Fat Thighs Quotes

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What is Insulin? Insulin is a hormone that allows the glucose (also called blood sugar) in your blood to get out of your bloodstream and into your cells for energy for whatever your current activity or inactivity is. If you have more glucose in your bloodstream than your current energy need, the excess is stored in your liver (called glycogen in its storage form). If your liver is full and you still have excess glucose in your bloodstream, the rest is stored as body fat around your butt, thighs, belly—and generally every place you don’t want it to be. 
Rick Mystrom (Glucose Control Eating: Lose Weight Stay Slimmer Live Healthier Live Longer)
She pushed him onto the couch and straddled him... Min swallowed "the thing is, im going to spread. Hips, thighs-" "Not till nine-thirty," Cal said trying not to picture her. "-waist," Min said then stopped. "What? nine-thirty? Not till my forties, probably, i think i can fight it off that long, but then-" "What?" Cal said. "Im going to get fat," Min said, and he blinked. "Er. Im going to get fatter." she frowned at him. "what did you think i meant?" "for future reference," he said starting to laugh. "if you're sitting half naked on my lap and you tell me you're going to spread-" "No! I would never say that!" she said.
Jennifer Crusie (Bet Me)
Sisters are like fat thighs. They stick together. -T-shirt
Lani Lynn Vale (Center Mass (Code 11-KPD SWAT, #1))
Nothing in the world is so soft and pleasing to the touch, as the skin of a woman's thigh. No flower, feather or fabric, can match that velvet whisper of flesh. No matter how unequal they may be in any other ways, all women, old and young, fat and thin, beautiful and ugly, have that perfection. It's a great part of the reason why men hunger to possess women, and so often convince themselves that they do possess them: the thigh, that touch.
Gregory David Roberts
I know that fat girls are supposed to be allergic to pools or whatever, but I love swimming. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know people stare, but they can’t blame me for wanting to cool off. And why should it even matter? What about having huge, bumpy thighs means that I need to apologize?
Julie Murphy (Dumplin' (Dumplin', #1))
The thinking that women of all shapes and sizes can be beautiful is still hugely problematic, because it is predicated on the idea that the most important thing a woman has to offer the world is her appearance. Men are raised to worry about their legacies, not their upper arm and thigh fat, stretch marks, crows-feet, saggy elbows, ugly armpits, thin eyelashes, and normal-smelling genitals.
Jessica Knoll (The Favorite Sister)
She smiled and sipped from her glass. There was altogether too much of her sitting there, the broad expanse of thigh cradled in the insubstantial stocking and the garters with the pale flesh pursed and her full breasts and the sootblack piping of her eyelids, a gaudish rake of metaldust in prussian blue where cerulean moths fluttered her awake from some outlandish dream. Suttree gradually going awash in the sheer outrageous sentience of her. Their glasses clicked on the tabletop. Her hot spiced tongue fat in his mouth and her hands all over him like the very witch of fuck.
Cormac McCarthy (Suttree)
First things first, I'm going to tell you why I'm fat, because I actually get this question a lot, much in the way people are asked how they got into live-action role playing or funeral home cosmetology. The answer I'd like to give to people who ask me that question is that God made us all different, and she made some people round-shaped, like me, and some people asshole-shaped, like you. Too direct? Fine, here's the deal. Most kids inherit their best qualities from their parents. I inherited mental illness and fat thighs. Oh, and astigmatism and course body hair.
Brittany Gibbons (Fat Girl Walking: Sex, Food, Love, and Being Comfortable in Your Skin...Every Inch of It)
Every time I blink, all I can see are my flaws. My body in a fun-house mirror. Hips too wide. Thighs too big. And a head too small for the rest of me.
Julie Murphy (Dumplin' (Dumplin', #1))
The more I thought about the reasons behind my insecurities, the more I realized that my issues with my appearance had nothing to do with reality. I didn’t feel fat because I was sluggish or unable to move my body with ease. I felt fat because I didn’t fit the mold of what society has taught me a woman should look like.
Jenn Sadai (Cottage Cheese Thighs)
She used to look forward to changing in the locker room when other girls stole shocked glances at her emaciated body last spring. Now they would look at her and think she was fat--just as fat as all the other girls, maybe even fatter. Nothing separated her from the parade of thunder thighs trooping up the stairs from the locker room to the gym.
Steven Levenkron (Kessa)
You are all zombie thigh-fat people brought into reanimation by some evil force of forceful evil!
Jhonen Vásquez
You can kiss the bald spot where my fat thighs rub together.
Brent Weeks (The Broken Eye (Lightbringer, #3))
I stood surrounded by naked women not one of them bearing even the remotest resemblance to a centerfold. We had large thighs and round bellies small breasts and breasts that had fed babies full figures and thin ones dark skin and light muscles and fat. And each was beautiful in her own unique way. Laughing and full of light the radiance shone forth from within.
Phyllis Curott (The Love Spell: An Erotic Memoir of Spiritual Awakening)
Every time the women appear, Snowman is astonished all over again. They're every known colour from the deepest black to whitest white, they're various heights, but each one of them is admirably proportioned. Each is sound of tooth, smooth of skin. No ripples of fat around their waists, no bulges, no dimpled orange-skin cellulite on their thighs. No body hair, no bushiness. They look like retouched fashion photos, or ads for a high priced workout program. Maybe this is the reason that these women arouse in Snowman not even the faintest stirrings of lust. It was the thumbprints of human imperfection that used to move him, the flaws in the design: the lopsided smile, the wart next to the navel, the mole, the bruise. These were the places he'd single out, putting his mouth on them. Was it consolation he'd had in mind, kissing the wound to make it better? There was always an element of melancholy involved in sex. After his indiscriminate adolescence he'd preferred sad women, delicate and breakable, women who'd been messed up and who needed him. He'd liked to comfort them, stroke them gently at first, reassure them. Make them happier, if only for a moment. Himself too, of course; that was the payoff. A grateful woman would go the extra mile. But these new women are neither lopsided nor sad: they're placid, like animated statues. They leave him chilled.
Margaret Atwood (Oryx and Crake (MaddAddam, #1))
At night when I look at Boris' goatee lying on the pillow I get hysterical. O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider. I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris' chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces...
Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer (Tropic, #1))
The more I thought about the reasons behind my insecurities, the more I realized that my issues with my appearance had nothing to do with reality. I didn’t feel fat because I was sluggish or unable to move my body with ease. I felt fat because I didn’t fit the mold of what society has taught me a woman should look like.
Jenn Sadai (Cottage Cheese Thighs)
Eating sugar in excess of what can be immediately burned causes it to be stored in the liver in the form of glucose (glycogen). Since the liver’s capacity is limited, a daily intake of refined sugar soon causes the liver to exceed its ability to store sugar, and the excess glycogen is returned to the blood in the form of fatty acids. These are taken to every part of the body and stored as fat in the most inactive areas: the belly, the buttocks, the breasts, and the thighs.
Raymond Francis (Never Be Fat Again: The 6-Week Cellular Solution to Permanently Break the Fat Cycle)
Pepper woke up thinking of butts. And nothing else. Ladies' butts. Skinny butts, big butts, saddlebag butts, flabby and firm butts, the kind that sit so high they seem like part of the woman's back, the kind that ride low and form a UU just above the thighs like in the old television commercials for Hanes Underalls, butts that wiggle and butts that jiggle, sagging butts and robust butts, butts that hardly make an impression under a pair of jeans; sidewinder butts and trumpet butts -- the ones so meaty they actually spread out until they appear to be a woman's thighs (ass so fat you can see it from the front), butts as knotty as acorns, butts as smooth as a slice of Gouda, butts with pimples and butts with cellulite, the kind that have pockmarks or red splotches, butts with tattoos and butts with bullet scars. Butts you can cup in your warm hands. Butts and butts and butts. In other words, Pepper woke up horny.
Victor LaValle (The Devil in Silver)
I spent the summer cloaked in shame, seething with jealousy. I envied other women's bodies. i envied fat women who draped their luscious curves without any embarrassment, thighs quaking as they walked. I envied thin women lounging effortlessly in T-shirts and shorts, nothing pinching or pudging, just smooth skin over smooth muscle over delicate bones. I envied anyone who didn't hate their body. People who ate without hesitation or pre-emptive shame at how all those calories would stretch over their flesh. It was about beauty, yes, but it was also just about belonging. People treat you with kindness and an invitation to belong if they like the way you look.
