Innuendo Quotes

Too much of a good thing can be wonderful!

Anyone who says he can see through women is missing a lot.

I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.

Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.

She was pleased to have him come and never sorry to see him go.

Just give me a comfortable couch, a dog, a good book, and a woman. Then if you can get the dog to go somewhere and read the book, I might have a little fun.

Apparently, a woman can only go so long without a sword between her hands.

Love thy neighbor -- and if he happens to be tall, debonair and devastating, it will be that much easier.

Women like a man with a past, but they prefer a man with a present.

Oh, I can never get enough. Which, incidentally, is what your sister said when--

Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendos The blackbird whistling Or just after.

The function of muscle is to pull and not to push, except in the case of the genitals and the tongue.

Ducking for apples -- change one letter and it's the story of my life.

When women go wrong, men go right after them.

Of course, you’d warm up faster if you took your clothes off.

I never loved another person the way I loved myself.

As for this," Magnus said sliding the stele into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter." - 219

She's the kind of girl who climbed the ladder of success wrong by wrong.

Q: What's the difference between an enzyme and a hormone? A: You can't hear an enzyme.

I made myself platinum, but I was born a dirty blonde.

If all the girls attending [the Yale prom] were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised.

I can draw you a diagram. Hint: I'm slot B, and you're tab A.

...are you as deft at handling your sword as Captain Westfall?" "Better," he whispered in her ear.

Nothing less than 7 inches.

Love flies out the door when money comes innuendo.

There's not much to do underground besides train." "I can think of a few more interesting ways to spend one's time." "Is that supposed to be innuendo?" "What a filthy mind you have. I was referring to puzzles and the perusal of edifying texts.

Is there anything else you need from me?" Ranger asked. "Not right now." "There will come a time," Ranger said. "Let me know when." And he disconnected. I opened the freezer and stuck my head in to cool off. If there'd been any more innuendo in that conversation, I could have fried an egg on my forehead.

I find suggestion a hell of a lot more provocative than explicit detail. You didn't see Clark[Gable] and Vivien[leigh] rolling around in bed in Gone With The Wind, but you saw that shit eating grin on her face the next morning and you knew damned well she'd gotten properly laid.

There are some socks that shouldn't be washed by your mom.

You almost got plowed by a cab. And if you want to get plowed, I will gladly volunteer my services. I promise you I’ll be a lot—” “Don’t even finish that sentence.” “It was just an offer.

Then why was his tongue in your mouth? Was he conducting a clinical test of your gag reflex?" He smiled, but not nicely. "How is your gag reflex, Ms. Lane? Are you a hair trigger?" Barrons likes to use sexual innuendo to try to shut me up. I think he expects the well-raised southern belle in me will think eew and back off. Sometimes, I do think eew, but I don't back off. "I'm a spitter, if that's what you're asking." I flashed him a too-sweet smile. "Didn't look that way to me. I think you're a swallower. His tongue was halfway to China and you were still taking it." "Jealous?

How's your orange juice, Anna? Does it have a touch of lime?” The glass paused at my lips as I processed his innuendo, and I took a second to make sure my embarrassment stayed hidden inside. I let the drink swish over my tongue a moment before swallowing and answering. “Actually it's a little sour,” I said, and he laughed. “That's a shame.” He picked up a green pear from his plate and bit into it, licking juice that dripped down his thumb. My cheeks warmed as I set down my glass. “Okay, now you're just being crude,” I said. He grinned with lazy satisfaction.

Augustus: “You probably need some rest.” Me: “I’m okay.” Augustus: “Okay.” (Pause.) “What are you thinking about?” Me: “You.” Augustus: “What about me?” Me: “‘I do not know which to prefer, / The beauty of inflections / Or the beauty of innuendos, / The blackbird whistling / Or just after.’” Augustus: “God, you are sexy.” Me: “We could go to your room.” Augustus: “I’ve heard worse ideas.

I can't possess anyone else. Trust me, I've been trying to get inside Lara Casnoff ever since we got here. Which...sounds really wrong.

