Kinky Talk Quotes

Don't talk." Alec gestured at him with an expression of vague disgust. "Every time I look at you, I keep remembering coming in here and seeing you draped all over my sister." Jace sat up. "I didn't hear about this." "Oh, come on -" said Simon. "Simon, you're blushing," observed Jace. "And you're a vampire and almost never blush, so this better be really juicy. And weird. Were bicycles involved in some kinky way? Vaccum cleaners? Umbrellas?" "Big umbrellas, or the little kind you get with drinks?" Alec asked. "Does it matter -

Trouble in paradise? Want me to talk to him for you?” he offered. “I’m sure I can convince him to come crawling back. Even literally, if you’re into that kind of kinky stuff.

I am not a total pervert. Although, to be honest, consider the night we’ve been having. First handcuffs, and now this? Way more kinky than I expected.” “Please,” M’cal said. “Do not talk.” “You like the strong and silent type, huh?” “If you do not shut up, I will kill you with my voice.” “I love it when you talk dirty.” “Fine. Which would you prefer to lose first? Your soul or your testicles?” “You know, you’re just a bit obsessed with chopping off balls. Do you have issues with your masculinity?

Let me tell you what I want. You, screaming my name, telling me how much you love being Daddy's slutty little girl while you beg me to go harder.

When women read romance books, one of two things generally happen.” Mal ran a hand through his lovely locks. “They either want to discuss the book in great depth. And probably, life and your relationship. Now sometimes that’s okay. You reach a higher level of understanding with each other and shit. But sometimes it sucks, pure and simple. You wind up getting bitched at for days because of something the dude in the book did that makes you look bad. But if it’s an awesome book, however, a hot one? Well then … kinky fuckery like you wouldn’t believe, man. The ideas Pumpkin has gotten out of some of those books. Gold. I could never have talked her into trying half of that stuff.

It will never belong in a Hallmark card, but I drove a car into a house and killed a man for you. You chained me up for days and I still wanted to come back and talk over our darkly sordid, slightly kinky, and a lot warped relationship. Face it, you're stuck with me.

You're not my matchmaker any longer. But we're still friends, and in the interest of our friendship we need to discuss page thirteen." "Page thirteen ?" "You've accused me of being arrogant. I've always thought of myself as confident, but I'm here to tell you, no more. After studying these pictures... Honey, if this is what you're looking for in a man, I don't think any of us are going to measure up." "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Who knew flexible silicone came in so many colors?" Her sex toy catalog. He'd taken it months ago. She'd hoped he forgotten it by now. " Most of these products are hypoallergenic. That's good, I guess. Some with batteries, some without. I suppose that's a matter of preference. There's a harness on this one. That's pretty kinky. And...Son of a bitch ! It says this one is dishwater safe. I'm sorry but there's just something unappetizing about that.

Bernstein passed the reporters’ information about Segretti on to Meyers, who was staking out Segretti’s apartment and talking to his neighbors. Marina del Rey, where Segretti lived, was on the water and, if you believed the ads, represented the ultimate in swinging-singles living. Lots of sailing, saunas, mixed-doubles tennis, pools, parties, candlelight, long-stemmed glasses, Caesar salads, tanned bodies, mixed double-triple-multiple kinkiness in scented sandalwood splendor.

Stevie: "If you think he's a lecher and all men are disgusting, why do you want me to date?" Zena: "Because, Stevie. Now and then, when the moon is full and bluish, when the galaxy is all calm and peaceful and serenity rules and even the falling stars are falling gracefully, and the wind creates a beautiful song, that's when you find one outstanding man. Kind. Loyal. Funny and smart, great in bed but not kinky. A lover in his head and in his body. A man who doesn't think as a dick-obsessed monkey with a brain the size of a testicle, but one who is thoughtful and can hold his emotions in one hand and hug you close with the other. A man who is a hunky, manly man but who can talk to you like your best girlfriend, because that's what he wants to be for you. Your best friend." (Page 44)

First, they set the hook with mind-bending kinky shit. Then a year later you're living in a Talking Heads song, dressed like Teddy Ruxpin, living with a strange woman in a big house full of frilly throw pillows, experiencing the frequency of sex that can only be charted by Halley's Comet. and you're wondering: How did I get here?

