Hairy Body Quotes

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We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
Allen Ginsberg (Howl and Other Poems)
You know that ‘no weapons at work’ policy?” I asked the twitching and growing hairy monstrosity standing less than ten feet from me. His yellow eyes bored into me with raw animal hatred. There was nothing recognizably human in that look. “I never did like that rule,” I said as I bent down and drew my gun from my ankle holster, put the front sight on the target and rapidly fired all five shots from my snub-nosed .357 Smith & Wesson into Mr. Huffman’s body. God bless Texas.
Larry Correia (Monster Hunter International (Monster Hunter International, #1))
I’m just peachy. Even managed to keep most of my clothes on and everything. (Vane) Yeah, you do that. Don’t want your scrawny body making my Sunshine go blind or anything. (Talon) Trust me, if she hasn’t gone blind looking at your fat, hairy ass, mine’s not going to hurt her any. (Vane) Hairy? Excuse me, but you definitely have me confused with your brother. (Talon)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Night Embrace (Dark-Hunter, #2))
In Plaster I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now: This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one, And the white person is certainly the superior one. She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints. 
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality -- She lay in bed with me like a dead body 
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was 
 Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints. I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold. I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer. 
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior! 
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist. 
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her: She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages. 

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful. 
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose 
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain, And it was I who attracted everybody's attention, 
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed. 
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up -- 
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality. 

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it. 
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun 
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice 
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience: She humored my weakness like the best of nurses, 
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly. In time our relationship grew more intense. 

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish. 
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself, 
As if my habits offended her in some way. She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded. 
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces 
Simply because she looked after me so badly. Then I saw what the trouble was: she thought she was immortal. She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior, 
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful -- Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse! 
And secretly she began to hope I'd die. Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely, 
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water. 

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her. She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp -- I had forgotten how to walk or sit, So I was careful not to upset her in any way 
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself. Living with her was like living with my own coffin: Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully. I used to think we might make a go of it together -- 
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close. 
Now I see it must be one or the other of us. She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy, 
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit. I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her, 
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me. --written 26 Feburary 1961
Sylvia Plath (The Collected Poems)
The flowers that I left in the ground, that I did not gather for you, today I bring them all back, to let them grow forever, not in poems or marble, but where they fell and rotted. And the ships in their great stalls, huge and transitory as heroes, ships I could not captain, today I bring them back to let them sail forever, not in model or ballad, but where they were wrecked and scuttled. And the child on whose shoulders I stand, whose longing I purged with public, kingly discipline, today I bring him back to languish forever, not in confession or biography, but where he flourished, growing sly and hairy. It is not malice that draws me away, draws me to renunciation, betrayal: it is weariness, I go for weariness of thee, Gold, ivory, flesh, love, God, blood, moon- I have become the expert of the catalogue. My body once so familiar with glory, My body has become a museum: this part remembered because of someone's mouth, this because of a hand, this of wetness, this of heat. Who owns anything he has not made? With your beauty I am as uninvolved as with horses' manes and waterfalls. This is my last catalogue. I breathe the breathless I love you, I love you - and let you move forever.
Leonard Cohen (Selected Poems, 1956-1968)
My only one! In your last letter "My head aches my heart is stunned!" you say. "If they hang you, if I lose you;" you say; "I can't live!" You'll live my dearest wife, like a black smoke in the wind my memory will vanish; you'll live, the red-haired sister of my heart at most one year it lasts in the twentieth century the grief of death.. Death a dead body swinging on a rope. My heart doesn't accept such a death.. But be sure that, my love, if some pitiable gypsy's hairy black spider like hand slips the rope around my neck, to see the fear in my blue eyes they'll look in vain at Nâzım! And I, in the twilight of my last morning, shall see my friends and you, and carry only the grief of an unfinished song to the soil... My wife! Good hearted, golden coloured, with eyes sweeter than honey, my bee; why did I write you that they want to hang me, the trial is in the first step and they don't pluck like a turnip the head of a man. Come, forget them all. These are so far away probabilities. If you have some money buy me a flannel underwear, my sciatica is acting up. And don't forget that always there should be good thoughts in the mind of a prisoner's wife.
Nâzım Hikmet
In the popular imagination hairiness is like furriness, an index of bestiality, and as such an indication of aggressive sexuality. Men cultivate it, just as they are encouraged to develop competitive and aggressive instincts, women suppress it, just as they suppress all the aspects of their vigour and libido.
Germaine Greer (The Female Eunuch)
For Love, to which we may now return, has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two tails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together that you cannot separate them. In this case, Orlando’s love began her flight towards him with her white face turned, and her smooth and lovely body outwards. Nearer and nearer she came wafting before her airs of pure delight. All of a sudden (at the sight of the Archduchess presumably) she wheeled about, turned the other way round; showed herself black, hairy, brutish; and it was Lust the vulture, not Love, the Bird of Paradise that flopped, foully and disgustingly, upon his shoulders. Hence he ran; hence he fetched the footman.
Virginia Woolf (Orlando)
What if something were to happen? What if something suddenly started throbbing? Then they would notice it was there and they'd think their hearts were going to burst. Then what good would their dykes, bulwarks, power houses, furnaces and pile drivers be to them? It can happen any time, perhaps right now: the omens are present. For example, the father of a family might go out for a walk, and, across the street, he'll see something like a red rag, blown towards him by the wind. And when the rag has gotten close to him he'll see that it is a side of rotten meat, grimy with dust, dragging itself along by crawling, skipping, a piece of writhing flesh rolling in the gutter, spasmodically shooting out spurts of blood. Or a mother might look at her child's cheek and ask him: "What's that, a pimple?" and see the flesh puff out a little, split, open, and at the bottom of the split an eye, a laughing eye might appear. Or they might feel things gently brushing against their bodies, like the caresses of reeds to swimmers in a river. And they will realize that their clothing has become living things. And someone else might feel something scratching in his mouth. He goes to the mirror, opens his mouth: and his tongue is an enormous, live centipede, rubbing its legs together and scraping his palate. He'd like to spit it out, but the centipede is a part of him and he will have to tear it out with his own hands. And a crowd of things will appear for which people will have to find new names, stone eye, great three cornered arm, toe crutch, spider jaw. And someone might be sleeping in his comfortable bed, in his quiet, warm room, and wake up naked on a bluish earth, in a forest of rustling birch trees, rising red and white towards the sky like the smokestacks of Jouxtebouville, with big bumps half way out of the ground, hairy and bulbous like onions. And birds will fly around these birch trees and pick at them with their beaks and make them bleed. Sperm will flow slowly, gently, from these wounds, sperm mixed with blood, warm and glassy with little bubbles.
Jean-Paul Sartre (Nausea)
The next moment I was chained to my chair again,--the fires were lit, the bells rang out, the litanies were sung;--my feet were scorched to a cinder,--my muscles cracked, my blood and marrow hissed, my flesh consumed like shrinking leather,--the bones of my legs hung two black withering and moveless sticks in the ascending blaze;--it ascended, caught my hair,--I was crowned with fire,--my head was a ball of molten metal, my eyes flashed and melted in their sockets;--I opened my mouth, it drank fire,--I closed it, the fire was within,...and we burned, and burned! I was a cinder body and soul in my dream.
Charles Robert Maturin
Gorilla, a guy who got his name because he's hairy and because his arms are so long his knuckles scrape the floor. He's grinning and moving closer and she's blocked in on all sides by a mass of bodies. I look at her and him. I look at the window. I think back to our date. She can always break his nose if he gets too friendly. I jump through, land on the grass, and turn around. Who am I kidding? I want to see it if she breaks his nose.
Cath Crowley (Graffiti Moon)
With a lurch Rishi realized his brain was also diverting blood flow to other parts of his body. He immediately began to think of Nani, his grandmother with the hairy mole on her neck jowls. Yep. That did it. Whew. Crisis averted.
Sandhya Menon (When Dimple Met Rishi (Dimple and Rishi, #1))
...beyond observing that some law of logic should fix the number of coincidences, in a given domain, after which they cease to be coincidences, and form, instead, the living organism of a new truth (“Tell me,” says Osberg’s little glitana to the Moors, El Motela and Ramera, “what is the precise minimum of hairs on a body that allows one to call it ‘hairy’?”)
Vladimir Nabokov (Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle)
Cinder." Kai pulled one leg onto the bank, turning his body so they were facing each other. He took her hands between his and her heart began to drum unexpectedly. Not because of his touch, and not even because of his low, serious tone, but because it occurred to Cinder all at once that Kai was nervous. Kai was never nervous. "I asked you once," he said, running his thumbs over her knuckles, "if you thought you would ever be willing to wear a crown again. Not as the queen of Luna, but ... as my empress. And you said that you would consider it, someday." She swallowed a breath of cool night air. "And ... this is that day?" His lips twitched, but didn't quite become a smile. "I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want to marry you, and, yes, I want you to be my empress." Cinder gaped at him for a long moment before she whispered, "That's a lot of wanting." "You have no idea." She lowered her lashes. "I might have some idea." Kai released one of her hands and she looked up again to see him reaching into his pocket - the same that had held Wolf's and Scarlet's wedding rings before. His fist was closed when he pulled it out and Kai held it toward her, released a slow breath, and opened his fingers to reveal a stunning ring with a large ruby ringed in diamonds. It didn't take long for her retina scanner to measure the ring, and within seconds it was filling her in on far more information than she needed - inane worlds like carats and clarity scrolled past her vision. But it was the ring's history that snagged her attention. It had been his mother's engagement ring once, and his grandmother's before that. Kai took her hand and slipped the ring onto her finger. Metal clinked against metal, and the priceless gem looked as ridiculous against her cyborg plating as the simple gold band had looked on Wolf's enormous, deformed, slightly hairy hand. Cinder pressed her lips together and swallowed, hard, before daring to meet Kai's gaze again. "Cinder," he said, "will you marry me?" Absurd, she thought. The emperor of the Eastern Commonwealth was proposing to her. It was uncanny. It was hysterical. But it was Kai, and somehow, that also made it exactly right. "Yes," she whispered. "I will marry you." Those simple words hung between them for a breath, and then she grinned and kissed him, amazed that her declaration didn't bring the surge of anxiety she would have expected years ago. He drew her into his arms, laughing between kisses, and she suddenly started to laugh too. She felt strangely delirious. They had stood against all adversity to be together, and now they would forge their own path to love. She would be Kai's wife. She would be the Commonwealth's empress. And she had every intention of being blissfully happy for ever, ever after.
