Nip Tuck Quotes

If I see something saggin', baggin', or draggin', I'm gone have it nipped, tucked, or sucked!

People who say that money can't buy happiness just don't know where to shop.

Why do women waste their time trying to convince their insecure family members and girlfriends that they are beautiful? Self esteem is not a beauty cream that you can rub all over them and see instant results. Instead, convince them they are not stupid. Every intelligent woman knows outward beauty is a nip, tuck, chemical peel or diet away. If you don't like it, fix it.

Cosmetic surgery is not "cosmetic," and human flesh is not "plastic." Even the names trivialize what it is. It's not like ironing wrinkles in fabric, or tuning up a car, or altering outmoded clothes, the current metaphors. Trivialization and infantilization pervade the surgeons' language when they speak to women: "a nip," a "tummy tuck."...Surgery changes one forever, the mind as well as the body. If we don't start to speak of it as serious, the millennium of the man-made woman will be upon us, and we will have had no choice.

Insecurity is a powerful enemy. It forces people to use make-up, plastic surgery, collagen injections and liposuction; to nip, tuck, throw up, push up, suck in and laser.

I blame Mother Nature two-faced bitch and Father Time bloody bastard .Yep those misogynistic killjoys have cut off my pocket money and left me grounded.With those two authoritarian heavyweights ganging up what chance does a woman have I aks you

Well if manners maketh man make-up maketh woman.And we don't need a phalanx of behavioural scientists to explain why man judge women by their looks.Because the see bether than thay think.

What you see is what I am. I've not had my boobs done or my arse lifted, no nips, no tucks. No ribs removed, nothing. Those little strumpets we see on the silver screen today are mostly bathroom sealant. They buy breasts over the counter. What would you like, honey, small, medium or large? They give us stick insects and tell us it's beauty. If someone of their size went for an audition jn my day she'd have been shown a square meal and told to come back when she was a stone heavier. What's wring with curves? Anyone over a ten these days is regarded not as an average-sized woman but a marketing opportunity. Cream for this, pills for that, superfluous hair, collagen injection, quick weight-loss diets. Where's it going to end? We're pressured to expend so much money and effort ti be the 'perfect' shape when that shape is physically attainable by only one woman in a million. It's the cold face of capitalism, boys and girls, preying in misguided expectations. Besides, I always found perfection an overrated commodity

They were all reminders that beauty was calculated--nipped, tucked, pulled, and pleated into life.

He turned, his eyebrows jacking up in surprise. The creases in his forehead had deepened over the years. (While we needed nips and tucks and filler injections to stay relevant, they needed only to age to become more dignified. Don’t think we didn’t notice.)

When I forget that the only way that God could stand to have me in his family was by crushing the Son he loves-that without the perfect record of someone else I could not stand before his judicious holiness, that on my own I do not have within me either the desire or the power to please God-I am tempted to believe that I'm really pretty good. And although I might need a nip or tuck, if I try hard enough, I can accomplish all he has called me to. It's when we forget the gospel, when we think we're not really all that bad, not so much in need, not so far from Christlikeness, that pride, arrogance, and the inevitable guilt crush hope and faith.

Primer of Love [Lesson 14] I think the best thing I can do is to be a distraction. A husband lives and breathes his work all day long. If he comes home to more table thumping, how can the poor man ever relax? - Jackie Kennedy Lesson 14) Learn to nip lover's quarrels in the bud by distraction and humor -- without raising your voice. This does not include mastering that passive aggressive ploy called the silent treatment which is much louder and destructive than outright screaming. Nipping techniques include distraction, humor, rough sex and counting backwards from MCLV in Latin.Once you've mastered this technique, you'll spend the night neatly tucked in each other's arms -- though her ass will be a little sore. No argument about that.

When you lick me,” he said roughly, “I want to be alone—far away from everyone. Because when you lick me, Feyre,” he said, pressing nipping kisses to my jaw, my neck, “I’m going to let myself roar loud enough to bring down a mountain.” I was instantly liquid again, and he laughed under his breath. “And when I lick you,” he said, sliding his arms around me and tucking me in tight to him, “I want you splayed out on a table like my own personal feast.” I whimpered. “I’ve had a long, long time to think about how and where I want you,” Rhys said onto the skin of my neck, his fingers sliding under the band of my pants, but stopping just beneath. Their home for the evening. “I have no intention of doing it all in one night. Or in a room where I can’t even fuck you against the wall.

