Scantily Clad Quotes

It seems that the young woman made some indelicate suggestion of a threesome...When I got there, Miss Nash was standing by the hot tub in a small bikini, pointing the business end of a SIG-Sauer P-226 at her fella and concerned members of the hotel staff, while dunking the scantily clad female's head under the water and asking, "Who's diving for clams now, bitch?

Oh," he said, knocking a red ball into a hole. "It's you." "You were expecting someone else?" I asked. "Am I interrupting your social calender?" I made a big show of glancing around the empty room. "I don't want to keep you from the mob of fans beating down your door." "Hey, a guy can hope. I mean, it's not impossible that a car full of scantily clad sorority girls might break down outside and need my help.

Hey, a guy can hope. I mean, it’s not impossible that a car full of scantily clad sorority girls might break down outside and need my help.” “That’s true,” I said. “Maybe I can put a sign out front that says, ‘ATTENTION ALL GIRLS: FREE HELP HERE.’” “‘ATTENTION ALL HOT GIRLS,’” he corrected, straightening up. “Right,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes. “That’s an important distinction.” He pointed at me with the pool stick. “Speaking of hot, I like that uniform.” This time, I did roll my eyes.

This was the truth at the core of my existence: this yawning emptiness, scantily clad in rage. It had been there all along.

Women are such contrary creatures when it comes to sex. You parade around like scantily clad vixens but blush when you're caught staring at the erections you cause.

...underneath their human guises, they looked like the typical faery - that is, no wings, scantily clad and kind of man-pretty like Orlando Bloom's Legolas...

draw a woman who’s as powerful as Superman, as sexy as Miss Fury, as scantily clad as Sheena the jungle queen, and as patriotic as Captain America.

From the way he’s looking at me there is no question what he wants. His eyes are sparkling with pleasure as they take in my scantily clad body.

I ended up in the nurse’s office after falling asleep in second period. She only agreed to not call my parents if I stayed under her supervision and rested. She wasn’t taking any chances with Dr. Lahey’s daughter and the heroine who’d saved the Ishida’s only girl, who, by the way, Ayden mentioned wasn’t back at school. She probably got to recover in her native habitat. Some far off exotic locale, lounging on a tropical beach drinking fruity umbrella drinks brought to her by hunky, scantily clad beach boys who rubbed her back with suntan oil and hung on her every word while I ran for my life in the Waiting World, woke from a coma, and, bam, back at school with ten million pounds of schoolwork to make up, and no beach boys. Except for Ayden. He’d make a good beach boy. But don’t get too excited. He’s just a pretend boyfriend. “You alright?” the nurse asked. “Fine.” “You’re sighing and making odd noises.” “Sorry.

I don't want to keep you from the mob of fans beating down the door." "Hey, a guy can hope. I mean, it's not impossible that a car full of scantily clad sorority girls might break down outside and need my help." "That's true," I said. "Maybe I can put a sign out from that says, 'ATTENTION ALL GIRLS:FREE HELP HERE.'" "'ATTENTION ALL HOT GIRLS,'" he corrected, straightening up. "Right," I said, trying not to roll my eyes. "That's an important distinction." He pointed at me with the pool stick. "Speaking of hot, I like that uniform." This time I did roll me eyes.

The streets were full of destruction and rubble, and this town I'd never liked, with its stupid people, stupid streets, and stupid houses, was now unrecognisable, now it had a truly unique beauty, and scantily-clad women traversed it like ghosts. A twelve-storey building in the city centre had totally collapsed. Caught up in her bed sheets, a woman who had fallen from the top floor found herself alive and alone on the pavement. Her husband had been thrown out of bed. From now on she would sleep forever, since reality was now as extraordinary as dreams.

I mean, really, can someone answer this for me: Why are all female superheroes packed into spandex and hot shorts? Okay, of course I know the answer. I know why they’re all scantily clad. It’s because men draw them and if there is one thing men love it’s boobs! And legs! And boobs! But really what they love is boobs.

They aren’t skanks and they aren’t stupid. I prefer to call them ‘scantily-clad ladies with limited vocabulary.

the houses much smaller and meek and timid and nondescript, and even the trees were scantily clad.

Her body is scantily clad in a seductive leather attire that not even Araya would wear. Her cleavage is exposed and meant for allure. Her boots rise to her knees, and her skin tight leather pants are seamlessly tucked inside, but there are strategic, purposely placed slashes from head to toe. All that’s missing is a whip. I’m going to die at the hand of a dominatrix. Fuck my luck.

