A Very Dirty Old Man

Jeanne almost didn’t notice Giselle at first. The cafe bustled with activity in the morning, Parisiens filled the seats to drink their first coffee of the day, coming and going with such dizzying rapidity that a devoted layabout like Jeanne couldn’t possibly keep track of it all. But gradually, the leggy blonde began to stand out from the crowd simply by the absence of what others possessed in so much abundance–movement. The beautiful woman with the smooth, porcelain features hadn’t so much as raised her coffee cup to her bright red lips in a full twenty minutes. And once Jeanne began to actively watch her, it became clear that the person she’d come to know as Giselle wasn’t doing anything at all.

She didn’t stand, she didn’t sit, she didn’t twitch, she didn’t fidget, she didn’t even so much as blink. Giselle’s eyes remained fixed in a singular stare, focused on a random patch of wall for hours as the morning turned into early afternoon and Jeanne added a sandwich and another few cups of coffee to her tab. Occasionally a waitress would pass by, and with a chuckle they’d undo a button or pull down a strap. By the time the lunch rush came and went, Giselle’s blouse hung open to reveal a stark white brassiere and a girdle that she patently didn’t need. Jeanne stayed where she was. She wanted to see what happened next.

By the afternoon, the cafe was quiet. Nobody had any interest in a coffee at 4 PM, and the staff became even freer in their treatment of the still, silent woman across the terrace. “That’s our pretty Giselle,” one of them cooed, undoing a snap on the side of the frozen blonde’s burgundy skirt. “Deeper and deeper, sweet bird!” another one burbled, patting her on the head as they passed. Occasionally one of them would shoot Jeanne a smug, knowing look as they posed and primped the helpless young woman, removing her clothing altogether. She understood the significance of the glances–by watching, Jeanne had to some degree become a willing accomplice in their activities. She found that it troubled her less than she thought it might.

By six o'clock, Giselle was down to just her underwear. She had on a lovely pair of stockings that accentuated the curve of her long legs–Jeanne hadn’t made a particular study of women’s bodies before now, but something about the absolute helplessness of the stranger made her seem erotic in a way that Jeanne was only now discovering. She slowly, languidly squeezed her thighs together, enjoying the sensation of her swollen clit pressing against her slick labia as she watched the waitstaff undo Giselle’s bra and expose her bare breasts. The terrace was quiet, secluded, invisible from the street. They could do whatever they wanted. Nobody would stop them.

The sun went down, but the staff merely turned on the lights and continued to strip Giselle naked. She had on only the stockings and garters now, and waitresses took a lewd delight in reaching down between the helpless woman’s thighs and coming away with wet fingers. “That’s our good girl,” they murmured. “You love this so much. You can’t get enough, can you?” Giselle never responded, not even with a quickening of breath, but Jeanne could see the growing stain on the chair beneath her. Whoever Giselle was, whatever this was about, it was clearly turning her on beyond measure. Jeanne wondered if they’d simply leave her out overnight like this, or whether the game ended when it was time for bed.

She watched pinches, gropes, teases, a host of familiarities small and large, unable to look away. She barely even recognized how turned on she was; the fascination made Jeanne’s arousal seem dreamy, passive, a thing that was being done to her rather than her own indulgence. But it wasn’t until one of the waitresses finally approached her and said, “You can have this too, if you want it,” that Jeanne realized she’d stopped moving at all. She tried to nod, and found her body wouldn’t respond. It was only by her total absence of motion that they realized she was consenting to join Giselle in her frozen submission to their will.

*Looks around like that gif of John Travolta in Pulp Fiction*

I’m victims of CSA, dipshit.

Stop sensationalizing abuse for a larp.

You know what’s really great at reducing CSA? Teaching kids about sex and consent so that they’re aware when someone is doing something wrong to them.

You know what’s really great at reducing CSA? Making sure that there’s a wide safety net of doctors, teachers, counselors, school nurses, and other safe adults for kids to talk to so they don’t have to rely exclusively on their parents or families who are, statistically speaking, the most likely people to abuse them.

You know what’s really great at reducing CSA? Treating children as autonomous human beings instead of the property of their parents so that other people don’t feel like they’ve got to ignore kids being hurt because maybe it’s just a difference in “parenting styles.”

You know what’s really great at reducing CSA? Making it illegal to hit kids for any fucking reason because then you don’t have “it was a spanking” offered as an excuse for sexual assault.

You know what’s really great at reducing CSA? Destigmatizing sex so that the entire topic isn’t considered taboo - a lot of kids don’t report assaults because they think they’re going to get in trouble for “having sex,” because when your entire culture treats sex as a whole as a shameful secret kids don’t tend to think of themselves as having survived abuse, they think of themselves as having engaged in an activity they have to keep secret from their parents.

You know what is NOT great at reducing CSA? Writing fever-dream tweets about Wayfair and reliving the Satanic Panic.

Anyway. You’re the one yelling about believing victims of CSA. Believe me.

Also I’m fascinated by the folks saying “stop making excuses for the abusers” because I haven’t excused abusers at any point, I’ve simply pointed out that child marriage, child incarceration, and a culture of penalizing male abuse victims for reporting abuse has done recognizable, quantifiable, measureable, trackable harm to millions of people who you can literally go and talk to today while there’s a frothing cadre of keyboard warrior digital soldiers shouting about a vast conspiracy that there’s essentially no evidence for on the scale they’re claiming and that even horrible abusers like Jeffrey Epstein and Jimmy Saville are the exception, not the rule, and it is MUCH more common for kids to be trafficked by their family members.

You remember how when Me Too happened there were a few initial allegations and then a massive wave of people coming forward? You remember when people started talking about abuse from the Catholic church and at first there were a few people and then it was a massive wave of people coming forward?

There are shitloads of people online who are verifiably who they say they are who have discussed the CSA they experienced in isolated church groups or from family members or in student athletics but from what I can tell anyone who talks about being a victim of the kind of “trafficking” discussed in the wayfair and pizzagate conspiracy theories might as well be greentext on /b/.

There are a bunch of people wailing about how they need to prevent the next Epstein (which, yes, let’s prevent things like that from ever happening again - let’s start by making all child labor illegal because a lot of his victims were recruited as “models” or “masseurs” or “actresses” and if it’s illegal for kids to work then there’s no legitimate reason for a modelling agency to recruit them, right? So start by totally abolishing child labor and you’ve made a huge leap to preventing the next Epstein) all while completely ignoring or brushing under the rug decades of abuse from churches, scouting organizations, and family members.

I was going to make a list, but then i realized this is a good time to share this book

Making Stuff and Doing things is a whole collection of old punk DIY zines about making and doing just about anything, even things you probably never knew you wanted to do.

Book binding? In there.

Making bowls from old vinyl records? I made a whole ton for my brother’s grad party last year.

Basics of guitar? Making rubber stamps? Silk screening? Composting? Homemade beer, root beer, and wine? Soymilk?? Quill pens??? All in there.

Since it’s more punk, it doesn’t have a ton of the folksy, cottage vibes/hobbies, but it’s all about being resourceful and sustainable, which they both have in common.

Correct!