Surprise

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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

  A cry of surprise and horror escaped from Madame de Lorsange: the girl turned and revealed, together with the loveliest figure imaginable, the most noble, the most agreeable, the most interesting visage, in brief, there were there all the charms of a sort to please, and they were rendered yet a thousand times more piquant by that tender and touching air innocence contributes to the traits of beauty. Monsieur de Corville and his mistress could not suppress their interest in the miserable girl. They approached, they demanded of one of the troopers what the unhappy creature had done. "She is accused of three crimes," replied the constable, "'tis a question of murder, theft and arson; but I wish to tell your lordship that my comrade and I have never been so reluctant to take a criminal into custody; she's the most gentle thing, d'ye know, and seems to be the most honest too." "Oh, la," said Monsieur de Corville, "it might easily be one of those blunders so frequent in the lower courts... and where were these crimes committed ?" "At an inn several leagues from Lyon, it's at Lyon she was tried; in accordance with custom she's going to Paris for confirmation of the sentence and then will be returned to Lyon to be executed." Madame de Lorsange, having heard these words, said in lowered voice to Monsieur de Corville, that she fain would have from the girl's own lips the story of her troubles, and Monsieur de Corville, who was possessed of the same desire, expressed it to the pair of guards and identified himself. The officers saw no reason not to oblige, everyone decided to stay the night at Montargis; comfortable accomodations were called for; Monsieur de Corville declared he would be responsible for the prisoner, she was unbound, and when she had been given something to eat, Madame de Lorsange, unable to control her very great curiosity, and doubtless saying to herself, "This creature, perhaps innocent, is, however, treated like a criminal, whilst about me all is prosperity... I who am soiled with crimes and horrors"; Madame de Lorsange I say, as soon as she observed the poor girl to be somewhat restored, to some measure reassured by the caresses they hastened to bestow upon her, besought her to tell how it had fallen out that she, with so very sweet a face, found herself in such a dreadful plight. "To recount you the story of my life, Madame," this lovely one in distress said to the Countess, "is to offer you the most striking example of innocence oppressed, is to accuse the hand of Heaven, is to bear complaint against the Supreme Being's will, is, in a sense, to rebel against His sacred designs... I dare not..." Tears gathered in this interesting girl's eyes and, after having given vent to them for a moment, she began her recitation in these terms.

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

  My plan, suggested by the advice of Monsieur S***, was to stay there awhile in order to try to find a situation in the town; in the event the letters of recommendation Monsieur S*** had so kindly given me produced no results, I was to return to Lyon. On the second day I was dining at my inn - -'twas what is called table d'hote Ä when I noticed I was being closely scrutinized by a tall, very handsomely attired woman who went under a baroness' title; upon examining her in my turn, I believed I recognized her; we both rose and approached each other, we embraced like two people who once knew each other but cannot remember under what circumstances. Then the baroness drew me aside. "Therese," says she, "am I in error? are you not the person I saved from the Conciergerie ten years ago? have you entirely forgotten your Dubois ?" Little flattered by this discovery, I however replied to it with politeness, but I was dealing with the most subtle, the most adroit woman in contemporary France; there was no way of eluding her. Dubois overwhelmed me with attentions, she said that she, like the entire town, had taken an interest in my fate but that had she known who I really was, she would have resorted to all sorts of measures and made many a representation to the magistrates, amongst whom, she declared, she had several friends. As usual, I was weak, I permitted myself to be led to this woman's room and there I related my sufferings to her. "My dear friend," said she, renewing her embraces, "if I have desired to see you more intimately, it is to tell you I have made my fortune and that all I possess is at your disposal; look here," she said, opening some caskets brimming with gold and diamonds, "these are the fruits of my industry; had I worshiped Virtue like you, I should be in prison today, or hanged."

