Lycra Quotes

The last time I wore an animal hide; but this time I settled for this." Eric had been wearing a long trench coat. Now he threw it off dramatically, and I could only stand and stare. Normally, Eric was a blue-jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy. Tonight, he wore a pink tank top and Lycra leggings[...]They were pink and aqua, like the swirls down the side of Jason's truck.

Wow," I said, since it was all I could think of to say. "Wow. That's some outfit." When you've got a big guy wearing Lycra it doesn't leave a whole lot to the imagination. I resisted the temptation to ask Eric to turn around. "I don't believe I could be convincing as a queen," Eric said, "but I decided this sent such a mixed signal, almost anything was possible." He fluttered his eyelashes at me. Eric was definitely enjoying this. "Oh, yes," I said, trying to find somewhere else to look. (Living Dead in Dallas)

Here's to our enduring sisterhood. May it bind us together more tightly that the Lycra in my Spanx underpants.

Forget trying to be Supermom - it's way too stressful and who needs more stress? Besides super heroes tend to wear a lot of clingy Lycra and none of us needs that.

Honestly, some days it's like trying to get an angry ginger tom into a pair of Lycra cycling shorts.

She'd become an English major for the purest and dullest of reasons: because she liked to read. The university’s “British and American Literature Course Catalog” was, for Madeleine, what its Bergdorf equivalent was for her roommates. A course listing like “English 274: Lily’s Euphues” excited Madeleine the way a pair of Fiorucci cowboy boots did Abby. “English 450A: Hawthorne and James” filled Madeleine with an expectation of sinful hours in bed not unlike what Olivia got from wearing a Lycra skirt and leather blazer in Danceteria. Even as a girl in their house in Prettrybrook, Madeleine wandered into the library, with its shelves of books rising higher than she could reach … and the magisterial presence of all those potentially readable words stopped her in her tracks.

You two have a lot to learn about being subs." "Maybe, but I can't believe how turned on I am," Rory whispered. Jack smiled at her. "I can." He sat on his knees and his gaze traveled over her body to the neat pink Lycra V between her legs. "You've soaked your bottoms already." The grin on his face was wicked. "Take them off.

He settled his big hands on her hips. He let them slide slowly down to cup her ass which she had jammed into a Spanx hide and seek high rise panty. Before slipping on the slinky purple faux wrap dress that her daughter had given her after surviving being held at gunpoint together gift the prior fall. Stella was fairly sure she would enjoy the sensation of Goat’s strong fingers kneading her flesh if it hadn’t gotten numb in its fierce polyester lycra prison hours ago.

I’m well aware that it’s been suggested by various left-wing, vegetarian, lycra-wearing do-gooders with their little pimply arses that Chavs are a consequence of a terribly unjust society. From time to time it can seem like an unjust society, no argument there, and Chavs may well be a consequence, but people who lack fire in their belly and an earnest desire to improve their situation should never be permitted to treat that as an excuse. The second they start blaming society is the very second they disempower themselves.

Thing is, what does a hero look like these days? Muscles and lycra? Life isn’t a contest of strength anymore. Jobs, banks, taxes. Boring social reality.

In an era when man can no longer dash out of his cave and slay a mammoth, he simply slips on his Lycra and goes for a run.

At forty-five not even expensive highlights and a boatload of Lycra could disguise the fact that her body had given up its struggle against gravity.

He dropped in front of me and did the leg spread. Lycra is proof that God exists.

So my life has come to this: all I ever make is laundry. Awake or asleep, I'm always shuffling round some shopping mall, raking through knitwear carousels that whirl into infinity, searching, with the fever or teething gums, for the ultimate cardigan. Is it any wonder the wardrobe's bursting, the linen basket overflowing like an archive of disproved hypotheses? The grey bras, the shrinking T-shirts, that embarrassed puddle of lycra, my favourite dress -- now ruined dress -- my lost remembered, perfect dress: all laundry, in the end. More laundry.

Every pregnancy results in roughly two years of lost menstruation. If you are a manufacturer of menstrual pads, this is bad for business. So you ought to know about, and be so happy about, the drop in babies per woman across the world. You ought to know and be happy too about the growth in the number of educated women working away from home. Because these developments have created an exploding market for your products over the last few decades among billions of menstruating women now living on Levels 2 and 3. But, as I realized when I attended an internal meeting at one of the world’s biggest manufacturers of sanitary wear, most Western manufacturers have completely missed this. Instead, when hunting for new customers they are often stuck dreaming up new needs among the 300 million menstruating women on Level 4. “What if we market an even thinner pad for bikinis? What about pads that are invisible, to wear under Lycra? How about one pad for each kind of outfit, each situation, each sport? Special pads for mountain climbers!” Ideally, all the pads are so small they need to be replaced several times a day. But like most rich consumer markets, the basic needs are already met, and producers fight in vain to create demand in ever-smaller segments. Meanwhile, on Levels 2 and 3, roughly 2 billion menstruating women have few alternatives to choose from. These women don’t wear Lycra and won’t spend money on ultrathin pads. They demand a low-cost pad that will be reliable throughout the day so they don’t have to change it when they are out at work. And when they find a product they like, they will probably stick to that brand for their whole lives and recommend it to their daughters.

