Best 7189 quotes in «sex quotes» category

Because baby, I'm wild pussy and wild pussy can't be bought. Wild pussy doesn't like having pretty things thrown at it and being expected to do the samba on someone's cock in return. Wild pussy doesn't do deals. Wild pussy lives free and for itself and takes it however it likes it; on a bed, on a couch, on the hood of a car, in a bathroom stall or up against a wall in an alleyway and it laughs the entire time. I've known you for a while now Chase. I know you've never had wild pussy and I know you never will. Wild pussy doesn't fuck uptight cock. And it sure as hell doesn't like silk boxers

Because feelings, emotional and physical, are so foregrounded in sexual encounters, the orgy is soon the most social of human interchanges, where awareness and communication, whether verbal or no, hold all together or sunder it.

Because it’s never really sex until someone squirts.

Because of this. Because your funny. Because you know Lolita. And Nabukov and James Mason too. Because you're cute and funny and i'm kind of sad and you haven't tried hitting on me once. Because you weren't even trying...

Because we never finished what we started, because it never was allowed to reach a natural close, our ending felt unwritten. I imagined other endings and how they would have defined me, and because I couldn't explore such endings with her, my desire ran loose where it could. I responded to the desire of others, and I fell easily for those who responded to the desire in me. At times I felt worn thin, but it was exciting, and as I found out, rare to be a person who enjoyed both giving and receiving pleasure, who was interested in the erotic as an exchange. Some people couldn't see past the sex, some people fell fast and hard, and though I was generous with my body, I was careful and particular about women I shared my heart with, and that left me lonely.

Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Sold my soul and yeah, the truth hurts.

Before going home with a guy, give him a blow job. Guys are always more relaxed after a blow job. (You're totally welcome, guys. P.S. Girls can't see this sentence!!!!!)

Before he could say my name, I closed the space between us. Quickly, my lips moved against his. The mental and emotional emptiness took over instantly, but physically, I was more alert than ever. Wesley’s surprise didn’t last as long as it had before, and his hands were on me in seconds. My fingers tangled in his soft hair, and Wesley’s tongue darted into my mouth and became a new weapon in our war. Once again, my body took complete control of everything. Nothing existed at the corners of my mind; no irritating thoughts harassed me. Even the sounds of Wesley’s stereo, which had been playing some piano rock I didn’t recognize, faded away as my sense of touch heightened. I was fully conscious of Wesley’s hand as it slid up my torso and moved to cup my breast. With an effort, I pushed him away from me. His eyes were wide as he leaned back. “Please don’t slap me again,” he said. “Shut up.” I could have stopped there. I could have stood up and left the room. I could have let that kiss be the end of it. But I didn’t. The mind-numbing sensation I got from kissing him was so euphoric-such a high-that I couldn’t stand to give it up that fast. I might have hated Wesley Rush, but he held the key to my escape, and at that moment I wanted him… I needed him. Without speaking, without hesitating, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and threw it onto Wesley’s bedroom floor. He didn’t have a chance to say anything before I put my hands on his shoulders and shoved him onto his back. A second later, I was straddling him and we were kissing again. His fingers undid the clasp on my bra, and it joined my shirt on the floor. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel self-conscious or shy. I mean, he already knew I was the Duff, and it wasn’t like I had to impress him. I unbuttoned his shirt as he pulled the alligator clip from my hair and let the auburn waves fall around us. Casey had been right. Wesley had a great body. The skin pulled tight over his sculpted chest, and my hands drifted down his muscular arms with amazement. His lips moved to my neck, giving me a moment to breathe. I could only smell his cologne this close to him. As his mouth traveled down my shoulder, a thought pushed through the exhilaration. I wondered why he hadn’t shoved me-Duffy-away in disgust. Then again, I realized, Wesley wasn’t known for rejecting girls. And I was the one who should have been disgusted. But his mouth pressed into mine again, and that tiny, fleeting thought died. Acting on instinct, I pulled on Wesley’s lower lip with my teeth, and he moaned quietly. His hands moved over my ribs, sending chills up my spine. Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Only once, as Wesley flipped me onto my back, did I seriously consider stopping. He looked down at me, and his skilled hand grasped the zipper on my jeans. My dormant brain stirred, and I asked myself if things had gone too far. I thought about pushing him away, ending it right where we were. But why would I stop now? What did I stand to lose? Yet what could I possibly gain? How would I feel about this in an hour… or sooner? Before I could come up with any answers, Wesley had my jeans and underwear off. He pulled a condom from his pocket (okay, now that I’m thinking about it, who keeps condoms in their pockets? Wallet, yes, but pocket? Pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?), and then his pants were on the floor, too. All of a sudden, we were having sex, and my thoughts were muted again.

Before he could say anything, "I told him; I have had my share of boys".He drew me closer and said "let me your man then".

