Their laughter was like the stridulation of the ghosts of grasshoppers.
All your life you look to America for those home-grown, corn-fed tits that the Yank bitches all sprout when they__e about fourteen _ those bulging DDs that you wank about as a kid as you look longingly across the Atlantic, simultaneously repulsed and electrified _ and then the greatest tits you__e ever seen walk straight out of Giffnock (Glasgow, but you knew that, right?) and bounce their sweet way down to you via the Caledonian-sleeper train. I know they say America is finished, but Christ, when the Jock lassies are packing the premium chest meat, you know they aren__ kidding.
****: The Anatomy of Melancholy
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All your life you look to America for those home-grown, corn-fed tits that the Yank bitches all sprout when they__e about fourteen _ those bulging DDs that you wank about as a kid as you look longingly across the Atlantic, simultaneously repulsed and electrified _ and then the greatest tits you__e ever seen walk straight out of Giffnock (Glasgow, but you knew that, right?) and bounce their sweet way down to you via the Caledonian-sleeper train. I know they say America is finished, but Christ, when the Jock lassies are packing the premium chest meat, you know they aren__ kidding.
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Just behind his jaw bones a tiny movement was perceptible, like the movement of gills in a fish.
Franklin Fletcher dreamed of luxury in the form of tiger-skins and beautiful women. He was prepared, at a pinch, to forgo the tiger-skins. Unfortunately the beautiful women seemed equally rare and inaccessible. At his office and at his boarding-house the girls were mere mice, or cattish, or kittenish, or had insufficiently read the advertisements.
How happy I might be, if only she was less greedy, better tempered, not addicted to raking up old grudges, more affectionate, with slightly yellower hair, slimmer, and about twenty years younger! But what is the good of expecting such a woman to reform?
There are some young almond tress, which ordinarily look as if drawn by a childish hand. Now, as the wind sets their weak branches gibbering, they seem like shamanistic scratches on the white bone of the brittle bright night.