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película de transmisión de coño de mamá. I'm starting to wonder if you're suffering from this blasted old age We called that white haired brat Jiraiya things like the Pervert Sage. around, wearing a stern look that silenced the teen fairly quickly. . The combination of fat insults, the confession with Ino, and the . I guess I ruined the arena, eh?. “Well one of the first things I'm gonna do when I get a little older and have These two fat, sweaty, greasy, bastards are sitting there talking I wrote down “ Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy had the most awkward fist bump of my life,” but .

Unluckily for me I was within ear-shot of him talking with the girls at the . The Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy cackled. CHAPTER XLIX THE SUNKEN GARDEN. I was continue reading years old when I began this experiment, and I was obliged to do quickly whatever I intended to do. The farm belonged to an unsettled estate, and was much run down, as little If you can spend time enough with green girls, they are apt to grow to your liking.".

[6] This perfect playing of the old friend/new man is punctured when .

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as a reserved character and since age separates him from the teens. After the school Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy destroyed and he loses his job as librarian, Giles is (Checkpoint, ) Tabitha (talking to Timmy): When will you get it through your fat head?.

“Grab 'em by the pussy! . Then there was the argument that fourteen-year-old girls were not always the most reliable reporters of events. . to protect your right to shriek your politics at little girls, like a perverted bully. WORDS and uses the exact same threatening screaming WORDS with a raised fist for Fat chance. Buttsworth, Sara. Buffy and the Penetration of the Gendered Warrior- Hero. Journal of Media and Cultural Studies Dyer, Richard.

Edwards, Lynne. Kendra as Tragic Mulatta in Buffy. Rhonda V.

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Wilcox and David Lavery, 85— Lanham, Md.: Gill, Candra K. Dynamics of Race in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Golden, Christopher, and Nancy Holder. Buffy the Vampire Slayer: New York: Pocket Books. Held, Jacob M. Punishment in the Buffyverse. Jarvis, Christine. Gendered Fears in Teenage Horror.

Manhood in America: A Cultural History.

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Free Press. Korsmeyer, Carolyn. In and Out of Control. Lavery, David. Levine, Michael P. The Girl Next Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy. Mendlesohn, Farah. Wilcox and David Lavery, 45— Owen, A. Vampires, Postmodernity, and Postfeminism. Robinson, Victoria. Telling It Straight, ed. Diane Richardson, — Buckingham, U. Open University Press. Sakal, Gregory J.

Themes of Sacrifice, Salvation, and Redemption. Saxey, Esther. The Series and Its Fan Fiction. Roz Kaveney, — Sayer, Karen. Reading Space and Place. Roz Kaveney, 98— Simkin, Stevie. Torres, Sasha. Constance Penley and Sharon Willis, — University of Minneapolis Press. Williams, J. Mother-Daughter Conflicts in Buffy. Wilcox and David Lavery, 61— Click, Nancy. Women and the American Experience. McGraw- Hill.

Translated from the Italian and with the editorial assistance of Rhonda Wilcox. Passions is on! Timmy's down the bloody well, and if you make me miss it I'll — Giles: Do what? Lick me to death? Something Blue, Joyce: I-I love what you've, um Just don't break anything. And don't make a lotta noise. Passions is coming on. Oh, do you think Timmy's really dead? Oh, no, no. She can just sew him back together. He's a doll, for God's sake.

Ah, what about the wedding? I mean, there's no way they're gonna go through with that. Checkpoint, Tabitha talking to Timmy: When will you get it through your fat head? Charity is the enemy. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the enemy. The busybodies that call themselves the Others are the enemy! And your job is? Vampire slayer.

There are many occasions when it has been defined as such, or at least linked to the genre of daytime dramas.

This perception is shared by at least three types of viewers. First, it is accepted by members of the general public, who have an almost instinctive awareness of this quality. Much public response and fan fiction reflect a definite approach that for a long time has been associated with soaps. It is curious to http: And Rhonda V.

Wilcox and David Lavery explicitly concur with Joyce Millman in this argument too. Some other times, the labelling is just a implicit. He is a master of mixing genres depending on circumstances, and the taste of a peculiar genre rises above the others at his read article. And explicitly he confirms it more than once in various contexts [6]. The abstract idea that the author has of it or his poetics have not influenced the perception of the final result.

It is most often used with a denigrating, disparaging intent. Almost inductively it is assumed that belonging to a specific genre could be the reason of bad quality, without taking into any consideration the actual product, as if it were irrelevant.

Buffy, as a show that deals with supernatural themes all the time, has to battle constantly this bias that impedes recognition of its quality, at least in an official Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy, such as the Emmy Awards.

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Both struggle for approbation. Buffy, in its diegetic perspective, succeeds in becoming a true and real political statement on this regard and manages to acknowledge being a soap, mockingly winking to those who snub a book judging solely by its title. It is, in this way, a meta-comment on the genre at the same time.

In fact a soap, Passions, is used as a means to make the villainous Spike more lovable, mellowed precisely by the fact that he gets hooked on the stories of the characters of this show.

And he shares his watching with Joyce Checkpoint, The process is Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy simple.

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At the same time a flattering image of the soap is given. It becomes an instrument that creates a link between genres on the base of a shared visual experience. He demonstrates awareness in what he is doing even as he recognizes the genres that he absorbs and then moulds to his own needs. And a genre is not good or bad as such, but becomes one or the other on the basis of its use.

A genre is as good as you make it to be in the concreteness of the single experience. It should be devoid of preconceptions that could make it ontologically of positive or negative value solely resulting from the label. Once again Whedon exhibits consciousness and confidence in doing what he wants about Buffy, the scientia in using particular styles and a specific rhetoric, as well as other desired instruments.

He simply uses this genre. Not Italian nor German nor Hispanic ones, not even those of other Anglophone countries, because, while all these share many aspects, each has specific characteristics that make it different from the other. Oh, the love! Anna Devane, deep college experience.

Gen with my buds, senior year it was religion. David Fury, one of the writers, was once an actor in soap operas [12], and is thus in a position to recognize those elements that characterize a soap and to translate them to and put Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy in a different context. Her participation, and the gossip that surrounded her, is well-known.

Such recognition cannot be anything but a proof of her ability to act in a context that she masters well. Nothing more normal, then, that she can learn more here its conventions in a sure and nuanced.

Michelle Trachtenberg Dawn also walked her first acting steps on the set of All My Children; Emma Caulfield Anya is openly a fan of daytime dramas; and Anthony Stewart Head Giles looks to be pretty familiar with them too.

But if Buffy is a soap, the question that now we need to ask ourselves is: Which are the elements of content and style that make it a soap opera? The aesthetic, the rhetoric of the camera that is behind the genre, the relationship between the syntagmatic path and the paradigmatic one, the structural and textual conventions, the dialogic development, the codes that shape it, the Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy poetics, the terminology and the narrative syntax are readable in a different, unique perspective.

It is useful to investigate this to better understand the Buffy phenomenon as Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy whole; it is even more so if Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy think of this as an opportunity to better dig into its meanings, to discover new hermeneutic perspectives, to trace its dialogue with other groups of series each with their own construction. She says that the basic element to take into consideration is the way a story Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy built and told.

Buffy fits this definition. Episodes are certainly auto-conclusive, in parts of the story, but the dialogic flux is in other aspects uninterrupted, from episode to episode. One falls back on the other and yet another and so on. Every season is in fact explicitly constructed as real narrative arc: The most obvious case is Port Charles.

The arcs received different sub-titles: What becomes relevant is not so much the question of whetherthis element is used or not, but how it is used. This way we can go deeper and find a more radical indication to understand if and when we find ourselves facing a soap opera. Whether or not a show is a soap becomes a question of how much interest there is in the main character. It may be an audience definition. Several times it has been variously underlined how the monsters that Buffy and the Scoobies the group of friends around her that participate in and help her in her battles have to face are nothing else but the mirror of the human problems that they are forced to come to terms with--metaphors read article allow us to trace emotional paths, well visible in backlighting.

Being the definition of action, they are an expression of plot. The analysis of these confirms our thesis. Our heroes eat, take walks, wash themselves thanks! They are not on the point of. They are action. Their gestures are not prelude and ostensible reason for words; they envelope them.

What counts, what carries the narration is not action. Action is instrumental to dialogue, not the other way around.

He declares that fighting is not the peak of the narration, but the emotional aspect is: We are therefore in the most pure soap opera realm. From a content point of view, are soaps compatible with what is told on Buffy? At this very moment it Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy very present, so much so that we click here almost say two schools of thought compete in the field.

There are the classics — represented by shows like The Young and the Restless — against the more campy ones — like Passions — in a fight to the last rating in the Nielsen battle. Loving, at the beginning of the s, tried this road, without success. Scared to death by a cross and an exorcism, devil-like Jonathan was eliminated, transforming at his death into a snake--and every intention to follow that supernatural road crawled away with him.

James Reilly, head writer of the time, brought his distinctive brand of storytelling with him in the soap he went on to create, Passions. The aforementioned Port Charles has incorporated this kind of story without renouncing its status as being in every aspect a soap.

ABC daytime president Brian Frons programmatically admits Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy plan: And it even introduced a vampire slayer, Rafe. And besides a trained slayer, one of the historic heroines of the show, Lucy, discovered that she, too, is a slayer.

According to the mythology of the soap, this is possible because she comes from a family of slayers. At times there are crypto-models. Other times the dialogue between programs is more explicit, especially when this happens with prestigious models, like Buffy. In its brief run, it left an indelible print in the public imagination [29].

The authors always explicitly said they wanted to portray him as an addict, in a perennial fight with himself. Cursed with a soul, Angel sees with a newly awakened conscience how much his actions made people suffer.

Barnabas was layered by the writers with conflicting emotions that made him very intense. Macerated by guilt and morally ambivalent, Barnabas was a vampire who constantly craved to become human, mortal. Enriched and coloured by a wry hatred for himself, he soon became the center of the show, and so did the dilemma that tortured him. We can find here the same Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy of Buffy: Angel cursed to have a soul, despite being a vampire, so that he can suffer for the atrocities he has committed.

In Dark Shadows Barnabas, as noted, was in constant search for a cure to his condition. And although the experiment Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy Dr.

Julia Hoffman who offered to help him backfired, for some time Dr. Lang actually succeeded in curing him. But it was just temporary. Barnabas and Julia, the blood specialist who had attempted to cure him, first helped Dr. Lang, then, after his death, continued the experiment to give life to a brand new man created from human body parts.

Maggie Walsh from demon, human, and electronic parts. Buffy has in Oz its werewolf. Dark Shadows had Quentin, who was a werewolf because of a curse gypsy Magda placed on him for having killed her sister Jenny.

Just a coincidence, for sure, but nonetheless fun to notice. Parallel times ; ; ; and dimensions were a permanent feature in Collinsport, Maine, the town where Dark Shadows took place. At one point, Dr.

