Gorgeous Women Quotes

The secret to modeling is not being perfect. What one needs is a face that people can identify in a second. You have to be given what’s needed by nature, and what’s needed is to bring something new.

It isn’t about looks; gorgeous women get dumped every day.

I didn't believe it was possible to hide a woman's beauty. I thought women were gorgeous no matter what they wore, and I didn't think they owed anyone an explanation for their sartorial choices. Different women felt comfortable in different outfits. They were all beautiful.

That's when it struck me: how gorgeous we all were, even with cellulite (saw a lot of that) and stretch marks, scars and tattoos. Let me just say this, not single body was perfect, not even the fittest of women there.

Is it time for your period, or something?" With unerring instinct, he'd found a great big red button, and pushed it. Wyatt fights to win, which means he fights dirty. I understand the concept because that's how I fight, too, but understanding it didn't stop me from reacting. I could practically feel my blood bubbling with steam. "What?" He turned around, all controlled aggression, and damned if he didn't push the button again. "What is it about having a period that makes women so bitchy?" ... It was an effort, but I said as sweetly as possible, "It isn't that we're bitchier, it's that having a period makes us feel all tired and achy, so we have less tolerance for all the bullshit we normally SUFFER IN SILENCE." By the time the sentence ended the sweetness was long gone, my jaw was clenched, and I think my eyes were bugging out. Wyatt took a step back, belatedly looking alarmed.

It's late, I'm tired, and your cigarettes are giving me a headache," I growled. "I suppose that's fair." He drew in on the cigarette and let out the smoke. "Some women think they make me look sexy." "I think you smoke them so you have something to do while thinking up your next witty line." He choked on the smoke, caught between inhaling and laughing. "Rose Hathaway, I can't wait to see you again. If you're this charming while tired and annoyed and this gorgeous while bruised and in ski clothes, you must be devastating at your peak.

There is just so much excess in terms of the market for self-remodeling. I think most women are perfectly gorgeous and beautiful the way they are,

It isn't about the looks; gorgeous women get dumped every day. It isn't about intelligence. Women of all types, from brilliant women to women with the IQ equivalent of plant life, pull it off every day. It's about mystery and learning how to create intrigue.

Lust, pure gorgeous lust: the sacred energy that elevates us, and makes us feel so special.

But,” Shane said. He had to say this next part. It had been eating away at him for too long. “You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not...like me. You like women. And I’m sure...Svetlana is gorgeous and fun and...all that stuff. Right?” “Yes,” Ilya said. “I do. She is. But.” “But?” Ilya shrugged, and he looked like he was possibly blushing. “I have this problem,” he mumbled. Shane waited. “I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. All of that. Someday. But...this problem will not go away.” Shane bit his lip. “Tell me about this problem.” “Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.” “Sounds rough.” “Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.” “A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.” Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.” Fuck. Shane was going start crying right here in his games room. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Do you want the problem to go away?” “No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.

Women like clothes, they like shoes, they like flowers and they like people to look at them and think,‘God, she’s gorgeous.’ The more people who think that, the better it is. The one day in your life where you get all that rolled up into one is your wedding day. And it comes with jewelry and presents and ends with a vacation where it’s practically law that you have to wear fabulous underwear and have lots of sex.

I lived my youth inside the dreams of gorgeous women.

I’m telling you, men make women stupid. What with their gorgeous dicks and stupid, sexy crooked, villainous smiles and good smelling necks. All of them make us stupid at one time or another.

Caitlyn is breathtaking, one of the most gorgeous women I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, and I pity you for being so wrapped up in shit-talk you’d stoop to the level you just did. But you’ve given me all the more reason to beat your ass come September.

Julita was being spinned like a top by a drop-dead-gorgeous Dominicano. Later she told us that he’d asked for her number and she had given him the wrong one. “Why did you do that?” I asked her. “He smelled married,” she said.

You'd think the very thought of a romance writer would bring a smile to people's lips. Ah, how nice. Love. Making love. Laughter. Kissing. But no, the world is upside down as far as I can see, and romances and their writers are ridiculed, hisses and generally spat upon. For what reason? One of my favorites is that women who read them might get mixed up about reality and imagine a man is going to rescue them from Life. According to this theory, women are so stupid that they can't tell a story from reality. Is anyone worried that the MEN who read spy thrillers are going to go after their neighbors with an automatic weapon? No, I don't remember anyone thinking that. Nor do I remember anyone worrying about murder mysteries or science fiction. It just seems to be dumb ol' women who might think some gorgeous, thoughtful, giving hunk is going to rescue them. Honey, if any woman thought a gorgeous hunk was going to rescue her, romance novels wouldn’t be forty percent of the publishing industry.

Black Girls… Beautiful in EVERY shade and size. We’ve got that special something! Our melanin is exquisitely beautiful! Love & embrace the skin that you’re in. Our skin tones represent beauty. Light, brown, and dark skinned girls are equally gorgeous!

There's a moment when you realise all your worst fears have come true. When the fat girl stuffing her face in the corner finally recognises food gives her the comfort she can't find in anyone else. When the gorgeous man with the body of a god realises he changes women like shoes because he's scared one won't find enough reason to stay. When you see the world for what it really is, see it for all the horrors the news can't or won't report. There's a moment when you realise and accept that you are the worthless piece of shit your father always said you were, because even a diseased crack-head wouldn't kill their own sister. It was a moment Kerestyan, a defining moment...an epiphany of imperfection.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel unsure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. As we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Feedback doesn’t tell you about yourself. It tells you about the person giving the feedback. In other words, if someone says your work is gorgeous, that just tells you about *their* taste. If you put out a new product and it doesn’t sell at all, that tells you something about what your audience does and doesn’t want. When we look at praise and criticism as information about the people giving it, we tend to get really curious about the feedback, rather than dejected or defensive.

When you’re honest, what compares with the gorgeous thrill of sex? What brings you the same sense of wonder, pleasure, and fulfilment? I can’t think of anything as good.

Instead of being regarded as intelligent or knowledgeable, many a woman would rather be regarded as beautiful or good in the kitchen; many a man, as handsome or good in bed.

Maybe I should let my faithful manservant answer the rest of your questions, since he seems to have all the answers." "I'm saving her time," Bodie replied. "She brings you a redhead, you'll give her grief. Look for women with class, Annabelle. That's most important. The sophisticated types who went to boarding schools and speak French. She has to be the real thing because he can spot a phony a mile away. And he likes them athletic." "Of course he does," she said dryly. "Athletic, domestic, gorgeous, brilliant, socially connected, and pathologically submissive. It'll be a snap." "You forgot hot." Heath smiled. "And defeatist thinking is for losers. If you want to be a success in this world, Annabelle, you need a positive attitude. Whatever the client wants, you get it for him. First rule of a successful business." "Uh-huh. What about career women?" "I don't see how that would work." "The kind of potential mate you're describing isn't going to be sitting around waiting for her prince to show up. She's heading a major corporation. In between those Victoria's Secret modeling gigs." He lifted an eyebrow. "Attitude, Annabelle. Attitude.

women were like the sea: Always shifting. Stormy and calm and crashing and quiet. Able to hold and house and carry things with ease. Always gorgeous but in infinite ways. We moved with the moon.

They reject themselves. It is what you do when you see a gorgeous girl but then think to yourself, “I could never get a girl like that” and walk away even though the woman did not actually reject you.

It's late, I'm tired, and your cigarettes are giving me a headache," I growled. "I suppose that's fair." He drew in on the cigarette and let out the smoke. "Some women think they make me look sexy." "I think you smoke them so you have something to do while thinking up your next witty line." He choked on the smoke, caught between inhaling and laughing. "Rose Hathaway, I can't wait to see you again. If you're this charming while tired and annoyed and this gorgeous while bruised and in ski clothes, you must be devastating at your peak.” "If by 'devastating' you mean that you should fear for your life, then yeah. You're right." I jerked open the door. "Good night, Adrian." "I'll see you soon." "Not likely. I told you, I'm not into older guys." I walked into the lodge. As the door closed, I just barely heard him call behind me, "Sure, you aren't.

This man was gorgeous. I'm mentioning this because women live their lives secretly waiting for their lives to become movies. We act like men are the ones shallow enough to desire an unending stream of beautiful women but really, if a charismatic narcissist beautiful bad boy man actually desires us, seems to choose us, we go to pieces. We suddenly feel like we are finally in that movie rather than a life. Just what we always wanted. To be chosen by the best looking man in the room. Rhett Butler. Even though we are of course smarter and more mature and more together than to ever want that. Or admit it.

She was beautiful. Not despite her so-called flaws but because of them—those scrapes and life experiences that made her body like no other woman’s. The beauty that wasn’t ephemeral or society-dictated but the real beauty that cut across generations, across all cultures, from the beginning of humankind. The beauty that was painted in Paleolithic caves and carved in ancient Venus statuettes, those wonderful figurines of all shapes and sizes, individualized and gorgeous precisely because of that individuality. What cavemen had known, modern men had forgotten, and sadly, modern women too.

That's right. Watch closely, so there's no fucking way you can miss how indisputably beautiful you are, because I don't intend to argue about this again. The next time I tell you you're gorgeous, you're going to say, 'Damn right I am.

Women, you are sleek and gorgeous. You hold us together, you’re the ribbons. We’re men. Dangerous only if you take us too seriously. We’re the whiskey. To whiskey and ribbons.

A woman is a blissful mother, a wonderful sister, a gorgeous daughter, and a friend with a kind heart who really cares. Wishing you a wonderful International Women’s Day

Mrs. Liu is gorgeous. It’s true what they say —Asian women don’t age. She must be in her mid fifties by now, but she doesn’t look a day over thirty.

It is the most opulent, most gorgeous land on earth—a land whose wisest are but little wiser than its dullest; a land where the rulers have minds like little children and the law-givers believe in Santa Claus; where ugly women control strong men——

So to hell with dignity. Dignity has got nothing on Rita Hayworth singing “Put the Blame on Mame” in Gilda, and absolutely nothing on Mae West in anything. It seems far more exciting to be a Siren beckoning with her song or Calypso captivating on her island than to be Penelope, the archetype of female fidelity, weaving and unweaving at her loom, sending her suitors away, waiting for the errant Odysseus to return, waiting while he luxuriates in lotusland, waiting while, as one correspondent to The New York Times Book Review put it, he “commits adultery with various gorgeous, high-class women,” waiting for her husband like Lucy waits for Desi at the end of the day, or Alice waits for Ralph at the end of the night. Bad girls don’t wait around—one doesn’t get to go everywhere by sitting by the phone.

Anna noticed many people taking in the sight of her in her men's clothing and nodding appreciaticely. The men seemed pleased or amused, the women either admiring or- interested. Quite a few raked Anna boldly with their eyes, their gazes clinging to the feminine body revealed by her fitted clothes. It was as if in casting off dresses she had cast off society's expectation of a woman's modesty and could allow herself to be admired, desired. Her soul soared with new confidence: she felt herself a gorgeous creature, neither a gentleman nor a lady. A gentlewoman, she thought.

A women living alone in a big ole house almost always invites the question of how she's going to fill it. Partner, kids, multiple rescue dogs, each with its own Instagram account. But a five-million-dollar shack in the most expensive beach destination in the country answers that question with gorgeous restraint. A woman in a home only big enough for herself is the ultimate fuck you to patriarchal society. It says, 'I am enough for me'.

I thought of how many women out there thought they could prevent their husbands from cheating if only they were as gorgeous as Evelyn Hugo. But it never stopped any man I loved.

I remember the room. How it burned because Lan sung of fire, surrounded by her daughters. Smoke rising and collecting in the corners. The table in the middle a bright blaze. The women with their eyes closed and the words relentless. The walls a moving screen of images flashing as each verse descended to the next: a sunlit intersection in a city no longer there. A city with no name. A white man standing beside a tank with his black-haired daughter in his arms. A family sleeping in a bomb crater. A family hiding underneath a table. Do you understand? All I was given was a table. A table in lieu of a house. A table in lieu of history.