Every gay person must come out. As difficult as it is, you must tell your immediate family. You must tell your relatives. You must tell your friends if indeed they are your friends. You must tell the people you work with. You must tell the people in the stores you shop in. Once they realize that we are indeed their children, that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and all. And once you do, you will feel so much better

He cringed each morning as the newspapers were brought to him. The media was eating the story up. His anger grew as he read the suppositions and the innuendos; the fact that his life was being laid bare for the entire world to see.

She also said the wicked people needed love as much as good people and were much better at it.

Your file was empty. Nothing. Not even an immunization record.” He didn’t even pretend to look surprised. He eased back in his seat, eyes gleaming obsidian. “And you’re telling me this because you’re afraid I might cause an outbreak? Measles or mumps?” “I’m telling you this because I want you to know that I know something about you isn’t right. You haven’t fooled everybody. I’m going to find out what you’re up to. I’m going to expose you.” “Looking forward to it.” I flushed, catching the innuendo too late.

I saw Hunter when I woke up. I saw Hunter as I ate a bowl of cereal. I saw him in human sexuality, where he seemed to be trying to break a record for most innuendos in one hour. I saw him at work where he assaulted my email. I saw him every night at dinner. I saw him go to and from the bathroom. I saw him at our stupid meditations, where were as pointless as socks with sandals. I. Saw. Him. EVERYWHERE.

Come on in girls, and leave all hope behind.

Fuck your manners." "You don't have to settle for just my manners.

You promised to make me pay!' 'I intend to, Empress, but not in the way you're thinking.' His accented words were loaded with innuendo.

Magnanimous of you.' His mouth twitched. 'Mmm. Use more words like that, please. Schoolmistress words. Long, impressive ones.' He'd made the last three words sound like an innuendo.

Would you like to cross another item off this list today?" "I should like that very much. Which do you propose?" "I think it's time to try riding astride". "You can't mean..." "Oh, but I do, indeed, mean, Empress.

I felt very close to God.... My friends say that's because I was always on my knees.

Mad Rogan: "Resistance is futile." Nevada: "You are not assimilating me!

I'm not very good with anything physical...' she began as they turned down a hallway she had never seen. He flashed her a grin as they walked. 'I find that hard to believe.' She caught the innuendo in his voice and felt a blush creep to her cheeks. 'You know what I mean.

How did you learn to drive like that?" Gwen yelled over the howl of six hundred horses. "Watching Jacks." She gunned the engine and slipped around another car. "What?" "You know, watching his shifting." Gwen gasped. "You've been looking at his SHIFTER?

Devon: "Why, Bryn, I do believe he's given her your pen." Bryn: "Well, get Freud on the phone. He'll have a field day with this one.

His dark blue shirt was plastered to his chest, covered with werewolf goop and tears. "Now we both need a bath," I said. "That can be arranged." "Please, Jean-Claude, no sexual innuendo until after I'm clean." "Of course, MA PETITE. It was crude of me tonight. My apologies." I stared at him. He was being far too nice. Jean-Claude was a lot of things, but nice wasn't one of them. "If you're up to something, I don't want to know about it. I can't handle any deep, dark plots tonight, okay?" He smiled and gave a low, sweeping bow, never taking his eyes off me. The way you bow on the judo mat when you're afraid the person may pound you if you look away. I shook my head. He WAS up to something. Nice to know that not everyone had suddenly become something else. One thing I could always depend on what Jean-Claude. Pain in the ass that he was, he always seemed to be there. Dependable in his own twisted way. Jean-Claude dependable? I must have been more tired than I thought.

The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alivewith chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.

And all he wants is to throw a rager in your sugar mill?" Then she frowned. "Wow. That sounded raunchy.

Instead (Harry) contented himself with scrawling a note to Ron: Let's do it tonight.

I’m trying to give up SEXUAL INNUENDOS. But it’s hard . . . SO HARD!

I want a sexual innuendo sandwich, hold the mayonnaise.

