Public sex caught on tape

"hallucinogen" in /r/shortstories: [HR] I think I screwed us in the 1960s -- "..being caught synthesizing hallucinogens in a school lab." The 1960s started off as the dawn of a golden age to most Americans. On January 20, 1961, the handsome and charismatic John F. Kennedy became president of the United States. During the 1950s, the United States was the world’s strongest military power. Its economy was booming, and the fruits of this prosperity–new cars, suburban houses and other consumer goods ... I think I screwed us in the 1960s. Close. 1. Posted by 16 days ago. I think I screwed us in the 1960s. I've started writing this hundreds of times and never gotten to the end. The first few times I tried, I did it on paper in a notebook because the internet hadn't been invented yet. I burned the notebooks. PSA: I think I screwed us in the 1960s. Self Harm. I've started writing this hundreds of times and never gotten to the end. The first few times I tried, I did it on paper in a notebook because the internet hadn't been invented yet. I burned the notebooks. This is the first time I've finished and not destroyed what I'd written. How the white people treated black people in 1950 - 1960? Why do you think white people treated black people this way? It was because the white people think the black people is ugly , and because their skin is mach to work under the sun , so all bad or dirty thing will finish The 1960s: Decade of development. In January 1961, the United Nations resolved that the decade of the 1960s would be the Decade of Development. President Kennedy launched the Decade at the UN in New York. Earlier, in his inaugural address as President, he had signalled a new sense of purpose in international affairs. I think I screwed us in the 1960s. I've started writing this hundreds of times and never gotten to the end. The first few times I tried, I did it on paper in a notebook because the internet hadn't been invented yet. I burned the notebooks. This is the first time I've finished and not destroyed what I'd written. [HR] I think I screwed us in the 1960s. Horror. I've started writing this hundreds of times and never gotten to the end. The first few times I tried, I did it on paper in a notebook because the internet hadn't been invented yet. I burned the notebooks. This is the first time I've finished and not destroyed what I'd written.

2020.10.15 19:00 normancrane [HR] I think I screwed us in the 1960s

I've started writing this hundreds of times and never gotten to the end. The first few times I tried, I did it on paper in a notebook because the internet hadn't been invented yet. I burned the notebooks. This is the first time I've finished and not destroyed what I'd written. If nothing else, this act of creation without destruction is a small victory to me, but I know you hardly care about that. Nor should you. You should care about what you're about to read because if what I say is true, your generation may be in some serious shit. I'm in my late 70s, no wife or kids, not many friends, and although I'm not quite on my death bed, I'm certainly nearing the end of my life, so my personal stake in this is low, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't weight heavily on my soul in an existential kind of way. We all keep secrets, some darker than others, and this has been my darkest.
The story starts in California way back in the 1960s. For those unfamiliar with that period in history, the one word I'd use to describe it is turbulent. Just imagine the straight-laced world of the 1950s you know from television crashing head-on into what you probably associate with hippie culture, namely radical politics, protest, heavy drug use, rebellion against authority, and conspiracy theories, but also comradery, selflessness, and the genuine belief that it is possible to change the world for the better. I was a university student at the time, so you could say I was in the thick of it, but I wasn't at one of the true hotbed schools like Berkeley. That said, there was almost no way to be young and alive in California and to keep away from the upheaval. It was literally all around you, and it sucked you in. There wasn't a Friday night when you didn't listen to a speech by Abbie Hoffman, take LSD, or hazily conspire to take down the establishment to a background of folk tunes, and then go out to bar where long past midnight some guy in a black suit tried to recruit you for a plastics corporation or the CIA. Or so he said, or so you remembered the next morning.
It was actually at one of these bars that I met my first real girlfriend, whom I'll call Edna. Edna wasn't a hippie, she was in town taking typing classes and working part-time as a receptionist, but like me she had become infatuated with the scene. Edna was only the second girl I'd slept with, and after a few months of going with her I started having trouble maintaining, then even getting, an erection. Back then it wasn't like it is now, when even polite people talk about erectile dysfunction and you can get medication to help with it. Back then there was nothing except a whole lot of embarrassment. At first, Edna and I thought it might be stress or lack of sleep causing my problem, then we suspected alcohol, but despite taking a fairly systematic approach and eliminating the possible causes one by one, we couldn't figure it out. Within weeks, my sex life just stopped. You can imagine how devastating that was to a young man.
Let's rewind a bit. About six months before meeting Edna, I had met a guy named Jerry in one of my political science classes and we'd quickly become friends. Jerry and I would regularly meet up, talk about everything from music and world revolution to UFOs, and generally goof off together, and he'd always have a decent supply of weed for us to smoke and Grateful Dead bootlegs to listen to, which was fantastic. Although I've never had a truly best friend, Jerry was definitely my closest friend during my early student days in California, so he was the person I eventually turned to for help with my sexual problem. I remember that it was late at night after getting stoned immaculate, as Jim Morrison would say, that I told Jerry about my erectile dysfunction. He listened as I struggled mightily through the telling of it, and without laughing or making light of the situation told me not to worry too much, that it would probably go away on its own, but if I didn't want to wait and wanted help now, I should go see a man he referred to as Gerbil.
Gerbil was about ten years older than us, originally from New Mexico and had been studying chemistry at Berkeley until about a year prior, when he'd been expelled after being caught synthesizing hallucinogens in a school lab. Faced with the possibility of going back to New Mexico without a degree, Gerbil had decided to pursue the American Dream instead. He set up his own lab, kept his clientele, and expanded his operation. Drugs, incidentally, is how Jerry had first met Gerbil. And through Jerry is how I met the guy. That's one other unique thing about Gerbil: even compared to the regular paranoiacs, he was paranoid. You couldn't just see him. You had to be introduced by someone he trusted and he had to "vet" you, which included a brief interrogation and sitting silently while he "read your mind." My vetting lasted about half an hour. After it was over, Gerbil relaxed and I explained my problem to him. It was easy because he was like a magnet for deep truths. You wanted to tell him the embarrassing stuff. Long story short, he told me I was far from the first guy to be suffering from this type of condition and that he had a tried and tested solution.
I'll never forget the moment when he held out the pill bottle to me. His smiling, unshaven face, the sunlight streaming in through the dirty windows, and the pills themselves, oblong and delicately off-white in their little glass home. When I asked how much I owed him, he shrugged and said that for a friend there was no cost, then laughed and added that he had more than enough money anyway. After all, he said, he was making truth serum for the CIA. "Just make sure you follow the instructions," he said. "And remember: you were never here."
When I got home, I read the instructions, which had been typed out on a strip of paper and taped to the outside of the pill bottle. They were simple enough but odd: Insert one (1) pill into urethra at least one hour prior to intercourse.
I'll spare you the awkward details of my first time doing the insertion. What you need to know is that the pills worked. God, how they worked! Never before, and never since, have I had an erection as hard and for as long as when I used those pills. In the past twenty years I've tried Viagra and all the others, but nothing even comes close. It was like fucking with the world's most sensitive steel rod, and you could go for hours!
Edna and I sure made up for lost time, but pretty soon Edna wasn't enough. We'd go at it two or three times, she'd call it quits for the night and I'd still be raging to go. I'm not proud of it now, but I started meeting other girls just for sex. Any girls who'd have me, really. At bars, meet ups, between classes, at concerts, everywhere. There was no emotional connection but physically it was bliss. I loved it, they loved it, and I guess later they dubbed it the Summer of Love.
I wish I'd counted how many pills Gerbil had given me, but I didn't. All I knew was that I was going through them like a knife through reheated butter. From what I remember, one pill was enough to last up to forty-eight hours, but I was using them almost non-stop, and the supply was depleting. I was probably addicted. It was after I'd used about half of my initial supply that Jerry asked over coffee one morning whether my "problem" had gone away. I told him it had and more than hinted at how my sex life had exploded, and he told me that was fantastic news. Then he lowered his voice and told me Gerbil wanted to meet up. I agreed, he told me the time and place, and I never saw Jerry again. But I'll get to that in a bit.
Gerbil and I met a few days later in what remained of a hangar on an abandoned airfield. It was beyond city limits, and Gerbil seemed to make a big deal of that fact. He told me he'd recently purchased the land way under value and was planning on building a bunker on it. Because that sounded like just the craziness he'd be into, I took him at his word. When I told him how well the pills had been working and that I wanted more of them, he wasn't surprised. He said he was thrilled and handed me another bottle of pills identical to the first. This time, however, they had a price. But it was the kind of price that wasn't paid in dollars and that made my horny young mind spin with possibilities. Gerbil was organizing a series of orgies and he was giving me the pills in exchange for taking part in them.
Back to Jerry: disappearing for a few days wasn't unusual. He went on benders from time to time during which he'd unreachable and absent from class, but those usually lasted a few days, after which he'd show up groggy and with stories to tell. After a week, I started to worry, but even then it's important to remember the times, both in terms of technology and perspective. We didn't have cell phones you could call anytime you wanted, and it wasn't unheard of for people to "drop out" of society. I had a professor who suddenly disappeared for half a semester, and when he came back he told us he'd gone on a walkabout. Still, I expected Jerry to tell me if he was planning something like that. He'd said nothing and now he was gone. I started asking around but realized I didn't actually know much about him. From what I gathered, he was still enrolled in university and still living at the same address. He just wasn't there.
My relationship with Edna was falling apart at the same time. I was bored with her, and she was getting bored with life in California. She was honest about wanting to move back East, and we both knew I wouldn't be going with her. And although she never said a word about it, I'm sure she knew I wasn't being faithful. Hell, even free love has a cost. I can't say we broke each other's hearts, but I will say that as I've aged, I've imagined more and more often what my life would had have been if we'd stayed together. I went on to love again but I never found a true love. Edna, especially in those early times, may have been the closest I ever got. Ironically, we loved each other most when we couldn't be physically intimate.
The first of Gerbil's orgies that I attended was held in the middle of the desert. There was music, drugs and absolutely no inhibitions. It was the most exciting experience of my life, and I loved it. Gerbil himself was never at the orgies, but almost everyone seemed to know him, at least by reputation. I don't remember how many orgies I ended up going to, but it was over a dozen, each in a different location with new women, many of them intoxicatingly exotic to me. Foreign students, bored housewives, groupies, intellectuals, stewardesses, and wanderers from all around the country and the world: India, Russia, China, Europe, Latin America, everywhere. I still have no idea how Gerbil organized these things or convinced so many women to go to them, but he did, and I must have fucked nearly all of them. The pills were my fuel.
Sometime during this hazy period of hedonistic pleasure, the police found Jerry's body in New Mexico. Apparently he'd hitchhiked all the way down there, spent a few weeks living on a ranch and overdosed on a cocktail of drugs so strong he must have been halfway to heaven by the time his organs failed. Foul play was ruled out, and no one in New Mexico cared if a longhaired hippie had killed himself accidentally or on purpose. There was no funeral as far as I know. About a week after Jerry's death, I received a letter from him in the mail. Judging by the gradual degradation of his handwriting, it had been written in several sittings. Most of it was personal and there was a lot of pain behind the words, but it was the last sentence that has stuck with me because of it's plain brutality. Four words: They've fucked us.
I fucked away my breakup with Edna and the loss of my friend. Orgy after orgy.
It was while sitting in a bar on a hot Wednesday night in the middle of July that I discovered something that chilled me to the marrow of my bones. I was down to my last pill and imagining the best way to take advantage of it, waiting for the perfect piece of ass to walk in through the door. I had a mug of beer in front of me, not my first, and I was absentmindedly walking the pill up and down the tops of my fingers, when suddenly I lost control and it fell straight into my mug. I must have been too drunk to react, because instead of fishing it out, I watched instead as it descended into the murky depths while giving off a spray of infinitely fine bubbles. I didn't know how a pill should react in beer, but something about this reaction seemed off. When it had settled at the bottom of the mug, the pill started shedding something other than bubbles: namely itself. Tiny pieces flaked off and floated to the top, and the pill began to tremble. Soon, dark spots became visible beneath the off-white colour of what I instinctively began to conceptualize as a shell, until the entire casing was gone, leaving only a trembling black insectous creature! Immediately I knew it was organic. Even more: alive! I watched mesmerized as it struggled in the liquid, scurrying towards the edge of the mug but unable to climb the glass sides. Finally, I put my fingers in and lifted it out. It was small but unbelievably hard between my fingertips. I couldn't crush it. I held it briefly against the overhead light, its body wholly opaque, before it slipped out, hit the unswept floor and scurried away. I scrambled after it, much to the cruel amusement of the other patrons, stomping forward on the floor before falling to my knees, but with no luck. It was gone. Returning to my seat, I thought, Just what the fuck have I been pushing into my urethra?
I had no pills and the only evidence of anything abnormal was my own boozy memory, so I had nothing. Except a feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was horribly wrong. I tried contacting Gerbil in my usual ways, hoping to get more pills to experiment on and either put my mind at ease ("You hallucinated, idiot.") or get my hands on something I could send to a lab, but all my usual ways were indirect, like asking for permission to speak, and permission was being denied. Gerbil stopped responding. Eventually I grew desperate enough to visit the abandoned airfield, which was the only address of his I knew, but it was empty and unchanged. When I went to the land office and asked about ownership, the clerk told me the land belonged to a man named Beaconfield who was mostly likely long dead. Because I didn't know anyone other than Jerry who'd known Gerbil, I had nowhere else to turn. There's only so many times you can ask a stranger if they know a man named after a small rodent. Eventually you give up.
And so Gerbil was gone, my pills were gone, Jerry and Edna were gone, and soon the 1960s themselves were gone, metamorphosing into a sexless 1970s for me, then the 1980s, 1990s and the new millennium. All as if someone had snapped their fingers. To say my life was dull would be an understatement. I had work, and followed it around the country, but I had little else. Forged at a time when we all wanted to remake the world, I had remade nothing and found myself leading a life of comfortable insignificance. But despite my memories fading, they never completely disappeared, and I spent many evenings wondering, trying to piece together clues, and always unable to shake those four words of Jerry's: They've fucked us. Was I scarred by a friend's suicide? Sure. But it was more than that, often in the form of sweat-inducing nightmares about tiny black insects crawling around my insides.
In the early 2000s, I saw a political ad for a candidate vying for the U.S. Senate. There was nothing unusual about the spot, but a few seconds caught my attention. They showed a series of photos of the candidate as he was growing up, attending school, graduating, etc. In one of them, he was with his mother, and my heart nearly stopped when I recognized her as Edna. I don't know what emotion I felt first, but I settled on hesitant happiness as I jumped online to confirm what my eyes had shown me. Although I didn't find the ad itself, I did find an interview with the candidate, including one with a gallery of photos, and in one of them was the confirmation I was searching for. Edna's face, older but still beautiful, stared at me from behind her son's electable smile. I was breathless. My happiness became joy. It was wonderful not only that Edna had done OK for herself but that she'd done extraordinarily, because it takes a certain kind of success to raise a future statesman.
On election night, I made popcorn, drank beer and cheered on Edna's son as if he were my own. Shortly after the polls closed, CNN projected him as the winner. For one night, my own insignificance didn't matter. I shared secretly in someone else's relevance.
A few months passed in the afterglow of this beautiful discovery. Sometimes I even had fantasies about contacting the senator to offer my congratulations, which would be a reconnection with Edna, but I always knew this was impossible. I was nobody to her, a shadow from the past. She probably didn't even remember me.
The reason why I mention this is two-fold: because I want to write and relive the happy moments, despite their way of decomposing into dread; and because Edna was merely the first of many. Over the next year, I recognized the faces of three other women I'd had sex with in California in the 1960s. I may not have known or recognized their names, but I do have a memory for faces and I was certain about theirs. All three were the mothers or grandmothers of successful people: a politician, the CEO of a pharmaceutical corporation, and a lawyer. What are the chances?
Over the next months and years, I started to actively research the background of anyone who had recently attained a high level of success, or more accurately, a high level of influence: of power. Most were guarded about their pasts, many enigmatic, but some made public just enough of a thread of information for me to pull loose, and whether in photos or on video, what I kept finding were the faces of my former lovers, women I had met while cheating on Edna or, more often, women I'd fucked at Gerbil's orgies.
In time, I realized that the web extended beyond America. I found world leaders, generals, economists, industrialists and policy makers scattered about the globe, yet whose foremothers had all been in California with me! It was insane. I felt insane, wacko like the worst conspiracy nuts I'd met in the 1960s. Yet, just like them, I was convinced I was right, and what was right was too weird to be coincidence.
Today, the people whose mothers and grandmothers I fucked rule the world, and the singular way in which they are all working toward the same goals terrifies me to the very core of my being. To everyone else, they are unconnected individuals. To me, they are connected, and it gnaws at my mind, this question that I know I will never be able to answer: What are they and to whom do they owe their allegiance?
But I no longer search for them. I have accepted reality, and I don't know what difference it makes to know exactly how many of them exist. I still have no evidence. I can't go anywhere with a story relying on an old man's memory of his own LSD-fueled sexual exploits. I've tried, and gotten laughed out of the room. The best reaction is sympathy for being a senile old man whose mind is playing tricks on him about his past. And that's without mentioning my own theories involving parasites, mind control or aliens.
Yet those words: They've fucked us.
How I wish I had been able to hold on to that tiny black creature!
Or stopped myself from putting it in my body.
But I couldn't and now I'm here, posting my story somewhere at least a few people will read it. Maybe you'll believe me, maybe you won't. I don't know if I want to give a warning or a confession, but either way I've done it now. What finds its way to the internet stays on the internet.
I hope for your collective sake that when you find this years later, you'll be able to have a good laugh.
I know I'm not laughing.
I truly believe that in the 1960s I participated in something whose conclusion will be the ruin of mankind.
submitted by normancrane to shortstories [link] [comments]


