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Home >> Fun & Games >> Favourite part of the body

26.03.2009, 15:45 quote

edd1e24

Post your favourite part of the body of the opposite love and why its your fav Wink


I love long gorgeous smooth legs on a women.
Reason being I get hypnotised by the beauty of long legs and it certainly brightens up my day. Very Happy

 
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26.03.2009, 16:42 quote

koyelmitra

beautiful eyes on a decent man ofcourse, I cant explain why but Its just the source of romanticism according to me. Rolling Eyes

 
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26.03.2009, 17:31 quote

bbones
bbones Joined: 16 Sep 2008 Posts: 1164 Location: United Kingdom, England, London
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the arse of a woman!!! big or small doesnt matter, its the essence of tenderness.. ive got a spiritual connection to it and i tend to grip it a lot ((when im allowed to that is lmao)) like GRIP!! you know GRIP IT!!! every time i do, i feel a supernatural type blood rush to my head type sensation like the top of my head opens up to an ineffable sense of nirvana ..THE GRIP!!!



_________________

francine needn some attention
wilma givn that thank u smooch
ha no im not pinchin lois' tig ol bitties
betty wonderin how the marry she ended up here

 
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27.03.2009, 08:16 quote

phoeniix

I love a guy with broad shoulders..
Because it seems so manly and protecting.
It's hard to explain.

Eyes come a close second &
Smile comes a close third.

 
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27.03.2009, 08:22 quote

70

Dark eyes & a cute lil cheeky grin.........ahhhhh reminds of someone(bet this will make ya smile) ? Wink

 
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27.03.2009, 09:19 quote

bliss23

Oh, why does it have to be only one part?

Well there's the eyes, the lips, even the bum. And a bit of a tummy too.

But if I were to say what truly mesmerizes me... That would be biceps. Mine and theirs. Surely mine are not quite existent right now, but I love some good biceps.

Why? I don't really know. I love lookin' at them. LOL

 
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27.03.2009, 09:32 quote

hecate84

i like a man with big hands Wink imagine what he can do with them Embarassed

 
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27.03.2009, 09:50 quote

darkhorse57

To save myself a long explanation of what and why, I found something that explained it very well (thereby saving me lots and lots of typing


Quote:
This is how I came to love my vagina. It’s embarrassing because it’s not politically correct. I mean I know it should have happened in a bath with salt grains from the Dead Sea, Enya playing, me loving my woman self. I know the story. Vaginas are beautiful. Our self-hatred is only the internalised repression and hatred of the patriarchal culture. It isn't real. armpit’s Unite. I know all of it. Like if we’d grown up in a culture where we were taught fat thighs were beautiful, we’d all be pounding down milkshakes and donuts, lying on our backs spending our days thighs expanding.

But, we didn’t grow up in that culture. I hated my thighs and I hated my vagina even more. I thought it was incredibly ugly. I was one of those women who had looked at it and from that moment on I wished I hadn’t. It made me sick. I pitied anyone who had to go down there. In order to survive, I began to pretend there was something else between my legs. I imagined furniture – cosy futons with light cotton comforters, little velvet settees, leopard rugs, or pretty things – silk handkerchiefs, quilted potholders, or place settings. I got so accustomed to this that I lost all memory of having a vagina. Whenever a man was inside me, I pictured him inside a mink lined muffler, or a Chinese bowl.

Then I met Bob. Bob was the most ordinary man I ever met. He was thin and tall and nondescript and wore khaki tan clothes. Bob did not like spicy foods or listen to Prince. He had no interest in sexy lingerie.

In the summer he spent time in the shade. He did not share his inner feelings. He did not have any problems or issues and was not even an alcoholic. He wasn’t very funny or articulate or mysterious. He wasn’t mean or unavailable. He wasn’t self involved or charismatic. He didn’t drive fast. I didn’t particularly like Bob. I would have missed him altogether if he hadn’t picked up my change that I dropped on the deli floor. When he handed me back my quarters and pennies and his hand accidentally touched mine, something happened. I went to bed with him. That’s when the miracle occurred.