Is Obama Anything but Black? So lots of folk—mostly non-black—say Obama’s not black, he’s biracial, multiracial, black-and-white, anything but just black. Because his mother was white. But race is not biology; race is sociology. Race is not genotype; race is phenotype. Race matters because of racism. And racism is absurd because it’s about how you look. Not about the blood you have. It’s about the shade of your skin and the shape of your nose and the kink of your hair. Booker T. Washington and Frederick Douglass had white fathers. Imagine them saying they were not black. Imagine Obama, skin the color of a toasted almond, hair kinky, saying to a census worker—I’m kind of white. Sure you are, she’ll say. Many American Blacks have a white person in their ancestry, because white slave owners liked to go a-raping in the slave quarters at night. But if you come out looking dark, that’s it. (So if you are that blond, blue-eyed woman who says “My grandfather was Native American and I get discrimination too” when black folk are talking about shit, please stop it already.) In America, you don’t get to decide what race you are. It is decided for you. Barack Obama, looking as he does, would have had to sit in the back of the bus fifty years ago. If a random black guy commits a crime today, Barack Obama could be stopped and questioned for fitting the profile. And what would that profile be? “Black Man.

There are times to act the master, there are times to act the slave - let your partner decide what they want, and act accordingly.

Nick,” she sighed. “It will never belong in a Hallmark card, but I drove a car into a house and killed a man for you. You chained me up for days and I still wanted to come back and talk over our darkly sordid, slightly kinky, and a lot warped relationship. Face it, you’re stuck with me.

But whenever I tried to pin down this idea of self-esteem, the specific qualities we hoped to inculcate, the specific means by which we might feel good about ourselves, the conversation always seemed to follow a path of infinite regress. Did you dislike yourself because of your color or because you couldn’t read and couldn’t get a job? Or perhaps it was because you were unloved as a child—only, were you unloved because you were too dark? Or too light? Or because your mother shot heroin into her veins … and why did she do that anyway? Was the sense of emptiness you felt a consequence of kinky hair or the fact that your apartment had no heat and no decent furniture? Or was it because deep down you imagined a godless universe? Maybe one couldn’t avoid such questions on the road to personal salvation. What I doubted was that all the talk about self-esteem could serve as the centerpiece of an effective black politics. It demanded too much honest self-reckoning from people; without such honesty, it easily degenerated into vague exhortation. Perhaps with more self-esteem fewer blacks would be poor, I thought to myself, but I had no doubt that poverty did nothing for our self-esteem. Better to concentrate on the things we might all agree on. Give that black man some tangible skills and a job. Teach that black child reading and arithmetic in a safe, well-funded school. With the basics taken care of, each of us could search for our own sense of self-worth.

She already has.” Assail smiled cruelly in the dark. “Tell me, is your Dom reputation just talk or are you truly that perverted?” “Waste my time with gossip and I’ll answer that firsthand.” “Kinky.” “Why do you ask?” “Your name came up in conversation.” “How.” The fact that that wasn’t a question, but a demand was not a surprise. “She was speaking of sexual conquests she had enjoyed. You apparently were one of them, back when she was younger—and she made it clear you had done the conquesting, as it were.” “I’ve fucked a lot of people,” V said in a bored tone, “and forgotten ninety-five percent of them. So tell me what you know—and not about sex. Mine or others’.

Mac: "I happen to love flowers. Especially on clothes. The flashier, the better." Cooper rolls his eyes as if he knows I'm lying through my teeth. Cooper: "You know, you don't have to work this hard. I'm pretty easy." Mac: "I'm sorry, what? Who's working too hard? You've been blowing up my phone talking about scone porn." Cooper: "You're kinky." he says, shrugging Cooper: "I get it. It's not my thing, but whatever gets you off.

