Live voyeur video

2020.11.26 07:24 12mint Live voyeur video

background story: matched on tinder. i met this man and we were dating. it was normal and fine at first. we did not even kiss on the first date. we both expressed interest in a serious relationship.
later, we became intimate through text. he expressed interest in pictures during sex and i was ok with it as long as it didn't have my face.
then, during our first time having sex, he recorded me w/o even asking. he overstepped my boundaries pretty hard, but i felt it was ok since it didn't have my face in it.
we kept dating, but it seemed more and more he was just interested in sex than me. which is totally fine. i had just wished he had communicated that earlier. he continued to want to record me during our future encounters, calling it voyeurism.
i consented to all of this, i felt that i could trust him for some odd reason. i think i was feeling emotional and manic and was happy to do so.
now, i live on total edge. i am afraid everyday i'll see those videos and pictures plastered everywhere. i get very anxious when im w/ my mother. every call she gets i'm panicked thinking it's about those pictures and videos.
i did not think i would be this paranoid. he reassured me each time that they are just between us, but just panic at the fact that the videos exist.
i don't know what to do. has anyone else ever felt this way? how do you guys who record feel safe?
also, i guess this might be important but there is a 14 yr age gap!
edit: yes i understand it is fap material but i just b paranoid
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2020.11.22 01:44 End-Public Live voyeur video

