fuck you Tyra Banks.

You know, Sasha Grey is young, but, no one that extreme and flashing a fire can quell who they are or be other than they are meant to

http://www.sashagrey.com/

However, whatever has led her up to this point should be considered- an indication of the trajectory of our society's psyche under the effect of explicit media.

Sasha Grey is very much is in control of her actions--intensely aware of the implications. She is more aware of her intentions than many major porn producers, let alone models, in the industry. She knows the risks of her behavior: who would get gonorrhea and not realize how serious a job hazard it is? unfortunatly this is what happens to workers in the porn industry, Pornography which we are all purveyors of.

Yes, Sasha Grey looks shockingly young for those shark infested waters she has boldly entered but she is a force of nature that wreaks its own path. She is an aware and strong young woman with a plan and firm intentions.

Porn is out there and will be forever, What we should be concerned about is the shifty eyed Hollywood execs who have sneakily and unconscionably sexualized every taboo, infiltrated and transmogrified their audiences' psyche to the point of breeding these unblinking who need to see a girl raped in the face, eat shit, beg for more while doing the most extreme and brutal things to herself. Because she has decided this is what she WANTS; THEN to top it off, have some some soft core corporate wench berate her in the most obviously shock-edited way on national television.

Sasha Grey is a powerful light though uncomfortably for some she steeps herself in darkness, this is her choice. Sadly, in taking away her real voice like the editors of Tyra Banks show did: in front of the public consciousness, we have once again choked away the resonant voice of a conscious woman and managed to distract from the real issues here.






another perfect example of whats really on the mind of the shock media:

I want to wear lace, lace on upper thigh and hip, along my spine and around my throat. Lace over my heart. If I may wear lace.

Leather would be delicious Yes, leather boot, leather glove leather squeezing against belly and breast.

White cotton is nice, clean and fresh billowing from my waist, buttoned against wrist, collar cool at the nape of neck, I would wear cotton.

I'd like to wear ribbon, lacing things down lacing things up tied in a knot in my long hair. Satin ribbon, silk.

Let me think for a moment, the ways I can bind myself even tighter than these.

I don't know what you have done to me, maybe nothing, maybe i have done this to myself. What am i searching for? What hand could possible still this mad rush, but my own? I would never.

Have i tried to tie myself down? Oh, and lie there as quiet as death. Who would set me freedom? You asked me, what does it feel like for me? To be bound in chains like that? Oh b, it feels utterly free.

But no, i am not still, for my own skin is electric, and who could catch me? Only a hand of quick wit, a hand of strong bond, a hand that would stand that hot sting. Is it you? Are you hungry enough? Patient enough? Cruel?

The freedom to move and race and tease is mine, I am fast and alive, my bondage is my speed, my flight, constant creation, utter commotion, can you set me free? Can you hold me down and take me?

I had told him about how when I was young-- 8 years old! How I had those tools to hurt myself with, just a little bit though, clothes pins and string and whatever this tool is called, here on my desk, vicegrips. I've already used them and it is the perfect tool for what I like. the feeling of how brutal and cold and mindless the metal is, and how sometimes a sharp edge catches something delicate and there's nothing or no way to defend yourself against the hand behind the tool that was made for splitting screws or forcing them through solidness, and tools made for unfeeling matter, for metals or concrete or wood, tools made for every purpose without the thought for how it might fit into my flesh and cause me pleasure and pain. I was always a creative child.

I can imagine how it would be to dangle from seven ropes like so. To gently be left swaying to stare at the floor after some ministrations of urs. Pressure at all points, skin hot and cold from circulation rearranged. Things wet, things tight things burning. There is the pining creak of rope. the thunder of blood in my cheeks the sound of your footstep, the cool rustle of cotton. What would you say? Will I be able to be silent? Just quiet even.... What tool is next? I can take it, I can take it try me.

I saw the doctor today, he said they would have to put three stitches through each tear duct, or else fill up the hole under my ribs with something. What sort of thing, doctor? Whatever it is you find. Well, not for want of looking. So I'd asked to have the well of tears removed instead. The doctor shook his head. You need those, and they have to last you...let me see? He took my palm from me and looked at lines, squinted at shadows. Well, for a while yet. See here, there are crossroads...and sometimes, you need a thing to bargain with....the salt in that water counts for something. I think. We should just fill er up: the hole. Oh, a well, a hole, a funnel for saltwater. Go looking through your things he said. Find a few precious baubles that you will miss, they ougth to fit from...so to so. He closed my fist in his hands, he shook it at me. Come back in a fortnight. O, and none to do with him who took the original , please, I hate to see my work undone. Yes, sir, yes doctor.

sticky sweet santa