Jake English Quotes

Why can't you say it?" I hardened my voice. "Because I'm telling you, you never have. I'd have remembered." He stared at me with disbelief. [...] "Love you? Of course I love you. Baby, I fucking worship you.

I love you," Jake whispered. "Are you strong enough for this?" I made myself comfortable. Said over my shoulder, "Sure." "Would you tell me if you weren't?" I grinned. "Maybe. I can't think of a nicer way to commit suicide." "That's good. I can't think of a more pleasant way to commit murder.

You were the first in every way that counted.

Shrugging out of the damaged shirt, Jake said roughly, “I still dream about you.” “I have nightmares about you.” I dragged my T-shirt over my head, threw it aside.

The only thing worse than opera is someone who hums along with opera.

Love you? Of course I love you. Baby, I fucking worship you.

It was nearly five before Jake walked in. He was sunburnt, wet, and smelled faintly of fish. Sexy as hell. Don’t ask me to explain.

'You know what I thought the first time I saw you?' 'No.' 'Point of no return.'

Just shut up and listen.” “Well since you ask so nicely….” There was silence. I listened. He didn’t say anything. “Are we communicating through the Psychic Hotline or what?

The expression Jake saw on all the faces, oldest to youngest, was the same: pure joy. Not just that, he thought, and remembered a phrase his English teacher had used about how some books make us feel: the ecstasy of perfect recognition.

Kevin refilled my plastic cup with more box wine. I smiled thanks. Kevin smiled welcome. Jake kicked my ankle.

I turned back to the television. After a while what I was staring at registered. “Hey, this is The Long Goodbye." Jake opened his eyes. “What?" "This movie. It's Robert Altman's take on Chandler's The Long Goodbye. ‘Nothing says good-bye like a bullet.’” "I don't know,” said Jake. “Sometimes the words are enough.

...Jake, a homosexual cop buried so deep in the closet he didn't know where to look for himself.

Planning on staying?” “Just till you wise up.” “I’m flattered you think that’s a possibility.” “Yeah, well it’s lucky I’ve rolled a lot of vacation.

Jake's mouth found mine, his lips molding hot and soft to my own. His tongue tentatively tested the seal of my lips; I parted them and he pushed inside. It was startlingly sweet and achingly familiar, like finding harbor.

Why can't you say it?" I hardened my voice. "Because I'm telling you, you never have. I'd have remembered." He stared at me with disbelief. Then he lunged forward, pushing me flat in the pillows once more. He leaned over me, his mouth a brush of lips away from my own, his breath warm on my face. "Love you? Of course I love you. Baby, I fucking worship you.

'You remember asking me if I'd ever begged?' I wiped the corner of my eyes, sniffed. 'Is this about to get kinky?'

If you turned in a paper with writing on it, you were guaranteed a hook from Jake Epping of the LHS English Department, and if the writing was organized into actual paragraphs, you got at least a B-minus.

Plus there was the standard French insult of ignoring your French and answering in English.

I cracked the window shades of my eyes. Jake knelt over me, the head of my cock in his mouth. I raised my head, mumbled, "What are you doing?" He paused the proceedings long enough to utter, "If you don't know, I must not be doing it correctly.

He won't feel a fraction of what I do for you. You won't change his life. And you will always wonder about what could have been, always feel that funny little ache right here." He puts his hand over your heart.

Look, Paul. I appreciate what you’re telling me, but I gave Jake my word. Not to mention the fact, he’d throw my ass in jail if he found out I tried to go around him.” “He wouldn’t, you know,” he said. “Jake’s a pussycat.” Yeah, just a big old saber-toothed tiger.

Natalie said, “That detective in charge of the case: is he your Jake?” My mouth dried. The words felt arid and dusty as I forced them out. “Who told you his name?” Like I had to ask. “Lisa pointed him out on television the other night, and I recognized him as one of the cops who was in here the other day.” I opened my mouth, and then shut it. Jake had to know he was fighting a rearguard action. And I was through lying to my own friends and family. “Yeah,” I said. “We used to be friends. A long time ago. He’s married now.” “Bastard,” she said. I shook my head. “Not really. He never lied to me. I just didn’t ask the questions I didn’t want to know the answers to.