Francesca Ekwuyasi (Butter Honey Pig Bread)
Ohhhhh." A lush-bodied girl in the prime of her physical beauty. In an ivory georgette-crepe sundress with a halter top that gathers her breasts up in soft undulating folds of the fabric. She's standing with bare legs apart on a New York subway grating. Her blond head is thrown rapturously back as an updraft lifts her full, flaring skirt, exposing white cotton panties. White cotton! The ivory-crepe sundress is floating and filmy as magic. The dress is magic. Without the dress the girl would be female meat, raw and exposed. She's not thinking such a thought! Not her. She's an American girl healthy and clean as a Band-Aid. She's never had a soiled or a sulky thought. She's never had a melancholy thought. She's never had a savage thought. She's never had a desperate thought. She's never had an un-American thought. In the papery-thin sundress she's a nurse with tender hands. A nurse with luscious mouth. Sturdy thighs, bountiful breasts, tiny folds of baby fat at her armpits. She's laughing and squealing like a four year-old as another updraft lifts her skirt. Dimpled knees, a dancer's strong legs. This husky healthy girl. The shoulders, arms, breasts belong to a fully mature woman but the face is a girl's face. Shivering in New York City mid-summer as subway steam lifts her skirt like a lover's quickened breath. "Oh! Ohhhhh." It's nighttime in Manhattan, Lexington Avenue at 51st Street. Yet the white-white lights exude the heat of midday. The goddess of love has been standing like this, legs apart, in spike-heeled white sandals so steep and so tight they've permanently disfigured her smallest toes, for hours. She's been squealing and laughing, her mouth aches. There's a gathering pool of darkness at the back of her head like tarry water. Her scalp and her pubis burn from the morning's peroxide applications. The Girl with No Name. The glaring-white lights focus upon her, upon her alone, blond squealing, blond laughter, blond Venus, blond insomnia, blond smooth-shaven legs apart and blond hands fluttering in a futile effort to keep her skirt from lifting to reveal white cotton American-girl panties and the shadow, just the shadow, of the bleached crotch. "Ohhhhhh." Now she's hugging herself beneath her big bountiful breasts. Her eyelids fluttering. Between the legs, you can trust she's clean. She's not a dirty girl, nothing foreign or exotic. She's an American slash in the flesh. That emptiness. Guaranteed. She's been scooped out, drained clean, no scar tissue to interfere with your pleasure, and no odor. Especially no odor. The Girl with No Name, the girl with no memory. She has not lived long and she will not live long.
Joyce Carol Oates (Blonde)
home, alone in my room, with the sounds of #2 and #5 trains rumbling in the distance, I started with a letter to myself. Dear Juliet, Repeat after me: You are a bruja. You are a warrior. You are a feminist. You are a beautiful brown babe. Surround yourself with other beautiful brown and black and indigenous and morena and Chicana, native, Indian, mixed race, Asian, gringa, boriqua babes. Let them uplift you. Rage against the motherfucking machine. Question everything anyone ever says to you or forces down your throat or makes you write a hundred times on the blackboard. Question every man that opens his mouth and spews out a law over your body and spirit. Question every single thing until you find the answer in a daydream. Don’t question yourself unless you hurt someone else. When you hurt someone else, sit down, and think, and think, and think, and then make it right. Apologize when you fuck up. Live forever. Consult the ancestors while counting stars in the galaxy. Hold wisdom under tongue until it’s absorbed into the bloodstream. Do not be afraid. Do not doubt yourself. Do not hide Be proud of your inhaler, your cane, your back brace, your acne. Be proud of the things that the world uses to make you feel different. Love your fat fucking glorious body. Love your breasts, hips, and wide-ass if you have them and if you don’t, love the body you do have or the one you create for yourself. Love the fact that you have ingrown hairs on the back of your thighs and your grandma’s mustache on your lips. Read all the books that make you whole. Read all the books that pull you out of the present and into the future. Read all the books about women who get tattoos, and break hearts, and rob banks, and start heavy metal bands. Read every single one of them. Kiss everyone. Ask first. Always ask first and then kiss the way stars burn in the sky. Trust your lungs. Trust the Universe. Trust your damn self. Love hard, deep, without restraint or doubt Love everything that brushes past your skin and lives inside your soul. Love yourself. In La Virgen’s name and in the name of Selena, Adiosa.
Gabby Rivera (Juliet Takes a Breath)
Fat,” the mechanic says, "liposuctioned fat sucked out of the richest thighs in America. The richest, fattest thighs in the world.” Our goal is the big red bags of liposuctioned fat we’ll haul back to Paper Street and render and mix with lye and rosemary and sell back to the very people who paid to have it sucked out. At twenty bucks a bar, these are the only folks who can afford it. "The richest, creamiest fat in the world, the fat of the land,” he says. "That makes tonight a kind of Robin Hood thing.
Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club)
Boys don't go for fat girls. They talk about wanting 'real women', but what they mean is big tits. Not thighs, not bellies, not fat bums. They want skin and bone.
Claire Hennessy (Nothing Tastes as Good)
if I had a thigh gap, I’d probably only use it to hold more snacks or not have to pay for a carry-on while flying Spirit Airlines. Dieting
Brittany Gibbons (Fat Girl Walking: Sex, Food, Love, and Being Comfortable in Your Skin...Every Inch of It)
You know that you are getting fat when your thighs start rubbing together when walking.
Steven Magee
I had a bad habit of drumming my fists on my stomach and pinching the negligible amount of fat on my thighs. I sincerely believed that if there were less of me, I would have fewer problems
Ottessa Moshfegh
Minna sometimes imagined Dr. Upshaw having sex with her husband, lying there almost motionless, fat sticky thighs sagging on the bed, saying, “I think you’re onto something, David,” in her low, encouraging voice.
Lauren Oliver (Rooms)
All Carolina folk are crazy for mayonnaise, mayonnaise is as ambrosia to them, the food of their tarheeled gods. Mayonnaise comforts them, causes the vowels to slide more musically along their slow tongues, appeasing their grease-conditioned taste buds while transporting those buds to a place higher than lard could ever hope to fly. Yellow as summer sunlight, soft as young thighs, smooth as a Baptist preacher's rant, falsely innocent as a magician's handkerchief, mayonnaise will cloak a lettuce leaf, some shreds of cabbage, a few hunks of cold potato in the simplest splendor, restyling their dull character, making them lively and attractive again, granting them the capacity to delight the gullet if not the heart. Fried oysters, leftover roast, peanut butter: rare are the rations that fail to become instantly more scintillating from contact with this inanimate seductress, this goopy glory-monger, this alchemist in a jar. The mystery of mayonnaise-and others besides Dickie Goldwire have surely puzzled over this_is how egg yolks, vegetable oil, vinegar (wine's angry brother), salt, sugar (earth's primal grain-energy), lemon juice, water, and, naturally, a pinch of the ol' calcium disodium EDTA could be combined in such a way as to produce a condiment so versatile, satisfying, and outright majestic that mustard, ketchup, and their ilk must bow down before it (though, a at two bucks a jar, mayonnaise certainly doesn't put on airs)or else slink away in disgrace. Who but the French could have wrought this gastronomic miracle? Mayonnaise is France's gift to the New World's muddled palate, a boon that combines humanity's ancient instinctive craving for the cellular warmth of pure fat with the modern, romantic fondness for complex flavors: mayo (as the lazy call it) may appear mild and prosaic, but behind its creamy veil it fairly seethes with tangy disposition. Cholesterol aside, it projects the luster that we astro-orphans have identified with well-being ever since we fell from the stars.
Tom Robbins (Villa Incognito)
Fanchon, 69 years of age, has been hanged 6 times in effigy, and has committed all imaginable crimes; she has a squint, and is pug-nosed, short, fat, with no forehead and only 2 teeth; an erysipelas covers her arse, a bunch of haemorrhoids hangs from her arsehole, a canker devours her vagina, she has a burnt thigh and a cancer eating away at her breast; she is always drunk, vomits, farts and shits all over the place and at any time without even noticing.
Marquis de Sade (The 120 Days of Sodom)
Rekers’s fat begins under his nipples and increases exponentially until it eases back at his thighs. It looks as if a regular fat guy had some sort of seismic shift resulting in a landslide. A manslide. Chief Rekers is a walking manslide.
Christa Charter (Summer Wind)
The thinking that women of all shapes and sizes can be beautiful is still hugely problematic, because it is predicated on the idea that the most important thing a woman has to offer the world is her appearance. Men are raised to worry about their legacies, not their upper arm and thigh fat, stretch marks, crows-feet, saggy elbows, ugly armpits, thin eyelashes, and normal-smelling genitals. This is how society keeps us out of the C-suite—it booby-traps the way to the top with self-loathing, then reroutes us on a never-ending path of self-improvement
Jessica Knoll (The Favorite Sister)
as the king rose from his seat, Ehud reached with his left hand, drew the sword from his right thigh and plunged it into the king’s belly. Even the handle sank in after the blade, and his bowels discharged. Ehud did not pull the sword out, and the fat closed in over it. (That’s in the Bible. Word for word.)
Rob Bell (What Is the Bible?: How an Ancient Library of Poems, Letters, and Stories Can Transform the Way You Think and Feel About Everything)
Recalled Chuck Clanton, a junior cornerback: “When I saw him the first time I was like, ‘Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that?’ When he walked, his thighs naturally rubbed together. There was no fat. None. He had Earl Campbell thighs. But he was faster than Earl Campbell. If he had three percent body fat, that’d be a lot. He was all muscle. Like a tank from the future.
Jeff Pearlman (The Last Folk Hero: The Life and Myth of Bo Jackson)
With these words of prayer he threw the barley-grains. The two heroes responsible for the oxen, might Ankaios and Herakles, girded themselves in preparation. The latter crashed his club down on the middle of the forehead of one ox; in one movement its heavy body fell to the ground. Ankaios cut the other's broad neck with his bronze axe, slicing through the tough tendons; it fell sprawling over its two horns. Their comrades quickly slaughtered and flayed the oxen, chopping and cutting them up and removing the thigh pieces for sacrifice These they covered all over with a thick layer of fat and burnt them on spits, while the son of Aison poured libations of unmixed wine. Idmon rejoiced as he gazed at the flame, which burnt brightly all around the sacrifices, and the favourable omen of the murky smoke, darting up in dark spirals.
