Bra Strap Quotes

I wanted him. I arched my back, fully aware of how vulnerable that made me and that I was giving him an invitation. He accepted it and laid me back against the table, bringing his body down on top of mine. That crushing kiss of his moved from my mouth to the nape of my neck. He pushed down the edge of my dress and the bra strap underneath, exposing my shoulder and giving his lips more skin to conquer.

Hey, big spender,” I said. He looked appreciative but more amused than anything else. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a one dollar bill. “Hugh,” I said. “Don’t insult me.” With a sigh, he produced a five and tucked it underneath my bra strap. “Hey, Seth,” Cody suddenly said. I looked up and saw Seth standing in the doorway. A look of comic bemusement was on his face. “Hey,” he said, studying me. “So…you’re paying for dinner?

See, the problem with boobs is if you have big ones, you can never look thin. You get these burns on your shoulders from bra straps, and your back hurts. And unless you're using them for their intended purpose, they're always in the way." "In the way of what? My hands, My face? Don't you blaspheme in here." He looked up to the sky. "She didn't mean it, Lord. Promise.

Now and then, an inch below the water's surface, the muscles of his stomach tightened involuntarily as he recalled another detail. A drop of water on her upper arm. Wet. An embroidered flower, a simple daisy, sewn between the cups of her bra. Her breasts wide apart and small. On her back, a mole half covered by a strap. When she climbed out of the pond a glimpse of the triangular darkness her knickers were supposed to conceal. Wet. He saw it, he made himself see it again. The way her pelvic bones stretched the material clear of the skin, the deep curve of her waist, her startling whiteness. When she reached for her skirt, a carelessly raised foot revealed a patch of soil on each pad of her sweetly diminished toes. Another mole the size of a farthing on her thigh and something purplish on her calf--a strawberry mark, a scar. Not blemishes. Adornments.

Covert Operations Report At approximately 0900 hours on Saturday, October 14, Operative Morgan was given a stern lecture by Agent Townsend, a tracking device by Agent Cameron, and a very scary look from Operative Goode. (She also got a tip that her bra strap was showing from Operative McHenry.) The Operative then undertook a basic reconnaissance mission inside a potentially hostile location. (But it wasn't as hostile as Operative Baxter was going to be if everything didn't go according to plan.)

I don't even have moderately big breasticles. They just look like - well, nevermind what they look like. At least they stay strapped down when I worm into a sports bra.

Elizabeth: "Maybe he'll surprise you." Meghann: "Birdie, they all surprise me. Last week, I hugged my date at the door and felt a bra strap.

Rowdy, hopped-up college kids pass us in an endless, noisy blur like they're being mass produced or squeezed out of a tube - guys skulking in their T-shirts and cargo shorts, girls in low-slung jeans and flip-flops, pimples and breasts and tattoos and lipstick and legs and bra straps, and cigarettes; a colorful, sexy melange. I feel old and tired and I just want to be them again, want to be young and stupid, filled with angst and attitude and unbridled lust. Can I have a do-over, please? I swear to God I'll make a real go of it this time.

The sheet got hung on my bra strap, and for a magnificent moment, I was fucking Superwoman!

Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her stupid. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.

To look down into crowds is to see bald spots and slipped bra straps before faces and gowns. It is the viewpoint of spiders and kings, of cheap sports seats and God.

But why is it on the girls? Why is it just expected that we'll be the ones to say something and get all mad? Why can't we just depend on boys to not slap butts and snap bra straps?!

My head kinda hurts,” Miss New Mexico said. Several of the girls gasped. Half of an airline serving tray was lodged in her forehead, forming a small blue canopy over her eyes. “What is it?” Miss New Mexico checked to make sure her bra straps weren’t showing. “N-nothing.” Miss Ohio managed an awkward smile.

Who was I supposed to tell? What was I supposed to say? That kind of stuff -- it happens all the time." It did. A million and one times. Comments on butts, jokes about bra straps. ... These things were just folded into our everyday lives, part of walking and breathing and doing math homework and eating lunch. Boys taking, and girls laughing. Having to pretend to be on your phone as you walked home in the dark,

His eyes are ravenous but his body is still tense, and so I slip my bra strap off my shoulder and motion my finger at him. He takes a deep breath, slips off his silver cross necklace, and tosses it aside. Whatever is about to happen, it seems that he does not want God around to witness it.

In England on a hot day, women are happy to walk around with their bra straps showing. In Paris, they don't shave their armpits. And you just can't mention Germany and style in the same book, let alone the same sentence. It's the same story in America too, where the Farrah Fawcett haido of 1975 still reigns supreme. In Italy, even the policemenists look like they've just come off a catwalk. One I found, standing on a rostrum in the middle of a Roman square, was immaculate, as was his routine. Each wave of the hand, each toot of the whistle and each twist of the body was Pans People perfect. Never mind that the traffic was completely ignoring him, he looked good, and that's what mattered. Looking good in Italy is even more important than looking where you're going.

My "do" now consisted of some really nifty spikes on top. I looked like a punker, but it was kind of fun, if you want to know the truth. Next thing I knew I'd be getting my ears pierced and chewing gum in public, social sins my auntie had always warned me about, along with red nail polish and dingy bra straps.

Something felt different between them as she led him to the bed. Instead of the impatient need to have her naked that he’d always felt before, tonight he took his time undressing her. He noticed little things he hadn’t before, like the scattering of freckles across the top of her shoulders, which he kissed as he slid the straps of her bra down her arms. Under the covers, his hands and mouth moved slowly over her. By now, he knew what she liked, knew all the things that had her moaning his name softly in the darkness, and when he finally eased into her, he kept his lower body still for several moments as they kissed, wanting to simply savor the feeling of being inside her. And in that moment, he was pretty sure that nothing else had ever felt quite so right.

She said her mother has a strap-on named Event Horizon.” I hid a burst of laughter behind a cough, then asked, “Do you know what a strap-on is?” She gave me a look of incredulity. “Of course. I know what a bra is. You strap it on.” “Right.” I patted her shoulder. “Well, some people name their bras. Personally, I find the practice bizarre.” She giggled. “You name everything.” “Not my bras. Who does that?” I

I would, if one-armned and jonesing, doubtless have found a way to cook up a hearty spoon of Mexican tar and slam it with my toes. (I met a double amputee in San Francisco whose girlfriend slapped a bra strap around his throat and geezed him in the neck. Another triumph of the human spirit. But slap me if I get sentimental...)