2020.10.13 00:33 --YoshikageKira-- On caught public tape sex

Since were talking about NSFW subreddits, can we talk about /holdthemoan? I've been dying to talk about /holthemoan. Lets talk about /holdthemoan. For those who don't know, /holdthemoan is a subreddit about people touching themselves or fucking in public while people are in close proximity. Where you have to hold the moan or be caught.
It is trashy as hell and kind of messed up for involving nonconsenting people in your voyeurs fetish. Anyway, were not discussing morality of this subreddit. Were talking about how that subreddit has been ruined by coomers and "verified amateurs".
When /holdthemoan got popular, these "verified amateurs" came in and started flooding the subreddit with vague photos that hardly relate to the subreddit. Flashing your tits in an empty Walmart isle isn't /holdthemoan, that is /PublicFlashing. No Patrick, flashing your pussy in the woods isn't /holdthemoan too. These "verified amateurs" flood dozens of different subreddits to get karma and sell their nudes in the DM.
I have no issue with anyone making money by selling nudes or sex tapes. I have an issue with spamming subreddits with content that isn't directly related to them. You would think the subreddit's community won't stand for this spam. Yet, they're all like the comments in this video. They're just coomers hitting on these women.
But what about the moderators? They don't care about it. They relaxed the rules. They would have the subreddit be full of spam. Instead of a nicely curated subreddit with relevant content.
They rolled out the red carpet for these "verified amateurs" to just flood their subreddit. Because they didn't want to moderate the subreddit. Fucking coomers.
submitted by --YoshikageKira-- to copypasta [link] [comments]


2020.10.12 03:20 toesucker17 Public sex caught on tape

So I thought I'd just share my personal story of how I realized I was bisexual.
Okay. So every time I try to remember where my bisexuality started, I think I can pinpoint it but then I remember something from even earlier in life. The earliest I can remember is Sept 1991. I was 4 years old. Yeah, I was 4. And I was watching the pilot of Home Improvement, and it came to the scene where Tim & Mark start working on the dishwasher and they take their shirts off. At 4 years old something stirred inside me. I didn't understand what or why, just that I liked that scene. And because my dad had taped it for my mom because she was working night shift, I got that tape (I learned how to work a VCR at 3 years old lol) and watched that scene over and over again. Around the same time I remember undressing my Buddy doll (look it up) and hanging out with him naked in my room. Again not understanding why, just wanting to be naked with the doll. Eventually my parents got annoyed/concerened that I was getting naked so often and spending so much time watching that Home Improvement episode so they took the doll away, deliberately taped over the Home Improvement episode (you know how much a recording of the very first airing of Home Improvement including commercials would be worth now?! lol) and made me stay downstairs with them as much as possible. I was very confused about what I had done wrong.
So my next earliest memory of same-sex attraction was in second grade, it was fall 1995, I'd just turned 8 and I'd seen an episode of Goof Troop where Max & PJ go swimming, and wanting to see that episode again. I remember laying in bed at night, imagining an episode where Max & PJ went skinny dipping. the following summer the film adaptation of Flipper came out and even though I didn't get to see it in theaters, I wanted to. There was a cover story in Disney Adventures that along with interviews and behind-the-scenes looks, had a few pics of Elijah Wood shirtless. I looked at that issue quite frequently. My family never got around to seeing it in theatres but I did rent it the first week it came out on video. And enjoyed Elijah Wood's many swimming scenes lol.
I remember the first time I heard the word "gay", it was spring 1997, I was 9, and the movie In And Out was being released. I saw the TV spot on my own while watching a Home Improvement rerun (full circle lol) but then every time I saw it with my parents they'd either immediately mute it or change the channel. Didn't understand why but didn't really want to ask. My parents were NEVER big on communication or explaining why things were right or wrong, just that they are and they should never be questioned. The first time I heard gay in a negative context was that fall, 1997, I had just turned 10, and in a very weird twist of fate, it was a Cosby episode (not the original Cosby series, the 90s series with Madelyn Kahn). Hilton unwillingly joins a gay softball team. my dad freaks out, turns the TV off, and immediately starts lecturing my sister and I that being gay is evil and wrong and gay people all deserve to die. Not once did he even mention what being gay meant. I couldn't even tell you where I learned what it actually meant, it probably wasn't until I was in 7th grade, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
In the summer of 1998 a family moved in across the street from us and I befriended the son who was a year ahead of me. i was a big outcast at school so this was my first real experience with a friendship. We'd go swimming and have sleepovers and every time I caught myself unconsciously checking out his body. I couldn't even explain why. Okay so, soon after I turned 12, I started coming up with these elaborate fantasies about skinny dipping with my neighbor friend, and when I say elaborate I mean elaborate lol like I imagined what our day had been like leading up to us skinny dipping, I imagined we were hiking in Harding Park and came across a hidden lake. I also found myself checking out guys in the locker room after gym class. But what's weird is even though I'd become aroused, I never masturbated, I didn't start until about a year later and even then I didn't know what it was yet, just that it felt really really good. Right before I turned 14 I was spending the night at a friend's house and I don't even remember how it started but we ended up getting naked in his bed and masturbating together. We didn't touch each other, but for some reason I kept feeling compelled to rub my bare feet on his bare feet. He didn't seem to care. That happened every time we got the chance, then about a year later, it was summer 2002 and he was spending the night again, we were naked and masturbating in bed when he suddenly rolled over on top of me and started grinding on me. This was new and a little scary but it felt so good! I won't go into the details of what all we did but for the next 2 years we messed around every chance we got. In bed, in the pool changing room, in his dad's garage, the woods. By now we both knew what being gay was and how it was looked down on, (especially considering we went to Catholic school) so we told ourselves we weren't gay (by now I was also becoming very attracted to girls as well) we told ourselves we were just two horny virgins looking for an orgasm. And for a long time I believed it...
So, the messing around with my friend ended after 2 years when I was 16. He got a girlfriend and lost his virginity and didn't need me anymore. He and I never messed around again and eventually drifted apart. In a frustrating twist he's actually become a rabid anti-gay bible thumper. From there my bisexual tendencies kind of faded away for the time being. I became exclusively focused on girls and eventually lost my virginity to a woman at the tender age of 20 lol.
Fast forward to the summer of 2012. I'm now 24 and I start feeling attracted to other guys again. I find myself remembering those times with my friend with fondness. I found myself paying just as much attention to the guys in porn as the women, and even found myself watching gay porn. It would take me almost another year to work up the courage to do anything about it but in summer 2013 at the encouragement of a very good friend I placed an ad on Craigslist (in hindsight pretty risky but I was lucky) I was messaged by a 23 year old guy. After emailing and texting for a few days and becoming reasonably sure he wasn't a serial killer, we met at a McDonald's and then drove to a secluded field by a set of railroad tracks. And it was amazing. Over that summer I met up for sex with him and a few other guys I met online. In September of that year I met a guy that would change my life forever and not in a good way. We met up once and the sex was ok, not great but ok. For some reason he became absolutely obsessed with me, he wanted me to be his boyfriend. But not only was I not ready to openly date a guy, I wasn't that into him even if I was ready. He kept trying for a few weeks but eventually gave up. So fast forward to Feb 2014 and he contacts me apologizing for getting so obsessed and asking if I wanted to come over just for sex and I did. Afterwards we were cuddling naked in his bed and he again asks if I'll be his boyfriend. I again explained my reason for not wanting to take that step. Something inside of him snapped. He jumped on top of me and started choking me, a physical fight I don't remember all the details of ensued, I was kicked and punched and he eventually calmed down and apologized, I quickly got dressed and left. After that I didn't hear from again for another 2 years (more on him in a moment). In April of that year I attended an event on campus my friend had organized, it was a public gathering of an LGBT support group and people could talk about their experiences with coming out, prejudice they faced, anything they wanted to talk about. I got up there and told an abbreviated version of my story. It was the first time I'd really acknowledged that I was bisexual in front of anyone other than a few close personal friends and it was very liberating even though I was shaking the entire time.
Now we fast forward to summer 2016. My stalker returned. He demanded I have sex with him again. And I refused. So he informed me he'd found me on Facebook and would out me to all my friends if I didn't give in to him. So I beat him to the punch and decided to out myself. It was nerve racking but I did not want to have to be with him again and the public response was overwhelmingly positive. So now here I am over a year later and I'm reasonably at peace with myself and my sexuality. Obviously my family still doesn't know and it's gotta stay that way but my friends support me and that's what matters. And also, shortly after I came out, for the first time in my life, I met a guy who I actually had feelings for. All my previous encounters had been physical only but there was something about this guy. I knew things were different the first time we cuddled after sex and I caught myself rubbing my toes up and down his bare feet, something I usually only did with women after sex. Even though things didn't work out it was an educational experience for me to learn I could not just have sex with a guy but also develop genuine feelings for. Who knows where things are gonna go from here?
submitted by toesucker17 to comingout [link] [comments]