I have a flamthrower. (Zarek) You have a what? (Astrid) It pays to be prepared. (Zarek) Well. Those are nice for toasting marshmallows, but they’ll only make Thanatos mad. Regular fire won’t hurt him. I have this really neat gelatinous goo that comes out with my fire and it squirts my victims so that it don’t come off. Wanna see it? (Simi) No! (Zarek/Astrid) No? I don’t like that word. (Simi) We love you, Simi. We’re just scared of your goo. (Astrid) Oh, that I understand. Okay, you can live. (Simi)

Remember how it felt yesterday? What you saw me do?” I snorted and grinned. “Man, do I ever. I remembered twice last night and again this morning.

According to Tobias, it was more difficult to seduce a stupid woman than an intelligent one because stupid women could not understand innuendo or even connect cause with effect.

Many a small thing has been made large by the right kind of advertising.

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

Musical beds is the faculty sport around here.

I've often thought a blind man could find his way through London simply by gauging the changes in innuendo: mild through Trafalgar Square, less veiled towards the river.

Trump, with his loud and reckless innuendos, was putting my family’s safety at risk. And for this, I’d never forgive him.

How was your night?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral as I attempted to break the ice. My spying adventures still hung uncomfortably between us. "Interesting.Yours?" "Not so much." "Homework was brutal,huh?" He was making fun of me. "I didn´t do homework." He had the smile of a fow. "Who did you do?" I was speechless for a moment. I stood there with my mouth slightly open. "Was that an innuendo?" "Just curious what my competition is." "Grow up." His smile stretched. "Loosen up.

Oh, wow." "What do you think?" "I tried to imagine, but--I mean...it's so much more--" "Think it's large enough to keep you satisfied for a while?" "It's so much bigger than I expected" He backed away, leaving Beatrice to gaze in wonder at the library that took up half of the second floor. "I think I'll just leave you two alone for a bit," he said with a chuckle.

The hardest part about being back in the human world was relearning emotion. Everything a wolf does has a practical, simple reason. There is no cold shoulder, no saying one thing when you mean something else, no innuendo. Wolves fight for two reasons: family and territory. Humans are driven by ego; wolves have no room for it and will literally nip it out of you. For a wolf, the world is about understanding, knowledge, respect – attributes that many humans have cast off, along with an appreciation of the natural world.

Oh, please," I rolled my eyes, "You're a leftie, Barrons." "Touche, Ms. Lane," he murmured.

SN: I'm a righty in all the things. ALL THE THINGS. Me: Was that an attempt at innuendo? SN: your use of the word "attempt" suggests that I failed. Me: #innuendofailure SN: I just said the word "innuendo" a bunch of times in my head and now its lost all meaning. innuendo. innuendo. innuendo. innuendo. Me: Word ruined for me forever. SN: ruinuendo. Me: You are a dork. SN: yes, yes I am. Good that you find this out now.

It would have been easy enough to turn away when they called her names or sidled up to ask for a cuddle, but do that and soon it was a hand up your blouse or a try at you against a wall. So she'd let no insult or innuendo slide. She'd always struck first and struck hard. Sometimes she even cut them up a bit. It was fatiguing, but nothing was sacred to the Kerch except trade, so she'd gone out of her way to make the risk much higher than the reward when it came to disrespecting her.

Good conversation is very important, dont you think? Its so stimulating and pleasurable if done right. As a doctor it may surprise you how much I've learned on the subject. Its been a long times since I've had a really good conversation and sometimes I nearly ache from wishing someone would stimulate me. But unfortunately I havent met anyone yet who I want to really talk to.

He was right in front of me. I hadn’t even seen him move. I jerked, pressing my back against the wall of the library. My bag slid off my shoulder, landing next to my feet. “Holy crap, you can move.” “I can do a lot of things.” Angling his body, he pressed one palm against the wall beside my head. Good God, he was tall. “Some of them fast. Some of them real slow.” My mouth opened. “Was that a s-sexual innuendo?” His lips twitched. “Something along those lines.” The heat was back in my face and throat, despite the chill bleeding from the wall through my lightweight sweater. “Well, it was a crappy one.” “I can do better,” he offered, and those golden eyes finally lightened

But a cock does not enter a hen… it enters a…meow-meow!