Me, I got patted down! I felt rather flattered that he thought I could have an AK-47 concealed in my pants leg or a bomb strapped to my Wal-Mart bra.

See, the problem with boobs is if you have big ones, you can never look thin. You get these burns on your shoulders from bra straps, and your back hurts. And unless you’re using them for their intended purpose, they’re always in the way.” “In the way of what? My hands? My face? Don’t you blaspheme in here.” He looked up to the sky. “She didn’t mean it, Lord. Promise.

Our breath and movements flowed evenly, measured, in unison. He brought his torso up to meet mine as he heaved, hands grasping at my bra straps, my curls, anything tangible to keep him from floating into the ether. I witnessed his face speak a thousand words as his lips just uttered one: my name again. He was all at once demonic, blissful, tortured, humble and at peace.

His hands came up to my cheeks, his mouth insistent on mine as he deepened the kiss. He had my lower lip between his teeth, giving a soft nibble while a whimper came from the back of my throat that didn't even sound like me. My nipples were tight and aching, rubbing his chest through the thin fabric of my bra. His hand slid under the fabric to cup my goosefleshed skin, his fingers rolling my nipple in a sensation so exquisite it almost hurt. "You have great boobs," he murmured against my neck. "Can I say that?" My bra was half-askew by now, one strap falling down my arm. "If my boobs are out, you're contractually obligated to say that.

Forget about that and kiss me," I say. I weave my hands in her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck as I trace the valley between her lips with my tongue. Parting her lips, I deepen the kiss. It's like a tango, first moving slow and rhythmic and then, when we're both panting and our tongues collide, the kiss turns into a hot, fast dance I never want to end. Carmen's kisses may have been hot, but Brittany's are more sensual, sexy, and extremely addictive. We're still in the car, but it's cramped and the front seats don't give us enough room. Before I know it, we've moved to the backseat. Still not ideal, but I hardly notice. I'm so getting into her moans and kisses and hands in my hair. And the smell of vanilla cookies. I'm not going to push her too far tonight. But without thinking, my hand slowly moves up her bare thigh. "It feels so good," she says breathlessly. I lean her back while my hands explore on their own. My lips caress the hollow of her neck as I ease down the strap to her dress and bra. In response, she unbuttons my shirt. When it's open, her fingers roam over my chest and shoulders, searing my skin. "You're . . . perfect," she pants. Right now I'm not gonna argue with her. Moving lower, my tongue follows a path down to her silky skin exposed to the night air. She grabs the back of my hair, urging me on. She tastes so damn good. Too good. !Caramelo! I pull away a few inches and capture her gaze with mine, those shining sapphires glowing with desire. Talk about perfect. "I want you, chula," I say, my voice hoarse.

We look jealously around at others, noting their lack of grubby visible bra straps or crusty under-eye mascara sprinkles, and it’s hard not to be resentful. Why you and not me? you think, squinting angrily at this person who probably has a beautiful apartment and an actual career and a boyfriend who never uses a skateboard to go from place to place. But perhaps he has $12.37 in his checking account, or she has no idea how to cook anything, or he slowly lets his car rot from inside rather than pony up the thirty bucks to get the oil changed. Chances are good that person is looking at you the same way.

The tops of her breasts pushed upward, beckoning. Lovely, so lovely. Yet they weren’t what claimed his attention. Knives were strapped to every inch of visible skin. Some were twined with the bra’s straps. Some were simply taped. With what, he didn’t know. He only knew he liked it. A lot. Took him a while, but he finally dropped the last to the floor. He

Keep your arms dow." He let go of the shirt and slipped his arms around me. A second later, his agile fingers unclasped my bra. "What are you doing?" He laughed as the straps slid down my arms, making me shiver. "Like I said before, get your mind out of the gutter. Your virtue is safe with me." "My virtue?" I wasn't sure if I wanted it to be safe with him. He peeked up. "For now.

He rolls his eyes. “You know this doesn’t count for number six, right? Maybe in Manhattan they consider this skinny-dipping, but in Sunshine Falls we’d call that getup ‘a glorified bathing suit.’ ” Another challenge. I’m a woman possessed. I sink beneath the water, unclasp my bra, and hurl it at him. It thwacks against his chest. “Closer,” he allows, lifting the dainty black lace strap to examine it in the moonlight. “All this,” he says seriously, “wasted on Blake Carlisle.

Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her stupid. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.

It was one of the rare mornings when Dad was around. He’d gotten up early to go cycling, and he was sweaty, standing at the counter in his goony fluorescent racing pants, drinking green juice of his own making. His shirt was off, and he had a black heart-rate monitor strapped across his chest, plus some shoulder brace he invented, which is supposedly good for his back because it pulls his shoulders into alignment when he’s at the computer. “Good morning to you, too,” he said disapprovingly. I must have made some kind of face. But I’m sorry, it’s weird to come down and see your Dad wearing a bra, even if it is for his posture. Mom came in from the pantry covered with spaghetti pots. “Hello, Buzzy!

You deserve a job that doesn’t require you dressing like this. For fuck’s sake, Renny, your shirt is so tight I can see your damned bra.” “Are my bralines bothering you? Let me fix that.” He could only gape in shock as her hands slid under the fabric of her top, and in moments, she’d managed to unsnap her bra and slide her arms through the straps. She tossed the scrap of fabric at him. It hit him in the chest, but he clasped it before it could fall. The cottony material still held the warmth of her body. Was it him or the beast that lifted it for a sniff? Vanilla. Delicious. And tempting, just like the buds of her nipples clinging to the material of her shirt that drew his gaze. I am in so much trouble.

