#or the fact that he is actually here and not in lesbos where his college is

[mynameisbillandimaheadcase]

😭 i will never learn

[fortvitous]

WASSUP FUCKERS ! it me again , friendly neighborhood trash ~ mack , thts who .. this time w/ Lesbian Jesus Joey Parker ! LFDKSF i’v had her for a long time w/ just diff names but , i lov her unlike my hatred for someone else ... but YA ! ykno what 2 Do .. hit that fat ♡ . i’ll come to u for plots in discord ofc , eventually Maybe ... in the meantime , everything u need 2 Kno about her is under the cut uwu ~ 

?  ?  ?  WHOA  ! i've  always  seen  the  parallels  between  (  johanna ‘joey’ lee ),  the (  twenty one  )  year  old (  cisfemale  )  and (  tyche  )  plus ,  they  look  just  like  (  kim chungha  ).  from  their  (  elephant necklace  ), to  their (  clover tattoo  ),  some  would  even  notice  how  their  (  silver  tongue, adrenaline addiction and doe eyes )  connect  perfectly  ! i  don't  know  about  you  but  i  can't  wait  to  see  what  olympus  brings  to  (  her )   !

⦗○⦘ backstory.

hmm ok , so joey is far from a tragic story .. she’s full of life & love ! she was born in england actually , to a loving mother & father.. & she wasn’t the only one – she has five brothers which she lovs but also equally h8s 

her mother was the only person she kind of connected to growin’ up but tht didn’t stop her from attemptin’ to hang out w/ her brothers / do activities w/ her father ! as much as she was a girl, nobody culd guess tht she culd do a lot of things tht were meant for ‘men’ from a glance ! & equally enjoyed things tht were boys were only supposed to like !

however, growin’ up with a lot of boys around the house onli taught joey to stand up for herself & how to be even more confident .. despite that she was the only girl sibling in their family ):

tho, around the age of ten – the lee’s had decided to pack up & move to chicago only due to the fact that her father had gotten into some risky business ( gamblin’ ) & didn’t want anyone to come after his fam if he culd never pay w/e he owed back /:

so joey resided in chicago for most of her teenage yrs, where outside of the house – she became more ‘westernized’.. as in she hardly ever talked in korean or kept to her family traditions ; hence where her wildt side began to blossom

thru the ages of 13-17 , joey ran within a small group of people that enjoyed the rush of ( literally anything this group does ) tht made them feel lik they were livin’ their best lives ! ofc , peer pressure came into play & joey was thrusted into it however she did learn to adapt

despite tht , joey never drank too much or did too much drugs in fear of lettin’ her secret slip of why her fam actually moved to chicago  /: but she did make up for it in the adrenaline part , datin’ ppl she knew tht was bad for her .. doin’ dangerous things .. sometimes disobeying her parents bc ! why not ! her brothers always did , so why culdnt she ?

even tho she was a bit of a wildt child , her studies & education were always imp to her as she desperately desired to go to college ! in which she did , but however her parents desiried 2 send her back to where she grew up as they felt it wuld b right for her .. to settle down , figure herself out w/o the influence of her friends & for her to connect w/ her roots & other fam members !

which ! at the ripe age of 19 , she said fuk all dat shit .. i’m staying . 

⦗○⦘ present.

joey enrolled in college rite in the hort of chicago , & takes the train there n’ back !  her major is in economics , as she had always had a fascination w/ shit lik ! 

she works at a roller rink as an attendant , gathering & savin’ money up to continue to live comfortably ... yet , she also has developed a tiny bit of an addiction to gamblin’ jsut as her father however she Seems 2 never lose so . she’s got a bit of savings in her bank acc .. .

she currently lives in a small + dingy apartment , bc her fam isn’t the wealthiest of ppl & has lived there since she moved out ! despite how much she complains about it , she does find her lil apartment cozy & wuldnt trade it for the world + all the memories she’s made there from the past few yrs

⦗○⦘ personality.

ok uhhhhhh h h h … joey is heavily based off ramona from scott pilgrim vs. the world dlskfjsdlf as in she lives on the edge , does shit tht probs isnt the best for her but does so anyway bc she lovs the thrill , & has a personality tht is kind of alluring but once u get to kno her it’s either a hit or miss !

on the outside , she definitely appears lik a girl tht doesn’t enjoy gettin’ her hands dirty but bc of her brothers .. she enjoys dirt , she enjoys insects ( shes that bug girl ) .. has an interest in sports cars & last but not least …. lovs girls slkdfjd big lesbo alert ! !!

due to her need for thrill & an addiction to adrenaline , she often changes the tips of her hair .. one week it culd b blue & then the next week it culd be purple ! she’s wildt lik tht ..

as for her in depth personality: click here 4 dat :3

⦗○⦘ etc.

there’s not much else to say about her  …& her sexuality is .. she’s a [ janis vc ] big fat lesbian ! sorry boys /: ( aside from the one’s she’s dated ig .... maybe she says i kno dicc once in awhile )

joey is a wildt child as previously stated so it’s hard to tie her down , whether to a friendship or relationship .. one min she’s there & next she’s lik dust in the air sdkfjdsjkf

her bday is on the 31st , so ! she’s a halloween baby , lovs the big orange moon on her bday night !

i think tht’s it !!!

sorry i talk so fukn Much . . . anyway if u read tht ily ok Gudnite < 3

[noretreatnancy]

Let’s Be Bartenders for Halloween

Writing Prompts for @stardustandseas

#7, #25, and #44

This is long as hell, but super fun (I managed to make it a little angsty, because of course I did)

Halloween at the bar was always an experience. Candy was behind the bar, wearing her usual jeans and and tight white tank, with the addition of a small piece of cardboard with “Sexy Bartender” written on it. She had only conceded to this amount of effort because Elena was at the other end of the bar, in full 50s regalia, the cutest little diner girl anyone had ever seen, though perhaps the skirt was a bit shorter than regulation, and Candy was sure those diner girls hadn’t left quite that many buttons undone.

Jim had walked in, taken one look at Elle, all lip gloss and bouncing ponytail, and sunk into a stool at the end of the bar. Candy wasn’t sure whether to tease him or thank him. It never hurt to have someone as fear inducing as Jim around, and it especially wouldn’t hurt on a Halloween night when shots were half off and Elle looked like a vintage pinup. But damn, could her fool cousin be any more obvious? For a man who claimed to be completely over the crush he’d nursed since junior year, his eyes sure did follow the girl as she moved behind the bar, slicing limes and polishing glasses and setting out cute little candy bowls.

By midnight, the place was packed, and Candy was really getting into the serving groove, taking orders and money and mixing drinks, all while bouncing on her toes to the playlist Elle had carefully put together, a mix of cheesy halloween classics and the shit that the college kids liked.

She watched Elle, who had begun grinning at the first costumed customer, and hadn’t stopped since. She had acquired several admirers over the course of the night, but it was clear that she was too hyped up on mini-snickers to care. Candy liked to think it was her elaborate performance of The Monster Mash that attracted them, but more likely it was the cheerleader way she bounced around behind the bar in that little costume.

Jim was careful not to stare at the guys doing their best to pick her up, on the off chance that she actually took an interest in one. Candy was proud of this, because she knew how easily he could frighten lesser men with that hard-eyed stare. It was a family trait, one that she herself used anytime someone in a frat tshirt tried to look down her tank or lean too close across the bar. She’d had to pull it out several times tonight, enough that Elle had noticed.

