Sexy Lady Quotes

A girl’s got to use what she’s given and I’m not going to make a guy drool the way a Britney video does. So I take it to extremes. I don’t say I dress sexily on stage - what I do is so extreme. It’s meant to make guys think: ‘I don’t know if this is sexy or just weird.

You know what’s really, powerfully sexy? A sense of humor. A taste for adventure. A healthy glow. Hips to grab on to. Openness. Confidence. Humility. Appetite. Intuition. … Smart-ass comebacks. Presence. A quick wit. Dirty jokes told by an innocent-looking lady. … A storyteller. A genius. A doctor. A new mother. A woman who realizes how beautiful she is.

If she could only find a well-educated, Shakespeare-quoting bad boy who still had a thing for sexy tatoos and maybe a mild leather fetish, she might at least have a shot at avoiding her probable future as a crazy old cat lady.

So what are we, then?” I asked. “When someone asks who I am, what am I supposed to say?” “You say, ‘Hi, I’m Liv, Dean’s very hot and sexy lady.’” I couldn’t smother a giggle. “Seriously.” “Paramour?” “No.” “Cuddle bunny?” “God, no.” “Valentine? Sweetheart? Girlfriend?” “Girlfriend.” I rested my forehead against his chest. “I guess.” “Not the best word, but it’ll do in public.” He kissed my temple. “In private, you can just be my beauty.

People rave about American football or hockey players or any type of sport. Ladies don't understand how sexy f1 racers are

Ladies, if you truly want your man to be successful, never ever underestimate the power of a lipstick, sexy lingerie, and high heels.

Nothing screams lady-mind-porn like a hot, shirtless, sexy man doing dishes after giving her a reason to be exhausted.

Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.

There is something rather sexy about men who knew exactly what they are talking about. Men who might not be conventionally attractive, but who are obviously highly competent at their jobs.

In a world of twelve-years-olds in sexy boots and nans in sparkly mini-dresses, the surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel at Heathrow is to look for the lady in the designer suit.

It seemed like he could never figure out which Trudie he loved the best, the docile church basement lady in the moon boots or the rebellious chick with the sexy lingerie. I imagine that both of those extremes were just poses and that the real Trudie fell somewhere in between. But that’s the thing about this town - there’s no room for in between. You’re in or you’re out. You’re good or you’re bad. Actually, very good or very bad. Or very good at being very bad without being detected.

Just then Jagger walks in, his hair all ruffled and his body hard and firm. We all stop talking and stare as he runs his hands through his hair in an attempt to straighten it up. “Take a picture ladies, it lasts longer.” he mutters

You need to acquire a lover, Madam President.

When I was suddenly thrust into what everyone calls menopause (Orchids) earlier than my body planned, I decided someone needed to take charge on so many levels. It was time to not only change the vernacular, but to speak up and say "Hey! This isn't an old lady's disease! We aren't old! We are strong and dammit, we are beautiful and sexy too!

You looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to date you, Ryan Henderson. Mark my words. One day, I will move to this city and date a sophisticated man and—'” “I’ll be a sophisticated, sexy lady, and my man will pick up Chinese takeout after work and bring it back to our fancy apartment, and he’ll be wearing a fancy suit from his fancy job, and we will drink fancy wine and watch my favorite movie.” A laugh bubbles through me. “And then I told you that you could never be sophisticated like that.” He’s chuckling too now. “As if Chinese takeout and fancy wine is the most sophisticated and grown-up thing in the world.

I see the beginning, I see the end. And in the middle I just hope I don't fall on my ass to much

Almost every woman inherently wants to have the 'desirability advantage,' but few are willing to admit not to mention work on it. The following advice is strictly meant for sensual ladies: Don't be afraid to be your most gorgeous self or to look sexy. Yes, it will give you an unfair advantage, but what's really important is that it will teach you the art of living a sensual lifestyle, an art without which life (and love) would be utterly boring if not depressing.

KENNA ROWAN’S PLAYLIST 1) “Raise Your Glass”—P!nk 2) “Dynamite”—BTS 3) “Happy”—Pharrell Williams 4) “Particle Man”—They Might Be Giants 5) “I’m Good”—The Mowgli’s 6) “Yellow Submarine”—The Beatles 7) “I’m Too Sexy”—Right Said Fred 8) “Can’t Stop the Feeling!”—Justin Timberlake 9) “Thunder”—Imagine Dragons 10) “Run the World (Girls)”—Beyoncé 11) “U Can’t Touch This”—MC Hammer 12) “Forgot About Dre”—Dr. Dre featuring Eminem 13) “Vacation”—Dirty Heads 14) “The Load Out”—Jackson Browne 15) “Stay”—Jackson Browne 16) “The King of Bedside Manor”—Barenaked Ladies 17) “Empire State of Mind”—JAY-Z 18) “Party in the U.S.A.”—Miley Cyrus 19) “Fucking Best Song Everrr”—Wallpaper. 20) “Shake It Off”—Taylor Swift 21) “Bang!”—AJR

Duncan grasped Eoin's shoulder and pulled them apart. "You'll not be touching my sister again until you are properly wed." He reached for Helen's left arm. "And you will go home with me." Eoin grasped his lady's right hand. "Oh, no, I'm finished with waiting.

By the time we reached the front door of the party house—a total mansion, like Harrison had said—Nathan was far behind us. Well, he’d promised to stay out of our hair. “Wow,” I heard Bailey gasp as the front door swung open for us, though I wasn’t sure if that was her reaction to the freakishly large house or to the drop-dead-gorgeous guy standing in front of us. “Good evening, ladies,” he said, stepping aside to let us enter. Automatically, I found myself standing up taller and sliding my shoulder blades back for optimum cleavage exposure. It was like a flirting reflex. I just wished I wasn’t all sunburned. “Hello to you.” He grinned at me. A cocky, sexy grin. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. He glanced at Bailey then. “Any of us. I’m sure I’d remember those pretty faces.” I swear, Bailey was blushing so hard I could feel the heat radiating from her body. “Oh, you’d remember,” I agreed, tossing back my hair and putting a hand on my hip. “I’m Whi—” “Whitley!” I jumped and spun around involuntarily. Harrison was standing beside me, looking thoroughly delighted. “Hello again, darling. You look gorgeous—and the lack of flip-flops is making my day. Those slingbacks are perfect!” I nodded, glancing over my shoulder at the hot guy, but he’d already moved on and was chatting with a group of kids a few feet away. Goddamn it. “Wesley is just so busy,” Harrison said, following my gaze. “You have to give him credit for being a great host. He talks to everyone. Seems like way too much work to me.