Marissa Meyer (Stars Above (The Lunar Chronicles, #4.5))
No man as godly as George, the only fault he finds with God is that he made folk with too few orifices. If George could meet a woman with a quinny under her armpit, he would call out 'Glory be' and set her up in a house and visit her every day, until the novelty wore off. Nothing is forbidden to George, you see. He'd go to it with a terrier bitch if she wagged her tail at him and said bow-wow.' For once he is struck silent. He knows he will never get it out of his mind, the picture of George in a hairy grapple with a little ratting dog.
Hilary Mantel (Bring Up the Bodies (Thomas Cromwell, #2))
For Love, to which we may now return, has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two tails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together that you cannot separate them.
Virginia Woolf (Orlando: A Biography)
But it was the women and the girls that blew me away. So many of them looked like me with wide noses, big saucer eyes, large breasts, short bodies, tiny hands, and hairy arms.
Kelly Jensen (Here We Are: Feminism for the Real World)
Think back to yourself as a preteen. Puberty hasn't hit yet, but it's starting to peek around the corner, so you're all kinds of awkward. Braces. Training bras that are flat fabric on an even flatter chest. Hairy legs. Weird growth spurts that leave some parts of your body longer than they should be and other shorter. Nothing about you is proportionate. Nothing is cute.
Naya Rivera (Sorry Not Sorry: Dreams, Mistakes, and Growing Up)
A bold silkworm has left the safety of the mulberry and parchment cradle. It inches its way toward my pinkie nail. The little chalk-colored fella is slightly hairy and fat—its rotund body reminds me of how my stomach feels every Thanksgiving. Forget the AGG and the Black Bear Diner, these suckers are really living their best lives, crunching on mulberry while being gently warmed under lights
Emiko Jean (Tokyo Ever After (Tokyo Ever After, #1))
Have a cup of tea,' said the bosun in a very loud voice; and then louder still, 'Tea. Cha.' The odabashi made no reply but an awkward writhe of his body and stood looking at the ground, his arms dangling low on either side. 'Well, this is a hairy bugger, and no mistake,' said the bosun, surveying him. 'Such a ugly cove I never seen: more like a hape than what you might call a human.' 'Hape!' cried the odabashi, stung out of his shyness, 'You can put that where the monkey put the nuts. You're no oil-painting yourself, neither.' The dead silence that followed this was broken at last by the bosun, who asked 'did the odabashi speak English?' 'Not a fucking word,' said the odabashi. 'No offence intended, mate,' said the bosun, holding out his hand. 'And none taken,' said the odabashi, shaking it.
Patrick O'Brian (Treason's Harbour (Aubrey & Maturin, #9))
He levered his body to take a seat, started, and blurted, "Jumping Jehoshaphat! Will you look at that?" "That's Hairy," Miriam said, dismissing further questions with a wave of her hand and taking a seat.
Charlotte McPherren (Song of the Willow)
It had butterfly wings, like flakes of patterned wax. Under the wings it had a hairy body with tiny horns. Its fur looked very dry in the hot summer rays. It had an ox’s head, no bigger than her thumbnail, with a pink muzzle drawn into a grimace. A white splodge between its nostrils. The impossible detail of a scar on its bottom lip. There was warmth and a heartbeat in its body like that of a newborn chick.
Ali Shaw (The Girl With Glass Feet)
When God says hold up, wait, pray, it’s not your time yet, our entire bodies rebel, legs kicking and flailing like some overturned dung beetle certain that if we try hard enough we might be able to gain a little traction on our own
Heather Choate Davis (Elijah & the SAT: Reflections on a hairy old desert prophet and the benchmarking of our children's lives)
He got into the tub and ran a little cold water. Then he lowered his thin, hairy body into the just-right warmth and stared at the interstices between the tiles. Sadness--he had experienced that emotion ten thousand times. As exhalation is to inhalation, he thought of it as the return from each thrust of happiness. Lazily soaping himself, he gave examples. When he was five and Irwin eight, their father had breezed into town with a snowstorm and come to see them where they lived with their grandparents in the small Connecticut city. Their father had been a vagabond salesman and was considered a bum by people who should know. But he had come into the closed, heated house with all the gimcrack and untouchable junk behind glass and he had smelled of cold air and had had snow in his curly black hair. He had raved about the world he lived in, while the old people, his father and mother, had clucked sadly in the shadows. And then he had wakened the boys in the night and forced them out into the yard to worship the swirling wet flakes, to dance around with their hands joined, shrieking at the snow-laden branches. Later, they had gone in to sleep with hearts slowly returning to bearable beatings. Great flowering things had opened and closed in Norman's head, and the resonance of the wild man's voice had squeezed a sweet, tart juice through his heart. But then he had wakened to a gray day with his father gone and the world walking gingerly over the somber crust of dead-looking snow. It had taken him some time to get back to his usual equanimity. He slid down in the warm, foamy water until just his face and his knobby white knees were exposed. Once he had read Wuthering Heights over a weekend and gone to school susceptible to any heroine, only to have the girl who sat in front of him, whom he had admired for some months, emit a loud fart which had murdered him in a small way and kept him from speaking a word to anyone the whole week following. He had laughed at a very funny joke about a Negro when Irwin told it at a party, and then the following day had seen some white men lightly kicking a Negro man in the pants, and temporarily he had questioned laughter altogether. He had gone to several universities with the vague exaltation of Old Man Axelrod and had found only curves and credits. He had become drunk on the idea of God and found only theology. He had risen several times on the subtle and powerful wings of lust, expectant of magnificence, achieving only discharge. A few times he had extended friendship with palpitating hope, only to find that no one quite knew what he had in mind. His solitude now was the result of his metabolism, that constant breathing in of joy and exhalation of sadness. He had come to take shallower breaths, and the two had become mercifully mixed into melancholy contentment. He wondered how pain would breach that low-level strength. "I'm a small man of definite limitations," he declared to himself, and relaxed in the admission.
Edward Lewis Wallant (The Tenants of Moonbloom)
I’m sorry,” he interrupted, his arm sliding around her waist. He pulled her into the shelter of his body, her back fitting against his hairy chest. “I didn’t mean to nettle you. Here, rest against me.” He nuzzled into the pale streamers of her hair. “What a fiery little wench you are.” “I’m not fiery,” Lottie protested, for that quality was hardly something that befitted a ladylike graduate of Maidstone’s. “Yes, you are.” His hand curved possessively over her hip. “I’ve known it from the moment we met. It’s one of the reasons I wanted you.” “You said you wanted me merely for convenience.” “Well, there is that,” he said with a grin, and reacted swiftly as she tried to elbow him. “But in truth, convenience had nothing to do with it. I wanted you more than any woman I’ve ever met.” “Why did you insist on marriage, when I offered to be your mistress?” “Because being a mistress wasn’t good enough for you.” He paused before adding quietly, “You deserve everything I can give you, including my name.” -Nick & Lottie
Lisa Kleypas (Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners, #3))
Lake Michigan, impossibly blue, the morning light bouncing toward the city. Lake Michigan frozen in sheets you could walk on but wouldn't dare. Lake Michigan, gray out a high-rise window, indistinguishable from the sky. Bread, hot from the oven. Or even stale in the restaurant basket, rescued by salty butter. The Cubs winning the pendant someday. The Cubs winning the Series. The Cubs continuing to lose. His favorite song, not yet written. His favorite movie, not yet made. The depth of an oil brushstroke. Chagall's blue window. Picasso's blue man and his guitar. ... The sound of an old door creaking open. The sound of garlic cooking. The sound of typing. The sound of commercials from the next room, when you were in the kitchen getting a drink. The sound of someone else finishing a shower. ... Dancing till the floor was an optional landing place. Dancing elbows out, dancing with arms up, dancing in a pool of sweat. All the books he hadn't started. The man at Wax Trax! Records with the beautiful eyelashes. The man who sat every Saturday at Nookies, reading the Economist and eating eggs, his ears always strangely red. The ways his own life might have intersected with theirs, given enough time, enough energy, a better universe. The love of his life. Wasn't there supposed to be a love of his life? ... His body, his own stupid, slow, hairy body, its ridiculous desires, its aversions, its fears. The way his left knee cracked in the cold. The sun, the moon, the sky, the stars. The end of every story. Oak trees. Music. Breath. ...
