Handsome Groom Quotes

OK, now let’s have some fun. Let’s talk about sex. Let’s talk about women. Freud said he didn’t know what women wanted. I know what women want. They want a whole lot of people to talk to. What do they want to talk about? They want to talk about everything. What do men want? They want a lot of pals, and they wish people wouldn’t get so mad at them. Why are so many people getting divorced today? It’s because most of us don’t have extended families anymore. It used to be that when a man and a woman got married, the bride got a lot more people to talk to about everything. The groom got a lot more pals to tell dumb jokes to. A few Americans, but very few, still have extended families. The Navahos. The Kennedys. But most of us, if we get married nowadays, are just one more person for the other person. The groom gets one more pal, but it’s a woman. The woman gets one more person to talk to about everything, but it’s a man. When a couple has an argument, they may think it’s about money or power or sex, or how to raise the kids, or whatever. What they’re really saying to each other, though, without realizing it, is this: “You are not enough people!” I met a man in Nigeria one time, an Ibo who has six hundred relatives he knew quite well. His wife had just had a baby, the best possible news in any extended family. They were going to take it to meet all its relatives, Ibos of all ages and sizes and shapes. It would even meet other babies, cousins not much older than it was. Everybody who was big enough and steady enough was going to get to hold it, cuddle it, gurgle to it, and say how pretty it was, or handsome. Wouldn't you have loved to be that baby?

It had been June, the bright hot summer of 1937, and with the curtains thrown back the bedroom had been full of sunlight, sunlight and her and Will's children, their grandchildren, their nieces and nephews- Cecy's blue eyed boys, tall and handsome, and Gideon and Sophie's two girls- and those who were as close as family: Charlotte, white- haired and upright, and the Fairchild sons and daughters with their curling red hair like Henry's had once been. The children had spoken fondly of the way he had always loved their mother, fiercely and devotedly, the way he had never had eyes for anyone else, and how their parents had set the model for the sort of love they hoped to find in their own lives. They spoke of his regard for books, and how he had taught them all to love them too, to respect the printed page and cherish the stories that those pages held. They spoke of the way he still cursed in Welsh when he dropped something, though he rarely used the language otherwise, and of the fact that though his prose was excellent- he had written several histories of the Shadowhunters when he's retired that had been very well respected- his poetry had always been awful, though that never stopped him from reciting it. Their oldest child, James, had spoken laughingly about Will's unrelenting fear of ducks and his continual battle to keep them out of the pond at the family home in Yorkshire. Their grandchildren had reminded him of the song about demon pox he had taught them- when they were much too young, Tessa had always thought- and that they had all memorized. They sang it all together and out of tune, scandalizing Sophie. With tears running down her face, Cecily had reminded him of the moment at her wedding to Gabriel when he had delivered a beautiful speech praising the groom, at the end of which he had announced, "Dear God, I thought she was marrying Gideon. I take it all back," thus vexing not only Cecily and Gabriel but Sophie as well- and Will, though too tired to laugh, had smiled at his sister and squeezed her hand. They had all laughed about his habit of taking Tessa on romantic "holidays" to places from Gothic novels, including the hideous moor where someone had died, a drafty castle with a ghost in it, and of course the square in Paris in which he had decided Sydney Carton had been guillotined, where Will had horrified passerby by shouting "I can see the blood on the cobblestones!" in French.

What offended you this time? His charming manner? His too broad smile? His well-groomed appearance?" "I don't like him," she said with her usual maddening half-smile. "Don't like him! He's fashionable and handsome, with fortune to spare" "So is my reticule. Unfortunately, it also has more personality, and nearly as much intelligence.

John Thorpe [...] was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy.

You’re very handsome,” I whispered, my voice husky. He arched a brow. “Thank you.” His voice was toneless, but his eyes gleamed with humor. I felt gauche, very young and stupid, until he leaned into me, pressed a kiss to my temple, and whispered, “A handsome groom for a beautiful bride. We’re going to make the congregation weep.

nothing more than his favorite image of himself. The mirror in my room in the Windsor Hotel in Paris reflected my favorite image of me—a darkly handsome young airline pilot, smooth-skinned, bull-shouldered and immaculately groomed. Modesty is not one of my virtues.

nothing more than his favorite image of himself. The mirror in my room in the Windsor Hotel in Paris reflected my favorite image of me—a darkly handsome young airline pilot, smooth-skinned, bull-shouldered and immaculately groomed. Modesty is not one of my virtues. At the time, virtue was not one of my virtues.

Jeremy would be a handsome groom. He looked like a Ken doll come to life. Probably has the same plastic lack of parts as his tiny counterpart. Did she mention that I probably brought her to more orgasms than your plastic junk could ever dream of giving her?

It’s him!” “He’s so handsome!” “He’s so scary!” “He’s so well-groomed!” Goddard took a moment to turn to the crowd and sweep his hand in a royal wave.