A pretty vampire woman in a cheongsam came flying down the hallway, ribbons waving from her purple-streaked hair like a silken flag. Her face was familiar. Alec had seen her at Taki’s, and around the city more generally, usually with Raphael. “Save us, oh fearless leader,” said Raphael’s lady friend. “Elliott’s in a huge aquarium puking blue and green. He tried to drink mermaid blood. He tried to drink selkie blood. He tried to—” “Ahem,” said Raphael, with a savage jerk of his head in Alec’s direction. Alec waved. “Shadowhunter,” he said. “Right here. Hi.” “He tried to keep to the Accords and obey all the known Laws!” the woman declared. “Because that’s the New York clan’s idea of a truly festive good time.” Alec remembered Magnus and tried not to look like he was here to ruin the Downworlder party. There was one thing he and this woman had in common. He recognized the bright purple she was wearing. “I think I saw you earlier,” said Alec hesitantly. “You were—making out with a faerie girl?” “Yeah, you’re gonna have to be more specific than that,” said the vampire woman. “This is a party. I’ve made out with six faerie girls, four faerie boys, and a talking toadstool whose gender I’m unsure about. Pretty sexy for a toadstool, though.” Raphael covered his face briefly with his non-texting hand. “Why, you want to make something of it?” The woman bristled. “How happy I am to see the Nephilim constantly crashing our parties. Were you even invited?” “I’m a plus-one,” said Alec. The vampire girl relaxed slightly. “Oh, right, you’re Magnus’s latest disaster,” she said. “That’s what Raphael calls you. I’m Lily.” She lifted a hand in a halfhearted wave. Alec glanced at Raphael, who arched his eyebrow at Alec in an unfriendly way. “Didn’t realize Raphael and I were on pet name terms,” said Alec. He continued to study Raphael. “Do you know Magnus well?” “Hardly at all,” said Raphael. “Barely acquainted. I don’t think much of his personality. Or his dress sense. Or the company he keeps. Come away, Lily. Alexander, I hope I never see you again.” “I’ve decided I detest you,” Lily told Alec. “It’s mutual,” Alec said dryly. Unexpectedly, that made Lily smile, before Raphael dragged her away.

Though Jones had formerly believed himself in the very prime of youth and vigor, his first encounter with Lady Bellaston both vexed and puzzled him. For though his own youthful appetites were quickly sated, hers were ravenous and almost beyond his power to satisfy. Her kisses and caresses were a source of inexpressible delight; yet when all was over it was he who collapsed into the most profound slumber. Early the next morning she took him shopping, her manner fresh and cheerful. Jones could not fathom her spritely behavior. And in spite of all his best endeavors, he could scarcely keep his eyes open.

Boys and Girls come hear my greeting, I hope you don't plan on sleeping. For tonight while you are dreaming, evil awakes unearthed and creeping. There's things that thump, things that bite, things that go bump in the niiight, what are these things you sit and ponder. Brace yourselves, we call them... Monsters. The first monster we'll see today is something that likes to- Eat hay? First they champ, than they stamp, then- Uhhh :V You all know about mermaids? One parts sexy the other halfs lady But do you know about this even scarier combination? It's called... FURRY! FURRY! FURRY! FURRY! But wait, where's its head? I don't see it anywhere?.. AH! It's called... FURRY! FURRY! FURRY! FURRY! What's on it's what's on it's chest it's on it's chest?! Is it like- some kind of- Pokémon?

(By the way, isn’t it time that I became a GPS voice? You can download Gary Busey, KITT from Knight Rider, and Flavor Flav. There has to be a market for William Shatner giving you directions! Let’s talk, GPS manufacturers. And unlike the sexy lady voice on most units, I can actually pronounce “Sepulveda Boulevard” properly.)

I just like that you know what you want. It’s refreshing and sexy at the same time.” “Well, this will really turn you on,” she says in that gritty voice of hers. “I want to eat a big juicy steak for dinner, with a baked potato slathered in butter. I may even lick my fingers like the lady that I am.” I groan. “God, that’s so hot.

Ladies don’t understand how sexy F1 racers are.

These soba noodles have gone beyond simply attractive into the realm of sexiness. They look as soft and smooth as the skin of a beautiful lady.

Well, my beautiful girlfriend, you are about to be one lucky lady." She beamed. "Ryan Reynolds wants to make a baby with me?" He paused and then shook his head. "What the fuck? You dig Deadpool?" She nodded. "Hell yeah, I do, he's sexy." "I'm naked here, you just took advantage of me, and you are calling some other dude sexy?" She smiled. "Yes, because I love you and find you sexy. But that doesn't matter, carry on,

Seem like saved folks don’t like to do anything but talk about being saved, complain about sin, and go to church. And church be boring as hell, so I just watch Sweet Sadie and think about her sexy body and her secret past.

If you’re ever short on cash, you could set up a booth and charge the ladies to massage your bod.” “Oh yeah?” His voice was wary. “Sure. Say, fifteen bucks for a two minute fondle. Strictly PG-13, above the waist, of course. I’ll sell the tickets, if you give me a cut.” His hands stopped moving. She babbled on, dazed and thoughtless. “The gay guys would go for it, too. We’d rake in the dough.” “I’d let you do it for free,” he said. His voice was devoid of irony. Her eyes popped open in alarm. She looked back over her shoulder. The hot glow in his eyes brought her feminine instincts to high alert. She pulled away. She and her big dumb mouth. Sexy banter with a guy she barely knew, but no nerve to back it up.

WHICH FAKE ROM-COM LADY CAREER SHOULD YOU PURSUE? ...Think Bond girl—you’re incredibly smart in the one specific area that just so happens to help the protagonist in this one very specific instant of the plot. “Give me that,” you’ll say, snatching the hieroglyph from the hero’s hand. “I have two PhDs in cryptozoological translation.” You’ll shove the hero aside from the beeping machine. “I’m NASA’s top-ranking expert in nuclear disarmament techniques.” Does it make sense? No, but who cares? You are very, very pretty. And smart, definitely smart because even though you look like a supermodel and wear very sexy clothing and a full face of makeup, you are also wearing glasses. Sure, twenty-four looks a little young to have three PhDs but they’re pretty sure making you smart in whatever will move the plot forward means this movie is feminist. You will either end up running away with the hero, or you will die. Apologies.

She’d best get the hell outta here pretty damn quick. Finally he stood and tossed some cash on the littered table then glanced at the pretty lady shifter. He frowned and gave Joe a look. “With the hunt going down tonight, it might be a good idea to give the little blonde a heads up. She needs to hit the road.” When Joe nodded, Mad shrugged, determined to put some distance between himself and the sexy stranger. “Best take off and see what’s what, Joe. You take care now.” He felt the woman’s eyes on him as he made his way to the door and stopped to return her stare. A sound similar to white noise buzzed in his ears and fairly rattled his brain then stopped almost as soon as it started. Chills raced over his arms. What the fuck?

