2020.08.26 23:08 LearningIsListening Hidden spa sex
Below is a rundown of p.59 (65TH STREET)-p.63 (ENTERTAINMENT - E) under Epstein's contacts. Last year, I wrote about letters A-C. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/cpis3n/a_brief_rundown_of_the_first_ten_pages_of_jeffrey/).
I also wrote about letters D-F on July 5, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/hlrba8/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_letters_df_in_jeffrey/).
I posted letters G-I on July 13, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/hqko0y/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_letters_gi_in_jeffrey/).
I posted letters J-L on July 15, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/hrq9bg/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_letters_jl_of_jeffrey/).
I posted letter M on July 20, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/huw0yt/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_the_letter_m_in_jeffrey/).
I posted letters N-Q on July 27, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/hyudbz/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_the_letters_nq_in_jeffrey/). There are some misspelled names. Epstein entered their names like this.
I posted letter R on July 29, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/i0aqxd/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_the_letter_r_in_jeffrey/)
I posted letter S on August 7, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/i5orop/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_the_letter_s_in_jeffrey/)
I posted letters T-V on August 13, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/i9dxwk/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_letters_tv_in_jeffrey/)
I posted letters W-Z on August 20, 2020. You can check that out here (https://www.reddit.com/conspiracy/comments/idcqxw/a_notsobrief_rundown_of_letters_wz_in_jeffrey/)
I have bolded some of the more interesting connections and information, but there could be much more that I overlooked. I hope something here strikes an interest in someone and maybe we can get more investigations out of this. Please, if you know anything more about any of these people than what is presented here, post below. I am working off of the unredacted black book found here: https://www.coreysdigs.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/Jeffrey-Epsteins-Little-Black-Book-unredacted.pdf
Dionne, Ryan: Executive chef who once worked for Epstein and Prince Albert of Monaco. Dionne has 13 entries in Epstein’s Lolita Express flight log (https://archive.org/stream/EpsteinFlightLogsLolitaExpress/Jeffrey-Epstein-Flight-Logs-in-PDF-format_djvu.txt). Dionne was identified by Epstein victim Virginia Roberts as a potential witness who may have known about Epstein and Maxwell’s sex trafficking and pedophilia ring (https://www.the-sun.com/news/778758/jeffrey-epstein-enablers-named-sex-trafficking-underage-victims/).
Geffert, Scott: The General Manager for Advanced Imaging at the MET museum. Geffert had the same two phone numbers listed earlier under Jeff Hirsch’s name. Hirch is the owner of Foto Care, a shop that sells professional camera equipment. Claims he is only in the ‘Black Book’ because he sold an expensive camera to Ghislaine many years ago and had to go to her house to show her how to use it (source: https://www.miamiherald.com/news/state/florida/article234312632.html). This, however, doesn’t explain why there are two numbers listed under Hirsch’s name that are attributed to Scott Geffert, the General Manager for Advanced Imaging at the MET museum. This could all be innocent or these two could have assisted in Epstein’s hidden camera setup and helped Epstein get high quality pictures of his victims. We can’t be sure.
Joseph & Florina Rueda: According to this website (https://npidb.org/organizations/respiratory_developmental_rehabilitative/rehabilitation-practitioner_225400000x/1023361193.aspx), they own a healthcare practitioner company based out of Nevada. This is odd, considering that they are listed under the same address as Ghislaine Maxwell in Epstein’s black book. There is a wonderful thread on Reddit (https://www.reddit.com/Epstein/comments/i2buj0/florena_and_joseph_rueda_in_black_book/) that delves deeper into the Ruedas. One poster suggests that they were possibly housekeepers for Ghislaine, which seems to be a solid theory. Their names were circled by Epstein’s now-deceased house manager. People whose names were circled were those who could be potential witnesses to pedophilia and/or child trafficking.
Kellen, Sarah: Ghislaine Maxwell’s assistant. She was the “second-in-command” and “lieutenant” (https://nypost.com/2020/07/17/maxwell-lieutenant-sarah-kellen-may-be-arrested-parents/) for Maxwell and was complicit in Epstein and Maxwell’s pedophilia ring. She also helped recruit for Epstein (https://www.thecut.com/2019/08/sarah-kellen-jeffrey-epstein-ghislaine-maxwell-lieutenant.html).
Kelly, Brian: A senior financial advisor who has worked at Morgan Stanley since 1993 (https://www.linkedin.com/public-profile/in/brian-j-kelly-72442219?challengeId=AQHBDkyx13cVYwAAAXQeUcXz9TDBRLy8kAMKQ7jEgDPmFxfTkaMjyDgvNTHOZ1gv9AQGvZJlsogkiRrUaUTAO3c3hIHOJvZcdA&submissionId=930be337-a313-2e16-5337-671a8a869a4a).
Maxwell, Ghislaine: We all know everything about her. The only interesting thing I can add is that Epstein had 38 phone numbers listed under Ghislaine’s name, but not all of them belong to her. For example, Epstein one phone number each for Joseph and Florena Rueda (above) listed under Maxwell’s name. Epstein also had two numbers listed under Ghislaine’s name for Scott and one for “Scott (w/Howie).” This is Scott Geffert, the General Manager for Advanced Imaging at the MET Museum (listed above) and “Howie” is Howard Goldstein, Scott’s business partner. Epstein had a lot of interest in digital imagery.
Mitrovich, Andrea: Former ballerina who is listed 17 times (confirmed) in Epstein’s Lolita Express flight log. There are also ten other listings that she can possibly linked to. Either way, she was a frequent flier on Epstein’s pedophile plane. There is a great thread by Twitter user Agenthades on her here (https://twitter.com/Agenthades1/status/1274801952237342722). He believes she now goes by Andrea Stowell and backs it up with some evidence. She has worked for the Clinton Foundation, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and the World Bank. Her husband also worked for the Clinton Foundation and now works for IBM. Stowell/Mitrovich has social media links to other Epstein associates, including Sarah Kellen.
Police: Self explanatory. This is a police precinct on 67th street - four blocks from Epstein and two from Maxwell. It’s always nice to have the police on your side when you’re a sex trafficker.
Rueda, Joseph & Florena: See Joseph & Florina Ruena (above)
Tahoe, Kinney Garage: Parking garage.
Antiques - Resale Number: Self-explanatory.
Arizona: Arizona 206 restaurant in NYC. Now closed. Used to be impossible to get reservations. Mentioned in American Psycho.
Aspen Club: Spa in Denver.
Au Bar: Lounge on 58th street in NYC. Now closed. Used to be one of those “places to be.” Also mentioned in American Psycho.
Avis International: Car rental.
Bel Air Hotel: High end hotel in Los Angeles that attracts celebrities and royalty. Epstein listed Frank Bowling (the General Manager of the Bel Air Hotel at the time) underneath this entry. Bowling is very well-known in the hotel industry and even counts Nancy Reagan and Prince Charles among his friends (https://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/12/arts/12iht-blume.1.12793097.html).
Beverly Hills Hotel: Another California-based hotel that counts many celebrities and royalty amongst their patrons. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon, John Wayne, Grace Kelly and the Crown Prince of Monaco, and King Albert of Belgium are just some of the people who have stayed there.
Beverly Wilshire: Another high-end California hotel. Past guests/tenants include: Barack Obama, Elvis, John Lennon, and Emperor Hirohito of Japan.
Bice: Former NYC Italian restaurant known for its upscale clientele. Closed down in 2014.
Bilboquet: Popular French restaurant not far from Epstein’s NYC mansion.
Bond Street: Japanese restaurant in Downtown Manhattan.
Carlyle: Luxury NYC hotel where JFK maintained a residence for the last ten years of his life. Mick Jagger still maintains a residence there. Billed the “Palace of Secrets” by the New York Times.
Christies - New York: Famous high-end auction house. It is said that Ghislaine Maxwell would often attend art gallery openings, parties, and auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s in order to recruit new girls for Epstein (https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8608267/Ghislaine-Maxwell-trawled-galleries-gallerinas-meet-Jeffrey-Epstein-claims-former-friend.html).
Cipriani Downtown: A famous Italian restaurant “known as a fave for models… and a reported ‘hunting ground’ for Harvey Weinstein” (https://pagesix.com/2020/07/27/celeb-haunt-cipriani-downtown-loses-liquor-license-over-covid-concerns/).
Coffee Shop: Self-explanatory.
Cohen Gibby: Private personal trainer (https://www.nytimes.com/1984/12/14/style/now-personal-trainers-push-clients-to-new-highs-of-fitness.html).
Cook: Henry Meer, the chef who ran City Hall restaurant in Downtown Manhattan for 17 years.
Dawat Haute Cuisine of India: Indian restaurant.
Delmonico’s: Gourmet food market.
Doyle’s: Auction house.
Elaine: Not enough info.
Ello’s Restaurant: Italian restaurant that is a favorite among celebrities (Tom Hanks, Woody Allen, Mick Jagger, and Derek Jeter) and the wealthy.
Essex House: Hotel on Central Park South where David Bowie used to live.
Estia: Greek restaurant in Uptown Manhattan.
Exercise - New York: Kristin McGee, a celebrity yoga and pilates teacher, is listed underneath this entry. Magali is also listed. Magali Blachon is a life coach and wellness consultant. There are two other names listed - Jessica Benton and Jennifer (ballerina) - but I was unable to find info on them.
Four Seasons: Famous upscale NYC hotel.
Four Seasons Hotel: See Four Seasons (above)
Four Seasons Restaurant: Midtown Manhattan restaurant that closed last year. Owned by the Bronfman family of NXIVM fame. Regular diners included Bill Clinton, Henry Kissinger, Jackie Kennedy, Anna Wintour, Martha Stewart, and others.
Myers of Westwick: Myers of Keswick is a British grocery store in Downtown Manhattan.
Nicolas: Nicola’s is an Upper East Side Italian restaurant.
Opia: Opia was a restaurant in Midtown Manhattan. Now closed. The name Antoine Blech appears underneath this entry. Blech is a restaurateur.
Peninsula Hotel: California-based 5-star hotel that is popular among celebrities. Matthew Bartle, whose name appears underneath, was the front office manager from 2000-2005.
Peninsula Hotel: Same hotel group. This is the Midtown Manhattan location.
Pierre Hotel: Luxury hotel just off Central Park. Was owned by John Paul Getty (Getty Oil billionaire). Mohamed al-Fayed, Yves Saint-Laurent, Elizabeth Taylor and Aristotle Onassis were once permanent residents.
Plaza: The Plaza Hotel is a world famous hotel in New York. It is the hotel where Kevin McAllister stays in Home Alone 2. It was once owned by Trump, hence why he made a cameo in the movie. A celebrity paradise that once hosted Truman Capote’s famous Black and White Ball (https://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/21/fashion/black-and-white-ball-anniversary-truman-capote.html).