I am fortunately an entirely handsome devil and appear even younger than twenty-nine. I look like a clean cut youth, a boy next door, and a good egg, and my mother stated at one time that I have the face of a heaven's angel. I have the eyes of an attractive marsupial, and I have baby-soft and white skin, and a fair complexion. I do not even have to shave, and I have finely styled hair without any of dandruff's unsightly itching or flaking. I keep my hair perfectly groomed, neat, and short at all times. I have exceptionally attractive ears.

Who is he?" "Rupert St. John." "Isn't he-oh,my,that handsome boy of Julie's? Well, that explains a bit, I suppose. He always did dazzle you whenever you saw him,didn't he?" "Yes,until I got to know him," Rebecca replied, then wished she'd kept that grumble to herself. Up went Lilly's brow. "Something else is wrong aside from the fact that you had to get married?" "I suppose that the bride and groom hate each other could be considered a little something else," Flora said. This time Lilly sat down.She started to say something, but changed her mind. She opened her mouth to start again, but again snapped it shut. Finally she burst out, "This sort of thing was never supposed to happen to you!" Then after giving herself a brief shake, she said, "Very well, as briefly as you can, please,so I can get beyond this sudden urge to go find a pistol.

The unicorns, led by costumed grooms, were behaving well about their horns, and the painted rhapsodies all round the cart were more than flattering while the pseudo-king, sceptred in ermine, was positively handsome, as well as resembling the real one quite a lot. The small boy acting as the Dauphin, was obviously his son. It was easy to guess that the angel and the other three children, demure on tasselled cushions, were also related. Reminded by the red heads before her, the Queen Dowager spoke absently to Margaret Erskine. ‘I must tell your mother to destroy that marmoset. Mary teases it, and it bites.

West was the only officer on the quarterdeck, and it so happened that the party of hands making dolphins and paunch-mats on the forecastle were all Shelmerstonians. West was gaping rather vacantly over the taffrail when he saw an extraordinarily handsome woman ride along the quay, followed by a groom. She dismounted at the height of the ship, gave the groom her reins, and darted straight across the brow and so below.    'Hey there,' he cried, hurrying after her, 'this is Dr Maturin's cabin. Who are you, ma'am?'    'I am his wife, sir,' she said, 'and I beg you will desire the carpenter to sling a cot for me here.' She pointed, and then bending and peering out of the scuttle she cried 'Here they are. Pray let people stand by to help him aboard: he will be lying on a door.' She urged West out of the cabin and on deck, and there he and the amazed foremast hands saw a blue and gold coach and four, escorted by a troop of cavalry in mauve coats with silver facings, driving slowly along the quay with their captain and a Swedish officer on the box, their surgeon and his mate leaning out of the windows, and all of them, now joined by the lady on deck, singing Ah tutti contenti saremo cosí, ah tutti contenti saremo, saremo cosí with surprisingly melodious full-throated happiness.

She heard the door open again. "Back to w-warm the bed?" she asked. But the voice that answered wasn't the maid's. "As a matter of fact... yes." Evie stilled at the sound of a deep, silky murmur. "I passed the maid on the stairs and told her she wouldn't be needed tonight," he continued. "'If there's one thing I do well,' I told her, 'it's warming my wife's bed.'" By this time Evie was fumbling to push the screen aside, nearly pushing it over. St. Vincent reached her in a few graceful strides, folding her in his arms. "Easy, love. No need for haste. Believe me, I'm not going anywhere." They stood together for a long, wordless moment, breathing, holding tight. Eventually St. Vincent tilted Evie's head back and stared down at her. He was tawny and golden haired, his pale blue eyes glittering like gems in the face of a fallen angel. He was a long, lean-framed man, always exquisitely dressed and groomed. But he had not been sleeping well, she saw. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and signs of weariness on his face. The touches of human vulnerability, however, only served to make him more handsome, softening what might otherwise have been a gleaming, godlike remoteness.

Pat and I smiled to see a small evening bag with a short handle hooked over her left elbow. We wondered why she would carry a handbag in her own home. What would she possibly need from it? I was longing to walk over to Her Majesty, the Queen, and tell her, mother to mother, “Your Majesty, we’ve known Lady Diana quite well for the past year and a half. We’d like you to know what a truly lovely young woman your son is about to marry.” A sincere and uncontroversial prewedding remark. Unfortunately, this was not only the groom’s mother but also Her Majesty, the Queen of England. Protocol prevented our approaching her, since we had not been personally introduced. I toyed briefly with the idea of walking up to her anyway and pretending that, as an American, I didn’t know the rules. But I was afraid of a chilling rebuff and did not want to embarrass Diana, who had been kind enough to invite us. Pat did not encourage me to plunge ahead. In fact, this time he exclaimed, “Have you lost your mind?” Maybe I should have taken a chance. Too timid again! Our next glimpse of the royal family was Prince Philip, socializing a room or two away from the queen and surrounded by attractive women. He was a bit shorter than he appears in photographs, but quite handsome with a dignified presence and a regal, controlled charm. Pat was impressed by how flawlessly Prince Philip played his role as host, speaking graciously to people in small groups, then moving smoothly on to the next group, unhurried and polished. I thought he had an intimidating, wouldn’t “suffer fools gladly” air—not a person with whom one could easily make small talk, although his close friends seemed relaxed with him. It was easy to believe that he had been a stern and domineering father to Prince Charles. The Prince of Wales had seemed much warmer and more approachable.

