Today's woman puts on wigs, fake eyelashes, false nails, sixteen pounds of make-up/shadows/blushes/creams, living bras, various pads that would make a linebacker envious, has implants and assorted other surgeries, then complains that she cannot find a 'real' man
At the demonstration of sixty feminists against the Miss America Pageant in 1968, when the women filled a trash can with bras, girdles, curlers and spike-heeled shoes, the bra-burning myth was launched by the media and, in spite of its inaccuracy and spiteful intent, put radical feminism on the map.
I got stopped in front of the bras in Victoria's Secret; I get interrogated in airport bathrooms. I went to South Africa in January to see my family, and even there people would stop me and ask, "Sasha, who's A?" Even my grandma.
I have always dressed a little bit differently, even when I was in school. I would wear skirts over pants because I went to a Christian private school and wanted to wear short skirts, but we had to wear skirts below our knees, so I put on a pair of jeans underneath so I could wear the skirt, too. When you become an artist you have to be so aware of what you're wearing all the time, but I've definitely wanted to stay classy, girlie, and feminine - I won't walk around in my bra or trashy clothes. I don't feel attractive that way.
I sort of feel sorry for gays being the last ones at the sexual revolution window. We've had liberalizing rules on divorce. We've had the sexual revolution. We've had, you know, the pill, and burning bras and rampant premarital sex and polymorphous perversity.
I dipped into his brain. He wasn't happy that I wasn't wearing a bra, because my boobs distracted him. He was thinking I was a bit too curvy for his taste. He was thinking he'd better not think about me that way anymore. He was missing his wife.
What in the name of Hitler's panties and matching bra set was she talking about?
Would you like to assist me with my choice of underwear as well?” My sarcasm whistled right over his head. “I would be delighted. While I’d love to see you in a balconette bra, I’m afraid for this particular occasion I would have to go with a foam-lined seamless due to the tight fit of the garment across your breasts . . . Perhaps I could come over and review what you have available . . .
That’s how you tell what a man’s really made of. It’s one thing for a man to be big and brave and kill a spider. Any man could do that. Trailin’ after a woman when she’s shopping for thongs and push-up bras is a whole other category of man. And then if you want to see how far you can go with it, you ask him to carry one of those little pink bags they give you.
Dammit, Michael, get out of my room, you pervert!” Could you even be a pervert if you were dead? She supposed you could, if you had a working body half the time. “I swear, I’m going to start taking my clothes off!” The cold spot stayed resolutely put until she got the hem of her T-shirt all the way up to her bra line, and then faded away. “Chicken,” she said, and paced the room, back and forth.
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.
Apparently being a mermaid is dead dull. I watched The Little Mermaid with her once a few years ago—she thought it was freaking hilarious. She couldn’t stop laughing about the shell-bra thing, given that mermaids aren’t mammals. Plus, as she put it, Prince Eric was far too hairy and “peach colored” for her taste. I always thought he was pretty hot, but then again, I am a mammal.
Rowdy, hopped-up college kids pass us in an endless, noisy blur like they're being mass produced or squeezed out of a tube - guys skulking in their T-shirts and cargo shorts, girls in low-slung jeans and flip-flops, pimples and breasts and tattoos and lipstick and legs and bra straps, and cigarettes; a colorful, sexy melange. I feel old and tired and I just want to be them again, want to be young and stupid, filled with angst and attitude and unbridled lust. Can I have a do-over, please? I swear to God I'll make a real go of it this time.
There is no way I’m going out in public like this!” It seemed while I was being tormented at the salon, Bones had been out shopping. I didn’t ask where he got the money from, images of old folks with their necks bleeding and their wallets missing dancing in my head. There were boots, earrings, push-up bras, skirts, and something he swore to me were dresses but only looked like pieces of dresses.
What’s goin’ on?” I ask as I take a seat. “Obviously not this.” He tosses me my shirt from last night. “I found it on the floor of the den. It’s obvious there was some hanky-panky going on.” Okay, so he knows we fooled around. But at least he didn’t find Kiara’s bra on top of my shirt. “Yeah . . . things kinda got a little heated after you and Mrs. W. left the den last night,” I tell him.
Men sucked. They were the root of every problem any woman could ever have. They were the reason for bras, the need for makeup, hair stylists, shaving legs, and high heels that made the arch feel like it had a steel rod slammed up it. They were picky, arrogant, argumentative, and so damned certain of themselves <...>.
Now would be a good time to tell me you have your sais with you, Kat. (Cassandra) Nada. You got your kamas on you? (Kat) Yeah. I tucked them into my bra before I left home. (Cassandra)
Becky Renee Apple - can you believe her mom named her that and then had all of her sweaters monogramed with 'BRA'?
Hey, big spender,” I said. He looked appreciative but more amused than anything else. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a one dollar bill. “Hugh,” I said. “Don’t insult me.” With a sigh, he produced a five and tucked it underneath my bra strap. “Hey, Seth,” Cody suddenly said. I looked up and saw Seth standing in the doorway. A look of comic bemusement was on his face. “Hey,” he said, studying me. “So…you’re paying for dinner?
I don't even have moderately big breasticles. They just look like - well, nevermind what they look like. At least they stay strapped down when I worm into a sports bra.
For now. But if I ever decide you're useless, you are a dead man." To be killed by you is to be desired more than a life excluded from your service." Bravo." Her Imperial Viciousness laughed with genuine feeling. "Bra-vo!
You might want to put some clothes on' suggested Jace 'I'm all for the bra and panties look, but you don't want the Silent Brothers to die of excitement
Sam was waiting for her,his gaze sweeping over her. "Looks great." "I look like a geek," Lucy said. "I smell like a brewery. And I need a bra." "My dream date.
Justine reached for a fresh tissue and clamped it to Lucy’s nose as if she was a child. “Friends are the support bras of life. We don’t let each other down. Right?
I'm grateful people think I'm beautiful or sexy, and I suppose it's better than the alternative, but I do try to fight it a bit so it's not all people see me as. And I'd love to one day be in a position where I could choose a role to showcase my creativity versus just my bra size.
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