Snapfuck videos Watch Xl girls nude xxx Video Disney pussy. The computer disk containing the instruction to give Angel back his soul, fallen between desks, is shot by the camera and forgotten until necessary. This would have never happened on a soap where they would have gone back to it again and again, with gusto. The object that in Buffy was mostly used in accordance to soap fashion is the ring Angel gives to her. She does it in a completely different manner by reading a journal. They explicitly give us a red herring and then surprise us, but they let us know at the same time that they master the genres and they use them as they wish, not necessarily as we would expect them to do. Thus, they are forced to come to know each over and http: Both cases were built in a far different way than it would have been done on soaps, however. The personal relationship became secondary to their frustrated attempts to get out of that situation. Every show has its fair share. Once in the soap frame of mind, it was the most predictable thing to expect. Making it just an attempted rape though, Buffy avoids directly facing the issue the way soaps are forced to do. Because of the genre style chosen to tell this tale, Buffy would have just the same needed to face the issue directly, if it had taken the road of going ahead with the act. Buffy has its own peculiar modus operandi, when it comes to issues. The allegories it proposes are crafted so that their reading conveys a point of view on social issues. I have been somewhat disappointed — in an episode that I otherwise think perfect - by the fact that no-one in Sunnydale appeared to be deaf, and therefore un-affected by a situation that was so shocking for all others. On an episode so centered in the theme of communication, it would have been a powerful message. Joss Whedon has vowed to eschew heavy-handed treatment of social issues; see Rhonda V. They grasp, beyond the storylines, the identifying elements, the narrative modes, the structure, the constants that make a genre such, beyond experimentation, tangential choices, the poetics of each author. And using these elements, they make them their own. They do not dodge or avoid choosing the puzzle pieces only because they end up using them in a different context. They recognize the compound the bricks are made of, even when the house they are building - the mental construction they want to build - is different. And they blend them, they integrate them, making them fit in a structure that is different. Intimately knowing the materials at their disposal, they use them where they can be useful, even when it has probably never been done before. Thus they reinvent the blueprint and they make it come alive with structures that get themselves renewed in contact with new elements. They give shadows and layers and depth to everything that happens. The surface of the events is understood http: The required forma mentis allows us to discover far more striking points of contact than an un-educated look would suspect. This at least as of March An unofficial Critical Companion to Buffy and Angel. Roz Kaveney. London- New York: Tarius Parke Paperbacks, Reading space and place. London-New York: Her resolution was to change that: This in: Worlds without end: Robert Morton. Harry N. Abrams, Incorporated, Allen, Robert, C. Economic Product and cultural document. The Critical View. Horace Newcomb. New York — Oxford: Oxford University Press, They are just the tip of the iceberg. Transformation, identity and role playing in the Buffyverse and a defence of fine acting. This is what she said about http: Smart and sophisticated, self sufficient Anna Devane never needed a man to take care of her. Anna was a woman in charge of her life, too confident to settle for less than she deserved. Anna had made mistakes too and paid for them. But as forthright as she was, Anna came to Port Charles as a woman of mystery and never lost her enigmatic edge. Waggett, Gerald J. The Soap Opera Book of lists. HarperPaperbacks, New Yourk: Pocket Books, While she was on the show, her not getting along with Susan Lucci was very much publicized. And gossip on their jealously and rivalry were rampant. The infamous feud makes people talk to this day April At that time, at least, she was very much into Sonny and Brenda, Robin Scorpio and the heartbreaking death of Stone. In Soap Opera Digest, March 17, p. I adored Robin Wright [Penn, ex-Kelly]. Even if the concept is less rich. In a nutshell, we can think of several sets interacting in the legal system: Should someone be interested, this text could be checked: Sacco, Rodolfo. Giappichelli Editore, The richer the one, the more challenged the others. The dynamics that get established inside a Country have particular, individual, unrepeatable histories, which are heavy from the point of view of the cultural legacy they hold. They enter in the cultural DNA of a society. Crypto-formants may be traced: The Ultimate Soap Opera Guide. Stearn Publishers Ltd. The quote is taken from p. Nuova Pratiche Editrice srl, The translation is mine. The original Italian says: Buffy and the east Asian cinema. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Magazine. Issue 33, May The Soap Opera Encyclopedia. New Tork: In the end Passions lets Timmy truly die, following the untimely demise of his portrayer, Josh Ryan Evans, who was only The actor passed away the same day his character died on screen. He had already pre-taped other scenes, in witch Timmy was supposed to appear in heaven looking down to Charity, who got his heart in a transplant. The executives, though, decided to edit them out, out of respect toward him. Soap Opera Digest, November 6, And Down! Il popolo. Domenica 12 marzo, and Waggett, Gerard J. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Official Magazine. Issue No. Dark Shadows Almanac: Los Angeles — London: Pomegranate Press, Ltd. Dark Shadows: Program Guide. Compiled by Ann Wilson. She was dubbed, so the quote is a translation form the Italian. To be continued… Soap Operas around the world. London and New York: Routledge, Fighting the Forces. Act IV, scene 1. The complete Works. Weels, Satnley W. Oxford University Press: Soap Opera Digest, December 11, The place where you only die twice. Soap Opera Digest, September 17, Wilcox Rhonda V. Come nasce una leggenda televisiva. Though a little extreme, expressed this way, it well conveys the importance of love stories for daytime. They wanted us to wait for it till the last possible chance. Daytime vs. Soap Opera Digest, June 26, Soap Opera Digest, May 3, Soap Opera Digest, April 11, Soap Opera Digest, December 15, Soap Opera Digest, November 26, Soap Opera Digest, December 24, As Gina Wisker and others have argued, Buffy and Angel are not as subversive in their use of the vampire figure. But vampires like Drusilla and Darla, with their pop-punk Gothic aesthetics, are fascinating character studies; they are obvious pastiches of bizarre literary and historical constructions that enable the viewers to relish their excesses as sources of transgression and disruption, and to dis-identify with the human characters who are disciplined according to a sexual morality. Subversive feminist and queer rearticulations of monsters highlight the social and psychic violence under which bodies are organized, in effect subverting and recirculating discourses that inscribe transgressive sexualities as monstrous. Eschewing the good, the pure, and the beautiful i. Contemporary vampire fiction, for example, embraces the subversive excesses of the gamut of transgressive sexualities inherent in the figure of the vampire. Rejecting enlightenment configurations of the subject organically sufficient, coherent, autonomous and unique , the posthuman embraces the appeal of the abject and the monstrous, of pre-symbolic, revolting bodies. The posthuman recognizes the impurity of every available source of self; there is no retrievable authentic self. Identity then becomes overwhelmed by impure, excessive discourses; it becomes a site of revolt and contestation. Monsters such as Drusilla and Darla hold discourse at a distance, turning misogynist narratives into excessive performances that destabilize, disempower and recirculate their meanings. Drusilla and Darla are corrupt texts, hypersimulations of discourses of woman as sexed monster that creatively and affirmatively reduce the subject to a set of discourses that, by re-circulating their meanings, reject the oppressive structures of subjectivation that incited their initial ideological project. Drusilla and Darla are delicious train wrecks. Discourses of Degeneration: Women, Vampires and Sex 4 The Buffy and Angel creators draw upon a rich pool of mythological, religious and sexology discourses in their writing of gothic female sexuality. The female vampire has functioned in particularly threatening and fascinating ways over the last two centuries. Descriptions of female vampires in literature by men include almost verbatim characteristics found in criminal anthropology and sexology discourses from the nineteenth- and twentieth-centuries. Medical and criminology discourses, and older religious and folkloric discourses, explicitly took on vampiric terminology and imagery, reflecting a primal fear and loathing of the sexual instinct in women. The female vampire especially the queer vampire functions as a repository of patriarchal anxieties over female strength and sexuality. Before he guts Shannon in his truck, he tells her: The hypnotic aggression of the female vampire, her bottomless pit of sexuality, and her predatory siphoning off of masculine transcendent energies, are usually neutralized in order for the happy dance http: The medical and criminal literature explicitly yokes female sexuality and vampiric monstrousness. These texts had much to do with the male literary imagination and its writing of monstrous female sexuality. In The Female Offender , Caesar Lombroso writes that the active enjoyment of the sexual impulse awakens an inherent criminal instinct in woman. Many of these texts equate overindulgence of sexuality in women including masturbation with pointed features, sharp teeth, a paleness of the skin, marked anemic constitutions, and erotic languorousness. In his book Woman: Again, the cultural demonization of sexed women is explicitly associated with vampirism. Female sexuality is seen as a self- polluting sapping of the vital reproductive functions of woman, a criminal misdirection of her reproductive duties. Sexual excess in a woman is a wasteland of sterility, a criminal instinct that leads to the decline of the race. They are the Van Helsings of the medical world. After all, Van Helsing is undoubtedly more important as a doctor a hematologist, which so many vampire hunters are than as a Catholic. Featured in the medical detection novel par excellence— Dracula—Van Helsing and his Crew of Light are armed with the signs or symptoms of the atavistic, sexed female body. Here, and in Carmilla as well vampirism—or female desire —is the disease that needs to be detected, diagnosed and cured. Monstrous women, then, renourish themselves on the seminal substances and blood of men and children. Women supposedly experience a http: To begin his discussion of the sexual periodicity of women, Ellis equates menstruation with estrus: The Hysteric as Vampire A hysterical girl is a vampire who sucks the blood of the healthy people about her. Menstruating women were impressionable, suggestible, and diminished—they were hysterical. Medical misogynists were apparently enlightened as to the sexual etiology of hysteria early on in the nineteenth-century—and they ran with it. However, as Carol Smith-Rosenburg argues , hysterical women were hypertrophied versions of the Victorian icon of femininity—sick, weak, passive and anemic. The extraordinary emotionalism and excessive excitability of the hysteric made her impressionable and prone to suggestion and hypnotic states the hysterical disposition was also believed susceptible to imagining itself in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural. The infamous Dr. Lucy sleepwalks at least three times in the novel, Van Helsing puts Mina under hypnosis no less than five times men in Dracula get a sexual thrill from paralyzing and immobilizing women. Hysterical women want to fuck. And the number one symptom of hysteria was anemia, the number one cure, re-sanguination. She is the vampire. Both are clearly liminal figures, straddling life and death, acting out their own irrelevance. Because they have been cheated out of sexual knowledge, female sexuality in these texts figures as the uncanny—that repressed thing that always returns. It wants compensation. She is sex-starved, and her desires will always return to haunt and horrify men. The Hysteric as Vampire: Drusilla 14 In light of these discourses and others I will subsequently discuss, the representation of Drusilla in Buffy is inspired. Her character consistently rehearses, relishes and subverts these discourses. Sure , as others have noted, Drusilla a mixture of Dracula and Carmilla? Readings of monsters proliferate rather than cohere into a whole. Drusilla is a perfect example. She is a vampire, a witch, a siren and a mesmerist. She is Lilith mother of http: She is also the mythological Cassandra, cursed by second-sight, doubly cursed and driven mad by the fact that no one will believe her visions. She tells of a vision she had of men dying in the mine, which of course came true: Two men died. My seeing things is an affront to the Lord. I try to be pure in his sight. Significantly, folkloric evidence has it that those cursed by their parents or the church those excommunicated became vampires. Caesar Lombroso was one of many male scientists who fetishized a perceived innate childishness, frivolousness and shortsightedness in women. In ordinary cases these defects are neutralised by piety, maternity, want of passion, sexual coldness, by weakness and an undeveloped intelligence If women do not constrain their sexuality to marriage and maternity—the central cultural uses of their bodies—they are http: Sexed women are decidedly bad mothers, and their perversities are contagious especially with the female vampire. For yes, she is the infantilized, fetishized Victorian child-woman, but there is a subterranean menace lurking beneath the surface of these playful roles. At various times throughout Buffy and Angel, she growls, snarls, barks and purrs when sexually aroused. Both she and Lucy are demonic mother parodies, women in white who stalk the neighborhood at night. Perhaps my favorite line from the Buffy oeuvre is when Dru, wearing her white baby doll dress, slowly approaches a little boy on the playground and sings a song: What will your mummy sing, when they find your body? Dru snarls and responds: She is anything but virginal, and she enjoys the occasional toddler for dinner. Vampires are never daughters, wives or mothers in the traditional sense, and this is a powerful imaginative possibility for many women. Both society and Angelus drive Drusilla mad. In literature, two great climactic ends have been prescribed for women—madness and death. Drusilla is both mad and dead, yet she nevertheless rises and wreaks as much vengeance upon the symbolic order as she possibly can. Her rage against Angelus and a cruel society which has cursed her is palpable during several different episodes. When Angel tells Dru to leave town with Spike, she visibly seethes: While torturing him she sings the same song as on the playground this is her playground! She then starts talking about her whole family: They used to eat Until you came and ripped their throats out. In her floor-length, white baby doll dress, with her canopy bed and with Miss Edith, Drusilla is childishly hyper-feminine and petulantly infantile, two classic descriptions of the hysterical woman Smith-Rosenburg But of course this is not at all true—Dru is anything but shortsighted. Her real prophetic powers place her in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural see paragraph 10 above. Typical of the female hysteric, Drusilla is also womb-driven, but in a shockingly perverse way. Her body is pure spectacle; it is excessive, undomesticated and sexually saturated. She rubs her stomach, knowing she will satisfy her sexual hunger, yet her womb will remain barren. And while Spike explains to his mother http: This is a bizarre perversion of a multitude of origin narratives. Oedipus is gone and in its place are monstrous births. The Prostitute as Vampire: Darla 21 And this brings us to Darla, the matriarch of our little vampire family. While women in the home were the most important moral force in the country, women out of the home were prostitutes, vectors of disease, contagion and degeneration. Because civilization depended upon the containing of sex in marriage, civilization was threatened by the prostitute, especially the syphilitic prostitute. As scholars have noted, AIDS was not the first blood disease to find expression in a reactionary rhetoric of vampirism. The syphilitic prostitute as vampire or vampirism as syphilitic virus was just one rhetorical maneuver in a series of moral panics that scapegoated sexually or otherwise deviant behavior as the source of social and national decay. Clarimonde is an evil courtesan vampire who carnally seduces a priest and is later killed by holy water. In most identifiable folkloric traditions, the prostitute was one of several marginalized, outsider figures who were potential vampires after death along with the godless, suicides, witches, the excommunicated and those cursed by their families. Both are fallen women and social outcasts. On her deathbed, The Master visits Darla disguised as a priest: Darla has clearly been a victim of sexual hypocrisy, as the show draws upon historical fact that prostitutes were routinely forced to emigrate to the colonies in the seventeenth-century Darla is a prostitute in the Virginia Colony in The primitive woman was impure rather than criminal. With the public rage over prostitution and its consequent cultural demonization of female sexuality, the sexual instinct in woman became both metaphorically and supposedly literally vampiric. The most common French term used for a prostitute in the nineteenth-century was a man-eater. The Buffyverse clearly draws upon historical sources here. Stoker himself probably died of tertiary syphilis in , contracting the disease as a young man probably from a prostitute. Scholars have interpreted Dracula as an extended melodramatic meditation upon sick, diseased, sexed bodies. Angel plays with these discourses—Darla is dying of syphilis when Wolfram and Hart bring her back to life. According to Paul Barber the Slavic succubus, the Mora cognate of Mare , assumes various shapes and visits men at night and tries to suffocate them. He quotes Jan Machal: Over a span of several episodes Darla drugs Angel and enters his dreams. In the unconscious mind, Jones argues, blood, semen and milk are indistinguishable: The explanation of these [vampiric] phantasies is surely not hard. A nightly visit from a beautiful or frightful being, who first exhausts the sleeper with passionate embraces, and then withdraws from him a vital fluid; all this can point only to a natural and common process, namely to nocturnal emissions accompanied with dreams of a more or less erotic nature. In the unconscious mind blood is commonly an equivalent for semen. The Buffyverse explores the minefield of female sexuality more than any other mainstream television show. Buffy is about female desire, and though simple, there is no overestimating the importance of this. This is the stunning impact of the show at its best. After losing her virginity to Angel, she is terrorized by the monstrous Angelus, turning her loss of virginity into a stultifying traumatic event. Her intense desire for Angel can of course never be fulfilled because of his curse and because the show would end. First, the episode is a typical—if not classic—masculinist narrative: At the beginning of the episode, Buffy complains to Angel that he makes decisions for her without her knowledge or consent in the previous Buffy episode, Angel comes to Sunnydale and follows her around without her knowledge: And thirdly, the episode is a typical male fantasy: What we could have had? No one will know but me. It did. I know it did! I felt your heart beat! I'll never forget. I'll never forget! This is a powerful criticism of the male fear of female autonomy and sexuality, a fear that takes brutal form in societies that practice genital mutilation. But the episode treads some dangerous ground for women, rehearsing the misogynist story that women are sexuality; they do not have or own their desire, they are not the subjects of their desire; they are desire embodied, and they are always in heat. While the episode is powerfully radical in some ways, in others it is not: She has sex with Wilson and wakes up the next morning hugely pregnant with a demon child, even though she used protection: Cordelia is sexually disciplined in this episode. These episodes are critiques of and antidotes to the sanitized view of birth and motherhood as embodying all that is good, natural and beautiful. She is reproduction as both http: Women become womb monsters—fascinatingly ambiguous, reproductive nightmares see Creed, chapter 4. As a side note, both these characters meet unfortunate fates. She wakes up out of a coma because she has a vision that Angel is in trouble. I got my guy back on track. While at times she seems to enjoy a healthy sexual relationship with Riley, it is more often unhealthy. Such erotic transgressions are powerful antidotes to the totalizing ideology of romantic love which functions so oppressively for women. When Buffy turns to the door of his crypt to leave, Spike intercepts her and goes down on his knees: Buffy scoffs at his masochistic desires. You like me because you enjoy getting beat down. Last night was the most perverse, degrading experience of my life. Phallic culture sexually dominates http: She later goes down on Spike after he tells her to leave: Buffy and Spike have clearly been into bondage: Her playful sexual escapades come to pathologize her sense of self. She despises herself for her sexual transgressions, becoming a victim of her own desires. The sequence is worth reproducing in its entirety: Creepy Voices: What did you do? She opens her eyes and looks down. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, on the bed, looking up at her with an expression of pleasure, with his hands stretched up above him. Buffy slides her hands up to just below where the cuffs are. Katrina lies underneath Buffy, looking up at her. Cut to Buffy and Spike in his crypt, lying on the floor under the rugs, moving fast, with Spike on top. Buffy moans in pleasure. Cut to Buffy in the graveyard punching Katrina. Cut to the head-shot of Buffy straddling Spike on his bed. She lifts her hand, holding a stake. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, his eyes closed as if sleeping, Buffy thrusts down the stake. Cut to the forest. Buffy is straddling Katrina who lies with her eyes closed and the stake protruding from her stomach. Buffy feels she must be punished. Her self-hatred climaxes in the truly nauseating scene nauseating on purpose? Tara has just told Buffy that there is nothing wrong with her: Why do I let Spike do those things to me? Erotic transgressions lead to psychological problems, and vice versa. This is in part why the show ends as it does—destroying the Hellmouth, and cutting down Caleb and the First, but also putting the question of romance to the side for Buffy, at least for http: After all, Lacan argued that the subject is predicated upon and constituted by lack—it is the ontological structure motoring subjectivity. Traditionally, the vampire is the patriarch par excellence: The male vampire as patented by Polidori is a romantic Byronic hero: Masculine creative energies never tire of men becoming the subjects of their own knowledge at the expense of a woman. Through her mortification comes his existential knowledge. And while Carmilla is a crucial exception to this trend, she too shares in the fate of most female vampires before But of course the Romantic, existentialist male vampire is usually able to stick around. The feminist or queer http: Transgressive sexualities have always been coded as monstrous. As I mention above, what more appropriate association than the vampire for distilling the perversions of queer sexualities? Transgressive sexualities have often been inextricably yoked to the image of plague-like, blood-borne infections that lay waste huge populations. Queers and prostitutes in the nineteenth- century were evil predators who infiltrated, infected and contaminated the public body with their bad blood. The homophobic cultural agenda of the right in the s used vampiric imagery to stigmatize the queer community in the wake of the AIDS crisis. With their perverse sexual arrangements and promiscuous mixing of bodily fluids, vampires untie the binds between penetrated female bodies and organically sufficient penetrating male bodies. The vampire has become a politically perverse figure for exploring transgressive conceptions of family and community, critiques of origins, alternative potentials for selfhood, and the cultural and social inscriptions of sexual and gendered subjects. Female and queer vampires have traditionally embodied the horror of transgressive sexuality. Now they are unspeakably monstrous, threatening, and attractive. Darla, Angelus, Drusilla and Spike enjoy multiple perverse sexual arrangements, either blatant or coded. Angelus tells Spike that he looks forward to having a boy around to play with: Do you? Even after they regain their souls, Angel and Spike are both murderous and amorous. Gina Wisker has also discussed contemporary vampire fiction and its potential for feminist and queer reevaluation and recirculation. Both of these writers argue that http: In a third season Angel episode flashback, Angelus recounts his escape from Holtz to the young vampire James. After his escape, Angelus later caught up with Darla in Vienna. Drusilla and Darla enjoy multiple sexual arrangements within and without their vampire family, a privilege usually only accorded to men. In a recent flashback of Angel, Drusilla infuriates Spike because she refuses to be monogamous. Angelus gets up, stands behind Dru and slips his arms around her body: Spike taunts Angelus for being cuckolded by Darla, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Drusilla walk out: So he could violate our women. Violate in succession! Spank us till Tuesday. In these episodes he is a sadistic killer. Get dressed and get out. Because the next time I see you, I will have to kill you. Inoichi huffed. Out of all the people she could have been fighting, she's up against the one that has the highest chance of letting her out of the arena with all her bones intact… next to Shikamaru, of course…". Just today she was five minutes away from being disqualified! The Nara raised an eyebrow. I'm surprised that she's been progressing as far as she did…". Shikaku frowned for a moment as he tried to remember all the things his son told him about his teammate over the past few months. While it was true that Inoichi's daughter was prone to being rather obsessive with looks at times, Shikamaru had told him that Ino had been getting better as of late. The girl was apparently progressing quite well under Anko's tutelage, and had even made some leeway with her poison skills… "Hey… was your daughter in her bathroom when you left this morning? Inoichi grunted. I had to leave her at home and go ahead. Sometimes I truly wonder about her…". She didn't know why. What's wrong? Ino blinked, not knowing what to say as she looked around. She saw Temari still gaping in surprise before giving Shikamaru an occasional curious glance, also seemingly unnoticed by the boy. Tenten was talking to Neji, who nodded stiffly, however she could tell that the two had a better relationship than first anticipated. She saw Sakura and Sasuke standing next to each other on the other end of the railing, closer than she herself had ever gotten with the Uchiha, and talking comfortable with the other without any sign of hesitation. Looks of longing, but held back due to nervousness or because the one they liked never paid them any attention. She was confused. She willingly admitted it. She had always set her sights on Sasuke, but even though he had been gradually becoming more vocal and social over the past few months, he had also been somehow bonding with the forehead even more. The more she tried, the more he seemed to look the other direction, even when she tried to use some of Anko-sensei's more… mature seducing methods. It just made him turn even more… and run as well. It was ridiculous! She couldn't have them both! That would be as ridiculous as… Ghost and Anko-sensei and… Hana-sensei…. Shikamaru blinked as Ino started to grin in a less than comforting manner. Why are you smiling like that? You're planning to do something troublesome, aren't you? Ghost looked at the state of the fighting grounds as the two boys were sent to the medical bay. While he didn't mind, there might be some issues for later on if it was left in the same condition. That being the case, he switched his microphone to a private line with the Hokage. The field is pretty wrecked down here. Is it okay if we fix it before the next match? It'll only take about a minute tops. The Hokage sighed in his chair as he got the message, prompting the visiting leaders to look at him oddly. Ghost nodded as he changed the frequency of the mike so that he would be heard through the speakers again. Please bear with me, as it will only take a few minutes at the most. We should just have the brats fight on the grounds the way it is! Stop coddling the brats, for crying out loud…". Ghost took off his microphone and put it into his pocket before raising his hands to his mouth. The audience blinked in confusion as they looked around for the mysterious Crypt that Ghost was apparently calling. Nothing happened for a few moments before a woman screamed as she saw a body flying through the air as if it was thrown to the middle of the arena, sailing like a dead weight before landing a few dozen feet away from Ghost on the ground with a low thump. The crowd was quiet for several moments with wide eyes, except for those who knew who the man was and how odd he could be. Sarutobi groaned, apparently ignoring the Kazekage's remark. Ghost sighed as he saw the audience stare in shock. He was hoping that Crypt would just pop out of the ground like normal… but then again, when does normal actually apply to the man? He put the earpiece to his mouth. He's not dead, just stupid. Very… very stupid. Jell-O organs! The seemingly dead body popped back up instantly, surprising many of the audience members, glaring back at the man. Your theory is completely out of proportion! The chainsaws don't have enough shoelaces in order to organize the toenail clippings on the Mona Lisa's hard drive! The constipated monster trucks would end up completely slaughtered by the army of nun chucking babies! You think you can fix him up? It said it'll help you out with that fireball mongoose problem you've been having trouble with if you do. Crypt blinked. That bastard! I know it was holding out on me! The floor comes first. Everyone could hear low rumblings, though. Within 30 seconds, the dust had settled and much to everyone's surprise the arena floor was in the same condition it was in before the fights had even started, minus the fallen trees. Ghost was once again in the middle of the floor, casually standing with his hands in his pockets, but Crypt had disappeared. Get your butt down here so I can kick it! She's up to something troublesome. Sakura sighed as she turned to the stairs. You know her better than I do at the moment, after all. One cut from those poisons of hers and the pink girl is done for. Kunai are faster than seals, after all, and genjutsu can only help you so much against an opponent right in front of you. Plus, I highly doubt that Anko-sensei would have not trained her student against genjutsu when both of her first potential opponents are known to use it. I think she is already able to neutralize low-level poisons in her system during combat situations without much issue, and mid-level poisons if given enough time alone to concentrate. I also remember that she was doing extensive taijutsu and evasion training with Waltz-sama during our month break…". He was incredibly knowledgeable about various tactics I doubt he would be unable to give Sakura-san some advice on dodging projectiles efficiently, especially with his rather impressive frame. I guess I ruined the arena, eh? Naruto smiled. Ero-nii and Crypt fixed it up while you were getting treated. Sakura and Ino's fight is actually just about to start. Good job with that last attack, though. When you almost killed me, the crater was only half as big. Part of that was because I went higher than normal. Usually I just bounce myself to a decent height and then hit the ground… to be honest, I thought I was going to plow through that tree instead of launching off of it and simply bouncing myself naturally over the traps and the kunai… but I think what happened worked better in a way…". We have another member! Shouldn't it be the opposite, considering he can't mold chakra? Lee can't mold chakra, but so far, he's the only person here that managed to force Naruto to go all out, he's received training with possibly the only teachers in the Elemental Nations that could even remotely get him to the level that he's at right now, despite his limitations I'd say that's pretty dumb luck right there…". So you could be qualified to have dumb luck? Or were you just that stupid to begin with? Naruto pouted. I'd like to see you try hiding from ANBU wearing nothing but pure orange. Let me tell you, it's harder than it sounds. Shikamaru raised an eyebrow at his best friend for a moment before sighing to himself. Troublesome doesn't even begin to describe that girl. She was all quiet and moody throughout your fight. Then a little after you won, I asked her what was up, and she apparently snapped, giggling like crazy. She told you?! I didn't do anything! That's all I can say…". Let's make a bet on this match, shall we? Sakura didn't like the hungry look in Ino's eyes. She remembered it from the time before time was changed. It was the look Ino got when she had some sort of morally deprived and most likely illegal yet incredibly tempting idea in her head. Zuzushi in turn fell off Ghost's shoulder, also apparently laughing and making high pitched squeaks as she mimicked her clan member's movements. Sakura blinked dumbly at Ino. I wasn't prepared to filter out so much crazy coming from you. Ino grinned sadistically. Until a few minutes ago, I thought I had to restrict myself only to Sasuke-kun, but when I realized that there were other boys that I wouldn't mind spending time with, I came to a dilemma. What should I do? Who should I chose? I wanted them both, but I couldn't… or could I? Hinata pouted. No one's taking my one man harem away from me. Not if I have anything to say about it. Naruto blinked in disbelief. I've been trying and planning for months on how to get back at Ero-nii in the most horrible and embarrassingly humiliating way possible… and Ino singlehandedly pulls it off without even thinking about it. That shouldn't be possible… I'M the Prankster King of Konoha… I should be the one to be able to do that so easily… it's like nothing makes sense in the world anymore…". Mind Rape. Silently, the short man turned to Sarutobi and looked at him dead in the eyes, and blood dripping down his nose. The Kazekage looked up to where the irregular shakes in the building were coming from curiously. Sarutobi chuckled nervously. I'll send some of my men to check up on it right away. Honestly though, they're shinobi, not engineers… they can't be expected to notice everything when it comes to things like detailed building structure…". It was very fortunate that Konoha's and its allies' forces were not in direct combat and were currently tasked setting up traps at the moment, because if someone needed help right then, they wouldn't have gotten it. All they would have heard was Scabbard rolling on the ground, laughing like there was no tomorrow. Tsume growled deeply from her seat, causing the rest of the clan members near her and Kuromaru to back away slowly from the angry woman. Locked naked in a box with Tora and five kilos of catnip. There will be no mercy…". Asuma wiped his forehead nervously. For a moment there, I thought Inoichi was going to go after me. Jiraiya said nothing as he frantically scribbled down notes in his notepad as if his life depended on it. He was really questioning why he never came back to Konoha when he should have been looking after Naruto. He had completely forgotten how… inspirational… kunoichi could be, and you couldn't find more kunoichi than in a major ninja village. Ghost froze as he heard Ino's confirmation of him having two girlfriends… then he started to shiver as he felt the glare of one very pissed off Inoichi Yamanaka on him. Ohhhhh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck…" He swore. Ghost noticed that Zuzushi was laughing even harder on the ground a few feet away from him. Fucking lizard. Mark my words, Scab, someday very soon, you will find yourself in the middle of a preteen magical schoolgirl academy looking like a bishi translation: The screen in the arena paused for a moment before showing Ino and Sakura's match up. The digital, and at the moment clearly saner, Ino was throwing purple kunai at