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Although Brolin, Nathan, and Stone are three of Haggis’s closest male friends, they never talked to him about Scientology. And yet each of the three had an experience in the church, which the others weren’t aware of. Steve Nathan had been hooked up to an E-Meter in the late 1960s by some British Scientologists who were looking for recruits, but he hadn’t been impressed. Oliver Stone didn’t even know Haggis was in Scientology. But for that matter, few knew that Stone had also spent a month in the church. He was a young man just back from Vietnam, full of trouble and questions. He signed up at the church’s New York center in the old Hotel Martinique. “It was like going to college and reading Dale Carnegie, something you do to find yourself.” The difference was that in Scientology there were nice parties and beautiful girls. Scientology didn’t answer his questions; but on the other hand, he noted, “I got laid.” Brolin had known Haggis for many years. They had worked together in television, and Brolin had helped with Haggis’s charities. Brolin and his wife, actress Diane Lane, shared a house in Italy during the summers with Paul and Deborah. One evening, lubricated with grappa, Brolin began recounting a story of a friend who had “infiltrated” Scientology. He wondered why Paul and Deborah were listening stony-faced. When he finished the tale, Deborah finally said, “You know, we’re Scientologists.” “What?” Brolin exclaimed. “When the fuck did that happen?” “A long time ago,” Deborah said. “I am so sorry, I had no idea!” Brolin said. After that, Brolin went with Deborah to a couple of gatherings to hear about Scientology’s opposition to psychotropic drugs. Although Brolin had never talked about it, he had gone to the Celebrity Centre himself, “in a moment of real desperation,” and received spiritual counseling. He quickly decided Scientology wasn’t for him. But he still wondered what the religion did for celebrities like Tom Cruise and John Travolta: “Each has a good head on his shoulders, they make great business decisions, they seem to have wonderful families. Is that because they were helped by Scientology?” Brolin once witnessed Travolta giving a Scientology assist at a dinner party in Los Angeles. Marlon Brando arrived with a cut on his leg. He had been injured while helping a stranded motorist on the Pacific Coast Highway pull his car out of a mudslide, and he was in pain. Travolta offered to help, saying that he had just reached a new level in Scientology, which gave him enhanced abilities. Brando said, “Well, John, if you have powers, then absolutely.” Travolta touched Brando’s leg and they each closed their eyes. Brolin watched, thinking it was bizarre and surprisingly physical. After ten minutes, Brando opened his eyes and said, “That really helped. I actually feel different!” IN 2003, Cruise continued working with Rathbun on his upper levels.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Deborah was summoned to the Celebrity Centre and shown a statement rescinding the decision, although she wasn’t allowed to have a copy of it. WHILE HE WAS RESEARCHING on the Internet, Haggis came upon a series of articles that had run in the St. Petersburg Times beginning in June 2009, titled “The Truth Rundown.” The paper has maintained a special focus on Scientology, since the church maintains such a commanding presence in Clearwater, which is adjacent to St. Petersburg. Although the paper and the church have frequently been at odds, the only interview that David Miscavige has ever given to a newspaper resulted in a rather flattering profile in the Times in 1998. (Since then, Miscavige has not spoken to the press at all.) In the series, Haggis learned for the first time that several of the top managers of the church had quietly defected—including Marty Rathbun. For several years, the word in the Scientology community was that Rathbun had died of cancer. Mike Rinder, the chief spokesperson, and Tom De Vocht, the former landlord of all the church properties in Clearwater, were also speaking out about the abuses that were taking place inside the top tier of management—mainly at the hands of the church leader. Amy Scobee, who had overseen the Celebrity Centre in Los Angeles, pointed out that the reason no one outside of the executive circles knew of the abuse, even other Scientologists like Haggis, was that people were terrified of Miscavige—and not just physically. Their greatest fear was expulsion. “You don’t have any money. You don’t have job experience. You don’t have anything. And he could put you on the streets and ruin you.” Tommy Davis had produced nine senior church executives who told the Times that the abuse had never taken place. Dan Sherman, the church’s official Hubbard biographer and Miscavige’s speechwriter, recounted a scene in which he observed Miscavige talking to an injured sparrow. “It was immensely tender,” Sherman told the reporters. Much of the abuse being alleged had taken place at Gold Base. Haggis had visited the place only once, in the early 1980s, when its existence was still a closely held secret. That was when he was preparing to direct the Scientology commercial that was ultimately rejected. At first glance, it seemed like a spa, beautiful and restful; but he had been put off by the uniforms, the security, and the militarized feel of the place. “At the top of the church, people were whacking folks about like Laurel and Hardy,” Haggis said. He was embarrassed to admit that he had never even asked himself where Rathbun and Rinder had gone. He decided to call Rathbun, who was now living on Galveston Bay in South Texas. Although the two men had never met, they were well known to each other. After being one of the most powerful figures in Scientology, Rathbun was scraping together a living by freelancing stories to local newspapers and selling beer at a ballpark.