There was a line from The Lady in the Lake I could have quoted him: “Police business is a hell of a problem. It’s a good deal like politics. It asks for the highest type of men, and there’s nothing in it to attract the highest type of men.” When Jake recognized that he had failed to live up to his responsibility to uphold that law, he had resigned. He had had the honor and the courage to step away. Not every man had that in him; I thought probably very few men did.

Jake fried up the fish, cooked rice with garlic, cilantro and green onions. Someday he was going to make some woman a wonderful wife.

The expression Jake saw on all the faces, oldest to youngest, was the same: pure joy. Not just that, he thought, and remembered a phrase his English teacher had used about how some books make us feel: the ecstasy of perfect recognition.

Kill him? (Jake) Confront him. (Morgan) Since when do you take the sissy way out? (Jake) Excuse me? (Morgan) Face it, Drake, that good English breeding of yours is showing itself. Talking ain’t a man’s way of doing things. You know that. You got a problem, you cut its heart out and then it’s not a problem anymore. (Jake)

You just get pickier. I think that's true of everything. Money, toys, girls - all the hedonistic stuff. You just raise the bar

GT: You know how you think you know these things about yourself? GT: Like all these personal attributes about you as if theyre written down somewhere like a sort of mini biography so they have to be true. GT: So you just believe them and hope that the believing is what makes them true. GT: But then you spend so much time believing those things and taking their truth for granted that you somehow forget to MAKE them true with your words and deeds. GT: How can i truly love adventure when i never even knew what it was?

Sembrava esserci una strana, dolce continuità in quell’amoreggiare incerto e reverente, eppure, in un certo senso, era come se fosse la prima volta mentre facevamo l’amore tra le rovine dei sogni di Jake. Ed era la prima volta. La prima volta che stavamo insieme senza segreti e restrizioni. Eravamo nudi… in ogni modo possibile.

My existence threatens you." He shoved me back. hard. I crashed into the hall table, knocking it over, smashing the jar of old marbles I had collected. Glass balls skipped and bounced along the corridor. I landed on my back, my head banging down on the hardwood floor. I lay there for a second, blinking up at the lighting fixture, taking in the years of dust and dead moths gathered in the etched-glass globe. The silence that followed was more startling than the collision of me and the table and the floor. I heard Jake's harsh breathing and a marble rolling away down the hall — which seemed pretty damned appropriate, since I'd apparently lost all of mine.

Jake sapeva di bourbon e dolore. Aprii la bocca alla sua lingua, il suo ruvido velluto che spingeva contro il mio, reclamandomi come io stavo reclamando lui. Quel torrido pomeriggio – le scuri di legno che sbattevano contro il muro, il ronzio delle api fuori dalla finestra, il rumore lontano di un aereo che viaggiava verso luoghi sconosciuti – era solo un altro anello della catena.

My grandfather spoke of the influx of Mexican farmworkers and how it was bringing an unwelcome element to the valley and my father asked how the farmers were supposed to get the work done without the help of the migrants. Liz said that when she saw the migrant families in town they were always clean and polite and the children well behaved and she felt bad that often the entire family, young children and all, had to labor in the fields to earn a living. My grandfather said, “If they’d just learn to speak English.” Jake and I often suffered through this kind of discussion in silence.

Anyway how are you doing, crybaby? You’re fifteen now right? Crazy huh? How is school going? If you ask someone out, don’t make her kiss you right away. Also, don’t make her keep it a secret. It will make her feel bad. Are you still watching too many cartoons? What do you do in your free time? Jake does karate. I think it’s very manly. Not like someone like me needs protecting, but it’s nice to know he could, you know? My teachers say I’m good at English. My aunt thinks I should be a writer, like her of course. What do they even do? I miss you. I haven’t had a friend as good as you. Remember how scared you were I would lose your address? I showed you. Well I don’t have anything else to say. I love you. Yours, Nicole