Her mouth dry, her gaze ventured inevitably down, past the curls on his chest and belly, clear to where his rod thrust high and hard against the white of one bare thigh. Her recall was instantaneous- as if she'd ever forgotten. As if she ever could! With stark, unremitting clarity, she remembered precisely how it had felt to touch him there, her knuckles buried in the coarse nest of curls that thickened and surrounded the base of his erection.

Then there are all the tabloids patrolling the bodies and private lives of celebrity women and finding constant fault with them for being too fat, too thin, too sexy, not sexy enough, too single, not yet breeding, missing the chance to breed, having bred but failing to nurture adequately—and always assuming that each one’s ambition is not to be a great actress or singer or voice for liberty or adventurer but a wife and mother. Get back in the box, famous ladies.

1) Leopardskin is always a neutral. 2) You can get away with nearly anything if you wear the thing with black opaque tights and boots. 3) Contrary to popular opinion, a belt is often not a good friend to a lady. Indeed, in many circumstances, it acts merely as a visual aid to help the onlooker settle the question: "Which half is fatter - the bottom or the top?" 4) Bright red is a neutral. 5) Sellotape is NOT strong enough to mend a hole in the crotch of a pair of tights. 6) You should NOT buy an outfit if you have to strike a sexy pose in the changing-room mirror to make it look good. On the other hand, if you immediately start dancing the minute you put it on, buy it, however much it costs: unless it's lots, in which case, you can't, so don't. Fashion magazines will NEVER say, "Actually, don't buy it if you can't afford it." Neither will your friends. I am probably the only person who will EVER say it to you. You're welcome.

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Rhys cleared his throat and tugged on his cravat. “I wanted to ask you something.” “Yes?” St. Clare livened up immediately as he took a sip of whisky. “Do you treat your wife like your mistress?” St. Clare raised a brow. Any other man would be sputtering his drink out of his mouth in surprise at the question. Not St. Clare. “No, I treat my wife a lot better than I have ever treated any of my mistresses.” “That’s not exactly what I mean….” Rhys cleared his throat again. “Then what do you mean?” Rhys scratched his temple. “I mean in bed.” “Oh…” Gabriel scowled. “I do not think I follow.” “Well, I mean… All the depraved things you did with your mistresses, do you do them to your wife?” Gabriel raised his brow. “If by depraved, you mean whether I pleasure my wife in every way I have learned how then yes. And she does the same for me.” “You let her—” “I let her do anything she wants to do to me and then teach her to do even more,” he added with a wink. Rhys tugged on his cravat again in agitation. “What I mean is… I’ve heard time and time again that ladies are delicate creatures who cannot withstand arduous pursuits… There are things that are indecent—” “Let me stop you right there, my dear, virtuous friend. What you think is indecent, I do to my wife every morning before breakfast. And what you call degrading or embarrassing, I call Tuesday.” He finished his drink and slammed the glass onto the desk. “There is no such thing as indecent between a husband and a wife. The only thing indecent is a cold marriage bed. Take it from a former rake.

When I heard you were almost surely dead, that’s when I knew what you were to me. My woman. You rode back to me from the dead. I’ll never let you go again.” Weak and spent, I said desperately, as if I were shouting at him in a foreign language, “You don’t love me or you’d care what I feel!” “I do care. In a year you’ll love me.” Even at that moment, when I hated him, my blood quickened as he smiled. I cried defiance as much to my treacherous body as to him. “I won’t. I’ll hate you more than I do know. “ “We’ll see.” He cupped my chin and raised my face. “You’re tired darling. Sleep now. You can give me your answer in the morning.” I couldn’t let him kill Trace. But to submit to those muscular, golden-haired arms? Let him do the things Trace had? And it wouldn’t be for one time only, I was sure of that. Court might after a season let me go, but I had a frightening dread that if he possessed me long enough, he would drain me till I became his thing, his creature—that I wouldn’t go, even if he allowed it and Trace would take me.

Gless's lexical shift from "sexiness" through "femininity" to a "real strong lady" is a discursive shift and therefore has sociopolitical dimension. "Sexiness" is from an explicitly patriarchal discourse, "femininity" is from a discourse that attempts to naturalize gender construction and difference in terms of the status quo and is therefore implicitly patriarchal, whereas "real strong lady" is from a discourse that consciously opposes and exposes both the explicit and implicit patriarchy of "sexiness" and "femininity".

He wouldn’t have understood. He wouldn’t have been able to understand in the least the desire, the pure quintessential need of my readers for escape, a thing I myself understood only too well. Life had been hard on them and they had not fought back, they’d collapsed like soufflés in a high wind. Escape wasn’t a luxury for them, it was a necessity. They had to get it somehow. And when they were too tired to invent escapes of their own, mine were available for them at the corner drugstore, neatly packaged like the other painkillers. They could be taken in capsule form, quickly and discreetly, during those moments when the hair-dryer was stiffening the curls around their plastic rollers or the bath oil in the bath was turning their skins to pink velvet, leaving a ring in the tub to be removed later with Ajax Cleanser, which would make their hands smell like a hospital and cause their husbands to remark that they were about as sexy as a dishcloth. Then they would mourn their lack of beauty, their departing youth.… I knew all about escape, I was brought up on it.

1) “Raise Your Glass”—P!nk 2) “Dynamite”—BTS 3) “Happy”—Pharrell Williams 4) “Particle Man”—They Might Be Giants 5) “I’m Good”—The Mowgli’s 6) “Yellow Submarine”—The Beatles 7) “I’m Too Sexy”—Right Said Fred 8) “Can’t Stop the Feeling!”—Justin Timberlake 9) “Thunder”—Imagine Dragons 10) “Run the World (Girls)”—Beyoncé 11) “U Can’t Touch This”—MC Hammer 12) “Forgot About Dre”—Dr. Dre featuring Eminem 13) “Vacation”—Dirty Heads 14) “The Load Out”—Jackson Browne 15) “Stay”—Jackson Browne 16) “The King of Bedside Manor”—Barenaked Ladies 17) “Empire State of Mind”—JAY-Z 18) “Party in the U.S.A.”—Miley Cyrus

