Denim Pants Quotes

She tied her blond hair back with a strip of denim torn from her pants leg, and in the fiery light of the river, her grey eyes flickered. Despite being beat-up, sooty, and dressed like a homeless person, she looked great to Percy. So what if they were in Tartarus? So what if they stood a slim chance of surviving? He was so glad that they were together, he had the ridiculous urge to smile.

That’s right, honey, state your claim on Mr. Yummy Pants. I’d do the same if I were you.” A grin ticked at my mouth. I swept my gaze over the muscled roundness of Bones’s ass, which his black jeans only highlighted. Then I gazed at the snug fit of the front that had nothing to do with the cut of the denim. Finally, I met Tyler’s chocolate-colored eyes and winked back.

It was a denim jacket. With this cover in place, Mouse hastily got his pants back in order. Instead of a teacher, as he’d expected, the new kid, Beckett Taylor, had bestowed dignity upon him.

My mother once made a quilt from dozens of pairs of second- and third- and fourth- hand blue jeans that she bought us at Goodwill, the Salvation Army, Value Village, and garage sales. My late sister studied my mother's denim quilt and said, 'That's a lot of pants. There's been a lot of ass in those pants. This is a blanket of asses.

People who have nothing to prove offer practical baby gifts: sturdy cotton rompers made to withstand the cycle of vomit and regular washing. People who are competing for the titles of best-loved aunts and uncles - people like my sisters and me - send satin pants and delicate hand-crafted sweaters accompanied by notes reading "P.S. The fur collar is detachable.

They'd find a way out of this mess of thorns, she told her grandson, and promised to visit his first Sunday at Nickel. But when she showed up, they told her that he was sick and couldn't have visitors. She asked what was wrong with him. The Nickel man said, [How the h*** should I know, lady?] There was a new pair of denim pants on the chair next to Elwood's hospital bed. The beating had embedded bits of the first into his skin and it took two hours for the doctor to remove the fibers. It was a duty the doctor had to perform from time to time. Tweezers did the trick. The boy would be in the hospital until he walked without pain.

For all their weirdness, I LOVE the penis people. I don't understand them. I can't imagine I'll ever learn their language of grunting and scratching, but I'm going to try. If I have to devote my life to learning, I will do it. I can't explain the compulsion that is me thinking about Stephen now. Or just watching a boy walk by and wondering what is going on inside his head. To have him want to play with my hair and take me exciting places. To touch his amazingly fabulous butt and not be arrested for assault. Don't they have a distinct smell? When do they start producing that spicy, manly, different-from-me scent? I don't mean the sweaty, take-a-shower odor, but the yummy soap and a hint of cologne. The kind of scent that makes me want to inhale in their general vicinity just because I can. I get fluttery and gooey and cease to function at higher levels. Like I shut down except for feeling things; like the hot rays of Stephen's manliness and the solid rock of femur and muscle under his denim cargo pants.

Can’t wait, baby. I’m going to rip those tight-ass pants from your body and bury my face between your creamy thighs. I want to feel that sweet cunt around my tongue. Going to make you scream, Princess, and then when you can’t take it anymore”—he pushes his denim-covered hips hard into mine, his thick erection rubbing my clit in the most delicious way—“then I’m going to lick my way up this sweet fucking body and finally I’m going make you mine.

Oh my god.” He didn’t turn or say anything even though the frustration in Honor’s voice made it difficult. “My pants are stuck. I don’t think I can get them off without some help. Jesus, wet jeans are heavy and uncooperative.” A grin stretched across his face. “You want my help?” She let out a deep breath. “Yes, but you have to close your eyes.” “You going commando tonight?” he teased. “No, but…” He shut his eyes and turned. She took his outstretched hand and tugged him down to the ground. Once there, she helped him latch on to the bunched up denim at her thighs, he guessed. Do not peek, Bishop. Do not peek. “But?” “My panties are white and now see-through and there’s not a lot to them.” “Gotcha.” There wasn’t a red-blooded man alive who wouldn’t peek. “Let’s get these off you.” He pulled, she pushed and wiggled, and he got the pants to her feet in no time. “Thank you,” she said, a little out of breath. “No problem.” “Bryce!” “What?” Christ, she had sexy legs, and the barely-there material at their juncture left little to the imagination, so his thoughts leaped to about a dozen dirty scenarios. “Your eyes are open!