Friedrich Nietzsche got pretty hung up on the notion of human will; really all he needed were some running shoes, Lycra and a place in the Berlin Marathon.

You should get those stretchy underpants all the gay porn stars are wearing these days and wear them instead of those blue Lycra-looking ones. They make all their dicks look huge.” “Because all their dicks are huge,” I said. “They’re called trophy briefs for a reason.

Detective, any warm-blooded male with a pulse would have his hand on your glorious ass. May I?" "Knock yourself out." His fingertips sketched over that tight sheen of Lycra before cupping a taut globe for a squeeze. "What kind of workout do you do to get that kind of muscle tone?" She put her face up close to his. "I beat the shit outta guys who grab my ass.

While Sean was pulling on his fins, Lily had pretended to be busy herself. She’d made a show of tugging on her goggles, just in case he happened to glance up, and saw her staring like an obsessed ninny. Through the tinted blue of her goggles, she watched him surface. Oh my god. Her knees went weak, threatened to buckle. Sean was doing a butterfly kick on his back. Her eyes traveled down the length of his torso, and stopped, transfixed. She swallowed convulsively. Yet she couldn’t have torn her eyes away from the sight of Sean’s narrow hips if someone had screamed, Fire! Encased in black Lycra, they moved in a suggestive rhythm, breaking the surface of the water, sinking, and then rising again, over and over. Unbearably erotic, an answering beat drummed deep inside Lily. Helplessly, she conjured endless hours of sex, Sean’s body driving into her with the same relentless, unbroken rhythm, each flex of his hips thrusting to her very womb. “Something wrong, Lily?” Hal’s impatient voice demanded. Lily nearly leaped out of her skin. She was the only one left on deck besides Hal. “No, nothing,” she said hurriedly, hyperconscious that her voice was reedy thin. “Just about to jump in.” To clear her mind of the sexual fog that lay thick and heavy, she blinked rapidly—only to mutter a soft curse when she realized what had happened. Yanking her goggles off, she dropped to a kneel and swished them viciously in the water. “What’s the problem now?” Hal’s patience was obviously wearing thin. Embarrassed, resentful, and praying Hal wouldn’t guess the real reason why, Lily ground out her explanation. “My glasses fogged.” “They broken? I’ve got—” “No, no . . .” she interrupted tersely, and felt immediately guilty. It wasn’t Hal’s fault her goggles had literally fogged from the heat of her aroused body. It was hers. That’s what she got from staring at Sean McDermott’s groin for too long: fogged mind, fogged goggles. Determined to ignore the sight of Sean moving like a bold lover through the water next to her, that incredible, muscled body within touching distance, Lily gritted her teeth and dove in.

To be honest, today’s runners may as well go back to being nude as them Lycra pants they wear don’t really hide much, do they? It’s plain to see that if Usain Bolt went back to the old ways of running in the nude he would have an advantage getting over the finish line before anyone else. It

