Jennifer Lawrence Nude photos isn´t a scandal it´s a sex crime

Outlets as mainstream as People and CNN are referring to the photo leak as a “scandal.” All due respect, it’s not a scandal. The actresses and musicians involved did nothing immoral or legally wrong by choosing to take nude pictures of themselves and put them on their personal cell phones. You may argue, without any intended malice, that it may be unwise in this day-and-age to put nude pictures of yourself on a cell phone which can be act and/or stolen. But without discounting that statement, the issue is that these women have the absolute right and privilege to put whatever they want on their cell phones with the expectation that said contents will remain private or exclusive to whomever is permitted to see them just like their male peers. The burden of moral guilt is on the people who stole said property and on those who chose to consume said stolen property for titillation and/or sexual gratification.

…….

I sincerely hope that absolutely none of the victims involved in this current leak apologizes or takes any form of “responsibility” or apologizes for anything. The victims involved have committed no crime and committed no sin by creating said photos in the first place or in “allowing” them to be stolen. What occurred yesterday is a theft and a sex crime, plain and simple. It is a personal violation of a sexual nature, with photos of a sexual nature that were intended for private or personal use now unleashed online for anyone to see, for free no less.

source

Outlets as mainstream as People and CNN are referring to the photo leak as a “scandal.” All due respect, it’s not a scandal. The actresses and musicians involved did nothing immoral or legally wrong by choosing to take nude pictures of themselves and put them on their personal cell phones. You may argue, without any intended malice, that it may be unwise in this day-and-age to put nude pictures of yourself on a cell phone which can be act and/or stolen. But without discounting that statement, the issue is that these women have the absolute right and privilege to put whatever they want on their cell phones with the expectation that said contents will remain private or exclusive to whomever is permitted to see them just like their male peers. The burden of moral guilt is on the people who stole said property and on those who chose to consume said stolen property for titillation and/or gratification.
—  Forbes.com

anonymous said:

How do you talk to your parents about the celebrity hacking in a way that doesn't make it obvious that you have sent naked photos over the internet before?

I’d say use a metaphor that isn’t the internet — put the focus on the hacker and how he committed a crime because he felt entitled to women’s bodies. Now take that into the physical world:

For example, some of these women have posed for provocative photo shoots before or done nude scenes in movies, so what is specifically titillating about these pictures? The non-consent. The idea that they were private and stolen and that the women DID not want them seen. They chose (as is their right) who to send them to. They did not consent to everyone seeing them. If someone has sex once, do they consent to have sex with anyone who ever asks for the rest of time?

Tell them the idea that men are thrilled by taking away the agency of these women and that they feel they are “owed” sex and women’s sexuality is a gateway to rape and at the very least a great example of rape culture. Maybe parents have a hard time understanding internet stuff, so try to show how it manifests in the world around us.

“Strip.”

The command came suddenly, his voice waking her from her reverie.

They were in his car, on their way home from a family get-together. They’d just entered the snowy lane that served as a back entrance to their sleepy town. They’d be home in less than ten minutes.

“Excuse me, Sir?” she asked, not sure whether she’d heard him correctly.

“Strip,” he repeated.

She obeyed, as she always did when he gave her that order. A titillating bolt of anticipation shot through her as she unfastened her seat belt, but taking off her long winter coat in the narrow passenger seat proved to be a harder task than she’d anticipated. She nearly hit Sir in the head as she pulled her right arm from her sleeve, causing him to swerve. No sooner had she succeeded in peeling off the coat, than the next challenge presented itself in the form of her sexy black mini-dress. She heard him chuckle beside her as she struggled with the long zipper and clumsily wiggled from side to side to wrench the tight garment down over her hips. She was glad he’d told her not to wear any underwear that day; two items fewer to struggle out of made her assignment just a little less cumbersome.

“The boots, too, Sir?” she asked a little tentatively when she had folded her coat and dress and put them on the back seat.

He shook his head. “Leave the boots on, girl.” He continued driving, a mysterious smile playing on his lips.