“You should just change your sign.” she said, loud, over the roar of the bar. “To what?” Candy shouted back. “Sexy LESBIAN Bartender, duh” Elle grinned, wiggling her eyebrows teasingly.

Not five minutes later, some guy had the nerve to say “Candy, huh? I’d like to unwrap you like a piece of candy” and wink, like he’d delivered the line of the year. She stopped serving, dragging one hand down her face while she contemplated her entire existence on earth. “Tell me, buddy, is it hard, having that bad a sense of direction?’ He looked drunkenly confused, and she rubbed her temple with exasperation before elaborating “Can’t even find your way to a decent pickup line. Tragic.” He’d stumbled off, and she caved.

“You got a pen, Sandra D?” Elle dug it out of her little apron pocket, giggling, “She doesn’t even wear anything like this.” Candy just rolled her eyes. She inserted “Lesbian” in sharp thick letters, all caps,  with an arrow pointing between the “Sexy” and “Bartender”, hoping Liza wouldn’t happen to walk in.

Liza walked in two seconds after she got the stupid string back around her neck, so that the sign hung down once more. She settled into a stool next to Jim, and gave Candy the smallest wave. She glanced at Elle, who was suddenly very absorbed in the Cosmo she was mixing. Goddamit. “Can I get you something, officer? Or are you on duty tonight?”

Liza gave the barest hint of a smile, one side of her full mouth pulling up slightly. Candy knew she was looking at the sign, Liza knew that Candy knew she was looking at the sign, but Candy refused to acknowledge it. “No ma’am, I’m not working tonight. Can I get a whiskey? Or is that not sexy enough for this particular bartender?”

Plenty sexy. Candy fought to keep her face still. She poured the drink, passed it to the off duty deputy, careful to maintain eye contact, not showing a hint of weakness, even if she was careful not to let their hands touch. Jim seemed to have stopped watching Elle for a moment, and was taking in the situation next to him with a smirk. Candy bared her teeth at him, but he just shook his head.

Suddenly, the bar was dead. Elle was covering pretty much every customer, leaving Candy without a single distraction or excuse not to talk to Liza. “SO, officer.” she said, disrespect through respect, using a formal title under informal circumstances, disdain and disregard - hot cop who? - “shouldn’t you be out on the streets, looking out for Michael Myers types or whatever it is small town cops do on Halloween?”

“Actually, I took the night off. Elle told me you guys were dressing up, so I thought I’d come by, judge the competition.” Liza twirled her whiskey between her palms, making sure that their gazes never broke. “I thought about doing some trick or treating. You know, I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

Candy felt her skin flush, made the conscious effort not to bite her lip, to breathe. After just a second too long, she said “Well, lucky for you, our darling carhop has set out candy all over the place. You're welcome to have whatever you want.”

Liza leaned in, so slightly, and raised one eyebrow, asking in a much lower voice “Whatever I want?”

Candy knew she walked right into that, cursed the fact that fucking Eliza Marshal had her all flustered. Candace King did not get flustered. She was a stone cold fucking badass bitch, and weaker mortals cower in her presence, including hotshot deputies with great asses.

Before she could make her comeback, a flash of movement caught her eyes. Two stools down, a big guy in a “Jackass Gym Bro” costume had grabbed Elle by her wrist. Her wide smile was still on her face, as if frozen, despite the alarm in her eyes.

“Hey baby, let me buy you a drink.” He slurred slightly, not releasing her wrist despite the way she tugged, ignoring the obvious tension in the room, the three angry pairs of eyes on him. Candy kept one eye on the situation, and one on Jim, who had gone on alert like a bloodhound.

Elle too darted her eyes to where Jim was tensed to attack. So she had noticed his presence, the way he watched her all night. “You gonna buy me a drink… from myself?” she asked, incredulous, teasing, trying to lighten a moment that could easily devolve into mayhem.

He stared back, dumb son of a bitch, still holding onto  Elle. “Yeah baby, and maybe I can slip you an extra $10 to pop open a few more of those buttons.”

“Watch your fucking mouth!” Candy snarled, moving to Elle’s side. He jumped, but still didn’t let go, or look to concerned. Too stupid to live. He blatantly scanned Candy’s body with a sloppy little smirk. “Oh hey, sexy lesbo huh? Gonna let me see some girl-on-girl here? What do you say, Happy Days?” he jerked Elle farther across the bar, chuckling. She yelped as her hips slammed into the bar, twisting like a snake to get free. Chaos erupted.

Candy came over the bar, catching the collar of the guys shirt. He was drunk, unprepared to be jerked forward, and he hit the bar with enough force to give a satisfying crunch. He jerked back up, blood pouring down his face, just in time to face Jim.

Candy whirled. Elle had stumbled back into the bottles on the wall, hand over her mouth. The wrist was red, a bruise for tomorrow. Her wide, terrified eyes were on the brawl which had just broken out, Jim hauling the guy around to face him. He slammed his big fist into the side of the guys head, another into his stomach. Candy was filled with a sudden, sickening fear that Jim would beat this drunk asshole college kid to death, right here in the bar, right in front of Elle, who was too shocked to make a sound.

“Fuck! Liza-” she met the cop’s gaze, suddenly feeling helpless. What the fuck was she supposed to do here? She couldn’t let Jim pound this guy to meat, but she was unwilling to throw herself into the fray. The famous King temper was something Westlanders knew well, a force of nature that had to run its course, but they were not in fucking Westland and these college kids would not know the rules about no police involvement.

Liza must have seen all the desperation Candy poured into that look, because she shouted “If I die tonight, King, best believe I’ll be haunting your sweet ass for the rest of eternity!”, before moving towards the 6’9” tower of rage that was Jim after his best friend and practical sister were both harrased right in front of him. Christ, this kid had fucked with the wrong bartenders tonight.

Suddenly, a wave of something splashed over the bar, onto the two frenzied figures. Elle stood, holding an empty pitcher of beer, looking ready to tear someone's throat out. Jim went still, whipping his head around. It was almost cartoonish, the way his fist stopped mid swing, frat guy still dangling in the other.

“James King, you better put that creep down and take a breath, before you get arrested. Again.” Elle’s voice was strained, but it didn’t break. Jim hesitated, then dropped the guy into a pile at his feet. Beer dripped off of him.

“Who did this asshole come with?” A group of very reluctant guys stepped forward, looking ready to bolt. “You take him home, and when he comes to, let him know that if he even thinks about making trouble about this, I’ll have him thrown out of that school before you can say Sexual Misconduct.” They moved forward, hauling their battered friend to his feet and out the door faster that Candy had ever seen a group move.

The bar patrons stood in stunned silence. “Elle, baby, take breather okay?” Candy ordered, watching the sudden fierceness fade just as quickly from her friend, who now looked on the verge of tears. Elle nodded, but didn’t move. Candy followed her gaze to where Jim stood, covered in blood and beer, chest heaving, knuckles bloodied. He was staring at his feet, entire body tensed up, like he was made of stone. Liza stood to the side, clearly wary and ready to intervene, like she thought Jim might still be a danger. Candy knew better.

He slowly lifted his head, over the bar, to feet Elle’s gaze. He didn’t see anything, or betray any of his emotions, but Candy thought she could tell what he was thinking. What scared her more, that guy jerking her around, or Jim losing his temper right in front of her eyes? He was always so careful with Elle, gentle, had been that way since high school. SHe had seen him angry, had heard the stories of his quick brutal temper, but had never seen it, as far as Candy knew.