When NimCorp called me and asked me to go on this journey, I really had nothing better to do. I’d come across a website that I’d never heard of before, NimCorp LLC, which, like so many probably bootleg space programs, offered people to go off into space for a certain amount of time for a vacation, and see a new swath of the galaxy that the average person had not yet gotten around to seeing. All these little journeys were essentially space cruises, where for a couple thousand bucks you can go off into the Whateveritis Nebula for a week or two and see some pretty lights in order to forget about your boring desk job. A super middle class, family vacation thing to do. I wouldn’t normally be interested in this kind of stuff. It’s pretty much guaranteed that getting locked up in one of these “luxury” cabins for a week will get you exposed to countless childhood diseases, and the faint sheen of mucus will forever be present in the air. No thanks. Let alone the sounds of kids crying at night and hushed, awkward but still clearly audible parent sex from the next room.
So, essentially these space programs all have to be technically controlled by the U.S. government, since NASA is actually the only body that can regulate space travel as of now. What these companies basically do is buy ships from NASA and adhere to all of their safety regulations but just put their unique spin on the journey to sell seats. Pretty lucrative if you ask me.
Again, I would never in my right mind go on one of these things. I’m sure the sights would be beautiful and all, and I’d remember it for a lifetime, but I just don’t think it’s worth the risk of childhood contagion that is essentially guaranteed on one of these things.
But this journey was different. I saw a usual banner ad for NimCorp space exploration program, and really just wanted it to get out of my face at first. But then something caught my eye.
The ad read “Does space sound better to you than earth?” Pretty standard. “Why not leave earth behind?” Again, run of the mill. “What if space could be your new, permanent home?”
Now, this gave me pause. First of all, using the word “permanent” in any advertisement is far too harsh, and ignites feelings of entrapment, debt and responsibility. No one in their right mind is going to put this on an ad, because if a feeling of dreaminess and whimsy is not induced, then only self-endangering freaks are going to buy your product. (I have an associates in advertising)
Self-endangering freaks like me, that is.
I’m what someone might call a N.E.E.T. An acronym that stands for “Not in Employment, Education or Training” This description is technically true. I do have previous education, but I’m definitely not using it at the moment, and I’m not employed by a company or in any kind of training program. Basically, if I just existed every single day in this same room that I am in now, browsing the internet and eating cup ramen and ham and mayonnaise sandwiches, no one would even blink an eye. I don’t really have connections to the outside world. I am essentially an NPC on autopilot who is waiting for a real player to interact with me, so I can deliver my allotted portion of world-building. And to be honest, that hasn’t even happened yet. I’m just sitting here, burning gas and idling in the parking lot that is life.
Never met my parents. I heard that apparently, they were farmers or something, out in the rural areas somewhere. Something wistful and idyllic, similar to what these expensive space programs advertise. But I don’t really have any memory of them. Maybe just one, something about a warm fireplace, and a cold glass of milk, and a set of dirty shoes that were haphazardly thrown on the table. Just a glimpse of a different life, that seems to be more part of an adventurer’s video game than something I’ve actually experienced.
In any case though, most of what I recall is just growing up in the orphanage. Different orphanages actually, five of them, to be exact, over the span of fifteen years. No one there was particularly kind to me. Not necessarily mean either, just distant. I didn’t make any real friends and was basically just thrilled when I could get out of there, find a small place and self-isolate for the foreseeable future. Got a shitty degree online, from Olympus University. Have you heard of it? I certainly hadn’t.
So, back to this trip, right. It actually seemed like something cool to do. As soon as I saw the even slight possibility that I could bounce out of this world and travel on to another one, I was already invested. First, though, I had to make sure that this was actually real.
I clicked on the ad and it brought me to a website absent of awkward family photos and corny messages that advertised “getting away for a week” or other pointless escapades. The advertising for this program was pretty straightforward.
“Do you have minimal ties to this earthly realm and want to experience another? Have you always felt weighed down by gravity? Want a permanent change of scenery? Well, all of space is waiting!”
I looked around to find an “Apply Now” button and only found it down at the very bottom. Before I came across it, I had to read through a pretty detailed description of what this trip would entail. Essentially, if picked, I would be able to leave earth permanently, travel through space for the rest of my foreseeable life and stop at various locations around the galaxy in order to help terraform them and expand them. I’d basically become a farmer, ironically enough. Isn’t that the exact thing my parents allegedly were? To think I’d be almost returning to this idyllic lifestyle that I thought I could never access.
This was a service trip. By that, it meant that we, the passengers, would be doing a service to the human race and human expansion, and essentially bettering humanity, apparently. Because of this, the entire thing was completely free of charge.
This, for me, was the only way I could go anyways, because I generally decided to lead such a low-income lifestyle that not much extra cash was available. $200 for rent of this room, $200 for food, and an extra hundred for miscellaneous expenses each month. That was it. I lived under the radar. Most of the time I got this money from customers here and there who wanted my graphic design skills, mostly advertised on Craigslist or Fiverr. I could get a full-time job if I wanted to, but I can’t foresee how that would go. People are not my strong suit, nor is working under the supervision of anyone. I’m okay with subsistence living, as long as I have distractions.
More or less, I could not be more excited to yeet myself off of this earthly plane.
The screening process was rigorous. More than anything, this program demanded that applicants have no meaningful ties to others in their lives, so much so that no fuss would be made if those of us chosen would never return again. This screening process took the form of hundreds of multiple choice and short-answer questions, in which the application asked
“Do you have any regulars you talk to at grocery stores, banks, post offices or any other place that connections may be formed in a casual manner?” and “Are you part of any online forums or groups in which your presence is valued?” Now, for a N.E.E.T. like me, one may think that online forums are the only place that I would make meaningful relationships. And this is a pretty understandable assumption. But, in truth, I am mostly a voyeur. I’m mostly just a watcher who oversees their surroundings like an owl on a branch. Even digital conversations would have too much gravitas for me.
In truth, I was the perfect candidate for this program.
Now, I want to stop this for a second. I and most people agree that sending people away from earth with no chance to ever come back is pretty inhumane. I don’t think NimCorp actually planned on doing this. In reality, reading over the finer details of the trip, participants had the option to return to earth every five years, if they were so inclined, and from there, the give or take four-year-long mission would commence from whatever point in the galaxy they were, back to earth. This is honestly a good opt-out and I am glad that people have it. But, that being said, I had no intention of taking it.
After entering my personal data, pages and pages of digital questions, and a handful of paragraph-long short-answer questions that I had to answer, my application seemed to be complete. For once, I thought, I didn’t have to put down references from people that I didn’t know, to apply for opportunities that I would never get because of my lack of experience.
I read online that the process was extremely selective. They were looking for a very specific candidate, and it almost seemed that someone’s level of self-isolation was more important than even their mental fitness, the latter which is more handy for a space mission like this, I would think. However, those two attributes don’t exactly go hand in hand most of the time.
From there, I submitted the application and didn’t think about it all too much for a couple of weeks. It would be a nice change. Let’s put it that way. I never really thought of myself as very special, so I wasn’t sure if I would really stick out to them at all. But, perhaps that’s what they were looking for: an ordinary Joe who is so unnoticeable that he could move to anywhere in the galaxy and no one would blink an eye.
I was standing at my small kitchenette, weeks later, that I had crafted for myself, making an iced coffee out of powdered milk and some Maxwell House, when I saw an alert pop up on my computer. A small blue banner appeared that had the NimCorp logo and a message that read “Space Program Application Results”.
I immediately speed-walked over to my computer, leaving the iced coffee on top of the microwave. I’ll get it later. I clicked on the link that this pop-up provided and it took me to a letter, with official letterhead and everything, reading,
Dear Oliver,
We are pleased to announce that you have been selected as one of our pioneers to venture out in our service-oriented space program. In this trip, you will be terraforming new worlds, and exploring areas possibly never seen before by humankind. And, if you wish, will be able to work with us indefinitely.
Please notify our system of your decision to accept or decline this offer within the next two weeks. If you do not respond, it will be assumed that you are not interested.
Best of luck in making a decision!
Fondly,
NimCorp
I found the form to submit my response and accepted immediately. I would finally be able to get out of this shitty reality.
About a week before I was scheduled to take off is when the sightings started. Almost like trans-perceptive visions that cut back through my many years of tedium to a time that I could scarcely remember, my childhood. Or, at least, I assumed it was my childhood. There was no definitive way to tell. I suppose you could call them flashbacks. However, these were flashbacks that I could interact with. It’s as if I could use the knowledge that I have now and talk to those in these visions, in my much younger body.
I gotta say, it was strange, but maybe it’s the fact that I have lived the past five years in relative isolation that is bringing up these vivid, almost sensory-deprivation-esque visions. Who’s to say. In any case, it was probably a trick of the mind.
The first one I experienced was one of a relatively normal scene. I’m sitting on a couch, or something, in front of a blazing open fire. And I’m wringing my hands together as if to get warm from the cold. In fact, I could actually feel the warmth hitting me as I dreamt it. Beside me is a plump but curvy middle-aged woman, with blonde hair and a contagious smile. Could this be my mother? Who’s to say.
She asks me if I liked going into town with her. I don’t respond. Instead I ask, “Who are you?” And then the dream ends.
I go back to my original state of mind. Same dingy room, same glowing computer screen, and the same slight fluorescent glow of my makeshift kitchenette, which shines on at every hour of the day.
I did, however, have one person I did want to say goodbye to. Mrs. Rienzi. She was an old Italian lady who lived in the neighboring apartment, who kindly brought everyone in the apartment block their mail every day. Since the mailmen usually just dropped off all of our packages in bulk, we were tasked with going down into the parking lot and sorting it out. But, instead, this nice old lady did it for us, most likely out of senior-induced boredom.
I’d barely ever spoken a word to her. But, she did not mind that. We mostly just communicated in smiles and raised eyebrows, which, to be honest, was my preferred form of communication. Even though our relationship had formed out of a utility, I could not deny that I had a fondness for her and would miss her once I went out on my journey. What a sweet old woman she was.
I ventured outside of my apartment, cringed at the sunlight finally hitting me, and knocked on her door. It took a few minutes before anyone opened it. But the door eventually did open and this petit, round, wrinkling woman with deep gray hair answered. Mrs. Rienzi.
I barely knew how to speak. I didn’t exactly know what to say. It had been a while.
“I wanted to say…” I trail off. I can’t even really form a sentence.
She just looks at me and laughs.
“Oliviero, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“Everything is good?”
“Um, yeah.” I say again.
“Good.”
“I just wanted to say that I won’t be seeing you for a while,” I tell her.
“Oh, well, that’s ok, caro. I’ll always be here.”
“Yes, I know that. Trust me, it won’t be that long.”
She smiles at me again but does not look convinced.
“Are you sure everything is good?”
“Of course,” I convince her.
“Good.”
We finish our exchange and she slowly closes the door.
I suddenly have the urge to fight back tears, and I don’t know why.
The day of lift-off, I am ordered to bring a small duffel of my things and any keepsakes that I will want to remind me of earth while on this journey. I don’t bring any at all. We are ordered to leave all phones and other communication devices at home, because obviously they will be useless in space. There are special long-range satellites on the ship that will let us communicate via text and video message once we lift off, and we will each, apparently, be allotted one of these. Funnily enough, I don’t foresee using it much. If anything, I’ll use it just to browse the internet, which is, luckily, also available on this flight.
I arrive with no space suit. I am in a worn-out textured long-sleeve shirt and a pair of embarrassingly cheap khakis. It doesn’t really matter. We were told that we would be taught all we needed to know about space travel while on the flight, so there is no need to worry.
There’s only five of us. A handful of individuals who you could tell had not been in the sun much over the past couple years. A burly Indian man, a small brunette white girl who always looks down, a pasty and awkward chubby redheaded guy who always looks sideways, me, and Juliana, a woman who is so beautiful that I can’t really place it. She, from what I could tell, looked completely socially adept, and had no reason to be here, leaving her friends and family behind. I couldn’t crack it, at first.
We take off with no large hesitation. I’d actually flown once before. I think it was for a school trip or something. The janky thing is, we didn’t even get to see any cool nebulas or anything. It was just a free school trip about what it is like to take off into space, just so we knew what to expect in the future. It was cool, I guess.
There was the same, distinct, rumbling feeling, as the engines churned beneath me, and then this sudden sense of a loss of presence, as if frozen in time while soaring through the air, about to hit the ground. But I never do.
All five of us are sitting in these heavily strapped in seats that look almost like roller coaster seats. They are a bit ridiculous looking, but I am not about to risk second-guessing them while hurtling into space. I almost think I can see Juliana smiling at me, but I don’t know if I really did or not.
The journey continues, and once we get into a stable cruising capacity, we are instructed by our AI mentor to take the harnesses off. We easily click out of them. We are told that apparently it will be a few months before we reach the first terraforming station, which we will be at for about two years before we move onto the next one. Seems good to me. I think I can chill for two months just browsing the web in space. That sounds pretty good.
People on the ship are already making awkward, strange attempts to communicate, which are semi-working. We seem to be constructing a plan to have some sort of community dinner in an hour. That sounds good to me. I suppose if I am going to be living with these people for at least five years, I will have to make acquaintance with them eventually. Might as well start. I don’t have to even talk to do this. I can just be the silent friend.
We are only really given powder packets to eat for most of this initial journey. Lots of dehydrated meats, veggies, snacks, trail mix packets and even ice creams. I’ve lived on worse. I think I’ll deal.
I’m shown to my personal sleeping pod/private room by the AI helper system present throughout the ship. The hydraulics in the doors slide open, and a clean and neat dorm room with a small twin bed, a private bathroom and a little working desk with one of those computers specially equipped for inter-planetary messaging is present. It looks good enough. With all the self-isolating I like to get up to, at least the place I’ll be doing it in won’t be rickety as hell. It is small though. This is probably good, though, because it means it will force me to interact with people more.
I lay my small bag on the bed and plop down next to it. I tell the AI, “close doors” and she closes the door. This whole dinner thing is in an hour, so I think I’ll just chill until then.
Maybe I could message someone on earth? I think to myself. But then I realize I don’t have anyone to message on earth. I wonder if good old Mrs. Rienzi even knows how to use a computer. If she does, there’s no way I’ll be able to get a hold of her email address.
This bed is pretty comfy, though. Maybe a few minutes’ nap won’t hurt.
Minutes after feeling sleepy, I am suddenly back in front of that fire, with the blonde woman, smiling at me. It’s as if I’ve simply picked up where I left off.
“‘Who are you?’” she says, “what do you mean, ‘who are you?’ I’m your mommy!”
“My what?”
“Oh silly, you must be tired from walking around so much!”
I don’t respond. She gets up off of her crate and strolls toward me. She suddenly grabs me by the hips and picks up my little body, so light in this delusion. I’m all of a sudden slung over her shoulder and I’m being carried into another room. I don’t mind the sensation of her entire shoulder bouncing every time she takes a step. We are then in a very old kitchen, with a fridge that is still separate from the wall. I can almost hear the thing buzzing.
“Oh Ollie,” she says, “you’re always one to forget stuff, aren’t you?”
I wake up suddenly, my breath scraping to get back into my throat. I feel sweaty and jittery, even though the AC in this place is cranked up to the max. Why do we even need AC in space anyway? Isn’t it supposed to be cold?
I regain my bearings and sit up. It happened again. I have to get out of this little cubby.
An hour later I emerge, forcing myself to go to the dinner thing to socialize with these other anti-social types.
The dinner, rehydrated, actually looks half decent. There are full pork steaks and a salad of greens that only appear a little bit soggy. Everyone is gathered around this table that is bolted to the floor, and all staring into their laps. I can imagine why. What else would you expect putting a room full of NEET’s together. I take my place at the table and begin to stare into my own lap as well. The only person still looking up is Juliana, who has this fake social smile that you know she is putting on just to be nice. She’s also the only one who has decided to not help herself to the food. She’s munching on some weird protein bar instead.
“So, what is everyone’s names?” she asks hollowly.
“Ollie” I say, without even knowing where that came from.
“Rad, I’m Juliana. You from around Cape Canaveral?”
“No,” I say, “Atlanta.”
“Nice. I’m from Oregon actually. Had to take a plane to the landing site.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Sometimes. Lots of wood smoke there.”
For a second the image of the raging fire comes back to me again.
“So, you sure you’re up for this?” I say, completely amazed with myself.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” she responds.
“I don’t know. You don’t seem like you...never mind”
“Like I’d want to even escape from society?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The petite white girl with the brown hair suddenly speaks. Her voice is wispy and almost sounds hollow, like wind echoing through a hallway.
“Candace. That’s me.”
“Hi Candace.” says Juliana.
“Hi Candace,” I say back, completely smitten and unable to tell why I am even doing this.
“Does anyone else really love the idea of terraforming?” says Candace.
“Not particularly,” says the pudgy Indian guy.
“It’s like my life’s passion,” says Candace, “I’ve tested it in smaller enclosed biomes millions of times, but I’d do anything just to experience the real thing. This is amazing.”
“That’s cool,” says Juliana.
“I researched that if you plant trees in similar ratios to species available in the wild, it’s easier to sustain life because that ratio is proven to work. It’s fascinating”
It was cool to see someone so passionate about something.
“I’m here to be fat and have no one judge me.” says the Indian guy, “Rav, by the way.”
“Hi Rav,” says Juliana, almost like she is a teacher learning everyone’s names and repeating them back to her in order to remember them better.
The redhead still hasn’t spoken. Everyone kind of turns to him expecting him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just breaks a smile for a millisecond.
When the dinner is over. I return to my room, feeling heavy, full and almost a little nauseous. Sleep can’t come soon enough.
It’s only at what I think is around three am that I am struck awake.
“Hey,” I hear a voice, “It’s me Juliana. Want to hang out?”
Hang out? I’d never heard of such a thing. Much less with a girl.
“What do you mean? It’s like 3 in the morning.”
“Yeah, so what, everyone’s asleep now.”
“Yeah that’s the point.”
Nonetheless I was already getting ready, rising out of bed and putting on real pajama pants instead of just my briefs. I stare briefly into the small personal mirror given to us on the wall and check to make sure my hair isn’t completely wild. I look okay, actually, just a little rough around the edges.
“Come on, Ollie.”
“Okay, ready,” I say as I press the button to open my door.
“I snuck in some liquor.”
“Baller,” I say, trying to keep up with the slang of the day, to impress her or something.
“Have you ever drank before?”
“No.” I say.
“Well, no pressure, but you might want to try it now that we will be stuck in a glorified metal box for two months together.”
“Word.”
“I brought some of these protein bars as well. They’re all I eat. I’m like addicted to them. You want one?”
“No thanks”
“So, what’s Atlanta like anyway?”
“It’s hot. I don’t go out much, actually.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind. So, what are you doing here anyway? Why go on this journey?”
“I don’t know,” I lie, “something new?”
“So, this is easier than just...taking up table tennis or something?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
We sit in a little nook lined with bean bag chairs meant for “hanging out”, something that, ironically, most of us would not be planning to do much of. She unscrews the cap of what looks to be Jack Daniels and pours two portions of it into some paper cups.
“So,” I ask, “Why are you here?”
“Well, I wasn’t in the best place back at home. A couple people didn’t want me alive. You know, the usual.”
“Jesus.”
“This was easier.”
“Well, are you ever going to go back?”
“Hopefully not. I don’t think so at least.”
“Well, maybe you should,” I say, not really sure why, “I mean, you are good looking, you have actual social skills. Why would you give that all up?”
“Wish I didn’t have to,” she said.
We talked about various things back on earth for a while and just shot the shit, so to speak. I didn’t dare take more than a sip of the liquor. It certainly burned. I almost immediately felt my face relax after that one sip, which surprised me.
“So, do you actually want to do terraforming?” I ask.
“It doesn’t sound half bad. Planting trees all day.”
“Yeah, I could do that.”
I get up from the beanbag chair, realizing that I am suddenly getting so tired that I am about to fall over.
“Listen, I have to go,” I say, “I’m about to collapse.”
“No worries,” she replies.
I reach out my hand to help her to her feet, and for some reason she takes it. I don’t think I’ve even touched the hand of a girl before, besides Mrs. Rienzi. She saunters off to bed in the opposite direction, almost gliding across the cold, metal floors in her too-long pajama pants and socks.
I collapse in my room and the door swings closed. I barely manage to get the covers up from under me and actually wrapped over my body, before I am out cold. I actually managed to down that entire thing of whiskey, even though it was just a shot, and it is definitely part of why I am already unconscious. For a moment I feel like I am floating, and like my mind is expanding into a field of darkness and stars. It’s like what they say about the universe expanding: it’s forever happening but we are just not aware of it. For a moment, I almost feel myself growing.
All of a sudden, I am back at the fireplace, with the blonde lady cupping her hand over my shoulder and patting my head. I curl up next to her instinctually, not exactly sure what I am doing. She laughs. “Oh Ollie, you must be tired after going into town and raking all of those leaves. Best thing to do after a hard day’s work is to just rest for a while.”
For a moment I just want to rest in the comfort of her arms, and not let go, not move, not question. But I have to question this. This is the third time I have had this exact dream, and it doesn’t seem to be even repeating, it just continues on from where it left off, like some weird TV show.
“Where are we?”
“Oh, come on, silly, you’re at home.”
“Where is that? What town, state, country?”
“Oh, well, if you must know, silly, you’re in Pleasantville, Oregon, in the United States of America. Are you happy now?”
“Yes, actually.”
I shock myself awake. Pleasantville Oregon. What if it’s a real place? What if this weird dream is telling me something?
Without even thinking I immediately scramble out of bed and start up my computer. I type Pleasantville, Oregon into the search bar, and then I see it. It’s a real place. A little town in central Oregon near Bend. I begin to get the unmistakable feeling of shock and horror in my stomach, that feeling of morbid curiosity where you feel you must go on and investigate further but you are also petrified of what you’ll find. The feeling you get when opening college acceptance letters, and the feeling when your father comes back from war for the first time (or so I’m told). Hesitating but determined, I type my last name into the search bar. According to everyone I talked to, I kept my original last name: Lewis. It’s a pretty common last name. I have tried to search for any record of who my parents might be, and where they lived, but I couldn’t find any, and I couldn’t remember anything from when I was apparently with them. I always knew someone knew more about my parents. Someone had to have met them, but I don’t even remember the names of the staff at the first orphanage I was placed at, or even the name of the place itself.
I type in Lewis, Pleasantville, Oregon.
It’s also a common first name, so I am skeptical about how much I will actually find.
The first few results in the search window are about some guy named Lewis McGregor, who grew the county’s biggest pumpkin or something. That’s definitely not what I am looking for. I scroll down further and then happen upon something that could be a clue. There is LinkedIn Profile of a woman named Andrea Lewis. It says she is a librarian. I click on the link and it brings me to a photo I cannot look away from. It’s her. It’s the woman from my dream. She looks like she’s twenty some odd years older than how I saw her. But that is her. Her hair has turned gray, her face carries lines now, but her smile remains the same. Sad and deep.
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2020.11.22 01:29 End-Public Live voyeur video