Rebecca Makkai (The Great Believers)
To suggest that one’s belly, body hair or tattoo is ‘distasteful’ and should therefore be covered in the name of etiquette is the very worst sort of body fascism. If your children are traumatised by the sight of a fat person in a bikini, a bit of cellulite or a caesarean scar, then may I tentatively suggest that you aren’t raising them correctly. If seeing someone hairy wearing something skimpy renders you ‘unable to eat your lunch’ then I’m afraid my diagnosis is the problem is with your brain, not their body.
Natasha Devon
you were a kid and couldn’t defend yourself. Girls wear pink, boys wear blue. Boys are tough. Girls are sweet. Women are caregivers with soft bodies. Men are leaders with hard muscles. Girls get looked at. Guys do the looking. Hairy armpits. Pretty fingernails. This one can but that one can’t. The Gender Commandments were endless, once you started thinking about them, and they were enforced 24/7 by a highly motivated volunteer army of parents, neighbors, teachers, coaches, other kids, and total strangers—basically, the whole human race.
Tom Perrotta (Mrs. Fletcher)
Why do we bury our dead?” His nose was dented in at the bridge like a sphinx; the cause of which I could only imagine had been a freak archaeological accident. I thought about my parents. They had requested in their will that they be buried side by side in a tiny cemetery a few miles from our house. “Because it’s respectful?” He shook his head. “That’s true, but that’s not the reason we do it.” But that was the reason we buried people, wasn’t it? After gazing at him in confusion, I raised my hand, determined to get the right answer. “Because leaving people out in the open is unsanitary.” Mr. B. shook his head and scratched the stubble on his neck. I glared at him, annoyed at his ignorance and certain that my responses were correct. “Because it’s the best way to dispose of a body?” Mr. B. laughed. “Oh, but that’s not true. Think of all the creative ways mass murderers have dealt with body disposal. Surely eating someone would be more practical than the coffin, the ceremony, the tombstone.” Eleanor grimaced at the morbid image, and the mention of mass murderers seemed to wake the rest of the class up. Still, no one had an answer. I’d heard Mr. B. was a quack, but this was just insulting. How dare he presume that I didn’t know what burials meant? I’d watched them bury my parents, hadn’t I? “Because that’s just what we do,” I blurted out. “We bury people when they die. Why does there have to be a reason for everything?” “Exactly!” Mr. B. grabbed the pencil from behind his ear and began gesticulating with it. “We’ve forgotten why we bury people. “Imagine you’re living in ancient times. Your father dies. Would you randomly decide to put him inside a six-sided wooden box, nail it shut, then bury it six feet below the earth? These decisions aren’t arbitrary, people. Why a six-sided box? And why six feet below the earth? And why a box in the first place? And why did every society throughout history create a specific, ritualistic way of disposing of their dead?” No one answered. But just as Mr. B. was about to continue, there was a knock on the door. Everyone turned to see Mrs. Lynch poke her head in. “Professor Bliss, the headmistress would like to see Brett Steyers in her office. As a matter of urgency.” Professor Bliss nodded, and Brett grabbed his bag and stood up, his chair scraping against the floor as he left. After the door closed, Mr. B. drew a terrible picture of a mummy on the board, which looked more like a hairy stick figure. “The Egyptians used to remove the brains of their dead before mummification. Now, why on earth would they do that?” There was a vacant silence. “Think, people! There must be a reason. Why the brain? What were they trying to preserve?” When no one answered, he answered his own question. “The mind!” he said, exasperated. “The soul!” As much as I had planned on paying attention and participating in class, I spent the majority of the period passing notes with Eleanor. For all of his enthusiasm, Professor Bliss was repetitive and obsessed with death and immortality. When he faced the board to draw the hieroglyphic symbol for Ra, I read the note Eleanor had written me. Who is cuter? A. Professor Bliss B. Brett Steyers C. Dante Berlin D. The mummy I laughed. My hand wavered between B and C for the briefest moment. I wasn’t sure if you could really call Dante cute. Devastatingly handsome and mysterious would be the more appropriate description. Instead I circled option D. Next to it I wrote Obviously! and tossed it onto her desk when no one was looking.
Yvonne Woon (Dead Beautiful (Dead Beautiful, #1))
Smotyn didn’t come. She always came to the stile for her slice of bread. Always. As I looked around the fields for her, I already knew what I was going to find. In her favourite spot under the beech trees, her head laid out on the grass as if she was sleeping. She knew. She knew she couldn’t leave her field, her place, and had simply died. Put her head on the grass, closed her eyes, and died. As I stroked her hairy face, passing my hand one last time over the bent horn, it came like a contraction. All-consuming and uncontrollable. I curled on the grass next to her and sobbed. Crying until my body stopped, spent, drained of tears, dried out by loss.
Raynor Winn (The Salt Path)
Come now, Tichy. For half a century civilization hasn't been left to its own devices. A hundred years ago a certain Dior was dictating fashions in clothing. Today this sort of regulating has embraced all walks of life. If prostheticism is voted in, I assure you, in a couple of years everyone will consider the possession of a soft, hairy, sweating body to be shameful and indecent. A body needs washing, deodorizing, caring for, and even then it breaks down, while in a prostheticized society you can snap on the loveliest creations of modern engineering. What woman doesn't want to have silver iodide instead of eyes, telescoping breasts, angel's wings, iridescent legs, and feet that sing with every step?
Stanisław Lem (The Futurological Congress: From the Memoirs of Ijon Tichy)
So out of the six major subcontractors who buy from us, there are two left? Man, that’s a turf war, right there.” “And whoever’s pulling this shit is probably going to try to work his way up the food chain.” Trez spoke up. “Which is why iAm and I think you should have someone with you twenty-four/seven until this shit shakes out.” Rehv seemed annoyed but he didn’t disagree. “We got any intel on who’s leaving all those bodies around?” “Well, duh,” Trez said. “People think it’s you.” “Not logical. Why would I kill off my own buyers?” Now Rehv was the one getting the hairy eyeball from the peanut gallery. “Oh, come on,” he said. “I’m not that bad. Well, okay, but only if someone fucks with me." -Rehv & Trez
J.R. Ward (Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #7))
For Love, for which we may now return, has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two nails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of each other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together that you cannot separate them. In this case, Orlando's love began her flight towards him with her white face turned, and her smooth and lovely body outwards. Nearer and nearer she came wafting before her airs of pure delight. All of a sudden she wheeled about, turned the other way round; showed herself black, hairy, brutish; and it was Lust the vulture, not Love, the Bird of Paradise, that flopped, foully and disgustingly, upon his shoulders. Hence he ran;
Virginia Woolf (Orlando)
I’ve been around the world twice, talked to everyone once, seen two whales fuck, been to three world fairs, and I even know a man in Thailand with a wooden cock. Push more peter, more sweeter and more completer than any other peter pusher around. I’m a hard bodied, hairy chested, rootin, tootin, shootin, parachutin, demolition double cap crimping, Frogman. “There ain’t nothing I can’t do, no sky too high, no sea to rough, no muff too tough. “Learnt a lot of lessons in my life, never shoot a large calibre man with a small calibre bullet. Drive all kinds of truck 2 bys, 4 bys, 6 bys, those big motherfuckers that bend and go tshhhh, tshhhh, when you step on the breaks. Anything in life worth doing, is worth overdoing, moderation is for cowards. I’m a lover, I’m a fighter, I’m a UDT Navy Seal Diver, I wine, dine, intertwine and sneak out the back door when the revealing is done. So, if you’re feeling froggy you better jump because this Frogman’s been there, done that, and is going back for more. Cheers Boys!
Stephen Makk (The Iranian Blockade (USS Stonewall Jackson #4))
I wanted to go back and leer at my strange Dickensian mother in the hash joint. I tingled all over from head to foot. It seemed I had a whole host of memories leading back to 1750 in England and that I was in San Francisco now only in another life and in another body. "No," that woman seemed to say with that terrified glance, "don’t come back and plague your honest, hard-working mother. You are no longer like a son to me - and like your father, my first husband. ‘Ere this kindly Greek took pity on me." (The proprietor was a Greek with hairy arms.) "You are no good, inclined to drunkenness and routs and final disgraceful robbery of the fruits of my ‘umble labors in the hashery. O son! did you not ever go on your knees and pray for deliverance for all your sins and scoundrel’s acts? Lost boy! Depart! Do not haunt my soul; I have done well forgetting you. Reopen no old wounds, be as if you had never returned and looked in to me - to see my laboring humilities, my few scrubbed pennies - hungry to grab, quick to deprive, sullen, unloved, mean- minded son of my flesh. Son! Son!
Jack Kerouac (On the Road)
Remember a blue hill, a crowd, a cross? Some up on the hill, sprinkled with blood, are busy nailing a body to the cross; others below, sprinkled with tears, are gazing upward. Does it not occur to you that the part which those above must play is the more difficult, the more important part? If it were not for them, how could that magnificent tragedy ever have been staged? True, they were hissed at by the dark crowd, but for that the author of the tragedy, God, should have remunerated them the more liberally, should He not? And the most clement, Christian God himself, who burned all the infidels on a slow fire, is He not an executioner? Was the number of those burned by the Christians less than the number of burned Christians? Yet (you must understand this!), yet this God was for centuries glorified as the God of love! Absurd? Oh, no. Just the contrary. It is instead a testament to the imperishable wisdom of man, written in blood. Even at the time when he still was wild and hairy, man knew that real, algebraic love for humanity must inevitably be inhuman, and that the inevitable mark of truth is cruelty—just as the inevitable mark of fire is its property of causing the sensation of burning. Could you show me a fire that would not hurt?
