New York, I Love You - Eleven love stories set in one of the most loved and hated cities of the world, New York City. New York, I Love You (2008) Directors: ... People's hit single (and the title of their debut album on Capitol Records) a cover of the Zombies' "I Love You" written by Chris White. Directed by Thomas cazals. Video clip for LCD Soundsystem song "New York I love you" (sound of silver album). Edited with an old film directed by Carson Davi... New York, I Love You 2009 Listen to New York, I Love You but You're Bringing Me Down on Spotify. LCD Soundsystem · Song · 2007. New York, I Love You (Norman, Part 40) Click here for part 39! Click here to go to the beginning! After killing a few hours driving around and looking at the big apple one last time, Norman met up with Gracie, ready to head to the show. Norman still wasn't sure what this show was really about, aside from the fact that they performed once a ... New York, I Love You: India (English title) New York, I Love You: Israel (Hebrew title) Ohev otach, New York: Japan (English title) New York, I Love You: Japan (Japanese title) ニューヨーク、アイラブユー: Lithuania: Niujorke, myliu Tave: Mexico: Nueva York, te amo: Poland: Zakochany Nowy Jork: Portugal: New York, I Love You ...
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2020.05.30 09:58 Katherine_liu Syntribate Crossed Legs Masturbation Confession Sharing #001
I have been doing this for as long as I can remember and I want to share with you other girls who also have such abilities to experience prolong pleasures in secret just by crossing and squeezing their thighs.
I will try to post 1 confession story a day. I thought I throw in a bonus story to celebrate. I also encourage the sharing of the difficulties faced of not able to orgasm any other way and what methods you have tried to improve your normal sex with a man?
Syntribate Confession #001
"I just wanted to say that I have been one of those lucky ones who can cross her legs and come and I have an extra tip for those who like that exhibitionistic thrill of having an orgasm in public with all sorts of people around - this technique works much better when your bladder is full!. It increases the "inside pressure" on the clitoris. Beware though, after the orgasm, you really feel the need to pee! Rhythmically squeezing your thighs is intensely pleasurable, even if you don't orgasm. And when you do......well, it is amazing. Especially if you are in a place where you could get caught! I am so sensitive I do not even wear pants, only skirts and dresses. I have to sit squeezing myself with my thighs to keep some control over the sensation when I sit down. It really is a problem to be turned on all of the time.
BethanyUK" === bonus story ===
I had a girlfriend a few years ago. She was a blonde 22 year old perky little five-foot-nothing of a southern girl who would very stealthily, and publicly masturbate by crossing her legs at the thigh and squeezing/clenching her muscles, as well as by sitting on one foot, grinding her clit against her heel. At first I thought what I was seeing was just wishful thinking but the more I looked for it the more obvious it got. I mean, this girl loved to do it. Any time we went to the movies, she was guaranteed to full-on make herself cum, and usually several times.
The way she would start was always the same. She would spread her feet apart and press her knees together and casually push one knee just slightly above the other. Up then down. Up then down. To most, it looked like shewas merely bouncing her legs up and down with her ankles, casually letting out nervous energy. What she was really doing was clenching eachinner thigh musclerhythmically as the pressure from her knees being pushed together channelled tension into her pelvic floor. Meanwhile all the fabric that bunched together in her crotch from her pants and her panties would rub around against her clit. This was just her warm up phase.
I had suspected that she was doing this for awhile, but it wasn't until I first saw her go at it in the semi-darkness of the movie theatre that I knew. Her guard was down, and she was much less discrete about it than usual. I can't even tell you what watching her did to me. It was indescribable.
The first couple of months we dated, all I could bring myself to do was watch. I was afraid if I said anything about it she would stop. Understand, we had a completely uninhibited physical relationship at this point, but her secret masturbation was something else completely. For whatever reason, it struck a chord deep inside of me. Something about the voyeurism in secretly watching her, and the exhibitionism in her public masturbation made every second we were together exciting and erotic. Finally I had to act, so I started playfully confronting her about it. She denied it for weeks, but certainly didn't stop. Finally, one night in bed she finally came clean about it and told me everything.
She told me how she could do it pretty much anywhere she could be seated; during classes, on benches, at work, at the mall, in restaurants; anywhere! She told me how if she was really horny she could cum in just about three or four minutes, or if she wanted to really enjoy herself she could stretch it out for hours and spend the whole day just cumming and cumming. I was so excited to be in on this with her, and she seemed so turned on from finally getting "caught" and sharing her dirty little secret with someone else that she was more than happy to tell me every single detail of every question I could come up with, and even gave me a fully narrated demonstration in her pajamas. She'd start with the warm up phase for a few minutes, and when she was starting to get wet and could feel her clit poking far enough out, she would quietly bring one leg over the top of the other and that is when the fun would begin.
The beauty of this whole performance was how she had taken what very well should have been wildly stiff, jerky, and outright uncontrollable movements and so delicately hidden them. The way she could take such a sultry, intimate act, and perform it so perfectly, so discretely, right in front of everyone's eyes. Think how many times each day you see a woman quietly kicking her foot or bouncing her leg and think nothing of it. You would, just the same, think nothing of her, but what a show you would miss.