Elle didn’t speak. She reached out her hand, the one attached to the angry red wrist. Jim’s body relaxed, and he ever so carefully reached for her hand, taking it in his own much bigger one. It was simple, but seemed too intimate for a bar crodwded with people, all eyes on them.

“Jesus fuckin Christ, Jimmy, this is why you don’t ever have any shirts to wear.” Candy said, gesturing to the blood and beer staining his white tee. Liza snorted, and Jim gave her a small indulgent smile, dropping Elle’s hand. They both moved toward the door at the opposite end of the bar, one on either side of the bar.

People finally stopped watching, the low rumble of voices resuming. Liza picked up the asshole’s stool, which had toppled in the conflict. Without being asked, Candy poured her another whiskey, then leaned on her forearms in front of her. “So… gonna haunt my sweet ass, huh?”

[lucialovewriting]

THE NEA VS. THE FORD FOUNDATION

CH.1 (2019) There are as many art worlds as there are modes of finance. Most of these are eclipsed by the audacious white cube - art fair - auction circuit in all of its florid elitism. As wealth disparity continues to denude communities of basic necessities globally, this art market has been largely written off as a glorified tax haven, incapable of more than inadvertent gentrification on a virtue signaling world tour. While the spectacle of abundant creativity and aesthetic innovation is maintained through season after season of record breaking contemporary sales, we’ve come to see a leveling of expression from a host of interchangeable authors. A predominantly salable veneer has been applied to their artifacts, allowing connoisseurs to remain focused on jockeying to accrue wealth through stable investments. More often than not, the meaning of these works ends up lost to speculation inside of a network of international freeports. Just as quickly as one country can ban the construction of these climate controlled limbos, another country builds their own. The market’s evasion of most localized economic regulation is notorious as the bulk of new art investors strive to bend cultural exchange to resemble a global stock trade.

Jed Perl dubbed this cultural leveling under the buying power of a disaffected collector class “laissez faire aesthetics” in 2007, and we are still waiting for the bubble to pop. In contrast to this trend, a number of philanthropic organizations have evolved to produce both vastly different products, and controversies. To understand the spirit of this alternative, it’s helpful to first consider the creation of the NEA, and the private donors that continuously work in tandem to fund cultural endeavors. In a speech at Amherst College in 1963, President Kennedy spoke to his future hopes for a flourishing post war society: “I look forward to an America which will reward achievement in the arts as we reward achievement in business or statecraft. I look forward to an America which will steadily raise the standards of artistic accomplishment and which will steadily enlarge cultural opportunities for all of our citizens.”

He was inspired to believe that art production resides at “the center of a nation’s purpose” by the shared conviction of unofficial poet laureate Robert Frost, and that the figure of the artist was meant to be free from the necessity of any political agenda. This idealistic attempt to amplify the nation’s soft power initially garnered effusive bipartisan support when Johnson finally signed the National Foundation on the Arts and Humanities Act in 1965, and would last for exactly three years before the first wave of conflicts arose. There was no issue with instating Nancy Hanks as chair (after Roger Stevens) who aside from being a distant cousin to Abraham Lincoln’s mother, was also responsible for working with the Rockefeller Brothers Fund to produce The Performing Arts: Problems and Projects which expressly stated the benefits of private funding for the arts. The Rockefeller philosophy was theoretically in step with the agency’s founding belief in hands-off government support combining with a proactive business sector to fund individual creatives of note. In practice though, some more conservative representatives were beginning to rally around Frank Bow (R-OH) who believed our miring in the Vietnam War meant  “We cannot have guns and butter. And this is guns with strawberry short cake covered with whipped cream and a cherry on top.” Bow did not approve of the experimental theatre being funded at the time, and it turns out neither did Nixon who had a vocal interest in classical music - and a private distaste for “novel” contemporary work, “the horrible monstrosity of Lincoln Center”, and the “little uglies” hanging in the MoMA.  While credited with expanding the NEA’s budget exponentially during his term, Nixon arguably facilitated Hanks out of fear of a public that was polarized by war and the possibility that his legacy would end up dirt.

Hindsight clearly shows the issues of government spending on the arts and humanities to be baked into the NEA’s initial request for non-interference in guiding the national standards for tax payer funded art. While their entire budget comprises .004% of all federal spending, it has been perennially attacked as a safety net for the production of degenerate waste. After decades of content related scandal that saw awards rescinded, and budgets cut symbolically according to the cost of a Piss Christ, Newt Gingrich (who has a lot to say about why lions will starve if they only hunt chipmunks) called to “zero out” the NEA entirely in 1995. He didn’t succeed, but the conservative coalition which formed around the speaker of the house at that point managed to nearly halve the national budget. Since then Gingrich has kept on the culture war path to periodically fire shots at proponents of the NEA with statements like this dismissal of critic Robert Hughes: “Far too frequently, NEA grants have been utilized to express explicitly narrow political views rather than to celebrate legitimate cultural issues. As much as Hughes would like to pass off Serrano as an anomaly of the NEA process in the '80s, the fact is the beat goes on: This summer, California's Highways performance-arts center received a $15,000 NEA grant to help put on its "Ecco Lesbo/Ecco Homo" festival. With such acts as "Not for Republicans," "Dyke Night" and others with names unsuitable to be printed here, it is filled with political statement. Why should the American people be forced to pay for the political posturing of a few?”

This ironic zeroing out sentiment has been dredged up again recently by the Trump administration (who vociferously threatens to enact all kinds of policy changes) though a letter currently being circulated by Senator Tom Udall (D-NM) and one by Representative David Price (D-NC) both call to provide the NEA and NEH with $167.5 million in the FY 2020 cycle - a $12.5 million increase.

If the laissez faire aesthetic could be reduced to a core thesis, it may be “this is worth it”. Every work in circulation is lauded as a statement in itself so that a theoretical underpinning can be used to speculate on its volatile market value. In contrast, art that has been brought to public attention through support of a National Endowment at odds with congress has been lent an air of decadence, and has been sentenced with perversion of American identity. The original hope of enabling a unified vision of Americana to develop and flourish has revealed the fact that there will never be a clear understanding of what that may actually entail, though McNaughton’s paintings currently hold the throne for many.

Philanthropic organizations stem from private industry, allowing their members to bypass the pressures of national funding, but few have considered their position in the constellation of art and finance as carefully as the United States Artists. Created in 2006 by the Ford, Rockefeller, Rasmuson, and Prudential Foundations, they are among the largest providers of unrestricted support to artists. They began this collective endeavor in part as a direct response to setbacks facing the NEA after witnessing the agency’s struggle with congress over illustration of some ineffable American soul. Rockefeller continues to support the National Endowment since the days of Nancy Hanks’s program, and both Ford and Rasmuson signed a petition with 9 other titans of philanthropy in early 2018, protesting the Trump budget proposal to once again cut funding. It is the Ford Foundation however which has been in operation since 1936 that has taken initiative to write the rules of beneficial engagement with national and international communities in the name of social progress and economic justice. The initial organization was created by Edsel and Henry Ford four years after the Ford Hunger March (where Ford’s Service Men opened fire with machine guns on protesters from the Unemployed Council and United Auto Workers coalition, resulting in a massacre) and one year before The Battle of The Overpass (where UAW members were beaten for attempting a pamphlet campaign). Needless to say, the company’s public approval suffered greatly from their treatment of workers though they went into bargaining with UAW at this time as well, and aggressively jump started their philanthropic efforts. Since then they’ve been credited with creating some of the largest financial allotments in history across all fields, but they’ve experienced push back on arts funding within their timeline as well. In 1977 Henry Ford II penned a resignation letter from his own family business stating, “The foundation always has prided itself on its emphasis on funding the experimental kind of effort—the new way that might lead to a significant breakthrough. Yet we stick with some programs for years and years—Office of the Arts being a prime example. Are we an ongoing funding agency or are we courageous backers of innovation in the huge field of human problems?… In effect, the foundation is a creature of capitalism—a statement that, I’m sure, would be shocking to many professional staff in the field of philanthropy.”

