Best 7189 quotes in «sex quotes» category

In the course of my life I have had pre-pubescent ballerinas; emaciated duchesses, dolorous and forever tired, melomaniac and morphine-sodden; bankers' wives with eyes hollower than those of suburban streetwalkers; music-hall chorus girls who tip creosote into their Roederer when getting drunk... I have even had the awkward androgynes, the unsexed dishes of the day of the *tables d'hote* of Montmartre. Like any vulgar follower of fashion, like any member of the herd, I have made love to bony and improbably slender little girls, frightened and macabre, spiced with carbolic and peppered with chlorotic make-up. Like an imbecile, I have believed in the mouths of prey and sacrificial victims. Like a simpleton, I have believed in the large lewd eyes of a ragged heap of sickly little creatures: alcoholic and cynical shop girls and whores. The profundity of their eyes and the mystery of their mouths... the jewellers of some and the manicurists of others furnish them with *eaux de toilette*, with soaps and rouges. And Fanny the etheromaniac, rising every morning for a measured dose of cola and coca, does not put ether only on her handkerchief. It is all fakery and self-advertisement - *truquage and battage*, as their vile argot has it. Their phosphorescent rottenness, their emaciated fervour, their Lesbian blight, their shop-sign vices set up to arouse their clients, to excite the perversity of young and old men alike in the sickness of perverse tastes! All of it can sparkle and catch fire only at the hour when the gas is lit in the corridors of the music-halls and the crude nickel-plated decor of the bars. Beneath the cerise three-ply collars of the night-prowlers, as beneath the bulging silks of the cyclist, the whole seductive display of passionate pallor, of knowing depravity, of exhausted and sensual anaemia - all the charm of spicy flowers celebrated in the writings of Paul Bourget and Maurice Barres - is nothing but a role carefully learned and rehearsed a hundred times over. It is a chapter of the MANCHON DE FRANCINE read over and over again, swotted up and acted out by ingenious barnstormers, fully conscious of the squalid salacity of the male of the species, and knowledgeable in the means of starting up the broken-down engines of their customers. To think that I also have loved these maleficent and sick little beasts, these fake Primaveras, these discounted Jocondes, the whole hundred-franc stock-in-trade of Leonardos and Botticellis from the workshops of painters and the drinking-dens of aesthetes, these flowers mounted on a brass thread in Montparnasse and Levallois-Perret! And the odious and tiresome travesty - the corsetted torso slapped on top of heron's legs, painful to behold, the ugly features primed by boulevard boxes, the fake Dresden of Nina Grandiere retouched from a medicine bottle, complaining and spectral at the same time - of Mademoiselle Guilbert and her long black gloves!... Have I now had enough of the horror of this nightmare! How have I been able to tolerate it for so long? The fact is that I was then ignorant even of the nature of my sickness. It was latent in me, like a fire smouldering beneath the ashes. I have cherished it since... perhaps since early childhood, for it must always have been in me, although I did not know it!

In the end, there wasn’t a right thing to say, only a right thing to do. So I sat further up on the bed and put my hand on Manuelle’s cheek and our mouths did the rest, finding each other even though our eyes were closed. I ceased to care about anything that wasn’t her body or mine as we wrapped ourselves around each other on the flower patterned quilt and I was closer to her than I’d ever been before. It wasn’t that we left the rest of the world behind; it was the opposite. I could feel the world turning underneath us, I could hear birds outside and people laughing, and I felt that I was part of it at last. With no part of my skin not touching Manuelle’s, I was part of the world at last. Or maybe I’m romanticizing, and we were just two kids doing everything two kids can do in a cramped room at the back of a caravan.

In the hours waking, when we're still all still, and you can hear the floorboards creaking, and you can feel the shades blow in, the night we slept with, we'll never kiss like that again. Our lips, will sever, our memories, will dissipate, and our shadows will be swallowed by the sky.

In them and between them flourished the heat of life, the madness of love, and the sudden absolute certainty of the end of all that they knew.