When NimCorp called me and asked me to go on this journey, I really had nothing better to do. I’d come across a website that I’d never heard of before, NimCorp LLC, which, like so many probably bootleg space programs, offered people to go off into space for a certain amount of time for a vacation, and see a new swath of the galaxy that the average person had not yet gotten around to seeing. All these little journeys were essentially space cruises, where for a couple thousand bucks you can go off into the Whateveritis Nebula for a week or two and see some pretty lights in order to forget about your boring desk job. A super middle class, family vacation thing to do. I wouldn’t normally be interested in this kind of stuff. It’s pretty much guaranteed that getting locked up in one of these “luxury” cabins for a week will get you exposed to countless childhood diseases, and the faint sheen of mucus will forever be present in the air. No thanks. Let alone the sounds of kids crying at night and hushed, awkward but still clearly audible parent sex from the next room.
So, essentially these space programs all have to be technically controlled by the U.S. government, since NASA is actually the only body that can regulate space travel as of now. What these companies basically do is buy ships from NASA and adhere to all of their safety regulations but just put their unique spin on the journey to sell seats. Pretty lucrative if you ask me.
Again, I would never in my right mind go on one of these things. I’m sure the sights would be beautiful and all, and I’d remember it for a lifetime, but I just don’t think it’s worth the risk of childhood contagion that is essentially guaranteed on one of these things.
But this journey was different. I saw a usual banner ad for NimCorp space exploration program, and really just wanted it to get out of my face at first. But then something caught my eye.
The ad read “Does space sound better to you than earth?” Pretty standard. “Why not leave earth behind?” Again, run of the mill. “What if space could be your new, permanent home?”
Now, this gave me pause. First of all, using the word “permanent” in any advertisement is far too harsh, and ignites feelings of entrapment, debt and responsibility. No one in their right mind is going to put this on an ad, because if a feeling of dreaminess and whimsy is not induced, then only self-endangering freaks are going to buy your product. (I have an associates in advertising)
Self-endangering freaks like me, that is.
I’m what someone might call a N.E.E.T. An acronym that stands for “Not in Employment, Education or Training” This description is technically true. I do have previous education, but I’m definitely not using it at the moment, and I’m not employed by a company or in any kind of training program. Basically, if I just existed every single day in this same room that I am in now, browsing the internet and eating cup ramen and ham and mayonnaise sandwiches, no one would even blink an eye. I don’t really have connections to the outside world. I am essentially an NPC on autopilot who is waiting for a real player to interact with me, so I can deliver my allotted portion of world-building. And to be honest, that hasn’t even happened yet. I’m just sitting here, burning gas and idling in the parking lot that is life.
Never met my parents. I heard that apparently, they were farmers or something, out in the rural areas somewhere. Something wistful and idyllic, similar to what these expensive space programs advertise. But I don’t really have any memory of them. Maybe just one, something about a warm fireplace, and a cold glass of milk, and a set of dirty shoes that were haphazardly thrown on the table. Just a glimpse of a different life, that seems to be more part of an adventurer’s video game than something I’ve actually experienced.
In any case though, most of what I recall is just growing up in the orphanage. Different orphanages actually, five of them, to be exact, over the span of fifteen years. No one there was particularly kind to me. Not necessarily mean either, just distant. I didn’t make any real friends and was basically just thrilled when I could get out of there, find a small place and self-isolate for the foreseeable future. Got a shitty degree online, from Olympus University. Have you heard of it? I certainly hadn’t.
So, back to this trip, right. It actually seemed like something cool to do. As soon as I saw the even slight possibility that I could bounce out of this world and travel on to another one, I was already invested. First, though, I had to make sure that this was actually real.
I clicked on the ad and it brought me to a website absent of awkward family photos and corny messages that advertised “getting away for a week” or other pointless escapades. The advertising for this program was pretty straightforward.
“Do you have minimal ties to this earthly realm and want to experience another? Have you always felt weighed down by gravity? Want a permanent change of scenery? Well, all of space is waiting!”
I looked around to find an “Apply Now” button and only found it down at the very bottom. Before I came across it, I had to read through a pretty detailed description of what this trip would entail. Essentially, if picked, I would be able to leave earth permanently, travel through space for the rest of my foreseeable life and stop at various locations around the galaxy in order to help terraform them and expand them. I’d basically become a farmer, ironically enough. Isn’t that the exact thing my parents allegedly were? To think I’d be almost returning to this idyllic lifestyle that I thought I could never access.
This was a service trip. By that, it meant that we, the passengers, would be doing a service to the human race and human expansion, and essentially bettering humanity, apparently. Because of this, the entire thing was completely free of charge.
This, for me, was the only way I could go anyways, because I generally decided to lead such a low-income lifestyle that not much extra cash was available. $200 for rent of this room, $200 for food, and an extra hundred for miscellaneous expenses each month. That was it. I lived under the radar. Most of the time I got this money from customers here and there who wanted my graphic design skills, mostly advertised on Craigslist or Fiverr. I could get a full-time job if I wanted to, but I can’t foresee how that would go. People are not my strong suit, nor is working under the supervision of anyone. I’m okay with subsistence living, as long as I have distractions.
More or less, I could not be more excited to yeet myself off of this earthly plane.
The screening process was rigorous. More than anything, this program demanded that applicants have no meaningful ties to others in their lives, so much so that no fuss would be made if those of us chosen would never return again. This screening process took the form of hundreds of multiple choice and short-answer questions, in which the application asked
“Do you have any regulars you talk to at grocery stores, banks, post offices or any other place that connections may be formed in a casual manner?” and “Are you part of any online forums or groups in which your presence is valued?” Now, for a N.E.E.T. like me, one may think that online forums are the only place that I would make meaningful relationships. And this is a pretty understandable assumption. But, in truth, I am mostly a voyeur. I’m mostly just a watcher who oversees their surroundings like an owl on a branch. Even digital conversations would have too much gravitas for me.
In truth, I was the perfect candidate for this program.
Now, I want to stop this for a second. I and most people agree that sending people away from earth with no chance to ever come back is pretty inhumane. I don’t think NimCorp actually planned on doing this. In reality, reading over the finer details of the trip, participants had the option to return to earth every five years, if they were so inclined, and from there, the give or take four-year-long mission would commence from whatever point in the galaxy they were, back to earth. This is honestly a good opt-out and I am glad that people have it. But, that being said, I had no intention of taking it.
After entering my personal data, pages and pages of digital questions, and a handful of paragraph-long short-answer questions that I had to answer, my application seemed to be complete. For once, I thought, I didn’t have to put down references from people that I didn’t know, to apply for opportunities that I would never get because of my lack of experience.
I read online that the process was extremely selective. They were looking for a very specific candidate, and it almost seemed that someone’s level of self-isolation was more important than even their mental fitness, the latter which is more handy for a space mission like this, I would think. However, those two attributes don’t exactly go hand in hand most of the time.
From there, I submitted the application and didn’t think about it all too much for a couple of weeks. It would be a nice change. Let’s put it that way. I never really thought of myself as very special, so I wasn’t sure if I would really stick out to them at all. But, perhaps that’s what they were looking for: an ordinary Joe who is so unnoticeable that he could move to anywhere in the galaxy and no one would blink an eye.
I was standing at my small kitchenette, weeks later, that I had crafted for myself, making an iced coffee out of powdered milk and some Maxwell House, when I saw an alert pop up on my computer. A small blue banner appeared that had the NimCorp logo and a message that read “Space Program Application Results”.
I immediately speed-walked over to my computer, leaving the iced coffee on top of the microwave. I’ll get it later. I clicked on the link that this pop-up provided and it took me to a letter, with official letterhead and everything, reading,
Dear Oliver,
We are pleased to announce that you have been selected as one of our pioneers to venture out in our service-oriented space program. In this trip, you will be terraforming new worlds, and exploring areas possibly never seen before by humankind. And, if you wish, will be able to work with us indefinitely.
Please notify our system of your decision to accept or decline this offer within the next two weeks. If you do not respond, it will be assumed that you are not interested.
Best of luck in making a decision!
Fondly,
NimCorp
I found the form to submit my response and accepted immediately. I would finally be able to get out of this shitty reality.
About a week before I was scheduled to take off is when the sightings started. Almost like trans-perceptive visions that cut back through my many years of tedium to a time that I could scarcely remember, my childhood. Or, at least, I assumed it was my childhood. There was no definitive way to tell. I suppose you could call them flashbacks. However, these were flashbacks that I could interact with. It’s as if I could use the knowledge that I have now and talk to those in these visions, in my much younger body.
I gotta say, it was strange, but maybe it’s the fact that I have lived the past five years in relative isolation that is bringing up these vivid, almost sensory-deprivation-esque visions. Who’s to say. In any case, it was probably a trick of the mind.
The first one I experienced was one of a relatively normal scene. I’m sitting on a couch, or something, in front of a blazing open fire. And I’m wringing my hands together as if to get warm from the cold. In fact, I could actually feel the warmth hitting me as I dreamt it. Beside me is a plump but curvy middle-aged woman, with blonde hair and a contagious smile. Could this be my mother? Who’s to say.
She asks me if I liked going into town with her. I don’t respond. Instead I ask, “Who are you?” And then the dream ends.
I go back to my original state of mind. Same dingy room, same glowing computer screen, and the same slight fluorescent glow of my makeshift kitchenette, which shines on at every hour of the day.
I did, however, have one person I did want to say goodbye to. Mrs. Rienzi. She was an old Italian lady who lived in the neighboring apartment, who kindly brought everyone in the apartment block their mail every day. Since the mailmen usually just dropped off all of our packages in bulk, we were tasked with going down into the parking lot and sorting it out. But, instead, this nice old lady did it for us, most likely out of senior-induced boredom.
I’d barely ever spoken a word to her. But, she did not mind that. We mostly just communicated in smiles and raised eyebrows, which, to be honest, was my preferred form of communication. Even though our relationship had formed out of a utility, I could not deny that I had a fondness for her and would miss her once I went out on my journey. What a sweet old woman she was.
I ventured outside of my apartment, cringed at the sunlight finally hitting me, and knocked on her door. It took a few minutes before anyone opened it. But the door eventually did open and this petit, round, wrinkling woman with deep gray hair answered. Mrs. Rienzi.
I barely knew how to speak. I didn’t exactly know what to say. It had been a while.
“I wanted to say…” I trail off. I can’t even really form a sentence.
She just looks at me and laughs.
“Oliviero, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“Everything is good?”
“Um, yeah.” I say again.
“Good.”
“I just wanted to say that I won’t be seeing you for a while,” I tell her.
“Oh, well, that’s ok, caro. I’ll always be here.”
“Yes, I know that. Trust me, it won’t be that long.”
She smiles at me again but does not look convinced.
“Are you sure everything is good?”
“Of course,” I convince her.
“Good.”
We finish our exchange and she slowly closes the door.
I suddenly have the urge to fight back tears, and I don’t know why.
The day of lift-off, I am ordered to bring a small duffel of my things and any keepsakes that I will want to remind me of earth while on this journey. I don’t bring any at all. We are ordered to leave all phones and other communication devices at home, because obviously they will be useless in space. There are special long-range satellites on the ship that will let us communicate via text and video message once we lift off, and we will each, apparently, be allotted one of these. Funnily enough, I don’t foresee using it much. If anything, I’ll use it just to browse the internet, which is, luckily, also available on this flight.
I arrive with no space suit. I am in a worn-out textured long-sleeve shirt and a pair of embarrassingly cheap khakis. It doesn’t really matter. We were told that we would be taught all we needed to know about space travel while on the flight, so there is no need to worry.
There’s only five of us. A handful of individuals who you could tell had not been in the sun much over the past couple years. A burly Indian man, a small brunette white girl who always looks down, a pasty and awkward chubby redheaded guy who always looks sideways, me, and Juliana, a woman who is so beautiful that I can’t really place it. She, from what I could tell, looked completely socially adept, and had no reason to be here, leaving her friends and family behind. I couldn’t crack it, at first.
We take off with no large hesitation. I’d actually flown once before. I think it was for a school trip or something. The janky thing is, we didn’t even get to see any cool nebulas or anything. It was just a free school trip about what it is like to take off into space, just so we knew what to expect in the future. It was cool, I guess.
There was the same, distinct, rumbling feeling, as the engines churned beneath me, and then this sudden sense of a loss of presence, as if frozen in time while soaring through the air, about to hit the ground. But I never do.
All five of us are sitting in these heavily strapped in seats that look almost like roller coaster seats. They are a bit ridiculous looking, but I am not about to risk second-guessing them while hurtling into space. I almost think I can see Juliana smiling at me, but I don’t know if I really did or not.
The journey continues, and once we get into a stable cruising capacity, we are instructed by our AI mentor to take the harnesses off. We easily click out of them. We are told that apparently it will be a few months before we reach the first terraforming station, which we will be at for about two years before we move onto the next one. Seems good to me. I think I can chill for two months just browsing the web in space. That sounds pretty good.
People on the ship are already making awkward, strange attempts to communicate, which are semi-working. We seem to be constructing a plan to have some sort of community dinner in an hour. That sounds good to me. I suppose if I am going to be living with these people for at least five years, I will have to make acquaintance with them eventually. Might as well start. I don’t have to even talk to do this. I can just be the silent friend.
We are only really given powder packets to eat for most of this initial journey. Lots of dehydrated meats, veggies, snacks, trail mix packets and even ice creams. I’ve lived on worse. I think I’ll deal.
I’m shown to my personal sleeping pod/private room by the AI helper system present throughout the ship. The hydraulics in the doors slide open, and a clean and neat dorm room with a small twin bed, a private bathroom and a little working desk with one of those computers specially equipped for inter-planetary messaging is present. It looks good enough. With all the self-isolating I like to get up to, at least the place I’ll be doing it in won’t be rickety as hell. It is small though. This is probably good, though, because it means it will force me to interact with people more.
I lay my small bag on the bed and plop down next to it. I tell the AI, “close doors” and she closes the door. This whole dinner thing is in an hour, so I think I’ll just chill until then.
Maybe I could message someone on earth? I think to myself. But then I realize I don’t have anyone to message on earth. I wonder if good old Mrs. Rienzi even knows how to use a computer. If she does, there’s no way I’ll be able to get a hold of her email address.
This bed is pretty comfy, though. Maybe a few minutes’ nap won’t hurt.
Minutes after feeling sleepy, I am suddenly back in front of that fire, with the blonde woman, smiling at me. It’s as if I’ve simply picked up where I left off.
“‘Who are you?’” she says, “what do you mean, ‘who are you?’ I’m your mommy!”
“My what?”
“Oh silly, you must be tired from walking around so much!”
I don’t respond. She gets up off of her crate and strolls toward me. She suddenly grabs me by the hips and picks up my little body, so light in this delusion. I’m all of a sudden slung over her shoulder and I’m being carried into another room. I don’t mind the sensation of her entire shoulder bouncing every time she takes a step. We are then in a very old kitchen, with a fridge that is still separate from the wall. I can almost hear the thing buzzing.
“Oh Ollie,” she says, “you’re always one to forget stuff, aren’t you?”
I wake up suddenly, my breath scraping to get back into my throat. I feel sweaty and jittery, even though the AC in this place is cranked up to the max. Why do we even need AC in space anyway? Isn’t it supposed to be cold?
I regain my bearings and sit up. It happened again. I have to get out of this little cubby.
An hour later I emerge, forcing myself to go to the dinner thing to socialize with these other anti-social types.
The dinner, rehydrated, actually looks half decent. There are full pork steaks and a salad of greens that only appear a little bit soggy. Everyone is gathered around this table that is bolted to the floor, and all staring into their laps. I can imagine why. What else would you expect putting a room full of NEET’s together. I take my place at the table and begin to stare into my own lap as well. The only person still looking up is Juliana, who has this fake social smile that you know she is putting on just to be nice. She’s also the only one who has decided to not help herself to the food. She’s munching on some weird protein bar instead.
“So, what is everyone’s names?” she asks hollowly.
“Ollie” I say, without even knowing where that came from.
“Rad, I’m Juliana. You from around Cape Canaveral?”
“No,” I say, “Atlanta.”
“Nice. I’m from Oregon actually. Had to take a plane to the landing site.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Sometimes. Lots of wood smoke there.”
For a second the image of the raging fire comes back to me again.
“So, you sure you’re up for this?” I say, completely amazed with myself.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” she responds.
“I don’t know. You don’t seem like you...never mind”
“Like I’d want to even escape from society?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The petite white girl with the brown hair suddenly speaks. Her voice is wispy and almost sounds hollow, like wind echoing through a hallway.
“Candace. That’s me.”
“Hi Candace.” says Juliana.
“Hi Candace,” I say back, completely smitten and unable to tell why I am even doing this.
“Does anyone else really love the idea of terraforming?” says Candace.
“Not particularly,” says the pudgy Indian guy.
“It’s like my life’s passion,” says Candace, “I’ve tested it in smaller enclosed biomes millions of times, but I’d do anything just to experience the real thing. This is amazing.”
“That’s cool,” says Juliana.
“I researched that if you plant trees in similar ratios to species available in the wild, it’s easier to sustain life because that ratio is proven to work. It’s fascinating”
It was cool to see someone so passionate about something.
“I’m here to be fat and have no one judge me.” says the Indian guy, “Rav, by the way.”
“Hi Rav,” says Juliana, almost like she is a teacher learning everyone’s names and repeating them back to her in order to remember them better.
The redhead still hasn’t spoken. Everyone kind of turns to him expecting him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just breaks a smile for a millisecond.
When the dinner is over. I return to my room, feeling heavy, full and almost a little nauseous. Sleep can’t come soon enough.
It’s only at what I think is around three am that I am struck awake.
“Hey,” I hear a voice, “It’s me Juliana. Want to hang out?”
Hang out? I’d never heard of such a thing. Much less with a girl.
“What do you mean? It’s like 3 in the morning.”
“Yeah, so what, everyone’s asleep now.”
“Yeah that’s the point.”
Nonetheless I was already getting ready, rising out of bed and putting on real pajama pants instead of just my briefs. I stare briefly into the small personal mirror given to us on the wall and check to make sure my hair isn’t completely wild. I look okay, actually, just a little rough around the edges.
“Come on, Ollie.”
“Okay, ready,” I say as I press the button to open my door.
“I snuck in some liquor.”
“Baller,” I say, trying to keep up with the slang of the day, to impress her or something.
“Have you ever drank before?”
“No.” I say.
“Well, no pressure, but you might want to try it now that we will be stuck in a glorified metal box for two months together.”
“Word.”
“I brought some of these protein bars as well. They’re all I eat. I’m like addicted to them. You want one?”
“No thanks”
“So, what’s Atlanta like anyway?”
“It’s hot. I don’t go out much, actually.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind. So, what are you doing here anyway? Why go on this journey?”
“I don’t know,” I lie, “something new?”
“So, this is easier than just...taking up table tennis or something?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
We sit in a little nook lined with bean bag chairs meant for “hanging out”, something that, ironically, most of us would not be planning to do much of. She unscrews the cap of what looks to be Jack Daniels and pours two portions of it into some paper cups.
“So,” I ask, “Why are you here?”
“Well, I wasn’t in the best place back at home. A couple people didn’t want me alive. You know, the usual.”
“Jesus.”
“This was easier.”
“Well, are you ever going to go back?”
“Hopefully not. I don’t think so at least.”
“Well, maybe you should,” I say, not really sure why, “I mean, you are good looking, you have actual social skills. Why would you give that all up?”
“Wish I didn’t have to,” she said.
We talked about various things back on earth for a while and just shot the shit, so to speak. I didn’t dare take more than a sip of the liquor. It certainly burned. I almost immediately felt my face relax after that one sip, which surprised me.
“So, do you actually want to do terraforming?” I ask.
“It doesn’t sound half bad. Planting trees all day.”
“Yeah, I could do that.”
I get up from the beanbag chair, realizing that I am suddenly getting so tired that I am about to fall over.
“Listen, I have to go,” I say, “I’m about to collapse.”
“No worries,” she replies.
I reach out my hand to help her to her feet, and for some reason she takes it. I don’t think I’ve even touched the hand of a girl before, besides Mrs. Rienzi. She saunters off to bed in the opposite direction, almost gliding across the cold, metal floors in her too-long pajama pants and socks.
I collapse in my room and the door swings closed. I barely manage to get the covers up from under me and actually wrapped over my body, before I am out cold. I actually managed to down that entire thing of whiskey, even though it was just a shot, and it is definitely part of why I am already unconscious. For a moment I feel like I am floating, and like my mind is expanding into a field of darkness and stars. It’s like what they say about the universe expanding: it’s forever happening but we are just not aware of it. For a moment, I almost feel myself growing.
All of a sudden, I am back at the fireplace, with the blonde lady cupping her hand over my shoulder and patting my head. I curl up next to her instinctually, not exactly sure what I am doing. She laughs. “Oh Ollie, you must be tired after going into town and raking all of those leaves. Best thing to do after a hard day’s work is to just rest for a while.”
For a moment I just want to rest in the comfort of her arms, and not let go, not move, not question. But I have to question this. This is the third time I have had this exact dream, and it doesn’t seem to be even repeating, it just continues on from where it left off, like some weird TV show.
“Where are we?”
“Oh, come on, silly, you’re at home.”
“Where is that? What town, state, country?”
“Oh, well, if you must know, silly, you’re in Pleasantville, Oregon, in the United States of America. Are you happy now?”
“Yes, actually.”
I shock myself awake. Pleasantville Oregon. What if it’s a real place? What if this weird dream is telling me something?
Without even thinking I immediately scramble out of bed and start up my computer. I type Pleasantville, Oregon into the search bar, and then I see it. It’s a real place. A little town in central Oregon near Bend. I begin to get the unmistakable feeling of shock and horror in my stomach, that feeling of morbid curiosity where you feel you must go on and investigate further but you are also petrified of what you’ll find. The feeling you get when opening college acceptance letters, and the feeling when your father comes back from war for the first time (or so I’m told). Hesitating but determined, I type my last name into the search bar. According to everyone I talked to, I kept my original last name: Lewis. It’s a pretty common last name. I have tried to search for any record of who my parents might be, and where they lived, but I couldn’t find any, and I couldn’t remember anything from when I was apparently with them. I always knew someone knew more about my parents. Someone had to have met them, but I don’t even remember the names of the staff at the first orphanage I was placed at, or even the name of the place itself.
I type in Lewis, Pleasantville, Oregon.
It’s also a common first name, so I am skeptical about how much I will actually find.
The first few results in the search window are about some guy named Lewis McGregor, who grew the county’s biggest pumpkin or something. That’s definitely not what I am looking for. I scroll down further and then happen upon something that could be a clue. There is LinkedIn Profile of a woman named Andrea Lewis. It says she is a librarian. I click on the link and it brings me to a photo I cannot look away from. It’s her. It’s the woman from my dream. She looks like she’s twenty some odd years older than how I saw her. But that is her. Her hair has turned gray, her face carries lines now, but her smile remains the same. Sad and deep.
Here is Part 2.
submitted by End-Public to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.11.21 21:58 jisawkward Subreddits for Voyeurism?

I am looking for any subreddits to advertise for my consensual voyeurism videos.
I have started a video series on my Onlyfans that is "Spying on your gym crush" and making fitness "voyeur" videos of myself (setting up the camera far away to make it looking like someone is recording me/ recording at high angles live surveillance.) My niche is fitness babe/personal trainer and I really enjoy making the far away voyeur content. But I am having trouble finding subreddits to advertise on. I know it's not a huge fetish/niche but I did expect a few more subreddits with how I've gotten some traffic from my pornhub videos.
Anyone have any suggestions for subreddits/ sites?
submitted by jisawkward to CamGirlProblems [link] [comments]


2020.10.13 12:12 Least_Flounder My uncle believes he's been spied on at night by a voyeur piloting a drone. What are my options?

Forgot to include ages; my uncle is around 50, I'm 24.
For reference, we live in Australia. I can't really provide any more detail for privacy reasons. I've been unable to confirm that there's a drone, but I've definitely seem a light that was there for an hour and then disappeared when I came back.
I've already contacted authorities regarding the possibility of someone piloting a drone at night (which is a safety hazard), but actually finding proof of this is far more difficult without a way to capture footage of the drone properly - it's able to remain stationary and look nearly the same as a star.
This has already affected his mental state horribly and made him borderline paranoid about someone spying on him, to the point where he's asked me to help him find voyeur videos on the internet in an attempt to see if there's actually footage of him. I'm honestly at a loss at where to go from here, and unless there's some sort of resolution I don't think he's going to get any better.
If this should be going in any other sub instead please let me know. I'm really hoping I can get some advice about this.
submitted by Least_Flounder to Advice [link] [comments]


2020.10.12 20:43 jirejire12 Live video voyeur

TL;DR --- rBlackLadies has become a toxic mess. Here are ideas for how rBlackGirls can be a better alternative. Skip down to the section So what can BlackGirls be? for details.
I've felt really good over the past few days.
And I realise that, after I was finally banned by rBlackLadies, I no longer felt compelled to visit that subreddit and absorb its bad energy.
After creating a new sub with a more inclusive (black+brown) focus, something was still missing. "Is there no existing alternative to rBlackLadies?"
Eventually, I came back here and was delighted to find that PrincessWaffleTO has joined the moderator team, and decided to upgrade this community.
Here are my ideas for ways to differentiate BlackGirls from BlackLadies. I don't know -- maybe it's too radical a vision and there needs to be a completely new community? We'll see.
Ways to take BlackGirls in a different (hopefully better) direction than rBlackLadies Two main points:
..1. Less toxic behaviour, both from moderators (the BlackLadies moderators) and members of the community.
It seemed like BlackLadies was being taken over by toxic behaviour.
Over the summer, the mass media made it seem like America was on fire and major cities were "warzones". This actually wasn't true (except for a week or so of rioting), but if you doomscrolled Twitter and binge-watched TV news, you could easily spiral into apocalyptic thinking.
And guess what flooded rBlackLadies?
Endless posts about "traumas": microaggressions everywhere. Aggressions leading to self-diagnosed post-traumatic stress syndrome. Old traumas relived due to new imagery on TV and social media. The "Divest movement", a Youtube/Twitter-based internet cult of femcels (female incels) suspiciously preaching hatred of black men -- at a time when the Black Lives Matter movement was creating new levels of solidarity in the streets, to fight against the racism that led to deaths of several black men and Breonna Taylor.
Trauma. Hateful posts. Trauma. Trauma. Trauma.
Then the "community" realised the easy way to get upvotes was to repeat that kind of torture-porn, so the rBlackLadies was quickly swamped by it.
And to a large extent (minus all the gorgeous selfies), it still is.
..2. Less "reclamation" of stereotypes.
The endless debates about Cardi B. and Megan Thee Stallion "reclaiming" ugly old imagery of black women as whores in the WAP video, enriching themselves by selling out to white America's racist popular culture. Again, the "Divest movement" regurgitating ugly old racist stereotypes about black men as "the weakest link" to be disposed of like trash after a banquet. "Reclamation" of the stereotypes of black women as people who love nothing more than to sit around and complain.
For example, ever since the BlackLadies "community" realised that they and their white voyeur audience loved stories of trauma (see point 1), any suggestion of building real connection, supporting activism, etc. was lost.
A recent post (titled "Ms. CEO") about someone who created an app to help locate local black-owned businesses received about 25 upvotes. Practically any posts about how all black men are abusive trash will receive at least 70 upvotes, if not 100+.
That's a problem.
And the real problem is the moderators. At least one of them is actually a member of the "Divest" femcel internet cult (she's the one who almost certainly banned me after we disagreed on whether or not women should use sex to manipulate men for "gifts" -- i.e. money).
Overall, the moderators at BlackLadies seem like damaged people who need to deal with their own issues before trying to "moderate" a community of thousands. As it is now, the community reflects its moderators -- and it's a toxic, misandrist, and until very recently, transphobic/homophobic, mess.
So what can BlackGirls be?
The opposite of the mess that BlackLadies has become. Support black-owned businesses. Enable and empower entrepreneurship for black women. Be explicitly inclusive of black transgender and other LGBT people. No blatant misandry, especially not against black men. Less "victim" performance, especially since white people are the majority of Reddit users and love soaking their white-supremacist superiority mentality in the endless parade of black suffering. Discourage white participation entirely, since their presence can/will skew the boundaries of upvotes, comments and overall feedback about what's considered "good" material for the subreddit. Facilitate connection between black women and communities in the real world.
Ideally, I'd like to see a community for all genders, but maybe BlackGirls can be a start. The subreddit I created is for black and brown people, but if you think the ideas I outlined above would fit better in a "AllBlackPeople" subreddit (especially since rBlackFellas is a private subreddit now), definitely comment and/or PM me and we'll create it together. :)
Reddit needs a healthy, proactive alternative to BlackLadies. I hope BlackGirls can be that place.
What do you think?
submitted by jirejire12 to blackgirls [link] [comments]


2020.10.09 23:41 Sparkletail Live voyeur video

So I’ve been aware of the case since 2018, watched the documentary and have now hung around on there for a while. There’s something uncomfortable in the way I feel about shannan and I’ve been trying to understand what it is. This seems to get debated a lot on both the Chris Watts and Shannon Watts subreddits so I’m going to put it on both to see if the views differ.
So I started off reading about this case doing the usual casual armchair psychology thing and thinking that Chris was a fairly obviously narcisstic/psychopathic monster who had wanted to dump his family, wasn’t too bright and had properly messed it up. I knew about the mlm, I know about the financial stresses and I knew about the affair. I thought that basically from his perspective the potential gain had outweighed the risk or loss and he’d gone for it.
I then watched the documentary and got a different picture. Shannan was super intense and it seemingly played out in all ways. She was passionate about her family, her friends and relationships but was also fairly pathological when it came to her social media presence. I think this was mostly linked with the mlm and how they basically say you have to be out there promoting your ‘lifestyle’ 24/7. It also seemed that there was always a lot of drama and stress in the family, whether it was illnesses, arguments, accidents, money, whatever. Don’t get me wrong, they were clearly at a point where their relationship was breaking down and those times are never stress free but to be a number of things which probably started small had snowballed.
In documentary I saw the video where she was having a go at him about forgetting the phone for the kids pictures and just thinking Jesus Christ, can you imagine what his life must have been like, posing every five minutes, faking the perfect happily family and all that drama and stress around having to capture every perfect moment without any time to ever actually enjoy or experience anything. It all seemed like one massive, uncomfortable performance and there was so much effort for ultimately none of it to seem or perhaps be real.
Then you saw her text messages and it seems she kinda knew what she was and wanted to change. She seemed pretty self aware and was obviously trying to save her relationship with the same passion she put into everything else. It’s really heartbreaking that she literally did not have a clue who she was really living with.
I saw the relationship between Chris and the video of Nicole. Man, if Shannan gave off a few red flags, Nicole was a Chinese military parade. She was fake and unnerving. It doesn’t surprise me at all that she started searching for him and shannan way before, that she morphed into his perfect girl by letting me be himself yet was somehow still completely in control of the narrative.
Then their was watts family. Wow, just wow, no wonder his mother and shannan clashed. I think one definitely had better intentions than the other but you put two overly dramatic, dominant women in the same space and you are asking for this exact scenario, both fighting over and for Chris. Like I say, shannan does not give off the same bad vibes as the mother but I could absolutely see how they would clash.
So there’s Chris, likely having been overly dominated by women all his life. His mother pulling him one way, shannan another and Nicole in different one altogether. Then you think that he was using twice the dose of that thrive stimulant crap, never sleeping and you start to think, did he have some sort of break and just snap. I was almost there, Chris as the henpecked, overly stressed husband snaps having spent an entire lifetime dominated by messed up females finally snaps.
But then you see the videos of him after he’s killed them all. He’s perfectly calm, smiling, giving off totally bizarre vibes, he’s stomping his kids bodies through an 8 inch hole at 7 and making friendly chit chat with his coworkers at 8.30. He’s looking up lyrics for battery, he’s cancelling his kids day care and sending Nicole pictures of flowers.
And I’m back to stage one. I posted the other night saying that we all, including me, are basically voyeurs at best and ghouls at worst. I’ve reflected on that a bit and there’s always a fascination with aberrant psychology and how people who severely lack empathy and guilt interact with the rest of us. How they might trick us and hide. So we pore over the videos and evidence looking for something, a sig that if it we were in that situation we would have noticed because otherwise, monsters could be all around us.
Because of the amount of footage and evidence, it’s brought all sorts of people out the woodwork. Men who’ve been abused and are sick of female on make abuse being ignored; mysogynists who are taking advantage of this perceptions to vent their nasty little ideas; dominant women (or the people who love them) realising the their traits are seen as unpleasant and rushing to the defence and everyone in between. No wonder the debate gets heated sometimes.
I think Chris was quite unusual. His ability to hide his true feelings (or lack of them); his seeming passivity and friendly, smiling, calm demeanour are completely incompatible with the killer we expect to see. There might be glimpses of a socially awkward mess before the tanned face thrive phase but even then, nothing overwhelming.
I think we all feel at risk knowing that people like him exist, sometimes in arms length or closer and we never really have a clue. Shannan was a unique person but her personality probably wasn’t incredibly unusual. There are lots of people like that in the world and very, very few of them get murdered by their husbands.
It’s been a strange few days picking through this one.
submitted by Sparkletail to Chriswatts [link] [comments]


2020.09.24 11:18 7secretcrows Live voyeur video

I deleted my post asking if Eugenia's mom was her birth mom, because WHOA, was that taken so far from what I was thinking when I posed the question! First, I'll say that I had not seen the entire "Draw My Life" video (only clips from links in this sub), and as such, I absolutely wasn't accusing her of lying about her birth. I genuinely wondered, based on my own personal observations, if Debra was her birth mother, because I didn't know. I doubt I'm the only person who is interested in Eugenia, but also hasn't watched every single minute of every single one of her videos.
Second, I neither stated nor implied that being (THEORETICALLY) adopted was the cause of her illness, as at least one person implied. I agree that trying to say her disorder was caused by adoption is dumb, to put words in their mouth. I was looking for something that might, instead, explain her mother's behavior. It confuses me how the majority of people blame her mother for a lot, if not all, of her problems, but also got really upset that I asked a question in an attempt to understand HER MOTHER'S motivations. WHY would she ignore Eugenia's dangerous state of being? (Eugenia said, I think in Kati's video, that her mom had cried when they talked about her needing help, prior to the 5150, and taken at face value, that was striking, to me.) It would be horrible if we're all vilifying a woman who feels helpless to save her child, who may not have the capacity to fix, from inside the dynamic, what appears obvious on the outside. There's a ton of case studies and literature that discuss why anorexics don't eat, and the main reason is always to gain a sense of control. However, it's harder to find research about the mentality of parents who have children with eating disorders. On top of Eugenia's ED, we see a mother who APPEARS to both enable her daughter's behavior, and to prevent her from getting help, or maturing and living as an independent adult. What might drive someone like that? Having beat the "evil, controlling parent" scenario to death, what else could it be? Possibly having a child she desperately wanted, maybe thought she'd never have, and then not being able to deal with said child not needing her anymore? Not having the emotional tools to confront a child who is a danger to herself? Maybe a fear of driving her child further away by pushing too hard? Popular opinion seems to dictate that we all agree that her mother is toxic, controlling, and an all around bad person. Reality is usually more nuanced. Perhaps she's just a desperate, loving, and dangerously misguided or ignorant mother, however motherhood came to her. Again, I was speculating, theorizing, trying to consider different angles, because people's behavior can be bizarre, fascinating, and unpredictable, especially when it doesn't fit the norm.
Additionally, I'm mortified that anyone thought I was implying that being adopted was somehow a traumatic or negative situation. As with literally everything in life, a few cases work out terribly, but by and large, anyone who recognizes an inability to give a child the life and care needed, and places that child with someone who is better able to provide, has done something respectable, and given a tremendous gift to another family. I would never bash adoption on principle. Again, my speculation was about Eugenia's mother, not Eugenia. I do, however, based on evidence we've seen in videos, question whether Eugenia's mother has attachment issues, and what might have caused them. That includes consideration of how she became a parent.
There were also comments vaguely condemning any speculative talk, and explicitly proclaiming how they only want her to get better. Look, if you're interested in eating disorders from a psychological standpoint, this is an autobiography of the sufferer in real time, and an opportunity to possibly better understand. If you're disturbed by watching someone starve herself to death in front of anyone willing to type her name into YouTube, it's still too compelling to just look away, and to some extent, you care. Every single one of us in this sub, willing to admit it or not, is guilty of voyeurism, and Eugenia goes out of her way to enable us. The one redeeming value might be that we can use what we see and discuss to help someone else, or help ourselves.
For the record, I hope that Eugenia has a moment of clarity, and turns it around to help herself. I genuinely want her to live a happy, healthy, long life. Eugenia, specifically, because she is in full view, but also everyone quietly suffering eating disorders in anonymity, unknown and out of the public spectacle of social media. Not one single person deserves to have their own mind turn against their body in such a counter-instinctual way. Not one person deserves for food to be their enemy. Eugenia doesn't have a monopoly on disorders or compassion, she just has visibility. It doesn't make anyone else less than, or mean we don't care about their struggles. Each one of them matters, and if nothing else, I hope Eugenia's case helps other people be seen.
submitted by 7secretcrows to EUGENIACOONEY [link] [comments]