Once her legs had been crossed, very carefully to preserve the little knot of fabric against her clit, she would start to kick her leg slowly at first , building up speed over time. The reality of what she was doing was that what looked like a kick, was actually the release of a clench, and what looked like her leg falling back from the kick, was actually the start of the next clench. She became adept at smoothing out the pattern of clenches. She would also position her back so that it pushed her ass out slightly behind her, as though she was keeping good posture. What this actually allowed her to do was to ever so slightly grind her hips around and clench deep in her thighs as well as her pelvic floor. The whole time she would be clenching and grinding, the seat of her pants pressed between her and her chair would tug the little knot of fabric against her clit, creating a pretty impressive combination of pleasure. The movement of her leg took mere inches, and the motion of her clenching and grinding was contained inside of centimeters. She could be within seconds of a gut-wrenching orgasm and literally carry on a conversation. I've seen her do it while on a cell phone, and I've seen her do it face to face with me. Once the cat was out of the bag, we developed a little game where she would try and pull it off around me, and I would try and catch her in the act. The amazing thing was that even thought I knew all about it, and was pretty much looking for it all the time, she was still able to sneak it by me about half the time.
She also told me in great detail that the orgasms she got from "clenching" (her term for it) were by far the strongest, deepest, and most intense type she was able to have, and the longer she held the final clench the longer the orgasm lasted. Sometimes, they could go for 30 to 40 seconds before she just couldn't hold on any longer. Really think about that. Go find a clock right now and actually count out 40 seconds. Can you even imagine?
Being in nursing school at the time, she spent a lot of time studying in her big computer chair, which is where I would catch her most often, with her left leg bent at the knee, sitting with her heel right on her crotch. The way that chair was shaped was just perfect to let her lean forward slightly but still be supportive, so she would sit with her full weight pressing her clit against her heel and casually "tap" her foot. I am still to this day astounded that her movements could be so subtle and controlled, even up until the very end. Her face and neck would flush slightly and over time I could pick out her "poker face" as she approached orgasm. During her most intense orgasms I began to notice more glaring giveaways like the way she would grip a table momentarily for leverage against her heel, and occasionally I could hear a few rhythmic squeaks from the chair. The most obvious giveaway, though, was one she was never quite able to master. It would happen in her last moments of orgasm, as the last pulse would subside and her entire body, particularly her shoulders and her core muscles, would simultaneously relax, her posture and her hight would lower by almost a full inch.
The year and a half I spent watching this girl masturbate like this, and the months She spent doing it as much for me as for herself, the kinkiness of it and the constant excitement we had has changed me. I think I see girls doing this all the time and It is driving me mad, in such a good way.
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2020.04.15 00:23 MadnessMaiden My (26F) friend (25F) admitted something she did in the past while we were drunk, and now I can't get it out of my head
Obligatory mobile warning; obligatory name change warning. Honestly, maybe I'm disturbed for literally nothing, but this strange revelation has stuck with me and made me feel...weird..to say the least.
Backstory: in 2017/2018, I was roommates with my friend Michele and my boyfriend at the time, Phillip. My friend Michele ended up moving out after about a year to move in with family and help them out. No bad blood between us, we enjoyed being roommates (to my knowledge) and we are still good friends.
The other night, I was drinking with Michele and we were talking about sex (typical girl talk) when she made the comment, "well I know what you sound like when you're getting some." This is weirdly something she has said a few times lately, and I've just ignored it. I don't know what has prompted her to think about this, since it's been over a year since we have lived together. The comment has bothered me a little, on 2 fronts. First because...duh? We lived together. She is bound to have heard me at some point. If she had brought anyone over during our time living together, I would have heard her. It just seems like a typical roommate thing. I've heard previous roommates getting busy before, and I just shut my door, put in some earbuds. It is what it is. But the second reason is after having sex with Phillip, I would usually leave the bedroom and go pee. Every single time I came out into the hallway, her room door would be wide open. It would infuriate me, because she was making no effort to NOT hear us.
So during our drunk conversation a few days ago, when she says yet again, "well I know what you sound like when you're getting some." I respond, "well no shit. Your door was wide open every time we were doing it, you pervert. You weren't even trying to block out the noise." To which she responds, "Yeah, I would just listen to you. One time I called Jessie and Jeana and the three of us just listened to you." Jessie and Jeana are 2 of her friends--who I have hung out with before. I had no idea that the three of them did this. My immediate response was, "what the fuck?" She just laughed it off and said she was a voyeur and that it was no different than watching porn. I told her that it was VERY different than watching porn. Pornstars give consent to be watched and they are paid. I never gave her consent. She still laughed it off, and in my drunken state, I dropped it. I've not talked to her about it since then, and I don't even know if she remembers what she said.
But for some reason, it has stuck with me and it disturbs me. I feel violated, to be honest. Am I overreacting? Should I even do anything? Talk to her sober and ask...again...what the fuck? Should I forget it? I guess I want to know...does she realize her actions were wrong now and she was just gloating because of the alcohol?
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I don’t even know where the fuck this would go section
These have gotten boring 😔 Any help is much appreciated. Thanks.
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2020.03.12 05:10 Kiwi-iwik List of confirmed demonetization words on YouTube
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2020.02.25 21:47 FloridaMain Girls voyeur peeing
A janitor was caught videoing kids under 16 peeing in the girls restroom at my child’s high school. Creepy AF, right? Then he was dumb enough to show up at the school and ask for his phone back.
They are charging him with 810.145 Video Voyeurism. If I’m reading the statute correctly, there is no requirement to register as a sex offender. Why would they undercharge him like this? Deviant offenses like this tend to escalate, and if a sex crime occurs near him I would prefer he show up as a suspect ASAP.
I checked his criminal history, and he has battery on a police officer 2012 (dropped) and domestic battery 2015 (dropped). So this will be a first offense which means he may not even get prison time.
State in question is Florida.
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2018.11.29 22:59 jessibearinunderwear Voyeur girls peeing
Hello! I’m a 23 year old married female. About 8 months ago my husband and I decided to try an open marriage, since I discovered some kinks and he’s a rather vanilla person and wasn’t interested in exploring them. He sees other people as well.
Anywho, prior to 8 months ago I was a married mom of two kids that stayed at home and went to church. Now, my list of kinks include (just to name a few) :
Daddy dom/little girl, pet play, exhibitionism and voyeurism, pee play, cuck, Rope play, impact play, orgasm denial/forced orgasms/orgasm control, breath play, breeding, incest (JUST roleplay ppl, no I don’t condone it irl) knife and blood play, humiliation and degradation, cock worship, gang bang, and ass play. Very occasionally I like to Domme but that’s rare.
I am currently owned by a wonderful Daddy that I love very much. I’m sure this is going to get plenty of people who are going to be mean, and say I’m a pervert, mentally ill, disgusting, or other hurtful things and that’s fine. I know I’m a good person and try to keep an open mind—speaking from experience there’s way more kinky people out there than you imagine! But there’s such a stigma...so here I am: ask something you’ve always wanted to know! There’s so much misinformation out there that I’d like to dispel!
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2018.09.03 17:35 hEaDeater Girls voyeur peeing
If you aren’t caught up on the letter left by my friend Rebecca, who has been missing for over a month, you can read the first three entries here:
Rebecca’s Letter - Rebecca’s Journal - Rebecca’s Monster
I’ve re-read her letter enough times to have memorized the thing. I’ve also contacted Henry multiple times. Each new detail we discuss raises causes him more stress, but we agree that it will all be worth it as long as we find her.
I wrote the previous entry between those phone calls. I’ve spent the past month attempting to contact with Camp Crystal. I’ve yet to find a hidden message or obvious clue in the letter, but Camp Crystal is the last thing Rebecca wrote about and it clearly had a significant impact on her dynamic with Rose. Camp Crystal is also the last location of Rose’s mirror, which I think is a key detail. It’s a soft theory, and could be a waste of precious time, but it’s the only thing that’s resulted in actual progress.
I think finding the mirror is vital to our search for Rebecca I’ve been seeing Rose in mirrors for weeks.
I first saw her standing behind my reflection in my half bath mirror while I shaved. I was focused on rinsing lather and stubble off of the butterfly safety razor I’d started using a year ago. I caught her eye while bringing the razor up to my unshaven cheek. Her sudden presence triggered an unintentional spasm in my arm, sending the razor past my cheek to a spot above my left eyebrow, slicing a small but deep gash that has since become a scar. Her shocked expression mirrored my own as a sudden waterfall of blood streamed down my face. She reached for my forehead, as if to put pressure on the cut, but I sidestepped into the laundry area before she could touch my reflection. When I regained enough of my wits to clean myself up and finish shaving, she was no longer there.
Rose has been relentless ever since. She’s become a constant presence, as if she didn’t realize she could interact with me until that day. Now that she knows, she refuses to stop trying.
It’s reminiscent of when Ed came back into my life a couple of years ago, only I see her face within window glass instead of on the other side of it. She’s struggled to grab my attention from anything reflective. In a spoon, her features warped like I was holding a piece of carnival mirror, while I ate breakfast cereal. I can’t even switch to toast because of the chrome finish on our toaster, so protein shakes have become a morning staple. In my rear-view mirror, sitting cross-legged in my back seat, during my morning commute. I’ve started driving to work early in the morning, when there are fewer cars on the road. Every new appearance adds an obstacle to my normal routine, and this was before she started showing up at night.
When I was able to maintain a somewhat normal sleep pattern, I thought I could ignore her like Rebecca used to. The urge to pee usually wakes me up between three and four every morning. As insomnia set in and those early hours were watching television instead of resting, the urge was consistent. I pass by the mirror on top of my dresser when I leave the bedroom. I don’t know how long she’d been visiting the dresser mirror I pass when I leave my bedroom, but the first time I noticed her staring back at me in the near-dark scared the piss out of me… another unwelcome rhyme of Ed’s return.
I managed to stay dry on the next two nights, but I’d spend hours staring in the direction of the mirror. Every sound or movement in the dark sent my heartbeat into my throat and wicked the moisture from my mouth until my lips cracked. I couldn’t see her from my spot in the bed, but I knew she was watching me. Every time I’d muster the courage to pass by the mirror for a drink of water or to take my morning piss, she was always there; a constant presence in the mirror, reaffirming my fear with every glimpse.
On the fourth night, I felt something new when I saw her. Fear turned to anger, anger into hate, and since I’d already been suffering in the dark for most of the week at that point, hate forced me to take action.
I covered the mirror with an old sheet the next morning. If she was still there that night, I couldn’t see her, which meant she couldn’t see me. All it took was an old print of faded kittens playing with yarn and a couple of large binder clips to put an end to her voyeurism. I slept better that night than I had in days, which is good considering how little I’ve slept since.
The next night, she was waiting for me in the bathroom mirror, so I removed it.
The night after that, she was pacing back and forth between the dual computer monitors on the desk next to my bed. I turned them towards the wall as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake my wife. Sleep still eluded me, so I made me way to the living room to clear my head with a video game. She was waiting for me in the black void of my television screen. I was beyond tired of her shit, but not tired enough to sleep, so I humored her and popped Doom into my Playstation. If she was going to infiltrate my video games, she’d might as well feel at home alongside the demonic hordes of hell.