2020.10.12 03:18 toesucker17 Public sex caught on tape

So I thought I'd just share my personal story of how I realized I was bisexual.
Okay. So every time I try to remember where my bisexuality started, I think I can pinpoint it but then I remember something from even earlier in life. The earliest I can remember is Sept 1991. I was 4 years old. Yeah, I was 4. And I was watching the pilot of Home Improvement, and it came to the scene where Tim & Mark start working on the dishwasher and they take their shirts off. At 4 years old something stirred inside me. I didn't understand what or why, just that I liked that scene. And because my dad had taped it for my mom because she was working night shift, I got that tape (I learned how to work a VCR at 3 years old lol) and watched that scene over and over again. Around the same time I remember undressing my Buddy doll (look it up) and hanging out with him naked in my room. Again not understanding why, just wanting to be naked with the doll. Eventually my parents got annoyed/concerened that I was getting naked so often and spending so much time watching that Home Improvement episode so they took the doll away, deliberately taped over the Home Improvement episode (you know how much a recording of the very first airing of Home Improvement including commercials would be worth now?! lol) and made me stay downstairs with them as much as possible. I was very confused about what I had done wrong.
So my next earliest memory of same-sex attraction was in second grade, it was fall 1995, I'd just turned 8 and I'd seen an episode of Goof Troop where Max & PJ go swimming, and wanting to see that episode again. I remember laying in bed at night, imagining an episode where Max & PJ went skinny dipping. the following summer the film adaptation of Flipper came out and even though I didn't get to see it in theaters, I wanted to. There was a cover story in Disney Adventures that along with interviews and behind-the-scenes looks, had a few pics of Elijah Wood shirtless. I looked at that issue quite frequently. My family never got around to seeing it in theatres but I did rent it the first week it came out on video. And enjoyed Elijah Wood's many swimming scenes lol.
I remember the first time I heard the word "gay", it was spring 1997, I was 9, and the movie In And Out was being released. I saw the TV spot on my own while watching a Home Improvement rerun (full circle lol) but then every time I saw it with my parents they'd either immediately mute it or change the channel. Didn't understand why but didn't really want to ask. My parents were NEVER big on communication or explaining why things were right or wrong, just that they are and they should never be questioned. The first time I heard gay in a negative context was that fall, 1997, I had just turned 10, and in a very weird twist of fate, it was a Cosby episode (not the original Cosby series, the 90s series with Madelyn Kahn). Hilton unwillingly joins a gay softball team. my dad freaks out, turns the TV off, and immediately starts lecturing my sister and I that being gay is evil and wrong and gay people all deserve to die. Not once did he even mention what being gay meant. I couldn't even tell you where I learned what it actually meant, it probably wasn't until I was in 7th grade, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
In the summer of 1998 a family moved in across the street from us and I befriended the son who was a year ahead of me. i was a big outcast at school so this was my first real experience with a friendship. We'd go swimming and have sleepovers and every time I caught myself unconsciously checking out his body. I couldn't even explain why. Okay so, soon after I turned 12, I started coming up with these elaborate fantasies about skinny dipping with my neighbor friend, and when I say elaborate I mean elaborate lol like I imagined what our day had been like leading up to us skinny dipping, I imagined we were hiking in Harding Park and came across a hidden lake. I also found myself checking out guys in the locker room after gym class. But what's weird is even though I'd become aroused, I never masturbated, I didn't start until about a year later and even then I didn't know what it was yet, just that it felt really really good. Right before I turned 14 I was spending the night at a friend's house and I don't even remember how it started but we ended up getting naked in his bed and masturbating together. We didn't touch each other, but for some reason I kept feeling compelled to rub my bare feet on his bare feet. He didn't seem to care. That happened every time we got the chance, then about a year later, it was summer 2002 and he was spending the night again, we were naked and masturbating in bed when he suddenly rolled over on top of me and started grinding on me. This was new and a little scary but it felt so good! I won't go into the details of what all we did but for the next 2 years we messed around every chance we got. In bed, in the pool changing room, in his dad's garage, the woods. By now we both knew what being gay was and how it was looked down on, (especially considering we went to Catholic school) so we told ourselves we weren't gay (by now I was also becoming very attracted to girls as well) we told ourselves we were just two horny virgins looking for an orgasm. And for a long time I believed it...
So, the messing around with my friend ended after 2 years when I was 16. He got a girlfriend and lost his virginity and didn't need me anymore. He and I never messed around again and eventually drifted apart. In a frustrating twist he's actually become a rabid anti-gay bible thumper. From there my bisexual tendencies kind of faded away for the time being. I became exclusively focused on girls and eventually lost my virginity to a woman at the tender age of 20 lol.
Fast forward to the summer of 2012. I'm now 24 and I start feeling attracted to other guys again. I find myself remembering those times with my friend with fondness. I found myself paying just as much attention to the guys in porn as the women, and even found myself watching gay porn. It would take me almost another year to work up the courage to do anything about it but in summer 2013 at the encouragement of a very good friend I placed an ad on Craigslist (in hindsight pretty risky but I was lucky) I was messaged by a 23 year old guy. After emailing and texting for a few days and becoming reasonably sure he wasn't a serial killer, we met at a McDonald's and then drove to a secluded field by a set of railroad tracks. And it was amazing. Over that summer I met up for sex with him and a few other guys I met online. In September of that year I met a guy that would change my life forever and not in a good way. We met up once and the sex was ok, not great but ok. For some reason he became absolutely obsessed with me, he wanted me to be his boyfriend. But not only was I not ready to openly date a guy, I wasn't that into him even if I was ready. He kept trying for a few weeks but eventually gave up. So fast forward to Feb 2014 and he contacts me apologizing for getting so obsessed and asking if I wanted to come over just for sex and I did. Afterwards we were cuddling naked in his bed and he again asks if I'll be his boyfriend. I again explained my reason for not wanting to take that step. Something inside of him snapped. He jumped on top of me and started choking me, a physical fight I don't remember all the details of ensued, I was kicked and punched and he eventually calmed down and apologized, I quickly got dressed and left. After that I didn't hear from again for another 2 years (more on him in a moment). In April of that year I attended an event on campus my friend had organized, it was a public gathering of an LGBT support group and people could talk about their experiences with coming out, prejudice they faced, anything they wanted to talk about. I got up there and told an abbreviated version of my story. It was the first time I'd really acknowledged that I was bisexual in front of anyone other than a few close personal friends and it was very liberating even though I was shaking the entire time.
Now we fast forward to summer 2016. My stalker returned. He demanded I have sex with him again. And I refused. So he informed me he'd found me on Facebook and would out me to all my friends if I didn't give in to him. So I beat him to the punch and decided to out myself. It was nerve racking but I did not want to have to be with him again and the public response was overwhelmingly positive. So now here I am over a year later and I'm reasonably at peace with myself and my sexuality. Obviously my family still doesn't know and it's gotta stay that way but my friends support me and that's what matters. And also, shortly after I came out, for the first time in my life, I met a guy who I actually had feelings for. All my previous encounters had been physical only but there was something about this guy. I knew things were different the first time we cuddled after sex and I caught myself rubbing my toes up and down his bare feet, something I usually only did with women after sex. Even though things didn't work out it was an educational experience for me to learn I could not just have sex with a guy but also develop genuine feelings for. Who knows where things are gonna go from here?
submitted by toesucker17 to bisexualadults [link] [comments]


2020.10.01 19:20 LeeDoverwood Evidence mounts that Trump is getting ready to declare checkmate, with a big reveal that much of the U.S. government has been run by Communist China spies

Evidence mounts that Trump is getting ready to declare checkmate, with a big reveal that much of the U.S. government has been run by Communist China spies (GreatAwakening)
submitted 4.1 hours ago by Cheetah1964
Consider this in the transcript of the debate:
1:24 TRUMP
And we've caught them. We've caught them all. We've got it all on tape. And Trump, no matter what his opponents, Wallace and Biden, did, pushed the information about Hunter:
1:09:26 BIDEN
So, thirdly we’re poorer. The billionaires have gotten much, much more wealthy by a tune of over four three to $400 billion more, just since COVID. You in the home, you got less. You're in more trouble than you were before. In terms of being more violent, when we were in office there were 15% less violence in America than there is today. He's president of the United states. It’s on his watch. And with regard to more divided, the nation can't stay divided. We can't be this way. And speaking of my son, the way you talk about the military, the way you talk about them be losers and being, and just being suckers. My son was in Iraq. He spent a year there. He got, he got the Bronze Star. He got the Conspicuous Service Medal. He was not a loser. He was a patriot. And the people left behind there were heroes.
1:10:23 TRUMP
Really? You talking about Hunter? Are you talking about Hunter?
1:10:23 BIDEN
and I resent -- I’m talking about my son, Beau Biden. You’re talking about --
1:10:30 TRUMP
I don’t know Beau. I know Hunter. Hunter got thrown out of the military. He was thrown out, dishonorably discharged for cocaine use.
1:10:37 BIDEN
That's not true, he wasn’t dishonorably discharged. None of that is true.
1:10:39 TRUMP
-- and he didn't have a job until you became vice president. Once you became vice president he made a fortune in Ukraine, in China, in Moscow and various other places --
1:10:48 BIDEN
That is simply not true.
1:10:49 TRUMP
He made a fortune and he didn’t have a job.
1:10:50 BIDEN
My son -- My son -- My son, like a lot of people, like a lot of people you know I had a drug problem. He's overtaken it. He's fixed it. He's worked on it. And I'm proud of him.
1:11:02 TRUMP
But why was he given tens of millions of dollars?
1:11:05 BIDEN
He wasn't given tens of millions of dollars
1:11:08 WALLACE
President Trump you’ve --
1:11:11 BIDEN
Already been discredited
1:11:13 WALLACE
We've already been through this, I think the American people would rather hear about more substantial subjects. Well, you know, as the moderator sir I'm going to make a judgement call there.
1:11:20 TRUMP
-- 3.5 million dollars. Let’s talk about Moscow --
1:11:24 BIDEN
That is not true. That report is totally discredited.
1:11:25 WALLACE
Gentlemen --
1:11:27 BIDEN
Mitt Romney on that committee said it wasn't worth taxpayers money. That report was written for political reasons.
1:11:33 WALLACE
You know, I'd like to talk about climate change.
That last line by Wallace definitely reads like satire. It was real, folks.
Now, take a look at the following information. I am not familiar with this site or the webcasts it refers to, so engage your usual grain of salt. However, look at how the puzzle pieces start fitting together if this is true.
https://gnews.org/394168/
By CHANGDAO - 2020-10-01
"The most explosive news of the past few days was the 3 hard drives delivered to the United States Department of Justice by a top family or families of the Chinese Communist Party, according to Lu De, a faithful follower of Miles Guo’s Whistleblower Movement and host of one of the most-watched webcasts in Mandarin of the last three years.
"Since the evening show on September 24th, for 5 days in a row, Lu De’s webcasts have focused almost exclusively on the content of the 3 hard drives that were secretly provided to the Department of Justice fairly recently.
"Hunter Biden is in big trouble, much bigger than his Russian and Ukrainian scandals would cause. One of the hard drives contains information on Hunter Biden’s trip to China. It is known to the public that Hunter Biden flew to China on Air Force 2 with his father, Joe Biden. Joe Biden insisted that he was not aware of his son’s connection with the CCP companies. What Hunter did in China, the “dirty things”, were recorded on video by the order of the CCP Public Security Bureau. On the “business” side, it is believed that Hunter got to know Li Xiangsheng, the former CEO of Bohai Industrial Investment Fund Management Co., Ltd., an affiliated company owned by the Vice Chairman of China, Wang Qishan. Afterward, Hunter arranged for his father to meet with Li Xiangsheng.
"The contract that Hunter Biden signed with Xi and Wang, No. 1 and No. 2 of the CCP regime, secured 4.5 billion dollars of interest and benefits to him. Hunter did not disclose this contract to the U.S. government. Whether or not he disclosed it to his father, you can be the judge. The real question is: did Joe Biden disclose the existence of such a contract to the U.S. government? He absolutely did not. In Lu De’s webcast, Hunter received a million dollars prior to the signing, and 10 million at the time the contract was signed. The money was laundered through a prominent U.S. lawyer.
"The details of the sex recordings will likely never be released to the public. The CCP routinely and secretly records sex acts between foreigners and women who are provided by the CCP. This is one of the most effective ways to blackmail foreigners, often politicians, and to get them to agree to do whatever the CCP wants them to do.
"BGY, an acronym for blue, gold, and yellow, refers to techniques utilized by the CCP to steal advanced technology from the West; to bribe foreigners; and to blackmail intellectuals, business people, and politicians with recordings of their sex acts. The ultimate goal is to make the American democratic system collapse, thus bringing Western civilization to its knees."
Although there are many players in Deep State, including the usual Soros, Rothchilds, etc., if we focus on only them we are missing the obvious -- that the dictatorship of China has been at war with us for years, just being unusually clever about it. I suspect that the other entities involved are either allies, like the Axis in World War II, or lower down in the hierarchy. That includes the whole Antifa/BLM crowd and the Fake News. After all, who else controls the land, people, military, and nukes like the dictatorship of China does?
And start thinking about all the evidence--Feinstein's driver, Chinese spies at the universities, Chinese gadgets everywhere in the U.S., so much more, and, of course...
A bioweapon released on the world. No one else did that.
Now, the main point that might come out is that Communist China completely OWNED our politicians, via bribes and blackmail. The bribes are obvious. What has not yet come out is exactly what the bribes were for.
Could the bribes have been for enabling the Chinese government to take over the United States?
What exactly was IN Hillary's emails, anyhow?
Film at 11.
Hold onto your hats.
And fight like nuts via your local Republicans. Staff those early voting polls. Make the calls. Work for the campaigns.
submitted by LeeDoverwood to freeworldnews [link] [comments]


