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Just seeing something like that puts you at risk from the law. Even if they are getting turned on looking at pictures. And in any case, rape is clearly illegal, but bondage photos are not.

We seem to be able to make the distinction in other areas, so why not child porn? The girl here is in her underwear, so this is about as explicit as a Victoria Secret ad.

You can imagine the same girl in more explicit poses — much stronger stuff is of course out there. The question is, how old is this girl? Perhaps you are better at determining age than I am, but looking at the picture, I have no idea.

If this had been shot in the U. But it looks to be Asian, based on the Kanji text at lower-left. They think nothing of it. Those photos get put up on Japanese web sites, where they are legal.

They get copied to U. The law seems to have fallen behind the times here. MichaelG the only problem with what you said is some child had to be have the picture taken, so looking at them is wrong also.

Now do they take things to far like the case of the soldier above very much yes. You would think the Army would have better things to do then go over broad on something like this.

The reason I say this is, it is hard to believe that anyone involved in this would not feel the same way as you or me, including whoever has the power to throw the case out and bring the man home.

And also: Yes! Every person who viewed the old Coppertone ad should immediately report to their nearest precinct and turn themselves in.

I could not remember the ACLU ever being a proponent of print restrictions. I did a quick search of their website and find only letters to legislators and position statements that support freedom of speech.

I am a Viet Nam veteran and support our military but in this case I think the army went overboard. Just think what the mother must be going through knowing she sent the picture that got her son into trouble.

Find resources and events for teachers. Join events and activities for families. Browse our education events. Use film and TV in my classroom. Read research data and market intelligence.

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Inclusion in the film industry. Find projects backed by the BFI. Read industry research and statistics. Find out about booking film programmes internationally.

Selina Robertson Updated: 16 August Carol Morally conservative Hollywood cinema has had an anxious yet intriguing relationship with depicting lesbians in the cinema.

I never found a man good enough for that. Each of the recommendations included here is available to view in the UK. So it is with purpose that we skip over the s, the Decade Horribilis of cinematic lesbians, whose desperate, lonely, sexually neutered lives were more prone to choosing enforced heterosexuality, madness or suicide.

Caged With the global online domination of Orange Is the New Black well under way, a list would not be complete without a women-in-prison drama.

A teenage bride is sent to the clink for helping her husband in a bungled robbery. She subsequently becomes hardened after encounters with a brutalising prison system and fellow inmates.

Although the lesbianism is not explicit, the film is rich with subtext, with several characters coded as queer. Double Strength Barbara Hammer , the pioneering lesbian artist and activist, is having a moment.

Dyketactics is widely credited as the first lesbian film made by a lesbian, and her work is now reaching mainstream audiences at international galleries and museums.

Inspired by the proto-feminist film canon of Maya Deren , Hammer shot several significant films in the s. Double Strength is the last of these films exploring lesbian identity, desire, physicality and sexuality through avant-garde strategies.

Hammer places herself and her lover at the time, a trapeze artist, in the 16mm frame to explore the different stages of the relationship, investigating the cinematic rupture between fantasy and reality.

I always loved to listen to stories and liked it even more when they were read to me. I started with radio stories on record long before I could walk and evolved to books on tape, which I carried around on a Walkman long before Audible and smart devices became the thing.

I guess it was a logical direction that I ended up studying audio recording and audio post production for the entertainment industry. Lesbian Audiobooks New Audiobooks.

View Audiobook List.

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Mitchell began unbuttoning my jeans and they slid the zipper on my fly open and pulled down my jeans. I was sooooooo embarrassed.

I had on a pair of boxer shorts with racing car on them. Off came my boxers. I was lying there half naked in front of my best friends. I couldn't believe they had done this to me.

Alex had the "honors" of pulling up the Goodnites. All of a sudden I felt a great feeling it was great. Still it was over powered by having some of my friends putting them on me.

They tied my legs back up and started on untying my hands. Then they pulled off my shirt. I was just lying there in a Goodnite and I couldn't do anything.

Then came the teasing "awww look at the ickle baby" Mitchell said. Alex came back a few minutes later carrying two sippy cups his mom often looked after his younger cousins".