What’s wrong?” Now that he was on the spot, John floundered for what to say. He wasn’t a bare-your-heart kind of guy. “I don’t like people.” She raised her delicate brows but didn’t say anything. “In general I have no tolerance for them. They piss me off and drive me to cuss. Most of them don’t have the sense to find their way out of a paper sack. None of this applies, of course, to other Marines.” One side of her mouth lifted in a smile. “And it doesn’t apply to you. You’re the first person I’ve ever been with who doesn’t make me want to shoot somebody out of boredom. You have spunk and heart and you’re sexy as hell, and you don’t mind my shit. And lady,” he said with a sigh, “I come with a lot of shit. I have a lot of baggage, and though I don’t mean to spew it on you, I know I will. I’ll tell you I’m sorry now and every day for the rest of my life.” He reached out and tugged her to lie across his lap. “But I’ll also tell you I love you every day, which I do. I do not fucking deserve you. I know that. I’ve not done anything in this life to be given a gift like you. But I will cherish you, and honor you, as much as I possibly can. You make me feel like a man, and I cannot tell you how much I need that.” Her

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I want to say you'd be surprised by the kind of people who go visit their relatives and lovers in jail, but really you wouldn't be surprised at all. It's just like you see on TV - desperate, broken-toothed women in ugly clothes, or other ladies who dress up like streetwalkers to feel sexy among the inmates and who are waiting for marriage proposals from their men in cuffs, even if they're in maximum security and the court has already marked them for life or death penalty. There are women who come with gangs of kids who crawl over their daddies, and there are the teenagers and grown-up kids who come and sit across the picnic tables bitter-lipped while their fathers try to apologize for being there. Then there are the sisters, like me, who show up because nobody else will. Our whole family, the same people who treated my brother like he was baby Moses, all turned their backs on Carlito when he went to the slammer. Not one soul has visited him besides me. Not an uncle, a tia, a primo, a friend, anybody.

What’s wrong?” Now that he was on the spot, John floundered for what to say. He wasn’t a bare-your-heart kind of guy. “I don’t like people.” She raised her delicate brows but didn’t say anything. “In general I have no tolerance for them. They piss me off and drive me to cuss. Most of them don’t have the sense to find their way out of a paper sack. None of this applies, of course, to other Marines.” One side of her mouth lifted in a smile. “And it doesn’t apply to you. You’re the first person I’ve ever been with who doesn’t make me want to shoot somebody out of boredom. You have spunk and heart and you’re sexy as hell, and you don’t mind my shit. And lady,” he said with a sigh, “I come with a lot of shit. I have a lot of baggage, and though I don’t mean to spew it on you, I know I will. I’ll tell you I’m sorry now and every day for the rest of my life.” He reached out and tugged her to lie across his lap. “But I’ll also tell you I love you every day, which I do. I do not fucking deserve you. I know that. I’ve not done anything in this life to be given a gift like you. But I will cherish you, and honor you, as much as I possibly can. You make me feel like a man, and I cannot tell you how much I need that.” Her pretty hazel eyes welled with tears then dripped down her cheeks. He felt his own throat tighten as he brushed her tears away with his rough thumbs. She cupped his jaw in her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “Okay.” He pulled back in surprise. “Just ‘okay’?” She nodded. “You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. I know you have baggage, I know you’re going to be a pain in my ass, but I love you more than I ever dreamed possible. You’re abrasive and harsh, but you cuddle a kitten like you were meant to do it. You cuddle me like you were meant to do it. And you’ll cuddle our kids the same way. You make my body sing and my heart race. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too.” There was no way he couldn’t not kiss her then. As he cupped her head in his hand, he marveled that he’d been given this piece of heaven.

He was behaving like an imbecile and a knave, yet he pressed his advantage. Employing only his greater size, by bending near and hovering, he worked her into the corner. A passer-by wouldn't have noted untoward conduct, but they were so confined that she couldn't flee. As it was, her hand instinctively rose, an ineffectual barrier, and she situated it in the middle of his chest where his pulse reverberated under her palm. "Do you mind?" she queried. A special musk wafted about her. If he'd been blindfolded and locked in a room with a hundred women, he could have picked her out by her distinct fragrance. The heady aroma called to his basest instincts, attracting and tempting him to experience her extraordinary charms. "Not a bit." "Oh, you are insufferable!" But she was laughing, her voice low and seductive and urging him on. In the past, he'd never spent time with females of her station, because he hadn't the patience to weather their prattling, but oddly, he found Lady Sarah to be outrageously sexy and absorbing, and he hung on every word that popped out of her desirable mouth.

DICK’S DESIRE Dick's eyes- Soft, cold, and blue- Meet Devonshire's- Dark, sexy, and yearning. Turning away- Dick grabs two packets of sugar- While Devonshire's eyes- Are still upon him- Pondering his every move. Is Dick a playboy, A ladies' man, A mans' man, Or a killer? Does his sex long for, Something hard- Or something soft? Does he need cream in his coffee- The screaming splash of a man, Or the sweet flow of a woman? Finishing up at the bar- Dick turns to leave- Meets Devonshire's gaze again- Hot, thirsty, and longing- But full of trepidation. Following the flow of etiquette- Dick shoots out of the cafe, Past Devonshire, And into a world of dashed hopes, And regrets. But Devonshire- No longer of two worlds- Rises in pursuit- Goes after Dick, And taps him on the shoulder. Dick gives a turn, Raises his shoulders, And smiles with interest- Taking Devonshire's hand, And asking his name. Devonshire answers- Desire. Dick invites Devonshire to dinner, Where he eats everything, Swallowing Dick's life stories, And devouring his misgivings. For dessert, Devonshire takes Dick home, Into his bed, Against his flesh, And gives Dick all of him- His deepest desires, The love in his eyes, And the fire in his soul.

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Marlboro Man’s call woke me up the next morning. It was almost eleven. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?” I hopped out of bed, blinking and stumbling around my room. “Who me? Oh, nothing.” I felt like I’d been drugged. “Were you asleep?” he said. “Who, me?” I said again, trying to snap out of my stupor. I was stalling, trying my darnedest to get my bearings. “Yes. You,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t believe you were asleep!” “I wasn’t asleep! I was…I just…” I was a loser. A pathetic, late-sleeping loser. “You’re a real go-getter in the mornings, aren’t you?” I loved it when he played along with me. I rubbed my eyes and pinched my own cheek, trying to wake up. “Yep. Kinda,” I answered. Then, changing the subject: “So…what are you up to today?” “Oh, I had to run to the city early this morning,” he said. “Really?” I interrupted. The city was over two hours from his house. “You got an early start!” I would never understand these early mornings. When does anyone ever sleep out there? Marlboro Man continued, undaunted. “Oh, and by the way…I’m pulling into your driveway right now.” Huh? I ran to my bathroom mirror and looked at myself. I shuddered at the sight: puffy eyes, matted hair, pillow mark on my left cheek. Loose, faded pajamas. Bag lady material. Sleeping till eleven had not been good for my appearance. “No. No you’re not,” I begged. “Yep. I am,” he answered. “No you’re not,” I repeated. “Yes. I am,” he said. I slammed my bathroom door and hit the lock. Please, Lord, please, I prayed, grabbing my toothbrush. Please let him be joking. I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots. The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic. “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself? I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans. “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. “Well, c’mere,” he said softly.