The position of women, over the years, has definitely changed for the worse. we women have behaved like mugs, We have clamoured to be allowed to work as men work. Men, not being fools, have taken kindly to the idea. Why supoort a wife? What's wrong with a wife supporting herself? She wants to do it. By golly, she can go on doing it! it seems sad that having established ourselves so cleverly as the "weaker sex" we should now be broadly on a par with the women of primitive tribes who toil in the fields all day, walk miles to gather camelthorn for fuel, and on trek carry all the pots, pans, and household equipment on their heads, while the gorgeous, ornamental male sweeps on ahead, unburdened save for one lethal weapon with which to defend his women.

Men always think they’re hot. It’s like an inheritable trait attached to the Y-chromosome.” She switched to lecture mode, which was a definite weakness of his. “Even fat, ugly guys think they’re hot, whereas amazingly gorgeous women worry about not being perfect or having stomachs that aren’t taut as drums.” He shrugged. “So I’m fat, ugly, and hot.” “And my stomach is taut as a drum.” He

Always remember, that YOU are the most beautiful woman in the world. Your weight, your height, your eyes, your scars, your idiosyncrasies, your complexion, and your sartorial choices have nothing to do with beauty. The mirror lies darling. It does. Your heart is where all the beauty rests. And of course, it’s your smile that sprinkles a dash of magic! The world is a better place because of your gorgeous smile. Never walk out without a smile on our face, a zing in your step, and a high dose of faith in your heart.

Nevertheless a certain class of dishonesty, dishonesty magnificent in its proportions, and climbing into high places, has become at the same time so rampant and so splendid that there seems to be reason for fearing that men and women will be taught to feel that dishonesty, if it can become splendid, will cease to be abominable. If dishonesty can live in a gorgeous palace with pictures on all its walls, and gems in all its cupboards, with marble and ivory in all its corners, and can give Apician dinners, and get into Parliament, and deal in millions, then dishonesty is not disgraceful, and the man dishonest after such a fashion is not a low scoundrel. Instigated, I say, by some such reflections as these, I sat down in my new house to write The Way We Live Now. And as I had ventured to take the whip of the satirist into my hand, I went beyond the iniquities of the great speculator who robs everybody, and made an onslaught also on other vices;--on the intrigues of girls who want to get married, on the luxury of young men who prefer to remain single, and on the puffing propensities of authors who desire to cheat the public into buying their volumes.

By this time she had reached the Blenheim estate on the outskirts of River Heights. The broad tree-shadowed lawn was filled with women setting up displays for the annual charity flower show. Nancy had been assigned a spot in the greenhouse behind the mansion. As she set her larkspur arrangement in place, the chairman came up to her. “My, Nancy, your delphinium are gorgeous,” Mrs. Winsor said. “Thank you,” Nancy replied. “I just adore larkspur,” the woman said. “Such a lovely old-fashioned flower. My grandmother had them in her garden. She always had hollyhocks and bluebells, too.

I didn’t believe it was possible to hide a woman’s beauty. I thought women were gorgeous no matter what they wore, and I didn’t think they owed anyone an explanation for their sartorial choices. Different women felt comfortable in different outfits.

Women and the opportunities to meet them are not at all scarce — far from it. There are plenty of wonderful women out there, more so than any one of us can handle already, with new gorgeous girls maturing every single day, and the opportunities to meet them are more than plentiful as well.

In the cities of the European Franks, women roam about exposing not only their faces, but also their brightly shining hair (after their necks, their most attractive feature), their arms, their beautiful throats, and even, if what Ive heard is true, a portion of their gorgeous legs; as a result, the men of those cities walk about with great difficulty, embarrassed and in extreme pain, because, you see, their front sides are always erect and this fact naturally leads to the paralysis of their society. Undoubtedly, this is why each day the Frank infidel surrenders another fortress to us Ottomans.

Her beauty must have been exhausting and not to mention troublesome. Glitter swiftly made it's way into the vibrant strands that graced her lavish eyelashes. Each blink, each pressing moment, time seemed to have stopped and I felt as if, her charm could fill an entire room and with every set of eyes locked onto her, somehow the glare of her shimmering wet lipgloss could take care of everyones problems. That as soon as her heavenly music flowed through their wine glasses, that they too were apart of something such bigger, much grander. I believed, when I stood beside her; I became more handsome.

Why were we tortured? We were in love and life was a fast current swarming around our ankles, threatening to topple us into the wet part of the planet. It was intense, that's why we were tortured. It was enormous and exploding like palm tree. Iris was my Yuri-G, my Delilah, my Stella Marie. Strong dark women you had to love with a strong dark heart that throbbed in gorgeous pain because love is terrible. I mean, ultimately. It would go away like a needle lifting from the vinyl at the end of the song, we knew this. The music would cease, one of us would die or else we'd just break up, and this drove us to drink from each other like two twelve-year-olds sneaking vodka from the liquor cabinet, trying to get it all down, trying to get as fucked up as possible before we got caught.

And the dagger?" "Is that really -?" "Katoptris," Piper said proudly. "Belonged to Helen of Troy." I yelped. "You have Helen of Troy's dagger? Where did you find it?" Piper shrugged. "In a shed at camp." I felt like pulling out my hair. I remembered the day Helen received that dagger as a wedding present. Such a gorgeous blade, held by the most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth. (No offence to the billions of other women out there who are also quite enchanting; I love you all.) And Piper had found this historically significant, well-crafted, powerful weapon in a shed? Alas, time makes bric-a-brac of everything, no matter how important.

To all the women who find it perfectly acceptable to be kidnapped by a gorgeous Italian mobster…

Accept it… Black women are beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, appealing, elegant, attractive, lovely, stunning, and exquisite.

Paper flowers make just about any heart smile…and that- is the best gift of all!

I thought women were gorgeous no matter what they wore, and I didn’t think they owed anyone an explanation for their sartorial choices.

The fate of some women: "She was beyond gorgeous. And damaged as hell. Why did those two always seem to go together?

Women thought they were doing themselves a favor by wearing yoga pants for comfort. Really, they were doing men the favor, allowing us to see every curve and dip of their gorgeous bodies.

I remember cupping the ash and writing the words live live live on the foreheads of the three women sitting in the room. How the ash eventually hardened into ink on a blank page. How there's ash on this very page.

She was remarkable in a double bill of Harold Pinter plays that were gorgeously produced, delicately and frighteningly performed, and which made absolutely no sense whatsoever: in other words, quintessential Pinter.

He drew in on the cigarette and let out the smoke. "Some women think they make me look sexy." "I think you smoke them so you have something to do while thinking up your next witty line." He choked on the smoke, caught between inhaling and laughing. "Rose Hathaway, I can't wait to see you again. If you're this charming while tired and annoyed and this gorgeous while bruised and in ski clothes, you must be devastating at your peak.

had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down. Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.

is the most opulent, most gorgeous land on earth—a land whose wisest are but little wiser than its dullest; a land where the rulers have minds like little children and the law-givers believe in Santa Claus; where ugly women control strong men—

Interestingly, this speech by Prospero does not contrast the unreality of the stage with the solid, flesh-and-blood existence of real men and women. On the contrary, it seizes on the flimsiness of dramatic characters as a metaphor for the fleeting, fantasy-ridden quality of actual human lives. It is we who are made of dreams, not just such figments of Shakespeare’s imagination as Ariel and Caliban. The cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces of this earth are mere stage scenery after all.

I wondered if any woman was ever really safe from men like Max and Don. I thought of how many women out there thought they could prevent their husbands from cheating if only they were as gorgeous as Evelyn Hugo. But it never stopped any man I loved.

But can we talk about Euphoria the show for a minute? I mean, first of all, Zendaya is everything, but that show so gorgeously captures the thrashing, beautiful, frustrated, sensual, stupid, fun, crazy, sexy, dangerous, dazzling meaning of young adulthood unleashed. I hope people watch it and go, “Oh, yeah, maybe my kid’s not as out of bounds as I thought she was. And maybe the world my kids are growing up in is a bit more complicated than the Blockbuster Video family-friendly aisle I grew up in.

When my female friends are left By horrid spouses and lovers, I commiserate. I send gifts- Powwow songs and poems- and wonder Why my gorgeous friends cannot find Someone who knows them as I do. Is the whole world dead and blind? I tell my friends, “I’d marry you Tomorrow.” I think I’m engaged To thirty-six women, my harem: Platonic, bookish, and enraged. I love them! But it would scare them- No, of course, they already know That I can be just one more boy, A toy warrior who explodes Into silence and warpaths with joy.

Do I give two fucks about my weight? No. I honestly don’t as long as I’m healthy. And I don’t know why it’s such a big deal for people, why they can’t accept the fact that I’m not hung up on my size. I look just like all the other women in my family, and they’re gorgeous.

A whole roasted lamb—stuffed with lamb sausages, organ and glandbreads, dried fruits and currants, tomato/garlic/onion mush, the entirety cardamomated, corianderized, cumined, cloved—was brought out on a spit, danced around. The carcassbearers were women, further gorgeous bursting Slavs,

Between the brown hands of a server-lad The silver cross was offered to be kissed. The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad, And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced. (And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.) Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had, (And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.) Young children came, with eager lips and glad. (These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.) Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte. Above the crucifix I bent my head: The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead: And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling. (I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)

Adrian was a man who, in certain respects, could be seen as slightly less than average. He was slightly shorter than the average man. He was slightly thinner than the average man. But his face… There was nothing average about his face. He was gorgeous. Dreamy blue eyes that were so light they were almost translucent and those blue eyes were only further accentuated by his short, dark hair. However, it was not those eyes that got women caught in his talons. No. It was his smile. His smile served as bait to the unsuspecting. It was a Brad Pitt sort of smile—naughty and sexy at the same time. The type of smile that warned you of the heartbreak to come, but left you powerless to protect yourself against its charms.

Then, as she twisted to the right, she revealed her talking partner. I literally broke step, my body deciding before my brain that my presence would not be needed in their interaction. Carol was gorgeous. A tall, confident, amazon of a woman. The lines of her gold lamay dress skimming every curve of her body. She was clearly not wearing underwear. She looked like a glossy magazine perfume ad. And this man was her magazine equal. He was perfect. Tall. Substantial. He looked muscular without giving the impression that he worked out. Maybe he was a rower. Or it could be tennis. Maybe he chopped down trees. Yes, he'd be very good at chopping trees down. I remember feeling an unnaturally strong desire to watch him do that.

Yeah, that’s it! There’s these gorgeous paintings on the arches. Now, they ain’t my cup o’ java, mind ya, but it’s gotta be high class, cause one them women’s topless, and ain’t nobody pays her no attention. That’s when you know it’s art,” Henry added, as though he was sharing some profound insight, “when you can make the gals naked and no one makes a fuss about it.

My dress, which dazzled me as I paraded alone in my white-and-gold drawing-room, was barely noticeable amidst the gorgeous finery of most of the married women. Each had her band of faithful followers, and they all watched each other askance. A few were radiant in triumphant beauty, and amongst these was my mother. A girl at a ball is a mere dancing-machine — a thing of no consequence whatever.

I remember crawling to the table, how it was now a pile of soot, then dipping my fingers into it. My nails blackening with my country. My country dissolving on my tongue. I remember cupping the ash and writing the words live live live on the foreheads of the three women sitting in the room. How the ash eventually hardened into ink on a blank page. How there's ash on this very page. How there's enough for everyone.