Yevgeny Zamyatin (We)
Trash first. Then supplies. Stepping forward, I kicked a pile of takeout containers to one side, wanting to clear a path to the cabinets so I could look for latex gloves. But then I stopped, stiffening, an odd scratching sound coming from the pile I’d just nudged with my foot. Turning back to it, I crouched on the ground and lifted a greasy paper at the top of the mess. And that’s when I saw it. A cockroach. In Ireland. A giant behemoth of a bug, the likes I’d only ever seen on nature programs about prehistoric insects. Okay, perhaps I was overexaggerating its size. Perhaps not. Honestly, I didn’t get a chance to dwell on the matter, because the roach-shaped locust of Satan hopped onto my hand. I screamed. Obviously. Jumping back and swatting at my hand, I screamed again. But evil incarnate had somehow crawled up and into the sleeve of my shirt. The sensation of its tiny, hairy legs skittering along my arm had me screaming a third time and I whipped off my shirt, tossing it to the other side of the room as though it was on fire. “What the hell is going on?” I spun toward the door, finding Ronan Fitzpatrick and Bryan Leech hovering at the entrance, their eyes darting around the room as though they were searching for a perpetrator. Meanwhile, I was frantically brushing my hands over my arms and torso. I felt the echo of that spawn of the devil’s touch all over my body. “Cockroach!” I screeched. “Do you see it? Is it still on me?” I twisted back and forth, searching. Bryan and Ronan were joined in the doorway by more team members, but I barely saw them in my panic. God, I could still feel it. I. Could. Still. Feel. It. Now I knew what those hapless women felt like in horror movies when they realized the serial killer was still inside the house.
L.H. Cosway (The Cad and the Co-Ed (Rugby, #3))
The sponge or active charcoal inside a filter is three-dimensional. Their adsorbent surfaces, however, are two-dimensional. Thus, you can see how a tiny high-dimensional structure can contain a huge low-dimensional structure. But at the macroscopic level, this is about the limit of the ability for high-dimensional space to contain low-dimensional space. Because God was stingy, during the big bang He only provided the macroscopic world with three spatial dimensions, plus the dimension of time. But this doesn’t mean that higher dimensions don’t exist. Up to seven additional dimensions are locked within the micro scale, or, more precisely, within the quantum realm. And added to the four dimensions at the macro scale, fundamental particles exist within an eleven-dimensional space-time.” “So what?” “I just want to point out this fact: In the universe, an important mark of a civilization’s technological advancement is its ability to control and make use of micro dimensions. Making use of fundamental particles without taking advantage of the micro dimensions is something that our naked, hairy ancestors already began back when they lit bonfires within caves. Controlling chemical reactions is just manipulating micro particles without regard to the micro dimensions. Of course, this control also progressed from crude to advanced: from bonfires to steam engines, and then generators. Now, the ability for humans to manipulate micro particles at the macro level has reached a peak: We have computers and nanomaterials. But all of that is accomplished without unlocking the many micro dimensions. From the perspective of a more advanced civilization in the universe, bonfires and computers and nanomaterials are not fundamentally different. They all belong to the same level. That’s also why they still think of humans as mere bugs. Unfortunately, I think they’re right.
Liu Cixin (The Three-Body Problem (Remembrance of Earth’s Past, #1))
Do you like what you doth see . . . ?” said the voluptuous elf-maiden as she provocatively parted the folds of her robe to reveal the rounded, shadowy glories within. Frito’s throat was dry, though his head reeled with desire and ale. She slipped off the flimsy garment and strode toward the fascinated boggie unashamed of her nakedness. She ran a perfect hand along his hairy toes, and he helplessly watched them curl with the fierce insistent wanting of her. “Let me make thee more comfortable,” she whispered hoarsely, fiddling with the clasps of his jerkin, loosening his sword belt with a laugh. “Touch me, oh touch me,” she crooned. Frito’s hand, as though of its own will, reached out and traced the delicate swelling of her elf-breast, while the other slowly crept around her tiny, flawless waist, crushing her to his barrel chest. “Toes, I love hairy toes,” she moaned, forcing him down on the silvered carpet. Her tiny, pink toes caressed the luxuriant fur of his instep while Frito’s nose sought out the warmth of her precious elf-navel. “But I’m so small and hairy, and . . . and you’re so beautiful,” Frito whimpered, slipping clumsily out of his crossed garters. The elf-maiden said nothing, but only sighed deep in her throat and held him more firmly to her faunlike body. “There is one thing you must do for me first,” she whispered into one tufted ear. “Anything,” sobbed Frito, growing frantic with his need. “Anything!” She closed her eyes and then opened them to the ceiling. “The Ring,” she said. “I must have your Ring.” Frito’s whole body tensed. “Oh no,” he cried, “not that! Anything but . . . that.” “I must have it,” she said both tenderly and fiercely. “I must have the Ring!” Frito’s eyes blurred with tears and confusion. “I can’t,” he said. “I mustn’t!” But he knew resolve was no longer strong in him. Slowly, the elf-maiden’s hand inched toward the chain in his vest pocket, closer and closer it came to the Ring Frito had guarded so faithfully . .
The Harvard Lampoon (Bored of the Rings: A Parody)
Holy gallnipper, how long till we hit the magic trail? It’s gloomier than my own funeral I here.” Camille adjusted the bag’s rope and looked at Ira. “Don’t even joke about that.” Since the moment they’d entered the forest, she’d felt like something was listening. Like they’d woken some sleeping creature, and now it followed them with silent cunning. The deafening chants had not returned to pierce her eardrums, but danger still felt close. A few paces ahead of her, Oscar peeled away another cobweb, the octagonal spinning so massive Camille didn’t even want to imagine the size of the spider that had created it. “Mate, you got a stomach made of iron,” Ira said. A flash of orange and black swept in front of Camille’s eyes and she felt an odd tug on her dress. She looked down and froze. A spider with a body the size of her first flexed its hairy legs on her skirt. It started to scuttle up. Her scream echoed through the forest as she swiped the spider off. It hit the marshy ground and scampered under a log. Oscar grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “Did it bite you?” She shook her head, arms and legs stiff with fear. “I’ve never seen one so bloody big,” Ira said, running past the log as though the spider would leap out at him. Oscar started walking again, his hand on the small of her back. She exhaled with more than one kind of relief. He was at least still concerned for her. As they started to pick up their pace, another black critter swung down from a nearby tree. Camille say it flying toward them, but her warning shout was too slow. The spider landed on Oscar’s shoulder, fat and furry and swift as its legs darted up his neck. Oscar shouted an obscenity as he whacked the giant from his skin. Camille heard it thud against the leafy forest floor. Unfazed, the spider quickly sprang to its finger-length legs and darted toward her boot. Her shrieks echoed again as it leaped onto her hem. With his foot, Ira knocked the spider back to the ground, and before it could bounce back up, Oscar smashed it with a stick. The squashed giant oozed yellow-and-green blood onto the marshy ground. Camille gagged and tasted her breakfast oats in the back of her mouth. “What in all wrath are those monsters?” Ira panted as he twisted around, looking for more. Camille looked up to the trees to try and spot any others that might be descending from glossy webbing. Terror paralyzed her as her eyes landed on a colony of glistening webs in the treetops. An endless number of black dots massed above their heads, dangling from tree limbs. Oscar and Ira followed her horrified stare. “Run,” Oscar whispered. Camille sprinted forward, her skin and scalp tingling with imaginary spider legs. The bag of provisions slammed against her back, tugging at her neck, but she didn’t care. They didn’t slow down until the gigantic spiderwebs grew sparse and the squawk of birds took over.
Angie Frazier (Everlasting (Everlasting, #1))
It was like being caught in a meat grinder; a brief moment of total chaos, punctuated by random hard blows to the body and the sensation of being suffocated in a large, reeking hairy blanket.
Diana Gabaldon (Drums of Autumn (Outlander, #4))
A man reeled toward us on unsteady feet. He wore jeans and an old pin-striped vest that barely covered his sweaty, hairy beer belly; as he neared I noted the stench of alcohol and body odour. The man's rheumy eyes fixed on me and he gave me a moist leer. I leaned into Sailor. My self-appointed bodyguard looked down at me, amused. "How quickly the mighty change their tune," he said in a low voice. Still, he draped his arm around my shoulders and glowered at the drunken man. Then he urged me toward the hotel doors. "let's go, tiger.
Juliet Blackwell (Hexes and Hemlines (A Witchcraft Mystery, #3))
In a matter of seconds, his wooly body with a mouthful of hideous fangs and a fistful and a footful of monstrous claws lay in a hairy heap of blood and gore. He was still twitching, but completely incapacitated by a broken back and fractured limbs. His severed right arm lay at an odd angle to the side in a pool of blood.