Her compliment from the dance came back to him, about how handsome he’d looked when he held the baby. She approached and held out her arms to Sophie, who gave a squeal and began to pump her legs in excitement. “I suppose I’m looking dashing again,” he said softly, ignoring the frown Dirk had shot him. Annalisa’s smile widened. “Ja. Very dashing.” He relinquished the baby, but not before his fingers met hers, the warmth of her hand begging him to caress it, hold it, and never let go. “When she’s done eating, you must give her back to me.” He tried to make his voice playful. “I have my image to uphold.

for now, here in this moment, Ventura didn’t have to worry about any of that. She was with the one person who made her feel like a princess. Her father. His handsome face creased

Bride and groom?” she grumbled, her voice muffled by the dark blue gown Mora was tugging over her head. “What is the big fool talking about?” “Seemed most clear to me,” said Mora as she began to lace up Bridget’s gown. “He means to make ye his wife.” “How can ye be sure of that? Ye werenae here when he said those things.” “I heard him and Jankyn speaking of it as they left the bedchamber. I was just outside the door.” “Is he mad?” “Nay. Why would ye think that?” Mora pushed Bridget down into a seat before the fire and began to brush out her hair. “I dinnae ken,” drawled Bridget. “Mayhap ’tis the way he but looks at me once and declares us betrothed.” “A lot of people wed with the wife and husband barely kenning a thing about each other. Ye are the laird’s equal in birth, he doesnae need a dowry, and ye are a bonnie, young lass, ripe for marrying. Tis most reasonable. A perfect solution.” Bridget rolled her eyes. “Perfect for him. Mayhap nay so perfect for me.” “Why? He is a braw lad, handsome, has a fine keep and good lands, and is a good laird.” “Weel, mayhap, but why doesnae he go to court himself or visit some other laird’s holdings? At least look about a wee bit for a wife?” “He doesnae like to leave Cambrun. The MacNachtons prefer to stay close to home.” There

Good evening. I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Kane Dalton, owner of La Bella Luna. I wanted to personally thank you for stopping in tonight. Please let me know if there is anything you need." Avery looked up to see one of the best-looking men he'd ever laid eyes on standing before him. Fuck! He lost his breath, his heart slammed against his chest. He should shake the offered hand, but he couldn't move. All he could do was stare stupidly as the man continued to speak. He had never expected to find this restaurant's owner so young and handsome. For some reason, he'd pictured a much older, portly gentleman, maybe a transplant to the region. God, had he been wrong. Kane Dalton was masculine, yet incredibly refined. Long and lean and very well groomed, not a strand of his dark hair out of place. His face held a strong chiseled jaw, high angular cheekbones with a smooth, clear complexion all leading to a perfect nose and extraordinarily kissable lips.

DR. Eric Blake checked his appearance in the mirror. As always, everything was in place. When people were asked to describe him, they rarely used terms like handsome or ugly or even nondescript. They usually said neat. Tidy. Immaculate. Every hair in place, shoelaces tied, every button buttoned. Eric’s shirttail never hung out, his socks always matched, his face was always clean-shaven. Even now Eric looked cool, unemotional, detached. But inside, under the fastidious grooming—well, that was another matter. His

Make mine water, with a lemon.” She looked at Maddy. “I have a wedding dress to squeeze into.” Kerry rolled her eyes. “Don’t you dare say anything that has the word bride, bridal, wedding, or--God help us--dress, in her general direction. In fact, you can add cake, announcements, seating charts--” Maddy laughed as Fiona sat straighter, her face lighting up as she said, “Oh, seating charts! Right! With all that happened on the dock, I almost forgot to ask. With Cooper staying on, I’d like to invite him to the wedding. So we’ll need to reconfigure a few things.” Kerry didn’t even want to begin to contemplate what it would be like to watch her sister say her I dos, then smash wedding cake all over the face of her ridiculously handsome and adorable groom, all with Cooper and his marriage proposal seated anywhere in the same room with her. No. Uh-uh. “See what I mean?” she said sweetly to Maddy before sliding her sister’s lemon water in front of her.