One was full of milk the other was just water. Mitchell held my nose while Alex poured the liquids down my throat. I had no choice, I had to swallow.

They closed the drapes and turned out the light and shut the door. About 2 hours later of just lying there I needed to pee badly.

They came in asking "what? I'll be good I promise" I said. I realized I was speaking to my friends as if they were my parents.

Then they laughed and said "go on, pee. We'll be back soon". I heard the front door of the house close. I struggled and struggled against the ropes but I couldn't get them off no matter how hard I tried.

All the book descriptions and covers are displayed with the kind permission of the rights holders. A heartfelt thank-you for supporting this project!

Some audiobooks are not listed here, most likely due to the rights holder not giving permission or they could not be contacted. A heads-up for audiobooks still in production is also appreciated.

There has been an enormous amount of data collected to construct this site so it is entirely possible that there will be some mistakes or omissions.

I like the emptiness. Anything else would seem strange. Everything else is impossible for me. It comforts me. I was born with a broken heart.

They call it a communication. When babies take that first breath of independent life, the walls begin to seal into four distinct processing areas.

Mine did not. Thus, I was born with a heart that would never be whole. You think that this would mean that I was prepared for suffering and pain since birth.

I have found that I only receive it with more physical and emotional anguish, albeit internalized, than most. I did not know this about myself until I was 27 years old and I had to undergo comprehensive testing to begin the miraculous preparation for childbirth.

I have always wanted children. I dreamed of five, two a set of twins, three boys and two girls in total. I saw my first two before they were even conceived.

They came to me in dreams. I should have known then that their carrier, my partner at the time, the woman who would become my wife, would only try to hurt me for the rest of my life.

She was furious when I told her that I had seen them, and many times. The smaller one came to me later. She was always present, but behind the more active and boisterous one.

They were both dancers and the smaller one played a drum for her twin to dance its heart out. I did not know their sexes, but I longed for a boy and a girl.

I could see their auras, one blue with tinges of gold and orange and the other fiery red with bursts of orange and yellow. They were beautiful and I sang to them each time, comforted them, for they feared returning to this world, and promised them all the love and care I could offer.

I broke that promise unwillingly and my heart bleeds bits begging for forgiveness. I will have it never. For two years, I loved their mother without pause.

I conceded to isolation from family and friends because of reports of supposed homophobia and discomfort on her end. She had fits and rages and I told myself that only meant she loved me all the more.

It was not a sexual relationship and I convinced myself I could accept that, too. Before I knew it, I had gained 25 pounds and I was depressed unlike any other time in my life.

I longed for freedom, but needed to hold steadfast to my promises. I had committed to a life together, of raising children for her because she was always ill and faint, and in the end, to do it speedily because her alcoholic father could die any day now.

He lives still, to this day. I never fathomed myself a victim. I save people. I help them. My passion is service to my community and others.

I never lie. To my devastation, not everyone shares these values and SHE certainly did not. When we were both fitted with thousands of milligrams of conception hormones and it was too late to turn back, I realized who she was.

I realized what she was and who I was becoming. I was still blind when she prohibited me to travel with friends. She was afraid of international travel, you see, and what would it mean if I were to leave her alone.

I allowed myself to be manipulated. I shared a wedding party with her evil twin sister, who demanded everything be done for her and helped with nothing, neither personally nor financially.

I should have known better when she had raging fits and the entire family bent to her every whim, when I put her in her place and reminded her of the lies she had raveled herself in and was berated by my partner for doing so.

When I ran to the store in search of advil at 4am to combat chronic migraines that mysteriously disappeared when enough time had passed from sobering up, I did not think twice.

I was helping her. She needed me. I wanted to share that with her, the gift of life, even when she demanded that she carry first and carry her own because the first mattered to her and the latter to her family.

I continued walking on this path because I had committed to it, because I had given my word, and because I thought it was all in the basis of love.

When I returned from a service trip and she caught me in my office to scold me and threaten me as usual, I stopped and thought almost as for the first time in all of the time I had known her.

She had accused me of sleeping with men in the past — it was her incessant fear after having an ex leave her for a man.

But, to threaten to abort my children that were only in her womb for three weeks was a new low. Would this be my life? Could I bear it?

