GENTLEMEN

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This Post is for REAL WOMEN

"This is for the women who don’t give a fuck.

The women who are first to get naked, howl at the moon and jump into the sea.

The women who drink too much whisky, stay up too late and have sex like they mean it.

The women who know they aren’t sluts because they enjoy sex, but human beings with a healthy sexual appetite.

The women who will ask you for what they need in bed.

This is for the women who seek relentless joy; the ones who know how to laugh with their whole souls.

The women who speak to strangers because they have no fear in their hearts.

The ones who wear “night make up” in the morning or don’t own mascara.

The women who know their worth, who plant their feet and roar in their brilliance.

The women who aren’t afraid to tell a man to get the fuck out of her heart if he doesn’t honour her heart.

This is for the women who rock combat boots with frilly skirts.

The women who swear like truck drivers.

The women who hold the people who harass or wrong them with fierce accountability.

The women who flip gender norms and false limitations the bird and live to run successful companies giving “the man” a run for his name.

The ones who don’t find their success a compliment just because they have a vagina.

Women like Gloria Steinem who, when she was told, “We want a writer, not a woman. Go home,” kept writing anyway.

This is for the women who drink coffee at midnight and wine in the morning, and dare you to question it.

For the women who open doors for men and are confident enough to have doors opened for them.

Who use “no” to be in service for themselves.

Who don’t give a damn about pleasing the world, and do sweetly as they wish.

For the superheroes—the single moms who work three jobs to make it. I salute your resilient, cape-flapping, ambitious selves.

This is for the women who throw down what they love, and don’t waste time following society’s pressures to exist behind a white picket fence.

The women who create wildly, unbalanced, ferociously and in a blur at times.

The women who know how to be busy and know how to plant their feet in the earth and get grounded.

These are the women I want around me."

Janne Robinson

The Suicide Note of Molly Ella Tennessee Branch Hawk

"I don't want anybody grieving my death. I am much happier where I am now. I only decided to leave after finally realizing that things can't get any better for somebody like me. I now realize that I should have done this many years ago. I really wish I had done it in 1990, right after Jim died. The timing would have been a lot more auspicious then.

I worried a lot about NOT committing suicide right after Jim died because I believe in reincarnation. Since he died so young, I was afraid that we wouldn't be able to find each other again, unless I went ahead and died right then, so we could both be around the same age when we returned.

But I decided that if souls get to choose their own destiny, I'd rather come back as a man, not a woman. Life is just too hard on women, at least it is for a woman like me.

Right after Jim died, I had a dream about getting old and finding him in his next life. In my dream I was in my eighties. He was in his 20's. I was at a Farmer's Market eating a Nopalito Tamale listening to music. He was dancing with a beautiful young woman the way he danced with me at the Split Rail the night Elvis Presley died and the band played the Mickey Mouse theme song. He was friends with that band. He told me they played M I C K E Y MOUSE because he was born on Micky Mouse's birthday. That's how I found out he was a scorpio. I looked up Micky Mouse's birthday.

I never asked Jim when his birthday was because I didn't want him to think I was some kind of a new age woo woo who put a lot of stock in Astrology. I don't. I find it interesting. That's all.

And there he was at a farmer's market. It was him, without a doubt. He looked exactly the same. He was just as arrogantly confident as ever. And there I was, in my dream, a wrinkled up old woman with gray hair and arthritis. I kind of wanted to go over and tell him that I knew who he had been in his former life. But I didn't want him seeing me the way I looked in my old age. So I didn't. Then I woke up worried and wondering if maybe I should kill myself.

I didn't, but I wish I had. Because what really happened was much worse, and it all could have been avoided had I not chosen to postpone the inevitable.

Eventually I really did meet Jim in his next life. But only twenty years after he died, instead of fifty. I didn't recognize him at first because he had really long wild hair the last time around. I was twenty years old then. He wore his hair in a George Washington pony tail at the nape of his neck. The next time around he kept his hair short. Jim was a barrel chested man who wore glasses before he died. That threw me off too. He had lost his big broad chest and didn't wear glasses any more. He was color blind instead. Lying in his arms didn't quite feel as good to me without the big comfortable chest. That threw me off too.

After Jim came back, and we became lovers again, I dreamed that I was color blind. It is very depressing to only be able to see the world in shades of gray. I am sure the color blindness was my fault. He came back color blind because I've always "seen things" as black or white. I cast the gray spell on him with my orgasmic energy while we were making love. Maybe that's what scared him off. But there's no way to know for sure now that he's gone.

Without a doubt I would have known it was him, before we became lovers his next time around, if he had just told me that his birthday was September 19 while I was telling him about the love of my life dying on September 19th. But he hid that from me for months, until I finally point blank asked him. I am still wondering why he chose to hide the information from me, and he told others instead. Unfortunately, it was too late to salvage our romance by the time I found out. So he tried to recreate it with someone else. She's done a really good job of serving his needs and becoming more like me.

