Ruminations on the Librarian Hott
Here’s the thing about finding the authentically sexy in our age of name-brand cultural capital as sexually inscribed validation.
When you feel you’re being “played” by a calculated career move? There’s nothing erotic there.
When the automatons at the Playboy mansion show ass cleavage on The Girls Next Door to further their hosting careers on the E Network? Boring rote machina.
When the starlet tramps in constant rotation on TMZ fall out of their cars for the paparazzi? About as sexy as a root canal.
The Boobie Hottie Suckle Thigh is found in the genuine. The authentic. In the real.
In the everyday collegiate hotts who smile for the joy of smiling, and who know not how much they drink. Who stumble and laugh and expect nothing in return. Who blush and tell you to “stop it” when you stare longingly and gropingly at their boobs at 2am, but think it’s okay and forgive you your drunken fumblings the next morning in class.
They are the real hotts of this world.
Not the pablum fed to us on Access Hollywood. Not the carefully constructed media events being promoted in US Weekly and pictures of starlets buying coffee in In-Touch.
The real hotts are not found in glossy magazines or scrambling for attention on TV. They are to be celebrated precisely because they are not seeking us out so we can be manipulated by these conceptual strippers of the mass produced digital age.
We find them, they don’t find us. They are simply being themselves. Librarian hottness of hidden and smolderingly authentic truth. A hottness of the real.
They are boobie hottie suckle thigh.
And they are the real glories of this universe.
