The Porn Paradox

Foreword

The following essay was written with great difficulty. It required that I include things that I did not want to write; to research things that I did not want to read and force open the door to let you see what I would rather not show you.

I did not undertake this mission lightly. On the contrary; you are about to read disturbing material, which you should take seriously and which you should avoid if you find yourself distressed by. I’ve taken days to do the work, and the price has been high: nightmares, severe dissociation to the point where I dropped my ATM card, and lost it. I was certain that in my hurry to get home and cancel it, I would die. I collapsed and was down for some time. No, nobody who walked by asked if I was okay. They said nothing.

What a world, eh?

My therapist knows. About what I’m working on, I mean. She cautioned me to ground myself and to take breaks. And none of that or anything else helps me. But you need to see what I have written. I hope that you will find it enlightening no matter how dark it is. So, in regards to internet porn and all other forms of pornography, let’s get our hands dirty.

ANYTHING ANYWHERE ALL AT ONCE

The problem with internet porn and other pornography is that it is everywhere. Here is one very sober YouTuber that may surprise you. I know that I certainly found her talk refreshing.

What parents and others may not know is…

There’s a paradox here. Conservatives want to pretty much legislate porn out of existence.

But they can’t. And every time they try, it doesn’t work. Although they initially failed to criminalize fake or simulated child porn, they finally got that part right. And if you want to get real about it, priests, pastors, politicians, and everyone else who says they’re against porn watches it. They even sext. Yeah, I know! It’s not so, you you say. But it is. A web resource for pastors once printed an article about how many clergy were surfing and downloading porn in their pastor’s offices at church! I’d share a link, but that’s not new. You shouldn’t be sitting there mortified like that. We’re all just human.

And anyone, anywhere, can…

Yes! You can still buy big-name porn movies. Yes, you can still buy dirty magazines. The soft-core ones seem to have given up the ghost.

There are still peep shows, and the places are often refuges for people looking to hook up with strangers. And they do.

Since 1996, Congress and the Supreme Court have wrestled with legislation to control the content and accountability of internet porn. Let’s just say… it still rages as a battle of First Amendment rights versus morality.

There are people who don’t understand what porn really is and have never seen it. Yet they fight against it. They’ve heard about it, much more than what they wanted to as far as details, and without knowing anything else, they’ll fight it like Carrie Nation chased bartenders with an axe.

Then there are those who’ve seen porn and could take it or leave it, but cast a vote anyway that could affect millions. Even children. Yup. Children can easily access porn. Don’t believe otherwise.

Then we have extreme cases. These fight any and all censorship no matter what. Perhaps, too, we have the fence-sitters who refuse to engage the battle on either side. These abstain or are absent during voting on a bill.

No matter how any case turns out, it’s challenging to prosecute anything except proof of hardcore blatant child porn. And I’m staking a bet that what is still hidden except to users is the bulk of what’s out there. You and I and an army can’t change that. And the nine pussycats of the Potomac can’t, either. Meow.

Nobody knows what’s next. Another Supreme Court case? Even with the benches stacked with Trump-appointed justices, good luck. And the United States isn’t even close to being alone.

You can research for yourself the incredible numbers of porn sites and how many pictures and videos are on them. Don’t go to any porn sites; you don’t need to do that. I’ll tell you what the score is. But I’ll warn you before I do. Just a little bit down the page of results for “internet porn,” you’ll see results from sources like the government and others. It’s an eye-opener for sure.

And you’re bound to run into a groundbreaking case where someone uploaded “revenge porn” nudes of an ex-girlfriend, and she saw it. She sued the website and won. I doubt that she intended for her picture to end up there, but it happens when you send nude selfies to your boyfriend who you don’t know is so vindictive. Most underage girls (and this came from a woman I chatted with who worked with former porn actresses who were down and out) send nude selfies without caring who, or how many people might see them. It got so bad that a few minors were threatened with the distribution of child pornography! There’s another wrinkle in the paradox. It’s really twisted.

Addiction is Real

The first thing that a user will notice when first they explore porn sites is an incredible rush. There’s a sexual arousal, and naturally, the user masturbates.

It is only the beginning of what gives the term “vicious cycle” a new meaning. The user begins downloading, and that alone, surfing, and downloading more and more, releases dopamine, a hormonal neurotransmitter. It does exactly what the name implies. After too much, it can actually help you sleep, although I can’t endorse it as a sleep aid.

I can remember falling fast asleep doing this. One time, I must have touched the screen in the wrong place. I also must have been snoring. A woman’s voice, with a sweet Asian accent, was laughing and saying, “Time to wake up,” but I couldn’t.  I fell asleep just after she cut the live feed off. Man, was that embarrassing! Not only that, but I made her laugh, except what if I also hurt her feelings? And I never went to live feeds either. I hardly believed that they were open mic. But it happened.

And that’s opening another subject entirely. What does porn do to the people on the other side of the lens? The answers are many, and none of them are good.