Plaza Athenee Hotel: 5-star hotel in Manhattan’s Upper East Side.
Province Restaurant: French restaurant in Downtown Manhattan. Now closed.
Ritz Carlton: Luxury hotel in NYC.
Royalton: A boutique hotel near Bryant Park in Midtown Manhattan. Not quite as high end as other hotels listed here.
Sette Mezzo: Upscale cash-only italian restaurant that caters to the elite. Regulars include George Soros, the Tisch family, Mike Nichols, Lily Safra, and others.
Shoes-Repair: Leather Spa shoe repair shop.
Shutters on the Beach: 5-star hotel in Santa Monica, California. Popular dining spot for Hollywood actors and actresses.
Sotheby’s: Famous high-end auction house. It is said that Ghislaine Maxwell would often attend art gallery openings, parties, and auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s in order to recruit new girls for Epstein (https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8608267/Ghislaine-Maxwell-trawled-galleries-gallerinas-meet-Jeffrey-Epstein-claims-former-friend.html). The former owner of Sotheby’s attended Les Wexner’s birthday party with Epstein, Dershowitz, John Glenn, and others (https://nymag.com/intelligence2019/07/alan-dershowitz-jeffrey-epstein-case.html).
St Regis Hotel: 5-star hotel in Midtown Manhattan. Originally built by the Astor family. Has been the home of the likes of Salvador Dali and William Paley, the man who built Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS).
Stanhope Hotel: Former Uptown hotel in NYC. Converted to a residential co-op as of 2005.
Sunset Marquee: California-based hotel. Its bar is a favorite of musicians like U2, Aerosmith, and Robbie Williams.
Tao Restaurant: Asian bistro/lounge/nightclub that is a favorite among celebrities.
Taylor, The: Not positive, but this might be the Taylor | Graham art gallery.
The Great American Health Bar: Kosher restaurant. Much less high-end than other restaurants in Epstein’s contacts.
The Lowell: Upscale hotel in Manhattan owned by Fouad Chartouni. Chartouni’s name appears earlier in Epstein’s black book.
The Westbury: Now-defunct hotel that was changed into condominium apartments. Attracted lots of celebrities
Tickets: Phone numbers for sporting events, shows, and premieres.
Tribeca Grill: American restaurant co-owned by Robert De Niro and restaurateur Drew Nieporent.
Two Bunch Palm: A private getaway spa that is popular with the Hollywood crowd.
Waldorf Astoria: 5-star hotel known for its celebrity clientele and its place in world political history. The World Peace Conference of 1949 was held at the Waldorf. The conference denounced Stalinism after WWII. Some famous residents of the hotel include Edward III (the would-be king of England had he not abdicated) and Wallis Simpson (Duke and Duchess of Windsor), Herbert Hoover, Douglas MacArthur, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Nikola Tesla, Bugsy Siegel, and Frank Sinatra. Originally opened by William Waldorf Astor. The amount of politicians, wealthy people, and celebrities that have stayed here are countless.
Westbury Hotel: See ‘The Westbury’ above.
Cecilia Szalman: No info found.
Ganero, Mario Sr: Mario Garnero is a Brazilian banker and entrepreneur who has been deemed the “father of the ethanol car” and is the chairman of the board and primary shareholder of Brasilinvest Group, a banking firm worth $700 million. Garnero’s connections run extremely deep. He is/has been personal friends with Jacob Rothschild, David Rockefeller, Bill Clinton, George H. W. Bush, Gerald Ford, Ronald Reagan, Henry Kissinger, Helmut Schmidt, and many others. The following website makes some startling connections between Garnero, Epstein, and others (source: https://aeltri.com/2019/02/12/john-of-god-mario-garnero-and-epstein/). Quick summary: Record producer Damon Dash (former co-founder of Roc-A-Fella Records with Jay-Z) allegedly raped a supermodel who worked for Naomi Campbell at a party thrown by Garnero (source: https://www.standard.co.uk/news/poshs-friend-sued-for-rape-6939248.html).
Garnero has been referred to as a “Rothschild pawn” who tried to help Aecio Neves rise to power. Garnero also appointed “George Soros frontman, Arminio Fraga, who worked in Soros’ Quantum Fund, as Minister of the Economy.”
Riccardo: Not enough info.
Annabels: Most likely the high society hangout spot that used to be populated by likes of Ghislaine Maxwell and David Faber (https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8490447/Ghislaine-Maxwell-fall-sits-cell-photos-reveal-society-life.html).
Aspinals: A private gambling club that caters to the elite of London.
Bibendum: Possibly the Claude Bosi restaurant (https://claudebosi.com/) in London where Ghislaine’s friends, Caroline Stanbury and Paris Hilton, were photographed leaving last year (https://www.gettyimages.com/detail/news-photo/paris-hilton-and-caroline-stanbury-leaving-bibendum-news-photo/1154182268).
Clermont Club: London gambling venue for the wealthy and powerful (https://gaming-awards.com/NEWS/the-clermont-club/). There are rumors that Lord Lucan hid out at the club after he had killed the nanny of his children.
Daphne: Daphne’s is a well-known Italian restaurant in Chelsea, London that is frequently inhabited by celebrities.
Foxtrot Oscar: Former restaurant in Chelsea, London. Now home to Maze Grill Royal Hospital Road, owned by Gordon Ramsay.
Harrys Bar: Private members club in Mayfair, London where “extramarital affairs and all sorts of other high jinks are quite happily conducted, if not encouraged” (https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2005/10/harrys-bar-london). Started by Mark Birley.
Marks Club: Fairly certain this refers to the private members club in Mayfair, London. Like Harry’s Bar, Mark’s Club was also started by Mark Birley. The club is now owned by Peter Dubens (listed earlier in Epstein’s book under ‘Peter Dubbens’) and Charles Price, son of Charles Price II (also listed earlier in Epstein’s book), the U.S. Ambassador to the UK under Reagan. The only reason I am not completely certain is because the phone number listed underneath is a 212 area code (New York City). The phone number traces back to Joshua Welch of Vicuna Advisors with ties to the Tisch family. However, Welch, nor Vicuna Advisors, have nothing to do with Mark’s Club, as far as I can tell.
Nam long: Vietnamese restaurant in South Kensington, London that attracts celebrities and royalty. The owner once turned away Prince Andrew for “wearing the wrong shoes” and refused service to Mick Jagger because “the kitchen was closed” (https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/z4g884/this-bar-turned-away-prince-william-for-wearing-the-wrong-shoes).
Nikitas: Russian restaurant in London.
Patisserie Valerie: A cafe chain in London. This one was located in Knightsbridge. Now closed.
San Lorezo: San Lorenzo is an upscale Italian trattoria for celebrities and the wealthy. A favorite amongst the elite, specifically Princess Diana and Ivana Trump.
Scalinis: Another celebrity hot spot Italian restaurant in London.
Tramp: Private members only nightclub in London. Best known as the place where Prince Andrew sweated all over Epstein victim Virginia Roberts as they were dancing. Of course, Prince Andrew denied this night out with Roberts, Epstein, and Maxwell ever happened. Too many celebrities to name have been here (https://www.standard.co.uk/lifestyle/esmagazine/tramp-club-london-nightlife-a4148691.html).
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2020.07.16 15:25 elvs816Jul Hidden spa sex
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submitted by elvs816Jul to Home_Made_Fun [link] [comments]
2020.07.12 14:34 vie-ta-vie Hidden spa sex
Help, my shy, innocent perfect And Beautiful wife 44, will destroy everything we built
I'm from Quebec so I use google translation. I 46h has been with my wife 44 for 23 years. We had our up and downs, but I love her more and more. She is really beautiful and has a shape of 30 years despite our 3 children. The two were put on sick leave from Covid, but ultimately she lost her job for good. I tell her to take her time and choose her next career choice well. But she is aware that we are not rolling in gold. I have promised her a trip to the south for 4-5 years now, but every time the car or the roof breaks, so I put it back. For 2-3 years I’ve been trying to pervert my beautiful, telling her stories with a script, this drives her crazy. I try to bring him to live new experience but it is a categorical refusal, and it often ends in a little argument.
I could spend a lot of time telling you how perfect it is. But now I no longer know, I am lost, I feel like a looser who is afraid of losing. It all started during my daughter's graduation party. Due to the covid there was no big party only a graduation. For the evening the father of one of my daughter friends had rented a superb terrace on the roof of a large building. It was perfect, the sunset and the heat. My wife was the most beautiful in her fitted white flower dress. I decided to go get us a drink, the bar was hidden by fake plants at the other end of the terrace. There was a long wire so while I waited I noticed between the branches that there is a man around our age was sitting next to my beautiful. She was hiding from him so I didn't see if she was talking or talking to him. Finally oddly when I received my glasses I noticed someone looking at me and texting and at the same time the man even turned around to see if I arrived is up and left join his group
I arrived and pretended that I hadn't seen anything. Her only meant that I should have brought a double with the time it had taken. I continued on another subject, my senses were all on the alert, while I spoke to her I felt that she was looking over my shoulder because he had to look at her. I decided to play the game and went to the toilet, which was one floor lower in the building. This time I left my cell phone on the recording table and left. When I got to the bathroom there was a bit of a wait and I did see the same guy who had looked at me and texted his friend that I was living the toilet, I played the game the game again, and i said to myself, that normal men will try whith her because she is so beautiful.
Evening arrived and for one of the rare times she took control of sex, during which I kept telling myself that it was not me that she was fucking right now. It must be said that the gentleman he was talking to was a person with several companies and buildings, a few houses everywhere and above all he has the reputation of not being clean clean, she I do not think she knew him but me yes but only by name because I don't think he knows me.
Finally the next morning I get up first and I hurry to listen to my cell. I had my first shock, my heart capsized, they started by laughing at the situation like that I had not noticed anything at their first meeting, my wife asked him how he had done to know when to leave and he simply replied that he had someone working for him. My wife didn't seem to understand. For 5 min they talked about how sorry it was that she had lost her job but that he could find her a lot better if she wanted to. I sincerely believe that my somewhat innocent wife saw this proposal as really harmless and seemed delighted. Finally I think he felt the time running and he asked her what it was best to write to her so as not to create discomfort. My wife changed the subject and asked her what kind of watch he had, he answered a porch, how much it was worth, he answered $ 22,000, she replied share wow that's a lot of money for a watch that, he got only said it depends on who. He asked his question again, telling her that I was coming soon. And now my heart wanted to tear, she replied, the best is on msg because he does not know that I have one and that texting was not necessary because often I used her phone. I was broken. Why it's all hiding for a man she knew for 30 min.