She sank back into her seat, wondering what he had in mind for her. Was he going to let her sit naked next to him to display her to the world, showing off his devoted toy in all her glory? Or was he going to pull over to the side of the road, slide his seat backward and fuck her while she rode him, the snow-laden trees the only witnesses to her moans and his groping hands? Or was he finally going to make good on his promise to fuck her over the hood of his car? That would be a chilly experience, she suspected, what with the car having been outside in mid-winter temperatures for hours. However, she trusted Sir implicitly, and if having her on the hood of his car was what he wanted, she’d comply. What was more, she’d probably enjoy it. She couldn’t deny that the thought of being taken on his car sent a small thrill through her, raising goose bumps on the back of her neck. When she looked down, she could see her nipples poke forward, hardening at the thought of his hands on her body and the cold bite of the steel below her.

They drove in silence for two more miles before he suddenly pulled over to the side of the road.

“Out,” he commanded.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Out, Sir?”

“You heard me, girl. Get out of the car.” To her dismay, he showed no intention of getting out himself. His seat belt remained resolutely fastened and the engine kept running.

“But… but it’s at least five miles to our home, Sir,” she protested. “And it’s freezing.” And I’ll probably catch pneumonia and die, all because of this whim of yours. That is, if I don’t die of embarrassment first.

He shot her his sternest look. “I believe I gave you an order, girl.”

That humbled her. “Yes, Sir,” she mumbled contritely. The last thing she saw before she turned away to open her door was his smile, an odd mixture of triumph, curiosity and anticipation.

She got out of the car, a little nervous but strangely turned on by the thrill of not knowing what was in store for her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sir give her an encouraging smile as she slammed the door shut behind her. Then, to her acute horror, he drove off – slowly, very slowly, but unmistakably increasing the distance between himself and herself.

She stood rooted to her spot for a second, too petrified to move. As the cold wind howled around her and snowflakes melted on her breasts, she followed the car with her eyes, scarce able to believe that he’d leave her like this in the middle of winter. She breathed a sigh of relief when the car came to a halt about one hundred feet down the road.

She stepped forward, hearing the molten snow splash under the high heels of her boots. The road was slippery, and she had to watch her step in order to avoid slipping.

When she was nearly within touching distance of the car, she caught Sir’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He was smiling at her, teasing her, challenging her. She smiled back, not really understanding the nature of the challenge, but determined to rise to it, anyway.

He revved the engine. Slowly, ever so slowly, the car pulled away from her again, leaving her to the company of the wind and the snowflakes.

She understood the challenge then. He was watching her in his rear-view mirror, avidly following her every move, her every facial expression. She’d better give him a good show.

Straightening herself and pulling her shoulders backward, she took a deep breath, allowing the crisp winter air to pervade her lungs. As she began to walk, she relished the cold wind that was lashing her skin and making it tingle. Each time a snowdrop alighted on her arms, she felt a thrill she had not experienced since childhood – a joy once cherished but forgotten, a throwback to a time when she’d been innocent, before she’d met him.

Suddenly, she began to enjoy the challenge. As she put one foot in front of the other, exulting in her nudity, the cold and the opportunity to show off for Sir, she felt her hips sway from side to side, and the sexiness of the move sent a pulse of pleasure coursing through her body which resonated deep in her pussy.

He’d pull away from her again when she reached the car. She knew it in her bones, but the thought didn’t faze her, because at some point he’d stop and reward her for putting on such a good show. She knew that in her bones, as well, and the thought made her pussy pulse with excitement.

Focusing her eyes on the tiny rear-view mirror she could see in the distance, she gave him her most seductive smile. Then she took another step forward, and another, swaying her hips in a way he’d once told her drove him wild.

Onward, ever onward. Toward him, and toward her reward.

This is a message for any of my followers/mutuals/anyone that actually sees this

I don’t care if the leaked nudes are of a celebrity you really hate ok? I don’t care if it’s your celebrity crush, because guess what, I think JLaw is hot and I still have enough decency to abstain from finding the pictures.