In their book Warrior Lovers, an analysis of erotic fiction by women, the psychologist Catherine Salmon and the anthropologist Donald Symons wrote, "To encounter erotica designed to appeal to the other sex is to gaze into the psychological abyss that separates the sexes.... The contrasts between romance novels and porn videos are so numerous and profound that they can make one marvel that men and women ever get together at all, much less stay together and successfully rear children." Since the point of erotica is to offer the consumer sexual experiences without having to compromise with the demands of the other sex, it is a window into each sex's unalloyed desires. ... Men fantasize about copulating with bodies; women fantasize about making love to people. Rape is not exactly a normal part of male sexuality, but it is made possible by the fact that male desire can be indiscriminate in its choice of a sexual partner and indifferent to the partner's inner life--indeed, "object" can be a more fitting term than "partner." The difference in the sexes' conception of sex translates into a difference in how they perceive the harm of sexual aggression. ... The sexual abyss offers a complementary explanation of the callous treatment of rape victims in traditional legal and moral codes. It may come from more than the ruthless exercise of power by males over females; it may also come from a parochial inability of men to conceive of a mind unlike theirs, a mind that finds the prospect of abrupt, unsolicited sex with a stranger to be repugnant rather than appealing. A society in which men work side by side with women, and are forced to take their interests into account while justifying their own, is a society in which this thick-headed incuriosity is less likely to remain intact. The sexual abyss also helps to explain the politically correct ideology of rape. ... In the case of rape, the correct belief is that rape has nothing to do with sex and only to do with power. As (Susan) Brownmiller put it, "From prehistoric times to the present, I believe, rape has played a critical function. It is nothing more or less than a conscious process of intimidation by which all men keep all women in a state of fear." ... Brownmiller wrote that she adapted the theory from the ideas of an old communist professor of hers, and it does fit the Marxist conception that all human behavior is to be explained as a struggle for power between groups. But if I may be permitted an ad feminam suggestion, the theory that rape has nothing to do with sex may be more plausible to a gender to whom a desire for impersonal sex with an unwilling stranger is too bizarre to contemplate. Common sense never gets in the way of a sacred custom that has accompanied a decline of violence, and today rape centers unanimously insist that "rape or sexual assault is not an act of sex or lust--it's about aggression, power, and humiliation, using sex as the weapon. The rapist's goal is domination." (To which the journalist Heather MacDonald replies: "The guys who push themselves on women at keggers are after one thing only, and it's not reinstatement of the patriarchy.")

In the many months of his absence, she never wondered whether he was true to her or not; she knew he was. She knew, even though she was too young to know the reason, that indiscriminate desire and unselective indulgence were possible only to those who regarded sex and themselves as evil.

In theory, condom promotions ought to work everywhere. And intuitively, some condom use ought to be better than no use. But that’s not what the research in Africa shows. Why not? One reason is “risk compensation.” That is, when people think they’re made safe by using condoms at least some of the time, they actually engage in riskier sex.

in the morning we found the rabbits intent on a meticulous and general campaign of copulation

in the most decent sometimes sun there is the softsmoke feeling from urns and the canned sound of old battleplanes and if you go inside and run your finger along the window ledge you'll find dirt, maybe even earth. and if you look out the window there will be the day, and as you get older you'll keep looking keep looking sucking your tongue in a little ah ah no no maybe some do it naturally some obscenely everywhere.

In the mind of the public, she seemed endowed with an almost supernatural power to commit heinous acts, no matter the time or place.

In the realm of love and sex, it’s girls who are in the position of working hard to adapt themselves to the needs and fantasies of the mercurial males whose approval and attention they seek.

In the South, Sunday morning sex is accompanied by church bells.

In the unification of two minds, orientation of sexuality is irrelevant.

In the symphony of love, the lost chord is a small organ lying somewhat north of the vagina.

Intimacy and lovemaking—intertwined, meshed, and one becoming the other—are what I strive to achieve each time I am presented with the opportunity to enjoy a lovemaking experience.

In various states of undress, those about her joined in her fondling, lowering their mouths not only to her nipples but to her arms and legs, so that each limb was held captive about the wrist or ankle, and smothered in kisses and gentle nibbles. In this way, perhaps eight of the assembly joined in pleasuring the young lady, taking care to only deliver the sweetest of sensations. The Gentlemen's Club

Invece eccoci qui insieme, soddisfatti e sereni, ricchi e famosi, con un rapporto col sesso decisamente normale come bere un caffè: infatti ci piaceva forte e caldo, da consumare preferibilmente parecchie volte al giorno

I offer a kiss, my bed, my body. And then, for my own trick, I disappear.

Out running errands—be back before noon. I made a list of some things I like. Check the ones you're interested in, underline any maybes, and cross off your no's. I'm going to do two of the things on that list to you when I get back—your choice. Surprise me. -M

I only knew to treat the male asshole as if it had a grenade buried inside of it that could ignite a deadly explosion of anger, trauma, and sexual confusion.