We called him Mr. Cold. A name, I think, Zeke made up. Anyway, Zeke was the first one I heard say it during third-period art one day, and my laughter turned from tittering to inconsolable, if laughter can be called inconsolable. Mr. Coles had a young, elfin face with tidily groomed hair on his cheeks and chin, none on his upper lip. He was handsome. Impossibly, even freakishly, handsome—strong cheekbones and a smooth dark complexion—a fact I had to reluctantly admit and one that most of the girls never let anyone forget. Hair all black while most of his peers sported grays and bad dye jobs. And Mr. Coles always smiled, even when angry and trying to be stern, especially when angry and trying to be stern. All of this is why we treated him poorly and why he overcompensated, first attempting to come across as a pal, a trustworthy big brother, and when that failed turning into a hard-ass for a time, though he was a phony hard-ass, one we could see clear through. Rarely, if ever, did we tremble in fear at his silly yelling and stiff pointing finger. Marshall, Mr. Coles called to me as I choked on laughter after he grew upset from Zeke’s taunting. Marshall, it’s funny, but that’s enough. This just caused us to laugh more. The warmest man in the school, Mr. Cold, then sent Ezekiel into the hallway as his mentor, Mr. Drayton, probably advised him to do. Damn, that’s cold-blooded, Mr. Cold, a proud and smiling Zeke said on his way out to another rise in laughter. The next time we saw Mr. Coles, he was stiff and stern. Even his movements changed to reflect the new him.

Prettiness. Elsa knew that was the crux of it. she was not an attractive woman. On her best day, in her best dress, a stranger might say she was handsome, but never more. She was "too" everything-too tall, too thin, too pale, too unsure of herself. Elsa had attended both of her sisters' weddings. Neither had asked her to stand with them at the alter, and Elsa understood. At nearly six feet, she was taller than the grooms; she would ruin the photographs, and image was everything to the Wolcotts. Her parents prized it above all else.

The black-clad enforcer turns toward me. “Is this man trying to hurt you?” He stabs his thumb at Reve. I flinch and back away, my hand flying to my neck like I’m about to lose my head. “That’s my brother.” His energy is dark, jagged, and menacing. He’s got a too-handsome, sculpted appearance, accented with cruel overtones. A pencil-thin, immaculately groomed mustache lines his upper lip. A goatee juts from his chin, ending in a sharp point like the end of a devil’s tail. Both glisten with glints of red, as if wiped by greasy, blood-smeared fingers. His hair is the color of shadows. And his eyes…I can’t even look into those black orbs, for fear of falling into a pitch-dark hole.

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

How did I feel when I entered Daltonbury Hall? I was excited, elated and filled with anticipation to be in England. This was a country wherein I had wanted to be located since I was six years of age. As a teenager, I was fearless and dying to explore new, uncharted territories. Daltonbury Hall was precisely the relief I craved after my Methodist Boys’ School bullying experiences. To have a handsome, caring ‘big brother’ twenty-four seven as my guardian was a dream come true for this gay boy. Was my life in Malaya very different from England? Very much so! To me, England was a completely different planet. I felt as if I had landed on the Moon. Instead of a planet filled with ugly rocks, it was a planet filled with good-looking boys (especially those I came in contact with as I was secretly groomed to enter E.R.O.S.). The boys I befriended were well-mannered and aristocratic in more ways than just being born into wealthy homes. E.R.O.S. selected candidates that had a certain je ne sais quoi about them. That made a big difference to me; they weren’t like the ‘regular’ boys I encountered at the Methodist Boys School in Malaysia. You asked how I coped when I first arrived in the United Kingdom. I was homesick for the first few weeks but I adjusted to my new environment quickly. Daltonbury Hall provided me with a fresh start, a new life. A life I was happy to leave behind when I left Kuala Lumpur. Everything was exciting, even at times when I was uncertain about my capabilities in my studies. The ‘big brothers’ were always available to assist, to comfort and encourage the freshmen and juniors when we faced difficulties in our educational and private lives. In my opinion, the BB and BS program should be installed in regular schools. I believe this will eliminate the current dysfunctional school system and reduce school bullying as well as suicidal behavior in students. More often than not, adolescent boys look to an older and more experienced guardian for guidance and mentorship. I blossomed under Nikee, Andy, and Oscar’s tutelage.

It was then that she saw Charles approaching her in his full tux, and her heart skipped a beat as she realized how right Chanel had been on that very first day when she told Tori how striking he looked in it. She felt herself go weak in the knees, and was no longer certain if the butterflies in her stomach were due to nerves or from seeing Charles looking so devastatingly handsome. For a fleeting moment, she wished she could discover what lay beneath his well-groomed exterior, but quickly banished her fantasies of exploring his sensational body from her mind, as she forced herself to return to the present moment, and concentrated on the task at hand. That's How You Know by Julie Simmons (Chapter 6)