One thing more, Leon. You say that life is meaningless, but I believe it's life that's sacred. I talk about art and sex because they're the most intense life experiences I know, so I feel they must be sacred too. They let us experience the values we've chosen for our lives in one exquisite moment not of pleasure exactly but of oneness with all of existence and with our own personal relationship to it. Art says: "This is Life." Sex says: "This is Living.
. “We’re both... I mean, you’re more so, but we’re both really fucked up emotionally. I mean, how do I know you’re not still loopy from being shot full of... of...”“Benzodiazepine,” he said.“Yes, that.” Victoria’s eyes met with his a moment and then looked away. “It’s been awhile for me,” she said at last. “I mean, I’ve slept with people...”“So have I,” he said.
I can't believe it. He is sporting a bona fide erection in the middle of class. All because of me.In history you learn about entire kingdoms crumbling into chaos because of a woman—or, in some cases, multiple women. I smile at Professor Delacroix, putting an extra bit of swing into my hips as I sashay out the door. I'm beginning to see just how easy it is to bring a man to his knees with a few flashes of bare skin, and the whispered promise of hot, sweaty sex.
A valise without straps. A hole without a key. She had a German mouth, French ears, Russian ass. Cunt international. When the flag waved it was red all the way back to the throat. You entered on the Boulevard Jules-Ferry and came out at the Porte de la Villette. You droppedyour sweetbreads into the tumbrils – red tumbrils with two wheels, naturally. At the confluence of the Ourcq and Marne, where the water sluices through the dikes and lies like glass under thebridges.
In retrospect, I didn’t really want to be a slut. What I wanted and needed was a therapist who would consent to fucking me, but I doubted my parents’ insurance would have covered that. I had a lot to figure out for myself and I did that by making poor decisions that summer. If some wise, authoritative adult could simply have explained why I wanted to do these things and then done some with me, I think I would have refrained from most of my sexual misadventures...
The only consolation, even for someone like him who had been a good man in bed, was sexual peace: the slow, merciful extinction of his venereal appetite. At eighty-one years of age he had enough lucidity to realize that he was attached to this world by a few slender threads that could break painlessly with a simple change in position while he slept, and if he did all he could to keep those threads intact, it was because of his terror of not finding God in the darkness of death.
I remember that one day, when we were in a car tooling along at top speed,we crashed into a cyclist, an apparently very young and very pretty girl. Her head was almost totally ripped off by the wheels. For a long time, we were parked a few yards beyond without getting out, fully absorbed in the sight of the corpse. The horror and despair at so much bloody flesh, nauseating in part, and in part very beautiful, was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon seeing one another.
The difference between sex with David and sex with Stephen is like the difference between science and art. With Stephen it's all empathy and imagination and exploration and the shock of the new, and the outcome is... uncertain, if you know what I mean. I'm engaged by it, but I', mot necessarily sure what its all about. David, on the other hand, presses this button, then that one, and bingo! It's like operating a lift - just as romantic, but actually just as useful.
Tristan looked at me with pleading eyes, as though he could forget for one moment how I was programmed to respond to him—how even now upon hearing his confession, I wanted nothing more than to suck his beautiful cock to fulfillment, to straddle him right here on the edge of this roof, to let him fuck every orifice he’d created on my body. I fought back the feelings of lust, wondering if I’d ever truly be myself again, if I’d ever be free of the programming.
We asked our Welsh teacher, Mr Llewellyn – who is young, to tell us the Welsh sex words. The Welsh word for sex is ‘rhyw’. It sounds like coughing. He said that, in general, Welsh-speakers use English words. When pressed, he gave us a couple of examples to show us why this might be. ‘Llawes goch’ means ‘red sleeve’. ‘Coes fach’ means ‘small leg’. The phrase would be: ‘Put your small leg in my red sleeve’.
I Don’t Know whether lust is a human coarseness or a human fineness: I don’t know why death holds a so sweet lure since it would take away my Body: I don’t know that I wouldn’t deny my Christ, if I had one, three times before a given cockcrow: I don’t know on the other hand that I would: I don’t know whether honor is a reality in human beings or a pose: I don’t know that I mayn’t be able to think with my Body when it is in its coffin.
Later I would come to believe that erotic ties were all a spell, a temporary psychosis, even a kind of violence, or at least they coexisted with these states. I noted that criminals as well as the insane tended to give off a palpable, vibrating allure, a kind of animal magnetism that kept them loved by someone. How else could they survive at all? Someone had to hide them from the authorities! Hence the necessity and prevalence of sex appeal for people who were wild and on the edge.
Don't ever think you're better than a drug addict, because your brain works the same as theirs. You have the same circuits. And drugs would affect your brain in the same way it affects theirs. The same thought process that makes them screw up over and over again would make you screw up over and over as well, if you were in their shoes. You probably already are doing it, just not with heroin or crack, but with food or cigarettes, or something else you shouldn't be doing.
Whoever believes physical size and tests of speed or strength have anything to do with a soccer player's prowess is sorely mistaken. Just as mistaken as those who believe that IQ tests have anything to do with talent or that there is a relationship between penis size and sexual pleasure. Good soccer players need not to be titans sculpted by Michelangelo. In soccer, ability is much more important than shape, and in many cases skill is the art of turning limitations into virtues.
Evan nuzzled his chin into the crook of Dan's neck, finding the spot that always made Dan squirm and laugh. "I love you, Danny.""You gets so fucking sappy after I let you top," Dan responded, but he didn't move away. "We should stick a spigot in you, drain it out, and boil up some maple syrup." "You stick your spigot in me, I wouldn't be the one topping anymore.""Nice. You freak." "You're the one who wanted to make maple syrup out of my sappiness," Evan protested...