Why do I have to earn it by being good? Don’t you feel like bragging?” “It’s better when you beg,” he said, his voice low. “It’s always better when you beg.

Silence is an easy habit. But it doesn't come naturally. Silence has to be cultivated, enforced by implication and innuendo, looks and glances, hints of dark consequence. Silence is greedy. It insists upon its own necessity. It transcends generations.

The others laughed and Burt said, "All you need are girls who paddle like boys, and you're set!

Conversations between people can move like tennis games, swift and unpredictable. There are constant subtle visual and verbal cues, there's innuendo, sarcasm, body language, tone. Everyone occasionally fumbles an encounter, a victim of social clumsiness. It's part of being human.

That much sexual tension makes me want to hump a phone pole, and that’s just not attractive in a pregnant woman.

George Harrison: Paul transformed me in my bedroom, and it was awkward, to say the least. It was like being on a blind date, complete with stilted conversation and elliptical innuendo. He said, "So." Then I said, "So." Then he said, "So." Then I said, "So." That went on for, I dunno, five minutes or something.

As Jack began to climb the stairs, Fiona looked up at her new home. Five stories of stately mansion rose above her head. Heavy molding around the large windows and doors bespoke a quality and craftsmanship that was obvious even in the dim night. “Good God! It’s massive!” Jack paused with his foot on the last step. “I do wish you’d keep those comments until we are in bed, love. I would appreciate them all the more there.

But had it been the wine? Maybe it was something else. I was no math expert, but this was an intoxicating equation: Hot Guy with Mysterious Past + Way With Pretty Words x Chivalry at Beach / His Aloofness at Coffee Shop (Immunity to My Face & Flirty Efforts) + Innuendo at Hardware Store x Honest Confession about OCD Struggles —> Curiosity + Arousal (Belly Flutters + Pulse Quickening)=ATTACKISS.

Lovely Arra Sails, nectar to all males, how I'd like to spear you like a whaler spears a whale!

She bared her teeth at me. “Screw you, shifter!” “Ah, is our honeymoon period over so quickly? You wanted to jump my bones just a second ago.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one. V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause. VII O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you? VIII I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know. IX When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles. X At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply. XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds. XII The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

I put down my pencil and sigh. “Could you go eat that somewhere else? I swear, you must be the noisiest apple eater in the history of time.” One shoulder goes up in a shrug. “I like it here. And I love eating apples.” The way his voice lowers on the second sentence gives off the hint of an innuendo. It riles me up enough to respond harshly, “I’m sure you do, Jason. I’m sure you love eating all different sorts of apples.” Jesus Christ, did I just say that? Kill me now. “Actually, I’m loyal to just the one apple,” he counters. The way his eyes dance and shine makes me want to laugh. I hate how he does this to me. Our conversation right now is verging on the ridiculous. Still, I don’t let it drop. “You can’t be loyal to only one apple. Once it’s eaten it’s gone, and you need to go find a new one.” “Oh, I could eat my apple over and over again without ever feeling the need to find a new one.” “Maybe your apple doesn’t want to be eaten. Maybe your apple is tired of your apple-eating ways.” He leans forward, one elbow resting on the table, his gaze growing even darker. “On the contrary, my apple loves to be eaten. In fact, my apple is a little cranky right now because she hasn’t been eaten in a while.” The bloody cheek of him!

It's like my throat's caving in on itself. But I have to channel my inner New Yorker - cool and nonchalant. I shoot him a tentative grin. Deep Breath. "That's a big package." And... shit. The words tumblr out. "I don't mean package. Just. Your box. Is big." I hold my hands apart to demonstrate. Because apparently that's the way to prove it's not an innuendo. By spreading my hands out dick-measuringly. Box Boy furrows his brow. "Sorry. I don't... I swear I don't usually comment on the size of other guys' boxes." He meets my eyes and smiles, just a little. "Nice tie," he says.