When I turned the television on, she vanished. Maybe it had something to do with electricity or the LED’s or something – I’m far from an expert – but it was a welcome win. Armed with the knowledge that a turned on television was a safe television, I’ve spent many restless hours catching up on video games.
She still found other places to appear. When I saw her peeking out of the mirrored surface of a bird toy, something in me snapped. I became obsessive about covering every reflective surface in my house. I took a couple of personal days off from work, made a trip to Lowe’s that garnered strange looks from the old man at the register, and spent a long weekend covering every window in my house with painters tape. She followed me from room to room, doing everything possible to try and get my attention as I cut her off from my home, strip by strip. She dropped to her knees and begged when I reached the large bay window in my living room. It was the last one, but the largest, and having to look at her every time I laid down a strip of tape was painful. By the time I placed the final piece of tape, tears were streaming down her face.
Over the course of the project, it grew more difficult to continue because of her resemblance to Rebecca. Packing up the picture frames and mirrors, taping up the faucets and doorknobs, covering the glass display cases, and similar efforts took much longer than the windows had, but were easier to complete because they didn’t require me to focus on her.
I couldn’t keep her from showing up outside of the house. Whenever I’ve allowed myself to glimpse at Rose, she’s looked helpless, almost pleading. She tried to communicate, but words she mouthed and her frantic gestures were impossible to understand. I always found something else to focus on, but her very presence gnawed at me. Seeing the face of my best friend in such obvious pain reminded me of watching pro wrestling as a kid. I knew it wasn’t real, but it could be so convincing that it triggered a response anyway.
Rose used Rebecca’s likeness to chip away at my sympathy. She tried to maintain my attention long enough to take action – a tactic that eventually worked when she changed her approach.
A letter couldn’t explain the deeper, more nuanced connection between Rebecca and her monster, but it did exposed the dormant aggression beneath Rose’s perpetual mask of sorrow. I experienced a similar revelation with my own monster years ago. I can honestly say that I don’t hate Rose. I just don’t understand her motivations, or the strange power she possesses. I don’t feel safe when she’s around, even if the conduit for her destruction is missing.
I haven’t lost hope. If I can see Rose, then Rebecca might be free from her influence. I just need to keep working until we find her, or until she finds her way back home and puts an end to this nightmare.
Until then, I will do everything I can to protect myself from Rose. I have no intentions of becoming another casualty in her misguided attempt to protect Rebecca.
I have no intentions of ending up like Jim.
Jim’s story never made national news. Despite the current obsession with digitizing as much information as possible, Google turned up very little, though I did find the number to her hometown library. After a conversation with a very kind lady named Holly, she agreed to scan and email me any hardcopies of news articles, interviews, and before and after photos she could find. She delivered in a big way. Word of the accident may not have spread very far, but she sent so much information that it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the story has been actively suppressed since the night of the accident.
Jim never should have woken up from his coma. Nearly five years after he was rushed into the emergency room alongside Rebecca, he opened his eyes, scaring the nurse who’d been performing his leg stretches into having an asthma attack. Luck probably played a factor in his second chance at life, but there are two primary reasons that he’s still alive today.
The first is Jim’s mother, a gifted neurologist with plenty of friends and resources. Something would have broken in most parents after finding their child so close to death, but it lit a fire in his mom. She held to her vow to do anything to save her son for three years, until no amount of double shifts, fundraisers, insurance claims could keep his family from going broke.
That’s where the second thing comes into play. An anonymous entity donated an undisclosed amount of money to cover his continuing – and highly experimental - treatments. They also gave Jim’s family enough money to climb out of the financial hole that saving Jim had nearly buried them in. The donations were so substantial that Jim was still having procedures performed as of a year ago. His family hasn’t had to reach into their own pockets for any of it.
Jim is unable to live on his own, but he’s able to live. He was confined to a wheelchair for years after he woke up from his coma. Some of his muscle strength had returned, but he simply couldn’t figure out how to walk again. Eventually, a few very patient physical therapists and access to an early build of a Swiss invention called TWIICE helped him re-learn how to walk.
Surgical scars and the slow, careful manner in which he moves are the only visible indications of his past trauma, but not even the anonymous donations could fix all of the damage. Though doctors, and even his own mother, claim that nothing is wrong with the part of his brain that controls speech, he hasn’t spoken a word since waking from his coma. He’s learned sign language and is capable of communicating using other non-verbal means, but his continued silence remains a mystery.
People in similar, or even worse, situations are perfectly capable of living on their own, so I couldn’t understand why Jim still lived at home. It was one of the many details that bothered me about the articles, which were quite superficial, almost narrative, considering the mystery surrounding the incident.
One of the articles had mentioned the name of the hospital where Jim’s mom had worked. When I called to request a conversation, a nurse informed me that she no longer worked there in a tone that strongly suggested that I’d get no help in finding her current employer. It took a lot of digging – by which I mean a lot of sitting stupidly while my wife put her skills to use and got me a phone number – but I was able to arrange a phone call with her.
It took a few tense minutes to convince her that my intentions – to gather any information that could help me find my friend - were sincere. Despite her obvious disdain for Rebecca, she answered most of my questions pertaining to the accident and Jim’s recovery. The line was drawn when I asked to communicate with Jim directly. She said no. When I asked if Jim had been acting strange over the past few weeks, she threatened to hang up if I didn’t stop discussing him as if he was a part of Rebecca’s current problems.