First, there are models. They pose in the nude for pay, and there’s a big problem with that. While some are bringing in money for sites like Met Art, FTV Girls, and others, many show up in archives only once or twice. Which means the number of photo shoots they did. Those either quit or are trafficked, bought as sex slaves, or they die. Drugs and alcohol are a staple of the porn industry, and overdoses, accidental and suicidal, are common. Then you have traffic accidents. Models, from Playboy centerfolds to hardcore actresses, seem to die in highway accidents quite often.

One wonders why this is, but it doesn’t matter when they’re dead. Being a longtime sufferer of PTSD, I can tell you that before I gave up driving and let my license expire, I’d racked up 35 traffic accidents in 28 years. I never had a serious PI or death-related casualty, and before I did, I figured I’d quit. I had read an article in The Baltimore Sun about how University Hospital’s Shock-Trauma unit had compiled a history of patients from serious traffic accidents. Patients with a history of being victims of domestic abuse were more likely to become patients there from auto accidents. It was disproportionate. That’s because of the dissociative component of PTSD. The mind wanders. Reaction time can be slow to too late.

Looking back on what I have learned, I find that hardcore and softcore porn actresses are commonly raped after filming a scene or posing. It could be a lighting tech, a cameraman, or the director.

Also, actresses tend to have their own history of child sexual abuse and feel guilty, and have low self-esteem. But can anyone match the horror story of Linda Lovelace? Because that’s hard to top.

1969 is the year she first shows up in film “credits.”

Because really, it was not a film most people knew about. She was forced at gunpoint to do a bestiality film. Later, the demonic guy who did this forced her to marry him. She went on to do another forced film, the name of which I can’t mention anymore than the first one. 1972 brought “Deep Throat” to theaters. Not your neighborhood cinema, either. Everyone knows those were for Disney movies. No, it was in adult theaters. And still caused a furor and an obscenity case.

Linda Boreman died in April 2002 after suffering severe trauma in an auto accident in Colorado. Since then, I’ve learned that I feel deep pity for her and the pain she went through at the hands of men. She told everyone and wrote in her autobiography that “Deep Throat” was nothing more than her being filmed while being raped.

It truly is a tragic thing adult actresses go through. It always has been. I do hope Linda, a Christian in her later years, is at peace and with God. I am still brokenhearted for her.

Look up the Playboy models who have passed on. Some weren’t old enough to be dead yet. Especially when I think of an 18-year-old centerfold who posed when I was 35.

Why does this happen?

One more thing about softcore models. After a time, you’ll see a tattoo that wasn’t there before. I’m not talking about being inked, as many are. What you see is a very small picture. Or a letter. It could be a tiny monochrome dragon. A Chinese or Korean letter. These small marks are signs of ownership; they’re a brand without a burn mark, although I’ve seen a few of those, too.

Categories: Here’s your content warning!

The very worst are the amateur films. There are married women. Married men. All kinds of immorality the mind can imagine. There are spy videos that are exactly what they sound like. A pervert with a telephoto lens filming naked women in apartments across the street. They post the trash online, and everyone knows it’s evil. But it continues.

These include “genres” such as:

Fellatio, the proper term for oral sex performed on a penis. Usually it ends with an ejaculation in the mouth or on the face of the actress.

Creampie, or intercourse with the actor ejaculating inside the actress.

Amateur and variations, which can be anything, but with amateurs, and not mainstream, actors. The different subcategories are swingers, old and young, incest, masturbation for men, and fingering for women. Also lesbians and gays, bisexuals, peeping, spying, in the shower, cheating, wife swapping, and glory holes, which involve men putting their penis through a hole in a wall and being fellated by a stranger. It gets worse. There’s ATM, which has nothing to do with banking machines. And this is where I stop. There’s more. Category lists take up pages in alphabetical order. There are tons of porn to drown in for days on end.

ADDICTION TAKES OVER

As the user goes deeper, because that dopamine charge and sexual arousal get more elusive, trouble begins. More and more time is spent getting deeper and deeper and much, much darker. This is close to the basement of addiction.

That happens to go hand in hand with desensitized feelings and an overall lack of responsiveness to real sexual situations. Marriages shatter because of this. Jobs are lost because exhausted men and women spend all night chasing images and masturbating.

In the end, the cycle wears you down so much that your self-respect has vanished. Your attention span has gone with it. You think of nothing else.

How do you live that way?

The user is not living. It’s no way to live. And if you think God is all-loving and forgiving, think again. The user covered in sexual sin who doesn’t repent is doomed to Hell. Repentance doesn’t mean apologizing to God after every “session,” because it doesn’t work like that. True repentance is when you finally look at yourself honestly and hate what you see. When you feel ashamed and finally turn away. You hate it so much that you could smash your Apple Mac. Only then can you begin to heal, and it’s a process. It involves God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and professional help. Confess your sins to God and tell a trusted therapist all you can and let them help you.

I know all of this because I have been that user, sinking in the mire of porn for decades. Now I am free, but the temptation is always there. It’s a battle, and that’s why I recommend all the help you can get, starting with the Lord. You need not go to a priest. This is a serious problem and he can’t help you. What difference would it make if you get punished by saying even a thousand Hail Marys? None. She can’t hear you. Sin is a personal matter between you and God, because it is sin that separates you from God. Go to Him and pour your heart out. The Lamb forgives. He’s already made your atonement; all you need to do is take his gift after you confess. To God, not a priest.

I don’t know what happened to me. It was sudden. I had been asking for so long for help. God answers prayers. It may take a while, but He knows the time, and when it’s right, and you’re ready, you’ll get what He knows you need.

How many times have I, by His hand, been spared? How many times was I saved by what I can only call miracles?

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Was blind,

But now I see.

I wasted so much time. I covered myself in filth. Nothing shocked me anymore. Nothing was ever truly out of bounds. I would still be doing it, but a miracle happened.

Remember that no matter what you’re watching, the women involved are probably under coercion, and you can see it in their eyes: out of focus because of drugs or alcohol, or from dissociation because of trauma. You’re running the risk of watching a rape.

Masturbation

It really is an awkward question. I’ll let you go with one last video on the subject of porn and masturbation. This professor clears things up nicely and, no, it is not mentioned in the Bible.

Afterword:

That took a lot out of me. This mess has to change, but for now, all I can do is to beg you not to look at porn. It’s destructive, and it can and has ruined and ended lives. It produces victims more than any other “industry” except for trafficking of children. Whatever you decide, that’s up to you. God gave all mankind the freedom to choose. May you choose wisely, and may God bless.

That’s Entertainment? The Ugly Side of Sports Entertainment: Profesional Wrestling

Warning: What follows is the most shitty and disgusting story I’ve seen in recent years, and it didn’t even shock me. I’ll be pulling absolutely zero punches, so be warned now that sexual assault, rape, trafficking for sex, child sex abuse, and more will be in my discussion. If you think you can’t handle it, please be gentle to yourself and leave now.

If you have stayed after my warning, and you have read it, and if a tag brought you here, or if you’re curious about my continuing attack on our current state of “entertainment,” then hang on to your stomachs. We’re going on a trip to visit Vincent McMahon, who’s on his way to Hell.

I’m not getting into the long history of American (not Olympic) wrestling. Wikipedia should give adequate information to start your research for your own journey into Hell. Or beyond.

I watched it at various times. In the early 60s, on black and white television, with the likes of Cowboy Bill Watts and other oldies.

In the early 70s, I watched Chief Jay Strongbow and Andre the Giant, the Grand Wizard, a manager and a heel, and a lot of other guys I can’t remember. Then I left it alone. Back then, Vince McMahon was no more than a skinny, ugly announcer. But he was determined to convince his father that he was a worthy son to take over the family business. And he did. Or so they say.

1999-2001

My son wanted a video game for Christmas in 1999: “WCW Mayhem” for the original Playstation. I got that and a skating game for him. When he and I couldn’t talk or find common ground, gaming filled the gap between us. I soon bought my own Playstation and was bitten by the wrestling bug. When he visited, we could create ridiculous wrestlers and step into the squared circle together. We had fun. I’m grateful for those memories. Some of the happiest I have.

While alone on Mondays, I watched wrestling, switching cable channels between WCW Monday Nitro and WWF Raw. I was truly lucky, seeing both at their best. WCW was suffering from a lack of a storyline, but Tank Abbott was brought in with a real contract and maybe the promise to fight Goldberg, who, at the time, was out with injuries. Tank had to go through the roster to get to Goldberg. I swear I saw him take on Screamin’ Norman Smiley, plus the incredibly stupid “Demon”, but I can’t find  a record of either one. The Demon was inspired by the incredibly stupid band KISS. One fight card indicates Abbott fought Vampiro, who might have been the Demon character I’m thinking about. Somewhere along the way, Jeff Jarrett played the fans by resurrecting the nWo and called the entire arena audience a bunch of “slapnuts” which a heel, of course, was supposed to do: rile up the fans and keep them watching. I hated him, but in fact, I think he’s a square guy, a good man.

I find it troubling: I remember Tank Abbott clearly. But not the matches he had. He also was hardly undefeated, and his famed “Knockout Punch,” his finishing move, doesn’t seem to be as effective as I recall. He also continued with WCW well past the point where I stopped watching.

The gimmick over, I began losing interest in WCW. I wasn’t alone. They weren’t even selling out matches. Terry Funk was always worth watching, and at a stable, in a hardcore match, got kicked by a horse. Before the commercial, Funk could be heard saying, “Fuck!”

While I had been aware for years that it was all a show, because I wasn’t as stupid as John Stossel, I also knew that enough of wrestling was real enough that those people in the ring really were hurting each other. Mostly by accident because they’re basically athletes and stunt performers at the same time, but oftentimes on purpose because of perceived real hits by opponents. Accidents happen in and out of the ring, and wrestlers do go off-script behind the scenes. On camera, of course, but backstage, too.

Kane, the Rock, Undertaker, and Cactus Jack were my favorites, but close behind were the Dudley Boyz, Too Cool (Grand Master Sexay and Scotty Too Hottie), and Kurt Angle.

Who was responsible for all of this soap opera wrestling goodness? Vincent McMahon. He had pooled some of the best talent in writing, stage sets, makeup, and announcers.

At the time, I wasn’t aware that there was also dirty fighting between WCW and WWF. A WCW wrestler named “Montana” wore a black Stetson and made fun of WWF announcer Jim Ross, whose former ring appearances had him “from Montana.”

Having been stricken by a form of palsy, Ross (J.R.) sometimes had speech and facial muscle problems, and it was this that Montana made fun of. The fans didn’t like it. But vindictivness was the primer of the downfall of the WCW. Vince McMahon was the hammer. His WWE bought out the floundering WCW, resulting in a surplus of talent that had to be trimmed. A trimming job for Vince would be to you and I more like something you’d see in a slaughterhouse than a butcher’s shop. You could see it in his face: anger and severe punishment were in his eyes at the same time.

I also did not know about the horrible death of Owen Hart, who had fallen approximately 75 feet from a harness as he was being lowered from the rafters. That fall onto any surface not intended for stunt use, like a deflating air bag, is hardly survivable. In this instance, he landed on the top rope, near enough to a turnbuckle as to make the rope even more unforgiving. It severed his aorta, which closed the deal on his death sentence. It happened at a live pay per view event, but no one at home saw it. Jim Ross was so shocked that he had trouble telling the viewers that Hart was in real trouble and that this was no attempt at drama.

With Hart’s blood still on the ring’s  mat, McMahon decided that the show was to go on. This was a clue that McMahon was a greedy and cold-hearted son of a bitch, but also, even as I heard this story, I was unaware of what took place in 1992. And that was sickening to beat all hell.

That story went that Rita, a female referee with WWF, had been raped by McMahon. She appeared on the Geraldo Rivera show, and at some point, she sued.

Then another scandal reared up, this involving a juvenile and a member of the WWF. In a 1992 interview on Larry King Live, even Bruno Sammartino, who I’d also watched as a kid, accused Vince of knowing about dirty shit and lying his ass off.

By 2022-2023, Vince and the now-WWE (the World Wildlife Federation sued to make McMahon change his organization to exclude “WWF” so it became “WWE” for World Wrestling Entertainment in 2002.) reported that the case had been settled out of court. Rita Chatterton would now shut up. Funny, how money makes ugly things vanish, huh? But Rita only settled to avoid further litigation costs, so she wasn’t exactly happy. In her first match as referee, McMahon had actually told the two women wrestlers to break her legs. Fortunately they agreed not to follow his command.

The Recent Scandals

Jake the Snake Roberts, a former wrestler, says that the latest revelations about McMahon are “disgusting” and I have to believe that he had heard at least rumors, as now, it has become public knowledge that in 2005, Christie Hemme vanished from WWE. I was no longer watching, so I never even saw her. The figure of 7.5 million has been tossed around. What was rumored was that the creative team couldn’t find anything for her to do, so she was sent for training. Triple H, Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley’s husband, would be traveling there, too. Stephanie didn’t like Christie’s enthusiasm over being around her husband. So she told Daddy (Vince McMahon), and he canceled Hemme’s contract after a week.

Although no one can confirm Stephanie’s involvement or that Triple H was even traveling anywhere at the time, one thing is very clear: Hemme is the former wrestler who got yet another taste of McMahon (literally) and refused to go any further. In fact, it isn’t clear if she ever got that far because not too long ago, she clarified the reason for her inexplicable departure. Because she said she had morals, even asking her father’s permission before appearing in Playboy, which Vince had asked her to do. But when asked to do more, she refused, knowing that the non-negotiable refusal meant that she would lose her job. She may have been cheered by being sent to train. Maybe it gave her some sense of hope. But it wasn’t to be. Vince McMahon was, as we now know, intolerant of any resistance to his commands.

In January of this year, one of many headlines:

“Leading up to the 2024 edition of the Royal Rumble, McMahon found himself involved in yet another case. An ex-company employee, Janel Grant, accused McMahon and former executives of sexual assault and filed a federal lawsuit.”

Janel Grant was in a bad place. Her parents had died. Their house would be taken from her. Someone intervened. He told McMahon about her, and Vince’s face lit up. You know why? I do. Because there’s no better target for sexual abuse, or just plain taking control of, than someone in a bad place. Eager to get work. Soft. Pliable. Someone who would be indebted to you. By this time, McMahon had it down to science. He knew what to do. He carried out each step like the piece of shit he was. Before he knew it, he got a blow job. Then more. He pimped her out, engaging in threesomes with himself, her, and certain other wrestlers. Including Brock Lesner, who is being cut out of his future projects. She was reduced to a fucking sex worker. McMahon even, in one such session, shit on her face as another piece of garbage fucked her, failing to be sickened in the slightest by the vile act.

Let’s be clear: these are sick motherfuckers. Okay? Just so we’re clear on this: more than one wrestler or other WWE employee or contractor (wrestlers, so the company doesn’t have to offer insurance) had forced sex with Ms. Grant. That’s alone, or with others. She was abused in every possible way. Every possible way.

I’m sorry for her beyond any means of or ability to describe. And that’s only the latest known victim. Grant had signed an NDE, which, in the case of violent felonies, federal crimes like sex trafficking and… defecating on one’s face is not legally binding. We know why she would settle for payment. A true victim is fucked up. They want it over. They want closure and a way out. But money can never make things right, or take away the low self-esteem a victim has because they feel guilt or end the relentless nightmares, flashbacks, and everything else that comes with PTSD. To hush her up, the NDA was made, but Vince never paid the second payment,  another illustration of how absent of respect he is toward women. It’s like saying to her, “You’re nothing without me. I don’t pay ‘nothings’.”

So, as happens far too seldom, Grant became resolved. If that’s how it was going to be, fine. The NDA wasn’t even a thing anymore. She was free to tell her horror story to the world, so she did. That blew the lid off everything, and I do mean everything. Now, there were fewer wagons to circle. Vince stood virtually alone, with a few obviously guilty dickheads hanging on. In this podcast, you’ll hear why:

Ashley

Ashley was a victim in more than one way. I don’t think I ever saw her except in clips because I don’t remember her being around yet when I stopped watching. I kept playing the newest video games, but the last one, 2024, is so bad that I have to rank it as the worst wrestling game ever made. It is so sexist that every diva in the create suite has implants. Noticeably so. Wow. Now that I think about it, I’ll probably never buy another one. Besides, I know too much now, and playing it would be a problem for me. Even the classic games, which were far superior, might be hard to stomach. But I do recall Ashley being in one of the games. Maybe 2008, 2009, 2010?

Ashley was a diva. I was under the naive impression that Divas were treated well at first. Beautiful and technically very good wrestlers.

It took no time at all in late 1999 for me to see otherwise. Mud wrestling? Seriously? Bra and panties matches? Hey, I messed around with the games, sure. But real life is not a video game. Divas have, as a whole, been treated so horribly by Vince McMahon that I’m frankly concerned that he hasn’t been imprisoned by now. He’s basically kidnapped, raped, sexually abused, beaten, assaulted with bodily fluids and waste, falsely imprisoned, tortured, (and even murdered one victim-that we know of) so many men, women and juveniles that we can never know the full extent of his depravity or his crimes.

Ashley had serious issues from getting concussions. Remember that I said earlier that this might be scripted, but people really do get hurt? Here’s proof. She had endured multiple head trauma, but in her affidavit, she also said that after she posed for the cover of Playboy, Vince set it up so that she flew on the corporate jet and stayed in the same hotels with the executives. She already knew Vince to be a predator. Perhaps you’re thinking that should have made her alarm go off, but she dared to dream that in her case, she was safe. She was not.

Vince tried to seduce her. Tried and tried. He would constantly ring her room and her cell phone all night. In Kuwait, she was raped by an unidentified male, and the fucker was probably put up to it, perhaps even paid, by Vince himself. When someone refused his advances, his wrath was unquenchable, and he was unforgiving. Guilty of stalking and harassment he stepped it up even more.

Now, she was in such despair that the affidavit also said he overrode the writer’s scripts for her and made her say things that she knew would finish her career. Ashley ended her own life in 2017, a direct result of the actions and verbal abuse along with head trauma-all caused then ignored by Vince McMahon. He murdered her.

This information was not made known until after her death. The reason given by her attorney is that at the time it was filed, the bigger issue of head trauma was the most urgent thing.

My heart breaks over such a horrible situation and the death of one who fought to keep her honor.

That said, I am going to state here that I do not consider other victims, the ones he raped and pimped out, to have dishonored themselves. I’ll never do that. Hell, I’m a victim, too. Of really heinous shit, so I know how it feels. Never shame a true victim. A neighbor told me that she (Janel) was “in on it, too.” Holy shit!

I set him straight. At least I hope that I did. Because saying that is bullshit. Believing it is sexist, evil and fucking psychotic. I expected better from him.

Janel was conditioned. McMahon recognized a desperate woman. He took her into his fold and made her dependant. Once that was done, he made her a sex slave. The disgusting nature of everything he’s accused of is not entirely a surprise to me, and that means that I have no reason to doubt them.

Let’s go back to when I was watching WWE. There were a lot of controversial things going on both in the ring and outside of it. X-Pac and D-Generation X were taunting opponents and crowds with the “suck it” crotch chop, Stone Cold Steve Austin was giving the finger all over the place, Stephanie went from a joke and a brat to a pain in the ass who was definitely all heel, replacing Chyna as Triple H’s lover both in character and out.

Chyna’s entrance involved her shooting a cannon from her crotch like a huge penis ejaculating fireworks toward the rafters, a demeaning gesture meant to emphasize her square jaw and ‘roided-up body. Except for her chest, she might have appeared more masculine. The sacrifices she made to have a career… she, too, was part of the D-Generation X. At least until she found out that Triple H was also dating Stephanie McMahon. This ended very badly for Joanie Laurer, aka Chyna. A dedicated bodybuilder and the first woman to be entered in the Royal Rumble, I was quite enamored of her. I found her to be beautiful, incredibly sexy, and not the slightest bit masculine. She was what otherwise would have been an unforgettable technical brawler in the ring. But after an ugly fight with, or because of Stephanie, she had to go. She just vanished. Hunter has cited her porn flick with her next boyfriend, X-Pac, as a reason for her not being admitted to the Hall of Fame. He came to a compromise later where she would be allowed in with the D-Generation X faction. But never solo. Because WWE was a family show.

What a load of shit. During her very short career, Vince McMahon initiated the “Vince McMahon Ass Kissing Club” and he would, in the ring, actually drop trou and bend forward and make wrestlers pay for transgressions by kissing his ass. So much for being a family show. Judging her by a homemade porn film is a bit harsh when all of the stuff on the shows was far more traumatic to children than any sex tape would be for an adult who idolized someone. For Chyna, it ended tragically. Substance abuse and severe depression took a toll, and on 20 April of 2016, she was found dead (not ruled a suicide). I feel certain that she was another victim and that the WWE killed her.

Did McMahon order hits or “bounties”?

Because Vince ordered Rita Chatterton’s legs broken, we have already established that this did happen. So dickheads like Kurt Angle carried them out. Unless someone has the balls to say so or not, I believe that Vince McMahon has ordered wrestlers to injure others. He’s that controlling and that vindictive. I’ve seen injuries that should have never happened. You see something. You know what you just saw. The move was a cheap shot and not an accident. The opponent can’t get up. Then he’s out for almost a year. Vince gave one wrestler incentive to perform a dangerous move. Maybe that wrestler never can return.

Vincent McMahon is a predator, sex offender, needing to dominate and subjugate women more than men, but to him, control is complete, and that means over everyone. There may be some past trauma that’s caused it, but I wouldn’t have any sympathy even so. He even tried to get his daughter into a storyline where he had impregnated her. What kind of father does that?

Stephanie refused, but she and her husband and her mother, Linda McMahon, are in this up to their necks, because they knew, but said nothing, and thus enabled this horrible man by covering for him. The entire family could be charged. A federal investigation is underway. And those kinds of investigations usually don’t go well for predators. TKO, the owner of WWE, says they dismissed him from the board. He says he resigned. He’s childish, always wanting the last word and lying to do it. But it hardly matters; being away now doesn’t mean that he can hide. There are other men and women who have their own stories to tell, and they’re not afraid anymore because Janel is resolved and wants to set an example. Before it’s all over, there will be more wrestling personalities who will lose your respect and mine. This rabbitt hole goes down so far that it can pass clean through hell on its way to infinity. And Vince McMahon will be along for the ride.

And Shane, Stephanie and Linda McMahon? They’re likely to save themselves and turn on the bastard if a federal grand jury is held. Maybe there’s no honor in them, but self-preservation is, after all, a powerful drive in the wild kingdom. Because, when a former wrestler compares their husband/father to Jeffrey Dahmer,  Harvey Weinstein, and Jeffrey Eppstein, you know it’s time to bail.

And that you should bail.

Monsters

Yep, there be monsters among us, aye.

You don’t always know that they are beasts on sight. You can know them for years and still not know how horrible they are.

But what gets me the most is that no matter how evil, how brazen or how depraved they turn out to be, someone will always defend monsters and claim that the human being accused of being a fucking animal is actually a great person.

But Gérard Depardieu is a fucking predator and sex offender everywhere except France. Because he’s an artist. God damn. Are the French really that insane?

It seems that some call him an artist (bullshit), and others, the “greatest actor in the world (a pile of elephant shit).”

How many times have I heard this kind of defense about the famous? Well, I guess I would have lost track long ago if I ever tried. You can’t rape someone and not go to prison. Except in France.

Depardieu is not an artist. He most certainly isn’t the greatest actor “in the world.”

I never liked him. After a few shitty movies, if I saw his name, I stayed away.

Is it me, or are sex predators being given special treatment? The celebrities, I mean. Sure, we nailed Weinstein and fucking hooray for that, but there’s a huge snake pit of these people out there. Not people. Snakes. They should be exiled to Snake Island. Fuck them.

I have in the past been able to spot brand marks on porn models. Some were tattoos. Small, usually some character, like an Asian letter. Or little things that don’t make sense. Later, the tat changes. The letter turned into a small dragon. These marks change because ownership changes. Traffickers do this. Sex slave owners do it. Later, these actors or models no longer pose or act. They vanish.

This is because of aging. Kept in line by drugs, that aging doesn’t turn out well. Breast augmentation just looks silly on a drug-ravaged body. But they are human beings!

They get exiled to some far away place, streetwalking to get money for drugs. And that’s where their sad lives end.

They served a master or two. If they enter that world young, they go through some of the most horrifying things any young person can: large objects are used to “open you up” in the words of one girl interviewed. Monsters do this shit. And the “trade” is international; a girl who ran away from home in New York City gets sucked in by some promise to have an agent to set up a modeling career. The next day, she’s in China, Hong Kong, Macau, or the like, or Muslim countries, even the Middle East. Maybe it’s a Brazilian girl who never sees home again. And for those who can pay, she’s made into nothing but a vagina.

Sex slaves and sex crimes aren’t new, but with population growth, parents will readily sell a child. It happens. What a customer does is pay to rape unwilling girls or boys.

I’ve tracked a couple of these “owners” before. Then they went legit or migrated to the dark web.

You know my past. You don’t need to guess how I feel about this evil shit.

But at the same time that the perps are the worst part, those who defend the slimy bastards?

Scum.

It’s Not Your Fault

WARNING: The following post has triggers and adult sexual content. It contains references to suicide, child abuse, rape and their subsequent trauma, social dysfunction and mental illness. Read carefully, stop if you can’t handle it, and leave comments or contact me if you wish. This memoir is an ongoing account of my life. It was never pretty.

And when I get to Heaven, to St. Peter I will tell,

“One more Survivor reporting, sir,

I’ve done my time in Hell.”

A jogger just went by. I was outside, smoking a 72. Which, of course, is crazy.

The jogger was loudly clucking, like a very slow chicken. Which, of course, is crazy.

You and I may have heard about people doing crazy things lately, and that’s true enough, but people have always done crazy things.

I know. Don’t think I came through abuse, rape and assault lasting over a decade without actually going a bit nuts. Guys, especially when entering adolescence, have a source of guilt girls can hide, even though they feel just as guilty, just as soiled. Sexual contact, whether forced or consensual, causes some level of “excitement”. Stimulation, however scary, eventually causes a physical response. And adolescent boys can’t hide it when they have an orgasm.

After the guilt sets in, it will not easily go away. It’s a lifelong companion and the enemy of your soul. It will consume every good and positive thought you would have had. It makes you unfairly blame and hate yourself.

That leads to bad choices, costly decisions and pain. Incessant, unyielding pain. It is my contention that every survivor is automatically traumatized. There are few things in life more horrible than sexual violation. What comes after is a hellish existence.

An adult who endures this but who grew up in a relatively safe home and social life may be silent and never report it. The shame is too much to bear, the pain too much to ever give vent to, not even with a spouse or friend, or spiritual leader, not even a doctor.

I can only talk about them from things I’ve learned over the years. But the violation from as far back as I can remember, at least four years old but in the criminal case only to age 7, that I’ve written and spoken about many times. I’ll never get the whole story out; there’s just too much. And I know it first-hand, and that’s the worst way to know about any kind of abuse.

While on this journey of laying my life out for everyone to see, I’ve inadvertently hurt others. I tried to contact old friends on Facebook. They either weren’t there or they decided not to interact with me after a small taste of my writing.

I never wanted that. I regret it no end. But then, I have a lot of regrets. They haunt me. Like the memories that can never be wiped away, the pictures in my mind, the movies of the past, they haunt me.

I’ve told the truth. From the supernatural events to the mundane, which you can find in my archives, every story, every detail is laid down as I remember it. That thing in my room when I was little was real. This was no child’s imagination fueled by fear. That thing was there, and whatever it was, I felt its intense hatred. I didn’t understand hatred. But that was my first experience with it.

What I want to say now is about guilt and regret. Those things often hang out together in my mind. These days, approaching my sixtieth birthday, I’m disabled and alone. I have time to deal with them, face them on days I feel strong enough. And I remember…

Loneliness. In a family that kept being added to, I was always lonely. Dad would pit us kids against each other. He would come home from work and before he could open his car door, we went to our respective rooms for safety. Invariably one of our names would be called in anger. The belt would come off and someone went to bed with their back striped. You stuck to the sheets. You didn’t really sleep. We never trusted one another. I did very little ratting, but I was often the target of it. Looking back, I’d have to say, I’d rather it be me than my sisters or baby brother. But I couldn’t save them even when I was older. There’s some justified guilt for you. And I became a lone wolf. Everyone knew it.

One of my biggest regrets is my social life. My interactions with others. While other boys in my third grade class were dreaming of being astronauts and baseball players, I fantasized about what my teacher looked like naked. And what we could do together. I’d begun my training as a sex object. Sex was always on my mind.

I loved a girl that year. She distracted me from my abnormal fantasies. She was beautiful and happy and I never even made friends with her. I left her alone. I realized such a beautiful girl didn’t deserve the fucked-up thing I was becoming. I love that girl to this day. And the truth is, I imagined she’d just hurt me like I was hurt when my girlfriend the year before left with her family for Thailand. I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again.

