“Ray Bradbury is somebody who [could] write a short story which actually felt like it was a part of me. There are Bradbury stories imprinted on my DNA.”
– Neil Gaiman, 2003, From The SG Archives
Get to know Orijin better over at SuicideGirls.com!
Last week, a friend asked: if you could communicate one thing before you died, what would it be? So, hedging my bets, this is that column. Since I’m not a fan of polemics, consider this merely as the first item, as it were, on my bucket list of social truths.
Memorize that one clear, simple sentence and you’ll be miles ahead of the game.
They aren’t going to give it back.
But who are they…and what aren’t they giving back?
They are the idle rich and the rich who create nothing, not even jobs. They are the so-called “masters of the universe” who gamble other people’s money and win no matter how the bet turns out. They are the rich who live in five or six McMansions each (and perhaps a yacht or two) and who aren’t “concerned about the very poor” because they have “a safety net.” They are the rich who rally against education because they don’t want a level playing field or an electorate who can actually think for themselves and understand the clear issues they too often succeed in obfuscating. They are the rich who are not their brother’s keeper so will not support the “general welfare” of their fellow citizens. They are the rich who don’t support universal healthcare because the sick don’t make them any money, especially if they cannot afford expensive drugs that might keep them alive – worse yet, the sick are too ill to work for them at minimum wage. They are the rich, self-described “patriots” who steadfastly refuse to pay even one extra penny to keep the country afloat. They are the rich who want to shut down government in favor a free-market economy, which to them means a market free of all regulation and oversight. They are the rich who prey on the rest of us, the rich who are not “of the people” or “for the people,” but are instead barnacles on the hull of humanity, sucking it dry of all common morality – the parasites who make no positive contributions to society as a whole.
They are not the good rich, of which there are many, but the bad rich, the ugly face of the rich…and they aren’t going to give back their money, their power, their influence, or their privilege to anyone, much less the little people of the 99%. They will let the principles of democracy rot and wither so they can keep the deck stacked in their favor.
They are not going to give any of it away. Well, at least not to you…or our country. As long as it’s tax-deductible, they might give it to non-profit conservative think tanks or right wing SuperPACs that reinforce the criminally inaccurate notion that the bad rich need to keep all their money and car elevators for the greater good of society.
So we have to take it back ourselves. If America as we know it is to survive – if our people are to live free of economic shackles – we must find a way to recover from them everything that is undeserved, stolen, and inequitable.
That means instituting larger top marginal income and estate tax rates, the very instruments that Republicans call “a holocaust for the rich” and which they warn is the first step in “class warfare,” two phrases born of alarmist horseshit.
The last time these rates were as low as they are now, the government essentially went broke…ushering in the Great Depression. To get the country rolling again, and give its people a New Deal, FDR raised the top rate to as much as 79%. During the 1950s, Eisenhower was able to maintain what became known as the American Century only by raising the top rate to 91%. Nixon, the absolute pragmatist, kept a top rate of 70% and Reagan’s was 50%. And during all those years, the rich suffered not at all, not even a trickle of a holocaust. Class warfare wasn’t even a topic of discussion because, through both the Civil Rights Movement and the idea of a Great Society, America was striving to become “one nation, for all.”
Back then, the rich were composed of people who created good products, jobs, and services that grew in value. And yes, the rich were still different from us, but not that different. Most had houses and cars and took vacations that were a little better than ours, yet they shared with us many of the same values of fairness, of the need for good education and healthcare, and the desire to live in a country that held real opportunity for all. And since it was considered in bad taste to flaunt wealth, the showy, ostentatious McMansions were the exception rather than the rule. There was a more equitable balance between the classes and, so, more cooperation.
Today, that balance is pitiably out of whack.
When the then higher rate of income tax at the time is figured in, CEOs netted just 35% more than the average worker during the 1950s and ’60s. In 2012, CEO salaries were between 380 and 475 times what the average worker makes…and with much lower income, estate, and capital gains taxes. These outrageous gains were bought and paid for by the 1% through the congressional votes of the Republican Party, driving a stake through the heart of the middle class.
Now tell me again: who exactly is engaging in class warfare?
And, by the way, if the 1% wants class warfare, the 99% should oblige them. After all, the numbers are on our side – 99 to 1, to state the obvious.
We already have way too many Marie Antoinettes; what we don’t have is our own Reign of Terror. And since they view higher taxes (Obama’s proposed top rate of 39.6% compared to 91% in the 50s) as a holocaust and the essence of class warfare (as they define it), let’s give it to them…and more. By voting to cut their pay, and impose higher taxes (say, up to Nixon’s 70%), more wealth will accrue to the nation and more equity to society.
This summer and fall millions of Americans must storm the Bastille of right-wing ideology, exposing its shallow self-interest, empty promises, bait-and-switch economic policies, and complete lack of real patriotism.
And then, in November, the guillotine of the ballot box should drop on the arrogance and sense of entitlement of the 1%. But that’s up to you…and only if you remember: they aren’t going to give it back.
by Jen Friel
On Twitter a week and a half ago I jokingly tweeted out that I hoped the next guy I dated had a foot fetish so I could get my feet rubbed. See, I recently started jogging in the morning and while my booty is getting into shape nicely, my feet are suffering from the extra pavement pounding.
What I didn’t expect from that one tweet however was the OVERWHELMING demand from guys actually wanting to help. Now, I know from a dear friend of mine who is formerly a porn star that feet are the number three fetish, just behind butts and boobs (pun intended) – but I had yet to actually find a guy to date that was into it. I then received an EXTREMELY heartfelt email that changed everything for me.
Here’s the actual email, in which the sender explains his history…
Hi Jen,
Because you’re interested in having me massage your feet, and intrigued by foot fetishism in general, I wanted to tell you about my foot fetish history.
For as long as I can remember, I was preoccupied by women’s feet. When my parents female friends would visit the house, I would stare at their feet. I was equally obsessed with the feet of girls my own age. I have always loved women’s feet. And my submissive impulses were already there as early as 3 years old: I had fantasies of being a butler, a servant. I had one babysitter who would plop down on the couch and I’d bring her drinks and snacks and she would rest her feet on my face while she watched TV. Good gig for her. But I was happy; I needed feet in my face – even back then.
By the time I was actually kissing girls and fooling around, the fetishism and submissive tendencies were completely buried. It’s interesting to note that VERY EARLY ON, i realized this was considered to be weird and taboo. So my sex life was normal through my teens.
My junior year of college was the first time I lived away from home and had access to the internet. I immediately began exploring my fantasies online. This was the late ‘90s and the internet was new to me.
I looked up foot fetish and BDSM porn and I realized I wasn’t alone in my desires. I had also found a book in Barnes & Nobles called Different Loving. It was a sympathetic view of power exchange / BDSM interactions with many personal essays. It shocked my system. I read almost the entire thing right there in the aisle. But I still felt intensely shameful. I felt like a creep, like a loser. And of course, there are plenty of people out there who would say that foot fetishists are indeed creeps, losers, or worse (is this online? – just look at the comments below).
Fast-forward a few years. I had moved to New York City. And much like I responded to your “foot fetish / I want my feet massaged” post, I wrote an email to a professional Dominatrix who lived in Manhattan. We arranged to meet. I went over to her “studio” where she conducted her BDSM sessions. We discussed my interests. And long story short, she made me her “houseboy.” This wasn’t a professional arrangement. I wasn’t her client. This was a personal, mistress/slave thing.
For over 5 years – FIVE YEARS ! – once a week, I would go over to either her studio or her apartment, sometimes both, and clean for her. I would run errands. I would give her massages. And she would reward all of this service by allowing me to worship her feet. The arrangement ended when I moved out here to Los Angeles.
I’m still in touch with my former Mistress. And she was instrumental in encouraging me to be honest with my current girlfriend. Instead of being secretive, I was able to be honest and up front about my desires. Listening to the Savage Love podcast didn’t hurt either; I could hear Dan Savage calling me a “piece of shit asshole” if I tried on the idea of going to see a Dominatrix behind my girlfriend’s back – and he would have been correct to call me that.
So after years of shame and secrecy, I did the unthinkable and came clean to my GF. I told her that I have a foot fetish, that I have the desire to be dominated by other women. And I explained that this was a compartmentalized impulse, distinct from the romantic love and sex we shared.
Guess what: She completely understood and gave me her blessing. It was life changing. Someone I loved more than anyone in the world was accepting me for who I am.
It made something that I admit is weird feel more normal. Everyday, since my girlfriend’s acceptance of me, I’ve felt more healthy, true, and peaceful.
My biggest epiphany was that this was really about humiliation. I’m someone who requires humiliation to feel sexual. So someone ordering me to pick up a coffee or dry cleaning and then allowing me to get on the floor and pamper their feet while they relax or work – that really does it for me.BTW: you can Wikipedia this shit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erotic_humiliation
I hope all of this intrigues you. Let me add one more thing…
It’s really, deeply upsetting that foot fetishists or people into BDSM or whatever are considered to be FREAKS. If you Googled “foot fetish” or do a key word search in Twitter, I’m sure there are people saying tons of negative shit.
You can’t choose what gets you off. There are kids killing themselves because they’re gay and they’re in environments where being gay is shit on, where they’re told they’re going to burn in hell, or that they’re just plain freaks. Sexual shame is seriously intense.
The people who are quick to shit on foot fetishists – calling them freaks, or leaping to an even more absurd presumption that they’re dangerous – I bet a ton of those people would be quick to be like, ‘Of course it’s OK to be gay!’ Meanwhile, not realizing that people who have foot fetishes are just as hurt and shameful and often closeted because of their desires. There is an absolute parallel. (And look: I have to admit that foot fetishists do creepy things. But I believe this is a result of being closeted and desperate. I get that there’s a reason for this reputation. I guess I’m just saying it’s a shame.)
So you have no idea how grateful I’ve been in my life to meet people who are like, “Let me get this straight: you’re going to worship me like a Goddess, I don’t have to say ‘thank you’ or even be nice, and in return all you want is my feet? GREAT.: It is pretty fucking great and mutually rewarding if you have an open mind.
This is long. I could say a lot more. But I hope foot fetishism continues to intrigue you and that you see it can be pretty cool.
How awesome is that? He’s so upfront and honest – but I could FEEL the shame bleeding onto my monitor. This man was so closeted with his fetish and desperately seeking an outlet.
We outlined each of our boundaries and after about 40 emails back and forth, we finally agreed to meet at a public place last Friday.
I have to say this experience hands down changed my life. He approached me in the park with sunglasses and a hat on, but quickly asked me if he could put on his hood. “Yes,” I said, noticing that other people weren’t around (and even if they were – I didn’t care).
He then went to town for about a half an hour rubbing not just the base of my feet, but also in between my toes and all the way up my calf. I watched his body shake as he found certain “sweet spots” – and while having my feet rubbed does nothing for me sexually, in this moment it allowed me to explore the dominant side of my personality. Here is this guy laying on the grass literally WORSHIPING my feet and my only job was to ignore him and be as mean to him as possible.
FYI, I literally do not have a mean bone in my body. I’m pretty much all about jelly beans and rainbows twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, constantly seeing the bright side of things. In this moment, and in this position, I got to explore the dark side and all I can say is that I WANT MORE!!!
It was so liberating being so…bitchy. There is clearly a side of my personality that I had suppressed – much like this guy and his fetish. I can’t wait to get more into it and really let the dominant side of my personality come out to play.
This relationship is TOTALLY beneficial for both of us and I only hope this post can inspire more women to do the same. Here I am thinking foot fetish guys are “creepy” and in fact I thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s also helping me grow and become a better person by exploring a place of discomfort.
Foot fetish guys aren’t “creepy” ladies – they are just closeted. Why not explore the dark side yourself? Who knows, like me, you may enjoy it!
If feet are your thing, you may want to join our Foot Fetish Friends of SG group.
Jen Friel is a lifecaster and corporate sponsored minimalist. She went out on over 103 dates in 9 months while couch surfing for a year building her website and bartering social media to live. Consequently, she’s an accidental expert on online dating. You can read all about her ongoing adventures on OKCupid at TalkNerdyToMeLover.com and follow them on Twitter.
