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That October, yet another was Brown's own feature on Princess Diana, which made the notorious claim that Prince Charles was "pussy-whipped from here to eternity," startling readers unaware the royal marriage had become a donnybrook.
Your friends start calling you "pussy-whipped" but you don't care because you don't have much time for them anyway.
And she brush-stroked that sound for the eyes into paint on a canvas that immortalized our dying friend, Mara Conrad, as a showgirl of Broadway, dying of cancer but living it all to the end with her Harold, who was also pussy-whipped. And Sister Mailer understood her pain and sang it into the paint and into the canvas and now Mara Conrad lives, forever, in that sound that only women who sing the blues can utter.
These men aren't henpecked or pussy-whipped (those old-school, oh-so-painful terms), they are simply on an actual team with the woman in their life, which is very lesbionic.
West pointedly observes that the guys aren't exactly Thoreaus when it comes to venturing into nature; when they're not teasing Reggie about being "pussy-whipped," they're itching to break out the brews.