Susannah smiled at them nervously, then looked up at the route-map. "Hello, Blaine." "HOWDY, SUSANNAH OF NEW YORK." Her heart was pounding, her armpits were damp, and here was something she had first discovered way back in the first grade: it was hard to begin. It was hard to stand up in front of the class and be first with your song, your joke, your report on how you spent your summer vacation ... or your riddle, for that matter. The one she had decided upon was one from Jake Chambers's crazed English essay, which he had recited to them almost verbatim during their long palaver after leaving the old people of River Crossing. The essay, titled "My Understanding of Truth," had contained two riddles, one of which Eddie had already used on Blaine. "SUSANNAH? ARE YOU THERE, L'IL COWGIRL?" Teasing again, but this time the teasing sounded light, good-natured. Good-humored. Blaine could be charming when he got what he wanted. Like certain spoiled children she had known. "Yes, Blaine, I am, and here is my riddle. What has four wheels and flies?" There was a peculiar click, as if Blaine were mimicking the sound of a man popping his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was followed by a brief pause. When Blaine replied, most of the jocularity had gone out of his voice. "THE TOWN GARBAGE WAGON, OF COURSE. A CHILD'S RIDDLE. IF THE REST OF YOUR RIDDLES ARE NO BETTER, I WILL BE EXTREMELY SORRY I SAVED YOUR LIVES FOR EVEN A SHORT WHILE.

Wiesbaden

An English organist named Jeremiah Clarke wanted to commit suicide but he couldn’t decide whether to hang himself or drown, so he flipped a coin. The coin landed on its edge in the mud so he ended up shooting himself instead.

half

He shivered under the big hands that manipulated him. They were doing more than just looking for a quick fuck—the touches were lingering, like burning hot ribbons along his skin. His cock ached as Tom touched him, fingers digging into his skin, like Tom wanted Prophet to remember him, remember this. And fuck, he would. Knew that already, because his body wanted more. He didn’t know why he needed this so badly. Tommy thrust against him, the piercings rolling inside him in just the right places, his hand on Prophet’s cock. Prophet’s climax was like a gathering storm, swirling furiously, thunderously fast and uncontrolled, part wrath, part beauty, mixed with a little pain, and oh fuck, yes. Tom kept up a steady stream of dirty talk. Maybe it was the drugs, but Prophet didn’t think so. It was a mix of English and Cajun French and Prophet’s orgasm was long and drawn out, left him wrecked, weakened, unable to stop shuddering. Tom

WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A CAT AND A COMPLEX SENTENCE?” Jake spoke up. “Our English teacher told us that one just this year. A cat has claws at the end of its paws, and a complex sentence has a pause at the end of its clause.

There is an Austrian village called Fucking. In 2004, a vote was held to change Fucking’s name. After this vote failed, Fucking’s mayor stated that, “Everyone here knows what it means in English, but for us Fucking is Fucking, and it’s going to stay Fucking.

in which one finds oneself; a state of affairs: the situation between her and Jake had come to a head;the political situation in Russia. 2 the location and surroundings of a place: the situation of the town is pleasant. 3 FORMAL a position of employment; a job.   sit·u·a·tion·aladj.sit·u·a·tion·al·lyadv.  late Middle English (sense 2): from French, or from medieval Latin situatio(n-), from situare 'to place' (see SITUATE). Sense 1 dates

Jake pulls out the phone. The buzzing sound is a text from Kenny. Where are you? English classroom, Jake advises.  North side, right? Right. Stay there. Lock the door. Tell the teacher. Someone has a gun and is shooting people on the south side. Shit! Seriously?

Kevin refilled my plastic cup with more box wine. I smiled thanks. Kevin smiled welcome. Jake kicked my ankle.

Have you noticed nothing odd about their relationship, Valentine?” “No, and it’s not appropriate for us to discuss it.” Monsieur Broussard regarded Mrs. Pennywhistle with keen interest. “I’m French,” he said. “I have no problem discussing it.” Mrs. Pennywhistle lowered her voice, mindful of the scullery maids who were washing pots in the adjoining room. “There is some doubt as to whether they’ve had conjugal relations yet.” “Now see here—” Jake began, outraged at this violation of his employer’s privacy. “Have some of this, mon ami,” Broussard said, shoving a pastry plate at him. As Jake sat and picked up a spoon, the chef gave Mrs. Pennywhistle an encouraging glance. “What gives you the impression that he has not yet, er . . . sampled the watercress?” “Watercress?” Jake repeated incredulously. “Cresson.” Broussard gave him a superior look. “A metaphor. And much nicer than the metaphors you English use for the same thing.” “I never use metaphors,” Jake muttered. “Bien sur, you have no imagination.” The chef turned back to the housekeeper. “Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?” “The sheets,” she said succinctly. Jake nearly choked on his pastry. “You have the housemaids spying on them?” he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream. “Not at all,” the housekeeper said defensively. “It’s only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn’t, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple.” The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?” “Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded. The chef shrugged. “Oui.” “Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.” “Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?