"You may argue, without any intended malice, that it may be unwise in this day-and-age to put nude pictures of yourself on a cell phone which can be act and/or stolen. But without discounting that statement, the issue is that these women have the absolute right and privilege to put whatever they want on their cell phones with the expectation that said contents will remain private or exclusive to whomever is permitted to see them just like their male peers. The burden of moral guilt is on the people who stole said property and on those who chose to consume said stolen property for titillation and/or gratification." Scott Mendelson of Forbes Online

 SO THE SECOND I SEE ANY OF YOU FUCKERS REBLOGGING ANY OF THE WOMEN WHO JUST HAD NUDES LEAKED I’M OFFICIALLY DONE WITH YOUR INSENSITIVE ASSES

keep in mind that by reblogging you are

  • a terrible person
  • perpetuating the idea that invading someones privacy is a spectacle to be looked upon and shared amongst others
  • downright creepy because we all know those pictures weren’t meant for us, if they were there’d be a little playboy logo in the corner
  • reaping satisfaction from the theft of personal property 
  • siding with the perpetrator of said crime 
  • a trash can

No means no, even in stolen photos.

“In real movies, it’s all on purpose. I suppose what I like in porno is the accident of it,” he concludes. Wallace concurs that this is what the best porn performers can do, which is somewhat striking in an otherwise eviscerating condemnation of the industry.

To put it another way, the hottest moment of any piece of pornography is the one part that the woman didn’t intend for us to see. Neither her naked body, her performative sexuality, or her lustful dialogue is enough to please the viewer. We’re always seeking that which is being withheld.

It’s the mirror reverse of what happens when we get a glimpse at a movie star’s nude photos. We’re seeing the performer as human, but we’re only excited because she didn’t want us to. The titillation factor doesn’t come in her saying yes to the actual intended recipient of the photo, but because we know she’s tacitly saying no to us, and yet we’ve beaten her.

We’ve beaten her.

It’s not just a piece of her body we’re after here, it’s a piece of her soul.

He had been dead for over two years, but he still had a magic touch with readers.

When best-selling author C. David Heymann’s latest (and last) book, Joe and Marilyn: Legends in Love, came out in July, it received the kind of reviews most authors would kill for.

The Columbus Dispatch called it an “engrossing portrait.” The Christian Science Monitor and the New York Post raved. Kirkus Reviews said it was “a well-researched story” revealing the “profoundly unethical behavior of the medical and mental health professionals who dealt with [Monroe].” The popular Canadian magazine Maclean’s praised Heymann’s research, finding “his sources credible.”

The publisher, a subsidiary of media behemoth CBS, says Joe and Marilyn tells “the riveting true story” of the lusty, tempestuous and brief marriage between the Yankees slugger and the iconic actress.

In this and his previous 10 books, Heymann served up intimate details no other celebrity biographer could match. It was often titillating and sometimes shocking stuff. In Joe and Marilyn, Heymann wrote that DiMaggio beat Monroe, wiretapped her home and stalked her by skulking around in disguises, wearing a fake beard and for hours holding up a copy of The New York Times so no one would notice him in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria hotel.

In May 2012, Heymann fell dead in the lobby of his New York City apartment building, but that presented no problem for his publisher, according to Emily Bestler, who edited his last four books. She told Newsweek during a phone conversation in July that Heymann was “a true professional” who “finished the book before he died.”

Still, Bestler said, she paid to have the book thoroughly fact-checked just to make sure all was in order. Nothing troubling turned up, she told me, not even a misspelled name.

Bestler’s mood changed when I told her I wanted to discuss numerous fabrications Newsweek had uncovered in Joe and Marilyn. She cut me off in mid-sentence, shouting that such questions were improper because she had thought I was calling only to ask about the marketing of a book by a dead author. She then declared that “this is getting ugly” and hung up.

C. David Heymann’s Lies About JFK and Jackie, Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor

8

I know how I am. I’ve known since the first moment I saw you at that fucking checkpoint.

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