Richard: I'm afraid my daughter might be on TV.
Jerry (laughs): Do you allow your daughter to watch such shows?
Richard: It doesn't depend on me. She lives with her mother.
Jerry: But it's not for long, uh?
Richard: I think it's better not to talk about it in front of the camera. Have you heard what they say about the alleged bombardment of a school in Minneapolis?
Jerry: Yes, my guys are already there.
Letter to JAMA:
Not so long ago, the adult guardians of one of my underage patients demanded that I prescribe “Stubborn Girl” for the child. This caused me some doubts, at the same time raising a general question about the responsibility of the obstetrician-gynecologist for the psychosexual health of their patients.
If I do not follow the instructions of the guardians, and as a result, my patient suffers from unwanted connections - let's say, she picks up some disease, which can be anything from genital warts up to AIDS, will I be liable for the damage ?
If I write down the aforementioned device, and the girl really can be protected from undoubtedly harmful relations, but the consequence of this will be a decrease in her creative abilities due to “lack of suffering", will I be responsible for interfering with her right to independence?
Finally, if I approve of the use of The Persistent Girl, will this mean that I renounce my religious beliefs about sex as a sacred act that should not be tasted before marriage? Or will it be, on the contrary, the embodiment of such ideas through scientific intervention?
Although on a superficial glance such questions may seem frivolous, I consider them to be very complex, and I believe that serious attention should be paid to them. A conscientious physician should consult not only with his lawyer, but also with a competent ethicist.
L. Smith, MD New York, NY10029.
Excerpt from Be Resistant by Seretta Wuoto:
I do not want to deprive people of joy at all. Believe me.
I just want to save you from an unwanted pregnancy, heartache and the risk of catching an incurable disease - and all these things are potential consequences of any sexual contact. The simple hope that this does not happen to you will not protect you. Take a look around. None of these girls also thought that this could happen to her.
What can “UPOR" do? Feel when your potential partner is insincere with you. Measure him (or, in the case of a lesbian partner, her) degree of attraction and fidelity.
What can “UPOR" not be able to do? Find you the perfect partner. Protect you from emotional suffering if you fall in love with someone who refuses to answer your love.
From the introduction to Richard Derringer's article “It's My Fault: My Relationship with Seretta Wuoto”:
I am not talking about the intimate details of my life for the sake of money, but only to testify to the truth.
It seemed to me that I loved Seretta. Only when I realized what kind of personality she really was was I learned to despise her.
Excerpt from Seretta Wuoto's letter to The New York Book Review:
So why did Richard Derringer (“This is my fault”, “NYKO”, April 23) not wait until he understands what kind of person I “really” am before raping me?
* * *
As a mother, Seretta was completely untenable. And insolvent in public. Her daughter's interview book, “Hands Off My Body,” was on the Amazon.com bestseller list for twenty weeks and was sold in more copies than her own book. And what only came upon her when she agreed to act in films for More Real World?
Ginny left a note on the kitchen table: "I went to dad for the weekend." In addition, she left half a gallon of milk, now sour, and a full sink of dirty dishes. Seretta began to tidy up: a familiar occupation.
The phone rang - it was that pretty sociologist she met at her last lecture.
“I was thinking,” he said, “will you have time for a cup of coffee?”
Then she liked him: he asked smart questions and seemed a thoughtful person, one who could be considerate of others.
“I don't drink coffee,” Seretta said.
“Well then, what about tea?”
Her heart was beating furiously, she was covered with sweat. Either it was raging about her “SUPPORT”, and this person was not worth the trust, or whether she simply had an old-fashioned fit of concern.
- Maybe we'll have a drink together? He insisted.
“Braver,” she told herself. “You have protection.”
“Well then,” she agreed. - When?
“Will it suit tonight?”
- Where can we meet? She asked.
“What about the Tea Bar at the Hilton?” He suggested.
She hung up.
Even if her “SUPPORT” gave her a green light, she doubted that she could sleep with him. She did not deserve a real connection. It was difficult for her, it was really difficult to be alone all these years, trying alone to raise her daughter to her feet. Seretta loved Ginny more than she could say. Could she forgive herself that, despite this, sometimes she tried to imagine how her life would have developed if she had still had an abortion?
Materials of the hearing in the case of custody of Derriger v Wuoto:
Lewis Webster, plaintiff lawyer, Richard Derringer: And who would you like to live with?
Ginny Wuoto: With my dad. I think he will be much less demanding of me.
Lewis Webster: Have you ever thought that your mother does not love you?
Ginny Wuoto: Of course. That is, what else can I think? Everything points to this. For example, what would happen if my mother used her “Stubborn Girl” before she became pregnant? Judging by what she told me or ever wrote about my father, I'm quite sure that she would not start this relationship with him if she only “knew what it smells like.” And if she, you know, didn't do this , then I would not have been born at all! And then she, perhaps, would be happier, more satisfied, and so on - but I would still remain an egg! That is why I want to go live with my father.
It was not intentional. Seretta was not going to spy at all.
She entered Ginny's room to open the windows and ventilate the room. When leaving, she grabbed a heap of clothes for washing, and then, already in the laundry room, began to lay out Ginny's clothes by color. It was then that Seretta found a package of birth control pills in one of her pockets.
Her first impulse was to lower the pills into the toilet, but something made her stop. With trembling hands, she put the packaging back in her jeans jacket pocket, then took all of Ginny's belongings back to her room and left her lying there in a messy pile, as before.
Then she picked up the phone and dialed Richard's number from memory.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” he said coldly.
He was still angry with her over this custody hearing. He was in his own right. Forcing a lawyer to bring to light the long-standing arrest of Richard on charges of annoying a prostitute was from her side a blow below the waist. But here we were talking about a mother fighting for her child - and, fortunately for her, a person of a conservative and puritan warehouse was appointed as a judge.
- Do you have Ginny?
An awkward pause followed.
“She hasn't called me for several days,” he said. - Is something wrong?
“No,” she said. - Nothing.
She hung up.
She broke his marriage, and he hated her. His ex-wife hated her. Ginny hated her. Sometimes she needed a lot of effort not to hate herself.
She decided to cancel the date, stay home and watch TV.
A soft buzzing was heard above her head: the camera automatically clicked frame by frame. Seretta threw a book into the lens, managing to knock the device off its perch.
“The show is over,” Seretta said.
She sat down on the photo couch, clutching her head with her hands, continuing to look after herself even though the camera was broken. Oh my god, Seretta thought, well, why doesn't Ginny want to let me help her? Why is she so
stubborn? "
Labor Day - September 3 - Back to work
A historic date has been set for tonight. I tried to cut my chip with a knife, but it sat deeper than I thought, and lashed the bloodstream so that I had to abandon this venture.
The guy's name was Eric Someone, I met him in a chat. He promised to take me to lunch, but before we could even get to the place, he stopped his van in the parking lot in front of an empty furniture store. We climbed back, where instead of the removed seats, a mountain of pillows was thrown on the floor.
I completely pulled off my pants, but he left his hanging on his ankles, as if he did not have time to take off his shoes. I knew that he didn't love me, and that was great. I didn't even really know him, but I didn't really like him.
What I wanted had nothing to do with love.
My “Stubborn Girl” allowed me to kiss him and even squeeze a bit before turning on her electronic alarm. I managed to temporarily turn it off by holding the artery with my hand and stopping blood circulation, but as events progressed further, the smart device sensed that the threat was still hanging and launched a massive attack. First of all, it released chemical absorbers into my circulatory system, which forced me to exhale some nitrogen compounds that effectively limited the flow of blood to the arteries supplying Eric's penis. His erection weakened, and he moved away from me.
“Damn,” I said. - Sorry.
I could give him a more complete explanation. Mom very often and in detail, with drawings and diagrams, in anatomically correct terms, told me how exactly the chip works; she made me go to sex education classes from the age of two.
Eric looked confused, even, perhaps, angry.
“You are not to blame,” I said, to console him. Male ego, you understand. I decided to give him a blow job so that he is not so angry. He had hair there - but compared to everything else, it wasn't so disgusting. I was even excited at the thought that I could kindle him so much that I had such power over him.
Unfortunately, my “Stubborn Girl” turned out to be more persistent than I had foreseen. She attacked my immune system. My nose flowed, tears swelled in my eyes, closed in my throat, and I had to release his penis from my mouth to catch my breath. I was covered with blisters and began to swell, like a turkey poured with fat.
- Heck! - I said. “I'm terribly sorry.”
Eric jumped up and began to pull on his pants.
“No, wait,” I said. - I'm fine. We can still do it!
I could not stop crying, just as I could not stop the attacks of dry cough and a shower of snot.
“Some other time,” he said, rushed to the door, unlocked it and shoved me out of the car.
I put my bra and panties in my pocket. It was fifteen minutes to go home.
Mom was not sleeping yet - she was rehearsing a speech for some conference. Either she did not look at the monitors, or she did not show her mind. I sneezed, then coughed, then dropped my supplies on the floor. It was great not to even try to hide what happened.
Mom hatched at me, opening her eyes and opening her mouth, as if she had swallowed a bowling ball and now doubted whether it would be good for her.
I could not help laughing. It was, perhaps, even better than if I really overcame myself and went to the very end.
She didn't even know that I was still a virgin!