Apollonius of Rhodes (Jason and the Golden Fleece (The Argonautica))
I can tell you we were right, our bodies were right, life was really going to be that good, that pleasurable in every cell. Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but better than that the bright corners of your eyes, or the light of your face, the rich Long Island puppy-fat of your thighs, or the slick chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I remember your extraordinary act of courage in loving me
Sharon Olds
I’m going to puncture the femoral sheath.” Camilla passed him a little pair of scissors, and he cut a short slit in the thigh of the corpse’s soft leather trousers. Then Palamedes prodded around with his fingers—he placed the needle to the dead skin—and the corpse’s hand shot out and ringed around his wrist before anyone could stop it. Nona noticed that one of the corpse prince’s sleeves had worked up, and that on her wrist was a funny fat bracelet: a braided cord of many colours, none of which was matched. “One, that’s not going to work. Two, I fucking hate needles,” said the corpse. “Three—Sex Pal, if that’s how you get a lady’s pants off, holy shit, no wonder I stole your girl.” Palamedes rocked back on his heels. “Not my girl. Unlike some of us, I’ve never much seen the allure of an evil cougar,” he said crisply. “Good morning, Gideon.
Tamsyn Muir (Nona the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #3))
She does know Harrison prefers men, right?” “Let her have hope,” I said, smiling to myself. He turned his attention back to me. “Yes. Hope is good. Bianca, I-” He grinned wickedly. “I knew you’d give in sooner or later.” He put his hand on my knee and ran it smoothly up my thigh. “You’re finally going to admit that you love me, aren’t you?” I swatted his hand away. “First of all,” I began, “I don’t love you. I love my family and maybe even Casey and Jessica, but romantic love takes years upon years to develop. So I don’t love you. But I will admit, I’ve thought a lot about you lately and I definitely have feelings for you… feelings other than hatred for the most part. And maybe it’s possible-in the future-that I… could love you.” I hesitated, a little scared of the words that’d just left my mouth. “But I still want to kill you most of the time.
Kody Keplinger (The DUFF: Designated Ugly Fat Friend (Hamilton High, #1))
You wonder why we hate you? You are the visible manifestation of the parts of ourselves we hide.” There is truth in that too. Fat people wear their shit on the outside, with sagging breasts and swollen ankles and heavy thighs. Unlike a heroin addict, who might be able to cover track marks with long sleeves, a fat person cannot hide the fact that something has gone awry. Fat people have secrets, and you may not know what those secrets are, but they can be plainly seen.
Roxane Gay (Bad Feminist: Essays)
Proteins *Egg whites with 1–2 whole eggs for flavor (or, if organic, 2–5 whole eggs, including yolks) *Chicken breast or thigh *Beef (preferably grass-fed) *Fish Pork Legumes *Lentils (also called “dal” or “daal”) *Black beans Pinto beans Red beans Soybeans Vegetables *Spinach *Mixed vegetables (including broccoli, cauliflower, or any other cruciferous vegetables) *Sauerkraut, kimchee (full explanation of these later in “Damage Control”) Asparagus Peas Broccoli Green beans
Timothy Ferriss (The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman)
It’s been eight weeks since I left the hospital, Kane. Eight weeks. Me leg and arm have healed perfectly and me throat doesn’t even hurt anymore. I’m sick to death of soup and soft foods. I’m pregnant which means I’m always hungry, and that shitty food isn’t cuttin’ it anymore. Please, just let me eat a packet of biscuits.” “A whole packet?” Keela merrily laughed. “You fat fuck. How did eatin’ a single biscuit jump to eatin’ a whole bloody packet?” I dug the heel of my foot into her thigh. “Shut the hell up you traitorous cow!
L.A. Casey (Aideen (Slater Brothers, #3.5))
the sweat and bloodstained wood of the cross he died on. He kicks in the frosted-glass door of a coffee franchise off Wall Street and beats seven shades of damnation out of the money changers gathered there. Painted, black-stockinged lady brokers twisting prostrate at his feet, red licked lips parted in horror and abandonment, thighs exposed under short, whorish skirts. Fat, big-nosed men in suits braying and panicking, trying to get away from the scything club. Blood and waxed coffee cups flying, screams. The capitalized crunch of broken bones.
Richard K. Morgan (Thirteen)
What would you do without me?” he asked one night. We were tangled in the silky sheets of his gigantic bed. My heart was still pounding as I came down from the high of what we’d just done, and he wasn’t helping matters by putting his lips so close to my ear. “Live a happy… happy life,” I murmured. “I might even… be an optimist… if you weren’t around.” “Liar.” He bit my earlobe playfully. “You’d be absolutely miserable. Admit it, Duffy. I’m the wind beneath your wings.” I bit my lip, but I still couldn’t hold back the laughter-and just as I was finally catching my breath, too. “You just referenced Bette Midler… in bed. I’m starting to question your sexuality, Wesley.” Wesley looked at me with a defiant glint in his eye. “Oh, really?” He grinned before moving his mouth back to my ear and whispering, “We both know that my manhood has never been in question… I think you’re just changing the subject because you know it’s true. I’m the light of your life.” “You…” I struggled for words as Wesley pressed his mouth into the crook of my neck. The tip of his tongue moved down to my shoulder and made my brain get all fuzzy. How was I supposed to argue under these conditions? “You wish. I’m just using you, remember?” His laughter was muffled against my skin. “That’s amusing,” he said, his lips still grazing my collarbone. “Because I’m pretty sure your ex is out of town by now.” One of his hands slid between my knees. “Yet you’re still here, aren’t you?” His fingers began gliding up and down my inner thigh, making it difficult for me to think of a retort. He seemed to like this, because he laughed again. “I don’t think you hate me, Duffy. I think you like me a lot.
Kody Keplinger (The DUFF: Designated Ugly Fat Friend (Hamilton High, #1))
I’m not telling you what I look like in any detail. I hate those endless descriptions of a heroine’s physical attributes: “She had piercing blue eyes and a heaving milk-white bosom blah blah,” or “She hated her frizzy hair and fat ankles blah blah, blah blah.” First of all, it’s boring. You should be able to imagine me without all the gory details of my hairstyle or the size of my thighs. And second, it really bothers me how in books it seems like the only two choices are perfection or self-hatred. As if readers will only like a character who’s ideal—or completely shattered.
E. Lockhart (The Boyfriend List: 15 Guys, 11 Shrink Appointments, 4 Ceramic Frogs and Me, Ruby Oliver (Ruby Oliver, #1))
And while we’ve got you on the table, we can do a little lipo on the thighs. You barely need anything. But a lot of women these days are doing that and then having some of the fat injected into their labia to plump things up down there.” Yes. So Rachel can enjoy that for years to come, because what woman doesn’t fret over this? After all, don’t we all walk around with mirrors in our panties, making sure our labia looks plump enough? I try to fix my face, but I’m fairly sure my disgust shows. “We can even do a little vaginal tightening to enhance sexual pleasure for both you and your husband.” My sister bursts into tears. Thank God.
Kristan Higgins (If You Only Knew)
Because there’s a silent, shrugging, stoical acceptance of all the things in the world we can never be part of: shorts, swimming pools, strappy dresses, country walks, roller-skating, ra-ra skirts, vest tops, high heels, rope climbing, sitting on a high stool, walking past building sites, flirting, being kissed, feeling confident. And ever losing weight, ever. The idea of suggesting we don’t have to be fat –that things could change –is the most distant and alien prospect of all. We’re fat now and we’ll be fat forever and we must never, ever mention it, and that is the end of it. It’s like Harry Potter’s Sorting Hat. We were pulled from the hat marked ‘Fat’ and that is what we must now remain, until we die. Fat is our race. Our species. Our mode. As a result, there is very little of the outside world –and very little of the year –we can enjoy. Summer is sweaty under self-conscious layers. On stormy days, wind flattens skirts against thighs, and alarms both us and, we think, onlookers and passers-by. Winter is the only time we feel truly comfortable: covered head to toe in jumpers, coats, boots and hat. I develop a crush on Father Christmas. If I married him, not only would I be expected to stay fat, but I’d look thin standing next to him, in comparison. Perspective would be my friend. We all dream of moving to Norway, or Alaska, where we could wear massive padded coats all the time, and never reveal an inch of flesh. When it rains, we’re happiest of all. Then we can just stay in, away from everyone, in our pyjamas, and not worry about anything. The brains in jars can stay inside, nice and dry.
Caitlin Moran (How to Be a Woman)
I hate him. I hate them all. I hate the wretched, pitiful sound of my own tears. I hate the sting of shame piercing my heart like a thorn. I hate my stupidity, my naiveté believing Jared Foster wanted someone like me instead of someone like Cindy. I hate the way my thighs spread, stretching the denim of my jeans. The way my legs rub together when I walk. I hate this roll of fat hanging over my waistband. This body is an inadequate shell that doesn’t reflect the powerful, confident person I am inside. And yet there’s a part of me that knows it shouldn’t matter. That knows whether I’m a size 2 or 22, I’m still smart and ambitious and kind and generous. And yes, speak Italian, Russian, and a little Chinese. It shouldn’t matter, but I have to be honest with myself as I weep uncontrollably and admit that it does. Right now, it does.