..it’s not impossible that a car full of scantily clad sorority girls might break down outside and need my help.” “That’s true,” I said. “Maybe I can put a sign out front that says, ‘ATTENTION ALL GIRLS: FREE HELP HERE.’” “‘ATTENTION ALL HOT GIRLS,’” he corrected, straightening up.

..it’s not impossible that a car full of scantily clad sorority girls might break down outside and need my help.” “That’s true,” I said. “Maybe I can put a sign out front that says, ‘ATTENTION ALL GIRLS: FREE HELP HERE.’” “‘ATTENTION ALL HOT GIRLS,’” he corrected, straightening up.

I decide that if I ever get to come back here under different, nonstressful circumstances, I will stay at this hotel and drink fruity drinks and lay in the sand until my skin looks like it had a makeout session with the sun. But today, I’m looking for an inconspicuous way into the water. We head out of the lobby and get waylaid by hula dancers in grass skirts handing out necklaces of flowers. Apparently Toraf doesn’t like necklaces of flowers; as one of the women raises it above his head, he slaps her hand away. I show him, as I accept the gift around my neck, that the woman with the coconut boobs was just trying to be his friend. Just like all the women he’s come across so far. “Humans are too weird,” he whispers, unconvinced. I wonder what Toraf would think of Disney World. Our hotel is right on the water, so we pass through the lobby to the back. The beach is lined with lounge chairs and umbrellas and people scantily clad and people who shouldn’t be scantily clad.

when I was only thirty, I co-founded a law firm that would become very successful. Eight years later I was seated in the office next to the president of the United States. I kept my bargain with my fraternity brother. Yet at the peak of my power, I found the so-called good life empty and meaningless. I have an idea that at the peak of Kozlowski’s wealth and fame, surrounded by scantily clad nymphs, wine and song flowing, he found his life just as empty and meaningless. What do you do when the party is over? In our heart of hearts, all of us understand that there has to be something more to life than money and fame. We have to see these counterfeits for what they are—fool’s gold, not the genuine desires of our humanity. But it is not easy to do this in a culture that exalts the consumer and lavish spending.

He returned in a moment with a phone, a high-end model that probably cost way more than hers. His cell phone wallpaper was an abstract artwork with lots of colorful circles and blots—Kandinsky, maybe, or Miro? She always got those two confused. She gave him points for not having a picture of some scantily-clad woman thrusting her boobs at the camera, like Steve had on his phone. Tacky. Nude-woman wallpapers were the cell phone equivalent of silver naked-lady mud flaps, in her opinion.

In each club we went the dancers had the same moves, none nearly as sensuous as mine on any dance floor, but because they are scantily clad and stripping off the men go nuts and throw money at them. In the largest club and the last we went to I watched one pretty girl with big boobs pull a handful of twenties in one set. I followed her to the ladies-room to learn she only danced a few rounds per night and averaged $250 every night and with my face and body she said I would bank much more.

The boy who wears his comic books like armor often sits alone. He is more comfortable with Iron Man and his own thoughts than he will ever be with a woman. Because of his nervous ticks, no matter how long they are together, she will never feel commonplace to him. She will always know she is special. The boy who wears his comic books like armor tries to tell her that he loves her every day. She does not understand. When he says, You remind me of Psylocke, he is not saying he actually thinks she is a scantily clad assassin. He is just saying, Damn girl, you must be psychic. How else could you always know the right thing to make me smile? You have to be a ninja. How else could you have stolen my heart so easily? He is saying, Dammmmmmmmnnnnnn girl, you absolutely have to be Psylocke! She is the only character I have ever read about who is as graceful and daring as you are. She does not understand. The boy who wears his comic books like armor is not a good lover. The way he barely touches her makes her feel unattractive. Like he is only doing this because she wants him to. This could not be further from the truth. He is simply treating her like the only thing that has ever been this important to him before: comic books. He removes her clothes like he would the slipcover from a brand new issue, as careful not to wrinkle her clothing as he is not to damage the plastic. One day, she will leave him because feeling special isn’t as important as feeling loved. He does love her. She can’t understand. He will spend the rest of his life wishing he were Peter Parker, knowing that if he had a mask to remove, then, just like Mary Jane, she would be with him forever. But he doesn’t have a mask to remove, just an awkward smile. He hopes that one day that’s enough.