How had she ended up like this, imprisoned in the role of harridan? Once upon a time, her brash manner had been a mere posture - a convenient and amusing way for an insecure teenage bride, newly arrived in America, to disguise her crippling shyness. People had actually enjoyed her vituperation back then, encouraged it and celebrated it. She had carved out a minor distinction for herself as a 'character': the cute little English girl with the chutzpah and the longshoreman's mouth. 'Get Audrey in here,' they used to cry whenever someone was being an ass. 'Audrey'll take him down a peg or two.' But somewhere along the way, when she hadn't been paying attention, her temper had ceased to be a beguiling party at that could be switched on and off at will. It had begun to express authentic resentments: boredom with motherhood, fury at her husband's philandering, despair at the pettiness of her domestic fate. She hadn't noticed the change at first. Like an old lady who persists in wearing the Jungle Red lipstick of her glory days, she had gone on for a long time, fondly believing that the stratagems of her youth were just as appealing as they had ever been. By the time she woke up and discovered that people had taken to making faces at her behind her back - that she was no longer a sexy young woman with a charmingly short fuse but a middle-aged termagant - it was too late. Her anger had become a part of her. It was a knotted thicket in her gut, too dense to be cut down and too deeply entrenched in the loamy soil of her disappointments to be uprooted.

I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me. How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here. “Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero. “You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap. “I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.” “Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall. “I’m not really sure.” “Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon! I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.” “A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?” My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.” “Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.” “Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.

Numbers express quantities. In the submissions to my online survey, however, respondents frequently attributed qualities to them. Noticeably, colors. The number that was most commonly described as having its own color was four (52 votes), which most respondents (17) said was blue. Seven was next (28 votes), which most respondents (9) said was green, and in third place came five (27 votes), which most respondents (9) said was red. Seeing colors in numbers is a manifestation of synesthesia, a condition in which certain concepts can trigger incongruous responses, and which is thought to be the result of atypical connections being made between parts of the brain. In the survey, numbers were also labeled “warm,” “crisp,” “chagrined,” “peaceful,” “overconfident,” “juicy,” “quiet” and “raw.” Taken individually, the descriptions are absurd, yet together they paint a surprisingly coherent picture of number personalities. Below is a list of the numbers from one to thirteen, together with words used to describe them taken from the survey responses. One Independent, strong, honest, brave, straightforward, pioneering, lonely. Two Cautious, wise, pretty, fragile, open, sympathetic, quiet, clean, flexible. Three Dynamic, warm, friendly, extrovert, opulent, soft, relaxed, pretentious. Four Laid-back, rogue, solid, reliable, versatile, down-to-earth, personable. Five Balanced, central, cute, fat, dominant but not too much so, happy. Six Upbeat, sexy, supple, soft, strong, brave, genuine, courageous, humble. Seven Magical, unalterable, intelligent, awkward, overconfident, masculine. Eight Soft, feminine, kind, sensible, fat, solid, sensual, huggable, capable. Nine Quiet, unobtrusive, deadly, genderless, professional, soft, forgiving. Ten Practical, logical, tidy, reassuring, honest, sturdy, innocent, sober. Eleven Duplicitous, onomatopoeic, noble, wise, homey, bold, sturdy, sleek. Twelve Malleable, heroic, imperial, oaken, easygoing, nonconfrontational. Thirteen Gawky, transitional, creative, honest, enigmatic, unliked, dark horse. You don’t need to be a Hollywood screenwriter to spot that Mr. One would make a great romantic hero, and Miss Two a classic leading lady. The list is nonsensical, yet it makes sense. The association of one with male characteristics, and two with female ones, also remains deeply ingrained.

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I can pay you and your crew a great deal of money if you will return me to my home.” Cloud stood up, picking up his own knife. With a dexterity matching Alexis’s he threw the knife at the door. It stuck in the wood only a few inches from hers. “No,” he answered firmly. “I do not want your money and neither do my men.

I hate it when they do that. Hello, girls! Like we’re children. Like we’re the littlest of little girls in our prettiest princess costumes, and simultaneously hot and sexy ladies. We just robbed a clerk who couldn’t stop staring at your Child Boobs.

She pointed to a sundress with bright yellow lemons on it. "That's cute. I love lemons." Ay, Dios mio! Carolina cringed. She sounded like a fool. It was like Baby's "I carried a watermelon" line in Dirty Dancing. Why was she so awkward? "You'd look stunning in that." Enrique signaled to a woman who worked there. A saleswoman walked over to them from the back of the shop. She quickly and professionally assessed Carolina's body and then picked one of the bright dresses off the rack. "This should fit you. Shall I put it in a room for you, miss?" "Sure." Carolina followed her right to the dressing room. The dark hair on her arms stood at full attention and her heart raced. Nerves and anticipation swirled through her--- this whole day seemed like a fantasy, but it was tough for her to just live in the moment. She undressed and slipped the dress over her head. The soft fabric caressed her body, accentuating her curves. She stared at her figure in the mirror. She looked... sexy. Carolina had never seen herself as sensual, but in this dress, in the soft, warm glow of the dressing room lights, she was a knockout. The saleswoman had also placed some bright red pumps in the room. Carolina loved high heels and never had a problem walking in them, because she had spent so many years dancing with the Ballet Folklórico. Carolina's eyes practically bugged out of her head when she saw their bottoms, and she stroked the red soles--- they were Louboutins, an identifying detail she knew about from Blanca's endless fashion magazines. Blanca dreamed of owning a pair one day. She would be so jealous. Luckily, they were the same size, so Carolina would let Blanca borrow them. There was only one problem with Carolina's outfit--- her underwear didn't work with the dress. Her broad, wide bra elastics showed under the thin spaghetti straps, and her panties were too dark. She leaned out of the curtain. "Ma'am." The saleslady walked back over to her. "Can I get you something else?" "Yes. A bra and some panties." Carolina told the lady her sizes, and the lady went around the corner, returning later with an adorable matching yellow lace bra and thong. A thong. Her face crinkled. "Do you have anything with, uh, fuller coverage?" "Of course, dear. But not in the yellow. Do you want to match the bra?" Carolina did want to match the bra. It was such a cute set. She exhaled, stepping out of her comfort zone and into the lingerie. She again looked at herself in the mirror. She practically couldn't recognize herself--- a gorgeous young woman on a romantic day trip with a man whom she really liked.