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“It’s not like I’m only compelled to tell stories about sex!”
– Maggie Gyllenhaal
Maggie Gyllenhaal has been a SuicideGirls favorite since she starred in the critically acclaimed S & M film, Secretary. Normally when an actor delivers such a spot on performance in a popular movie like that they will get trapped playing those roles over and over again. But due to her diligence and great acting she has consistently turned in great performances in such as films as Mona Lisa Smile, Criminal and Confessions of a Dangerous Mind.
Her latest role is that of Jude, the sexually manipulative free spirited girl in Don Roo’s Happy Endings. Jude puts herself into a home where she seduces the son of the house in order to live there and ingratiate herself with his very wealthy father.
Read our exclusive interview with Maggie Gyllenhaal on SuicideGirls.com.
Get to know Oakley better over at SuicideGirls.com!
by Nicole Rose
New York, NY–Like most L train commuters I generally put on my headphones and wait for the wave to rush out at Union Square, but tonight was very different. I was on my way to Washington Square Park for my second Casserole march with OWS. Sans headphones or book in an attempt to travel light, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between a couple sitting across from me. A young woman was telling her boyfriend about the student uprising in Canada that had been going on for over 100 days—how hundreds of thousands filled the street each night demanding free education. “I had no idea about any of this until you sent me the Facebook invite this afternoon,” he said. “Do you think people will actually show up?”
I smiled, we were in Union Square and I had my chance. I tapped them on the shoulder, told them my name and that I thought it was awesome that they decided to come out and stand in solidarity with people they may never meet. Wishing them well, I began down Broadway to Washington Square.
Surprisingly only a handful of NYPD blue shirts flanked the north entrance upon my arrival. Being a bit late I thought I may have missed the march but to my relief about 250 of my comrades were standing on the north side of the fountain making signs, soapboxing and chatting amongst themselves. After a few minutes of wandering I found my friend Joe and could feel the march preparing to leave. I readied myself with my saucepan lid and noticed the couple from the subway out of the corner of my eye. I smiled and we began to march.
As we marched, the sounds of our pots and pans filled the air and our chanting echoed off the buildings… the blue shirts were beyond overwhelmed and didn’t know how to react. The streets were ours from the moment we stepped out of that park.
Marching down Broadway, residents came out onto their balconies to see what the commotion was about. A large majority clapped along with us, some even bringing out pots and pans and joining! Something about this march was different; tonight we weren’t just taking the streets. We were taking our message to the city, to the world. All of it—every side street and major road, from small towns to big cities. From Montreal to NYC, education must be free.
A small group of us began running to upcoming intersections and blocking traffic for the oncoming march, a tactic I had seen used quite effectively in Chicago at the recent #noNATO demonstrations and heard had been used in South American protests to the same end. It worked just as well for us. A few of us, some on bikes, some on foot, would run up to the intersection before the light turned and stand in the crosswalk. The support from most motorists was shockingly positive, some honking in support or even hanging their arm out of the window to give a high-five or pound. Many drivers and their passengers asked what we were doing, why we were marching. After explaining to them why we were there they each replied exactly the same: “I had no idea any of this was happening, good for you!” to which each of us would reply in our own way “That’s why we are here.” Sometimes you can’t help but love New York.
As I ran up to block traffic for my comrades I noticed the march had seemingly doubled since I last checked, we were pulling people off of their couches and into the streets. SUCCESS! Until I noticed the amount of police officers had more than doubled, too. We were now being followed by a few cars/vans, and more on foot. They were trying to catch up to the front and cut us off, force us onto the sidewalk. The march began to twist and turn down streets in an attempt to dodge the corrals. One cop in particular started getting rough, pushing us around and ripping bandanas off. We hadn’t even made it to Union Square yet and the tension in the air was thick. Shit was gonna go down.
We broke into a run on 5th avenue in an attempt to evade the vans and I found myself separated from the group. I continued up 5th Ave and down 14th where I met them at the corner of University. We made it, or so I thought. We continued around the park and again I ran into Joe. Apparently we were taking the city and would be heading to Madison Square Park from here. Our group, as strong as ever, surged uptown against traffic.