I'm usually all about the lace, but f**k me...lycra may be my new favourite

Jamie got back to her apartment in nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds.  It wasn’t a personal best for a five-kilometre run, but it was still fast.  She showered and dressed, pulled on her boots, and was out the door in seventeen minutes flat. Which probably was close to a personal best.  She was wearing jeans she picked up from a supermarket. She liked them because they had a three percent lycra content woven into the denim, which stretched a little and meant that she could more easily crouch, walk, and kick someone in the side of the head if the situation called for it. It hadn’t yet, but she had a long career ahead of herself, she hoped.  She jumped into her car — a small and economical hybrid hatchback which squeezed around the city easily — and headed north towards the Lea.  It took nearly forty minutes to get there in rush hour traffic, and by the time she pulled up, Roper was leaning against the bonnet of his ten-year-old Volvo saloon, smoking a cigarette. He was tall with thinning, short hair, and a face that looked like he was always squinting into a stiff wind.  His long black coat was pinned to his right leg in the breeze and his shirt looked like it’d been pulled out of the laundry hamper rather than a clean drawer. He was perpetually single, and it showed. There was no one to hold him accountable when he decided it was okay to skip a morning shower for an extra ten minutes sleeping off his hangover. What she hated most about him, beyond the cigarette stink and the pissed-at-life attitude, was that she always had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t her father.  Her mother had dragged her away from him in Sweden, and now, she’d been thrown together with a guy who seemingly had inherited all his bad habits. Her mum said it was because all detectives were like it if they did the job long enough. They saw too much and didn’t talk about it enough. Which led inevitably to drink, and drugs, and other women. She’d spoken from experience of course. And Jamie knew she hadn’t exaggerated.  Though moving them both to Britain seemed like a bit of a dramatic reaction. But then again, her father had given her mother gonorrhoea and couldn’t say which woman he’d gotten it from. So Jamie figured it was reasonable.  He would have turned sixty-one this year. Roper pushed off the Volvo and ground out his cigarette under the heel of his battered Chelsea boot. Jamie looked at it, stopping short of his odour-radius. ‘You gonna just leave that there?’ He looked between his feet, rolling onto the outsides of them as he inspected the flattened butt. ‘It’ll wash away in the rain.’ ‘Into the ocean, yeah, where some poor fish is going to eat it,’ Jamie growled, coming to a stop in front of him.

We filled the bottles for free at a spring at the base of West Hill and began a slow, slow walk up Houns-tout Cliff towards the Kimmeridge Ledges, where rock climbers hung in effortless patterns of Lycra and chalk bags.

Never mind. Just wondering when Lycra became the national fabric.” On the other hand, he thought, his attention riveted by one woman bending way over to retie her laces, there was something to be said for Lycra. He hadn’t seen that much of Linda until after they were married.

Brenda reappeared in Lycra Zoom shorts and what was commonly called a sports bra. She was limbs and shoulders and muscles and substance, and while the professional models glared at her size (not her height—most of them were six-footers too), Myron thought that she stood out like a bursting supernova next to, well, gaseous entities. The

Do they think ‘he’s very dedicated’ or ‘he’s obsessed with that bloody bike’?

Yoga: once an exotic rite for mystics, now a suburban hobby in church halls and gymnasiums. Stretches, belly breaths and chants. Ancient (and awkward) poses with odd animal names, enjoyed by Lycra-clad mothers and post-matcha tea hipsters alike.

The next time we met up he’d arrived in Lycra running gear, a zip-up jacket, a black beanie hat. I didn’t know it was him at first because his face was covered by a balaclava. As he approached, he pulled it down and I saw his smiling face emerge. He said, “What do you think? Invisible enough?” I pointed at the balaclava and laughed and said, “Where’d you get that scary-assed shit from?” He shrugged. “Found it in my dad’s drawer.

Take all your iridescent spandex and Lycra fitness accessories to the nearest landfill and let the extraterrestrials use them as goalpost pennants in their rollerball tournaments when they excavate the ruins of our civilization.

However, it looked better, and in all honesty I think that’s the reason so many cyclists shave their legs, and if, as a middle aged man puffing and wheezing your way to fitness every weekend, you decide to shave your legs, you’ll look more like a pro.

I loved Fauré's Requiem as a callow youth, but as I "matured" in my musical tastes, I dismissed it for many years, choosing instead the settings of Mozart, Verdi, and Duruflé, of Brahms and Britten: even Penderecki and Ligeti. All wonderful, of course, but now, it seemed, I had come full circle. Now it was my favorite.

It was the stretch and give of the lycra. And the deep blue, invitingly deep, the deep blue of sleep she longed for, blank and intense, and dissolving everything that would make her toss and turn endlessly through the night.

The congregation would just follow along in their prayerbooks like the good Episcopalians they were: standing, sitting, kneeling, bowing, a genuflect here, an obeisance there. Sing the hymns lustily and with good courage, as Charles Wesley advised.

Missa Brevis. As far as Renaissance vocal music goes, Mr. Palestrina's compositions for the church are the pinnacle.

He also took another swing at cyclists with his five handy hints for those setting out on a bike for the first time in the Sun. They were: “Do not cruise through red lights. Because if I’m coming the other way, I will run you down, for fun. Do not pull up at junctions in front of a line of traffic. Because if I’m behind you, I will set off at normal speed and you will be crushed under my wheels. Do not wear Lycra shorts unless you are Kate Moss. I do not wish to cruise down the road looking at your meat and two veg. Do not, ever, swear at or curse people in cars or trucks. You are a guest on roads that are paid for by motorists so if we cut you up, shut up. Do not wear a helmet. It makes you look ridiculous.