a relaxed pace before she made a few seals and put her hands over her chest in an odd way. The screen changed to show Ino's fight in the preliminaries. We'll find out right now! Zuzushi recovered from her laughing fit just long enough to fly to Ghost's shoulder before continuing to giggle in the way only a tiny dragon could. Ino Yamanaka! Ino wasted no time taking out several dozen shuriken and throwing them expertly at Sakura all at once. During her training with Waltz, the old man had constantly assaulted her with various styles, sizes, and ranges of attacks. From kunai and shuriken, to his fists, to pelting rain, to a giant block of ice, the old man had been indiscriminant with his teachings, making sure that Sakura was completely used to that particular variation of assault before moving on to the next style. More often than not, he would jump from one style to another she had previously practiced with in order to ensure that she did not forget her previous lessons. The end result was what the audience was watching. For the first few volleys, Sakura had dodged most of the flying weapons, but resorted to deflect the few that she initially missed with her kunai. However as the attacks continued, Sakura relied on her kunai less and less as she managed to dodge them with greater efficiency. Sakura frowned. It still wasn't easy, though. Ino was taught by Anko personally for a good amount of time, and it showed. Sakura doubted that any other genin aside from Tenten would have been able to force her to deflect their projectiles for that long and still keep her on the edge with basic shinobi equipment. Still, this was way easier than getting used to Sasori's attack patterns. God forbid should Ino actually take up puppetry. She wouldn't be able to form any seals at this rate. Ino's attacks were just too fast. What happens if someone you know has gone crazy and they're attacking you, but you know they're just confused and can be brought back? What's the best way to deal with them? It doesn't have to be correct logic. Twisted logic can work just as well in some cases if you present it right. If they're crazy at the moment, it shouldn't matter that much. Ghost sighed. The point of beating the shit out of them is to wear them out, calm them down, reduce the obscure amount of adrenaline running through their system, and most importantly, keep them still so they can't run away from your inevitable friendship speech. What are a few bruises and broken bones compared to a burst blood vessel in the brain? If you want to reason with them, be my guest, but at least try to not get killed by something stupid if you do. Arguing to prove a complicated point will only distract you from everything around you, and it dulls your senses when you are trying to debate something. Better to have your opponent pinned to the ground when you're trying to talk to them than trying to kill you. Why am I not surprised? The girl looked down to see a single senbon sticking out of her thigh. Sakura, it looks like you got hit with something…" Ino cooed as she started to make some seals just as Sakura attempted to start to run away. Hidden art, mind body disturbance technique…". Sakura's body started to shudder erratically as the technique took effect. I was only looking for shuriken and she snuck that senbon into her attacks! Then I stood still for too long! Don't fight her physically, fight her mentally. That's where her family's techniques take effect…. Not paying any attention to her arms moving towards the senbon in her leg, Sakura delved deep into her mind. She knew she was able to do it occasionally, but ironically enough, it was always easier when Ino tried one of her family's techniques on her. She could always feel where Ino's chakra was and use it as a beacon to know where to go. Thankfully, she had been meditating a fair amount during her month break. It helped her calm down and concentrate on her chakra control. Soon enough, Sakura had discovered Ino's presence inside herself, lodging itself between where her mind met her body. Unlike last time, where it was Ino's entire psyche inside her body, Sakura felt something more like Ino's intent and hands in its place. Smirking to herself, the pink haired girl started to fight back. Back in reality, Ino stumbled back in shock. I've never heard of someone able to break out of my clan's techniques when they're under my control! Sakura grinned as she quickly flipped through several seals. We've never heard of a psycho that uses exploding model cows to train students until a year ago. Get used to it! Demonic Art: Great Distortion! Ino's world immediately twisted on itself. Her sight was blurred and twisted. Her hearing was filled to the brim with loud and cringing sounds. Her balance was shot. She smelled a cornucopia of obscure scents, and she was growing dizzier with every passing second. I can't believe I gave her an opening like that. Anko-sensei would kill me if she saw that mistake…" She managed to swear through her confusion before forming the ram seal. The illusion wavered for a moment before regaining its obscurely disorienting effects. Forehead is better at genjutsu than I thought. Maybe those lessons with Kurenai-sensei actually did have some use. She wasn't. Instead there was a large smoke cloud where Sakura once was, preventing Ino from immediately tracking where her opponent could have gone. Sakura panted heavily behind one of the trees in the arena floor as she took the senbon out of her leg and quickly started making seals for the medical technique that would counteract the poison that Ino used on her. Her leg was bleeding in three separate spots, indicating that her body had stabbed itself two more additional times before she managed to break Ino's technique and run away. Right now, she had set up a low level illusion that was designed to cover her tracks fairly well, but she had no doubt that Ino was good enough to eventually find her regardless. She didn't want to admit it, but Ino's poisons were unusually potent. It was nowhere near as strong as Sasori's poison, thank all that was decent, but it still gave her a hard time regardless, and it was also incredibly fast acting, which is why she retreated after casting her illusion on Ino instead of going for the win. She doubted that she would have been able to counteract the poison in time if she hadn't gotten her prior memories and experiences back. Extracting the last of the harmful substance and closing the last of her wounds, Sakura started to plan her next move. Ino would more than likely give up on using her clan's techniques since they had proven to be less than effective against her, and likewise Sakura felt that using offensive illusions on Ino was just as effective since the girl managed to break out of one of her more potent illusions on her second try. That meant that the only thing left available for the two to uses was just taijutsu and whatever the hell they haven't shown yet. Sakura smirked as she slowly flipped through some seals. Ino may have had her poisons, but they were useless if they didn't get into her in the first place…. I just want to play. Then when I win, Sasuke-kun will see that I'm better than you, and he'll come to me instead…" She pouted. Despite her demeanor, Ino was getting irritated. Regardless of how much tracking training she did with Anko, she couldn't seem to find a single trace of the pink haired girl. Ino smirked before throwing the kunai in her hand at her opponent. I actually don't want to be with her. The kunai flew through the air straight at Sakura… and passed right through her, causing her to disappear in a cloud of smoke. But it talked! It was proving harder than she originally thought to be able to control her augmented strength. It was nowhere near where she once was, but she would still raise suspicions if she went overboard. Luckily, she could still pass off as just an exceptionally strong kunoichi as long as she kept her hits to only this level. She was also at that moment thankful for doing a bit of extra studying on the side when she first started her genjutsu training and learned the D-ranked technique that allowed her to make it seem as if her voice was coming from somewhere else. With that technique, mixed with the poor lighting from the shade of the trees, and the basic clone technique, she had managed to make the opening she needed to turn the fight around. Ino rolled on the ground for a few meters before jumping back onto her feet with several kunai and shuriken in her hands. She had been smacked around by Anko for so long that such responses were instinct for her at this point. Despite her still blurry vision, she could still make out Sakura's pink hair coming towards her at a fair pace, so that was what she aimed for without any hesitation. Just give up already! Sakura frowned as she dodged the oncoming metal with no problem at all. She had placed herself under the reaction enhancing genjutsu again while waiting for Ino to get into position, so she wouldn't have nearly as much trouble detecting and dodging the poisoned metal this time. It was like the girl's movements had become twice as quick in the time they were playing cat and mouse. Suddenly the mouse was making the cat look like a turtle. Ino didn't know why, but she had a bad feeling that things would get worse if she fought Sakura in a taijutsu match. She had enough kunai and shuriken to fight a decently sized battalion on her thanks to her modified pouch which had a storage seal on the inside, but wasting weaponry was something that could only hurt her in the long run. Another thing that Anko had to force into the girl via sheer terror and live experience in order to learn. Grabbing onto a small pellet, Ino grimaced. She was hoping to not use this particular item so early in her matches, but now wasn't the time to second guess herself. As time progressed, her house became a one-stop for whoever happened to be out and looking for a place to hang out unscrutinized, often with a crowd. The latter were mostly boys, and all, at best, indifferent to me, unless I had money to throw in for beer or pot, like, even five bucks would help. Those boys would send their girlfriends home and come over to have a cold one before curfew. None of them dated The Countess. I never questioned the stories I heard and the assumptions people made about her because everything about the Countess hinted of sophistication. She was the kind of sixteen-year-old that could mix a perfect martini from memory and apply lipstick without looking in the mirror. It stood to reason she was also a libertine. Her romantic experience, in those days anyway, was scarcely more controversial than my own. And yet those boys, the same one that had gossiped about her in the halls, showed up at her house and lounged with cases of cheap Fake ID beer, while she held court with elaborate desserts she made from scratch, while they still ogled her every time she stood and still talked the same old shit about her every time they left her house. My failure to grasp the convoluted social protocols the Countess rigorously adhered to—even at sixteen she sent thank you notes, even when the party ended with her swinging, half-dressed, from a front porch column, lip-synching Madonna and drinking convenience store champagne straight from the bottle—seemed in danger of upending our careful equilibrium. I took us there first in my car. Then she took us in her car. This was because of the lack of parents. This was because the Countess always had plenty of alcohol and an inclination to experiment with cocktails. Have you ever had a Gin Rickey? This was because the Countess never went to the dances herself. She was beautiful. She was popular. She was funny. She was fearless. She was magnificent. That night, we were the only ones up there. The Countess turned off the car. We sat in silence, puffing out curlicues of smoke. There are stories about The Countess that beggar belief. Some of them are true. Most are the stuff of legend soon lost on the infinite palimpsest of local rumor. Those stories are not mine to tell. And at some point, the Countess herself stopped telling her stories, or, at least, telling them to me. I would come home from college and hear conflicting reports. She was married to a British lord. She was a nanny for a family in Ohio. All seemed equally plausible. Every time a high school reunion comes up, and they do every five years at schools that rely on alumni donations, there are a few names I always look for on the RSVP list. I still dream about The Countess. In my dream, she is always hosting a dinner party in one of those old mansions we used to drive by. That dress made her hair look like shiny copper. That dress made her look like an empress. Scott Fitzgerald used to stay in the hotel, because at the point in my life, sixteen, early seventeen, I still believed in the totemic, transformative power of places. If I could touch this doorframe, that maybe he once touched, then maybe just maybe that would make me a better writer. In the beginning, the Radio Club had a radio station. It was a closet shaped room at the bottom of the stone stairs that opened like the mouth of hell under the old wrestling room and led to a concrete landing. To the left was a cinderblock storage room, home to long-abandoned student art and occasional band practice from the students most likely to get expelled. To the right was the day room, a brick cave that perennially smelled like old sweat, smoke damage and teenage boys. Some of the pubescent male funk may have seeped through the mats upstairs during the curiously intimate rites of violent masculinity performed each wrestling season. It was rare to see people coming and going from the radio station, which leant the Radio Club a little additional glamour. The general consensus seemed to be that they only really existed as a yearbook photo and vehicle to DJ school dances the administration was too cheap to outsource. Sometimes, during a free period, we might hear a bassline, or the mumble of a voice through the wall. This was the only evidence we ever had that the Radio Club was doing anything like radio. The station had a frequency number, but whenever we tried to access it, we heard only static. Just campus. Fair, but no matter where we put up an antenna—in the dorm common rooms, in the classroom building, at the top of the stone stairs, in the hallway immediately outside the radio station door, we could never get a signal. Like, are we sure the station is even connected? It would be pretty crooked to pull the plug on free expression without ever telling the people doing the expressing that you had. The Day Boys were particularly fond of it. I remember thinking, that sounds pretty dreamy. Maybe I should join the Radio Club. A few straggled in from the rural counties that, unlike my own, actually looked and behaved like Appalachia. A few came from the local Catholic School. Most came from the same public schools I had, places without day rooms, where no one in their right mind would dream of leaving their backpack unattended or locker unlocked. I knew exactly what flavor of fuck-up they were long before the Dean of Students stood on a small dais in the middle of the Day Room, her hand trembling with wrath, as she pointed to the still smoking, ash-blackened remains of the sex couch and asked which one of them had set it on fire. The Day Boys took her tirade with almost Zen-like tolerance, without a single incriminating smirk. She exited threatening vengeance for the incinerated furniture. We knew it was an empty promise. It might have been the one that drove me to school every morning and never spoke to me. It might have been the one with the curls that every girl in the spring play went moon-eyed over. The Day Boys had coalesced into a collective. In some sense, they had all burned the sofa. The Day Girls had little time for the Day Boys. The school boasted a wide variety of young men with a wide variety of exotic haircuts, accents, favorite bands, and passport colors. I was into this boy with skinny arms and a curtain of bangs that I interpreted as somehow poetic. And by into, I mean, into. When it hits like that—like a fucking anvil made of sparkles, butterflies, and pure hormones—you tend to forgive a lot, up to an including the fact that cool Work Tour t-shirt aside, Poetic Bangs had the musical taste of divorced Dad at a fern bar. So I listened Paul Simon and Dan Fogelberg , stayed late for Amnesty International, and sat transfixed as he sat on the theatre stairs strumming original acoustic ballads about deforestation and new age spiritualism, oblivious to the fact that there were at least four or five other girls hanging on his every stupid word, as infatuated as I. The only thing more embarrassing than the intensity of my crush was the person I was becoming within said crush. This is what I want? Everybody was in the winter play that year, even a few of the Day Boys. He liked to play improv games, which usually ended with him kissing a girl. Somehow that girl never ended up being me. I mulled over it a lot. I bought more of his favorite records. I read the books he talked about. At that point, I still believed I could make a boy love me by imitation. I had yet to figure out that there was, perhaps, a crucial difference between wanting someone and wanting to be like someone. That realization came years and several unfortunate forays into hardcore and beat poetry away. At fifteen, though, I was too busy trying to cleave to his narrow tastes to stop and figure out my own. We were in the green room sometime in January. Poetic Bangs had just slid onto the old orange sofa between me and another girl and just leaned over and kissed her hard, just to see what would happen. The Day Boys showed up in a clamor, and I was happy for the distraction, because it reminded me of all the noisy why not? They thought a few tunes might shake things up. The Day Boys had exactly zero time for Poetic Bangs and ignored him, experimenting with speaker wire and power cords,. Once the light came on, they shoved a cassette as Poetic Bangs sighed like a disappointed parent. They managed to get in about twenty seconds of joyously pogoing around the room before the Drama teacher screamed in and pulled the plug and threatened them all with detention. Also, the Day Boys were jackasses. Not a Lloyd Dobler among them. At the school, all of the students were expected to give a small regular donation toward OxFam, to help the starving children. She brought Poetic Bangs with her, as a representative of the campus philanthropic community. He gave an earnest speech, reminding us of how fortunate we were, while children were starving. The Day Boys chuckled, self-satisfied, and saw Poetic Bangs make eye contact with the back of the Day Room door, upon which an installation of sorts had been erected, a collage of trash and speech bubbles parroting school demands for donations encircling the head a Baby Jesus-style illustration of a starving child like a halo. It was grotesque and offensive, like most of the things the Day Boys found hilarious, but in the split second he saw it, before he had the space to perform theatrical indignation, I watched Poetic Bangs suck on his cheeks to stifle a laugh. The dean, barely civil with inchoate rage, could not even fully process the back of the door. And when I do, all of you will be sorry. I found myself alone in the campus post office with the only girl I knew for sure was in the Radio Club. She was a senior from Washington, DC, which seemed very cool to me, and wore lipstick just barely far enough away from black to pass dress code. A blue-haired Kurt Cobain in a green shirt and sunglasses stared out at me from the cover. She saw me looking and asked if I liked them. The Day Boys stayed away. But I had come in a furry, fuchsia sweater, which I believed to be the prettiest thing I owned ,trying to find Poetic Bangs. I had some notion that night that something huge might happen. I interpreted it as he will realize he loves me. Before all of that though, I stood at the edge of the crowd of dancers in the dark, sweaty day room, watching the flashes of colors in shirts and the dimmed dance lights at the DJ station reflect in the dark windows across the northern wall. The crowd cleared the dance floor, skulking off into the corner where the sex couch used to be. I remembered why I was there and turned to leave. I passed the girl from the Radio Club in the landing. The door to the station was open. I saw light, a table, some cords. She was balancing an orange milk crate full of CDS on her hip. You should stick around. I think I told her I was going to get some fresh air. That sounded logical and she nodded. Even in February, it was swampy in the Day Room. I half-meant it. Sometime in the spring semester, the school drew up plans for a fancy new dining hall and student center to stand on the site of the old wrestling room, beside the arts building. And thus, when we returned from Spring Break, not only was the Day Room inaccessible, it was gone. By the time I was a senior, we had no place at all save a classroom hall full of messy lockers. The Radio Club existed, in theory, through the end of the year. And we hundred odd teenagers in uncomfortable formalwear sat in the murmuring in the darkness until they were able to find enough batteries for a boom box. They gave it their best with Prince and De La Soul but the stereo sounded impossibly small and tinny under the gothic arches of the dining hall without an amp behind it. I went to prom by myself that year in baby pink damask Jessica McClintock, which was maybe the last time I ever wore that color of pink. I sat with a couple of friends in the dark and tried to make out Poetic Bangs and his date across the room. I still pined for him. A few weeks, when he graduated, I wrote him a shitty, passive aggressive note. He responded by sending me a letter basically telling me that he hoped we never saw each other again. We did actually see each other again, but it was such a brief nothing of an encounter that I imagine it never happened. I found new crushes, new heartbreaks, and whole vast universe of songs to soundtrack them all. I never did join the Radio Club though. When I came back Junior Year, it, like the Day Room, had disappeared, as if it had never existed at all. We turned in journals for English class, ostensibly to provide commentary on reading, but my teacher senior year was this salty, brilliant woman who was old enough to be my grandmother, but I loved her. I wrote about everything in my journal. She gave plenty of advice and book recommendations in the margins. If you know me in real life, you may have detected a chip on my shoulder roughly the same size and shape of the absence of an elite college on my resume. Really I am. I still hate it when people ask me where I went to school when do people stop asking where I went to school? These tend range from pity to Really? Sometimes, I swear I can see their reappraisals of my character or intelligence play out in real time across their faces. My mother would tell me, and most certainly has, that all of this is just my own insecurity. I feel hugely guilty about that. If anything, my high school experience, as a financial aid kid at a moderately competitive boarding school, has been marginally more useful. The school you go to is more than status symbol. Plenty of smart people that went to great schools end up working the same shitty jobs at the same shitty wages as the rest of us. Sometimes by choice, sometimes by circumstance. I never wanted to be a world leader or a titan of industry. I always just wanted to be a writer and write for a living. Might I have sold a novel or gotten a job at the New Yorker had I come out the kind of tiny, weird liberal arts college in the Northeast I dreamt of at eighteen? Neither do you. And now my bra strap is totally showing and my accent is slipping and you can see exactly many shades I blush when I have to talk to you about college. Sorry about that. I made plenty of mistakes in school. I sweated so many nights away worried about not being good enough. That kid that got admitted instead of me? Maybe she never had to, because it never mattered if she was good enough, or even good at all. The system was rigged from the start. The system has always been rigged. The first thing I saw out my bedroom window was the car—black with a long nose and curved where most cars were squared, so shiny it reflected the rosy summer dusk. I was eleven, not the kind of kid interested in cars, but that car was something else. I skittered down the stairs in my nightgown, through the cocktail party melee and haze of their cigarette smoke, out the front door, across the green lawn. I stepped closer to inspect the tiny shiny silver woman perched on the hood, her wings spread as if she was about to take flight. He stepped around the car and smiled. I told him I loved his car. He said he did too. She was a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud..

Julia Hoffman killed her alter ego in a parallel dimension. Dark Shadows actors said they felt like a repertory company, [32] a thing that could be said for the cast of Buffy too, in some cases.

Trading cards and puzzles, board games and records, postcards and books, both novels and comic books, collectibles and even official fan conventions were all part of the fan experience.

So it is today for Buffy and its fans. And if now this is a relatively common possibility, then it was the first time a daytime program came to acknowledge its following in this form.

Both Tracy Forbes and Jane Espenson are adamant in declaring that this is what they do when constructing the single episodes: Start with the emotions. Jane Espenson states Joss Whedon first sets the foundation for the emotional arc the characters go through, and only later maps out the act breaks [37]. They marginalized him at the beginning of the season, so that his feeling alienated happens Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy a reason.

The emotional high point is the end of each act. Tracy Forbes agrees. The first http: Their starting point is the emotions, the themes they want to tackle, and the metaphors they want to use to do that. The personal life of the character becomes the pivotal center, the strength, the invisible engine. The fact of being character—driven Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy of plot-driven is the basis of good fiction--in a broad sense, for all fictions.

But what makes a soap a soap is how much these personal elements are left showing, how much they shine through and how much they become themselves action. The more of the character is left floating on the surface, the more we have a point of source with the soap genre. This in Buffy happens more in later seasons, a thing that is in part normal because the life of the character has been told for a longer period of time.

We have layer upon layer of happenings. The past to come to terms with is more present in the mind of both authors and audience. Spike discovers it and brings Buffy to the click the following article to see for herself the betrayal. Riley, caught in the act, first menaces Spike to stay away from her, later confesses to Buffy what he feels Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy gives her an ultimatum: Xander convinces Buffy not to let Riley go if she loves him for real.

This installment talks about relationships and about love. They do it with words here, just words [40], because Riley feels excluded, because he turned someplace else to a brothel, to drugs, both images that can be linked to the nest of vampires in this episode. Riley and Spike fight over Buffy, dissect their emotions, and end up sharing a drink over her.

Xander forces Buffy to see her relationship with Riley in a new perspective: Nonetheless he is the place where Buffy can check her emotions.

Others have already http: Powerfully, painfully in love. The things you Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy, the way you think, the way you move. You make me fell like I never felt before in my life: And, soon after, they share a kiss.

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We can also see the accent on feelings in minor scenes: The doctor arrives to tell his prognosis. They all stand up. And on a tight close-up of her, it breaks away and goes to the opening credits. This is a typical use of the camera according to soap opera style. This shooting style is consistent with the kind of world soap opera portrays. As a narrative ritual that centers on intense, concentrated forms of emotion, soap opera requires an intense, intimate camera style.

The answer, the solution and the closure are delayed. Until you are outside the gate the creditsyou only have questions. Only when you step over that threshold can you have the answers. This postponing is also, in another version, an apparent, perennial absence of ending, of finale. And in presenting stories that continue from instalment to instalment, this is inevitable.

Buffy stakes all of them. Buffy recognizes he through a swift flashback. The usage of a targeted flashback of Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy specific element of that same episode is typical of the soaps. They could have chosen to let Buffy and us know it was that same woman-vampire with a glance, a hint, something else.

A flashback was chosen. Riley mentions Angel and Dracula to Buffy. Memory of past happenings is required of the soap audience infra sub Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy And there is an eye-level camera angle that is common to soap operas. That is, we go back and forth between the two characters and the perspective chosen to look at them is the eye level of the other character.

Buffy is shown too much feeling pleasure, whereas if the soap opera filter had been chosen it would have been more ethereal and dreamlike than carnal.

As the body went cold so did her feelings. This is the episode wherein she can see the face of the EMT in its entirety only when he says he is sorry. In it Cruz reveals to his wife Eden that their daughter has disappeared, kidnapped by Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy rapist. The scenes are different, but for a directorial point of view, they present a strong parallelism.

In Santa Barbara the scene takes place in a hospital. Eden is looking at a row of cribs with babies in them. Cruz goes to her as he tells her the news. Dawn is called outside the classroom, by her sister, who wants to talk to her. Buffy tells her that it regards their mother. We see Dawn cry and fall to the floor. And, the sound feebly dampened by the glass, we hear her say no, accuse her sister of lying.

We hear something, little. Music is absent from the scene and the entire episode. In Buffy we are not alone watching the scene. With Cruz and Eden the scene is more intimate.

The spectator is the only eye. In Buffy http: Santa Barbara shows a Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy of the Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy of Eden, whose image is frozen. Buffy shifts its shot on an unfinished drawing on which Dawn was working in the class, leaving space for the thousand themes that are entwined in the episode: Santa Barbara is shaped on silence, re-introduced in other forms, in the several instalments that formed this moment of the storyline.

We can be nothing more, the scenes seem to be saying. Silence, deafened by pain. And that please click for source which is broken by Dawn has weight, intended to maximize the effect, to transmit a pain and a moment.

We are close and distant at the same time. In this episode two characters are missing. Glory, the arch-nemesis, is absent. But Spike too is absent, and this, on the contrary, is quite relevant. James Marsters, who plays him, has a contract with the series and a protagonist role;he is a regular, appearing in the opening credits. This is definitely a choice that orientates the product toward something that can be qualified as a soap https://xwoodporn.com/babysitter/web-2019-11-02.php. And she cites the criteria offered by Marnie Winston—Macauley, author and, in the past, writer for As the World turns.

High emotions. As a humorous page from Soap Opera Digest [48] says: It could be argued that deaths on soaps are more apparent than real. Death in Buffy is real. Buffy has truly been buried, as she really rose from the dead. Truth be told, the moment soaps accept the supernatural — which is not the most common choice — deaths are just as real.

A case in point is Port Charles, where the character of Rafe truly died twice. We discover this the first time from a memory. Rafe is an angel and he remembers becoming one after he was killed by the vampire he was Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy to defeat.

Recalled to Heaven because he had finished his mission on Earth, he sells his soul to the Devil to go back and save the woman he loves. The Devil sends him back without memory. Following several adventures, he re-discovers the love which brought him there https://xwoodporn.com/legs/video-10245.php his memory comes back to him just in time to be killed again by a gun shot.

For a second time, he comes back to life, this time sent back among others as a normal human being. Others are granted a second chance at life.

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Alison briefly dies struck by the falling of a tree, and Rafe, with his angel powers, brings her back. Jack was thought dead when everybody saw him as a semi-vampire. Here death is as real as in Buffy. What counts is the level at which one decides to play the game.

This often happens on Buffy, more and more so as the show progresses. Buffy wakes up beside Spike after a http: She destroys the building in which all the gang is, and enters to take her and… the episode ends. The following one resumes at the exact same point where the previous one was stopped. Glory is bent on taking Dawn and… now they can flee.

It is a standard mechanism of ending and resuming used by soaps. If it were only that, a program like 24 could be called a soap, since, narrating 24 hours of the same day in real time, it inevitably resumes the action from the immediately previous scene. And again Seli Groves tells us: In series these can be ignored or put aside, or limited to the bare essentials, like for example see more way Law and Order or CSI do.

Or you can, as Buffy does, give them much weight: They are an integral part of the canvas. Within itself each soap has to find a place to work them and use them Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy keep them. In Season Six we observe exactly this: Buffy is near to soaps also in its use of what may be called liturgy.

Not so in regular http: Rituality is structural to each episode. Think of an author like David E. And this brings it near to the soaps. If in the first seasons Buffy was more aligned to soaps from a content Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy of view than a stylistic one, after the third season there were more structural contacts, too.

This, taking season six as an example, can be gathered by putting under observation liturgy, reduced to the bare bone. Buffy believes she has just click for source a girl.

It does it in the blink of an eye. Research and solution, once a long and fatiguing trail, are here given at the same time, as if to get rid of a duty and to concentrate on what in this moment is more relevant: The research is, as far as Buffy is concerned, the basic liturgical element, in which the characters are, with their noses in the books, working for a solution.

They are so detached from it at this point that Anya, faking research, is reading a hidden wedding gowns magazine instead. It says everything: Twenty years later, under head-writer Robert Guza Jr. The characters find themselves needing to deal with the ghosts of those events in front of their teenage son, who asks for explanations and makes them re-live the meaning, then and now, of those events.

The same actors as then, Anthony Geary and Genie Francis, play Luke and Laura; the same director of that time, the late Alan Pultz, directs the scenes, working with his notes on the original script, which he saved. Sure, not all soaps can afford to retrieve http: It is what Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy them rich and vital. Here, it is a settled part of their ability to move, enthrall and pleasure the audience.

We refer to this genre as continuing dramas. We could almost say that time, memory, history and continuity are for soaps the ultimate defining element. This deep, emotional involvement in a story that is unfolding day by day over years is ultimately the triumph of the soap opera.

Robert C. Allen echoes it: Characters in soap operas have memories, and relationships might well stretch back for a decade or more. The same happens in daytime where constantly beloved people now absent are brought back to the mind of the remaining protagonists. Family in the traditional sense of the term is absent from Buffy.

Willow has a mother who http: Faith also in the end has nobody and Dawn is devoid of parents in the true sense of the word. Buffy is Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy world of orphans, just as Giorgio Bellocci [57] defines Guiding Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy, a fictional world where characters are marked by their being orphans: The entrance of Dawnwho had never been heard of before, reflects a standard practise for soaps: An example, but they could be numerous, is Nikolas Cassadine on General Hospital, introduced as the son nobody knew Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy Spencer had had.