Well, I'm over it. Let's just forget about it.” He blinked at me, seeming surprised by my easy forgiveness. I gave him a small smile and took a sip of my juice. He leaned back in his chair and observed me. “How's your orange juice, Ann? Does it have a touch of lime?” The glass paused at my lips as I processed his innuendo, and I took a second to make sure my embarrassment stayed hidden inside. I let the drink swish over my tongue a moment before swallowing and answering. “Actually it's a little sour,” I said, and he laughed. “That's a shame.” He picked up a green pear from his plate and bit into it, licking juice that dripped down his thumb. My cheeks warmed as I set down my glass. “Okay, now you're just being crude,” I said. He grinned with lazy satisfaction. “I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm just enjoying my breakfast.” He took another bite and I shook my head. The boy had a major effect on me, but some of the shock factor was beginning to wear off, and I found myself being less offended by his incorrigible nature.

I told you, I’m awesome at everything,” he teased, putting the PS3 controller on the floor between us. “That includes video games.” I watched as the character Wesley had been operating moved across the screen, doing some sort of odd victory dance. “Not fair,” I muttered. “Your sword was bigger than mine.” “My sword is bigger than everyone’s.

I was born without the flirt gene. It's truly awful for me." That was no exaggeration. " I mean, look at how I screwed up last night with Ty. He was flirting and tossing off sexual innuendos, and I just looked at him and said I would not have anal sex with him." "You what?" Suzanne shrieked so loud that Imogen saw half a dozen other fitness patrons swivel their heads to look at them. "Did he ask you to? At the party?" "No, of course not." Which was what made it all the more ridiculous. "We were in the car and he was hinting about positions, what was to come, etc., and I just blurted out that I wasn't doing that with him." "Girl..." was Suzanne's though on the matter, her expression one of total horror. "Do not bring up the back door unless he's knocking on it.

This good sir Knight here was showing me his most impressive weapon." "Oh?" His eyebrow arched, and I tried to ignore the way it sent heat dspeeding down my spine. "Are you seeking out others then? Does my weapon no longer interest you? I had to bite down hard on my bottom lip to keep from laughing. We were blowing right past subtle innuendo today. "Oh, Captain." I fluttered my eyelashes dramatically. "I believe you are quite aware that I have no complaints with your... weapon." He choked for a split second, but covered it with a small cough before he leaned a casual elbow against the bar. "I hope not, love." His smile was as broad as ever. "I would hate to think I would have to duel with another for your affections." "I hope not, for your sake." I rounded my eyes in feigned horror. "I've seen you fight, sir. It typically ends on your knees in the dirt with a knife at your throat, does it not?" I shook my head, clucking my tongue. "Not a good ending." A nearby patron snorted, and it was all I could do to not turn my head. Great. Simon and I turned into a show all on our own. Come for the beer, stay for the bad comedy. "Odd." He tiled his head and considered me, his eyes doing the same slow travel mine had done on him. It took everything I had not to fidget under his gaze. "Typically women don't mind when I'm on my knees in front of them.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.

Sexuality is the only drive that is in itself hindered, perverted: simultaneously insufficient and excessive, with the excess as the form of appearance of the lack. On the one hand, sexuality is characterized by the universal capacity to provide the metaphorical meaning or innuendo of any activity or object–any element, including the most abstract reflection can be experienced as ‘alluding to that‘ (suffice it to recall the proverbial example of the adolescent who, in order to forget his sexual obsessions, takes refuge in pure mathematics and physics–whatever he does here again reminds him of ‘that’: how much volume is needed to fill out an empty cylinder? How much energy is discharged when two bodies collide?…). The universal surplus–this capacity of sexuality to overflow the entire field of human experience…is not the sign of preponderance. Rather, it is the sign of a certain structural faultiness: sexuality strives outwards and overflows the adjoining domains precisely because it cannot find satisfaction in itself, because it never attains its goal.

I define a nose, as follows,—intreating only beforehand, and beseeching my readers, both male and female, of what age, complexion, and condition soever, for the love of God and their own souls, to guard against the temptations and suggestions of the devil, and suffer him by no art or wile to put any other ideas into their minds, than what I put into my definition.—For by the word Nose, throughout all this long chapter of noses, and in every other part of my work, where the word Nose occurs,—I declare, by that word I mean a Nose, and nothing more, or less.