How was your journey?" he asked. "You don't have to make small talk with me," she said. "I don't like it, and I'm not very good at it." They paused at the shade of portico, beside a sweet-scented bower of roses. Casually Lord St. Vincent leaned a shoulder against a cream-painted column. A lazy smile curved his lips as he looked down at her. "Didn't Lady Berwick teach you?" "She tried. But I hate trying to make conversation about weather. Who cares what the temperature is? I want to talk about things like... like..." "Yes?" he prompted as she hesitated. "Darwin. Women's suffrage. Workhouses, war, why we're alive, if you believe in séances or spirits, if music has ever made you cry, or what vegetable you hate most..." Pandora shrugged and glanced up at him, expecting the familiar frozen expression of a man who was about to run for his life. Instead she found herself caught by his arrested stare, while the silence seemed to wrap around them. After a moment, Lord St. Vincent said softly, "Carrots." Bemused, Pandora tried to gather her wits. "That's the vegetable you hate most? Do you mean cooked ones?" "Any kind of carrots." "Out of all vegetables?" At his nod, she persisted, "What about carrot cake?" "No." But it's cake." A smile flickered across his lips. "Still carrots." Pandora wanted to argue the superiority of carrots over some truly atrocious vegetable, such as Brussels sprouts, but heir conversation was interrupted by a silky masculine voice. "Ah, there you are. I've been sent out to fetch you." Pandora shrank back as she saw a tall msn approach in a graceful stride. She knew instantly that he must be Lord Sy. Vincent's father- the resemblance was striking. His complexion was tanned and lightly time-weathered, with laugh-lines at the outer corners of his blue eyes. He had a full head of tawny-golden hair, handsomely silvered at the sides and temples. Having heard of his reputation as a former libertine, Pandora had expected an aging roué with coarse features and a leer... not this rather gorgeous specimen who wore his formidable presence like an elegant suit of clothes. "My son, what can you be thinking, keeping this enchanting creature out in the heat of midday?

Her Instagram feed filled up with gorgeous photos of her creations displayed alongside books, some of their links tenuous at best. Double chocolate cookies made with huge chunks of Valrhona chocolate found their American-Parisian mash-up reference in Alcott's Little Women. Currant cinnamon rolls as big as a baby's head were paired with The Secret Garden. Her lemon-blueberry muffins posed alongside a favorite childhood picture book, Blueberries For Sal.

Many American women over forty are not worried about their wrinkles and don’t give a rat’s ass about enhancing them. There’s this scientific fact called gravity. Gravity happens to us all, men and women. Some women and men over forty spend money fighting gravity with cosmetics and cosmetic surgery. That’s their ball game. That’s their parade. More power to them. There was once this woman named Gertrude Stein. She was the aesthetic opposite of Marilyn Monroe. I never knew Ms. Stein but from what I’ve read about her life I would venture to say that she was approximately (there’s no way of measuring such things…well, there are a couple of ways) a million times happier than Marilyn Monroe. Sexy on the outside doesn’t do much for ugly on the inside. This isn’t to say that Marilyn Monroe was ugly on the inside. I’m sure she was really fucking gorgeous on the inside, too. Bottom line: sparkle on the INSIDE can enhance ANYTHING on the outside.

He liked Atlanta. Unlike Chicago, the pace of everyday life was human here. Apparently there was time in this city. Time to roll a cigarette just so, time to examine vegetables with the eye of a diamond cutter. And time for old men to gather outside a storefront and do nothing but watch their dreams go by: the gorgeous cars of criminals and the hip-sway of women. Time, too, to instruct one another, pray for one another, and chastise children in the pews of a hundred churches.

God, she was gorgeous. Pure and cleanly beautiful. From the rounded crests of her cheeks to the delicate sweep of her jaw, she had the kind of face sculptors memorialized in marble and the rest of us gazed upon for centuries to come. Of course she was beautiful. She was an actress. Meant to be idolized on the screen. Emma Maron, a.k.a Princess Anya, future queen and conqueror on Dark Castle. The guys and I used to watch the show while traveling between games. Anya was a favorite. Particularly since... I'd seen her breasts. It hit me like a puck to the helmet, and my ears began to ring. I'd seen those perfect creamy handfuls with sweet pink tips that pointed upward, defying gravity and begging to be sucked. I had watched her on hands on knees, perky tits bouncing as Arasmus slammed into her from behind. I actually blushed. Me. The guy who'd had dozens of women throw themselves at him every night since high school. I'd had sex so many times and in so many ways it had become a blur. Nothing shamed me or made me uncomfortable. Yet I started to get hot under the collar, my cheeks burning. After nearly a year of being disinterested in all things sexual, my dick decided to make its presence known and start rising. Now, of all times. Now, when I was stuck in a damn truck less than three feet from a woman, I finally got a hard-on. Lovely. I felt like a damn lecher. "At least it's a beautiful drive," she said, breaking through heated thoughts of creamy breasts with cotton candy nipples.

Tanimura-kun, how come you never got in touch with me after that night we went out?” she asked. “I was hoping we could talk some more.” “You were a little too beautiful for me,” I said. She smiled. “That’s nice to hear, even if you’re just flattering me.” “I’ve never flattered anyone in my whole life,” I said. Her smile deepened. But what I’d said was neither a lie nor flattery. She was too gorgeous for me to be seriously interested in her. Back then, and even now. Plus her smile was a little too amazing to be real.

I’ve met people in just about every shape and form in which they exist. And never, not ever, have I found a kind of people that is not breathtakingly gorgeous. Of course, all the world’s nationalities and ethnicities meet and mix in America, more than in any other country, and the results all are beautiful. What’s not beautiful to me is the typical advertising of women. I see it in all the world’s cities now: enormous billboards cast two stories high, parading some phony Western ideal of beauty—tall, bone thin, and mainly white.

To feel alive, I need your presence. To scent my soul, I need your fragrance. I'm strong enough just for pretense. But so easily, I can melt into your embrace. To keep my life warm, I need your heat. a unexplainable joy in my heart since you met. To intoxicate me, I need the wine of your eyes. You are a gorgeous angel far above the skies. It fills the thirst in my heart whenever you kiss. So delicious is the nectar of your lips. One in a million You are one extraordinary pretty. And I'm addicted to the miracle of your beauty.

Dude, wait until you see the hot little number on there!” He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “What are you talking about? Aren’t all flight attendant’s middle-aged, blonde women?” “Not this one. She’s feisty too, kneed me right in the balls.” I smiled, and it was actually genuine. I wondered if he was fucking with me. But, it was enough to peak my curiosity. I slowly walked towards the plane wondering if it was going to be a grandma, or something. It wouldn’t be the first time. I really hoped that it wasn’t some die-hard groupie either. As soon as I reached the top of the stairs I almost tripped and fell on my face when I got my first look at her. She was gorgeous! She looked like she walked straight off of a pin-up girl calendar. She had long, black hair with strands of hot pink. I appraised my way down her body. She had a slim waist and curvy hips. She was built like an hourglass. I noticed a couple of sexy facial piercings. She had an adorable little nose and big brown eyes. Then I saw a tattoo peeking out on her shoulder. I could tell that she had a chest piece. I was instantly hard. Awesome…

People are somewhat gorgeous collections of chemical fires, aren't they? Cells and organs burn and smolder, each one, and hot electricity flows and creates storms of further currents, magnetisms and species of gravity--we are towers of kinds of fires, down to the tiniest constituents of ourselves, whatever those are, those things burn like stars in space, in helpless mimicry of the vastness out there, electrons and neutrons, planets and suns, so that we are made of universes of fires contained in skin and placed in turn within a turning and lumbering universe of fires...

He really liked her—especially the way her femininity stimulated him. Alejandra was the type of girl that never let a boy entirely have her. If his lips tried to go for a random peck, she would turn the opposite way and smile a “no.” They would be seated at a restaurant and her peppy, shy voice would say, “Thank you for taking me here, but don’t expect anything.” He felt like he had her slippery heart in his hands, but never held it—instead her heart levitated, floating a few centimeters above his twitching fingertips, shining like a fickle disco ball, magnetized in the air by Alejandra’s masterfully crafted tension. She perfected this practice and learned it from her older sister. Except Alejandra felt that she was not as intelligent or gorgeous as other women, and that this prowess was all she had.

Men are preoccupied with a woman's youth. Men want wives who are pretty, attractive, beautiful, gorgeous, comely, lovely, ravishing, and glamorous. Men seek attractive women as mates not simply for their reproductive value but also as signals of status to same sex competitors and to other potential mates. Although most men place a premium on beauty, it is clear that not all men success in satisfying their desires. Men who lack the status and resources that women want, for example, generally have the most difficult time attracting food looking young women and must settle for less than their ideal. Indeed, a man's occupational status seems to be the best predictor of the attractiveness of the woman he marries. Men who are in a position to get what they want often partners up with a young, attractive woman.

The male staff all wore gorgeous colored loin cloths that always seem to be about to fall off they’re wonderful hips. Their upper bodies were tanned sculpted and naked. The female staff wore short shorts and silky flowing tops that almost but didn’t expose their young easy breasts. I noticed we only ever encountered male staff, and the men walking through the lobby were always greeted by the female staff. Very ingenious, as Rebecca said later - if we had ticked Lesbians on the form I wonder what would have happened? -There was a place to tick for Lesbians, I said ? -Sexual Persuasion- it was on all the forms -Really. And, how many options were there? -You’re getting the picture, said Jillian. This was not your basic check in procedure as at say a Best Western. Our Doormen/Security Guards , held out our chairs for us to let us sit at the elegant ornate table. Then they poured us tea, and placed before each of us a small bowl of tropical fruit, cut into bite size pieces. Wonderful! Almost immediately a check in person came and sat opposite us at the desk. Again a wonderful example of Island Male talent. (in my mind anyway) We signed some papers, and were each handed an immense wallet of information passes, electronic keys, electronic ID’s we would wear to allow us to move through the park and its ‘worlds’ and a small flash drive I looked at it as he handed it to me, and given the mindset of the Hotel and the murals and the whole ambiance of the place, I was thinking it might be a very small dildo for, some exotic move I was unaware of. -What’s this? I asked him -Your Hotel and Theme Park Guide I looked at it again, huh, so not a dildo.

That is the sweet side of longing. Each encounter becomes magnified--the jokey banter with the guys at the butcher shop, the walk home with the woman you just met in yoga. Meeting a close friend for dinner isn't just a pleasant evening--it's life itself. Those two or three or seven hours of feverish conversation--of yelping in outrage at the sins of her small-minded boss, of gushing about the gorgeous novel you're reading, of deconstructing the latest male politician's take on women's reproductive organs--make all the other daily crap we endure more than worth it. University of North Carolina psychologist Barbara Fredrickson says the connection we have during these warm encounters with friends and even strangers is love, a sensation that's biologically identical to the love we feel in its more celebrated forms--romantic, family.

A level three asking a level one for advice? What happened? Did your whip malfunction?” “Stop it, I’m laughing so hard.” Rio set down his ale glass, licking the spicy ale from his lips. “Here’s the thing. I’m sexy as hell, I have women crawling at my feet, begging for me. I can make them orgasm by looking at them and telling them they want to. What I don’t know how to do is . . . touch them.” “What are you talking about? You touch women all the time.” Rio shook his head. “No, I fuck them. I tease them. I spank them. I don’t touch them.” “Ah, I think I see what you mean. Who’s the woman?” “A gorgeous, redheaded virgin.” Rio broke off. “I don’t know why, but she’s made me more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.” No, he did know why. She was beautiful, sweet, lickable and he wanted to fuck her and fuck her until he couldn’t take any more. “Uh-oh,” Aiden said. “What uh-oh? And wipe that grin off your face.

As for denying the existence of fairies, good and bad, you have to be blind not to see them. They are everywhere, and naturally I have links of affection or dislike with all of them. The wealthy, spendthrift ones squander fortunes in Venice or Monte Carlo: fabulous, ageless women whose birthdays and incomes and origins nobody knows, putting charms on roulette wheels for the dubious pleasure of seeing the same number come up more often than it ought. There they sit, puffing smoke from long cigarette-holders, raking in the chips, and looking bored. Others spend the hours of darkness hanging their apartments in Paris or New York with Gothic tapestries, hitherto unrecorded, that drive the art-dealers demented-gorgeous tapestries kept hidden away in massive chests beneath deserted abbeys and castles since their own belle epoque in the Middle Ages. Some stick to their original line of country, agitating tables at seances or organizing the excitement in haunted houses; some perform kind deeds, but in a capricious and uncertain manner that frequently goes wrong, And then there are the amorous fairies, who never give up. They were to be seen fluttering through the Val Sans Retour in the forest of Broceliande, where Morgan la Fee concealed the handsome knight Guyomar and many lost lovers besides, or over the Isle of Avallon where the young knight Lanval lived happily with a fairy who had stolen him away. Now wrinkled with age, the amorous ones contrive to lure young men on the make who, immaculately tailored and bedecked with baubles from Cartier, escort them through the vestibules of international hotels. Yet other fairies, more studious and respectable, devote themselves to science, whirring and breathing above tired inventors and inspiring original ideas-though lately the unimaginable numbers,the formulae and the electronics, tend to overwhelm them. The scarcely comprehensible discoveries multiply around them and shake a world that is not theirs any more, that slips through their immaterial fingers. And so it goes on-all sorts and conditions of fairies, whispering together, purring to themselves, unnoticed on the impercipient earth. And I am one of them.

