The world loves a rogue, and there is no better example than Alcibiades. He was all things to those who crossed his path: intelligent, courageous, ambitious, eloquent in speech, charm personified, so handsome that it’s the first adjective employed by biographers and historians alike, sexually versatile, the ideal top to women, the perfect bottom to men. He was totally amoral, as depraved as a teenager, as corrupt as a cop, as streetwise as a delinquent, as pampered as the son of a wallstreeter, as sexy as Paul Newman. He was irreligious, treasonous, and the proof that the gods really do raise to dizzying heights those they wish to utterly destroy. Proof of his ascendancy through time is that I’m writing his story—2,500 years after the founding of his legend. In Classical Athens women grew to adulthood in the obscurity of kitchen and child care, while males were encouraged from birth to display their physical and intellectual strengths, the authenticity of which lay between their legs, legs spread at birth to reveal the scepter that would see them into the paramountcy of manhood and authority. Alcibiades was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and would be raised by lights brighter than any of those known in the history of humanity: Pericles the supreme statesman, Socrates the unequalled philosopher, Athens the birthplace of our democracy. He would know riches and prove himself valiant in the harshest battles known to the world up to then. Countless girls and women, boys and men would feel the potency of his scepter as, in the case of boys and men, he would know theirs. He took and he gave--the very principle of a life worth living.
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