Calvin Klein Underwear Quotes

Mischievous smile. “I remember reading about Calvin Klein’s daughter. Every time she pulled down a lover’s pants, she was confronted by her father’s name on the band of his underwear. A total sex killer.

He leaned against the refrigerator, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched as she bustled about, her delicious ass doing things for his underwear that Calvin Klein couldn't possibly have envisioned.

In chili’s hand were his car keys, Ray-bans and Marlboros, without which he wouldn't leave his bathroom. Chili drank only black coffee and neat Jack Daniel’s; his suits were Boss, his underwear Calvin Klein, his actor Pacino. His barber shook his hand, his accountant took him to dinner, his drug dealer would come to him at all hours and accept his checks.

When did people begin to wear clothing with writing on it? Was this not significant? I visit a beach resort. There is a fellow sitting on the sand and his T-shirt says in bold letters: "Tommy." Is he Tommy? Of course not. Tommy is Tommy Hilfiger, the designer who writes his name all over everything and people buy it. Kate Spade puts her name on a purse and it sells for several hundred dollars. Calvin Klein enhances your underwear with his name. ... Where did they get their strange power? What did they do to derange people so that they actually pay for the right to wear an advertisement for what they have just bought?

What happened?" he asks,voice laced with concern. "I..." I merged with a cockroach-caught a ride next to your twin's Calvin Klein underwear label-and after I watched him play with a demon coyote and snack on bloodied bits that could've been either animal or human, he fed glowing, white orbs to the walking dead-then crushed me under the hell of his boot... "I'm not sure," I say,willing my head to feel better,to stop spinning, and a moment later it does. "I guess I passed out,or something..." I cringe,hating the lie but knowing there's no way I could ever present him the truth. I start to stand,pretending not to notice when he offers a hand. "I need to call my ride." I fumble for my phone, reluctant to bother Paloma and Chay at this hour,but they're pretty much my only real option. "Don't be silly.I'll drive you." Dace follows me out of the stall,watching as I call Paloma's number,then Chay's-face scrunching in confusion when they both fail to answer.It doesn't make any sense. "Daire-why won't you let me help you?" he says.My name on his lips sounding just like ti did in the dream. Our eyes meeting in the mirror,mine astonished, his chagrined,when he adds, "Yeah,I asked around.Uncovered your real name. So shoot me." And when he smiles,when he smiles and runs a nervous hand through his glossy,dark hair-well,I'm tempted to shake my head and refuse him again. Maybe he goes by the name of Whitefeather, but technically,he's still a Richter.A good Richter-a kind Richter-still,I need to do what I can to avoid him.To ignore that irresistible stream of kindness and warmth that swarms all around him. Need to cleanse myself of those dreams once and for all.We are not bound.Nor are we fated.I'm a Seeker-he's the spawn of a Richter-and my only destiny is to stop his brother from...whatever it is that he's doing. But,more immediately,I need to get home.And there's no denying I could do a lot worse than catching a ride with gorgeous Dace Whitefeather.

Harriet had half expected him to be wearing some bizarre 1920s underwear so was as relieved by his Calvin Klein’s as she was impressed by the bulge in them.

When Bay was done she looked down at herself, dressed in a plain white bra, torn bikini underwear, and cowboy boots. “I feel like I’m dressed for the midnight show at the Crazy Horse Saloon,” she muttered. Her mouth went dry when she looked at Owen, who was left wearing cowboy boots and black Calvin Klein’s. The knit cotton underwear hugged him lovingly from waist to thighs. He was a female’s fantasy come to life. They stared at each other, enjoying what they saw. And realizing just how close they’d come to losing their lives. “You look good,” he said.

Guy Verhofstadt wears his brains in his Calvin Klein underwear.

I looked like a cologne ad had dirty sex with an underwear model, producing a freakishly sexy baby that was raised by a Calvin Klein billboard.

I love this townhouse. I guess I’d forgotten what it looked like. It’s very old New York. Dark, elegant. Kinda like you,” she teased. “Elegant, eh? That’s what you see?” “Oh, yeah.” She fanned herself. “I told you, GQ model. It’s the suits. And the cheekbones. You should call Calvin Klein if this whole lawyering thing falls through. I’d pay for photos of you in your underwear.

A few years after the Janssen portrait was debunked by the Folger, the owner of the Cobbe picture scheduled his own restoration—which he decided to do himself—and dissolved a layer of surface paint on his portrait that had possibly been applied, according to Wells, while Shakespeare was still alive. Yet nobody criticized Alec Cobbe for destroying that layer of ancient paint—or for refusing to release some of his portrait’s test results to the public. All that mattered, it seemed, was that our new Soul of the Ages looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model.

A few years after the Janssen portrait was debunked by the Folger, the owner of the Cobbe picture scheduled his own restoration—which he decided to do himself—and dissolved a layer of surface paint on his portrait that had possibly been applied, according to Wells, while Shakespeare was still alive. Yet nobody criticized Alec Cobbe for destroying that layer of ancient paint—or for refusing to release some of his portrait’s test results to the public. All that mattered, it seemed, was that our new Soul of the Ages looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model. Both the Cobbe and Janssen portraits had a layer of ancient overpaint destroyed from their surface, but what’s perplexing here is that, in both cases, that destroyed layer of paint had been applied in order to render the sitter bald.

Here sits a man, he thought, here sits a man dressed in a mossy green sportcoat purchased at one of the best shops on Rodeo Drive; here sits a man with Bass Weejuns on his feet and Calvin Klein underwear to cover his ass; here sits a man with soft contact lenses resting easily on his eyes; here sits a man remembering the dream of a boy who thought an Ivy League shirt with a fruit-loop on the back and a pair of Snap-Jack shoes was the height of fashion; here sits a grownup looking at the same old statue, and hey, Paul, Tall Paul, I’m here to say you’re the same in every way, you ain’t aged a motherfucking day.