Turned out that Bob loved vaginas. He was a connoisseur. He loved the way they felt, the way they tasted, they way they smelled, but most importantly he loved the way they looked. He had to look at them. The first time we ever had love, he told me he had to see me.

‘I’m right here,’ I said.

‘No, you,’ he said. ‘I have to see you.’

‘Turn on the light,’ I said.

Thinking he was a weirdo and freaking out in the dark. He turned on the light.

Then he said, ‘Ok, I’m ready, ready to see you.’

‘Right here,’ I waved, ‘I’m right here.’

Then he began to undress me.

‘What are you doing Bob?’ I said.

‘I need to see you,’ he replied.

‘No need,’ I said, ‘Just do it.’

‘I need to see what you look like,’ he said.

‘But you’ve seen a red leather couch before,’ I said.

Bob continued. He would not stop. I wanted to throw up and die.

‘This is awfully intimate,’ I said. ‘Can’t you just do it?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s who you are. I need to look.’

I held my breath. He looked and looked. He gasped and smiled and stared and groaned. He got breathy and his face changed. He didn’t look ordinary anymore. He looked like a hungry beast.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said. ‘You’re elegant and deep and innocent and wild.’

‘You saw that there?’ I said.

It was like he read my palm.

‘I saw that,’ he said, ‘and more, much much more’.

He stayed looking for almost an hour as if he were studying a map, observing the moon, staring into my eyes, but it was my vagina. In the light I watched him looking at me and he was so genuinely excited, so peaceful and euphoric, I began to get wet and turned on. I began to see myself the way he saw me. I began to feel beautiful and delicious- like a great painting, or a waterfall. Bob wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t grossed out. I began to swell, began to feel proud. Began to love my vagina… and Bob, lost himself there and I was there with him, in my vagina, and we were gone.



An extract from Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues

 
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27.03.2009, 12:59 quote

abh1supernova

Vagina Monologues .... lol.. such a talked about play..
ah well m an eyes and smile person.. not so fussy abt the rest of the body parts but they shud be managable..

it will be so boring if i cant appretiate that in my grl..

 
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27.03.2009, 17:26 quote

xbakubabex

beautiful eyes, cute smile and nice skin Smile

 
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27.03.2009, 19:50 quote

Chet24
Chet24 Joined: 20 Mar 2007 Posts: 12142 Location: United Kingdom, England, London
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Her brain, I love really smart & intelligent women, usually results in some awesome conversation and funky adventures...
_________________
Arrive.Raise Hell.Leave

 
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30.03.2009, 22:34 quote

mrflipper79

Her smile, in so much as it makes a persons eyes sparkle the way they should.

 
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31.03.2009, 11:47 quote

handsel
handsel Joined: 18 Mar 2009 Posts: 2355 Location: United Kingdom, England, West Midlands
View user's profile Visit poster's website

darkhorse57 wrote:
To save myself a long explanation of what and why, I found something that explained it very well (thereby saving me lots and lots of typing


Quote:
This is how I came to love my vagina. It’s embarrassing because it’s not politically correct. I mean I know it should have happened in a bath with salt grains from the Dead Sea, Enya playing, me loving my woman self. I know the story. Vaginas are beautiful. Our self-hatred is only the internalised repression and hatred of the patriarchal culture. It isn't real. armpit’s Unite. I know all of it. Like if we’d grown up in a culture where we were taught fat thighs were beautiful, we’d all be pounding down milkshakes and donuts, lying on our backs spending our days thighs expanding.

But, we didn’t grow up in that culture. I hated my thighs and I hated my vagina even more. I thought it was incredibly ugly. I was one of those women who had looked at it and from that moment on I wished I hadn’t. It made me sick. I pitied anyone who had to go down there. In order to survive, I began to pretend there was something else between my legs. I imagined furniture – cosy futons with light cotton comforters, little velvet settees, leopard rugs, or pretty things – silk handkerchiefs, quilted potholders, or place settings. I got so accustomed to this that I lost all memory of having a vagina. Whenever a man was inside me, I pictured him inside a mink lined muffler, or a Chinese bowl.

