I have been into bodies and fitness, so I am very critical about how a body should look in terms of flaunting it. I would never fall down and roll and do a cleavage shot - I have seen those in Bollywood films, and those are things I cannot tolerate. I wouldn't do that. That's not me - I'd rather look sharp and sexy and stylish just doing a walk.
Saudi had been a very restricted place. Even on the magazines there, if there was a little leg or cleavage showing, they used to blacken it with a black mark. Me and Ishmeet, so many times, had tried to remove the black portion with our spit, but of course, it would never come out.
Karan Singh Grover
Lawrence's claims for the vital self and his inability to make it convincing independently of Freudian psychology are serious flaws in the novel, explain the sense in which the author's vision exceeds his grasp, and bring the cleavage between intention and performance into clear perspective.
John E. Stoll
The real economic cleavage is not... between employers and employed, but between all who do constructive work, from scientist to laborer, on the one hand, and all whose main interest is the preservation of existing proprietary rights upon the other, irrespective of whether they contribute to constructive work or not.
R. H. Tawney
Suddenly self-conscious, she shifted from one booted foot to the other. "I asked the cloud for battle-ready clothing, and this is what I got. There are slits all over the pants, for easy access to the weapons, I'm guessing. But the bustier has me stumped. Unless, of course, the cloud thinks my cleavage will stun my opponents into stupidity." -Annabelle
Recapping the water he turned on the sofa to face her, his eyes reflexively dropping to her chest where he knew the key was hidden. Thank God the dress was high necked, otherwise he would be outright eyeing her cleavage. 'Thinking of going in?' She questioned, amusement dancing in those clear eyes.
His gaze dropped down to the deep V of her cherry-red top and the pulse in his temple pulsed. For a second she didn't think he was going to say anything, which was good because she'd just forgotten her own name. His focus inched northward across her generous cleavage, up her neck and to her lips - leaving a heated trail across her skin without ever making a move. The last dry spot on her panties surrendered.
Humanity has passed through a long history of one-sidedness and of a social condition that has always contained the potential of destruction, despite its creative achievements in technology. The great project of our time must be to open the other eye: to see all-sidedly and wholly, to heal and transcend the cleavage between humanity and nature that came with early wisdom.
When Rae got back, she spread her empty hands wide and said "Okay, guess where I hid it." She even turned around for me, but I couldn't see a bulge big enough to hide a flashlight. With a grin, she reached down the front of her shirt into the middle of her bra, and pulled out a flashlight with flourish. I laughed. "Cleavage is great," she said. "Like an extra pocket.
I knew it. You're an alien," said her former best friend, the pale, bespectacled creature with the spectacular cleavage. "Yes, I'm an alien and I still made cheerleader. And now I'm going to steal your boyfriend to prove girls can't really be friends." "I sat back timidly when you torched my house, killed my parents, and ate my dog. But now you're stealing my boyfriend? That's a step too far!
You have a dress with a decolletage to emphasise your breasts. I suppose the cleavage is the proper focus but what I wanted to do was to fasten my index finger and thumb at the bolts of your collar bone, push out, spreading the web of my hand until it caught against your throat. You asked me if I wanted to strangle you. No, I wanted to fit you, not just in the obvious ways but in so many indentations.
No one should ever feel bad about themselves when the hot guy talks to the ugly girl instead. There's nothing wrong with you. I'm sure you looked like a certified 20 and your cleavage was noteworthy. Don't go home and cry because, "no one even looked at you". I've solved this disturbing puzzle and here's the bottom line- She was drunk, he was horny. She was easy, and he'll just hit it from the back so he doesn't have to look at her ugly face.
I love meetings with suits. I live for meetings with suits. I love them because I know they had a really boring week and I walk in there with my orange velvet leggings and drop popcorn in my cleavage and then fish it out and eat it. I like that. I know I'm entertaining them and I know that they know. Obviously, the best meetings are with suits that are intelligent, because then things are operating on a whole other level.
Prophecy and prescience--How can they be put to the test in the face of unanswered questions? Consider: How much is actual prediction ... and how much is the prophet shaping the future to fit the prophecy? What are the harmonics inherent in the act of prophecy? Does the prophet see the future or does he see a line of weakness, a fault or cleavage that he may shatter with words or decisions as a diamond-cutter shatters his gem with a blow of the knife?