The renegade strand of hair nipped her eyes once more. With a swift, steady hand, Oscar pushed it away from her face. His fingertip left a trail of fire along her cheek. Camille reached up to help him tuck the strand back, and their fingers met. She knew for certain the flush had returned to her ears. Oscar dropped his arm and walked to the rail, wrapping his strong hands around the carved wood. “He is used to having things go his way,” Oscar said, his voice low and only for her ears. Camille moved to stand beside hm. “Have you always done everything he’s asked of you?” She was cautious not to come off sounding snide. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail tighter, as if to hold something back. Hold something in. “No.” She hadn’t expected him to give her an answer, and certainly not that one. “No? I don’t believe it. What have you done that’s gone against his wishes?” Oscar had been her father’s shadow since day one. He’d watched and obeyed William Rowen with the kind of devotion any eager apprentice would show his teacher. Oscar had been staring at the water, at the mounting churn of the waves. Now he shifted his eyes to her and fixed her with a look so strong and deep, she felt helpless beneath it. “He asked me to stop associating with you,” he answered, still hushed. Camille’s eyes watered with mortification and dread. Her father had spoken to Oscar, too. She wiped her sweaty palms on the hips of her trousers. “But clearly,” Oscar continued, leaning toward her, “I didn’t listen.” His gaze revolved out to the ocean again, releasing Camille. Air flowed back down her windpipe. This was beyond humiliation. Her father couldn’t do this. He couldn’t order people to stop speaking to her. “Why not?” she asked, her breath uneven from a cross of fury and the steadfast way Oscar had looked at her. “He could fire you.” He moved away from the rail. “If he wants to fire me for speaking to you, for looking at you…” He turned back to her on his way to the quarterdeck and held her gaze again. “Then I’ll risk it.” She watched in awe as Oscar took the helm from a sailor and placed himself behind the great spoked wheel. He’d risk everything he had to be able to speak with her, to just look at her. His bravery made her feel no taller than a hermit crab. She’d so quickly, dutifully, accepted her father’s request to set her focus solely on Randall. But she mattered to Oscar. She mattered, and that one truth made her wish she was brave enough to risk everything, too.

I'd morphed, altered, nipped and tucked away bits of my personality for so long, I no longer recognized myself. I feared that one day, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to identify myself. I'd be forever trapped in an image of another's making, and there would be no escape because I would have forgotten to want to escape. Nida

Isaiah tucks a rogue strand behind my ear, running his palm over my hair until he wraps my ponytail around his fist once. Twice. He tugs, ensuring I’m looking up and making eye contact with him. “Make sure you keep your eyes on me tonight, wifey. I have a feeling I’m going to have a good night at bat, and I want you to watch.”  “You always want me to watch.”  “Mmm, and I like to watch too, you know.”  My mouth goes dry at his insinuation.  “But yes, I do love your attention.”  “Because you’re obsessed with me.”  He chuckles close to my ear. “I think that’s the perfect word to describe how I feel about you, Doc.” Isaiah nips my earlobe before soothing it with a soft kiss on my neck.

