Quotes About Intimacy

I think, immediately, that there is something wrong with us, perhaps unfixable, if my husband wouldn't think to tell me this. Sometimes I feel it's his personal game, that he's in some sort of undeclared contest for impenetrability.

No one saves an e-mail, because it's so inherently impersonal. I worry about posterity in general. All the great love letters - from Simone de Beauvoir to Sartre, from Samuel Clemens to his wife, Olivia - I don't know, I always think about what will be lost -

You have the same rhythm. Click. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. And it's so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine. That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life. It's finally arrived.

ArkadaÅŸlar birbirlerinin kusurlar?n? görür. EÅŸlerse birbirlerinin en kuytu kusurlar?n? bilir.

But one day I will wear him down, I will catch him off guard, and he will lose the energy for the nightly battle, and he will get in bed with me. In the middle of the night, I'll turn to face him and press myself against him. I'll hold myself to him like a climbing, coiling vine until I have invaded every part of him and made him mine.

I don't feel the need to explain my actions to her. I don't clarify, I don't doubt, I don't worry. I don't tell her everything, not anymore, but I tell her more than anyone else, by far. I tell her as much as I can.

I am not okay. I will be okay, but right now I am not okay. I want my husband to put his arms around me, to console me, to baby me a little bit. Just for a second. Inside

She called me Mille and she couldn't keep her hands off me. I adored her.

And before he leans in, he brushes the sugar from my lips so he can taste me.

smart-boys fuck like they're composing a piece of math rock: This hand strums around here, and then this finger offers a nice bass rhythm.…

He refills my drink without me having to ask, somehow ferreting out one last cup of the good stuff. He has claimed me, placed a flag in me: I was here first, she's mine, mine. It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful post-feminist men, to be a territory.

Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts.

Amy knew that was what I had loved most about us back when I loved us: not the big moments, not the Romantic with capital-R moments, but our secret inside jokes.

I'd always liked our inside jokes the best—they made me feel more connected to Amy than any amount of confessional truth-telling or passionate lovemaking or talk-till-sunrising.

I'll hold myself to him like a climbing, coiling vine until I have invaded every part of him and made him mine.

Best friends are the people who know us best.

It is dangerous to laugh at your spouse.

Her lips were plum as labias.

Porque no se puede estar tan enamorados como lo estuvimos nosotros sin que ese amor te invada hasta el tuétano. Nuestro amor puede entrar en remisión, pero siempre sigue ahí, esperando para regresar. Como el cáncer más dulce del mundo.

No one saves an e-mail, because it's so inherently impersonal. I worry about posterity in general. All the great love letters – from Simone de Beauvoir to Sartre, from Samuel Clemens to his wife, Olivia – I don't know, I always think about what will be lost—

she smoked so much she smelled like tobacco even after a shower, like if she slit her skin, menthol vapor would ooze out. He'd come to like it, it smelled like comfort and home to him, the way warm bread might to someone else.

Nick's cell phone rings at ten A.M., and I can tell by his voice that it is Go. He sounds springy, boyish, the way he always does when he talks to her. The way he used to sound with me. He heads into the bedroom and shuts

Desi has loved me ever since the lie, I know he pictures making love to me, how gentle and reassuring he would be as he plunged into me, stroking my hair. I know he pictures me crying softly as I give myself to him.

A las mujeres las consume la enfermedad. No es de extrañar teniendo en cuenta la gran cantidad de transito interno que soporta una mujer. Tampones y espéculos. Pollas dedos vibradores y mas cosas entre las piernas, por detrás, en la boca. A los hombres les encanta meter cosas dentro de las mujeres, ¿no es así? Pepinos, plátanos y botellas, un collar de perlas, un rotulador, un puño