2020.09.30 13:53 normancrane Public sex caught on tape

I've started writing this hundreds of times and never gotten to the end. The first few times I tried, I did it on paper in a notebook because the internet hadn't been invented yet. I burned the notebooks. This is the first time I've finished and not destroyed what I'd written. If nothing else, this act of creation without destruction is a small victory to me, but I know you hardly care about that. Nor should you. You should care about what you're about to read because if what I say is true, your generation may be in some serious shit. I'm in my late 70s, no wife or kids, not many friends, and although I'm not quite on my death bed, I'm certainly nearing the end of my life, so my personal stake in this is low, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't weight heavily on my soul in an existential kind of way. We all keep secrets, some darker than others, and this has been my darkest.
The story starts in California way back in the 1960s. For those unfamiliar with that period in history, the one word I'd use to describe it is turbulent. Just imagine the straight-laced world of the 1950s you know from television crashing head-on into what you probably associate with hippie culture, namely radical politics, protest, heavy drug use, rebellion against authority, and conspiracy theories, but also comradery, selflessness, and the genuine belief that it is possible to change the world for the better. I was a university student at the time, so you could say I was in the thick of it, but I wasn't at one of the true hotbed schools like Berkeley. That said, there was almost no way to be young and alive in California and to keep away from the upheaval. It was literally all around you, and it sucked you in. There wasn't a Friday night when you didn't listen to a speech by Abbie Hoffman, take LSD, or hazily conspire to take down the establishment to a background of folk tunes, and then go out to bar where long past midnight some guy in a black suit tried to recruit you for a plastics corporation or the CIA. Or so he said, or so you remembered the next morning.
It was actually at one of these bars that I met my first real girlfriend, whom I'll call Edna. Edna wasn't a hippie, she was in town taking typing classes and working part-time as a receptionist, but like me she had become infatuated with the scene. Edna was only the second girl I'd slept with, and after a few months of going with her I started having trouble maintaining, then even getting, an erection. Back then it wasn't like it is now, when even polite people talk about erectile dysfunction and you can get medication to help with it. Back then there was nothing except a whole lot of embarrassment. At first, Edna and I thought it might be stress or lack of sleep causing my problem, then we suspected alcohol, but despite taking a fairly systematic approach and eliminating the possible causes one by one, we couldn't figure it out. Within weeks, my sex life just stopped. You can imagine how devastating that was to a young man.
Let's rewind a bit. About six months before meeting Edna, I had met a guy named Jerry in one of my political science classes and we'd quickly become friends. Jerry and I would regularly meet up, talk about everything from music and world revolution to UFOs, and generally goof off together, and he'd always have a decent supply of weed for us to smoke and Grateful Dead bootlegs to listen to, which was fantastic. Although I've never had a truly best friend, Jerry was definitely my closest friend during my early student days in California, so he was the person I eventually turned to for help with my sexual problem. I remember that it was late at night after getting stoned immaculate, as Jim Morrison would say, that I told Jerry about my erectile dysfunction. He listened as I struggled mightily through the telling of it, and without laughing or making light of the situation told me not to worry too much, that it would probably go away on its own, but if I didn't want to wait and wanted help now, I should go see a man he referred to as Gerbil.
Gerbil was about ten years older than us, originally from New Mexico and had been studying chemistry at Berkeley until about a year prior, when he'd been expelled after being caught synthesizing hallucinogens in a school lab. Faced with the possibility of going back to New Mexico without a degree, Gerbil had decided to pursue the American Dream instead. He set up his own lab, kept his clientele, and expanded his operation. Drugs, incidentally, is how Jerry had first met Gerbil. And through Jerry is how I met the guy. That's one other unique thing about Gerbil: even compared to the regular paranoiacs, he was paranoid. You couldn't just see him. You had to be introduced by someone he trusted and he had to "vet" you, which included a brief interrogation and sitting silently while he "read your mind." My vetting lasted about half an hour. After it was over, Gerbil relaxed and I explained my problem to him. It was easy because he was like a magnet for deep truths. You wanted to tell him the embarrassing stuff. Long story short, he told me I was far from the first guy to be suffering from this type of condition and that he had a tried and tested solution.
I'll never forget the moment when he held out the pill bottle to me. His smiling, unshaven face, the sunlight streaming in through the dirty windows, and the pills themselves, oblong and delicately off-white in their little glass home. When I asked how much I owed him, he shrugged and said that for a friend there was no cost, then laughed and added that he had more than enough money anyway. After all, he said, he was making truth serum for the CIA. "Just make sure you follow the instructions," he said. "And remember: you were never here."
When I got home, I read the instructions, which had been typed out on a strip of paper and taped to the outside of the pill bottle. They were simple enough but odd: Insert one (1) pill into urethra at least one hour prior to intercourse.
I'll spare you the awkward details of my first time doing the insertion. What you need to know is that the pills worked. God, how they worked! Never before, and never since, have I had an erection as hard and for as long as when I used those pills. In the past twenty years I've tried Viagra and all the others, but nothing even comes close. It was like fucking with the world's most sensitive steel rod, and you could go for hours!
Edna and I sure made up for lost time, but pretty soon Edna wasn't enough. We'd go at it two or three times, she'd call it quits for the night and I'd still be raging to go. I'm not proud of it now, but I started meeting other girls just for sex. Any girls who'd have me, really. At bars, meet ups, between classes, at concerts, everywhere. There was no emotional connection but physically it was bliss. I loved it, they loved it, and I guess later they dubbed it the Summer of Love.
I wish I'd counted how many pills Gerbil had given me, but I didn't. All I knew was that I was going through them like a knife through reheated butter. From what I remember, one pill was enough to last up to forty-eight hours, but I was using them almost non-stop, and the supply was depleting. I was probably addicted. It was after I'd used about half of my initial supply that Jerry asked over coffee one morning whether my "problem" had gone away. I told him it had and more than hinted at how my sex life had exploded, and he told me that was fantastic news. Then he lowered his voice and told me Gerbil wanted to meet up. I agreed, he told me the time and place, and I never saw Jerry again. But I'll get to that in a bit.
Gerbil and I met a few days later in what remained of a hangar on an abandoned airfield. It was beyond city limits, and Gerbil seemed to make a big deal of that fact. He told me he'd recently purchased the land way under value and was planning on building a bunker on it. Because that sounded like just the craziness he'd be into, I took him at his word. When I told him how well the pills had been working and that I wanted more of them, he wasn't surprised. He said he was thrilled and handed me another bottle of pills identical to the first. This time, however, they had a price. But it was the kind of price that wasn't paid in dollars and that made my horny young mind spin with possibilities. Gerbil was organizing a series of orgies and he was giving me the pills in exchange for taking part in them.
Back to Jerry: disappearing for a few days wasn't unusual. He went on benders from time to time during which he'd unreachable and absent from class, but those usually lasted a few days, after which he'd show up groggy and with stories to tell. After a week, I started to worry, but even then it's important to remember the times, both in terms of technology and perspective. We didn't have cell phones you could call anytime you wanted, and it wasn't unheard of for people to "drop out" of society. I had a professor who suddenly disappeared for half a semester, and when he came back he told us he'd gone on a walkabout. Still, I expected Jerry to tell me if he was planning something like that. He'd said nothing and now he was gone. I started asking around but realized I didn't actually know much about him. From what I gathered, he was still enrolled in university and still living at the same address. He just wasn't there.
My relationship with Edna was falling apart at the same time. I was bored with her, and she was getting bored with life in California. She was honest about wanting to move back East, and we both knew I wouldn't be going with her. And although she never said a word about it, I'm sure she knew I wasn't being faithful. Hell, even free love has a cost. I can't say we broke each other's hearts, but I will say that as I've aged, I've imagined more and more often what my life would had have been if we'd stayed together. I went on to love again but I never found a true love. Edna, especially in those early times, may have been the closest I ever got. Ironically, we loved each other most when we couldn't be physically intimate.
The first of Gerbil's orgies that I attended was held in the middle of the desert. There was music, drugs and absolutely no inhibitions. It was the most exciting experience of my life, and I loved it. Gerbil himself was never at the orgies, but almost everyone seemed to know him, at least by reputation. I don't remember how many orgies I ended up going to, but it was over a dozen, each in a different location with new women, many of them intoxicatingly exotic to me. Foreign students, bored housewives, groupies, intellectuals, stewardesses, and wanderers from all around the country and the world: India, Russia, China, Europe, Latin America, everywhere. I still have no idea how Gerbil organized these things or convinced so many women to go to them, but he did, and I must have fucked nearly all of them. The pills were my fuel.
Sometime during this hazy period of hedonistic pleasure, the police found Jerry's body in New Mexico. Apparently he'd hitchhiked all the way down there, spent a few weeks living on a ranch and overdosed on a cocktail of drugs so strong he must have been halfway to heaven by the time his organs failed. Foul play was ruled out, and no one in New Mexico cared if a longhaired hippie had killed himself accidentally or on purpose. There was no funeral as far as I know. About a week after Jerry's death, I received a letter from him in the mail. Judging by the gradual degradation of his handwriting, it had been written in several sittings. Most of it was personal and there was a lot of pain behind the words, but it was the last sentence that has stuck with me because of it's plain brutality. Four words: They've fucked us.
I fucked away my breakup with Edna and the loss of my friend. Orgy after orgy.
It was while sitting in a bar on a hot Wednesday night in the middle of July that I discovered something that chilled me to the marrow of my bones. I was down to my last pill and imagining the best way to take advantage of it, waiting for the perfect piece of ass to walk in through the door. I had a mug of beer in front of me, not my first, and I was absentmindedly walking the pill up and down the tops of my fingers, when suddenly I lost control and it fell straight into my mug. I must have been too drunk to react, because instead of fishing it out, I watched instead as it descended into the murky depths while giving off a spray of infinitely fine bubbles. I didn't know how a pill should react in beer, but something about this reaction seemed off. When it had settled at the bottom of the mug, the pill started shedding something other than bubbles: namely itself. Tiny pieces flaked off and floated to the top, and the pill began to tremble. Soon, dark spots became visible beneath the off-white colour of what I instinctively began to conceptualize as a shell, until the entire casing was gone, leaving only a trembling black insectous creature! Immediately I knew it was organic. Even more: alive! I watched mesmerized as it struggled in the liquid, scurrying towards the edge of the mug but unable to climb the glass sides. Finally, I put my fingers in and lifted it out. It was small but unbelievably hard between my fingertips. I couldn't crush it. I held it briefly against the overhead light, its body wholly opaque, before it slipped out, hit the unswept floor and scurried away. I scrambled after it, much to the cruel amusement of the other patrons, stomping forward on the floor before falling to my knees, but with no luck. It was gone. Returning to my seat, I thought, Just what the fuck have I been pushing into my urethra?
I had no pills and the only evidence of anything abnormal was my own boozy memory, so I had nothing. Except a feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was horribly wrong. I tried contacting Gerbil in my usual ways, hoping to get more pills to experiment on and either put my mind at ease ("You hallucinated, idiot.") or get my hands on something I could send to a lab, but all my usual ways were indirect, like asking for permission to speak, and permission was being denied. Gerbil stopped responding. Eventually I grew desperate enough to visit the abandoned airfield, which was the only address of his I knew, but it was empty and unchanged. When I went to the land office and asked about ownership, the clerk told me the land belonged to a man named Beaconfield who was mostly likely long dead. Because I didn't know anyone other than Jerry who'd known Gerbil, I had nowhere else to turn. There's only so many times you can ask a stranger if they know a man named after a small rodent. Eventually you give up.
And so Gerbil was gone, my pills were gone, Jerry and Edna were gone, and soon the 1960s themselves were gone, metamorphosing into a sexless 1970s for me, then the 1980s, 1990s and the new millennium. All as if someone had snapped their fingers. To say my life was dull would be an understatement. I had work, and followed it around the country, but I had little else. Forged at a time when we all wanted to remake the world, I had remade nothing and found myself leading a life of comfortable insignificance. But despite my memories fading, they never completely disappeared, and I spent many evenings wondering, trying to piece together clues, and always unable to shake those four words of Jerry's: They've fucked us. Was I scarred by a friend's suicide? Sure. But it was more than that, often in the form of sweat-inducing nightmares about tiny black insects crawling around my insides.
In the early 2000s, I saw a political ad for a candidate vying for the U.S. Senate. There was nothing unusual about the spot, but a few seconds caught my attention. They showed a series of photos of the candidate as he was growing up, attending school, graduating, etc. In one of them, he was with his mother, and my heart nearly stopped when I recognized her as Edna. I don't know what emotion I felt first, but I settled on hesitant happiness as I jumped online to confirm what my eyes had shown me. Although I didn't find the ad itself, I did find an interview with the candidate, including one with a gallery of photos, and in one of them was the confirmation I was searching for. Edna's face, older but still beautiful, stared at me from behind her son's electable smile. I was breathless. My happiness became joy. It was wonderful not only that Edna had done OK for herself but that she'd done extraordinarily, because it takes a certain kind of success to raise a future statesman.
On election night, I made popcorn, drank beer and cheered on Edna's son as if he were my own. Shortly after the polls closed, CNN projected him as the winner. For one night, my own insignificance didn't matter. I shared secretly in someone else's relevance.
A few months passed in the afterglow of this beautiful discovery. Sometimes I even had fantasies about contacting the senator to offer my congratulations, which would be a reconnection with Edna, but I always knew this was impossible. I was nobody to her, a shadow from the past. She probably didn't even remember me.
The reason why I mention this is two-fold: because I want to write and relive the happy moments, despite their way of decomposing into dread; and because Edna was merely the first of many. Over the next year, I recognized the faces of three other women I'd had sex with in California in the 1960s. I may not have known or recognized their names, but I do have a memory for faces and I was certain about theirs. All three were the mothers or grandmothers of successful people: a politician, the CEO of a pharmaceutical corporation, and a lawyer. What are the chances?
Over the next months and years, I started to actively research the background of anyone who had recently attained a high level of success, or more accurately, a high level of influence: of power. Most were guarded about their pasts, many enigmatic, but some made public just enough of a thread of information for me to pull loose, and whether in photos or on video, what I kept finding were the faces of my former lovers, women I had met while cheating on Edna or, more often, women I'd fucked at Gerbil's orgies.
In time, I realized that the web extended beyond America. I found world leaders, generals, economists, industrialists and policy makers scattered about the globe, yet whose foremothers had all been in California with me! It was insane. I felt insane, wacko like the worst conspiracy nuts I'd met in the 1960s. Yet, just like them, I was convinced I was right, and what was right was too weird to be coincidence.
Today, the people whose mothers and grandmothers I fucked rule the world, and the singular way in which they are all working toward the same goals terrifies me to the very core of my being. To everyone else, they are unconnected individuals. To me, they are connected, and it gnaws at my mind, this question that I know I will never be able to answer: What are they and to whom do they owe their allegiance?
But I no longer search for them. I have accepted reality, and I don't know what difference it makes to know exactly how many of them exist. I still have no evidence. I can't go anywhere with a story relying on an old man's memory of his own LSD-fueled sexual exploits. I've tried, and gotten laughed out of the room. The best reaction is sympathy for being a senile old man whose mind is playing tricks on him about his past. And that's without mentioning my own theories involving parasites, mind control or aliens.
Yet those words: They've fucked us.
How I wish I had been able to hold on to that tiny black creature!
Or stopped myself from putting it in my body.
But I couldn't and now I'm here, posting my story somewhere at least a few people will read it. Maybe you'll believe me, maybe you won't. I don't know if I want to give a warning or a confession, but either way I've done it now. What finds its way to the internet stays on the internet.
I hope for your collective sake that when you find this years later, you'll be able to have a good laugh.
I know I'm not laughing.
I truly believe that in the 1960s I participated in something whose conclusion will be the ruin of mankind.
submitted by normancrane to normancrane [link] [comments]