I guess he will always play his cards too close to his chest. Maybe that's why, in my mind's eye, I can still hear him lamenting, "Oh why can't I love somebody?" His father fixed that by convincing him to think of love as a duty. It's something you do, not something to feel. Thanks to his father's advice, he's done a very good job of "loving" somebody else. But duty always takes a toll on erectile function.

I know that he knows what real love is. I've seen it dancing in his eyes. I've felt it dancing in mine. Had I known that my life was going to keep getting worse after Jim died, until it finally became unbearable, I could have probably found the courage to spare myself forty years of misery, and avoided the disabling depression that I have gone through the last ten years of my life. I am finally too tired to keep going now. I've had enough of this.

He was thirty when I met him the second time around. I was fifty. He said he adored older women. I was well preserved. "Why not?" I thought. Don't I deserve a younger man after a long career of helping men manage their erectile dysfunction? They paid me well for it. But I didn't want that kind of responsibility in my retirement. Marrying a young man seemed like the perfect reward for a long life of serving mankind in the way that I always had.

I was well preserved because I had always taken very good care of myself. It was easy for me to take good care of myself working as a prostitute, because I made plenty of money. I quit to get into a relationships several times. Poverty always drove me back.

None of the men I ever loved could afford to take as good care of me, as I could take of me. And I couldn't love those who could afford to take as good care of me, because they always used their money to control me. But being independent and taking good care of yourself isn't possible any more. Now days women must risk their lives to be independent service providers.

The irony of Fosta Sesta being implemented ostensibly to prevent sexual slavery is that it forces women to need a pimp for protection, because a lot of the murdering of prostitutes is being done by the porn industry to make snuff flicks. I decided I'd rather take my own life than take a chance of dying like that, working for pimps is almost as bad as making a snuff flick, and enduring the poverty of working for corporate America and being a wage slave is worse that working for pimps.

It was time for me to leave. I didn't have that much left anyway. My health was beginning to fail. Getting old is hell. I felt horrible most of the time. I was hoping to produce some videos that would help future generations have more satisfying and fulfilling sexual relationships, but it wasn't possible. That is my biggest regret. But a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do."

From a book called "THE PATHS OF DESPERATION" by Bossy Ryder

Sesta Fosta Fall Out



I was listening to the radio earlier today and a man who was being interviewed said he personally knows of five adult service providers, who have died in the past three weeks, since Sesta Fosta was passed and implemented. He knows of five, personally. And he is just one person. Imagine how many more there are out there.

The people who do sex work live precariously on the edge of survival. Something like this can catapult them into homelessness very quickly. The quicksand of homelessness is just a long slow miserable torturous death. Overdose is a much more appealing way to go. Unfortunately, only two of the women committed suicide. One was "accidentally" killed in a domestic violence dispute, which always increases in times of tremendous financial stress. Two were murdered walking the street, which they wouldn't have been doing, if they could have found clients on the internet and screened them.

The statistics will probably never be released.

What's happening is a combination of genocide, homicide and suicide. The government is committing genocide by wiping out the advertising venues of everyone because there are a few bad apples in the midst. The hard core hobby lobby committed homicide by insisting on indiscreetly putting service providers at risk. Service providers committed suicide by blatant advertising in rebellion of moral law, which made it impossible for the government to distinguish them from sex slave traffickers.

I'll Be 100

I was lying next to my lover in bed one night and whispered in his ear, “There is song that reminds me of you.”
“What is it?” He asked.

“I'm going to learn it and sing it for you,” I replied.

“I’d be honored!” He said quietly, as the HVAC clicked on and the sound of the motor muffled his words.

It sounded to me like he said, “I’ll be a hundred!”

Wondering if I had just been insulted, or what, I didn’t know how to respond. I decided to breath and think about the situation. I remained silent for a moment or two contemplating the predicament I was in. Was he expecting me to laugh at his joke, or was he being passive aggressive because he was annoyed at me? He writes beautiful music. I had yet to learn any of his songs. It seemed like a subtle attempt at shaming me into practicing the piano more often. Instead of presuming what he meant, I decided to inquire further.

“I am not sure how to respond to that!” I said.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Well, should I laugh, or do you want me to practice the piano more often?”

“Neither! Why do you ask?” He replied.

“Because you think it will take me forty years to learn the song,” I said.

“I don’t think we should put a time line on it,” He replied.

“Well I agree, especially not 40 years!” I said.
“What do you mean by that?” He asked.

“It will be 40 years before you are 100 years old!” I explained.

“What does that have to do with any of this?” He inquired.

“You just told me you'll be 100 years old before I sing the song for you!”

“No I didn’t!” He said.

 “Well what did you say then?” I asked.

“I said I would be honored!” He explained.

 “Oh! Okay then! Never mind!” I said.

We both had a really good laugh. He thanked me for having the patience to figure out what he really said without getting angry. But there was a time when I would have blown up as soon as I misunderstood. We would have had a great big fight over nothing. Neither of us would have ever known why. The relationship would have been over. He would have been convinced that I was crazy. It is nice to know I can do things differently now.