You are not your buttocks.
You're as white as a nun's buttock. Are you all right?
A painter who has the feel of breasts and buttocks is saved.
Ah well. . . wand still in your jeans? Both buttocks still on? Okay, let’s go.
Svengal lay groaning on the turf. His thighs were sheer agony. His buttocks ached. His calf muscles were on fire. Now, afterhe had tumbled off the small pony he was riding and thudded heavily to the turf on the point of his shoulder, the shoulder would hurt too. He concentrated on trying to find one part of his body that wasn't a giant source of pain and failed miserably. He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the face of the elderly pony that he had been riding peered down at him. Now what made you do a strange thing like that? The creature seemed to be asking.
The buttocks are the most aesthetically pleasing part of the body because they are non-functional.
It's true that you need much time to get rid of the fat girl you once were, but you know I am sincerely grateful for my buttocks.
The most popular image of the female despite the exigencies of the clothing trade is all boobs and buttocks, a hallucinating sequence of parabolae and bulges.
At the 150-minute point of sitting in a standard theater chair, the human buttocks die; once dead, they cannot be revived. They cease to function, whatever that function may have been, and must be carried around like a sack, or two, of flour.
Beauty for some provides escape, who gain a happiness in eyeing the gorgeous buttocks of the ape or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.
Honestly, among my acquaintances there is no woman wearing XS.