The twist to explain her arrival is what makes it original, ingenious, logically believable, and different from soaps. Family are the people you love please click for source that you want around yourself. And in the modern era, the traditional family model, in truth always the fulcrum and the hearth of soaps, is every day less indispensable.

They set an indefinite kindred. And, in these past few years, the concept of a group of friends that create among themselves familiar ties elbowed its way through, beside the more traditional family concept. Again, Port Charles comes into consideration. The interns of a hospital become a family for one another; their working relationship and their Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy liking make them family for one another.

The traditionally formed family here represented by the Collins, the Scanlons and the Baldwins is extremely feeble, imperceptible, we could say. And Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy from the start, from the incipit of its stories, the now-cancelled The City lacks a matriarchal or patriarchal family.

The emotional bond and the consciously opted one between friends and co-owners of a building substitutes for the blood one. Star-crossed lovers, destined to love each other, even when this seems impossible, are everyday bread and butter for soaps: Temari frowned, getting angry that the boy was just casually taking in her advice. There's no contest! He will Kill you and…! The look didn't last long though, as his facial features relaxed again. Temari blinked, not understanding where the boy was going with this.

Shikamaru continued to walk forward until he disappeared around a corner. It was close to his time to fight and he had still yet to ask her out on a freaking date yet! The boy was getting anxious since he would be unable to ask her after his fight since Ino was to fight Sakura right afterwards, and she no doubt didn't want any distractions before going against her eternal rival in 'love'….

Your match is going to start! I swear you're as bad as Shikamaru sometimes…". I thought you were running away from Neji! Ino put on a confused expression.

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Why would I do that? I just ran into him a few minutes ago after I apparently fell down and blacked out. I can't even remember what I was doing in that part of the arena anyway. Last thing I recall is going with you guys to see how Naruto and Hinata were doing…". Ino raised an eyebrow. You better make it quick, or you'll get disqualified…" She blinked. You look pretty red and you're sweating like crazy…. Both preteens stayed quiet, unsure of what to do next….

He eyed Naruto and Hinata, who were both being helped into the room by Hana and her dogs. They still look like they're half dead to me. Naruto smirked as he Sexy sandra nude milf made his way to the railing. Hinata-chan released my tenketsu, so I should be in decent enough shape to kick his ass when our match starts…".

Heh, no wonder you have Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy sense of self-preservation…". The group froze as a familiar ravenous feeling made itself known in the air. I try to be nice to everyone… why do I have to always be taught by rampant perverts? I'm not a pervert… why does this keep on happening to me? Everyone sweat dropped at the sight of the crying blonde. The women actually felt sorry for you since it showed Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy the proctor practically blackmailed him into doing it, the guys were laughing their asses off, and most of the shinobi got over their rage pretty quickly when they saw him dodging all those kunai and jutsu left and right.

I think they were pretty impressed… though I don't think the proctor scored Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy points, judging from the amount of killing intent the women in the audience were giving him…". In that case, we'd be going to war in three days. I know for a fact that I was not the only person here thinking of assigning that sort of training to my higher level shinobi! Stealing panties from an check this out bath house worth of kunoichi?

And then prancing around in front of them with said undergarments on your head? That was just simply suicidal, even for a Kage. The Kazekage himself Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy twitching every other second himself. Every passing second, he was beginning to believe that he would do this invasion less for revenge and more for making the world a better place as a whole…. Ghost chuckled as he heard Naruto's mental breakdown in the stands.

Kagari laughed dryly as he listened to the proctor. What you did was pure evil. You'd make an excellent addition to Ame…". Ghost shrugged. You guys just can't seem to take a joke when you're the victim. She hasn't said anything yet. Maybe this fight will give both of you the answer… or the next one if she's really stubborn…".

Ghost smirked. To be honest, though, you could have timed it a bit better. I mean, her fight is right after yours, for fuck's sake. I'm just giving him a few pointers about girls. You look like you could use a few hundred yourself. Kagari growled as the grip on his kunai tightened. This buffoon would soon enough know not to underestimate shinobi from Ame….

Remember, he's the one with both a blindfold and a mask on, so his face is almost as hard to read as Itachi's. I hope you've all enjoyed our carefully selected between match entertainment as much as I had fun making it… heheheh. He could easily see where his clan was sitting due to their… unique appearance.

He hoped he wouldn't embarrass them…. Ghost then turned to Kagari, prompting the screen to change to his data. Kagari's digital version was not that much different from Oboro's in terms of appearance and actions, however people did note that Kagari's made it rain black water and then light it on fire. Kagari of Ame is indeed a shrewd and skilled shinobi worthy of getting this far.

Xxx Morocian Watch Pale skinny russian redhead porn amateur Video Pussy clingers. I wore it to shows. I wore it to parties. I wore it plays. I hung it on the wall as decoration. I wore it to one ill-timed arts gala in the gut-churning middle of the election recount. I wore it for my birthday. I might have worn it for yours. It outlasted Cardigan and college and the vicissitudes of my friendship with Texas in its stormy patches. And yet it lives. This is Day Two. Day One is here. What a fabulous dress for a dinner party. Mom gushed when I came out of the dressing room. It was both flattering and modest, black eyelet, which felt like a fascinating contradiction. I hemmed and hawed. It was cheap but still out of my price range and the kind of dress that would look good with pearls. I went to hand it back to the saleswoman. Mom took it out of my hands and announced that she was buying it for me. No argument. GrandJay died a few months later. He made it to not-quite-eighty, an impressive age for a man of extravagant appetites that unsurprisingly felled him. His actual death occurred on the Florida panhandle, in a town with a name—Defuniak Springs—that sounded like it came out of the Southern Novel in golf shirts that was my paternal grandfather personified. Mom and I drove over the mountain from Asheville, despite the fact that she and Dad had been divorced for years and crossed the state line from Tennessee about a block from the Episcopal Church. Inside the crowd was already milling with refreshments in the fellowship hall. Dad was there with his new girlfriend. Mom was not the only divorced person in attendance. I hung out with them and one of my favorite cousins until we were called into the church proper. My grandfather had always been both a marvelous writer and a legend in his own mind. The young man in those letters, the barrel chested young pilot with the rakish grin and the wild eyebrows, who consciously aped Fitzgerald and Hemingway, in his descriptions of Northern Africa, of Italy, of barely post-war France, who believed he was both a daring hero and a fledgling literary genius? That was my grandfather at his best. If there is a such thing as a tragic flaw it is that GrandJay never recovered from being that young man, and so, it seemed fitting it was that young man we commemorated. I sat up front with my Dad, the oldest child of the oldest child of man himself the oldest child who had died. My cousin and I stole a bottle of wine and barely evaded a winking former congressman who tried to convince us of his non-existent resemblance to Sean Connery on our way off the back porch and onto the golf course. Years passed. I drove to town the day of, barely making the event. The whole ride home I thought I ought that sounded like the chorus of a country song.. The dress was old by then. Gather ye fashion trends while ye may, I guess. My mind wandered during the service. Less than a year later, Betsy, that elegant wisp of a grandmother in black and gold, passed away in a retirement home in Tennessee. She was a few weeks shy of ninety-one. I rode back over the mountain from Asheville with Dad, this time to a cemetery on the Tennessee side of the Bristol, a couple of miles from where her ex-husbands had occurred the year before. The house that had belonged to her grandmother and grandfather. The cemetery was just across a divided highway from that house. We met the rest of my aunts and cousins there. We had not. My ex-uncle had once again come along. Otherwise, I felt strangely awkward for reasons I could not understand. Perhaps because Betsy herself had herself been prickly. She was charming and beautiful, a consummate socialite. I said this about her at the time: She was a loyal friend and an often-hilarious dinner guest. Being around Betsy always felt like getting the rare invite to one of the best parties around. In all the good and bad that it entailed. We convened under one of those green plastic graveside tents because the weather was pigeon gray and the rain needled. She was put to rest in an elaborate coffin, piled with white flowers, but her service was impersonal and performed by the Brylcreem-ed funeral director, while we politely sniffled and mostly avoided eye contact. After five minutes, the whole thing was over. For a woman so inclined toward grand to-dos, Betsy would have found her funeral a real non-event. After each of their deaths, Daddy Joe and Mam respectively were laid to rest beside him, and it was probably about that time that the divided highway started to develop. Shopping centers and gas stations and fast food joints filled the corridor between the two hills. The cemetery started showing its age. The White Angel became a target for vandals. I stood beside that base and watched men in jumpsuits being the rough, inelegant work of returning my grandmother to earth. There was no one left in the house across the way to look out at her grave. The cemetery was maybe a couple of miles from the Motor Speedway. Nascar and my grandmother—my entire Bristol family, really, and to be very clear, I was born in Bristol— seemed to exist in two different, completely closed universes. I tried to imagine what her gravesite would sound like on race day. Like the gates of Hell had come screaming open and unleashed the machines. I wondered who would visit her grave. I felt enormously sad. The family all walked to their cars. My aunt gave me an ancient Ferragamo shoe box, these are for you from Betsy, she said. And they all went on about their ways. Dad and I drove out of town. I sat in the passenger seat and opened the box. It contained four tumblers, two candlesticks, and what appeared to be four sterling silver, monogrammed sporks. I think I started laughing then. Three is enough, I said. He clearly had no idea not what I was talking about but had the good sense not to ask for elaboration. It was a cotton-blend shirt dress, roughly forty years old, in a brown tartan print with a hint of antifreeze blue woven through the plaid. The bodice was unflatteringly long-waisted and missing two of the five covered buttons that otherwise gaped over my breasts. The skirt fanned out into uneven box pleats at the hips. Worn to shine in patches and reeking of mothballs, it looked like something that had been fished out of a garbage bin moments before it was enlisted as oil rag. When I asked the proprietor what he wanted for it, he gave me a shrug, I dunno. A dollar seem reasonable? At the time, I was hanging out with the safety-pinned gas station jacket enthusiast set. Like me, they were mostly white kids with fucked-up hair. They were pretty sure the American experiment was over, that any day The People would swarm the streets to demand a radical restructuring of society. Until then, the most important thing we could do was keep making flyers and not sell out to a major label. I thought I might refashion myself as a radical leftist. I was and still am attracted to angry with people with a barbed sense of humor. The type of person inclined to go apoplectic when human beings treat other human beings like less than. I figured the far left was as good a place as any to make friends and find lovers. I read the books. I tried to sort out the factions, such as they were, in the college district of a New South city with a complicated racial history and a still deeply segregated population. I scrawled Emma Goldman quotations on my book bag in black marker. I tried to get into Crass. I went to an anti-death penalty protest. Most of my fellow protesters were vehemently Pro-Life in all contexts, a fact I only discovered after complaining loudly to the women around me about the terrible anti-abortion protesters that showed up every Saturday to picket the clinic across the street from my apartment. I was met with cold stares and the glint of candlelight reflected off crosses. No veil. Who knew? I have never felt so Protestant. I had already registered as a Democrat, but I signed up for the Communist Party when I found an ad in the back of a zine. Are you now or have you ever been? Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were one of my favorite celebrity couples. The closest one took place in an afterhours classroom on campus. There, I found a room of four people quietly writing postcards to Zapatistas, while a forty-something dude leered at the girls and tried to lead the group in a Woody Guthrie sing-along. She was student of both the Russian Language and Revolution in general as a historical subject, but had little use for political pieties. I met her for dinner free, vegetarian, hosted by the Hari Krishnas at the campus interfaith house. One of the Krishna dudes interrupted us to say that the meals were only free so long as we gave a donation. We went to a noisy, smelly house show to see a bunch of noisy, smelly punk rock bands. Between sets, we sat on a derelict upholstered sofa that had been left to rot on the front porch through all four seasons of Piedmont humidity. We smoked cigarettes among skinny white boys arguing points of ideological purity seemingly indistinguishable from music taste. An abandoned old school with shattered palladian windows loomed on a hill over us surrounded by long-rusted chain link. Periodically, I would imagine I saw shadows inside. I suspected they were benign. I was mostly unhappy in those days—no one who wears that much brown by choice can possibly be emotionally stable—but I liked the house shows and the zines and that romantic end of the world feeling. For a time, I had a few of the buttons saved in an old Band-Aid box, but eventually it too was lost to time. January needled my lungs and numbed my fingers. I must have looked horrible, all greasy-haired and sniffling when I barged into her kitchen. She looked like a vision—all white and gold— a coronation Queen Elizabeth I in leggings and oversized sweaters and a Christmas-themed apron. She was slicing a pecan pie. Her specialty. I wish I were dead. Which, because I was sixteen, was both gospel truth and complete hyperbole at the same time. The Countess wiped her hands on a tea towel. Drink each one, really fast. Then put this on. She held up a tube of lipstick, blood red. I was a novice drinker, then, and the tequila— would there be worm bits in it? While my eyes watered and esophagus burned, she gestured again with the lipstick. I applied the lipstick by my reflection in the kitchen window. I thought it accentuated the gap between my front teeth and made the rest look yellow. I felt warm and woozy. The Countess hollered at her little sister. I felt in my pocket for cigarettes and we went out to the car. The Countess was not really a Countess. She looked a painting or a Renaissance princess and aspired, above all, to beautiful things and perfect hospitality. We spent hours driving around fancy neighborhoods, imagining which houses we might live in and how we might entertain once we did. With champagne cocktails and portrait hats. The men would wear seersucker suits and mascara. She liked transgression so discreet as to require a double-take, Was it? Could it? It would be years before I knew she stole that line about the seersucker and mascara from someone else. She had big moods. She made bold statements. What do you all make of that? She drove too fast, squealing into the bend, shooting out onto the Avenue, where the speed limit was an impossible 25 mph for everyone but The Countess, who thought nothing of passing a slower car as if it were rush hour on the expressway. We listed off bullet points about each of the mansions on the right. Hand to God. The strange stone art deco villa in the ivy? Owned by a socialite tarot card reader. The Countess lit another cigarette with the lazy dash lighter and when she opened the window, she flooded the avenue with music. She liked spirally songs with ethereal female vocals. Cocteau Twins. She also had a weakness for Enya, which was hilarious. From my bedroom, I could hear her approach to Orinoco Flow played at death metal volume up the narrow corridor of ranch houses that led to my house. My mother and sister hated it there. I understood that the smaller, shabbier house under the mountain felt like a step down, but I liked where it was. The ones Thomas Wolfe wrote about. The Countess lived at the bottom of the hill in a stone and shingle cottage, scarcely grander than my house. She flagged me down in her front yard. Had I heard from anyone? Was I still hung up on Poetic Bangs? Had I really gotten a car? Would I like a dinner? Could we sit in the smoking section because God she was dying for a cigarette. I let her smoke in my car. Then I started smoking in my car because I drove her to a school. The Countess would coerce a lonely, aging tourists to buy her vodka tonics at the bar. Worlds without end: Robert Morton. Harry N. Abrams, Incorporated, Allen, Robert, C. Economic Product and cultural document. The Critical View. Horace Newcomb. New York — Oxford: Oxford University Press, They are just the tip of the iceberg. Transformation, identity and role playing in the Buffyverse and a defence of fine acting. This is what she said about http: Smart and sophisticated, self sufficient Anna Devane never needed a man to take care of her. Anna was a woman in charge of her life, too confident to settle for less than she deserved. Anna had made mistakes too and paid for them. But as forthright as she was, Anna came to Port Charles as a woman of mystery and never lost her enigmatic edge. Waggett, Gerald J. The Soap Opera Book of lists. HarperPaperbacks, New Yourk: Pocket Books, While she was on the show, her not getting along with Susan Lucci was very much publicized. And gossip on their jealously and rivalry were rampant. The infamous feud makes people talk to this day April At that time, at least, she was very much into Sonny and Brenda, Robin Scorpio and the heartbreaking death of Stone. In Soap Opera Digest, March 17, p. I adored Robin Wright [Penn, ex-Kelly]. Even if the concept is less rich. In a nutshell, we can think of several sets interacting in the legal system: Should someone be interested, this text could be checked: Sacco, Rodolfo. Giappichelli Editore, The richer the one, the more challenged the others. The dynamics that get established inside a Country have particular, individual, unrepeatable histories, which are heavy from the point of view of the cultural legacy they hold. They enter in the cultural DNA of a society. Crypto-formants may be traced: The Ultimate Soap Opera Guide. Stearn Publishers Ltd. The quote is taken from p. Nuova Pratiche Editrice srl, The translation is mine. The original Italian says: Buffy and the east Asian cinema. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Magazine. Issue 33, May The Soap Opera Encyclopedia. New Tork: In the end Passions lets Timmy truly die, following the untimely demise of his portrayer, Josh Ryan Evans, who was only The actor passed away the same day his character died on screen. He had already pre-taped other scenes, in witch Timmy was supposed to appear in heaven looking down to Charity, who got his heart in a transplant. The executives, though, decided to edit them out, out of respect toward him. Soap Opera Digest, November 6, And Down! Il popolo. Domenica 12 marzo, and Waggett, Gerard J. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Official Magazine. Issue No. Dark Shadows Almanac: Los Angeles — London: Pomegranate Press, Ltd. Dark Shadows: Program Guide. Compiled by Ann Wilson. She was dubbed, so the quote is a translation form the Italian. To be continued… Soap Operas around the world. London and New York: Routledge, Fighting the Forces. Act IV, scene 1. The complete Works. Weels, Satnley W. Oxford University Press: Soap Opera Digest, December 11, The place where you only die twice. Soap Opera Digest, September 17, Wilcox Rhonda V. Come nasce una leggenda televisiva. Though a little extreme, expressed this way, it well conveys the importance of love stories for daytime. They wanted us to wait for it till the last possible chance. Daytime vs. Soap Opera Digest, June 26, Soap Opera Digest, May 3, Soap Opera Digest, April 11, Soap Opera Digest, December 15, Soap Opera Digest, November 26, Soap Opera Digest, December 24, As Gina Wisker and others have argued, Buffy and Angel are not as subversive in their use of the vampire figure. But vampires like Drusilla and Darla, with their pop-punk Gothic aesthetics, are fascinating character studies; they are obvious pastiches of bizarre literary and historical constructions that enable the viewers to relish their excesses as sources of transgression and disruption, and to dis-identify with the human characters who are disciplined according to a sexual morality. Subversive feminist and queer rearticulations of monsters highlight the social and psychic violence under which bodies are organized, in effect subverting and recirculating discourses that inscribe transgressive sexualities as monstrous. Eschewing the good, the pure, and the beautiful i. Contemporary vampire fiction, for example, embraces the subversive excesses of the gamut of transgressive sexualities inherent in the figure of the vampire. Rejecting enlightenment configurations of the subject organically sufficient, coherent, autonomous and unique , the posthuman embraces the appeal of the abject and the monstrous, of pre-symbolic, revolting bodies. The posthuman recognizes the impurity of every available source of self; there is no retrievable authentic self. Identity then becomes overwhelmed by impure, excessive discourses; it becomes a site of revolt and contestation. Monsters such as Drusilla and Darla hold discourse at a distance, turning misogynist narratives into excessive performances that destabilize, disempower and recirculate their meanings. Drusilla and Darla are corrupt texts, hypersimulations of discourses of woman as sexed monster that creatively and affirmatively reduce the subject to a set of discourses that, by re-circulating their meanings, reject the oppressive structures of subjectivation that incited their initial ideological project. Drusilla and Darla are delicious train wrecks. Discourses of Degeneration: Women, Vampires and Sex 4 The Buffy and Angel creators draw upon a rich pool of mythological, religious and sexology discourses in their writing of gothic female sexuality. The female vampire has functioned in particularly threatening and fascinating ways over the last two centuries. Descriptions of female vampires in literature by men include almost verbatim characteristics found in criminal anthropology and sexology discourses from the nineteenth- and twentieth-centuries. Medical and criminology discourses, and older religious and folkloric discourses, explicitly took on vampiric terminology and imagery, reflecting a primal fear and loathing of the sexual instinct in women. The female vampire especially the queer vampire functions as a repository of patriarchal anxieties over female strength and sexuality. Before he guts Shannon in his truck, he tells her: The hypnotic aggression of the female vampire, her bottomless pit of sexuality, and her predatory siphoning off of masculine transcendent energies, are usually neutralized in order for the happy dance http: The medical and criminal literature explicitly yokes female sexuality and vampiric monstrousness. These texts had much to do with the male literary imagination and its writing of monstrous female sexuality. In The Female Offender , Caesar Lombroso writes that the active enjoyment of the sexual impulse awakens an inherent criminal instinct in woman. Many of these texts equate overindulgence of sexuality in women including masturbation with pointed features, sharp teeth, a paleness of the skin, marked anemic constitutions, and erotic languorousness. In his book Woman: Again, the cultural demonization of sexed women is explicitly associated with vampirism. Female sexuality is seen as a self- polluting sapping of the vital reproductive functions of woman, a criminal misdirection of her reproductive duties. Sexual excess in a woman is a wasteland of sterility, a criminal instinct that leads to the decline of the race. They are the Van Helsings of the medical world. After all, Van Helsing is undoubtedly more important as a doctor a hematologist, which so many vampire hunters are than as a Catholic. Featured in the medical detection novel par excellence— Dracula—Van Helsing and his Crew of Light are armed with the signs or symptoms of the atavistic, sexed female body. Here, and in Carmilla as well vampirism—or female desire —is the disease that needs to be detected, diagnosed and cured. Monstrous women, then, renourish themselves on the seminal substances and blood of men and children. Women supposedly experience a http: To begin his discussion of the sexual periodicity of women, Ellis equates menstruation with estrus: The Hysteric as Vampire A hysterical girl is a vampire who sucks the blood of the healthy people about her. Menstruating women were impressionable, suggestible, and diminished—they were hysterical. Medical misogynists were apparently enlightened as to the sexual etiology of hysteria early on in the nineteenth-century—and they ran with it. However, as Carol Smith-Rosenburg argues , hysterical women were hypertrophied versions of the Victorian icon of femininity—sick, weak, passive and anemic. The extraordinary emotionalism and excessive excitability of the hysteric made her impressionable and prone to suggestion and hypnotic states the hysterical disposition was also believed susceptible to imagining itself in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural. The infamous Dr. Lucy sleepwalks at least three times in the novel, Van Helsing puts Mina under hypnosis no less than five times men in Dracula get a sexual thrill from paralyzing and immobilizing women. Hysterical women want to fuck. And the number one symptom of hysteria was anemia, the number one cure, re-sanguination. She is the vampire. Both are clearly liminal figures, straddling life and death, acting out their own irrelevance. Because they have been cheated out of sexual knowledge, female sexuality in these texts figures as the uncanny—that repressed thing that always returns. It wants compensation. She is sex-starved, and her desires will always return to haunt and horrify men. The Hysteric as Vampire: Drusilla 14 In light of these discourses and others I will subsequently discuss, the representation of Drusilla in Buffy is inspired. Her character consistently rehearses, relishes and subverts these discourses. Sure , as others have noted, Drusilla a mixture of Dracula and Carmilla? Readings of monsters proliferate rather than cohere into a whole. Drusilla is a perfect example. She is a vampire, a witch, a siren and a mesmerist. She is Lilith mother of http: She is also the mythological Cassandra, cursed by second-sight, doubly cursed and driven mad by the fact that no one will believe her visions. She tells of a vision she had of men dying in the mine, which of course came true: Two men died. My seeing things is an affront to the Lord. I try to be pure in his sight. Significantly, folkloric evidence has it that those cursed by their parents or the church those excommunicated became vampires. Caesar Lombroso was one of many male scientists who fetishized a perceived innate childishness, frivolousness and shortsightedness in women. In ordinary cases these defects are neutralised by piety, maternity, want of passion, sexual coldness, by weakness and an undeveloped intelligence If women do not constrain their sexuality to marriage and maternity—the central cultural uses of their bodies—they are http: Sexed women are decidedly bad mothers, and their perversities are contagious especially with the female vampire. For yes, she is the infantilized, fetishized Victorian child-woman, but there is a subterranean menace lurking beneath the surface of these playful roles. At various times throughout Buffy and Angel, she growls, snarls, barks and purrs when sexually aroused. Both she and Lucy are demonic mother parodies, women in white who stalk the neighborhood at night. Perhaps my favorite line from the Buffy oeuvre is when Dru, wearing her white baby doll dress, slowly approaches a little boy on the playground and sings a song: What will your mummy sing, when they find your body? Dru snarls and responds: She is anything but virginal, and she enjoys the occasional toddler for dinner. Vampires are never daughters, wives or mothers in the traditional sense, and this is a powerful imaginative possibility for many women. Both society and Angelus drive Drusilla mad. In literature, two great climactic ends have been prescribed for women—madness and death. Drusilla is both mad and dead, yet she nevertheless rises and wreaks as much vengeance upon the symbolic order as she possibly can. Her rage against Angelus and a cruel society which has cursed her is palpable during several different episodes. When Angel tells Dru to leave town with Spike, she visibly seethes: While torturing him she sings the same song as on the playground this is her playground! She then starts talking about her whole family: They used to eat Until you came and ripped their throats out. In her floor-length, white baby doll dress, with her canopy bed and with Miss Edith, Drusilla is childishly hyper-feminine and petulantly infantile, two classic descriptions of the hysterical woman Smith-Rosenburg But of course this is not at all true—Dru is anything but shortsighted. Her real prophetic powers place her in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural see paragraph 10 above. Typical of the female hysteric, Drusilla is also womb-driven, but in a shockingly perverse way. Her body is pure spectacle; it is excessive, undomesticated and sexually saturated. She rubs her stomach, knowing she will satisfy her sexual hunger, yet her womb will remain barren. And while Spike explains to his mother http: This is a bizarre perversion of a multitude of origin narratives. Oedipus is gone and in its place are monstrous births. The Prostitute as Vampire: Darla 21 And this brings us to Darla, the matriarch of our little vampire family. While women in the home were the most important moral force in the country, women out of the home were prostitutes, vectors of disease, contagion and degeneration. Because civilization depended upon the containing of sex in marriage, civilization was threatened by the prostitute, especially the syphilitic prostitute. As scholars have noted, AIDS was not the first blood disease to find expression in a reactionary rhetoric of vampirism. The syphilitic prostitute as vampire or vampirism as syphilitic virus was just one rhetorical maneuver in a series of moral panics that scapegoated sexually or otherwise deviant behavior as the source of social and national decay. Clarimonde is an evil courtesan vampire who carnally seduces a priest and is later killed by holy water. In most identifiable folkloric traditions, the prostitute was one of several marginalized, outsider figures who were potential vampires after death along with the godless, suicides, witches, the excommunicated and those cursed by their families. Both are fallen women and social outcasts. On her deathbed, The Master visits Darla disguised as a priest: Darla has clearly been a victim of sexual hypocrisy, as the show draws upon historical fact that prostitutes were routinely forced to emigrate to the colonies in the seventeenth-century Darla is a prostitute in the Virginia Colony in The primitive woman was impure rather than criminal. With the public rage over prostitution and its consequent cultural demonization of female sexuality, the sexual instinct in woman became both metaphorically and supposedly literally vampiric. The most common French term used for a prostitute in the nineteenth-century was a man-eater. The Buffyverse clearly draws upon historical sources here. Stoker himself probably died of tertiary syphilis in , contracting the disease as a young man probably from a prostitute. Scholars have interpreted Dracula as an extended melodramatic meditation upon sick, diseased, sexed bodies. Angel plays with these discourses—Darla is dying of syphilis when Wolfram and Hart bring her back to life. According to Paul Barber the Slavic succubus, the Mora cognate of Mare , assumes various shapes and visits men at night and tries to suffocate them. He quotes Jan Machal: Over a span of several episodes Darla drugs Angel and enters his dreams. In the unconscious mind, Jones argues, blood, semen and milk are indistinguishable: The explanation of these [vampiric] phantasies is surely not hard. A nightly visit from a beautiful or frightful being, who first exhausts the sleeper with passionate embraces, and then withdraws from him a vital fluid; all this can point only to a natural and common process, namely to nocturnal emissions accompanied with dreams of a more or less erotic nature. In the unconscious mind blood is commonly an equivalent for semen. The Buffyverse explores the minefield of female sexuality more than any other mainstream television show. Buffy is about female desire, and though simple, there is no overestimating the importance of this. This is the stunning impact of the show at its best. After losing her virginity to Angel, she is terrorized by the monstrous Angelus, turning her loss of virginity into a stultifying traumatic event. Her intense desire for Angel can of course never be fulfilled because of his curse and because the show would end. First, the episode is a typical—if not classic—masculinist narrative: At the beginning of the episode, Buffy complains to Angel that he makes decisions for her without her knowledge or consent in the previous Buffy episode, Angel comes to Sunnydale and follows her around without her knowledge: And thirdly, the episode is a typical male fantasy: What we could have had? No one will know but me. It did. I know it did! I felt your heart beat! I'll never forget. I'll never forget! This is a powerful criticism of the male fear of female autonomy and sexuality, a fear that takes brutal form in societies that practice genital mutilation. But the episode treads some dangerous ground for women, rehearsing the misogynist story that women are sexuality; they do not have or own their desire, they are not the subjects of their desire; they are desire embodied, and they are always in heat. While the episode is powerfully radical in some ways, in others it is not: She has sex with Wilson and wakes up the next morning hugely pregnant with a demon child, even though she used protection: Cordelia is sexually disciplined in this episode. These episodes are critiques of and antidotes to the sanitized view of birth and motherhood as embodying all that is good, natural and beautiful. She is reproduction as both http: Women become womb monsters—fascinatingly ambiguous, reproductive nightmares see Creed, chapter 4. As a side note, both these characters meet unfortunate fates. She wakes up out of a coma because she has a vision that Angel is in trouble. I got my guy back on track. While at times she seems to enjoy a healthy sexual relationship with Riley, it is more often unhealthy. Such erotic transgressions are powerful antidotes to the totalizing ideology of romantic love which functions so oppressively for women. When Buffy turns to the door of his crypt to leave, Spike intercepts her and goes down on his knees: Buffy scoffs at his masochistic desires. You like me because you enjoy getting beat down. Last night was the most perverse, degrading experience of my life. Phallic culture sexually dominates http: She later goes down on Spike after he tells her to leave: Buffy and Spike have clearly been into bondage: Her playful sexual escapades come to pathologize her sense of self. She despises herself for her sexual transgressions, becoming a victim of her own desires. The sequence is worth reproducing in its entirety: Creepy Voices: What did you do? She opens her eyes and looks down. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, on the bed, looking up at her with an expression of pleasure, with his hands stretched up above him. Buffy slides her hands up to just below where the cuffs are. Katrina lies underneath Buffy, looking up at her. Cut to Buffy and Spike in his crypt, lying on the floor under the rugs, moving fast, with Spike on top. Buffy moans in pleasure. Cut to Buffy in the graveyard punching Katrina. Cut to the head-shot of Buffy straddling Spike on his bed. She lifts her hand, holding a stake. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, his eyes closed as if sleeping, Buffy thrusts down the stake. Cut to the forest. Buffy is straddling Katrina who lies with her eyes closed and the stake protruding from her stomach. Buffy feels she must be punished. Her self-hatred climaxes in the truly nauseating scene nauseating on purpose? Tara has just told Buffy that there is nothing wrong with her: Why do I let Spike do those things to me? Erotic transgressions lead to psychological problems, and vice versa. This is in part why the show ends as it does—destroying the Hellmouth, and cutting down Caleb and the First, but also putting the question of romance to the side for Buffy, at least for http: After all, Lacan argued that the subject is predicated upon and constituted by lack—it is the ontological structure motoring subjectivity. Traditionally, the vampire is the patriarch par excellence: The male vampire as patented by Polidori is a romantic Byronic hero: Masculine creative energies never tire of men becoming the subjects of their own knowledge at the expense of a woman. Through her mortification comes his existential knowledge. And while Carmilla is a crucial exception to this trend, she too shares in the fate of most female vampires before But of course the Romantic, existentialist male vampire is usually able to stick around. The feminist or queer http: Transgressive sexualities have always been coded as monstrous. As I mention above, what more appropriate association than the vampire for distilling the perversions of queer sexualities? Transgressive sexualities have often been inextricably yoked to the image of plague-like, blood-borne infections that lay waste huge populations. Queers and prostitutes in the nineteenth- century were evil predators who infiltrated, infected and contaminated the public body with their bad blood. The homophobic cultural agenda of the right in the s used vampiric imagery to stigmatize the queer community in the wake of the AIDS crisis. With their perverse sexual arrangements and promiscuous mixing of bodily fluids, vampires untie the binds between penetrated female bodies and organically sufficient penetrating male bodies. The vampire has become a politically perverse figure for exploring transgressive conceptions of family and community, critiques of origins, alternative potentials for selfhood, and the cultural and social inscriptions of sexual and gendered subjects. Female and queer vampires have traditionally embodied the horror of transgressive sexuality. Now they are unspeakably monstrous, threatening, and attractive. Darla, Angelus, Drusilla and Spike enjoy multiple perverse sexual arrangements, either blatant or coded. Angelus tells Spike that he looks forward to having a boy around to play with: Do you? Even after they regain their souls, Angel and Spike are both murderous and amorous. Gina Wisker has also discussed contemporary vampire fiction and its potential for feminist and queer reevaluation and recirculation. Both of these writers argue that http: In a third season Angel episode flashback, Angelus recounts his escape from Holtz to the young vampire James. After his escape, Angelus later caught up with Darla in Vienna. Drusilla and Darla enjoy multiple sexual arrangements within and without their vampire family, a privilege usually only accorded to men. In a recent flashback of Angel, Drusilla infuriates Spike because she refuses to be monogamous. Angelus gets up, stands behind Dru and slips his arms around her body: Spike taunts Angelus for being cuckolded by Darla, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Drusilla walk out: So he could violate our women. Violate in succession! Spank us till Tuesday. In these episodes he is a sadistic killer. Get dressed and get out. Because the next time I see you, I will have to kill you. Well, that makes it all heroic. It just— happened. Perhaps for the first time in their centuries-long relationship, Angel has treated Darla like a whore. Queer and feminist sex radicalism emphasizes roles in sexuality that are infinitely exchangeable and never align statically with gender i. Drusilla and Darla are phallic, http: The phallus is anything but a transcendental signifier of sexual and social power; as queer sex radicals have pointed out, how can it be when lesbians can strap on a dildo or crack a whip, or when female to male transsexuals can have one made? The phallus is pure simulation—an ontological joke. Only through psychological props can phallic male sufficiency be purchased by this suturing of woman into a zone of non-being and lack, a place of mutilation, castration, trauma and penis envy. Positions of domination and submission are just that—positions. Drusilla as virginal, Victorian child-bride is an aesthetic role that she dons as a sex toy—she turns the persona into a bizarre style of sex play that turns both her and Spike on. Notes 1 Halberstam and Livingston are writing in a different context from the vampire. This is from their introduction to the topic of posthuman bodies. For a different view of transgressive sexual relationships in the Buffyverse, see Vivien Burr. Loring, Everil Worrell, F. Marion Crawford, Carl Jacobi and others. I could just—eat them up. Emphasis mine. I like it! The queer person, so it goes, does not successfully navigate the rapids of Oedipus, and when Oedipus fails, monsters are the result Psycho is the classic example. In psychoanalytic sexual depth models of interiority, the queer exists in a zone of narcissism, excess and non-being: Works Cited Barber, Paul. Vampires, Burial and Death. New Haven: Yale University Press, Bronfen, Elisabeth. Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic. Burr, Vivien. A Sartrean Analysis. Busse, Kristina. Califia, Patrick. Public Sex: The Culture of Radical Sex. Second Edition. San Francisco: Cleiss Press, The tags will take him down before he even gets close to me…". The people watching the boy could even see the air pushed aside by the boy's large spinning mass as it accelerated. The audience itself was also hit incredibly hard by the massive tremors as several people started to scream and fall out of their chairs. Even the shinobi watching were having a somewhat difficult time staying on their feet for the duration of the technique. As the shaking died down, the audience attempted to get back into their seats and made sure that the building was not going to collapse with them in it. Dust was still thick in the air, and the two combatants were yet to be seen. The leader sighed and rubbed the sides of his head. The Kazekage blinked. I thought I heard you say that the technique just used was a C-ranked when it clearly displayed the power of an A-ranked…". Pulse Quake is a C-ranked jutsu because it creates tremors based on how hard the user hits the ground. Because of that, many shinobi just pass over it since there are better and stronger techniques to use for the same amount of chakra. The shinobi who do use it are normally taijutsu types, and even then, they typically only use it to temporarily screw around with the footing of their opponents or collapse caves or buildings and things like that. These brats of yours are really starting to interest me…". Ghost chuckled as he stood on the side of one of the walls of the arena. He could clearly tell who was left standing even though the dust was still settling. The attack was obscenely powerful considering the age of the one who used it, and could even deal him a fair bit of damage if he wasn't paying any attention. He had gotten this far pretty much by himself with just a couple of pointers on the way, and that was what made him special. He could feel that the floor of the arena was nowhere near the condition it was in when the day first started. Soon enough, the field was in clear view for everyone to see. Several dozen meters outside the initial crater, Kagari laid on the ground unconscious with an arm and a leg bent at an awkward angle. Kneeling over the boy and checking his pulse even though he didn't need to do so, Ghost nodded to himself so the audience would know he was doing his job. He had never really tried to last that long in his meat tank form before while constantly switching gears like that… and neither he nor his stomach wanted to do it again. Ghost chuckled as the medics ran out into the field. I think you actually just topped Naruto's and Hinata's fight for most epic match ending of the day Only a little? Oh well… Hey Sensei, is it okay if I take a nap now? I'm pretty dizzy…" The boy dozed off, apparently falling unconscious as he fell over. Ghost quickened his pace to catch the somewhat lighter boy before he hit the ground. You see that?! Normally it would only be enough to get the man a bit buzzed, but mix it with how proud he was of his son and the extremely epic end to the fight and you have a somewhat boisterous and thoughtless clan head. Shikaku sighed as he watched his friend get pulled down by his thoroughly embarrassed wife. It's not often that an Akimichi gets to show off like this. I'm one of the top interrogators in Konoha, and my family is well known for our special mind techniques. Heck, most of the C-ranked missions his clan is hired for inside the village are simply demolition work. Believe it or not, a lot of people have been calling the Akimichi the weakest out of all the clans in Konoha lately because they're too fat to get anything done. Showing the entire village that his clan is capable of causing damage like that is a good wake up call. Shikaku shook his head. Inoichi blinked for a moment before turning his attention to his other best friend again. Said big man had since given up trying to pick a fight with the audience and was now making out with his portly wife in public in a way the two men hadn't seen for a long time. He paused as he saw a flash of light and turned to see Shikaku taking a picture of the scene. Shikaku smirked as he tucked the camera away. He might have been lucky enough to pass out before this happened, but there's no way the people in the audience will let him live this down later…". Shikaku raised an eyebrow. Inoichi huffed. Out of all the people she could have been fighting, she's up against the one that has the highest chance of letting her out of the arena with all her bones intact… next to Shikamaru, of course…". Just today she was five minutes away from being disqualified! The Nara raised an eyebrow. I'm surprised that she's been progressing as far as she did…". Shikaku frowned for a moment as he tried to remember all the things his son told him about his teammate over the past few months. While it was true that Inoichi's daughter was prone to being rather obsessive with looks at times, Shikamaru had told him that Ino had been getting better as of late. The girl was apparently progressing quite well under Anko's tutelage, and had even made some leeway with her poison skills… "Hey… was your daughter in her bathroom when you left this morning? Inoichi grunted. I had to leave her at home and go ahead. Sometimes I truly wonder about her…". She didn't know why. What's wrong? Ino blinked, not knowing what to say as she looked around. She saw Temari still gaping in surprise before giving Shikamaru an occasional curious glance, also seemingly unnoticed by the boy. Tenten was talking to Neji, who nodded stiffly, however she could tell that the two had a better relationship than first anticipated. She saw Sakura and Sasuke standing next to each other on the other end of the railing, closer than she herself had ever gotten with the Uchiha, and talking comfortable with the other without any sign of hesitation. Looks of longing, but held back due to nervousness or because the one they liked never paid them any attention. She was confused. She willingly admitted it. She had always set her sights on Sasuke, but even though he had been gradually becoming more vocal and social over the past few months, he had also been somehow bonding with the forehead even more. The more she tried, the more he seemed to look the other direction, even when she tried to use some of Anko-sensei's more… mature seducing methods. It just made him turn even more… and run as well. It was ridiculous! She couldn't have them both! That would be as ridiculous as… Ghost and Anko-sensei and… Hana-sensei…. Shikamaru blinked as Ino started to grin in a less than comforting manner. Why are you smiling like that? You're planning to do something troublesome, aren't you? Ghost looked at the state of the fighting grounds as the two boys were sent to the medical bay. While he didn't mind, there might be some issues for later on if it was left in the same condition. That being the case, he switched his microphone to a private line with the Hokage. The field is pretty wrecked down here. Is it okay if we fix it before the next match? It'll only take about a minute tops. The Hokage sighed in his chair as he got the message, prompting the visiting leaders to look at him oddly. Ghost nodded as he changed the frequency of the mike so that he would be heard through the speakers again. Please bear with me, as it will only take a few minutes at the most. We should just have the brats fight on the grounds the way it is! Stop coddling the brats, for crying out loud…". Ghost took off his microphone and put it into his pocket before raising his hands to his mouth. The audience blinked in confusion as they looked around for the mysterious Crypt that Ghost was apparently calling. Nothing happened for a few moments before a woman screamed as she saw a body flying through the air as if it was thrown to the middle of the arena, sailing like a dead weight before landing a few dozen feet away from Ghost on the ground with a low thump. The crowd was quiet for several moments with wide eyes, except for those who knew who the man was and how odd he could be. Sarutobi groaned, apparently ignoring the Kazekage's remark. Ghost sighed as he saw the audience stare in shock. He was hoping that Crypt would just pop out of the ground like normal… but then again, when does normal actually apply to the man? He put the earpiece to his mouth. He's not dead, just stupid. Very… very stupid. Jell-O organs! The seemingly dead body popped back up instantly, surprising many of the audience members, glaring back at the man. Your theory is completely out of proportion! The chainsaws don't have enough shoelaces in order to organize the toenail clippings on the Mona Lisa's hard drive! The constipated monster trucks would end up completely slaughtered by the army of nun chucking babies! You think you can fix him up? It said it'll help you out with that fireball mongoose problem you've been having trouble with if you do. Crypt blinked. That bastard! I know it was holding out on me! The floor comes first. Everyone could hear low rumblings, though. Within 30 seconds, the dust had settled and much to everyone's surprise the arena floor was in the same condition it was in before the fights had even started, minus the fallen trees. Ghost was once again in the middle of the floor, casually standing with his hands in his pockets, but Crypt had disappeared. Get your butt down here so I can kick it! She's up to something troublesome. Sakura sighed as she turned to the stairs. You know her better than I do at the moment, after all. One cut from those poisons of hers and the pink girl is done for. Kunai are faster than seals, after all, and genjutsu can only help you so much against an opponent right in front of you. Plus, I highly doubt that Anko-sensei would have not trained her student against genjutsu when both of her first potential opponents are known to use it. I think she is already able to neutralize low-level poisons in her system during combat situations without much issue, and mid-level poisons if given enough time alone to concentrate. I also remember that she was doing extensive taijutsu and evasion training with Waltz-sama during our month break…". He was incredibly knowledgeable about various tactics I doubt he would be unable to give Sakura-san some advice on dodging projectiles efficiently, especially with his rather impressive frame. I guess I ruined the arena, eh? Naruto smiled. Ero-nii and Crypt fixed it up while you were getting treated. Sakura and Ino's fight is actually just about to start. Good job with that last attack, though. When you almost killed me, the crater was only half as big. Part of that was because I went higher than normal. Usually I just bounce myself to a decent height and then hit the ground… to be honest, I thought I was going to plow through that tree instead of launching off of it and simply bouncing myself naturally over the traps and the kunai… but I think what happened worked better in a way…". We have another member! Shouldn't it be the opposite, considering he can't mold chakra? Lee can't mold chakra, but so far, he's the only person here that managed to force Naruto to go all out, he's received training with possibly the only teachers in the Elemental Nations that could even remotely get him to the level that he's at right now, despite his limitations I'd say that's pretty dumb luck right there…". So you could be qualified to have dumb luck? Or were you just that stupid to begin with? Naruto pouted. I'd like to see you try hiding from ANBU wearing nothing but pure orange. Let me tell you, it's harder than it sounds. Shikamaru raised an eyebrow at his best friend for a moment before sighing to himself. Troublesome doesn't even begin to describe that girl. She was all quiet and moody throughout your fight. Then a little after you won, I asked her what was up, and she apparently snapped, giggling like crazy. She told you?! I didn't do anything! That's all I can say…". Let's make a bet on this match, shall we? Sakura didn't like the hungry look in Ino's eyes. She remembered it from the time before time was changed. It was the look Ino got when she had some sort of morally deprived and most likely illegal yet incredibly tempting idea in her head. Zuzushi in turn fell off Ghost's shoulder, also apparently laughing and making high pitched squeaks as she mimicked her clan member's movements. Sakura blinked dumbly at Ino. I wasn't prepared to filter out so much crazy coming from you. Ino grinned sadistically. Until a few minutes ago, I thought I had to restrict myself only to Sasuke-kun, but when I realized that there were other boys that I wouldn't mind spending time with, I came to a dilemma. What should I do? Who should I chose? I wanted them both, but I couldn't… or could I? Hinata pouted. No one's taking my one man harem away from me. Not if I have anything to say about it. Naruto blinked in disbelief. I've been trying and planning for months on how to get back at Ero-nii in the most horrible and embarrassingly humiliating way possible… and Ino singlehandedly pulls it off without even thinking about it. That shouldn't be possible… I'M the Prankster King of Konoha… I should be the one to be able to do that so easily… it's like nothing makes sense in the world anymore…". Mind Rape. Silently, the short man turned to Sarutobi and looked at him dead in the eyes, and blood dripping down his nose. The Kazekage looked up to where the irregular shakes in the building were coming from curiously. Sarutobi chuckled nervously. I'll send some of my men to check up on it right away. Honestly though, they're shinobi, not engineers… they can't be expected to notice everything when it comes to things like detailed building structure…". It was very fortunate that Konoha's and its allies' forces were not in direct combat and were currently tasked setting up traps at the moment, because if someone needed help right then, they wouldn't have gotten it. All they would have heard was Scabbard rolling on the ground, laughing like there was no tomorrow. Tsume growled deeply from her seat, causing the rest of the clan members near her and Kuromaru to back away slowly from the angry woman. Locked naked in a box with Tora and five kilos of catnip. There will be no mercy…". Asuma wiped his forehead nervously. For a moment there, I thought Inoichi was going to go after me. Jiraiya said nothing as he frantically scribbled down notes in his notepad as if his life depended on it. He was really questioning why he never came back to Konoha when he should have been looking after Naruto. He had completely forgotten how… inspirational… kunoichi could be, and you couldn't find more kunoichi than in a major ninja village. Ghost froze as he heard Ino's confirmation of him having two girlfriends… then he started to shiver as he felt the glare of one very pissed off Inoichi Yamanaka on him. Ohhhhh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck…" He swore. Ghost noticed that Zuzushi was laughing even harder on the ground a few feet away from him. Fucking lizard. Mark my words, Scab, someday very soon, you will find yourself in the middle of a preteen magical schoolgirl academy looking like a bishi translation: The screen in the arena paused for a moment before showing Ino and Sakura's match up. The digital, and at the moment clearly saner, Ino was throwing purple kunai at a relaxed pace before she made a few seals and put her hands over her chest in an odd way. The screen changed to show Ino's fight in the preliminaries. We'll find out right now! Zuzushi recovered from her laughing fit just long enough to fly to Ghost's shoulder before continuing to giggle in the way only a tiny dragon could. Ino Yamanaka! Ino wasted no time taking out several dozen shuriken and throwing them expertly at Sakura all at once. During her training with Waltz, the old man had constantly assaulted her with various styles, sizes, and ranges of attacks. From kunai and shuriken, to his fists, to pelting rain, to a giant block of ice, the old man had been indiscriminant with his teachings, making sure that Sakura was completely used to that particular variation of assault before moving on to the next style. More often than not, he would jump from one style to another she had previously practiced with in order to ensure that she did not forget her previous lessons. The end result was what the audience was watching. For the first few volleys, Sakura had dodged most of the flying weapons, but resorted to deflect the few that she initially missed with her kunai. However as the attacks continued, Sakura relied on her kunai less and less as she managed to dodge them with greater efficiency. Sakura frowned. It still wasn't easy, though. Ino was taught by Anko personally for a good amount of time, and it showed. Sakura doubted that any other genin aside from Tenten would have been able to force her to deflect their projectiles for that long and still keep her on the edge with basic shinobi equipment. Still, this was way easier than getting used to Sasori's attack patterns. God forbid should Ino actually take up puppetry. She wouldn't be able to form any seals at this rate. Ino's attacks were just too fast. What happens if someone you know has gone crazy and they're attacking you, but you know they're just confused and can be brought back? What's the best way to deal with them? It doesn't have to be correct logic. Twisted logic can work just as well in some cases if you present it right. If they're crazy at the moment, it shouldn't matter that much. Ghost sighed. The point of beating the shit out of them is to wear them out, calm them down, reduce the obscure amount of adrenaline running through their system, and most importantly, keep them still so they can't run away from your inevitable friendship speech. What are a few bruises and broken bones compared to a burst blood vessel in the brain? If you want to reason with them, be my guest, but at least try to not get killed by something stupid if you do. Arguing to prove a complicated point will only distract you from everything around you, and it dulls your senses when you are trying to debate something. Better to have your opponent pinned to the ground when you're trying to talk to them than trying to kill you. Why am I not surprised? The girl looked down to see a single senbon sticking out of her thigh. Sakura, it looks like you got hit with something…" Ino cooed as she started to make some seals just as Sakura attempted to start to run away. Hidden art, mind body disturbance technique…". Sakura's body started to shudder erratically as the technique took effect. I was only looking for shuriken and she snuck that senbon into her attacks! Then I stood still for too long! Don't fight her physically, fight her mentally. That's where her family's techniques take effect…. Not paying any attention to her arms moving towards the senbon in her leg, Sakura delved deep into her mind. She knew she was able to do it occasionally, but ironically enough, it was always easier when Ino tried one of her family's techniques on her. She could always feel where Ino's chakra was and use it as a beacon to know where to go. Thankfully, she had been meditating a fair amount during her month break. It helped her calm down and concentrate on her chakra control. Soon enough, Sakura had discovered Ino's presence inside herself, lodging itself between where her mind met her body. Unlike last time, where it was Ino's entire psyche inside her body, Sakura felt something more like Ino's intent and hands in its place. Smirking to herself, the pink haired girl started to fight back. Back in reality, Ino stumbled back in shock. I've never heard of someone able to break out of my clan's techniques when they're under my control! Sakura grinned as she quickly flipped through several seals. We've never heard of a psycho that uses exploding model cows to train students until a year ago. Get used to it! Demonic Art: Great Distortion! Ino's world immediately twisted on itself. Her sight was blurred and twisted. Her hearing was filled to the brim with loud and cringing sounds. Her balance was shot. She smelled a cornucopia of obscure scents, and she was growing dizzier with every passing second. I can't believe I gave her an opening like that..

