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A Bar in Japan Is Giving Women Drink Discounts Based on the Height of Their Heels

A Bar in Japan Is Giving Women Drink Discounts Based on the Height of Their Heels


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The special will be available from 6 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. every Thursday

The bar is located on the first floor of the Hilton Osaka.

Ladies' night discounts aren’t out of the ordinary, but one bar in Japan is taking the special to the next level by offering women discounts on drinks based on the height of their heels.

My Place Cafe & Bar, located inside of the Hilton Osaka, is launching the High Heels Ladies’ Night Discount on June 15, which will offer specials on food and drinks in an effort to become a “stylish, sophisticated establishment” at a time when more women are trading in high heels for flats, RocketNews24 reported.

According to the press release, patrons can get as much as 40 percent off food and drink orders if they wear heels that are approximately six inches tall. The lowest acceptable high heels, around two inches tall, will earn the women who wear them a modest 10 percent discount.

My Place isn’t the first bar or restaurant to offer odd discounts — a restaurant in Italy is giving discounts for well-behaved children.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.


Bar Refaeli: A Country Girl Gets Inked

As she speaks, there are certain words that charmingly betray her, words that remind you she's not from Connecticut or Orange County. Those words are hand, comfortable, magical, and cleavage, which sound like haynd, cumftabul, majkle, and clivvage. Judging by the frequency with which they're invoked, these are some of her favorite words. And the way her slight Israeli accent affects them only highlights her California-girl face. Bar Refaeli &mdash twenty-four, Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue cover model, de facto Israeli ambassador to the world, living canvas (see cover) &mdash is a fascinating hybrid. But somehow a perfectly natural one. She is sitting on a bench on a veranda outside a photo studio along the Hudson River in New York City. She's wearing a baggy plaid shirt, black tights. Her hair is in a ponytail. And as she speaks, the wind off the river carries away the smoke from her cigarette. She talks about Israeli women: "It's the mentality. Israel is so small, and we struggle just to stay alive. Israeli girls are a little more &mdash I'm not comparing &mdash but we're very confident. We like to have fun. We're very free. It shows in our character, and it goes in the camera."

Her ambitions: "Heidi Klum. I really like what she's doing. It's what I picture myself as."

Having part of a Stephen King story written on her body for the Esquire cover: "I haven't seen anything like that ever. So I wanted to be the girl who did it."

The smoke blowing in my face: "Is this bothering you?"

She also talks about how to look sexy in photos, which, as it turns out, involves three key tricks.

Trick one: "The palm of the hand &mdash you need to make it long, your fingers long." She makes a claw shape with her fingers, then languidly unfurls them. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick two: "Always make your feet point." She extends her leg like a ballerina so her foot is part of a single, graceful line. (Note: This trick works well.)

Trick three: "Your collarbone. how do I say it? Let me show it. Pop it up, pop it out. It's all in the definition of the bones." She pulls the placket of her shirt back, along with a tank top and a bra strap, to reveal the top of her breast and the length of her right clavicle. She flexes her chest so the bone is instantly more defined. (Note: This trick works extremely well.)

She is wearing no makeup. She has lots of freckles. She smiles a lot. In this light, natural light, waiting to begin her work, Bar Refaeli is impossibly lovely.

She walks back inside, goes behind a screen, and she takes off her clothes, puts on a robe, and gets her face and hair done.

As she sits in the chair, she begins to look more tan than she did before. Shinier. Smoother. The freckles, the single most defining characteristic of her face, are gone. (Her childhood on the Israeli coast was literally sunny: "I walked along dirt roads and picked oranges and played with dogs and rabbits and chickens and horses.") She looks. perfect. She looks sad. A little lonely.

She takes off the robe and walks over to a platform so she can have a passage from a Stephen King short story applied to her body by a short-story-body-application professional. She is wearing white bikini bottoms and a red bikini top, which is pulled up, revealing the bottom third of her breasts. The skin there is white. She reads a novel in Hebrew. She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. Without her clothes on, she looks 10 percent larger. She is thin, of course, and her stomach is impossibly taut. But she has grown somehow. Maybe it's the clivvage.

She's become inaccessibly exquisite.

She walks over to a corner of the room where the photographer is set up and lies down on the floor with inked-up torso and arms, one of them precisely positioned over &mdash but not covering &mdash her breasts, her hair fanned out behind her. There is a camera mounted on a rack above her. There are about fifteen people hovering around, and she scowls like a criminal. She looks like a live photograph. She looks like she wants to kill you.

Breaking character, she says, "I want to see," and she lifts her head up and glances over at a monitor to review the photos that were just taken. She becomes the southern-California girl from central Israel again. And she smiles. She's no longer covering her breasts in an artful way she's holding them because she doesn't want fifteen people to see them.



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