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

  Her breasts—perhaps a little too big to be æsthetically beautiful—seemed to belong to one of those voluptuous Venetian courtezans painted by Titian; they stood out plump and hard as if swollen with milk; the protruding nipples, like two dainty pink buds, were surrounded by a brownish halo which looked like the silky fringe of the passion flower. "The powerful line of the hips shewed to advantage the beauty of the legs. Her stomach—so perfectly round and smooth—was half covered with a magnificent fur, as black and as glossy as a beaver's, and yet I could see that she had been a mother, for it was moiré like watered silk. From the yawning, humid lips pearly drops were slowly trickling down. "Though not exactly in early youth, she was no less desirable for all that. Her beauty had all the gorgeousness of the full-blown rose, and the pleasure she evidently could give was that of the incarnadined flower in its fragrant bloom; that bliss which makes the bee which sucks its honey swoon in its bosom with delight. That aphrodisiacal body, as I could see, was made for, and surely had afforded pleasure to, more than one man, inasmuch as she had evidently been formed by nature to be one of Venus' Votaresses. "After thus exhibiting her wonderful beauty to my dazed eyes, she stepped aside and I could see the partner of her dalliance. Though his face was covered with his hands, it was Teleny. There was no mistake about it. "First his god-like figure, then his phallus, which I knew so well, then—I almost fainted as my eyes fell upon it—on his fingers glittered the ring I had given him. "She spoke again. "He drew his hands from off his face. "It was he! It was Teleny—my friend—my lover—my life! "How can I describe what I felt? It seemed to me as if I was breathing fire; as if a rain of glowing ashes was being poured down upon me. "The door was locked. I caught its handle, and shook it as a mighty whirlwind shakes the sails of some large frigate, and then tears them to shreds. I burst it open. "I staggered on the sill. The floor seemed to be giving way under my feet; everything was spinning around me; I was in the very midst of a mighty whirlpool. I caught myself by the door-posts not to fall, for there, to my inexpressible horror, I found myself face to face with—my own mother! "There was a threefold cry of shame, of terror, of despair—a piercing, shrill cry that rang through the still night air, awakening all the inmates of that quiet house from their peaceful slumbers." "And you—what did you do?" "What did I do? I really don't know. I must have said something—I must have done something, but I have not the slightest recollection of what it was.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Do you take me for a reader of trashy novels? No, not Jackie. Suzanne. I’m not familiar with that name, she replied. This time I was shocked. If you tell the students that, they might lynch you. Why? What did she write? Oh, just this little series about games. And hunger . Huh? The Hunger Games ! Oh god. I think I knew that. And you haven’t read the series?? No sir...you can’t judge me for not reading a book written for teenagers. Sure I can, if you are working with teenagers. Which you are! Well, that didn’t happen until just recently! Are you giving them your seal of approval? How should I know? You think I’ve read them?? God, you’re such an ass. Stick with classics, Luke! The bell chimed to let the students into the building. I would have to look up some authors, books that I might have forgotten reading. Yeah, she was an English major also, but she hadn’t read every book ever written. I would find one. And how was James Joyce the determining factor on whether or not I’m an imbecile?? H.G. Wells, I sent next, thinking perhaps science fiction wasn’t her forte. A few of my first period students started making their way into the classroom. “Hey, Mr. H!” a few of them simultaneously said. One of my students, Warren Gold, stopped at the door, saw me, and shouted down the hallway, “Hey guys, Mr. Harper’s back!” I wasn’t entirely sure if he was excited to see me, or warning everyone else that they needed to get to class on time and not expect a substitute again. My phone vibrated. Wells does not belong in the same category as the aforementioned names. But, I begrudgingly read War of the Worlds freshman year. The bell to signify the start of class was about to ring, so I shot out one more name. Maugham was my next attempt. I had read Of Human Bondage in high school because I was bored and found it at the library. I was most definitely not a fan. I HATE Maugham. Hate, hate, hate! Wow...such strong feelings. If you bring him up around me, I’ll spike you in the face with my heel. Fair enough! Frequently bring up Maugham in your presence... There will be serious consequences for breaking my rules, buddy! Oh yeah? Like what? You’ll see. Don’t underestimate me. The morning flew by, thanks to movies and a texting partner that was as into the conversation as I was. My classes were all occupied watching videos, but I had no idea what she was doing over there that allowed her to be on her phone the whole time. I hoped she wasn’t interrupting class every two minutes to text me. I could just hear it now, kids wandering the hallways and lunchroom saying “Mrs. Batista and Mr. Harper texted alllll morning!”

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

  For now the elder began to embrace, to press and kiss the younger, to put his hands into his bosom, and give him such manifest signs of an amorous intention, as made me conclude the other to be a girl in disguise: a mistake that nature kept me in countenance for, for she had certainly made one, when she gave him the male stamp. In the rashness then of their age, and bent as they were to accomplish their project of preposterous pleasure, at the risk of the very worst of consequences, where a discovery was nothing less than improbable, they now proceeded to such lengths as soon satisfied me what they were. For presently the eldest unbuttoned the other’s breeches, and removing the linen barrier, brought out to view a white shaft, middle sized, and scarce fledged, when after handling and playing with it a little, with other dalliance, all received by the boy without other opposition than certain wayward coyness, ten times-more alluring than repulsive, he got him so turned round, with his face from him, to a chair that stood hard by; when knowing, I suppose, his office, the Ganymede now obsequiously leaned his head against the back of it, and projecting his body, made a fair mark, still covered with his shirt. As he thus stood in a side view to me, but fronting his companion, who, presently unmasking his battery, produced an engine that certainly deserved to be put to a better use, and very fit to confirm me in my disbelief of the possibility of things; being pushed to odious extremities, which I had built on the disproportion of parts; but this disbelief I was now cured of, as by my consent all young men should likewise be, that their innocence may not be betrayed into such snares, for want of knowing the extent of their danger: for nothing is more certain than that ignorance of advice is by no means a guard against it.

• From Sister Outsider (1984)

  I said yes, and Helen said yes to him, and then he wanted to know if we were allowed to teach, and I said yes, I was a professor at the University of the City of New York. And he was surprised at that. He said that he had seen a television program one time about the Black people of America. That we had no jobs. So Helen started to answer him and he stopped her. Then she angrily said he wanted me to speak because he wanted to look at my face so he could see how I answered. I told Helen to tell him that the question was not that we could never go to college, but that frequently even when Black people went to college, we had no jobs when we came out. That it was more difficult for Black people to find work and make any kind of living, and that the percentage of unemployment among American Black people was far higher than that of American white people. He pondered that a little while and then he asked, do Black people have to pay for their doctors, too? Because that’s what TV programs had said. I smiled a little at this and told him it’s not only Black people who have to pay for doctors and medical care; all people in America have to. Ah, he said. And suppose you don’t have the money to pay? Well, I said, if you don’t have the money to pay, sometimes you died. And there was no mistaking my gesture, even though he had to wait for the translator to translate it. We left him looking absolutely nonplussed, standing in the middle of the square with his mouth open and his hand under his chin staring after me, as in utter amazement that human beings could die from lack of medical care. It’s things like that that keep me dreaming about Russia long after I’ve returned. There’s much that I think that Russian people now take for granted. I think they take for granted free hospitalization and medical care. They take for granted free universities and free schooling as well as the presumption of universal bread, even with a rose or two, although no meat. We are all more blind to what we have than to what we have not. One night after midnight, Fikre and I were walking through a park in Tashkent and we were approached by a Russian man with whom Fikre had a short, sharp conversation, after which the man bowed and walked away. Fikre would not tell me what they’d said, but I had the strong feeling he had tried to pick one of us up, either Fikre or me. Tashkent is, in some respects, a Russian playground.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  Lips Are Not Just for KissingI want to share a story with you about men and lips. For years one of my dearest male friends and I have volunteered on the AIDS ward at a Los Angeles hospital. Whenever possible, we would synchronize our breaks in order to get a snack together. During the summer months we usually opted for an ice cream cone. I remember once, fairly early on in our friendship, we were sitting outside eating our cones when he looked over and said, “Lou, you’re gonna have to finish that up pretty quickly or this table we’re sitting at is going to start rising off the ground.” Knowing he didn’t mean any harm, I burst into laughter and asked him why. He told me that men have a real thing about women and cones. Evidently ladies, whenever a man eyes a woman licking an ice cream cone, he imagines her doing the same thing to his penis. Secret from Lou’s Archives When you next drink anything in front of a man, let your tongue come out of your mouth just the tiniest bit, to cushion the edge of the glass or cup. I guarantee you’ll get a reaction. Several weeks later, we were driving in his car when we saw a girl crossing the street, licking and sucking on a cone, oblivious to anything else. My friend told me to watch the way the men around were looking. I was shocked. Every man at the intersection, as well as those stopped in their cars at the light, was mesmerized by this woman. They couldn’t keep their eyes off her mouth! “Lou, let me tell you something,” my friend said. “If there is a woman crossing the street eating an ice cream cone, she’ll stop traffic.” A professional woman from Florida told me this similar story. Not too long ago she and her boyfriend were getting ready to go out somewhere. She was doing a bit of last minute primping with lipstick while he waited patiently. She said something like, “Just trying to make them pretty so you’ll want to kiss them, dear.” He let out a laugh and said, “Kissing isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” As it turns out, it is also common knowledge among men that when they look at women’s lips and find them appealing, they don’t necessarily think about what we’d be like to kiss. And ladies, men have shared with me that they respond this way when watching a female newscaster. More than likely, their minds are focused on our lips touching something located further south on their bodies. Secret from Lou’s Archives Regarding lipstick, I offer this tip, which comes directly from men: less is definitely more. If you’re not sure, look in a mirror. If you wouldn’t want to kiss your mouth, chances are he wouldn’t want to either.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  • Anally. For those ladies and their men who enjoy anal play, a small butt plug dildo or a vibrating dildo will send you heavenward. Men who enjoy this typically choose a slim little wand style that can be inserted while he’s masturbating or while you are manually stimulating him. • In combination. Use a dildo on yourself or with a partner. This can be accomplished by wearing a harnessed dildo. Depending on design a female wearer may have a vaginal plug dildo in the harness for herself while the “front loaded” dildo is available to penetrate their partner. This way everyone can have the feeling of fullness. HIS PEARL NECKLACE (THE ACCESSORIZED “LA COIFFEUSE”) The beauty of giving your lover a pearl necklace is the element of surprise. I recommend a 30"–36" strand of 8–10 mm round pearls. It’s best to avoid baroque and freshwater bead styles as the irregular shapes aren’t conducive to smooth movement, and they could scratch. Your pearls need to be of good quality, whether or not they are real or imitation. The better the pearls, the better the sensation. Lesser quality pearls won’t have a solid enough bead under the pearlizing to adequately pick up your body heat. In this case, heat is a good thing. Know that you will be using lubricant with the pearls so if your choice is the family heirloom strand make sure you ensure their longevity by having them restrung on nylon versus silk, which is probably what they are strung on now. Silk is hydrophilic and absorbs moisture, which can rot the natural pearl from the inside out—not the kind of thing to explain to future generations. Nylon is a synthetic fiber that doesn’t absorb water. How does one explain the need for restringing? Simple: they are old and need it, or you are a very active woman and you wear your pearls almost constantly, including working out and you’ve heard that nylon is more durable. Imagine this scenario: dress very slowly for an evening out. Accessorize with a strand of pearls. During dinner, lightly finger or play with your pearls. When you return home, disrobe, and remove all but your pearls. Step 1. Begin however you like, perhaps with kissing. When you feel ready, undo your pearls and drag them across your lover’s body. Step 2. Lightly lubricate his penis, then slowly adorn him with your pearls, wrapping the strand around his shaft. Be sure to hold the necklace clasp with one finger as you don’t want it to scratch and distract him. Because you’ve worn them out for dinner the pearls will be softly warm. [image file=image_rsrc1ZY.jpg] Step 3. When his penis looks like it is wearing a Princess Diana choker, start slowly stroking him with a Basket Weaving stroke—up and down with a twist. Step 4. Then unwrap his penis and, as if you are flossing under his testicles, slowly pull the pearls from one side to the other, slightly lifting his testicles.