2020.09.27 07:32 StanleyBolten Public sex caught on tape

QAnon supporter Praying Medic @PrayingMedic was right: Justice John Roberts deserves Presumption of Innocence but so does ALL AMERICANS – Justice for Brian D. Hill of USWGO Alternative News https://justiceforuswgo.wordpress.com/2020/09/27/qanon-supporter-praying-medic-praykngmedic-was-right-justice-john-roberts-deserves-presumption-of-innocence-but-so-does-all-americans/
by Laurie Azgard
Justice John Roberts is being accused of possibly being on the serial child molester Jeffrey Epstein flights on the Lolita Express due to a “John Roberts” name appearing two times on the flight log as well as “Bill Gates” Virginia Roberts, and “President William Jefferson Clinton” or Bill Clinton. However Praying Medic @prayingmedic a QAnon supporter is right in response to my last article. Justice John Roberts as well as ALL American citizens deserves the right to the presumption of innocence until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt when accused of committing a crime. That constitutional due process right does not just apply to Supreme Court justices. It applies to all.

Screenshot thanks to Twitter user Stanley Bolten u/BenGate61221661
Praying Medic said “I would be careful of making assumptions. There are thousands of people with that name“. Still the former U.S. President’s name and title “President” is on the flight logs referring to Bill Clinton, and so why not the Chief Supreme Court Justice? Let the allegations begin and then the rights of the defense John Roberts in the court of public opinion.
Logically it would make sense to suspect blackmail and compromise when the Justice is making anti-republican decisions in favor of abortion, DACA which is not a law but only an executive order created and signed by former President Barack Obama but John Roberts treated it as a law, and made a decision in favor of mandatory payments to health insurance in favor of the forced mandates to buy health insurance which is SLAVERY. No free country should ever force payments to private health insurance against your will. No law or executive decree shall force a private citizen to be indebted to a private corporation, private business, or company as it takes away the civil liberties and freedoms of each individual of the United States of America. It is corporate fascism, not freedom. It is slavery, not responsibility, treating everyone as children and punishing them by taking away their allowance by not wanting to do what BIG DADDY wants. Also the chief justice of the Supreme Court also has the power to appoint officers over the Administrative Office of the United States Courts [AOUSC], a agency over the oversight of federal probation, federal courts, and over federal court security. The AOUSC is over the appellate and district Article III courts and judges, and has a certain amount of power and discretion. So the chief justice of the Supreme Court is the most powerful position of the U.S. Constitution’s federal Article III judiciary. The power to interpret the Constitution and laws passed by Congress as well as executive orders and actions under the executive branch of government. It is logical to assume that Jeffrey Epstein would compromise John Roberts or anybody even associated with the chief justice position of the Supreme Court. To those who worry about political corruption and judicial corruption, it is logical to assume and fear that John Roberts may or may not be guilty of being compromised by the pedophile rings and the deep state swamp intelligence operations. This ain’t referring to the CIA when talking about the Deep State swamp , but networks of Deep State shadow government [second national and/or state government acting as the US government but not under the Constitution and lawful confines such as the separation of powers] and ShadowNet operations being conducted with connections with different positions of government including the FBI, NSA, CIA. DHS, DIA, and any other position within a government agency or branch of government.
Now let us hear John Robert’s side of the story in his defense as he is entitled the right to defend himself against a criminal allegation as he is a lawyer and a judge/justice and he knows that. More than likely he will definitely deny being part of the Jeffrey Epstein flights, so in other words he will highly likely deny involvement with Jeffrey Epstein. Unless videos, photographs, or any credible witnesses come forth against him and say under oath or affirmation that they had witnessed John Roberts hanging out with Jeffrey Epstein and actually engaging in child sex acts or any sexual activity with children, he is to be presumed innocent as what is deserved of all American citizens regardless of what stature or what position or office held inside or outside of government, even if never involved in government or only involved in private business. It doesn’t matter whether somebody works for the government or the courts or even law enforcement. All Americans are entitled by law to the presumption of innocence until proven guilty. That right to such position should not just be reserved to federal judges or justices of a Supreme Court or of any court or office. That right to such position should not just be reserved to police officers, FBI agents, and any other law enforcement.
See some articles about what is being alleged here: JOHN ROBERTS: ANOTHER EPSTEIN CONNECTION? DID SUPREME COURT JUSTICE JOHN ROBERTS JUST GET FILETED BY THE EPSTEIN TAPES ? | Pen-N-Sword II

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Praying Medic is right, all American citizens are entitled to the due process right of the presumption of innocence until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Before I make any further arguments in John Robert’s favor, this week will be the deciding week as to whether the Supreme Court will grant the petition for “Writ of Certiorari” in the case of “Brian David Hill v. United States District Court for the Middle District of North Carolina”.

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Both associate justices Brett Kavanaugh and Clarence Thomas were falsely accused of sex allegations in an attempt to either bring them down so that they could never hold public office or to be used as a way to compromise them whether the sex allegations were true or false. Something to hang over their heads even if it ain’t true. With both of those justices as US citizens, they are also presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Brian David Hill, aka Brian D. Hill formerly of USWGO alternative news from 2009-2012 was never given the same right as John Roberts, Brett Kavanaugh, Donald Trump, or even Clarence Thomas, the right to be presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Those rights cannot be protected with a corrupt judge, corrupt lying prosecution, or ineffective assistance of counsel. Fraud upon the court allegations were never responded to in the district court record. Three motions for sanctions and the US attorney assistant Anand Prakash Ramaswamy who was accused of defrauding the court and using perjury and misconstrued facts or evidence was never contested on the district court record where those three motions were filed.