This rebuke of “anti-capitalist” activity did little to derail the foundation’s endeavors to support progressive expression as experienced by Susan Berresford who joined the foundation in 1970 as project assistant in the Division of National Affairs. She recounts beginning at the organization when women participated in the workforce on wildly unequal footing with men, but because the institution proved to be actively dedicated to applying the values of fairness and justice to its own business practice, and the Civil Rights movement had been struggling along for decades, they restructured in ways that eventually allowed her to become the first female president, holding the position from 1996-2007. The experience of working within a company culture that expands internal avenues for growth for all members was integral to the mindset Berresford later brought with her to the position of founding chair at United States Artists. Here she remarks on some of the thought process that formulated the origin of USA: “Why do we call ourselves US Artists? It sounds like a government agency, but we’re not! Kathy DeShaw, our first executive director understood some of us were troubled by the fact that the Americana aspects of our culture were being captured by one political party, and the flag was being used by one political party. What we set out to do was be non partisan and say that artists and donors exist across the entire political spectrum. One of the visuals we adopted early on was the Jasper Johns American flag. It was embracing that non partisan experience of America that we wanted to highlight.”  

USA works through a process of peer selection, where artists from disparate communities across the country are nominated each year for the chance to receive an unrestricted sum of $50,000 gifted from donors who may themselves be art collectors, but are usually at least sympathetic to nonlinear creativity. This freedom from restriction came directly from a belief that the elite culture wars needed to be circumvented to allow art the chance to solve social issues that had no metrics in place to gauge progress. Berresford keeps track of situations where this sort of networking lead to concrete support, and shares them openly approaching potential donors. “Once we were alerted to this sculptor that received two public commissions but didn’t have the money to pay for the necessary materials. We were happy to help her, but we also just kept running into these contradictions that were really interesting to us. While this was a clear case of what the artist would do with the money, we didn’t want to get into a kind of bean counting of which kind of art shows "a result". If you’re a philanthropist you should give someone money and get out of the way."

The art world functions in such a way that an artist may accrue social capital in spades without that translating to consistent financial gain, but some of the donors that USA approached were suspicious of offering anything to people who may not require outside support, claiming something akin to an “artist as welfare queen” argument. Another school of thought that potential donors entertained was that if the artist was worth anything, they would find themselves evaluated by the visual art market. As laissez faire aesthetics state, this is not always the case, especially if the work is ephemeral or does not fit a fashion trend that is palatable to the current collector class. Indeed, some of the artists were contacted for nomination directly through associates who saw them as community leaders. It is not a prerequisite for recipients to excel in the contemporary rituals of successful small business with self promotion based web presences. Though some are digital natives, other nominees may run local theaters that address race relations, choreograph dance with the disabled, produce journalism about incarcerated populations, teach the homeless to sing in choruses, or raise awareness of issues facing queer communities. In some rare cases they have even been scouted out living traditional indigenous lifestyles deep in the forests of Maine or Alaska.   (CHAPTER 2: IF PHILANTHROPISTS PAYED THEIR TAXES AND POLITICIANS PUT MONEY INTO INFRASTRUCTURE WE WOULDN’T “NEED” ARTISTS TO MAKE WORK THAT ULTIMATELY DOESN’T FIX THE PROBLEMS THEY ADDRESS. ARTISTS ARE INSTEAD HIRED TO REPLACE TRAINED SPECIALISTS IN THE FIELDS OF SOCIAL WORK AND LOCAL POLITICS - PERHAPS BECAUSE “ARTISTS” ARE WILLING TO BE FLEXIBLE AND OFFER ESTHETIC SOLUTIONS TO CONCRETE ISSUES. THIS SOCIALLY ENGAGED ART MAKES PHILANTHROPISTS FEEL LIKE THEY ARE GIVING MONEY TO THE RIGHT PEOPLE. THEY ARE PAYING TO HEAR WHAT IT IS LIKE TO STRUGGLE, INSTEAD OF WHAT IT IS LIKE TO BE ALIVE.)

All uncertainty in the efficacy of private donations to individual recipients was weeded out of the board of US Artists, leaving a base of support that finds artistic production to be an integral part of community structuring. Berresford recalls the early days of formulating bonds around this understanding, “In the beginning there were people we supported like the painter Mark Bradford. He was an early recipient and later became a board member. There was an idea that outside the government there could be an endowment, which was the only way you free yourself from understandable political pressures to take some risks. With an endowment we attract a staff that works because they know they are going to get payed. Then we can take risks on artists who can then take risks on finding esthetic solutions, and can weather the issues that come up, and move on and evolve the organization with an emphasis on creativity.”

From the top down, this organization works internally to ensure all of its members are cared for as well, utilizing Berrisford’s experience at Ford as inspiration. In contrast to most unpaid internship programs in the art world, theirs is not only payed, but also places the interns into a position to create a publication that is distributed among the entirety of fellows and donors. There are few venues who will not only allow their artists freedom of expression, but also allow their staff a creative outlet. The consideration of how to create an egalitarian operation that satisfies its own members doesn’t stop there though. A study commonly referred to by the USA performed by the Urban Institute titled “Investing in Creativity” found that of the award programs that did exist “Media artists have the most discipline-specific awards (165) followed by visual artists (157). On the other end of the spectrum, dancers have only 22 discipline-specific awards, design artists 6, and performance artists a mere 2.” As if merit based selection processes were not complicated enough to begin with, they also take into account that the form individual expression takes has fallen into a hierarchy of importance based on other markets and general accessibility, and that this must also be overcome through careful selection. Add to this a concern for scouting out the most socially engaged creatives, and we begin to see why each round of decisions becomes a full year’s worth of work.  

The result of taking care to note these details is something the assembly members find to have a heartening effect. In previous years, reported 82% of fellows of the USA have spent their winnings on their own art, collaboration, and on supporting other artists in their local communities. The motto of USA is “Believe in artists” and it is arguable that the good faith approach to philanthropy has worked to turn the figure of artist into a representative of sorts. When these voices are elevated, we begin to see a shift of attention away from market aesthetic, towards the backgrounds and sociopolitical beliefs of independent actors who manage to garner audiences that verge on constituencies of varying size. This year also marked the inaugural run of The Berresford prize which their website states was “conceived of by several USA Fellows in response to the lack of acknowledgment for those who have dedicated their careers to the betterment of artists… remarkable administrators, curators, scholars, and producers who are building platforms and creating conditions for artists to thrive.” Kirsty Edmunds was the recipient, but this is only the beginning of focused support for a nationwide ecosystem of creatives and those who strive to amplify their work. A common complaint about philanthropy in the arts is that institutions who receive funding are generally not allowed to pay their own staff through those donations, because philanthropy is bound by our tax structure to refrain from funding individuals. Since United States Artists has found a way to bypass this issue with the Berrisford Prize, their effect on the creative sector has become unparalleled.  