1) “Raise Your Glass”—P!nk 2) “Dynamite”—BTS 3) “Happy”—Pharrell Williams 4) “Particle Man”—They Might Be Giants 5) “I’m Good”—The Mowgli’s 6) “Yellow Submarine”—The Beatles 7) “I’m Too Sexy”—Right Said Fred 8) “Can’t Stop the Feeling!”—Justin Timberlake 9) “Thunder”—Imagine Dragons 10) “Run the World (Girls)”—Beyoncé 11) “U Can’t Touch This”—MC Hammer 12) “Forgot About Dre”—Dr. Dre featuring Eminem 13) “Vacation”—Dirty Heads 14) “The Load Out”—Jackson Browne 15) “Stay”—Jackson Browne 16) “The King of Bedside Manor”—Barenaked Ladies 17) “Empire State of Mind”—JAY-Z 18) “Party in the U.S.A.”—Miley Cyrus 19) “Fucking Best Song Everrr”—Wallpaper. 20) “Shake It Off”—Taylor Swift 21) “Bang!”—AJR

Not that,” said June. “I’m not making another movie where I play a sexy Asian lady on a beach—fuck no. She meant Altogether Too Many Murders.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Good title. Has a ring of truth to it.

Did you know,” she said, “they say the colour of a lady’s lips is an exact match to another region on the body?” Her gaze drifted below her water-covered stomach. My face grew hot. The burning need to say something, anything, scorched my tongue.

Naturally, we even made snow angels in the backyard as we stumbled around, and passed out. No one cared what we did really, thus far that was the fun of it all. Oh, and Kenneth was just the boy that only wanted one thing from Jenny. He had no personality to speak of… he would hit on me all the time, and sometimes he would get it from me too, or I would be out of the group by her if he said I was the one that wanted it from him. We could break widows out of old buildings and homes, and who would stop us. Sure, we got chased by the cops, yet that was the fun of it too. There is nothing else for us to do. I remember Maddie leaving her handprints in the wet mud, Jenny her butt, and some of her lady-ness, when the town thought it was time for new sidewalks. Yet we all did, something that would last forever, we thought. Maddie drew a few other things too. You can get the picture! All inappropriate… all there for life. She was just crazy like that, like squatting down pissing, and doing number two in the old man Jackups yard. She has more balls than most guys… I knew. Old man Jackups called us, ‘Mindless slutty hooligans’ So that was payback. At the time- I thought like what is wrong with that, we're just having some fun here… your old windbag, like go and sit on your cane! You know what I mean… I think? I remember being so smashed at my sweet sixteen too, that I don’t even remember it. Yet that is what having a good time was all about, so they say. Bumping and grinding on all the boys with loud music. And as the twinkling lights shine on your skin, that lights the way up to your bedroom. You know that your puffy dress is going to be pushed up a couple of times on that night. I just don’t remember how many times it was, and I didn’t remember who it was with, I am not even sure if I know them at all… all of them or not. All I know is I did it all and was happy to do whatever they asked me to do. But- but I thought I was having the time of my life. I was the birthday girl that had the rosiest pink lipstick on most boys at the party. I thought it was such a horror. In my mind at the time, I thought that I high-jacked the rainbow, and crashed into a pot of gold! All the girls my age did it, yet I was the best at it! I recall the time Liv and I went trick or treating. I was dressed as Hermione from the Harry Potter movies. Liv was a sexy witch! With the pointed hat. So, original…! That is what I told her. That was the night we scared the pants off of Ray in the not-so-scary haunted house. And before you ask, he was dressed as Harry. So, I wanted to play with his wand, that's why I dressed the way I did at the time. Liv was one of those good friends… I thought, which would tell everyone what you all did the day after, to all the girls at the lunch table. She can text faster than anyone I know. Anyways… we jumped out at him, and he nearly craps his nicely pressed pants. I am sure there was a skid mark on his tighty- whities or something. Yet he did yack on Liv’s chest, and that was hilarious to me. She was dancing around, and flapping her hands doing the funky chicken while yelling, ‘Ou- ou- ou- wah!’ As I dibble over in lather, I guess it was funnier when it doesn’t happen to you too many times.

The priestess of the temple is called Anaitis, and she has just the most fabulous line in earthy, hunky sexiness that you will ever see. My goodness, if ever there was a woman for caressing in a field of barley it is her – but alas, she does not see herself in that way, for as Autonoe approaches the lady with autumn hair who stands in the porch of the shrine, Anaitis folds her arms and tuts: “What’s happened now?

Mom's bone structure put the white mom's to shame. Her cheekbones were so there and lushly sculpted that they made the white mom's face look like mashed potatoes from a box. Not that the white mom was ugly. Her face just didn't exude the foreign-lady sexiness the way Mom's did. The white mom's face exuded Puritanism. Margarine. Thrift. The absence of fun.

Time to change, ladies." The stranger's deep, penetrating voice rumbled through Zara's body. Rich and full, it was the kind of voice that made lawyers spill milkshakes and babble incoherently as they thrust sticky business cards into celebrity hands. "Is there a problem?" Parvati made a show of inspecting her weapon while Zara tried to untie her tongue. Although she couldn't see the dude's face, he was tall---at least six-two---and powerfully built, the top of his coveralls unzipped and tied around his narrow waist. His black T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and magnificent pecs as if it had been painted on his muscular body. One thick, deeply tanned forearm bunched and flexed as he unholstered his weapon in one smooth practiced motion.

Tell me your wish, My Lady.” “Forever and a day with you, My Lord.” ~ Lachlan Jackson and Haley Steele

Let’s have a glance at Strong’s theory. Okay, the 2nd Earl of Essex, a former court favorite, had been the leader of the failed rebellion against the crown. In Strong’s strange-fantastic scenario, the pregnant Lady Essex, hoping to prevent the beheading of her husband following his arrest, had with great speed commissioned this sexy full-length portrait of herself and sent it to Elizabeth as a plea to spare her husband’s life. Strong made no attempt to explain why Lady Essex, who was famously despised by Elizabeth, would have thought it wise to paint herself as the Virgin Queen’s pregnant twin—the two women didn’t even look alike in real life. We are asked to believe that Lady Essex decided to co-opt the queen’s symbol of the goddess Diana in a nearly nude portrait in which the deer, presumably representing her husband Essex, was being crowned by the queen?

There’s more to her—more than her beauty, her etiquette, her self-indulgent plight to land a position as First Lady, and her holier-than-thou bullshit. I saw it. That girl has skills, hidden talents, and is fucking smart—a trait I find sexy as hell. Not to mention how light and fun she was, volleying every damn line Cash threw at her with ease. She’s so much edgier with me.

