Best 121 quotes in «bedroom quotes» category

Not everything I do is gossip or bedroom. To the contrary, I think that's just an easy label to dismiss me and to dismiss the new medium.

Obviously, the state's responsibility should be to legislate rules for a well-ordered society. It has no right or duty to creep into the bedrooms of the nation.

Oh, I don't know about that, Jericho. See, when it comes to the bedroom, The Game always came up a little bit... short.

Oh spare me, being stuck in your bedroom is not like prison. You don't have to worry about being gang-raped in your bedroom.

Poring over fragments of other people's lives, peering into their bedrooms when they don't know we're there, we thrill to the glamour and the power of secret knowledge, partly detoxified but also heightened by being shared.

[On the 1982 intruder into her bedroom:] I realized immediately that it wasn't a servant because they don't slam doors.

Radical conservatives want to police bedrooms.

The best way to live above all fear of death is to die every morning before you leave your bedroom.

She shrieked. "Nora! What happened to the banister!" Good thing she hadn't seen her bedroom yet.

Real intimacy depends on truth - lovingly told - especially in the bedroom.

There was something unmistakably exultant about the mess that Rosa had made. Her bedroom-studio was at once the canvas, journal, museum, and midden of her life. She did not “decorate” it; she infused it.

the only door into her bedroom led through the church.

The only interesting thing that can happen in a Swiss bedroom is suffocation by feather mattress.

There is a crisis of public morality. Instead of policing bedrooms, we ought to be doing a better job policing boardrooms.

The great pyramid is overrated. It's a bad design. The lounge is going to be huge, but the bedroom is going to be tiny.

The only one who gets to canoodle in my bedroom is my magnificent self.

There are too many brands. You can start your own brand from your bedroom. It's a good thing and a bad thing.

There's a sculpture in our bedroom, a solid brass replica of Antonio's manhood. It's very expensive, he gave it to me as a romantic gift.

Under normal circumstances, you inviting me to the bedroom would be the highlight of my day.

The secret Ive lived by ever since I started earning money is this: Always buy a house with an extra bedroom adjoining the master. And thats always my closet.

They call it 'surfing' the net. It's not surfing. It's typing in your bedroom

The spirit of the marriage left the bedroom and took to living in the parlor.

Ultimately, who you choose to be in a relationship with and what you do in your bedroom is your business.

When things don't work well in the bedroom, they don't work well in the living room either.

"What are you doing here anyway?" "'Here' as in your bedroom or 'here' as in the great spiritual question of our purpose here on this planet?

Until we can all present ourselves to the world in our completeness, as fully and beautifully as we see ourselves naked in our bedrooms, we are not free.

When I was very little, I probably wanted to be more normal. I probably wanted the Laura Ashley bedroom, and instead I got thrift-store everything.

Bay's room was the first one at the top of the staircase. It was painted a dove gray that turned peacock blue after dark, as if the room absorbed the warmth of daylight and radiated with it at night.

Why do they put the Gideon Bibles only in the bedrooms, where it's usually too late...?

You can have a worldwide shop from your bedroom. You can do things that weren't even dreamed of when I started off in business. It's why technology is the most wonderful thing for small businesses.

Even the memory of cradling her in my arms is pure euphoria. And all that I ask out of life is that it be constant and unending euphoria.

Bedrooms are like crime scenes. So many clues to be uncovered.

entanglement: (n.) quantum physics term for when the sheets wrap around two bodies in space.

Having a haircut is like cleaning the bedroom of your thoughts.

Good morning,” Aline said, while her heartbeat rapidly outpaced her ability to think. She offered him her hand, and her breath caught at the gentle clasp of his fingers. Somehow she managed to find a calm social voice. “Did you rest well last night?” “No.” His eyes glinted as he retained her hand a moment longer than was acceptable. “I do hope that your room is not uncomfortable,” Aline managed to say, tugging free of him. “What would you do if I said it was?” “Offer you another room, of course.” “Don’t bother—unless it’s yours.” “That obliging a hostess, I’m not,” she informed him.

I discovered that politics is not entirely about agendas and manifestos of some old, sullen creep promising a better future of the country as a whole. Politics is being played everywhere and it starts from the very bedroom that you consider your safe haven.

I'm proud of you, Bliss," he said. "Michael's sword released the souls that were trapped in your blood. You freed them. You freed me." "But now I'm never going to see you again, am I?" she asked. Dylan smiled. "It's unlikely. But I never say never.' "I wish you wouldn't go. I'll miss you so much," Bliss said. "I'll miss you too." Dylan put his hand up, and so did Bliss. But this time, instead of touching air, she felt his warm hand grasping her cold one. She looked at Allegra. Somehow, she knew her mother was making this happen. Dylan leaned down, and she could feel his lips, soft and inviting, gently kissing hers. Then Dylan was gone. But Bliss did not feel anguished. She felt at peace. Dylan was not broken and incomplete anymore. He was whole.

I know that some night in some bedroom soon my fingers will rift through soft clean hair songs such as no radio plays all sadness, grinning into flow.