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

  One morning then, that both Mrs. Cole and Emily were gone out for the day, and only Louisa and I (not to mention the house-maid) were left in charge of the house, whilst we were loitering away the time, in looking through the shop windows, the son of a poor woman, who earned very hard bread indeed by mending of stockings, in a stall in the neighbourhood, offered us some nosegays, ranged round a small basket; by selling of which the poor boy eked out his mother’s maintenance of them both: nor was he fit for any other way of livelihood, since he was not only a perfect changeling, or idiot, but stammered so that there was no understanding even those sounds his half-dozen animals ideas, at most, prompted him to utter. The boys and servants in the neighbourhood had given him the nick-name of good-natured Dick, from the soft simpleton’s doing every thing he was bid at the first word, and from his naturally having no turn to mischief; then, by the way, he was perfectly well made, stout, clean-limbed, tall of his age, as strong as a horse, and, withal, pretty featured; so that he was not, absolutely, such a figure to be snuffled at neither, if your nicety could, in favour of such essentials, have dispensed with a face unwashed, hair tangled for want of combing, and so ragged a plight, that he might have disputed points of shew with any heathen philosopher of them all. This boy we had often seen, and bought his flowers, out of pure compassion, and nothing more; but just at this time as he stood presenting us his basket, a sudden whim, a start of wayward fancy, seized Louisa; and, without consulting me, she calls him in, and beginning to examine his nosegays, culls out two, one for herself, another for me, and pulling out half a crown, very currently gives it him to change, as if she had really expected he could have changed it: but the boy, scratching his head, made his signs explain his inability in place of words, which he could not, with all his struggles, articulate.

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

  So it has always been, since the time of Helen and Delilah, down to Catherine the Second and Lola Montez.” “I cannot deny,” I said, “that nothing will attract a man more than the picture of a beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic woman who wantonly changes her favorites without scruple in accordance with her whim—” “And in addition wears furs,” exclaimed the divinity. “What do you mean by that?” “I know your predilection.” “Do you know,” I interrupted, “that, since we last saw each other, you have grown very coquettish.” “In what way, may I ask?” “In that there is no way of accentuating your white body to greater advantage than by these dark furs, and that—” The divinity laughed. “You are dreaming,” she cried, “wake up!” and she clasped my arm with her marble-white hand. “Do wake up,” she repeated raucously with the low register of her voice. I opened my eyes with difficulty. I saw the hand which shook me, and suddenly it was brown as bronze; the voice was the thick alcoholic voice of my cossack servant who stood before me at his full height of nearly six feet. “Do get up,” continued the good fellow, “it is really disgraceful.” “What is disgraceful?” “To fall asleep in your clothes and with a book besides.” He snuffed the candles which had burned down, and picked up the volume which had fallen from my hand, “with a book by”—he looked at the title page—“by Hegel. Besides it is high time you were starting for Mr. Severin’s who is expecting us for tea.” “A curious dream,” said Severin when I had finished. He supported his arms on his knees, resting his face in his delicate, finely veined hands, and fell to pondering. I knew that he wouldn’t move for a long time, hardly even breathe. This actually happened, but I didn’t consider his behavior as in any way remarkable. I had been on terms of close friendship with him for nearly three years, and gotten used to his peculiarities. For it cannot be denied that he was peculiar, although he wasn’t quite the dangerous madman that the neighborhood, or indeed the entire district of Kolomea, considered him to be. I found his personality not only interesting—and that is why many also regarded me a bit mad—but to a degree sympathetic. For a Galician nobleman and land-owner, and considering his age—he was hardly over thirty—he displayed surprising sobriety, a certain seriousness, even pedantry. He lived according to a minutely elaborated, half-philosophical, half-practical system, like clock-work; not this alone, but also by the thermometer, barometer, aerometer, hydrometer, Hippocrates, Hufeland, Plato, Kant, Knigge, and Lord Chesterfield. But at times he had violent attacks of sudden passion, and gave the impression of being about to run with his head right through a wall. At such times every one preferred to get out of his way.

