This worked out perfectly for me in college, because what nineteen-year-old Virginia boy doesn't want a wide-hipped, sarcastic Greek girl with short hair that's permed on top? What's that you say? None of them want that? You are correct.
The new acts' major influences were movies and their curvy queens Brigitte Bardot and Marilyn Monroe. With their big blonde hair, ample breasts, and highly fertile hips, these bombshells inspired women everywhere to exxagerate their own voluptuousnes...
He was skinny with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness.
She stood in the snow, effervescent, all pale skin and blonde hair, clad in white and bathed in moonlight. She should have looked angelic, instead she looked like a corpse, freshly raised from the grave, frosted in ice and darkness, swaying precariou...
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
She is beautiful, soft hair nearly midnight in color, large eyes nearly as dark, and ivory skin like the petals of the lily, and she wore a fragrance of jasmine. But 'tis her willfulness that I enjoyed the most. And her resourcefulness.
The bristling eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. Mesmerized, the boy watched them disappear under the hanging thatch of white hair. There, almost coyly, they remained just out of sight for a moment, before suddenly descending with a terrible finality...
Mannerism, especially when it takes the form of recurrent word or phrase, is by no means easy to represent; there is but a hair's breadth between the point at which the reader delightfully recognizes is as a revealing habit of speech, and the point a...
On the stage Tristen bent over the piano, his fingers swift and sure, his blond hair gleaming under the spotlight. I glanced around at the audience, watching their faces, gratified that they were as captivated as I was by the dark, thunderous song th...
Jack’s face was now buried in his hands, his elbows still on his knees, and he hunched as he fisted his hair. “Ezra?” Evidence of his anguish to come was unmistakable in the catch of his voice. Ezra’s was solid. “Yes?” “Don’t let me k...
And the way you lost your temper!" went on Wallis enthusiastically. "Oh, Mr. Allan, it was beautiful! You haven't been more than to say snarly since the accident! It was so like the way you used to throw hair-brushes--
The smell of her hair lingered just out of reach of his memory and left him with a nervous hum resonating throughout his body like a child forced to sit in church while the sun was shining outside on a perfectly good summer's day.
I didn’t look back, but I knew you were still watching. It probably sounds weird, but I could just feel it. The hairs on my neck bristled when you blinked.
He wanted to taste nothing unless it was the sweetness of her mouth, the musk of her arousal, the salt of her tears, wanted to touch nothing unless it was the silk of her hair, her soft curves, wanted to breathe nothing unless it had come from her lu...
Waving from side to side in the breeze, her long golden hair shimmered as she handed Thomas a bottle of beer. “When are you coming home to me?” She said eloquently.
He leaned down and kissed my forehead. The soft melody of his lips was calming. I closed my eyes. I could smell his human skin, his human breath, his human hair, and for the first time, I would give anything to be human too.
Well, looks like you won't be reaching nirvana anytime soon." She pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead and sniffed. "Yes, I suppose that's true. I guess I'll just have to settle for a trip to Idaho.
He was the most wickedly handsome creature she had ever seen in all her days. His hair was black as night, his stature large, his muscles were etched with precision into his smooth skin, every last ripple chiseled into wicked perfection.
I watch her as she leaves. Everything about her is fluid as a river. Her messy hair, her xylophone voice, the strokes of her paintbrush. Even her camouflage army jacket hangs loose, flowing like ribbons.
What if those weren’t ear hairs, but cockroach antennas, and that’s why your grandpa loves listening to political rhetoric so much?
It was clear that most of my insecurities originated from my need to have things be “perfect.” I wasn’t sure what bothered me more; the fact that I had no control over the changes of my body and hair or that this horrible situation was only hap...