He missed the women he’d never get to sleep with. On the other side of the room, tantalizing at the next table, that miracle passing by the taqueria window giving serious wake. They wore too much make up or projected complex emotions onto small animals, smiled exactly so, took his side when no one else would, listened when no one else cared to. They were old money or fretted over ludicrously improbable economic disasters, teetotaled or drank like sailors, pecked like baby birds at his lips or ate him up greedily. They carried slim vocabularies or stooped to conquer in the wordsmith board games he never got the hang of. They were all gone, these faceless unknowables his life’s curator had been saving for just the right moment, to impart a lesson he’d probably never learn. He missed pussies that were raring to go when he slipped a hand beneath the elastic rim of the night-out underwear and he missed tentative but coaxable recesses, stubbled armpits and whorled ankle coins, birthmarks on the ass shaped like Ohio, said resemblance he had to be informed of because he didn’t know what Ohio look like. The size. They were sweet-eyed or sad-eyed or so successful in commanding their inner turbulence so that he could not see the shadows. Flaking toenail polish and the passing remark about the scent of a nouveau cream that initiated a monologue about its provenance, special ingredients, magic powers, and dominance over all the other creams. The alien dent impressed by a freshly removed bra strap, a garment fancy or not fancy but unleashing big or small breasts either way. He liked big breasts and he liked small breasts; small breasts were just another way of doing breasts. Brains a plus but negotiable. Especially at 3:00am, downtown. A fine fur tracing an earlobe, moles at exactly the right spot, imperfections in their divine coordination. He missed the dead he’d never lose himself in, be surprised by, disappointed in.

Without thinking it through, I whirled and dashed a few steps down the hall to my bedroom. I barely made it through the door when he was on me. His arms wrapped around me from behind, one of his hands cupping my chin to tilt my head back and to the side. Conner’s lips slid up my neck to my ear. “You shouldn’t have done that, Donna. Never run from a vampire. Like any predator, if you run from one of us, we will chase you.” His voice was dark. My heart started pounding as his other hand moved up my torso to cup my breast through my bra. I gasped when I felt the sharp scrape of his fangs on my neck. Since the first night we made love, he was careful not to get his teeth near my skin. I appreciated his restraint, but I had woken the beast within tonight, and he seemed hungry. While he kissed my neck and scraped the skin with his teeth, Conner’s hands drifted down to my stomach and started pushing my jeans down. I helped him until I was standing with my back to him, clad only in my underwear. My bra loosened and the straps fell down my arms. I let it fall to the floor before I turned to face him. When I saw his face, my knees weakened. His eyes were literally two burning orbs of blue and his fangs had lengthened so that they dented his bottom lip.

I shifted one strap over my shoulder, then the other. I circled my head around and swiveled my hips, creating a sort of hula hoop helix, a study in the curves of a woman's body. He reached for me, but I stepped back, just beyond his reach. "Not yet..." "Argh," he said, but he said it with a smile. "Yes, mademoiselle." I turned around and grazed the tops of his knees with my butt, then spread my legs and bent over, because I knew the dress would ride up. I'd known this Hervé Léger was good for dancing, but I hadn't known until then that it was made for holding men entranced. I stood up while his hand moved up and down my inner thigh, and then his other hand joined in. He unzipped the back of the dress and it fell to the ground with an unsexy sandbag-like thud. I had never stood in front of a man in just a bra, panties, and heels. My first instinct was to be embarrassed, to want to cover up or turn down the lights, to jump on him so he wouldn't have such a complete view of every inch of me. Yet his gaze only grew in intensity. But then Pascal pulled me at the knees so I buckled and tripped on the way to his lap. He flicked my bra open and off so my arms flew wildly in front of me. Then, in a rather impressive move, he slid my panties off and circled me around me so I was the one sitting and he stood over me. All of a sudden, he had the control. "Hey," I said. A quiver came into my voice now that he was on top and I didn't know what to do. Pascal unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt. I got the picture and began to kick off my shoes, but he stopped me. "Leave them on," he said. "You look so fucking sexy in those heels." I blushed, but now wasn't the time to be sheepish. He leaned over me. I squeezed his waist with my legs and held his neck in the crook of my elbows so I could keep his face to mine. We rocked together forcefully but in sync. He swiftly slid off his boxer briefs and put my hand on him. He was even harder than before, harder than I had ever felt with Elliott. Pascal was roaring in triumph as he sat over me, himself in hand.

We ran back, he first and I following him, between the beds and downstairs, and we picked up an armful of wood from the pile by the wall and the knife for whittling and ran up again, we couldn’t be quick enough. He knelt down in front of the stove, and it wasn’t long before he had done the trick again. Outside the window it was night now, and the wind blew vaporous white milk against the panes, milk over the forest and the fjord, but in here there were just the two of us and the stoves and the sound of wood burning behind the black iron and sending waves of heat out into the rooms and into the walls and timbers that sucked it in. I smelt the scent of wood growing warm, and it made me as white in my head as the whirling night outside, and hungry. We stood in the kitchen with our coats on eating the contents of two tins with one spoon we took it in turns to use, and we laughed, I didn’t even notice what I was eating. Soon it was warm enough for us to take off some clothes, his overcoat and my coat, and while he hung his on a hook, I let mine fall to the floor. I took off the sweater I wore underneath and dropped that on the floor too, I unbuttoned my blouse and still felt the cold against my neck. But the heat rose to the ceiling and up to the first floor and there was another stove there. Then I calmly walked across the room and upstairs with his eyes on my back, and at first he stood still, and then he followed, and when he got to the top my blouse was off and my stockings on the floor. I slowly turned round and stood there, me inside my skin, while he was fully clothed, and I cleared my head of every thought I had ever had and let them sink out into my skin till it was painfully taut and shinning all over my body, and he saw it and did not know what it was he saw. I put my arms round my back and unfastened my bra and slid the straps over my shoulders, and I thought he might be going to weep, but his voice sounded hoarse as he whispered: “You’re lovely,” and I answered “Yes”, and didn’t know if that was true. But it did not matter, for I knew what I wanted and what to say, and his hands were as I’d thought they would be, his skins as soft and his body as hard, and it was so warm around us, and the whole time I smelt the dampness of the bedclothes like the ones at Vrangbæk, and then I just shut my eyes and floated away.