I have a bra on, " I said helpfully. "I noticed. Might I remove that, too?" "Gunner, " I said sternly, or as sternly as a person could while she stood in a man's castle, her hands full of his ass. "You've got your hands on my boobs, and your tongue down my cleavage. At this point if I'm not yelling for the police, you can probably take it for granted that you have my consent to remove my bra." "I like to make sure, " he said, pulling his head out of my breasts for a moment. "Some women have limits.
There are transitional forms between the metals and non-metals; between chemical combinations and simple mixtures, between animals and plants, between phanerogams and cryptogams, and between mammals and birds [...]. The improbability may henceforth be taken for granted of finding in Nature a sharp cleavage between all that is masculine on the one side and all that is feminine on the other; or that any living being is so simple in this respect that it can be put wholly on one side, or wholly on the other, of the line.
There are transitional forms between the metals and non-metals; between chemical combinations and simple mixtures, between animals and plants, between phanerogams and cryptogams, and between mammals and birds [... ]. The improbability may henceforth be taken for granted of finding in Nature a sharp cleavage between all that is masculine on the one side and all that is feminine on the other; or that any living being is so simple in this respect that it can be put wholly on one side, or wholly on the other, of the line.
I have finally mastered what to do with the second tennis ball. Having small hands, I was becoming terribly self-conscious about keeping it in a can in the car while I served the first one. I noted some women tucked the second ball just inside the elastic leg of their tennis panties. I tried, but found the space already occupied by a leg. Now, I simply drop the second ball down my cleavage, giving me a chest that often stuns my opponent throughout an entire set.
The message sent by this policy is that if women are to be accepted into the exclusive ranks of men, then they have to look like men: buttoned up, stuffy, and no-nonsense. As if to show a little cleavage, to highlight a curvaceous figure, or to in any way appear feminine would discount, discredit, and disqualify them. I strongly disagree with this idea. I feel that women should wear clothes that suit their bodies rather than forcing themselves into unflattering men's suits and that it is feminist to to make a wide range of women's clothes acceptable business attire.
Battery Park resonates with lust as the sun approaches its zenith. A primal impulse takes hold of the young couples strolling the gravel walkways, the newlyweds who have paused to admire DeModica's bronze bull, the truant teens laid out on the cool grass. Maybe because all flesh tantalizes in the early summer, in the right light, or because, at this time of year, there is more flesh exposed, midriffs, cleavage, inner thighs, the park is suddenly transformed into a dynamo of panting and groping. This desire is not the tender affection of evening, the wistful intimacy of the twilight's last gleam. It is raw, concupiscent hunger.
Jacob M. Appel
Starshine's greatest challenge is deciding whether a woman is too young to soothe or too old to shame. Handling the men is much easier. They may feign interest in figures and photos, but their underlying interest is for breasts and thighs. A generous smile often adds an extra zero to a check; an additional inch of exposed cleavage can clothe five Laotian children. The vast majority of these men do not expect to purchase Starshine's favors. They are husbands, fathers, pillars of the community, the sort of upstanding middle-aged patriarchs who would rather castrate their libidos than compromise their reputations, and even if their three-digit donations could earn them a quickie with the canvasser, they would deny themselves the pleasure.
Jacob M. Appel
Every now and then, we change our minds. It's our prerogative. The big secret is" - I leaned in conspiratorially - "sometimes, even we don't know why. There are times after we pick a fight where we're as confused as you are. But there's no way we're admitting it." I shrugged a shoulder, "That's why we have boobs." Jake's eyebrows shot up. "See, after we've acted crazy, and the guy's wondering what he's doing with us, we use them to mesmerize him, so he forgets that we're crazy." I shot Jake my most seductive smile and leaned the assets in question against his arm. "And by the way, if you look at my cleavage right now, even though I'm the one talking about it, I'll accuse you of not caring about what I saw and of just treating me like an object." Jake swallowed hard, keeping eye contact with me, though I could tell he was fighting his impulse to look down. A mischievous glint flickered through his eyes. "And treating you like an object would be bad?