If it all goes wrong, a wise-cracking, irreverent-but-devilishly handsome archaeologist with a wry, witty, and sarcastic sense of humor and a fear of snakes won't be swooping in to save us." "Ladies." As if on cue, Jack joined us at the table. He was wearing a perfectly fitted gray button-down shirt beneath his leather jacket, a pair of vintage jeans that hugged his hips, and brown Blundstones that had seen better days. On another man, the look might have been too casual. On him, it was thirst trap sexy. "He's just missing the hat and the whip

He made an immediate impression, biker tough. The men admired him. A sexual rush made women blush. He was a turn-on. There was a wildness to Jake that unsettled the ladies. A roughness that dared them to domesticate him. Other guys were equally tall, broad shouldered, and muscled. It was Jake's face that set him apart. Angular and strong boned. Alpha and masculine. His sharp gaze undressed and penetrated a woman's deepest thoughts. His cheekbones slashed to a single dimple, unshaved jaw. Wicked grin. His mouth promised midnight arousal and morning satisfaction.

A sexy lady,” Sheldon says, beaming at her.

He brought the mirror carefully around the chaise, placing it where she could see herself in its shining surface. Now she guessed what he intended. It was outrageous. Surely not... A tremor shook her, desire mingled with panic. She rose from the seat. “No, I can’t—” As she hesitated, he caught her hands. “Yes, you can, darling. And I promise you will enjoy it.

Wriggling out of his grasp she braced herself on his shoulders and tried to stand. Next thing she knew, he had her around the legs and took her down to the mattress in some sort of super-fast ninja move. She screamed and laughed, and he was laughing every bit as hard as he came down on top of her. And, oh God, his laughter was a sweet and sexy rumble that lit her up inside. “You fight dirty, Easy,” she said around her chuckles. “I haven’t had this much fun in so long.” She caressed his face with her fingers. “Me neither. Between overloading on classes and my epilepsy, I often feel like a little old lady trapped in the body of a twenty-year-old. All I need is some cats.” “Cats are awesome,” he said. “When I was a kid, I used to sneak stray cats into the house, just for a night or two. I’d keep them in my room and bring up bowls of milk and cans of tuna for them.” “Aw, you were a sweet little boy, weren’t you?” she asked, loving how he was opening up to her. The closeness, the sharing, the way his big body was lying on her legs and hips, leading him to prop his head up on her lower stomach—both her heart and her body reacted. “Maybe for about five minutes.” He winked. “Mostly, I was a hell-raiser. Growing up, we didn’t live in the best neighborhood. Drug dealers on the corner, gang activity trying to pull in even the younger kids, crack house one block over. All that. Trouble wasn’t hard to find.” He shrugged. “Army straightened me out, though.” “Well, we lived in a nice neighborhood growing up and here my father was the freaking drug dealer on the corner. Or close enough, anyway.” Jenna stared at the ceiling and shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get serious.” His thumb stroked along her side, sliding the cotton of her borrowed shirt against her skin in a way that almost tickled. “Don’t apologize. Our histories are what they are, you know?” She nodded and gave him a little smile. “Yeah.” Shifting off her, Easy stretched out alongside her and propped his head up on his arm. “I’m thirty, Jenna,” he said out of nowhere. And he was telling her this because? He thought their age difference was too great? He thought she was too young? He was worried she would think he was too old? Probably D) all of the above. Thing was, all she saw when she looked at Easy was a guy she really freaking liked. One who’d saved her life, helped make her sister safe, and gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt in years. He was hot as hell, easy to talk to, and one of the kindest guys she’d ever known. Maybe some of that was because he was older. Who knew? “And I need to know this because?” she asked, resting her head on her arm. The muscles of his shoulders lifted into a shrug, but his face was contemplative. “Because there’s clearly something going on between us.” Heat rushed across her body. She held up a hand, and he laced his fingers between hers. “When I look at you, I don’t see a bunch of differences, Easy.” “What do you see then?” Warmth flooded into Jenna’s cheeks, and she chuckled. He’d said that she was beautiful, after all, so why couldn’t she give him a compliment in return? “A really hot guy I’d like to get to know more.” A smug smile slipped onto his face, and she might’ve rolled her eyes if it weren’t so damn sexy. “Really hot, huh?” “Well, kinda hot, anyway.” “Nuh-uh,” he said, tugging her hand to his chest. “Can’t take it back now.” Cheeks burning and big smile threatening, she rolled onto her side to face him. They lay there, side by side, her chest almost touching his, looking at each other. Tension and desire and anticipation crackled in the space between them, making it hard to breathe. “What do you see when you look at me?” she whispered, half-afraid to ask but even more curious to hear what he’d say. Did he mostly see someone who was too young for him? Or a needy girl he had to save and babysit?

She slapped my shoulder playfully. "I've created a monster," she said, then she nestled into the chair and rested her head on my shoulder, "an adorable, sexy monster.

Guys are so lucky. They don’t have to deal with this after they come. A quick wipe up and they’re good to go. While us ladies are squeezing fresh baby batter from our hot boxes for the next three hours. Or is that just me? It damn well better not be. If you say so, you’re lying. The inner thigh cum slide is a real thing.

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Ladies,” he said as he stepped forward. “I’m afraid we don’t have enough tents or saddles to add you to the group.” “I already tried to stop them,” Elaine said, “but they insisted.” She turned to Phoebe. “Eddie and Gladys are known for being a little hardheaded.” “Among other things,” Maya added wryly. “That one’s Eddie, and that one’s Gladys,” she said, pointing. “We’re not additions,” Eddie said, “we’re replacements.” Gladys dug through the large black purse strapped over her forearm and pulled out a checkbook. “We met a nice couple at Ronan’s last night, and they couldn’t say yes fast enough when we offered to buy their spots on the cattle drive.” “They said they’re gonna stay in town and get a hot stone massage every day instead.” “But--” “We already paid,” Eddie said. “Five hundred bucks a pop. Figured it would be worth it if we could see some sexy cowboys. We’ve taken riding lessons from Shane Stryker, but he refuses to take off his shirt for us. I hope you’re not going to be so stubborn.” Phoebe thought Zane might call off the whole thing, after all, but all he did was mutter, “Fine. Head inside, I’ll bring your things.” She supposed the novices were a bit of a challenge and senior novices would be even more of one, but to her mind, the older women were quirky and delightful. “We’re mighty excited about this trip,” Gladys said. “Eddie here has wanted to go on a cattle drive since she first saw City Slickers.” She winked. “Not that either of us have a hankering to help with a birthing, mind you. It looked a tad messy.” Phoebe was charmed.

