Boxer meaning

Noun: boxer

Pronunciation: (bók-su(r))

Boxer meaning:

• Someone who fights with his fists for sport

Synonyms: pugilist 

• A workman employed to pack things into containers

Synonyms: packer, bagger 

• A breed of stocky medium-sized short-haired dog with a brindled coat and square-jawed muzzle developed in Germany

Synonyms:jawed muzzle developed in Germany
Noun: Boxer

Pronunciation: (bók-su(r))

Boxer meaning:

• A member of a nationalistic Chinese secret society that led an unsuccessful rebellion in 1900 against foreign interests in China

Derived forms: boxers, Boxers
Quotations:

1. Stephen Fry- Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it’s the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic diaries; language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, it’s a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.
2. Wendy Higgins – Ready to snuggle? he asked Kaidan, a slight clatter in his voice. Only Blake could joke on a night like this and get away with it. Kaidan shook his head and undressed down to his boxers, too, the tension finally shedding away from his frame. I swear, mate. If I feel something poke me in the back. Blake’s laugh was dry. I’m pretty sure my junk froze off, man, so don’t worry.
3. Casey McQuiston – Alex snatches a shirt and boxers at random from the floor, shoves them at Henry’s chest, and points him towards the closet. Get in there. Quite, he observes. Yes, we can unpack the ironic symbolism later.
4. Pablo Picasso – What do you think an artist is? An imbecile who only has eyes, if he is a painter, or ears if he is a musician, or a lyre in every chamber of his heart if he is a poet, or even, if he is a boxer, just his muscles. Far from it: at the same time he is also a political being, constantly aware of the heartbreaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. How could it be possible to feel no interest in other people, and with a cool indifference to detach yourself from the very life which they bring to you so abundantly. No, painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war.
5. John Green – Her underwear, her jeans, the comforter, my corduroys and my boxers between us, I thought. Five layers, and yet I felt it, the nervous warmth of touching  a pale reflection of the fireworks of one mouth on another, but a reflection nonetheless. And in the almostness of the moment, I cared at least enough. I wasn’t sure whether I liked her, and doubted whether I could trust her, but I cared at least enough to try to find out. Her on my bed, wide green eyes staring down at me. The enduring mystery of her sly, almost smirking, smile. Five layers between us.
6. Rick Riordan – The other thing that troubled me: Dad was clutching his work bag. Usually when he does that, it means we’re in danger. Like the time gunmen stormed into our hotel in Cairo. I heard shots coming from the lobby and ran downstairs to check on my dad. By the time I got there, he was just calmly zipping up his work bag while three unconscious gunmen hung by their feet from the chandelier, their robes falling over their heads so you could see their boxer shorts. Dad claimed not to have witnessed anything, and in the end the police blamed a freak chandelier malfunction.
7. Andre Agassi – Only boxers can understand the loneliness of tennis players – and yet boxers have their corner men and managers. Even a boxer’s opponent provides a kind of companionship, someone he can grapple with and grunt at. In tennis you stand face-to-face with the enemy, trade blows with him, but never touch him or talk to him, or anyone else. The rules forbid a tennis player from even talking to his coach while on the court. People sometimes mention the track-and-field runner as a comparably lonely figure, but I have to laugh. At least the runner can feel and smell his opponents. They’re inches away. In tennis you’re on an island. Of all the games men and women play, tennis is the closest to solitary confinement.
8. Muhammad Ali – This is the legend of Cassius Clay, The most beautiful fighter in the world today. He talks a great deal, and brags indeed, of a muscular punch that’s incredibly speedy. The fistic world was dull and weary,But with a champ like Liston, things had to be dreary.Then someone with color and someone with dash, Brought fight fans are running with Cash. This brash young boxer is something to see And the heavyweight championship is his destiny. This kid fights great; he’s got speed and endurance. But if you sign to fight him, increase your insurance. This kid’s got a left; this kid’s got a right. If he hit you once, you’re asleep for the night.And as you lie on the floor while the ref counts ten, You’ll pray that you won’t have to fight me again. For I am the man this poem’s about. The next champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt. This I predict and I know the score, I’ll be champ of the world in ’64. When I say three, they’ll go in the third, 10 months ago So don’t bet against me, I’m a man of my word. He is the greatest! Yes!I am the man this poem’s about,I’ll be champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt.
9. Maggie Stiefvater – The night following the reading, Gansey woke up to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved.Noah stood in the doorway to his room, his face pathetic and long-suffering. Make it stop, he said.Ronan’s room was sacred, and yet here Gansey was, twice in the same weak, pushing the door open. He found the lamp on and Ronan hunched on the bed, wearing only boxers. Six months before, Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room. It was a peculiar tattoo, both vicious and lovely, and every time Gansey saw it, he saw something different in the pattern. Tonight, nestled in an inked glen of wicked, beautiful flowers, was a beak where before he’d seen a scythe.The ragged sound cut through the apartment again. What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air. Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape. I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant, Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand. I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping. Ronan shrugged. Perhaps for you. Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound? In response, Ronan dipped the tweezers into a plastic baggy on the blanket in front of him. Gansey wasn’t certain he wanted to know what the gray substance was in the tweezers’ grasp. As soon as the raven heard the rustle of the bag, it made the ghastly sound again a rasping squeal that became a gurgle as it slurped down the offering. At once, it inspired both Gansey’s compassion and his gag reflex. Well, this is not going to do, he said. You’re going to have to make it stop. She has to be fed, Ronan replied. The ravel gargled down another bite. This time it sounded a lot like vacuuming potato salad. It’s only every two hours for the first six weeks. Can’t you keep her downstairs? In reply, Ronan half-lifted the little bird toward him. You tell me.