Odd; school pictures show me smiling. I rarely smiled. I laughed, but only at the expense of others.

But I digress. I’ve loved others over my sixty years. I still do. They’re a comfort and a source of empty regret at one and the same time. In high school I dated two girls. I loved them both, not at the same time, of course. They both dumped me. It hurt. I was suicidal. I even tried to cut my wrists. It hurt too much, and I looked for other ways.

Somehow, I got through it and my life seemed to have turned better when I met and married a woman who thought I was a nice guy. It would not occur to us until later that we were better friends than lovers.

In 1984 I met a receptionist named Peggy. She was exquisitely beautiful and she made my heart pound so hard every time I looked at her that my kidneys hurt. She was soft-spoken, with the voice of an angel. I knew she could tell. I never actually told her, but she knew. I was head over heels in love. Here was a special person, one who made me listen to sad classical music in my car, violins speaking a truth I couldn’t bear: I wasn’t good enough for her. My wife came to the same conclusion about me. I’ve been alone ever since. I’ve had affairs, trysts, but nothing serious. I’ve been celibate since the Twin Towers were still standing. To this day, I love that woman. I regret never having told her how special she was, even if I could never be with her. I wish I could change that. Regrets are merciless and they don’t leave you. Not easily, anyway. As surely as I carry all those I’ve loved with me, I carry the regrets that go with them. The things left unsaid. The crazy things I did, that they always found out about. Most of all, I think the regrets of being socially awkward and sometimes misunderstood may nag at my mind the most.

I didn’t know how wounded I really was. I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know what it was. From one job to another, from one apartment to another, one town to another, I carried some insidious malignancy in my head that made me nothing close to normal. I didn’t understand it. I felt like everyone hated me. I knew they hated me. The last time I saw Peggy, she had a look on her face that broke my heart. Hatred. Anger. I can’t get that image out of my head.

In 2000, over a decade later, I was living alone. I had no friends. A crazy demonic girlfriend I couldn’t get rid of. And I was getting worse. The depression would keep me in bed for days. I’d miss visitation with my kids. I was descending into a pit. Once at the bottom, and I could picture it, I was sure I’d never get out.

It took me three serious suicide attempts. Twice I wound up in intensive care on ventilators. Once at St. Joseph’s Hospital and once at Howard General. For weeks, I didn’t even know who I was.

But I still hated myself. For anyone who ever hated me, I assure you that I hated myself more. PTSD is a condition affecting millions. That along with bipolar II disorder, and learned behavior they call personality disorders, well, I’m a mess, and the decision to go to the state hospital in Sykesville was the best decision I ever made. I was properly diagnosed and treated. I was allowed to be sick, and in that, I began to slowly grasp that I had to learn to live with being so injured. First, I had to find a way to forgive myself. The guilt was out of place. It belonged to my parents, not me. The regrets I have to work on. I’m doing that. Yesterday a girl walked past, singing a song. She was pretty. She returned a bit later, waved enthusiastically and said, “I love your flannel.” It’s a hoodie and I hate flannel, but it’s the last thing my son ever gave me. But without hesitation I said, “And I loved your singing.” She was so happy. It was never my nature to be outgoing. There was a time when I would have said something mean. Or nothing at all. Friendliness scared me. My defense was cruelty.

I liked the way I handled a simple friendly compliment. Actually she may have been stoned, she was so happy. But that’s groovy. It was nice.

I saw my friend Stephanie who works at the grocery. I told her I admired her courage during this dangerous time. In parting I said, “Be safe, okay? You’re my hero.”

I’ve never been sorry that I was nice or that I had a friend. I’m still taking meds and I enjoy talking with people. Much more socially comfortable than I’ve ever been. There’s just the nightmares, dissociative states, anxiety stress and panic, the dirty feeling like I can never get clean, and of course, depression.

And guilt. No matter what, I’ve got to do something with it. Forgiving myself for something that wasn’t my fault is a tall order. Remember that scene from Good Will Hunting? I want all of you to know. Every one of you. You’ve been violated, beaten, had your mind fucked, been told you’re worthless until you believed it, you who feel dirty, guilty, you who hate yourself and all the awkward shit you do, all you who thought about or tried suicide, all you who have mishandled or purposely fucked up relationships, to know one thing: it’s not your fault.

It’s not your fault. I may not know you, but we’re brothers and sisters. We have been through hell. Too much of it, and life’s not fair, and we all know it. Forgive yourself. It’s not your fault.

If you need help with post traumatic stress and anxiety, there are resources easily found online and in your area.

If you or anyone you know is suicidal, having suicidal thoughts or feeling like you can’t go on, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 24 hours a day, 7 days a week at 1-800-273-8255.

Your life is worth more than how you’re feeling it is. You’re not worthless. Suicide is final; often done on impulse in a moment of deep fear and despair. You can’t change your mind once it’s done. No matter how terrible you feel, I don’t want you going that way. And if you think no one loves you, well I love you. Brothers and sisters, remember?

It’s not your fault.

And it’s not my fault, either.

We good?