Billy Wells (Don't Look Behind You)
Chapter One Tiffany ran her French-manicured fingernails across his hairy, salt-and-pepper chest. Finally, she spoke. “You scared me. More than usual.” He didn’t reply. This tryst had been especially rough. He turned his head toward her, licked her shoulder, then bit it. Tiffany winced, her body hardened like petrified wood. A desperate, tormented scream pressed against her rigid lips. It
John W. Mefford (Fatal Greed (Greed, #1))
withal vain-glorious, proud and inconstant. He whose arms are very short in respect to the stature of his body, is thereby signified to be a man of high and gallant spirit, of a graceful temper, bold and warlike. He whose arms are full of bones, sinews and flesh, is a great desirer of novelties and beauties, and one that is very credulous and apt to believe anything. He whose arms are very hairy, whether they be lean or fat, is for the most part a luxurious person, weak in body and mind, very suspicious and malicious withal. He whose arms have no hair on them at all, is of a weak judgment, very angry, vain, wanton, credulous, easily deceived himself, yet a great deceiver of others, no fighter, and very apt to betray his dearest friends. CHAPTER IV Of Palmistry, showing the various Judgments drawn from the Hand. Being engaged in this fourth part to show what judgment may be drawn, according to physiognomy, from the several parts of the body, and coming in order to speak of the hands, it has put me under the necessity of saying something about palmistry, which is a judgment made of the conditions, inclinations, and fortunes of men and women, from the various lines and characters nature has imprinted in their hands, which are almost as serious as the hands that have them. The reader should remember that one of the lines of the hand, and which indeed is reckoned the principal, is called the line of life; this line encloses the thumb, separating it from the hollow of the hand. The next to it, which is called the natural line, takes its
Pseudo-Aristotle (The Works of Aristotle the Famous Philosopher Containing his Complete Masterpiece and Family Physician; his Experienced Midwife, his Book of Problems and his Remarks on Physiognomy)
I don’t take kindly to any of you shanty boys touching me,” she said. “So unless I give you permission, from now on, you’d best keep your hands off me.” With the last word, she lifted her boot and brought the heel down on Jimmy’s toes. She ground it hard. Like most of the other shanty boys, at the end of a day out in the snow, he’d taken off his wet boots and layers of damp wool socks to let them dry overnight before donning them again for the next day’s work. Jimmy cursed, but before he could move, she brought her boot down on his other foot with a smack that rivaled a gun crack. This time he howled. And with an angry curse, he shoved her hard, sending her sprawling forward. She flailed her arms in a futile effort to steady herself and instead found herself falling against Connell McCormick. His arms encircled her, but the momentum of her body caused him to lose his balance. He stumbled backward. “Whoa! Hold steady!” Her skirt and legs tangled with his, and they careened toward the rows of dirty damp socks hanging in front of the fireplace. The makeshift clotheslines caught them and for a moment slowed their tumble. But against their full weight, the ropes jerked loose from the nails holding them to the beams. In an instant, Lily found herself falling. She twisted and turned among the clotheslines but realized that her thrashing was only lassoing her against Connell. In the downward tumble, Connell slammed into a chair near the fireplace. Amidst the tangle of limbs and ropes, she was helpless to do anything but drop into his lap. With a thud, she landed against him. Several socks hung from his head and covered his face. Dirty socks covered her shoulders and head too. Their stale rotten stench swarmed around her. And for a moment she was conscious only of the fact that she was near to gagging from the odor. She tried to lift a hand to move the sock hanging over one of her eyes but found that her arms were pinned to her sides. She tilted her head and then blew sideways at the crusty, yellowed linen. But it wouldn’t budge. Again she shook her head—this time more emphatically. Still the offending article wouldn’t fall away. Through the wig of socks covering Connell’s head, she could see one of his eyes peeking at her, watching her antics. The corner of his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. She could only imagine what she looked like. If it was anything like him, she must look comical. As he cocked his head and blew at one of his socks, she couldn’t keep from smiling at the picture they both made, helplessly drenched in dirty socks, trying to remove them with nothing but their breath. “Welcome to Harrison.” His grin broke free. “You know how to make a girl feel right at home.” She wanted to laugh. But as he straightened himself in the chair, she became at once conscious of the fact that she was sitting directly in his lap and that the other men in the room were hooting and calling out over her intimate predicament. She scrambled to move off him. But the ropes had tangled them together, and her efforts only caused her to fall against him again. She was not normally a blushing woman, but the growing indecency of her situation was enough to chase away any humor she may have found in the situation and make a chaste woman like herself squirm with embarrassment. “I’d appreciate your help,” she said, struggling again to pull her arms free of the rope. “Or do all you oafs make a sport of manhandling women?” “All you oafs?” His grin widened. “Are you insinuating that I’m an oaf?” “What in the hairy hound is going on here?” She jumped at the boom of Oren’s voice and the slam of the door. The room turned quiet enough to hear the click-click of Oren pulling down the lever of his rifle. She glanced over her shoulder to the older man, to the fierceness of his drawn eyebrows and the deadly anger in his eyes as he took in her predicament.
Jody Hedlund (Unending Devotion (Michigan Brides, #1))
He sat on the edge of the mattress, his nerves sizzling as Daisy gathered up the loose folds of her nightgown. She crawled into his lap with the delicacy of a cat. The scent of sweet female skin filled his nostrils, and her weight settled on his thighs. Linking her slender arms around his neck, she said gravely, “I missed you.” His palms charted the shape of her body; the tender curves, the slender waist, the firm heart-shaped bottom. But as enchanting as he found Daisy’s physical charms, they didn’t affect him a fraction as intensely as the warm, lively intelligence of her nature. “I missed you too.” Daisy’s fingers played in his hair, the delicate touch sending jolts of pleasure from the base of his skull to his groin. Her voice turned provocative. “Did you meet many women in Bristol? Westcliff mentioned something about a dinner, and a soirée given by your host—” “I didn’t notice any women.” Matthew found it hard to think over the exquisite writhing desire. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.” She touched the tip of her nose to his in a playful nudge. “You weren’t celibate in the past, however.” “No,” Matthew admitted, closing his eyes as he felt the caress of her breath against his skin. “It’s a lonely feeling, wishing the woman in your arms was someone else. Not long before I left New York, I realized that every woman I’d been with in the past seven years had resembled you in some way. One would have your eyes, another your hands, or your hair…I thought I would spend the rest of my life searching for little reminders of you. I thought—” Her mouth pressed against his, absorbing the raw confession.
Lisa Kleypas (Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers, #4))
When I look, really look, at the people I see every day on the street, I see a jungle of bodies, a community of women and men growing every which way like lush plants, growing tall and short and slender and round, hairy and hairless, dark and pale and soft and hard and glorious. Do I look around at the multitudes and think all these people—all these people who are like me and not like me, who are various and different—are not loved or lovable? Lately, everyone’s body interests me, every body is desirable in some way. I see how muscles and skin shift with movement; I sense a cornucopia of flesh in the world. In the midst of it I am a little capacious and unruly.
Sallie Tisdale (Minding the Body: Women Writers on Body and Soul)
As Jake looked at him so calmly, his eyes kind and patient, Nico was able to catch a breath and focus on baseball even though he wanted to rub himself all over Jake’s hairy, muscular body like a cat and its scratching post. “When
Keira Andrews (Reading the Signs)
MEET MR. HIV,” writes an 11-year-old child, over a diamond-shaped face from which six scaly legs extend. “He invades your body. This is what he looks like when he does,” another child writes over a scary-looking monster that resembles a tarantula. An HIV-infected 12-year-old draws a transparent yellow picture of his body filled with hairy, bloblike creatures that resemble paramecia and amoebae. “I hate you because you do bad things to my body,” writes another boy. “Go pick on someone your own size.
Jonathan Kozol (Amazing Grace: The Lives of Children and the Conscience of a Nation)
Nice to meet ya,” Popeye said. He sort of held his hand out. “Do we shake?” “Of course,” Ronald said, enveloping the small man’s hand in his massive hairy one. “Decorum doesn’t go away just because there are bodies on the ground.” Ronald
Jake Bible (Behemoth Island (Mega, #4))
Are you fucking kidding me, you lying thieving hairy-legged beast?
Caroline Kepnes (Hidden Bodies (You, #2))
women are on our side as well. “Save yourselves!” they’re imploring. “It’s too late for us, but you could still avoid this fashion and body-image hell!” They’re right – it is too late for them. These customs are too ingrained: women will always be expected to shave their legs. Intellectually, I understand that it’s just an annoying, pointless faff but, like most men, and even though our forefathers must have happily fancied hairy-legged women for millennia, I find it a bit gross when they don’t. God forbid that most women should ever take the same view about back-waxing.
David Mitchell (Thinking About It Only Makes It Worse: And Other Lessons from Modern Life)
WHAT’S GOING ON WITH MY BODY?! (PUBERTY, THAT’S WHAT) HAIRY BALLS!!
Riyadh Khalaf (Yay! You're Gay! Now What?: A Gay Boy's Guide to Life)
The thing was even more horrifying up close. It was about six feet tall, just a few inches shorter than I was, and had bulky muscles that rippled throughout its hairy body. The dog-like beast wore a loincloth around its waist, which told me two things. First, this creature probably had an ugly dick.