Kennedy Ryan (Block Shot (Hoops, #2))
Cacciatore means “hunter” in Italian. Allegedly, in the olden days, if a hunter were to return home empty-handed, his wife would go kill a chicken. This uncommon dish is centered on the common ingredients of chicken and vegetables. 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 3½ to 4 pounds chicken thighs 1 onion, sliced 1 red bell pepper, seeded and sliced 8 ounces button mushrooms, sliced 2 garlic cloves, sliced ⅓ cup white wine 1 (28-ounce) can plum tomatoes 2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme 2 teaspoons chopped fresh oregano Salt Freshly ground black pepper 1 In a Dutch oven over medium heat, heat the olive oil. Working in batches, cook the chicken pieces, skin-side down, until evenly browned, about 5 minutes. Turn over and repeat. Transfer to a platter and continue with the next batch. 2 Drain off all but 2 tablespoons of fat. Add the onion, pepper, and mushrooms to the pot. Increase the heat to medium-high. Cook about 10 minutes, stirring frequently, or until the onions
Rockridge Press (The Modern Dutch Oven Cookbook: Fresh Ideas for Braises, Stews, Pot Roasts, and Other One-Pot Meals)
Where do you think you're going? I turn to see him, Cameron's dad. He is tall, a lot taller than my mom and most of the teachers at school, and has Cameron's big eyes. I recognize you, he says, studying me with a smile. You're Cam's little girlfriend. He's got a picture of you in his room. He sounds nicer now. Maybe he's just a regular dad, maybe what I heard him saying to Cameron before wasn't really mean, maybe it was like a joke. I don't know how fathers are. Mine's been gone since I was two years old. Maybe they are like this-a little scary and big but mostly teasing. But then he says: I guess my little guy is a chubby chaser, huh? Well at least he's not a fairy. Tears come to my eyes and my face is hot. I pull the hem of my T-shirt down to cover the part of my stomach that always pokes out, white and lumpy. It's baby fat, my mom says, baby fat that is also on the tops of my knees and inside my thighs that rub together and under my chin. She says I'll grow out of it. I don't want to be here. It's only one step to the door. And then Cameron is standing there, behind his father, looking at me and I can't leave him. I can't leave him here alone.
Sara Zarr (Sweethearts)
Before the shrinking of the Feminine was the Goddess—and all that is split in our own lives was in harmony in Hers. She was profoundly in Her body. Her body itself was sacred. In the Old Religion, body and spirit were one. She was seen as substantial, as essentially embodied. Her thighs, Her Belly, Her breasts were generous, Her physical strength apparent. We miss the beauty of such an image, we who have been taught to measure ourselves endlessly. Too fat, too thin, too flat, too wrinkled. Our bodies are never good, and in themselves. We must deny our naturalness to see beauty. What we learn to reject was once holy. What we learn to hide behind closed doors was once celebrated in the open. Blood was sacred to the Goddess—menstrual blood. Some of Her images were painted red between the legs. What some of us and many of our mothers learned to see as 'the curse' was once seen as the Blessing, women's particular creative magic. The blood that flows of itself and not from a wounding was thought to be the very source of life. One early creation tale stated than when the Mother created man and woman, She made them from a mixture of Her menstrual blood and clay. Moreover, every woman carried some of the Goddess's sacred substance and participated in Her ability to create life.
Kathie Carlson (In Her Image: The Unhealed Daughter's Search for Her Mother)
The evening was a string of miserable minutes strung together in tiny clusters. Three minutes for a man shot through the shoulder; Ellis put first a finger in the entry wound and then another in the exit and when his fingers touched, he decided the man was only lightly injured and didn’t need a surgeon. Three minutes to set a broken wrist and splint it with a strip of cowhide and a piece of wood from a sycamore tree. Two minutes to tourniquet a leg, then extract a piece of wire deep in the meat of it. A minute to peek under a pink, saturated bandage several inches below a slender belly button; he saw thin, red water leaking from a hole and smelled urine, knew the ball had breached the bladder. It would either heal or it wouldn’t, but nothing to do about it so he set the soul aside, a case not to be operated upon. He turned a man’s head looking for the source of a trickle of blood and had ten terrible minutes trying to stop torrential bleeding from under his clavicle; frantic moments during which he could get neither a finger nor a clamp around the pulsating source. All bleeding stops eventually though, and the case did not violate the rule. He took two minutes to settle his own breathing, then four minutes sewing a torn scalp, and half a minute saying a prayer over a fat, cigar-shaped dead man. After awhile, he had the impression he wasn’t seeing men, but parts—an exploded chest, a blood swolled thigh, a busted jaw with its teeth spat to the wind or swallowed. It was more than a man could take and a lot less than there was to be seen.
Edison McDaniels (Not One Among Them Whole: A Novel of Gettysburg)
That’s Cervella.” Vero’s hand picks at something in her hair, as she glares down at a disassembled bike. “This one’s his favourite. Do you bike?” Ligaya nods as she remembers the fat-tire red bike. Pedro’s. He let her borrow it to visit family in the next village. She touches her thighs as she remembers the feeling of freedom, covering such distance by the strength of her own legs, not minding at all when she had to ride home in the pouring rain, her sweat and the rainwater indistinguishable on her cheeks. Again, she feels the uncomfortable vertigo of her body being in one place and her mind in another, the two so far apart. But Vero does not wait for an answer. She pulls Ligaya—not roughly—her fingertips soft on the exposed skin of Ligaya’s wrist. But Ligaya is unaccustomed to touch. Nobody touched her at the Poons. She breathes deeply and counts the bikes. She must not flinch, wills herself not to pull away; she cannot afford to give offense. Vero twirls her around and points at a poster above the workbench. “That! Read it!” But Ligaya does not have to read it. Vero reads it for her. Since the bike makes little demand on material or energy resources, contributes little to pollution, makes a positive contribution to health and causes little death, or injury, it can be regarded as the most benevolent of machines. —Stuart S. Wilson She pauses as if she might expect a response this time. She gestures at the room stuffed with bikes until it seems the very walls and ceiling are made of bikes, the scent of rubber tires replacing oxygen. “Ridiculous, right? The bike will save the world, he says. Yes, but you just need one, I say. One bike. That I can see. That I can even admire. I’m sure Stuart buddy here couldn’t even imagine this … this … biketrocity. And that he should be to blame?!
Angie Abdou (Between)
It used to be that you could get a lot of recognition by writing about Canada, as long as it was about small towns and nature.' 'Really?' 'Yeah. You could have canoes and the prairies or, also, sad women, very sad women who were fat or whose husbands had left them or something. There was a lady who wrote about fucking a bear, which was like a union with the land. There was a lady who wrote about mystical experiences she had at a cottage in northern Ontario. I was never sure what that was about. They were very important at one time, very stern and important. I had to study them in school. Anyway, he was one of them. He concentrated on the prairies, with a lot of native names, and wise native people, like there's a young boy with an Ojibway grandmother who will teach him the ways of the forest, sort of thing, and there's a lot of history, like a lot of the Riel rebellion for example.' 'The what?' 'History. And there's a lot of disaster, on the prairies, like people having to rebuild their sod houses after floods and so on.' They drove on the humming highway for a while. Then Nicola said, 'So you haven't answered my question.' 'What question?' 'Do you think he's any good?' 'Oh. The thing is... it's not, it doesn't matter. It's important. So it doesn't matter if I think it's good or not.' 'Okay. So it doesn't matter. So I'm asking you. What you think. Do. You. Think. It's. Good.' She slapped her bare thigh. James paused for a long moment... He said, 'There's one Boben book, I think it's Cold Season, or maybe it's Comfort of Winter, which ends with the line, "a story which Canadians must never tire of telling." What do you think of that line? A story which Canadians must never tire of telling.' She shrugged. 'I have no idea.' 'I'll tell you what you think of it. You don't give a shit. I'll tell you what I think of it. I don't give a shit either. But I also think it's the worst bullshit I've ever heard. I think,' he said, accelerating, 'that Ludwig Boben is a fucking asshole.
Russell Smith (Noise)
The Deliverator's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens. You want to talk contact patches? Your car's tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue. The Deliverator's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs. The Deliverator is in touch with the road, starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta. Why is the Deliverator so equipped? Because people rely on him. He is a role model. This is America. People do whatever the fuck they feel like doing, you got a problem with that? Because they have a right to. And because they have guns and no one can fucking stop them. As a result, this country has one of the worst economies in the world. When it gets down to it -- talking trade balances here -- once we've brain-drained all our technology into other countries, once things have evened out, they're making cars in Bolivia and microwave ovens in Tadzhikistan and selling them here -- once our edge in natural resources has been made irrelevant by giant Hong Kong ships and dirigibles that can ship North Dakota all the way to New Zealand for a nickel -- once the Invisible Hand has taken all those historical inequities and smeared them out into a broad global layer of what a Pakistani brickmaker would consider to be prosperity -- y'know what? There's only four things we do better than anyone else: * music * movies * microcode (software) * high-speed pizza delivery The Deliverator used to make software. Still does, sometimes. But if life were a mellow elementary school run by well-meaning education Ph.D.s, the Deliverator's report card would say: "Hiro is so bright and creative but needs to work harder on his cooperation skills." So now he has this other job. No brightness or creativity involved -- but no cooperation either. Just a single principle: The Deliverator stands tall, your pie in thirty minutes or you can have it free, shoot the driver, take his car, file a class-action suit. The Deliverator has been working this job for six months, a rich and lengthy tenure by his standards, and has never delivered a pizza in more than twenty-one minutes.
Neal Stephenson (Snow Crash)
Ignorance. It claws, tears, and eventually destroys the threads that hold humanity together. These people all around me saying not this, not that… Their tongues untied with the rudeness they fear not to speak To those they know nothing of, nothing about. Your hair is too tangled, your thighs too fat Your religion, your morals, you can’t possibly believe in that. I do, someone else does too. You are ignorant.
Dani Abarca
Metamorphoses by 'Death Posture' (by 'Zeno of Elea') Powers of visualization, self-discipline and concentration are the qualities necessary. All magical practice, to be effective, needs great courage. By means of the Death Posture, total transportation of consciousness into the sex-centre occurs. This brings about pure aesthesis and the creation of a new sexuality by autotelic concept: the subsequent ecstasy is a sublimation. Because every other sense is brought to nullity by sex-intoxication, it is called the 'Death Posture'. Everything is 'a priori' to the act. The 'a posteriori' illumination reveals the inter-sexual correspondences of all things, and great emotiveness becomes... My desires have made a sentient soul, an obsession, a vampire, an insatiable negress of pendulous breasts and fatted thighs riding me into the abysses of the quadriga sexualis...