The older Puritans had trampled down all fleshly impulses; these newer Puritans trampled no less self-righteously upon the spiritual cravings. But in the increasingly spiritistic inclination of physics itself, Behaviorism and Fundamentalism had found a meeting place. Since the ultimate stuff of the physical universe was now said to be multitudinous and arbitrary 'quanta' of the activity 'spirits', how easy was it for the materialistic and the spiritistic to agree? At heart, indeed, they were never very far apart in mood, though opposed in doctrine. The real cleavage was between the truly spiritual view on the one hand, and the spiritistic and materialistic on the other. Thus the most materialistic of Christian sects and the most doctrinaire of scientific sects were not long in finding a formula to express their unity, their denial of all those finer capacities which had emerged to be the spirit of man.
This was the time when all we could talk about was sentences, sentences-nothing else stirred us. Whatever happened in those days, whatever befell our regard, Clea and I couldn't rest until it had been converted into what we told ourselves were astonishingly unprecedented and charming sentences: 'Esther's cleavage is something to be noticed' or 'You can't have a contemporary prison without contemporary furniture' or 'I envision an art which will make criticism itself seem like a cognitive symptom, one which its sufferers define to themselves as taste but is in fact nothing of the sort' or 'I said I want my eggs scrambled not destroyed.' At the explosion of such a sequence from our green young lips, we'd rashly scribble it on the wall of our apartment with a filthy wax pencil, or type it twenty-five times on the same sheet of paper and then photocopy the paper twenty-five times and then slice each page into twenty-five slices on the paper cutter in the photocopy shop and then scatter the resultant six hundred and twenty-five slips of paper throughout the streets of our city, fortunes without cookies.
I WAS LIGHT WEIGHT COLLEGE EDUCATED BUT I NEVER GRADUATED PROFESSORS ON THAT BULLSHIT, I AIN'T HAVE THE PATIENCE FIND MYSELF SLEEPING THROUGH ACADEMIC PROCEEDINGS STAYING UP MOST EVENINGS, WRITING, FUCKING OR READING SEEING LECTURES WHILE WEEDED AND STARING AT SOME CLEAVAGE LEARNING BIG WORDS HAVING VERY LITTLE MEANING JESUS EVEN IN THE MEETINGS I WAS SEEKING A REASON TO EXPLAIN THIS GAME WITHOUT THE TWENTY PAGE THESIS A VIEW WITHOUT CLASS THAT'S A CLASS WITHOUT A TEACHER OR A STRUGGLE RAPPER TAKES BUT WITHOUT THE THOUSAND FEATURES SCHOLAR NOT COLLEGIATE BUT INTELECTUALLY SEASONED HAVING DRUNK CONVERSATIONS OVER VERY SOBER READINGS MAYBE SOBER CONTEMPLATIONS OVER VERY LOADED READINGS WHERE BOOKMARKS MARK WHERE WE AND WE HERE WE ARE, 2012, THEY'RE LIKE "WHAT THE FUCK'S A BOOK?" I'M LIKE "LOOK, IT'S THE QUICKEST WAY TO GET UP OUT YOUR HOOD!" NOT FROM KNOWLEDGE BUT THE KNOWLEDGE WITH PRACTICAL APPLICATION NOT READING FOR ESCAPING, BUT KNOWING WHERE YOU CAME FROM BURNING THROUGH THOSE PAPERS WHEN I'M BURNING THROUGH THE PAGES NOW BREAK IT DOWN, CHOP IT UP BREAK IT DOWN AND SMOKE IT UP BREAK IT DOWN, SMOKE IT UP BREAK IT, THEN CHOP IT UP GRAB ANOTHER BOOK, GRAB ANOTHER BOOK
In these days of physical fitness, hair dye, and plastic surgery, you can live much of your life without feeling or even looking old. But then one day, your knee goes, or your shoulder, or your back, or your hip. Your hot flashes come to an end; things droop. Spots appear. Your cleavage looks like a peach pit. If your elbows faced forward, you would kill yourself. You're two inches shorter than you used to be. You're ten pounds fatter and you cannot lose a pound of it to save your soul. Your hands don't work as well as they once did and you can't open bottles, jars, wrappers, and especially those gadgets that are encased tightly in what seems to be molded Mylar. If you were stranded on a desert island and your food were sealed in plastic packaging, you would starve to death. You take so many pills in the morning you don't have room for breakfast. You lose close friends and discover one of the worst truths of old age: they're irreplaceable. People who run four miles a day and eat only nuts and berries drop dead. People who drink a quart of whiskey and smoke two packs of cigarettes a day drop dead. You are suddenly in a lottery, the ultimate game of chance, and someday your luck will run out. Everybody dies. There's nothing you can do about it. Whether or not you eat six almonds a day. Whether or not you believe in God.