Change Your Look With These Top Notch Fashion Tips In fashion, there aren't any set rules. There is no one right way to be fashionable. Read a lot of different sources and then take what you've learned, pick it apart and use the tips that are best for you. Continue reading to learn great advice that you can tailor to your own wants and needs. If you like a shirt or skirt think about getting it in more than one color. Because clothes come in so many varying cuts and styles, you're likely find it difficult to find clothes that fit well for your body type. When you do just get more than one so that you can feel great more often. If you have thick or very curly hair, using a gel product will help you to create the style you desire. Work the product into towel-dried hair and then style it as you want. You can allow it to dry naturally, or use a hair drier. This is especially helpful in humid weather. In today's business world, it is imperative that men be well dressed. Therefore, it is essential to shop for top drawer clothing when buying clothes for your next interview. To begin your search, look through today's business magazines to ensure your wardrobe matches the top executives. Look for whether men are wearing cuffed pants or hemmed pants, ties with designs or solid ties as well as what type of shoe is currently in style. Skimpy tops are comfortable to wear in hot weather, but be careful if you are a big busted gal. Your figure needs good support, and you will feel more secure if you wear a sports bra under a lightweight top that has skinny straps and no shape of its own. Don't overstock your beauty kit with makeup. Just choose a few colors that match the season. Consider your needs for day and evening applications. Makeup can go bad if it's opened, just like other products. Bacteria can build on it, too. Have yourself professionally fitted for a bra. An ill-fitting brassiere is not only unflattering, but it affects how your clothing fits. Once you know your true size, buy a few bras in different styles and cuts. A plunge or demi-cup bra, a strapless bra, and a convertible bra give you versatile options. The thing about fashion is that it's a very easy topic once you get to know a little bit about it. Use the ideas you like and ignore the rest. It's okay not to follow every trend. Breaking away from the trends is better if you desire to be unique.

Meredith stands in a corner with a beer in her hand but she's not smiling. Her nails are painted purple and gold like her teammates but she didn't run today. She didn't even show up. She hasn't returned my calls and won't look at me. I can't stop staring at her. She holds her beer like a professional, like a woman in a commercial with long beautifully delicate but strong hands. Her top has spaghetti straps and plunges down the back so she can't wear a bra. With eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss highlighting her features she looks a little older, more sophisticated and more noticeable. Rowan has noticed her. He keeps watching her with his tiny eyes. He holds a cup full of punch, then he holds two cups full of punch. The he holds and cup full of punch and a beer. He wears a Princeton hat because that's wear he'll go next year, but it is tattered and old because he has always known he is going there. That is why he never has any fucks to give-- because his family can afford not to give them.

Meredith stands in a corner with a beer in her hand but she's not smiling. Her nails are painted purple and gold like her teammates but she didn't run today. She didn't even show up. She hasn't returned my calls and won't look at me. I can't stop staring at her. She holds her beer like a professional, like a woman in a commercial with long beautifully delicate but strong hands. Her top has spaghetti straps and plunges down the back so she can't wear a bra. With eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss highlighting her features she looks a little older, more sophisticated and more noticeable. Rowan has noticed her. He keeps watching her with his tiny eyes. He holds a cup full of punch, then he holds two cups full of punch. The he holds a cup full of punch and a beer. He wears a Princeton hat because that's wear he'll go next year, but it is tattered and old because he has always known he is going there. That is why he never has any fucks to give-- because his family can afford not to give them.

I jerked my head at the billboard and asked J.Lo, “What is that thing even trying to sell me, anyway?” “Eh,” said J.Lo as he tried to think of how to explain it. “Is a kind of strap for people whose eyes are too big. Aslike a bra for your face.

I blurt out my story, how I had hired Nicola to be the maîtress d'hôtel at our restaurant, Grappa, when I was seven months pregnant. How I suspected Jake and Nicola had begun having an affair when Chloe was just hours old; and how one night, when Chloe woke up and Jake still wasn't home at two-thirty in the morning, I bundled her up and strapped her into the portable infant carrier, walked the three blocks to the restaurant, and snuck in the side door. The door was locked, but the alarm wasn't on, the first odd thing, because Jake always locks up and sets the alarm before leaving the restaurant. Chloe had fallen back to sleep in her infant seat on the way over, so I carefully nestled the carrier into one of the leather banquettes. I crept through the dining room and into the darkened kitchen, where I could see the office at the far end was aglow with candlelight. As I moved closer I could hear music. "Nessun dorma," from Turandot, Jake's favorite. How fitting. On the marble pastry station I found an open bottle of wine and two empty glasses. It was, to add insult to what was about to be serious injury, a 1999 Tenuta dell'Ornellaia Masseto Toscano- the most expensive wine in our cellar. Three hundred and eighty dollar foreplay. I picked up the bottle and followed the trail of clothes to the office. Jake's checkered chef's pants and tunic, Nicola's slinky black dress, which I hated her for being able to wear, and a Victoria's Secret lacy, black bra. They were on the leather couch, Nicola on top, her wild, black hair spilling over Jake's chest, humping away like wild dogs. Carried away by their passion, they were oblivious to my approach. I drained the last of the wine from the bottle and hurled it over their backsides where it smashed against the wall, announcing my arrival. Before Jake could completely extricate himself, I jumped on Nicola's back and grabbed hold of her hair and pulled with all the strength of my hot-blooded Mediterranean ancestors. Nicola screamed, and clawed the air, her flailing hands accidentally swiping Jake squarely on the chin. He squirmed out from under her and tried to tackle me, but I'm not a small woman. Armed with my humiliation and anger, I was a force in motion. In desperation, Jake butted his head into the middle of my back, wrapped his hands around my waist, and pulled with all his might. He succeeded, pulling so hard that Nicola's hair, which I had resolutely refused to yield, came away in great clumps in my hands. Nicola's screams turned to pathetic whimpers as she reached to cover her burning scalp. She then curled herself into a fetal position, naked and bleeding, and began to keen.

Hastily, Clary retreated to the small bathroom, which was painted bright blue. She wriggled the dress on over her head—it was tight, with tiny spaghetti straps. Trying not to inhale too deeply, she returned to the bedroom, where Isabelle was sitting on the bed, sliding a set of jeweled toe rings onto her sandaled feet. “You’re so lucky to have such a flat chest,” Isabelle said. “I could never wear that without a bra.