Anonymous
arrived in the company of two enormous white women whose bodies were dual masses of rolling, dimpled flesh. Fat spilled over their knees, and their stomachs fell like heavy sacks of birdseed, covering their vaginas and hanging halfway down their thighs. Legs like tree trunks led straight into sandals with no mention of ankle or discernible calf.
Anonymous
I walked away from this combination with the pale porcelain skin of an Irish woman, a mental state that self-medicated with food, and the thighs of Hulk Hogan. I was fat because it was really easy for me to be fat. Being
Brittany Gibbons (Fat Girl Walking: Sex, Food, Love, and Being Comfortable in Your Skin...Every Inch of It)
Belly fat is especially active in this process, contributing to inflammation more than fat stores in other areas (like your buttocks or thighs).
Melissa Urban (It Starts with Food: Discover the Whole30 and Change Your Life in Unexpected Ways)
Lorenzo steps closer, his body a breath away from mine as he whispers, "Trust me?" I have no idea what he's asking, but I nod because what else am I gonna do? We're about to go to dinner and pretend like we're happy newlyweds with someone who could blow up my entire social circle, and likely my professional life, with a single well-placed word. Lorenzo walks me backward until my back hits the wall. I gasp, surprised. But he's not done. "Trust me," he orders softly. And with that, he picks me to straddle him and slams my back against the door with a thump. It rattles loudly behind me. "Fuck, Abigail, Quick, mia rosa. Come on my cock before your friends get here or they're going to hear me fucking you deep and hard. I want your cum on me and my cum in you while we sit at this prim and proper dinner, wife." I gasp, both at his filthy talk and the ridge of his cock pressing against my core. "Ungh." I can't make words, am barely making incoherent sounds, and Lorenzo lifts one hand from my thigh to hold my head still. He meets my eyes, one of his brows lifted pointedly. If I couldn't feel his cock, I wouldn't even know what this is doing to him. For all the fire rushing through my body and turning my brain to melted goo, he's clear-eyed and has a plan. I blink and realize what he's doing. Emily needs to think we're newlyweds, and what do newlyweds do non-stop? Fuck. Now that I've caught on, he winks at me and I smile back. He thrusts against me and I bounce on the door. "Yes, hard ... just like that," I moan. He grunts, finding a pace that is actually doing a lot for me even though I just came in the shower a bit ago. I'd be embarrassed at the wet heat of my core, but his cock jumps against me. I like that he's carried away too as he dry humps me, only hinting at what we're playacting. "Take it. Take me, Abigail," he hisses through clenched teeth. Is that for effect or is he holding the reins that tightly? "Yes, my Italian Stallion!" I cry out, clawing at his shoulders for purchase. Confusion mars his face as he mouths, "Italian Stallion?" I shake me head and whisper back, "I don't know, it just came out." He grins like that's the funniest thing he's ever heard and goes back to thrusting against me with renewed furor. "That's it, mia rosa. Are you going to come for me?" Oh shit. I am. Like I am ... for real. Any sane, rational, reasonable person would tilt their hips and move away from the power of his thrusts to save a little face. Do I? Absolutely not. If anything, I'm humping him back, riding him like the pony at my sixteenth birthday party. Don't laugh ... it was an amazing blowout. Like I'm about to have ... "Yes, yes. Right there Lorenz-ohh!" He pulls me tight against him, his cock grinding against my clit as he grunts through several short strokes and says something I don't understand in Italian. Is he? Did he? As I float back to Earth and realize what just happened, there's another knock on the door. This one is harder and louder. "Hey, Abi! We have reservations, you know?" Emily yells through the wood, literally inches away from where I just loudly came on Lorenzo's cock for real.
Lauren Landish (My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon)
My arms were already crossed tight over my chest, thighs squeezed together, ankles overlapped beneath my seat. My body was knotted, doing everything it could not to touch him, not to impose its soft skin.
Aubrey Gordon (What We Don't Talk About When We Talk About Fat)
Fat people wear their shit on the outside, with sagging breasts and swollen ankles and heavy thighs. Unlike a heroin addict, who might be able to cover track marks with long sleeves, a fat person cannot hide the fact that something has gone awry. Fat people have secrets, and you may not know what those secrets are, but they can be plainly seen.
Roxane Gay (Bad Feminist)
You will not have a thigh gap nor lose one inch of belly fat a day nor get a six-pack in 4 weeks nor spritz up you life with a new sofa, kitchen, or life laundry You will be enough... You will unfuck your life - You Will Find Yourself
Rosie Garland (The Anthology of Tomorrow)
needed to store fat as if I were a bear about to enter hibernation. Luckily—or unluckily—it stored a lot of it in the chest area. And in the hips. And the thighs. Whatever.
Jennifer L. Armentrout (Storm and Fury (The Harbinger, #1))
You and I Are Disappearing - 1947- —Bjöm Håkansson The cry I bring down from the hills belongs to a girl still burning inside my head. At daybreak she burns like a piece of paper. She burns like foxfire in a thigh-shaped valley. A skirt of flames dances around her at dusk. We stand with our hands hanging at our sides, while she burns like a sack of dry ice. She burns like oil on water. She burns like a cattail torch dipped in gasoline. She glows like the fat tip of a banker's cigar, silent as quicksilver. A tiger under a rainbow at nightfall. She burns like a shot glass of vodka. She burns like a field of poppies at the edge of a rain forest. She rises like dragonsmoke to my nostrils. She burns like a burning bush driven by a godawful wind.
Yusef Komunyakaa
I became aware of a faint, slippery shape between us, the ghost of the woman I could have been. She looked like me—messy ponytail at a precarious angle—but she had a fat blond baby on her lap and a toddler leaning against her thigh. She was a stranger to the world of graduate school, of copy machines and laser printers, of meetings and deadlines. She and my mother were natural confidantes. The woman's toddler was up late with an earache, but my mother's suggestion about a hot bath worked wonders. They traded stories about the day, made plans for a birthday party. Their houses were close enough that they could drop off things from the grocery store that had been purchased two for one, on sale. But instead my mother was stuck with me, nodding at my stories in a distracted way and not asking questions.
Jessica Wilbanks (When I Spoke in Tongues: A Story of Faith and Its Loss)
What can I tell you now, now that I know so much and you are a freshman still, drinking a quart of orange juice and playing three sets of tennis to cure a hangover, such an ardent student of the grown-ups! I can tell you we were right, our bodies were right, life was pleasurable in every cell. Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but better than the bright corners of your eyes, or the rich, Long Island puppy-fat of your thighs, or the slick chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I remember your extraordinary act of courage in loving me, something no one but the blind and halt had done before. You were fearless, you could drive after a sleepless night just like a grown-up, and not be afraid, you could fall asleep at the wheel easily and never know it, each blond hair of your head -- and they were thickly laid -- put out like a filament of light, twenty years ago.
Sharon Olds (The Gold Cell (Knopf Poetry Series))
Mel was just here. She’s complaining about the food.” “Huh?” Jack answered. “Mel?” “Yeah. She says my food is making her fat.” Jack chuckled. “Oh, that. Yeah, she’s making noises about that. Don’t worry about it.” “She didn’t make it sound like I shouldn’t worry about it. She was pretty much loaded for bear.” “She had two babies in fourteen months, plus a hysterectomy. And—she doesn’t like to be reminded about this—she’s getting older in spite of herself. Women get a little thicker. You know.” “How do you know that?” “Four sisters,” Jack said. “It’s all women ever worry about—the size of their butts and boobs. And thighs—thighs come up a lot.” “She yelled at me,” he said, still kind of startled. Paul laughed and Jack just shook his head. “Did you tell her that?” Preacher asked. “About women getting thicker with age?” “Do I look like I have a death wish? Besides, I don’t think she’s getting fat—but my opinion about that doesn’t count for much.” “She wants salads. And fresh fruit.” “How hard is that?” Jack asked. “Not hard,” Preacher said with a shrug. “But I don’t stuff that pie down her neck every day.” A sputter of laughter escaped Paul, and Jack said, “You’re gonna want to watch that, Preach.” “She wants me to use less butter and cream, take a few calories out of my food. Jack, it isn’t going to taste as good that way. You can’t make sauces and gravies without cream, butter, fat, flour. People love that stuff, salmon in dill sauce, fettuccine Alfredo, stuffed trout, brisket and garlic mash. Stews with thick gravy. People come a long way for my food.” “Yeah, I know, Preach. You don’t have to change everything—but make Mel a little something, huh? A salad, a broiled chicken breast, fish without the cream sauce, that kind of thing. You know what to do. Right?” “Of course. You don’t think she wants everyone in this town on a diet? Because she says it’s not healthy, the way I cook.” “Nah. This is a phase, I think. But if you don’t want to hear any more about it, just give her lettuce.” He grinned. “And an apple instead of the pie.” Preacher shook his head. “See, I think no matter what she says, that’s going to make her pissy.” “She said it’s what she wants, right?” “Right.” “May the force be with you,” Jack said with a grin.