[republicstandard]

The Un-Making of the West, Vol. VI Demography and Destiny

“While animals are not allowed to migrate illegally, or disrupt the preordained ‘natural’ order – liberal central planners encourage non-indigenous peoples to mess with the social habitat of historic, host populations. Provided those populations are Caucasian. If you’re a rainforest pygmy, liberals will fight for your survival.”-Ilana Mercer

(function(w,d,s,i){w.ldAdInit=w.ldAdInit||[];w.ldAdInit.push({slot:10817585113717094,size:[0, 0],id:"ld-7788-6480"});if(!d.getElementById(i)){var j=d.createElement(s),p=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];j.async=true;j.src="//cdn2.lockerdomecdn.com/_js/ajs.js";j.id=i;p.parentNode.insertBefore(j,p);}})(window,document,"script","ld-ajs");

One colored student at Scripps College, discussing a coloreds-only pool party sponsored by “Cafe con Leche,” stated that, “Sometimes it’s nice to have a time to be with people who identify in the same or similar way that you do. And that’s also why no one is forced to come.” Oh Lord, the irony. To quote Enoch Powell:

Have you ever wondered, perhaps, why opinions which the majority of people quite naturally hold are, if anyone dares express them publicly, denounced as ‘controversial,’ ‘extremist,’ ‘explosive,’ ‘disgraceful,’ and overwhelmed with a violence and venom quite unknown to debate on mere political issues? It is because the whole power of the aggressor depends upon preventing people from seeing what is happening and from saying what they see.

When political strategists talk about “getting the black vote” or “getting the Hispanic vote,” they are unconsciously allowing the mask of multiculturalism to slip—they are, in effect, saying that this racial group has a commonality of interest and though it is not a monolithic bloc, the “community” in question is often found in concentrated pockets where like meets like. The interests of blacks in America, or Hispanics in America, or Jews in America, may not necessarily align with the interest of America—that is, the Historic American Nation, or (predominantly) White America. In differentiating these groups, pundits once again are acknowledging the implicit truth that America is a white country, and that minority interests do not always conform to the best interests of America itself.

For example, over 80% of legal gun owners are white. A recent report by the Pew Research Center found that 75% of Democrats favor stricter gun control laws and 76% of blacks favored gun control over gun rights. Per the Pew Research Center, 62% of whites in the United States support smaller or limited government as opposed to 32% of blacks and 26% of Hispanics/mestizos. 80% of immigrants vote Democrat. Just 8% of the black electorate voted for Donald Trump, who was actually more popular with the LGBTQ-AEIOU Team at 14%. 29% of both Hispanics and Asians voted for President Trump. As Lothrop Stoddard wrote in The Revolt Against Civilization:

Civilization always depends upon the qualities of the people who are the bearers of it. All these vast accumulations of instruments and ideas, massed and welded into marvelous structures rising harmoniously in glittering majesty, rest upon living foundations—upon the men and women who create and sustain them. So long as those men and women are able to support it, the structure rises, broad-based and serene; but let the living foundations prove unequal to their task, and the mightiest civilization sags, cracks, and at last crashes down into chaotic ruin. Civilization thus depends absolutely upon the quality of its human supporters. Mere numbers mean nothing…Let us not deceive ourselves by prating about “government,” “education,” and “democracy”: our laws, our constitutions, our very sacred books, are in the last analysis mere paper barriers, which will hold only so long as there stand behind them men and women with the intelligence to understand and the character to maintain them. Yet this life-line of civilization is not only thin but is wearing thinner with a rapidity which appalls those fully aware of the facts.

The perversity of the whole enterprise is what truly galls me. As the indispensable Will Westcott wrote on Twitter regarding Alfie Evans: “When the Syrian boy was killed by the reckless actions of his parents, it was used as a pretext for Europe opening her borders to migrants. Two years later and the UK is outright killing toddlers” and in the most indirect and cowardly way possible, I might add. The NHS pays £23 million per year on translating information into 128 languages including Arabic, Bengali, Punjabi, and Urdu, but refused to accept a more or less cost-free option to allow little Alfie Evans to be treated in Italy (the Italians even granted him citizenship to expedite the process), instead choosing to deploy a wall of police officers to the hospital he was effectively sentenced to death in—though of course the powers-that-be didn’t have the balls to actually sentence him to death, they just yanked the life support and let the child struggle to survive for five days.

This is the baked-in compassion of the modern Left—autistically screeching to allow the huddled brown masses of Africa and the Orient to pour un-checked into the Occident in the name of compassion, but watching one of their own number die in the most inhumane fashion is not only official policy, but the Merseyside Police Chief Inspector Chris Gibson released a statement that critical social media posts would be investigated by the authorities. 3,300 people were arrested and detained for violations of the Communications Act and the other assorted hate speech and de facto blasphemy laws in the UK in 2017, and yet London Mayor Sadiq Khan has the gall to celebrate the exercise of “free speech” on his Twitter account. To quote Cicero:

A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear.

In the United Kingdom, 521,000 whites die per year with the annual death toll expected to rise to 627,000 by 2037; this is compounded by an aggregate of at least 600,000 immigrants, “migrants,” and refugees a year (50,000 per annum was enough to impel Enoch Powell to make his “Rivers of Blood” speech), with over 400,000 non-white births (and rising) annually, a great number of white Britons becoming expatriates (one source I read put the number at 300,000), an average age of 40.5 years old, and a pitiful birth rate of 1.8 live births per woman, which is surely lower if you remove the non-whites.

And who are these “migrants” and “refugees” mostly? A recent survey of Greece’s largest refugee camp, the Moria camp on Lesbos, found that there were 162 unaccompanied children and 216 women out of a total population of 5,206. That means that 92.8% of the camp’s inhabitants are men (Statistics of Iefimerida). What the hell is going on here?

It costs on average one-twelfth as much to relocate a refugee within the Middle East, for example, than to relocate them in the West (where in the West varies the cost). On average, it costs $15,900 per year per refugee to resettle each refugee in America, which translates to, quoting from the Center for Immigration Studies (CIS) website:

For what it costs to resettle one Middle Eastern refugee in the United States for five years, about 12 refugees can be helped in the Middle East for five years, or 61 refugees can be helped if they remain in a safe neighboring country such as Turkey, Jordan, or Lebanon for one year. At present, the UN reports a $2.5 billion funding gap between what it needs to care for some four million Syrian refugees in the Middle East and what it has received from donor nations. This is equal to the five-year costs of resettling just 39,000 Middle Eastern refugees in the United States. Wealthy countries like the United States that have costly refugee resettlement programs face a choice: They can help a relatively tiny number of refugees who in effect win what might be called the “migration lottery” and are resettled here, or they can devote the limited resources available to helping many more refugees in the region for the same amount of money. If the goal is to help as many people as possible, then assisting Middle Eastern refugees in their home region gives a far greater return on public money.

CIS also notes, “Very heavy use of welfare programs by Middle Eastern refugees, and the fact that they have only 10.5 years of education on average, makes it likely that it will be many years, if ever, before this population will cease to be a net fiscal drain on public coffers — using more in public services than they pay in taxes.” Diversity has proven itself to be a rather costly business for Western citizens. According to the Federation for American Immigration Reform (FAIR):

In 2016, the State Department spent nearly $545 million to process and resettle refugees, including $140,389,177 on transportation costs. Of the $1.8 billion in resettlement costs, $867 billion was spent on welfare alone. In their first five years, approximately 54 percent of all refugees will hold jobs that pay less than $11 an hour. $71 million will be spent to educate refugees and asylum-seekers, a majority of which will be paid by state and local governments. Over five years, an estimated 15.7 percent of all refugees will need housing assistance, which is roughly $7,600 per household in 2014 dollars.

