Body Lotion Quotes

That is because he's a gentleman," I spat, through with this little game of his. He laughed but his grip had yet to loosen. "Yeah, that's right. Luke is candy hearts, love sonnets and roses. I'm edible body lotion and lost panties," he said, disgustedly. Somehow through all of this, I managed to feel sorry for him. "Flynn," I uttered. "God, Mercy, stop saying my name like that.

When you get older, you notice your sheets are dirty. Sometimes, you do something about it. And sometimes, you read the front page of the newspaper and sometimes you floss and sometimes you stop biting your nails and sometimes you meet a friend for lunch. You still crave lemonade, but the taste doesn’t satisfy you as much as it used to. You still crave summer, but sometimes you mean summer, five years ago. You remember your umbrella, you check up on people to see if they got home, you leave places early to go home and make toast. You stand by the toaster in your underwear and a big t-shirt, wondering if you should just turn in or watch one more hour of television. You laugh at different things. You stop laughing at other things. You think about old loves almost like they are in a museum. The socks, you notice, aren’t organized into pairs and you mentally make a note of it. You cover your mouth when you sneeze, reaching for the box of tissues you bought, contains aloe. When you get older, you try different shampoos. You find one you like. You try sleeping early and spin class and jogging again. You try a book you almost read but couldn’t finish. You wrap yourself in the blankets of: familiar t-shirts, caffe au lait, dim tv light, texts with old friends or new people you really want to like and love you. You lose contact with friends from college, and only sometimes you think about it. When you do, it feels bad and almost bitter. You lose people, and when other people bring them up, you almost pretend like you know what they are doing. You try to stop touching your face and become invested in things like expensive salads and trying parsnips and saving up for a vacation you really want. You keep a spare pen in a drawer. You look at old pictures of yourself and they feel foreign and misleading. You forget things like: purchasing stamps, buying more butter, putting lotion on your elbows, calling your mother back. You learn things like balance: checkbooks, social life, work life, time to work out and time to enjoy yourself. When you get older, you find yourself more in control. You find your convictions appealing, you find you like your body more, you learn to take things in stride. You begin to crave respect and comfort and adventure, all at the same time. You lay in your bed, fearing death, just like you did. You pull lint off your shirt. You smile less and feel content more. You think about changing and then often, you do.

I stepped out of the shower and dried my hair, rubbed on body lotion, cleaned my ears. Then to the kitchen to heat up the last of the coffee. Only to discover: no one sitting at the opposite side of the table. Staring at that chair where no one sat, I felt like a tiny child in a De Chirico painting, left behind all alone in a foreign country.

She fell asleep fairly quickly that night. As she slept just a few inches away, I watched her, trying to burn her image into my memory. The way her lashes fell against her skin; the way her wet hair felt against my arm; the fruity, clean smell that wafted from her lotioned body; the barely audible noise her nose made when she exhaled. She was so peaceful, and had become so comfortable sleeping in my bed.

The bathroom was jungle-fogged, flooded with puddles, piled with soaked towels; cakes of soap with long strands of blonde baked in. A girl in pieces: Barbie-thin ankles, a shaving cut on her knee; hipbones she could stab you with; white hands gelled with strawberry body lotion.

There’s lotion for your face, lotion for your hands, lotion for your feet, lotion for your body. Why? What would happen if you put hand lotion on your feet? Would your feet get confused and start clapping?

There's lotion for your face, lotion for your hands, lotion for your feet, lotion for your body. Why? What would happen if you put hand lotion on your feet? Would your feet get confused and start clapping?

two feet in this year i choose to burn my good candles on a Tuesday at noon just because i choose to use the expensive lotion the one i keep tucked safe up on the counter not ration any of my most cherished belongings because i am worth investing in ---right now this year I choose to wear that thing you know the one I told myself I would slip on when I looked a certain way? I choose to love my body this vessel I have been given and her seasons as they shift this year I give myself permission to change and keep changing for I understand there is an underlying truth when it comes to becoming- it doesn't have to mirror anyone else this year I choose to let go really let go of the heavy of the half-hearted no more forcing connection where it no longer lives I choose to nourish what's willing to grow this year I choose to be grateful for the teachings of my yesterday I honor my wholeness when I honor my whole self- even the shaky parts this year I choose to step forward clear eyes heart open two feet grounded palms wide to the all-is-possible unknown and new

You’re beautiful, Evie,” came his soft comment. Having been raised by relations who had always lamented the garish color of her hair and the proliferation of freckles, Evie gave him a skeptical smile. “Aunt Florence has always given me a bleaching lotion to make my freckles vanish. But there’s no getting rid of them.” Sebastian smiled lazily as he came to her. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he slid an appraising glance along her half-clad body. “Don’t remove a single freckle, sweet. I found some in the most enchanting places. I already have my favorites…shall I tell you where they are?

Moreover, some of the images covered by the definition go far beyond what can reasonably be considered pornographic. For example, "women's body parts . . . are exhibited such that women are reduced to those parts." This description would include everything from blue jean commercials which zoom in on women's asses to cream ads which show perfectly manicured hands applying the lotion-the sort of advertisements that have appeared in Ms. magazine. Although it is commonplace to criticize such ads for using sex to sell products, it is a real stretch to call them pornographic.

She had left her legs bare, and if he wasn’t mistaken, they had a slight sheen. He realized she’d caught him staring when she cleared her throat. “Are your legs...sparkly?” he managed to ask, feeling the need to explain since he’d been caught leering. “My body lotion has a little bit of glitter in it,” she said with a trace of diffidence. She seemed apologetic. For what, he had no idea.

You’re beautiful, Evie,” came his soft comment. Having been raised by relations who had always lamented the garish color of her hair and the proliferation of freckles, Evie gave him a skeptical smile. “Aunt Florence has always given me a bleaching lotion to make my freckles vanish. But there’s no getting rid of them.” Sebastian smiled lazily as he came to her. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he slid an appraising glance along her half-clad body. “Don’t remove a single freckle, sweet. I found some in the most enchanting places. I already have my favorites… shall I tell you where they are?” Disarmed and discomfited, Evie shook her head and made a movement to twist away from him. He wouldn’t let her, however. Pulling her closer, he bent his golden head and kissed the side of her neck. “Little spoilsport,” he whispered, smiling. “I’m going to tell you anyway.” His fingers closed around a handful of the chemise and eased the hem slowly upward. Her breath caught as she felt his fingers nuzzling tenderly between her bare legs. “As I discovered earlier,” he said against her sensitive throat, “there’s a trail inside your right thigh that leads to—” A knock at the door interrupted them, and Sebastian lifted his head with a grumble of annoyance. “Breakfast,” he muttered. “And I wouldn’t care to make you choose between my lovemaking or a hot meal, as the answer would likely be unflattering.