He and I know each other fairly well, though I haven't seen him in a year or two. We were in a few scrapes together in our younger days." I could only imagine what Milo's definition of "a few scrapes" was. He had once described the time he and the drunken heir to a dukedom had nearly been arrested for driving a car, the backseat full of scantily-clad women, into an Italian fountain as "a minor mishap.

I’m standing in front of Enrique’s Auto Body, doing deep-breathing exercises to keep from being nervous. Enrique’s Camry is nowhere in sight, so I know Alex is alone. I’m going to seduce Alex. If what I’m wearing doesn’t capture his attention, nothing will. I’m giving this my all…bringing out all the artillery. I rap on the door, then close my eyes tight and pray this goes as planned. I open my long, silver satin jacket and the cool night air rushes onto my exposed skin. When the creak of the door alerts me to Alex’s presence, I slowly open my eyes. But it’s not Alex’s black eyes staring at my scantily clad body. It’s Enrique--who’s staring at my pink lace bra and pom-pom skirt as if he’s won the lottery. Ripped with embarrassment, I wrap my coat around myself. If I could wrap it around twice, I would. “Uh, Alex,” Enrique laughs. “There’s a trick-or-treater here to see you.

I’m standing in front of Enrique’s Auto Body, doing deep-breathing exercises to keep from being nervous. Enrique’s Camry is nowhere in sight, so I know Alex is alone. I’m going to seduce Alex. If what I’m wearing doesn’t capture his attention, nothing will. I’m giving this my all…bringing out all the artillery. I rap on the door, then close my eyes tight and pray this goes as planned. I open my long, silver satin jacket and the cool night air rushes onto my exposed skin. When the creak of the door alerts me to Alex’s presence, I slowly open my eyes. But it’s not Alex’s black eyes staring at my scantily clad body. It’s Enrique--who’s staring at my pink lace bra and pom-pom skirt as if he’s won the lottery. Ripped with embarrassment, I wrap my coat around myself. If I could wrap it around twice, I would. “Uh, Alex,” Enrique laughs. “There’s a trick-or-treater here to see you.” My face is probably beet red, but I’m determined to see this through. I’m here to show Alex I’m not going to desert him. “Who is it?” comes Alex’s voice from somewhere inside the garage. “I was just leavin’,” Enrique says, slipping past me. “Tell Alex to lock up. Adiós.” Enrique walks across the darkened street, humming to himself. “Yo, Enrique. ¿Quién está ahi?” Alex’s voice fades when he reaches the front of the shop. He looks at me with contemp. “Need directions or your car fixed.” “None of the above,” I say. “Trick-or-treatin’ on my side of town?” “No.” “It’s over, mujer. ¿Me oyes? Why do you keep droppin’ into my life and fuckin’ with my head? Besides, aren’t you supposed to be at the Halloween dance with some college guy?” “I blew him off. Can we talk?” “Listen, I’ve got a shitload of work that still needs to get done. What did you come here for? And where’s Enrique?” “He, uh, left,” I say nervously. “I think I scared him away.” “You? I don’t think so.” “I showed him what I was wearing under my coat.” Alex’s eyebrows shoot up.

Simon laughs when I audibly exhale. “Relieved she’s not here yet?” I roll my suitcase into one of the barren bedrooms and then plunk down on the rock-hard, hideous orange sofa in the lounge. Simon takes a swivel chair from my room and slides it in front of me, where he then plants himself. “Why are you so worried?” I cross my arms and look around the concrete room. “I’m not worried at all. She’s probably very nice. I’m sure we’ll become soul mates, and she’ll braid my hair, and we’ll have pillow fights while scantily clad and fall into a deep lesbian love affair.” I squint my eyes at a cobweb and assume there are spider eggs preparing to hatch and invade the room. “Allison?” Simon waits until I look at him. “You can’t do that. You can’t become a lesbian.” “Why not?” “Because then everyone will say that your adoptive gay father magically made you gay, and it’ll be a big thing, and we’ll have to hear about nature versus nurture, and it’ll be soooooo boring.” “You have a point.” I wait for spider eggs to fall from the sky. “Then I’ll go with assuming she’s just a really sweet, normal person with whom I do not want to engage in sexual relations.” “Better,” he concedes. “I’m sure she’ll be nice. This kind of strong liberal arts college attracts quality students. There’re good people here.” He’s trying to reassure me, but it’s not working. “Totally,” I say. My fingers run across the nubby burned-orange fabric covering the couch, which is clearly composed of rock slabs. “Simon?” “Yes, Allison?” I sigh and take a few breaths while I play with the hideous couch threads. “She probably has horns.” He shrugged. “I think that’s unlikely.” Simon pauses. “Although . . .” “Although what?” I ask with horror. There’s a long silence that makes me nervous. Finally, he says very slowly, “She might have one horn.” I jerk my head and stare at him. Simon claps his hands together and tries to coax a smile out of me. “Like a unicorn! Ohmigod! Your roommate might be a unicorn!” “Or a rhinoceros,” I point out. “A beastly, murderous rhino.” “There is that,” he concedes. I sigh. “In good news, if I ever need a back scratcher, I have this entire couch.” I slump back against the rough fabric and hold out my hands before he can protest. “I know. I’m a beacon of positivity.” “That’s not news to me.