The steep financial cost is of course in addition to the corrosive and, if left un-checked, nation-dissolving character of mass immigration. Per Pew Research:

As of 2015, the United Nations estimates that 46.6 million people living in the United States were not born there. This means that about one-in-five international migrants (19%) live in the U.S. (my note: the U.S. has just 4.4% of the world’s population). The U.S. immigrant population is nearly four times that of the world’s next largest immigrant destination – Germany, with about 12 million immigrants… By way of comparison, about one-in-five people in Canada (22%) are foreign born. In Australia, it’s nearly three-in-ten people (28%)… Denmark and the UK have some of the highest immigrant diversity scores (both 97), followed by Canada at 96.

This creates an environment of extreme distrust, as, also per Pew Research, only 18% of Americans, for example, trust in the government to do what is right. To quote another Twitter fixture, Alfred Albion: “Mass immigration in a democracy is illegitimate without a vote from the existing majority. It’s fraud, it’s gerrymandering, it’s a breach of contract, and we don’t need to accept it or the people who have come here due to it.” As Paul “RamZPaul” Ramsey notes, “When a country is mostly homogeneous, there is no need for identity politics. Once you demographically fragment a country, you will always have identity politics. Identity politics is based on human nature.” It is a survival mechanism, plain and simple, against what many are viewing as demographic warfare. According to the Black African Defense League in Europe:

Don’t have three, but five children. We are going to be the colonizers, if we don’t have the right in Africa as Emmanuel Macron explains because we don’t have the resources to support their needs well let’s do it here only. You are the future!

And they whine about whites in Africa, going so far as to execute them and steal their land as penance for being born in the wrong place and the wrong time. Our very existence excites their envy. To quote Lothrop Stoddard, “The innate differences between members of a low-grade savage tribe are as nothing compared with the abyss sundering the idiot and the genius who coexist in a high grade civilization.” And of course when you invite not the village idiot but entire villages of idiots from the Third World, the chasm grows ever-wider, and the false doctrines of equality grow still more appealing. Continuing with Stoddard, from The Revolt Against Civilization (1922):

Fear and wounded vanity thus inspire the individual to resent unfavorable status, and this resentment tends to take the form of protest against “injustice.” Injustice of what? Of “fate,” “nature,” “circumstances,” perhaps; yet, more often, injustice of persons—individually or collectively (ie-“society”). But (argues the discontented ego), since all this is unjust, those better-placed persons have no “right” to succeed where he fails…Either he should be up with them—or they should be down with him. “We are all men. We are all equal!” Such, in a nutshell, is the train of thought—or rather of feeling—underlying the idea of “natural equality.”…Being basically emotional, it is impervious to reason, and when confronted by hard facts it takes refuge in mystic faith. All levelling doctrines (including, of course, the various brands of modern Socialism) are, in the last analysis, not intellectual concepts, but religious cults.

The superstitions of equality and burnt offerings of diversity are necessarily given to totalitarianism as their apparent falsity can only grow—the greatest enemy of diversity is exposure to it. For the people at the very top of society perhaps the world is essentially borderless (I wouldn’t know, I don’t run in those circles), but the people in the Central Valley in California, for example, are getting far more acquainted with the people of Oaxaca than they’d ever care to, just as the folks in Minneapolis-St. Paul are getting to experience the wonders of Mogadishu over any and all objection. And the kicker is this smorgasbord isn’t even really “diverse”; it is self-segregated and self-perpetuates the dysfunction from whence they came. Immigrants tend to cluster in certain areas and re-create the conditions of home. This is about as far from “diverse” as you can get, and what’s more, lottery or no, if it really were about “diversity,” then why do 27% of our legal immigrants come from just one country, Mexico (57% of whom have less than a high school education; additionally, half of all illegal aliens come from Mexico), and only 13.5% come from the entire continent of Europe plus Canada? Ilana Mercer writes:

Declining birthrates have long been the excuse advanced by immigration central-planners for sticking with mass immigration policies. The aging white population is not replacing itself, say proponents of doomsday demographics. Young, Third-World immigrants are essential to shore-up the welfare state. However, the now-waning West became great not because it was more populated than the rest of the world and outbred it. The West was great because of its human capital—innovation, exploration, science, philosophy; because of superior ideas, and the willingness to defend such a civilization.

The low birth-rates of the West today would not be quite so pronounced an issue if there weren’t alien populations within our borders rapidly out-reproducing us; that said, we still need to find a way to at least replace ourselves, otherwise the demographic free-fall would be absolute. You can’t have a nation without people. No one is proposing we go “full Niger,” but two or three children per couple is manageable and, indeed, ideal so as to not cause severe environmental strain. There are genuine concerns that populations at “lowest-low” birth rates like Japan seldom ever recover, typically either going extinct in relative isolation, or in a non-isolated population getting swallowed up by (an)other group(s).

The crushing burden of wealth re-distributing taxation is artificially depressing white birth-rates, roughly at a lifetime cost of what it would be to raise one child. Without this burden, the relentless propaganda of hedonistic abandon, and the general feeling of loss and hopelessness driven by the auctioning off of their nations, whites might be more inclined to reproduce at replacement level. The general feeling of hopelessness and negativity continues to pervade the former Eastern Bloc and does much to explain the pitifully low birth-rates there. Regarding the United States specifically, though you could apply this to pretty much any country in the West adversely affected by the noxious brew of communism and/or mass immigration, as Mercer states, “America doesn’t need more people; it needs to allow its own people to recover.” We don’t need to have twelve children, but we need to at least reproduce enough not to die off. Given medical advancements and quality of life measures and inventions, we should be aiming for at least replacement-level, settling in at a nice stasis. I think that concerns about overpopulation are warranted, but this is a conversation for African peoples, rather than the Western ones. Per Pew Research:

Sub-Saharan African nations account for eight of the 10 fastest growing international migrant populations since 2010. The number of migrants from each of these sub-Saharan countries grew by 50% or more between 2010 and 2017, significantly more than the 17% worldwide average over the same period. At least a million sub-Saharan Africans have moved to Europe since 2010.

Quoting Thomas Lehn, their increased presence in the West should yield more of such treasures:

(function(w,d,s,i){w.ldAdInit=w.ldAdInit||[];w.ldAdInit.push({slot:10817587730962790,size:[0, 0],id:"ld-5979-7226"});if(!d.getElementById(i)){var j=d.createElement(s),p=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];j.async=true;j.src="//cdn2.lockerdomecdn.com/_js/ajs.js";j.id=i;p.parentNode.insertBefore(j,p);}})(window,document,"script","ld-ajs");

In Africa you are drowning in garbage. For about 80%, there are no toilets…School is just rote learning with the result that most Africans develop no feel for logical thinking. They have no interest in it. They don’t plan. They live for today. You’re often speechless when you see it, even among the ones with university education…The 1.1 billion inhabitants will be 5 billion by the end of this century. 60% are already younger than 15, but there are no jobs or schools for them. This means that every project is wasted, even feasibility studies for desalination plants that allow drinking water to be recovered. But they would never work because the power stations have rotted away and the power supply doesn’t exist. Ultimately, it means there’s going to be a huge migration of peoples – compared to that, what we’re seeing in the Mediterranean every day now is mere child’s play.

Play time, indeed, is over.

from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine https://ift.tt/2NuGwkZ via IFTTT

[barry429484077-blog]

mature lesbo orgy - Whispered Milf Stories With Pictures Secrets

Not the best quality but I don't care. This is fiction and I love thinking about these things. PM me if you have any ideas for something similar or something that you'd like to read about with your girl My girlfriend Haylee and I have been together for just over 1 year now. We met in college and are both in our last semester. I’m 23 years old, half chinese, half white. She is 22 and full Chinese (from China actually). This last semester we decided to move into an apartment together kind of far from campus to save money. Student loans have been killing us financially, but all we needed was one more semester before we could start paying it off. To make it even harder, we’ve had all kinds of maintenance issues ever since we’ve moved in and have had time to call anyone to fix it. Let me tell about my Haylee before I tell you what happened. Like I mentioned, she’s 22 years old and from China. She’s a very shy person when it comes to meeting new people. Even if you’ve known her a while, she comes off as a little reserved. Something that I find very attractive about her is her physique. It would be a stretch to say that she’s taller than 5’ 0". Even though she’s so short and Asian, she has a nice, round little bubble butt since she loves running, doing squats and working out when she can. She also has beautiful long, straight black hair that contrasts her light skin. One big embarrassing reason why I like how small she is, is because she makes my dick look normal. To be honest, I’m pretty small at just over 4.5". But with Haylee, I appear "normal". Whenever we have sex it’s like a perfect match. Tiny body, small cock. I mean I wish I was bigger, but I can’t change that. She’s even told me before that anything bigger wouldn't even fit in her most likely. One week, we finally had the time to call up maintenance to try and fix a few things around the apartment. We had numerous issues ranging from water leaks, to AC problems to clogged drains. "Oh look baby, the maintenance man here!", my girl exclaimed as she pointed out the window. I looked out the window to see a big white van pull up right on time. Both sides doors opened, and I watched as two men got out. The one on the passenger side looked to be pretty young, maybe 18 or 19 years old. He was white, very tall and kind of heavy set but with muscle. I guess you could call it "stalky". The driver was around 40 to 45 years old and pretty heavy set. He looked around 250 - 300 pounds, but a lot of it was just because how tall and broad he was. He had a big moustache and looked kind of creepy. He definitely gave me a strange feeling. "Wow they’re so tall! Haha.", Haylee said. I didn’t like that. I knew it was nothing, but I still for some reason didn’t like that she had to say that. They knocked and I opened the door to greet them. "How you guys doing? Can I come in and check out the stuff you called about? Let me look at that sink drain first", the older one said in a very deep, raspy voice. "Oh by the way, I’m Bill and this is my son Pete", he said as he pointed to the younger guy. As they walked in, they spotted my girlfriend sitting on the couch. "Well hello ma’am, what is your name?", the younger one asked, completely ignoring me and not even asking for my name first. "Hi i'm Haylee", she replied in a shy, quiet voice. "She’s a beauty ain’t she?", the older, Bill said as he winked at his son. Right in my face! I thought. He just told his son that right in front of me and didn't even care to look at me or laugh it off. Nothing! For the next 30 minutes they looked at our apartments’ problems and tinkered around with some tools. I honestly had no idea what they were doing, but for some reason, my girlfriend somehow gained the confidence to ask them a lot of questions in her little accent. She seemed so curious for absolutely no reason. I actually never had seen her so open with a stranger, much less two, very large white men. I eventually told her behind their back to stop asking them so many questions about what they were doing and to let them finish. I couldn’t help but notice how tiny she looked with them in her presence. She looked like a child. Finally, the dad, Bill, came up to me and said, "Well, it looks like the AC is in pretty bad shape, and I’ll have to get some more tools and fix it another time. I don’t have the time today but I could be here tomorrow at 2". "Oh I have class at that time, that won’t work actually...", I said. "Oh no it’s fine!", Hayless interrupted. "I don't have class, so I’ll be able to be here!". I wanted to say something. I wanted to say no! But how could I with them standing right there? I couldn’t make it seem like I didn’t trust them. So I just remained silent. "Perfect", he said, smiling and then looked at his Son who also had a big grin on his face. "We’ll see you then". "They were nice", Haylee said as they closed our door. I couldn’t sleep that. Deep down I knew nothing bad would happen, but the "what if" scenarios kept going through my head. What if she rob us? What if they try to hurt her or… no! Nevermind. I finally fell asleep around 1AM. The next day I went to my morning class, but the thought of my girl being there alone with those guys couldn’t escape my mind. "Fuck it", I thought. "I’ll just skip my 1pm class and go home early to be with her before they come", I said to myself. With that, I got on the city bus and took the long ride home. The way our apartment complex is laid out, our room is the only one on the back corner. It’s kind of weird how the complex is structured, but ours is in the back, isolated by the corner so we can’t see any other rooms and they can’t see us. As I walked to the complex, I immediately felt horrified and sick when I saw their van parked outside. I rushed around the corner and up the stairs but then slowed down and decided to just peer through. It was almost impossible to tell from the inside that someone was watching from the outside. The curtain to the living room window was wide open as usual. My heart sank when I saw what was going on inside… There was Pete, the 18 year old son, sitting on our couch with his pants around his ankles and the longest dick I have ever seen pointing straight up, rock solid. His dick was huge, with a curve in the middle. To be honest the first half before the curve was a bigger then mine… Then there was a second half. "Omfg" I said quietly as I just looked, in shock at what I was seeing. I was so shocked at how big this guys dick was that I almost didn't realized Haylee walk in from the kitchen. She was wearing only a T-shirt and panties and was holding a beer, one of my beers! She handed it to Pete and gave him with this exotic, lustful look. I literally felt sick. "Is that better?", I heard her ask in a sexy voice I’ve never heard from her. She was doing anything he wanted! I couldn’t understand or believe it. "Now get on your little chink knees and lick this big fat white dick, bitch", he demanded. I couldn't stop watching. There was no way I could even move. I felt like time froze that very second as I thought to myself if she would actually do it. If you have any thoughts regarding where and how to use mature forced fuck, you can call us at our own website. Would she actually get on her knees in front of this random stranger??? Why would she do this? It couldn’t be just because he was bigger, more manly than me, could it? That’s not really how it works…Right? She then proceeded to get on her knees and stared directly at the giant, white dick as it stood straight up, proudly. "No, no no, god no", I said to myself. She then slowly moved her head forward like a curious little cat and examined it in awe. Her little tongue crept outward and made contact with the massive shaft. Right as it touched him, his cock pulsated and throbbed a bit. She then giggled and pressed her tongue firmly at the bottom of the shaft and slowly worked her way up for what seemed forever, until she reached the tip. I could clearly see the underside of his long dick, now shine with her spit. She then tilted her head sideways and pushed both lips on the dick as she moved up and down, getting it nice and wet. She seemed desperate to make him feel as best she could. Without him even asking, she moved lower and started licking his big, heavy balls. His cock violently throbbed as soon as she did this and he let out a load "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh" and then took a big swig of my beer. My girls tongue moved quickly tickling all around his sack making him almost shake on the couch. I swear I could almost hear his dick pulsating it was so big and moving so much. She never did anything remotely close to this to me in all the time we’ve been together. In fact, it took us several months of going out before I even got to see her naked… This random guy was sitting on MY couch, getting