He swallowed hard, and stared into the corner. “I never wanted you to see me like that. When a man faces death, he meets the animal lurking inside him. When it’s hand to hand, blade to blade, kill or be killed . . .” Defiant green eyes met hers, and he slapped a hand to his scar. “The man who did this to me— I killed him. With his bayonet stuck in my flesh, I reached out and grabbed him by the throat and watched his eyes bulge from his skull as he suffocated at my hand.” She would not react, Cecily told herself, calmly dabbing at his wound. That’s what he expected, what he feared— her reaction of revulsion or disgust. “And he wasn’t the only one,” he continued. “To learn what violence you’re truly capable of, in those moments . . . It’s a burden I’d not wish on anyone.” She risked a glance at him then. “Burdens are lighter when they’re shared.” Luke swore. “I’ve shared too much of it with you already. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” “You can tell me anything. I’ll still love you. And I warn you, I’ve learned something of tenacity in the past four years. I’m not going to let you go.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Sometimes, I scarcely feel human anymore. The brutal way I took down that boar, Cecily. That barbarism with the stocking . . .” “Ah, yes.” She put aside her handkerchief and stood. “The stocking.” She propped one boot on the stool and slowly rucked up her skirts to reveal her stocking-clad leg. “Cecy . . .” “Yes, Luke?” She leaned over to untie the laces of her boot, giving him an eyeful of her décolletage. He groaned. “Cecy, what are you doing?” “Tending to your wounds,” she said, slipping the boot from her foot. With sure fingers, she unknotted the ribbon garter at her thigh, then eased the stocking down her leg. “Making it better.” Skirts still hiked thigh-high, she straddled his legs and nestled on his lap. “Shh.” She quieted his objection, then deftly wound the length of flannel around his injured arm, tucking in the end to secure it. “There,” she said in a husky voice, lowering her lips to the underside of his wrist. “All better.” “I wasn’t after your damn stocking,” he blurted out. “When I took you to the ground last night and pushed up your skirts. By all that’s holy, I wanted—” With a muttered oath, he gripped her by the shoulders, hauling her further into his lap. Until she felt the hard ridge of his arousal, pressing insistently against her cleft. “Cecily, what I want from you is not tender. It’s not romantic in the least. It’s plunder. It’s possession. If you had the least bit of sense, you’d turn and run from—” She kissed him hard, raking his back with her fingernails and clutching his thighs between hers like a vise. Boldly, she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and gave it a sharp nip, savoring his startled moan. Wriggling backward, she placed her hands over his, dragging them downward and molding his fingers around her breasts. “For God’s sake, Luke. You’re not the only one with animal urges.” He took her mouth, growling against her lips as he did.

It's not Life that begans at forty, it's Death - Victoria

Tell me where it hurts

Do you--should you radio…anyone?” he said, gasping slightly when she nipped at one nipple through his shirt. “Mm--hmm,” she murmured, leaving a trail along the side of his chin with her tongue. He turned her around inside the blanket so her back was to him, then tugged her up against him, sliding his arms around her waist and keeping the blanket around them, the opening now in front of her. He leaned down and gently bit the side of her neck, then whispered, “Well, you might want to take care of that right swift, luv, because you’re about to be ravaged.” She moaned when he nipped her, wriggling a little, giving a delightful giggle at the last part, which made him grin. Kerry wasn’t typically a giggler. He now had a vested interest in seeing her become one. She’d clearly let go of all the worry, the tension, the fears about what might happen, and was doing exactly what he was doing: grabbing on to what they had right now and leaving the future to settle itself. “Ravaged, am I?” she said, tipping her head back against his shoulder to look up at him. “Are we playing pirate on the high seas, then?” “Aye, my saucy seafaring wench, ’tis true. I’ve boarded yer lovely vessel to see what treasures you have worth pillaging.” He leaned down, nipped her earlobe, then tugged the blanket so it snugged tightly over her breasts as he tucked her backside against his hips. “It appears I’ll need to board yer personal vessel to discover all your riches.” She laughed at that outright, then wiggled against him quite deliberately, making him grit his teeth. “Careful now, wench, or you’ll be spilling my doubloons all over the deck.” She let out a choked laugh at that, then bumped him back with her hips, and it was his turn to groan as her firm derrière came into contact with an even firmer part of him. “Why don’t you and your doubloons go on belowdeck so I can catch my breath long enough to send out an all’s-okay to Thomas without him thinking I’m doing what I’m about to be doing? It was mortifying enough to have to brazen it out in front of him when I showed up in this--what was it you called it? A glorified napkin? I’ve always thought of him as kind of a secondary grandfather. I’m not sure which of us was more in danger of that heart attack.” She glanced over her shoulder with a dry smile. “I think my femme fatale days are over.” “Oh,” he said, tossing the blanket toward a side bin so he could run his flat palms down the center of her back, then frame the swell of her hips, which were tightly wrapped in that glorified napkin. “I don’t know about that,” he said in all sincerity. “At least the fatale part.

