mantenerme alejada, pero aun así me siento avergonzada porque siga en mi cabeza, permaneciendo todo el tiempo. Todavía no lo supero, y hasta que pueda soplar una vela y tenga algo mejor que desear, no creo que mi cabeza se encuentre en el lugar adecuado para regresar todavía. Tengo miedo. —Sabes que puedes quedarte por siempre —dice Danni—. De verdad. Mi universidad no es mala. Puedes transferirte. —Gracias —le digo—. Pero necesito regresar. Sé que tengo que hacerlo. Solo que no he querido pensar al respecto. —No quieres verlo. Me encuentro con sus ojos, sus lentes con borde negro cayendo por su nariz, de nuevo. —No quiero ser quien era cuando me fui —aclaro. —No lo eres. —Recarga su codo sobre el mostrador, descansando la barbilla en su mano—. Tienes permitido estar herida. Pero no le permitiste derrumbarte — señala—. Eso es lo que nos hace fuertes. No lo has llamado, y nos hemos divertido. No arruinó tu verano, porque no se lo permitiste. Sí. Nos emborrachamos en el estanque, cantando mala música mientras conducíamos por el pueblo en su Pontiac Sunbird convertible del ’92, y tuvimos unas fiestas de piscina donde me reí un poco. —Y no es como si me hubiera rastreado tampoco, entonces… —le digo—. Supongo que ambos sabíamos que era tiempo prestado. Era solo una aventura. Él tenía razón. Una aventura. Una buena historia que me divertirá mirando en retrospectiva cuando ya no lo ame, y pueda apreciarlo por el sexo que fue. Siento sus ojos sobre mí, porque sabe que estoy mintiéndome a mí misma, pero como una amiga, me permite zambullirme en mi engaño. A veces se necesitan mentiras para sobrevivir, porque la verdad lastima demasiado.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Besides, curiosity killed the cat.” But satisfaction brought her back again, Vix thought, not that she’d dare say it out loud. If she did, Tawny would shout, That’s enough , Victoria! So she quit asking questions. What was the point? Sometimes she tried to imagine Tawny on the day she graduated from high school, boarding the first bus out of Tulsa and traveling as far as her money would take her, all the way to Albuquerque, where, thanks to her typing and shorthand skills, which Tawny reminded them of regularly, she found a job working for a young lawyer. Seven years later she was still working for him. By then she was engaged to Ed Leonard, a Sioux City boy, polite and nice-enough looking, whom she’d met at a dance at Kirtland Air Force Base. They were married by a justice of the peace when Ed got out of the service. The young lawyer, who wasn’t that young anymore, threw a party for them in his backyard. Tawny didn’t invite Darlene. Didn’t even tell Ed her mother was living. Then came the dead babies, three in five years, born before they were old enough to breathe on their own. Vix and Lanie used to play The Dead Baby Game the way other kids played A, My Name is Alice, reciting the names Tawny and Ed had chosen for their babies. William Edward, Bonnie Karen, James Howard . They’d just about given up hope when Vix was born, strong and healthy, a survivor. Lanie and Lewis followed. They moved to Santa Fe where Ed landed a job selling insurance. And then they had Nathan. Her father used to joke about making the Millionaire’s Club, selling a million dollars’ worth of insurance in one year. Then he might win a vacation to some exotic resort, maybe even to Hawaii. If he did, he prom ised he’d take all of them. Vix dreamed about that vacation until the insurance company went under and her father was out of work for close to a year. Tawny was lucky to find a job working for the Countess. Even after Ed found a new job as the night manager at La Fonda, the old hotel on the Plaza, Tawny kept hers. “It’s hard enough to make do on both our salaries,” she’d say. The Countess wore suede jodhpurs, blue nail polish, and exotic jewelry. She had five dogs. Nobody knew her exact age. Tawny had to take her to AA meetings. Sometimes, when the Countess fell off the wagon, Tawny would get really mean at home. Vix lay in bed in the room she shared with Lanie, dreaming of the summer to come. She envisioned palm trees swaying in the breeze. She could almost feel the long, sultry nights, hear the beat of reggae music. Fantasy Island or, at the very least, Gilligan’s.