I brought the bathing suit to my face, then rubbed my face inside of it, as if I were trying to snuggle into it and lose myself inside its folds—So this is what he smells like when his body isn’t covered in suntan lotion, this is what he smells like, this is what he smells like, I kept repeating to myself, looking inside the suit for something more personal yet than his smell and then kissing every corner of it, almost wishing to find hair, anything, to lick it, to put the whole bathing suit into my mouth, and, if I could only steal it, keep it with me forever, never ever let Mafalda wash it, turn to it in the winter months at home and, on sniffing it, bring him back to life, as naked as he was with me at this very moment.

We are containers, it’s only the insides of our bodies that are important. The outside can become hard and wrinkled, for all they care, like the shell of a nut. This was a decree of the Wives, this absence of hand lotion. They don’t want us to look attractive. For them, things are bad enough as it is.

The Day: Wondering if I’m mental Wondering if you are Stretching my spine Masturbating then hating it Falling in love on aisle 12 Acting tough in public Singing in the shower Lotioning my untouched body Fretting about my skin Missing her again And when I’m about to sleep, I wish I could just fast forward To wondering if I’m mental.

How to Resist march curse fume cry but save some of your salt to cure the rage so it lasts even longer write a poem write a check take a social media break take a long bath put lotion on your body then put your body in the street don’t waste your words on frauds be strategically silent or find the spaces of denial and shatter the silence with your screams close your ears to the lies but listen to the cries of the weak and the wounded keep the truth deep inside safe from the filthy fingers that warp everything they touch let it throb ache and break over and over again but don’t harden your heart harden your resolve instead most of all feel something feel something feel something

She held a scarlet sequin dress to her chest and posed in front of a mirror. Too hot. She put it back and took a black mini. Too dreary. Then a blue as pale as a whisper caught her eye. She took the dress. The material was silky and clinging. Perfect for a goddess. On the floor below the dress sat scrappy wraparound high-heeled sandals that matched the blue. She didn't understand why she needed to dress up to meet Stanton but the impulse to steal into the storage room had been rising in her since the sun set. She took the dress and sandals back to her room, then sat on the floor and painted her toenails and fingernails pale blue. She drew waves of eternal flames and spiral hearts in silver and blue around her ankles and up her legs with body paints. When she was done, she pressed a Q-tip into glitter eye shadow and spread sparkles on her lid and below her eye. With a sudden impulse she swirled the lines over her temple and into her hairline. She liked the look. She rolled blue mascara on her lashes, then brushed her hair and snapped crystals in the long blond strands. She squeezed glitter lotion into her palms and rubbed it on her shoulders and arms. Last she took the dress and stepped into it. She turned to the mirror on the closet door. A thrill ran through her. Her reflection astonished her. She looked otherworldly, a mystical creature... eyes large, skin glowing, eyelashes longer, thicker. Everything about her was more powerful and sleek and fairy tale. Surely this wasn't really happening. Maybe she would wake up and run to school and tell Catty about her crazy dreams. But another part of her knew this was real. She leaned to one side. The dress exposed too much thigh. "Good." Her audacity surprised her. Another time she would have changed her dress. But why should she?

Mrs. Marvell's mind had atrophied to a certain extent; it was subsidiary to her body. Her body was her chief asset, and was therefore her chief care. She cultivated her body assiduously; she massaged it, exercised it, dieted it, manicured it, and anointed it with various oils and lotions. She was fully aware that, when her body was no longer beautiful, James would insist (with perfect right) upon having a model in the house——and, once that started, where were you? So Mrs. Marvell lived for her body, and tended it carefully, and neglected her mind.

Despite these trends, our culture pushes a Bad Energy world onto kids who cannot protect themselves. Our culture has normalized giving one-year-olds packaged, ultra-processed foods like cake, Goldfish, rice puffs, juice, and french fries. We slather toxic, artificially scented lotions and shampoos all over their tiny bodies as soon as their first hospital bath. We damage their livers and antioxidant capacity with too much acetaminophen (Tylenol) at the first sign of fussiness or a cold. We blast their microbiomes with heavy-duty antibiotics at the first sign of a possible ear infection. And we interrupt their sleep for unconscionably early school times, then force them to sit at desks in school for six or more hours a day. We create terror and chronic stress in their bodies from social media and overall media exposure. The world kids live in is inflammatory and metabolically disastrous unless parents staunchly go against the tide of “normal” American culture. The irony is that so many parents wish that parenting were easier—fewer infections, less colic, easier behavioral patterns—without thinking through the lens of energy production in their children’s bodies. We can do so much to make our lives and our kids’ lives easier by controlling the controllable.

No one ever hated his own body, but he feeds and cares for it, just as Christ does the church--for we are members of his body,' Paul wrote the Ephesians, adding, 'This is a profound mystery,' as if he too had trouble believing the depth of God's intimacy with his people. I think of all that I do on my body's behalf: take vitamin pills; jog and exercise; cut hair, toenails, and fingernails; sleep; visit the doctor and dentist; eat; bandage scrapes and spread lotion over dry skin; keep room temperature comfortable. I am never not conscious of my body: right now as I write I sense the pressure on my fingertips. That is the kind of intimate relationship God has with his people on earth, for he has chosen our bodies as his own.

You're beautiful, Evie," came his soft comment. Having been raised by relations who had always lamented the garish color of her hair and the proliferation of freckles, Evie gave him a skeptical smile. "Aunt Florence has always given me a bleaching lotion to make my freckles vanish. But there's no getting rid of them." Sebastian smiled lazily as he came to her. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he slid an appraising glance along her half-clad body. "Don't remove a single freckle, sweet. I found some in the most enchanting places. I already have my favorites... shall I tell you where they are?" Disarmed and discomfited, Evie shook her head and made a movement to twist away from him. He wouldn't let her, however. Pulling her closer, he bent his golden head and kissed the side of her neck. "Little spoilsport," he whispered, smiling.

In Elizabethan times lovers were so enamored of each other’s body odors that it was common for a woman to keep a peeled apple in her armpit until it had absorbed her sweat and smell. She would give this “love apple” to her lover to sniff at in her absence. We, on the other hand, use synthetic aromas of fruits and flowers to mask our body odor from our lovers. Which of these two approaches is acquired and which is natural is not so easy to determine. A substance as “naturally” repugnant to us as the urine of cows is used by the Masai tribe in East Africa as a lotion for their hair—a direct consequence of the cow’s importance in their culture. Many tastes we think “natural” are acquired through learning and become “second nature” to us. We are unable to distinguish our “second nature” from our “original nature” because our neuroplastic brains, once rewired, develop a new nature, every bit as biological as our original.