And it’s not like I have to have a relationship with the man. A one-night fling would do. I could be a one-night fling kind of girl. Adam’s sexy smile and flirty touches scream one-night stand. Adam leads me to his car and opens the back door. “Yep, there he is.” “Who?” He turns and smiles down at me. “Hailey’s bear.” “Oh. Right.” I’m staring at his mouth, and finally, without overthinking it, I rise up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his firmly, then pull away and gasp. “I’m so sorry.” “Sorry?” Adam stops my hand from tugging my shirt up over my shoulder and drags his fingertip down my skin, right next to my bra strap, and every nerve ending in my body stands up on high alert. “Sweetheart, if you’re going to kiss a man, you don’t apologize after the fact.” Before I can reply, he turns me so my back is against the car, his hands on my hips, and presses in, his face so close I can feel the heat coming off of him and smell the mint from his toothpaste. His nose nudges mine, and then his lips are working their magic. I grip his arms and revel at the hard muscles there, and everywhere, as he presses his firm body against me and devours me whole. He bites my lower lip, then moves in for more. His hands skim up my sides and cup my jaw as his tongue tangles with mine. He’s all lips and hands and hard body, and oh my God, I want him. Right here. Right now. But he suddenly stops, panting hard, his forehead leaning on mine. “Let me take you out,” he whispers. “Let me see you again.” I can’t speak, so I nod weakly, making him smile. Without looking down, I pull my card out of my back pocket and slip it into his, silently high-fiving myself for touching his very fine ass. “My number’s on that.” “Okay,” he says, still whispering. Even his whisper is sexy. I nod again, swallow hard, and when he pulls away, I clear my throat and begin walking away, toward my own car, acutely aware of his eyes on my ass as I leave. “Sarah?” “Yeah?” “You forgot something.” He’s holding the bear and sporting a very satisfied grin. “Right.

Last May swept into New York City on an ecstatic warm current, bra-straps and bare legs emerging en-masse.

It also got a boost from a new online “Fit Finder” quiz, which replaced the smartphone sizing app in 2016. Because the app was tricky to use and was available only for iPhone owners, lead designer Ra’el Cohen worked with ThirdLove’s data team to develop a detailed questionnaire that was as accurate as the app in determining a customer’s size. It walked website visitors through a series of questions about their current bra—the maker, the size, the fit of the cup (cups gape a little … cups overflow a lot), band, and straps. And it asked them to select, from a series of drawings of different-shaped breasts, which pair most resembled theirs. Among the nine options: Asymmetric (one breast is larger than the other), Bell (slimmer at the top, fuller at the bottom), East West (nipples point outward, in opposite directions). By 2018, eleven million women had taken the Fit Finder quiz,

Sure, she danced in short skirts and flirted, she kissed boys, went skinny-dipping, wore lipstick to bed, and let her bra strap show. But she was a heck of a lot more than the sum of all these things put together. Still, she was judged by them because she had dared to collide with the image of purity. My sister was just another girl doomed by politics and ancestral texts that say a girl’s destiny is to be wholesome, obedient, and quietly attractive, but invisible when need be. Nailed to the cross of her own gender, a girl finds herself between the mother and the prehistoric rib, where there’s little space to be anything other than a daughter who lives alongside sons but is not equal to them. These boys who can howl like tomcats in heat, pawing their way through a feast of flesh, never to be called a slut or a whore like my sister

Bitter cups of coffee, my life and my trip measured out like Prufrock’s in coffee spoons, clothes sweaty, smelly, bra strap digging into flesh, eyes reddened, gritty as if circled with sand, sour taste in mouth, intermittent heartburn

The door opens, and Nick walks in. “Hey, Will, is—” I screech and twist into a ball, pulling the thin blanket up over my entire body. It’s not fast enough. Nick’s face has gone summer-strawberry red. He definitely saw my butt. And my back. And my bra straps. And maybe some side boob.

Slowly, change is effected Slowly, an era begins

The outhouse was one solid mud structure with a single door, no roof, and half-a-dozen open holes placed randomly in the earth. Under different circumstances, it actually would’ve made a nice toilet experience, given the fresh night air and the glittering stars overhead. Unfortunately, Mom and Bree were desperately frail and still nauseous, despite the fact that we’d hardly eaten or drunk anything all day.

Come here,” I say softly when I park in the auto body’s back lot. She leans over the middle console, closing the distance between us. “I had an amazing time,” she whispers. “Well, besides when I hid in the bathroom…and you threatened that guy.” “Forget about that and kiss me,” I say. I weave my hands in her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck as I trace the valley between her lips with my tongue. Parting her lips, I deepen the kiss. It’s like a tango, first moving slow and rhythmic and then, when we’re both panting and our tongues collide, the kiss turns into a hot, fast dance I never want to end. Carmen’s kisses may have been hot, but Brittany’s are more sensual, sexy, and extremely addictive. We’re still in the car, but it’s cramped and the front seats don’t give us enough room. Before I know it, we’ve moved to the backseat. Still not ideal, but I hardly notice. I’m so getting into her moans and kisses and hands in my hair. And the smell of vanilla cookies. I’m not going to push her too far tonight. But without thinking, my hand slowly moves up her bare thigh. “It feels so good,” she says breathlessly. I lean her back while my hands explore on their own. My lips caress the hollow of her neck as I ease down the strap to her dress and bra. In response, she unbuttons my shirt. When it’s open, her fingers roam over my chest and shoulders, searing my skin. “You’re…perfect,” she pants. Right now I’m not gonna argue with her. Moving lower, my tongue follows a path down to her silky skin exposed to the night air. She grabs the back of my hair, urging me on. She tastes so damn good. Too good. ¡Carameloǃ I pull away a few inches and capture her gaze with mine, those shining sapphires glowing with desire. Talk about perfect. “I want you, chula,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Well, except for the women who kept trying to get in his pants. But that was too damn weird to be erotic. They were so cold about it. No preamble, no coy invitation, just sneak attacks to feel up his junk. He could be walking down a corridor on a way to a meal and out of nowhere a hand would be clamped on him. It was fucking embarrassing. He found himself pushing these women away and looking around wildly to see if anyone had observed the insane interaction. Of course no one ever seemed to notice, and Ron said the same thing was happening to him. At first Alan had thought it was kinda funny, but it had happened so much that now he was just in a perpetually wary state, keeping his distance from everyone and carrying stuff around awkwardly to keep his privates armored against invasion at all times. He was now very sorry for every bra strap he’d ever flicked as a twelve-year-old boy. For every unnecessary brush against a woman’s breast. For every time he’d stared at a woman’s shapely ass as she walked away. Was this how women felt when that happened? Like a piece of produce being squeezed to see if it was ripe enough? Jesus.