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Meet Brian D. Hill!
Brian was accused of a computer sex crime [which can easily be fabricated with hacking tools such as PRISM and Vault-7 and Galileo Remote Control System], a crime similar to the allegations being thrown at Chief Justice John Roberts by those reviewing over the Epstein flight logs and any other investigative evidence, Justice Brett Kavanaugh, and Justice Clarence Thomas. It isn’t their positions in government which affords them the right to the presumption of innocence when accused of a crime. That right belongs to every single American citizen no matter what skin color, gender, office held, political background, personal background, professional background, or any background for that matter.
Brian D. Hill was never given any such right throughout his federal criminal case even though his entire criminal case is tainted in fraud and due process deprivations including ineffective assistance of counsel. He alleged in his 2255 brief [part 1, part 2, part 3] that he was treated as though he was guilty before the jury trial and his lawyer would not investigative anything and wouldn’t let him see his own entire discovery material before the false guilty plea agreement. That John Roberts should understand if he is innocent of the crime of being involved with Jeffrey Epstein’s pedophile blackmail conspiracy. In regards to Brian, his family could not bond him out while Brian’s medical issues such as type 1 brittle diabetes were neglected by multiple county jails because there was going to be strict bond conditions and stipulations against him like for instance Brian was not going to be allowed to use a telephone and neither would his family in the four apartment complex that is interconnected at that time. Brian’s entire family and all of their apartments would be subject to searches and seizures without a warrant and without any rights just for bonding out Brian D. Hill. So his entire family would not allowed to use a telephone at all. Even jails and prisons have telephones and even the prison counselors guarantee attorney phone calls for prisoners who need to speak with their attorneys or allow them to mail out legal mail. Brian was also given stipulations of home imprisonment, no telephone and no way to contact his pretrial services officer to even get permission to leave the residence for medical reasons and legal visits with an attorney, Brian would have died in his apartment if released on bond because he would not even be allowed to see his doctor while out on bond which can last for months to years. Brian was given less rights and was already treated like he was guilty of his computer possession sex crime. After Brian falsely plead guilty for being given a promise of a time served prison sentence, Brian was placed immediately on supervised probation. On that conditions, Brian was allowed to text message and he was allowed to use the telephone. Brian was given more legal rights for falsely pleading guilty which is a perjury charge risk. That itself is a sheer deprivation of due process and deprivation of Brian’s constitutional right to being presumed innocent of his crime until he is proven guilty by a jury of his peers beyond a reasonable doubt, that never happened with Brian. Why was Brian given more rights by falsely admitting gilt and accepting responsibility for his charge rather then be given rights until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt? Brian’s only crime was possessing computer files when anybody can hack a computer to plant child porn which can be as easy to plant or modify any computer file as long as you know how to reverse engineer? Why was Brian treated like such a dangerous violent criminal in Federal Court when there was no allegation of violence and no actual sexual misconduct ever alleged against Brian except just possession of computer files when possession is easy to fabricate?
Until the Jeffrey Epstein situation and investigations is sorted out, should John Roberts be treated as bad of a sex criminal defendant as with Brian David Hill? Should he be treated guilty until he proves his innocence? Should John Roberts be treated like a violent animal placed on permanent home detention and no phone calls allowed to anybody even his pretrial services officer if charged? Should John Roberts be barred from calling probation and not allowed to visit the doctor? Should John Roberts be treated like he is guilty until proven innocent because that was how Brian David Hill the poor autistic man was treated? Brian D. Hill was not given the presumption of innocence before he had falsely plead guilty under oath due to the Rule 11 colloquy. So should John Roberts also be treated as guilty of the Epstein connections of pedophilia until John Roberts spends million of dollars of his own money and be forced to apply for loans and mortgages trying to prove otherwise? They did that to a lowly poor and mentally handicapped criminal defendant with Autism Brian Hill so why not treat John Roberts with disdain and dishonor and mistreat him the exact same way they mistreated Brian for simply being accused of a crime? WHy not treat John Roberts as a VIOLENT ANIMAL until he proves that was not involved with Jeffrey Epstein because they treat lowly federal inmates as VIOLENT ANIMALS. The US Marshals treated Brian D. Hill as a VIOLENT ANIMAL as alleged in his book: “The Frame Up of Journalist Brian D. Hill” and in some cases due to his deteriorating health Brian was forced to get violent in jail against the jail guards when his diabetic blood sugar as low as the guards refused to get the medical staff involved until the next day and he would have died had he not gotten violent in Orange County Detention Center in Hillsborough, NC. So Brian was forcefully treated like a violent animal and his health was failing until he had to act out as a violent animal because he was already treated as one by the US Marshals. Brian was never charged because Brian’s violent uprising led to him being dragged with blood pouring out of his nose screaming “I AM BRIAN DAVID HILL OF USWGO ALTERNATIVE NEWS AND I WAS SET UP WITH CHILD PORNOGRAPHY, I AM BRIAN DAVID HILL OF USWGO ALTERNATIVE NEWS AND I WAS SET UP WITH CHILD PORNOGRAPHY,” etc etc. The violent uprising led Orange County to be forced to make a night phone call with a medical nurse and showed up, and treated his wounds, Brian had a broken nose. The nurse found that his blood sugar went back up in the 70’s range after he screaming and fighting back against the jail guards after he was caught eating sugar packets which led to his violent uprising. The nurse had to instruct the jail guards not to do this ever again and to give him a diabetic snack when his blood sugar was low, and because of that Brian was never charged for that violent uprising as his blood sugar was low and he could not think logically due to being medically deprived by the jail staff. If this is what Brian had go through when he should have been presumed INNOCENT until PROVEN GUILTY, This is what should happen to John Roberts since criminal defendants with type 1 diabetes are mistreated as violent animals. So John Roberts should be treated with the same disdain by the Marshals until he can prove his innocence. Right? Right? Right? NO every American is supposed to be given the presumption of innocence. Praying Medic needs to understand why we are taking an harsh position of arguments against Chief Justice John Roberts for not protecting poor and mentally handicapped criminal defendants rights to due process.
Praying Medic, we welcome you to respond to this entire article with your comments. We aren’t attacking you Praying Medic but some very good points are being made here. The Federal Court mistreated criminal defendant Brian David Hill and other average inmates until he and other criminal defendants admitted to being guilty of their charges and Brian was given a lot of reprieves for lying under oath about being guilty of a crime that he may not even be guilty at all. We want to hear what you have to say about this Praying Medic, about Brian David Hill being given virtually no rights and medical neglect to the point where he was forced to act out violently against the jail guards to get medical attention while John Roberts and other high government officials are given more rights than the average poor and disadvantaged citizens that cannot afford a good lawyer and have never been given the privilege of going to law school to become a good well trained lawyer.
So Praying Medic answer this: Does Brian David Hill deserve less constitutional and legal rights to the presumption of innocence than Justice John Roberts who may or may not be guilty of being involved with serial pedophile child rapist Jeffrey Epstein?
John Roberts does have the right to the presumption of innocence as he is in fact a citizen of the United States of America entitled to the same level of rights and medical care as everyone else, he is not any better than Brian David Hill or any other citizen of this great country. John Roberts, if you are reading this blog, consider my and other people’s allegations against you to be something of the court of public opinion and even in that arena you are given the right to be presumed innocent of the crime of pedophilia and child sexual abuse. Remember whose petition you are voting on Tuesday at the conference scheduled on September 29, 2020. Remember John Roberts by denying criminal defendant petitions alleging deprivation of due process rights such as the presumption of innocence until proven guilty as well as proven allegations of fraud upon the court by the prosecutor in federal criminal cases, we can very well say that we believe to the best of our knowledge that you may be guilty of being associated with serial child molester Jeffrey Epstein and treat you the exact same way that the Federal Court in North Carolina had treated Brian David Hill here, that is our right as it is equal protections under the law. Either we all have rights or none of us do and that includes John Roberts. If you feel that Brian’s petition should be denied and not be entitled in any court to any constitutional rights, then you John Roberts are a traitor and deserve no rights and no right to the presumption of innocence. John Roberts in that instance will have failed to protect the average citizens constitutional rights when accused of federal crimes and should be treated the exact same way as federal inmates and should be caged like a violent wild animal and treated as such even if he did nothing wrong. We need to address whether rights apply to only judges and justices or to ALL OF US.
Even QAnon shows the picture of the heading words at the Supreme Court building: “Equal Justice under Law”. Remember that John Roberts if you read this article or any articles of Justice for Brian D. Hill of USWGO alternative news. God bless America, Where We Go One We Go All.

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2020.09.18 16:42 HaulA18Sepl Fr-ee G-ay Se-x Vid-eos

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2020.09.16 17:11 DamnDam Public sex caught on tape