Before we even swung onto 516 Nilda was in my brother's lap and he had his hand so far up her skirt it looked like he was performing a surgical procedure. When we were getting off the bus Rafa pulled me aside and held his hand in front of my nose. Smell this, he said. This is what's wrong with women.

Before the dick, I had my shit together. I had goals, dreams, and aspirations. But after the dick, I was lost, turned out all over again, and needed Iyanla to fix my life.

(...) before they actually admit to the big 'L' word. Love or lust - what's the big, damn deal? You're going to  fuck either way, right?

Be generous, kind and compassionate. These are true characteristics of successful people.

Be good to people only if you like anal sex. That's how kind people are.

Being a sugar baby is not being a prostitute. Having boyfriends who treat you nice is not being a whore and should not be looked down upon.

Being a nun wasn't all it was cracked up to be and the sex was shit.

Being a sugar baby was like being a groupie, but for any guy who was rich.

Being assertive enough to avoid being coerced into sex sounds like a good skill to learn. But you have to wonder what the corresponding page on Challenges said: Try not to rape your girlfriend?

Being homosexual is no more abnormal than being lefthanded.

Being held by power is a turn on. Being entangled, enraptured, impaled by a powerful man, whose passion — whose beast — has him perched precariously on the edge of wanton venery? And then pushing him off! Everything changes, in a nova scream choked off by a sudden inhale of soul altering rapture. Being held like prey. ~ from Red Queen Black Queen

[Being rejected] hurt, 'cause what turned me on in sex was believing that they knew me, that I'd found somebody to understand.

BEL-IMPERIA: Oh let me go; for in my troubled eyes Now may'st thou read that life in passion dies. HORATIO: Oh stay a while, and I will die with thee; So shalt thou yield, and yet have conquered me.

Benjamin Franklin was a real tomcat, no woman was safe from his lightening bolt

Beyond these moments, she could hardly count the fumbling ministrations of boys in high school who, even to her senior prom, never went beyond sticky pleasantries. With one exception, it was just a sort of half-clothed handshake for bragging rights, none hers.

Besides, it seems to me, since my pleasure is more or less a foregone conclusion, the main object of the exercise ought to be your pleasure. A rather elusive creature, I've heard. Fascinating sort of quarry.' 'Wait a minute. You're hunting down my orgasms?' His laughter burst out like a rifle salute. 'Kate. You damned magnificent creature.' He rolled onto his back, bringing me with him. 'Yes, my darling. That's exactly what I'd like to do, on and on until the end of my life.

big-bang reproduction, or semelparity: a single reproductive effort, followed by preprogrammed death.

Biologists have an adolescent fascination with sex. Like teenagers they are embarrassed by the subject because of their ignorance.

Billions of people have had sex. I don't know how many have actually made love.

Biological, phenotypic, and chromosomal sex differences of 'male' and 'female' are considered as having a biological (organic) basis, in contrast to the role meanings afforded to these sexes in the form of 'masculine' and 'feminine' genders, which may be considered as social constructs.

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs, you look like a world, lying in surrender. My rough peasant's body digs in you and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth. I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me, and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion. To survive myself I forged you like a weapon, like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling. But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you. Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk. Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence! Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad! Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace. My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road! Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

Books that glorify virginity demean women with healthy sex drives who aren't married to Jesus.

Bondage And Service - that was what they all demanded and from everyone. This craving to find themselves in another, to subjugate and appropriate foreign territory, to create a new field for their own will in a second body, foreign flesh for their own soul; this greedy, consuming hunger devoured every other desire, and they called it friendship!

Books might be your passion but you can’t fuck a paperback.

Boys are universal giver, women remains universal receiver.

Breaking the circle” My eyes darken when I see my new lover. Fresh prey. My body doesn’t really react in a sexual way. It’s the devil inside me that celebrates next conquest. We exchange meaningless sweet words. His hungry gaze penetrates my breasts and ass. Another drink and laughter. And then another one. Sometimes I get very drunk or high. And then I don’t feel him between my legs. I don’t see his sweating face. I don’t hear his moans and questions if I came. I can’t stay sober when I cheat on you. I’m such a coward that I can’t even face this inner monster. It consumes me, it takes away my dignity. It makes me do horrible things. It hurts you, the only one who ever loved me. Who knows what I really am. No. It’s not the monster. It’s me. I am the whore. I dig my nails into your soft flesh until it bleeds. I am the one pushing you away, feasting on your kindness. I blame those hard punches of my past for my infidelity. Those cruel hands. Those hateful words. I try not to, I really do. I try to be a better person. But how can I if I am just nobody? You know why I leave. Yet you stay. You’re there when I’m back. With your sorrow and cry and resentment and wrath. Why? If I’m broken because of my pain what’s your excuse? Why do you keep letting me treat you like a stray dog? Don’t you have any respect for yourself? What the fuck is wrong with you? And just when I think I have my own slave for life you break the circle. You shut the door with a grimace of relief. You can’t look at me anymore. See, you’re finally free! My inner innocent girl is happy for you. But the monster inside kicks and laughs at me. I’m left alone. I dress up and go hunting.