“That girl took everything from Jim. He’s spent his entire life recovering from their friendship. I don’t intend on so much as thinking her name in his presence.” I apologized, and she continued, her tone somewhat softer. “I’m answering your questions because it’s in my nature to help people. If you were able to find this number, your concerns must be legitimate. I know how desperate the tenacious can be when things seem the bleakest.” She paused, and I heard the sound of ice clinking against glass, followed by pouring liquid. “When we’re finished, I never want to hear from you again, is that clear? I don’t need someone dredging up more pain. We already live each day at capacity. You don’t know what it’s like seeing the echoes of the past on my sons face every day.” There was another pause as she swallowed whatever poison my call had driven her to in two gulps. “Now ask the rest of your questions and leave us in peace.”
Her answers were enlightening.
Jim suffers from debilitating catoptrophobia – a fear of mirrors. Nurses noted that he didn’t like mirrors while he was in the hospital, but since they always kept the curtains drawn and he peed through a tube, it wasn’t an issue until his first night home.
He’d kept his eyes closed for the entire car ride home, and suffered a full blown panic attack when his parents had tried to get him settled in his room. Sedatives calmed him down enough to fall asleep, but a loud crashing from his room in the middle of the night woke them.
Jim had managed to pull himself into a wheelchair and position himself in front of the mirror on his sliding glass door, where he had used his fists and forearms to shatter the glass. Some of the scars I mentioned earlier were from the gashes caused by his frantic attempt to remove every piece of mirror from the door.
He was taken to the Emergency room, stitched up, and kept for observation. A couple of days later, he was prescribed anxiety medication to help manage his new phobia. By the time he’d made his second return home, his father had removed everything reflective on the second floor, where Jim’s bedroom was.
With the exception of the occasional asshole kid trying to flash a mirror at him, most of the town is very supportive of his condition. Jim rarely leaves the house. When it can’t be avoided, he wears a sleeping mask over his eyes to prevent any potential episodes. It amazed me to learn how far people in his town will go to alleviate his loneliness and boredom. Neighbors help keep him occupied if his father and mother need a night out. Friends visit to play games, shoot the shit, and even partake in the occasional cookout. Money was raised to build a mini theater in his home, allowing him to watch as many movies as he liked without having to leave. The theater manager, a fellow cinephile, even instated a policy of no cell phones, watches, or other reflective surfaces on Friday afternoons, allowing Jim to see new releases without triggering him.
Despite seeing a therapist twice a week and making progress in most aspects of his life, he remains silent and crippled by catoptrophobia. The entire town has gone to great lengths to make his life as comfortable as possible. The sentiment warms the heart, but the reason for all of this special treatment is the real nightmare. Their actions are inspired by both love and fear. There’s an underlying, depressing truth to Jim’s condition: if he’s left alone and suffers another attack, his luck might run out at last. The entire town has shouldered the responsibility of caring for him, of ensuring that he isn’t imprisoned in his house until his dying day, by locking themselves in prison with him.
This is the same town that Rebecca grew up in, where she spent most of her young life imprisoned and tortured by the members of that horrible church. I try and think about how much different her life might have been if someone had only known what was happening to her, but the harsh reality is it probably wouldn’t have changed very much.
Jim may have only moved to town before his freshman year, but was part of the community, one of their own. Rebecca, as a member of the church, was an outsider, even if it wasn’t by choice. They all blame Rebecca for what happened to Jim, and by extension the church. I think that Jim’s story has been kept so quiet because it exposes the slow death that befell the church in the decade following his accident. Rebecca’s father, a few others who were shunned, and the abandoned ruins of the church itself are the only remaining evidence that they were ever there at all.
Since I’ve started to see Rose in the mirror, finding Rebecca has been just as much about protecting myself as it has been about helping my best friend. I expected to see the monster every time I’ve caught a glimpse, but she’s remained as pitiful as ever. The thought of her latching on to my reflection, dragging it from place to place, and torturing my mirror-self has been a constant fear during the search for my lost friend.
Rebecca never mentioned if Jim could see Rose, only that Rose seemed to go dormant when he wasn’t looking, but if I could see her, he must have been able to. I don’t know how her power works, but his catoptrophobia doesn’t make sense if he was ignorant to her the entire time.
Jim’s mom gave me more information than I’d expected, but I’d trade it all for five minutes of communication with him. If Rose’s abuse of his reflection and what she did to him on prom night are different uses of her power, then playing along means accepting my role as her prey. But if the two are correlated? Then everything I’ve done has allowed her time to build strength or do whatever else is necessary to take me out of the picture.
That’s what I thought until three days ago, when everything changed.
It never crossed my mind that Rose could carry the reflection of something instead of someone between mirrors. When I stepped out of the bathroom stall at work and saw her in the large over-the-sink mirror clutching an ALF doll – the very same doll that Ed the Headeater destroyed as a sacrifice of my innocence when I was a child – nostalgia and confusion stunned me into giving her my full attention.
Once we locked eyes, the hopelessness that has overtaken her for the past few weeks melted away at once. In its place wasn’t the scowl of a monster, but the excitement of a child. Her genuine happiness further confused me. She set the doll down on the reflection of the sink and attempted to communicate with hand gestures and slow, deliberate movements of her mouth. I could make out the word help, but little else. My focus was split between her frantic charades and the ALF doll, and my scrambled wits made it impossible to understand her message.
It was entirely possible that the ALF doll - a small but important piece of my history with Ed - had come up in conversation with Rebecca. It was also likely that my reaction was something Rose had expected, or at least hoped for, explaining why she’d brought it at all. But her possession of it was… impossible.
Rose had been in contact with Jim’s reflection before dragging him from mirror to mirror. Logically, the same rule applied to the doll. I’ve seen cheap knockoffs at carnivals from time to time, but the ALF doll in the mirror was identical to the one I’d had in the early nineties, and it was in pristine condition.