I participate in BDSM, but I wasn't abused as a child. I don't hate women, or particularly enjoy hurting women. Sometimes I make them feel pain, but it's consensual, it serves a purpose—to get them off—and they can indicate that they wish me to stop at any time. I do like the power I get from total submission, and the trust that my partner puts in me to give me everything, from her mind to her body, while expecting nothing in return—except the understanding that I won't violate that trust.

I quickly found the dating/hookup app to be a dangerous addition to my iPhone. A friend recommended it after shit hit the fan with my boyfriend. With enough breakups under my belt, I knew that the healthiest remedy was a solid rebound fuck or two. Tinder made it easy- too easy. Suddenly, I could sit in traffic, on the toilet, or in line at the DMV and carelessly swipe, swipe, swipe my way to dick-on-delivery. Tinder selections are based on proximity via smart phones, so there are tons of tourists, travelers, and young professionals on business trips swiping through new hunting grounds. Its loose, easy-come-easy-go method made hookups as convenient as picking up lunch. Tinder’s nonchalance went both ways. We had nothing to lose.

I read the title from the cover. ' 'The joy of... crap.' ' I read the rest of the full title of the thick, nondescript volume to myself and felt myself redden. Noah turned over on to his side and said with mock seriousness, 'I have never read 'The Joy Of Crap'. Sounds disgusting.' I blushed deeper. 'I have, however, read 'The Joy Of Sex.' ' He continued, a smile transforming his face. 'Not in a while, but I think it's one of those classics you can come back to again... and again.

I really look forward to that insane hour that we spend together. I really do.

I really think that writing about sex is writing about the mind.

I reckon we could all use an opportunity to endear ourselves to our wives." He looked to Rycliff and Thorne. "When's the last time you did something heroic for your lady?" Rycliff smirked. "Last night." Thorne drained his tankard and cracked his neck. "This morning." "I didn't mean in bed," Colin said. Under his breath he added, "Braggarts.

I remember Queen Victoria's advice to her daughter. Close your eyes and think of England.

I remember taking an anthropology class in college and the professor was explaining that there is little 'sexual dimorphism' in humans. He meant that there are few outward, observable differences between makes and females. At the time I was confused, so I raised my hand. 'I feel like it's very easy to tell men and women apart,' I said. 'That's due to culture,' he answered.

...I remember a rainy, depressing afternoon when she remarked 'What a pity we can't make love, there's nothing else to do,' and he agreed that it was and there wasn't.

I rubbed my eyes. They felt like they were coming loose. Soon they'd slip out of their sockets and I'd be left to wander blind and staggering this land of longing and ache. The things I would have done for a hit. If that asshole who'd kicked me out onto the side of the road had offered me some dope I would have sucked anything he wanted, would have pleaded on my knees topless, would have let him plunge a hand through my ribs and tear out my heart, anything.

I rouse Emily to our guests, as she finishes off our fifteenth snowman by setting the head atop its torso. She stands limp at my direction, pointing out the coming shadows and I cannot help but hear a muffled sigh as she decapitates her latest creation with a single push of her hand.

I ripped all her clothes off. She twisted and turned, slow, so they would slip out from under her. Then she closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow. Her hair was falling over her shoulders in snaky curls. Her eye was all black, and her breasts weren’t drawn up and pointing up at me, but soft, and spread out in two big pink splotches. She looked like the great grandmother of every whore in the world. The devil got his money’s worth that night.

Isaac dared not move and she did not stir either, both staring up at the canopy above. If he reached over, if he –no, no. It was better to keep a small shield between them, to preserve the little progress they had made in their standoffish, untested relationship, two strangers forced together under impossible circumstances. The last thing he needed was to push her away, to frighten her, to be the brute she’d taken him for. It had been three weeks since they’d been in this very same position and so much had changed and yet so little. A ridiculous, naïve hope drifted into his head before he found sleep: perhaps one day, a long time from now, they would be friends. He would settle for that, if he could have nothing more. Even though he wanted everything.

I saw him freeing me from the silences of the interior life.