Ye canna meet the laird in these rags.” She pinched Melanie’s cashmere-encased arm and stopped dead in her tracks. Fingering the material, she commented, “Hmm, mayhap they werena rags to start with. This is a fine woolen, if an odd color, but ’tis no good now, what with all this Gunn blood on it. I’d lend ye one of mine,” she said as she guided Melanie to the basin and whipped her sweater over her head before Melanie realized what she was doing. “But ye’re inches shorter and I havena time to tack up a hem if ye wish to see the laird before midnight. I’m terribly slow at sewing. I wonder…” Melanie seized on her distraction and snatched her sweater back to hold in front of her chest. “Um, the men are still here—” Melanie’s protest died on her lips as she met Darcy’s eyes. He’d had his head bent in whispers with Edmund until her sweater had been removed. Now he stared at her and nodded absently at whatever Edmund was saying. His gaze caressed her bare shoulders, pausing at her satiny bra straps with their little plastic clips that must be completely foreign to him. A flush warmed her skin, and it wasn’t all from embarrassment. Fran turned her energetic gaze on Darcy. “Do you suppose your mother’s dresses might fit?” she asked, oblivious to the heat in his gaze and the unsettling effect it was having on Melanie. “Fetch ye one or two when ye run up to Fraineach. Well, what are you waiting for?” she demanded. “Go on with you. Ye canna go to the laird in bloodied plaid.” Fran snapped her fingers in front of Darcy’s face until he stopped staring. He towered over the woman, yet he let her herd him out the door like a bashful boy being kicked out of the kitchen for sneaking sweets before dinner.

Sean walked over to her, so close she wondered if he was going to try to shake some sense into her. “Then there’s just one more thing to do.” “Oh, crap. What did I forget?” Considering how much time she’d spent going over everything in her mind instead of sleeping, she couldn’t imagine what it would be. When he rested his hand at her waist for a few seconds before sliding it around to the small of her back, she felt her muscles tense and her cheeks burn. “You can’t be doing that,” he said in the same low, husky kind of voice a man would use to tell a woman he wanted to take off her clothes. Her mind was frozen, all of her attention on that warm pressure against her T-shirt, and it took a few seconds to form a coherent sentence. “Doing what?” “You’re as jumpy as a virgin at a frat party.” He ran his fingers up over her spine until he reached the small bump of her bra strap, and then back down to her waist. “We’ve been dating a year and a half, and living together for a year of it, but you still blush and tense up when I touch you?” He had a point, but there was no way to fix that before Gram got off her plane. “Maybe you’re just that good.” It was the worst thing to say if she was trying to back him off and settle her overheating nerves. The grin he gave her would have been potent enough to get her out of her clothes if the situation was different. “That’s a story I can get behind,” he said. “Thought we were trying to keep the lies to a minimum.” The grin only widened. “Who says it’s a lie?

Having studied the toxic biological effects of wireless radio frequency (RF) radiation, I find it amazing that women will willfully strap on two radio frequency antennas to their breasts in the form of an underwired bra. The wireless industry knows the underwired bra as a dipole antenna or doublet.

What is the meaning of this?” Sylvan sighed and stood up from the lumpy, uncomfortable grey couch in the far corner of the HKR building. He’d been hoping that Sophia would be in a better mood the next time he saw her but from the way her cheeks were flushed and her big green eyes were flashing with anger, it looked like his hopes were about to be dashed. “What is the meaning of what?” he asked, nodding at her courteously as she stormed up to him. “This.” Sophia reached into a large pink shopping bag she was carrying and pulled out a strange looking contraption that seemed to be made of black lacy straps. Sylvan looked at in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t even know what that is.” “It’s a bra!” She shook it in his face in an accusing manner and Sylvan saw that there were two pocket-like cups attached to the straps that were joined in the middle. Still, it made no sense. “A what?” He attempted to take it from her but she snatched it back. “A bra—you know, to cover your, uh, chest?” Seeing that he was still clueless, Sophia put down the shopping back with an exasperated sound and held the black lace contraption up to her own chest. “Look—like this.” Today she was wearing a dark green blouse that buttoned down the front and brought out the color of her eyes. It was open enough for Sylvan to see her creamy throat and just a hint of cleavage. When she held it up, the black lace cups of the thing she’d called a bra framed her full breasts and he had a sudden mental image of her wearing it…and nothing else. Gods! His fangs sharpened and he was suddenly almost painfully hard. “I see,” he murmured, reaching out to trace the edge of the black lace where it framed the top of her breast. “It’s most…intriguing. I didn’t know human women wore such tantalizing undergarments.” Sophia’s cheeks got even redder and she shoved the bra back into the large pink shopping bag.

Question was—why did one of the catering staff have her hand down her own shirt? And was that fondling going on under there? Carson studied the strange display. No, not fondling. Looked like she was fumbling with…a bra strap? Her hair fell onto her face like a curtain, further shielding her features from him, as she fiddled with the bra in determination. He squinted. Then choked back a laugh when he realized what was happening. The girl’s bra strap had ripped—and she was attempting to tie the two ends together. Priceless. He couldn’t help it. A chuckle slid out of his throat. Unfortunately, the chuckle came out at the exact moment the preacher demanded to know if anyone had a reason why the bride and groom shouldn’t be together. Garrett and Shelby instantly swiveled their heads in his direction, shock clearly etched in their faces. “What? No,” Carson said quickly, keeping his voice low. He turned to the preacher. “No. I’m not speaking. I’m forever holding my peace. These two belong together. Please, just go on.” “I’m going to kick your ass for this,” Garrett muttered before turning his attention back to the ceremony. Shelby just glared at him. Fuck. Wonderful. Now everyone and their mother would think Carson objected to this union. Damn caterer and her broken bra.

Once he pulled a girl’s bra strap and let it snap in Raymond Elliott’s study hall, which was “just about the most daring thing you could think of to do

You’re just going to walk away and let him face fuck me?” Aubrey screeches. “Fuck you, Hugo. I thought you loved me.” He chuckles, dark and sinister. “Who said I was walking away?” He hooks his finger into her tank top and bra strap, slowly tugging it down over her shoulder. “I’m staying right here.

A day of gender equality would be day when an exposed bra strap doesn't get any attention like a man's exposed vest.

One by one, Alex’s hand stealthily undid each button down Kaylee’s blouse. Lost in the kiss, Kaylee didn’t take heed until she felt Alex press her warm hand against her bare midriff. The hand explored her body, teasing her hips, softly dragging nails across her tummy, and finally cupping her breast through her bra. Kaylee let a soft moan slip into Alex’s mouth, which relentlessly pressed on. Kaylee’s blouse was pushed off her shoulder, along with the bra strap. Her bare breasts felt the cool air of exposure and responded to the gentle caress of Alex’s hand. With Alex squeezing, teasing, and pinching lightly, Kaylee arched into the ministrations. She realized she was almost bare from the waist up, exposing her feminine

Does he like boobs or butts better? My outfit depends on it. If it’s boobs, then strap me up with a push-up bra. If it’s butt, then shuck the underwear, I’m going commando. Damn you, app! Is it boobs or butt? I mentally shake my fist in the air. I was half tempted to message him, so damn tempted to strike up a conversation before we met. Dear sir, do you prefer the bouncy breast or the bubbly butt? Please respond as soon as possible because my outfit depends on it.