I never did get to brush my teeth this morning, I haven't been able to brush my hair, and I can't unzip my wet suit because I'm only wearing a bikini." Sam laughed. "That's what you get for boarding vessels scantily clad in the middle of the night." He grinned. "I don't suppose it was enough to prevent you from doing it again." "No." She grinned back at him. "I don't suppose it was.

Mobile apps and phone games are fast becoming known as the, SSS, of life. Sex! Sales! Slavery! They don't care about the impact of their apps or games. They just care about their bottom lines. Users are bombarded with sexy and scantily clad characters on an hourly basis. In game or app costs are going through the roof and are also hard to stop unless you pay money. (another form of blackmail) Slavery becomes people, both young and old, are becoming entrapped by the apps and games. It becomes an addiction and a way of life just like drugs and alcohol. As long as they can rake in millions of profit, these people do not care about you, your family or the people that they ensnare. They only care about the money. Their food for a greedy lifestyle.

Y'all know that little gal Kelly Crawford that works down at Tuckers?" Tuckers Jiffy Lube was the only gas station and mechanical shop in town. Jena Lynn's face contorted in disapproval. "You referring to that scantily clad girl who runs the register?" I asked as Jena Lynn hopped up to retrieve the coffeepot. "That's the one." Betsy curled up her lip in disgust. "That girl is barely legal!" I was outraged. "I know! I'm going to tell her granny. She'll take a hickory switch to the girl when she finds out what she's been up to. She was all over Darnell." Betsy wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She was right about that. Her granny wasn't the type to spare the rod; she parented old-school style. Jena Lynn's tone rose as she stirred raw sugar into her coffee. "You caught them?" "Well, I called him after what happened with poor Mr. Ledbetter---" We shook our heads. "---told him I was going to be late 'cause I was taking that extra shift. Guess he thought late meant real late 'cause when I got home, they we're rootin' around on my couch, the one my meemaw gave me last spring when she had her house redecorated." We sat in stunned silence. "I threw his junk out last night. And when he still didn't budge from the TV"---she paused for effect---"I set it all on fire, right there in the front yard." She leaned back and crossed her arms over her expansive chest. "That's harsh." Sam stacked his empty plates. "Maybe it wasn't Darnell's fault." Jena Lynn and I gave him a disapproving glare. He appeared oblivious to his offense, and the moron had the audacity to reach into the container for a cream cheese Danish. "Sam, if you value that scrawny hand of yours, I'd pull it out real slow or you'll be drawing back a nub," Betsy warned. "Sheesh!" Sam jerked backward. It was obvious he didn't doubt her for a second. He marched toward the kitchen and dropped the plates in the bus tub with a loud thud. "He should know better. You don't touch a gal's comfort food in a time of crisis," I said, and my sister nodded in agreement. Jena Lynn patted Betsy on the arm. "Ignore him, Bets. He's a man." I stood. "And if I may be so bold as to speak for all the women of the world who have been unfortunate enough to be in your shoes, we applaud you." A satisfied smile spread across Betsy's lips. "Thank you." She took a little bow. "That's why my eyes look like they do. Smoke got to me." She leaned in closer. "I threw all his high school football trophies into the blaze while he was hollering at me. The whole neighborhood came out to watch." I chuckled. The thought of Darnell Fryer running around watching all his belongings go up in smoke was hilarious. I wished I'd been there. "Did anyone try to step in and help Darnell?" "Hell nah. He owes his buddies so much money from borrowing to pay his gambling debts, the ones that came out brought their camping chairs and watched the show while tossing back a few cold ones." She got up from the counter to scoop a glass full of ice and filled it with Diet Coke from the fountain. "Y'all, I gotta lose this weight now I'm back on the market." Betsy was one of a kind.