Robyn Carr (Temptation Ridge)
She lifts her feet up onto the couch. Her thighs are plump and perfect and I suddenly want to touch them. I have to fight to keep my hands on my side of the couch, because while she might like me, she’s definitely not at the same place I’m at. “Stop it,” she says. I jerk my eyes back up to her face. “Stop what?” “Stop staring at my fat.” “I wasn’t staring at fat.” I look into her eyes. “I was staring at those awesomely gorgeous legs, if you must know.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, stop it.” “Can’t. Sorry. They’re awesome. And awesome things get stared at. Deal with it.” I grin at her. She’s not amused. She puts her feet back down on the floor. “I think I’m going to go to bed.” “Don’t go.” I grab her as she tries to get up, but with my bum leg, I can’t chase her down. I grab her forearm and gently pull her back down, only this time she’s on the middle couch cushion. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering to the cops. “I promise.” She settles back against the sofa. “You make me nervous,” she admits. What? “Why?” “I don’t know how to take you.” I shrug. “Just take me at face value, I guess?” I make it sound like a question, but it’s not. “But you have so many faces.” She covers her own face with her hands and groans. “No, I don’t.” I look at her. Really look at her. “I’m the same guy you see every single time I’ve been with you.” “I didn’t mean to make you angry.” She has been talking to me for about five minutes without tapping or banging anything. I look down at her feet. She’s tapping out a rhythm with her bare, pink little toes. “I’m not angry,” I tell her. “Then what are you?” “I’m just a guy with a seriously hot chick on his couch watching the chef cook-off show.” I lay my hands on my stomach. “My belly is full, my apartment’s not empty for the first time in months, and I’m happy you’re here. Can you just live with that?” She
Tammy Falkner (Zip, Zero, Zilch (The Reed Brothers, #6))
Fat deposits around your waist are a greater health risk than extra fat in other places, such as the hips and thighs.
Joel Fuhrman (Eat to Live: The Amazing Nutrient-Rich Program for Fast and Sustained Weight Loss)
It was fatness that did not interfere with the body; a neck was still a neck, a stomach a stomach, an arm an arm, a buttock a buttock. But this American fatness takes it to a whole ’nother level: the body is turned into something else—the neck becomes a thigh, the stomach becomes an anthill, an arm a thing, a buttock a I don’t even know what.
NoViolet Bulawayo, We Need New Names
Buttermilk Fried Chicken PREP TIME: 7 MINUTES / COOK TIME: 20 TO 25 MINUTES / SERVES 4 370°F FRY FAMILY FAVORITE Fried chicken is perhaps the most decadent of fried foods. But many people don’t make it at home because oil splatters everywhere when you fry chicken. And it’s just not healthy to eat it too often. The air fryer comes to the rescue with this wonderful adaptation. 6 chicken pieces: drumsticks, breasts, and thighs 1 cup flour 2 teaspoons paprika Pinch salt Freshly ground black pepper ⅓ cup buttermilk 2 eggs 2 tablespoons olive oil 1½ cups bread crumbs 1. Pat the chicken dry. In a shallow bowl, combine the flour, paprika, salt, and pepper. 2. In another bowl, beat the buttermilk with the eggs until smooth. 3. In a third bowl, combine the olive oil and bread crumbs until mixed. 4. Dredge the chicken in the flour, then into the eggs to coat, and finally into the bread crumbs, patting the crumbs firmly onto the chicken skin. 5. Air-fry the chicken for 20 to 25 minutes, turning each piece over halfway during cooking, until the meat registers 165°F on a meat thermometer and the chicken is brown and crisp. Let cool for 5 minutes, then serve. Variation tip: You can marinate the chicken in buttermilk and spices such as cayenne pepper, chili powder, or garlic powder overnight before you cook it. This makes the chicken even more moist and tender and adds flavor. Per serving: Calories: 644; Total Fat: 17g; Saturated Fat: 4g; Cholesterol: 214mg; Sodium: 495mg; Carbohydrates: 55g;
Linda Johnson Larsen (The Complete Air Fryer Cookbook: Amazingly Easy Recipes to Fry, Bake, Grill, and Roast with Your Air Fryer)
Specific body parts, “problem areas,” also get labels—fupa, gunt, cankles, thunder thighs, Hi Susans, wings, cottage cheese thighs, hail damage, muffin tops, side boob, back fat, love handles, saddlebags, spare tires, double chins, gocks, man boobs, beer bellies.
Roxane Gay (Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body)
For colour’s sake alone, Purletta Johnson belonged to the Jamaican bourgeoisie. She was fair-skinned, had light grey eyes, and worse, she spoke the kind of upper-St Andrew English culled from the BBC news which radios in middle- and upper-class Jamaican houses were always tuned to. In America at the time they would have described her as ‘yellow’. In Jamaica, she had been ‘red’. In a future England they would call her mixed-race, but at the time Purletta arrived in the country there was no such denominator, so she was simply coloured. Only briefly did this new assignment of class and race disturb her. Others in her position did everything to pass for white; they straightened their hair even more and then lightened it; they bleached their faces. These young women would have counselled Purletta to do the same, arguing that she had a distinct advantage with her grey eyes. She had arrived in England in the late 1960s, burdened by her mother’s idea that she should live there long enough to transform the UK-Right of Abode stamped into her Jamaican Passport (a gift from her father who was a citizen), into a full UK passport. No doubt Purletta’s mother also wanted her daughter to come back a cultivated English woman. But Purletta did the opposite. In the land of the BBC she suddenly abandoned her BBC accent. Away from Jamaica, she learned to talk Jamaican. She braided her hair close to her scalp and thereafter gave in to every possible stereotype, whether negative or positive. She became loud and colourful. Learned how to laugh from her gut, clapping her hands, leaning over and placing the palms of her hands on her thighs, shouting wooooooooiiii. She became fat and started to walk a kind of walk that was all hips. She got a gold tooth. Then she transformed herself into the kind of person who, as they said in Jamaica, any pan knock she was there!, so she started to go to every reggae show and would boogie all night until she was sticky with sweat. Purletta began to grow ganja on her balcony. She smoked, especially on evenings when she was getting ready to go out, and this would make her even louder, even more outrageous. A bona
Kei Miller (The Same Earth)
Real women, for the record, are not defined by their curves, thigh gaps, or chest size. Those are just things generally used to make us feel bad about ourselves and have nothing to do with our label or worth as women.
Brittany Gibbons (The Clothes Make the Girl (Look Fat)?: Adventures and Agonies in Fashion)
One girl she had grown like a cyst, upon her thigh. Other children she had made out of things in her garden, or bits of trash that the cats brought her: aluminum foil with strings of chicken fat still crusted to it, broken television sets, cardboard boxes that the neighbors had thrown out. She had always been a thrifty witch. Some of these children had run away and others had died. Some of them she had simply misplaced, or accidentally left behind on buses. It is to be hoped that these children were later adopted into good homes, or reunited with their natural parents. If you are looking for a happy ending in this story, then perhaps you should stop reading here and picture these children, these parents, their reunions.
Kelly Link (Magic for Beginners: Stories)
Proteins *Egg whites with 1–2 whole eggs for flavor (or, if organic, 2–5 whole eggs, including yolks) *Chicken breast or thigh *Beef (preferably grass-fed) *Fish Pork Legumes *Lentils (also called “dal” or “daal”) *Black beans Pinto beans Red beans Soybeans Vegetables *Spinach *Mixed vegetables (including broccoli, cauliflower, or any other cruciferous vegetables) *Sauerkraut, kimchee (full explanation of these later in “Damage Control”) Asparagus Peas Broccoli Green beans Eat as much as you like of the above food items, but keep it simple.
Timothy Ferriss (The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman)
4-pound chicken or 8 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs Salt 1/4 cup soy sauce 1/4 cup dark brown sugar 1/4 cup mirin (rice wine) 1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil 1 tablespoon finely grated ginger 4 garlic cloves, finely grated or pounded with a pinch of salt 1/2 teaspoon Chinese five-spice powder 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro leaves and tender stems 4 scallions, green and white parts slivered
Samin Nosrat (Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat: Mastering the Elements of Good Cooking)
Except for her perfect little tits, Glenna’s lush. Big hips, fat juicy ass, thighs you wanna dive between. She’s like the tree of life—thick trunk and delicate, willowy top.
Cate C. Wells (Against a Wall (Stonecut County, #2))
I’m going to puncture the femoral sheath.” Camilla passed him a little pair of scissors, and he cut a short slit in the thigh of the corpse’s soft leather trousers. Then Palamedes prodded around with his fingers—he placed the needle to the dead skin—and the corpse’s hand shot out and ringed around his wrist before anyone could stop it. Nona noticed that one of the corpse prince’s sleeves had worked up, and that on her wrist was a funny fat bracelet: a braided cord of many colours, none of which matched. “One, that’s not going to work. Two, I fucking hate needles,” said the corpse. “Three—Sex Pal, if that’s how you get a lady’s pants off, holy shit, no wonder I stole your girl.” Palamedes rocked back on his heels. “Not my girl. Unlike some of us, I’ve never much seen the allure of an evil cougar,” he said crisply. “Good morning, Gideon.
Tamsyn Muir (Nona the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #3))
LOVE THE SKIN YOU'RE IN!!!! I ain't sucking in, waist-training, eye-lashin', derma-brasioning, lipo-suctioning nuthin. I earned every wrinkle, stretch mark, belly jiggle, thigh rub, fat knee, cell and ulite on this body and I'm gon' own that ish like a finely aged grandma who done done some thangs in her life.