In the same way I had managed to overlook the truth of my state’s history in the rosy optimism of my worldview, I never really had cause to notice my whiteness. I didn’t have any impetus to until November 8, 2016, happened. I thought that I understood privilege; I’d studied it in college and pushed against injustice where I saw it. I volunteered for organizations like Planned Parenthood, argued in the face of conservatives who rolled their eyes at Black Lives Matter, and marveled in my gorgeous awakening. But my whiteness, up until that day in November, had allowed me to believe we were ultimately moving forward. Yes, people of color were being shot in the street, conservative lawmakers were trying to push anti-LGBTQ legislation in other states and on the national level, but we were waking up. We had a black president and the recognition of same-sex marriage, and my little activist heart, in all of its whiteness, just believed that things always get better. Because in whiteland, that’s the way it goes. The bad guy will always lose. But then we elected the bad guy, and everything I’ve ever believed to be fundamentally true was incinerated and pissed on. —Sarah Saterlee

KATHLEEN: I think I’m falling for Garner Bradford. ROSE: What! Hang on a minute. Let me pass the baby to Henry so I can concentrate on this conversation. One sec. Okay. I’m in my bedroom with the door closed. You’re falling for Garner Bradford? KATHLEEN: I’ve been trying hard not to and I’ve been doing an okay job of it, but the company held one of its family barbecue picnics this afternoon. I went and he was there with his girls and it melted me. Seeing him with them. ROSE: More details, please. KATHLEEN: I was talking with one of the women from accounting when I spotted him getting into the food line with the girls. I excused myself and hurried over because it looked like he could use an extra hand. He can’t very well hold three plates at once, right? ROSE: Right. KATHLEEN: I ended up filling his daughter Willow’s plate. ROSE: Which one is Willow? KATHLEEN: The older one. She’s four. Nora, the younger one, is two. After I carried Willow’s plate to their table, Garner was sort of honor-bound to invite me to join them. So I sat down, and when I looked across the table, I saw that Garner had a burger exactly like mine. We both chose the bun with sesame seeds. We both put tomatoes and pickles and grilled onions and ketchup and mustard on ours. ROSE: Let me guess. Neither one of your burgers had lettuce. KATHLEEN: Exactly! No lettuce. ROSE: It sounds like fate. KATHLEEN: That’s what I thought. It felt more and more like fate the longer I sat there. Willow is serious and quiet. Nora is sweet and busy. They’re gorgeous little girls, Rose. ROSE: I’m sure they are. KATHLEEN: And Garner was wonderful with them. He used a wet wipe to clean their hands. He cut their hot dogs into tiny pieces. He brought their sippy cups out of his bag. He redid Willow’s ponytail when it started to sag. The girls look at him like he hung the moon. ROSE: And by the time you finished your lettuce-free hamburger, you were looking at him like he hung the moon, too. KATHLEEN: Yes. ROSE: Mm-hmm. KATHLEEN:

In short, we had rather be Sir Walter Scott (meaning thereby the Author of Waverley) than Lord Byron a hundred times over, and for the reason just given, namely, that he casts his descriptions in the mould of nature, ever-varying, never tiresome, always interesting and always instructive, instead of casting them constantly in the mould of his own individual impressions. He gives us man as he is, or as he was, in almost every variety of situation, action and feeling. Lord Byron makes man after his own image, woman after his own heart; the one is a capricious tyrant, the other a yielding slave; he gives us the misanthrope and the voluptuary by turns; and with these two characters, burning or melting in their own fires, he makes out everlasting centos of himself. He hangs the cloud, the film of his existence over all outward things, sits in the centre of his thoughts, and enjoys dark night, bright day, the glitter and the gloom 'in cell monastic.' We see the mournful pall, the crucifix, the death's-heads, the faded chaplet of flowers, the gleaming tapers, the agonized brow of genius, the wasted form of beauty; but we are still imprisoned in a dungeon; a curtain intercepts our view; we do not breathe freely the air of nature or of our own thoughts. The other admired author draws aside the curtain, and the veil of egotism is rent; and he shows us the crowd of living men and women, the endless groups, the landscape background, the cloud and the rainbow, and enriches our imaginations and relieves one passion by another, and expands and lightens reflection, and takes away that tightness at the breast which arises from thinking or wishing to think that there is nothing in the world out of a man's self! In this point of view, the Author of Waverley is one of the greatest teachers of morality that ever lived, by emancipating the mind from petty, narrow, and bigoted prejudices: Lord Byron is the greatest pamperer of those prejudices, by seeming to think there is nothing else worth encouraging but the seeds or the full luxuriant growth of dogmatism and self-conceit. In reading the Scotch Novels, we never think about the author, except from a feeling of curiosity respecting our unknown benefactor: in reading Lord Byron's works, he himself is never absent from our minds. The colouring of Lord Byron's style, however rich and dipped in Tyrian dyes, is nevertheless opaque, is in itself an object of delight and wonder: Sir Walter Scott's is perfectly transparent. In studying the one, you seem to gaze at the figures cut in stained glass, which exclude the view beyond, and where the pure light of Heaven is only a means of setting off the gorgeousness of art: in reading the other, you look through a noble window at the clear and varied landscape without. Or to sum up the distinction in one word, Sir Walter Scott is the most dramatic writer now living, and Lord Byron is the least so.

When we are sold perfume, we are accustomed to also being sold the idea of a life we will never have. Coty's Chypre enabled Guerlain to create Mitsouko; Coty's Emeraude of 1921 was the bedrock on which Shalimar was built and Coty's L'Origan become the godmother of L'heure bleue, also by Guerlain. Some people dedicate themselves to making life beautiful. With instinctual good taste, magpie tendencies and a flair for color, they weave painfully exquisite tableaux, defining the look of an era. Paul Poiret was one such person. After his success, he went bust in 1929 and had to sell his leftover clothing stock as rags. Swept out of the picture by a new generation of designers, his style too ornate and Aladdinesque, Poiret ended his days as a street painter and died in poverty. It was Poiret who saw that symbolic nomenclature could turn us into frenzied followers, transforming our desire to own a perfume into desperation. The beauty industry has always been brilliant at turning insecurities into commercial opportunities. Readers could buy the cologne to relax during times of anxiety or revive themselves from strain. Particularly in the 1930s, releases came thick and fast, intended to give the impression of bounty, the provision of beauty to all women in the nation. Giving perfumes as a gift even came under the Soviet definition of kulturnost or "cultured behavior", including to aunts and teachers on International Women's Day. Mitsouko is a heartening scent to war when alone or rather, when not wanting to feel lonely. Using fragrance as part of a considered daily ritual, the territorial marking of our possessions and because it offers us a retrospective sense of naughtiness. You can never tell who is going to be a Nr. 5 wearer. No. 5 has the precision of well-cut clothes and that special appeal which comes from a clean, bare room free of the knick-knacks that would otherwise give away its age. Its versatility may well be connected to its abstraction. Gardenia perfumes are not usually the more esoteric or intellectual on the shelves but exist for those times when we demand simply to smell gorgeous. You can depend on the perfume industry to make light of the world's woes. No matter how bad things get, few obstacles can block the shimmer and glitz of a new fragrance. Perfume became so fashionable as a means of reinvention and recovery that the neurology department at Columbia University experimented with the administration of jasmine and tuberose perfumes, in conjunction with symphony music, to treat anxiety, hysteria and nightmares. Scent enthusiasts cared less for the nuances of a composition and more for the impact a scent would have in society. In Ancient Rome, the Stoics were concerned about the use of fragrance by women as a mask for seducing men or as a vehicle of deception. The Roman satirist Juvenal talked of women buying scent with adultery in mind and such fears were still around in the 1940s and they are here with us today. Similarly, in crime fiction, fragrance is often the thing that gives the perpetrator away. Specifically in film noir, scent gets associated with misdemeanors. With Opium, the drugs tag was simply the bait. What YSL was really marketing, with some genius, was perfume as me time: a daily opportunity to get languid and to care sod-all about anything or anyone else.

1 It was early December. The streets of Milan glistened with Christmas decorations, with people coming and going carefree, carrying elegant shopping bags. It was past eight, and several minutes earlier I had closed behind me the door of Passerella, the modelling agency I ran. I had let my assistant, Giovanni, file the photos of the new faces we had initially chosen for Dante’s summer collection. He was an up-and-coming designer. The minute I walked down Monte Napoleone, one of the city’s most commercial streets, the chilly air forced me to wrap up well in my brand new light green coat. An original piece of cashmere, the five letters embossed on its lapel making it even more precious in that cold weather. My fingers contentedly groped for the word “Prada” before I stuck my hand into its warm pocket, while clutching my favourite handbag tight. A huge red ostrich Hermes where you could find cosmetics, scarves, and accessories, which I could use throughout the day, giving a different twist to my appearance. I wanted to walk a little bit to let off steam. My job may have been pleasant as it had to do with the world’s most beautiful creatures, men and women, but it wasn’t without its tensions. Models went to and fro, trade representatives looking for new faces, endless castings, phone calls, text messages, tailors, photographers, reports from my secretary and assistants—a rowdy disorder! I had already left the building where my job was, and I was going past another two entrances of nearby premises, when my leg caught on something. I instantly thought of my brand new Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’d only put them on for the second time, and they were now falling victim to the rough surface of a cardboard box, where a homeless man slept, at the entrance of a building. My eyes sparked as I checked if my high heels were damaged. On the face of it, they were intact. But that wasn’t enough for me. I found a lighter, and tried to check their red leather in the dim light. Why should the same thing happen over and over again every time I buy new shoes? I wondered and walked on, cursing. Why had that bloke chosen that specific spot to sleep, and why had I headed for his damn cardboard box! As I held my lighter, my angry gaze fell on the man who was covered with an impermeable piece of nylon, and carried on sleeping. He looked so vulnerable out in the cold that I didn’t dare rouse him from his sleep. After all, how could I hold him responsible in this state? I quickened my gait. Bella was waiting for me to start our night out with a drink and supper at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the imposing arcade with a dome made of glass, its ambience warm and romantic. Bella’s office was nearby, and that meeting place was convenient for both of us. That’s where we made up our minds about how to spend the night.I walked several metres down the road, but something made me stop short. I wanted to have a second look at that man. I retraced my steps. He was a young man who, despite his state, seemed so out of place. His unkempt hair and unshaven face didn’t let me see anything else but his profile, which reminded of an ancient Greek statue, with pronounced cheekbones and a chiselled nose. This second time, he must have sensed me over him. The man’s body budged, and he eyed me without making me out, dazzled by the lighter flame. As soon as I realised what I had done, I took to my heels. What had made me go back? Maybe, the sense of guilt I felt inside my warm Prada coat, maybe, the compassion I had to show as Christmas was just around the corner. All I knew was that a small bell jingled within, and I obeyed it. I walked faster, as if to escape from every thought. As I left, I stuck my hand in my bag, and got hold of my mobile. My secretary’s voice on the other end of the line sounded heavy and imposing. Giovanni wasn’t the embodiment of “macho” man, but he had all it takes to be the perfect male. Having chosen to quit modelling, he still looked gorgeous at the age of

powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel unsure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. As we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

1. he calls me gorgeous.   2. he reads all my favorite books & then asks for more.   3. he knows exactly how to make my coffee. (“light & sweet, just like you,” i always joke to him.)   4. he asks me how i am doing every single day & he genuinely cares to hear the answer. 5. best of all, i know he will still love me when he wakes up tomorrow morning.   - 5 things you made me think weren’t possible.

...I knew dozens, maybe hundreds, of gorgeous, funny, smart, amazing women none of whom needed a boyfriend but none of whom could get a boyfriend, and the fact of that was slowly corroding their belief in themselves from within.

