When it comes to mating, the brawny guy is supposed to get the girl, but biologists are finding that small, stealthy suitors do just fine.
According to our conventional notions about sexual behavior, the beefy macho males—the Mr. Bigs of the world—are supposed to get the girls. But recent research has starkly demonstrated that we may have it all wrong. The natural world is full of what biologists call "satellite males" or "sneaker males." Many of them are relative weaklings, or lack the masculine ornamentation to dazzle choosy females. Some even practice unconventional strategies like cross-dressing. And surprisingly often, these mating tactics are successful.
i fucked paul mac cartney i fucked ryan mc ginley i fucked paul sevigny i fucked chanel i fucked dior i fucked zac posen i fucked ozzy i fucked stella mc cartney, i fucked andre the giant i fucked gaultier i fucked anna wintour i fucked jenny holzer i fucked traci lords, i fucked richie hawtin i fucked paris hilton
Vor dem Computer sitzen, Links folgen, Waschmittelwerbung anschauen, Waschprogramm auswählen, Orgasmus versuchen, zu schwach, neues Waschprogramm auswählen, ordentlichen Orgasmus hinbekommen, gute Zensur erhalten, Depressionen bekommen. Ah, das moderne Leben! Ah, die eigene Idiotie!
Soll ich mir bunte Bildchen ans Auto kleben? Soll ich ein Tatoo tragen? Ein Logo auf die Brust sticken? Immer mit Betonung aussprechen? Einen Ring durch die Nase bohren? Cool "Hallo" sagen und weiter gehen? In jeder Kneipe stolpern? Meine besten Freunde übersehen? Soll ich mir einen Schal ums Gesicht binden? Mir die Haare färben und von hohen Häusern springen? Soll ich Röcke tragen? Den Club wechseln? Laut fluchen? Soll ich Hochzeiten meiden und Beerdigungen suchen, oder eher umgekehrt? Zu allem leise pfeifen? Ist Peter ein Familienname? Soll ich arabisch sprechen? Soll ich auf Psycho machen? Was steht mir schlecht? Falsche Zähne, falsche Freunde oder Golf Cabrio? Ginge es auch mit Leidenschaft oder reichen mir Marken wie Donna Karan und Vivienne Westwood völlig aus? Bin ich ein Model wie andere auch?.
trudi.sozial: Beiträge zu einer Ästhetik der Teilnahme III.
If nothing is discussed, assume plurality.
Don't call your booty call just to say "hi," unless you were friends for more than a month before you started rutting. Save the niceties for email.
Booty callers should alternate who calls whom. That way, mutual interest is constantly re-established. If you've been the initiator more than three times without reciprocation, it's a good sign they've moved on.
You have to be attracted to each other, but you don't have to have anything else in common.
Etikette des telefonisch verabredeten Gelegenheitsficks: Emma Taylor, Ritual de lo Habitual. The new rules of the booty call*.
- \Boo"ty\ \call\ (k[add]l), n. 1. Someone you may call on for sex (mutuality usually implied). 2. A call made to arrange booty. Cf. Fuck buddy. Cf2. "I can't believe it's not boyfriend/girlfriend."
The proliferation of new B-list celebs has given a heartening second wind to jaded entertainment editors. B-listers, unlike the big-gun “destination” actors, are always happy to be photographed. They couple and uncouple in sync with the newsstand frequency of each issue. What editor can be bothered any more with arm-wrestling publicists for passé Hollywood royals like Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz? That relationship has no sizzle anyway. At 41 he’s too old (outside the demo, as MTV would say), and she’s dating in a fourth language. You’re better off with whosis and whatshername from the last reality-show finale.
This means that editors of magazines that aspire to make real money no longer have to bother with expensive studio photoshoots where the star gets bossed into a bad mood by some hissing “stylist” and his retinue of spike-haired assistants. (The most preposterous cover credit I ever published at Vanity Fair was a picture of Dustin Hoffman in a black turtleneck sweater with the caption “Styled by Sheva Fruitman”.) Shrinking magazine budgets are less tolerant these days of studio bills for five-star breakfast buffets laid on for stars and their entourages who usually shun the exorbitant croissants in favour of herbal tea.
Something cheerfully democratic and businesslike is happening to celebrity coverage. At a time of excess media, pictures can’t look mediated. The tabloids have always lived on paparazzi pix. But the fabloids — as I like to think of Us Weekly and its imitators — are the pioneers of the choreographed, resourcefully produced paparazzi shot. Celebrity “sightings” are sometimes as arranged as studio shots were before. (It’s the same in politics. Think W landing on the aircraft carrier in perfect evening light.) A publicist calls to tell the magazine’s picture editors that at midnight Star X is going to be making out with Twinkie Y at New York’s hottest nightspot, Bungalow 8. The “snap” of them together — she in the tiny red Gucci thong she’s contracted to promote, he in the sunglasses whose account he is negotiating to land — goes straight to the next fabloid cover, fulfilling all the requirements of product placement.
Tina Brown, Times: Something cheerfully democratic and businesslike is happening to celebrity coverage.
New York Times Magazine: The Executioner's I.Q. Test
schießen, nachladen, weiterschießen: colors #56
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