Liz Faublas
Dallas latched on to the forearm of my hand curled around her throat and plastered her back against the hood of the car as I continued fucking her hard. The door behind us opened, and Jared walked in. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to—” “Get the fuck out,” I roared. My demand shook the walls so hard I was surprised they hadn’t cracked. The door promptly closed. Perhaps because it was, by far, the most pleasurable experience I’d ever had, the orgasm wasn’t instant. It skulked forward, gripping each of my limbs with its claws, taking over me like a drug. I knew I’d regret what was about to happen. Yet, I could not even entertain the idea of stopping. Dallas quaked beneath me. The muscles of her thighs strained. Sliding into her hot tightness a few more times, I finally erupted inside her. It was glorious. And at the same time, felt as if someone had sucked my chest empty. I came, and I came, and I came into Dallas’s cunt. When I finally pulled out, everything between us was sticky. I peered down between her legs. My thick white cum dripped from her swollen red slit to the hood of my car. Pink flakes of blood scattered inside the cloudy, milky liquid. Panting and out of breath, I realized this marked the first time that I’d lost myself to a moment. That I’d forgotten everything. Including the fact that she was present. My gaze rode up her bruised pussy to her torso. Sometime during sex, I’d torn the top of her dress without even noticing. Red marks covered her exposed breasts. Full of scratches and bites. Her neck still bore the imprints of my fingers—how hard had I grabbed her? And though I dreaded seeing the aftermath on her face, I couldn’t stop myself. I looked up and nearly keeled over to vomit. Flushed pink cloaked her face. A single silent tear traveled down her cheek. A glossy sheen coated her hazel eyes, almost golden in their tone and empty as my chest. The corner of her lips had produced a thin line of blood. Her doing. Not mine. She’d bitten them to tamp down her pained cries. Shortbread wanted me to fuck her bareback so badly, she’d suffered through the entire ordeal. Incomparable guilt slammed into me. Bitterness hit the back of my throat. I’d taken her without considering her pleasure. Against my better judgment. And in the process, I’d ruined her first genuine experience of sex. “Sorry.” I jerked away from Dallas, shoved my dripping half-mast cock back into my pants, and zipped up. “Jesus. Fuck. I’m so—” The rest of the sentence vanished in my throat. I shook my head, still in disbelief that I’d fucked her to the point of blood and tears. Without even sparing her a glance. She sat up. That lone tear still shimmered from her cheek, somehow even worse than a loud sob. “Do you have any gum?” The perfect, even composure braided into her voice rattled me. In fact, everything about Dallas rattled me. On autopilot, I produced two pieces of gum from my tin container, forking them over to her. She tucked both into her pretty pink mouth that I would never kiss and fuck again. “Shortbread…” I stopped. An apology wouldn’t even begin to cover it. “No. It’s my time to speak.” She made no move to flee. To slap me. To call the police, her parents, her sister. My cum still dripped fat white drops through her exposed pussy. A single streak of blood smeared across the hood of my car. I stood far enough from her that I wasn’t a threat and listened.(Chapter 44)
Parker S. Huntington (My Dark Romeo (Dark Prince Road, #1))
Surely little remained of the Puritan legacy of prudish rectitude, he thought: surely this was now a country of excess, gluttony, lust, and sloth; surely this had grown into a land where obesity reigned and even the poor moved ponderously down the street on big thighs that rubbed fatly together. What had become of the pilgrims' gaunt and stingy oversight? He knew in part it was the visionary genius of enterprising men, but such entrepreneurs were only the tools of a hungry culture. For the descendants of those gray, upright pioneers had cherished cravings for beef patties with ketchup, deep-fried chicken and vats of ice cream, chemically scented and dyed all the colors of the rainbow, and billions upon billions of gallons of soda. Their thirst had never been quite slaked and so they never finished drinking; and this was the market in all its streamlined functionality—which, precisely where the supply and the demand curves crossed, had swiftly produced a nation of paralyzed giants, fallen across their couches much as soldiers on the field of battle, their arteries hard, their softened hearts failing. The market made a fool of you by giving you what you wanted. But this did not make him resent it; it merely earned his respect. From the day you were born you were called upon to discern what to choose.
Lydia Millet (How the Dead Dream)
Maybe all my problems would be solved if I got the fat sucked out of my thighs. Things just fall into place more easily for skinny-legged women. Look at Alexa Chung.
Genevieve Novak (No Hard Feelings)
I know that my body could never be inappropriate. If I walk around naked all the time, or wear a muumuu slit to the moon to show my big dimpled thighs, or let my tummy hang soft and low, it’s right. I am of nature. I have cycles in my body that reflect the cycles of day and night, of the seasons, of the moon and the tides. My body is a gorgeous miracle. I know it is only conditioning and shame, particularly fat shame, that keeps me covered (especially when I am in places where it’s too hot to wear a top and men are running around shirtless).
Adrienne Maree Brown (Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good (Emergent Strategy Book 1))
Waist Trainers from Hourglass Waist aim to burn tummy fat as well as shave off inches around your waist and thighs. With over 7 years of experience, Hourglass Waist has designed several award-winning waist trainers that are comfortable, affordable & always in style. Corset has been used for hundreds of years and today we have products such as the gym waist trainer pro which use smart textiles. This new design has a sauna-like effect when you train, meaning more sweat and more calories burnt. This new technology and many others have made Hourglass Waist the market leader in Australia.
Hourglass Waist
This book asks quite a lot of you in your quest to be fit and fierce. Twelve minutes of exercise, though astoundingly short in terms of the benefits they provide, is still not trivial. You are swinging a heavy weight for dozens, even hundreds of times a day. There had better be a pretty good reason why. There is! The kettlebell swing, with its mix of cardiovascular effort and fat-burning, muscle-building, strength-training may well be the best single exercise! Your kettlebell swings reward you, per swing, and per minute: • You look better! Fat loss, muscle tuning, body shaping, booty toning and posture improvement benefit your appearance, just as they improve your endurance, strength and health. • Your body is reshaped rapidly and muscles strengthened by your swings. Flab on your arms is replaced by functional muscle. Flabby thighs become sleek. • Your training makes you smarter. Well, at least helps you think better. Your swings flood your brain with fresh, oxygenated blood and top it off with a dose of testosterone. • Your general physical abilities improve markedly. You are better able to move, to carry things, to pick up kids, to play sports, to make love, to respond to emergencies with strength and endurance. • Your swings help your posture, allowing you to stand tall. The posterior chain, so well worked with kettlebell swings, includes the key posture muscles. • Your training makes your butt look smaller! Actually your butt becomes shapelier, as the gluteal muscles in the buttocks are key lifters of the kettlebell. You strengthen and shape you entire posterior chain. This focused exercise lifts, firms, tightens and highlights these assets. Each swing makes your butt look better! • The kettlebell swing may be the most effective single exercise for your heart. Swinging the weight rapidly brings your heart into the training zone.
Don Fitch (Get Fit, Get Fierce with Kettlebell Swings: Just 12 Minutes a Day to Lose Weight, Prevent Sitting Disease, Hone Your Body and Tone Your Booty!)
And here he was, a big, fat, grown-up whoremaster, leaning his stomach against his desk while his cheeks darkened with blood and excited chills ran up his legs and thighs.
John Steinbeck (East of Eden)
The good news is that you can quickly reclaim your genetic fat-burning abilities. Metabolic flexibility allows you to feel great all day long, with stable mood, energy, cognitive functioning, and appetite, whether or not you eat regular meals. I believe that reigniting your metabolic flexibility is the holy grail of all health pursuits. With it, you can naturally derive energy from a range of sources: the fat on your plate of food or the fat on your butt, belly, or thighs; the carbohydrates in your meal, the glucose in your bloodstream, or the glycogen in your muscles; and even from ketones, the superfuel that your liver makes when you’re fasting or restricting dietary carbs. The best part is that your body doesn’t care where those calories came from, because your source of calories to burn will move seamlessly from one substrate (fuel source) to another depending on your immediate energy needs.
Mark Sisson (Two Meals a Day: The Simple, Sustainable Strategy to Lose Fat, Reverse Aging, and Break Free from Diet Frustration Forever)
Half a long pepper and lastly a teaspoon of troll fat.' 'Yuck,' Stef said, as she looked down at the small bowl of fat. 'Yes, it is a bit gross, but it's very effective,' Miss Maker said, as she walked over to the front row and paused by a cauldron that belonged to a girl with red hair. 'That looks fantastic, Patricia.' 'How does she know all our names?' Gerty whispered to Charlotte, forgetting that Miss Maker could hear them. 'Gerty, Charlotte, how are you getting on?' She smiled over at them. 'Erm, okay,' Gerty muttered quietly. Yeah, okay I think,' Charlotte added. 'Great!' Miss Maker walked back to the front of the room. 'Now take your spoons and place them into the cauldron, careful not to splash any of the potion. Turn it in a clockwise direction twenty times, like this’ She began to turn her spoon, counting the turns aloud. 'When you've done that, carefully remove your spoon.' 'Now take your wand out and say, 'strength potion make me strong.' Then add one cup of cranberry juice and stir another ten times in a clockwise direction. Pour a glass and drink up girls. This spell will only last for three hours, and then your body’s strength will return to normal.' Stef was the first to drink her potion, followed by Margaret and then Demi. Charlotte and Gerty exchanged looks before they picked up their glasses and drank the liquid. Charlotte looked down to see her arms begin to bulk up under her cardigan until large muscles were visible. 'Look, look!' Gerty lifted her blouse, revealing a six-pack of muscles on her tummy. ''Whoa,' Charlotte said, as she looked down at her own stomach and legs and saw that they were changing too. 'My thighs are huge,' Alice said disgustedly, clutching hold of her muscled leg. 'I feel so strong,' Gerty giggled, as she reached out and lifted Charlotte with one hand and balanced her above her head, spinning her around like a spinning top. 'I feel weaker Miss Maker, what's happening?' Stef asked, as she stumbled and gripped onto the table for support before looking down at herself. Her arms and legs had become much smaller, and she looked skinny and haggard. There were gasps at Stef's appearance as the other girls gathered around her. 'Can you show me what direction is clockwise?' Miss Maker passed Stef a spoon. Stef nodded as she put the spoon into the cauldron and stirred to her left. 'Oh dear.' Miss Maker shook her head. 'That is anti-clockwise, you're lucky the spell is only for three hours.' She led Stef over to the comfy chair that was behind her desk and then addressed the other girls. 'This is a perfect example of how careful you must be when brewing potions and a great lesson for us all. Now, we have to tidy up. Please be careful when cleaning the cauldrons and glasses, don't forget your new strength.' 'Have you seen Demi's muscles? They're huge!' A girl with black hair pointed to Demi's arms.