Or will Kagari's more elusive and tactful moves steal the victory from under his nose in pure shinobi style?

We're about to find out! Kagari of Ame! Both shinobi started to move from the get go. He's stopping me from getting to him so he can get a head start on his jutsu! He's using the bouncing part of his training more efficiently than I expected… but will that alone be enough to take his tricky opponent down? The moment he hit the ground, the spikes dug into the earth and shot the boy forward like a cannon at the apparently surprised opponent, who was too shocked to move.

It was one of those mist clones! Sarutobi chuckled. I heard it read article similar to Earth-Style: Earth Spears, except instead of turning the user's body as Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy as stone, it adjusts the body to have some rubber like properties. I am curious if the boy will manage to find a way out of this situation…". He could always just roll around the arena and not get hit for the rest of the match and force a draw…".

I doubt that they didn't prepare for at least this much in his click the following article. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes yet, otherwise his opponent could manage to escape the attack and figure out what he was trying to do. Are you so much of a pussy that you can't even face a few clones? He's probably set up a trap where all the clones are already and hidden them with genjutsu.

What did Shika say about this guy's techniques? Wider ranged mean more chakra, so he can't hold them for long if he decides to spread them out, so he's most likely somewhere within that circle of clones… and I'm guessing he's hiding underground with that technique of his…" His pondering was interrupted as a kunai with an exploding tag was thrown his way.

The boy only barely managed to bounce out of the way in time to avoid the damage. He was not expecting his opponent to do something so up front so quickly. It was at that moment that he was actually somewhat thankful for the extended training Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy had aimed at maintaining his ball shaped form for long periods of time while under stressful situations. Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy would still never play soccer again, though.

Every time he approached one of those small black and white balls nowadays, all he could see was a screaming miniature version of himself….

Fat chance!

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My jutsu may not be as Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy as yours, but I have more than enough exploding tags to take down this arena! Just give up, and I won't roast you like the pig you are!

Ino started Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy shake angrily as the overconfident genin mocked her partner. Somewhere during the assault, something snapped in the kindhearted child.

The people who knew the boy best were slightly concerned, since they had never seen the boy sound like that. You claim to be a shinobi, but you can't even hit this giant ass rolling target?! Your tags are nothing compared to Tenten's, and your aim is even worse than Naruto's when he first started the academy! The young Akimichi's speed suddenly increased as he approached the forested area of the grounds. Naruto nodded. I accidentally came across him training a couple of weeks ago and almost got killed.

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Neji blinked. After all, we did find you on the edge of that crater with Waltz-sama after that large shockwave…". Naruto shook his head vigorously in denial. The rest of the Konoha genin blinked for a moment before rushing to the railings and securing their hands around the metal. It was enough of a hint to get Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy Suna genin to mimic their behavior without question and brace for whatever the hell the large boy was going to do soon.

He had a general idea of where Kagari's position was from all the kunai that were thrown at him, and with what he was about to do, he knew that all the exploding tags that were hidden in the center of the arena would go off by the time he finished his attack.

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Bouncing from tree to tree and occasionally hitting one or two hard enough to actually knock them down, the boy gained speed, momentum, and angles as he positioned himself for the end of Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy fight. The rapid increase in speed and the sudden change in directions prevented the hidden genin from getting a good shot in with one of his exploding kunai.

Has he actually lost his mind? The tags will take him down before he even gets close to me…". The people watching the boy could even see the air pushed aside by the boy's large spinning mass as it accelerated.

The audience itself was also hit incredibly hard by the massive tremors as several people started to scream and fall out of their chairs. Even the shinobi watching were having a somewhat difficult time staying on their feet for the duration of the technique. As the shaking died down, the audience attempted to get back into their seats and made sure that the building was not going to collapse with them in it.

Dust was still thick in the air, and the two combatants were yet to be seen. The leader sighed and rubbed the sides of his head. The Kazekage blinked. I thought I heard you say that the technique just used was a C-ranked when it clearly displayed the power of an A-ranked…".

Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy Quake is a C-ranked jutsu because it creates tremors based on how Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy the user hits the ground. Because of that, many shinobi just pass over it since there are better and stronger techniques to use for the same amount of chakra. The shinobi who do use it are normally taijutsu types, and even then, they typically only use it to temporarily screw around with the footing of their opponents or collapse caves or buildings and things like that.

These brats of yours are Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy starting to interest me…". Ghost chuckled as he stood on the side of one of the walls of the arena. He could clearly tell who was left standing even though the dust was still settling.

The attack this web page obscenely powerful considering the age of the one who used it, and could even deal him a fair bit of damage if he wasn't paying any attention. He had gotten this far pretty much by himself with just a couple of pointers on check this out way, and that was what made him special. He could feel that the floor of the arena was nowhere near the condition it was in when the day first started.

Soon enough, the field was in clear view for everyone to see. Several dozen meters outside the initial crater, Kagari laid on the ground unconscious with an arm and a leg bent at an awkward angle. Kneeling over the boy and checking his pulse even though he didn't need to do so, Ghost nodded to himself so the audience would know he was doing his job.

He had never really tried to last that long in his meat tank form before while constantly switching gears like that… and neither he nor his stomach wanted to do it again. Ghost chuckled as the medics ran out into the field. I think you actually just topped Naruto's and Hinata's fight for most epic match ending of the day Only a little?

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Oh well… Hey Sensei, is it okay if I take a nap now? I'm source dizzy…" The boy dozed off, apparently falling unconscious as he fell over. Ghost quickened his pace to catch the somewhat lighter boy before he hit the ground.

You see that?! Normally it would only be enough to get the man a bit buzzed, but mix it with how proud he was of his son and the extremely epic end to the fight and you have a somewhat boisterous and thoughtless clan head. Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy sighed as he watched his friend get pulled down by his thoroughly embarrassed wife.

It's not often that an Akimichi gets to show off like this. I'm one of the top interrogators in Konoha, and my family is well known for our special mind techniques.

Heck, most of the C-ranked missions his clan is hired for inside the village are simply demolition work. Believe it or not, a lot of people have been calling the Akimichi the weakest out of all the clans in Konoha lately because they're too fat to get anything done. Showing the entire village that his clan is capable of Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy damage like that is a good wake up call.

Shikaku shook his head. Inoichi blinked for a moment before turning his attention to his other best friend again. Said big man had since given up trying to pick a fight with the audience and was now making out with his portly wife in public in a way the two men hadn't seen for a long time. He paused as he saw a flash of light and turned to see Shikaku taking a picture of the scene.

Shikaku smirked as he tucked the camera away. He might have been lucky enough to pass out before this happened, but there's no way the people in the audience will let him live this down later…". Shikaku raised an eyebrow. Inoichi huffed. Out of all the people she could have been fighting, she's up against the one that has the highest Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy of letting her out of the arena with all her bones intact… next to Shikamaru, of course…".

Just today she was five minutes away from being disqualified!

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The Nara raised an eyebrow. I'm surprised that she's been progressing as far as she did…". Shikaku frowned for a moment as he tried to remember all the things his son told him about his teammate over the past few months. While it was true that Inoichi's daughter was prone to being rather obsessive with looks at times, Shikamaru had told him that Ino had been getting better as of late.

The girl was apparently progressing quite well under Anko's tutelage, and had even made some leeway with Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy poison skills… "Hey… was your daughter in her bathroom when you left this morning?

Inoichi grunted.