Now that we know Dylan's gonna live,” Evan speaks up, “I think we should leave these two alone.” He and Cole help me stand, though there's nothing wrong with my legs. “Yeah, so they can practice experimenting on that connection thing I mentioned earlier,” Barry says with a chuckle. “The man's hurt,” Evan says. “What's your point?” Willy asks. “His side is hurt, not his co-” “Willy,” Randy cuts him off. “Pfft! Like they don't know what I'm talking about.

The making of disability justice lives in the realm of thinking and talking and knowledge making, in art and sky. But it also lives in how to rent an accessible porta potty for an accessible-except-the-bathroom event space, how to mix coconut oil and aloe to make a fragrance-free hair lotion that works for curly and kinky BIPOC hair, how to learn to care for each other when everyone is sick, tired, crazy, and brilliant. And neither is possible without the other.

I’m going to build the biggest, most exclusive, most impressive S and M club in the world.” Søren said nothing at first. But he did look up to the ceiling and addressed a few words to it. “I suppose it wouldn’t have occurred to you to call him to join the Peace Corps, Lord,” Søren said, still gazing upward. “It had to be this?” “Who the hell are you talking to?” Kingsley demanded. “God. I was criticizing Him, so perhaps it’s for the best you interrupted. This is your grand calling in life? Your ultimate purpose? An S and M club?” “No,” Kingsley said, shaking his head. “Not an S and M club. The S and M club. And you’re going to help me, because it’s your fault I’m doing this.” “My fault?” Søren repeated, pointing at himself. “What leaps in logic did you take to lay this at my doorstep?” “You turned me kinky,” Kingsley said. Søren paused. “I want to argue with that assertion,” Søren said. “Oui?” “I said I wanted to argue with, not that I could.

Lukesagynecologist." "What?" Everly tilts her head like I'm talking crazy. "Luke is a gynecologist. At the student health clinic." "Shut the fuck up." I think I've managed to shock Everly. "I did not see this coming." She looks at me. "So?" "So?" I ask. "So you rescheduled the appointment with another doctor?" "No. I kept the appointment." "You kinky bitch, you did not! Stop it." "I did. I was already sitting on the exam table wearing a paper gown when he walked in. What was I supposed to do?" "Was it good for you?" She grins at me suggestively. "Everly!" "Bitch, I know you enjoyed it. At least a little." "You think there's something wrong with me, don't you?" "Sophie, no. That guy has no business being a gynecologist. It's not fair to women." "I think he's technically an obstetrician." "Same difference." "The nurse said he runs a department at the hospital.” "Well done, Sophie. When you crush, you crush classy." "Ugh." I cringe. "That reminds me. Do you keep your socks on during a gynecologist exam?" "Off. So, did you get your prescription?" "Yeah." I nod. "And a bag full of condoms." I pat my backpack. "Aww. Dr. Luke cares about your safety." "You understand I am never waiting on him again, right?" "Oh, yeah. I figured that out about thirty seconds into this conversation.

Assail: Tell me, is your Dom reputation just talk, or are you truly that perverted? Vishous: Waste my time with gossip and I'll answer that firsthand. Assail: Kinky.

When women read romance books, one of two things generally happen.” Mal ran a hand through his lovely locks. “They either want to discuss the book in great depth. And probably, life and your relationship. Now sometimes that’s okay. You reach a higher level of understanding with each other and shit. But sometimes it sucks, pure and simple. You wind up getting bitched at for days because of something the dude in the book did that makes you look bad. But if it’s an awesome book, however, a hot one? Well then … kinky fuckery like you wouldn’t believe, man. The ideas Pumpkin has gotten out of some of those books. Gold. I could never have talked her into trying half of that stuff.” “Huh.

You over there playing with my pussy?” Caught red-handed, Genai eased her hand from her shorts. “No.” “You know, lying gets you punished.” “I’m not lying. Are you on your way?” “Yeah, and I’ll see when I get there. I brought you some food too. Have you eaten? I don’t need you passing out on me. I’m kinky, but not that damn kinky.