Bren pulled me close and chuckled in my ear. "Damn, kid. Are you in trouble." That was bad enough. His next comment was worse. "Don't worry, Aric. Celia and I don't have sex as much as we used to.

libidinous, adj. I never understood why anyone would have sex on the floor. Until I was with you and I realized: you don't ever realize you're on the floor.

BOLLOXIMIAN: My pleasures for new cunts I will uphold, And have reserves of kindness for the old. I grant in absence dildo may be used With milk of goats, when once our seed’s infused. My prick no more to bald cunt shall resort— Merkins rub off, and often spoil the sport. POCKENELLO: Let merkin, sir, be banished from the court. PENE: 'Tis like a dead hedge when the land is poor.

BOYET A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA Wide o' the bow hand! i' faith, your hand is out. COSTARD Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout. BOYET An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. COSTARD She's too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl. BOYET I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl. Exeunt BOYET and MARIA

Boys,” Lindsay agreed, nodding. “What doesn't get lost in translation?” “Things with the letter X in front of them,” Rachel posited. “Like X-Box. And X-rated movies.

Breath and heat and contact and shirts off and skin on skin and smiles and murmurs and the enormity revealing itself in the tiniest of gestures, the most delicate sensations.

Brightness of day always end with the darkness of Night

Briefly covering the ABC’s of sexual practice, please ensure you’re having sexual relations with someone you trust that you can be honest and free with, someone you feel safe with and find a method of protection you are most comfortable with. These things cannot be stressed enough, and they are vital to moving beyond just the bodily desire of sex and into the cosmic experience using sex as the medium. If you feel you need more clarity on finding a suitable partner we cover this in depth in our previous book, Learning to Love.

To His Coy Mistress Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day. Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

But damn if there isn't anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.

But Dracula, the book, the myth, goes beyond metaphor in its intuitive rendering of an oncoming century filled with sexual horror: the throat as a female genital; sex and death as synonyms; killing as a sex act; slow dying as sensuality; men watching the slow dying, and the watching is sexual; mutilation of the female body as male heroism and adventure; callous, ruthless, predatory lust as the one-note meaning of sexual desire; intercourse itself needing blood, someone's, somewhere, to count as a sex act in a world excited by sado-masochism, bored by the dull thud-thud of the literal fuck. The new virginity is emerging, a twentieth century nightmare: no matter how much we have fucked, now matter with how many, now matter with what intensity or obsession or commitment or conviction (believing that sex is freedom) or passion or promiscuous abandon, no matter how often or where or when or how, we are virgins, innocents, knowing nothing, untouched, unless blood has been spilled – ours: not the blood of the first time; the blood of every time; this elegant blood-letting of sex a so-called freedom exercised in alienation, cruelty, and despair. Trivial and decadent; proud; foolish; liars; we are free.

But, in fact, a person's sexual choice is the result and sum of their fundamental convictions. Tell me what a person finds sexually attractive and I will tell you their entire philosophy of life.

But it wasn’t. Sex is not the most intimate thing two lovers can do. Even when the sex is beautiful. Even when it’s perfect.” Millie drew a deep breath as if she remembered how perfect it had truly been. “The most intimate thing we can do is to allow the people we love most to see us at our worst. At our lowest. At our weakest. True intimacy happens when nothing is perfect. And I don’t think you’re ready to be intimate with me, David.

But it wouldn’t have half the power of a story in which Jamie and Claire truly conquer real evil and thus show what real love is. Real love has real costs—and they’re worth it. I’ve always said all my books have a shape, and Outlander’s internal geometry consists of three slightly overlapping triangles. The apex of each triangle is one of the three emotional climaxes of the book: 1) when Claire makes her wrenching choice at the stones and stays with Jamie, 2) when she saves Jamie from Wentworth, and 3) when she saves his soul at the abbey. It would still be a good story if I’d had only 1 and 2—but (see above), the Rule of Three. A story that goes one, two, three, has a lot more impact than just a one–two punch.

But Malone was thinking now and as he watched the men lighting cigarettes for each other in the dark, having sex beneath the trees, he turned to his friend and said in a wondering voice: “Isn’t it strange that when we fall in love, this great dream we have, this extraordinary disease, the only thing in which either one of us is interested, it’s inevitably with some perfectly ordinary drip who for some reason we cannot define is the magic bearer, the magician, the one who brings all this to us. Why?