We are 2 weeks after the first event, my wife changed her phone code for the first time since she got a phone, she told me that it was her sister that she had told her that it was dangerous to keep the same code. Bullshit but I pretend nothing is wrong, I ask her if I can use his cell to call the government because I will not have enough battery because the waiting time can exceed an hour. I put the phone on speaker for my cunning. She lets go of her guards after 20 min sitting next to me waiting. She thinks I'm sitting on the phone announcer's wait so she leaves for to do dinner. I'm still on the phone but at the same time I search and arrive on msg and here are pages and pages. At the start of a harmless conversation, back on a job offer, they wrote a lot about his lack of time and how funny it is to see people suckling him to give them contracts. The reason for his divorce blah blah, that he fell in love at first sight when he saw her that it never happened to him. My wife keeps a friendly tone, She was not flirty and never spoke about me. As usual, she is compassionate about the lack of time for his children ectect. But here is the last paragraph and a message that dates from only 2 3 hrs he tells her that he has a gift for her because she mentioned to him that she was tired. He says, I had an idea, you're going to win an all-inclusive weekend for yourself in a Nordic spa. To make it all true, a package will arrive in the mail with the prize you won inside. I will only be able to travel for Saturday late pm and I will leave on Sunday morning. She began by refusing, not for me but for fear that I suspected a few things. He reassured her by telling her that I will see only fire and that I will not be tempted to accompany her because the weekend was going to cost $ 1,700. The only thing she had to do was pretend she was in a contest. She ends the conversation with I don't know, it's kind of like doing that, but that the place seems to be beautiful and that she has never been in something so luxurious.
I had a knotted heart, I went to give her her phone, she asked me if I had settled things, I answered yes, I hug her and give her a kiss and told her that I said i love her what she did in turn. The package arrived the next day, in a beautiful box had a big winner ticket for two nights, access to the whole site, with all 5 * meals provided and of course massage and all this for one person and with emphasis on the price of the stays. My wife so shy, I saw her pretend that she had participated in this contest a long time ago that she never thought she would win and blah blah blah, I didn't listen anymore I looked at a new woman I didn't know , my children were happy for her and me I made a smile by looking at this setting in scene that never I would have thought that she is capable. I am sure my wife would never go wrong during our 23 years. I had offered her all kinds of adventures and that was out of the question. Now she wanted to play alone. I cry all the tears of my body.
I decided to play the game, she left 2 weeks later and she returns this afternoon from her stay. She phoned me twice, upon arrival and yesterday in pm. I called her in the evening around 10 p.m. but her phone was closed, it’s the first time she’s closed her phone. I haven't slept all night, she will arrive in a few hours. I don't know what to do, I confront her hoping that she will tell me that she took advantage of someone to get paid for luxury, or that she confesses everything to me and tears my life apart or I let go and I watch her completely destroy our life. I wait, as if my life will be completely destroyed in a few hours, I’m not angry, I’m wiped out.
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2020.04.09 02:14 fatandfakingit A labyrinth city building feared by locals and owned by a traumatized drunkard, Fabled to have once hosted sex trafficking, the group antagonizes the building and breaks into a culty locker. All of them die at the end
Please help me find this horror movie!
NOT GRAVE ENCOUNTERS OR GRAVE ENCOUNTERS 2, NOT GOJIAM: HAUNTED ASYLUM
I believe it's an indie movie? it seemed a little low budget but not bad. I'm nearly positive the film opens with them in a car, it's (I believe) two young adults at first and they go to pick up the rest then all of them head to this haunted building. The building is in a city, it is not in a forest or hidden away, it's just a boarded up abandoned building owned by a sketchy dude. They're doing a typical ghost investigation type scenario (possibly film students but unsure) set out to see if they can survive a whole night in this mysterious abandoned building that scares locals. The person who owns the building is a very troubled alcoholic, the group bribes him with booze to stay for the night. (I believe he gave them a hastened short tour of the place but it was very cryptic and the owner was severely on edge about the whole ordeal. He leaves, locks them in this building. They set up cameras everywhere. The hallways have many lockers and narrow hallways, with very small rooms and lockers everywhere. Some of the lockers were doors to tiny rooms. I'm almost entirely positive the building was once used for sex trafficking but had a front as a large spa or something possibly a massage parlor? I say spa because there are lots of tile rooms and washrooms. I do not believe it was an asylum. This building is huge, they get lost, get separated one by one and get even more lost trying to find each other until eventually, they realize the building is defying all logic, the rooms are moving and shifting like a labyrinth.
At some point early-ish in the movie, they find a really fucked up locker with cult shit carved on and around it. The group breaks into the locker and find more creepy cult shit. They break into the box too because they really want to get demoned and this brings on some shit, of course, I just don't remember whats kind specifically other than the monster is like a shadow man.
I believe I watched this on Netflix but it could have also been Hulu and it was in the last six month to a year. I am dying to find out what movie it was, I really want to watch it again. I'm really hoping it wasn't super ultra-vivid badass horror movie plot dream. Thank you so much for reading please help if you can I've also posted in horrormovies about this question. I plan to also post in horror , helpmefind and tipofmytongue
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2020.01.30 16:45 avocadokun11 Hidden spa sex
I've always paid close attention to even the smallest changes in life and I've had my anxieties with it. I wanted to share this with this community (which I'm grateful that exists) because I've always kept this hidden from the people I care about and I feel safe being open and breaking everything down here.
2019 was an amazing year for me, well mostly till about September. I had this amazing control over my emotions and was confident in everything I did. I've made my relationships grow and people would say how much I meant to them and so on. Life was amazing I was doing good with every person I knew and some people even said that I inspired them as a person/friend.
The past 2-3 months have been the darkest I've had. All of the sudden I felt this change happen where I would feel I'm not being myself anymore. I felt all my energy was gone and the people around me changed accordingly and it was a really scary experience. I've felt as if my magnetism as a person was dropping and along with it I've felt as getting weaker with my studies. I really didn't want to be this version of me and the scary thing is I didn't realize how it was happening.
I went through what I did throughout the year to find a reason why I was feeling weak and broken and something I realized was that I started a habit of masterbating starting from about September of last year(I did masterbate rarely before). I kept digging deeper and what I found was that back in last August- September months I did this drama competition, and the people we acted with really gave us a different image on sex and masterbation. Yes it was normal for guys to talk about sex and stuff but this was different for me. We had to open up and get to know the people who were acting with us and now I realize the perspective they gave triggered this habit of masterbation. They made porn and masterbation look cool and mature, and the people who don't masterbate as weird. They were older guys than us and they talked about how going to "spa"s to have handjobs and all the things I regret having to hear. but back then I didn't realize how this repeating cycle of them talking about these things(we had drama practices everyday till midnight) planted a seed on myself.
This made me get into porn again and because I felt it as a "normal" thing to do,so I kept on doing It. I watched porn and masterbated almost everyday. And from then on everything in my life went downhill without me even noticing it. I tried so hard to not watch porn but ended up doing it and this killed my confidence over and over again. I consider myself to be more responsible and disciplined than my friends but this is something that absolutely defeated me from the inside.
Now I've realized what's happening and eventhough I feel the recovery is a slow or no recovery at all, I still get the confidence boost with the fact of me having self-discipline with my actions and actually fighting for me and the people I care about.
I'm sharing this with everyone here because I'm still fighting this and this subreddit had really empowered me through this.
Thank you for reading this and being in this community together to fight this drug that's effecting us, and please feel free to share your stories and give me tips and advices on the comments.
Thank you for everything<3
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2019.11.10 03:51 MarleyEngvall Hidden spa sex
By E. E. Cummings VI. APOLLYON (i.) THE inhabitants of The Enormous Room whose por- traits I have attempted in the preceding chapter were, with one or two exceptions, inhabiting at the time of my arrival. Now the thing which above all things made death worth living and life worth dying at La Ferté Macé was the kinetic aspect of that institution; the arrivals, singly or in groups, of nouveaux of sundry nationalities whereby our otherwise more or less simple existence was happily complicated, our putrescent placidity shaken by a fortu- nate violence. Before, however, undertaking this aspect I shall attempt to represent for my own benefit as well as the reader's certain more obvious elements of that stasis which greeted the candidates for disintegration upon their admittance to our select, not to say distinguished, circle. Or: I shall describe, briefly, Apollyon and the instruments of his power, which instruments are three in number: Fear, Women, and Sunday. By Apollyon I mean a very definite fiend. A fiend who, secluded in the sumptuous and luxurious privacy of his own personal bureau (which as a rule no one of lesser rank than the Surveillant was allowed, so far as I might observe——and I observed——to enter) compelled to the un- imaginable meanness of his will, by means of the three potent instruments in question, all——within the sweating walls of La Ferté——that was once upon a time human. I mean a very complete Apollyon, a Satan whose word is dreadful not because it is painstakingly unjust but because it is incomprehensibly omnipotent. I mean, in short, Monsieur le Directeur. I shall discuss first of all Monsieur le Directeur's most obvious weapon. Fear was instilled by three means into the erstwhile human entities whose presence at La Ferté gave Apollyon his job. The three means were: his subordinates, who being one and all fearful of his power directed their energies to but one end——the production in ourselves of a similar emotion; two forms of punishment, which supplied said subordinates with a weapon over any of us who refused to find room for this desolating emotion in his heart of hearts; and finally, direct contact with his unutterable personality. Beneath the Demon was the Surveillant. I have already described the Surveillant. I wish to say, however, that in my opinion the Surveillant was the most decent official at La Ferté. I pay him this tribute gladly and honestly. To me, at least, he was kind: to the majority he was inclined to be lenient. I honestly and gladly believe that the Surveillant was incapable of that quality whose innate- ness, in the case of his superior, rendered that gentleman a (to my mind) perfect representative of the Almighty French Government: I believe that the Surveillant did not enjoy being cruel, that he was not absolutely without pity or understanding. As a personality I therefore pay him my respects. I am myself incapable of caring whether, as a tool of the Devil, he will find the bright firelight of Hell too warm for him or no. Beneath the Surveillant were the Secrétaire, Monsieur Richard, the Cook, and the plantons. The first I have described sufficiently, since he was an obedient and nega- tive——albeit peculiarly responsible——cog in the machine of decomposition. Of Monsieur Richard, whose portrait is included in the account of my first day at La Ferté, I wish to say that he had a very comfortable room of his own filled with primitive and otherwise imposing medicines; the walls of this comfortable room being beauteously adorned by some fifty magazine covers representing the female form in every imaginable state of undress, said magazine-covers being taken chiefly from such amorous periodicals as Le Sourire and the old stand-by of indecency, La Vie Parisienne. Also Monsieur Richard kept a pot of geraniums upon his window-ledge, which haggard and aged-looking symbol of joy he doubtless (in his spare moments) peculiarly enjoyed watering. The Cook is by this time familiar to my reader. I beg to say that I highly approve of The Cook; exclusive of the fact that the coffee, which went up to The Enormous Room tous les matins, was made every day with the same grounds plus a goodly injection of checkerberry——for the simple reason that the Cook had to supply our captors and especially Apollyon with real coffee, whereas what he supplied to les hommes made no difference. The same is true of sugar: our morning coffee, in addition to being a water-thin, black, muddy, stinking liquid, contained not the smallest suggestion of sweetness, whereas the coffee which went to the officials——and the coffee which B. and I drank in recompense for 'catching water'——had all the sugar you could possibly wish for. The poor Cook was fined one day as a result of his economies, subsequent to a united action on the part of the fellow-sufferers. It was a day when a gent immaculately dressed appeared——after duly warning the Fiend that he was about to inspect the Fiend's ménage——an, I think, public official of Orne. Judas (at the time chef de chambre), supported by the sole and unique indignation of all his fellow-prisoners save two or thee out of whom Fear had made rabbits or moles, early carried the pail (which by common agree- ment not one of us had touched that day) downstairs, along the hall, and up one flight——where he encountered the Directeur, Surveillant and Handsome Stranger all amicably and pleasantly conversing. Judas set his pail down; bowed; and begged, as spokesman for the united male gender of La Ferté Macé, that the quality of the coffee be examined. 