I’m still in bed writing this, lying on my back like an omelette in a pan.

I sit up, edge over close to my window, and push it open, slipping one leg in, then the next, turning back to Jase. “Come on.” His smile flashes in the gathering dark as his eyebrows lift, but he climbs carefully in as I lock my bedroom door. “Be still,” I tell him. “Now I’m going to learn all about you.

It doesn't matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you don't do it in the street and frighten the horses.

London, December 1915. In the master bedroom (never was the estate agent's epithet more appropriate) of Flat 21, Carlyle Mansions, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, the distinguished author is dying - slowly, but surely. In Flanders, less than two hundred miles away, other men are dying more quickly, more painfully, more pitifully - young men, mostly, with their lives still before them, blank pages that will never be filled. The author is seventy-two. He has had an interesting and varied life, written many books, travelled widely, enjoyed the arts, moved in society (one winter he dined out 107 times), and owns a charming old house in Rye as well as the lease of this spacious London flat with its fine view of the Thames. He has had deeply rewarding friendships with both men and women. If he has never experienced sexual intercourse, that was by his own choice, unlike the many young men in Flanders who died virgins either for lack of opportunity or because they hoped to marry and were keeping themselves chaste on principle.

It really should be a criminal offense for an electrician to mount a breaker box on a bedroom wall. Unfortunately, I see the solar industry mounting inverters on bedroom walls also!

Many a rich man’s bed is bigger than many a poor woman’s bedroom; his bedroom, her house.

My maid never sweeps under the bed so I asked her to do so today. Found a pen, three pairs of shoes and the man I had lost two years ago.

My eyes roved over the walls covered with my collages and prints of famous paintings. Magritte, Kandinsky, Kahlo. My origami shapes hung from fishing wire, dangling over my bed. They shivered in the slight breeze blowing through my open window. It was my own little escape pod, but none of it was enough tonight.

The air inside her room was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and lemon. He materialized near her dresser. His hand automatically turned her alarm clock to face the wall, then brushed across a tray filled with Vicks, cough syrup, aspirin, and a thermometer. He tenderly touched the lemon slices near an empty teacup. Could a simple illness have filled him with so much fear that he had risked coming to see her? A dim light from a purple Lava lamp cast an amber glow across the bed where Serena lay, the leopard-print sheets twisted in a knot beside her leg. Her long curly hair was half caught in a scrunchy that matched her flannel pajamas. The words Diamonds are a girl's best friend- they're sharper than knives curled around a dozen marching Marilyns in army fatigues on the blue fabric. Stanton had been with her when she bought the Sergeant Marilyn pajamas three months back.

New Rule: Stop putting all those pillows on the bed. Attention, interior designers, hotel maids, and real housewives of New Jersey: It's a bed, not an obstacle course. I'm sorry, baby, I'd like to make sweet love to you all night long, but by the time I get all that crap off your bed, I'm exhausted. A bed needs only two pillows: one to put my head on, and one to cuddle with and pretend it's Robert Pattinson.

Not only was the four-poster- a lofty structure that would have put princesses and peas to shame- a place of rest and relaxation but it was, and had been for quite some time now, a portal for her magic carpet escapades. It was there that Estelle first began to practice what Marjan had called "eating at the edge of a ready 'sofreh'." Estelle always followed the same routine when assembling her dinner 'sofreh' on her bed. First, she would spread the paisley blanket Marjan had given her, tucking the fringed ends in tight around the sides of her mattress. Then, having already wetted a pot of jasmine tea, she would dig a trivet into the blanket's left corner and place the piping pot on top of it. Following the Persian etiquette of placing the main dishes at the center of the 'sofreh', Estelle would position the plate of saffron 'chelow' (with crunchy 'tadig'), the bowl of stew or soup that was the day's special, and the 'lavash' or 'barbari' bread accordingly. She would frame the main dishes with a small plate of 'torshi', pickled carrots and cucumbers, as well as a yogurt dip and some feta cheese with her favorite herb: balmy lemon mint. Taking off her pink pom-pom house slippers, Estelle would then hoist herself onto her high bed and begin her ecstatic epicurean adventure. She savored every morsel of her nightly meal, breathing in the tingle of sumac powder and nutmeg while speaking to a framed photograph of Luigi she propped up on its own trivet next to the tea. Dinner was usually Persian, but her dessert was always Italian: a peppermint cannoli or marzipan cherry, after which she would turn on the radio, always set to the 'Mid-West Ceili Hour', and dream of the time when a young Luigi made her do things impossible, like when he convinced her to enter the Maharajah sideshow and stand on the tallest elephant's trunk during carnival season in her seaside Neapolitan town.

Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent. When she came to my bed and begged me with sighs not to tempt her towards passion nor actions unwise, I told her I’d spare her and kissed her closed eyes, then unbraided her body of its clothing disguise. While our bodies were nude bathed in candlelight fine I devoured her mouth, tender lips divine; and I drank through her thighs her feminine wine. Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent.