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Nov 2011 14

Aymel Suicide in Rise and Fall

  • INTO: Bizarre luxury, piercings, tattoos, music, laughing, sunny days, sleeping, rock & roll, mini skirts, sushi, porn, mojitos, playing with Photoshop.
  • MAKES ME HAPPY: Tattoos, kissing, my friends, my family, spending time with my doggy.
  • MAKES ME SAD: Gossiping bitches, missing people, having to prove myself to people.
  • HOBBIES: Shopping, swimming, walking with my dog, and drawing.
  • 5 THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: Cigarettes, iPhone, affection, food, and friends.
  • VICES: Sex, alcohol, peanut butter (especially Reese’s chocolate).
  • I SPEND MOST OF MY FREE TIME: Drawing, organizing parties, and seeing my friends.

Get to know Aymel better over at SuicideGirls.com!


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Nov 2011 11

by Steven-Elliot Altman (SG Member: Steven_Altman)

Our Fiction Friday serialized novel, The Killswitch Review, is a futuristic murder mystery with killer sociopolitical commentary (and some of the best sex scenes we’ve ever read!). Written by bestselling sci-fi author Steven-Elliot Altman (with Diane DeKelb-Rittenhouse), it offers a terrifying postmodern vision in the tradition of Blade Runner and Brave New World

By the year 2156, stem cell therapy has triumphed over aging and disease, extending the human lifespan indefinitely. But only for those who have achieved Conscientious Citizen Status. To combat overpopulation, the U.S. has sealed its borders, instituted compulsory contraception and a strict one child per couple policy for those who are permitted to breed, and made technology-assisted suicide readily available. But in a world where the old can remain vital forever, America’s youth have little hope of prosperity.

Jason Haggerty is an investigator for Black Buttons Inc, the government agency responsible for dispensing personal handheld Kevorkian devices, which afford the only legal form of suicide. An armed “Killswitch” monitors and records a citizen’s final moments — up to the point where they press a button and peacefully die. Post-press review agents — “button collectors” — are dispatched to review and judge these final recordings to rule out foul play.

When three teens stage an illegal public suicide, Haggerty suspects their deaths may have been murders. Now his race is on to uncover proof and prevent a nationwide epidemic of copycat suicides. Trouble is, for the first time in history, an entire generation might just decide they’re better off dead.

(Catch up with the previous installments of Killswitch – see links below – then continue reading after the jump…)

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Nov 2011 11

by Yashar Ali


[King in Viva la TTC]

Three weeks ago, Christopher Chaney, a thirty-five year old man from Florida, was arrested by the FBI and charged with 26 counts of identity theft, unauthorized access to a protected computer, and wire-tapping. For days, Mr. Chaney’s case was splashed across the media because the victims of his illegal acts were famous women like actresses Scarlett Johannson and Mila Kunis. Mr. Chaney readily confessed to his crime and said that he had become addicted to hacking the email accounts of celebrities.

About a month earlier, Ms. Johannson had been working closely with the FBI to find the perpetrator and block the dissemination of nude and provocative photos that Christopher Chaney hacked from her cell phone/email account. These photos were personal in nature, taken in privacy, saved on her cell phone, and intended for her then-husband.

In the last few years, with the advent of social media and cellphone cameras, we have become all too familiar with the concept of hacked, leaked photos of public figures in provocative poses or in the nude. However, with the exception of the rare article, mainly in men’s magazines, we don’t often discuss how the taking of nude pictures plays out with people in everyday life. Instead, we focus on the politicians and entertainers who do it; obviously, their notoriety makes the photos much more interesting.

But it’s not just celebrities who are engaged in taking and sending sexy/nude pictures over phone and email. We, as society, are doing it. A recent survey conducted by the University of Rhode Island shows that 56 percent of college students report having received sexually explicit images via text message. That’s a sizable number.

I am talking about the idea of “sexting,” which is defined as sending explicit messages via text message and also sending nude photos through the same technology. For purposes of this column, I am specifically writing about the widespread phenomena of sharing nude pictures via text message and email.