The anger and aggression that women feel, however, can always be abated by an infinite list of beauty products, some of which have the added benefit of eliminating the appearance of anger entirely. Even if a woman is angry, no one should know it by looking at her face – optimally lineless, expressionless, and, in some cases, actually paralyzed. In 2015, news outlets announced a plastic surgery that promised to fix women with 'resting angry face,' popularly known as Resting Bitch Face. Plastic surgery, facial exercises, and even 'facial yoga' hinge on the idea that showing strong, particularly angry, emotions is bad and makes women undesirable. Antidepressant advertising targeting menopausal women encourages them to be tranquil, sedate, and, essentially, nice to look at. Lotions, creams, and injections are 'soothing' and 'calming'. Good skin care, the way to overcome 'angry' rashes or textures, has become a matter of carefully managing not just the feel of the body but also the disciplining of emotions.

two feet in this year i choose to burn my good candles on a Tuesday at noon just because i choose to use the expensive lotion the one i keep tucked safe up on the counter not ration any of my most cherished belongings because i am worth investing in ---right now this year I choose to wear that thing you know the one I told myself I would slip on when I looked a certain way? I choose to love my body this vessel I have been given and her seasons as they shift this year I give myself permission to change and keep changing for I understand there is an underlying truth when it comes to becoming- it doesn't have to mirror anyone else this year I choose to let go really let go of the heavy of the half-hearted no more forcing connection where it no longer lives I choose to nourish what's willing to grow this year I choose to be grateful for the teachings of my yesterday I honor my wholeness when I honor my whole self- even the shaky parts this year I choose to step forward clear eyes heart open two feet grounded palms wide to the all-is-possible unknown and new

Colonel Melchett silently marvelled at the amount of aids to beauty that women could use. Rows of jars of face cream, cleansing cream, vanishing cream, skin-feeding cream! Boxes of different shades of powder. An untidy heap of every variety of lipstick. Hair lotions and “brightening” applications. Eyelash black, mascara, blue stain for under the eyes, at least twelve different shades of nail varnish, face tissues, bits of cotton wool, dirty powder-puffs. Bottles of lotions—astringent, tonic, soothing, etc. “Do you mean to say,” he murmured feebly, “that women use all these things?” Inspector Slack, who always knew everything, kindly enlightened him. “In private life, sir, so to speak, a lady keeps to one or two distinct shades, one for evening, one for day. They know what suits them and they keep to it. But these professional girls, they have to ring a change, so to speak. They do exhibition dances, and one night it’s a tango and the next a crinoline Victorian dance and then a kind of Apache dance and then just ordinary ballroom, and, of course, the makeup varies a good bit.” “Good lord!” said the Colonel. “No wonder the people who turn out these creams and messes make a fortune.” “Easy money, that’s what it is,” said Slack. “Easy money. Got to spend a bit in advertisement, of course.” Colonel

We both know Dad was my parental trash can, the fatherly receptacle on whom I dumped my emotions. Does she think because she offered me a blanket and chocolate-covered whatever that I'll just hand over the keys to my inner diary? Uh, no. "I know you're eighteen now," she huffs. "I get it, okay? But you don't know everything. And you know what? I don't like secrets." My head spins. The first day of the Rest of My Normal Life is not turning out as planned. I shake my head. "I guess I still don't understand what you're asking me." She stomps her foot. "How long have you been dating him, Emma? How long have you and Galen been an item?" Ohmysweetgoodness. "I'm not dating Galen," I whisper. "Why would you even think that?" "Why would I think that? Maybe you should ask Mrs. Strickland. She's the one who told me how intimate you looked standing there in the hall. And she said Galen was beside himself when you wouldn't wake up. That he kept squeezing your hand." Intimate? I let my backpack slide off my shoulder and onto the floor before I plot to the table and sit down. The room feels like a giant merry-go-round. I am...embarrassed? No. Embarrassed is when you spill ketchup on your crotch and it leaves a red stain in a suspicious area. Mortified? No. Mortified is when you experiment with tanning lotion and forget to put some on your feet, so it looks like you're wearing socks with your flip-flops and sundress. Bewildered? Yep. That's it. Bewildered that after I screamed at him-oh yes, now I remember I screamed at him-he picked up my limp body, carried me all the way to the office, and stayed with me until help arrived. Oh, and he held my hand and sat beside me, too. I cradle my face in my hands, imagining how close I came to going to school without knowing this. How close I came to walking up to Galen, telling him to take his tingles and shove them where every girl's thoughts have been since he got there. I groan into my laced fingers. "I can never face him again," I say to no one in particular. Unfortunately, Mom thinks I'm talking to her. "Why? Did he break up with you?" She sits down next to me and pulls my hands from my face. "Is it because you wouldn't sleep with him?" "Mom!" I screech. "No!" She snatches her hand away. "You mean you did sleep with him?" Her lips quiver. This can't be happening. "Mom, I told you, we're not dating!" Shouting is a dumb idea. My heartbeat ripples through my temples. "You're not even dating him and you slept with him?" She's wringing her hands. Tears puddle in her eyes. One Mississippi...two Mississippi...Is she freaking serious?...Three Mississippi...four Mississippi...Because I swear I'm about to move out... Five Mississippi...six Mississippi...I might as well sleep with him if I'm going to be accused of it anyway... Seven Mississippi...eight Mississippi...Ohmysweetgoodness, did I really just think that?...Nine Mississippi...ten Mississippi...Talk to your mother-now. I keep my voice polite when I say, "Mom, I haven't slept with Galen, unless you count laying on the nurse's bed unconscious beside him. And we are not dating. We have never dated. Which is why he wouldn't need to break up with me. Have I missed anything?" "What were you arguing about in the hall, then?" "I actually don't remember. All I remember is being mad at him. Trust me, I'll find out. But right now, I'm late for school." I ease out of the chair and over to my backpack on the floor. Bending over is even stupider than shouting. I wish my head would just go ahead and fall off already.

