I think you know by now how much I love smart boys. Mmmmmmmmm. Tasty. She's into malacas, Dino.
This man, Nassim Nicholas Taleb, is sexy. I love to curl up with this book, his masterpiece about the highly improbable thing that will sneak up and bite you on the ass. The Black Swan is a beautiful freak. Gotta love that.
Black Swans are highly unpredictable and improbable events that, when they do occur, change everything. Ever had the impossible happen and change the entire paradigm of your life? Perhaps you were a sweet young thing who had never been hit and then one day your mean bitch of a girlfriend hauled off and slapped you. First you were angry. Then you got a hard on. And you got even angrier about that.
A Black Swan can be the big event that changes the world (like a credit crisis) or a big event that just changes your world. Either way, it changes the game, to borrow an overused phrase from the political pundits of CNN.
Even better than the incredibly geeky/sexy subject matter of math and philosophy: this man can actually put together a coherent sentence! Hooray for the Queen's English! This book makes me hot as a librarian, as a student of history, and as a dominatrix.
Keep it up, all you sexy smart boys who aspire to be like Mr. Taleb. You get the dominant bitches wet. ISBN-13: 978-1400063512 Amazon.com
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Power of the Written Word
I have a very vivid memory of my first taste of porn. My childhood was spent playing with boys, and not in the way you might think. I was a tomboy. My two brothers were probably the reason for this, although my mother did her very best and bought me all the pink and frilly things that any good mother would have purchased. Much like children/disappointments everywhere, I eschewed these offerings to the feminine. I wanted guns. I wanted fatigues. I wanted to be just as fast and lewd and dirty as all the boys in the neighborhood, even before I knew the intentions behind all those adjectives.
So I spent an inordinate amount of time doing guy stuff with guys, and as we got older the guys got weirder and weirder about it. They would exclude me from their outings on occasion, but I was generally invited for treasure hunts on bicycle or hikes through the wilds of uptown. Little did I realize that the reason they invited me along had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that their mothers somehow knew I would boss them into staying out of serious trouble. A Domina, even then.
Most of all, they excluded me when they stayed in. After I expressed my displeasure with this situation, they pointed out that I was a girl and could not attend sleepovers. When this explanation worked, all their indoor events became sleepovers.
One day after such a night, I showed up at a male friend's house unannounced. His mother was surprised, but said she expected him home soon and that I could wait in his bedroom until he arrived. As soon as he got home, of course, that bedroom door needed to stay open. But she didn't watch me very closely until then. What harm could I do alone, after all?
As it turns out, plenty. I found his porn stash. In my defense: it wasn't very well hidden. He kept it in his guitar case and, as a boy, was honor-bound to never put his guitar away where it belonged. I was just looking for a pick, but what I found was much more interesting to me.
That encounter is probably the reason I love lingerie today. The pictures didn't titillate me. In fact, I found them rather disturbing. I didn't have hair like that. I didn't want hair like that. What I wanted were all those pretty things. Those few minutes of window shopping felt almost as good as a trip to Agent Provocateur does today. My mother was just thrilled at my change in demeanor, of course. God forbid she ever find out the reason for it. I flipped through three magazines before my friend came home and caught me. He was ashamed in those first moments. I wasn't. I asked lots of questions, and he answered.
I learned a lot that day. For some strange reason, he actually told me a version of the truth. He told me he liked the pictures. He told me why. I told him what I liked too, and we both found it interesting that we liked the same thing for different reasons. This pattern of porn viewing and discussion, by the way, lasted well into our high school years. It did, in time, become very titillating to me. In fact, it was fantastic. As was he, if you must know.
Penthouse letters is overrated. We all know this, of course, but many of us pick it up occasionally out of some sad hope that this time will be different. To this day I prefer the written word to even the most artfully crafted erotic photograph. Some say this is due to my gender, some say I just think too much. I often wonder if it all relates back to those conversations. Talking about the pictures was so much sexier than just looking at them.
So I spent an inordinate amount of time doing guy stuff with guys, and as we got older the guys got weirder and weirder about it. They would exclude me from their outings on occasion, but I was generally invited for treasure hunts on bicycle or hikes through the wilds of uptown. Little did I realize that the reason they invited me along had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that their mothers somehow knew I would boss them into staying out of serious trouble. A Domina, even then.
Most of all, they excluded me when they stayed in. After I expressed my displeasure with this situation, they pointed out that I was a girl and could not attend sleepovers. When this explanation worked, all their indoor events became sleepovers.
One day after such a night, I showed up at a male friend's house unannounced. His mother was surprised, but said she expected him home soon and that I could wait in his bedroom until he arrived. As soon as he got home, of course, that bedroom door needed to stay open. But she didn't watch me very closely until then. What harm could I do alone, after all?
As it turns out, plenty. I found his porn stash. In my defense: it wasn't very well hidden. He kept it in his guitar case and, as a boy, was honor-bound to never put his guitar away where it belonged. I was just looking for a pick, but what I found was much more interesting to me.
That encounter is probably the reason I love lingerie today. The pictures didn't titillate me. In fact, I found them rather disturbing. I didn't have hair like that. I didn't want hair like that. What I wanted were all those pretty things. Those few minutes of window shopping felt almost as good as a trip to Agent Provocateur does today. My mother was just thrilled at my change in demeanor, of course. God forbid she ever find out the reason for it. I flipped through three magazines before my friend came home and caught me. He was ashamed in those first moments. I wasn't. I asked lots of questions, and he answered.
I learned a lot that day. For some strange reason, he actually told me a version of the truth. He told me he liked the pictures. He told me why. I told him what I liked too, and we both found it interesting that we liked the same thing for different reasons. This pattern of porn viewing and discussion, by the way, lasted well into our high school years. It did, in time, become very titillating to me. In fact, it was fantastic. As was he, if you must know.
Penthouse letters is overrated. We all know this, of course, but many of us pick it up occasionally out of some sad hope that this time will be different. To this day I prefer the written word to even the most artfully crafted erotic photograph. Some say this is due to my gender, some say I just think too much. I often wonder if it all relates back to those conversations. Talking about the pictures was so much sexier than just looking at them.
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