• From Sister Outsider (1984)

  In Russia you carry your own bags in airports and hotels. This, at first, struck me as oppressive because, of course, carrying a laden bag up seven flights of stairs when the elevator isn’t working is not fun. But the longer I stayed there the fairer it seemed, because in this country it appears that everything is seen in terms of food. That is, the labor of one’s hands is measured by how much food you can produce, and then you take that and compare its importance to the worth of the other work that you do. Some men and women spend their whole lives, for instance, learning and doing the infinitely slow and patient handwork of retouching Persian Blue tiles down in Samarkand to restore the ancient mausoleums. It is considered very precious work. But antiquities have a particular value, whereas carrying someone else’s bag does not have a very high priority because it is not very productive either of beauty or worth. If you can’t manage it, then that’s another story. I find it a very interesting concept. It’s about thirty miles from the airport to the city of Moscow, and the road and the trees and the drivers could have been people from Northern Westchester in late winter, except I couldn’t read any of the signs. We would pass from time to time incredibly beautiful, old, uncared for Russian-Orthodox-style houses, with gorgeous painted wooden colors and outlined ornate windows. Some of them were almost falling down. But there was a large ornate richness about the landscape and architecture on the outskirts of Moscow, even in its grey winter, that seemed to tell me immediately that I was not at home. I stayed at the Hotel Younnost, which is one of the international hotels in Moscow. The room was a square studio affair with Hollywood bed couches, and a huge picture window looking towards the National Stadium, over a railroad bridge, with a very imposing view of the University buildings against the skyline. But everything was so reminiscent of New York in winter that even as I sat at 9:30 P.M. after dinner, writing, looking through the blinds, there was the sound of a train and light on the skyline, and every now and then the tail lights of an auto curving around between the railroad bridge and the hotel. And it felt like a hundred nights that I remembered along Riverside Drive, except that just on the edge of the picture was the golden onion-shaped dome of a Russian Orthodox church.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  This is the theoretical male equivalent to massaging a woman’s G-spot. Many women know about the perineal “hot-spot” under a man’s testicles, which is sometimes called the Male G-spot, or the ’taint. (As one seminar attendee said, “It ’taint the balls, ’taint the asshole.”) The perineum is that quarter-sized area between the testicles and the anus that has little or no hair on it. Massaging this area can be done either externally or internally, depending on position and preference. Most men have experienced external but not internal stimulation of the prostate. A fortysomething broker from Dallas said, “I’d never had anyone even come near my rear and when my girlfriend pushed my legs above my head and massaged around my butthole with her thumb, I had never felt anything like it. She asked me if I wanted more, and I was like ‘Hell yes!’ When she pushed her finger inside while going down on me, I exploded. It was so intense.” Your massaging the prostate region mimics and heightens three parts of the male orgasmic response: 1. the contraction and pulsing of the urethral bulb inside the prostate 2. the contractions of the prostate 3. the contraction of the PC muscle So when you massage the male “G-spot” externally or internally, either before or during an orgasm, the sensations of an orgasm are mimicked. EXTERNAL G-SPOT MASSAGE To externally massage the prostate, one of the best positions is to have him on his back with you between his legs. Now this can be on a bed, the floor, or with him on a chair in front of you. With one hand on the perineum, use the other to touch and stimulate another part of his body. (For example, try a modified, one-handed Ode to Bryan as you massage the perineum with your other hand.) Typically, the more sensation you can build throughout the experience the better. The most important thing is thRat whatever position he is in (knees bent is best), you can easily and gently adjust his scrotum, the sac with the testicles in it, to reach that important spot underneath, the perineum. [image file=image_rsrc1ZH.jpg] External G-spot massage Again, watch your fingernails. In this area, do not use any stroke if your nails will be felt. That can make a man very nervous. To see the difference nails make in sensation, try stroking the palm of your left hand with your right hand’s thumbnail, then stroke using the pad and the first inside joint of your thumb. See the difference in sensation? Keep that in mind when you are playing in the perineal area. And be sure to use a light application of your lubricant of choice. Don’t just push with constant pressure against the perineum; after a while the body numbs to constant pressure with no movement. Numbing isn’t your aim. An example of this numbing effect: you feel your belt when you first put it on, but then your body starts to ignore it.

• From Sister Outsider (1984)

