Jake got up off the floor and hitched up his worn, greasy jeans.

He wears the same thing every day: greasy jeans, smelly black Harley T-shirts and boots.

He was dressed in his boots, greasy black jeans, and a studded leather vest.

Filthy, greasy jeans, frayed black leather jackets, denim waistcoats with studs, long straggly hair.

He was dressed in what I thought of as biker clothes: greasy blue jeans and a leather vest, with an obscene T-shirt underneath.

"Yup," the man said, turning around and wiping his hands on already greasy jeans.

He was in his mid-twenties, wearing old army boots without laces and dirty, greasy black jeans.

He was wearing cowboy boots, greasy jeans, and a plain white T-shirt with the arms torn off.

He was wearing his off-duty work clothes - greasy jeans and a Coors T-shirt with a torn armpit.

Slick lay very still on the white iron lounge chair with the blue cushions, feeling the sun bake through his greasy jeans.