Activities to Develop the Tactile Sense Rub-a-Dub-Dub—Encourage the child to rub a variety of textures against her skin. Offer different kinds of soap (oatmeal soap, shaving cream, lotion soap) and scrubbers (loofah sponges, thick washcloths, foam pot-scrubbers, plastic brushes). Water Play—Fill the kitchen sink with sudsy water and unbreakable pitchers and bottles, turkey basters, sponges, eggbeaters, and toy water pumps. Or, fill a washtub with water and toys and set it on the grass. Pouring and measuring are educational and therapeutic, as well as high forms of entertainment. Water Painting—Give the child a bucket of water and paintbrush to paint the porch steps, the sidewalk, the fence, or her own body. Or, provide a squirt bottle filled with clean water (because the squirts often go in the child’s mouth). Finger Painting—Let the sensory craver wallow in this literally “sensational” activity. Encourage (but don’t force) the sensory avoider to stick a finger into the goop. For different tactile experiences, mix sand into the paint, or place a blob of shaving cream, peanut butter, or pudding on a plastic tray. Encourage him to draw shapes, letters, and numbers. If he “messes up,” he can erase the error with his hand and begin again. Finger Drawing—With your finger, “draw” a shape, letter, number, or design on the child’s back or hand. Ask the child to guess what it is and then to pass the design on to another person. Sand Play—In a sandbox, add small toys (cars, trucks, people, and dinosaurs), which the child can rearrange, bury, and rediscover. Instead of sand, use dried beans, rice, pasta, cornmeal, popcorn, and mud. Making mud pies and getting messy are therapeutic, too.

room and the tension hits like a brick. Tonight we’re assigned to one half of a long room. Tadeo is moving up in the world of mixed martial arts, and we’re all beginning to sense something big. He’s lying on a table, on his stomach, naked except for his boxers, not an ounce of fat on his 130-pound body. His cousin Leo is massaging his shoulder blades. The lotion makes his light brown skin glisten. I ease around the room and speak to Norberto, his manager, Oscar, his trainer, and Miguel, his brother and workout partner. They smile when they speak to me because I, the lone gringo, am viewed as the man with the money.

Black people of all shapes, sizes, and personalities value the moisturizing product known as body lotion. Lotioning alleviates ashiness. To be “ashy” is to be unkempt. Lotioning is the very least one can do to be socially presentable and physically acceptable. Cocoa butter, shea butter, and aloe vera are black-people essentials; some treat the moisturizing process as a meditative ritual. Some use only as much as necessary to cover the ashiest areas (knuckles, elbows, and knees). But all understand its importance.

Everyone uses soap, but it’s a rather new human invention, and as much as we use it, we probably need to cancel out the wiping out of our natural oils with some lotions.

Last night, I bent. Just now . . . I broke. I rinse my body off, turn off the shower, wrap a towel around my waist, and storm into her bedroom, where she’s rubbing lotion onto her skin. I charge toward her. She looks up just in time and gasps as I push her against the wall. “You want to play with fucking fire, well, you just set off an inferno,” I say, my forehead pressing against hers.

Aesthetic is so very important now, to the point where women spend literally hours a day every day reapplying the lie that is the fake hair, fake make up, fake lotion, fake tan, fake everything. Everything’s fake, because a competitive market exists, and everyone out there is fake, so you need to be fake too in order to keep up.

Jazz had stayed with her for three hours. Three, long luxurious hours where he'd pleasured her---to use an old-fashioned word---time after time. And what she'd paid for was good old-fashioned romancing. That had taken her by surprise. All of Jazz's attention had been entirely focused on her body, her desires. He'd managed to push buttons that she didn't even know she had. How many women could say that they got the same service from their husbands? He'd been the ultimate professional, the perfect gentleman. It was hard to see this arrangement as a fairly sleazy business contract. Jazz had seemed to enjoy himself too; either that or the man was a damn fine actor. She closed her eyes and a stream of sexy images washed over her. His attaché case had contained a range of potions, lotions and toys to set the scene for a very naughty evening. He'd drizzled chilled champagne all over her body and had lapped it up with his hot tongue. The thought of it made her shiver with delight.

Hold her, please,” Darby whispered. I was shifted and the scent of Mel’s favorite Winter Candy Apple Bath and Body Works lotion she used all year round filled my nose.

H, you’re a workaholic. Are you going to be at it all night?” He grinned though his eyes never left the screen. “Oh, precious, work is not what I’ll be at all night. But I need a few minutes to send this new proposal to the board before I can devote my attention to you. Do you mind?” “Take your time. I’ll get ready for bed.” I lowered the lights as he had the night before, then took advantage of his distraction and retrieved the sexy nightie I’d brought with me before slipping into the bathroom. I didn’t hurry as I undressed, taking the opportunity to shave and apply lotion before slipping on the red lace halter baby-doll I’d purchased on Friday afternoon. The halter-top accentuated my breasts, an area of my body that Hudson appreciated. I removed the ponytail holder from my hair and let it spill around my shoulders in a seductive mess. I brushed my teeth and applied a thin layer of strawberry lip gloss. When I was satisfied with my appearance, I opened the door to the bedroom and posed in the doorway, waiting for Hudson’s reaction. I was met with quiet snoring. With his hands still propped on his open laptop, Hudson had fallen asleep, fully dressed. I sighed, debating how to address the situation. Of course I wanted him awake, but he wouldn’t have fallen asleep like that if he wasn’t truly worn out. Plus, I had to remind myself, night was my time of day—not his. Gently, I slipped the computer from his grasp and placed it on the nightstand. The movement didn’t disturb him in the least—he was out. I decided to let him sleep, but as for myself, I wasn’t in the least bit tired. I wondered if Jack was still awake—maybe we could play another round of poker, though being alone with the man wasn’t entirely a great idea. I peered out the window and saw the guesthouse was dark. Probably for the best.

Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby! The first thing I do when I wake up is run my hands over my body. I like to make sure all my wires are in place. I lotion my silicone shell and snap my hair helmet over my head. I once had a dream I was a real girl, but when I woke up I was still myself in my paleness under the halogen light. The saliva of androids emits a spectral resonance, barely sticky between freshly-gapped teeth. After they made me, the first thing they did was peel the cellophane from my eyes. I blinked once, twice, and cried because that's how you say you are alive before you are given language. They named each of my heartbeats on the oceanic monitor: Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I listened to them blur into one. The fetus carves for itself a hollowed vector, a fragile wetness. In utero, extension cords are umbilical. Before puberty, I did not know there was such a thing as dishonor. Diss-on- her. This is what they said when I began to drip petrol between my legs. A tension exists between ritual and proof, a fantasy and its execution. Since then, I have been to the emergency room twice. The first time for a suicide attempt, and the second time because my earring was swallowed up by my newly pierced earlobe overnight, and when I woke up, it was tangled in a helix of wires. The idea of dying doesn't scare me but the ocean does. I was once told that fish will swim up my orifices if I am no longer a virgin. Is anyone thinking about erotic magazines when they are not aroused, pubes parted harshly down the center like red seas? My body carries the weight of four hundred eggs. I rise from a weird slumber, let them drip into the bath. This is what I'll leave behind - tiny shards purer than me. I have always been afraid of pregnant women because of their power, and because I don't yet understand what it means to carry something stubborn and blossoming inside of me, screeching towards an exit. The ectoplasm is the telos for the wound. A trance state is induced when salt is poured on it, pixel by pixel. I wish they had made me into an octopus instead, because octopuses die after their eggs hatch and crawl out into the sea, and I want to know what it's like to set something free into the dark unknown and trust it to choose mercy. If you can generate aura in a non-place, then there is no such thing as an authentic origin. In Chinese, the word for mercy translates to my heart hurts for you. They say my heart continues beating even after it is dislocated from my body. The sound of its beating comes from the valves opening and closing like a portal - Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I first learned about love by watching a sex tape where a girl looks up from performing fellatio and says, show them the sunset. Her boyfriend pans the camera to the sky, which is tinged violet like a bruise. In this moment, the sky displaces her, all digital and hyped, and saturates the scene until it collapses on me too, its transient witness. I move in the space between belly ring and catharsis. That night I have a dream where I am a camgirl, but all I do on screen is wash my laundry. Everybody loves me because I am a real girl doing real girl things. What lives on the border between meditation and oblivion, static and flux, a pomegranate seed and an embryo? I set up my webcam in the corner of the room and play ambient music while I scrub my underwear, letting soap bubbles rise up from the sink, laughing when they overflow on the linoleum floor - my frizzy hair, my pockmarked skin, my face slick with sweat. A body with exit wounds. I ride the bright rails of an animal forgetting. And when I wake up, the sky is a mess of blue.

Prayer is not like a raincoat for a rainy day. It is like a body lotion that should be applied every day.

These two men have flipped my world, made colors more vivid, made sounds sweeter, made the world as a whole more bearable. My dreams consist of ray-filled days full of coconut lotion, long kisses, itchy sunburns, floating between waterfalls, and sighs before exhausted bodies collapse against feathery pillows. Other dreams of rainy days and nights filled with flips of pages and old nineties flicks, of cheddar popcorn and lavender scented blankets, of lightning and thunder and the fast pants and moans between the streak in the sky and the ground rattling boom that follows.

she looked calm and emanated a force Sasha usually associated with people who did lots of yoga or rubbed CBD lotion on their bodies.

The mirror is still slightly steamy—accounting for her wet hair when she left the house—and the mix of shampoo, body lotion, and hair products makes me want to roll around on her shaggy bathroom rug. But I don’t. That would be weird.

Don’t lie to me, Anna. Don’t lie just to make me feel better. This world might suck most of the time, but other people didn’t let it break them. Not the way it broke me.” “Stop it!” I’m still massaging his back with firm, relieving strokes, but my voice is almost angry, and tears are streaming down my cheeks. “Stop it! Stop saying that about yourself. Stop thinking it. All the people you just listed—including me—had major stuff to work on in themselves. You began as brave and strong and loving and generous. You’ve been that way for as long as I’ve known you. There’s no way for you to get any better than you already are!” He’s making some harsh, breathless sounds, and his body has started to shudder slightly. Since neither one of us can speak for a minute, I swipe away my tears and apply more lotion so I can rub down to his lower back, kneading the brown skin and tight muscles there. “Th-thank you for saying that,” Mack says at last. “For believing it. But the truth is I haven’t even stayed the same. I’ve gotten worse.” “You—” “You don’t understand, Anna. You’re thinking about me the way I used to be, but I’m not that anymore. I’m supposed to be… strong. People are supposed to be able to rely on me. I’m supposed to face the things that threaten us so other people don’t

I swear to God, if there isn’t penis touching in the very near future, this friendship is over. That’s what I want for my birthday gift.” “For me to touch Jason’s penis?” “Yes.” “Darn. I got you some lotions from Bath & Body Works,” I said, turning out my lower lip in a mock pout.

I’m surprised you’re here.” Her mouth curved upward. “I warned you I’d be joining you.” He ignored the heat that spread inside him at the sight of her smile. “That’s just it.” Her smile grew wider. “A politician who keeps his word—what a remarkable aberration in the species.” “How could I have forgotten that keen wit of yours?” he marveled. “Yeah, I’m full of surprises. Might want to remember that.” Then, throwing caution to the wind, he let his eyes roam slowly over her, lingering. She’d have to be blind not to see the hunger in them. Which she clearly wasn’t. She retreated a step. He followed, his longer legs closing the distance, until his body almost brushed hers. That cool composer of Lily’s was unraveling, no matter how hard she struggled to pretend otherwise. The signs were there, in the fine trembling of her limbs, in the flush that stole over her porcelain smooth cheeks. Fierce satisfaction filled Sean at her involuntary reaction. He dipped his head until his lips hovered, a soft whisper away. “Lily?” “Yes?” There was a husky catch to her voice. Sean’s fingers reached up and traced the rosy bloom on her cheek. Was it the sweet flush of desire that made her skin so soft? he wondered, his eyes and fingers memorizing every detail, every sensation. God, he’d die for a taste of her. But Sean denied himself the pleasure. He raised his head, putting distance between himself and his greatest temptation, and forced himself to lower his hand. At the loss of contact, Lily’s head jerked, as if coming out of a trance. Sean stepped back before she could flay him alive. “You’re looking a little pink, Lily. I’ve got some zinc oxide in my bag. I’d be happy to put some on you. Especially on those hard to reach places.” He gave her a casual smile and pulled his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his T-shirt, ignoring the violent thudding of his heart against the cotton fabric. His hands shook, too, racked with tremors of need. Somehow, he managed to settle his shades across the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, before shoving them deep into his pocket, out of sight. Damn Sean and his effect on me, Lily swore silently. He had only to bestow the paltriest of caresses and she nearly swooned. Even more galling was the fact that she was equally helpless before Sean’s verbal taunts. The thought of Sean’s hands, slick with lotion, gliding over her body in long, sweeping caresses had her pulse racing. Lily’s voice was filled with contempt—never mind that it was self-directed—as she spoke. “You know, you and John Granger should get to know each other. You could compare notes on really great pickup lines. By the way, Sean, your nose? Does it trouble you still? I hope so.