I told her that I was not going anywhere, that I had given her my word. I was alone doing home repair every night in the other greatest mistake of my life — the over-priced, high-taxed, mosquito infested property that we bought in New Jersey.

I wanted to get a fixer upper in Brooklyn, but childcare would be so much easier closer to her mother. I found myself consoling my tears and pain in every crack and nook and cranny of that s money trap.

My knees were scraped, my hair had paint and wood chips, my belly was scarred from a rusty nails accident, and I had nothing to show for it.

I continued to pay the household expenses jointly, to support her spending money foolishly on whatever she desired, and wasting away. I found solace in two or three friends, but for the most part, I was alone even when I was with company.

When I returned from a study trip for my masters thesis — I was also in school at the time — I could bare it no longer.

I lied. I told her it was not about her. My own father had been taken from me with a lie and how could I possibly do this to my children? I could not stand to look at her.

I could not stand to look at myself. I vomited my saliva and I balled up on the rug and I cried and pleaded. I begged her to consider her previous threat.

She admitted to me that it was just that — a threat. That she had no intentions of aborting the children, that she just wanted to hold something over me and while it was wrong, she needed to in that moment in order to confirm my ongoing support.

I cannot tell you what happened then inside of me. I did not hate her. I did not want to harm her. It was as if she simply ceased to exist for me.

I asked her if she could bring two children into the world that would look just like me if she hated me. If they would know happiness if we could not bring them into the world with love, as we had promised?

She told me she could. I did not believe her. The next day, while studying for my mid-term, she returned to tell me that she had wanted these children, that her mother would support her with everything she might need, and that she would not terminate the pregnancy.

She blamed me for putting her in the position to even have to decide and I reminded her of her initial threat. Enough with that already! I had never been a victim my entire life.

Would I ever be okay? Would I ever be whole? Could a heart break if it was already broken? We lived together until her mandatory bed rest a month and a half later.

She insisted on going to all of the Pride events in New York City regardless of my warnings. She even went to Provincetown with friends, a weekend full of walking about.

She was so angry when the doctor told her she had dilated. And, she blamed me. I returned to my inferno and attempted more home improvement projects as the time passed before the girls came.

The sonogram proved two little gems. I nearly lost my head. I had very unfairly longed for a boy to help with my responsibilities.

When we parted ways, I even sent her an excel spreadsheet with her income and expenditures. She was not aware of how much money she made.

I thought I did it all because I loved her and wanted to make our family work. Maybe this is the best life had to offer.

Maybe this is the best I could hope for in having someone love me. How awful of me to wish to share that responsibility with a little boy. God had finally done me something right.

She allowed me to pick the names for the girls. The long and boisterous one was named after my mother and the smaller one was named after an Amazonian jungle spirit.

I had started sleeping on the sofa after she threatened to abort them and never shared a bed with her again.

I was scared that I would start cutting myself again to tolerate the pain. I scratched my skin, pinched myself, and pricked little holes and lines to remind myself that I was alive.

I wrote to the friends I had made on my trips and confided in them, but otherwise, I was completely alone. I continued to buy the girls little things, to create the baby registry for any showers we might have, and to organize the house as best I could.

There was no denying that I was overcome with depression and longed to just stop my little heart from beating. As I sanded the floor in their nursery, I scolded myself repeatedly for staining the fresh pine with my tears over and over again.

Once a crying fit started, I could not control myself. I nearly sanded that floor down to the spikes. The day that the girls were born, I ran to the hospital to greet them for their first breaths.

For more than six hours, she and her mother reminded me that only one person could be in the delivery room because the girls would be born in an operating room to be prepared for any complications associated with a multiple pregnancy.

When I could take it no more, I asked what they wanted and she told me that she preferred her mother be in the delivery room. Who is going to fight with a pregnant woman in the middle of delivery?

I conceded. Her mother was to video tape their births for me. The nurse was thrown by the question, stumbled, and returned a response that alluded to all babies being red when they first come out.

I was appalled, but scolded by her mother when I asked if she had actually said that because there had been complications and she required a blood transfusion.

She should be the priority at the moment.

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