Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless

Peeking

I’ve got a new girl set up with cameras, and I swear, it never gets old.

The first time I look in on a girl she’s usually prepared, anxious, and watching for the LED to change color. She plays it cool, and her nervousness comes out by hiding behind her hair or blankets, or through the waggling of her hyperactive hands/feet.

But the next time, I try to catch her when she’s not expecting it. When she’s in the middle of a mundane thing, in an empty house, just like always. Say, getting dressed for the gym and talking to mom on the phone. The camera comes on and she doesn’t even notice the light, so I text her a comment about slouching. Her head snaps to the camera, and panic floods her face. I can see her messy hair. Her no makeup. Her fat rolls. I can hear her gossip with her mother. 

She loses the power of speech. Her mom becomes concerned, asking if everything is okay. She sputters out two-word, broken sentences. “I’m just— I can’t— I think—“ She’s holding up a hand to keep herself from seeing the camera, which at that point feels like the eye of God, or at least Sauron. She manages to get out that she’s lost her train of thought. She begins pacing, trying to return fully to her body.

She tries to go on autopilot, and go through the motions as planned. She keeps talking to mom, then walks over to her dresser. She pulls out a sports bra. And a wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression comes over her face. Both hands fly to her face and her shoulders sag. She seems completely defeated. I’m laughing.

Her hands go behind her, up to her work-bra’s clasp. They fall down. They go back up. They fall down. Her fingers are twitching. She squeezes her eyes shut, takes a deep —but silent, for mom— breath, squares her shoulders, clenches her fists, and quickly reaches up to unhook the bra. The strap falls loose, but she holds it in place with her arms. She looks down at her feet, and I’m wondering if she’ll cry.

With another deep breath, the bra falls as she scoops up its replacement, and I watch her tits wobble about as she struggles to get into it. Somehow, despite her apparent conviction to the contrary, she surivives the experience.

She sits down, puts on her shoes, and glances up at the camera pleadingly. I then get an urgent DM, telling me that she is frozen in place and needs my permission to act. I tell her to tell mom goodbye. She does. She looks at the camera expectantly. She needs to leave to meet a friend, but she’s scared to leave the room as long as I’m watching… it would feel disrespectful. I give her permission and sign out.

It’s adorable, if you ask me.

I’ve always felt Roe was incredibly dangerous because it created a false sense of security… to the point that people actually bought the “settled law” bullshit they were being fed. All it took was one orange piece of shit falling into the gears of government for the whole thing to fly apart.

These authoritarian, misogynist, homicidal fucks —’cause it’s not a coincidence that the people who who want the keys to your body also want weapons to support their claim— must be met with a crushing defeat at the polls. And then they must be hounded from the public sphere through political shunning and criminal prosecution… because I promise you, that is exactly what they have planned for you.

Fortunately, there are more of us than there are of them.

And they’re gonna find out the hard way.

Just found a delightful pair of “signed” asks from 2019. The first is talking about her heart beating faster, being pathetic… and closes with a note of dismay that I had my DMs turned off at the time.

Immediately after that ask —presumably after she kept scrolling— in all caps (paraphrased): NOPE NOPE NOPE I’M SCARED NEVER MIND!

You’re adorable, Ms. 2019.

I just found out that my mentor from my twenties —he’s what I think of when I think about “intelligent kink”— died last month at 80. He reached out to say Merry Christmas last winter and I didn’t see it, because Facebook.

Fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

If someone matters to you, tell them.

My only consolation is that I did tell him, several times over the years. But still.

Don’t bother telling me what you are; by now I know that better than you.

Instead tell me what you long to be. Tell me of your horizons. And beyond them, your abyss. 

Tell me what you’ll do when I sail you into one and dangle you over the other.

And tell me “thank you.”

Here’s the auto-edit of Saturday’s marathon stream… we were hanging out for five hours, watching princesses get raped, discussing goat-fucking, reading my ancient story Our Secret, degrading uppity girls in the chat room, and if you go to the 40:30 mark, you’ll catch an extended bit where I give everyone a taste of what I’d be like as your dad.

Just a heads-up: Saturday (June 4th, 5pm Eastern) I’ll be doing a mini-marathon stream. We’ll go for three or four hours, and perhaps more if the group is all-in.

But the headline is that we’ll be watching and talking 1985’s Flesh & Blood, Paul Verhoeven’s big flop that preceded his triumph with Robocop a couple years later. It stars Rutger Hauer and a very young Jennifer Jason Leigh, and it has two primary characteristics that make it suitable for our purposes:

  1. It’s Verhoeven’s first English-language film, and it shows… the dialogue and performances are all over the place, and it offers lots of over-the-top nonsense to mock.
  2. It is one of the rapiest mainstream movies ever made. Peasant women, chaste nuns, whores, you name it… if it has a cunt, it gets molested for at least a second or two in F&B. But most significantly, JJL gets gang-raped and/or violated multiple times while steadily growing to enjoy and even revel in her victimization. So… yeah. It’s perfect.

Set aside some time to join us!

Or if you’re going to be an annoying little twat, I guess you can blow it off and watch the replay later. 🙄