2020.09.23 14:33 TomPetrysh Making fun of people while they take pictures of themselves in public is unnecessary and often painfully ironic

With the obvious exception to those who can't read a room and start snapping selfies at an open casket or some other inappropriate event, I find it completely normal for people to put some effort into taking pictures of themselves.
I've lost count of how many videos I've come across recently of giggling third party voyeurs taking videos of people trying to take quality pictures of themselves. In a time where we've literally got cameras on most of our basic household appliances, I'm still baffled that we clown on those actually using cameras for such a valid purpose in public.
I'll spare the fedora tipping "we live in a society..." spiel because I'm sure it's well known that while not crucial to your survival, having some sort of social media presence can present some benefits in life. Now, even with that being such an established idea it should make perfect sense to see people putting effort into how they present themselves through their pictures. So what if the person has a style unlike your own, or are doing something outside of your comfort zone, as long as they are being mindful/respectful of others it should not be an acceptable excuse for a cheap laugh.
Most, if not all the videos I've watched were of someone breaking the basic square-to-camera-recreated-smile-beer-in-hand-whatever-the-fuck pose. The irony being that breaking that very mold often produces a better looking picture that'll then go on to generate even more buzz on whatever social media it gets posted on. People will bust a gut zooming in on someone actually posing for a photo only to then go like and give praise to a similar picture that required the very same energy to make.
We've all probably seen the classic reddit posts of the 10, 20, or 30 boyfriends taking nearly identical pictures of their girlfriends on a beach somewhere nice. For me that logic checks out perfectly. Of course they should take pictures, why wouldn't you. Even with an argument like "they're on vacation just for the likes" or "they're just here to get the approval of their friends" you can not guarantee me there isn't any other part of that same trip they enjoyed other than their Sports Illustrated photoshoot.
Candids? Can-do. Staged action shot? Hell yeah Michael Bay. Props? Props. Outfits? Outstanding.
Of course not all pictures are for others, and yeah maybe some watching eyes should come with the territory of doing something so publicly, but video tapping and/or hysterically laughing is just unjustifiable.

TLDR: Effort and originality good, shaming and humiliating the people bad when ultimately the plot lines are likely to cross again when the humiliator probably applauds the humiliated on social media for taking such a unique picture.
submitted by TomPetrysh to unpopularopinion [link] [comments]


2020.09.21 16:44 pvdthrowaway86 Live voyeur video

I'm looking for something a bit particular but I think there's quite a few out there that might be interested.
You: BBW/BHM couple. Chill, laid back. Kind of geeky. Lives alone or at least can host. You have semi-regular availability. Willing to chat about what gets us off, porn we like, celebs we think are hot etc. Maybe you like to show off and share in a judgement free zone. Lean toward geeky - video games (I'm not super into them but I could be persuaded), movies, food, beer, etc. Be into voyeurism, hotwifing, or full blown threesomes. Bonus points if he is bi (i'm an oral top and maybe more). 18-50ish? Preference for southern MA/RI/eastern CT as I'm in RI.
Me: 34/m. 6'4" light brown hair, blue eyes. Dad bod for sure lol. Shorter beard...sometimes glasses but usually contacts Kind of clean cut, outwardly conservative looking I suppose but a freak in the sheets. Discretion is a must for me. Average and cut down there but it gets the job done. Making/watching a woman cum is a huge turn on for me. I have plenty of pics myself and love to show off.
Hope to hear from someone soon! This could be a lot of fun with the right people. There is certainly not an exhaustive or complete list but let's get to know each other first ;) !
submitted by pvdthrowaway86 to bostonr4r [link] [comments]


2020.09.18 16:50 MansA18Sepl Live voyeur video

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submitted by MansA18Sepl to u/MansA18Sepl [link] [comments]


2020.09.18 14:47 BuckRowdy Voyeur video live

This is an updated and edited version of a post I originally submitted at /redditcrimecommunity. It's been updated with the latest info.
I used to be kind of obsessed with the idea of Jared from Subway. He always seemed like nothing more than wallpaper in a commercial, a guy whose job amounted to holding up a comically giant pair of pants for seconds at a time in commercials. How much do you think they paid that guy to do that?
I used to search to see if I could find out Jared's salary or his net worth because to me it seemed like he had the easiest job in the world. Just stand there and smile, hold up the giant pants, shake a few kids hands at store openings and other corporate promotional events; essentially play the character of Jared from the Subway commercials.
The Midwestern everyman who once weighed over 425 pounds and lost it all by eating at Subway every day. Of course the fine print at the bottom of the screen gave the wider context to his weight loss routine, but there was a much wider, much darker context to Jared's story that would only be revealed years later.
Jared started working for Subway in 2000. By 2005 they had stopped featuring him in commercials and their sales declined by 10%. They quickly reinstated him and he was a fixture ever since.
It is true that Jared did lose the weight, and he did do it in part by eating at Subway.
At this point it would be reasonable to ask how did he get the money as a college student to eat all his meals at Subway?
Because he was running a porn video rental business out of his apartment at the time and had an extensive collection. You've got to remember that this was in an era where media of all types was more difficult to obtain. You didn't have everything at your fingertips back then.
Subway opened up on the ground floor and Jared was lazy so he started eating all his meals there.
The rest of Jared's story is marketing mythology. A friend wrote an article in the student newspaper that got published in Men's Health which caught the eye of Subway's marketing department. Jared started working for Subway in 2000 and up until about 2007 it appeared to be a marketing master stroke. That's when the reports started trickling out. In 2007, TMZ published the story about the porn rental business.
We'd learn later that as early as 2008, Subway had received serious reports about Jared from a franchisee in Florida that Jared had befriended at a few store openings. Cindy Mills, the franchisee said:

"He would just tell me he really liked them young," she says. Fogle and Mills had a sexual relationship, which lead Fogle to disclose disturbing details of his criminal activity in lewd text messages.
Mills says she tried to blow the whistle by phoning ad executive Jeff Moody — then CEO of the Subway Franchisee Advertising Fund Trust (SFAFT) — after Fogle had told her that he had sex both in Thailand and the US with child prostitutes between the ages of 9 and 16 years old. According to Mills, Moody stopped her mid-conversation and said, "Don't worry, he has met someone. She is a teacher and he seems to love her very much, and we think she will help keep him grounded." Mills also claims she spoke with two more SFAFT execs after Moody, but ran into more dead ends.
Jared was up to no good for years, but his world really started to crumble in 2015 with the arrest of Russell Taylor. Taylor was Jared's partner in his non-profit charity and he was just as bad as Jared if not worse.
Russell Taylor, the former director of Fogle's anti-childhood obesity foundation, was arrested in April [of 2015] on three counts of possession of child pornography, three counts of child exploitation, and three counts of voyeurism.
Taylor had gotten in trouble for texting a woman a picture of bestiality and suggesting such between the two of them. It's a sick thing to think about, but that's just what Jared and Russell were up to.
In one of those text messages, according to the affidavit, “Russell Taylor asked her if he and another adult female she identified could come to Jane Doe’s residence and engage in” an act of bestiality. The woman did not agree to that request, but told investigators “you could tell (Taylor) was serious.” She also told investigators that “she received an image file via text from Russell Taylor that depicted (another act of bestiality).”
Jared's house was raided and the rest quickly became history. Subway dropped him. Sharknado 3 dropped him. Jared accused Taylor of fraud and sued him. One quarter of the funds of the charity were unaccounted for, and the only money they ever paid out went to Taylor's $73k salary.
I'm no professional but it's hard not to draw the conclusion that Jared was paying Taylor to produce child porn with a non profit charity.
The world found out about Jared in 2015, but in 2007 and 2008 two women were finding out a lot about Jared.
Jared had met a franchisee in Florida and started a sexual relationship with her. She called the FBI when Jared started texting stuff like this:
In one series of texts sent from April 2008, Fogle tries to convince the franchisee, a woman, to advertise herself for sex on Craigslist. She could make $500 per act he explains and he could watch her have sex with other men. Fogle then goes on to apparently admit to paying for sex with a 16-year-old girl off Craigslist.
The woman franchisee writes: "Is this the same website you found that 16 year old you that you f---ed?" the woman replied, according to an affadavit.
The woman got a lawyer and submitted the texts to Subway who sat on them.
Around the same time, Jared met Rochelle Herman Walrond, a journalist who initially remained anonymous, who came forward and said that she got suspicious about Jared when he called middle school girls hot
According to the woman, Jared would often visit schools in Sarasota County, and allegedly told her numerous times that, 'Middle school girls are hot.'"
She contacted the FBI who asked her to wear a wire. She went on to record Jared over a nearly 5 year period, pleading with the FBI to go ahead and arrest him with them always saying that they didn't have enough evidence and needed more.
So she tried to get Jared to incriminate himself. Over that 4.5 year period they talked about a lot of stuff, like that Jared wanted to fly to Thailand to have sex with children.
"I would fly all three of us clear across the world if we need to,"[Jared] says on the tape. "It would just make things a lot easier — if we're going to try and get some young kids with us. It would be a lot easier probably."
He gave her grooming tips:
"Well, if we get them segregated out ... you know, start talking or whatever ... and we get a little closer, and a little closer and a little closer and before you know it ... it just starts to happen," the man's voice says. "But I think that girl from the broken home could be a possibility, you know."
He daydreamed on the phone:
"Do you want to watch me f— a young girl, too?" the voice of Fogle asks. "Will you f— a young boy?" When Herman-Walrond asks if that would turn Fogle on, he responds with a whispered "yeah."
“I had a little boy. It was amazing,” Fogle reportedly said, in response to a question about being with children. “It just felt so good. I mean, it felt—it felt so good.”
He also, allegedly, asked her repeatedly to let him install hidden cameras in her kids’ rooms.
“I had two young children at the time, and he talked to me about installing hidden cameras in their rooms and asked me if I would choose which child I would like him to watch,” she told Inside Edition.
The audio recordings can be heard at this link. She reported him to Subway in 2009 and nothing happened.
At the same time this was happening, Jared was flying to New York to pay for sex with minors. He asked the minors who he paid for sex if they knew anyone else they could recommend, always stressing younger if possible.
Also, according to the charging documents:
Fogle received "images and videos of nude of partially clothed minors engaged in sexually explicit conduct," which were allegedly recorded by Russell Taylor, the former director of the Jared Foundation.
Taylor secretly filmed some of the minors in his home using hidden cameras that captured them changing clothes and bathing.
Taylor was in possession of 400 videos of child pornography upon his arrest.
In 2011, someone else reported Jared to Subway via their website and yet nothing happened.
All this came raining down on Jared in 2015 when his house was raided and he was arrested and later charged with 14 acts of sex involving minors. He was ultimately sentenced to 15 years in jail and had to pay restitution to his 14 of his many victims totaling $1.4 million. His wife divorced him as quick as she could, Subway cut ties with him and the dominoes started to tumble.
All of a sudden the past reports about Jared came to light and Subway didn't have an explanation. Lawsuits started flying. Jared's now ex wife accused Subway of covering up Jared's pedophilia even from her because their marriage made Jared more grounded and more marketable.
It's now a sick joke, but at the same time of jared's arrest, Subway was trying to rebrand him as a family man.
So why didn't Subway act on the various reports it had gotten about Jared over the years? As this site puts it, it was a story bookended by laziness. Jared's laziness brought him to Subway, and their laziness in vetting stories led to the end of the Jared era with a lot of human misery left in his wake.
Subway has waffled in its response. Rather than taking the path of clear messaging and communication, and aiming to transparent and authentic throughout this terrible situation for the victims and Fogle’s family (as well as the brand), the company hasn’t been clear about where it stands in the midst of this crisis. What message was Subway sending to its employees and franchisees by keeping Fogle around for as long as it did?
As soon as he went to jail he instantly gained 30 pounds
In 2016, he filed an appeal which was denied. The DA's office argued:
[that] Fogle's text messages to a woman, in which Fogle stated he would "pay big" if she could procure 14-year-old children, and that he "craved" underage Asian girls. In these text messages, he also expressed sexual interest in young boys, although there is to date no evidence that he paid for sex with male children.
Later that same year, a brawl broke out and Jared was nearly killed in an attack meant to send a message to all pedophiles.
Other than that, rumor has it that Jared has it pretty easy in jail which is disappointing to hear given all that he's responsible for.
In 2017, Fogle tried to pull the Sovereign Citizen defense and claim that the feds didn't have jurisdiction over him which I imagine gave the feds a good laugh. The motion was dismissed.
In 2018, Jared sued to void his conviction going so far as to name the president (among others) as a defendant. It was unclear how the president was involved and Jared was forced to remove him as a defendant.
He claimed:
he was wrongfully allowed to plead guilty to conspiracy to receive child pornography, claiming that conspiracy doesn’t apply to such an offense.
His suit was dismissed.
That same year a woman pen pal of Jared's sold their racy letters to Radar Online. Seen here and here. She also sold a recorded phone call where she and Jared discuss porn and his sexual preferences.
If he wanted to appeal to a parole board, surely sending hand-drawn pictures of his genitalia that later end up on radar online is not a good strategy.
In March 2020, three of associate Russell Taylor's child pornography convictions were overturned for ineffective counsel. He still faces trial on 9 other charges.
In the five years since Fogle was arrested, Subway has been reeling. In 2015, their co-founder passed away and a new CEO was brought in. Internal reports indicate that customer traffic is down 30%. They've laid off over 400 people from the corporate HQ and this summer they had to revoke a promotion due to a franchisee revolt over the pricing.
Subway was associated so long with Jared it may take time for customers to form a new association. They tried to drop him once, struggled, and re-hired him. Clearly Subway lived in denial while Jared was their spokesman and looked the other way as business boomed. The new marketing strategy involves athletes. Time will only tell if they can recover from one of the worst scandals to ever hit a sandwich chain.
As of September 2020, Russell Taylor was being held at a federal prison in Yazoo City, Mississippi; Fogle was being held at a federal prison in Littleton, Colorado.
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2020.09.09 04:33 Shagrrotten Live voyeur video