'We won't any of us drink it, begging your pardon, Messieurs,' he claims that he said. What happened then is highly amusing. The petit balayeur, an eye-witness of the proceeding, described it to me as follows: 'The Directeur roared "COMMENT"? He was hor- ribly angry. "Oui, Monsieur," said the maître de chambre humbly.——"Pourquoi?" thundered the Directeur.——"Be- cause it's undrinkable," the maître de chambre said quietly.——"Undrinkable? Nonsense!" cried the Directeur furiously.——"Be so good as to taste it, Monsieur le Direc- teur."——"I taste it? Why should I taste it? The coffee is perfectly good, plenty good for you men. This is ridicu- lous——"——"Why don't we all taste it?" suggested the Surveillant ingratiatingly.——"Why, yes," said the Visitor mildly.——"Taste it? Of course not. This is ridiculous and I shall punish——"——"I should like, if you don't mind, to try a little," the Visitor said.——"Oh well, of course, if you like," the Directeur mildly agreed. "Give me a cup of that coffee, you!"——"With pleasure, sir," said the maître de chambre. The Directeur——M'sieu' Jean, you would have burst laughing——seized the cup, lifted it to his lips, swal- lowed with a frightful expression (his eyes almost pop- ping out of his head) and cried fiercely, "DELICIOUS!" The Surveillant took a cupful; sipped; tossed the coffee away, looking as if he had been hit in the eyes, and re- marked, "Ah." The maître de chambre——M'sieu' Jean he is clever——scooped the third cupful from the very bottom of the pail, and very politely, with a big bow, handed it to the Visitor; who took it, touched it to his lips, turned perfectly green, and cried out "Impossible!" M'sieu' Jean, we all thought——the Directeur and the Surveillant and the maître de chambre and myself——that he was going to vomit. He leaned against the wall a moment, quite green; then recovering said faintly——"The Kitchen." The Directeur looked very nervous and shouted, trembling all over, "Yes indeed! We'll see the Cook about this perfectly impossible coffee. I had no idea that my men were getting such coffee. It's abominable! That's what it is, an out- rage!"——and they all tottered downstairs to the Cook; and, M'sieu' Jean, they searched the kitchen; and what do you think? They found ten pounds of coffee and twelve pounds of sugar all neatly hidden away, that the Cook had been saving for himself out of our allowance. He's a beast, the Cook!' I must say that, although the morning coffee improved enormously for as much as a week, it descended after- wards to its original level of excellence. The Cook, I may add, officiated three times a week at a little table to the left as you entered the dining-room. Here he stood, and threw at every one (as every one entered) a hunk of the most extraordinary viande which I have ever had the privilege of trying to masticate——it could not be tasted. It was pale and leathery. B. and my- self often gave ours away in our hungriest moments; which statement sounds as if it were generous to others, whereas the reason for these donations was that we couldn't eat, let alone stand the sight of, this staple of diets. We had to do our donating on the sly, since the chef always gave us choice pieces and we were anxious not to hurt the chef's feelings. There was a good deal of spas- modic protestation à propos la viande, but the Cook always bullied it down——nor was the meat his fault; since, from the miserable carcasses which I have often seen car- ried into the kitchen from without, the Cook had to select something which would suit the meticulous stomach of the Lord of Hell, as also the less meticulous digestive organs of his minions; and it was only after every planton had got a piece of viande to his platonic taste that the captives, female and male, came in for consideration. On the whole, I think I never envied the Cook his strange and difficult, not to say gruesome, job. With the men en masse he was bound to be unpopular. To the good- will of those above he was necessarily more or less a slave. And on the whole I liked the Cook very much, as did B.—— for the very good and sufficient reason that he liked us both. About the plantons I have something to say, something which it gives me huge pleasure to say. I have to say, about the plantons, that as a bunch they struck me at the time and will always impress me as the next to the lowest species of human organism; the lowest, in my experienced esti- mation, being the gendarme proper. The plantons were, with one exception——he of the black holster with whom I collided on the first day——changed from time to time. Again with this one exception, they were (as I have noted) apparently réformés who were enjoying a vacation from the trenches in the lovely environs of Orne. Nearly all of them were witless. Every one of them had some- thing the matter with him physically as well. For instance, one planton had a large wooden hand. Another was pos- sessed of a long unmanageable left leg made, as nearly as I could discover, of tin. A third had a huge glass eye. These peculiarities of physique, however, did not in- hibit the plantons from certain essential and normal de- sires. On the contrary. The plantons probably realized that, in competition with the male world at large, their glass legs and tin hands and wooden eyes would not stand a Chinaman's chance of winning the affection and ad- miration of the fair sex. At any rate they were always on the alert for opportunities to triumph over the admiration and affection of les femmes at La Ferté, where their suc- cess was not endangered by competition. They had the bulge on everybody; and they used what bulge they had to such good advantage that one of them, during my stay, was pursued with a revolver by their sergeant, captured, locked up, and shipped off for court-martial on the charge of disobedience and threatening the life of a superior officer. He had been caught with the goods——that is to say, in the girl's cabinot——by said superior: an incapable, strut- tin, undersized, bepimpled person in a bright uniform who spent his time assuming the poses of a general for the benefit of the ladies; of his admiration for whom and his intentions toward whom he made no secret. By all means one of the most disagreeable petty bullies whom I ever beheld. This arrest of a planton was, so long as I inhabited La Ferté, the only case in which abuse of the weaker sex was punished. That attempts at abuse were frequent I know from allusions and direct statements made in the letters which passed by way of the balayeur from the girls to their captive admirers. I might say that the senders of these letters, whom I shall attempt to portray presently, have my unmitigated and unqualified admiration. By all odds they possessed the most terrible vitality and bravery of any human beings, women or men, whom it has ever been my extraordinary luck to encounter, or ever will be (I am absolutely sure) in this world. The duties of the plantons were those simple and ob- vious duties which only very stupid persons can perfectly fulfil, namely: to take turns guarding the building and its inhabitants; to not accept bribes, whether in the form of matches, cigarettes or conversation, from their pris- oners; to accompany anyone who went anywhere outside the walls (as did occasionally the balayeurs, to transport baggage; the men who did corvée; and the catchers of water for the cook, who proceeded as far as the hydrant situated on the outskirts of the town——a momentous dis- tance of perhaps five hundred feet); and finally to obey any and all orders from all and any superiors without thinking. Plantons were supposed——but only supposed—— to report any schemes for escaping which they might over- hear during their watch upon les femmes et les hommes en promenade. Of course they never overheard any, since the least intelligent of the watched was a paragon of wisdom by comparison with the watchers. B. and I had a little ditty about plantons, of which I can quote (unfortu- nately) only the first line and refrain, 'A planton loved lady once (Cabbages and cauliflowers!)' It was a very fine song. In considering my remarks upon plantons I must, in justice to my subject, mention the three prime plantonic virtues——they were (1) beauty, as regards face and person and bearing, (2) chivalry, as regards women, (3) heroism, as regards males. The somewhat unique and amusing appearance of the plantons rather militated against than served to inculcate Fear——it was therefore not wonderful that they and the desired emotion were supported by two strictly enforced punishments, punishments which were meted out with equal and unflinching severity to both sexes alike. The less undesirable punishment was known as pain sec—— which Fritz, shortly after my arrival, got for smashing a window-pane by accident; and which Harree and Pom- pom, the incorrigibles, were getting most of the time. This punishment consisted in denying to the culprit all nutri- ment save two stone-hard morsels of dry bread per diem. The culprit's inmate friends, of course, made a point of eating only a portion of their own morsels of soft heavy sour bread (we got two a day, with each soupe) and pre- senting the culprit with the rest. The common method of getting pain sec was also a simple one——it was for a man to wave, shout or make other signs audible or visible to an inhabitant of the women's quarters; and, for a girl, to be seen at her window by the Directeur at any time during the morning and afternoon promenades of the men. The punishment for sending a letter to a girl might possibly be pain sec, but was more often——I pronounce the word even now with a sinking of the heart, though curiously enough I escaped that for which it stands——cabinot. There were (as already mentioned) a number of cabi- nots, sometimes referred to as cachots by persons of linguistic propensities. To repeat myself slightly: at least three were situated on the ground floor; and these were used whenever possible in preference to the one or ones upstairs, for the reason that they were naturally more damp and chill and dark and altogether more dis- mal and unhealthy. Dampness and cold were consider- ably increased by the substitution, for a floor, of two or three planks resting here and there in mud. I am now describing what my own eyes saw, not what was shown to the inspectors on their rare visits to the Directeur's little shop for making criminals. I know what these occasional visitors beheld, because it, too, I have seen with my own eyes: seen the two balayeurs staggering downstairs with a bed (consisting of a high iron frame, a huge mattress of delicious thickness, spotless sheets, warm blankets, and a sort of quilt neatly folded over all); seen this bed placed by the panting sweepers in the thoroughly cleaned and otherwise immaculate cabinot at the foot of the stairs and opposite the cuisine, the well-scrubbed door being left wide open. I saw this done as I was going to dinner. While les hommes were upstairs recovering from la soupe, the gentlemen-inspectors were invited downstairs to look at a specimen of the Directeur's kindness——a kindness which he could not restrain even in the case of those who were guilty of some terrible wrong. (The little Belgian with the Broken Arm, alias the Machine-Fixer, missed not a word nor a gesture of all this; and described the scene to me with an indignation which threatened his sanity.) ——Then, while les hommes were in the cour for the after- noon, the balayeurs were rushed to The Enormous Room, which they cleaned to beat the band with the