  IIIWe traveled south to Uzbekistan for the Conference, a five-hour journey that became seven because of delays. We arrived in Tashkent after dark following a long, exhausting plane ride. As I have said, Russian planes are incredibly packed, every single inch being taken up in seats. They absolutely utilize their air space. Even coming from New York to Moscow it was like air mass transit. Certainly from Moscow to Tashkent this was true since there were 150 delegates to the African-Asian Writers Conference, myself, one observer, interpreters, and press personnel. All together, a traveling group of about 250 people, which is a large group to move around a country at least four or five times the size of the United States (and in a standard, not wide-bodied, plane). As we descended the plane in Tashkent, it was deliciously hot and smelled like Accra, Ghana. At least it seemed to me that it did, from the short ride from the airport to the hotel. The road to the city had lots of wood and white marble all around broad avenues, and bright street lights. The whole town of Tashkent had been rebuilt after the 1966 earthquake. We arrived tired and hot, to a welcome that would make your heart grow still, then sing. Can you imagine 250 of us, weary, cramped, hungry, disoriented, overtalked, underfed? It is after dark. We step out of the plane and there before us are over a hundred people and TV cameras, and lights, and two or three hundred little children dressed in costumes with bunches of flowers that they thrust upon each of us as we walked down the ramp from the plane. “Surprise!” Well, you know, it was a surprise. Pure and simple, and I was pretty damn well surprised. I was surprised at the gesture, hokey or not, at the mass participation in it. Most of all, I was surprised at my response to it; I felt genuinely welcomed.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  Long considered one of the oldest and most definitive written sources on sexual technique and pleasure, The Kama Sutra was originally compiled in the fourth century A.D. It was put together by a Brahmin and religious scholar named Vatsyayana, who gathered his material from texts dating back to the fourth century B.C. Since then, the work has been updated and appended several times and translated into many different languages. I’d heard about The Kama Sutra for years, and it always evoked a vision of sensual eroticism in my mind. When I finally opened the book and began to read, I was very surprised, for two reasons. The first factor that shocked me about this engaging and abundant work was the uninhibited view of sexuality in ancient India. The book’s depiction of sexual acts between men and women made me wonder why and how sex ever got to be the taboo subject it has become in modern times. Furthermore, The Kama Sutra openly and unabashedly covers such topics as romance, marriage, adultery, bigamy, group sex, prostitution, sadomasochism, male and female homosexuality, and transvestism. The second aspect of The Kama Sutra that struck me is the uselessness of its information for contemporary women. This is not to say the book isn’t fascinating, because it is. It’s also highly entertaining. Furthermore, The Kama Sutra is a beautifully detailed representation of this antediluvian Indian culture. But rather than serving as a guide to sexual technique for both sexes as it has been billed, it’s more accurately a coming-of-age handbook for upper-class adolescent boys and young men in fourth-century India. The Kama Sutra discusses what were then the three aims in a man’s life (virtue, wealth, love) and how they can be acquired through the mastery of erotic touch. For example, the book describes the conduct of a well-bred townsman (he must bathe regularly and keep a separate bed in his room to use with prostitutes), as well as explains the fine art of seducing a girl (including how to scratch, bite, and administer blows to her back and head). The book even provides advice and proper etiquette for those particularly delicate situations such as dealing with more than one wife at a time, and seducing other men’s wives. The Indian culture depicted in The Kama Sutra clearly placed great value on sexual expression and fulfillment. Erotic pleasure was considered divine, and the desire to provide it was every bit as consuming as the desire to receive it. Still, The Kama Sutra has a decidedly male perspective. While much attention is given to the techniques of pleasuring a woman, it is obvious the information recorded here was gained through observation rather than conversation. It is unlikely that the women on whom these writings are based were actually consulted about what it is that puts them into a divine state. Let me give you an example. Part Two of The Kama Sutra is devoted to “amorous advances.” The following is excerpted from the chapter on embraces:

• From Sister Outsider (1984)