I opened the front door of my parents’ house the next evening. His starched blue denim shirt caught my eye only seconds before his equally blue eyes did. “Hello,” he said, smiling. Those eyes. They were fixed on mine, and mine on his, for more seconds than is customary at the very beginning of a first date. My knees--the knees that had turned to rubber bands that night four months earlier in a temporary fit of illogical lust--were once again as firm as cooked spaghetti. “Hello,” I answered. I was wearing sleek black pants, a violet V-necked sweater, and spiked black boots--a glaring contrast to the natural, faded denim ensemble he’d chosen. Fashionwise, we were hilariously mismatched. I could sense that he noticed this, too, as my skinny heels obnoxiously clomped along the pavement of my parents’ driveway. We talked through dinner; if I ate, I wasn’t aware of it. We talked about my childhood on the golf course; about his upbringing in the country. About my dad, the doctor; about his dad, the rancher. About my lifelong commitment to ballet; about his lifelong passion for football. About my brother Mike; about his older brother, Todd, who had died when he was a teenager. About Los Angeles and celebrities; cows and agriculture. By the end of the evening, I had no idea what exactly I’d even said. All I knew was, I was riding in a Ford F250 diesel pickup with a cowboy--and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.

Q: What kind of pants does Super Mario wear? A: Denim, denim, denim.

Mid-June 2012 …Do you remember the arrogant male model who came to the Bahriji School to give a grooming course to us students when we were there? An evening after my return to London, while staying at Uncle James’ home, I visited one of the London sex clubs. Uncle James was in Hong Kong and I had his town house to myself before I moved to my own lodgings in Ladbroke Grove, recommended by the Nottinghill Methodist Church housing project. I was terribly lonely and needed company desperately. I ventured to “Heavens” located Under the Arches on Villiers Street, Charing Cross, a little before midnight. In 1972, this establishment was located in a large warehouse. For the uninitiated, the entrance was nondescript. It was dimly lit from the outside, and when a patron wished to gain entry, he pressed an obscure doorbell by the side of a huge aluminum sliding door. A pair of eyes would look through a peephole, checking to make sure that it was neither a police raid nor an underage client. If the patron was handsome and dressed like a macho gay man, he’d be asked for identification. Once approved, the green door would slide open to allow entry. Inside “Heavens” was a different world. Throngs of leather and denim-clad patrons checked their belongings in the tiny cloakroom next to the cashier’s booth. A small safety deposit box was then allocated upon request for each visitor to deposit his wallet or important documents for safekeeping. The safety deposit box key, attached to an elastic band together with the clothing claim tag, would then be handed to the patron to wear around his wrist or ankle. Most patrons were shirtless except for their jeans and leather pants. The uninhibited would strip down to their jock straps or sports undergarments. Their naked buttocks were ready to be in service for a night of unbridled debauchery.

He followed another voice. “This isn’t real, man. Maybe we’re having some kind of mass hallucination.” “Well, you stay and check it out then,” someone called back. “I’m getting the hell out of here.” The wolf loped closer, scenting the human. The man was slowing down, certain none of this could be reality. The wolf leapt, covering a considerable distance in a single spring and catching the human by the seat of his pants. He got a mouthful of denim, and the man gave a high-pitched scream. Without looking back, he bolted to join his friends, his boots loud on the street as he escaped. Aidan laughed out loud this time, the sound echoing eerily, carried on the thick bed of fog. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had so much fun.

thumping from above had distracted him, so it was relatively easy for the hand to snake out from just inside the counter and claw into his testicles. Gus gasped. His leather and denim pants prevented his balls from being totally crushed, but the sudden sickening agony brought him to his knees. His shotgun wavered and fell to the ground. He got one hand on the white wrist of the hand hooked onto him, but before he could summon his strength, what little he had remaining, the fist squeezed again. Hard. “Oh there’s a good boy, yes, such a healthy boy,” a voice trilled. A sickening weight had attached itself to him, pulling down on his testicular nerves like five hundred pound granite blocks, deep down where his senses buckled and warped and were only concerned with pain. Gone were thoughts of looting. Gone were thoughts of the noise from above. As if submerged under sixty