I work at T-Town, which is about ninety-nine percent men, and all of them either are alpha personalities or think they are. That said, what we have here is the standard dynamic for sexual tension. I'm moderately good-looking. I have big boobs, and I get hit on by everyone from the pastor of my church to baristas at Starbucks, and by every single guy at T-Town except for my boss and the range master. I don't blame them and I don't judge them. It's part of the procreative drive hardwired into us, and we haven't evolved as a species far enough exert any genuine control over the biological imperative. You, on the other hand, are a very good-looking man of prime breeding age. Old enough to have interesting lines and scars--and stories to go with them--and young enough to be a catch. You probably get laid as often as you want to, and you can probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times women have said no to you. Maybe--and please correct me if I've strayed too far into speculation--being an agent of a secret government organization has led you to buy into the superspy sex stud propaganda perpetuated by James Bond films." "My name is Powers," I said. "Austin Powers." She ignored me and plowed ahead. "We're in the middle of a crisis. We may have to work closely together for several days, or even several weeks. Close-quarters travel, emotions running high, all that. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not spend the next few days living inside a trite office romance cliche. That includes everything from mild flirtation to sexual innuendo and double entendre and the whole ball of wax." She sipped her Coke. The ball landed in my court with a thump.

What was it you called me? Hell’s overlord who wields his lucky pen like it’s… what was that last part?” Enough! Elise’s tolerance disappeared in a sulfurous cloud of smoke. “Hell’s overlord who wields his lucky pen like it’s his staff of masculinity,” she ground out, then lowered her head and furiously pounded on the laptop’s keyboard. Luc laughed and the hairs at the nape of her neck prickled. “Staff of masculinity. How could I have forgotten that? You could have just said—” Her cheeks burned red hot. “I made that up before I knew you liked to beat your lucky pen against the desk.” He turned in his seat and smiled the smile that never failed to raise her body temperature a hundred degrees. “And it was that particular phrase which made your habit of sucking on pen caps all the more bearable.” She glared at him and his smile widened. “Don’t make me get up and come near your desk, Lucien Masters.” “Getting up and coming near my desk are the least of my worries,” he replied in a husky, Southern rumble.

Much of Chinese society still expected its women to hold themselves in a sedate manner, lower their eyelids in response to men's stares, and restrict their smile to a faint curve of the lips which did not expose their teeth. They were not meant to use hand gestures at all. If they contravened any of these canons of behavior they would be considered 'flirtatious." Under Mao, flirting with./bre/gners was an unspeakable crime. I was furious at the innuendo against me. It had been my Communist parents who had given me a liberal upbringing. They had regarded the restrictions on women as precisely the sort of thing a Communist revolution should put an end to. But now oppression of women joined hands with political repression, and served resentment and petty jealousy. One day, a Pakistani ship arrived. The Pakistani military attache came down from Peking. Long ordered us all to spring-clean the club from top to bottom, and laid on a banquet, for which he asked me to be his interpreter, which made some of the other students extremely envious. A few days later the Pakistanis gave a farewell dinner on their ship, and I was invited. The military attache had been to Sichuan, and they had prepared a special Sichuan dish for me. Long was delighted by the invitation, as was I. But despite a personal appeal from the captain and even a threat from Long to bar future students, my teachers said that no one was allowed on board a foreign ship. "Who would take the responsibility if someone sailed away on the ship?" they asked. I was told to say I was busy that evening. As far as I knew, I was turning down the only chance I would ever have of a trip out to sea, a foreign meal, a proper conversation in English, and an experience of the outside world. Even so, I could not silence the whispers. Ming asked pointedly, "Why do foreigners like her so much?" as though there was something suspicious in that. The report filed on me at the end of the trip said my behavior was 'politically dubious." In this lovely port, with its sunshine, sea breezes, and coconut trees, every occasion that should have been joyous was turned into misery. I had a good friend in the group who tried to cheer me up by putting my distress into perspective. Of course, what I encountered was no more than minor unpleasantness compared with what victims of jealousy suffered in the earlier years of the Cultural Revolution. But the thought that this was what my life at its best would be like depressed me even more. This friend was the son of a colleague of my father's. The other students from cities were also friendly to me. It was easy to distinguish them from the students of peasant backgrounds, who provided most of the student officials.