Then I met Bob. Bob was the most ordinary man I ever met. He was thin and tall and nondescript and wore khaki tan clothes. Bob did not like spicy foods or listen to Prince. He had no interest in sexy lingerie.

In the summer he spent time in the shade. He did not share his inner feelings. He did not have any problems or issues and was not even an alcoholic. He wasn’t very funny or articulate or mysterious. He wasn’t mean or unavailable. He wasn’t self involved or charismatic. He didn’t drive fast. I didn’t particularly like Bob. I would have missed him altogether if he hadn’t picked up my change that I dropped on the deli floor. When he handed me back my quarters and pennies and his hand accidentally touched mine, something happened. I went to bed with him. That’s when the miracle occurred.

Turned out that Bob loved vaginas. He was a connoisseur. He loved the way they felt, the way they tasted, they way they smelled, but most importantly he loved the way they looked. He had to look at them. The first time we ever had love, he told me he had to see me.

‘I’m right here,’ I said.

‘No, you,’ he said. ‘I have to see you.’

‘Turn on the light,’ I said.

Thinking he was a weirdo and freaking out in the dark. He turned on the light.

Then he said, ‘Ok, I’m ready, ready to see you.’

‘Right here,’ I waved, ‘I’m right here.’

Then he began to undress me.

‘What are you doing Bob?’ I said.

‘I need to see you,’ he replied.

‘No need,’ I said, ‘Just do it.’

‘I need to see what you look like,’ he said.

‘But you’ve seen a red leather couch before,’ I said.

Bob continued. He would not stop. I wanted to throw up and die.

‘This is awfully intimate,’ I said. ‘Can’t you just do it?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s who you are. I need to look.’

I held my breath. He looked and looked. He gasped and smiled and stared and groaned. He got breathy and his face changed. He didn’t look ordinary anymore. He looked like a hungry beast.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said. ‘You’re elegant and deep and innocent and wild.’

‘You saw that there?’ I said.

It was like he read my palm.

‘I saw that,’ he said, ‘and more, much much more’.

He stayed looking for almost an hour as if he were studying a map, observing the moon, staring into my eyes, but it was my vagina. In the light I watched him looking at me and he was so genuinely excited, so peaceful and euphoric, I began to get wet and turned on. I began to see myself the way he saw me. I began to feel beautiful and delicious- like a great painting, or a waterfall. Bob wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t grossed out. I began to swell, began to feel proud. Began to love my vagina… and Bob, lost himself there and I was there with him, in my vagina, and we were gone.



An extract from Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues


I'm confused by this story!
Bob and her vanished up her vagina, right.
'... and we were gone.'
But it doesn't say how they went, does it?
Were they just sucked up in some orgasmic vacuum?
Or did they need a boat, or some climbing ropes?
And how could she see to write this piece?
And how did she get the story out?
Naw, too many unanswered questions here ...
It just doesn't make sense.

Laughing
(No, I love it!)
(And Chinese bowls will always look different now!)

 
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04.04.2009, 23:12 quote

kawaiigirl09

hands on a man- they look so sexy when changing gear on a car lol

 
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05.04.2009, 09:10 quote

handsel
handsel Joined: 18 Mar 2009 Posts: 2355 Location: United Kingdom, England, West Midlands
View user's profile Visit poster's website

kawaiigirl09 wrote:
hands on a man- they look so sexy when changing gear on a car lol


Oh, C'mon! The normal, everyday pair of hands?
The things with fingers and thumbs?
You find those sexy? But all men have 'em!
(Well, nearly all.)
Does that mean you can't get around Tescos, without your legs turning to jelly a few hundred times? 'Oh, Oh, God, No! Look at the masterful way he's running his hands over that trolley handle!!' Laughing
Yeah, don't men come with those anyway? ( Rolling Eyes )
And is it only when changing gears the hands looks so sexy?
Not undoing your bra strap?
Or sliding down your pants?

(God, some posts just drive you crazy with unanswered questions! )

 
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