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

  Adapting to this stark change can be like learning to cook for yourself. After decades of having your every meal prepared by parents, and then by dining hall staff, you needed to learn to put the right balance of micronutrients on your plate each day. While the effects getting the balance wrong may not have shown up for months, or even years, you’ve felt those effects nonetheless, in terms of unhealthy changes in weight or health. Think of love as another key micronutrient. How long will it take before you learn to put the right amount of it in your daily diet? It can take years, even decades, for people to learn this vital life lesson: That in the “real world” you are responsible for feeding yourself your own recommended daily value of love. It easily took me two decades to internalize this message, and I still struggle at times to truly live by it. My natural tendencies toward introversion, combined with my socialized tendencies toward workaholism, set me on a life trajectory that was hardly sustainable. By my early forties, my relationships and health began to suffer. I’ve since learned to plan my day and week around love and other opportunities to feel good. I also stay open to those impromptu chances to forge meaningful connections with the people at work and in my community, and even with complete strangers when I’m away from home. Two decades is a long time. I even had the benefit of seeing the facts about positivity stack up on my desk. My wish for you is that it doesn’t take you this long. We now know that whether you truly embrace this life lesson—whether you learn to prioritize and kindle your own sources of love each day—matters a lot: It makes you far more likely to flourish, which not only makes your own life more rewarding but also adds value to those around you. Or, as Jeremy put it, “You can work as hard as you want, but if you are not connecting, you are not going to be successful or happy.” Fortunately, you already have what it takes to “pilot yourself.” Your inborn navigation system, running on positivity, is always available for you to consult, even if at times its readout is rather faint. Consult it wisely and you can pilot yourself in the direction of love, health, and happiness. Love 2.0: The View from Here Love, I’ve argued, is our supreme emotion. It governs all that you feel, think, do, and become. It lifts you toward the higher spiritual altitudes of oceanic oneness. And from these new and higher vantage points, you can better see and appreciate your connections to the larger fabric of life as well as your place and influence within it.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  I was obsessed with my masseur. I tried to fill the time between sessions, wondering, Did I live to see him, or did I see him so I could live? I learned with him that I am most alive, most observant, and most intelligent when sexually engaged. And I experienced for the first time the intense beauty of having a time and place for a lover where sexual pleasure is the mutual purpose, the only conscious intent. After all, you never know where a dinner date is going to end up. So often the conversation runs amok and preempts the possibility of sex afterwards. I like to know when I’m going to have sex—it’s too important to leave to chance. Boundaries around the erotic . . . my theory grew wings. A room, a bed, two bodies, music, no intrusions. This was the life I wanted to explore and did—once a week for over a year. “The frame is a border hermetically sealing-off the object, so that all you are experiencing, all that matters, is within that border,” wrote Joseph Campbell. “It is a sacred field, and you become pure subject for a pure object.” Ugliness, I realized, only enters my love life when real life does. Cars, calls, bills, mortgages, food, family, schedules, money—these are the subjects of controversy and control, and they destroy the erotic bond. Did he love me? Did he fantasize about me? Did he dream of marrying me? Did he wonder if I had other men and hate it? Did I infiltrate all his waking moments? Did he wonder what our kids might look like? If mental obsession is the evidence of love, I don’t think he was in love with me. But he loved me in the time we were together. Did he focus all his attention on me? Was he gentle and nasty and charming and completely devoted to multiplying my pleasures? Oh yes, he loved me all right. And this kind of love became the kind I wanted. I began distrusting mental men, talking men, and love’s verbal declarations. One cannot love by words alone. I had tried that. Giving and receiving words of love, however witty or Shakespearean, is a ruse propounded by poets with inept dicks. One loves by act. Language can clarify and explain and amuse, but it cannot change your being. Experience can. Sure, I was in love with him. Until I wasn’t. I don’t believe love is only real when it endures for many years and is marked by the ring of marriage. My wedding ring had only confined me, robbing me, eventually, of freedom and love alike. Love, for me, exists only in a moment of choice in a moment of time: there is no other manifestation except for the one available right now. Repeating those moments is the key.