Conrad saw her first. He was looking over Laurel’s shoulder. At her. She walked toward us. Her hair was swinging around all over the place and her legs looked miles long. She was wearing cutoffs and dirty sneakers. Her bra strap was sticking out of her tank top. I swear I never noticed her bra strap before. She had a funny look on her face, a look I didn’t recognize. Like shy and nervous, but proud at the same time. I watched Conrad hug her, waiting my turn. I wanted to ask her what she’d been thinking about, why she had that look on her face. I didn’t do it though. I stepped around Conrad and grabbed her up and said something stupid. It made her laugh, and then she was just Belly again. And that was a relief, because I didn’t want her to be anything but just Belly. I’d known her my whole life. I’d never thought of her as a girl. She was one of us. She was my friend. Seeing her in a different way, even just for a second, it shook me up.

She pointed to a sundress with bright yellow lemons on it. "That's cute. I love lemons." Ay, Dios mio! Carolina cringed. She sounded like a fool. It was like Baby's "I carried a watermelon" line in Dirty Dancing. Why was she so awkward? "You'd look stunning in that." Enrique signaled to a woman who worked there. A saleswoman walked over to them from the back of the shop. She quickly and professionally assessed Carolina's body and then picked one of the bright dresses off the rack. "This should fit you. Shall I put it in a room for you, miss?" "Sure." Carolina followed her right to the dressing room. The dark hair on her arms stood at full attention and her heart raced. Nerves and anticipation swirled through her--- this whole day seemed like a fantasy, but it was tough for her to just live in the moment. She undressed and slipped the dress over her head. The soft fabric caressed her body, accentuating her curves. She stared at her figure in the mirror. She looked... sexy. Carolina had never seen herself as sensual, but in this dress, in the soft, warm glow of the dressing room lights, she was a knockout. The saleswoman had also placed some bright red pumps in the room. Carolina loved high heels and never had a problem walking in them, because she had spent so many years dancing with the Ballet Folklórico. Carolina's eyes practically bugged out of her head when she saw their bottoms, and she stroked the red soles--- they were Louboutins, an identifying detail she knew about from Blanca's endless fashion magazines. Blanca dreamed of owning a pair one day. She would be so jealous. Luckily, they were the same size, so Carolina would let Blanca borrow them. There was only one problem with Carolina's outfit--- her underwear didn't work with the dress. Her broad, wide bra elastics showed under the thin spaghetti straps, and her panties were too dark. She leaned out of the curtain. "Ma'am." The saleslady walked back over to her. "Can I get you something else?" "Yes. A bra and some panties." Carolina told the lady her sizes, and the lady went around the corner, returning later with an adorable matching yellow lace bra and thong. A thong. Her face crinkled. "Do you have anything with, uh, fuller coverage?" "Of course, dear. But not in the yellow. Do you want to match the bra?" Carolina did want to match the bra. It was such a cute set. She exhaled, stepping out of her comfort zone and into the lingerie. She again looked at herself in the mirror. She practically couldn't recognize herself--- a gorgeous young woman on a romantic day trip with a man whom she really liked.

Now it’s as if buying a new phone is like winning some kind of contest. I felt as if I were in a bidding war for the color I wanted, not that I actually care, because I’ll get a case to prevent the thing from shattering the first time it falls out of my bra strap.

If you saw my bra straps slipping I am sure you saw the bruises too.

Two arms wrapped around me. “God, you smell so damn good.” Beau’s voice was muffled in my neck. His warm breath sent chill bumps up my arms. “Beau?” I croaked out. “Mmhmm,” he replied, kissing my neck and nibbling on my earlobe. I titled my head to the side, giving him better access when I should have been trying to stop him. But with his warmth surrounding me and his hands moving up my sides, I decided I didn’t care at the moment. “What?” I managed to get out as his hands teased the lower portion of my bra strap. He was overwhelming me. I couldn’t get my thoughts together. “I love you, Ash,” he whispered in my ear, and kissed a trail from my ear to my shoulder blade. “Uh,” I squeaked out. His thumbs brushed the underside of my breast and my knees started to buckle. It had been so long since he’d touched me. “Easy, baby,” he murmured, pulling me back against his chest as he leaned against the tree that held our special limb. His leg settled between my thighs and I trembled. “I’m not letting you go. You’re mine, Ash. I can’t live without you.” His voice was low and fierce as he held me tightly. “But, Sawyer--” “Sawyer is okay with this. I’ve spoken to him. He and I are working things out. But, Ash, I can’t continue to want you from a distance. To love you and not have you. I’d end up in jail if anyone tried to touch you, and God forbid you tried to date someone.” I turned around in his arms and laid my hands against his hard chest. I loved his chest. Especially when it was bare. “I only want you,” I told him, staring up into his eyes. Those long black lashes shouldn’t be so ridiculously sexy, but they were. Beau buried both his hands in my hair and sighed. “Good, because I want you, too. Now. Forever. Just you.” The thought of forever with Beau sent tingles of joy through my body and shot straight into my heart. The dread and fear I’d felt when Sawyer had said he wanted to marry me one day had no place there. Because Beau was who I wanted. It had always been Beau.

The tiniest bead of sweat had formed at her hairline and the swell of her bust rose and fell rapidly, teasingly. A glimpse of a white bra strap was visible where her dress had moved in the dance and her thick hair was in some disarray. For an unguarded moment, I imagined it even more so. It felt wicked to look at her in this way, but I did. I could not tear my eyes away.

four parallel lines from when a mark had tried to rake me with his claws last month, I looked fierce. A bad mama-jama. Right? I had a freaking gun strapped to my leg! And if, for some reason, that wasn’t hardcore enough, then surely the sword strapped to my back should’ve made that kid hesitate in approaching, grimy pink beads or no. Sure, this was NOLA, where anything goes, but still, my outfit should’ve at least panicked the mother. My job hinged on the fact that I was terrifying, dang it! Intent on getting to the bottom of this, I adjusted my bra. A catcall came immediately.