https://www.rogerebert.com/features/i-should-feel-something-on-space-and-the-unknowable-self-in-ad-astra
By Roxana Hadadi
“Why go on? Why keep trying?”
Our world is not enough.
For centuries, we have longed for space—to immerse ourselves in its vast expanse, and to lay claim upon it. “It is a beautiful and delightful sight to behold the body of the Moon,” Galileo wrote in 1610. The partner to fascination is obsession, and so much of the cinematic exploration of space has been situated in the gap between those two poles of feeling. James Gray’s meditative, gorgeous “Ad Astra” is an exemplary entry in a long line of films (“2001: A Space Odyssey,” both versions of “Solaris,” “Contact,” “Sunshine,” “High Life”) which explore whether it is bravery or hubris that sends us outside of our own world. The way to make sense of something incomprehensible is to assign structure to it, to organize it, to control it. Hence the symbolic value we assign to extra-planetary service, and the tension that results between that rigidity and the immense mystery of what awaits us past our earthly border.
In James Gray’s “Ad Astra,” released just almost a year ago, Brad Pitt’s Major Roy McBride is perceived as the ideal American patriot. He spent three years in the Arctic Circle, a combat zone. He excelled during his career with the U.S. military’s Space Command (SpaceCom). His jawline could cut glass. And yet practically everything about Roy McBride is artificial, a facsimile of sincerity. He secretly sneers at colleagues who revere him. He is repulsed by the corporatization of discovery. His father, renowned astronaut H. Clifford McBride (Tommy Lee Jones), has been missing for most of his life, and Roy has lived in his shadow ever since. McBride left Earth as part of a U.S.-led project to prove the existence of intelligent extraterrestrial life, and Roy grasps at his memory as a saving grace. His father stood for something, and so Roy must too. “I will not rely on anyone or anything. I will not be vulnerable to mistakes,” Roy promises, but how lonely an existence that must be. How impossible to maintain. In “Ad Astra,” Roy travels to the stars to find his father—but what he finds, more meaningfully, is the strength to let him go.
“Space I understand.”
An intertitle at the beginning of “Ad Astra,” the font blood-red against a black screen, announces “THE NEAR FUTURE, A TIME OF BOTH HOPE AND CONFLICT. HUMANITY LOOKS TO THE STARS FOR INTELLIGENT LIFE AND THE PROMISE OF PROGRESS.” There’s a thin line between our reality and that of “Ad Astra,” and it’s a purposeful muddling on Gray’s part. The progress in this world’s exploration of our solar system is significant, but not unattainable. We recognize the possibility presented in “Ad Astra,” and can imagine ourselves inside it. And so too is it easy to accept the handsome authority of Major Roy McBride (Pitt). At first, his pledge in fealty to SpaceCom seems admirable.
“I am ready to go. Ready to do my job to the best of my abilities. I am focused only on the essential to the exclusion of all else. I will make only pragmatic decisions. I will not allow myself to be distracted. I will not allow my mind to linger on that which is unimportant. I will not rely on anyone or anything. I will not be vulnerable to mistakes.”
But Gray cross cuts Roy’s professional vow with the evidence of its toll: his retreating wife, Eve (Liv Tyler), who with barely any dialogue communicates to us her feelings of abandonment. Although her outline is fuzzy, as if Roy never really saw her at all, the sound of her keys being left on the counter of the home they once shared is definitive. Hurt people hurt people, and Roy McBride is a hurt person. Traumatized by his father’s absence, he has compartmentalized away nearly all emotions—a flaw in his personal life, but a benefit for the demands of SpaceCom. He is infamous for his reliably low pulse rate, even during emergencies, and commended by his colleagues for his calmness. Regularly scheduled psychological evaluations, in which Roy spills his feelings into a portable transmitter and waits for approval from a faceless voice to continue with his work, determine his mental fitness. His admissions are always blandly expressive, and the okays to proceed are always immediate. The rigorous training required for his SpaceCom position, and how thoroughly he has set himself apart in nearly every way, has turned his elitism into a festering wound. His poster-boy image has a toxic-masculinity edge, and he knows it: “I see myself from the outside. Smile. Present a side. It’s a performance, with my eye on the exit. Always on the exit.” People are impressed by him, and he can’t stand them. “Just don’t touch me,” he thinks to himself when presented with a cheering room of colleagues. He grins, and the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes. “Take care, Major. Be careful,” someone warns before he steps out for a space walk, and his “Thanks for that” reply lacks any affect at all.
“I always wanted to become an astronaut for the future of mankind and all. At least, that’s what I told myself,” Roy admits, and the admission carries a jagged sarcasm, and a blunt candor. At first, Roy’s resentment of his career and its myriad obligations feels mundane, but juxtaposed with his presence among the stars, his disinterest takes on a sort of subversion. To experience the singularity of no longer being on Earth, but outside of it, and to still be unfulfilled—that displeasure undermines so much of what we expect from this genre, and what space cinema normally imposes on us about the specialness of these people. Imagine Tom Hanks in "Apollo 13," or Sandra Bullock in "Gravity": Would either of those heroes disparage the astronaut experience like this? Still, Roy goes through the motions, and he does them well. When a catastrophic power surge hits the International Space Antennae on which Roy is performing maintenance, electrocuting numerous people, setting off explosions in the upper towers, and thrusting the station into chaos, Roy springs effortlessly into action. He literally flips a switch to stop the chain reaction. When he tumbles backward from the antennae toward Earth, he has the presence of mind to maintain communication with colleagues on the ground, offering technical commentary the whole way down: “Control—McBride. I’m in a spin. Atmosphere’s too thin to stabilize. I’m trying to keep the tumble down, so I don’t black out. Control, do you read?” The fall seems to last forever, and we stay with Roy as he plummets steadily toward his death until he manages to flip over, deploy his parachute, and steer himself to the ground even as debris falls around him. When people run out to offer assistance, he doesn’t meet their eyes. “‘A self-destructive side,’ that’s what she used to say to me,” Roy says, alluding to Eve without saying her name. “I should feel something. I survived. I should feel something.” Roy’s unlikely escape is the stuff of immediate legend, and his actions save lives. But is either of those enough to make him a human being?
“We are world-eaters. If my dad could see this now, he’d tear it all down.”
The electrical storm that nearly killed Roy, SpaceCom explains to him in a classified briefing, is part of a series termed the Surge. The phenomena are destructive, wreaking havoc across the globe and leaving tens of thousands dead, and their origin is outer space. Esteemed SpaceCom astronaut H. Clifford McBride had a son he left on Earth, who grew up to be Roy. And H. Clifford McBride had a project he devoted more decades of his life to than he did his family, and that project was the Lima Project—the first manned expedition to the outer solar system, tasked with finding evidence of intelligent life outside of Earth. Into the great unknown the elder McBride traveled, certain he would return with secrets as yet undiscovered, and the younger McBride has been intermittently exalting him and cursing him for it ever since. Building himself in his shadow; struggling to live up to an impossible ideal of a man 29 years gone and 16 years disappeared. So when Roy learns that Clifford is still alive near Neptune, firing off surges of antimatter that are causing the Surge and might destroy the planet he left behind, it’s a revelation that upends everything he thought he knew about his father, and about himself. There is a lifetime of pain in Roy’s “My father’s alive, sir?”, more emotion exhibited in those four words than during his entire tumble from space to Earth. And yet when SpaceCom asks for Roy’s help in reaching Clifford, believing “a personal plea from you to your father might elicit a response” and asking him to travel to the Moon, then Mars, and finally to Neptune to try and communicate with Clifford, Roy’s skepticism is clear in his shifting eyes, in the slight pause before he agrees. “‘Are you with us?’” Roy growls mockingly, repeating SpaceCom’s request. “Like I have a choice.”
Clifford’s survival unsettles Roy, his father’s seemingly reckless use of the dangerous antimatter unnerves him, and the two reveals open up a schism between what Roy thought he knew about Clifford, who SpaceCom has immortalized for decades as a lost hero to discovery, and what Roy feels about the world around him. “My father was a pioneer,” Roy seethes in voiceover when SpaceCom dares to suggest that Clifford could be operating his own agenda. In contrast, Roy seems to wonder, are these people worth saving? An archived message from Clifford to Roy 27 years ago paints his father as a godly man, a loving husband and father, an optimist who is appreciative for the international attention in the Lima Project, an explorer convinced that he will be the person who finds intelligent life. “We know we will,” Clifford emphasizes, and Roy is visibly overwhelmed watching the clip, blinking back tears.
But Roy is reminded by his father’s former colleague, Col. Thomas Pruitt (Donald Sutherland), who will accompany Roy to the Moon, that he never really knew who Clifford. Roy was a child when Clifford left (flashbacks rendered in grainy film show a tousled-haired, cherubic-faced young boy, burying himself in a hug from his faceless mother while gazing up at the sky), and Clifford was an idol. With every new revelation that Clifford might not be who Roy thought, the son is forced to reassess his own life, too: his own priorities, his own pettiness. “A voyage of exploration can be used for something as simple as escape,” Pruitt cautions Roy, not knowing that this warning applies to the son as well. “It’s dangerous business, as we know. Best not to subject others to it,” Roy had said of why his career caused his separation from Eve, presenting himself as a man more committed to the SpaceCom cause than to his own family—perhaps closer to Clifford than he thought. And after Roy and Pruitt journey to the Moon, the former is disgusted by its commercialization: by the $125 cost for a blanket and pillow pack on the flight, by the slogan “Earth’s Moon: Where the world comes together,” by the DHL and Subway locations on the base. “All the hopes we ever had for space travel covered up by drink stands and T-shirt vendors. Just a recreation of what we’re running from on Earth,” Roy complains in a voice little bit like Tyler Durden’s. No place is safe from humanity’s corruptive influence, Roy believes. The only hope is the intelligent life that Clifford has certainly found through the Lima Project, which might present a way for humanity to start again. A chance for people to do it right.
In this divided state, Roy moves forward toward reunion. Perhaps paradoxically, the increased distance away from the Earth he seems to loathe makes real for him the facets of humanity he hadn’t previously considered. On the Moon, when his and Pruitt’s convoy is attacked by pirates and Roy has to commandeer a rover to drive them to safety, he notices a photo taped to the display by their now-murdered escort—a wife and child, hereafter missing their husband and father. Roy endured that too, and he knows the life-shattering pain this death, caused partially by his presence in this place, will cause. Once Pruitt is injured and Roy realizes he must continue the journey on his own, he feels a pang of sympathy for the man his father called a traitor (“Why does he still do it? Why can’t he just let go?”), and his look back to where Pruitt sits slumped is the only time we see Roy turn around rather than move deliberately forward. On Cepheus, the ship taking Roy to Mars, he disagrees with but ultimately admires the captain’s willingness to respond to a distress call, and then regrets the man’s death after he is attacked and killed during that deviation. As the rest of the crew prays over the captain’s body, he observes them quietly, their faith a fascination. “They seem at ease with themselves. What must that be like?” he muses. Roy has never known.
“Most of us spend our entire lives in hiding.”
After Pruitt’s injury, he shares with Roy a secret communication from SpaceCom that makes clear their intentions. They don’t trust the younger McBride, believe that Clifford purposefully endangered the Lima Project crew and “may have lost all control,” and are unsure whether Roy’s personal messages to Clifford will sway him. “What happened to my dad? What did he find out there? Did it break him? Or was he always broken?” Roy wonders, and his desperate desire for connection pushes him further away from the cold, calculated man he once was. After the Cepheus captain’s death, he is more truthful with his psychological evaluation than he’s ever been.
SpaceCom: “Are you ready for your psychological evaluation?”
Roy: “I am on my way to Mars. We answered a mayday call, and it ended in tragedy. We lost the captain.”
SpaceCom: “Your answer is being processed. Please continue.”
Roy: “Well, that’s it. I mean, we go to work, we do our jobs, and then it’s over. We’re here and then we’re gone.”
SpaceCom: “Please describe how the incident itself affected you.”
Roy: “The attack. It was full of rage. I understand that rage. I’ve seen that rage in my father, and I’ve seen that rage in me. Because I’m angry … that he took off. He left us. When I look at that anger, if I push it aside, I just put it away … all I see is hurt. I just see pain. I think it keeps me walled off, walled off from relationships and opening myself up and, you know, really caring for someone. And I don’t know how to get past that. I don’t know how to get around that. And it worries me. And I don’t wanna be that guy. I don’t wanna be my dad.”
During this admission of self-doubt and self-hate, Gray makes us simultaneously a witness and a voyeur. Switching the perspective between a head-on close-up of Pitt’s face and a profile shot from over Pitt’s shoulder, with starlight illuminating Pitt’s individual eyelashes and the oceanic green of his eyes, Gray gives us the clearest view of Roy’s individuality, and the grief he carries. Shockingly, Roy’s unprecedentedly unrefined evaluation is approved, and it sets in motion the trauma Roy will increasingly voice. In the brutalist Ersa Research Station on monochromatic, pockmarked Mars, after delivering first a bland SpaceCom-approved communique that is ignored by his father, after admitting to himself “I don’t know if I hope to find him or finally be free of him,” Roy deviates from the script.
“Dad, I’d like to see you again. I recall how we used to watch black and white movies together, and musicals were your favorite. I remember you tutoring me in math. You instilled in me a strong work ethic. ‘Work hard, play later,’ as you said. You should know I’ve chosen a career that you would approve of. I’ve dedicated my life to the exploration of space. And I thank you for that. So, I hope we can reconnect. Your loving son, Roy.”
The effort this message takes is clear, from the gaps Roy leaves between his sentences as he searches for the next one to the tears held back in his eyes, and SpaceCom’s repudiation is swift.
“Your personal connection has made you unsuited for continued service on this mission,” they inform him, punishing him for the honesty Roy dared to admit, barring him from continuing onto Neptune, and failing his next psychological evaluation. Trapped in a “comfort room,” Roy’s fractured mind is ironically underscored by the videos of birds, bees, ocean waves, chrysanthemums, and grass projected onto the walls. With Roy so far from Earth—and unsure of whether he even believes Earth is worth yearning for—what relief can these images provide?
For Helen Santos (Ruth Negga), though, the director of Ersa Research Station, those images of Earth’s nature are a reminder of her one visit to her parents’ home planet, and an exemplification of everything Mars cannot sustain. The atmosphere is inhospitable. Helen and the other research station staff live underground. Her longing for another life is genuine, her isolation in this place is palpable, and her connection to Roy is another shock to him. Her parents were crew members on the Lima Project, and H. Clifford McBride killed them. “We will not turn back. We will venture further into space. We will find alien intelligence. I am forever driven on this quest,” Roy watches his father assert in a video clip after admitting to turning off life support for his crew, both mutineers and otherwise. Everything Roy thought about Clifford was a SpaceCom cover-up, and every way in which he’s molded himself after his father’s legend has been the result of a lie. As Roy holds the transparent tablet, watching Clifford’s manifesto of discovery at all costs, Gray layers the faces of father and son on top of each other, making them nearly indistinguishable. Only Roy’s sob at realizing the depths of this deception disturbs the synchronizing effect.
“I am alone, something I always believed I preferred. But I confess. It’s wearing on me.”
With the additional knowledge provided by Helen in his possession, Roy is activated once more by the same humanist inclinations that have increasingly guided his recent actions. “I will deal with him. I will deal with my father,” he swears, and his certainty in that moment has an emotional edge missing from his past behavior—a sincerity he previously lacked. He accepts Helen’s help to stow away onto the Cepheus, now making its way toward Neptune to deploy a nuclear weapon against his father. In a stunning sequence, Gray moves us inside and outside of Roy’s field of vision: We follow him as he disappears into the pitch-black water of an underground lake, are alongside him in his helmet as he breaks through layers of rising bubbles, and then watch as glowing orbs of orange and yellow light align into the form of Roy’s body, moving toward us on Mars’s dusty surface. Through those natural elements, we see Roy reborn—a man formed not in the image of the father who left him, but in the water and sunlight that are vital for supporting life.
“You’ve alive. All this time. I must accept the fact that I never really knew you. Or am I you, being pulled down the same dark hole?” Roy considers, but every subsequent action, despite moving him physically closer to Clifford, separates our understanding of the two men. Roy tries to avoid violence in coming onboard the Cepheus, and although all three crew members are killed, he takes responsibility for his actions: “I boarded the Cepheus against mission directives. I did not do so with hostile intent. But because of my actions, I regret to inform you all crew members are now deceased. The flight recorder will tell the story. History will have to decide.” He makes clear that his primary goal is to “destroy the Lima Project in its entirety.” And during the 79-day journey from Mars to Neptune, he embarks on a sort of inward-gazing fever dream, a mélange of exhaustion, melancholia, and euphoria. He remembers his childhood, and the soothing comfort of his mother, and the wind turbines that dotted their land, and the productive energy they harnessed—so different from the Surge, and the possibility of planetary destruction. He watches a video from Eve, marveling at how openly she speaks of her love for him, and her frustration. He remembers the message he dictated to her before his trip, but then deleted (“I made a promise to always be truthful, but I wasn’t … I didn’t want you to go”), and berates himself for how he wronged her. He yearns for her forgiveness, and then rages that “Forgiveness is bullshit,” and then weeps. And through it all, Roy hears his father’s voice calling him, and haunting him. “When do we find all the intelligent life out there? And we know we will.” “I am free of your moral boundaries. I have total clarity.” “I know for certain I am doing God’s work.” Out there, in the unknown, did H. Clifford McBride become someone else? Or did he only abandon the artifice of who people wanted him to be? Those questions are impossible to answer, and yet Roy obsesses over them as he approaches Neptune: “All my life, I was terrified to confront him. I’m terrified even now. What do I expect? In the end, the son suffers the sins of the father.” But where there are sins, there can be absolution, too.
“Let me go, Roy.”
The reunion with his father, the one that Roy never expected to experience, is subdued, somber, and devastating. Clifford is not particularly surprised when Roy, whom he hasn’t seen for 29 years, appears onboard the Lima Project station. He had heard his son’s messages, after all, and understands the SpaceCom mission Roy has been given. He doesn’t ask whether Roy was affected by another Surge storm emanating from the Lima Project, although the navigation through Neptune’s rings nearly killed Roy. He doesn’t comment on the blood smeared on the station walls, or on the bodies—spinning in a macabre ballet in zero gravity—that Roy passes on his way to find his father.
The elder McBride is a man clinging to the edge of an idea, and nothing can dissuade him from it. “A captain always goes down with his ship,” Clifford says, and he will not return to Earth. Why return to a failed experiment? Clifford refuses to accept that no other intelligent life could exist in the universe. He will not abide by the suggestion that Earth, and Earth alone, is all we’ve got. “This is home,” he says of the Lima Project station, and his speech to Roy is an exercise in uncompromising zealousness:
“This is a one-way voyage, my son. You’re talking about Earth? There was never anything for me there. I never cared about you, your mother, or any of your small ideas. For 30 years, I’ve been breathing this air, eating this food, enduring these hardships and I never once thought about home. … I knew this would widow your mother and orphan you, but I found my destiny, so I abandoned my son. … I have infinite work to do.”
What else is there to really say? Roy’s “I know, Dad” captures so much: a lifetime of being made small, communicated in three words. But he refuses to compromise the tenderness he’s nurtured over this journey—the gentleness he’s waited years to offer his father. He helps Clifford put on his space suit. He not unkindly refuses Clifford’s insistence that Roy stay so they can work together. He presents the reality made plain from the Lima Project’s failure: “Now, we know we’re all we’ve got.” And when it comes time to embark back to the Cepheus together—when Clifford tries to yank Roy into space with him, and when Roy sees that his father will never acquiesce to leaving the great unknown behind, even as it has disappointed and defied him—he lets his father go.
A whole life spent in veneration and bitterness disappears in that moment. Roy watches Clifford float farther and farther away. As Roy spins, moving in and out of the illumination of Neptune’s rings, we see the sobs and screams being unleashed inside his helmet. Clifford was a hero, and then he was a ghost, and finally, he was just a man. Flesh and bone. Passion and fervor. And in the end, Roy notes, the creator and curator of a collection of research that was staggering and expansive, and never enough:
“He captured strange and distant worlds in greater detail than ever before. They were beautiful, magnificent, full of awe and wonder. But beneath their sublime surfaces, there was nothing. No love or hate. No light or dark. He could only see what was not there, and missed what was right in front of him.”
A striated planet, with layers of rock shaded milky cream and dusty burgundy. Another planet splattered in curves of jade and yellow, like dribbles of graffiti running down a wall. Another planet enveloped in a murky gas. Another planet icy blue, another planet volcanic red. All unique, and all the same: barren. A Freudian theorist would have a field day with a fatheson duo desperate to find life in deep space, who eventually realize that the fertility they crave was only made real in the planet they left behind. But Clifford’s surrender to the galaxy that refused him is, inadvertently but definitively, an act of kindness to his only child, perhaps the only one Roy ever received from his father. After Roy finally finds his authentic voice, the most healing opportunity he is offered is to listen, and to let his father go.
Once Clifford is enveloped by the stars he so loves, once Roy destroys the Lima Project and stops the Surge, once he uses his ingenuity and training to jettison himself through Neptune’s rings and back to the Cepheus, once Roy’s path back to Earth is programmed, the son breaks free of the orbit of the father. “I am looking forward to the day my solitude ends, and I’m home,” Roy affirms, and so the unknown of “Ad Astra” moves both away from the solar system Clifford spent his life exploring and that offers Earth no second chance, and away from the man Roy once was toward someone deciding to take a second chance on himself. The unknown now, the home that awaits Roy, is Earth, the planet he loathed in mimicry of his father. The loneliness of our existence finally makes real the preciousness of it.
When Earth appears outside of Roy McBride’s window, he smiles. “Look at it. The big blue marble. Never ceases to amaze me,” Pruitt had told Roy during their flight to the Moon, and that observation seems particularly poignant now. The green trees, the blue water, the wispy clouds: It is Roy’s privilege to see them again. People run to help him, the hatch door opens, and a hand extends inward. After a moment, Roy reaches back for it. In his final psychological evaluation, Roy’s adapted perception of our world persists: Commodified and flawed as Earth may be, it’s our only shot, and our responsibility is to embrace it and improve it. “I’m unsure of the future, but I’m not concerned. I will rely on those closest to me. And I will share their burdens, as they share mine. I will live and love.” As we listen to that proclamation, Roy drinks a cup of coffee in a café. He turns to the window. He sees Eve. And in that moment, he’s not H. Clifford McBride’s son. He is his own man, and his next journey awaits.
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