When I asked my friend Michelle, who is 31, about whether she has ever been asked to send provocative images by her boyfriend, she replied in the affirmative: “Most of the men I’ve dated or hung out with have asked me to text them a sexy pic. And there’s no way I would do it, I wouldn’t even do for the man I marry, I don’t know where those pics are gonna end up.”

But that’s not the end of it. These men don’t just respectfully give up on the asking. As soon as Michelle would say “no,” these men would start a campaign to convince her that they deserved or needed a provocative or nude photo.

“It was kind of pathetic, they would do something nice and claim they deserved a reward (a nude picture), or they would beg repeatedly multiple times a day, hoping I would just give up.”

Of course, these men had more courage because they texted her requests for nude pictures, rather than asking her for these pictures or any other sexual act, in person.

Most of us, men and women, remember the saying, “just the tip.” Google it. And most teen-aged girls, or hell, even adult women, have heard phrases like, “Come on baby, let me just put the tip in.”

Like those requests for “just the tip,” where asking for one thing eventually leads to the full-blown act of sex, is the act of sexting images, the new or electronic version of “just the tip?”
And by the modern version of “just the tip,” I mean a process where men end up getting what they want by repeatedly begging, pressuring, and starting out small, i.e. “just the tip” or in this case, “just a quick pic.” The first picture, like “just the tip,” is merely a gateway to the whole damn thing.

While the electronic idea of “just the tip” is something women of all ages deal with, I believe, ultimately, that we should focus on how this patterning of sexting is related to the sexualization and exploitation of under-age girls — even if it’s done by underage guys. In a study conducted by Hearst Digital Media, 22 percent of teen girls (keep in mind this is girls who are willing to admit to it) say that they’ve sent sexually explicit photos to another person.

Zoe, the 20 year-old daughter of a friend, experienced the modern day version of “just the tip” with a guy she started dating when she was 18 years old (he was 22). A month after dating, her boyfriend requested a nude picture of Zoe. When she demurred, he started to beg “Come on, it would make me so happy. I want you so bad.”

The requests went on and on and on and on, so she finally sent him a provocative, but clothed photo, and he was satisfied…for an hour.

And then he said, “That was so hot, send me a picture of your tits.”

When she said no, he started to negotiate, “Okay, just one of your tits.”

She finally gave in, which initiated a negotiating process that went on for six months, in which Zoe regularly sent her boyfriend nude photos.

“It definitely made him happy, for that moment. But when I would say no, he would text me ten times, begging. It just got to be exhausting.”

Two weeks after she broke up with this guy, Zoe logged onto her Facebook to find six of the provocative (but not nude) photos she had previously sent him, posted on her profile page. It was a devastating moment for her. Zoe’s privacy was violated, she was ashamed, and of course, was subjected to ridicule by “friends” online.

According to the online ABC News article, “Study Shows Many Teens, Young Adults Share Nude Images,” over 80 percent of teens (13 and up) and over 93 percent of young adults (18-24), use cell phones. This means that millions of women, of all ages, are put in a position of being pressured and exploited in a way that we don’t seem to be concerned about: via text.

The statistics bear more problematic news. In the same survey conducted by Hearst Digital Media, one third of teen boys and 40 percent of young men have had nude pictures shared with them by someone who was not the intended recipient of the images.

So why does this epidemic, of adults and teens sending provocative or nude photos, exist? Modern technology obviously lends convenience to the ease through which nude pictures can be sent and study after study proves that men need more visual stimulation than women. But I think we are dealing with a problem here because the double-edge sword of women’s sexuality often prevents them from talking about this issue openly with other women and as a result, it hinders them from finding solutions or strategies for managing and combating the pressures and requests for sending provocative or nude pictures.

Often, frustrating male behavior related to sexual activities is a common point of discussion between women. However, when it comes to men requesting nude cell-phone pictures, there is a lack of community amongst women when it comes to actively and openly discussing the pressures and possibilities of sending such pictures.

Without this sense of community and opportunities to talk, women are just facing yet another sexual pressure, alone. This widespread plea for nude pictures shows that we still lack respect for women’s bodies and sexuality (whether its about their boundaries or their desires) and that it remains a major issue. The concept of “no means no” has yet to be acknowledged by too many men. For most guys, “no” simply means a gateway to “yes” — kind of like a child’s behavior with a parent, where the kid hopes repeated begging will lead to the adult caving in.

Does “just the tip”/nude photos, or any other form of pressured sexual contact have to do with the fact that we give men the impression that as long as they are not raping a woman, everything else, including pressured requests, is okay?

I am not surprised that most women avoid talking with other women in their lives about the idea of sending nude photos to men. After all, women still have to contend with a double-edge sword when it comes to their sexuality. Some women are on the receiving end of pressure to do things they don’t feel comfortable doing, and when they do things that aren’t part of an acceptable (according to societal norms) set of sexual activities, they are vilified by other people.

Seventeen year-old, high school senior, Mayron Gezaw, of Fairfax, Virginia, put it perfectly when she told The Associated Press that she heard a classmate shared a nude photo with her boyfriend through text, “The whole class was sharing it by the end of the day. …The guys said, ‘She’s so hot.’ The girls were more like, ‘I feel sorry for the girl,’ or they just lost all respect [for the girl].”

The question I have is: when is the person requesting those provocative/nude pictures going to have his respect diminished?

***

Yashar Ali is a Los Angeles-based columnist, commentator, and political veteran whose writings about women, gender inequality, political heroism, and society are showcased on his website, The Current Conscience. Please follow him on Twitter and join him on Facebook

He will be soon releasing our first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts. If you are interested and want to be notified when the book is released, please click here to sign-up.

Related Posts:
Men Who E-Maintain Women
He Doesn’t Deserve Your Validation: Putting The Fake Orgasm Out of Business
A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy

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Nov 2011 11

by Daniel Robert Epstein

“It’s a very 1940’s love story…”
– Bryan Singer

Whenever this crazy ride of entertainment interviews that I’m on ends there are only a few things that will stick out as highlights. Interviewing David Cronenberg is number one on that list and number two will surely be visiting the set of Superman Returns in Australia. While I was on set with a number of other online writers a number of publicists kept apologizing to us for not having what they considered the most impressive sets up anymore. I kept telling them that what we were seeing was amazing regardless. We got to see a black colored Fortress of Solitude, I got to feel up the Superman costume [on a mannequin you sick minded freaks] and we got to walk about Lex Luthor’s yacht. From what I gather Superman Returns takes place five years after the events of Superman II. Superman traveled to the remains of Krypton and when he came back to Earth, Lois Lane has had a child with another man. While on set I got to view the footage of Superman Returns that was shown at San Diego Comicon and interview director Bryan Singer.

Read our exclusive interview with Bryan Singer on SuicideGirls.com.

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Nov 2011 11

Tita Suicide in Hastings Sunrise

  • INTO: Lipgloss & coffee, athletics & muscles, tattoos & mustaches, movies & music, SuicideGirls & the occasional bite mark…
  • NOT INTO: Indecisiveness, insecurity, and people who don’t follow through!
  • MAKES ME HAPPY: Sunshine.
  • MAKES ME SAD: Thomas W Morgan.
  • 5 THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: Lipgloss, my soundtrack, the baby-puppy, mis chicas, my own space.
  • VICES: Can’t say ‘no’…
  • I SPEND MOST OF MY FREE TIME: Being bored….

Get to know Tita better over at SuicideGirls.com!


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Nov 2011 10

by Nicole Breanne

The boy scouts have a really simple slogan: “Always Be Prepared.” They teach it to 7-year olds. It’s a very simple premise, but it’s so important. So why the fuck can’t a presidential candidate remember that? If you’re going to be on a televised debate when you’re trying to prove you are the best man for the job, maybe you should…oh, I dunno, study your notes? Talk to the half a dozen people you hired to prep you, AND KNOW THE NAMES OF THE DEPARTMENTS YOU’RE GOING TO CUT!

Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. Last night there was a debate in Michigan (Detroit, what!) and Rick Perry was talking about cutting cabinet positions. This is a direct quote from said debate: “Commerce, Education and the – what’s the third one there? Let’s see…”

Oh, yeah, let’s see…Let me just take a minute to get my thoughts together, not like this is a big deal or anything. Not like I should know this or anything!

He ended up saying it was the Department of Energy, but the damage was done. What’s even better, he thinks it’s no big deal. “I stepped in it, that’s what my wife would say.” He went on to say that he feels this little slip up (little slip up, really?) has made him more human, and people can relate. Look, its no secret, I’m really jaded, cynical, and pretty much bat shit crazy, so forgive me if I don’t want to relate to my President. I don’t want to see the dude and be like, “Yeah, that guy gets me…” ‘Cause if he gets me, he’s got no business running the goddamn country. I know my limits, and maybe these candidates need to know theirs.

Perry then said: “Any time you’re standing in front of however many million people we were and you have a loss of train of thought, sure, it impacts you. But the fact is one error is not going to make or break a campaign.”

That’s true, one mistake won’t, but he’s made a lot of mistakes. He’s no longer a serious (and I use that term extremely loosely) candidate. He’s a joke. The fact that he can’t see it makes it even worse. There’s a bigger issue here then a little brain freeze by Perry. It’s an overwhelming sense that the current culture has that it’s okay to be a fuck up. It’s okay to not be the best person for the job, and still get the job. It’s okay to just believe your own hype.

I blame the internet, and social media. Ugh okay, maybe, I’m just bitter because I’ve been fired from a job where I made really tiny mistakes because I was still learning. But this guy has been a politician for years, and fucks up on a major platform, and he gets to keep his job? I was a freaking secretary and apparently the weight of the company could come crashing down on my typos and inability to format a letter. Guys, don’t even worry about it, I can write letters, I write amazing letters. But my boss was psycho –– I mean it –– I can write a letter! I’ll write a letter right now if I have to! Clearly, I’m not bruised by that experience at all…and do you see how defensive and completely embarrassed I am about this? How I immediately set out to prove that I am capable? Over fucking letters…Yet this dude can FORGET THE NAMES OF DEPARTMENTS live on TV AND then call the African American candidate “brother,” but he gets to stay in the race and just shrug it off, like, “Oh well, I made a mistake. Whoops!”

In the words of my seven-year-old nephew, who’s not even a Boy Scout but still totally grasped this whole debacle, “what a pile of junk.” This whole “Southern boy, awe-shucks, are those my boots under your bed?” act that Perry’s been putting on is getting really fucking old. By the way, that’s not a dig at the South, I currently have a Southern boy’s boots under my bed as I type this. So back off. It’s totally Perry-specific.

The other issue is that everyone is commenting on how he was a front runner, and now that’s over. But why was he a front runner? Well, because the dude’s got bank. That’s what it boiled down to. Money. Not qualifications, not experience, not views, not ethics, but the almighty dollar. I’m getting so disillusioned, and really fed up. Part of me wants to shave my head, hop on my motorcycle, shoot a campaign commercial, and just run on the freak ticket. I’m really good in front of a camera, I know my lines, and I’m sorry but I think I’m a bit better looking Sarah Palin, so I bet I could go really far as long as I don’t have to write my own letters. Oh wait, fuck, it won’t work, I may be at least somewhat qualified in the batshit crazy department, but I’m not a Republican.

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Nov 2011 10

by Laurelin

“Please go with me,” my friend Leanne asked. “I really need this job but I can’t go alone.” I was doubtful. I didn’t want to work at that strip club in Providence, she did. But I guess it wouldn’t kill me to tag along. “Just waitressing,” she had said, and I agreed. There was a group of about ten girls and the club manager gave us all a tour of the floor, the back rooms, and backstage. It was a lot bigger than it looked outside, dimly lit with flashing lights, perfect cooshy chairs lined a perfectly strobe lit stage, and a DJ announced each girl as they started to dance, looking more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen. When it came time to fill out an application I shook my head, but the manager touched my elbow and gave such an encouraging smile that I thought, “well, maybe.”