My best friend was visibly aroused while touching my rope-bound and scantily-clad wife.

The cop checked one more time that he was carrying his police ID, even though he sincerely doubted it would be of much use here, and plunged into the lion’s den. He was immediately assailed by a heady odor of hashish, mixed with the smells of mint and mu‘assel from the hookahs. The light was muted; the powerful air conditioner rumbled. The thick wooden tables, old Vienna-style lamps, bronze art objects hanging on the wall, and large steins of beer made the place look like an English pub. A waitress, Caucasian and scantily clad, threaded between the shapes, her tray loaded with glasses brimful of alcohol. Sharko had expected to find faces eaten away by syphilis, drugs, or drink. Instead, he was amazed at how attractive the clientele looked, mostly young and flamboyantly dressed.

Those that can’t find anything interesting at all to tout about their cars turn to scantily clad women, men with British accents, and, when necessary, dancing mice in tuxedos to try and convince people that their products are better than the rest.

Another example of motivation in advertising relates to the old saying “Sex sells.” Long an advertising standard, images of buff, scantily clad (and usually female) bodies are used to hawk everything from the latest Victoria’s Secret lingerie to domain names through GoDaddy .com and fast food chains such as Carl’s Jr. and Burger King (figure 4). These and countless other ads use the voyeuristic promise of pleasure to capture attention and motivate action.

About thirty centimeters high, the figure appeared to be dancing a tango with a rather scantily clad girl who reminded me a lot of Anita Berber. Anita had been the queen of Berlin’s nude dancers at the White Mouse Club on Jägerstrasse until the night she’d laid out one of the patrons with an empty champagne bottle. The story was he’d objected to her pissing on his table, which used to be her shtick. I missed the old Berlin.

Of course, many of the fans who came to wait for us were women. You could count on that. There were certain women who would follow the group from city to city. Others would be local girls who liked Styx, or who liked the rock scene in general. In the beginning, the number of women (or girls, it was sometimes hard to tell their age) who turned out for our performances surprised me. In time, though, you just expected it. The faces began to blur together from city to city, and for all I knew, it could have been the same group of fifty or so scantily clad women who were transported and plopped down in front of the stage door in each different city. Most of them never made it beyond the back door. The lucky ones found a way to get backstage passes. But even the ones allowed backstage rarely got attention from any of the guys in the band. After a certain point, it just gets a little monotonous—even if you’re straight and single. If you’re married, or worse yet, gay, it gets old very quickly. This meant that our road crew got very lucky, very often. If the girls couldn’t get to anyone in the band, the roadies were the next best thing. And the roadies were never too busy or too tired to take one for the team. In exchange, the girls got access to hang out backstage while Styx performed. Everyone seemed happy enough with the system. While

For reasons unknown, the philosophical aspect of the yoga movement has had to make way for the yoga fit revolution; today’s image of a yogi is a slender and scantily clad young female doing postures on the cover of a bestselling magazine, whereas the older image was of an Indian man with long beard sitting in a cave wearing a loin cloth.

participants exposed to scantily clad female avatars were more likely to believe that women who get raped deserve it because of their perceived promiscuity. In virtual worlds, false stereotypes are being made true via play.

The difference between a swinger’s party and a regular party is simple: it costs a hell of a lot more for men to get in, the women feel uninhibited and dress more scantily clad, and at midnight, if you aren’t down to fuck, you need to exit stage left immediately.

A sword-wielding man—one scantily clad in a kilt no less—in the backwoods of Kentucky was not an everyday occurrence.

Dillon Walker. Biggest scumbag ever,” she said as soon as he wasn’t looking. “That’s his pregnant girlfriend waddling up over there,” she said pointing to an extremely pregnant sophomore girl. “And that’s the skank he screws from Easton when his girlfriend’s not around,” she added, pointing to another scantily clad girl only a few seats away from him. “Gross.” Guys like that needed to come with warning labels. The

Under the neon glow of the dance floor, she looks ethereal. She should be standing above everyone with a spotlight shining down on her. She should be on display like the God damn Mona Lisa. Instead, she’s squished between scantily clad women and meathead college boys.

I want to say the sun never rose before this moment. The past is always scantily clad.