Face the facts. Your life is too perfect. You probably lie awake at night, fantasizing about spicin’ up all that lily whiteness you live in.” But damn it, I get a whiff of vanilla from her perfume or lotion. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. “Gettin’ near the fire, chica, doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get burned.” “You touch her and you’ll regret it, Fuentes,” Colin’s voice rings out. He resembles a burro, with his big white teeth and ears sticking out from his buzz cut. “Get the hell away from her.” “Colin,” Brittany says. “It’s okay. I can handle this.” Burro Face brought reinforcements: three other pasty white dudes, standing behind him for backup. I size up Burro Face and his friends to see if I can take them all on, and decide I could give all four a run for their money. “When you’re strong enough to play in the big leagues, jock boy, then I’ll listen to the mierda flyin’ out of your mouth,” I say. Other students are gathering around us, leaving room for a fight that is sure to be fast, furious, and bloody. Little do they know Burro Face is a runner. This time he’s got backup, though, so maybe he’ll stay to duke it out. I’m always prepared for a fight, been in more of ‘em than I can count on my fingers and toes. I’ve got the scars to prove it. “Colin, he’s not worth it,” Brittany says. Thanks, mamacita. Right back at ya. “You threatening me, Fuentes?” Colin barks, ignoring his girlfriend. “No, asshole,” I say, staring him down. “Little dicks like you make threats.” Brittany parks her body in front of Colin and puts her hand on his chest. “Don’t listen to him,” she says. “I’m not afraid of you. My dad’s a lawyer,” Colin brags, then puts his arm around Brittany. “She’s mine. Don’t ever forget that.” “Then keep a leash on her,” I advise. “Or she might be tempted to find a new owner.” My friend Paco comes up beside me. “Andas bien, Alex?” “Yeah, Paco,” I tell him, then watch as two teachers walk down the hall escorted by a guy in a police uniform. This is what Adams wants, perfectly planned to get my ass kicked out of school. I’m not falling into his trap only to end up on Aguirre’s hit list. “Si, everything’s bien.” I turn to Brittany. “Catch ya later, mamacita. I’m looking forward to researching our chemistry.” Before I leave and save myself from suspension on top of my detention, Brittany sticks that perky nose of hers in the air as if I’m the scum of the earth.

When you live in Jersey a beach isn’t enough. People have energy in Jersey. They need things to do. They need a beach with a boardwalk. And the boardwalk has to be filled with rides and games and crappy food. Add some miniature golf. Throw in a bunch of stores selling T-shirts with offensive pictures. Life doesn’t get much better than this. And the best part is the smell. I’ve been told there are places where the ocean smells wild and briny. In Jersey the ocean smells of coconut-scented suntan lotion and Italian sausage smothered in fried onions and peppers. It smells like deep-fried zeppoles and chili hot dogs. The scent is intoxicating and exotic as it expands in the heat rising from crowds of sun-baked bodies strolling the boardwalk. Surf surges onto the beach and the sound is mingled with the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of the spinning game wheels and the highpitched Eeeeeeee of thrill seekers being hurtled down the log flume. Rock stars, pickpockets, homies, pimps, pushers, pregnant women in bikinis, future astronauts, politicians, geeks, ghouls, and droves of families who buy American and eat Italian all come to the Jersey shore.

women are more likely to experience guilt when they engage in leisure activities in the home. This conflicted sense of leisure is exploited quite effectively by advertisers. From body lotion to chocolates, from yogurt to spa treatments, products are often marketed to women as guilt-free indulgences—that just this once, they can indulge in something special without feeling guilty about it. Advertisements for men almost never employ guilt. But this trope reveals an important social message: women are normally expected to feel guilty about leisure and pleasure. The stereotype of gaming as a waste of time likely exacerbates this expected guilt and further lowers women’s desire to game.

I bought the wrong face soap. Why? Because it says smooth face cleanser on it. I put it on my face and I'm fairly certain it's lotion. I also bought something that says "Body soufflé." What is that? Is it a lotion? Is it shower gel? Am I supposed to eat it?

He gets up and goes back down the hall. He stands outside his mother’s open door for almost four minutes, then gives up and goes inside. He gets into bed with her and his headache begins to recede almost at once. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the smell of her—shampoo, body lotion, booze. Probably it’s both. She turns over. Her eyes are wide in the dark. “Oh, honeyboy. Are you having one of those nights?” “Yes.” He feels the warmth of tears in his eyes. “Little Witch?” “Big Witch this time.” “Want me to help you?” She already knows the answer; it’s throbbing against her stomach. “You do so much for me,” she says tenderly. “Let me do this for you.” He closes his eyes. The smell of the booze on her breath is very strong. He doesn’t mind, although ordinarily he hates it. “Okay.” She takes care of him swiftly and expertly. It doesn’t take long. It never does. “There,” she says. “Go to sleep now, honeyboy.” He does, almost at once.

These two men have flipped my world; made colors more vivid, made sounds sweeter, made the world as a whole more bearable. My dreams consist of ray-filled days full of coconut lotion, long kisses, itchy sunburns, floating between waterfalls, and sighs before exhausted bodies collapse against feathery pillows. Other dreams of rainy days and nights filled with flips of pages and old nineties flicks, of cheddar popcorn and lavender-scented blankets, of lightning and thunder and the fast pants and moans between the streak in the sky and the ground-rattling boom that follows. But these are my waking dreams, and I’m living them.

I had to remind myself of all the ways that he might be Buffalo Bill, and my erotically charged moment was his puts the lotion on its skin. He could take me anywhere. He looked like the kind of guy who'd be savvy about which highway exit had the best wooded area for dumping a body. Maybe that was why he drove a truck. Which I was currently sitting in. Which of those options honestly scared me more--- that he could be up to some dark shit, or just that I had a crush? Maybe my true crime reading had desensitized me after all, because I knew which of those made my heart speed up.

Invigorating Cold A cold shower might not sound like self-care at first, but it is! Cold showers awaken all your senses, which benefits your mind and body. The banya, an old Russian tradition, involves alternating between hot steam and ice-cold water. The jolt to your system is said to increase your immune response, reducing sickness in your body. Hop in a cold shower today. While the chilliness is activating your nervous system, tell yourself, I am alive and present and ready to face this day! Follow up with a comforting warm lotion and harness the energy to tackle what lies ahead.

India's Leading Dermatology Third Party Pharma Manufacturing Company Today, the world's pharmaceutical industry is growing by leaps and bounds; and India is showing the most promising signs in this industry. We undertake our quest of improving the quality of human life with enthusiasm and vigor. Our vision for the future is powered by our business drivers. It finds purpose and direction with our strategic intent. Understanding how diseases develop and the preventive measures that can be adopted to avoid them are important steps in staying healthy. Dermatology is the branch of medicine dealing with the skin, nails, hair, and its diseases. It is a specialty with both medical and surgical aspects. A dermatologist treats diseases, in the widest sense, and some cosmetic problems of the skin, scalp, hair, and nails. Our latest range of treatment and therapy solutions gives healthcare professionals the opportunity to offer individualized care to their patients. And an array of delivery options including systemic, topical, and BioPhotonic technologies - allows doctors and nurses to tailor their treatments to the lifestyle of each individual patient We also accept Third Party Manufacturing order and have major Client base in Nigeria, Kenya, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Sudan, Philippines, Vietnam, Cambodia. All mine Face Lotion for Moisturizing & Dry Skin Lotion, Face Lotion for Moisturizing, Allmine Lotion Moisturizes, Allmine Lotion, Body Lotion.