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Su mirada cae, y puedo ver todo lo que siento en su rostro. Él no odia su vida, adora a su esposa e hijos, pero si pudiéramos regresar y hacer al menos una cosa diferente, sé que ambos lo haríamos. Aquí estamos, sentados, y no estamos seguros de qué más tenemos que esperar. —Mira, hombre. —Levanta sus ojos hacia mí—. Te divertiste con ella. No digo que hayas hecho nada malo. Si el sexo es bueno, entonces disfrutan el uno del otro. Pero debes pensar en el futuro y sabes que no siempre se sentirá así. —Hace una pausa, frunciendo el ceño—. Se despertará en diez años y verá en línea una foto de un amigo de la escuela que está recorriendo Nepal o alguna mierda y mirará su propia vida y pensará en cómo se enganchó con dos niños en esta pequeña ciudad y se casó con un hombre de casi cincuenta años cuya vida está a más de la mitad de camino. Permanezco en silencio, y el peso de sus palabras en mis entrañas es como ladrillos. —¿Crees que no se arrepentirá de elegirte, sabiendo que sus mejores años casi se han ido? —pregunta. Pero no tengo que responder. Él sabe que tiene razón. En diez años, aún será joven y hermosa, y voy a merecerla incluso menos que ahora. No puedo darle todo lo que ella quiere sin importar lo mucho que mi ego piense lo contrario. Nació para grandes cosas. Es inteligente, fuerte y se merece el mundo. Merece una vida que me pasó hace mucho tiempo. Otro hombre será para ella todo lo que no soy y nunca seré, y aunque esa idea es como ácido en mi boca, estará más feliz por ello. Y sobre todo lo demás, eso es lo que quiero. Ella se hará mayor con otra persona, y esa es la vida que merece. Dutch se va, y cierro el garaje, me dirijo a la casa e inmediatamente subo las escaleras. Me detengo en el dormitorio de Jordan, la puerta se abre y la ligera brisa que sopla fuera de su ventana sopla las hojas del árbol en el patio trasero. Su leve aroma permanece, y la marca que su cuerpo hizo todavía está grabada en la almohada apoyada en su silla. Sin embargo, no entro. No es mi habitación, ya no es mi chica y está por ahí en algún lado, siguiendo con su vida, y necesito hacer lo mismo. Suficiente. Haz lo correcto. Alcanzando la perilla, inhalo su perfume por última vez. Y cierro la puerta. Dos meses después Enrollando la delgada cuerda blanca alrededor de la rueda, tiro de ella viendo como se mueve hacia mí sobre la polea. Me muevo al otro poste de madera que coloqué en el jardín y tiro de esa cuerda, probándola. No tengo idea de por qué estoy poniendo un tendedero.

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

  It’s that ache of sensing that something vital is missing from your life; a deep thirst for more. More meaning, more connection, more energy—more something . Longing is that feeling that courses through your body just before you decide that you’re restless, lonely, or unhappy. Longing like this is not just another mental state. It’s deeply physical. Your body craves some essential nutrient that it’s not getting, yet you can’t quite put your finger on what it is. Sometimes you can numb this ache with a deep dive into work, gossip, television, or gaming. More often than not, though, these and other attempts to fill the aching void are merely temporary distractions. The longing doesn’t let up. It trails you like a shadow, insistently, making distractions all the more appealing. And distractions abound—that second or third glass of wine, that stream of texts and tweets, that couch and remote control. Odds are, food is abundant in your life. And clean drinking water is as close as the nearest faucet and virtually limitless. You have access to reasonably clean air and adequate shelter. Those basic needs have long been met. What you long for now is far more intangible. What you long for is love. Whether you’re single or not, whether you spend your days largely in isolation or steadily surrounded by the buzz of conversation, love is the essential nutrient that your cells crave: true positivity-charged connection with other living beings. Love, as it turns out, nourishes your body the way the right balance of sunlight, nutrient-rich soil, and water nourishes plants and allows them to flourish. The more you experience it, the more you open up and grow, becoming wiser and more attuned, more resilient and effective, happier and healthier. You grow spiritually as well, better able to see, feel, and appreciate the deep interconnections that inexplicably tie you to others, that embed you within the grand fabric of life. Just as your body was designed to extract oxygen from the earth’s atmosphere, and nutrients from the foods you ingest, your body was designed to love. Love—like taking a deep breath or eating an orange when you’re depleted and thirsty—not only feels great but is also life-giving, an indispensable source of energy, sustenance, and health. When I compare love to oxygen and food, I’m not just taking poetic license.