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Last week we gave you an extra sexy treat, and this week  we're back with another one...
Here at nzgirl HQ we've falled in love with The Dirty Bits for Girls (RRP $27.99, Virago), the ultimate super sexy, yet still oh-so-romantic read. It's an umissable collection of all the best snippets from erotic and romantic love stories, editted fantastically by India Knight.
The book is filled with all the stories that taught us about sex, that we hid from our parents, that were passed from girl to girl, hidden in desks, whispered and wondered about...We love the book so much we want to share with all of you! Last week we posted the super saucy extract of The Zipless Fuck, by Erica Jong, and this week we have a deliriously tantalising extract from D.H Lawrence, The Help...
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Page 64...  But he was coming back, trotting strangely, and carrying flowers. She was a little afraid of him, as if he were not quite human. And when he came near, his eyes looked into hers, but she could not understand the meaning.
He had brought columbines and campions, and new-mownhay, and oak-tufts and honeysuckle in small bud. He fastened fluffy young oak-sprays round her head, and honeysuckle withes round her breasts, sticking in tufts of bluebells and campion: and in her navel he poised a pink campion flower, and in her maidenhair were forget-me-nots and wood-ruff.
‘That’s you in all your glory!’ he said. ‘Lady Jane, at her wedding with John Thomas.’
And he stuck flowers in the hair of his own body, and wound a bit of creeping-jenny round his penis, and stuck a single bell of a hyacinth in his navel. She watched him with amusement, his odd intentness. And she pushed a campion flower in his moustache, where it stuck, dangling under his nose.
‘This is John Thomas marryin’ Lady Jane,’ he said. ‘An’ we munlet Constance an’ Oliver go their ways. Maybe—’ He spread out his hand with a gesture, and then he sneezed, sneezing away the flowers from his nose and his navel. He sneezed again.
‘Maybe what?’ she said, waiting for him to go on.
He looked at her a little bewildered.
‘Eh?’ he said.
‘Maybe what? Go on with what you were going to say,’ she insisted.
Ay, what was I going to say?—’
He had forgotten. And it was one of the disappointments of her life, that he never finished.
It was a night of sensual passion, in which she was a little startled, and almost unwilling: yet pierced again with piercing thrills of sensuality, different, sharper, more terrible than the thrills of tenderness, but, at the moment, more desirable. Though a little frightened, she let him have his way, and the reckless, shameless sensuality shook her to her foundations, stripped her to the very last, and made a different woman of her. It was not really love. It was not voluptuousness. It was sensuality sharp and searing as fire, burning the soul to tinder.
Burning out the shames, the deepest, oldest shames, in the most secret places. It cost her an effort to let him have his way and his will of her. She had to be a passive, consenting thing, like a slave, a physical slave. Yet the passion licked round her, consuming, and when the sensual flame of it passed through her bowels and breast, she really thought she was dying: yet a poignant, marvellous death.
She had often wondered what Abélard meant, when he said that in their year of love he and Heloïse had passed through all the stages and refinements of passion. The same thing, a thousand years ago: ten thousand years ago! The same on the Greek vases – everywhere! The refinements of passion, the extravagances of sensuality! And necessary, forever necessary, to burn out false shames and smelt out the heaviest ore of the body into purity. With the fire of sheer sensuality.
In this short summer night she learnt so much. She would have thought a woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the shame died. Shame, which is fear: the deep organic shame, the old, old physical fear which crouches in the bodily roots of us, and
can only be chased away by the sensual fire, at last it was roused up and routed by the phallic hunt of the man, and she came to the very heart of the jungle of herself. She felt, now, she had come to the real bed-rock of her nature, and was essentially shameless. She was her sensual self, naked and unashamed. She felt a triumph, almost a vainglory. So! That was how it was! That was life! That was how oneself really was! There was nothing left to disguise or be ashamed of. She shared her ultimate nakedness with a man, another being.
And what a reckless devil the man was! really like a devil! One had to be strong to bear him. But it took some getting at, the core of the physical jungle, the last and deepest recess of organic shame. The phallos alone could explore it. And how he had pressed in on her! And how, in fear, she had hated it! But how she had really wanted it! She knew now. At the bottom of her soul, fundamentally she had needed this phallic hunting out, she had secretly wanted it, and she had believed she would never get it. Now suddenly there it was, and a man was sharing her last and final nakedness, she was shameless.
From Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H Lawrence, 1928, extracted from The Dirty Bits for Girls, edited by India Kinght, published by Virago.
If you enjoyed that saucy number make sure you've checked out our last extract, The Zipless Fuck by Erica Jong here. For even more sauciness nab your own copy of The Dirty Bits for Girls (RRP $27.99)! This fab gem is available from all good bookstores!
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