Jeffrey ford
Six-shot loner from the High Bugr No. 6
Under the red sun, where the vultures gather in a circle, like vans at the sight of Comanches, where the arid wind rises from the south, permeated with the harbinger of hunger and thirst, like the scent of Miss Perle in the cramped room above the Four Fingers saloon on August night after a fierce shootout, when the bullets whistled, passersby hid behind rain barrels, the horses stood on their hind legs and dodged to the side, the sheriff's assistants threw handfuls of rotten offal on the bar counter, whores giggled in response to Death's offer, onlyas she walked through, and the school madame clutched tightly her bundle with cuts of cloth, from which she was supposed to make a dress for herself waiting for the admirer from the East, who would not arrive with the mail carriage either tonight or any other night in this life, Six-Charged Loner, also called Liquid Thunder, and even better known as Othodnyak, who accompanied more arrogant puppies to the general heap than the mule fleas, the owner of a thunderbolt, eagle eye, a boiling pot and brilliant tobacco spitting, scourgethe call, the friend of the children and the brother of the red-skinned giant, whom everyone called Maskintolukok, an Indian prince from a lost Israeli tribe, depicting a coyote carved on his left cheek, a Thunderbird feather hanging from a single long hair knotted in a knot, and a tomahawk, once crushing the skull of the Smelly Baboon from the Prickly Canyon, he sat on the back of his faithful horse named Old Constipation, looking around from the top of a high mound of the prairie, on which he would soon rush like a bat flying out of hell, returningin in Desolate Gorge, to kiss Miss Pearl on the cheek for the last time, to drink a bottle of bread vodka and go to meet the tuberculous spirit of Doc Holiday, who was going to shoot in the dark, which duel was supposed to decide the fate of the West and forever remain in memory as the only one a shootout in his life that he lost, transforming him from a Six-Charged Loner into a Baby Skeleton, withered, fiery, devoid of all social benefits, his insane laugh causing a natural escape, an insatiable seeker of gold killer killer throughout the local area in the past, and now and ever, and unto ages of ages, while dogs do not go to sleep, and the stars can not fall on Alabama.
David langford
Contact of a different kind
At that moment, the night seemed quite suitable for our work. Because of the sifting fine water dust - half fog, half rain - the moon seemed blurry, and a halo shone around the lanterns on the highway. The dark road we chose was still covered in puddles after an evening rain, so when our truck made its way through it, bending and jumping, headlight reflections in silent shining bubbles appeared here and there between the trees. It even took me a while to figure out what it was. The right state of mind is a very important thing.
We were in Wiltshire, in a zone of high activity, from where messages were regularly received, depending on the time of year. It was also a crop circle - but I was always suspicious of this work: it has too much effect and is too down to earth, and because of this, too many fraudsters with a good imagination managed to spoil the impression of our own - real authorized creations.
However, the fact that we chose this fertile region was a pure coincidence: a man named Glass lived nearby, and it was known that he often passes along this dirt road leading from the village of Pucy to his house. This evening he was going to give one of his deceitful and insulting lectures, and in order to get here from London ...
I looked at my watch. Perhaps Glass's wife was doing the same thing now, setting coffee cups on the table. Would she believe the incredible, incoherent story he would tell her in a few hours? Having prepared everything we needed, we hid next to the road, on a field dirty and worn out enough to make it impossible to distinguish our own tracks.
The scenery was set up in an inflatable tent. Mackay had long ago finished laying his cables and stooped over the small control panel - enthusiastic, like a boy playing on the railway. Sometimes Mackay surprises me. You can easily imagine him working for anyone, even for an IRA, and he will also grin in all his fat physiognomy, collecting intricate schemes from a pure love of technology. Apparently, he never understood the idea that we are evangelicals working for the good of the great truth.
The only amber light in the box blinked twice. Ten minute check. Everything was clean, and the boy had not yet fallen asleep at his post near a fork in a dark road. We were ready as soon as we could be ready.
The guy's role was relatively small, but I was still worried if he could do everything right. You never know what to expect from this teenage hash of hair, skin and staves. However, he asked reasonable questions about what was known about the Visits in this and other places - sometimes they were dwarfs wit
h faces of the color of window putty and huge eyes, sometimes giants of six to seven feet in height. “I dare to assume that they can take any appearance they want,” - so I answered him, and it seemed to me that the answer satisfied him. Mackay, for example, was deeply indifferent to such reasoning, and Glass, of course, would have turned them into a target for his ridicule.
Yes, Peter Glass was a man who had long attracted the attention of heaven. If even the slightest hint of something mysterious and miraculous seeped shyly into the world, he was always the first to seek an interview in order to turn everything into dirt with his touch. It was the planet Venus; it was a low-flying plane; witnesses invented all this; he is simply lying; she has mental disorders; and in general, who can believe in little green men?
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