fear of Hell in them; after which, the Directeur led his amiable guests leisurely upstairs and showed them the way the men kept their quarters; kept them without dictation on the part of the officials, so fond were they of what was to them one and all more than a delightful temporary residence—— was in fact a home. From The Enormous Room the pro- cession wended a gentle way to the women's quarters (scrubbed and swept in anticipation of their arrival) and so departed; conscious——no doubt——that in the Directeur France had found a rare specimen of whole-hearted and efficient generosity. Upon being sentenced to cabinot, whether for writing an intercepted letter, fighting, threatening a planton, or committing some minor offence for the nth time, a man took one blanket from his bed, carried it downstairs to the cabinot, and disappeared therein for a night or many days and nights as the case might be. Before entering he was thoroughly searched and temporarily deprived of the contents of his pockets, whatever they might include. It was made certain that he had no cigarettes or tobacco in any other form upon his person, and no matches. The door was locked behind him and double and triple locked ——to judge by the sound——by a planton, usually the Black Holster, who on such occasions produced a ring of enor- mous keys suggestive of a burlesque jailor. Within the stone walls of his dungeon (into which a beam of light no bigger than a ten-cent piece, and in some cases no light at all, penetrated) the culprit could shout and scream his or her heart out if he or she liked, without serious annoyance to His Majesty King Satan. I wonder how many times, en route to la soupe or The Enormous Room or promenade, I have heard the unearthly smouldering laughter of girls or of men entombed within the drooling greenish walls of La Ferté Macé. A dozen times, I sup- pose, I have seen a friend of the entombed stoop adroitly and shove a cigarette or a morceau of chocolat under the door, to the girls or the men or the girl or man screaming, shouting, and pommelling faintly behind that very door ——but, you would say by the sound, a good part of a mile away . . . Ah well, more of this later, when we come to les femmes on their own account. The third method employed to throw Fear into the minds of captives lay, as I have said, in the sight of the Captor Himself. And this was by far the most efficient method. He loved to suddenly dash upon the girls when they were carrying their slops along the hall and down-stairs, as (in common with the men) they had to do at least twice every morning and twice every afternoon. The corvée of girls and men were of course arranged so as not to coincide; yet somehow or other they managed to co- incide on the average about once a week, or if not coincide, at any rate approach coincidence. On such occasions, as often as not under the planton's very stupid nose, a kiss or an embrace would be stolen——provocative of much fierce laughter and some scurrying. Or else, while the moneyed captives (including B. and Cummings) were waiting their turn to enter the bureau de M. le Gestion- naire, or even were ascending the stairs with a planton behind them, en route to Mecca, along the hall would come five or six women staggering and carrying huge pails full to the brim of everyone knew what; five or six heads, lowered, ill-dressed bodies tense with effort, free arms rigidly extended from the shoulder downward and outward in a plane at right angles to their difficult prog- ress, and thereby helping to balance the disconcerting load——all embarrassed, some humiliated, others desperately at ease——along they would come under the steady sensual gaze of the men, under a gaze which seemed to eat them alive . . . and then one of them would laugh with the laughter which is neither pitiful nor terrible, but hor- rible . . . And BANG! would a door fly open, and ROAR! a well-dressed animal about five feet six inches in height, with prominent cuffs and a sportive tie, the altogether decently and neatly clothed thick-built figure squirming from top to toe with anger, the large head trembling and white-faced beneath a flourishing mane of coarse blackish bristly perhaps hair, the arm crooked at the elbow and shaking a huge fist of pinkish, well-manicured flesh, the distinct, cruel, brightish eyes sprouting from their sockets under bushily enormous black eyebrows, the big, weak, coarse mouth extending almost from ear to ear spout- ing invective, the soggy, brutal lips clinched upward and backward showing the huge horse-like teeth to the froth- shot gums. And I saw once a little girl eleven years old scream in terror and drop her pail of slops, spilling most of it on her feet; and seize it in a clutch of frail child's fingers, and stagger, sobbing and shaking, past the Fiend——one hand held over her contorted face to shield her from the Awful Thing of Things——to the head of the stairs; where she collapsed, and was half-carried, half-dragged by one of the older ones to the floor below, while another older one picked up her pail and lugged this and her own hurriedly downward. And after the last head had disappeared, Monsieur le Directeur continued to rave and shake and tremble for as much as ten seconds, his shoe-brush mane crinkling with black anger——then, turning suddenly upon les hommes (who cowered up against the wall as men cower up against a material thing in the presence of the supernatural) he roared and shook his pinkish fist at us tlll the gold stud in his immaculate cuff walked out upon the wad of clench- ing flesh: 'ET VOUS——PRENEZ GARDE——SI JE VOUS AT- TRAPPE AVEC LES FEMMES UNE AUTRE FOIS JE VOUS FOUS AU CABINOT POUR QUINZE JOURS, TOUS——TOUS——' for as much as half a minute, then turning suddenly his round-shouldered big back he adjusted his cuffs, mut- tering PROSTITUTES and WHORES and DIRTY FILTH OF WOMEN, crammed his big fists into his trousers, pulled in his chin till his fattish jowl rippled along the square jaws, panted, grunted, very completely satisfied, very contented, rather proud of himself, took a strutting stride or two in his expensive shiny boots, and shot all at once through the open door which he SLAMMED after him. A propos the particular incident described for the pur- pose of illustration, I wish to state that i believe in miracles: the miracle being that I did not knock the spit-covered mouthful of teeth and jabbering, brutish, out-thrust jowl (which certainly were not farther than eighteen inches from me) through the bull neck bulging in its spotless collar. For there are times when one almost decides not to merely observe . . . besides which, never in my life before had I wanted to kill, to thoroughly extin- guish and to entirely murder. Perhaps some day. Unto God I hope so. Amen. Now I will try to give the reader a glimpse of the Women of La Ferté Macé.
2019.09.23 14:48 Blue000000 Spa hidden sex
Sorry for length! skip to tl;dr if too long
I've only ever been in one relationship which ended about 5 years ago now. We were on again off again and it was very very toxic. I came out of the relationship hating myself and very depressed. After years of this I finally started to see clarity in that situation. I restarted dating about a year ago. I've dated about 7 guys but none of them have progressed anywhere. I can admit in hindsight now that the majority of these guys were not good guys. For example, one of them was 30 years old and had slept with a 17 year old and lied about his age to her and lied about it to me. Two had girlfriends the whole time we were dating. One ghosted me and 2 weeks later had a girlfriend. I would feel low whenever these ended and other than the 30 year old I had felt rejected every single time. I thought if I was prettier or my body was nicer I would have been enough for them.
Anyway about 5 months ago I met this guy at a music event that he was working at. I chatted him up for the first time in my life and got his number. We went on several dates and it was the first time someone had actually taken me on amazing dates - like this guy took me to the spa and shows. After our first date I didn't know if we really vibed and I went on holiday the day after for 2 weeks. I'm quite awkward on dates and he pointed it out to me which made me feel even more awkward so I didn't really think it would go anywhere. But then our second date was amazing.
We slept together on the second date which I really didn't want to happen but we got super drunk and it just happened. The second date was amazing and on the third one I really felt like there was a connection. He even said how weird it was that we were so touchy feely and so comfortable with each other so early on. We ended up spending several days together and with all the other guys I would get irritated or uncomfortable spending that much time with them. The next couple times i see him he tells me how nice it is to be with someone he doesn't want to bail on.
We had never discussed exclusivity at this point and about a month and a half in he messaged me telling me he had slept with someone else whilst at a work event (he is a DJ and music producer). He said he felt horrible about it and was really disappointed in himself. I was upset but to be honest mostly surprised with his honesty. There was no way I would've found out about it. I ignored him for a bit but then he asked me to call him. When we spoke I told him I was grossed out but not angry because I couldn't be. He said he liked me and if we could make it exclusive. I told him how he never said nice things about me so I thought he didn't like me. He said he's just not the kind of guy to say those kind of things and to be honest the other boys I dated constantly said those things to me and ended up being assholes. He said that him sleeping with someone else is the first time he has ever done anything bad to a female he has dated. Why did he do that to me but none of the other girls? What is wrong with me?
When we were together it often felt like I was the one doing most the talking. I had started to wonder if he actually had much to say or any depth. He had at points told me limited amounts about his mum and I think she has mental health issues. He had said to me that it was too early for me to meet his mum and that only one girl ever had met his mum. A couple of days after saying this we wanted to see each other and he said come over but 'my mum will be in.' Given what he'd just said, I was weird about it and it didn't happen. He also said that his mum wasn't particularly happy that I wasn't black (he is and I'm asian). He told me he mostly dated mixed race girls and had never dated an asian girl before. Mixed race girls are beautiful and I could never compare to them. Since he told me this every single pretty mixed race girl I see on the street makes me feel bad - 'he would be content with her' 'he would fancy her more than me'
I had stalked his instagram and seen he followed quite a few girls that had big bums - mine is flat. He made comments sometimes about whether I had been to the gym. I was convinced I wasn't good enough for him because my bum is so small. I've started looking at every single women's bum since and I can't stop. I stalked one of the girls he follows, who I have a lot of mutual friends with, at least once a week (he didn't know about this). I mentioned sometimes that I disliked my body but tried to keep it minimal because I didn't want him to see me as insecure but at the same time I feel I should be with someone that I can voice that to in a healthy way. He would just say 'thats unhealthy' when I made comments about my body but he would never compliment my body or compliment me in general. I had told him before I felt he didn't like me but didn't want to bring it up again.
Most guys I've dated we would message everyday or most days. But with him he would message me every now and then and the conversations were never overly interesting. I would talk but he never had much to say back. The last couple times we saw each other he didn't say anything nice at all. I felt like something had changed. I also felt like it wasn't progressing - we didn't speak enough and I still didn't know who he was as a person. Like it was impossible to get to know him cos he never really had much to say. I don't even know if I showed my true self to him - I never seem to be myself with men. I couldn't tell if he liked me or not. The whole time we were dating I would get these irrational thoughts 'im not pretty enough, he doesn't like me, my bums too small, I don't do music so he doesn't find me interesting, I'm indian he'll never like me because I'm indian.' I never voiced them to him. I spoke to my friends about it instead who said if he didn't like you he wouldn't date you. I tried to push it out of my mind and never brought it up with him.
I had been away for two weeks and we only spoke twice the whole time. But things didn't feel weird or anything - he seemed normal.
I got super drunk on Saturday and we had been trying to meet each other all night. My friend said he could stay in one of the rooms at hers. I was drunk and said to him 'come over or don't ever speak to me again.' He said 'don't give me ultimatums. should i come?' and I said 'do what u want.' I kind of immediately knew I'd been unnecessary and a cmplete idiot and apologised about an hour later. He never replied and ignored me the next day. I knew that he was over me but my friends kept telling me to not overthink it and it wasn't that bad.