Frankincense and Myrrh Lotion This homemade body lotion made from a mixture of frankincense and myrrh is a fantastic recipe. Not only does it alleviate anxiety symptoms but it also hydrates the skin with essential nutrients and vitamins. Ingredients ¼ cup of olive oil ¼ cup of coconut oil ¼ cup of beeswax ¼ cup of shea butter 2 tablespoons of vitamin E 20 drops of frankincense essential oil 20 drops of myrrh essential oil Plastic lotion dispenser bottles Directions Combine shea butter, beeswax, coconut oil and olive oil in a bowl. Add some water to a large saucepan and heat over a medium temperature until the water starts to boil. Place the bowl into the saucepan and heat the ingredients at the same time as stirring the mixture. Remove the bowl from the stove and place it in the fridge for an hour until it becomes solid. Remove the mixture from the fridge and use an electric hand mixer to whisk the ingredients until fluffy. Combine the vitamin E and the essential oils and continue to mix. Add to the plastic lotion dispenser bottles and store in a cool place. Lavender Soap Homemade Bar This homemade bar of lavender soap not only provides relief from anxiety but is also extremely beneficial for the skin. It’s simple to make, free from chemicals and easy on the pocket. Ingredients 20-30 drops of lavender essential oil Soap base 3 drops of vitamin E Decorative soap mold or oval bar molds Directions Add water to a large pan and heat it over a medium temperature until it starts to boil. Add the soap base to a glass bowl and then place the bowl in the saucepan until the base has melted. Take the bowl out of the saucepan and allow it to cool down. Add the vitamin E and the lavender and stir together thoroughly. Transfer the mixture into a soap mold and allow it to cool down and become completely solid before removing it from the soap mold. Store the soap at room temperature.

The problem is that very few companies make methylene blue skin-care products, and it can’t be patented. It is far easier and more affordable to buy a dropper bottle of medical-grade or food-grade methylene blue (skip the chemical supply or aquarium cleaner versions) and put a few drops into the other products you put on your skin. If you put too much, you’ll look like a Smurf. If this happens, you can usually wash it off with soap as long as you catch it fast enough. I add a few drops of methylene blue to my copper peptide serum and body lotion, and it makes a noticeable difference. This is an incredibly powerful skin booster that is painless and inexpensive.

Emily and I are lying out on towels. She is so thin, I can make out every rib, the sternum, the knobby bulges of her shoulders. Her hair is golden and thick, though, which is how I know I’m dreaming. It was so brittle toward the end. I want to lie here even though I’m not sure if beside me Emily is alive or dead. When a coyote is hit on Pacific Coast Highway, the carcass will decay for weeks until all that’s left is bones and fur. I can wait, I’m willing to wait. The sun is warm, and maybe if we lie here long enough the tide will rise and the current will drag us out, maybe the sea will accept us back into it. My phone vibrates and drops onto the floor, waking me. I’ve fallen asleep in my clothes. It’s not yet eleven. I have a voice mail from Guy. It’s startling to hear his voice, casual and familiar, telling me that Mom is doing well, the production too. He doesn’t ask me to call, but I don’t want to be alone, thinking of that hideous death. How could I have known it would be quick? Paul had only called a few weeks earlier to say Emily was coming home from the hospital, that hospice had been arranged. I brought a tuna casserole, without peas, which was how Emily liked it when she was little. But she was already in a drug-induced sleep by then. Paul and the caregivers administering liquid morphine every two hours. So thin, I remember saying to Paul, who looked at me bewildered. She’s been thin for months, he said. They asked if I wanted to rub lotion into her hands, put a warm washcloth on her face. She knows you’re here, someone said. I did not want to see her die. I did not want to touch her body. Downstairs I microwaved the casserole and sat and ate it with Hannah while we watched cartoons. Guy doesn’t answer the first time, so I call again. A third time. “Pricilla, what time is it there?” I can hear car horns; a radio being turned down. I imagine he’s on a freeway stuck in traffic and I feel a twinge of homesickness. “Not that late.” I open the bedroom window.

She was winter. The cold, cool stretch of emptiness that you think will consume you. The frigid bite you think won’t ever leave your bones, the one you try to pretend isn’t there, but can’t keep out of your head. She was fall and the scent of a fire, the crackle of heat, the coming of change you try to pretend won’t come, but does anyway, that you wait for the whole year, that you wish away when it finally comes. She was summer and the scorching warmth of sun and sin, the slick feel of lotion and the spray of ocean water, the salt of that taste on your tongue and the cool, crisp relief that comes over you when you dip inside the bottomless water. She was spring, the fresh sweet smell of jasmine and the honeysuckle temptation of light and love and beautiful rebirth that cannot be ignored. Willow was the phantom spark of all those things I loved and hated. The things that tested me. The things that healed, all wrapped up in that tempting silhouette, in the sweet surrender of her body pressed against mine and the whisper of a tease in every syllable that formed my name from her full, thick lips.

Cora works the lotion into all my cracks and crevices as the familiar medical/old-lady smell of the oily cream fills the room. My beige compression garments slump like snakeskin on my desk. After a year, they seem more me than the purply-pink swirling scars of my actual body.

My favorite toners for mature skin are a classic rosewater and glycerin lotion and a lavender, German or Roman chamomile, rose geranium, neroli, or rose tea or hydrosol mist. Try using a soothing rosewater and glycerin lotion as a body splash on occasion, especially when your skin is very dry.

She times it perfectly so that her sister would be heading for the bathroom just as Lina is on her way back to their shared room, so she could be alone. Naked on her bed, on top of her towel, she caresses pink lotion into her skin, not missing a single spot. Then she applies makeup but not too much because he had once made a comment about overly made-up girls, how they were trying to look older but they succeeded only in looking whorish. She blows her hair out in large sections so that it will lie straight but full of body, so that it might bounce across her back and shoulders as she walks. She applies perfume behind her ears, at the backs of the knees, and on the insides of her wrists. It’s a lemony floral scent evocative of beach house afternoons, of iced tea with mint leaves, and clean breezes.