  We were at the University and our guide was talking to us, in English, about the buildings, which had been built during Stalin’s time. Material had been brought down from the Ukraine to sink into the earth to build such buildings because Moscow, unlike New York, is not built upon bedrock. This strikes me as strange, that this city of oversize, imposing stone buildings should not be grounded on bedrock. It’s like it remains standing on human will. While we were standing in front of the reflecting pool having this discussion, a little tow-headed boy sidled up to me with a completely international air, all of ten years old, stood in front of me and with a furtive sideways gesture, flipped his hand open. In the center of his little palm was a button-pin of a red star with a soldier in the middle of it. I was completely taken aback because I did not know what the kid wanted and I asked Helen who brushed the child off and shooed him away so quickly I didn’t have a chance to stop her. Then she told me that he wanted to trade for American buttons. That little kid had stood off to the side and watched all of these strange Black people, and he had managed to peg me as an American because, of course, Americans are the only ones who go around wearing lots and lots of buttons, and he had wanted to trade his red star button. I was touched by the child, and also because I couldn’t help but think that it was Sunday and he was probably hitting all the tourist spots. I’m sure his parents did not know where he was, and I really wondered what his mother would do if she knew. The woman from the Writers’ Union who was doing her book on Negro policy was, I’d say, a little older than I was, probably in her early fifties, and her husband had been killed in the war. She had no children. She offered these facts about herself as soon as we sat down, talking openly about her life, as everybody seemingly does here. I say seemingly because it only goes so far. And she, like my guide and most women here, both young and old, seem to mourn the lack of men. At the same time they appear to have shaken off many of the traditional role-playing devices vis-a-vis men. Almost everyone I’ve met has lost someone in what they call the “Great Patriotic War,” which is our Second World War.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I am flabbergasted, not understanding what I did wrong to make him run out like this. I feel silly for having expected something more – a luxurious morning in bed, a cup of coffee, a shower together – and instead I am naked and alone while he shops for kale and organic eggs. I rise from the bed, smoothing the crisp white sheets and pillows so it looks like a hotel room after housekeeping has come. That’s how cheap I feel; I want him to look at the made-up bed and see my humiliation and loneliness in the perfectly fluffed pillows. My phone rings as I walk into my apartment, juggling keys and a cup of coffee I picked up on the walk home. “Yes?” I say brusquely, after letting it ring a few times. “Where are you?” #6 asks. I tell him that I’m home and he sounds surprised, saying he thought I would sleep in. “I felt weird staying there once you were gone and you weren’t going to be back for hours anyway,” I say. “But I came back,” he says, and I can hear his voice echo in the empty, still under-furnished apartment. “I’m so sad. I came home and expected to find you in bed but all your stuff is gone and the bed is made, like you were never here.” “That seemed how you wanted it to be. It’s not every day you have your first sleepover with a man and he leaves you alone to go to the farmers’ market and a yoga class. That seemed like a good cue for me to leave,” I say. “Please come back,” he says. “I canceled my yoga class, I messed up.” I hesitate, having already settled on my couch with my coffee and the newspaper, and still feeling stung by his rejection a mere half hour ago. He continues, “Please. I’m sorry. Just come. I made a mistake.” I walk the ten blocks back to his apartment. When I get there we climb into the freshly made bed. For a long time to come I will tease him about leaving a warm naked body in his bed to proceed with his usual Saturday morning routine and he will confess that once at the market, he phoned his friend Jeff, who called him a moron and demanded that he go right back home. We laugh at the absurdity of it, but I understand that he has a rigid structure he finds uncomfortable to stray from and I’m not certain I fit into it, or even want to. CHAPTER 30PluralsWith this ambivalence fresh in my mind, when Dr. B texts to ask me if she can pass my number along to her Brooklyn lawyer friend, that she’s told him about me and he’s dying to meet me, I agree.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  He didn’t come right away. He probably wouldn’t have come at all if he hadn’t seen me at the hospital a few weeks later. I’d gone to sign some of the financial paperwork for my bill. Insurance crap. I only saw him briefly—a few seconds, tops. He was with Dr. Akela. They had been walking down the hall together, their identical white coats differentiating them from the other humans milling around the nurses’ station—two demi-gods in a sea of humans. I froze when I saw him, felt a feeling only drugs can give you. He was headed for the elevator, same as me. Oh great, this is going to suck. If there were people in the elevator I could scoot to the back and hide. I waited hopefully, but when the doors slid open the only people inside were on the poster advertisement for erectile dysfunction. We should do this more often, the slogan said. A handsome, athletic couple in their late forties, woman looking coy. I jumped in and hit the lobby button with my fist. Close! It did. Thankfully, it did, but before the doors sealed shut Isaac appeared in the gap. For a second it looked like he was going to hold a hand between the doors, force them to open. He drew back instead, the shock sketched around his eyes. He hadn’t been expecting to see me today. We should do this more often, I thought. It all happened in a dizzy three seconds. The time it takes for you to blink, blink and blink. But I didn’t blink, and neither did he. We locked into a three second staring contest. We couldn’t have said any more in those three seconds. When you spend extraordinary amounts of time pushing someone away, their reaction to your apology tends to be slow. I imagined so, anyway. That’s how I wrote it in my stories. He came a week later. Since then I’d put away the red vase, gone back to craving white. I was at the mailbox when his car pulled into my driveway. I felt. You feel. When had that started happening again? I waited with the stack of junk mail clutched in my hands. He stepped out of his car and walked to me. “Hey,” he said. “Hi.” “I’m headed to the hospital, but I wanted to see you first.” I took it. I missed him. You miss Nick, You know Nick. You don’t know this man. I pushed that away.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  The subject awakens from them at the command of the operator with a sudden start of surprise, and may seem for a while a little dazed. Subjects in this condition will receive and execute suggestions of crime, and act out a theft, forgery, arson, or murder. A girl will believe that she is married to her hypnotizer, etc. It is unfair, however, to say that in these cases the subject is a pure puppet with no spontaneity. His spontaneity is certainly not in abeyance so far as things go which are harmoniously associated with the suggestion given him. He takes the text from his operator; but he may amplify and develop it enormously as he acts it out. His spontaneity is lost only for those systems of ideas which conflict with the suggested delusion, The latter is thus 'systematized'; the rest of consciousness is shutoff, excluded, dissociated from it. In extreme cases the rest of the mind would seem to be actually abolished and the hypnotic subject to be literally a changed personality, a being in one of those 'second' states which we studied in Chapter X. But the reign of the delusion is often not as absolute as this. If the thing suggested be too intimately repugnant, the subject may strenuously resist and get nervously excited in consequence, even to the point of having an hysterical attack. The conflicting ideas slumber in the background and merely permit those in the foreground to have their way until a real emergency arises; then they assert their rights. As M. Delbœuf says, the subject surrenders himself good-naturedly to the performance, stabs with the pasteboard dagger you give him because he knows what it is, and fires off the pistol because he knows it has no ball; but for a real murder he would not be your man. It is undoubtedly true that subjects are often well aware that they are acting a part. They know that what they do is absurd. They know that the hallucination which they see, describe, and act upon, is not really there. They may laugh at themselves; and they always recognize the abnormality of their state when asked about it, and call it 'sleep.' One often notices a sort of mocking smile upon them, as if they mere playing a comedy, and they may even say on 'coming to' that they were shamming all the while. These facts have misled ultra-skeptical people so far as to make them doubt the genuineness of any hypnotic phenomena at all. But, save the consciousness of 'sleep,' they do not occur in the deeper conditions; and when they do occur they are only a natural consequence of the fact that the 'monoideism' is incomplete.