Well, ' said Can o' Beans, a bit hesitantly, ' imprecise speech is one of the major causes of mental illness in human beings.' Huh?' Quite so. The inability to correctly perceive reality is often responsible for humans' insane behavior. And every time they substitute an all-purpose, sloppy slang word for the words that would accurately describe an emotion or a situation, it lowers their reality orientations, pushes them farther from shore, out onto the foggy waters of alienation and confusion.' The manner in which the other were regarding him/her made Can O' Beans feel compelled to continue. 'The word neat, for example, has precise connotations. Neat means tidy, orderly, well-groomed. It's a valuable tool for describing the appearance of a room, a hairdo, or a manuscript. When it's generically and inappropriately applied, though, as it is in the slang aspect, it only obscures the true nature of the thing or feeling that it's supposed to be representing. It's turned into a sponge word. You can wring meanings out of it by the bucketful-and never know which one is right. When a person says a movie is 'neat, ' does he mean that it's funny or tragic or thrilling or romantic, does he mean that the cinematography is beautiful, the acting heartfelt, the script intelligent, the direction deft, or the leading lady has cleavage to die for? Slang possesses an economy, an immediacy that's attractive, all right, but it devalues experience by standardizing and fuzzing it. It hangs between humanity and the real world like a... a veil. Slang just makes people more stupid, that's all, and stupidity eventually makes them crazy. I'd hate to ever see that kind of craziness rub off onto objects.
With a chaste heart With pure eyes I celebrate your beauty Holding the leash of blood So that it might leap out and trace your outline Where you lie down in my Ode As in a land of forests or in surf In aromatic loam, or in sea music Beautiful nude Equally beautiful your feet Arched by primeval tap of wind or sound Your ears, small shells Of the splendid American sea Your breasts of level plentitude Fulfilled by living light Your flying eyelids of wheat Revealing or enclosing The two deep countries of your eyes The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple Continues separating your beauty down into two columns of Burnished gold Fine alabaster To sink into the two grapes of your feet Where your twin symmetrical tree burns again and rises Flowering fire Open chandelier A swelling fruit Over the pact of sea and earth From what materials Agate? Quartz? Wheat? Did your body come together? Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills The cleavage of one petal Sweet fruits of a deep velvet Until alone remained Astonished The fine and firm feminine form It is not only light that falls over the world spreading inside your body Yet suffocate itself So much is clarity Taking its leave of you As if you were on fire within The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
Her feet moved into the vast space, but all she could see was Cyrus. He strode through the room the way a captain commands his ship. Was it possible his maroon bruise made him more dashing? He was a fine sight in a black broadcloth coat. Her salacious gaze dropped to a brass button lower on his waistcoat. The metal glimmered, winking at her with flirtatious intent very near the tuft of hair she remembered so well at his navel. The corner of Cyrus's mouth crooked. If she looked ready to devour him, he read the message on her face, no words required. 'Claire.' He said her name like a treasured sound. Then, her landlord bent low over her hand, kissing her knuckles and keeping her fingers in a tender hold. Her flesh sung a merry tune recalling how she'd gripped those broad shoulders of his in a fit of passion. Was that only two nights ago? Her cheeks turned hot at the memory. Cyrus rose to his full height, holding her hand. He planted a kiss on her forehead. 'Mmmm... ' he hummed approvingly. 'You smell of almonds.' His lips lingered on her hairline, giving her another soft kiss. 'And vanilla, I think. Something you cooked?' He breathed in her scent, standing close yet not intimidating in the least. His own smell was clean and starched with a hint of coffee. She reached high, touching his face like a woman with every right to partake of the feast he offered. 'It's face powder.' One finger stroked the smooth square of his jaw, her voice curving with amusement. 'Today I join the ranks of ladies who meet for luncheon, and I can't be sure if I've been lured here or goaded by one very challenging man put on earth to harass my senses.' She caressed his jaw, the grain of his skin smooth to the touch. He must've shaved in the last hour. His mouth quirked sideways, pressing the maroon bruise higher up his cheek. 'Something tells me you're the perfect woman to soothe such a man or put him in his place.' His pewter stare flicked over her exposed skin, settling on her cleavage. 'As to your senses, I shall treat them with the utmost care.