So how the hell did she get her hands on one?
I remembered the words scribbled across the back of the journal in that viscous black stain - Find Bobby - words that smelled of my childhood nightmares, and my thoughts drifted back to that final confrontation in Texas.
I’d watch as Fred was slowly eaten by Ed. I’d watched him die… hadn’t I?
Quick movement in the mirror broke my trance. Rose was now leaning across the sink with a hand on the mirror. The look of pleading had returned. It reminded me of the countless movies or television shows where an innocent prisoner is speaking to their lawyer or a detective or family through reinforced glass, begging for someone to prove their innocence before they are swallowed whole by the horrors of incarceration.
“What are you trying to tell me?” The echo of my voice in the empty bathroom made me jump a bit, but I continued. “What are you afraid of? Where’s Rebecca?”
Tears began to fall before she hung her head, shaking it back and forth as if to convey that I was missing the message. She slapped her palm soundlessly against the glass with each shake of her head. I raised my own hand towards the glass, overcome by a strong compulsion to press my hand against her own, to comfort her despite her sins. She looked so much like Rebecca that it was almost impossible to separate the monster from my friend.
“Godamnit, Rose,” I screamed, slamming my palm against the glass. She looked up suddenly, focused on the place where I’d struck with wide, red eyes. “I don’t know where you got that doll or what game you’re trying to play with me,” I returned to a whisper, worried what someone would think if they passed by the bathroom and heard me screaming. “I’m not helping you until you tell me where Rebecca is.”
Rose remained focused on my hand, squinting her eyes in a way that was both thoughtful and a little creepy. I removed my hand from the mirror and backed away. Her eyes followed my hand, and then locked onto my own eyes again as a wide smile spread across her face.
She looked so much like Rebecca.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she tightened her palm into a fist and slammed it into the mirror. Then she did it again. On the third hit, a web of cracks spread out from where her fist made contact. After a few more hits, the broken fragments of glass looked like a poorly designed puzzle, obscuring or warping the features of both her and the ALF doll.
The hand she’d used still rested against the shatter point, and blood began to seep into the cracks like a crimson river. I yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and tried to wipe the blood away, no longer able to fight the compulsion to help, but when I pressed it to the glass, it was completely smooth. I ran my other hand along the surface, but it made no difference. The mirror was only broken on her side of the glass.
Rose plucked an arrow head shaped shard from the mirror and brought it to the finger of her bleeding hand. I drew in a quick breath, but before the word don’t could escape my lips, she’d pricked herself with the sharp tip.
“You were already bleeding,” I whispered. “What was the point?”
She continued to smile as blood welled up from the small, but deep, cut. It flowed heavily down her finger, palm, and arm as she raised it just above her eyebrow, to the same place where I’d cut myself shaving the first time I saw her. Then she performed one of the few words in sign language that I could understand - I’m sorry - before placing her dripping finger high on the cracked mirror.
Though each letter she spelled in blood was backwards, I had no trouble reading them.
C A M P
The blood from the first letter dripped so heavily that that it was barely readable by the time she finished the word; the final letter was little more than a smear. She bit her lip with furrowed brows – another expression borrowed from Rebecca – and used the shard of glass to cut a much deeper gash in the same finger. This time, the blood didn’t just well up, but spilled and spurted, leaving a spray of red on her side of the mirror.
“Stop it,” I screamed as she winced in pain.
At that moment, the bathroom door opened. A man peeked in, holding the door open with one hand, and asked “Hello?” It was a man I’d only seen in passing from one of the other offices in my building. “Should I come back later?” He looked as amused as he did confused.
“Sorry.” I faked a laugh, hoping it sounded convincing. “I’ve got a big presentation in a few minutes. Just trying to talk some sense into myself, get rid of the jitters.”
“Oh, I’ve been there,” he said, entering the room with his phone at eye level and stepping into an open stall without so much as a glance in my direction. “Don’t mind me if you need to keep at it.”
Rebecca was still writing on the mirror, but I couldn’t just stand there pretending to give myself a pep talk while the guy took a shit just behind where I was standing. “I was finished anyway.” I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and pretended to dry my hands while glancing up, straining to see the progress she’d made. Rose had gotten half way through another word, but had started over because the blood flow was so heavy that it was unreadable.
I stepped out of the bathroom and pulled out my own phone, opening the camera app while pretending to make a phone call. The bathroom was near an elevator lobby with some chairs, so I decided to wait the man out, hope nobody else went in, and snap a picture of the mirror so I could read it from the confines of my cubicle.
Will he be able to see her too?
The thought kept my mind paranoid and occupied for most of his ten minute bathroom stay. When he finally exited, I nodded and pointed to my phone, making up some bullshit about a form being filled out incorrectly, but he was too engrossed in his own to notice. He didn’t look spooked, at least, so I assumed he didn’t see anything.
Or maybe there’s nothing left to see, I thought.
As soon as I heard the door to his office close, I ran into the bathroom with my phone ready, my stomach a ball of lead in anticipation of what I’d find there… or what I wouldn’t find.
The cracks remained, as did a slew of new blood letters, but both Rose and the ALF doll were gone. A pool of blood had gathered on the sink beyond the glass, and a path of blood drops trailed out of the door behind my reflection.
I hurried to take a picture of the mess before someone else stepped in and thought I was taking mirror selfies on company time. My hand dropped, as heavy as my stomach had been moments before, once I got a clear view of the screen.