Your honor,
If it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.
On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends. Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance weird like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.
The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.
Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.
I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “Rape Victim” and I thought something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a nikon pointed right into my spread legs. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.
After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.
On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs, and then I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.
My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweats, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my vagina was sore and had become a strange, dark color from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours my sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find my sister. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.
I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been raped behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone. After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For one week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.
One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognize. This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me.
This can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.
At the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extra-curriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up. I was not okay.
The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a lineup, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know. He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me. Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue.
The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub. Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us speaking, a back rub.
One more time, in public news, I learned that my ass and vagina were completely exposed outside, my breasts had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an erect freshman was humping my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.
I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this sexual assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.
I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly raped, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.
When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. That’s so damaging. His attorney constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.
Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his attorney saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right? This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The sexual assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering question like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside? Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What color was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, we’ll let Brock fill it in.
I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who didn’t even take the time to ask me for my name, who had me naked a handful of minutes after seeing me. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.
And then it came time for him to testify. This is where I became revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.
So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.
He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, Can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the clear.
Even in this story, there’s barely any dialogue; I only said a total of three words before he had me half naked on the ground. I have never been penetrated after three words. He didn’t claim to hear me speak one full sentence that night, so in the news when it says we “met”, I’m not sure I would go so far as to say that. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can consent, see if she can speak an entire sentence. You couldn’t even do that. Just one coherent string of words. If she can’t do that, then no. Don’t touch her, just no. Not maybe, just no. Where was the confusion? This is common sense, human decency.
According to him, the only reason we were on the ground was because I fell down. Note; if a girl falls help her get back up. If she is too drunk to even walk and falls, do not mount her, hump her, take off her underwear, and insert your hand inside her vagina. If a girl falls help her up. If she is wearing a cardigan over her dress don’t take it off so that you can touch her breasts. Maybe she is cold, maybe that’s why she wore the cardigan. If her bare ass and legs are rubbing the pinecones and needles, while the weight of you pushes into her, get off her.
Next in the story, two people approached you. You ran because you said you felt scared. I argue that you were scared because you’d be caught, not because you were scared of two terrifying Swedish grad students. The idea that you thought you were being attacked out of the blue was ludicrous. That it had nothing to do with you being on top my unconscious body. You were caught red handed, with no explanation. When they tackled you why didn’t [you] say, “Stop! Everything’s okay, go ask her, she’s right over there, she’ll tell you.” I mean you had just asked for my consent, right? I was awake, right? When the policeman arrived and interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he couldn’t speak because of what he’d seen. Also, if you really did think they were dangerous, you just abandoned a half-naked girl to run and save yourself. No matter which way you frame it, it doesn’t make sense.
Your attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well we don’t know exactly when she became unconscious. And you’re right, maybe I was still fluttering my eyes and wasn’t completely limp yet, fine. His guilt did not depend on him knowing the exact second that I became unconscious, that is never what this was about. I was slurring, too drunk to consent way before I was on the ground. I should have never been touched in the first place. Brock stated, “At no time did I see that she was not responding. If at any time I thought she was not responding, I would have stopped immediately.” Here’s the thing; if your plan was to stop only when I was literally unresponsive, then you still do not understand. You didn’t even stop when I was unconscious anyway! Someone else stopped you. Two guys on bikes noticed I wasn’t moving in the dark and had to tackle you. How did you not notice while on top of me?
You said, you would have stopped and gotten help. You say that, but I want you to explain how you would’ve helped me, step by step, walk me through this. I want to know, if those evil Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played out. I am asking you; Would you have pulled my underwear back on over my boots? Untangled the necklace wrapped around my neck? Closed my legs, covered me? Tucked my bra back into my dress? Would you have helped me pick the needles from my hair? Asked if the abrasions on my neck and bottom hurt? Would you then go find a friend and say, Will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? I don’t sleep when I think about the way it could have gone if the Swedes had never come. What would have happened to me? That’s what you’ll never have a good answer for, that’s what you can’t explain even after a year.
To sit under oath and inform all of us, that yes I wanted it, yes I permitted it, and that you are the true victim attacked by guys for reasons unknown to you is sick, is demented, is selfish, is stupid. It shows that you were willing to go to any length, to discredit me, invalidate me, and explain why it was okay to hurt me. You tried unyieldingly to save yourself, your reputation, at my expense.
My family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine needles, of my body in the dirt with my eyes closed, dress hiked up, limbs limp in the dark. And then even after that, my family had to listen to your attorney say, the pictures were after the fact, we can dismiss them. To say, yes her nurse confirmed there was redness and abrasions inside her, but that’s what happens when you finger someone, and he’s already admitted to that. To listen to him use my own sister against me. To listen him attempt to paint of a picture of me, the seductive party animal, as if somehow that would make it so that I had this coming for me. To listen to him say I sounded drunk on the phone because I’m silly and that’s my goofy way of speaking. To point out that in the voicemail, I said I would reward my boyfriend and we all know what I was thinking. I assure you my rewards program is non-transferable, especially to any nameless man that approaches me.
The point is, this is everything my family and I endured during the trial. This is everything I had to sit through silently, taking it, while he shaped the evening. It is enough to be suffering. It is another thing to have someone ruthlessly working to diminish the gravity and validity of this suffering. But in the end, his unsupported statements and his attorney’s twisted logic fooled no one. The truth won, the truth spoke for itself.
You are guilty. Twelve jurors convicted you guilty of three felony counts beyond reasonable doubt, that’s twelve votes per count, thirty-six yeses confirming guilt, that’s one hundred percent, unanimous guilt. And I thought finally it is over, finally he will own up to what he did, truly apologize, we will both move on and get better. Then I read your statement.
If you are hoping that one of my organs will implode from anger and I will die, I’m almost there. You are very close. Assault is not an accident. This is not a story of another drunk college hookup with poor decision making. Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow, you still sound confused.
I will now take this opportunity to read portions of the defendant’s statement and respond to them.
You said, “Being drunk I just couldn’t make the best decisions and neither could she.”
Alcohol is not an excuse. Is it a factor? Yes. But alcohol was not the one who stripped me, fingered me, had my head dragging against the ground, with me almost fully naked. Having too much to drink was an amateur mistake that I admit to, but it is not criminal. Everyone in this room has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much, or knows someone close to them who has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much. Regretting drinking is not the same as regretting sexual assault. We were both drunk, the difference is I did not take off your pants and underwear, touch you inappropriately, and run away. That’s the difference.
You said, If I wanted to get to know her, I should have asked for her number, rather than asking her to go back to my room.
I’m not mad because you didn’t ask for my number. Even if you did know me, I would not want [to] be in this situation. My own boyfriend knows me, but if he asked to finger me behind a dumpster, I would slap him. No girl wants to be in this situation. Nobody. I don’t care if you know their phone number or not.
You said, I stupidly thought it was okay for me to do what everyone around me was doing, which was drinking. I was wrong.
Again, you were not wrong for drinking. Everyone around you was not sexually assaulting me. You were wrong for doing what nobody else was doing, which was pushing your erect dick in your pants against my naked, defenseless body concealed in a dark area, where partygoers could no longer see or protect me, and own my sister could not find me. Sipping fireball is not your crime. Peeling off and discarding my underwear like a candy wrapper to insert your finger into my body, is where you went wrong. Why am I still explaining this.
You said, During the trial I didn’t want to victimize her at all. That was just my attorney and his way of approaching the case.
Your attorney is not your scapegoat, he represents you. Did your attorney say some incredulously infuriating, degrading things? Absolutely. He said you had an erection, because it was cold. I have no words.
You said, you are in the process of establishing a program for high school and college students in which you speak about your experience to “speak out against the college campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that.”
Speak out against campus drinking culture. That’s what we’re speaking out against? You think that’s what I’ve spent the past year fighting for? Not awareness about campus sexual assault, or rape, or learning to recognize consent. Campus drinking culture. Down with Jack Daniels. Down with Skyy Vodka. If you want talk to high school kids about drinking go to an AA meeting. You realize, having a drinking problem is different than drinking and then forcefully trying to have sex with someone? Show men how to respect women, not how to drink less.
Drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Goes along with that, like a side effect, like fries on the side of your order. Where does promiscuity even come into play? I don’t see headlines that read, Brock Turner, Guilty of drinking too much and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Campus [Sexual] Assault. There’s your first powerpoint slide.
I have done enough explaining. You do not get to shrug your shoulders and be confused anymore. You do not get to pretend that there were no red flags. You do not get to not know why you ran. You have been convicted of violating me with malicious intent, and all you can admit to is consuming alcohol. Do not talk about the sad way your life was upturned because alcohol made you do bad things. Figure out how to take responsibility for your own conduct.
Lastly you said, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.
Ruin a life, one life, yours, you forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin two lives. You and me. You are the cause, I am the effect. You have dragged me through this hell with you, dipped me back into that night again and again. You knocked down both our towers, I collapsed at the same time you did. Your damage was concrete; stripped of titles, degrees, enrollment. My damage was internal, unseen, I carry it with me. You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today.
See one thing we have in common is that we were both unable to get up in the morning. I am no stranger to suffering. You made me a victim. In newspapers my name was “unconscious intoxicated woman”, ten syllables, and nothing more than that. For a while, I believed that that was all I was. I had to force myself to relearn my real name, my identity. To relearn that this is not all that I am. That I am not just a drunk victim at a frat party found behind a dumpster, while you are the All-American swimmer at a top university, innocent until proven guilty, with so much at stake. I am a human being who has been irreversibly hurt, who waited a year to figure out if I was worth something.
My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond recognition. I became closed off, angry, self-deprecating, tired, irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable. You cannot give me back the life I had before that night either. While you worry about your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I woke up, and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold the spoons to my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see. I showed up an hour late to work every morning, excused myself to cry in the stairwells, I can tell you all the best places in that building to cry where no one can hear you, the pain became so bad that I had to tell my boss I was leaving, I needed time because continuing day to day was not possible. I used my savings to go as far away as I could possibly be.
I can’t sleep alone at night without having a light on, like a five year old, because I have nightmares of being touched where I cannot wake up, I did this thing where I waited until the sun came up and I felt safe enough to sleep. For three months, I went to bed at six o’clock in the morning.
I used to pride myself on my independence, now I am afraid to go on walks in the evening, to attend social events with drinking among friends where I should be comfortable being. I have become a little barnacle always needing to be at someone’s side, to have my boyfriend standing next to me, sleeping beside me, protecting me. It is embarrassing how feeble I feel, how timidly I move through life, always guarded, ready to defend myself, ready to be angry.
You have no idea how hard I have worked to rebuild parts of me that are still weak. It took me eight months to even talk about what happened. I could no longer connect with friends, with everyone around me. I would scream at my boyfriend, my own family whenever they brought this up. You never let me forget what happened to me. At the of end of the hearing, the trial, I was too tired to speak. I would leave drained, silent. I would go home turn off my phone and for days I would not speak. You bought me a ticket to a planet where I lived by myself. Every time a new article [would] come out, I lived with the paranoia that my entire hometown would find out and know me as the girl who got assaulted. I didn’t want anyone’s pity and am still learning to accept victim as part of my identity. You made my own hometown an uncomfortable place to be.
Someday, you can pay me back for my ambulance ride and therapy. But you cannot give me back my sleepless nights. The way I have broken down sobbing uncontrollably if I’m watching a movie and a woman is harmed, to say it lightly, this experience has expanded my empathy for other victims. I have lost weight from stress, when people would comment I told them I’ve been running a lot lately. There are times I did not want to be touched. I have to relearn that I am not fragile, I am capable, I am wholesome, not just livid and weak.
I want to say this. All the crying, the hurting you have imposed on me, I can take it. But when I see my younger sister hurting, when she is unable to keep up in school, when she is deprived of joy, when she is not sleeping, when she is crying so hard on the phone she is barely breathing, telling me over and over she is sorry for leaving me alone that night, sorry sorry sorry, when she feels more guilt than you, then I do not forgive you. That night I had called her to try and find her, but you found me first. Your attorney’s closing statement began, “My sister said she was fine and who knows her better than her sister.” You tried to use my own sister against me. Your points of attack were so weak, so low, it was almost embarrassing. You do not touch her.
If you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into sunset, while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken. Nobody wins. We have all been devastated, we have all been trying to find some meaning in all of this suffering.
You should have never done this to me. Secondly, you should have never made me fight so long to tell you, you should have never done this to me. But here we are. The damage is done, no one can undo it. And now we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on.
Your life is not over, you have decades of years ahead to rewrite your story. The world is huge, it is so much bigger than Palo Alto and Stanford, and you will make a space for yourself in it where you can be useful and happy. Right now your name is tainted, so I challenge you to make a new name for yourself, to do something so good for the world, it blows everyone away. You have a brain and a voice and a heart. Use them wisely. You possess immense love from your family. That alone can pull you out of anything. Mine has held me up through all of this. Yours will hold you and you will go on.
I believe, that one day, you will understand all of this better. I hope you will become a better more honest person who can properly use this story to prevent another story like this from ever happening again. I fully support your journey to healing, to rebuilding your life, because that is the only way you’ll begin to help others.
Now to address the sentencing. When I read the probation officer’s report, I was in disbelief, consumed by anger which eventually quieted down to profound sadness. My statements have been slimmed down to distortion and taken out of context. I fought hard during this trial and will not have the outcome minimized by a probation officer who attempted to evaluate my current state and my wishes in a fifteen minute conversation, the majority of which was spent answering questions I had about the legal system. The context is also important. Brock had yet to issue a statement, and I had not read his remarks.
My life has been on hold for over a year, a year of anger, anguish and uncertainty, until a jury of my peers rendered a judgment that validated the injustices I had endured. Had Brock admitted guilt and remorse and offered to settle early on, I would have considered a lighter sentence, respecting his honesty, grateful to be able to move our lives forward. Instead he took the risk of going to trial, added insult to injury and forced me to relive the hurt as details about my personal life and sexual assault were brutally dissected before the public. He pushed me and my family through a year of inexplicable, unnecessary suffering, and should face the consequences of challenging his crime, of putting my pain into question, of making us wait so long for justice.
I told the probation officer I do not want Brock to rot away in prison. I did not say he does not deserve to be behind bars. The probation officer’s recommendation of a year or less in county jail is a soft time-out, a mockery of the seriousness of his assaults, and of the consequences of the pain I have been forced to endure. I also told the probation officer that what I truly wanted was for Brock to get it, to understand and admit to his wrongdoing.
Unfortunately, after reading the defendant’s statement, I am severely disappointed and feel that he has failed to exhibit sincere remorse or responsibility for his conduct. I fully respected his right to a trial, but even after twelve jurors unanimously convicted him guilty of three felonies, all he has admitted to doing is ingesting alcohol. Someone who cannot take full accountability for his actions does not deserve a mitigating sentence. It is deeply offensive that he would try and dilute rape with a suggestion of promiscuity. By definition rape is the absence of promiscuity, rape is the absence of consent, and it perturbs me deeply that he can’t even see that distinction.
The probation officer factored in that the defendant is youthful and has no prior convictions. In my opinion, he is old enough to know what he did was wrong. When you are eighteen in this country you can go to war. When you are nineteen, you are old enough to pay the consequences for attempting to rape someone. He is young, but he is old enough to know better.
As this is a first offense I can see where leniency would beckon. On the other hand, as a society, we cannot forgive everyone’s first sexual assault or digital rape. It doesn’t make sense. The seriousness of rape has to be communicated clearly, we should not create a culture that suggests we learn that rape is wrong through trial and error. The consequences of sexual assault needs to be severe enough that people feel enough fear to exercise good judgment even if they are drunk, severe enough to be preventative. The fact that Brock was a star athlete at a prestigious university should not be seen as an entitlement to leniency, but as an opportunity to send a strong cultural message that sexual assault is against the law regardless of social class.
The probation officer weighed the fact that he has surrendered a hard earned swimming scholarship. If I had been sexually assaulted by an un-athletic guy from a community college, what would his sentence be? If a first time offender from an underprivileged background was accused of three felonies and displayed no accountability for his actions other than drinking, what would his sentence be? How fast he swims does not lessen the impact of what happened to me.
The Probation Officer has stated that this case, when compared to other crimes of similar nature, may be considered less serious due to the defendant’s level of intoxication. It felt serious. That’s all I’m going to say.
He is a lifetime sex registrant. That doesn’t expire. Just like what he did to me doesn’t expire, doesn’t just go away after a set number of years. It stays with me, it’s part of my identity, it has forever changed the way I carry myself, the way I live the rest of my life.
A year has gone by and he has had lots of time on his hands. Has he been seeing a psychologist? What has he done in this past year to show he’s been progressing? If he says he wants to implement programs, what has he done to show for it?
Throughout incarceration I hope he is provided with appropriate therapy and resources to rebuild his life. I request that he educates himself about the issue of campus sexual assault. I hope he accepts proper punishment and pushes himself to reenter society as a better person.
To conclude, I want to say thank you. To everyone from the intern who made me oatmeal when I woke up at the hospital that morning, to the deputy who waited beside me, to the nurses who calmed me, to the detective who listened to me and never judged me, to my advocates who stood unwaveringly beside me, to my therapist who taught me to find courage in vulnerability, to my boss for being kind and understanding, to my incredible parents who teach me how to turn pain into strength, to my friends who remind me how to be happy, to my boyfriend who is patient and loving, to my unconquerable sister who is the other half of my heart, to Alaleh, my idol, who fought tirelessly and never doubted me. Thank you to everyone involved in the trial for their time and attention. Thank you to girls across the nation that wrote cards to my DA to give to me, so many strangers who cared for me.
Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. That we are looking out for one another. To have known all of these people, to have felt their protection and love, is something I will never forget.
And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining. Although I can’t save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can’t be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you.
submitted by DamnDam to PromptsJustforMe [link] [comments]


2020.09.10 16:17 rovnrev Sex tape public caught on

People:
Alan Dershowitz, Wilbur Ross, Rudy Giuliani, Steve Mnunchin, Kenneth Starr, Alex Acosta, William Barr, Steve Bannon, Bill Clinton, Prince Andrew all connected to both Trump and Epstein.
The Trump administration is FULL of Epstein connections.