Antonia: I meant to tell you, and then forgot: call a spade a spade, and say 'arse', 'prick', 'cunt', and 'fuck', otherwise the only people who'll understand you will be the scholars of the Capranica think tank - you and your 'rose in the ring', your 'obelisk in the arsenal' your 'leek in the garden', your 'bolt in the door', your 'key in the lock', your 'pestle in the mortar', your 'nightingale in the nest', your 'sapling in the ditch', your 'syringe in the flap-valve', your 'sword in the sheath'; and the same goes for 'the stake', 'the crozier', the parsnip', 'the little monkey', 'his thingummy', 'her thingummy', 'the apples', 'the leaves of the mass book', 'that thingy', 'the graceful whatyamacallit', 'that whatsit', 'that doings', 'that latest news', 'the handle', 'the dart', 'that carrot', 'the root' and all the other shit that comes out of your mouth, but there you go, pussyfooting around. Let your yes mean yes, your no, no, and otherwise, just shut it.

Did you want to change into something more comfortable?” Adrian asks with a raise in his eyebrows, breaking me out of my train of thought, but not away from naughty thoughts. I smack his knee. “I'm comfortable, but I know you're not.” He doesn't mind dressing up, but on most days I see him in casual clothes like screen-printed tees and hoodies. “You're right,” he says, tapping my knee lightly, standing up. As he walks toward the hallway, he slips his shirt off the rest of the way. I can't look away from the sight, even if it is only from the back. Damn. What is happening to me? Have I gone mad? Before I can tear my eyes away from him, he turns around. Judging by the look in his eyes, I've been caught. I have so been caught. Damn again. I didn't want him to see me practically drooling. It's too late for that now. He smirks. “You know, I could spend the rest of the night just like this.” He places a hand to the hard muscles of his chest. I clear my throat, trying really hard not to imagine my hand in place of his, and say, “If I'm wearing clothes, you're wearing clothes.” “So if I'm not wearing clothes...” I grab a coaster from the coffee table and fling it at him. He catches it in his hand. “Just remember, all you have to do is say otherwise.

Pay attention to everything the dying person says. You might want to keep pens and a spiral notebook beside the bed so that anyone can jot down notes about gestures, conversations, or anything out of the ordinary said by the dying person. Talk with one another about these comments and gestures. • Remember that there may be important messages in any communication, however vague or garbled. Not every statement made by a dying person has significance, but heed them all so as not to miss the ones that do. • Watch for key signs: a glassy-eyed look; the appearance of staring through you; distractedness or secretiveness; seemingly inappropriate smiles or gestures, such as pointing, reaching toward someone or something unseen, or waving when no one is there; efforts to pick at the covers or get out of bed for no apparent reason; agitation or distress at your inability to comprehend something the dying person has tried to say. • Respond to anything you don’t understand with gentle inquiries. “Can you tell me what’s happening?” is sometimes a helpful way to initiate this kind of conversation. You might also try saying, “You seem different today. Can you tell me why?” • Pose questions in open-ended, encouraging terms. For example, if a dying person whose mother is long dead says, “My mother’s waiting for me,” turn that comment into a question: “Mother’s waiting for you?” or “I’m so glad she’s close to you. Can you tell me about it?” • Accept and validate what the dying person tells you. If he says, “I see a beautiful place!” say, “That’s wonderful! Can you tell me more about it?” or “I’m so pleased. I can see that it makes you happy,” or “I’m so glad you’re telling me this. I really want to understand what’s happening to you. Can you tell me more?” • Don’t argue or challenge. By saying something like “You couldn’t possibly have seen Mother, she’s been dead for ten years,” you could increase the dying person’s frustration and isolation, and run the risk of putting an end to further attempts at communicating. • Remember that a dying person may employ images from life experiences like work or hobbies. A pilot may talk about getting ready to go for a flight; carry the metaphor forward: “Do you know when it leaves?” or “Is there anyone on the plane you know?” or “Is there anything I can do to help you get ready for takeoff?” • Be honest about having trouble understanding. One way is to say, “I think you’re trying to tell me something important and I’m trying very hard, but I’m just not getting it. I’ll keep on trying. Please don’t give up on me.” • Don’t push. Let the dying control the breadth and depth of the conversation—they may not be able to put their experiences into words; insisting on more talk may frustrate or overwhelm them. • Avoid instilling a sense of failure in the dying person. If the information is garbled or the delivery impossibly vague, show that you appreciate the effort by saying, “I can see that this is hard for you; I appreciate your trying to share it with me,” or “I can see you’re getting tired/angry/frustrated. Would it be easier if we talked about this later?” or “Don’t worry. We’ll keep trying and maybe it will come.” • If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. Sometimes the best response is simply to touch the dying person’s hand, or smile and stroke his or her forehead. Touching gives the very important message “I’m with you.” Or you could say, “That’s interesting, let me think about it.” • Remember that sometimes the one dying picks an unlikely confidant. Dying people often try to communicate important information to someone who makes them feel safe—who won’t get upset or be taken aback by such confidences. If you’re an outsider chosen for this role, share the information as gently and completely as possible with the appropriate family members or friends. They may be more familiar with innuendos in a message because they know the person well.