He finally did call me back last night. I asked him what he was thinking and he wouldn't say it at first. He eventually said that he doesn't know if he sees a future with me. That he doesn't feel how he felt with his ex who's the only person he's ever been in love with, although the first time we met he said he'd never been in love before. He said he didn't know if thats because its different when you're an adult but he just didn't think he'd feel that same way with me. Honestly my heart hurts just remembering it. It was a horrible conversation. I kept asking him what it was but he said it wasn't anything in particular and he wish he knew cos it would be easier to just say. I said that I felt like he wasn't attracted to me and didn't like me. He said I think you probably are used to being with someone who's really infatuated with you and need that. I said I thought we'd see each other again but I guess not. He said he felt more closed off with me then anyone else and he didn't know why.There was a really long silence and then he said do you have anything more to say cos I don't see the point in being on the phone. Which makes me feel sick now like he really does not care about me at all.
I can't stop analysing everything I said and did. I'm struggling to remember how I was around him in person, I remember cringing at things I said. He said that I'd go from having really high self-esteem to really low and there was no in between. I would get annoyed at things he would say if I didn't agree with them and he once said that if someone thought different to me I wouldn't understand it. Maybe the sex wasn't good enough? Maybe it was because my bum was too small? I just can't help thinking if I looked like jorja smith or if I had a big bum like the girl he follows, he would never reject me. Is it because I'm indian? Is it because I sent him aggy messages twice when I was drunk on two different occasions? Is it because I'm not interesting enough? I added him to my close friends story on instagram and sometimes posted other boys chatting me up and he would see. I once posted a screenshot from my friend where she was saying I can't date someone who's shallow or boring and he had asked me what that was about. I had said I was just hating on myself a bit at the moment and then he asked to be removed from my close friends. He had never put up with my bullshit and I thought we communicated well. I genuinely thought that we would end in a relationship I mean hell I imagined us having kids together as dumb as that sounds but he would be such a good dad.
tl;dr; I am feeling extremely rejected and depressed since a boy I've only been dating for 5 months broke up with me. He's the first decent guy I've ever dated. I can't help but feel like theres something inherently wrong with me because I'm rejected so often. This doesn't happen to my friends. I don't intend on dating and am seeking therapy and time to heal but can't seem to snap out of this funk. I keep analysing everything I said and did even though he said it wasn't anything in particular. I had more or less hidden my self-hate from him. I think he just genuinely didn't like me and I don't know how to even verbalise how awful that seems and I can't think of anyway to be ok with that. I don't know how to stop feeling so bad that he's just not that into me. Especially when a month in he was saying how he could really see himself falling for me, what happened? What changed? He says that nothing changed he just didn't feel how he felt with his ex. He dated his ex when he was 17. Maybe if I'd met his mum. What if i had never sent that message on saturday night and we saw each other. This would never have happened if i was someone like jorja smith. Why did he feel closed off around me?
It feels like it did when me and my ex ended and I'm terrified for how I' going to be now. In fact it might even be worse because at least with my ex I knew he did really and truly love me at some point. I started seeing this guy just before I started my new job and he was starting to feel a part of my life. I feel so stupid and embarrassed that he doesn't care at all but I'm so cut up about it. I also know he will never ever come back, he's way to healthy for that. He even said the ex he was supposedly in love with tried to meet up with him but he said no. I keep hoping maybe he'll miss me and come back but we haven't seen each other in weeks. He's dated many girls but said he's only loved one. I'm just gonna be added to the list of girls he never really liked. Another girl he tells the girl he falls in love with that never had what she has. He'll end up with a beautiful mixed race girl and I'll know I was never enough for him.
Why didn't he like me and how do I deal with him not liking me?
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2019.09.03 19:28 Furshlugginer492 Sex spa hidden
By Yael Dragwyla, a.k.a. Furshlugginer492
From so early on I don't remember when it started, through childhood, and on into adolescence, I was plagued by night-terrors, pavores nocturnes, the sort of dream which you fight hard to awaken from, and when you do, you don't dare go back to sleep for hours, until the aura fades and you know you aren't in danger from whatever horror informed that dream. The ones that are real - and you know that if you do not wake up right now, whatever it is will destroy you, or worse. The ones filled with spiritual menace so terrible and pervasive there isn't any easy way to describe it. Then, when I was almost 14, on Pearl Harbor Day in 1958, my adoptive father died of his second heart-attack. And for the next year and a half, every single night I had at least three night-terrors, without fail. It got so I was bored if I didn't have more than three on a given night. I would have gone completely out of my mind as a result, save for one thing: about three and a half weeks after my adoptive father died, I discovered H. P. Lovecraft, in the form of a paperback book I purchased coming back on the train to Los Angeles from Berkeley, California, where my adoptive mother had gone, taking me with her, to visit friends for the holidays. It was a collection of his short stories, and when I read them, they hit me so hard my guts hurt. And yet . . . from then on, it was as if something had come out of those stories and interposed itself between me and the things that were trying to get at me in my night-terrors, protecting me. Something of the spirit of the author. At the time, I had no idea that anyone else read that stuff, and I had no idea what sort of thing it was that was protecting me, so it was nothing I had intellectualized. It was real, and from then on, I became more and more fascinated with Lovecraft's work, and later, when I discovered them, the work of his successors, such as Fritz Leiber and Stephen King.
Ever since I was a young child I have loved all three of these modern genres, mostly in the form first given by Lovecraft. Then there is MAD Magazine, which I have loved ever since I read a copy of issue # 1 - which was founded and nurtured and brought to its apotheosis by people who grew up immersed in the culture of modern science-fiction, horror, and fantasy. Another Lovecraftian spin-off, at however many removes.
The thing about H. P. Lovecraft that no one seems to have picked up on but me is that out of his work and his circle of followers there grew the beginnings of three great modern literary genres: modern supernatural and horror literature, modern science-fiction, and modern fantasy. Only Marion Zimme Bradley, also a Lovecraft fan, of all the modern American writers I know of, seems to have at least sensed this, for all her work is an elegant blend of all three genres, often incorporating place-names and other elements of Lovecraft's own fiction in ways that are uniquely her own. But no one else so far seems to realize it but me. And yet, when you examine these three genres as they are now de-fined, ignoring superficial considerations such as style, you see so much of Lovecraft's signature in them. For example, science-fiction today is based on a blend of viewpoints first defined by John W. Campbell, Jr., on the one hand, and earlier writers such as Abraham Merritt and C. L. Moore, on the other. The latter contributed the sense of wonder and the romanticism characteristic of the best sci-ence-fiction to the genre; Campbell contributed a dedication to scientific accuracy and a loathing of fuzzy-minded thinking that shaped the evolution of the magazine to which he dedicated so much of his life, Astounding Science Fiction, and determined the character of the stories he selected to appear in it, such as those of Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, and so forth. Lovecraft himself was a hard-nosed scientific materialist, a scientific scholar who was well aware of the most current scientific ideas and theories of his day in every major branch of science, and his fiction was tailored to fit into the universe known in his day. The sort of bullshit which so many writers have incorporated into their stories all along, even in science fiction, was something he couldn't stand. As fantastic as his creations were, they were in line with his view of reality, things that might have been possible, whether they actually were or not, given what was then scientific thinking. In other words, a form of extrapolative fiction, rather than stuff written whole cloth out of a deranged imagination. Notice that same trend in horror. Today, verisimilitude is all, in spite of the fantastic monsters and situations that are so often incorporated into that genre. I am reminded of the religious paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, which people today so often think were painted in a drug-dream or the products of a madman. Not so. Bosch was simply reproducing with paint and canvas the view of reality that was generally held to be true in his culture and time, of a universe in which God created the world, would eventually bring it to judgment, in which after death the good would go to a real heaven and the evil to a real hell, populated by real demons. For his time, Bosch was a realist, providing graphic teaching-tales for the edification and instruction of the general populace, every part of his canvases incorporating motifs and symbols all of which had definite meanings in his culture's cosmology. Lovecraft, for his time and culture, was doing exactly the same thing, albeit in a different medium, based on a very different view of reality. And today, the literature and cinema of horror comes closer and closer to the Boschean, cleaving unto mundane, quotidian reality in all things save those motifs and symbols designed to instruct us in the more subtle, spiritual aspects of our universe, as conceived by the creators of those stories, books, and films. They may be symbolic, but never unreal - ever allegorical, never mere fantasies. And this, too, is like Lovecraft. Even our modern fantasy is allegorical rather than fluff. Fairy-tales, ancient folk-tales finally relegated to the nursery because adults forgot their real origins, never were mere fluff; they preserved and continue to preserve hard knowledge of the workings of the real world, in terms that were understandable and familiar to their original tellers but which have come to seem fantastic to us, in our modern, secularized world. The highest function of fantasy is to instruct the heart, not just titillate, and modern fantasy, more and more, is realistic instruction for the heart. And this, too, is like Lovecraft.
He sits in judgment, holding the unsheathed sign of his suit. He recalls . . . the conventional symbol of Justice in the Trumps Major, and he may represent this virtue, but he is rather the power of life and death, in virtue of his office. Divinatory meanings: Whatsoever arises out of the idea of judgment and all its connexions - power, command, authority, militant intelligence, law, offices of the crown, and so forth.