Sample sentences:

1. Because baby, I’m wild pussy and wild pussy can’t be bought. Wild pussy doesn’t like having pretty things thrown at it and being expected to do the samba on someone’s cock in return. Wild pussy doesn’t do deals. Wild pussy lives free and for itself and takes it however it likes it; on a bed, on a couch, on the hood of a car, in a bathroom stall or up against a wall in an alleyway and it laughs the entire time. I’ve known you for a while now Chase. I know you’ve never had wild pussy and I know you never will. Wild pussy doesn’t fuck uptight cock. And it sure as hell doesn’t like silk boxers.
2. Nice boxer shorts. Did your mom get them for you? No. Your mom did.
3. I turn and gaze at him midway. Chin up Steele, I chide myself. Oh, by the way, I’m wearing your underwear. I gave him a small smile and pull up the waistband of the boxer briefs I’m wearing so he can see. Christian’s mouth drops open, shocked. What a great reaction. My mood shifts immediately, and I sashay into the house, part of me wanting to jump and punch the air.
4. If my like for you was a football crowd, you’d be deaf ’cause of the roar. And if my like for you was a boxer, there’d be a dead guy lying on the floor. And if my like for you was sugar, you’d lose your teeth before you were twenty. And if my like for you was money, let’s just say you’d be spending plenty.
5. When the farthest corner of the globe has been conquered technologically and can be exploited economically; when any incident you like, in any place you like, at any time you like, becomes accessible as fast as you like; when you can simultaneously experience an assassination attempt against a king in France and a symphony concert in Tokyo; when time is nothing but speed, instantaneity, and simultaneity, and time as history has vanished from all Being of all peoples; when a boxer counts as the great man of a people; when the tallies of millions at mass meetings are a triumph; then, yes then, there still looms like a specter over all this uproar the question: what for?  where to? and what then?
6. Desjardins was literally fuming. His tattered robes still smoked from battle. Carter says I shouldn’t mention that his pink boxer shorts were showing, but they were!
7. My father,  a mid-level phone company manager who treated my mother at best like an incompetent employee. At worst? He never beat her, but his pure, inarticulate fury would fill the house for days, weeks, at a time, making the air humid, hard to breathe, my father stalking around with his lower jaw jutting out, giving him the look of a wounded, vengeful boxer, grinding his teeth so loud you could hear it across the room . I’m sure he told himself: I never hit her. I’m sure because of this technicality he never saw himself as an abuser. But he turned our family life into an endless road trip with bad directions and a rage-clenched driver, a vacation that never got a chance to be fun.
8. Boxing is a glorious sport to watch and boxers are incredible, heroic athletes, but it’s also, to be honest, a stupid game to play. Even the winners can end up with crippling brain damage. In a lot of ways, hustling is the same. But you learn something special from playing the most difficult games, the games where winning is close to impossible and losing is catastrophic: You learn how to compete as if your life depended on it. That’s the lesson I brought with me to the so-called legitimate world.
9. I half hoped Mr. Pearson would walk out holding Thomas by the scruff of his neck, still wearing his boxers or pajama pants or whatever the hell a guy like him slept in. But seconds later, when Mr. Pearson emerged, he was red with rage and completely alone. Thomas was gone.
10. It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thing from my racing mind. Apparently that was not the case for Mr. Sugar Buns. He lay back, closed his eyes, and threw an arm over his forehead, his favorite sleeping position.I could hardly have that. So, I crawled on top of him and started chest compressions. It seemed like the right thing to do.What are you doing, he asked without removing his arm. Giving you CPR. I pressed into his chest, trying not to lose count. Wearing a red-and-black football jersey and boxers that read, drivers wanted, see inside for details. I’d straddled him and now worked furiously to save his life, my focus like that of a seasoned trauma nurse. Or a seasoned pot roast. It was hard to say.”I’m not sure I’m in the market,” he said, his voice smooth and filled with a humor I found appalling. He clearly didn’t appreciate my dedication. Damn it, man! I’m trying to save your life! Don’t interrupt. A sensuous grin slid across his face. He tucked his arms behind his head while I worked. I finished my count, leaned down, put my lips on his, and blew. He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from his chest, deep and sexy, as he took my breath into his lungs. That part down, I went back to counting chest compressions. Don’t you die on me! And praying.After another round, he asked, Am I going to make it? It’s touch-and-go. I’m going to have to bring out the defibrillator. We have a defibrillator?  