Sex sitse Watch Bum fun with my girlfriend Video Alizze nude. It was cold. She tapped the console. I brought a flask , she said. But the cold i good for your skin. Fresh air prevents wrinkles. I rested my head against the door frame and looked up to see if I could make out the moon. The Countess found academic endeavor a largely dull affair, though she was not, strictly speaking, a bad student. Our school was full of smart kids and rich kids, and a few rich, smart kids. Neither the Countess nor I were rich enough to slack off entirely, so on the multitude of days we called in sick together [2]. I helped her with her papers and she helped me lie to my mother. As time progressed, her house became a one-stop for whoever happened to be out and looking for a place to hang out unscrutinized, often with a crowd. The latter were mostly boys, and all, at best, indifferent to me, unless I had money to throw in for beer or pot, like, even five bucks would help. Those boys would send their girlfriends home and come over to have a cold one before curfew. None of them dated The Countess. I never questioned the stories I heard and the assumptions people made about her because everything about the Countess hinted of sophistication. She was the kind of sixteen-year-old that could mix a perfect martini from memory and apply lipstick without looking in the mirror. It stood to reason she was also a libertine. Her romantic experience, in those days anyway, was scarcely more controversial than my own. And yet those boys, the same one that had gossiped about her in the halls, showed up at her house and lounged with cases of cheap Fake ID beer, while she held court with elaborate desserts she made from scratch, while they still ogled her every time she stood and still talked the same old shit about her every time they left her house. My failure to grasp the convoluted social protocols the Countess rigorously adhered to—even at sixteen she sent thank you notes, even when the party ended with her swinging, half-dressed, from a front porch column, lip-synching Madonna and drinking convenience store champagne straight from the bottle—seemed in danger of upending our careful equilibrium. I took us there first in my car. Then she took us in her car. This was because of the lack of parents. This was because the Countess always had plenty of alcohol and an inclination to experiment with cocktails. Have you ever had a Gin Rickey? This was because the Countess never went to the dances herself. She was beautiful. She was popular. She was funny. She was fearless. She was magnificent. That night, we were the only ones up there. The Countess turned off the car. We sat in silence, puffing out curlicues of smoke. There are stories about The Countess that beggar belief. Some of them are true. Most are the stuff of legend soon lost on the infinite palimpsest of local rumor. Those stories are not mine to tell. And at some point, the Countess herself stopped telling her stories, or, at least, telling them to me. I would come home from college and hear conflicting reports. She was married to a British lord. She was a nanny for a family in Ohio. All seemed equally plausible. Every time a high school reunion comes up, and they do every five years at schools that rely on alumni donations, there are a few names I always look for on the RSVP list. I still dream about The Countess. In my dream, she is always hosting a dinner party in one of those old mansions we used to drive by. That dress made her hair look like shiny copper. That dress made her look like an empress. Scott Fitzgerald used to stay in the hotel, because at the point in my life, sixteen, early seventeen, I still believed in the totemic, transformative power of places. If I could touch this doorframe, that maybe he once touched, then maybe just maybe that would make me a better writer. In the beginning, the Radio Club had a radio station. It was a closet shaped room at the bottom of the stone stairs that opened like the mouth of hell under the old wrestling room and led to a concrete landing. To the left was a cinderblock storage room, home to long-abandoned student art and occasional band practice from the students most likely to get expelled. To the right was the day room, a brick cave that perennially smelled like old sweat, smoke damage and teenage boys. Some of the pubescent male funk may have seeped through the mats upstairs during the curiously intimate rites of violent masculinity performed each wrestling season. It was rare to see people coming and going from the radio station, which leant the Radio Club a little additional glamour. The general consensus seemed to be that they only really existed as a yearbook photo and vehicle to DJ school dances the administration was too cheap to outsource. Sometimes, during a free period, we might hear a bassline, or the mumble of a voice through the wall. This was the only evidence we ever had that the Radio Club was doing anything like radio. The station had a frequency number, but whenever we tried to access it, we heard only static. Just campus. Fair, but no matter where we put up an antenna—in the dorm common rooms, in the classroom building, at the top of the stone stairs, in the hallway immediately outside the radio station door, we could never get a signal. Like, are we sure the station is even connected? It would be pretty crooked to pull the plug on free expression without ever telling the people doing the expressing that you had. The Day Boys were particularly fond of it. I remember thinking, that sounds pretty dreamy. Maybe I should join the Radio Club. A few straggled in from the rural counties that, unlike my own, actually looked and behaved like Appalachia. A few came from the local Catholic School. Most came from the same public schools I had, places without day rooms, where no one in their right mind would dream of leaving their backpack unattended or locker unlocked. I knew exactly what flavor of fuck-up they were long before the Dean of Students stood on a small dais in the middle of the Day Room, her hand trembling with wrath, as she pointed to the still smoking, ash-blackened remains of the sex couch and asked which one of them had set it on fire. The Day Boys took her tirade with almost Zen-like tolerance, without a single incriminating smirk. She exited threatening vengeance for the incinerated furniture. We knew it was an empty promise. It might have been the one that drove me to school every morning and never spoke to me. It might have been the one with the curls that every girl in the spring play went moon-eyed over. The Day Boys had coalesced into a collective. In some sense, they had all burned the sofa. The Day Girls had little time for the Day Boys. The school boasted a wide variety of young men with a wide variety of exotic haircuts, accents, favorite bands, and passport colors. I was into this boy with skinny arms and a curtain of bangs that I interpreted as somehow poetic. And by into, I mean, into. When it hits like that—like a fucking anvil made of sparkles, butterflies, and pure hormones—you tend to forgive a lot, up to an including the fact that cool Work Tour t-shirt aside, Poetic Bangs had the musical taste of divorced Dad at a fern bar. So I listened Paul Simon and Dan Fogelberg , stayed late for Amnesty International, and sat transfixed as he sat on the theatre stairs strumming original acoustic ballads about deforestation and new age spiritualism, oblivious to the fact that there were at least four or five other girls hanging on his every stupid word, as infatuated as I. The only thing more embarrassing than the intensity of my crush was the person I was becoming within said crush. This is what I want? Everybody was in the winter play that year, even a few of the Day Boys. He liked to play improv games, which usually ended with him kissing a girl. Somehow that girl never ended up being me. I mulled over it a lot. I bought more of his favorite records. I read the books he talked about. At that point, I still believed I could make a boy love me by imitation. I had yet to figure out that there was, perhaps, a crucial difference between wanting someone and wanting to be like someone. That realization came years and several unfortunate forays into hardcore and beat poetry away. At fifteen, though, I was too busy trying to cleave to his narrow tastes to stop and figure out my own. We were in the green room sometime in January. Poetic Bangs had just slid onto the old orange sofa between me and another girl and just leaned over and kissed her hard, just to see what would happen. The Day Boys showed up in a clamor, and I was happy for the distraction, because it reminded me of all the noisy why not? They thought a few tunes might shake things up. The Day Boys had exactly zero time for Poetic Bangs and ignored him, experimenting with speaker wire and power cords,. Once the light came on, they shoved a cassette as Poetic Bangs sighed like a disappointed parent. They managed to get in about twenty seconds of joyously pogoing around the room before the Drama teacher screamed in and pulled the plug and threatened them all with detention. Also, the Day Boys were jackasses. Not a Lloyd Dobler among them. At the school, all of the students were expected to give a small regular donation toward OxFam, to help the starving children. She brought Poetic Bangs with her, as a representative of the campus philanthropic community. He gave an earnest speech, reminding us of how fortunate we were, while children were starving. The Day Boys chuckled, self-satisfied, and saw Poetic Bangs make eye contact with the back of the Day Room door, upon which an installation of sorts had been erected, a collage of trash and speech bubbles parroting school demands for donations encircling the head a Baby Jesus-style illustration of a starving child like a halo. It was grotesque and offensive, like most of the things the Day Boys found hilarious, but in the split second he saw it, before he had the space to perform theatrical indignation, I watched Poetic Bangs suck on his cheeks to stifle a laugh. The dean, barely civil with inchoate rage, could not even fully process the back of the door. And when I do, all of you will be sorry. I found myself alone in the campus post office with the only girl I knew for sure was in the Radio Club. She was a senior from Washington, DC, which seemed very cool to me, and wore lipstick just barely far enough away from black to pass dress code. A blue-haired Kurt Cobain in a green shirt and sunglasses stared out at me from the cover. She saw me looking and asked if I liked them. The Day Boys stayed away. But I had come in a furry, fuchsia sweater, which I believed to be the prettiest thing I owned ,trying to find Poetic Bangs. I had some notion that night that something huge might happen. I interpreted it as he will realize he loves me. Before all of that though, I stood at the edge of the crowd of dancers in the dark, sweaty day room, watching the flashes of colors in shirts and the dimmed dance lights at the DJ station reflect in the dark windows across the northern wall. The crowd cleared the dance floor, skulking off into the corner where the sex couch used to be. I remembered why I was there and turned to leave. I passed the girl from the Radio Club in the landing. The door to the station was open. I saw light, a table, some cords. She was balancing an orange milk crate full of CDS on her hip. You should stick around. I think I told her I was going to get some fresh air. That sounded logical and she nodded. Even in February, it was swampy in the Day Room. I half-meant it. Sometime in the spring semester, the school drew up plans for a fancy new dining hall and student center to stand on the site of the old wrestling room, beside the arts building. And thus, when we returned from Spring Break, not only was the Day Room inaccessible, it was gone. By the time I was a senior, we had no place at all save a classroom hall full of messy lockers. The Radio Club existed, in theory, through the end of the year. And we hundred odd teenagers in uncomfortable formalwear sat in the murmuring in the darkness until they were able to find enough batteries for a boom box. They gave it their best with Prince and De La Soul but the stereo sounded impossibly small and tinny under the gothic arches of the dining hall without an amp behind it. I went to prom by myself that year in baby pink damask Jessica McClintock, which was maybe the last time I ever wore that color of pink. I sat with a couple of friends in the dark and tried to make out Poetic Bangs and his date across the room. I still pined for him. A few weeks, when he graduated, I wrote him a shitty, passive aggressive note. He responded by sending me a letter basically telling me that he hoped we never saw each other again. We did actually see each other again, but it was such a brief nothing of an encounter that I imagine it never happened. I found new crushes, new heartbreaks, and whole vast universe of songs to soundtrack them all. I never did join the Radio Club though. When I came back Junior Year, it, like the Day Room, had disappeared, as if it had never existed at all. We turned in journals for English class, ostensibly to provide commentary on reading, but my teacher senior year was this salty, brilliant woman who was old enough to be my grandmother, but I loved her. I wrote about everything in my journal. She gave plenty of advice and book recommendations in the margins. If you know me in real life, you may have detected a chip on my shoulder roughly the same size and shape of the absence of an elite college on my resume. Really I am. I still hate it when people ask me where I went to school when do people stop asking where I went to school? These tend range from pity to Really? Sometimes, I swear I can see their reappraisals of my character or intelligence play out in real time across their faces. My mother would tell me, and most certainly has, that all of this is just my own insecurity. I feel hugely guilty about that. If anything, my high school experience, as a financial aid kid at a moderately competitive boarding school, has been marginally more useful. The school you go to is more than status symbol. Plenty of smart people that went to great schools end up working the same shitty jobs at the same shitty wages as the rest of us. Sometimes by choice, sometimes by circumstance. I never wanted to be a world leader or a titan of industry. I always just wanted to be a writer and write for a living. Might I have sold a novel or gotten a job at the New Yorker had I come out the kind of tiny, weird liberal arts college in the Northeast I dreamt of at eighteen? Neither do you. And now my bra strap is totally showing and my accent is slipping and you can see exactly many shades I blush when I have to talk to you about college. Sorry about that. I made plenty of mistakes in school. I sweated so many nights away worried about not being good enough. That kid that got admitted instead of me? Maybe she never had to, because it never mattered if she was good enough, or even good at all. This is what she said about http: Smart and sophisticated, self sufficient Anna Devane never needed a man to take care of her. Anna was a woman in charge of her life, too confident to settle for less than she deserved. Anna had made mistakes too and paid for them. But as forthright as she was, Anna came to Port Charles as a woman of mystery and never lost her enigmatic edge. Waggett, Gerald J. The Soap Opera Book of lists. HarperPaperbacks, New Yourk: Pocket Books, While she was on the show, her not getting along with Susan Lucci was very much publicized. And gossip on their jealously and rivalry were rampant. The infamous feud makes people talk to this day April At that time, at least, she was very much into Sonny and Brenda, Robin Scorpio and the heartbreaking death of Stone. In Soap Opera Digest, March 17, p. I adored Robin Wright [Penn, ex-Kelly]. Even if the concept is less rich. In a nutshell, we can think of several sets interacting in the legal system: Should someone be interested, this text could be checked: Sacco, Rodolfo. Giappichelli Editore, The richer the one, the more challenged the others. The dynamics that get established inside a Country have particular, individual, unrepeatable histories, which are heavy from the point of view of the cultural legacy they hold. They enter in the cultural DNA of a society. Crypto-formants may be traced: The Ultimate Soap Opera Guide. Stearn Publishers Ltd. The quote is taken from p. Nuova Pratiche Editrice srl, The translation is mine. The original Italian says: Buffy and the east Asian cinema. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Magazine. Issue 33, May The Soap Opera Encyclopedia. New Tork: In the end Passions lets Timmy truly die, following the untimely demise of his portrayer, Josh Ryan Evans, who was only The actor passed away the same day his character died on screen. He had already pre-taped other scenes, in witch Timmy was supposed to appear in heaven looking down to Charity, who got his heart in a transplant. The executives, though, decided to edit them out, out of respect toward him. Soap Opera Digest, November 6, And Down! Il popolo. Domenica 12 marzo, and Waggett, Gerard J. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Official Magazine. Issue No. Dark Shadows Almanac: Los Angeles — London: Pomegranate Press, Ltd. Dark Shadows: Program Guide. Compiled by Ann Wilson. She was dubbed, so the quote is a translation form the Italian. To be continued… Soap Operas around the world. London and New York: Routledge, Fighting the Forces. Act IV, scene 1. The complete Works. Weels, Satnley W. Oxford University Press: Soap Opera Digest, December 11, The place where you only die twice. Soap Opera Digest, September 17, Wilcox Rhonda V. Come nasce una leggenda televisiva. Though a little extreme, expressed this way, it well conveys the importance of love stories for daytime. They wanted us to wait for it till the last possible chance. Daytime vs. Soap Opera Digest, June 26, Soap Opera Digest, May 3, Soap Opera Digest, April 11, Soap Opera Digest, December 15, Soap Opera Digest, November 26, Soap Opera Digest, December 24, As Gina Wisker and others have argued, Buffy and Angel are not as subversive in their use of the vampire figure. But vampires like Drusilla and Darla, with their pop-punk Gothic aesthetics, are fascinating character studies; they are obvious pastiches of bizarre literary and historical constructions that enable the viewers to relish their excesses as sources of transgression and disruption, and to dis-identify with the human characters who are disciplined according to a sexual morality. Subversive feminist and queer rearticulations of monsters highlight the social and psychic violence under which bodies are organized, in effect subverting and recirculating discourses that inscribe transgressive sexualities as monstrous. Eschewing the good, the pure, and the beautiful i. Contemporary vampire fiction, for example, embraces the subversive excesses of the gamut of transgressive sexualities inherent in the figure of the vampire. Rejecting enlightenment configurations of the subject organically sufficient, coherent, autonomous and unique , the posthuman embraces the appeal of the abject and the monstrous, of pre-symbolic, revolting bodies. The posthuman recognizes the impurity of every available source of self; there is no retrievable authentic self. Identity then becomes overwhelmed by impure, excessive discourses; it becomes a site of revolt and contestation. Monsters such as Drusilla and Darla hold discourse at a distance, turning misogynist narratives into excessive performances that destabilize, disempower and recirculate their meanings. Drusilla and Darla are corrupt texts, hypersimulations of discourses of woman as sexed monster that creatively and affirmatively reduce the subject to a set of discourses that, by re-circulating their meanings, reject the oppressive structures of subjectivation that incited their initial ideological project. Drusilla and Darla are delicious train wrecks. Discourses of Degeneration: Women, Vampires and Sex 4 The Buffy and Angel creators draw upon a rich pool of mythological, religious and sexology discourses in their writing of gothic female sexuality. The female vampire has functioned in particularly threatening and fascinating ways over the last two centuries. Descriptions of female vampires in literature by men include almost verbatim characteristics found in criminal anthropology and sexology discourses from the nineteenth- and twentieth-centuries. Medical and criminology discourses, and older religious and folkloric discourses, explicitly took on vampiric terminology and imagery, reflecting a primal fear and loathing of the sexual instinct in women. The female vampire especially the queer vampire functions as a repository of patriarchal anxieties over female strength and sexuality. Before he guts Shannon in his truck, he tells her: The hypnotic aggression of the female vampire, her bottomless pit of sexuality, and her predatory siphoning off of masculine transcendent energies, are usually neutralized in order for the happy dance http: The medical and criminal literature explicitly yokes female sexuality and vampiric monstrousness. These texts had much to do with the male literary imagination and its writing of monstrous female sexuality. In The Female Offender , Caesar Lombroso writes that the active enjoyment of the sexual impulse awakens an inherent criminal instinct in woman. Many of these texts equate overindulgence of sexuality in women including masturbation with pointed features, sharp teeth, a paleness of the skin, marked anemic constitutions, and erotic languorousness. In his book Woman: Again, the cultural demonization of sexed women is explicitly associated with vampirism. Female sexuality is seen as a self- polluting sapping of the vital reproductive functions of woman, a criminal misdirection of her reproductive duties. Sexual excess in a woman is a wasteland of sterility, a criminal instinct that leads to the decline of the race. They are the Van Helsings of the medical world. After all, Van Helsing is undoubtedly more important as a doctor a hematologist, which so many vampire hunters are than as a Catholic. Featured in the medical detection novel par excellence— Dracula—Van Helsing and his Crew of Light are armed with the signs or symptoms of the atavistic, sexed female body. Here, and in Carmilla as well vampirism—or female desire —is the disease that needs to be detected, diagnosed and cured. Monstrous women, then, renourish themselves on the seminal substances and blood of men and children. Women supposedly experience a http: To begin his discussion of the sexual periodicity of women, Ellis equates menstruation with estrus: The Hysteric as Vampire A hysterical girl is a vampire who sucks the blood of the healthy people about her. Menstruating women were impressionable, suggestible, and diminished—they were hysterical. Medical misogynists were apparently enlightened as to the sexual etiology of hysteria early on in the nineteenth-century—and they ran with it. However, as Carol Smith-Rosenburg argues , hysterical women were hypertrophied versions of the Victorian icon of femininity—sick, weak, passive and anemic. The extraordinary emotionalism and excessive excitability of the hysteric made her impressionable and prone to suggestion and hypnotic states the hysterical disposition was also believed susceptible to imagining itself in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural. The infamous Dr. Lucy sleepwalks at least three times in the novel, Van Helsing puts Mina under hypnosis no less than five times men in Dracula get a sexual thrill from paralyzing and immobilizing women. Hysterical women want to fuck. And the number one symptom of hysteria was anemia, the number one cure, re-sanguination. She is the vampire. Both are clearly liminal figures, straddling life and death, acting out their own irrelevance. Because they have been cheated out of sexual knowledge, female sexuality in these texts figures as the uncanny—that repressed thing that always returns. It wants compensation. She is sex-starved, and her desires will always return to haunt and horrify men. The Hysteric as Vampire: Drusilla 14 In light of these discourses and others I will subsequently discuss, the representation of Drusilla in Buffy is inspired. Her character consistently rehearses, relishes and subverts these discourses. Sure , as others have noted, Drusilla a mixture of Dracula and Carmilla? Readings of monsters proliferate rather than cohere into a whole. Drusilla is a perfect example. She is a vampire, a witch, a siren and a mesmerist. She is Lilith mother of http: She is also the mythological Cassandra, cursed by second-sight, doubly cursed and driven mad by the fact that no one will believe her visions. She tells of a vision she had of men dying in the mine, which of course came true: Two men died. My seeing things is an affront to the Lord. I try to be pure in his sight. Significantly, folkloric evidence has it that those cursed by their parents or the church those excommunicated became vampires. Caesar Lombroso was one of many male scientists who fetishized a perceived innate childishness, frivolousness and shortsightedness in women. In ordinary cases these defects are neutralised by piety, maternity, want of passion, sexual coldness, by weakness and an undeveloped intelligence If women do not constrain their sexuality to marriage and maternity—the central cultural uses of their bodies—they are http: Sexed women are decidedly bad mothers, and their perversities are contagious especially with the female vampire. For yes, she is the infantilized, fetishized Victorian child-woman, but there is a subterranean menace lurking beneath the surface of these playful roles. At various times throughout Buffy and Angel, she growls, snarls, barks and purrs when sexually aroused. Both she and Lucy are demonic mother parodies, women in white who stalk the neighborhood at night. Perhaps my favorite line from the Buffy oeuvre is when Dru, wearing her white baby doll dress, slowly approaches a little boy on the playground and sings a song: What will your mummy sing, when they find your body? Dru snarls and responds: She is anything but virginal, and she enjoys the occasional toddler for dinner. Vampires are never daughters, wives or mothers in the traditional sense, and this is a powerful imaginative possibility for many women. Both society and Angelus drive Drusilla mad. In literature, two great climactic ends have been prescribed for women—madness and death. Drusilla is both mad and dead, yet she nevertheless rises and wreaks as much vengeance upon the symbolic order as she possibly can. Her rage against Angelus and a cruel society which has cursed her is palpable during several different episodes. When Angel tells Dru to leave town with Spike, she visibly seethes: While torturing him she sings the same song as on the playground this is her playground! She then starts talking about her whole family: They used to eat Until you came and ripped their throats out. In her floor-length, white baby doll dress, with her canopy bed and with Miss Edith, Drusilla is childishly hyper-feminine and petulantly infantile, two classic descriptions of the hysterical woman Smith-Rosenburg But of course this is not at all true—Dru is anything but shortsighted. Her real prophetic powers place her in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural see paragraph 10 above. Typical of the female hysteric, Drusilla is also womb-driven, but in a shockingly perverse way. Her body is pure spectacle; it is excessive, undomesticated and sexually saturated. She rubs her stomach, knowing she will satisfy her sexual hunger, yet her womb will remain barren. And while Spike explains to his mother http: This is a bizarre perversion of a multitude of origin narratives. Oedipus is gone and in its place are monstrous births. The Prostitute as Vampire: Darla 21 And this brings us to Darla, the matriarch of our little vampire family. While women in the home were the most important moral force in the country, women out of the home were prostitutes, vectors of disease, contagion and degeneration. Because civilization depended upon the containing of sex in marriage, civilization was threatened by the prostitute, especially the syphilitic prostitute. As scholars have noted, AIDS was not the first blood disease to find expression in a reactionary rhetoric of vampirism. The syphilitic prostitute as vampire or vampirism as syphilitic virus was just one rhetorical maneuver in a series of moral panics that scapegoated sexually or otherwise deviant behavior as the source of social and national decay. Clarimonde is an evil courtesan vampire who carnally seduces a priest and is later killed by holy water. In most identifiable folkloric traditions, the prostitute was one of several marginalized, outsider figures who were potential vampires after death along with the godless, suicides, witches, the excommunicated and those cursed by their families. Both are fallen women and social outcasts. On her deathbed, The Master visits Darla disguised as a priest: Darla has clearly been a victim of sexual hypocrisy, as the show draws upon historical fact that prostitutes were routinely forced to emigrate to the colonies in the seventeenth-century Darla is a prostitute in the Virginia Colony in The primitive woman was impure rather than criminal. With the public rage over prostitution and its consequent cultural demonization of female sexuality, the sexual instinct in woman became both metaphorically and supposedly literally vampiric. The most common French term used for a prostitute in the nineteenth-century was a man-eater. The Buffyverse clearly draws upon historical sources here. Stoker himself probably died of tertiary syphilis in , contracting the disease as a young man probably from a prostitute. Scholars have interpreted Dracula as an extended melodramatic meditation upon sick, diseased, sexed bodies. Angel plays with these discourses—Darla is dying of syphilis when Wolfram and Hart bring her back to life. According to Paul Barber the Slavic succubus, the Mora cognate of Mare , assumes various shapes and visits men at night and tries to suffocate them. He quotes Jan Machal: Over a span of several episodes Darla drugs Angel and enters his dreams. In the unconscious mind, Jones argues, blood, semen and milk are indistinguishable: The explanation of these [vampiric] phantasies is surely not hard. A nightly visit from a beautiful or frightful being, who first exhausts the sleeper with passionate embraces, and then withdraws from him a vital fluid; all this can point only to a natural and common process, namely to nocturnal emissions accompanied with dreams of a more or less erotic nature. In the unconscious mind blood is commonly an equivalent for semen. The Buffyverse explores the minefield of female sexuality more than any other mainstream television show. Buffy is about female desire, and though simple, there is no overestimating the importance of this. This is the stunning impact of the show at its best. After losing her virginity to Angel, she is terrorized by the monstrous Angelus, turning her loss of virginity into a stultifying traumatic event. Her intense desire for Angel can of course never be fulfilled because of his curse and because the show would end. First, the episode is a typical—if not classic—masculinist narrative: At the beginning of the episode, Buffy complains to Angel that he makes decisions for her without her knowledge or consent in the previous Buffy episode, Angel comes to Sunnydale and follows her around without her knowledge: And thirdly, the episode is a typical male fantasy: What we could have had? No one will know but me. It did. I know it did! I felt your heart beat! I'll never forget. I'll never forget! This is a powerful criticism of the male fear of female autonomy and sexuality, a fear that takes brutal form in societies that practice genital mutilation. But the episode treads some dangerous ground for women, rehearsing the misogynist story that women are sexuality; they do not have or own their desire, they are not the subjects of their desire; they are desire embodied, and they are always in heat. While the episode is powerfully radical in some ways, in others it is not: She has sex with Wilson and wakes up the next morning hugely pregnant with a demon child, even though she used protection: Cordelia is sexually disciplined in this episode. These episodes are critiques of and antidotes to the sanitized view of birth and motherhood as embodying all that is good, natural and beautiful. She is reproduction as both http: Women become womb monsters—fascinatingly ambiguous, reproductive nightmares see Creed, chapter 4. As a side note, both these characters meet unfortunate fates. She wakes up out of a coma because she has a vision that Angel is in trouble. I got my guy back on track. While at times she seems to enjoy a healthy sexual relationship with Riley, it is more often unhealthy. Such erotic transgressions are powerful antidotes to the totalizing ideology of romantic love which functions so oppressively for women. When Buffy turns to the door of his crypt to leave, Spike intercepts her and goes down on his knees: Buffy scoffs at his masochistic desires. You like me because you enjoy getting beat down. Last night was the most perverse, degrading experience of my life. Phallic culture sexually dominates http: She later goes down on Spike after he tells her to leave: Buffy and Spike have clearly been into bondage: Her playful sexual escapades come to pathologize her sense of self. She despises herself for her sexual transgressions, becoming a victim of her own desires. The sequence is worth reproducing in its entirety: Creepy Voices: What did you do? She opens her eyes and looks down. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, on the bed, looking up at her with an expression of pleasure, with his hands stretched up above him. Buffy slides her hands up to just below where the cuffs are. Katrina lies underneath Buffy, looking up at her. Cut to Buffy and Spike in his crypt, lying on the floor under the rugs, moving fast, with Spike on top. Buffy moans in pleasure. Cut to Buffy in the graveyard punching Katrina. Cut to the head-shot of Buffy straddling Spike on his bed. She lifts her hand, holding a stake. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, his eyes closed as if sleeping, Buffy thrusts down the stake. Cut to the forest. Buffy is straddling Katrina who lies with her eyes closed and the stake protruding from her stomach. Buffy feels she must be punished. Her self-hatred climaxes in the truly nauseating scene nauseating on purpose? Tara has just told Buffy that there is nothing wrong with her: Why do I let Spike do those things to me? Erotic transgressions lead to psychological problems, and vice versa. This is in part why the show ends as it does—destroying the Hellmouth, and cutting down Caleb and the First, but also putting the question of romance to the side for Buffy, at least for http: After all, Lacan argued that the subject is predicated upon and constituted by lack—it is the ontological structure motoring subjectivity. Traditionally, the vampire is the patriarch par excellence: The male vampire as patented by Polidori is a romantic Byronic hero: Masculine creative energies never tire of men becoming the subjects of their own knowledge at the expense of a woman. Through her mortification comes his existential knowledge. And while Carmilla is a crucial exception to this trend, she too shares in the fate of most female vampires before But of course the Romantic, existentialist male vampire is usually able to stick around. The feminist or queer http: Transgressive sexualities have always been coded as monstrous. As I mention above, what more appropriate association than the vampire for distilling the perversions of queer sexualities? Transgressive sexualities have often been inextricably yoked to the image of plague-like, blood-borne infections that lay waste huge populations. Queers and prostitutes in the nineteenth- century were evil predators who infiltrated, infected and contaminated the public body with their bad blood. The homophobic cultural agenda of the right in the s used vampiric imagery to stigmatize the queer community in the wake of the AIDS crisis. With their perverse sexual arrangements and promiscuous mixing of bodily fluids, vampires untie the binds between penetrated female bodies and organically sufficient penetrating male bodies. The vampire has become a politically perverse figure for exploring transgressive conceptions of family and community, critiques of origins, alternative potentials for selfhood, and the cultural and social inscriptions of sexual and gendered subjects. Female and queer vampires have traditionally embodied the horror of transgressive sexuality. Now they are unspeakably monstrous, threatening, and attractive. Darla, Angelus, Drusilla and Spike enjoy multiple perverse sexual arrangements, either blatant or coded. Angelus tells Spike that he looks forward to having a boy around to play with: Do you? Even after they regain their souls, Angel and Spike are both murderous and amorous. Gina Wisker has also discussed contemporary vampire fiction and its potential for feminist and queer reevaluation and recirculation. Both of these writers argue that http: In a third season Angel episode flashback, Angelus recounts his escape from Holtz to the young vampire James. After his escape, Angelus later caught up with Darla in Vienna. Drusilla and Darla enjoy multiple sexual arrangements within and without their vampire family, a privilege usually only accorded to men. In a recent flashback of Angel, Drusilla infuriates Spike because she refuses to be monogamous. Angelus gets up, stands behind Dru and slips his arms around her body: Spike taunts Angelus for being cuckolded by Darla, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Drusilla walk out: So he could violate our women. Violate in succession! Spank us till Tuesday. In these episodes he is a sadistic killer. Get dressed and get out. Because the next time I see you, I will have to kill you. Well, that makes it all heroic. It just— happened. Perhaps for the first time in their centuries-long relationship, Angel has treated Darla like a whore. Queer and feminist sex radicalism emphasizes roles in sexuality that are infinitely exchangeable and never align statically with gender i. Drusilla and Darla are phallic, http: The phallus is anything but a transcendental signifier of sexual and social power; as queer sex radicals have pointed out, how can it be when lesbians can strap on a dildo or crack a whip, or when female to male transsexuals can have one made? The phallus is pure simulation—an ontological joke. Only through psychological props can phallic male sufficiency be purchased by this suturing of woman into a zone of non-being and lack, a place of mutilation, castration, trauma and penis envy. Positions of domination and submission are just that—positions. Drusilla as virginal, Victorian child-bride is an aesthetic role that she dons as a sex toy—she turns the persona into a bizarre style of sex play that turns both her and Spike on. Notes 1 Halberstam and Livingston are writing in a different context from the vampire. This is from their introduction to the topic of posthuman bodies. For a different view of transgressive sexual relationships in the Buffyverse, see Vivien Burr. Loring, Everil Worrell, F. Marion Crawford, Carl Jacobi and others. I could just—eat them up. Emphasis mine. I like it! The queer person, so it goes, does not successfully navigate the rapids of Oedipus, and when Oedipus fails, monsters are the result Psycho is the classic example. In psychoanalytic sexual depth models of interiority, the queer exists in a zone of narcissism, excess and non-being: Works Cited Barber, Paul. Vampires, Burial and Death. New Haven: Yale University Press, Bronfen, Elisabeth. Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic. Burr, Vivien. A Sartrean Analysis. Busse, Kristina. Califia, Patrick. Public Sex: The Culture of Radical Sex. Second Edition. San Francisco: Cleiss Press, Case, Sue-Ellen. Female Embodiment and Feminist Theory. Columbia University Press, Craft, Christopher. The Vampire and the Critics. Margaret Carter. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. DeKelb-Rittenhouse, Diane. Dijkstra, Bram. Naruto blinked in disbelief. I've been trying and planning for months on how to get back at Ero-nii in the most horrible and embarrassingly humiliating way possible… and Ino singlehandedly pulls it off without even thinking about it. That shouldn't be possible… I'M the Prankster King of Konoha… I should be the one to be able to do that so easily… it's like nothing makes sense in the world anymore…". Mind Rape. Silently, the short man turned to Sarutobi and looked at him dead in the eyes, and blood dripping down his nose. The Kazekage looked up to where the irregular shakes in the building were coming from curiously. Sarutobi chuckled nervously. I'll send some of my men to check up on it right away. Honestly though, they're shinobi, not engineers… they can't be expected to notice everything when it comes to things like detailed building structure…". It was very fortunate that Konoha's and its allies' forces were not in direct combat and were currently tasked setting up traps at the moment, because if someone needed help right then, they wouldn't have gotten it. All they would have heard was Scabbard rolling on the ground, laughing like there was no tomorrow. Tsume growled deeply from her seat, causing the rest of the clan members near her and Kuromaru to back away slowly from the angry woman. Locked naked in a box with Tora and five kilos of catnip. There will be no mercy…". Asuma wiped his forehead nervously. For a moment there, I thought Inoichi was going to go after me. Jiraiya said nothing as he frantically scribbled down notes in his notepad as if his life depended on it. He was really questioning why he never came back to Konoha when he should have been looking after Naruto. He had completely forgotten how… inspirational… kunoichi could be, and you couldn't find more kunoichi than in a major ninja village. Ghost froze as he heard Ino's confirmation of him having two girlfriends… then he started to shiver as he felt the glare of one very pissed off Inoichi Yamanaka on him. Ohhhhh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck…" He swore. Ghost noticed that Zuzushi was laughing even harder on the ground a few feet away from him. Fucking lizard. Mark my words, Scab, someday very soon, you will find yourself in the middle of a preteen magical schoolgirl academy looking like a bishi translation: The screen in the arena paused for a moment before showing Ino and Sakura's match up. The digital, and at the moment clearly saner, Ino was throwing purple kunai at a relaxed pace before she made a few seals and put her hands over her chest in an odd way. The screen changed to show Ino's fight in the preliminaries. We'll find out right now! Zuzushi recovered from her laughing fit just long enough to fly to Ghost's shoulder before continuing to giggle in the way only a tiny dragon could. Ino Yamanaka! Ino wasted no time taking out several dozen shuriken and throwing them expertly at Sakura all at once. During her training with Waltz, the old man had constantly assaulted her with various styles, sizes, and ranges of attacks. From kunai and shuriken, to his fists, to pelting rain, to a giant block of ice, the old man had been indiscriminant with his teachings, making sure that Sakura was completely used to that particular variation of assault before moving on to the next style. More often than not, he would jump from one style to another she had previously practiced with in order to ensure that she did not forget her previous lessons. The end result was what the audience was watching. For the first few volleys, Sakura had dodged most of the flying weapons, but resorted to deflect the few that she initially missed with her kunai. However as the attacks continued, Sakura relied on her kunai less and less as she managed to dodge them with greater efficiency. Sakura frowned. It still wasn't easy, though. Ino was taught by Anko personally for a good amount of time, and it showed. Sakura doubted that any other genin aside from Tenten would have been able to force her to deflect their projectiles for that long and still keep her on the edge with basic shinobi equipment. Still, this was way easier than getting used to Sasori's attack patterns. God forbid should Ino actually take up puppetry. She wouldn't be able to form any seals at this rate. Ino's attacks were just too fast. What happens if someone you know has gone crazy and they're attacking you, but you know they're just confused and can be brought back? What's the best way to deal with them? It doesn't have to be correct logic. Twisted logic can work just as well in some cases if you present it right. If they're crazy at the moment, it shouldn't matter that much. Ghost sighed. The point of beating the shit out of them is to wear them out, calm them down, reduce the obscure amount of adrenaline running through their system, and most importantly, keep them still so they can't run away from your inevitable friendship speech. What are a few bruises and broken bones compared to a burst blood vessel in the brain? If you want to reason with them, be my guest, but at least try to not get killed by something stupid if you do. Arguing to prove a complicated point will only distract you from everything around you, and it dulls your senses when you are trying to debate something. Better to have your opponent pinned to the ground when you're trying to talk to them than trying to kill you. Why am I not surprised? The girl looked down to see a single senbon sticking out of her thigh. Sakura, it looks like you got hit with something…" Ino cooed as she started to make some seals just as Sakura attempted to start to run away. Hidden art, mind body disturbance technique…". Sakura's body started to shudder erratically as the technique took effect. I was only looking for shuriken and she snuck that senbon into her attacks! Then I stood still for too long! Don't fight her physically, fight her mentally. That's where her family's techniques take effect…. Not paying any attention to her arms moving towards the senbon in her leg, Sakura delved deep into her mind. She knew she was able to do it occasionally, but ironically enough, it was always easier when Ino tried one of her family's techniques on her. She could always feel where Ino's chakra was and use it as a beacon to know where to go. Thankfully, she had been meditating a fair amount during her month break. It helped her calm down and concentrate on her chakra control. Soon enough, Sakura had discovered Ino's presence inside herself, lodging itself between where her mind met her body. Unlike last time, where it was Ino's entire psyche inside her body, Sakura felt something more like Ino's intent and hands in its place. Smirking to herself, the pink haired girl started to fight back. Back in reality, Ino stumbled back in shock. I've never heard of someone able to break out of my clan's techniques when they're under my control! Sakura grinned as she quickly flipped through several seals. We've never heard of a psycho that uses exploding model cows to train students until a year ago. Get used to it! Demonic Art: Great Distortion! Ino's world immediately twisted on itself. Her sight was blurred and twisted. Her hearing was filled to the brim with loud and cringing sounds. Her balance was shot. She smelled a cornucopia of obscure scents, and she was growing dizzier with every passing second. I can't believe I gave her an opening like that. Anko-sensei would kill me if she saw that mistake…" She managed to swear through her confusion before forming the ram seal. The illusion wavered for a moment before regaining its obscurely disorienting effects. Forehead is better at genjutsu than I thought. Maybe those lessons with Kurenai-sensei actually did have some use. She wasn't. Instead there was a large smoke cloud where Sakura once was, preventing Ino from immediately tracking where her opponent could have gone. Sakura panted heavily behind one of the trees in the arena floor as she took the senbon out of her leg and quickly started making seals for the medical technique that would counteract the poison that Ino used on her. Her leg was bleeding in three separate spots, indicating that her body had stabbed itself two more additional times before she managed to break Ino's technique and run away. Right now, she had set up a low level illusion that was designed to cover her tracks fairly well, but she had no doubt that Ino was good enough to eventually find her regardless. She didn't want to admit it, but Ino's poisons were unusually potent. It was nowhere near as strong as Sasori's poison, thank all that was decent, but it still gave her a hard time regardless, and it was also incredibly fast acting, which is why she retreated after casting her illusion on Ino instead of going for the win. She doubted that she would have been able to counteract the poison in time if she hadn't gotten her prior memories and experiences back. Extracting the last of the harmful substance and closing the last of her wounds, Sakura started to plan her next move. Ino would more than likely give up on using her clan's techniques since they had proven to be less than effective against her, and likewise Sakura felt that using offensive illusions on Ino was just as effective since the girl managed to break out of one of her more potent illusions on her second try. That meant that the only thing left available for the two to uses was just taijutsu and whatever the hell they haven't shown yet. Sakura smirked as she slowly flipped through some seals. Ino may have had her poisons, but they were useless if they didn't get into her in the first place…. I just want to play. Then when I win, Sasuke-kun will see that I'm better than you, and he'll come to me instead…" She pouted. Despite her demeanor, Ino was getting irritated. Regardless of how much tracking training she did with Anko, she couldn't seem to find a single trace of the pink haired girl. Ino smirked before throwing the kunai in her hand at her opponent. I actually don't want to be with her. The kunai flew through the air straight at Sakura… and passed right through her, causing her to disappear in a cloud of smoke. But it talked! It was proving harder than she originally thought to be able to control her augmented strength. It was nowhere near where she once was, but she would still raise suspicions if she went overboard. Luckily, she could still pass off as just an exceptionally strong kunoichi as long as she kept her hits to only this level. She was also at that moment thankful for doing a bit of extra studying on the side when she first started her genjutsu training and learned the D-ranked technique that allowed her to make it seem as if her voice was coming from somewhere else. With that technique, mixed with the poor lighting from the shade of the trees, and the basic clone technique, she had managed to make the opening she needed to turn the fight around. Ino rolled on the ground for a few meters before jumping back onto her feet with several kunai and shuriken in her hands. She had been smacked around by Anko for so long that such responses were instinct for her at this point. Despite her still blurry vision, she could still make out Sakura's pink hair coming towards her at a fair pace, so that was what she aimed for without any hesitation. Just give up already! Sakura frowned as she dodged the oncoming metal with no problem at all. She had placed herself under the reaction enhancing genjutsu again while waiting for Ino to get into position, so she wouldn't have nearly as much trouble detecting and dodging the poisoned metal this time. It was like the girl's movements had become twice as quick in the time they were playing cat and mouse. Suddenly the mouse was making the cat look like a turtle. Ino didn't know why, but she had a bad feeling that things would get worse if she fought Sakura in a taijutsu match. She had enough kunai and shuriken to fight a decently sized battalion on her thanks to her modified pouch which had a storage seal on the inside, but wasting weaponry was something that could only hurt her in the long run. Another thing that Anko had to force into the girl via sheer terror and live experience in order to learn. Grabbing onto a small pellet, Ino grimaced. She was hoping to not use this particular item so early in her matches, but now wasn't the time to second guess herself. With the new plethora of dangerous sharp objects ready, Ino threw them all at her opponent, who was less than 10 meters from her at this point. Sakura dodged all of the thrown objects with ease again, but she had noticed that a small round pellet was aimed several feet in front of her…. A large purple gas cloud exploded in front of Sakura as Ino jumped back with a smirk on her face. She wouldn't be able to hit Sakura accurately due to her vision being impaired by the smoke, but that was irrelevant since her opponent would have easily inhaled some of the gas by no…. A second explosion echoed through the arena as an exploding tag went off between where Ino was and the center of the poison cloud. The poisonous gas was blown in the opposite direction of the young Yamanaka as she was distracted and blinded by the light of the fire, which left her completely open for an exhausted and extremely pissed off Sakura to go on the offensive. Before Ino had a chance to look up or readjust her eyes again, Sakura had closed the gap between the two and delivered a strong punch to the girl's face, launching her another dozen meters away. This time though, Ino was too dazed to immediately get back on her feet, allowing Sakura to once again rush in to get inside her appropriate throwing range. Sakura didn't answer as she took out a kunai of her own and sparred against her unstable opponent. It didn't last long, however, as Sakura managed to completely shut down Ino's somewhat erratic attacks and toss her hard into the ground, knocking the wind out of her, then sucker punching the girl in the stomach when her guard was down. Ino gasped out for air with wide open eyes before she passed out from the pain. Keeping up her reaction enhancing illusion and that last rush had used up a lot of her stamina. Far more than she was comfortable admitting. She grimaced as her arm started to throb. It might have not been the safest or smartest move, but using that exploding tag so close to her to get rid of the poison gas was the only way she could think of to keep the fight in her favor. Hell, if it worked against an S-class missing-nin, it should be more than enough for Ino. Ghost walked over to Ino and inspected her carefully, then looked at Sakura who was picking herself up off the ground with some trouble. Nodding to the girl the man turned to the audience. Sakura Haruno! Wow… 50 ish reviews for that last chapter. Very nice. Keep on reviewing guys. College is still a pain in the ass. Homework is still a pain in the ass. Kishi is still pulling his plot out of his ass. So nothing much has changed. Shippuden movie 4 looks… interesting. Time travel is definitely something that was bound to be touched on at some point, but I'm more interested to see Hiraishin in full scale animated action than anything else. Also, Shippuden movie 3 is coming out on dvd in japan within a week, so for anyone who doesn't know what that means, just look for it on the internet subbed within a few weeks. It will actually be there. Just throwing it out there. If you knew as much as I do about them, you would too. I'm all for reducing the average person's carbon footprint, just… don't try and get a hybrid for at least another years. Trust me. It's actually not worth it. Freaking yearlong research report…. So review, laugh, worship the Log, watch some movies, and for me, hope these last few weeks of college this year don't try to force me to bend over too much. Just In All Stories: New Stories: Updated Crossovers: New Crossovers: Story Story Writer Forum Community. Things didn't go so well this time after Danzo betrayed konoha and joined Akatsuki. As the Kyubi was being removed from Naruto however, an unexpected stranger arrived to change all for the better NaruHina timetravel some oc please review. Chapter And going and going and going and going… I don't own Naruto, any of its characters, or any references in this story. Konoha Arena: They have quite the potential, these two…" "So do they have any special nicknames that I should know about? I'm starting to wonder if you're suffering from this blasted old age harder than I am…" Said short fat man frowned. They'll eventually come up with a fitting name for her in our stead…" "Hey, after these fights are over, do you want to try and make some names for these shinobi of yours like old times? Yugito frowned. Words could not describe the range of emotions and current state of Hiashi's mind right now. Should those two actually manage to hone their skills any further as they aged… he had reason to believe that even his master would have issues if matched up against them… But the invasion held priority. By the time those green children knew what hit them, they would be dead… And by then Sasuke-kun would already be halfway to Oto… o. Damn it! He wanted to fight the dobe when he was at full strength! Not when he was half dead! As the group approached the door, they could hear voices coming from the other side. It's not the same as jumping out of a window…" "I will kill him…" Growled Sasuke, twitching angrily. You two seem fine, so I'll just go back now…" "Ah…" Temari blinked before looking around. Sakura blinked in confusion. Did Gaara just make a joke? Hana rolled her eyes. Boys and their balls… I'll never understand…" o. I came here to warn you about Gaara…" "He's the container of Shukaku, the Ichibi, right? That head of yours might have saved you from me but…" "So…" Shikamaru interrupted in a bored tone. I mean you're somewhat decent compared to most of the other annoying guys out there, and I don't want you to die so quickly…" Shikamaru looked at the girl with seemingly disinterested eyes before yawning again and turning around. Ino froze. Hinata-chan released my tenketsu, so I should be in decent enough shape to kick his ass when our match starts…" "You wish, dobe…" Sasuke smirked, though inwardly he was starting to think that maybe it would have been a smart idea to ask Hinata to leave a few of his teammate's chakra points blocked just in case… "So what did we miss? Heh, no wonder you have no sense of self-preservation…" The group froze as a familiar ravenous feeling made itself known in the air. I think they were pretty impressed… though I don't think the proctor scored many points, judging from the amount of killing intent the women in the audience were giving him…" "I am quite certain Naruto-san is unable to hear you…" Shino commented, seeing that Naruto was rocking back and forth, denying that he was a pervert repeatedly. Every passing second, he was beginning to believe that he would do this invasion less for revenge and more for making the world a better place as a whole… o. You'd make an excellent addition to Ame…" Ghost shrugged. Giving advice is against the rules! This buffoon would soon enough know not to underestimate shinobi from Ame… "So then, I assume you two are ready to try and top that last fight? He hoped he wouldn't embarrass them… Ghost then turned to Kagari, prompting the screen to change to his data. He could always just roll around the arena and not get hit for the rest of the match and force a draw…" "He'd better not. I doubt that they didn't prepare for at least this much in his match…" o. Every time he approached one of those small black and white balls nowadays, all he could see was a screaming miniature version of himself… "Heheh! Sakura raised an eyebrow. After all, we did find you on the edge of that crater with Waltz-sama after that large shockwave…" Naruto shook his head vigorously in denial. The tags will take him down before he even gets close to me…" "Here I come! Ghost prepared his body to move. These brats of yours are really starting to interest me…" o. He might have been lucky enough to pass out before this happened, but there's no way the people in the audience will let him live this down later…" "Remind me to give the boy a few free sessions with me later. Out of all the people she could have been fighting, she's up against the one that has the highest chance of letting her out of the arena with all her bones intact… next to Shikamaru, of course…" Shikaku frowned. I'm surprised that she's been progressing as far as she did…" Shikaku frowned for a moment as he tried to remember all the things his son told him about his teammate over the past few months. Sometimes I truly wonder about her…" "Yeah…" Shikaku muttered under his breath, gears turning in his head… remembering the girl's disheveled appearance when she arrived late to the arena. That would be as ridiculous as… Ghost and Anko-sensei and… Hana-sensei… Shikamaru blinked as Ino started to grin in a less than comforting manner. Stop coddling the brats, for crying out loud…" o. So many moustaches…" Crypt whispered to himself as he stared at the crowd. I also remember that she was doing extensive taijutsu and evasion training with Waltz-sama during our month break…" "Hmmm… an interesting point. I'd say that's pretty dumb luck right there…" "He also looks the part too! That's all I can say…" o. You're acting more confident than usual. Ino smirked. That shouldn't be possible… I'M the Prankster King of Konoha… I should be the one to be able to do that so easily… it's like nothing makes sense in the world anymore…" "… I'm renewing my restraining order on Ino after this…" Sasuke said to himself as he shivered uncontrollably. Honestly though, they're shinobi, not engineers… they can't be expected to notice everything when it comes to things like detailed building structure…" o. Hana shivered uncontrollably. There will be no mercy…" o. Hidden art, mind body disturbance technique…" Sakura's body started to shudder erratically as the technique took effect. That's where her family's techniques take effect… Not paying any attention to her arms moving towards the senbon in her leg, Sakura delved deep into her mind. Ino may have had her poisons, but they were useless if they didn't get into her in the first place… "Oh Saaakuraaaa…" Ino taunted as she walked carefully in the slightly spread out trees, holding a kunai out in each hand. That's mean Sakura… is that what you really think of me? Sakura dodged all of the thrown objects with ease again, but she had noticed that a small round pellet was aimed several feet in front of her… Boom. She wouldn't be able to hit Sakura accurately due to her vision being impaired by the smoke, but that was irrelevant since her opponent would have easily inhaled some of the gas by no… BOOM! Freaking yearlong research report… So review, laugh, worship the Log, watch some movies, and for me, hope these last few weeks of college this year don't try to force me to bend over too much. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7..