Lovecraft died a pauper, virtually unknown by anyone save his devoted followers, most of them young men who first became acquainted with him via those of his stories that were published in the pulps back in the 1920s and 1930s. And yet today the publication of his work and the various spin-offs from that work comprise a multi-billion dollar, multi-media industry in this country and the rest of the world, because he meant so much to those followers that they kept his memory and his work alive out of pocket and the sweat of their brow, often breaking their hearts to keep publishing and promoting his work. And the influence of his work continued to grow and spread, ultimately coming, directly as well as through the work of his followers and literary descendants, to influence generations in ways that are yet to be measured. The great vision of science-fiction, that of successful terrestrial exploration and colonization of the worlds of other stars, did not originate with him, but its great modern informing energy, influencing so many to make their careers in the exploration and colonization of space, did come from him. The creation of the modern nuclear navy, whose research into underwater life-support systems has contributed so much to similar internal environments for use in modern space-craft and space-stations, took impetus from the movement he started. Even if Corso is right and modern personal computers and the Internet grew out of inventions developed from things we got from UFOs that crashed in our country - and from the evidence, he seems to be - it was the mind-set of modern Western humanity that permitted our rapid adaptation to and assimilation of that technology, which today links the whole world in a sort of superorganismic whole. And that mind-set grew out of what Lovecraft started. He himself would never have claimed such a thing, and would have laughed - and been appalled - at the world which grew out of what he began. He believed he was just one more literary heir of Edgar Allen Poe, an admitted genius who was himself a writer of science-fiction and a scientific scholar. He was not a grandiose man, not an egotist. In fact, while he often satirized himself as a grumpy old recluse (he died at the age of 47, way too soon, not old at all), those of his followers who were fortunate enough to meet him in the flesh claimed that meeting with him was one of the great high points of their lives, and his many correspondents, most of whom never got to meet him while he lived, cherished his correspondence. He was one of the greatest epistolarians of history, the sheer volume of letters and cards and what-not written by him comprising a library in its own right. And he doted on cats - and you have to admit, anyone who dotes on cats has to be some sort of saint . . . or maybe a little soft in the head. J Seriously, he never would have credited what became of his work and his influence on the world, never could have believed it - and yet our world today has the shape it does because of him and that very influence. Another fascinating thing - though perhaps so only if you are, like me, a Magickian and student of esoteric - is the sort of thing which Kenneth Grant, in his analysis of Aleister Crowley's work and influence, describes in such great detail. As far as Thelemic scholars and practitioners like me are concerned, the Age of Horus/Aquarius began with Crowley's Cairo Working in Egypt on 3/20/1904, at 12:00 a.m., in the Great Pyramid in Cairo. Crowley's work from then on deals with things which are strongly reflected in Lovecraft's work on many levels, though Lovecraft almost certainly was not an occultist, the claims of so many idiots to the contrary. Also, Crowley posited that the two Signs Leo and Libra were connected in various ways, in terms of their esoteric influence and their impact on our age. Crowley was a Libra, Lovecraft a Leo; in Crowley's natal chart, Leo is rising, whereas in Lovecraft's, Libra is. Leo is supposed to be the Sign of the true King of the Age of Aquarius, its esoteric or spiritual king. One might ask whether Lovecraft was the great King of this new age, and Crowley his prophet, or vice-versa. Or was each man a composite of both? Both have had an enormous impact on our age, though Crowley advertised himself in that regard as thoroughgoingly as Lovecraft avoided doing so. Together, they are the wind beneath all our wings, psychospiritually -speaking, and if we finally succeed in reaching the stars and establishing viable terrestrial colonies on their worlds, it will have been the presiding spirits of Crowley and Lovecraft who got us there. (You should see the comparison of their two natal charts! Just about everything in either chart makes major aspects to most things in the other. These two men were cosmically bound up together, though they never met, the two poles of the great turning engine of the aeons that precipitated us all into the Hell Century and the Stars it may ultimately give us. For the record, Crowley was born at Leamington Spa, England \[1 degree 31' west longitude, 52 degrees 18' north latitude\], on October 12, 1875, at 11:30 p.m. Greenwich Time; Lovecraft was born at 9 a.m., August 20, 1890, in Providence, Rhode Island. ) So why do I find Lovecraft so fascinating? Because he may be the only person in the whole world who could ever have understood me completely, known all of me, including and especially the damned night-terrors, and accepted me as such. Not that my friends don't accept me as they know me. But only those who have suffered the night-terror for as many years as I did, as frequently, like Lovecraft, who had much the same thing, can really grasp those parts of me shaped by it - or out of which those night-terrors came. My adoptive father's occult bullshit and the things he used me for when I was a toddler left huge holes in my soul, Carol, through which things tried to enter all the time, and that was where my night-terrors came from. The damage to my psyche and spirit that this made in me can be sensed by a lot of people, but is apparently quite repellant to them - people actually told me to my face when I was a child that I was "weird inside" and that was why they didn't want anything to do with me. But Lovecraft might well have been a friend, one who would have accepted me as I am, as I can't not be since then. Further, his circle of followers included numerous women, with whom he was on very good terms simply because he had none of the anti-woman prejudice so common among men in his time and before. Beyond that, though, I wonder: what *was* he? Each lifetime is only one projection into material existence of our true selves, as they are on the Inner Planes, and never incorporates all that we are. Take, for example, the tremendous sexiness of his work and what it got started. No, there is no overt sex at all in Lovecraft's work, and he has been typed as asexual by countless critics and analysts. One of the reasons for the failure of his marriage was that, shall we say, he wasn't anything like as ardent a lover as his wife would have wished. And yet there is an enormous sexual energy in his work. The reason may be that reading it evokes Kundalini energy from the reader - Kundalini Rising, as esotericists say - which not only uses the same channels in the central nervous system as well as the esoteric energy system associated with the body that sex does, but in fact is most easily called up by two things: sex itself - and horror. Consider Kali, Whose Dance with Her husband Shiva is Tantric (sexual) Magick, which is fueled by Kundalini energy. That same energy simply pours out of Lovecraft's work in a flood-tide, in spite of an utter lack of overt sexuality therein - and the work of those who came after him in the modern genres of horror, science fiction, and fantasy has been progressively more sexualized as time has gone on. In that sense, Lovecraft is like Mount Rainier, or, more likely, Krakatoa, East of Java, a gigantic volcano fueled by andesitic magma, its throat plugged by its own lava, a gigantic tectonic bomb waiting only for time to set it off. The magma is there; all that keeps it from coming out of the volcano's throat into the open air is the plug it has made in that throat, due to its extreme viscosity. Lovecraft wasn't asexual. Far from it. But his sexual energy was blocked far down in his being, backing up until it was continuously calling forth titanic amounts of Kundalini energy by sheer back-pressure, for reasons none of us understand very well even now. And it was out of the floods of Kundalini energy thus evoked in him that his written work came. That the channels for sexual expression of that energy were blocked far down on him is clear from the form that his work took, that is, horror, making it clear that it was blocked just above the regions of our being ruled by Pluto (Hades) and Neptune (Poseidon), the Gods of the Underworld. The being that manifested in that lifetime as the man Lovecraft is vast, the sort of being that one has to consider something like an angel or archangel, just too big to be contained in one mortal individual. Recently I did a Tarot reading on that being, whatever he might be, whatever incarnations he might have had. - I call him "he" because there is a sense of a vast masculinity at work in Lovecraft's work, however "sexless" he might have seemed - asking "What is that being?" I got the King of Swords, of whom A. E. Waite says,
. . . William Herschel in 1781 brought a breath of fresh air to the science [astronomy] by discovering a new planet, Uranus. In the following sixty years it became apparent that the new planet was not behaving precisely as Newton's laws demanded, and in 1856 John Adams in England and Urbain Leverrier in France, working without knowledge of each other and reasoning only with pen and paper, decided that the irregularities in the orbit must be due to the presence of another planet beyond Uranus. Both calculated where it should be visible and on the very first evening that a large enough telescope was turned to the prescribed spot, there it was, right on cue. And we now know it as Neptune.
If you give any credence to Tarot, this ought to put a shiver up your back like the Fungi from Yuggoth just walked over your grave.:-) Given all this, Mathers, founder of the Golden Dawn, would have called Lovecraft a true Secret Chief, and the circle of his followers and their literary descendants the Inner Order of the New Age, given that its outer order is simply the technology and science peculiar to our times. No, of course neither Lovecraft nor his followers have ever thought of themselves in those terms, but then, they weren't and aren't Magickians. It is left to MAD esotericists like me to make such connections, make the unconscious conscious like that. But it do work like that, so what can we say? One thing I forgot to mention is that Mikhail Gorbachev was born in 1930, the same year Pluto was discovered. Thelemic Magickians believe that Crowley was ruled by Pluto. On the other hand, Lovecraft, who was always a scientific scholar who kept up on every advance in all the sciences, was fascinated by Pluto's discovery. Lovecraft scholars today equate "Yuggoth," his planet from whence so many weird things in his stories came, with Pluto. Concerning Pluto, the eminent biologist Lyall Watson says in *Lifetide* (Bantam, 1979):
-- Ibid., pp. 317-318
This discovery is usually seen as a triumphant endorsement of Newton's laws, as further proof that all problems can be solved by careful observation and the skillful use of mathematics. But it seems to have been overlooked that both Adams and Leverrier were calculating partly on the basis of Bode's Law (a now disproved notion that the planets orbit at distance from the sun which can be predicted by a scale of proportions which rise by a constant increment in this way: 4 : 7 : 10 : 16 : 28 : 52 : 100 : 196 : 388 etc.). If it is assumed that the steroid belt is the remains of a planet that once lay between Mars and Jupiter at position 28, then all the inner seven planets fit the scale exactly. So it was generally assumed that, if there was an eighth planet, it would be found at position 388. But it is nowhere near there. Neptune is much farther away, and yet, on September 23, 1846, when Johann Galle aligned the Great Berlin reflector according to instructions, the planet was right in place, on demand. Adams and Leverrier, using the wrong tool, making the wrong assumptions, came up quite independently with the right answer. . . . I am very intrigued to know that, since the discovery of Neptune, it has been found that even those famous calculations didn't take all the discrepancies in the motion of Uranus into account. Uranus still tends to wander off its predicted orbit by a fraction, so in the last years of the nineteenth century Percival Lowell turned the resources of his private observatory in Arizona over to a search for yet another member of the solar system. He called it Planet X. Precise calculations predicted where it ought to be found and a careful search was made, but the ninth planet didn't materialize until fourteen years after Lowell's death. On March 13, 1930 \[which is, incidentally, very close to the date of Mikhail Gorbachev's birth\], Clyde Tombaugh - then a young unqualified assistant in the Lowell observatory - finished a year of painstaking picking through comparative photographs of the critical part of the sky. And there, moving almost imperceptibly across a field of four hundred thousands equally faint stars, was Pluto, god of the nether darkness. It is no accident that the first two letters of the new planet's name should be the initials of the man who decided where to look. And it seems fitting too that, following Tombaugh's discovery, it was revealed that Milton Humason of the Harvard Observatory had a few years previously taken a photograph of the precise location where Pluto should have been \[at that time\[, but seen nothing there. This mysterious failure is officially attributed to the fact that Humason must have succeeded in obtaining the image of Pluto - after all, anyone can do it now - but that it fell right on a tiny flaw in his photographic plate. I am well aware of the pattern of synchronicity in scientific discovery; of the frequency with which two or more researchers, apparently without collusion, simultaneously produce answers to questions that seemed insoluble for years. And how, once the barrier is broken, the solutions often seem to painfully simple it is difficult to understand why they weren't obvious to everyone right from the start. I am not necessarily suggesting, by presenting a brief history of our discovery of the solar system in this way, that the outer planets didn't exist until we began to look for them. But neither am I prepared to dismiss this possibility out of hand.
