Quotes About Intimacy

The two of us were—by our own admission—proficient and shameless liars of long standing. It's a wonder either one of us believed a word the other said.

Then there's the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear. This word is not enough but it will have to do. It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says O again and again in wonder and pain, a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside. You can hold on or let go.

Being upset is a warmer, close-up feeling, not a chilly distant feeling like laughing at people.

What he wants is intimacy, but I can't give him that.

There was always an element of melancholy involved in sex. After his indiscriminate adolescence he'd preferred sad women, delicate and breakable, women who'd been messed up and who needed him.

Nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

You're to love as a cock-teaser is to fucking.

What do I want? I want you to talk about normal things. No I don't. I want you to look me in the eye and say, I know you're dying.

the way love feels is always only approximate.

There was old sex in the room and loneliness, and expectation, of something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, for something that was always about to happen and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh.

Here comes his hand, planing slowly across the white tablecloth like a manta ray in one of those deep-sea documentaries. It's descending onto her own hand, which she shouldn't have left so carelessly lying around on the table.

But Jimmy, you should know. All sex is real.

The more it hurt, the more – he was convinced – he loved her.

While I read, the Commander sits and watches me doing it, without speaking but also without taking his eyes off me. This watching is a curiously sexual act, and I feel undressed while he does it.

You say, Do you / love me, do you love me / I answer you: / I stretch your arms out / one to either side, / your head slumps forward.

We would lie in those afternoon beds, afterwards, hands on each other, talking it over. Possible, impossible. What could be done? We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?

How potent was that word. With. He could never get used to her, she was fresh every time, she was a casketful of secrets. Any moment now she would open herself up, reveal to him the essential thing, the hidden thing at the core of life, or of her life, or of his life – the thing he was longing to know. The thing he'd always wanted. What would it be?

He wanted me to play Scrabble with him, and kiss him as if I meant it.

your kiss no longer literature but fine print, a set of instructions.

Love was its own transparent bubble-dome: you could see the two inside it, but you couldn't get in there yourself. That

you should know. All sex is real.

He loved her so much when he made her unhappy, or else when she made him unhappy: at these moments he scarcely knew which was which.

she was beginning to emerge from the initial sex-induced coma created by him through

you occupy me so completely run through my brain as warm chemicals and melted gold, spread out wings to the ends of my fingers reach my heart and stop, digging your claws in