For most Westerners, 'harem' is a word which conjures up a heady image of some kind of closely guarded Oriental pleasure palace, filled with scantily clad nubile virgins, stretched out on pillows in languid preparation for nights of sexual adventure in a sultan's bed. It is a world of scatter cushions, jewels in the belly button, gyrating hips, and fluttering eyelashes set above gauzy yashmak (face veils). These cliches find their most vivid expression in nineteenth-century Orientalist paintings and in popular movies. This vision of Eastern sensual excess has often led scholarship to dismiss the notion of the harem as a Western fabrication, an open sesame to an Arabian Nights fantasy world. If we want to utilise the word 'harem' in its correct context and use it to consolidate some legitimate facts about royal women in the Persian empire, we must dispense with the Orientalist cliches entirely and understand what, in historical terms, a 'harem' was all about.

Kaikora wore her bronzed, ombre dreadlocks loose with the sea-salt-saturated ends falling between her wide shoulders. She stood unusually tall, broad, and scantily clad; a half-naked giant of rippled muscles etched with dark tattoos. The wavelike designs crossed her torso and arms in seaweed-green swirls that ebbed and flowed with her musculature. On her neck, she wore a yoke of gnarled rope and sea glass, the only article of clothing above her waist. It barely covered her chest, exposing her ample torso to the elements. On her wide, curved hips hung a low loincloth crafted from nacreous scales that reflected the sunlight like the surf.

Lang covered a 1993 issue of Vanity Fair, intertwined with a scantily clad Cindy Crawford. (Fuck, that photo shoot is so hot. Please google it immediately. It’s an emergency.)

My best friend was visibly aroused while touching my rope-bound and scantily-clad wife. I should be fucking furious…but I’m not.

Boys are taught to lust after women early in life, mostly through video games and demeaning images in advertising, such as the scantily clad women on the Protein World posters, or that slut rabbit who used to sell Cadbury’s Caramel.

By enforcing laws which forbid men to trade peacefully as they please, the police create a social environment which breeds crime. The small-time burglar who is frightened away by the police is far outweighed by the Mafia boss who makes millions off the black market in prostitution and gambling, which activities are fraught with violence because of government prohibitions. Not only do governmental police make possible more crime than they discourage, they enforce a whole host of invasive laws designed to make everyone behave in a manner which the lawmakers considered morally proper. They see to it that you’re not permitted to foul your mind with pornography (whatever that is—even the courts aren’t too sure) or other people’s minds by appearing in public too scantily clad. They try to prevent you from experiencing the imaginary dangers of marijuana (in the ‘20s they protected you from liquor, but that’s not a no-no any more). They even have rules about marriage, divorce, and your sex life. No, the police don’t offer the citizen any protection from such invasions of privacy ... they’re too busy enforcing the invasive laws! Nor do they protect him from the many governmental violations of his rights—if you try to evade being enslaved by the draft, the police will help the army, not you. The police prevent the establishment of an effective, private enterprise defense system which could offer its customers real protection (including protection from governments). In fact, they often prevent you from protecting yourself, as in New York City, where women, even in the most crime-ridden areas, are forbidden to carry effective self-defense devices. Guns, switch-blade knives, tear gas sprayers, etc., are illegal. Of course, the criminals ignore these laws, but the peaceful citizens are effectively disarmed and left at the mercy of hoodlums. In addition to failing to protect citizens from either private criminals or the government, making it almost impossible for the citizens to protect themselves, encouraging crime by creating black markets, and invading privacy with stupid and useless “moral” laws, the police compel citizens to pay taxes to support them! If a citizen requests to be relieved of police “protection” and protests by refusing to pay taxes for the upkeep of the government and its police, the police will initiate force by picking him up and the government will fine and/or imprison him (unless he attempts to defend himself against the police’s initiated violence, in which case his survivors will be forced to bury him at their expense). With the entire weight of the law behind them, this gives the police the safest protection racket ever devised. If the police in a democracy don’t exist to protect the citizens, what is their function? It is essentially the same as that of the police in a dictatorship—to protect the government.

Any given room, behind any given door, someone else’s life was on fire. Not the life lived at home, not the cable-and-bed-by-9: 00-p.m. life, waiting around to die. The hotel life: boundless, foreign, debaucherous, freshly laundered, exploratory, scantily clad, imaginative, frightening, expensive, and brand fucking new. I wandered the hallways every day like a guard keeper in the house of reinvention. Whatever these people were getting into, whatever their lives had become, I made sure that if they vacated the room for an hour’s time, they had clean sheets to do it on, new soap to scrub it off with, fresh towels to wipe it down, a clean robe to cover it up, and a fresh pillow to sleep it off on.