It’s gross, and it’s gorgeous, and they can both be true at the same time.

His confidence was the most attractive thing Stavros had ever witnessed. He’d been around the most gorgeous men and women. But it was the cool and calm way that Daniel Nieto talked about killing him that had Stavros’ battered body attempting to stir.

No matter who you are, if in your mind you are born a girl, you will grow to be a women through experience. It is not a biological process, it is not losing your virgnity, it is not giving birth or raising children, nor is it a thing that can be calculated or defined: it is a staggeringly ineffable, gorgeous uphill battle from chaos towards a chosen selfhood of contentment, self-belief, self-love, and empowerment.

A beautiful saree is a scintillating ensemble for a gorgeous woman.

I still don’t have the faintest clue how I went from being a divorced single dad who didn’t even have time to date to being with these three amazing, gorgeous young women.

There is something awe inspiring about a truly coldhearted woman onscreen. It's the contradiction of desires that makes her so appealing and reviled, simultaneously. She's everything you've been told not to be - but present in the gorgeous wrapping you've been told you should aspire to.

Right at that moment, a girl walks into the club. I see a hundred gorgeous women every night, dolled up in their tight dresses and heels, faces painted, hair freshly coiffed, skin dusted with glitter. This girl catches my eye because she’s the opposite of that. Young, fresh-faced. So cleanly scrubbed that she almost glows. Her light-brown hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. Her eyes are wide and innocent. She hasn’t tried to cover up the spattering of freckles across her nose.

Ahhh…17. The age when love is the most important thing in the world. Well, at least having a boyfriend is, since all the other girls I saw seemed to float dreamy-eyed while being glued to a boy. Naturally, I fell in love for the first time in my life. Better still (in the other girls’ eyes), he was an older man—six years older than me. He was so gorgeous, with his athletic build, dark, touchable hair, ocean blue eyes that invited me to swim in them…sigh…. Then there was that dimpled smile that made me melt. And could he ever kiss! (p. 22)

I’m sure he hugs a lot of women—he’s always involved with a gorgeous one, and he’s never ignored that I’m female. I love that he can be friends with a woman without pigeonholing her as “just one of the guys.

Today, we’re in times where we acknowledge, boldly, that: A woman with toned muscles is feminine. A woman who is dark-skinned is beautiful. A woman with a strong jawline, or a wide forehead and nose is gorgeous. A woman with a big toned bum is attractive. And noone will silence us in our beauty anymore.

They spent the day in the old French Quarter of Saigon, with its gorgeous, ornate buildings and tree-lined streets. It was like seeing a beautiful corner of Paris through a dirty window.

Your mom’s really—” “If you’re about to tell me how hot my mom is, just stop, okay? I’m really tired of guys objectifying her. Yes, she’s gorgeous. But she’s my mom, okay? And she’s a human being.” Blake took a step back. “Hold on, Addie. I was going to say, ‘Your mom’s really nice.’ I don’t talk about women like that. I don’t know why you think I would.

Let me guess,” I say. “You’re calling me ‘cause Riona wants my number. It’s alright—I understand. The chemistry between us was palpable.” “Well, she didn’t throw her drink in your face, so I guess by the standards of your usual interactions with women, it went pretty well . . . ” I snort. I only met Riona Griffin one time, but she made an impression on me. You don’t see a girl that gorgeous very often. The fact that she’s arrogant and uptight and hates my guts just adds a little spice to the mix.

So do beautiful women dating pieces of shit like Cal Winston. I pinch the bridge of my nose, irritated I have to play another year of football with that asshole. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not mad at Sienna. How could I ever be mad at her? She’s like a damn sunflower, all cheery and gorgeous and perfect. I vaguely remember her from freshman year, but until she moved in with my sister, we never ran in the same circle of friends. In retrospect, I’m a dumbass for not making a point to get to know her because she’s fucking spectacular. She has thick, dark hair and light brown eyes. An off-the-charts smile. A tight little body. A great personality. Literally the stuff of my fantasies. It took everything in me not to tell her Winston was likely planning to fuck a horde of women the second she steps on an airplane tonight.

On the other hand, there are those men and women we all know (celebrities or regular people) who only post amazing shots of their abs or photos where they look accidentally gorgeous, known as #humblebrags (RIP @twittels, who coined that perfect term). No, and pass to those people. I don’t even want to know someone who isn’t barely hanging on by a thread.

The final result definitely has my attention. Even my dick sits up and takes notice of Sienna. She’s lean and toned everywhere. Sleek. Her breasts might be on the smaller side, but it fits her gorgeous body. She’s like a sculpture. A goddess. All I can think is that I’d like to take her sweet nipples in my mouth and lave them with my tongue. I can only hope she knows what Destiny said was bullshit. Because her body is perfection. Much like her sunny personality. Here’s the truth. A lot of women are beautiful, but it’s what’s on the inside that takes someone to the next level. There I go, sounding like some Hallmark shit.

Roxanne, I’m so disappointed in you. I don’t even have words,” Coach’s voice booms. Suddenly, I forget that I’m sleep-deprived, dizzy, and irritable. Did Rox finally tell him she’s knocked up? When she doesn’t say anything, it sounds like he bangs on the desk. “Who’s the damn father? I want a name.” I glance around, looking for that weasel dick Ezra, but he’s conveniently MIA. “I’m going to ask you again,” Coach bellows. “Who’s. The. Father?” Silence. “Roxanne, do you even know who the father is?” He did not fucking ask her that. Then I hear it. The weeping. I don’t make a conscious decision to go in there, but next thing I know, I’m standing in front of Coach, ready to remove his head from his body. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that.” I must have a death wish. Roxy has her face in her hands. Leaning down, I pull her into my arms. “It’ll be okay, biscuit. Stop crying.” She wraps her arms around my waist and sobs against my chest as I glare at her dad. Like an angry bull, his nostrils flare. “You.” That’s all he says. He’s doing some kind of deep breathing thing that makes me think he might keel over and die. Which would be bad. I might hate him sometimes, but I know he’s a good guy. Deep, deep down. “Coach, it’s not the end of the world. Women have babies every day.” “I should’ve known.” That Roxy would get pregnant? “Coach, you need to calm down before you say something you regr—” “You fucking did this.” Me? “You’re the one who made her cry.” He points at me. “You got my daughter pregnant.” I freeze. I don’t budge an inch. He thinks I did this? That I knocked up this gorgeous girl and let her come in here to give him the news by herself? What kind of asshole does he take me for? The biggest kind. Of course he thinks I’m the culprit. Not Ezra, who’s been cheating on his high school girlfriend for years and kisses Coach’s ass at every opportunity.

There are worse things out there than the undead, gorgeous. Alphas who slay anyone in sight, who imprison women for breeding… those kinds of wolves are multiplying, and they are the real plague making this world worse. Eradicate the warlords and we stand a chance to bring back some sense of community and humanity to our world.

The woman was sophisticated, gorgeous, and dripping with a surprising amount of innocence. That guileless innocence warred with her desire—she had clearly been torn—both drawn to and scared of me. She hadn’t let the fear win out. Most people, even when they had no clue who I was, withered in my presence. A part of Alessia had wanted to withdraw, to cower in a corner of the elevator and keep her eyes downcast, but she hadn’t. She stood tall, and even more intriguing, she had held my eyes. It was surprising how few women or men were capable of that feat.

Will Freeman may have discovered the key to dating success: If the simple fact that they were single mothers meant that gorgeous women – women who would not ordinarily look twice a Will – might not only be willing, but enthusiastic about dating him, then he was really onto something. Single mothers – bright, attractive, available women – thousands of them, were all over London. He just had to find them.

I don't think I take compliments very well, Ava admitted sheepishly. "Most women don't. We always think we're not good enough." She lifted her shoulder, and the resignation behind it told Ava that even gorgeous, confident, say-whatever-came-to-mind Peggy was also plagued by the same monsters as Ava. "Do me a favor," Peggy said. "when someone tells you that you look beautiful tonight—and they will—don't you dare bring my name up or offer any self-deprecating remarks. You look them dead in the eye and all you say is 'thank you.

Well. I’m sure women fall all over you. Do they fall all over you?” “What an interesting way to say that women find me drop-dead gorgeous.

NASA engineers and technicians at the Cape were pushing themselves so hard in the final weeks people had to be ordered home to rest. It was a grueling time and yet the sort of interlude of adrenal exhilaration that men remember all their lives. It was an interlude of the dedication of body and soul to a cause such as men usually experience only during war. Well … this was war, even though no one had spelled it out in just that way. Without knowing it, they were caught up in the primordial spirit of single combat. Just days from now one of the lads would be up on top of the rocket for real. Everyone felt he had the life of the astronaut, whichever was chosen (only a few knew), in his hands. The MA–1 explosion here at the Cape nine months ago had been a chilling experience, even for veterans of flight test. The seven astronauts had been assembled for the event, partly to give them confidence in the new system. And their gullets had been stuck up toward the sky like everybody else’s, when the whole assembly blew to bits over their heads. In a few days one of those very lads would be lying on top of a rocket (albeit a Redstone, not an Atlas) when the candle was lit. Just about everybody here in NASA had seen the boys close up. NASA was like a family that way. Ever since the end of the Second World War the phrase “government bureaucracy” had invariably provoked sniggers. But a bureaucracy was nothing more than a machine for communal work, after all, and in those grueling and gorgeous weeks of the spring of 1961 the men and women of NASA’s Space Task Group for Project Mercury knew that bureaucracy, when coupled with a spiritual motivation, in this case true patriotism and profound concern for the life of the single-combat warrior himself—bureaucracy, poor gross hideously ridiculed twentieth-century bureaucracy, could take on the aura, even the ecstasy, of communion. The passion that now animated NASA spread out even into the surrounding community of Cocoa Beach. The grisliest down-home alligator-poaching crackers manning the gasoline pumps on Route A1A would say to the tourists, as the No-Knock flowed, “Well, that Atlas vehicle’s given us more fits than a June bug on a porch bulb, but we got real confidence in that Redstone, and I think we’re gonna make it.” Everyone who felt the spirit of NASA at that time wanted to be part of it. It took on a religious dimension that engineers, no less than pilots, would resist putting into words. But all felt it.

Her whole body shook as big, fat drops slid down her cheeks. Mortified, she covered her face as though she could hide her wailing. Strong arms enveloped her and Mitch pulled her close. She gave one thought to protest, and then sank into the warm, solid strength of his chest. He was big and broad, so different from what she was used to. The thought made her cry harder. She should push him away, but instead she curled closer. Needing him. She was the most wicked kind of woman. There’d be no escaping hell now. All those years of penance washed away by one night of rash behavior. Mitch kissed her temple, rubbing his hands over her bare skin. That he let her cry, and didn’t start lecturing her on emotional outbursts, made her want to crawl into him and never let go. He swayed them both, murmuring nonsense and tracing slow, soothing circles over her back. “Come on now, Princess. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.” She hiccupped into his shirt while she clung to him as though he were her life vest on a sinking ship. A great gush of air was followed by a hiccup. She blurted her very pressing and very embarrassing need. “I-I h-have to go to the b-b-bathroom.” The gentle sway stopped. A rumble in his chest was followed by a cough. He was trying not to laugh. The jerk. She sobbed harder: great heaping wails straight from the pit of her stomach. Now that she was on a roll, she keened pitifully, “A-and m-m-y f-feet hurt.” “It’s okay.” His tone was most definitely amused. “Why didn’t you go?” Now came the worst confession. “M-my dress i-is too b-big.” “Well, take it off.” Did he think she was an idiot? “I c-can’t get it off.” With a fresh batch of hysterics, her shoulders trembled as she buried her face in his T-shirt, now wet with tears. No one at the store had mentioned she’d need a crew of people to go to the bathroom, and now a stranger had to undress her. She hiccupped. They really should mention these kinds of details at the time of purchase. He ran his fingers down a million tiny buttons from the blades of her shoulders to the curve of her ass. “It’s okay. We can take care of this.” “B-but,” she cried. The thought almost unbearable. She was being tested. How was she supposed to be good when she had to disrobe in front of the most gorgeous man alive? “You’ll s-see me almost n-naked.” When he said nothing, fresh tears welled in her eyes. He probably thought she was propositioning him. Surely women threw themselves at him all the time. He rubbed her bare arms. “I’m thirty-four, Princess. I’ve seen a naked woman before.” “But you haven’t seen me.” No one had seen her—well, except Steve, but he hardly even counted. “I’m twenty-eight, and only one guy has seen me. And he isn’t like you. Why can’t you be someone else?” “Like who?” He trailed a path over her bare skin, creating a rush of tingles up and down her spine. She burrowed closer, some of her hysterics finally calming as his soothing but intoxicating presence worked its charm. “You’re not Mister Rogers, you know.” “You can trust me, Maddie. I won’t attack.” Ha!

