Quotes About Femininity

Alison Krauss, Lauryn Hill, Norah Jones. She added vintage Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Carole King. She rounded it out with some edge: Fiona Apple, Courtney Love, Alanis Morissette.

a woman has "it" when she exhibits a "magnetism" which is irresistible, "unorthodox" in her ways.

She twists like a flame. Her back, a sierra of bone, her hips, a sandstone canyon. And I can believe her gaze, born from a thousand years dreaming and as dew-cool as moonlight, is only for me. — Eliot Khalil Wilson, from "New Orleans Odalisque," The Saint of Letting Small Fish Go (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2003)

It's fantastic, these babies and my boobs. People don't want to hear about that, don't want to entertain it. Vast numbers will watch two naked girls online shit in a cup then eat it, but babies enjoying the living hell out of breasts as supreme source of endless free nourishment and good health for all remains taboo. Explain that to me in a way that does not skirt the historical imperative of misogyny. Go ahead. Try. I'm

The fact that I am a woman does not make me a different kind of Christian, but the fact that I am a Christian makes me a different kind of woman.

We are women, and my plea is Let me be a woman, holy through and through, asking for nothing but what God wants to give me, receiving with both hands and with all my heart whatever that is.

But that wasn't right. Her life wasn't a story, and it didn't have to end this way. She was a girl. She was real. It was true.

She was wearing a beautiful dress with straps designed to be eaten off her shoulders.

She rolled her shoulders over a corset that gave her the general appearance of the prow of a battleship, and curled one loose strand around her finger in a gesture that would have been coquettish, were she young.

went up to the dressing room and got kitted, all crinolines and kilted skirts and my tits about falling out the top of my daffodil taffeta dress whenever I grabbed a breath.

Without women in a position to protect them, gentle males would find it rough going in a society dominated by stud males and hormonally driven aggression.

Loose crimson trousers wrapped her lower body, her bracelets and necklaces tinkling like glass bells as she breathed.

She was mannishly magnificent, tall and broad-shouldered, with her long stride and her mane of unrestrained mahogany-black curls. She wore boots, and the heels clapped on the rugs unrepentant as a horse's hooves.

Her long green-and-silver body lay like a jeweled ribbon dropped on the dust-colored winter grass near that strange white tree, her woman's torso rose among the ice-covered branches, her hands upraised like a supplicating sinner.

She was not accustomed to finding someone with such obvious male attributes attractive. But the eyes and the throat and the breasts were all woman, if the long hands and torso and crotch were all wrong.

Someone unraveled from the shadows under a gorse shrub, uncoiling taller than anything had a right to from such a small hiding place. The woman swayed like a cobra, standing clad only in a deluge of golden bracelets and necklaces and a bright patterned sarong that stood out like blood on black marble against her skin. Rubies glittered in her ears, her nose, her navel. Rows of tiny beadlike scars shiny as drops of sweat covered her breasts, her arms, her forehead.

She was fashionably thin, the line of her jaw sharp as the detail on a porcelain horse, the tendons in her throat vanishing under the ivory silk collar of her suit.

Kadiska wore red pantaloons slung low across her belly, showing her navel and the beaded lines of scars. Gold cloth wound her breasts, golden sandals wound her ankles, and a shawl of cloudlike like woal wrapped her shoulders and muffled her arms. Except when she reached out, as she did now, and ran her fingers through Seeker's hair, tricking the dark strands behind an ear in which an emerald still glittered.

As he turned around, he discovered Miss Tempest, her back to him, caught in a tangle of rose canes. A rose trapped by thorns. If the front of Miss Tempest was enticing, her backside was even more so. It showed a decidedly feminine figure, with curves and soft angles that could tease a man into believing the lady was just as pliable. And any man who thought that, Pierson reminded himself, would be a fool.

Stand true to your calling to be a man. Real women will always be relieved and grateful when men are willing to be men

A fair woman is a paradise to the eye, a purgatory to the purse, and a hell to the soul.

No woman is all sweetness." —Mme. Récamier

Some girls have a real sexy giggle, but whenever I laugh it always comes out somewhere between a bellow and a snort!

So much of the sorry state of our world hangs on the excess of the so-called masculine virtues in our guiding storylines.