Logan Jacobs (Monster Girl Islands 3 (Monster Girl Islands #3))
Paul, the baby is coming very soon.” He smiled. “That’s getting real obvious.” “You’re my very best friend, Paul.” “Thanks, Vanni,” he said, but he furrowed his eyebrows. Suspicious. “I want you to be with me during the delivery.” “With you how?” he asked. “I want you to be the one to encourage me, coach me, coax me. Hold my hand. Support me.” “Um… Isn’t that Mel’s job?” “Mel is going to be very much a coach, but she’s also going to be the midwife and she’ll be busy with other things. Especially when the baby is coming out. I need you to do this.” “Vanni,” he said, scooting forward on his chair, “I’m a guy.” “I know. Guys do this.” “I can’t…Vanni, I shouldn’t…. Vanessa, listen. I can’t see you like that. It wouldn’t be…appropriate.” “Well, actually, I thought about my brother or my dad and frankly, that really doesn’t appeal to me. So,” she said, lifting a video from the table beside her, “I got us a childbirth movie from Mel.” “Aw, no,” he said, pleading. She stood up and popped it into the VCR, then sat down again with the remote in her hand. “Jack delivered his own son,” she said. “I know, but in case you’re interested, he wasn’t thrilled about it at the time. And he refuses to do it again—he’s adamant about that. And, Vanni, this isn’t my son. This is my best friend’s son.” “Of course I know that, Paul. But since it is your best friend’s son, he’d be so grateful.” She started the video. “Now, I want you to concentrate on what the partner is doing. Don’t worry about the mother. Most of the time while I’m in labor you’ll either be behind me, or helping me walk or squat to use gravity to help with the dilating, or reminding me to breathe properly. It’s not like you’re going to have your face in the field of birth.” “I’m starting to feel kind of weak,” he said. “Why don’t you ask Brie or Paige, if you need someone for that?” “I could do that, but to tell you the truth, I’m much closer to you. And you’re here—right here. You can do this. We’ll watch the movie together and if you have any questions, just ask me.” He looked at the screen, his brows drawn together. He squinted. This was an unattractive woman, giving birth. Well, not just yet—she was working up to it. Her big belly was sticking out, which was not what made her plain. It was the stringy hair, monobrow, baggy socks on her feet and—“Vanni, she has very hairy legs.” “If that’s what worries you I can still manage to shave my legs, even though I have to admit I’ve lost interest.” The hospital gown on the woman was draped over her belly and legs in such a way that when she started to rise into a sitting position, spreading her thighs and grabbing them to bear down, she was covered. Then the doctor or midwife or whoever was in charge flipped that gown out of the way and there, right in Paul’s face, was the top of a baby’s head emerging from the woman’s body. “Aw, man,” he whined, putting his head in his hands. “I said watch the coach—don’t worry about the woman,” Vanni lectured. “It’s pretty damn hard to not look at that, Vanni,” he said. “Concentrate.” So
Robyn Carr (Whispering Rock (Virgin River, #3))
Twinks weren’t what Maddox wanted, but he wasn’t about to share that. He wanted...Ben. No. No, no he didn’t. But he liked men. Big bodies, big muscles, hairy chests...Like Ben. No, not like Ben. Something completely different. Maybe— Pike
Annabeth Albert (On Point (Out of Uniform, #3))
God could no longer see the faces of the men, only red and orange hazes. He heard taunting voices in his mind spurring him on, calling him a “pussy,” and old, hairy hands reaching out to grab him. His gripped tightened on the punk’s neck and he cocked his right arm back ready to do some serious damage. “Let him go.” God shook his head at the familiar deep voice. “I said, let him go now!” He felt two strong hands land on his shoulders and heat seeped its way into him from behind. “Put him down, God. Right now before you kill him. Listen to my voice.” Day was up on his tiptoes speaking into his ear. His breath was hot on his neck and it gave him a tingling in his spine. “Cashel, stop,” Day whispered. God put his right arm down and released the man from his grip. He didn’t wait to see the man’s body drop. He spun around and looked into his friend’s eyes, and was relieved when he didn’t see judgment, sorrow, or pity…all he saw was relief and then concern. Day grabbed him and held on to him tightly. His embrace was strong and confident…exactly what God needed to feel right then. “Come on, we gotta get out of here.” Day gripped the back of his arm and moved them quickly out of the alley and into a waiting taxi. “Wait…my truck.” “It’s taken care of.” Day kept him from getting out of the vehicle. “What do you mean?” “I mean you owe me two hundred dollars because that’s what I just paid the bartender to follow us back to my place in your truck.” God spun around and saw his huge truck’s headlights behind them. “You have a stranger driving my truck…my fucking guns are in there, Leo.” “You should’ve thought about that earlier, Cash,” Day growled right back. “If you’re going to lecture me, Leo…fucking save it.” God slid down farther and let his aching head rest on the back of the seat as the cab accelerated onto the highway. “You know me better than that, Cash. I’m not going to lecture you. I’m going to kick your ass,” Day said matter-of-factly and turned to look out the window. Neither one said anything else the rest of the ride.
A.E. Via
I gave the man a comely smile before inquiring, “What’s hard-a-lee?” Instead of responding, he tapped my erection, which bounced uncontrollably. His hardness had grown during our flirtatious intercourse, its bulbaceous size stirring my concupiscence to flutter as his sturdy hand stroked me into a dizzying spell. He pulled me to him, French kissing me passionately. Spellbound by his erotic expertise, I lost all sense of propriety. The feel of his bearded chin and hairy chest spawned my stiffness to drum incessantly against his furry torso. I had desired this sinewy helmsman from the moment we met. When he gave me the traditional nose-to-nose greeting, he’d stared at me unflinchingly. He had claimed my person with his assertive eyes then; now, thrills of chilling excitement coursed through my body as he cupped and squeezed my buttocks, teasing my tenderness with his manly hands. He inserted his fingers into my opening, claiming my cloven his. As we continued our alluring foreplay, the boat had drifted into an aquiline cove. It was then that I noticed my beloved Andy observing us by the doorway. My Valet gave me his approval to continue appeasing the beguiling athlete as he stared, mesmerized, at our erotic performance. He, like me, was entranced by Tad’s virility. He was witnessing a reflective manifestation of our intimate moments together in which I had surrendered myself fully to his maleness, as I did now to the helmsman. My chaperone needed no invitation. He knelt to suckle our thumping palpitations simultaneously as we jabbed into his craving throat. This hallowed ecstasy intensified my hunger for both men. Just then, I felt a pair of hairy arms pinching my bristled nipples from behind. The sheik’s sultry lips caressed my tender neck, seducing me into his web of libidinous captivity. While his jouncing member knocked at my doorway to paradise, I couldn’t help but succumb to this jubilant exultation, when another stimulation seized my searing soul, propelling me into an inferno of pleasurable jouissance.
Young (Turpitude (A Harem Boy's Saga Book 4))
We didn’t speak anymore, then, as the melting boundaries of our bodies disappeared. It was slow, dreamy and peaceful, his body and mine as much as mine was his, so that I curled my foot round his leg and felt both smooth sole and hairy shin, felt callused palm and tender flesh, was knife and sheath together, the rhythm of our movement that of one heart beating. The
Diana Gabaldon (Drums of Autumn (Outlander, #4))
Dawn came in wisps of pink against a blue-gray sky. Through the trees, shafts of misty sunlight formed luminous motes of warmth along the river. Birds sang. Squirrels chattered. The low rush of the water was ceaseless. Loretta woke slowly, aware before she opened her eyes that something was horribly wrong. Amy wasn’t this big. The arm around her was hard and heavy, the warm hand that cupped her breast distinctly masculine. She frowned and wondered where the hairy blanket touching her cheek had come from. Where was the gray down quilt? Why did she hurt everywhere? Through the spikes of her eyelashes, she stared at a gnarled tree root. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. The moldy floor of the forest blended its musty smell with the rich, tantalizing aroma of coffee. Then the sound of men’s voices drifted to her, the tones conversational, interspersed with an occasional chuckle. Friendly voices. Normal-sounding voices--except for one thing. She couldn’t understand the language. With a start, she remembered. Her sudden gasp of alarm woke the Comanche who held her in his arms. She knew without looking that it was Hunter, the most horrible. His hand tightened reflexively on her naked breast, and his arm hardened to steel around her. He grunted something and nuzzled her neck. Loretta’s first instinct was to grab his hand, but she no sooner tried than she realized that her own were bound behind her. He pressed his face against her hair and took a deep breath. She could tell he was only half-awake by the slow, lazy way he moved. His thumb grazed her nipple, teasing the sensitive tip into an unwilling response. Her body sprang taut as well, jerking with every flick of his fingers. He yawned and pressed closer. Oh, God, help me. Lowering his hand to her belly, he pressed his palm against her spasm-stricken muscles and kneaded away the tightness. She felt like a sensitive harp string, thrummed by expert fingers. Horrified by her body’s reaction, she tried to twist free, but he threw a damp, buckskin-clad leg over both of hers and pinned her to the fur. Her back stung each time she moved, the pain so sharp it made beads of sweat pop out on her brow. Her thighs felt as if they were on fire. “M-mm-m, you are still hot,” he mumbled. His hand lingered on her belly. “Not too bad where the sun did not touch, though. The fever is better.” No man had ever dared touch her like this. She tossed her head from side to side, strained to get her arms and legs free, then shuddered in defeat. “Do not fight.” His voice was so close, it seemed to come from within her own mind. “You cannot win, eh? Rest.” His sleepy whispers invaded her whole being, slow, hypnotic, persuasive. He rubbed her in a circular motion, pausing in sleep, then coming awake to rub some more. “Lie still. Trust this Comanche. It is for the burn, no? To heal your skin.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
In the universe, an important mark of a civilization’s technological advancement is its ability to control and make use of micro dimensions. Making use of fundamental particles without taking advantage of the micro dimensions is something that our naked, hairy ancestors already began back when they lit bonfires within caves. Controlling chemical reactions is just manipulating micro particles without regard to the micro dimensions. Of course, this control also progressed from crude to advanced: from bonfires to steam engines, and then generators.