Luke was welcomed by the brothers and drawn in with friendly approval. The conversation quickly turned to missions and commands as they compared notes, trying to figure out if they had mutual friends or had served in common battle arenas at the same time. Then more women began to arrive and Luke watched curiously as the men greeted each one as if she could be a sister or girlfriend. When Paige came out of her quarters with the new baby, the tot was passed around from man to man, each of whom took her close and affectionately, praised her beauty and snuggled her like any fond uncle might. Her son, Christopher, was soon riding on various shoulders while Paige was being embraced. Brie came in from the RV behind the bar, her home until her house was finished, and damned if each one of those men didn’t have his hands all over her belly like he’d been the one to put that baby in there. After a quick feel, they’d compliment Mike on his excellent potency. “You got her cooking a good one here, brother,” Josh said. “Baby, you are more gorgeous than ever!” said Tom. Then came Vanessa and Nikki and the whole process was repeated again, with bone-rattling hugs and sloppy kisses. It was a whole new experience for Luke. Even in his own family of biological brothers, he hadn’t seen anything like it. But it interested him, the way these men behaved toward each other’s women, as though it was expected. As if they idolized each other’s wives as much as their own, treating them with a fondness that was hardly superficial; an intimacy that was at once deep and completely respectful. The trust was implicit; the affection appeared genuine. The security they felt in their relationships was obvious. Luke had never lived in this kind of world. Preacher

Take a break for a second.” I gingerly sit down next to him. He scoots closer until his hip touches mine. I scoot away from him, but he scoots even closer. I look up, and I can’t keep from grinning at him. “You’re in my space,” I warn. “I like being in your space. I kind of want to be all up in your space,” he says, his voice teasing and playful. But then he pats his shoulder. “God didn’t give me broad shoulders just to hold up my T-shirts.” He uses his hand to push my head onto his shoulder. He’s quiet for a moment, but then he says, “Let me take some of your burden, Sky. Tell me what’s wrong.” He sits quietly and just breathes. He doesn’t say anything more. I sit there and take in the scent of him. It’s woodsy and manly and clean. It’s Matt, and I like it. I don’t want to cry anymore. I want to climb into his lap and kiss him. “Oh God,” I moan. “Nope. I’m just Matt,” he says with a chuckle. I punch his shoulder playfully. He pretends to fall to the side, but he pops right back up, getting even more in my space. “Is this about your boyfriend?” he asks quietly. I shake my head. I had almost forgotten about Phillip. “No,” I start. But I can’t get the words together. “Never mind.” He sits quietly, and then he starts to whistle. He’s not letting me off without an explanation. “It’s just that I never had a family.” There. I said it. Now he can pity me. “So when Seth was worried, not just about his sisters but about me too, it made me feel a little emotional.” I shrug. It sounds even more stupid now that it’s out of my mouth. “That’s all. I know it’s stupid.” He doesn’t say anything. He just nods. “I just am having a hard time finding my place in this situation. But I think I’m finding it, and it feels good.” He arches his brow. “So, that was a good cry?” he asks. “That was a very good cry.” A grin tugs at the corners of my lips even though I’m still feeling really emotional. “Okay,” he says with a nod. He pats his shoulder. “You want to cry on me some more? I kind of like having you touch me.” He grins and opens his arms in invitation. “I’m really good at hugs, too.” I bite my lower lip, trying not to grin. “I’ll pretend it’s a chore if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll even groan out loud.” This time I laugh. I can’t help it. He’s so damn sweet. “Is that a no?” he asks, deadpan. “I’m not usually this emotional,” I say. He shrugs. “All women say that. It usually precedes an episode of batshit craziness.” “Are you calling me crazy?” He shakes his head vehemently. “Definitely not.” He smiles. “There are a lot of words I would call you. Crazy isn’t one of them.” Now I’m intrigued. “Do tell.” “You’re fucking gorgeous as hell,” he says. His eyes drag up and down my body. Heat creeps up my cheeks. “And you’re smart. And loyal. And you’ve bitten off more than you can chew by taking on three kids that aren’t even yours.” I like that he thinks I’m smart. And loyal. “And you’re not mine.” He gets to his feet and reaches down to take my hand. “So we had better get out of the stairwell before I do something stupid like kiss you.

Tisiphone: the avenger (voice of revenge) "Women guardians of the natural order" Think of the morning dream with ghosts Why draw the widow's card and wear the gorgeous Queen of Swords crown

Pretty girls get used to being treated like the enemy by other women. They are not the enemy. If you grow up weird-looking, it’s easy to think of them as such. I used to be terrified of those to whom girlhood seemed to come naturally, the gorgeous, graceful creatures who flocked around the back of the school bus, flirting and texting. It took me years to understand that pretty privilege comes with its own set of problems. That pretty girls, too, have to put up with harassment and violence, with the constant pressure to pare down your flesh and desires, and with the feeling of being judged and dismissed.

All dahlias are beautiful in their own way! I love them because they have the most perfect symmetry and come in a rainbow of color options.

I love to create vibrant, whimsical floral compositions that are either executed with one single hue or the opposite: a blend of multiple colors!

Trust me: if it doesn’t match: it will clash! Focusing on a stunning complimentary color instead of a close-but-not-quite-right one is one of the most helpful contributions you can make to the design.

I think back to the parties Aimee and I planned, and how all those tuxedos and ball gowns weren't really that much different, costumewise, than some of these getups. Not as elaborate or out there, to be sure, but not so different. After all, is an hour at Bobbi Brown for the perfect party makeup that much of a stretch from an hour putting on a Klingon forehead or Spock ears? Is searching for the perfect dress, shoes, bag, wrap, jewelry so much different from the perfect jumpsuit, ray gun, ammo belt, and communicator? And unlike most of the regular parties we did, these people are way open to each other and the experience. There don't seem to be gaggles of people standing back to judge the other gaggles. And while a lot of the subsets do seem to flock together, Star Wars over here, Lord of the Rings over there, I haven't overheard one snarky comment about someone's costume. None of the women here, in all of their variety of shapes and sizes, seem to be doing anything other than squeeing at each other and praising how gorgeous they are. And everyone seems to just own themselves. I've been at hundreds of events looking at a sea of black dresses because everyone thinks it is slimming. But today I've seen a riot of color and skin. Including a 350-pound raven-haired vixen in a chain-mail corset, with cleavage you could park a hovercraft in, surrounded by a coterie of clearly smitten men. I wanted to high-five her.

My hope for you is not only to learn skills through this collection of projects, but also that it brings you a little something more: happy vibes when you transform pieces of paper into impressive works of art for yourself or loved ones.

Hadrah Hakim Hadrah Hakim's eyes sparkled when he saw his harem of beautiful women looking so gorgeous, as they paraded around the party. To him, they were prized trophies and this was an opportunity to show them off. The Hadrah was proud as a peacock with his colorful fanned tail wide open. I was sure he was one of the happiest men in the Arab Kingdom during those three days of festivities at the Kosk.

To most women, a man with no neediness is like a woman with perfect tits and a gorgeously sculpted ass.

Know what, women never understand this, that they don't have to have a figure of 36/26/36 and have to be fair colored for looking beautiful..as i always say, "Women are born beautiful

There was a group of sixteen men and women waiting for him, and the talk centered on permits and expansion. Cordie was impressed with Aiden’s negotiating skills. He was fair yet got everything he wanted and then some. The women ogled him. She couldn’t be angry. The man was gorgeous.

Four Catholic women are having coffee. The first one tells her friends, “My son is a priest. When he walks into a room, everyone calls him ‘Father.’” The second woman chirps in, “My son is a bishop. Whenever he walks into a room, people say, ‘Your Grace.’” The third woman says smugly, “My son is a cardinal. Whenever he walks into a room, people say, ‘Your Eminence.’” The fourth woman sips her coffee and then says, “My son is a gorgeous hard-bodied stripper. When he walks into a room, people say, ‘Oh my Lord…

Every now and then she'd see a fine lady in a gorgeous gown that fit her to perfection. Such women didn't have feet, Henry decided. They had rollers - virtually gliding along. And wherever they went, a dozen besotted men followed.

What is it about having a period that makes women so bitchy?” I paused for a moment, struggling against the urge to leap on him and tear him limb from limb. For one thing, I love him. Even when he’s being an asshole, I love him. For another, any attempt to leap and tear right now would hurt me way worse than I could possibly hurt him. It was an effort, but I said as sweetly as possible, “It isn’t that we’re bitchier, it’s that having a period makes us feel all tired and achy, so we have less tolerance for all the bullshit we normally SUFFER IN SILENCE.” By the time the sentence ended the sweetness was long gone, my jaw was clenched, and I think my eyes were bugging out.

You’re absolutely gorgeous! Hideously gorgeous! I hate to break it to you, Mick, but gorgeous men aren’t afraid of asking clever women out on dates. Quite the opposite.” “Did you work that out in your giant alien brain?” he says. Completely deadpan. See—not only is he gorgeous, he’s also funny enough to make me laugh in the middle of indignation. “No, but—” “Were there lots of equations involved? If X has a tight bum and Y has big knockers, do they intersect in column Z?” “I’ll intersect your column, in a minute.

Daniel had given her a pair of sapphire earrings, so she made out well. The women he attracted were gold diggers, but he didn't mind. They met his needs without any sort of commitment. When he needed a date, he had a large list of beautiful women to choose from. These young, gorgeous models kept themselves available because they were lavished in finer things. On occasion, he'd sense some maternal instinct rearing its ugly head and go running. Daniel drove home exhausted. It was four in the morning, but he had to make sure he had a date for tonight's

So tortured about what? Why were we tortured? We were in love and life was a fast current swarming around our ankles, threatening to topple us into the wet part of the planet. It was intense, that's why we were tortured. It was enormous and exploding like that palm tree. Iris was my Yuri-G, my Delilah, my Stella Marie. Strong dark women you had to love with a strong dark heart the throbbed in gorgeous pain because love is terrible. I mean, ultimately. It would go away like a needle lifting from the vinyl at the end of the song, we knew this. The music would cease, one of us would die or else we'd just break up, and this drove us to drink from each other like two twelve-year-olds sneaking vodka from the liquor cabinet, trying to get it all down, trying to get as fucked up as possible before we got caught.

Rene is my Friday night girl. She is also one of my harem; A group of women that I affectionately refer to my sladies (his last name is Slade). There are eight girls I see regulary. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer a certain level intimacy between lovers: the kind of passionate closeness that can only be built through repeated, non exclusive fornication.

A women who enjoys her food enjoys life. I get that. Have you ever seen a swan devour an elephant carcass? Neither had I until last night. Watching my date tuck into her steak was like witnessing a lion on safari. I spent most of the night picking stray flecks of bone from my pasta.

She turned her head and looked at her gorgeous and in every way fantastic lover.

We continue, however, to need "elephants" in order for us to use Berkshire’s flood of incoming cash. Charlie and I must therefore ignore the pursuit of mice and focus our acquisition efforts on much bigger game. Our exemplar is the older man who crashed his grocery cart into that of a much younger fellow while both were shopping. The elderly man explained apologetically that he had lost track of his wife and was preoccupied searching for her. His new acquaintance said that by coincidence his wife had also wandered off and suggested that it might be more efficient if they jointly looked for the two women. Agreeing, the older man asked his new companion what his wife looked like. ‘She’s a gorgeous blonde,’ the fellow answered, ‘with a body that would cause a bishop to go through a stained glass window, and she’s wearing tight white shorts. How about yours?’ The senior citizen wasted no words: ‘Forget her, we’ll look for yours.

