Quotes About Intimacy

To devote yourself to someone else's pussy can be a means of devoting yourself to your own.

How people are often merciless on those they love the most

I don't ever want to make the mistake of needing him as much as or more than he needs me. But there's no denying that sometimes, when we sleep together in the dark cavern of the bottom bunk, his big brother thrashing around on top, the white noise machine grinding out its fake rain, the green digital clock announcing every hour, Iggy's small body holds mine.

You've punctured my solitude, I told you.

Even identical genital acts mean very different things to different people. This is a crucial point to remember, and also a difficult one. It reminds us that there is difference right where we may be looking for, and expecting, communion.

Is the something inherently queer about pregnancy itself, insofar as it profoundly alters one's normal state and occasions a radical intimacy with, and radical alienation from, one's body? How can an experience so profoundly strange and wild and transformative also symbolize or enact the ultimate confromity? Or is this just another disqualification of anyhting tied to closely to the female animal from the privileged term, in this case nonconformity or radicality?

I knew you were a good animal, but felt myself to be standing before an enormous mountain, a lifetime of unwillingness to claim what I wanted, to ask for it. Now here you were, your face close to mine, waiting. The words I eventually found may have been Argo , but now I know: there's no substitute for saying them with one's own mouth.

I want you to know, if you ever read this, there was a time when I would rather have had you by my side than any one of these words; I would rather have had you by my side than all the blue in the world.

I want the you no one else can see, the you so close the third person never need apply.

I never aimed to give you a talisman, an empty vessel to flood with whatever longing, dread, or sorrow happened to be the day's mood. I wrote it because I had something to say to you.

To align oneself with the real while intimating that others are at play, approximate, or in imitation can feel good. But any fixed claim on realness, especially when it is tied to an identity, also has a finger in psychosis. If a man who thinks he is a king is mad, a king who thinks he is a king is no less so.

He is, after all, a very private person, who has told me more than once that being with me is like an epileptic with a pacemaker being married to a strobe light artist.

We were dancing the way people dance when they are telling each other how they want to make love.

the romance of letting an individual experience of desire take precedence over a categorical one.

The time for blithely asserting that sleeping with whomever you want however you want is going to jam its machinery is long past.

My whole body struggled to summon any utterable phrase. I knew you were a good animal, but felt myself to be standing before an enormous mountain, a lifetime of unwillingness to claim what I wanted, to ask for it. Now here you were, your face close to mine, waiting.

10. The most I want to do is show you the end of my index finger. Its muteness.

we fuck well because he is a passive top and I am an active bottom. I never said this out loud, but I thought it often.

If she was liquid, she would drink her; if she was a gas, she would breathe her; if she was a pill, she would down her'; if she was a dress, she would wear her; a plate, she would lick her clean.

Two women in a room. One seated, one standing

I mean', he says, 'that I don´t think you have any idea what it is like to be married to someone like you.' 'Like me?' 'Someone who knows everything about you, before you even know it yourself. Someone who can just loo at you and divine your deepest secrets, just with a glance. Someone who can tell what you are about to say- and what you might not- before you say it. It is' he says, 'both a joy and a curse.

Qué curioso, piensa ella, tener a otro tan cerca: la escala desbordante de las pestañas, de los párpados cerrados, del pelo de la frente, todo mirando hacia el mismo sitio.

In their apartment, he lets her take his hand, lets her lead him from the fire to a chair, lets his eyes lose focus, lets her rub her fingers through his hair, and she can feel him switch from one character to another; she can sense that other, big-house, self melt off him, like wax sliding from a lit candle, revealing the man within.

He inhales: the aroma of wood, of lime, of something sweet and fibrous. Also a chalky, musky undertone. And the woman beside him: he can smell her hair and skin, one of which carries the faint scent of rosemary