I remember the very day, sometime during the first two weeks of my five-year amorous sojourn in Brutland, when I was made privy to one of the most arcane of their utterings. The time was ripe for that major epiphany, my initiation into the sacred knowledge—or should I say gnosis?—of that all-important, quintessentially Brutish slang term, the word that endless hours of scholastic education by renowned mentors, plus years of scrupulous scrutiny into scrofulous texts, had disappointingly failed to impart to me, leaving me with that deep sense of emptiness begotten by hemimathy; the time was finally ripe for me to be transported by the velvety feel of the unvoiced palato-alveolar fricative, the élan of the unpronounceable and masochistically hedonistic front open-rounded vowel, and, last but not least, the (admittedly short) ejaculatory quality of the voiced velar stop: all three of them combined together to form that miraculous lexical item, the word shag.

I saw a documentary about prostitution in Holland a few years ago, that said over there health insurance actually pays for monthly visits to a prostitute for the disabled, because they feel that sex is part of a healthy life, so unmarried disabled men have a right to have sex, even if it's with a paid prostitute. Pretty bizarre, huh? Can you imagine a US health insurance company picking up the bill for your romp in the hay with a hooker?

I said ‘Periods are God’s way of being mean to men’ and she replied ‘Periods are God’s way of giving women a break from men’.

I see specks of the Universe in your eyes. A body of stardust that gives me a high. And when we make love the stars shine brighter than usual. When we lie there holding each other, I see love making us.

Is he bothering you?" "Nah just some old pervert waiting for the sex show." The ghost lips curled "If I was alive I'd teach you some manners First I'd-" "I'm sure there are losts of thing you'd do to me if you were alive, but seeing as though your're not, I guess you're stuck watching..." (makes a jerk-off gesture)

I should warn you in advance that I want you to know me and why I became a sugar baby. Most people aren’t comfortable with the idea of older men dating younger girls and exchanging money, so it’s important to me that you get why I did what I did. And I want you to understand that the difference between being a sugar baby versus being a prostitute is the connection. Although sometimes “sugar dating” is just a code for escorting, those people are just not doing it right. To really sugar date correctly, you have to feel something for the man who takes care of you, and he has to feel something for you. And you won’t feel anything for either of us if I don’t tell you all the good and bad parts of the story. And believe me, there are a lot of good things and a lot of bad things to this story.

I simply took refuge among women. As you know, they don't really condemn any weakness; they would be more inclined to try to humiliate or disarm our strength. This is why woman is the reward, not of the warrior, but of the criminal. She is his harbor, his haven; it is in a woman's bed that he is generally arrested. Is she not all that remains to us of earthly paradise?

I slept and the night rolled over into day like a dog. Another post-meridian awakening - sunshine on empty bottles, tangled clothes. I dozed while the temperature rose.

I spend my life worrying. I worry about everything, about money, about my daddy, about my future, but draped across Sebastian's lap, I am at ease. There's no storm. There's no boat. There is no up or down, just the slapping sound of his hand against my flesh.

I squinted through the big window, a portal to another world, trying to get a better view of the primal love scene before us. All I could see was a mass of wriggling fur and finger-like toes until my eyes focused in on one male and two females kissing, ear-tonguing and giving each other enthusiastic oral sex, punctuated with occasional somersaults, smacks and nibbles on fruit and leaves. Sometimes they interacted as a threesome. Other times, two would cavort together, while the third played with herself, alternating between fingering and using a red rubber ball as a kind of sex toy, rubbing and bouncing it vigorously against her large pink vulva.

I stare down into her eyes, smoky and glistening in the light stealing through the window. Eyes you can fall into and keep falling. She isn't the mother of my son, she isn't my wife, we haven't made a life together, but I love her all the same, and not jsut the version of Daniela that exists in my head, in my history. I love the physical woman underneath me in this bed here and now, wherever this is, because it's the same arrangement of matter--same eyes, same voice, same smell, same taste... It isn't married-people lovemaking that follows. We have fumbling, groping, backseat-of-the-car, unprotected-because-who-gives-a-fuck, protons-smashing-together sex.

I steal one glance over my shoulder as soon as we are far from the foreboding luminance of the neon glow, and it is there that my stomach leaps into my throat. Squatting just shy of the light and partially concealed by the shade of an alley is a sinister silhouette beneath a crimson cowl, beaming a demonic smile which spans from cheek to swollen cheek.

Is that how you get propositioned at the court? 'Mylady, would you be so kind as to allow me to put my manhood in your vagina'?

Is there a way," she wrote in closing, "to dignify sex, make it as complicated as we are, to make it not grotesque?

I stroke a finger over my own top button, undo it, then let my hand drop with an exaggerated sigh. "It's not quite the same," I declare, "ripping my own clothes off.

I swear to God, I think my panties just melted off my body. How can Crush just talking sex make me hot?