he asked, quirking a brow, clearly impressed.I reached for my phone. I have an app. Hold on. As I punched buttons, I realized a major flaw in my plan. I needed a second phone. I could hardly shock him with only one paddle. I reached over and grabbed his phone as well. Started punching buttons. Rolled my eyes. You don’t have the app, I said from between clenched teeth. I had no idea smartphones were so versatile. I’ll just have to download it. It’ll just take a sec. Do I have that long? Humor sparkled in his eyes as he waited for me to find the app. I’d forgotten the name of it, so I had to go back to my phone, then back to his, then do a search, then download, then install it, all while my patient lay dying. Did no one understand that seconds counted? Got it! I said at last. I pressed one phone to his chest and one to the side of his rib cage like they did in the movies, and yelled, Clear! Granted, I didn’t get off him or anything as the electrical charge riddled his body, slammed his heart into action, and probably scorched his skin. Or that was my hope, anyway.He handled it well. One corner of his mouth twitched, but that was about it. He was such a trouper.After two more jolts of electricity–it had to be done. I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips to his throat. Well?  he asked after a tense moment.I released a ragged sigh of relief,and my shoulders fell forward in exhaustion. You’re going to be okay, Mr. Farrow. Without warning, my patient pulled me into his arms and rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his considerable weight and burying his face in my hair.It was a miracle!
11. I like the color of the Caribbean. I paused and absorbed the warmth of her smile before adding, Dogs, not cats. Boxers, not briefs. Redheads over brunettes. I glanced sideways at her, and she met my gaze. “I have a penchant for girls in velvet jackets and I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She choked in surprise, sputtered, and shook her head. You see? This is what I mean. What? Nobody talks like that. I barely know you. I was genuinely confused. Didn’t girls like to hear this stuff? Besides, it was, conveniently enough, the truth. Well, I talk like this. And you should be used to people telling you you’re beautiful. Well, I’m not, she said, and she sounded like she was getting irritated with me again. The feeling was mutual.I leaned against the wall and pulled up one knee. Okay. I take it back. You are completely average. Dull, dull, dull. Unremarkable in every way.
12. I hadn’t realized how supremely shit-housed I was until we stumbled into our room at the Embassy Suites. You ever been so drunk you forgot that you have to shit until the last minute? Well I was at that stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when Sling Blade snaked past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the door, screaming at him that I am going to shit on his bed if he doesn’t get out of there.A short time later he opens the door laughing his ass off, and says, That was perhaps the most prodigious shit ever. I just put that toilet into therapy.”I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises. Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized shits, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny ass 170-pound Sling Blade completely killed ours.
13. Ignoring him, I got into bed wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts printed with penguins. I reached over to the nightstand and flipped off the lamp.A moment of silence, and then I heard a lecherous murmur. I like your penguins.
14. It’s fine. I’m fine. Unravel your boxer shorts.
15. So, instead, I give tips on how to be a professional boxer. A good diet is essential, of course, as is a daily regime of exercise. Pay attention to your footwork, it will often get you into trouble. Go down to the gym every day  every day of your life that finds you waking up capable of standing. Take every opportunity to watch a good professional fight. In fact watch as many bouts as you can, because you can even learn something from the fighters who get it wrong. Don’t listen to what they say, watch what they do. And don’t forget the diet and the exercise and the roadwork.Got it? Well, becoming a writer is basically exactly the same thing, except that it isn’t about boxing.
16. Gabriel slowly began rubbing his eyes, for in addition to suffering from one of the worst hangover headaches of his life, he was slightly enjoying the sight of Miss Mitchell in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, passionately angry and shouting at him in a multiplicity of Western European languages. It was the second most erotic thing he had ever witnessed. And it was entirely beside the point.