Katrina Kahler (Witch School, Book 1)
She snatched at my wrist with surprising speed, and dragged my hand onto her thigh, near the hip. The flesh was warm and smooth and supple. Nothing in the world is so soft and pleasing to the touch as the skin of a woman’s thigh. No flower, feather, or fabric can match that velvet whisper of flesh. No matter how unequal they may be in other ways, all women, old and young, fat and thin, beautiful and ugly, have that perfection. It’s a great part of the reason why men hunger to possess women, and so often convince themselves that they do possess them: the thigh, that touch.
Gregory David Roberts (Shantaram)
In America, the fatness is not the fatness I was used to at home. Over there, the fatness was of bigness, just ordinary fatness you could understand because it meant the person ate well, fatness you could even envy. It was fatness that did not interfere with the body; a neck was still a neck, a stomach a stomach, an arm an arm, a buttock a buttock. But this American fatness takes it to a whole ’nother level: the body is turned into something else—the neck becomes a thigh, the stomach becomes an anthill, an arm a thing, a buttock a I don’t even know what.
NoViolet Bulawayo (We Need New Names)
God wants us to have fat on our hips, stomach, thighs, and breasts. It was His clear intention. Does
Ginger Garrett (Beauty Secrets of the Bible: The Ancient Arts of Beauty & Fragrance)
The phone rang. Joan Rochester leaped to her feet, but Dominick signaled her to sit with a wave of his hand. He wiped his face as though it were a windshield and rose from his seat. Dominick was a thick man. Not fat. Thick. Thick neck, thick shoulders, thick chest, thick arms and thighs. The
Harlan Coben (Promise Me (Myron Bolitar, #8))
There are these tiny shrimp that live in potholes in the rocks of the desert, and whenever it’s dry, they go dormant. You don’t even know they’re there. But as soon as it rains, you see them darting around in the water, as if they fell from the sky in droplets instead of just waiting around for the first sign of moisture to revive them. Tonight I was a desert shrimp. Something happened to me on a cellular level. I felt it as soon as the water reached my thighs. It’s like some dormant portion of me moistened itself back to life, and as I glided forward into the pool and took my first few strokes, I didn’t care anymore what I looked like or what people might say about me or whether they thought it was hilarious that chubby girl was out there doing freestyle. I didn’t care about anyone or anything. I just swam. I
Robin Brande (Fat Cat)
In the procession of pieces, which Ikegawa changes based on his read of each guest, you find crunch and chew, fat and cartilage, soft, timid tenderness and bursts of outrageous savory intensity. He starts me with the breast, barely touched by the flame, pink in the center, green on top from a smear of wasabi, a single bite buries a lifetime of salmonella hysteria. A quick-cooked skewer of liver balances the soft, melting fattiness of foie with a gentle mineral bite. The tsukune, a string of one-bite orbs made from finely chopped thigh meat, arrives blistered on the outside, studded with pieces of cartilage that give the meatballs a magnificent chew. Chochin, the grilled uterus, comes with a proto-egg attached to the skewer like a rising sun. The combination of snappy meat and molten yolk is the stuff taste memories are made of.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
My niece, Anna, told about a poignant moment with her eight-year-old daughter. I love myself but I hate my thighs. I do. I also hate my post-baby, three-times-C-sectioned tummy. No matter how many planks, sit-ups, or miles I run, it will never be like it was when I was in college. And that makes me sad, frustrated, and sometimes angry. When my sweet husband tells me I look beautiful, instead of just thanking him, I answer back with a caveat: “Thanks, but I look fat.” I do this in front of my kids sometimes without realizing it. My boys always come back with, “No way, Mom. You look awesome” or “We think you’re beautiful!” But my daughter is just quiet. Watching. Listening. Later she’ll come up to me, hug me, and whisper, “I love you so much, Mommy.” A couple of months ago, when she was all dressed up, I saw her looking at herself in the mirror. I stopped and said, “Lillian, you look absolutely stunning!” She turned around and said to me very matter of fact, “No I don’t. I look fat.” I gasped! Doesn’t she know how precious she is? Doesn’t she know how beautiful she is? What a blessing she is? Doesn’t she know what a miracle her very existence is? And then I remembered all the times I answered her dad with the very same words. I was sad, ashamed, and most of all heartbroken. Lillian was eight years old. She understood that “fat” was how I felt about myself, so she decided she should feel that way too. Lillian and I had a long talk that day. I told her what a blessing her life is, and how God made her special, unique, and beautiful. I also apologized to her, my two sons, and my husband for not loving myself like I should. Lately, I’ve been saying “thank you” when I get compliments—something new to me—and it’s made all the difference. Now when I tell Lillian how gorgeous she is (which is all the time), she looks at me with her bright hazel eyes and says, “Thanks, Mommy! I think you’re really beautiful too!
Sharon Jaynes (Enough: Silencing the Lies That Steal Your Confidence)
10 Best Weight Loss Exercises The best exercises to lose weight in the gym are aerobics, for example: 1. Hiit Training The hit workout burns about 400 calories per hour and consists of a set of high intensity workouts that eliminate localized fat in just 30 minutes per day in a faster and fun way. The exercises are performed intensively to raise your heart rate a lot and so it is more suitable for those who already practice some kind of physical activity, although there are beginner hit exercises, but they consist of a series of exercises 'easier'. 2. Cross fit Training Cross fit training is also quite intense and burns about 700 calories per hour, however, this type of workout is quite different from the bodybuilding workout that people are more accustomed to seeing in gyms. Different weights are used, ropes, tires and often the exercises are performed, outside the gym, outdoors. 3. Dance Classes Dancing is a great way to strengthen muscles and burn some calories, 1 hour of ballroom dancing burns approximately 300 calories, and the person still increases flexibility and has fun, having a greater contact with other students. In this type of activity besides cardio respiratory benefits, and to lose weight, it is still possible to promote socialization. The university is a very lively type of dance, where you can burn about 400 calories per hour, in a fun way. In the buzz you can burn up to 800 kcal per hour. 5. Muay Thai Muay Thai is a type of intense martial art, where you can burn about 700 calories per hour. The workouts are very intense and also strengthen the muscles, as well as help increase self-esteem and self-defense. 6. Spinning The spinning classes are done in different intensities, but always on top of a bicycle, in a classroom with at least 5 bikes. The classes are very intense and promote the burning of about 600 calories per hour, and still strengthens the legs very much, being great to burn the fat of the legs and strengthen the thighs. 7. Swimming A swimming lesson can burn up to 400 calories per hour as long as the student does not slow down and keeps moving. Although the strokes are not too strong to reach the other side of the pool faster, it takes a constant effort, with few stops. When the goal is to lose weight, one should not only reach the other side of the pool, it is necessary to maintain a constant and strong rhythm, that is, one can cross the swimming pool crawl and turn back, for example, as a form of 'rest' . 8. Hydrogeology Water aerobics is also great for slimming, but to burn about 500 calories per hour you should always keep moving, enough to keep your breath away. As the water relaxes the tendency is to slow down, but if you want to lose weight, the ideal is to be in a group with this same purpose, because doing exercises at a pace for the elderly to stay healthy may not be enough to burn fat. 9. Race The workouts are excellent to burn fat, being possible to burn about 600 to 700 calories per hour, provided that a good pace is respected, without pauses, and with an effort able to leave the person breathless, unable to talk during the race . You can start at a slower pace, on the treadmill or outdoors, but each week you must increase the intensity to achieve better goals. Here's how to start running to lose weight. 10. Body pump Body pump classes are a great way to burn fat because it burns about 500 calories per hour. This is a class made with weights and step, which strengthens the muscles, working the main muscle groups. These are some examples of exercises that help you to lose weight fast, but that should be performed under professional guidance, to be performed correctly and to avoid injuries to muscles and joints.
shahida tabassum
I can tell you we were right, our bodies were right, life was really going to be that good, that pleasurable in every cell. Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but better than that the bright corners of your eyes, or the light of your face, the rich Long Island puppy-fat of your thighs, or the slick chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I remember your extraordinary act of courage in loving me
Sharon Oldss
All her life, she had felt like an embarrassment. Her presence disturbed Jacques, her laughter woke the children Louise was looking after. Her fat thighs, her heavy figure pressed against the wall in the narrow corridor to let the others pass. She feared blocking the passage, being bumped into, sitting on a chair that someone else wanted. When she spoke, she expressed herself poorly. She laughed and she offended people, no matter how innocent her laughter. She had ended up developing a gift for invisibility, and logically, without fanfare, without warning, as if that had been her manifest destiny all along, she had disappeared. On Monday morning Louise leaves
Leïla Slimani (The Perfect Nanny)