If you look at anybody who's been marketed, it's been somebody who has been drop-dead hot and gorgeous,' Milbrett said. 'For men, you just have to be good. It doesn't matter what the hell you look like. For women, you have to be good and you have to be gorgeous. Maybe you're not even the best one on your team. Just as long as you look good, you're marketed. People's opinions are that this team is gorgeous. That doesn't bother me. What bothers me is the double standard in society and athletics.

Enjoy the pleasure and seduction with me. I am Minerva, an unfaithful and horny wife with a gorgeous body that will drive you crazy of passion. I want to have sex with strangers, so I want to know a passionate man who is looking for hard sex no strings attached. My pictures excite you?, then I invite you to visit my community of women looking for sex. Just Sign Up! on my website, find me as "Colita-Sexy" and we will have a pleasant encounter. website - adultxdating.us join free

See, I have this theory that humans are just living, breathing, talking forms of art, each crafted with a different technique and carved out of different materials. Each beautiful in their own way. And sure, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and totally subjective, and changes depending on your circumstance, yada-yada-yada… but most of the time, it’s pretty easy to classify people. Like, okay, you know those women who are gorgeous and never know it? Or the men who pass quietly through life, handsome and unnoticed, never begging for attention or crying out for recognition? Those are your watercolors. And the loud, vivacious, gorgeous-and-they-know-it creatures, with bright lipstick and closets full of bold colors and outfits they never wear twice? Acrylics. The graceful, elegant, aging beauties you pick out in the crowd, or across the cafe, the lines on their faces telling a story you just know you’d want to hear, with so many layers and smudges, twists and turns, you’re not even sure where they begin? Charcoals. Then, you’ve got the big-picture-beautiful people, with the collection of interesting features that together make a beautiful face. They’re your oil paintings — best from ten feet away and, at the end of the day, kind of funny looking if you lean closer and analyze all their elements separately. But I’m quickly learning that Chase Croft doesn’t fit any of my categories. He isn’t a brushstroke on canvas, or bumpy layers of paint on a palette, or imperfect lines scratched inside a sketchbook. His features aren’t just gorgeous as a collective — he’s one of those annoyingly attractive people whose every feature is equally stunning. He’s a sculpture.

And that’s when he learned that for women, all things are possible, and for men, time is required. There was recovery involved. Women, apparently, could just hop back on that bus, while the men were left to deal with a flat tire. He committed that to memory—these gorgeous creatures needed no time to get ready again.

Here’s to your recovery, bud. It’s going to be quick and powerful.” “Hope God heard that,” Mike said, and took a long, refreshing pull. “The doc said I’d need three months to start feeling better and I’ve only given it six weeks, but...” And then she came out from the kitchen. Mike almost choked on his words. She smiled at him and said, “Hello. You must be Mike.” She went to stand next to Preacher, and he, with his eyes focused on the shine in Mike’s, dropped an arm around her shoulders, claiming her. God, Mike thought. Preacher has a woman. And what a woman. “Yeah,” Mike said slowly. She was gorgeous. Soft, light brown hair fell in silky curves to her shoulders. She had skin like creamy satin and peach-colored lips, a little line, a scar in her lower lip. He knew what that was about, he remembered better now. And warm, sexy green eyes surrounded by a lot of dark lashes and perfectly arched brows. With Preacher’s arm around her, she leaned against him. “I just don’t get it,” Mike said with a laugh. “You two somehow found the most beautiful, sexiest women in the state right here in the backwoods. Shouldn’t there be at least one of you in Los Angeles?” “Actually, we were both from Los Angeles,” Mel said. “And fortunately, both found our way to the backwoods.” No way Preacher knows what he’s holding, Mike thought. And Preacher, knowing Mike’s careless ways with women, just about anyone’s woman, might feel a little threatened at the moment, even given the crippled hand and cane. Little did he know... “Well, damn,” Mike said, lifting his glass. “To your good fortune. All of you.

Joe stood right inside the door, a smile growing on his lips and a wonderful warmth lighting his eyes as he looked her up and down. “Oh, honey,” he said in a breath. “Look at you. You’re gorgeous.” Mel laughed. These guys, she thought. To the last one, they loved pregnant women. It was very amazing, very sexy. No one could better appreciate that kind of man than a midwife. He dropped the plans on a table and moved toward her with his hands stretched out, tentative. “Go ahead,” she said. His hands were on her belly in no time. “Ah, Mel.” Then he pulled her into his arms to give her a hug. “Ripe and ready,” he said. “You’re so beautiful.” “I’m right back here,” Jack said from behind the bar. Joe laughed. “Be right with you, buddy. I have my hands full of woman right now.” “Yeah,” Jack said. “My woman.” “You need your own woman,” Mel said. Another one who was, like her husband, a big, handsome man, an angel of a man, and though he was surely over thirty-five, completely unattached. “I do,” he said. He touched her nose. “Why don’t you find me one?” “I’ll get right on it,” she said, pulling out of his arms and grabbing the rolled-up plans from the table. They

As a senior, Donald drew notice for bringing women to campus and showing them around. “They were beautiful, gorgeous women, dressed out of Saks Fifth Avenue,” said classmate George White. Trump was never shy about judging a girl’s appearance, pronouncing one of White’s visitors a “dog.

Women aren’t whores just because they like to fuck. I wish you’d get that out of that gorgeous head of yours.

For company he had a grease-stained paperback copy of Ian Fleming’s Thunderball. Jerry yawned as he flipped pages, envying James Bond as he thwarted assassins and terrorists, darting from close call to close call and from bed to bed, barely lingering to enjoy the scent of the gorgeous women who found him irresistible.

More desirable women have more bargaining power on the mating market, and they can elevate their standards. They want higher levels of resources, education, and intelligence; higher social status; good parenting skills; and raft of other traits. American men with resources are more likely to marry physically attractive women. Most men can obtain a much more desirable mate if they are willing to commit to a long-term relationship because women typically desire lasting commitment, and highly desirable women are in the best position to get what they want. Men are preoccupied with a woman's youth. Men want wives who are pretty, attractive, beautiful, gorgeous, comely, lovely, ravishing, and glamorous. Men seek attractive women as mates not simply for their reproductive value but also as signals of status to same sex competitors and to other potential mates. Although most men place a premium on beauty, it is clear that not all men success in satisfying their desires. Men who lack the status and resources that women want, for example, generally have the most difficult time attracting good looking young women and must settle for less than their ideal. Indeed, a man's occupational status seems to be the best predictor of the attractiveness of the woman he marries. Men who are in a position to get what they want often partners up with a young, attractive woman. As a man's income goes up, he seeks younger partners.

Mia shook her head. “I’m shocked you’re not swarmed. Successful chef with the best sense of humor on the planet and straight-up gorgeous? I would’ve guessed you’d be turning down women left and right.” “There’s nothing straight about me, babe,” Sky responded, the huskiness in her voice sending a shiver down Mia’s spine.

Tessa felt empty, all the time, and the only thing that seemed to fill the void were books; pages and pages of lovely little escapes where the men were always gorgeous alpha males with six-packs and control issues and the women were constantly a good finger away from achieving perfect enlightenment.

What on earth had attracted two gorgeous women to this insignificant-looking man? Heterosexuals are a mystery sometimes.

He could feel the heat of her breath on his skin. Goose bumps prickled up his arms and neck. He was... inexplicably excited. Even though Nina was arrogant and a know-it-all, that didn't stop the way his body responded to her. While--- logically--- he knew to keep as far away as possible, illogically, he was drawn to her. Despite her personality, she was still gorgeous--- all wavy dark hair and curves that made looking away difficult. Not to mention that sometimes when she got mad, he seemed to get... more turned on. So, yeah, he had some weird fetish for opinionated women, or something, and she happened to be exactly that. The fact that her hair always smelled like cinnamon, which made his treacherous, double-crossing impulses want to lean closer to catch a whiff, didn't help, either...

The provenance of a churel is a woman wronged. A pregnant woman’s demise. Death at the hands of vicious in-laws or a violent husband. Dying during childbirth or within the twelve-day period of impurity afterward. Whenever a woman died grossly unfulfilled, she’d return as a churel. Those surviving her could attempt to stymie her transformation: bury rather than burn her, weigh her down with stones, dress her grave with thorns, set her in the ground facedown so as to disorient her. Were that she’d been given such healthy regard in life, rendering such measures moot. Nevertheless, if her revenge-lust was potent enough, she’d find her way home and so it would begin. Only a man would imagine retribution wrapped in lust rather than just painful death. Only a man would morph a wounded woman into a hideous monster. Only a man would then, for the sake of phallic pride, attribute her with shape-shifting powers, so that the creature he’d lain down with over and over again was deceptively gorgeous. the churel was a cautionary tale created by women for women? If the natural world afforded them no protection, then a supernatural story might. A way of terrifying men into considering a woman’s well-being from time to time.

Gorgeous and philanthropic. A devoted wife. An exemplary mother. The kind of woman who could be featured in one of those magazine articles about Women Who Did It All. She’d have been a Stepford Wife, if they weren’t fucking robots.

A hush fell over the dorm, and Mack rested his hand on his sidearm. His mouth hit the floor when he realized what was causing it, two gorgeous women strutting down the hallway like runway models. Yet, he only saw one. She was a vision straight out of his erotic dreams, Lavinia ben Anthony dressed in red, an angel and a devil combined. Behind him, Peter whistled low in appreciation. “Bloody hell, Mack. Who are they?” “You keep a civil tongue in your head, boy,” Mack said without thinking, his eyes glued to the most exquisite beauty he had ever seen.

Know what, women never understand this, that they don't have to have a figure of 36/26/36 and have clear spotless skin to look beautiful..as i always say, "Women are born beautiful

Swallowing hard, I took in his dark eyes framed by the kind of lashes women paid big bucks for. Usually, I'd think lashes like his were a waste on a guy, but not this one. He deserved every accessory the good Lord blessed him with, if just for my own viewing pleasure. His perfectly sculpted lips twisted into a scowl and even that was gorgeous. He could scowl on the front of a teen heartthrob magazine and they'd fly off the rack.

dressed, went down to the bar, ordered champagne, and caught a whiff of a familiar scent. He turned, looked at her, and seemed to be seeing her for the first time. Because on the previous occasion, however often she had lain naked in his arms, she had been an appendage of Erika. Tonight she stood alone, and he realized that she was actually the more lovely of the two women, with her soft yellow hair floating past her shoulders, her crisply handsome features, her slender, long-legged body so entrancingly crowned by the surprisingly large bust, so perfectly delineated by the décolletage of her pale-blue evening gown. ‘It is me,’ she said. ‘Oh, please forgive me. I had forgotten how beautiful you are.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You forgot what I looked like, in three weeks? But that was a very nice thing to say.’ ‘Drink?’ ‘If it’s from that bottle, yes, please.’ She sipped appreciatively. ‘I had not expected to see you again so soon.’ ‘But you remembered what I look like.’ ‘Oh, yes. I remember every part of you. Or do you not like direct women?’ ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘Shall we dine?’ They ordered. ‘And have you come all the way to Berlin just to see me?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry, but the answer is no. I came to collect this.’ He touched his Cross. ‘Oh, good lord!’ she said. ‘And I never noticed. The fact is, almost every officer in town nowadays has one of those …’ She paused, her mouth making an O. ‘I have done it again. Would you like to beat me?’ ‘I find that a most attractive idea. But it can keep until after dinner.’ He tasted the wine, nodded. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I suspect the reason so many officers in Berlin sport Iron Crosses is that the men who do not have them are doing the actual fighting. Except that we are not doing any fighting right now, are we? There is no one left to fight.’ ‘There is still the English.’ ‘Ah, yes. The English. But they are hiding behind their water wall.’ ‘They come out from time to time.’ He suddenly felt an intense dislike for this gorgeous creature, who knew so little about anything beyond the narrow limits of her sexual morality. ‘But I did not invite you here to discuss the war. I would like you to spend the night.’ ‘Just like that?’ ‘Isn’t that what you do? Or do you only do it with your girlfriends, and any company they may happen to accumulate?’ She gazed at him for several seconds. ‘In normal circumstances, I would slap your face and throw this glass of wine into it. But I think that in the mood you are in, you might hit me back, and I do not wish there to be a scene. Why do you not tell me why you are in this mood? You should be on top of the world. You have just been decorated – was it by the Fuehrer himself?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, then, you have been honoured above most men. I assume he shook your hand?’ ‘Yes. Have you ever met him?’ ‘Sadly, no.’ ‘Well, maybe the whole thing made me too introspective. I apologize for what I said just now.’ She shrugged, delightfully, and finished her meal. ‘I understand your mood. Erika has often spoken of you.’ He frowned. ‘Regarding what?’ ‘Regarding everything.’ ‘Shit! I beg your pardon. But she really is a … well …’ ‘What you just said.’ ‘It’s her I ought to beat.’ Heidi drank the last of her wine. ‘But I am the one who is here.’ By the time he had locked the bedroom door she had already stepped out of her gown. She wore only