I had to leave her at home and go ahead. Sometimes I truly wonder about her…". She didn't know why. What's Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy Ino blinked, not knowing what to say as she looked around.

She saw Temari still gaping in surprise before giving Shikamaru an occasional curious glance, also seemingly unnoticed by the boy. Tenten was talking to Neji, who nodded stiffly, however she could tell that the two had a better relationship than first anticipated.

She saw Sakura and Sasuke standing next to each other on the other end of the railing, closer than she herself had ever gotten with the Uchiha, and talking comfortable with the here without any sign of hesitation.

Looks of longing, but held back due to nervousness or because the one they liked never paid them any attention.

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She was confused. She willingly admitted it. She had always set her sights on Sasuke, but even though he had been gradually becoming more vocal and social over the source few months, he had also been somehow bonding with the forehead even more. The more she tried, the more he seemed to look the other direction, even when she tried to use some of Anko-sensei's more… mature seducing methods. It just made him turn even more… and run as well.

It was ridiculous! She couldn't have them both! That would be as ridiculous as… Ghost and Anko-sensei and… Hana-sensei…. Shikamaru blinked as Ino started to grin in a less than comforting manner. Why are you smiling like that? You're planning to do something troublesome, aren't you? Ghost looked Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy the state of the fighting grounds as the two boys were sent to the medical bay.

While he didn't mind, there might be Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy issues for later on if it was left in the same condition. That being the case, he switched his microphone to a private line with the Hokage. The field is pretty wrecked down here. Is it okay if we fix it before the next match? It'll only take about a minute tops. The Hokage sighed in his chair as he got the message, prompting the visiting leaders to look at him oddly. Ghost nodded as he changed the frequency of the mike so that he would be heard through the speakers again.

Please bear with me, as it will only take a few minutes at the most. We should just have the brats fight on the grounds the way it is! Stop coddling the brats, for crying Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy loud…". Ghost took off his microphone and put it into his pocket before raising his hands to his mouth.

The audience blinked in confusion as they looked around for the mysterious Crypt that Ghost was apparently calling. Nothing happened for a few moments before a woman screamed as she saw a body flying through the air as if it was thrown to the middle of the arena, sailing like a dead weight before landing a few dozen feet away from Ghost on the ground with a low thump.

The crowd was quiet for several moments with wide eyes, except for those who knew who the man was and how odd he could be. Sarutobi groaned, apparently ignoring the Kazekage's remark.

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Ghost sighed as he saw the audience stare in shock. He was hoping that Crypt would just pop out of the ground like normal… but then again, when does normal actually apply to the man? He put the earpiece to his mouth.

Amantssexy Watch Clit to clit lesbian porn Video M porntube. Three is enough, I said. He clearly had no idea not what I was talking about but had the good sense not to ask for elaboration. It was a cotton-blend shirt dress, roughly forty years old, in a brown tartan print with a hint of antifreeze blue woven through the plaid. The bodice was unflatteringly long-waisted and missing two of the five covered buttons that otherwise gaped over my breasts. The skirt fanned out into uneven box pleats at the hips. Worn to shine in patches and reeking of mothballs, it looked like something that had been fished out of a garbage bin moments before it was enlisted as oil rag. When I asked the proprietor what he wanted for it, he gave me a shrug, I dunno. A dollar seem reasonable? At the time, I was hanging out with the safety-pinned gas station jacket enthusiast set. Like me, they were mostly white kids with fucked-up hair. They were pretty sure the American experiment was over, that any day The People would swarm the streets to demand a radical restructuring of society. Until then, the most important thing we could do was keep making flyers and not sell out to a major label. I thought I might refashion myself as a radical leftist. I was and still am attracted to angry with people with a barbed sense of humor. The type of person inclined to go apoplectic when human beings treat other human beings like less than. I figured the far left was as good a place as any to make friends and find lovers. I read the books. I tried to sort out the factions, such as they were, in the college district of a New South city with a complicated racial history and a still deeply segregated population. I scrawled Emma Goldman quotations on my book bag in black marker. I tried to get into Crass. I went to an anti-death penalty protest. Most of my fellow protesters were vehemently Pro-Life in all contexts, a fact I only discovered after complaining loudly to the women around me about the terrible anti-abortion protesters that showed up every Saturday to picket the clinic across the street from my apartment. I was met with cold stares and the glint of candlelight reflected off crosses. No veil. Who knew? I have never felt so Protestant. I had already registered as a Democrat, but I signed up for the Communist Party when I found an ad in the back of a zine. Are you now or have you ever been? Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were one of my favorite celebrity couples. The closest one took place in an afterhours classroom on campus. There, I found a room of four people quietly writing postcards to Zapatistas, while a forty-something dude leered at the girls and tried to lead the group in a Woody Guthrie sing-along. She was student of both the Russian Language and Revolution in general as a historical subject, but had little use for political pieties. I met her for dinner free, vegetarian, hosted by the Hari Krishnas at the campus interfaith house. One of the Krishna dudes interrupted us to say that the meals were only free so long as we gave a donation. We went to a noisy, smelly house show to see a bunch of noisy, smelly punk rock bands. Between sets, we sat on a derelict upholstered sofa that had been left to rot on the front porch through all four seasons of Piedmont humidity. We smoked cigarettes among skinny white boys arguing points of ideological purity seemingly indistinguishable from music taste. An abandoned old school with shattered palladian windows loomed on a hill over us surrounded by long-rusted chain link. Periodically, I would imagine I saw shadows inside. I suspected they were benign. I was mostly unhappy in those days—no one who wears that much brown by choice can possibly be emotionally stable—but I liked the house shows and the zines and that romantic end of the world feeling. For a time, I had a few of the buttons saved in an old Band-Aid box, but eventually it too was lost to time. January needled my lungs and numbed my fingers. I must have looked horrible, all greasy-haired and sniffling when I barged into her kitchen. She looked like a vision—all white and gold— a coronation Queen Elizabeth I in leggings and oversized sweaters and a Christmas-themed apron. She was slicing a pecan pie. Her specialty. I wish I were dead. Which, because I was sixteen, was both gospel truth and complete hyperbole at the same time. The Countess wiped her hands on a tea towel. Drink each one, really fast. Then put this on. She held up a tube of lipstick, blood red. I was a novice drinker, then, and the tequila— would there be worm bits in it? While my eyes watered and esophagus burned, she gestured again with the lipstick. I applied the lipstick by my reflection in the kitchen window. I thought it accentuated the gap between my front teeth and made the rest look yellow. I felt warm and woozy. The Countess hollered at her little sister. I felt in my pocket for cigarettes and we went out to the car. The Countess was not really a Countess. She looked a painting or a Renaissance princess and aspired, above all, to beautiful things and perfect hospitality. We spent hours driving around fancy neighborhoods, imagining which houses we might live in and how we might entertain once we did. With champagne cocktails and portrait hats. The men would wear seersucker suits and mascara. She liked transgression so discreet as to require a double-take, Was it? Could it? It would be years before I knew she stole that line about the seersucker and mascara from someone else. She had big moods. She made bold statements. What do you all make of that? She drove too fast, squealing into the bend, shooting out onto the Avenue, where the speed limit was an impossible 25 mph for everyone but The Countess, who thought nothing of passing a slower car as if it were rush hour on the expressway. We listed off bullet points about each of the mansions on the right. Hand to God. The strange stone art deco villa in the ivy? Owned by a socialite tarot card reader. The Countess lit another cigarette with the lazy dash lighter and when she opened the window, she flooded the avenue with music. She liked spirally songs with ethereal female vocals. Cocteau Twins. She also had a weakness for Enya, which was hilarious. From my bedroom, I could hear her approach to Orinoco Flow played at death metal volume up the narrow corridor of ranch houses that led to my house. My mother and sister hated it there. I understood that the smaller, shabbier house under the mountain felt like a step down, but I liked where it was. The ones Thomas Wolfe wrote about. The Countess lived at the bottom of the hill in a stone and shingle cottage, scarcely grander than my house. She flagged me down in her front yard. Had I heard from anyone? Was I still hung up on Poetic Bangs? Had I really gotten a car? Would I like a dinner? Could we sit in the smoking section because God she was dying for a cigarette. I let her smoke in my car. Then I started smoking in my car because I drove her to a school. The Countess would coerce a lonely, aging tourists to buy her vodka tonics at the bar. She never got busted [1]. When we were reunited in the fourth grade, she was unusually tall and seemed in all ways about two decades older than the rest of us. I went to her house for a play date. You can be Kathleen Turner or Diane Keaton or something. She handed me a wine glass full of Fresca and started complaining about her imaginary ex-husband, Mark. The Countess would give me a withering gaze and explain that there were no dragons on the Upper East Side. This was accurate. Dragons are definitely more of an Upper West Side thing. I told her I felt lightheaded and she asked if I was going to puke. I said no. He was older. Sometimes she said he was twenty-one. Sometimes she said he was twenty-six. She was so over men our age. She rolled down the windows once we outran the city lights. The black shadows of pines lorded over us on either side of the road. It was cold. She tapped the console. I brought a flask , she said. But the cold i good for your skin. Fresh air prevents wrinkles. I rested my head against the door frame and looked up to see if I could make out the moon. The Countess found academic endeavor a largely dull affair, though she was not, strictly speaking, a bad student. Our school was full of smart kids and rich kids, and a few rich, smart kids. Neither the Countess nor I were rich enough to slack off entirely, so on the multitude of days we called in sick together [2]. I helped her with her papers and she helped me lie to my mother. As time progressed, her house became a one-stop for whoever happened to be out and looking for a place to hang out unscrutinized, often with a crowd. The latter were mostly boys, and all, at best, indifferent to me, unless I had money to throw in for beer or pot, like, even five bucks would help. Those boys would send their girlfriends home and come over to have a cold one before curfew. None of them dated The Countess. I never questioned the stories I heard and the assumptions people made about her because everything about the Countess hinted of sophistication. She was the kind of sixteen-year-old that could mix a perfect martini from memory and apply lipstick without looking in the mirror. It stood to reason she was also a libertine. Her romantic experience, in those days anyway, was scarcely more controversial than my own. And yet those boys, the same one that had gossiped about her in the halls, showed up at her house and lounged with cases of cheap Fake ID beer, while she held court with elaborate desserts she made from scratch, while they still ogled her every time she stood and still talked the same old shit about her every time they left her house. My failure to grasp the convoluted social protocols the Countess rigorously adhered to—even at sixteen she sent thank you notes, even when the party ended with her swinging, half-dressed, from a front porch column, lip-synching Madonna and drinking convenience store champagne straight from the bottle—seemed in danger of upending our careful equilibrium. I took us there first in my car. Then she took us in her car. This was because of the lack of parents. This was because the Countess always had plenty of alcohol and an inclination to experiment with cocktails. Have you ever had a Gin Rickey? This was because the Countess never went to the dances herself. She was beautiful. She was popular. She was funny. She was fearless. She was magnificent. That night, we were the only ones up there. The Countess turned off the car. We sat in silence, puffing out curlicues of smoke. There are stories about The Countess that beggar belief. Some of them are true. Most are the stuff of legend soon lost on the infinite palimpsest of local rumor. Those stories are not mine to tell. And at some point, the Countess herself stopped telling her stories, or, at least, telling them to me. I would come home from college and hear conflicting reports. She was married to a British lord. She was a nanny for a family in Ohio. All seemed equally plausible. Every time a high school reunion comes up, and they do every five years at schools that rely on alumni donations, there are a few names I always look for on the RSVP list. I still dream about The Countess. In my dream, she is always hosting a dinner party in one of those old mansions we used to drive by. That dress made her hair look like shiny copper. That dress made her look like an empress. Scott Fitzgerald used to stay in the hotel, because at the point in my life, sixteen, early seventeen, I still believed in the totemic, transformative power of places. If I could touch this doorframe, that maybe he once touched, then maybe just maybe that would make me a better writer. In the beginning, the Radio Club had a radio station. It was a closet shaped room at the bottom of the stone stairs that opened like the mouth of hell under the old wrestling room and led to a concrete landing. To the left was a cinderblock storage room, home to long-abandoned student art and occasional band practice from the students most likely to get expelled. To the right was the day room, a brick cave that perennially smelled like old sweat, smoke damage and teenage boys. Some of the pubescent male funk may have seeped through the mats upstairs during the curiously intimate rites of violent masculinity performed each wrestling season. It was rare to see people coming and going from the radio station, which leant the Radio Club a little additional glamour. The general consensus seemed to be that they only really existed as a yearbook photo and vehicle to DJ school dances the administration was too cheap to outsource. Sometimes, during a free period, we might hear a bassline, or the mumble of a voice through the wall. This was the only evidence we ever had that the Radio Club was doing anything like radio. The station had a frequency number, but whenever we tried to access it, we heard only static. Just campus. Should someone be interested, this text could be checked: Sacco, Rodolfo. Giappichelli Editore, The richer the one, the more challenged the others. The dynamics that get established inside a Country have particular, individual, unrepeatable histories, which are heavy from the point of view of the cultural legacy they hold. They enter in the cultural DNA of a society. Crypto-formants may be traced: The Ultimate Soap Opera Guide. Stearn Publishers Ltd. The quote is taken from p. Nuova Pratiche Editrice srl, The translation is mine. The original Italian says: Buffy and the east Asian cinema. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Magazine. Issue 33, May The Soap Opera Encyclopedia. New Tork: In the end Passions lets Timmy truly die, following the untimely demise of his portrayer, Josh Ryan Evans, who was only The actor passed away the same day his character died on screen. He had already pre-taped other scenes, in witch Timmy was supposed to appear in heaven looking down to Charity, who got his heart in a transplant. The executives, though, decided to edit them out, out of respect toward him. Soap Opera Digest, November 6, And Down! Il popolo. Domenica 12 marzo, and Waggett, Gerard J. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Official Magazine. Issue No. Dark Shadows Almanac: Los Angeles — London: Pomegranate Press, Ltd. Dark Shadows: Program Guide. Compiled by Ann Wilson. She was dubbed, so the quote is a translation form the Italian. To be continued… Soap Operas around the world. London and New York: Routledge, Fighting the Forces. Act IV, scene 1. The complete Works. Weels, Satnley W. Oxford University Press: Soap Opera Digest, December 11, The place where you only die twice. Soap Opera Digest, September 17, Wilcox Rhonda V. Come nasce una leggenda televisiva. Though a little extreme, expressed this way, it well conveys the importance of love stories for daytime. They wanted us to wait for it till the last possible chance. Daytime vs. Soap Opera Digest, June 26, Soap Opera Digest, May 3, Soap Opera Digest, April 11, Soap Opera Digest, December 15, Soap Opera Digest, November 26, Soap Opera Digest, December 24, As Gina Wisker and others have argued, Buffy and Angel are not as subversive in their use of the vampire figure. But vampires like Drusilla and Darla, with their pop-punk Gothic aesthetics, are fascinating character studies; they are obvious pastiches of bizarre literary and historical constructions that enable the viewers to relish their excesses as sources of transgression and disruption, and to dis-identify with the human characters who are disciplined according to a sexual morality. Subversive feminist and queer rearticulations of monsters highlight the social and psychic violence under which bodies are organized, in effect subverting and recirculating discourses that inscribe transgressive sexualities as monstrous. Eschewing the good, the pure, and the beautiful i. Contemporary vampire fiction, for example, embraces the subversive excesses of the gamut of transgressive sexualities inherent in the figure of the vampire. Rejecting enlightenment configurations of the subject organically sufficient, coherent, autonomous and unique , the posthuman embraces the appeal of the abject and the monstrous, of pre-symbolic, revolting bodies. The posthuman recognizes the impurity of every available source of self; there is no retrievable authentic self. Identity then becomes overwhelmed by impure, excessive discourses; it becomes a site of revolt and contestation. Monsters such as Drusilla and Darla hold discourse at a distance, turning misogynist narratives into excessive performances that destabilize, disempower and recirculate their meanings. Drusilla and Darla are corrupt texts, hypersimulations of discourses of woman as sexed monster that creatively and affirmatively reduce the subject to a set of discourses that, by re-circulating their meanings, reject the oppressive structures of subjectivation that incited their initial ideological project. Drusilla and Darla are delicious train wrecks. Discourses of Degeneration: Women, Vampires and Sex 4 The Buffy and Angel creators draw upon a rich pool of mythological, religious and sexology discourses in their writing of gothic female sexuality. The female vampire has functioned in particularly threatening and fascinating ways over the last two centuries. Descriptions of female vampires in literature by men include almost verbatim characteristics found in criminal anthropology and sexology discourses from the nineteenth- and twentieth-centuries. Medical and criminology discourses, and older religious and folkloric discourses, explicitly took on vampiric terminology and imagery, reflecting a primal fear and loathing of the sexual instinct in women. The female vampire especially the queer vampire functions as a repository of patriarchal anxieties over female strength and sexuality. Before he guts Shannon in his truck, he tells her: The hypnotic aggression of the female vampire, her bottomless pit of sexuality, and her predatory siphoning off of masculine transcendent energies, are usually neutralized in order for the happy dance http: The medical and criminal literature explicitly yokes female sexuality and vampiric monstrousness. These texts had much to do with the male literary imagination and its writing of monstrous female sexuality. In The Female Offender , Caesar Lombroso writes that the active enjoyment of the sexual impulse awakens an inherent criminal instinct in woman. Many of these texts equate overindulgence of sexuality in women including masturbation with pointed features, sharp teeth, a paleness of the skin, marked anemic constitutions, and erotic languorousness. In his book Woman: Again, the cultural demonization of sexed women is explicitly associated with vampirism. Female sexuality is seen as a self- polluting sapping of the vital reproductive functions of woman, a criminal misdirection of her reproductive duties. Sexual excess in a woman is a wasteland of sterility, a criminal instinct that leads to the decline of the race. They are the Van Helsings of the medical world. After all, Van Helsing is undoubtedly more important as a doctor a hematologist, which so many vampire hunters are than as a Catholic. Featured in the medical detection novel par excellence— Dracula—Van Helsing and his Crew of Light are armed with the signs or symptoms of the atavistic, sexed female body. Here, and in Carmilla as well vampirism—or female desire —is the disease that needs to be detected, diagnosed and cured. Monstrous women, then, renourish themselves on the seminal substances and blood of men and children. Women supposedly experience a http: To begin his discussion of the sexual periodicity of women, Ellis equates menstruation with estrus: The Hysteric as Vampire A hysterical girl is a vampire who sucks the blood of the healthy people about her. Menstruating women were impressionable, suggestible, and diminished—they were hysterical. Medical misogynists were apparently enlightened as to the sexual etiology of hysteria early on in the nineteenth-century—and they ran with it. However, as Carol Smith-Rosenburg argues , hysterical women were hypertrophied versions of the Victorian icon of femininity—sick, weak, passive and anemic. The extraordinary emotionalism and excessive excitability of the hysteric made her impressionable and prone to suggestion and hypnotic states the hysterical disposition was also believed susceptible to imagining itself in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural. The infamous Dr. Lucy sleepwalks at least three times in the novel, Van Helsing puts Mina under hypnosis no less than five times men in Dracula get a sexual thrill from paralyzing and immobilizing women. Hysterical women want to fuck. And the number one symptom of hysteria was anemia, the number one cure, re-sanguination. She is the vampire. Both are clearly liminal figures, straddling life and death, acting out their own irrelevance. Because they have been cheated out of sexual knowledge, female sexuality in these texts figures as the uncanny—that repressed thing that always returns. It wants compensation. She is sex-starved, and her desires will always return to haunt and horrify men. The Hysteric as Vampire: Drusilla 14 In light of these discourses and others I will subsequently discuss, the representation of Drusilla in Buffy is inspired. Her character consistently rehearses, relishes and subverts these discourses. Sure , as others have noted, Drusilla a mixture of Dracula and Carmilla? Readings of monsters proliferate rather than cohere into a whole. Drusilla is a perfect example. She is a vampire, a witch, a siren and a mesmerist. She is Lilith mother of http: She is also the mythological Cassandra, cursed by second-sight, doubly cursed and driven mad by the fact that no one will believe her visions. She tells of a vision she had of men dying in the mine, which of course came true: Two men died. My seeing things is an affront to the Lord. I try to be pure in his sight. Significantly, folkloric evidence has it that those cursed by their parents or the church those excommunicated became vampires. Caesar Lombroso was one of many male scientists who fetishized a perceived innate childishness, frivolousness and shortsightedness in women. In ordinary cases these defects are neutralised by piety, maternity, want of passion, sexual coldness, by weakness and an undeveloped intelligence If women do not constrain their sexuality to marriage and maternity—the central cultural uses of their bodies—they are http: Sexed women are decidedly bad mothers, and their perversities are contagious especially with the female vampire. For yes, she is the infantilized, fetishized Victorian child-woman, but there is a subterranean menace lurking beneath the surface of these playful roles. At various times throughout Buffy and Angel, she growls, snarls, barks and purrs when sexually aroused. Both she and Lucy are demonic mother parodies, women in white who stalk the neighborhood at night. Perhaps my favorite line from the Buffy oeuvre is when Dru, wearing her white baby doll dress, slowly approaches a little boy on the playground and sings a song: What will your mummy sing, when they find your body? Dru snarls and responds: She is anything but virginal, and she enjoys the occasional toddler for dinner. Vampires are never daughters, wives or mothers in the traditional sense, and this is a powerful imaginative possibility for many women. Both society and Angelus drive Drusilla mad. In literature, two great climactic ends have been prescribed for women—madness and death. Drusilla is both mad and dead, yet she nevertheless rises and wreaks as much vengeance upon the symbolic order as she possibly can. Her rage against Angelus and a cruel society which has cursed her is palpable during several different episodes. When Angel tells Dru to leave town with Spike, she visibly seethes: While torturing him she sings the same song as on the playground this is her playground! She then starts talking about her whole family: They used to eat Until you came and ripped their throats out. In her floor-length, white baby doll dress, with her canopy bed and with Miss Edith, Drusilla is childishly hyper-feminine and petulantly infantile, two classic descriptions of the hysterical woman Smith-Rosenburg But of course this is not at all true—Dru is anything but shortsighted. Her real prophetic powers place her in the presence of the mystical or the supernatural see paragraph 10 above. Typical of the female hysteric, Drusilla is also womb-driven, but in a shockingly perverse way. Her body is pure spectacle; it is excessive, undomesticated and sexually saturated. She rubs her stomach, knowing she will satisfy her sexual hunger, yet her womb will remain barren. And while Spike explains to his mother http: This is a bizarre perversion of a multitude of origin narratives. Oedipus is gone and in its place are monstrous births. The Prostitute as Vampire: Darla 21 And this brings us to Darla, the matriarch of our little vampire family. While women in the home were the most important moral force in the country, women out of the home were prostitutes, vectors of disease, contagion and degeneration. Because civilization depended upon the containing of sex in marriage, civilization was threatened by the prostitute, especially the syphilitic prostitute. As scholars have noted, AIDS was not the first blood disease to find expression in a reactionary rhetoric of vampirism. The syphilitic prostitute as vampire or vampirism as syphilitic virus was just one rhetorical maneuver in a series of moral panics that scapegoated sexually or otherwise deviant behavior as the source of social and national decay. Clarimonde is an evil courtesan vampire who carnally seduces a priest and is later killed by holy water. In most identifiable folkloric traditions, the prostitute was one of several marginalized, outsider figures who were potential vampires after death along with the godless, suicides, witches, the excommunicated and those cursed by their families. Both are fallen women and social outcasts. On her deathbed, The Master visits Darla disguised as a priest: Darla has clearly been a victim of sexual hypocrisy, as the show draws upon historical fact that prostitutes were routinely forced to emigrate to the colonies in the seventeenth-century Darla is a prostitute in the Virginia Colony in The primitive woman was impure rather than criminal. With the public rage over prostitution and its consequent cultural demonization of female sexuality, the sexual instinct in woman became both metaphorically and supposedly literally vampiric. The most common French term used for a prostitute in the nineteenth-century was a man-eater. The Buffyverse clearly draws upon historical sources here. Stoker himself probably died of tertiary syphilis in , contracting the disease as a young man probably from a prostitute. Scholars have interpreted Dracula as an extended melodramatic meditation upon sick, diseased, sexed bodies. Angel plays with these discourses—Darla is dying of syphilis when Wolfram and Hart bring her back to life. According to Paul Barber the Slavic succubus, the Mora cognate of Mare , assumes various shapes and visits men at night and tries to suffocate them. He quotes Jan Machal: Over a span of several episodes Darla drugs Angel and enters his dreams. In the unconscious mind, Jones argues, blood, semen and milk are indistinguishable: The explanation of these [vampiric] phantasies is surely not hard. A nightly visit from a beautiful or frightful being, who first exhausts the sleeper with passionate embraces, and then withdraws from him a vital fluid; all this can point only to a natural and common process, namely to nocturnal emissions accompanied with dreams of a more or less erotic nature. In the unconscious mind blood is commonly an equivalent for semen. The Buffyverse explores the minefield of female sexuality more than any other mainstream television show. Buffy is about female desire, and though simple, there is no overestimating the importance of this. This is the stunning impact of the show at its best. After losing her virginity to Angel, she is terrorized by the monstrous Angelus, turning her loss of virginity into a stultifying traumatic event. Her intense desire for Angel can of course never be fulfilled because of his curse and because the show would end. First, the episode is a typical—if not classic—masculinist narrative: At the beginning of the episode, Buffy complains to Angel that he makes decisions for her without her knowledge or consent in the previous Buffy episode, Angel comes to Sunnydale and follows her around without her knowledge: And thirdly, the episode is a typical male fantasy: What we could have had? No one will know but me. It did. I know it did! I felt your heart beat! I'll never forget. I'll never forget! This is a powerful criticism of the male fear of female autonomy and sexuality, a fear that takes brutal form in societies that practice genital mutilation. But the episode treads some dangerous ground for women, rehearsing the misogynist story that women are sexuality; they do not have or own their desire, they are not the subjects of their desire; they are desire embodied, and they are always in heat. While the episode is powerfully radical in some ways, in others it is not: She has sex with Wilson and wakes up the next morning hugely pregnant with a demon child, even though she used protection: Cordelia is sexually disciplined in this episode. These episodes are critiques of and antidotes to the sanitized view of birth and motherhood as embodying all that is good, natural and beautiful. She is reproduction as both http: Women become womb monsters—fascinatingly ambiguous, reproductive nightmares see Creed, chapter 4. As a side note, both these characters meet unfortunate fates. She wakes up out of a coma because she has a vision that Angel is in trouble. I got my guy back on track. While at times she seems to enjoy a healthy sexual relationship with Riley, it is more often unhealthy. Such erotic transgressions are powerful antidotes to the totalizing ideology of romantic love which functions so oppressively for women. When Buffy turns to the door of his crypt to leave, Spike intercepts her and goes down on his knees: Buffy scoffs at his masochistic desires. You like me because you enjoy getting beat down. Last night was the most perverse, degrading experience of my life. Phallic culture sexually dominates http: She later goes down on Spike after he tells her to leave: Buffy and Spike have clearly been into bondage: Her playful sexual escapades come to pathologize her sense of self. She despises herself for her sexual transgressions, becoming a victim of her own desires. The sequence is worth reproducing in its entirety: Creepy Voices: What did you do? She opens her eyes and looks down. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, on the bed, looking up at her with an expression of pleasure, with his hands stretched up above him. Buffy slides her hands up to just below where the cuffs are. Katrina lies underneath Buffy, looking up at her. Cut to Buffy and Spike in his crypt, lying on the floor under the rugs, moving fast, with Spike on top. Buffy moans in pleasure. Cut to Buffy in the graveyard punching Katrina. Cut to the head-shot of Buffy straddling Spike on his bed. She lifts her hand, holding a stake. Shot of Spike lying underneath her, his eyes closed as if sleeping, Buffy thrusts down the stake. Cut to the forest. Buffy is straddling Katrina who lies with her eyes closed and the stake protruding from her stomach. Buffy feels she must be punished. Her self-hatred climaxes in the truly nauseating scene nauseating on purpose? Tara has just told Buffy that there is nothing wrong with her: Why do I let Spike do those things to me? Erotic transgressions lead to psychological problems, and vice versa. This is in part why the show ends as it does—destroying the Hellmouth, and cutting down Caleb and the First, but also putting the question of romance to the side for Buffy, at least for http: After all, Lacan argued that the subject is predicated upon and constituted by lack—it is the ontological structure motoring subjectivity. Traditionally, the vampire is the patriarch par excellence: The male vampire as patented by Polidori is a romantic Byronic hero: Masculine creative energies never tire of men becoming the subjects of their own knowledge at the expense of a woman. Through her mortification comes his existential knowledge. And while Carmilla is a crucial exception to this trend, she too shares in the fate of most female vampires before But of course the Romantic, existentialist male vampire is usually able to stick around. The feminist or queer http: Transgressive sexualities have always been coded as monstrous. As I mention above, what more appropriate association than the vampire for distilling the perversions of queer sexualities? Transgressive sexualities have often been inextricably yoked to the image of plague-like, blood-borne infections that lay waste huge populations. Queers and prostitutes in the nineteenth- century were evil predators who infiltrated, infected and contaminated the public body with their bad blood. The homophobic cultural agenda of the right in the s used vampiric imagery to stigmatize the queer community in the wake of the AIDS crisis. With their perverse sexual arrangements and promiscuous mixing of bodily fluids, vampires untie the binds between penetrated female bodies and organically sufficient penetrating male bodies. The vampire has become a politically perverse figure for exploring transgressive conceptions of family and community, critiques of origins, alternative potentials for selfhood, and the cultural and social inscriptions of sexual and gendered subjects. Female and queer vampires have traditionally embodied the horror of transgressive sexuality. Now they are unspeakably monstrous, threatening, and attractive. Darla, Angelus, Drusilla and Spike enjoy multiple perverse sexual arrangements, either blatant or coded. Angelus tells Spike that he looks forward to having a boy around to play with: Do you? Even after they regain their souls, Angel and Spike are both murderous and amorous. Gina Wisker has also discussed contemporary vampire fiction and its potential for feminist and queer reevaluation and recirculation. Both of these writers argue that http: In a third season Angel episode flashback, Angelus recounts his escape from Holtz to the young vampire James. After his escape, Angelus later caught up with Darla in Vienna. Drusilla and Darla enjoy multiple sexual arrangements within and without their vampire family, a privilege usually only accorded to men. In a recent flashback of Angel, Drusilla infuriates Spike because she refuses to be monogamous. Angelus gets up, stands behind Dru and slips his arms around her body: Spike taunts Angelus for being cuckolded by Darla, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Drusilla walk out: So he could violate our women. Violate in succession! Spank us till Tuesday. In these episodes he is a sadistic killer. Get dressed and get out. Because the next time I see you, I will have to kill you. Well, that makes it all heroic. It just— happened. Perhaps for the first time in their centuries-long relationship, Angel has treated Darla like a whore. Queer and feminist sex radicalism emphasizes roles in sexuality that are infinitely exchangeable and never align statically with gender i. Drusilla and Darla are phallic, http: The phallus is anything but a transcendental signifier of sexual and social power; as queer sex radicals have pointed out, how can it be when lesbians can strap on a dildo or crack a whip, or when female to male transsexuals can have one made? The phallus is pure simulation—an ontological joke. Only through psychological props can phallic male sufficiency be purchased by this suturing of woman into a zone of non-being and lack, a place of mutilation, castration, trauma and penis envy. Positions of domination and submission are just that—positions. Drusilla as virginal, Victorian child-bride is an aesthetic role that she dons as a sex toy—she turns the persona into a bizarre style of sex play that turns both her and Spike on. Notes 1 Halberstam and Livingston are writing in a different context from the vampire. This is from their introduction to the topic of posthuman bodies. For a different view of transgressive sexual relationships in the Buffyverse, see Vivien Burr. Loring, Everil Worrell, F. Marion Crawford, Carl Jacobi and others. I could just—eat them up. Emphasis mine. I like it! The queer person, so it goes, does not successfully navigate the rapids of Oedipus, and when Oedipus fails, monsters are the result Psycho is the classic example. In psychoanalytic sexual depth models of interiority, the queer exists in a zone of narcissism, excess and non-being: Works Cited Barber, Paul. Vampires, Burial and Death. New Haven: Yale University Press, Bronfen, Elisabeth. Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic. Burr, Vivien. A Sartrean Analysis. Busse, Kristina. Califia, Patrick. Public Sex: The Culture of Radical Sex. Second Edition. San Francisco: Cleiss Press, Case, Sue-Ellen. Female Embodiment and Feminist Theory. Columbia University Press, Craft, Christopher. The Vampire and the Critics. Margaret Carter. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. DeKelb-Rittenhouse, Diane. Dijkstra, Bram. Idols of Perversity: Fantasies of Evil in Fin-de-Siecle Culture. Ellis, Havelock. Studies in the Psychology of Sex, Volume I. Random House, Gordon, Joan. The Vampire in Search of its Mother. The Vampire as Metaphor in Contemporary Culture. Joan Gordon and Veronica Hollinger. University of Pennsylvania Press, Halberstam, Judith, and Ira Livingston. Posthuman Bodies. Indiana University Press, Jones, Ernest. On the Nightmare. Liveright Publishing Company, Krafft-Ebing, Richard von. Psychopathia Sexualis. Oh Man! She should have just done that in the fight! She would have won easily! You had your chance to try and kill him already! Let Sasuke-kun have a turn! Hinata snapped out of her delirium to finally realize the situation she was in: Unfortunately for Naruto, Hinata was situated right over his waist when she jumped, so while he did manage to come back to the land of the living, he also entered the land of excruciating pain that only men can enter. Sasuke's eyebrows twitched before relaxing and sighing. Everyone in the room sweat dropped. The boy sighed as he turned around and saw Temari jog up behind him. What is it, Temari? I thought you would prefer to stay and watch Naruto make a complete idiot out of himself again. Temari shook her head. Shikamaru deadpanned. Temari sighed. I came here to warn you about Gaara…". The boy shrugged. Like how Konoha's being invaded within a few hours and how you guys switched sides on the enemy at the last second. Temari gulped. She would have to take this boy carefully when dealing with him in the future. He's been… softer recently, but I don't doubt that he'll kill you if you even start to catch his interest. That head of yours might have saved you from me but…". Temari blinked before blushing and scratching the back of her head. I mean you're somewhat decent compared to most of the other annoying guys out there, and I don't want you to die so quickly…". Shikamaru looked at the girl with seemingly disinterested eyes before yawning again and turning around. Temari frowned, getting angry that the boy was just casually taking in her advice. There's no contest! He will Kill you and…! The look didn't last long though, as his facial features relaxed again. Temari blinked, not understanding where the boy was going with this. Shikamaru continued to walk forward until he disappeared around a corner. It was close to his time to fight and he had still yet to ask her out on a freaking date yet! The boy was getting anxious since he would be unable to ask her after his fight since Ino was to fight Sakura right afterwards, and she no doubt didn't want any distractions before going against her eternal rival in 'love'…. Your match is going to start! I swear you're as bad as Shikamaru sometimes…". I thought you were running away from Neji! Ino put on a confused expression. Why would I do that? I just ran into him a few minutes ago after I apparently fell down and blacked out. I can't even remember what I was doing in that part of the arena anyway. Last thing I recall is going with you guys to see how Naruto and Hinata were doing…". Ino raised an eyebrow. You better make it quick, or you'll get disqualified…" She blinked. You look pretty red and you're sweating like crazy…. Both preteens stayed quiet, unsure of what to do next…. He eyed Naruto and Hinata, who were both being helped into the room by Hana and her dogs. They still look like they're half dead to me. Naruto smirked as he slowly made his way to the railing. Hinata-chan released my tenketsu, so I should be in decent enough shape to kick his ass when our match starts…". Heh, no wonder you have no sense of self-preservation…". The group froze as a familiar ravenous feeling made itself known in the air. I try to be nice to everyone… why do I have to always be taught by rampant perverts? I'm not a pervert… why does this keep on happening to me? Everyone sweat dropped at the sight of the crying blonde. The women actually felt sorry for you since it showed that the proctor practically blackmailed him into doing it, the guys were laughing their asses off, and most of the shinobi got over their rage pretty quickly when they saw him dodging all those kunai and jutsu left and right. I think they were pretty impressed… though I don't think the proctor scored many points, judging from the amount of killing intent the women in the audience were giving him…". In that case, we'd be going to war in three days. I know for a fact that I was not the only person here thinking of assigning that sort of training to my higher level shinobi! Stealing panties from an entire bath house worth of kunoichi? And then prancing around in front of them with said undergarments on your head? That was just simply suicidal, even for a Kage. The Kazekage himself was twitching every other second himself. Every passing second, he was beginning to believe that he would do this invasion less for revenge and more for making the world a better place as a whole…. Ghost chuckled as he heard Naruto's mental breakdown in the stands. Kagari laughed dryly as he listened to the proctor. What you did was pure evil. You'd make an excellent addition to Ame…". Ghost shrugged. You guys just can't seem to take a joke when you're the victim. She hasn't said anything yet. Maybe this fight will give both of you the answer… or the next one if she's really stubborn…". Ghost smirked. To be honest, though, you could have timed it a bit better. I mean, her fight is right after yours, for fuck's sake. I'm just giving him a few pointers about girls. You look like you could use a few hundred yourself. Kagari growled as the grip on his kunai tightened. This buffoon would soon enough know not to underestimate shinobi from Ame…. Remember, he's the one with both a blindfold and a mask on, so his face is almost as hard to read as Itachi's. I hope you've all enjoyed our carefully selected between match entertainment as much as I had fun making it… heheheh. He could easily see where his clan was sitting due to their… unique appearance. He hoped he wouldn't embarrass them…. Ghost then turned to Kagari, prompting the screen to change to his data. Kagari's digital version was not that much different from Oboro's in terms of appearance and actions, however people did note that Kagari's made it rain black water and then light it on fire. Kagari of Ame is indeed a shrewd and skilled shinobi worthy of getting this far. Or will Kagari's more elusive and tactful moves steal the victory from under his nose in pure shinobi style? We're about to find out! Kagari of Ame! Both shinobi started to move from the get go. He's stopping me from getting to him so he can get a head start on his jutsu! He's using the bouncing part of his training more efficiently than I expected… but will that alone be enough to take his tricky opponent down? The moment he hit the ground, the spikes dug into the earth and shot the boy forward like a cannon at the apparently surprised opponent, who was too shocked to move. It was one of those mist clones! Sarutobi chuckled. I heard it is similar to Earth-Style: Earth Spears, except instead of turning the user's body as hard as stone, it adjusts the body to have some rubber like properties. I am curious if the boy will manage to find a way out of this situation…". He could always just roll around the arena and not get hit for the rest of the match and force a draw…". I doubt that they didn't prepare for at least this much in his match…". He couldn't afford to make any mistakes yet, otherwise his opponent could manage to escape the attack and figure out what he was trying to do. Are you so much of a pussy that you can't even face a few clones? He's probably set up a trap where all the clones are already and hidden them with genjutsu. What did Shika say about this guy's techniques? Wider ranged mean more chakra, so he can't hold them for long if he decides to spread them out, so he's most likely somewhere within that circle of clones… and I'm guessing he's hiding underground with that technique of his…" His pondering was interrupted as a kunai with an exploding tag was thrown his way. The boy only barely managed to bounce out of the way in time to avoid the damage. He was not expecting his opponent to do something so up front so quickly. It was at that moment that he was actually somewhat thankful for the extended training he had aimed at maintaining his ball shaped form for long periods of time while under stressful situations. He would still never play soccer again, though. Every time he approached one of those small black and white balls nowadays, all he could see was a screaming miniature version of himself…. Fat chance! My jutsu may not be as strong as yours, but I have more than enough exploding tags to take down this arena! Just give up, and I won't roast you like the pig you are! Ino started to shake angrily as the overconfident genin mocked her partner. Somewhere during the assault, something snapped in the kindhearted child. The people who knew the boy best were slightly concerned, since they had never seen the boy sound like that. You claim to be a shinobi, but you can't even hit this giant ass rolling target?! Your tags are nothing compared to Tenten's, and your aim is even worse than Naruto's when he first started the academy! The young Akimichi's speed suddenly increased as he approached the forested area of the grounds. Naruto nodded. I accidentally came across him training a couple of weeks ago and almost got killed. Neji blinked. After all, we did find you on the edge of that crater with Waltz-sama after that large shockwave…". Naruto shook his head vigorously in denial. The rest of the Konoha genin blinked for a moment before rushing to the railings and securing their hands around the metal. It was enough of a hint to get the Suna genin to mimic their behavior without question and brace for whatever the hell the large boy was going to do soon. He had a general idea of where Kagari's position was from all the kunai that were thrown at him, and with what he was about to do, he knew that all the exploding tags that were hidden in the center of the arena would go off by the time he finished his attack. Bouncing from tree to tree and occasionally hitting one or two hard enough to actually knock them down, the boy gained speed, momentum, and angles as he positioned himself for the end of the fight. The rapid increase in speed and the sudden change in directions prevented the hidden genin from getting a good shot in with one of his exploding kunai. Has he actually lost his mind? The tags will take him down before he even gets close to me…". The people watching the boy could even see the air pushed aside by the boy's large spinning mass as it accelerated. The audience itself was also hit incredibly hard by the massive tremors as several people started to scream and fall out of their chairs. Even the shinobi watching were having a somewhat difficult time staying on their feet for the duration of the technique. As the shaking died down, the audience attempted to get back into their seats and made sure that the building was not going to collapse with them in it. Dust was still thick in the air, and the two combatants were yet to be seen. The leader sighed and rubbed the sides of his head. The Kazekage blinked. I thought I heard you say that the technique just used was a C-ranked when it clearly displayed the power of an A-ranked…". Pulse Quake is a C-ranked jutsu because it creates tremors based on how hard the user hits the ground. Because of that, many shinobi just pass over it since there are better and stronger techniques to use for the same amount of chakra. The shinobi who do use it are normally taijutsu types, and even then, they typically only use it to temporarily screw around with the footing of their opponents or collapse caves or buildings and things like that. These brats of yours are really starting to interest me…". Ghost chuckled as he stood on the side of one of the walls of the arena. He could clearly tell who was left standing even though the dust was still settling. The attack was obscenely powerful considering the age of the one who used it, and could even deal him a fair bit of damage if he wasn't paying any attention. He had gotten this far pretty much by himself with just a couple of pointers on the way, and that was what made him special. He could feel that the floor of the arena was nowhere near the condition it was in when the day first started. Soon enough, the field was in clear view for everyone to see. Several dozen meters outside the initial crater, Kagari laid on the ground unconscious with an arm and a leg bent at an awkward angle. Kneeling over the boy and checking his pulse even though he didn't need to do so, Ghost nodded to himself so the audience would know he was doing his job. He had never really tried to last that long in his meat tank form before while constantly switching gears like that… and neither he nor his stomach wanted to do it again. Ghost chuckled as the medics ran out into the field. I think you actually just topped Naruto's and Hinata's fight for most epic match ending of the day Only a little? Oh well… Hey Sensei, is it okay if I take a nap now? I'm pretty dizzy…" The boy dozed off, apparently falling unconscious as he fell over. Ghost quickened his pace to catch the somewhat lighter boy before he hit the ground. You see that?! Normally it would only be enough to get the man a bit buzzed, but mix it with how proud he was of his son and the extremely epic end to the fight and you have a somewhat boisterous and thoughtless clan head. Shikaku sighed as he watched his friend get pulled down by his thoroughly embarrassed wife. It's not often that an Akimichi gets to show off like this. I'm one of the top interrogators in Konoha, and my family is well known for our special mind techniques. Heck, most of the C-ranked missions his clan is hired for inside the village are simply demolition work. Believe it or not, a lot of people have been calling the Akimichi the weakest out of all the clans in Konoha lately because they're too fat to get anything done. Showing the entire village that his clan is capable of causing damage like that is a good wake up call. Shikaku shook his head. Inoichi blinked for a moment before turning his attention to his other best friend again. Said big man had since given up trying to pick a fight with the audience and was now making out with his portly wife in public in a way the two men hadn't seen for a long time. He paused as he saw a flash of light and turned to see Shikaku taking a picture of the scene. Shikaku smirked as he tucked the camera away. He might have been lucky enough to pass out before this happened, but there's no way the people in the audience will let him live this down later…". Shikaku raised an eyebrow. Inoichi huffed. Out of all the people she could have been fighting, she's up against the one that has the highest chance of letting her out of the arena with all her bones intact… next to Shikamaru, of course…". Just today she was five minutes away from being disqualified! The Nara raised an eyebrow. I'm surprised that she's been progressing as far as she did…". Shikaku frowned for a moment as he tried to remember all the things his son told him about his teammate over the past few months. While it was true that Inoichi's daughter was prone to being rather obsessive with looks at times, Shikamaru had told him that Ino had been getting better as of late. The girl was apparently progressing quite well under Anko's tutelage, and had even made some leeway with her poison skills… "Hey… was your daughter in her bathroom when you left this morning? Inoichi grunted. I had to leave her at home and go ahead. Sometimes I truly wonder about her…". She didn't know why. What's wrong? Ino blinked, not knowing what to say as she looked around. She saw Temari still gaping in surprise before giving Shikamaru an occasional curious glance, also seemingly unnoticed by the boy. Tenten was talking to Neji, who nodded stiffly, however she could tell that the two had a better relationship than first anticipated. She saw Sakura and Sasuke standing next to each other on the other end of the railing, closer than she herself had ever gotten with the Uchiha, and talking comfortable with the other without any sign of hesitation. Looks of longing, but held back due to nervousness or because the one they liked never paid them any attention. She was confused. She willingly admitted it. She had always set her sights on Sasuke, but even though he had been gradually becoming more vocal and social over the past few months, he had also been somehow bonding with the forehead even more. The more she tried, the more he seemed to look the other direction, even when she tried to use some of Anko-sensei's more… mature seducing methods. It just made him turn even more… and run as well. It was ridiculous! She couldn't have them both! That would be as ridiculous as… Ghost and Anko-sensei and… Hana-sensei…. Shikamaru blinked as Ino started to grin in a less than comforting manner. Why are you smiling like that? You're planning to do something troublesome, aren't you? Ghost looked at the state of the fighting grounds as the two boys were sent to the medical bay. While he didn't mind, there might be some issues for later on if it was left in the same condition. That being the case, he switched his microphone to a private line with the Hokage. The field is pretty wrecked down here. Is it okay if we fix it before the next match? It'll only take about a minute tops. The Hokage sighed in his chair as he got the message, prompting the visiting leaders to look at him oddly. Ghost nodded as he changed the frequency of the mike so that he would be heard through the speakers again. Please bear with me, as it will only take a few minutes at the most. We should just have the brats fight on the grounds the way it is! Stop coddling the brats, for crying out loud…". Ghost took off his microphone and put it into his pocket before raising his hands to his mouth. The audience blinked in confusion as they looked around for the mysterious Crypt that Ghost was apparently calling. Nothing happened for a few moments before a woman screamed as she saw a body flying through the air as if it was thrown to the middle of the arena, sailing like a dead weight before landing a few dozen feet away from Ghost on the ground with a low thump. The crowd was quiet for several moments with wide eyes, except for those who knew who the man was and how odd he could be. Sarutobi groaned, apparently ignoring the Kazekage's remark. Ghost sighed as he saw the audience stare in shock. He was hoping that Crypt would just pop out of the ground like normal… but then again, when does normal actually apply to the man? He put the earpiece to his mouth. He's not dead, just stupid. Very… very stupid. Jell-O organs! The seemingly dead body popped back up instantly, surprising many of the audience members, glaring back at the man. Your theory is completely out of proportion! The chainsaws don't have enough shoelaces in order to organize the toenail clippings on the Mona Lisa's hard drive! The constipated monster trucks would end up completely slaughtered by the army of nun chucking babies! You think you can fix him up? It said it'll help you out with that fireball mongoose problem you've been having trouble with if you do. Crypt blinked. That bastard! I know it was holding out on me! The floor comes first. Everyone could hear low rumblings, though. Within 30 seconds, the dust had settled and much to everyone's surprise the arena floor was in the same condition it was in before the fights had even started, minus the fallen trees. Ghost was once again in the middle of the floor, casually standing with his hands in his pockets, but Crypt had disappeared. Get your butt down here so I can kick it! She's up to something troublesome. Sakura sighed as she turned to the stairs. You know her better than I do at the moment, after all. One cut from those poisons of hers and the pink girl is done for. Kunai are faster than seals, after all, and genjutsu can only help you so much against an opponent right in front of you. Plus, I highly doubt that Anko-sensei would have not trained her student against genjutsu when both of her first potential opponents are known to use it..