his balls licked by my girl, my love…. "That’s it bitch, keep licking", he told her. He was calling her a bitch and it was as if she liked it! I Stood back from the window and looked around, suddenly realizing that I was just standing there awkwardly looking. What could I do? There was nothing… I felt like complete shit, yet realized that I had a massive boner. When I looked back in, I saw a big drop of pre-cum oozing out of his head. "Suck that all up", he demanded. She immediately stopped licking his balls and attempted to fit his cock in her little mouth. It was definitely a challenge for her. She opened super wide and tried her best to fit his head in. "No teeth!", he yelled, and slapped her cheek. She let out a whimper and tried again, this time more carefully. She figured out the technique and started sucking the head. God it was hot milf. Each time she came up there was a loud "pop" sound from the suction. It was so messy. Her spit was sliding down his shaft as she furiously sucked, getting lower and lower each time. I saw a stand of her spit slide down his dick and down to his balls. At this moment my eyes darted upward to the hallway across the room. The bathroom down opened up and I saw Pete’s dad, Bill leave the restroom. He was in there this whole time! He knew what was happening all the while! Unbelieveable, I thought. He casually walked to the kitchen and grabbed a beer, not minding what was happening a few feet away on the couch. He then proceeded to walk over to the love chair beside the couch and turned on my TV. He just sat there and watched some show while his son was getting his dick serviced by my girlfriend. She didn’t even look up. My girl just kept sucking away like her life depended on it. Pete then grabbed Haylee’s hair and forced her head down lower then she thought she could go. I saw her eyes go wide and watery as her face was forced down on this guys big dick. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Here is this guy shoving my girlfriend’s head down his dick while his dad sits right by watching my tv. Bill looked over at the scene and chuckled lightly. He was delighted to see his son throat fuck her. All the while, Pete was grunting and looking at the ceiling, mouth open, in complete satisfaction. He finally let up and Haylee’s head came back up for air. Her spit and tears were all over his dick at this point. She put both hands on his cock and started to jack him off, desperate to make him cum. Even with both hands on it, there was still room for two more of her small hands. "That feel good???", she asked as she looked up at him as if he was her master. Without answering, he shoved her head back down his dick and started groaning. "UHhHHHHH OHH FUCCCCCCCK", he yelled. I saw his heavy balls rise and tighten up. I saw the veins in this massive shaft move and tighten. Even his ass started to contract… He was cumming. I’ve never seen a body pump like this. It was like a machine. His dick pumped and pumped and Haylee murmured something flailing her arms around trying to get air, but Pete simply put his muscular arm on her head and continued cumming. I looked up at his face and saw him drool as he came. His face looked dumb and emotionless as he was in some horny, orgasm trance at the expense of my girlfriend. I looked back down to see cum flowing out of her mouth and going everywhere. He finally pulled her head away and cum continued to spurt from his dick hole, oozing all over the place. I thought he was done, but he shot one last explosive spurt right into Haylee’s face. Cum dripped down her face and so much more flowed from her mouth, down her shirt. There was cum allllll over my couch. It was soaked. Haylee fell back on the floor in shock while Pete’s cock, still erect just pulsated in place. I had never seen anything like it. Not even in porn online. "Hope you didn’t ruin her for me, boy. Heheh", Bill said as he stood up from the chair. "Omg is he actually going to have her blow him too???", I thought to myself. Surely she wouldn't. This guy was like 40, fat and ugly. "My god she’s a fine little asian bitch ain’t she?", he said. "Gunna feel real good, right girly?" "Yes sir", she responded looking up at him with wide eyes. No way… She just let this man do what he wanted. She gave him permission…. He then pulled down his pants to let the thickest dick I’ve ever seen pop out. It was long like his sons, but much thicker. He then grabbed Haylee like a doll and threw her on the couch. Instead of pulling down her panties, she simply ripped them off of her and threw the useless clothes off to the side. I actually remember getting her those from Victoria's Secret. I thought she would look so sexy in them… and now this big old, stranger torn them off of my girl and was about to use her. From this view I noticed that she was so fucking wet. It was unreal. All this abuse and she was wet! Bill put his greasy fat index finger in his mouth and then shoved it inside Haylees pussy. "Oh! Oh my god.", she exclaimed in shock. "You’re so big!". She thought that it was his dick. He laughed and told her she had no idea. He pulled his finger out and licked it again. "Mmm that pussy taste goooood", he said. I watched in horror, rock hard and scared. He then pressed his cock head against her hole. He just kept it there for a few seconds. The suspense was too much… Then slowly, he pulled her body inward. The head slipped in and slowly submerged itself. She desperately tried grabbing on to anything around her to stop him from pulling her in but it was comically futile. He easily pulled her flailing body to his dick. "Oooommmg it’s too big! Go slow!", she pleaded. He didn’t listen, or care. I saw his face when he felt just how tight she was. It was both disbelief and absolute pleasure. I could see he never felt anything like her. He pulled her in faster and his giant cock started to disappear in her. She screamed and moaned. He grunted and groan. And like a piston, he started thrusting in her forcefully. Her body shook and shook. Her head smashing into the couch, his fat body slapping against her. Her once tight little pussy now looked stretched beyond what I thought it could. I couldn’t even imagine how good it felt for him. "Hooooooooly fuck girl! You aint gunna be tight no more!! GOOOODAAMNNN", he yelled as he continued to pound her. I watched in disgust as his ass clenched for each thrust in her. Her body started shaking in an uncontrollable orgasm as he continued. She was making noises I didn't know she could even make. He then put her hand on her head and pushed it in the back cushion of the couch, smashing her face as he ruined her hole. He started to slow down and for a second I thought he was going to cum in her. He pulled out and picked her body up in the air. I saw her liquids drip out of her stretched pussy. His big arms turned her around, facing me. She started right into my eyes through the window as she sat her on his dick, standing up. He then started jerking her tiny body up and down on his massive cock as she shook in the air at his will. It was crazy to see her young, beautiful face as she was fucked and right behind her, his ugly, old face in total heaven. Finally, he thrusted deep up in her (I could actually see her belly stretch to the shape of his cock) and stayed put. I saw her belly swell with each pulse of his dick and just imagined how much cum he was shooting into her. "OHHHHHHHH ohhh ohhhhh!", she screamed. He stood there unloading yelling, "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhggggggg!" Then slowly, his fat cock pulled out of her. When it was completely out, liquids dripped from her pussy. The plug had been pulled. He then simply dropped her on the carpet. He was done with his toy and now she was useless to him. A couple minutes later they had put their dicks back into their jeans and started for the door. I didn’t know what to do… I thought about running but I couldn’t move. The door opened and both father and son stepped out. They saw me and smiled real big. "Sorry bout’ the mess, haha", the younger one said. "Oh hey we couldn’t fix any of that shit today so we’ll be back another time", the dad said. And then they simply stepped around me, walked to their van and took off. I walked into the living room and laid eyes on Haylee. Laying there in a crumpled mess on the floor. I could smell their cum everywhere. It was so potent. Then I saw it…. On the couch, on the floor… on Haylee’s face, legs and body. They had just fucked her like nothing i’ve ever seen and I just watched. Haylee tried standing up but was shaky. She took a few steps forwards and smashed right into the wall, falling back down. She couldn’t stand straight. I felt so bad. "Oh hey…", she said as if nothing happened while she tried to gather herself. As if I couldn't tell what just happened. "So they said they’ll be back next week to fix things, so I’ll be here for them. Sorry… uh don’t tell anyone. But they uhh… need to come back.", she said. "Unbelievable", I thought to myself. "Un-fucking-believable…" /u/nixyg1