The problem is I like her.” “I should hope so, seeing as how you’ve been doing things this uncle prefers not to think of.” Makl’s head shot up and he scowled. “Yeah, well, it’s the things I want to do with her that I’ve never wanted to do before that worry me.” Up shot Murphy’s brows. “I don’t know if I’m the right person to talk to about that. If you’re wanting something kinky, you’ll have to talk to her.

We enjoy talking about music, politics, and subjugation. —Kinky Friedman to Night Rider on KOKE-FM

But when my ex opens the door, her somber expression and baggy sweats do not suggest we’re about to roll around naked. Nor does the toddler asleep on the bed behind her. I’m frozen as Janelle wraps her arms around me in a hug. “I’ve missed you,” she coos in a baby voice. I would not consider myself the paragon of virtue, but there’s no way I’m doing kinky shit with my ex while a kid sleeps a few feet away. I’ve never seen her baby before. When I found out Janelle’s new guy had knocked her up, I did my best to eradicate thoughts of her from my life. It was too painful to see her move on when she’d promised me that future. I only vaguely inquire about her through my cousin Bianca when I plan trips home so I can avoid my ex. As I take a good long look at the sleeping bundle, I stop breathing. Ernest has blond hair. And Janelle has light brown. My eyes are lasered on the kid, who has thick, black hair. Much like mine. Sweat breaks out on my body, and a giant lump forms in my throat. I cough. “What the fuck is going on?” Janelle wrings her hands, tears forming in her eyes. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Why I needed to do this in person. It’s long overdue.” But like all truly messed-up things in my life, I know the answer to my question before the words are out of her mouth. “She’s yours, Ben.” 3 BEN A suffocating, twisting blackness spreads through me as I stare at this woman I once loved.

I knew I was opening a can of worms, but offered, “The shower’s still seeing its fair share of action. It’s just not of the solo variety any longer.” “Now we’re talking!” Hannah’s voice was full of laughter. “Is he into anything kinky? Please tell me that brooding hulk of a man is pierced.

Every erotic sufferer, or inflicter of suffering, occasionally feels the pang of desire for "reality," the quest to turn the delicate interplay of symbols into something more poignant and immediate. It is at this time that partners begin talk of disposing of safewords, of consensual nonconsent, of "no way out" scenes.

Lincoln: Let me know if you need any cuffs. What did that have to do with anything? Me: Cuffs? Why would I need—wait. You’re not talking about some kinky sex thing, are you? Lincoln: … Me: … I glanced at Blake again. Me: I could probably use them.

Right,” the girl said, “business.” She whipped out a BlackBerry and began hitting buttons. “Please tell me one of you is Sam LaCroix.”   I raised my hand. “Present.”   “Finally.” She walked up to the bars, pointing an accusing finger in my face. “You are a rather troublesome young man to find.” She hit a few more buttons on the BlackBerry. “I freaking hate nicknames. I tell people, give me the whole name, it’s easier. But nooo.” Her brow furrowed, and she focused her attention back on me. “Usually Sam is easy though. Samuel, Samwise, there are only so many things a shortened Sam could be. So why were you so difficult?”   I poked my chest. “Samhain.”   The girl snorted. “I should have known. New-age Celtic-loving hippies, making my life hell.” She continued to type, her face brightening. “Right, there you are. Samhain LaCroix.” She looked back up at me. “You think you can get yourself out of that kinky love cage you’re in and talk to me? I’m on a tight schedule.”   I crossed my arms over my chest. “Little girl, do you think we want to be in here?”   “You seemed happy to be there when I showed up.”   “Touché,” Brid murmured.   I glared at her. “Hey, how ’bout you stop with the smart-ass remarks, and maybe we can get out of here?

She asked why I didn’t identify as “part white” when my mother, her, was white. I explained that while I had definitely inherited light-skin privilege due to my mixed heritage I did not feel that whiteness was something that any person with brown skin and kinky hair could inherit, because race doesn’t care what your parents look like—just look at all the light-skinned slaves sold away from their black mothers by their white fathers.

I don’t want to hear you talk about yourself like this.” “I don’t have to talk.” He ran his hand down her thigh as he let his lips drag across her cheek, towards her ear. “I could do other things with my mouth.