February 2013 My Email to Andy (Part One)   My chance encounter with Max was both a blessing and an affliction. After I’d checked into the majestic lady, The Oriental, hunger hit my rumbling stomach. I needed to savour some authentic Thai food. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped out of the hotel’s door, I was confronted by the harsh reality of Bangkok’s civic life. As at Don Mueang International Airport, rows of local taxi drivers lined the hotel’s periphery, ready to debauch the first customer that ventured out without soliciting The Oriental’s private limo service.                Again, I found myself surrounded by a barrage of locals offering me the best bargain on transportation to my destination. Who should come to my rescue but the same driver that had deposited Max and me? In the foulest Thai vernacular he could master, he repulsed those who challenged him. The vultures scattered, allowing me to embark in his not-so-new sedan. ”Where you want go sir?” he asked. ”Take me to an excellent place for local food,” I replied. ”I take you to good place, sir,” he responded and sped off into the dark. The question of whether I wanted a sexy girl to accompany me during my Bangkok stay arose again. I refused his offer with politeness. The man rephrased his query: “You want boy? I take you to good boy-bar.” I shook my head, yet he continued to pester me for an answer. We bantered back and forth, I not revealing my sexual preference while he used every contrivance to solicit an answer. Instead of delivering me to the city’s hub, he headed in the opposite direction towards a suburb that had almost no street lights. Worrisome thoughts of robbery and murder had begun to plague me when the vehicle finally came to a halt at a two-storied house in the middle of nowhere.

glanced over my shoulder and saw the lady was giving away samples." Ask yourself: - How did it feel? - How did it taste? - What did it look like? - What did it sound like? - What did it smell like?

​“You were with men too long,” I said. “You haven’t found the right woman. Take the dominatrixes at Enthrall. They’re true babes in every sense of the word. They’re smart and funny and sassy and super sexy. Why, I’ll introduce you to one of them, if you like. Not lady Penny, though. She’s married. You might like Mistress Scarlet. She scares the hell out of me, but I think you’d like her.” His gaze stayed on me for the longest time. “You’re the funniest thing I’ve ever met.

This really hot chick walks up to a bartender and says in a sexy, seductive voice, “May I please speak to your manager?” “He’s not here right now. Is there anything I can help you with?” “I don’t know if you’re the man to talk to... It’s kind of personal.” Thinking he might get lucky, the bartender says, “I’m pretty sure I can handle your problem, miss.” She looks at him with a sexy smile and playfully puts two of her fingers in his mouth. He begins sucking them, thinking, “I’m in!!!” After a few minutes she says, “Can you give the manager a message from me?” The bartender nods. “Tell him there’s no toilet paper in the ladies’ restroom.

In the privacy of my room, armed with a mirror, shaving cream, razor, and bowl of water, I sat on my floor with a towel propped under my bare ass. Leaning back against my bed with my legs wide open as if I were about to give birth, I shaved everything off. My lady parts looked like a barren desert after a massive forest fire. I saw parts of myself that had long vanished beneath pubescent growth. Suddenly, I felt sexy. There was something about going bare that made me feel sensual and touchable. But that was short lived. I was ill prepared for my skin’s reaction to the change. I completely broke out. My pussy flushed as razor bumps shot across my flesh as if I’d had an allergic reaction to my underwear. It took weeks of applying antibiotic ointment to calm my skin.

It had been a perfect retort until a little evil slipped from my lips, as it always did, “I mean super sexy for the younger generations, obviously. So the ladies in your group wouldn't know that—being why you weren’t aware of it.” I grinned wide, loving it when her jaw dropped. I had no self-control. The Doritos under my bed were proof of that.

The dramatically different manner in which the couple responded to William’s injury publicaly underlined what those within their immediate circle have known for some time, the fairy-tale marriage between the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer is over in all but name. The breakdown of their marriage and the virtual collapse of their professional relationship is a source of sadness to many of their friends. This much discussed union which began with such high hopes has now reached an impasse of mutual recrimination and chilling indifference. The Princess has told friends that spiritually their marriage ended the day Prince Harry was born in 1984. The couple, who have had separate bedrooms at their homes for years, stopped sharing the same sleeping quarters during an official visit to Portugal in 1987. Little wonder then that she found a recent article in the Tatler magazine which posed the question: “Is Prince Charles too sexy for his own good” absolutely hilarious because of its unintentional irony.

Jen looked at Fane with a brow raised, and her lips quirked in a sexy smirk all her own. “How do we know you aren’t really saying, ‘Ladies, you have nice boo…” Sally slapped her hand over Jen’s mouth. Jacque pushed the blonde, filter-less flirt while Sally kept her words from bursting forth. “What she meant to say was ‘Back atcha’,” Sally called over her shoulder.

Awwwright,” I drawled. “Two sexy single ladies living the fabulous single lifestyle, then.” Mom gave me a droll look. “So … boxed wine and binging British crime shows?

She began to click through the profiles. You’ve got to be in it to win it, right? Pathetic. Some men could be eliminated with a quick glance at their profile photograph. It was key when you thought about it. The profile portrait each man had painstakingly chosen was, in pretty much every way, the first (very controlled) impression. It thus spoke volumes. So: If you made the conscious choice to wear a fedora, that was an automatic no. If you chose not to wear a shirt, no matter how well built you were, automatic no. If you had a Bluetooth in your ear—gosh, aren’t you important?—automatic no. If you had a soul patch or sported a vest or winked or made hand gestures or chose a tangerine-hued shirt (personal bias) or balanced your sunglasses on top of your head, automatic no, no, no. If your profile name was ManStallion, SexySmile, RichPrettyBoy, LadySatisfier—you get the gist.

ATTRACT A LOVER Hail Niña Roja, my beautiful and lusty lady, I pray to you to bring me a treasure and a gift. A faithful lover is the jewel that I desire, A sexy and seductive wo/man Who desires to touch me and to caress me, And who lusts after pleasing me, Someone who will be faithful with their passions And honest with their needs. Someone who will protect me and honor me And will encourage me to be my best.

Seriously? A tool belt? Carley swallowed as she watched Knox hook the belt around his waist, then let it ride low on his hips. What was it about a guy wearing a tool belt that had her lady parts screaming that they needed to be hammered? Wait, bad choice of words. She meant that they were broken and needed to be fixed…with his tool…er…tools. He pulled his hammer from the loop on the side and held it up, almost as if reading her mind. “Do you have something you need me to nail?” A laugh burst out of her. Whether it was nerves or that his comment was just too cheesy, she couldn’t hold back the laughter. He lifted one shoulder as he offered her a sheepish grin. “That one was probably a little too much.” “But you did get me to laugh.” “One mission down, one to go.” “You still think you’re gonna earn that kiss?” His lips curved into a slow sexy smile. “I’m still gonna try.

last place country music newcomer Maura Whittaker expects to fall in love with a sexy rock guitarist.

Cowboy hats. Cowboy boots. Super hot guys who call you ma'am, and not in a you're-an-old-lady way but in a sexy I-respect-your-womanhood way.

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