Stepan Arkadyevitch had not chosen his political opinions or his views; these political opinions and views had come to him of themselves, just as he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat, but simply took those that were being worn. And for him, living in a certain society—owing to the need, ordinarily developed at years of discretion, for some degree of mental activity—to have views was just as indispensable as to have a hat. If there was a reason for his preferring liberal to conservative views, which were held also by many of his circle, it arose not from his considering liberalism more rational, but from its being in closer accordance with his manner of life. The liberal party said that in Russia everything is wrong, and certainly Stepan Arkadyevitch had many debts and was decidedly short of money. The liberal party said that marriage is an institution quite out of date, and that it needs reconstruction; and family life certainly afforded Stepan Arkadyevitch little gratification, and forced him into lying and hypocrisy, which was so repulsive to his nature. The liberal party said, or rather allowed it to be understood, that religion is only a curb to keep in check the barbarous classes of the people; and Stepan Arkadyevitch could not get through even a short service without his legs aching from standing up, and could never make out what was the object of all the terrible and high-flown language about another world when life might be so very amusing in this world. And with all this, Stepan Arkadyevitch, who liked a joke, was fond of puzzling a plain man by saying that if he prided himself on his origin, he ought not to stop at Rurik and disown the first founder of his family—the monkey. And so Liberalism had become a habit of Stepan Arkadyevitch's, and he liked his newspaper, as he did his cigar after dinner, for the slight fog it diffused in his brain. He read the leading article, in which it was maintained that it was quite senseless in our day to raise an outcry that radicalism was threatening to swallow up all conservative elements, and that the government ought to take measures to crush the revolutionary hydra; that, on the contrary, "in our opinion the danger lies not in that fantastic revolutionary hydra, but in the obstinacy of traditionalism clogging progress," etc., etc. He read another article, too, a financial one, which alluded to Bentham and Mill, and dropped some innuendoes reflecting on the ministry. With his characteristic quickwittedness he caught the drift of each innuendo, divined whence it came, at whom and on what ground it was aimed, and that afforded him, as it always did, a certain satisfaction. But today that satisfaction was embittered by Matrona Philimonovna's advice and the unsatisfactory state of the household. He read, too, that Count Beist was rumored to have left for Wiesbaden, and that one need have no more gray hair, and of the sale of a light carriage, and of a young person seeking a situation; but these items of information did not give him, as usual, a quiet, ironical gratification. Having finished the paper, a second cup of coffee and a roll and butter, he got up, shaking the crumbs of the roll off his waistcoat; and, squaring his broad chest, he smiled joyously: not because there was anything particularly agreeable in his mind—the joyous smile was evoked by a good digestion.