The alchemy of shampoos and deodorants, lotions and hair products, combined with the odor of tech equipment and the buzz and flickering of the overhead lights, was unnerving.

Putting Lotion on the Hurts Materials: You will need a bottle of hand lotion, preferably a bottle with a pump spout. Preparation and Instructions: This is a wonderful game to play with children after they have experienced some pain—either physical, as after a fall off a bike, or emotional, as after the death of a pet. Search the child for boo-boos—old scars or new scratches. The size or intensity of the scar or sore is not relevant. The Game: Begin the game by saying, “I am going to put some lotion on all your hurts. I see one right here. I will be very careful.” Continue looking over the child’s body for hurts. If the hurt is old, lotion can be put directly on the scar. If the hurt is new, be careful to encircle the wound with lotion. Put some lotion on one finger and apply it gently. It is important that you repeat the message, “I will take care of you. No more hurts for you,” as you apply the lotion. Sometimes the child will help you find the sores. While you are putting lotion on one sore, the child is locating the next sore. If this happens, say, “There are so many hurts, and you want me to notice them all. I will find them. I will not forget. See this one here. I am putting lotion all around it.” Sometimes a child will tell you stories of how he or she was hurt. It is important to listen to the child. Variations: A variation of this game is played with Band-Aids. You begin the game with at least two. Ask the child, “Where do these go?” The child will direct you to the spot where the Band-Aid should be placed. If it is a sore, speak to it, saying, “I am glad I found you. This Band-Aid is for you.

Gout Every single year, thousands upon thousands of people are diagnosed with, and suffer from a condition known as gout. Gout is basically a form of severe arthritis, in various joints on the body. The ankle for instance, is especially susceptible to gout, making it a very painful condition to have to deal with. It is brought on by elevated levels of uric acid levels in the blood stream. This acid actually crystallizes, forming crystal deposits on the various joints in the body. Kind of like lime scale affects shower heads, and heating elements. There are pharmaceutical medicines and lotions etc out there, many of which are basically useless and only mildly effective at best. Many of these medicines are based on pain relief, meaning that they only mask the problems, rather than curing them. The good news is that natural remedies have been proven to be especially effective when treating gout, specifically, apple cider vinegar. A normal and perfectly healthy range of uric acid in the blood should be between 3.6 mg/dL and 8.3 mg/dL. This uric acid is perfectly normal, and all bodies produce it, the problems occur when the body can no longer remove excess levels of the acid, once it is produced. Apple cider vinegar is a proven natural remedy for a whole host of other health and beauty related conditions, and gout is no exception. With its anti-bacterial, anti-viral, and anti-fungal properties, it is being hailed by some people as a medical wonder. Apple cider vinegar helps to increase your PH levels, making your body more alkaline, this makes it especially effective at eliminating uric acid, which can lead to gout. The Malic acid contained in apple cider vinegar, helps to dissolve sodium urate crystals, the same crystals responsible for gout. To help rid you of painful gout like symptoms, how about you: Drink the water and vinegar solution at least three times daily - Simply mix three table spoons full of vinegar, with a glass of water, or even apple juice if you wish, and chug it down. Try

He was shaving when she stepped out of the shower. She ran a towel over her hair and body. She was generously applying lotion to her body as he splashed water on his face. “Fuck, you’ve got nice tits.” She watched his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were focused on her chest. His dick was hard. Very hard. “Do you want to fuck them?” He exhaled as he leaned against the vanity, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “Well, I do now.

Don’t you have your suit on?” he asks, pulling off his shoes. I nod and wait for him to get distracted again before shedding layers, turning my back on him as I pull out my sunscreen and work the cool lotion into my face, down my arms, stomach and legs. A grunt escapes my mouth, the hard to reach spot on my back mocking me. No. The cliché Can you rub this on my back? is most definitely not happening. Assuming the plan is to soak up some rays and chat, I lie down on my back, hiding the vulnerable strip of unprotected skin, determined not to ask for help. His eyes are on me. I can feel it. I suck in, flattening out my stomach as much as possible, before turning my head and squinting at him. I was right. He’s staring. “What?” I ask. “Do you want me to get your back for you?” Cringe. “No, I’m fine.” “Okay, then could you get mine? I don’t really want the striped look you’re going for. A little too trendy for me.” He laughs, snapping the lid shut on his sunscreen bottle. He shakes it hard to force the lotion to the end, every muscle in his body tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing. My jaw goes slack. He asked me a question. What was it? The cliché come to life? I hesitantly sit up and he’s already on his knees on the end of my mat, back to me. “Oh. Okay, sure.” I take the bottle from him and smear the lotion on the middle of his back as fast as I can. Why isn’t it rubbing in? Too much, I took too much. His body is solid under my fingertips. And tan. And solid. And sweaty. Overstimulation. Accelerated heart rate. Bad thoughts, Pippa. Stop. The lotion finally blends into his skin and I wipe my hands on my towel. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” Darren twists around and winks. “Now are you going to be stubborn or do you want me to finish your back for you?” I give in for lack of a reasonable excuse and toss him my higher SPF. He kneels behind me and gently rubs even the places I know he saw me reach myself. When he nears the small of my back, I sit up straight as a board, goose bumps racing down my arms and legs, pulse loud in my ears. I need a distraction, fast.

Do you want me to get your back for you?” Cringe. “No, I’m fine.” “Okay, then could you get mine? I don’t really want the striped look you’re going for. A little too trendy for me.” He laughs, snapping the lid shut on his sunscreen bottle. He shakes it hard to force the lotion to the end, every muscle in his body tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing. My jaw goes slack. He asked me a question. What was it? The cliché come to life? I hesitantly sit up and he’s already on his knees on the end of my mat, back to me. “Oh. Okay, sure.” I take the bottle from him and smear the lotion on the middle of his back as fast as I can. Why isn’t it rubbing in? Too much, I took too much. His body is solid under my fingertips. And tan. And solid. And sweaty. Overstimulation. Accelerated heart rate. Bad thoughts, Pippa. Stop.

Each crew member had a personal hygiene kit, more airline-complimentary stuff: a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, nail clippers, soap, a comb, a brush, antichap lipstick, skin lotion, stick deodorant, a tube of shaving cream and a shaver that, bizarrely, worked by clockwork. There was a little hand-washing station, a hole in the wall through which you thrust your hands, and jets of hot and cold water played over your skin. It was also, thankfully, possible to take a shower, with a hose and a nozzle that you passed over your body inside a concertina-type wraparound curtain. But the curtain was imprinted with stern instructions about the importance of washing down the shower properly after use, to avoid algal growths.

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