Liu Cixin (The Three-Body Problem (Remembrance of Earth’s Past, #1))
Lancelet’s skin was so soft—she had thought all men were like Arthur, sunburnt and hairy, but his body was smooth as a child’s.
Marion Zimmer Bradley (The Mists of Avalon (Avalon, #1))
Long-bodied, long-worded Johnny cocked an ear. "A tintamarrous bombilation!" he remarked. "Sounds more like a fight to me," Monk muttered. Ham said, "That, short-and-hairy, is what he meant.
Kenneth Robeson (The Freckled Shark (Doc Savage, #67))
A mosquito head with huge bug eyes and an oily feeding tube was affixed to a monstrous, batlike body the color of liver. The wings were webbed with engorged blood vessels, and from its belly hung two rows of hairy, withered dugs.
Douglas Preston (Bloodless (Pendergast #20))
He needed Sarah's sweet courtesy, was desperate to suffer through her virginal oohs and aahs, to bask in her fascination. The feel of her smooth hands, with those slender, questing fingers roving over him, was like a healing salve to his battered body and spirit. She amused herself with his chest, rifling through the springy hair, exploring the ridges and valleys until her maneuvers felt as natural as breathing, as though she'd touched him just so a hundred times before.
Cheryl Holt (Total Surrender)
The midwives were still circling the mother’s shipwrecked body, tending to her, murmuring like the sea, the child’s cries like that same sea breaking. Giovanna swaddled the baby in elaborate folds and handed the burden to its bearer. The mother, whose name was Adriana, looked down at the hairy little face and promptly fainted. Giovanna grabbed the baby just before it tumbled off the bed. The midwives laughed. Such drama! The wool would fall out. The whelp had just forgotten to eat it in the womb.
Namwali Serpell (The Old Drift)
Tarlanders did not come male and female— everything but. In his speech to the Guard’s remaining members, preserved forever in a phonograph cylinder, Hauser explained that Tarlanders came from the Realm of Chaos—the world that existed before the Heavens overruled it, replacing nonsense with divine structure. Their demon forms could not conform to the Holy Order set forth by the Heavens. (Aster knew he referred to what the Surgeon once called hereditary suprarenal dysregula. Due to a broad range of hormonal disturbances, Tarlander bodies did not always present as clearly male and female as the Guard supposed they ought. This explained Aster’s hairiness and muscular build despite being born without the external organs that produced testosterone.) The man who’d taken the role as interim sovereign cleared his throat and, judging by the sound of a clinking glass on the recording, drank from a glass of water.
Rivers Solomon (An Unkindness of Ghosts)
He. Is. Exquisite. If there ever was a perfect male form, I'm certain it's him. It's clear he works out, given the cut of his body and the hard lines that drag across his light-tan skin. But it's more than that. It's the ruggedness that his body exudes. The gold-brown hair that runs along the center of his chest and down his stomach, the curly hair dotting his tree-trunk thighs and calves, the spicy smell of his cologne.
Sarah Echavarre Smith (The Boy With the Bookstore)
fat, hairy body
Crafty Creeper Art (Diary of Skeleton Steve, the Noob Years, Season 3 (Diary of Skeleton Steve, the Noob Years #13-18))
Ah yes, of course, Spiders. Is it their size? Do you fear the ones you cannot see, dunnot sense until they bite you and you die a horrible, painful death? Or would you prefer a giant, fist-sized one? One that towers above buildings like in an old shit-show production? I quite think you would. Now personally, one of my least favourite thing about spiders is their fangs. You see, their fangs are a mixture of rat’s fur and small dragon teeth. They manage to be sharp, deadly, and disgustingly hairy. Oh, and the colour of death. It makes me shiver just to think about those pincers closing in on a nice, fleshy, alive part of my body. I do think I’d be forced to amputate or decapitate. Possibly both. Anywhore, their fangs aren’t what get most people. It’s their eyes. Kinda creepy, don’t ya think? We have two, they have….well, too many ov’em. Would you like to see yourself reflected umpteenth times in a spider’s trippily reflective little eyes? Right before they smile and their fangs grab ya that is. No? I should hope not. You also have the venom and that shifty way they move to consider. Venom can kill anything, no matter how tough or large they are. And the whole eight legs shuffly shifty quicky thing just spooks the shit outta me mate. Death and spiders. They’re pretty much the same thing to some. Some being me, of course. Then again, I’m quite normal.
Finn Eccleston (The Community (Project M Book 1))
Adjustable girls’ are desirable, good girls. The English word ‘adjust’ is used so often in raising good girls that it has become a Hindi word. Adjustable girls automatically change their bodies and behaviour to please others; they fit in anywhere and obligingly slip, slide, squeeze and shrink into the tiniest physical and psychological spaces. Beta, thoda adjust kar lo , darling, adjust a little. You learn it when sitting in a car, legs tightly squeezed together, while the men sit back with their legs apart; you learn   it when you can’t  wear tight clothes, pants or dresses in front of disapproving visiting relatives; you learn it when you are not allowed to speak back to that idiot   of an uncle who calls you dark, fat, hairy or stupid and pities you; you learn it when you are scolded for being upset about anything; you learn it as you watch your brother get the bigger chocolate or go to a better school or college and you pretend it does not hurt; you learn it when you are left at home but the boys go out; you learn it when your mother does nothing when your father    is rude to her, scolds her, demeans her or hits her. As many mothers say to their daughters, Apne aap ko thoda adjust kar lo , you adjust yourself. This is a deceptively benign way, bit by bit, to start erasing any signs of an independent self in girls. It teaches girls to discount themselves and makes girls available at a permanent discount in the world. In marriage it is reflected in dowries and at work in lower salaries.
Deepa Narayan (Chup: Breaking the Silence About India's Women)
Seamus clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Great. Now for the next order of business: your wedding. Specifically, you need to write your vows.” “I’m working on it.” My grandfather winced and said, “That’s a tired excuse. How hard can it be for you to write four or five lines?” “Can it be a limerick? Mary Catherine is Irish, after all.” “So are we. If you do a limerick, she’ll slug you. After I get the first crack at you.” I tried to hide my smile as I said, “There once was a girl from Tipperary. Her body was not terribly hairy. She—” My grandfather punched me in the arm and walked away.
James Patterson (The Russian (Michael Bennett #13))
It's easier to rebel against hair norms if you're a woman generally unburdened by them in the first place. My hair—brown hair—is politicized in every direction. It's either an unearthly glory, hair so perfect that people want to buy it in bags, or it's an unholy and crude display of the most aggressive kind of femininity: the kind that doesn't actually care about what you consider feminine. When Lena Dunham grows her armpit hair, it's a stance, but not one with much weight. For it to really matter, for your rebellion to extend outside yourself, you have to have been born with hair-baggage—that nagging reminder that what comes out of your body naturally makes you repulsive, or tells people that you are deserving of a slur, or that your sexuality can exist only in a specific vacuum of kink or a generous acceptance. Black and brown women know this, in two different ways, but few others do. When Lena grows her body hair out, it's a rebellion. When a brown woman does it, it's a mutiny.
Scaachi Koul (One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter)
Anyway, now after this revolution this book argues that things have gone a bit too far. Women, like, HAVE to be sexual now. To the point where our 'sexiness' is making us into, like, a sexiness product. I mean, look at all the gross porn all the guys at college watch, for one. Or any advert where a woman washes her hair and gets an orgasm from her shampoo. Or the way you can't buy a pair of denim shorts now that cover your butt cheeks. Or how in adverts for anything, women's bodies aren't shown as a whole--we're just disjointed legs, or cleavages, or hands -- just our sexual bits cut off and shoved onto a page to sell a watch or something. Women are 'supposed' to be sexy now--otherwise we're prudes, or one of those hairy feminists nobody wants to sleep with. You see how we're judged all the time? How awful it is to be described as no one wanting to shag you? We have to be 'hot' now, otherwise we've failed at life. And if we achieve stuff and we're not hot--it's the first thing people lob at us to undermine everything we've achieved.
Holly Bourne (How Hard Can Love Be? (The Spinster Club, #2))
Plunk, plunk, plunk. We all immediately threw blocks down all around the crimson-eyed monster, making a messy and random cobblestone shell around its fat, hairy body and many struggling legs. The spider hissed and lashed out with its fangs in protest, and when we were safe enough, we took the time to fill in the gaps, entombing the creature entirely. “Wow,
Skeleton Steve (Diary of Skeleton Steve, the Noob Years, Season 3 (Diary of Skeleton Steve, the Noob Years #13-18))
If only guys let their girlfriends fart in bed, the world would be a better place. Not only that, if they stop criticizing their hairy bodies too. Shaving is so exhausting. Thank God I'm a man.
Unknown (The Book of Aquarius)
Ah yes, of course, Spiders. Is it their size? Do you fear the ones you cannot see, dunnot sense until they bite you and you die a horrible, painful death? Or would you prefer a giant, fist-sized one? One that towers above buildings like in an old shit-show production? I quite think you would. Now personally, one of my least favourite thing about spiders is their fangs. You see, their fangs are a mixture of rat’s fur and small dragon teeth. They manage to be sharp, deadly, and disgustingly hairy. Oh, and the colour of death. It makes me shiver just to think about those pincers closing in on a nice, fleshy, alive part of my body. I do think I’d be forced to amputate or decapitate. Possibly both.” "Anywhore, their fangs aren’t what get most people. It’s their eyes. Kinda creepy, don’t ya think? We have two, they have….well, too many ov’em. Would you like to see yourself reflected umpteenth times in a spider’s trippily reflective little eyes? Right before they smile and their fangs grab ya that is. No? I should hope not. You also have the venom and that shifty way they move to consider. Venom can kill anything, no matter how tough or large they are. And the whole eight legs shuffly shifty quicky thing just spooks the shit outta me mate. Death and spiders. They’re pretty much the same thing to some. Some being me, of course. Then again, I’m quite normal.