The police had no choice but to pursue us on foot and frankly couldn’t keep up. We bobbed and weaved between cars. Some on bikes intentionally blocked pathways between cars behind the group in an attempt to slow our captors. We were finally working as a group, using the tactics and training we spent all winter developing and all spring perfecting. It was beautiful to watch it all come together.
As we headed further and further uptown the ever-gracious company of the boys in blue increased. Our presence was less than desired in midtown and as we approached Madison Square Park, we realized it had been closed. This did nothing to discourage us but gave the police the opportunity to corral us onto the sidewalk. Unfortunately for them, they forgot about the entire west side of the march and again we broke into a run toward the heart of the city. Destination: Times Square.
As we marched up against traffic, the lights of Times Square were almost surreal. We had done it. Pots and pans in hand the entire time. We made it to TIMES SQUARE! We danced with tourists and shared our new-found instruments! Bystanders joined in our chants and it was like you could sense a better world on the horizon. Demonstrators and tourists in the streets, dancing and chanting “When Education is under attack, what do we do? STAND UP, FIGHT BACK!” Counter Terrorism on the other hand did not find our display quite as entertaining and we were shortly pushed from our celebration and once again onto the sidewalks.
Blue and White shirts alike began to surround the rear of the march, pushing those in the back to walk faster. Rather than simply closing the sidewalk, as is standard NYPD procedure these days, a new speed limit had been implemented and we just were not walking fast enough. I narrowly avoided the police charge but the young girl behind me was not so lucky. I watched as friends grabbed at her in an attempt to unarrest, but were overpowered by the three huge beats ripping her to the ground. Jabbing their knees into her back for speaking her mind. For crossing the street with the right of way. This was their way of separating us. Allowing half the march to cross while the other was held up in the madness. We reconnected across from our original goal of the Red Stairs and decided our night would not end until we took our fight to the Canadian Consulate, so on we marched.
We continued to weave through streets and were headed up 5th Avenue when I heard a chant erupt, not at all unfamiliar but one that had not be used all night. We had found an undercover in our ranks! I had recently experienced this same situation in Chicago and both times they acted exactly the same. Frozen, they walked toward the wall of cops, head hung low as we chanted “See a cop, say a cop!” only this time his brothers in blue denied him. As he broke into a sprint down the street to avoid our cameras a few livestreamers took chase to get a shot of his face. I don’t think he will be coming back very soon.
We ducked down more side streets until we were finally walking up 6th Avenue once more, and with Radio City Music Hall in sight we took the fountain in front of the Canadian Consulate. It was a beautiful night, still relatively early, and people were milling around as we Mic Check’d. We announced our successful march from Washington Square Park all the way uptown to the Consulate to onlookers, and told them why we decided to end there, inviting them all to join us again the following night at 8 PM in Washington Square Park.
We were jubilant as we relaxed around the fountain, some said goodnight, others chatting. But of course with OWS things never end that simply. A white shirt announced that the building, whose fountain seating area had previously been occupied by falafel-eating tourists, had advised them the same space was off limits to us and asked that we disperse or face arrest. Slowly we said our goodbyes, it had been a long night and we needed a moment to catch our breath.
Less than a moment was all it took. They darted in and arrested two more for continuing to sit as we said our goodbyes, throwing an NLG observer into the marble fountain in order to form a wall and trap us so we had no choice but to walk north or south. Other pedestrians passed freely as the NYPD dragged their latest victims to the paddy wagon. I had had enough for one night and after saying final goodbyes began my walk to the subway. You would think after 8 months one would become desensitized to senseless violence but I just can’t seem to reach that point. I guess it must be because I’m human.
Nicole Rose is an editor and curator for Occupied Stories, a site dedicated to first person accounts from the Occupy movement.
The next OWS NYC Casserole Night will take place on Wednesday, 6 June 2012. The march will leave Washington Square Park at 8 PM. For more info visit the NYC Casserole Night Facebook event page.
Header image via Occupy Canada