An exercise in illusion via allusion. Wear it and after a few hours you will find your daily life suffused by the same feeling of peace you get when you settle into an armchair after tidying your apartment from end to end. If you think of all the best Chanel fragrances as varieties of little black dress - sleek, dependable, perfectly proportioned - Bois des iles is the one in cashmere. I have worn it on and off for years, whenever I felt I needed extra insulation from the cold world. To my nose Chinatown ( Bond No. 9 ) smells like a corner of a small French grocery in summer, in the exact spot where the smell of floor wax meets that of ripe peaches. Lignin, the stuff that prevents all trees from adopting the weeping habit, is a polymer made up of units that are closely related to vanillin. When made into paper and stored for years, it breaks down and smells good. Which is how divine providence has arranged for secondhand bookstores to smell like good quality vanilla absolute, subliminally stoking a hunger for knowledge in all of us. Perfume is, among other things, the most portable form of intelligence. Oman was making perfumes when Europeans only bathed once a year on doctor's orders. Chanel No. 5 is a Brancusi. The beauty and fragrance industry has lied to women for so long, convincing us to fork over cash for crud in shiny packages, that at this point event pure quality has trouble getting taken seriously. Clever marketing can get us to buy something once, but rarely again. We don't wear Chanel No. 5 because Marilyn Monroe wore it, we wear it for the same reason that Marilyn did: because it''s gorgeous. Sycomore, Chanel. If putting it on does not make you shiver with pleasure, see a doctor. Aside from beautiful aircraft, nuclear power stations, food and wine, perfumery is France's biggest export, yet there is no perfume museum in Paris. The ability possessed by certain fragrances to briefly turn the most arid mind into a fairy garden, to make us lament the passing of loves and losses we know full well we never had, is a miracle specific to perfumery.

I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women. And I’ve got much better game than the way I acted back there. But there was something about her that had me transfixed. It was more than just standing before a gorgeous woman, wanting more. It wasn’t her aloof demeanor or her sexy confidence despite my acting like a love-sick teen. I just can’t put my finger on it.

Hey, Lottie?" asked Claire. "Who are those girls?" She gawked at the entrance to the reception tent. I followed her gaze and we both laid eyes on two extremely tall and gorgeous women who had just strolled in. Who came to a wedding after the ceremony? (Tacky people, that's who.) The glamazons were dressed from head to toe in Valentino and looked like they came straight off the runway. I approached one of the young women, hoping to sniff out whether she was a wedding crasher or not. "Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?" "Neither!" she said with a toss of her thick, dark-brown hair. "We're Alfie's daughters. We weren't going to come, but we decided it would be more fun to actually show up and ruin the wedding." Talk about literal. Subtext and these girls were not friends. "Oh, hi," I replied. "Well, you missed the ceremony, but cocktail hour has begun. The first dance will be starting soon." "Perfect." She walked between Claire and me like we were a pair of black curtains. "Why is it that hot, mean girls are still intimidating, even a decade after high school?" I winced.

Men are preoccupied with a woman's youth. Men want wives who are pretty, attractive, beautiful, gorgeous, comely, lovely, ravishing, and glamorous. Men seek attractive women as mates not simply for their reproductive value but also as signals of status to same sex competitors and to other potential mates. Although most men place a premium on beauty, it is clear that not all men succeed in satisfying their desires. Men who lack the status and resources that women want, for example, generally have the most difficult time attracting good looking young women and must settle for less than their ideal. Indeed, a man's occupational status seems to be the best predictor of the attractiveness of the woman he marries. Men who are in a position to get what they want often partners up with a young, attractive woman.

is the greeting from a lover, a romantic, a boy or a man who felt a great deal for her. She was twenty, a young woman who was mature beyond her years, so she could have been dating a boy her age or even a much older man. I have friends whose daughters are dating men that are ten and twenty years older than them. Anything is possible. I realise the letters could even be from a woman, although Julia has never said anything to indicate she was interested in women. Her walls used to be covered in ubiquitous boy band posters when she was thirteen and fourteen, and if I asked I would receive a rundown on how much she loved each one of them, how gorgeous they were and how one day she was going to marry a musician. I want to scream with frustration at all the things I don’t know about my daughter, at all that can now be called into question.

sketching gorgeous nude women?

In honor of today's abysmal SCOTUS decision, let's talk a little bit about why companies hire gorgeous, wonderful, amazing, genius women like Ketanji Brown at the most inopportune moments. It's called the 'glass cliff,' where they literally will hire women, and particularly women of color, where the company is in such dire straits that it really doesn't matter anymore. If the company fails, they blame it on their scapegoat, of their minority hire, their minority choice. And if it succeeds, now they have somebody that they can elevate and raise on their shoulders, and look like they are super accepting, and then hand it over to somebody that they typically would hire. . . So obviously I'm ecstatic that we got Ketanji on the Supreme Court, but what Supreme Court is she walking into? What will she be able to do with this much opposition?

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I looked out at the children in the playground below my window: They were running around yelling in the sunshine, and I reflected on how blokes always get the women they want by chasing them until they give in. I'm always amazed that so many men—usually the ugly ones—are convinced they could pull Claudia Schiffer if they were given the chance, while someone gorgeous ... is always convinced blokes don't fancy her. It rarely happens the other way round.

What are we talking about?” Tawny asked as Judd rolled a ball, knocked over a few pins, then frowned like he might knock the others over with his angry glare. “Aaron’s going to fix her tat,” Bailey explained while Cooper and Farah wandered off. “He’s an artist,” Tawny cooed. “He made this angel on Judd.” After Tawny showed me Judd’s arm, she put her hand back to where she had a gorgeous tattoo of a fallen angel. “He’s very talented,” she added. “I’m excited to get my butterfly finished.” “He’ll do a great job,” Bailey reassured, taking a ball from Vaughn and rolling it into the wrong alley. “Oops.” “Idiot.” “Be nice or I won’t be nice,” Bailey warned, glaring up at him. “I love feisty women,” he said, smirking down at her. “Not interested. Blond men are usually stupid. Just look at my brothers. Anyway, I don’t want a dumbass loser. I want a smartass winner.” “You deserve nothing less,” I said and Bailey smiled at me like I was amazing.

Are all your exes psychotic?” She raised her brows, folding her arms on her chest. “Was she crazy before or after you got with her?” She leaned back on the island getting a better view of his face. Lord, the man was fucking gorgeous. Not in the clean cut sort of way. He had the whole fuck rough, dirty, and make you sweat thing going. A deep scar was etched down his cheek into his day’s old beard growth. She licked her lips and glanced down his massive frame. “Sex can make women insane.

Wasn’t it the belief, after all, that women looked more beautiful during ovulation—or more gorgeous, if you would? At least there was an upside.

Just the daily experience of walking down the halls proved liberating. Young women from Africa came to school wearing floor- length skirts in bright orange or hot pink, with contrasting head scarves in electric blue. Their counterparts from Southeast Asia showed up wearing hijabs adorned with sequins. Young men from Southeast Asia sometimes wore stripes of yellow paint on their cheeks as a form of blessing. Female students from the Middle East did their hair in elaborate updos and then draped wool scarves over their big coiffures, but wore jeans and American T- shirts. One day, I saw an Iraqi student wearing a black head scarf and a gray T- shirt that said I KNOW THAT GUAC IS EXTRA. You could be anything at all and register as gorgeous— you knew this, if you walked the hallways of this school. It was a place that eroded prejudices and expanded ideas of beauty.

Your breakfast is ready,” Toby said to Call, leaning through the open office door. “I made waffles--your favorite. And I’ve got some of that Saskatoon syrup you like.” “Someday, you’ll make someone a great wife, Toby,” Call grumbled, forcing himself to his feet though he wasn’t really hungry. Toby just grinned. Call walked past him into the kitchen and sat down at the breakfast table. Toby was babying him again. For nearly a week he’d been foul-tempered and edgy, and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Apparently Toby had noticed the shadows under his eyes and his surly disposition. Call raked a hand through his hair as the boy set a steaming plate of crisp golden waffles in front of him, then sat down in the chair across the table. “So…what’s going on with our gorgeous next-door neighbor?” Call nearly choked on the bite of bacon he’d just taken. “Nothing’s going on. She lives there. I live here. That’s all there is to it.” And Call was determined to keep it that way. To ensure that it did, he hadn’t seen Charity since last week, hadn’t even picked up the binoculars to see what she was up to. Since then, he had been able to block thoughts of her for, oh, maybe an hour or two at a time. Christ, the woman drove him crazy and she wasn’t even near. “Man, she is really something,” Toby went on between bites of waffle. “I wonder how old she is.” Call glanced up, caught the interest in Toby’s eyes. “Too old for you, so forget it.” “Hey--I like older women. And that one is definitely hot.” Too damned hot, Call thought, trying not to remember what it felt like to kiss her. “If you’re really not interested, maybe I could--” “I told you to forget it,” Call snapped, then looked over just in time to see Toby grin. “That’s what I thought.” Call just grunted.

Some people think 'ambition' is a dirty word. I’m here to tell you healthy ambition is a gorgeous sight to behold.

The Hijab was the most unattractive thing ever, especially for women who didn’t have a gorgeous face to make up for it. Not fair. My brother would never be troubled with such a loss of identity or attractiveness in order to please God.

The men looked like businessmen, and the women…the women were gorgeous. Jesus, where were the ugly people? Oh crap, was she the ugly person here?

look at her and think that it isn’t about this particular rape. It is about any rape at all. Ahemen prefers men. In the face of any rape story, she will craft for men the most gorgeous of excuses, and for women her instinct will be distrust.

Men married to the most gorgeous women in the world still cheat. Hello, Lemonade?

It’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. But Spencer is going to get the wrong idea.” She loosed what sounded like a cross between a laugh and a scoff. “That is the tragedy of women, isn’t it? We deny ourselves beauty for the sake of misleading men.

Will you be expecting that vampire to return anytime soon?” Kira asked, phrasing her words carefully. Mencheres arched a brow. “I assume you’re not speaking of Gorgon?” “No, I’m talking about the one with the dark straight hair who looks a little like you.” “Radje,” Mencheres murmured. “No, I do not expect him to return here in the near future.” “Good,” Kira muttered. “He gives me the creeps.” A tiny smile touched his mouth. “Yet more proof that your youth doesn’t preclude you from being wise.” Kira felt an answering tug of her lips. “I’m thirty-one. In my species, once a female is over thirty, she’s considered to be well on her way to middle age.” Mencheres laughed, startling Kira, and the sound rolled along her spine in a shivery caress. It was the first time she’d seen him laugh, and his relaxed expression combined with his wide smile changed his features from striking into stunning. God, you’re gorgeous, she thought, glad the vampire couldn’t hear that in her mind—or know how hard it was for her not to stare. “Such foolish human notions that women are only beautiful in the first flush of youth. My wife was thirty-five in human years when we married, and she was ravishing . . .

The photos on their website are gorgeous. Enchanted Grove Estate is definitely where I want to get married." Wishful Tails

The photos on their website are gorgeous. Enchanted Grove Estate is definitely where I want to get married.” - Wishful Tails