Finn Eccleston (The Community (Project M Book 1))
We’ve got actual corpses walking around literally trying to turn us into Happy Meals, and you’re afraid of an itty bitty spider? Seriously, man?” “I can deal with dead bodies every day, so I can deal with any rotting corpses, even ones walking around trying to make me their lunch. But spiders, man, they are EVIL! I mean, they have eight hairy legs. What kind of shit is that?” Charlene grabbed Luther by the collar. “Come on, Braveheart. I think the kitchen’s through this door.
G.B. Banks (Walkers (Walking Dead Universe, Episode #2))
The evening after my saviors rescued me from the horrific clutches of the robbers, we had spent the night sleeping together on the same bed. None of my 3 ‘bears’ wanted me alone. I was petrified during the frightening assault and was glad my protectors were next to me on either side as if they were guarding a precious jewel. Andy had washed and cleaned me in a hot bath before wrapping his cozy red and black checked flannel bathrobe around my shivering body. He tucked me between Ludwig, Oberon and him in the king-size bed. Sandwiched between my 3 sexy ‘bears,’ their warmth radiating from their naked bodies, I felt safe. Wrapped in Andy’s hairy chest a peaceful loving sensation fell across my tired eyes before sensual and sexual thoughts began drifting through my mind. The
Young (Unbridled (A Harem Boy's Saga, #2))
Someone might be sleeping in his comfortable bed, in his quiet, warm room, and wake up naked on a bluish earth, in a forest of rustling birch trees, rising red and white towards the sky like the smokestacks of Jouxtebouville, with big bumps half-way out of the ground, hairy and bulbous like onions. And birds will fly around these birch trees and pick at them with their beaks and make them bleed. Sperm will flow slowly, gently, from these wounds, sperm mixed with blood, warm and glassy with little bubbles. Or else nothing like that will happen, there will be no appreciable change, but one morning people will open their blinds and be surprised by a sort of frightful sixth sense, brooding heavily over things and seeming to pause. Nothing more than that: but for the little time it lasts, there will be hundreds of suicides. Yes! Let it change just a little, just to see, I don’t ask for anything better. Then you will see other people, suddenly plunged into solitude. Men all alone, completely alone with horrible monstrosities, will run through the streets, pass heavily in front of me, their eyes staring, fleeing their ills yet carrying them with them, open-mouthed, with their insect-tongue flapping its wings. Then I’ll burst out laughing even though my body may be covered with filthy, infected scabs which blossom into flowers of flesh, violets, buttercups. I’ll lean against a wall and when they go by I’ll shout: “What’s the matter with your science? What have you done with your humanism? Where is your dignity?” I will not be afraid—or at least no more than now. Will it not still be existence, variations on existence? All these eyes which will slowly devour a face—they will undoubtedly be too much, but no more so than the first two, Existence is what I am afraid of.
Jean-Paul Sartre (Nausea)
They used to be particularly hideous if they’d recently won a literary prize. Their dialogue was so powerful and impenetrable it didn’t require punctuation! So naturally they didn’t require permission to slip-slide their hairy hands over the body of a young writer of genre fiction. In their minds, Frances virtually owed them sex in return for her unseemly mass-market sales of “airport trash.
Liane Moriarty (Nine Perfect Strangers)
He was so tall the dressing gown was more like a miniskirt, revealing knobbly knees and very white, very hairy legs. They were the sort of male legs that made you feel uncomfortable, as if you were looking at a private part of the body.
Liane Moriarty (Nine Perfect Strangers)
He drew me to him and kissed me on the mouth, softly, without aggression. His face, which had ripped me raw with its stubble in the night, was smooth and soft now. His body was warm and hairy. And his cock—that ever ready cock—was pointing to the ceiling again.
James Lear (Hot Valley)
No need to split my eardrums. I’m not going to hurt you.” Something familiar about the boy’s lilting tone made Cass stop screaming and flailing in his grip. She looked up just slightly, into his face. Even by the dim light of the moon, she recognized his dazzling blue eyes. “You,” she breathed. “Mourning girl?” The boy laughed, and steadied her on her feet. “So nice to run into you again.” She wrenched away from his grasp, pulling her cloak tight around her body. “What are you doing here?” The boy shrugged his broad shoulders. “I was just standing here enjoying the view when you almost ran me over.” “The view?” Her voice rang out shrilly. “In a graveyard? At this hour?” Her fear began to give way to irritation. He was clearly lying to her. The boy gestured around him. In the dark, a group of flowering weeds looked like a giant hairy spider crouched against the side of a crypt. “These flowers actually grow best in cemeteries. Did you know that? Something about the mix of soil and shade. Death and life, intertwined. One feeding off the other. It’s kind of magical, don’t you think?” He seemed distracted for a moment, like he really was fascinated by their surroundings. Just as Cass was about to respond, he turned to her again. “Plus the company here is much more agreeable than at la taverna. And much less likely to talk my ear off.” Cass felt dizzy. She took one more step back. “What’s on your face?” she demanded, pointing at his right cheekbone. “What?” He licked a finger and wiped haphazardly at the area Cass had indicated. His hand came away smudged with red. “Oh. Paint, probably. It gets all over everything.” His lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile. “It’s a wonder you aren’t the one being mourned, as accident prone as you seem to be.” “I hardly think you jumping on me earlier qualifies me as accident prone.” She was surprised by how quickly the response came to her. “Oh, if I had jumped on you, you’d know it,” he said with a wink. He reached toward Cass to dislodge a twig from her hair. “I’m Falco, by the way.” Cass narrowed her eyes. Now, since he was obviously laughing at her, she found his mischievous grin annoying. Still, it didn’t seem to be the deranged smile of a murderer.
Fiona Paul (Venom (Secrets of the Eternal Rose, #1))
It had eight arching legs, black and hairy, attached to a fat behind like that of a tarantula. Its upper segment was human-shaped, except backwards, arching its back so it could see. Human elbows almost touched its forward facing back, the shoulders twisted so it could use them in front of itself. The head was arched back and upside down, and the breasts were pointing towards the sky due to its upturned body.
Opal Reyne (A Soul to Keep (Duskwalker Brides, #1))
In the pass the muttering sickness leaped into our throats, coughing and spitting in the silver morning, frost on our bones. Most of the ape forms died there on the treeless slopes, dumb animal eyes on "me" brought the sickness from white time caves frozen in my throat to hatch in the warm steamlands spitting song of scarlet bursts in egg flesh, beyond the pass, limestone slopes down into a high green savanna and the grass-wind on our genitals, came to a swamp fed by hot springs and mountain ice. and fell in flesh heaps, sick apes spitting blood laugh, sound bubbling in throats torn with the talk sickness, faces and bodies covered with pus foam, animal hair thru the purple sex- flesh, sick sound twisted thru body, underwater music bubbling in blood beds, human faces tentative flicker in and out of focus. We waded into the warm mud-water, hair and ape flesh off in screaming strips, stood naked human bodies covered with phosphorescent green jelly, soft tentative flesh cut with ape wounds, peeling other genitals, fingers and tongues rubbing off the jelly-cover, body melting pleasure-sounds in the warm mud. till the sun went and a blue wind of silence touched human faces and hair. When we came out of the mud we had names. In the pass muttering arctic flowers, gusts of frost wind, bones and most of the ape still felt, invisible slopes, spitting the bloodbends human bones out of focus, and ape-flesh naked human body. Caves frozen in my throat, green jelly genitals. Limestone slopes cover our bodies melting in savanna and grass mud. shit and sperm fed hot till the sun went. The mountain touched human bubbling throats. Torn we crawled out of the mud. faces and bodies covered the purple sex-flesh, and the sickness leaped into our body underwater music bubble in the silver morning frost, faces tentative flicker in ape forms, into the warm mud and water slopes, cold screaming sickness from white time, covered with phosphorescent shed in the warm lands, spitting ape wounds, feeling egg flesh, green pleasure-sounds warm our genitals, blue wind of silence. Apes spitting sound faces thru pus foam, the talking sickness had names. The sound stood naked in the grass, music bubbling in the blood, quivering frog eggs and sound thru our throats and swap we had names for each other, tentative flicker-laugh and laughing washed the hairs off. down to his genitals. Human our bodies melted into when we crawled out. And the other did not want to touch me because of the white worm-thing inside but no one could refuse if I wanted and ate the fear-softness in other men. The cold was around us in our bones. And I could see the time before the thing when there was green around and the green taste in my mouth and the green plant-shit on my legs, before the cold. . . And some did not eat flesh and died because they could not live with the thing inside. . . Once we caught one of the hairy men with our vine nets and tied him over a slow fire and left him there until he died and the thing sucked his screams moving in my face like smoke and no one could eat the flesh-fear of the hairy man and there was a smell in the cave bent us over
William S. Burroughs (The Soft Machine (The Nova Trilogy #1))