The eight years had not been kind to Sheriff Lowell, but then again, he hadn’t been Mel Gibson to begin with. He was a mangy mutt of a man with features so extra-long hangdog that he made Nixon look as though he’d gotten a nip and tuck. The end of his nose was bulbous to the nth degree. He kept taking out a much-used hanky, carefully unfolding it, rubbing his nose, carefully refolding it, jamming it deep into his back pocket. Linda

I'm not your patient, I'm your wife! And on your watch a death has occurred - the death of you and me.

Everything disappears; love, trees, rocks, steel, plastic... Human beings. None of us get out alive. Now you can huddle in a group and face it one day at a time, or you can be grateful that when your body rubs against somebody else's it explodes with enough pleasure to make you forget even for a minute that you're only a walking pile of ashes.

as modernism sees it, the human body is nothing more than matter, to be molded, manipulated, and used. Devoid of divine purpose or meaning, it’s left for each of us, as individuals, to decide what we want to do with our body. We can ignore it and neglect it, or we can indulge its every appetite. We can nip it and tuck it, remaking it into whatever shape we desire, or we can cut it, starve it, and put it to rest when age, pain, or disease become too much to bear. We can give it away, again and again, to anyone we fancy in whatever ways we fancy, and we can do what we like with any new life that comes of that giving. When the body is seen as mere matter, anything goes. The body, however, isn’t mere matter. That’s a modernist fiction. Rather, as the Catholic anthropology of the theology of the body reminds us, man is a union of body and soul, made in the image of God. Which means our bodies are us. Your body is you. My body is me.

The unblinking receptionist has been nipped and tucked into an android and it looks like it might hurt for her to smile, so she doesn’t. Most of the patients waiting are women. They sit in the leather chairs looking like the victims of mortar attack. One part or another of their faces is wrapped in white gauze and some of them resemble mummies who’ve come partially unfurled.

Why do some women feel their only value is in their body? Why do they continue to stuff their shapes into too-tight dresses, their feet into stilettos, their brains into closed vaults that can’t breathe and subsequently suffocate? Why do they tuck and nip and smooth when the ultimate beauty isn’t on the surface at all? And why do they not see this?

Rowan laughed, and kissed the top of her head. And for a long moment, he just marveled that he could do it. Could stand with her here, in this kingdom, this city, this castle, where they would make their home. He could see it now: the halls restored to their splendor, the plain and river sparkling beyond, the Staghorns beckoning. He could hear the music she’d bring to this city, and the laughter of the children in the streets. In these halls. In their royal suite. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, peering up at his face. Rowan brushed a kiss to her mouth. “That I get to be here. With you.” “There’s lots of work to be done. Some might say as bad as dealing with Erawan.” “Nothing will ever be that bad.” She snorted. “True. He tucked her in closer. “I am thinking about how very grateful I am. That we made it. That I found you. And how, even with all that work to be done, I will not mind a moment of it because you are with me.” She frowned, her eyes dampening. “I’m going to have a terrible headache from all this crying, and you’re not helping.” Rowan laughed, and kissed her again. “Very queenly.” She hummed. “I am, if anything, the consummate portrait of royal grace.” He chuckled against her mouth. “And humility. Let’s not forget that.” “Oh, yes,” she said, winding her arms around his neck. His blood heated, sparkling with a power greater than any force a god or Wyrdkey could summon. But Rowan pulled away, just far enough to rest his brow against hers. “Let’s get you to your chambers, Majesty, so you can commence your royal wallowing.” She shook with laughter. “I might have something else in mind now.” Rowan let out a growl, and nipped at her ear, her neck. “Good, I do, too.” “And tomorrow?” she asked breathlessly, and they both paused to look at each other. To smile. “Will you work to rebuild this kingdom, this world, with me tomorrow?” “Tomorrow, and every day after that.” For every day of the thousand years they were granted together. And beyond.

Watching the Trump campaign’s attacks on the election results, I now see what might have happened if, rather than nip and tuck the Trump agenda, responsible Justice Department attorneys had collectively—ethically, lawfully—refused to participate in President Trump’s systematic attacks on our democracy from the beginning,” she wrote. “The attacks would have failed.