I could see the blood, the cracks, the backwards letters - the proof that Rose had been here – with my own eyes, but the mirror was clean and intact through the lens of my camera phone. Due to my past camera troubles involving Ed, the revelation didn’t surprise me. I didn’t know how long her gory message would linger, so I grabbed another paper towel, took out a pen, and copied down the letters she’s left behind, from top to bottom.
The second word was as easy to read as the first, because cracks were less concentrated on the higher points of the mirror, where the fracture had spread outward from where she’d punched. The six letters, in order, spelled out CRYSTAL.
Was she giving me Rebecca’s location, or something else? It couldn’t be a coincidence that the last place described in Rebecca’s letter was the first message Rose had managed to convey to me.
I calmed my racing thoughts and copied the rest of the letters down before they vanished. I wasn’t able to decipher those in the moment. The remaining letters were written on the lower, more heavily cracked areas of the mirror. Many of them had been wiped over and re-written due to the smearing blood. There was no way to tell which order they’d been written in.
The remaining letters were: N,R,T,S, and O. There may have been another O, and another T, but they weren’t completed and were written behind harder to read sections, so I ignored them. In the bottom corner, it looked as though she had started to write another letter, but a line had ended in a bloody hand print dripping down the rest of the glass.
Unscrambling those letters was all that I could think about for the rest of the day. I left early because I simply couldn’t focus on work, though I sat in my car for almost a half hour scratching words into a notepad, trying to come up with anything that would fit after CAMP CRYSTAL. When that became frustrating, I stared into the rear view mirror for a long time, hoping for the first time that Rose would appear and help. When nothing happened, I finally gave up and started the drive home. It took every ounce of will power not to press my foot down and shatter the speed limit like Rose had the bathroom mirror. The knowledge that getting pulled over would cause a further delay helped me to keep my cool.
My wife is much better at word puzzles than I am, and I intended to wrangle her into helping me as soon as I got home. I’ve talked about how amazing she is before, but she’s been especially understanding in helping to find Rebecca. She wanted to be a detective once upon of time, and she has been instrumental in helping me get in touch with people – Jim’s mother, for one – that it would have taken me ages to find on my own. Most partners wouldn’t have stuck around with the crazy shit I went through with Ed, nor would they be so patient with me spending most of my free time in search of another woman.
When I sped through my front door, I looked to the couch where either her or my daughter were usually sitting when I got home, and it was as if I’d slammed into a wall. My keys fell from my hand and clattered to the floor, which triggered barking from the kitchen, where the dogs were eating dinner.
The mysterious letters had completely overshadowed the other questions that my encounter with Rose had triggered. The answer to one of them was leaned against a box on the coffee table, staring at me with shiny black eyes and a goofy grin.
I approached it with trance-like calm. I’d seen the supernatural twin of my best friend in a mirror hours earlier, and yet what waited for me at home was the most surreal thing I experienced that day by far.
See for yourself here or here if you’d like.
My wife walked into the room as I reached the table. My name had been scrawled sloppily across the box in black marker. It looked like more had been written, but it was covered by the shipping label.
“I’m sorry I opened it.” The shake in her words made it clear that the apology wasn’t for opening the box – that had never been a faux pas in our relationship - but because of what it had contained. “It got here an hour after you left for work. If I’d known what it was, I wouldn’t have touched the damn thing, but once I had, I didn’t know how to tell you.” The understanding was as present as the fear in her voice. She put an arm around me while I stared down at the thing that couldn’t possibly be.
“It’s ok,” I whispered without conviction. The tension was broken when I picked up the ALF doll, setting off a distorted chuckle from the voice box inside that made both of us, as well as our three green-cheek conures, squawk in surprise. “At least I know where she got it.”
“What do you mean?”
I explained everything that had happened before showing her the piece of paper towel I’d written the letters on. She placed it on the table and motioned around the living room, a confused look on her face.
“But you’ve covered everything up.”
“What do you mean?” Her observation was unexpected, considering everything I’d just told her.
“If you’re right and she has to interact with the reflection of something to carry it with her, how did she get her hands on this when it only got here today?”
“I… can’t answer that.” I scanned the room, every reflective surface I had taped up looked as absurd as I felt. “Maybe she…” I stopped as my eyes passed over the conure cage.
Though my daughter was mature for her age, and nearly a teenager, I’d tried my best to keep my own monsters from negatively impacting her childhood, and I’d done the same when it came to Rebecca’s. She probably could have handled the truth about why I’d covered the mirrors, but I don’t know if I was ready to accept that truth. Each new responsibility we give her, every new mile stone she reaches, is a terrifying reminder that she’s growing up faster than we’re prepared for.
Instead of trusting my daughter with the truth, I explained covering up the windows and mirrors with some bullshit about experimenting with energy conservation. That lack of trust gave Rose an opening.
My daughter helps a lot with animal care around the house, and changing toys in the conure cage was a chore she completed every few weeks. At some point, my daughter had alternated some of the toys and I hadn’t noticed. Half of the replacements she’d chosen were covered in mirrors, which was my own fault for storing them in the closet instead of boxing them up and putting them in the attic. My focus was locked on the one that wasn’t like the others.
“What’s wrong?” my wife repeated, her voice more uneasy.
I responded with silence as I opened the cage. The excited birds sang happily as they crawled up my arm and onto my shoulders, preening my hair and ears as I reached for the tic-tac-toe toy that had caught my attention. There were nine large blocks in each space, much like the ones built into the bright colored playground equipment at public parks. On one face of each block was an X, while the opposite face had an O, but the other two faces were mirrored, as birds have a fascination with mirrors and shiny objects. The reflection of our living room could be seen in those mirrored blocks, small but clear.