She called exactly a week later, saying I had a job. My friend didn’t get a call, and even though I felt terrible I also got a bit of a rush. This was so… dangerous. Not my style. I was still in college, in a sorority who’s motto was “Be womanly always.” This was womanly, I guess. Naked womanly. I was all in. The manager met me at the front door and walked me in, showing me to my dressing room and handing me my waitressing uniform. It was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen — black lace up knee high pleather boots with lace up matching pleather booty shorts and a black and red striped lace up corset. It all fit like a glove. I looked at myself in the mirror with what seemed like millions of movie star dressing room light bulbs making me glow. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart and I stepped out of the room and into the dark.

I don’t remember when I went from nervous to confident, from being the new girl to being the girl who commanded the room. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and a few shifts a week turned full time. I was still in college and making more money than I knew what to do with. I knew every man that set foot into that club, and I knew their stories and what they drank and what they wanted to talk about, especially what they wanted to hear. These men were lonely, whether it be a wife or girlfriend who had settled into routine too quickly, or if there was no one really in the picture at all, no friends, family, just us, just me, a regular girl transformed by a life of strobe lights and glitter.

Soon I wasn’t just waitressing. There were backrub girls too, and when I saw how much money they were making, after one year I was ready to make the switch. Looking back now I still can’t believe it. Armed with scented baby oil gel I ruined these guys, sending them home slimy and smelling of lavender. One year of work turned to two, and then to three. Back rubs and waitressing were now supplemented with foxy boxing and hot oil and whipped cream wrestling on Friday and Saturday nights. The money rolled in, and every single shift I was smiling. I walked out on the stage to my fake name and I worked the room. I wanted to be there. I loved this act, this secret person, this girl who knew just what to say to walk off making a man feel like a million bucks while really, he was just giving it to me.

I remember the night things started to change. My boyfriend had come to visit, and instead of me being able to visit with him like usual I was busy in the champagne room. I had been in there with a customer for over two hours, and I was drunk. The dancers hated when the guys took me in — I didn’t dance or take off my clothes — I was never am entertainer. This night though, my boyfriend had brought someone for me to meet. “Laurelin, out of the champagne room, you have a guest on the floor!” the DJ announced and I squealed, grabbing the bottle of Moet Nectar and running to see who it was. There was my boyfriend and a man, standing at the stage waiting for me. I stumbled walking up to meet them; champagne and I didn’t always agree on walking in a straight line.

“Laur,” my boyfriend said, grabbing my hand, “meet my Father.”

I stood there, trembling, my confidence and buzz falling into my stomach. I was suddenly aware of how I looked — white high heels, naughty nurse uniform with my ass and frilly red shorts hanging out, too much makeup and a fake orange tan. My fake eyelashes suddenly felt too heavy and I saw myself as this man did, a used up drunk girl who couldn’t even stay and talk because I had to go back into a room and spend time with a man who was old enough to be my father. I couldn’t even shake his hand, one was full of champagne and the other clutched a diamond necklace that man had bought me.

What was going on? I left my boyfriend and his Dad at the stage with a handful of ones, and when I was finished with that work shift I scrubbed my face until it was red. I wanted to see my freckles again. I tugged and combed out my hair until all the curls were gone. The dressing room was exactly the same, with all those shining movie star light bulbs and I really saw myself. Too tan, too thin, the line between me and the girl I created at my club so blurred that I wasn’t sure who was who anymore.

I went home that night with my boyfriend and his Dad, and I know that his Dad still has the t-shirt I gave him from my club. He loved it, loved me and everything about that night, but I was horrified. I went in the next night, done up like always, and I put in my two weeks. The manager looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re our best girl!” he said. “I know,” I said. “But I need to get out of here. It’s time.” He gave me a hug, and those last two weeks were the saddest and happiest of my life. I said my goodbyes and on my last night we had a fantastic party. It’s been seven years since then, and when I walk into that club I still know everyone. The men, the drinks, the stories. It’s impossibly sad, but part of it will always be home. As I drove home to my boyfriend’s house on my last night at the club I turned the radio on, my eyes filling with tears. This was really the end of an era. What now? Where did I go from here?

“Boston” by Augustana was playing on the car radio, a song I had never heard: “I think I’ll go to Boston, I think that I’m just tired, I think I need a new town to leave this all behind, I think I need a sunrise, I’m tired of the sunset…”

“Boston,” I thought. “That sounds nice.”

[..]