A writer evolves with her thoughts. In this process, the story sometimes becomes the writer, and sometimes the writer is the story.

smiling nervously. I grinned as the vision walked carefully towards me. "You look gorgeous," I said with pride. "Just gorgeous. Show me the back..." My date obeyed, revealing the dress's hidden secret. It was completely backless! I had bought a special padded bra which went around the shoulders, to give the illusion of breasts. Aside from the strap around the neck, concealed anyway by the shoulder-length hair, the whole of

The joyous meaning of merry was a beautiful demonstration of the element of chance in how words’ meanings move along. The earliest rendition we can get a sense of for merry is that on the Ukrainian steppes several thousand years ago, in Proto-Indo-European, it was mregh. In Greece, this word for “short” morphed not into merriment but into the word for upper arm, brakhion. The sounds in mregh and brakh match better than it looks on paper: for one thing, both m and b are produced by putting your lips together, and so it’s easy for one to change into the other. As to meaning, it was a matter of implications, this time in one of the things the word was applied to rather than the word itself. The upper arm is shorter than the lower, and hence one might start referring to the upper arm as the “shorter,” and the rest was history. Calling your upper arm your “shorter” is not appreciably odder than calling cutoff pants shorts, after all. The process never stops. It seems that in Latin this brakh ended up, among other places, in a pastry, namely, one resembling folded arms, called a brachitella. Old High German picked that up as brezitella; by Middle High German people were saying brezel. Today, brezel is pretzel—from that same word that meant short and now connotes joyousness in English. In France, that brach root drifted into a word referring to shoulder straps or, by extension, a child’s little chemise undershirt. Women can wear chemises, too, but garments, like words, have a way of changing over the centuries, and after a while the brassière had evolved into a more specific anatomical dedication than a chemise’s. The modern word bra, then, is what happens when a word for “short” drifts step by step into new realms. Merry, pretzel, and bra are, in a sense, all the same word—yet contests could be held challenging people to even use all three in a sentence (or at least one that made any sense).

She felt his fingers begin to play with the straps of her bra. “Are you always covered in lace, or is this just for me?” he asked huskily.

Endometriosis, or painful periods? (Endometriosis is when pieces of the uterine lining grow outside of the uterine cavity, such as on the ovaries or bowel, and cause painful periods.) Mood swings, PMS, depression, or just irritability? Weepiness, sometimes over the most ridiculous things? Mini breakdowns? Anxiety? Migraines or other headaches? Insomnia? Brain fog? A red flush on your face (or a diagnosis of rosacea)? Gallbladder problems (or removal)? — PART E — Poor memory (you walk into a room to do something, then wonder what it was, or draw a blank midsentence)? Emotional fragility, especially compared with how you felt ten years ago? Depression, perhaps with anxiety or lethargy (or, more commonly, dysthymia: low-grade depression that lasts more than two weeks)? Wrinkles (your favorite skin cream no longer works miracles)? Night sweats or hot flashes? Trouble sleeping, waking up in the middle of the night? A leaky or overactive bladder? Bladder infections? Droopy breasts, or breasts lessening in volume? Sun damage more obvious, even glaring, on your chest, face, and shoulders? Achy joints (you feel positively geriatric at times)? Recent injuries, particularly to wrists, shoulders, lower back, or knees? Loss of interest in exercise? Bone loss? Vaginal dryness, irritation, or loss of feeling (as if there were layers of blankets between you and the now-elusive toe-curling orgasm)? Lack of juiciness elsewhere (dry eyes, dry skin, dry clitoris)? Low libido (it’s been dwindling for a while, and now you realize it’s half or less than what it used to be)? Painful sex? — PART F — Excess hair on your face, chest, or arms? Acne? Greasy skin and/or hair? Thinning head hair (which makes you question the justice of it all if you’re also experiencing excess hair growth elsewhere)? Discoloration of your armpits (darker and thicker than your normal skin)? Skin tags, especially on your neck and upper torso? (Skin tags are small, flesh-colored growths on the skin surface, usually a few millimeters in size, and smooth. They are usually noncancerous and develop from friction, such as around bra straps. They do not change or grow over time.) Hyperglycemia or hypoglycemia and/or unstable blood sugar? Reactivity and/or irritability, or excessively aggressive or authoritarian episodes (also known as ’roid rage)? Depression? Anxiety? Menstrual cycles occurring more than every thirty-five days? Ovarian cysts? Midcycle pain? Infertility? Or subfertility? Polycystic ovary syndrome? — PART G — Hair loss, including of the outer third of your eyebrows and/or eyelashes? Dry skin? Dry, strawlike hair that tangles easily? Thin, brittle fingernails? Fluid retention or swollen ankles? An additional few pounds, or 20, that you just can’t lose? High cholesterol? Bowel movements less often than once a day, or you feel you don’t completely evacuate? Recurrent headaches? Decreased sweating? Muscle or joint aches or poor muscle tone (you became an old lady overnight)? Tingling in your hands or feet? Cold hands and feet? Cold intolerance? Heat intolerance? A sensitivity to cold (you shiver more easily than others and are always wearing layers)? Slow speech, perhaps with a hoarse or halting voice? A slow heart rate, or bradycardia (fewer than 60 beats per minute, and not because you’re an elite athlete)? Lethargy (you feel like you’re moving through molasses)? Fatigue, particularly in the morning? Slow brain, slow thoughts? Difficulty concentrating? Sluggish reflexes, diminished reaction time, even a bit of apathy? Low sex drive, and you’re not sure why? Depression or moodiness (the world is not as rosy as it used to be)? A prescription for the latest antidepressant but you’re still not feeling like yourself? Heavy periods or other menstrual problems? Infertility or miscarriage? Preterm birth? An enlarged thyroid/goiter? Difficulty swallowing? Enlarged tongue? A family history of thyroid problems?

And going as far as to inform me that she was in her element here, really and that sex shops were feminist spaces, in a lot of ways. I remember pointing to the wall of pornographic DVDs behind her, flanked by a mannequin with enormous plastic breasts and a cheap wig, modelling a strap-on and a neon pink bra with nipple cut-outs – what about that stuff, Flo; is that feminist? She thought for a moment, and concluded that the strap-on was feminist but the mannequin and a vast swathe of the pornographic DVDs probably weren’t. If some of the porn had been made by a woman it would be feminist, but the majority of it probably hadn’t been. However, if we were to buy some porn, it would be a queer and feminist act of disruption.