[Continued in "Thoughts on H. P. Lovecraft, Part 2"]
I've pointed out before odd Magickal synchronicities among the three men, Aleister Crowley, H. P. Lovecraft, and Mikhail Gorbachev. Pluto seems to be associated with all three - and Pluto's discovery was extremely strange. Something occurs to me, an experiment to try. The Gods of the Deep Unconscious are Neptune/poseidon, Pluto/Hades, and Persephone. I've described before how I have perceived the being that once was H. P. Lovecraft. What if, on the Inner Planes, he is some sort of angel, or archangel, or God, a child of Hades and Persephone, or of Poseidon and Amphitrite, or of Pele and Kanaloa of Hawaii? What would his True Name be? HPL translates as H = 5, P = 80, L = 30, 5 + 30 + 80 = 115. But the English/Roman letter H is associated with *Heh*, which is also associated with the English/Roman letter E, and *Aleph* is almost as often translated as A as E. So HPL might translate as APL, in terms of English-Hebrew correspondences, and the value of APL is A = 1, P = 80, L = 30, 1 + 30 + 80 = 111. This is the number of ALPh, Aleph, associated with Trump 0, *The Fool*, of the Tarot, and the Planet Uranus, associated with Liberty. In Chapter 1 of Liber Al (The Book of the Law), verse 48, it says: "My prophet is a fool with his one, one, one; are they not the Ox, and none by the Book?" "The Book" is, of course, the Tarot; the Ox is the Hebrew letter Aleph, ALPh, value 111. Still more echoes of Crowley. A thought on the idea that Lovecraft might have been the unknown true Magickal child of Aleister Crowley: In Chapter 2 of Crowley's Book of the Law, verse 39, it says, "A feast for Tahuti and the child of the Prophet - secret, O Prophet!" Crowley was the Prophet. If Lovecraft was his Magickal child, it definitely was a secret to Crowley his life long - and to Lovecraft. And in Lovecraft's natal chart, in his 12th House - the House that rules secrets, hidden things, covert things, mysteries, etc. in all charts - Mercury, the Roman avatar of Djehuti (Tahuti), stands at 21 degrees 1 minute Virgo. And some of us must get to strange, alien worlds on the Inner Planes if any of us are ever to get there on the Outer Planes. Apparently that's the only way to make the initial bridge of probability or quantum structure or whatever it is without which travel to strange places can't be done. Lovecraft and those like him are pioneers in the exploration of regions of the Inner Planes not associated with our world or even our Solar System, and without them we'd have had no chance at the stars at all. In the meantime, there still aren't enough of us doing such exploration, or we'd have established an interstellar colony by now - we'd have had interstellar travel by now. So maybe my weirdness has found a niche for itself, one that actually has real value. One thing that strikes me about Lovecraft is that he was engaged in the same Shamanic Journey which Dante Alighieri in a much earlier time and a distant place was. But whereas after completing that journey Dante wrote the entire *Divine Comedy*, including *Inferno*, *Purgatorio*, and *Paradiso*, Lovecraft only managed to do his own *Inferno* and the barest hint of the bare beginnings of a *Purgatorio* before his death (the latter hinted at in, e.g., "The Shadow Over Innsmouth," At the Mountains of Madness). I think Fritz Leiber, of all of Lovecraft's followers, came closest to going on to doing the *Purgatorio* and *Paradiso* which Lovecraft wasn't able to do, unless you count Stephen King, so many of whose novels deal with damnation, redemption, horror and healing, such as *The Stand* and *Tommyknockers*. As we discussed the other night, as Dante showed, to get to Heaven you have to go straight through Hell, right down to the bottom, and exit there by climbing down on the body of the very thing you most loathe about yourself and your world. The same is true for achieving true interstellar travel capability and establishing colonies of our world on worlds of other stars: we have had to go through this Hell Century, with its unspeakable wars and other horrors, to give us the incentive to develop the technology and vision necessary to make it successfully into space. Lovecraft gave us maps of Hell appropriate to this age - now its up to us to follow them down to the center of the worst parts of ourselves and our world, so that we can exit and work our way up to the heavens. Which means going on to reconnoiter and report on the road through the Inner Planes up Mt. Purgatory to the Empyrean, in terms comprehensible and acceptable to our modern world. The modern literature of horror comprises the collective exploration of the Underworld in modern terms. What literature deals with the exit from the Underworld and ascent to what we were meant to be all along, in emotional terms? Fantasy? Modern science-fiction so often doesn't - not in subjective terms; the best of it deals mostly with scenarios that are supposed to be possible in objective reality, but don't do much exploring of our possible reactions to truly alien realms. I do know that McCammon's Swan Song is probably the most thoroughgoing and best attempt so far at a full modern *Comedia* \- but there could be better, and Swan Song still doesn't really address the universe of which Lovecraft wrote. In Dante's world, it was understood that loathsome as Satan was, he was still created by God, and God is the unity that ties together Dante's Comedia, so that one could travel logically from Hell through Purgatory to Heaven. So where is the underlying Unity, the Creator of Cthulhu, Who is also the Creator of a truly Lovecraftian Heaven, the redemption that is so lacking in almost all of Lovecraft's work as well as that of so many modern horror writers and cinematographers? C. L. Moore made a stab at it with two of her Jirel of Joiry stories, "Black God's Kiss," and "Black God's Shadow." The weird adventure fiction of Abraham Merritt often came close to it. But both of those authors, like Lovecraft, came from a time when, like the original university Curriculum as it was before this century was much advanced, fantastic fiction hadn't yet radiated into numerous highly specialized and rigidly demarcated niches: horror, fantasy, "hard" science fiction, "art" science fiction, etc. Their work was born whole and entire from whole and entire souls, however warped or damaged those souls might have been. Today, however, there is such a preoccupation with genre that what authors produce - and publishers publish - isn't the whole human animal at all. Fantasy, horror, science fiction, the supernatural are mostly all rigidly partitioned into their own tightly defined literary - and psychological - niches, the works in any one genre scarcely addressing issues in any of the other genres. Kind of like junk and fast food, or the over-processed garbage that so often is all that is available in supermarkets today - most of the nutrients stripped out of it, too many additives, too much residual pollution from the environment and things given to the food-beasts and -plants to keep them from getting too sick to harvest. The stuff may taste great - though often it does anything but - but it doesn't nourish worth a damn. Well, for all their flaws, the work of Merritt, Lovecraft, Moore, and their colleagues truly fed the soul. But except for a few outstanding exceptions such as Stephen King and Alan Dean Foster, you can't say that of genre writers today. Most of what's on the stands entertains - like, bigtime! - but has all the satisfaction of monosodium glutamate. We need to get back to the real thing again - and Lovecraft's work was the real thing, or a species of it. True, he wasn't John Steinbeck, but so what? Steinbeck had his chosen field, Lovecraft had his, and each man developed his style and approach in a way appropriate to what he chose to write about. Of course, there is no formula for redemption. Dante's Comedia is so powerful only because it isn't a product of formula writing. It came straight out of Dante's own soul, out of his own agonized spiritual experience, and formula can't do that. There will never be a "redemption genre," by definition. Instead, true modern Comedias can only come into existence as the children of the souls of writers who have made their own terrible, terrifying Shamanic Journeys and come out the other side, somehow, damaged and battered but intact enough to put down a record of what they observed in their own psychospiritual journeys into the Underworld of life. And always those are utterly individualistic journeys, no two of them ever alike. If you have read Niven and Pournelle's *Inferno* you can see how, even though it preserves the architecture of Dante's *Inferno*, it is not the same journey, answers a different set of questions than Dante's did, and was written out of very different psychospiritual perspectives than he had. - I must say that N & P's *Inferno* does make a good try at redemption. It is one of the great exceptions to the general lack of literary works with such wholeness. Not only did it show one of the damned being redeemed through good works (Benito, who gets out at the end of the novel), but another one of them (Carpenter) discovering, in spite of horror and pain and agony, that he has the ability to make up for his sins (his betrayal of Benito) even in Hell. N & P's *Inferno* is not just slick entertainment, though it certainly does entertain. It has a great deal to do with broken souls mending through their own efforts, courage, and understanding of right vs. wrong, with human attempts to measure up to what we could truly be if we gave up all the bullshit and started living as we were meant to. And like C. S. Lewis' incomparable Screwtape Letters, it makes you feel what the psychology of Hell is really like, what it is like to live in the universe of the damned - and what it takes to get out of that universe, mind and soul and heart and spirit as well as body. I would love to be able to write a *Purgatorio* and *Paradiso* for Lovecraft's *Inferno*, incorporating the few hints and shards of them in his own writing, such as his protagonist's reaction to discovering the dead aliens in At the Mountains of Madness, the developing psychology of the protagonist of his "The Outsider," and so on. I don't know if I can, but I do know that it is there to be done, and anyone who can do it will be one of our true literary giants. But not *just* a literary giant. To write something like Dante's *Comedia* or Lovecraft's various works, you actually have to go on a long, agonizing inward journey into the country of which such works treat, the country of the Underworld, which can be hellish indeed. It takes somebody who has, as they say, "been there, done that" to do justice to it. So it will take writers who go all the way down to the bottom of Lovecraft's *Inferno*, embrace whatever they find at the center of it, make their climb down its body to the exit, and, finding themselves outside and beyond Hell at last, make the climb up whatever version of Mt. Purgatory they find there, to Heaven and the Stars, to truly finish and fulfill what Lovecraft began. And who is willing to try? Who wants to ride the nightmare all the way through the Lovecraftian *Inferno* to the bottom, embrace what is most loathsome in all the universe, and use it to climb out of that Hell and thereby begin the journey to Heaven? Furthermore, who is willing to find out what a truly alien Purgatory and Paradise would be like? For Lovecraft's inner world was alien, concerning the existence of beings so alien that any experience of them by normal humanity would almost certainly culminate in madness, death, or worse. So his Purgatory and Heaven would be just as alien to us as his Hell is - and what would that do to any who tried to explore them? What would his Heaven be like? Could we even conceive of it? When someone, somehow manages to write such things, we will be well on our way to the stars. Until then, we're stuck here. An odd thing about Lovecraft: he is one of the very few cases of someone whom I know instinctively is bigger than me, spiritually and otherwise. As it happens, he was a big man in life, physically speaking, but it isn't that. He had the spiritual strength and stature of a saint - a saint who, by the way, was a confirmed atheist and dedicated believer in materialistic science. I'm a rather arrogant little shit, myself, especially when it comes to intellectual pride and that sort of thing - but when it comes to Lovecraft, I can't not be humble. Why? Maybe it's because I sense that the man knew what he wrote of, that he paid a very high price for the ability to create what he did. He suffered from night-terrors all his life, and died far too young, and of horrible things, Bright's Disease and cancer of the colon. And in his tragically short life he opened the door to the stars for us. Now it's up to us to go through, to infinity and a real posterity for our species and our world.
2019.08.15 21:10 solo89 Hidden spa sex
2019.07.10 00:28 KatiaPokemon Hidden spa sex
I am trading my Shiny Volbeat with its hidden ability Prankster for some much needed Megastones. :) Here are the exact specifications : OT : Katia / ID : 19452 / Origin : Caught by myself in the Friend safari on my Pokemon X cartridge. Nature : Calm / Perfect IVs in SpA & SpD. Ability : Prankster. (HA) Sex : Male. Ball : Scuba Ball (Shiny Volbeat is blue) Level : 30 -- untouched. Can be renamed before trading.
I can only trade from a Pokemon X cartridge, unfortunately.
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