The Conveyor Belt Conceived, carried, cut out, torn, born, slapped, named, numbered, needled, drugged, stodged, stuffed, shod, shorn, collared, tied, capped, herded, classed, seated, schooled, brought up, put down, labelled a sinner, smacked, caned, loved, deceived, cuffed, suited, sorted, thwarted, broken, tamed, healed, polished, ironed, worked, used, taxed, mortgaged, owned, chiselled, chained, oiled, tanned, plastered, tempted, failed, wired, subscribed, registered, addicted, hitched, kidded, hounded, feared, poisoned, sickened, pilled, nipped, tucked, wigged, bedded, heart attacked. Freed! Buried, burned, mourned and forgotten.. Next Please!

It was nip, tuck, and a costly speeding ticket, but he managed to each the library in time...

His lips touched hers, just a brush, once, twice, over the full softness of her lovely mouth, discovering what she knew of kissing. With devastating instinct, she echoed him, dragging her lips softly across his, with his, until the desire in him was coiled so tightly his limbs trembled from it. "Susannah." A ragged whisper. She sighed a warm breath out against his lips and brought her other hand up to hold his face; in her hands he could feel her tension and urgency. And he'd meant to linger over this kiss, to take it deeper with delicacy and finesse, and then to end it, but he found he could not. His desire was suddenly untenable; he was convinced only the taste of her could ease it. He touched an impatient tongue to her lips and coaxed them open. When she parted her mouth he sought her tongue, and discovered, with a low sound in the back of his throat, the hot, silken sweetness inside her mouth. Her tongue tentatively moved, tangled with his. Oh, God. "Like this?" she whispered. "God, yes," he breathed. She smiled against his mouth. "No smiling," he murmured. "Only kissing." Their mouths moved languidly over each other at first, nipping, delving deeply, retreating. And gradually it built to urgency. He rose up over her to take his kisses deeper still, to taste the contours of her mouth, teeth clashing against her teeth, and still it never seemed enough. The sensation was like soaring in place; Kit couldn't feel the ground beneath him, or the air above him; he was aware only of the sweetness of the woman joined with him, and distantly he marveled, he'd never felt quite so lost. He tucked his hip in firmly against hers, astounded at how painfully aroused he was. "Sweet," he murmured, moving his lips from hers to kiss, to nip beneath her chin, to draw his tongue down the cord of her throat. Her breathing was rushed, and with the rise and fall of her chest he could see the tight darkness of her nipples beneath the fine fabric of her dress. "Sweet," he sighed again, moving his mouth to breathe against her breast; he touched his tongue to her nipple through the fabric. She caught her breath at the sensation, arced up a little to meet him. And as she did, his fingers, five feathers, began to stroke the tender skin inside her thigh.

Among the scribes was Pyle, wearing a beret that made him resemble Montgomery; also Hemingway, credentialed to Collier’s magazine but commanding various French cutthroats whom he had ostensibly supplied with tommy guns and pistols and who called him Colonel or “le grand capitaine.” These irregulars, wrote Robert Capa, could be seen “copying his sailor bear walk, spitting short sentences from the corners of their mouths,” while Papa nipped from a canteen of calvados and patted the grenade tucked inside his field jacket, “just in case.

Tell them you made your way here, but the storm prevented you from going farther, and you’ve been waiting it out.” “I don’t understand. You’ll be here.” He stroked her cheek, and the sadness in his eyes almost made her weep. “No. I won’t have your reputation dragged through the mud by having us found together.” She flattened her hand against his chest. “But the discovery of us together will ensure that we marry. My father will very well insist.” He brought her in close, then tucked her beneath his chin. “I want you, Merry, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, but not at the risk of bringing you shame or more pain than I’ve already caused. Nor will I do as Litton and force you into marriage.” Dipping his head, he kissed her short and sweet, but in the tenderness of the moment she heard volumes: love, caring, goodbye. Then he was rushing out of the room as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, while the duke’s hounds were barking more loudly with their approaching nearness. Feeling lost and bereft, she went through the motions of slipping back into her stiff but dried riding habit. She was buttoning up the last of the pearl disks when she heard a door slam open and the stomp of feet.