Modeling:
Trump runs Miss Universe Organization along with Miss USA and Miss Teen USA from 1996 to 2017. Source Trump runs Trump Model Management from 1999 to 2017 Source.
Epstein sets up his own modeling agency, saying 'I want to set up my modeling agency the same way Trump set up his modeling agency.' Source 1 Source 2 Source 3
Proximity:
Epstein is associated with two residences and one office with 1.5 miles of Trump Tower in NYC:
Epstein mansion near Mar-A-Lago in Palm Beach
Trump's Mar-A-Lago was used by Maxwell and Epstein to recruit underage Virginia Roberts:
Its all in the docs
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Timeline of Donald J Trump association with Jeffrey Epstein, and Ghislane Maxwell.
1985
Late 1980's
Trump told New York magazine in 2002 that he had known Epstein for 15 years, suggesting they met around 1987.
Source
1989
1990
Trump reportedly told a former adviser, Roger Stone, that when he visited Epstein's home the pool was filled with girls. Trump said he thought it was nice that Epstein let "the neighborhood kids use his pool".
Q. Now, Mr. Trump had a home in Palm Beach, correct? A. Uh-huh. Q. So he didn't come and stay there, did he? A. No, never. Q. He would come for a meal? A. He would come, have dinner. He never sat at the table. He eat with me in the kitchen. Q. Did he ever have massages while he was there? A. No. Because he's got his own spa.
1991
Stacy Wilkes competed in the 1991 [Look of the Year] contest as a sixteen-year-old, representing the United States. She remembers Trump coming into their dressing area during the contest, more than once. “I would feel really uncomfortable, because every time we would change, it was like Trump would find a reason to come backstage to see all the teenagers,” she told us. “When you’re doing a runway show, they have to strip you down and change you....There was no need for him to be back there.” Trump never tried to justify his presence backstage but would just walk in and start making jokes. The girls didn’t feel that they were free to complain. “We were afraid to say anything bad when he was around because we didn’t want anything to hurt our chances of winning,” Wilkes said. “We were all young teenagers.” Wilkes’s roommate ended up spending the night with one of the celebrity judges, Wilkes said, and later won one of the prizes. “He was gropey...he had his hands in the most inappropriate places, always,” [NaKina] Carr said. [Editor’s note: NaKina Carr was working as a runway model for Oscar de la Renta.] “When he went in to kiss someone, the hand always went to either the hip or the butt. He was also really good when he did pictures or when he’d side-hug someone. He’d always get his hand on the boob. Every time.” Stories about Trump and his hands circulated within the modeling community. At one modeling event, Trump allegedly went down a line of women feeling their bodies to guess their dress size. Backstage at a lingerie show, he is said to have moved his hands all over a model’s breasts under the guise of inspecting the bra’s fabric
1992
In 1992, the women were flown in for a "calendar girl" competition that Trump had requested, the former Trump associate, George Houraney, told The Times. "At the very first party, I said, 'Who's coming tonight? I have 28 girls coming,'" Houraney said. "It was him and Epstein." He added: "I said: 'Donald, this is supposed to be a party with VIPs. You're telling me it's you and Epstein?'" Houraney also apparently once warned Trump about Epstein. "Look, Donald, I know Jeff really well, I can't have him going after younger girls," Houraney recalled telling Trump. "He said: 'Look I'm putting my name on this. I wouldn't put my name on it and have a scandal.'" Houraney had a falling out with Trump after his girlfriend accused Trump of making unwanted sexual advances in the early 1990s.
1994
The Plaintiff, Katie Johnson, alleges she was subject to extreme sexual and physical abuse by the Defendants, Donald J. Trump and Jeffrey E. Epstein, including forcible rape during a four month time span covering the months of June-September 1994 when Plaintiff Johnson was still only a minor of age 13. The Plaintiff, Katie Johnson, alleges she was enticed by promises of money and a modeling career to attend a series of underage sex parties held at the New York City residence of Defendant Jeffrey E. Epstein and attended by Defendant Donald J. Trump.
1995
“This is a good one, right?” Epstein asked the future president, who allegedly smiled and nodded before sharing a chuckle with the depraved hedge funder. Doe’s lawsuit does not accuse Trump of any sexual misconduct.
1996
Trump entered the Miss Teen USA changing room where girls as young as 15 were in various states of undress. “He just came strolling right in,” Dixon said. “There was no second to put a robe on or any sort of clothing or anything. Some girls were topless. Others girls were naked. Our first introduction to him was when we were at the dress rehearsal and half-naked changing into our bikinis.”
1997
In an interview last week with The Post, Mark Epstein said Trump flew on the plane “numerous times” but said he was only present for one flight. “They were good friends,” Mark Epstein said. “I know [Trump] is trying to distance himself, but they were.” He added that Trump used to comp Epstein’s mother and aunt at one of Trump’s Atlantic City casino hotels. When a Post reporter sought further details, Mark Epstein hung up.
Trump unexpectedly entered the Miss Teen USA dressing room, the reigning Miss Universe, Brook Antoinette Mahealani Lee, recalls Trump asking her about the looks of his daughter Ivanka, who was co-hosting the pageant. “‘Don’t you think my daughter’s hot? She’s hot, right?'” Mahealani Lee recalls Trump saying.
1998
Several models who worked for Epstein associate Jean-Luc Brunel, who allegedly helped procure for him underage girls, tell of being taken to swank parties at Mar-a-Lago. Zoe Brock, a New Zealander who quit Brunel’s agency in Paris in 1991 after, she says, she was on the receiving end of his unwanted sexual advances at age 17, still has the wristband from when, while with another agency, she and other young girls and women were taken together on a bus from Miami to Mar-a-Lago in 1998. At 24, she was one of the eldest women on the bus to Mar-a-Lago, many she is sure were underage.
1999
“And the other interesting thing is Trump had a modeling agency, and Epstein also had a stake in a modeling agency, which they suspect he used to bring in underage girls from overseas,” Brown said. “There is a comment in one of the court files where Epstein is quoted as saying, ‘I want to set up my modeling agency the same way Trump set up his modeling agency.’ I don’t know what that means, but it is curious he was trying to do something similar to Trump.”
2000
“He’s not pretentious,” says Trump. “He’s a lot of fun to be with.” Maxwell seemed to think so too.
'I remember flying on Trump's plane from LaGuardia to Palm Beach, with Trump and Melania and some of his relatives on board,' the writer said. 'Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine Maxwell, and the girl in question were late for the appointed take off time, which is why I remember it so well. 'What I do remember thinking about the girl though is that she was pretty, attractive. She was of an indeterminate age, though I realized she was young - I thought she could be anywhere from 15 to 20. 'She seemed to want to go unnoticed, she didn't talk to anybody and decided to be a wallflower while we were on the plane.
2002
Epstein likes to tell people that he’s a loner, a man who’s never touched alcohol or drugs, and one whose nightlife is far from energetic. And yet if you talk to Donald Trump, a different Epstein emerges. “I’ve known Jeff for fifteen years. Terrific guy,” Trump booms from a speakerphone. “He’s a lot of fun to be with. It is even said that he likes beautiful women as much as I do, and many of them are on the younger side. No doubt about it — Jeffrey enjoys his social life.”
Some of the businessmen who dine with him at his home—they include newspaper publisher Mort Zuckerman, banker Louis Ranieri, Revlon chairman Ronald Perelman, real-estate tycoon Leon Black, former Microsoft executive Nathan Myhrvold, Tom Pritzker (of Hyatt Hotels), and real-estate personality Donald Trump—sometimes seem not all that clear as to what he actually does to earn his millions. Certainly, you won’t find Epstein’s transactions written about on Bloomberg or talked about in the trading rooms. “The trading desks don’t seem to know him. It’s unusual for animals that big not to leave any footprints in the snow,” says a high-level investment manager.
2003
Where: East Side townhouse Table seats: 30 Guest list: Mort Zuckerman, Google co-founder Sergey Brin, David Blaine, Donald Trump, Leslie Wexner of the Limited, disgraced British Cabinet minister Peter Mandelson, Bill Clinton aide Doug Band Menu: Private chef, though last month Rocco DiSpirito cooked dinner after Epstein bid $50,000 for his services at a Hamptons charity. Make it MY place: Epstein hates restaurants, so he often entertains at home. “The dialogues are so engaging that serving even the most extraordinary food sometimes seems inappropriate, like eating pizza at the ballet,” he says. “I had rich shock!” one stunned guest says about Epstein’s house, which the owner claims is the largest private dwelling in the city. At a recent dinner organized by Ghislaine Maxwell, Blaine amused a group of barely clad models with card tricks. Alas, Clinton—around whom the evening had been organized—never showed, though his Secret Service would have appreciated Epstein’s numerous security cameras.
2004
"Can you imagine the sex with this troubled teen?" said Stern. "Yeah, you're probably right," Trump said. "She's probably deeply troubled and therefore great in bed. How come the deeply troubled women, you know, deeply, deeply troubled, they're always the best in bed?"
2005
The Trump campaign did not offer a response to either story, but in a 2005 appearance on Howard Stern’s show, Trump bragged about doing exactly what the women describe. “I’ll go backstage before a show, and everyone’s getting dressed and ready and everything else,” he said.
2006
2007
Meanwhile, the Mar-a-Lago Club in Palm Beach last night confirmed a Web site report that Epstein has been banned there. “He would use the spa to try to procure girls. But one of them, a masseuse about 18 years old, he tried to get her to do things,” a source told us. “Her father found out about it and went absolutely ape-[bleep]. Epstein’s not allowed back.” Epstein denies he is banned from Mar-a-Lago and says, in fact, he was recently invited to an event there.
Another club member explained that Trump "kicked Epstein out after Epstein harassed the daughter of a member. The way this person described it, such an act could irreparably harm the Trump brand, leaving Donald no choice but to remove Epstein," A footnote in the book says the authors were shown the club's registry from more than a decade earlier and that Epstein in fact had been a member until October 2007.
Nunberg, told the Times that Trump was well aware of Epstein’s sordid sexual history, but only took action to distance himself after the public found out about his behavior. According to Nunberg, when he tried to raise concerns about Trump’s ties to Epstein during the 2016 campaign, Trump insisted he had sufficiently distanced himself from his former friend, telling Nunberg, “I kicked him out of the clubs when this stuff became public, and I made sure NBC knew.”
2008
2009
He said in a recent interview that he had served subpoenas on many connected people in 2009, and that Trump was “the only person who picked up the phone and said, ‘Let’s just talk. I’ll give you as much time as you want.’” Edwards added that Trump “was very helpful, in the information that he gave,” calling it “good information that checked out and that helped us.” And, he said, Trump “gave no indication whatsoever that he was involved in anything untoward whatsoever.”
When asked about a subpoena served to Trump in 2009, Garten said it "never happened." The subpoena called for Trump to give a deposition in a case against Epstein; Garten's denial baffled Brad Edwards, one of Virginia Roberts' attorneys. "There is no debate over what happened," Edwards told VICE news. "I served Mr. Trump with a subpoena for deposition in 2009. He talked to me voluntarily, and consequently we withdrew the subpoena in light of his voluntarily providing information…. I can't imagine there being any dispute of any of this."
2010
Q: Have you ever had a personal relationship with Donald Trump? A. What do you mean by "personal relationship," sir? Q. Have you socialized with him? A. Yes, sir. Q. Yes? A. Yes, sir. Q. Have you ever socialized with Donald Trump in the presence of females under the age of 18? A: Though I'd like to answer that question, at least today I'm going to have to assert my Fifth, Sixth, and 14th Amendment rights, sir.
2015
In the week or so leading up to his CPAC speech, David Pecker, who owned the Enquirer until it was sold in ruin earlier this year, visited Trump on the 26th floor of Trump Tower, bringing along an issue with a Prince Andrew and Epstein-related cover, according to people familiar with the meeting. Pecker, of course, was in the business of protecting Trump. An early supporter of his presidential campaign, Pecker has helped “catch and kill” at least two stories involving the real estate mogul and women who claimed to have had affairs with him. After the meeting Trump called in Sam Nunberg, then a Trump Organization employee, who saw Pecker leaving Trump’s office. “Michael was sitting in there when I came in, and the issue of the National Enquirer with the pictures of Prince Andrew was on his desk,” Nunberg recalled. “He said not to tell anyone, but that Pecker had just been there and had brought the issue with him. Trump said that Pecker had told him that the pictures of Clinton that Epstein had from his island were worse.” (Cohen, speaking by phone from the Federal Correctional Institution in Otisville, corroborated Nunberg’s version of the events, though he declined to add any additional information about the meeting.) During the meeting with Pecker, Trump went on about how Epstein was known for this behavior, according to a person familiar with the conversation.
2017
Back in 2008, when Alex Acosta was U.S. attorney for the Southern District of Florida, his office secretly cut a sweetheart deal for child rapist and sex trafficker Jeffrey Epstein. Now Acosta has been watching as increasingly damning evidence piles up, revealing that he was responsible for letting Epstein off the hook the first time around
2018
Mr. Epstein called and asked if I’d like to have dinner that Saturday with him and Woody Allen. I said I’d be out of town. A few weeks after that, he asked me to join him for dinner with the author Michael Wolff and Donald J. Trump’s former adviser, Steve Bannon.
Barr was asked if he would investigate the handling of a decade-old Florida plea deal that let Epstein escape responsibility for his conduct. He said he thought his former law firm was involved in the case so he might have to recuse.
2019
“I can understand people who immediately, whose minds went to sort of the worst-case scenario because it was a perfect storm of screw-ups,” Barr told the AP
2020
The president bolstered his legal team Friday with attorneys Alan Dershowitz and Kenneth Starr, who helped Epstein evade prison time in a now infamously lenient plea deal with Palm Beach prosecutors. Epstein originally faced multiple charges of soliciting and trafficking underage girls, but escaped with just 13 months of house arrest in a deal that caused Trump’s Labor Secretary Alex Acosta to resign under pressure last year. Barr’s father was the headmaster of an elite New York City school that hired college dropout Epstein to teach math and physics. Do these circumstances amount to a conflict of interest requiring mandatory recusal? Barr, apparently after consulting with career ethics officials at DOJ, concluded they did not.
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