The Wanting Seed Sex Quotes

Love? She still, she thought, loved Tristram. He was kind, honest, gentle, generous, considerate, calm, witty sometimes. But it was Tristram in the living-room she loved, not Tristram in bed. Did she love Derek? She did not answer the question for a moment. [. . .] She thought it was strange that there flesh should be the same. But Tristram's had become carrion; that of his elder brother was fire and ice, paradisaical fruit, inexpressibly delicious and exciting. (1.7.1)

Derek swiftly undressed, disclosing a spare body knobbed and striated with muscle, and then the dead eye of the television screen on the ceiling was able to watch the writing of a male body—crust-brown, delicate russet—and a female—nacreous, touched subtly with blue and carmine—in the exordia of an act which was technically both adulterous and incestuous. (1.9.13)

At that moment Beatrice-Joanna had a sharp revisitation of a sensation that, just for a blinding second, had buffeted her cortex when lying under Derek on that crumpled fever-bed. A sort of eucharistic moment of high-pitched trumpets and a crack of light like that (so it is said) seen at the instant of severing the optic nerve. And a tiny voice, peculiarly penetrating, squealing, 'Yes yes yes.' (1.12.27)

Beatrice-Joanna closed her eyes. Almost at once a dream leaped on to her: a grey field under a thundery sky, cactus-like plants groaning and swaying, skeletal people collapsing with their black tongues hanging out, then herself involved—with some bulky male form that shut out the scene—in the act of copulation. Loud laughter broke out and she awoke fighting. (2.7.18)

One story in particular was so incredible that it cast doubt on the others. It was reported from Brodick on the Isle of Arran that a vast communal nocturnal gorge of man-flesh had been followed by a heterosexual orgy in the ruddy light of the fat-spitting fires and that, the morning after, the root known as salsify was seen sprouting from the pressed earth. That could not, by any manner of means or stretch of the organ of credulity, be believed. (3.5.3)

'A disgusting journey,' said Sergeant Image, with the strongly alveolated sibilants of his type. They had seen things in the ploughed fields, horrible things. 'Disgusting,' he repeated. 'We should have filled their buttocks with bullets.' (3.11.2)

When he awoke he thought he was dreaming. He thought he heard a flute playing breathily and voices singing more breathily still. [. . .] And then he saw, he saw, he saw men and women in the furrows—a pair here and a pair there—making, with ritual seriousness, beast after beast after beast with two backs. Petticoats up and trousers down in the spring sun, in the sown furrows, ripe apples and brown nuts, country copulatives. (4.3.2)

'It's an affirmation,' said Tristram. 'It's a way of showing that reason is only one instrument for running our lives. A return to magic, that's what it is. It seems very healthy to me.' (4.4.4)

Next came two clowns buffeting and falling at the head of a comic squad in boots, long tunics, but no trousers. [. . .] The tunics and caps of this leering, waving, shouting, staggering bare-legged phalanx had evidently been stolen from the Poppol (where were they now, where were they?) and a card on a stick was held high, lettered neatly COPULATION POLICE. (4.5.2)

She was stretched on a deep-piled chunky couch that was eight feet long and claret-coloured. She was leafing through the latest issue of Sheek, a fashion magazine which was all pictures. Bustles, her eye noted, were decreed by Paris for day-wear; daring décolletages were de rigueur for evening; Hongkong cheongsams were lascivious with fourfold slits. Sex. War and sex. Babies and bullets. (5.1.4)