I removed the toy from the cage so that I could get a better look at the three blocks in the center column, all of which had been turned to a mirrored section.
On the top block was a backwards letter ‘E’, written in red.
On the bottom block was a red letter ‘O’.
And out from the middle block, the piercing blue eye of my best friend locked onto my own… and winked.
I’ve spent the past three days working while searching for a way to reach the camp. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but I’ve yet to find an address or contact information anywhere. In desperation, I looked for information about Kevin as well, but Rebecca hadn’t mentioned his last name – she’d never mentioned the name of the church at all, come to think of it – so I quickly abandoned that route.
I was finally able to reach one of the shunned members of the church who still lived in Rebecca’s home town. They directed me to Barbara, the woman who owned the company responsible for delivering mail, supplies, and everything else to and from Camp Crystal.
Barbara’s apology for her ‘inability to cooperate’ was pretty unconvincing. “I’ve signed a contract with the church and they pay me well to keep my mouth shut. If you’re looking for them and only managed to find me, I’m sure you understand how hard they’ve made it for nosey people like you to find the place.”
I endured Barbara’s pleasant-on-the-surface tone for long enough to learn that Camp Crystal didn’t have phone or internet service… or they had them but didn’t use them. She didn’t explain it very well. She offered to pass along a message on her next delivery for the right price. Two hundred dollars via PayPal and twelve hours later, Barbara called me back and handed her cell phone off to the head counselor.
Every question that’s built up over the past few weeks poured out of me like a maelstrom of insanity. When I was finished, his response was, “If you want to talk, it has to be in person. There’s no other way.” And then he hung up.
Fucking ominous, am I right?
Barbara called me a few minutes later to pass along the address to a corner store near the camp, as well as directions on reaching it once I got there. “GPS is useless out here,” she’d claimed. “I’d have texted it to you, but they’re funny about that kind of thing. Someone’s always listening, they say.”
I half expect to find campers gathered around a fire learning how to make tin-foil hats when I arrive, but that’s probably just frustration talking.
I added the O and the E from the bird toy to the letters Rose had left me on the bathroom mirror and left them with my wife. She’s promised to compile a list of possible words and send me anything that sticks out. I’ll be too busy driving for the next few days to give them proper attention, and with everything else going on, I’m grateful that she’s offered to take a bit off of my plate.
Yes, I’ve decided to make the trip to Camp Crystal. Out of respect for the good they seem to be doing, I’m not going to reveal the location, but I will admit that it’s not somewhere I’d ever go by choice.
As I post this, my bags are in the trunk of my car and the ALF doll is buckled into the passenger seat. The doll isn’t what I’d consider an optimal travel companion, but as I plan on sleeping at as many rest stops as possible to cut down on costs, I hope he’ll be a good crime deterrent at the very least. Who’s going to fuck with a grown man with a doll strapped into the passenger seat?
I realized how creepy that sounded as soon as I typed it out, but it made me laugh, so I’m leaving it.
The truth is, I don’t want the ALF doll anywhere near my wife and daughter, because I know who sent it.
And I know that, eventually, they’ll be coming for it.
The ALF doll wasn’t the deciding factor in me taking the trip, but it definitely moved up the timeline. I’d put it in a large coffin display case we keep in the living room – something my wife got from a post-Halloween sale at an amusement park – but it wasn’t the only thing in the box.
My wife runs a home business and is constantly shipping her creations off to customers, so after stashing the doll away, I was removing the paper packing material and breaking the box down for her to reuse. As I reached her storage room, something fell from the mess of packing paper and landed at my feet.
It was a folded piece of lined paper, one side ripped as if it had been torn from a notebook or a planner or… a journal.
The faintest smell of decay filled my nose when I unfolded it. The source of the smell was obvious as soon as I saw the three words written across the page, though the familiar black goo looked more like ink, as if the thing that had written it wanted the message to be as clear as possible:
Those three words, as confusing as anything I’ve experienced over the past few weeks, nonetheless turned my summer perspiration into a cold sweat.
Those three words were: I’m coming, Bobby
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2017.03.25 17:41 dinzen8 Peeing girls voyeur
[May be triggers] . . . . . . . . . . . My favorite P was voyeur peeing, voyeur cams, under skirts. I had watch this kind of videos twice in the last 18 days. I didn't masturbate. I am creating fantasies with some girls. I have girlfriend but she is very far away from me. We are in a distance relationship. There is a girl in my job that I am really attracted to her but she has boyfriend too. She is very weird because sometimes I think she is sending signals and sometimes I think she is not quite a lot interested. Thinking in keep my relationship and stopping to be a douchbag (because I have been with other girls and I want to stop that) I want to keep in NoFap but this feelings are starting to pop up. I have never bought an spycam and I don't want to do it. The other day this girl came to the office with a short and open skirt. I started to thinking dirty. I thought in some moment that may be I could put my cellphone on the floor while recording. I wanted her smell and everything... where I am living there are like 3 girls and they let sometimes their dirty panties in the loundry room. I couldn't stop to smell them. I do bike, swim and yoga. I Yoga there is another girl that looks amazing and when she do the exercises is amazing. I am creating fantasies and cause I don't want to interact with them to keep my relationship then I thing that may be I can put a cam in their dressing room. I am sure that I am not going to do that but I want to stop thinking in this fantasies. Do you think that is better to talk to this girls? Do you know how to fix voyeur behavior? Do you think that I need treatment? Have you ever thought about this ideas?
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