He's not dead, just stupid. Very… very stupid. Jell-O organs! The seemingly dead body popped back up instantly, surprising many of the audience members, glaring back at the man. Your theory is completely out of proportion! The chainsaws don't have enough shoelaces in order to organize the toenail clippings on the Mona Lisa's hard drive! The constipated monster trucks would end up completely slaughtered by the army of nun chucking babies!

Chatcam porn Watch Busty girls geting tickled Video Xxx Video33com. Peru, Ill.: Open Court. Buttsworth, Sara. Buffy and the Penetration of the Gendered Warrior- Hero. Journal of Media and Cultural Studies Dyer, Richard. Edwards, Lynne. Kendra as Tragic Mulatta in Buffy. Rhonda V. Wilcox and David Lavery, 85— Lanham, Md.: Gill, Candra K. Dynamics of Race in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Golden, Christopher, and Nancy Holder. Buffy the Vampire Slayer: New York: Pocket Books. Held, Jacob M. Punishment in the Buffyverse. Jarvis, Christine. Gendered Fears in Teenage Horror. Manhood in America: A Cultural History. Free Press. Korsmeyer, Carolyn. In and Out of Control. Lavery, David. Levine, Michael P. The Girl Next Door. Mendlesohn, Farah. Wilcox and David Lavery, 45— Owen, A. Vampires, Postmodernity, and Postfeminism. Robinson, Victoria. Telling It Straight, ed. Diane Richardson, — Buckingham, U. Open University Press. Sakal, Gregory J. Themes of Sacrifice, Salvation, and Redemption. Saxey, Esther. The Series and Its Fan Fiction. Roz Kaveney, — Sayer, Karen. Reading Space and Place. Roz Kaveney, 98— Simkin, Stevie. Torres, Sasha. Constance Penley and Sharon Willis, — University of Minneapolis Press. Williams, J. Mother-Daughter Conflicts in Buffy. Wilcox and David Lavery, 61— Woloch, Nancy. Women and the American Experience. McGraw- Hill. Translated from the Italian and with the editorial assistance of Rhonda Wilcox. Passions is on! Timmy's down the bloody well, and if you make me miss it I'll — Giles: Do what? Lick me to death? Something Blue, Joyce: I-I love what you've, um Just don't break anything. And don't make a lotta noise. Passions is coming on. Oh, do you think Timmy's really dead? Oh, no, no. She can just sew him back together. He's a doll, for God's sake. Ah, what about the wedding? I mean, there's no way they're gonna go through with that. Checkpoint, Tabitha talking to Timmy: When will you get it through your fat head? Charity is the enemy. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the enemy. The busybodies that call themselves the Others are the enemy! And your job is? Vampire slayer. There are many occasions when it has been defined as such, or at least linked to the genre of daytime dramas. This perception is shared by at least three types of viewers. First, it is accepted by members of the general public, who have an almost instinctive awareness of this quality. Much public response and fan fiction reflect a definite approach that for a long time has been associated with soaps. It is curious to http: And Rhonda V. Wilcox and David Lavery explicitly concur with Joyce Millman in this argument too. Some other times, the labelling is just a implicit. He is a master of mixing genres depending on circumstances, and the taste of a peculiar genre rises above the others at his will. And explicitly he confirms it more than once in various contexts [6]. The abstract idea that the author has of it or his poetics have not influenced the perception of the final result. It is most often used with a denigrating, disparaging intent. Almost inductively it is assumed that belonging to a specific genre could be the reason of bad quality, without taking into any consideration the actual product, as if it were irrelevant. Buffy, as a show that deals with supernatural themes all the time, has to battle constantly this bias that impedes recognition of its quality, at least in an official forum, such as the Emmy Awards. Both struggle for approbation. Buffy, in its diegetic perspective, succeeds in becoming a true and real political statement on this regard and manages to acknowledge being a soap, mockingly winking to those who snub a book judging solely by its title. It is, in this way, a meta-comment on the genre at the same time. In fact a soap, Passions, is used as a means to make the villainous Spike more lovable, mellowed precisely by the fact that he gets hooked on the stories of the characters of this show. And he shares his watching with Joyce Checkpoint, The process is very simple. At the same time a flattering image of the soap is given. It becomes an instrument that creates a link between genres on the base of a shared visual experience. He demonstrates awareness in what he is doing even as he recognizes the genres that he absorbs and then moulds to his own needs. And a genre is not good or bad as such, but becomes one or the other on the basis of its use. A genre is as good as you make it to be in the concreteness of the single experience. It should be devoid of preconceptions that could make it ontologically of positive or negative value solely resulting from the label. Once again Whedon exhibits consciousness and confidence in doing what he wants about Buffy, the scientia in using particular styles and a specific rhetoric, as well as other desired instruments. He simply uses this genre. Not Italian nor German nor Hispanic ones, not even those of other Anglophone countries, because, while all these share many aspects, each has specific characteristics that make it different from the other. Oh, the love! Anna Devane, deep college experience. Gen with my buds, senior year it was religion. David Fury, one of the writers, was once an actor in soap operas [12], and is thus in a position to recognize those elements that characterize a soap and to translate them to and put them in a different context. Her participation, and the gossip that surrounded her, is well-known. Such recognition cannot be anything but a proof of her ability to act in a context that she masters well. Nothing more normal, then, that she can reproduce its conventions in a sure and nuanced. Michelle Trachtenberg Dawn also walked her first acting steps on the set of All My Children; Emma Caulfield Anya is openly a fan of daytime dramas; and Anthony Stewart Head Giles looks to be pretty familiar with them too. But if Buffy is a soap, the question that now we need to ask ourselves is: Which are the elements of content and style that make it a soap opera? The aesthetic, the rhetoric of the camera that is behind the genre, the relationship between the syntagmatic path and the paradigmatic one, the structural and textual conventions, the dialogic development, the codes that shape it, the genre poetics, the terminology and the narrative syntax are readable in a different, unique perspective. It is useful to investigate this to better understand the Buffy phenomenon as a whole; it is even more so if we think of this as an opportunity to better dig into its meanings, to discover new hermeneutic perspectives, to trace its dialogue with other groups of series each with their own construction. She says that the basic element to take into consideration is the way a story is built and told. Buffy fits this definition. Episodes are certainly auto-conclusive, in parts of the story, but the dialogic flux is in other aspects uninterrupted, from episode to episode. One falls back on the other and yet another and so on. Every season is in fact explicitly constructed as real narrative arc: The most obvious case is Port Charles. The arcs received different sub-titles: What becomes relevant is not so much the question of whetherthis element is used or not, but how it is used. This way we can go deeper and find a more radical indication to understand if and when we find ourselves facing a soap opera. Whether or not a show is a soap becomes a question of how much interest there is in the main character. It may be an audience definition. Several times it has been variously underlined how the monsters that Buffy and the Scoobies the group of friends around her that participate in and help her in her battles have to face are nothing else but the mirror of the human problems that they are forced to come to terms with--metaphors that allow us to trace emotional paths, well visible in backlighting. Being the definition of action, they are an expression of plot. The analysis of these confirms our thesis. Our heroes eat, take walks, wash themselves thanks! They are not on the point of. They are action. Their gestures are not prelude and ostensible reason for words; they envelope them. What counts, what carries the narration is not action. Action is instrumental to dialogue, not the other way around. He declares that fighting is not the peak of the narration, but the emotional aspect is: We are therefore in the most pure soap opera realm. From a content point of view, are soaps compatible with what is told on Buffy? At this very moment it is very present, so much so that we could almost say two schools of thought compete in the field. There are the classics — represented by shows like The Young and the Restless — against the more campy ones — like Passions — in a fight to the last rating in the Nielsen battle. Loving, at the beginning of the s, tried this road, without success. Scared to death by a cross and an exorcism, devil-like Jonathan was eliminated, transforming at his death into a snake--and every intention to follow that supernatural road crawled away with him. James Reilly, head writer of the time, brought his distinctive brand of storytelling with him in the soap he went on to create, Passions. The aforementioned Port Charles has incorporated this kind of story without renouncing its status as being in every aspect a soap. ABC daytime president Brian Frons programmatically admits a plan: And it even introduced a vampire slayer, Rafe. And besides a trained slayer, one of the historic heroines of the show, Lucy, discovered that she, too, is a slayer. According to the mythology of the soap, this is possible because she comes from a family of slayers. At times there are crypto-models. Other times the dialogue between programs is more explicit, especially when this happens with prestigious models, like Buffy. In its brief run, it left an indelible print in the public imagination [29]. The authors always explicitly said they wanted to portray him as an addict, in a perennial fight with himself. Cursed with a soul, Angel sees with a newly awakened conscience how much his actions made people suffer. Barnabas was layered by the writers with conflicting emotions that made him very intense. Macerated by guilt and morally ambivalent, Barnabas was a vampire who constantly craved to become human, mortal. Enriched and coloured by a wry hatred for himself, he soon became the center of the show, and so did the dilemma that tortured him. We can find here the same themes of Buffy: Angel cursed to have a soul, despite being a vampire, so that he can suffer for the atrocities he has committed. In Dark Shadows Barnabas, as noted, was in constant search for a cure to his condition. And although the experiment of Dr. Julia Hoffman who offered to help him backfired, for some time Dr. Lang actually succeeded in curing him. But it was just temporary. Barnabas and Julia, the blood specialist who had attempted to cure him, first helped Dr. Lang, then, after his death, continued the experiment to give life to a brand new man created from human body parts. Maggie Walsh from demon, human, and electronic parts. Buffy has in Oz its werewolf. Dark Shadows had Quentin, who was a werewolf because of a curse gypsy Magda placed on him for having killed her sister Jenny. Just a coincidence, for sure, but nonetheless fun to notice. Parallel times ; ; ; and dimensions were a permanent feature in Collinsport, Maine, the town where Dark Shadows took place. At one point, Dr. Julia Hoffman killed her alter ego in a parallel dimension. Dark Shadows actors said they felt like a repertory company, [32] a thing that could be said for the cast of Buffy too, in some cases. Trading cards and puzzles, board games and records, postcards and books, both novels and comic books, collectibles and even official fan conventions were all part of the fan experience. So it is today for Buffy and its fans. And if now this is a relatively common possibility, then it was the first time a daytime program came to acknowledge its following in this form. Both Tracy Forbes and Jane Espenson are adamant in declaring that this is what they do when constructing the single episodes: Start with the emotions. Jane Espenson states Joss Whedon first sets the foundation for the emotional arc the characters go through, and only later maps out the act breaks [37]. They marginalized him at the beginning of the season, so that his feeling alienated happens for a reason. The emotional high point is the end of each act. Tracy Forbes agrees. The first http: Their starting point is the emotions, the themes they want to tackle, and the metaphors they want to use to do that. The personal life of the character becomes the pivotal center, the strength, the invisible engine. The fact of being character—driven instead of plot-driven is the basis of good fiction--in a broad sense, for all fictions. But what makes a soap a soap is how much these personal elements are left showing, how much they shine through and how much they become themselves action. The more of the character is left floating on the surface, the more we have a point of contact with the soap genre. This in Buffy happens more in later seasons, a thing that is in part normal because the life of the character has been told for a longer period of time. We have layer upon layer of happenings. The past to come to terms with is more present in the mind of both authors and audience. Spike discovers it and brings Buffy to the nest-brothel to see for herself the betrayal. Riley, caught in the act, first menaces Spike to stay away from her, later confesses to Buffy what he feels and gives her an ultimatum: Xander convinces Buffy not to let Riley go if she loves him for real. This installment talks about relationships and about love. They do it with words here, just words [40], because Riley feels excluded, because he turned someplace else to a brothel, to drugs, both images that can be linked to the nest of vampires in this episode. Riley and Spike fight over Buffy, dissect their emotions, and end up sharing a drink over her. Xander forces Buffy to see her relationship with Riley in a new perspective: Nonetheless he is the place where Buffy can check her emotions. Others have already http: Powerfully, painfully in love. The things you do, the way you think, the way you move. You make me fell like I never felt before in my life: And, soon after, they share a kiss. We can also see the accent on feelings in minor scenes: The doctor arrives to tell his prognosis. They all stand up. And on a tight close-up of her, it breaks away and goes to the opening credits. This is a typical use of the camera according to soap opera style. This shooting style is consistent with the kind of world soap opera portrays. As a narrative ritual that centers on intense, concentrated forms of emotion, soap opera requires an intense, intimate camera style. The answer, the solution and the closure are delayed. Until you are outside the gate the credits , you only have questions. Only when you step over that threshold can you have the answers. This postponing is also, in another version, an apparent, perennial absence of ending, of finale. And in presenting stories that continue from instalment to instalment, this is inevitable. Buffy stakes all of them. Buffy recognizes he through a swift flashback. The usage of a targeted flashback of a specific element of that same episode is typical of the soaps. They could have chosen to let Buffy and us know it was that same woman-vampire with a glance, a hint, something else. A flashback was chosen. Riley mentions Angel and Dracula to Buffy. Memory of past happenings is required of the soap audience infra sub And there is an eye-level camera angle that is common to soap operas. That is, we go back and forth between the two characters and the perspective chosen to look at them is the eye level of the other character. Buffy is shown too much feeling pleasure, whereas if the soap opera filter had been chosen it would have been more ethereal and dreamlike than carnal. As the body went cold so did her feelings. This is the episode wherein she can see the face of the EMT in its entirety only when he says he is sorry. In it Cruz reveals to his wife Eden that their daughter has disappeared, kidnapped by her rapist. The scenes are different, but for a directorial point of view, they present a strong parallelism. In Santa Barbara the scene takes place in a hospital. Eden is looking at a row of cribs with babies in them. Cruz goes to her as he tells her the news. Dawn is called outside the classroom, by her sister, who wants to talk to her. Buffy tells her that it regards their mother. We see Dawn cry and fall to the floor. And, the sound feebly dampened by the glass, we hear her say no, accuse her sister of lying. We hear something, little. Music is absent from the scene and the entire episode. In Buffy we are not alone watching the scene. With Cruz and Eden the scene is more intimate. The spectator is the only eye. In Buffy http: Santa Barbara shows a close-up of the face of Eden, whose image is frozen. Buffy shifts its shot on an unfinished drawing on which Dawn was working in the class, leaving space for the thousand themes that are entwined in the episode: Santa Barbara is shaped on silence, re-introduced in other forms, in the several instalments that formed this moment of the storyline. We can be nothing more, the scenes seem to be saying. Silence, deafened by pain. And that silence which is broken by Dawn has weight, intended to maximize the effect, to transmit a pain and a moment. We are close and distant at the same time. In this episode two characters are missing. Glory, the arch-nemesis, is absent. But Spike too is absent, and this, on the contrary, is quite relevant. James Marsters, who plays him, has a contract with the series and a protagonist role;he is a regular, appearing in the opening credits. This is definitely a choice that orientates the product toward something that can be qualified as a soap opera. And she cites the criteria offered by Marnie Winston—Macauley, author and, in the past, writer for As the World turns. High emotions. As a humorous page from Soap Opera Digest [48] says: It could be argued that deaths on soaps are more apparent than real. Death in Buffy is real. Buffy has truly been buried, as she really rose from the dead. Truth be told, the moment soaps accept the supernatural — which is not the most common choice — deaths are just as real. A case in point is Port Charles, where the character of Rafe truly died twice. We discover this the first time from a memory. Rafe is an angel and he remembers becoming one after he was killed by the vampire he was trying to defeat. Recalled to Heaven because he had finished his mission on Earth, he sells his soul to the Devil to go back and save the woman he loves. The Devil sends him back without memory. Following several adventures, he re-discovers the love which brought him there and his memory comes back to him just in time to be killed again by a gun shot. For a second time, he comes back to life, this time sent back among others as a normal human being. Others are granted a second chance at life. Alison briefly dies struck by the falling of a tree, and Rafe, with his angel powers, brings her back. Jack was thought dead when everybody saw him as a semi-vampire. Here death is as real as in Buffy. What counts is the level at which one decides to play the game. This often happens on Buffy, more and more so as the show progresses. Buffy wakes up beside Spike after a http: She destroys the building in which all the gang is, and enters to take her and… the episode ends. The following one resumes at the exact same point where the previous one was stopped. Glory is bent on taking Dawn and… now they can flee. It is a standard mechanism of ending and resuming used by soaps. If it were only that, a program like 24 could be called a soap, since, narrating 24 hours of the same day in real time, it inevitably resumes the action from the immediately previous scene. And again Seli Groves tells us: In series these can be ignored or put aside, or limited to the bare essentials, like for example the way Law and Order or CSI do. Or you can, as Buffy does, give them much weight: They are an integral part of the canvas. Within itself each soap has to find a place to work them and use them and keep them. In Season Six we observe exactly this: Buffy is near to soaps also in its use of what may be called liturgy. Not so in regular http: Rituality is structural to each episode. Think of an author like David E. And this brings it near to the soaps. If in the first seasons Buffy was more aligned to soaps from a content point of view than a stylistic one, after the third season there were more structural contacts, too. This, taking season six as an example, can be gathered by putting under observation liturgy, reduced to the bare bone. Buffy believes she has killed a girl. It does it in the blink of an eye. Research and solution, once a long and fatiguing trail, are here given at the same time, as if to get rid of a duty and to concentrate on what in this moment is more relevant: The research is, as far as Buffy is concerned, the basic liturgical element, in which the characters are, with their noses in the books, working for a solution. They are so detached from it at this point that Anya, faking research, is reading a hidden wedding gowns magazine instead. It says everything: Twenty years later, under head-writer Robert Guza Jr. The characters find themselves needing to deal with the ghosts of those events in front of their teenage son, who asks for explanations and makes them re-live the meaning, then and now, of those events. The same actors as then, Anthony Geary and Genie Francis, play Luke and Laura; the same director of that time, the late Alan Pultz, directs the scenes, working with his notes on the original script, which he saved. Sure, not all soaps can afford to retrieve http: It is what makes them rich and vital. Here, it is a settled part of their ability to move, enthrall and pleasure the audience. We refer to this genre as continuing dramas. We could almost say that time, memory, history and continuity are for soaps the ultimate defining element. This deep, emotional involvement in a story that is unfolding day by day over years is ultimately the triumph of the soap opera. Robert C. Allen echoes it: Characters in soap operas have memories, and relationships might well stretch back for a decade or more. The same happens in daytime where constantly beloved people now absent are brought back to the mind of the remaining protagonists. Family in the traditional sense of the term is absent from Buffy. Willow has a mother who http: Faith also in the end has nobody and Dawn is devoid of parents in the true sense of the word. Buffy is a world of orphans, just as Giorgio Bellocci [57] defines Guiding Light, a fictional world where characters are marked by their being orphans: The entrance of Dawn , who had never been heard of before, reflects a standard practise for soaps: An example, but they could be numerous, is Nikolas Cassadine on General Hospital, introduced as the son nobody knew Laura Spencer had had. The twist to explain her arrival is what makes it original, ingenious, logically believable, and different from soaps. Family are the people you love and that you want around yourself. And in the modern era, the traditional family model, in truth always the fulcrum and the hearth of soaps, is every day less indispensable. They set an indefinite kindred. And, in these past few years, the concept of a group of friends that create among themselves familiar ties elbowed its way through, beside the more traditional family concept. Again, Port Charles comes into consideration. The interns of a hospital become a family for one another; their working relationship and their mutual liking make them family for one another. The traditionally formed family here represented by the Collins, the Scanlons and the Baldwins is extremely feeble, imperceptible, we could say. And right from the start, from the incipit of its stories, the now-cancelled The City lacks a matriarchal or patriarchal family. Not if I have anything to say about it. Naruto blinked in disbelief. I've been trying and planning for months on how to get back at Ero-nii in the most horrible and embarrassingly humiliating way possible… and Ino singlehandedly pulls it off without even thinking about it. That shouldn't be possible… I'M the Prankster King of Konoha… I should be the one to be able to do that so easily… it's like nothing makes sense in the world anymore…". Mind Rape. Silently, the short man turned to Sarutobi and looked at him dead in the eyes, and blood dripping down his nose. The Kazekage looked up to where the irregular shakes in the building were coming from curiously. Sarutobi chuckled nervously. I'll send some of my men to check up on it right away. Honestly though, they're shinobi, not engineers… they can't be expected to notice everything when it comes to things like detailed building structure…". It was very fortunate that Konoha's and its allies' forces were not in direct combat and were currently tasked setting up traps at the moment, because if someone needed help right then, they wouldn't have gotten it. All they would have heard was Scabbard rolling on the ground, laughing like there was no tomorrow. Tsume growled deeply from her seat, causing the rest of the clan members near her and Kuromaru to back away slowly from the angry woman. Locked naked in a box with Tora and five kilos of catnip. There will be no mercy…". Asuma wiped his forehead nervously. For a moment there, I thought Inoichi was going to go after me. Jiraiya said nothing as he frantically scribbled down notes in his notepad as if his life depended on it. He was really questioning why he never came back to Konoha when he should have been looking after Naruto. He had completely forgotten how… inspirational… kunoichi could be, and you couldn't find more kunoichi than in a major ninja village. Ghost froze as he heard Ino's confirmation of him having two girlfriends… then he started to shiver as he felt the glare of one very pissed off Inoichi Yamanaka on him. Ohhhhh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck…" He swore. Ghost noticed that Zuzushi was laughing even harder on the ground a few feet away from him. Fucking lizard. Mark my words, Scab, someday very soon, you will find yourself in the middle of a preteen magical schoolgirl academy looking like a bishi translation: The screen in the arena paused for a moment before showing Ino and Sakura's match up. The digital, and at the moment clearly saner, Ino was throwing purple kunai at a relaxed pace before she made a few seals and put her hands over her chest in an odd way. The screen changed to show Ino's fight in the preliminaries. We'll find out right now! Zuzushi recovered from her laughing fit just long enough to fly to Ghost's shoulder before continuing to giggle in the way only a tiny dragon could. Ino Yamanaka! Ino wasted no time taking out several dozen shuriken and throwing them expertly at Sakura all at once. During her training with Waltz, the old man had constantly assaulted her with various styles, sizes, and ranges of attacks. From kunai and shuriken, to his fists, to pelting rain, to a giant block of ice, the old man had been indiscriminant with his teachings, making sure that Sakura was completely used to that particular variation of assault before moving on to the next style. More often than not, he would jump from one style to another she had previously practiced with in order to ensure that she did not forget her previous lessons. The end result was what the audience was watching. For the first few volleys, Sakura had dodged most of the flying weapons, but resorted to deflect the few that she initially missed with her kunai. However as the attacks continued, Sakura relied on her kunai less and less as she managed to dodge them with greater efficiency. Sakura frowned. It still wasn't easy, though. Ino was taught by Anko personally for a good amount of time, and it showed. Sakura doubted that any other genin aside from Tenten would have been able to force her to deflect their projectiles for that long and still keep her on the edge with basic shinobi equipment. Still, this was way easier than getting used to Sasori's attack patterns. God forbid should Ino actually take up puppetry. She wouldn't be able to form any seals at this rate. Ino's attacks were just too fast. What happens if someone you know has gone crazy and they're attacking you, but you know they're just confused and can be brought back? What's the best way to deal with them? It doesn't have to be correct logic. Twisted logic can work just as well in some cases if you present it right. If they're crazy at the moment, it shouldn't matter that much. Ghost sighed. The point of beating the shit out of them is to wear them out, calm them down, reduce the obscure amount of adrenaline running through their system, and most importantly, keep them still so they can't run away from your inevitable friendship speech. What are a few bruises and broken bones compared to a burst blood vessel in the brain? If you want to reason with them, be my guest, but at least try to not get killed by something stupid if you do. Arguing to prove a complicated point will only distract you from everything around you, and it dulls your senses when you are trying to debate something. Better to have your opponent pinned to the ground when you're trying to talk to them than trying to kill you. Why am I not surprised? The girl looked down to see a single senbon sticking out of her thigh. Sakura, it looks like you got hit with something…" Ino cooed as she started to make some seals just as Sakura attempted to start to run away. Hidden art, mind body disturbance technique…". Sakura's body started to shudder erratically as the technique took effect. I was only looking for shuriken and she snuck that senbon into her attacks! Then I stood still for too long! Don't fight her physically, fight her mentally. That's where her family's techniques take effect…. Not paying any attention to her arms moving towards the senbon in her leg, Sakura delved deep into her mind. She knew she was able to do it occasionally, but ironically enough, it was always easier when Ino tried one of her family's techniques on her. She could always feel where Ino's chakra was and use it as a beacon to know where to go. Thankfully, she had been meditating a fair amount during her month break. It helped her calm down and concentrate on her chakra control. Soon enough, Sakura had discovered Ino's presence inside herself, lodging itself between where her mind met her body. Unlike last time, where it was Ino's entire psyche inside her body, Sakura felt something more like Ino's intent and hands in its place. Smirking to herself, the pink haired girl started to fight back. Back in reality, Ino stumbled back in shock. I've never heard of someone able to break out of my clan's techniques when they're under my control! Sakura grinned as she quickly flipped through several seals. We've never heard of a psycho that uses exploding model cows to train students until a year ago. Get used to it! Demonic Art: Great Distortion! Ino's world immediately twisted on itself. Her sight was blurred and twisted. Her hearing was filled to the brim with loud and cringing sounds. Her balance was shot. She smelled a cornucopia of obscure scents, and she was growing dizzier with every passing second. I can't believe I gave her an opening like that. Anko-sensei would kill me if she saw that mistake…" She managed to swear through her confusion before forming the ram seal. The illusion wavered for a moment before regaining its obscurely disorienting effects. Forehead is better at genjutsu than I thought. Maybe those lessons with Kurenai-sensei actually did have some use. She wasn't. Instead there was a large smoke cloud where Sakura once was, preventing Ino from immediately tracking where her opponent could have gone. Sakura panted heavily behind one of the trees in the arena floor as she took the senbon out of her leg and quickly started making seals for the medical technique that would counteract the poison that Ino used on her. Her leg was bleeding in three separate spots, indicating that her body had stabbed itself two more additional times before she managed to break Ino's technique and run away. Right now, she had set up a low level illusion that was designed to cover her tracks fairly well, but she had no doubt that Ino was good enough to eventually find her regardless. She didn't want to admit it, but Ino's poisons were unusually potent. It was nowhere near as strong as Sasori's poison, thank all that was decent, but it still gave her a hard time regardless, and it was also incredibly fast acting, which is why she retreated after casting her illusion on Ino instead of going for the win. She doubted that she would have been able to counteract the poison in time if she hadn't gotten her prior memories and experiences back. Extracting the last of the harmful substance and closing the last of her wounds, Sakura started to plan her next move. Ino would more than likely give up on using her clan's techniques since they had proven to be less than effective against her, and likewise Sakura felt that using offensive illusions on Ino was just as effective since the girl managed to break out of one of her more potent illusions on her second try. That meant that the only thing left available for the two to uses was just taijutsu and whatever the hell they haven't shown yet. Sakura smirked as she slowly flipped through some seals. Ino may have had her poisons, but they were useless if they didn't get into her in the first place…. I just want to play. Then when I win, Sasuke-kun will see that I'm better than you, and he'll come to me instead…" She pouted. Despite her demeanor, Ino was getting irritated. Regardless of how much tracking training she did with Anko, she couldn't seem to find a single trace of the pink haired girl. Ino smirked before throwing the kunai in her hand at her opponent. I actually don't want to be with her. The kunai flew through the air straight at Sakura… and passed right through her, causing her to disappear in a cloud of smoke. But it talked! It was proving harder than she originally thought to be able to control her augmented strength. It was nowhere near where she once was, but she would still raise suspicions if she went overboard. Luckily, she could still pass off as just an exceptionally strong kunoichi as long as she kept her hits to only this level. She was also at that moment thankful for doing a bit of extra studying on the side when she first started her genjutsu training and learned the D-ranked technique that allowed her to make it seem as if her voice was coming from somewhere else. With that technique, mixed with the poor lighting from the shade of the trees, and the basic clone technique, she had managed to make the opening she needed to turn the fight around. Ino rolled on the ground for a few meters before jumping back onto her feet with several kunai and shuriken in her hands. She had been smacked around by Anko for so long that such responses were instinct for her at this point. Despite her still blurry vision, she could still make out Sakura's pink hair coming towards her at a fair pace, so that was what she aimed for without any hesitation. Just give up already! Sakura frowned as she dodged the oncoming metal with no problem at all. She had placed herself under the reaction enhancing genjutsu again while waiting for Ino to get into position, so she wouldn't have nearly as much trouble detecting and dodging the poisoned metal this time. It was like the girl's movements had become twice as quick in the time they were playing cat and mouse. Suddenly the mouse was making the cat look like a turtle. Ino didn't know why, but she had a bad feeling that things would get worse if she fought Sakura in a taijutsu match. She had enough kunai and shuriken to fight a decently sized battalion on her thanks to her modified pouch which had a storage seal on the inside, but wasting weaponry was something that could only hurt her in the long run. Another thing that Anko had to force into the girl via sheer terror and live experience in order to learn. Grabbing onto a small pellet, Ino grimaced. She was hoping to not use this particular item so early in her matches, but now wasn't the time to second guess herself. With the new plethora of dangerous sharp objects ready, Ino threw them all at her opponent, who was less than 10 meters from her at this point. Sakura dodged all of the thrown objects with ease again, but she had noticed that a small round pellet was aimed several feet in front of her…. A large purple gas cloud exploded in front of Sakura as Ino jumped back with a smirk on her face. She wouldn't be able to hit Sakura accurately due to her vision being impaired by the smoke, but that was irrelevant since her opponent would have easily inhaled some of the gas by no…. A second explosion echoed through the arena as an exploding tag went off between where Ino was and the center of the poison cloud. The poisonous gas was blown in the opposite direction of the young Yamanaka as she was distracted and blinded by the light of the fire, which left her completely open for an exhausted and extremely pissed off Sakura to go on the offensive. Before Ino had a chance to look up or readjust her eyes again, Sakura had closed the gap between the two and delivered a strong punch to the girl's face, launching her another dozen meters away. This time though, Ino was too dazed to immediately get back on her feet, allowing Sakura to once again rush in to get inside her appropriate throwing range. Sakura didn't answer as she took out a kunai of her own and sparred against her unstable opponent. It didn't last long, however, as Sakura managed to completely shut down Ino's somewhat erratic attacks and toss her hard into the ground, knocking the wind out of her, then sucker punching the girl in the stomach when her guard was down. Ino gasped out for air with wide open eyes before she passed out from the pain. Keeping up her reaction enhancing illusion and that last rush had used up a lot of her stamina. Far more than she was comfortable admitting. She grimaced as her arm started to throb. It might have not been the safest or smartest move, but using that exploding tag so close to her to get rid of the poison gas was the only way she could think of to keep the fight in her favor. Hell, if it worked against an S-class missing-nin, it should be more than enough for Ino. Ghost walked over to Ino and inspected her carefully, then looked at Sakura who was picking herself up off the ground with some trouble. Nodding to the girl the man turned to the audience. Sakura Haruno! Wow… 50 ish reviews for that last chapter. Very nice. Keep on reviewing guys. College is still a pain in the ass. Homework is still a pain in the ass. Kishi is still pulling his plot out of his ass. So nothing much has changed. Shippuden movie 4 looks… interesting. Time travel is definitely something that was bound to be touched on at some point, but I'm more interested to see Hiraishin in full scale animated action than anything else. Also, Shippuden movie 3 is coming out on dvd in japan within a week, so for anyone who doesn't know what that means, just look for it on the internet subbed within a few weeks. It will actually be there. Just throwing it out there. If you knew as much as I do about them, you would too. I'm all for reducing the average person's carbon footprint, just… don't try and get a hybrid for at least another years. Trust me. It's actually not worth it. Freaking yearlong research report…. So review, laugh, worship the Log, watch some movies, and for me, hope these last few weeks of college this year don't try to force me to bend over too much. Just In All Stories: New Stories: Updated Crossovers: New Crossovers: Story Story Writer Forum Community. Things didn't go so well this time after Danzo betrayed konoha and joined Akatsuki. As the Kyubi was being removed from Naruto however, an unexpected stranger arrived to change all for the better NaruHina timetravel some oc please review. Chapter And going and going and going and going… I don't own Naruto, any of its characters, or any references in this story. Konoha Arena: They have quite the potential, these two…" "So do they have any special nicknames that I should know about? I'm starting to wonder if you're suffering from this blasted old age harder than I am…" Said short fat man frowned. They'll eventually come up with a fitting name for her in our stead…" "Hey, after these fights are over, do you want to try and make some names for these shinobi of yours like old times? Yugito frowned. Words could not describe the range of emotions and current state of Hiashi's mind right now. Should those two actually manage to hone their skills any further as they aged… he had reason to believe that even his master would have issues if matched up against them… But the invasion held priority. By the time those green children knew what hit them, they would be dead… And by then Sasuke-kun would already be halfway to Oto… o. Damn it! He wanted to fight the dobe when he was at full strength! Not when he was half dead! As the group approached the door, they could hear voices coming from the other side. It's not the same as jumping out of a window…" "I will kill him…" Growled Sasuke, twitching angrily. You two seem fine, so I'll just go back now…" "Ah…" Temari blinked before looking around. Sakura blinked in confusion. Did Gaara just make a joke? Hana rolled her eyes. Boys and their balls… I'll never understand…" o. I came here to warn you about Gaara…" "He's the container of Shukaku, the Ichibi, right? That head of yours might have saved you from me but…" "So…" Shikamaru interrupted in a bored tone. I mean you're somewhat decent compared to most of the other annoying guys out there, and I don't want you to die so quickly…" Shikamaru looked at the girl with seemingly disinterested eyes before yawning again and turning around. Ino froze. Hinata-chan released my tenketsu, so I should be in decent enough shape to kick his ass when our match starts…" "You wish, dobe…" Sasuke smirked, though inwardly he was starting to think that maybe it would have been a smart idea to ask Hinata to leave a few of his teammate's chakra points blocked just in case… "So what did we miss? Heh, no wonder you have no sense of self-preservation…" The group froze as a familiar ravenous feeling made itself known in the air. I think they were pretty impressed… though I don't think the proctor scored many points, judging from the amount of killing intent the women in the audience were giving him…" "I am quite certain Naruto-san is unable to hear you…" Shino commented, seeing that Naruto was rocking back and forth, denying that he was a pervert repeatedly. Every passing second, he was beginning to believe that he would do this invasion less for revenge and more for making the world a better place as a whole… o. You'd make an excellent addition to Ame…" Ghost shrugged. Giving advice is against the rules! This buffoon would soon enough know not to underestimate shinobi from Ame… "So then, I assume you two are ready to try and top that last fight? He hoped he wouldn't embarrass them… Ghost then turned to Kagari, prompting the screen to change to his data. He could always just roll around the arena and not get hit for the rest of the match and force a draw…" "He'd better not. I doubt that they didn't prepare for at least this much in his match…" o. Every time he approached one of those small black and white balls nowadays, all he could see was a screaming miniature version of himself… "Heheh! Sakura raised an eyebrow. After all, we did find you on the edge of that crater with Waltz-sama after that large shockwave…" Naruto shook his head vigorously in denial. The tags will take him down before he even gets close to me…" "Here I come! Ghost prepared his body to move. These brats of yours are really starting to interest me…" o. He might have been lucky enough to pass out before this happened, but there's no way the people in the audience will let him live this down later…" "Remind me to give the boy a few free sessions with me later. Out of all the people she could have been fighting, she's up against the one that has the highest chance of letting her out of the arena with all her bones intact… next to Shikamaru, of course…" Shikaku frowned. I'm surprised that she's been progressing as far as she did…" Shikaku frowned for a moment as he tried to remember all the things his son told him about his teammate over the past few months. Sometimes I truly wonder about her…" "Yeah…" Shikaku muttered under his breath, gears turning in his head… remembering the girl's disheveled appearance when she arrived late to the arena. That would be as ridiculous as… Ghost and Anko-sensei and… Hana-sensei… Shikamaru blinked as Ino started to grin in a less than comforting manner. Stop coddling the brats, for crying out loud…" o. So many moustaches…" Crypt whispered to himself as he stared at the crowd. I also remember that she was doing extensive taijutsu and evasion training with Waltz-sama during our month break…" "Hmmm… an interesting point. I'd say that's pretty dumb luck right there…" "He also looks the part too! That's all I can say…" o. You're acting more confident than usual. Ino smirked. That shouldn't be possible… I'M the Prankster King of Konoha… I should be the one to be able to do that so easily… it's like nothing makes sense in the world anymore…" "… I'm renewing my restraining order on Ino after this…" Sasuke said to himself as he shivered uncontrollably. Honestly though, they're shinobi, not engineers… they can't be expected to notice everything when it comes to things like detailed building structure…" o. Hana shivered uncontrollably. There will be no mercy…" o. Hidden art, mind body disturbance technique…" Sakura's body started to shudder erratically as the technique took effect. That's where her family's techniques take effect… Not paying any attention to her arms moving towards the senbon in her leg, Sakura delved deep into her mind. Ino may have had her poisons, but they were useless if they didn't get into her in the first place… "Oh Saaakuraaaa…" Ino taunted as she walked carefully in the slightly spread out trees, holding a kunai out in each hand. That's mean Sakura… is that what you really think of me? Sakura dodged all of the thrown objects with ease again, but she had noticed that a small round pellet was aimed several feet in front of her… Boom. She wouldn't be able to hit Sakura accurately due to her vision being impaired by the smoke, but that was irrelevant since her opponent would have easily inhaled some of the gas by no… BOOM! Freaking yearlong research report… So review, laugh, worship the Log, watch some movies, and for me, hope these last few weeks of college this year don't try to force me to bend over too much. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Most of the girls on my hall still had word processors. I honestly still think most people would prefer to just write a letter, I remember telling my high school best friend, with all the tragic confidence of the last buggy-whip manufacturer in Dearborn, Michigan. Why would I need internet? Cardigan was a regular on Foothills. His user name suggested he might be into the same flavor of punk rock as we were. He was nice and funny. Texas worked in the library, so could chat with him during her shift. At some point, the character of the conversation between Texas and Cardigan changed. She knew where he went to school. She knew his real name. She knew what his voice sounded like, because their conversations left the virtual realm and moved to the phone. I felt left out, he was both of our friends, but I could read the writing on the dorm room white board. But I think Texas was looking for an excuse that was neither as weighted with all the dumb gravitas people assign to dramatic haircuts nor as prosaic as I was bored. A plan coalesced. Cardigan would visit. Texas would shave her head. The two of them would hang out and see if they could make explicit the implicit flirtation in the spaces between keystrokes. I was skeptical. He could be a serial killer. He could be a monster. He could be anything. If he was nice, he could follow us back to campus. If he was crazy? Well, I guess we could send him home and call the police? It was luminescent. It was full-on wonder. After hugs and introductions, after we bought some more cigarettes and gave him instructions on getting back to campus, I spent some time, hours, days, weeks afterward trying to figure how different that scene would have played if it had been me to get out of the car and not Texas. If he would have felt the same, if he would have tried to hide his disappointment, if he would have found some excuse to creep off back to Pennsylvania— whoops! Turns out my grandma died, but you seem like a real sweet person and it was sure nice to meet you. Cardigan wore cardigans for christsake, even if he did wear them over Clash shirts. There was no need to think too hard on it, though because Cardigan was suddenly, totally, completely smitten with Texas. And Texas was my best friend. This is not a story about a love triangle. I never told Cardigan I had a crush on him. He maybe sussed it out, but never acknowledged it. I held up the cup. The saleswoman, with a Franklin County accent and church lady hair, paused in her calculations and gave us a scowl. She held up the blue green dress and the sunlight caught in the glass beads. I would marvel that it fit me, that held up, even as the beads loosened and silk faded to almost pink with sweat and I required additional underwear to make it look as flattering as it had when I was nineteen. I wore it to shows. I wore it to parties. I wore it plays. I hung it on the wall as decoration. I wore it to one ill-timed arts gala in the gut-churning middle of the election recount. I wore it for my birthday. I might have worn it for yours. It outlasted Cardigan and college and the vicissitudes of my friendship with Texas in its stormy patches. And yet it lives. This is Day Two. Day One is here. What a fabulous dress for a dinner party. Mom gushed when I came out of the dressing room. It was both flattering and modest, black eyelet, which felt like a fascinating contradiction. I hemmed and hawed. It was cheap but still out of my price range and the kind of dress that would look good with pearls. I went to hand it back to the saleswoman. Mom took it out of my hands and announced that she was buying it for me. No argument. GrandJay died a few months later. He made it to not-quite-eighty, an impressive age for a man of extravagant appetites that unsurprisingly felled him. His actual death occurred on the Florida panhandle, in a town with a name—Defuniak Springs—that sounded like it came out of the Southern Novel in golf shirts that was my paternal grandfather personified. Mom and I drove over the mountain from Asheville, despite the fact that she and Dad had been divorced for years and crossed the state line from Tennessee about a block from the Episcopal Church. Inside the crowd was already milling with refreshments in the fellowship hall. Dad was there with his new girlfriend. Mom was not the only divorced person in attendance. I hung out with them and one of my favorite cousins until we were called into the church proper. My grandfather had always been both a marvelous writer and a legend in his own mind. The young man in those letters, the barrel chested young pilot with the rakish grin and the wild eyebrows, who consciously aped Fitzgerald and Hemingway, in his descriptions of Northern Africa, of Italy, of barely post-war France, who believed he was both a daring hero and a fledgling literary genius? That was my grandfather at his best. If there is a such thing as a tragic flaw it is that GrandJay never recovered from being that young man, and so, it seemed fitting it was that young man we commemorated. I sat up front with my Dad, the oldest child of the oldest child of man himself the oldest child who had died. My cousin and I stole a bottle of wine and barely evaded a winking former congressman who tried to convince us of his non-existent resemblance to Sean Connery on our way off the back porch and onto the golf course. Years passed. I drove to town the day of, barely making the event. The whole ride home I thought I ought that sounded like the chorus of a country song.. The dress was old by then. Gather ye fashion trends while ye may, I guess. My mind wandered during the service. Less than a year later, Betsy, that elegant wisp of a grandmother in black and gold, passed away in a retirement home in Tennessee. She was a few weeks shy of ninety-one. I rode back over the mountain from Asheville with Dad, this time to a cemetery on the Tennessee side of the Bristol, a couple of miles from where her ex-husbands had occurred the year before. The house that had belonged to her grandmother and grandfather. The cemetery was just across a divided highway from that house. We met the rest of my aunts and cousins there. We had not. My ex-uncle had once again come along. Otherwise, I felt strangely awkward for reasons I could not understand. Perhaps because Betsy herself had herself been prickly. She was charming and beautiful, a consummate socialite. I said this about her at the time: She was a loyal friend and an often-hilarious dinner guest. Being around Betsy always felt like getting the rare invite to one of the best parties around. In all the good and bad that it entailed. We convened under one of those green plastic graveside tents because the weather was pigeon gray and the rain needled. She was put to rest in an elaborate coffin, piled with white flowers, but her service was impersonal and performed by the Brylcreem-ed funeral director, while we politely sniffled and mostly avoided eye contact. After five minutes, the whole thing was over. For a woman so inclined toward grand to-dos, Betsy would have found her funeral a real non-event. After each of their deaths, Daddy Joe and Mam respectively were laid to rest beside him, and it was probably about that time that the divided highway started to develop. Shopping centers and gas stations and fast food joints filled the corridor between the two hills. The cemetery started showing its age. The White Angel became a target for vandals. I stood beside that base and watched men in jumpsuits being the rough, inelegant work of returning my grandmother to earth. There was no one left in the house across the way to look out at her grave. The cemetery was maybe a couple of miles from the Motor Speedway. Nascar and my grandmother—my entire Bristol family, really, and to be very clear, I was born in Bristol— seemed to exist in two different, completely closed universes. I tried to imagine what her gravesite would sound like on race day. Like the gates of Hell had come screaming open and unleashed the machines. I wondered who would visit her grave. I felt enormously sad. The family all walked to their cars. My aunt gave me an ancient Ferragamo shoe box, these are for you from Betsy, she said. And they all went on about their ways. Dad and I drove out of town. I sat in the passenger seat and opened the box. It contained four tumblers, two candlesticks, and what appeared to be four sterling silver, monogrammed sporks. I think I started laughing then. Three is enough, I said. He clearly had no idea not what I was talking about but had the good sense not to ask for elaboration. It was a cotton-blend shirt dress, roughly forty years old, in a brown tartan print with a hint of antifreeze blue woven through the plaid. The bodice was unflatteringly long-waisted and missing two of the five covered buttons that otherwise gaped over my breasts. The skirt fanned out into uneven box pleats at the hips. Worn to shine in patches and reeking of mothballs, it looked like something that had been fished out of a garbage bin moments before it was enlisted as oil rag. When I asked the proprietor what he wanted for it, he gave me a shrug, I dunno. A dollar seem reasonable? At the time, I was hanging out with the safety-pinned gas station jacket enthusiast set. Like me, they were mostly white kids with fucked-up hair. They were pretty sure the American experiment was over, that any day The People would swarm the streets to demand a radical restructuring of society. Until then, the most important thing we could do was keep making flyers and not sell out to a major label. I thought I might refashion myself as a radical leftist. I was and still am attracted to angry with people with a barbed sense of humor. The type of person inclined to go apoplectic when human beings treat other human beings like less than. I figured the far left was as good a place as any to make friends and find lovers. I read the books. I tried to sort out the factions, such as they were, in the college district of a New South city with a complicated racial history and a still deeply segregated population. I scrawled Emma Goldman quotations on my book bag in black marker. I tried to get into Crass. I went to an anti-death penalty protest. Most of my fellow protesters were vehemently Pro-Life in all contexts, a fact I only discovered after complaining loudly to the women around me about the terrible anti-abortion protesters that showed up every Saturday to picket the clinic across the street from my apartment. I was met with cold stares and the glint of candlelight reflected off crosses. No veil. Who knew? I have never felt so Protestant. I had already registered as a Democrat, but I signed up for the Communist Party when I found an ad in the back of a zine. Are you now or have you ever been? Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were one of my favorite celebrity couples. The closest one took place in an afterhours classroom on campus. There, I found a room of four people quietly writing postcards to Zapatistas, while a forty-something dude leered at the girls and tried to lead the group in a Woody Guthrie sing-along. She was student of both the Russian Language and Revolution in general as a historical subject, but had little use for political pieties. I met her for dinner free, vegetarian, hosted by the Hari Krishnas at the campus interfaith house. One of the Krishna dudes interrupted us to say that the meals were only free so long as we gave a donation. We went to a noisy, smelly house show to see a bunch of noisy, smelly punk rock bands. Between sets, we sat on a derelict upholstered sofa that had been left to rot on the front porch through all four seasons of Piedmont humidity. We smoked cigarettes among skinny white boys arguing points of ideological purity seemingly indistinguishable from music taste. An abandoned old school with shattered palladian windows loomed on a hill over us surrounded by long-rusted chain link. Periodically, I would imagine I saw shadows inside. I suspected they were benign. I was mostly unhappy in those days—no one who wears that much brown by choice can possibly be emotionally stable—but I liked the house shows and the zines and that romantic end of the world feeling. For a time, I had a few of the buttons saved in an old Band-Aid box, but eventually it too was lost to time. January needled my lungs and numbed my fingers. I must have looked horrible, all greasy-haired and sniffling when I barged into her kitchen. She looked like a vision—all white and gold— a coronation Queen Elizabeth I in leggings and oversized sweaters and a Christmas-themed apron. She was slicing a pecan pie. Her specialty. I wish I were dead. Which, because I was sixteen, was both gospel truth and complete hyperbole at the same time. The Countess wiped her hands on a tea towel. Drink each one, really fast. Then put this on. She held up a tube of lipstick, blood red. I was a novice drinker, then, and the tequila— would there be worm bits in it? While my eyes watered and esophagus burned, she gestured again with the lipstick..

You think you can fix him up? It said it'll help you out with that fireball mongoose problem you've been having trouble with if you do. Crypt blinked. That bastard! I know it was holding out on me! The floor comes first. Everyone could hear low rumblings, though. Within 30 seconds, the dust had settled and much to everyone's surprise the arena floor was in the same condition article source was in before the fights had even started, minus the fallen trees.

Ghost was once again in the middle of the floor, casually standing with his hands in his pockets, but Crypt had disappeared. Get your butt down here so I can kick it! She's up to something troublesome. Sakura sighed as she turned to the stairs. You know her better than I do at the moment, after all. One cut from those poisons of hers and the pink girl is done for. Kunai are faster than seals, after all, and genjutsu can only help you so much against an opponent right in front of you.

See more, I highly doubt that Anko-sensei would have not trained her student against genjutsu when both of her first potential opponents are known to use it. I think she is already Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy to neutralize low-level poisons in her system during combat situations without much issue, and mid-level poisons if given enough time alone to concentrate.

I also remember that she was doing extensive taijutsu and evasion training with Waltz-sama during our month break…". He was incredibly knowledgeable about various tactics I doubt he would be unable to give Sakura-san some advice on dodging projectiles efficiently, especially with his rather impressive frame. I guess I ruined the arena, eh? Naruto smiled. Ero-nii and Crypt fixed it up while you were getting treated. Sakura and Ino's fight is actually just about to start.

Good job with that last attack, though. When Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy almost killed me, the crater was only half as big. Part of that was because I went higher than normal. Usually I just bounce myself to a decent height and then hit the ground… to be honest, I thought I was going to plow through that tree instead of launching off of it and simply bouncing myself naturally over the traps and the kunai… but I think what happened worked better in a way…".

We have another member! Shouldn't it be the opposite, considering he can't mold chakra? Lee can't mold chakra, but so far, he's the only person here that managed to force Naruto to go all out, he's received training with possibly the only teachers in the Elemental Nations that could even remotely get him Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy the level that he's at right now, despite his limitations I'd say that's pretty dumb luck right there…".

So you could be qualified to have dumb luck? Or were you just that stupid to begin with? Naruto pouted. I'd like to see you try hiding from ANBU read article nothing but pure orange. Let me tell you, it's harder than it sounds. Https://xwoodporn.com/swingers/blog-drag-strip-in-north-carolina.php raised an eyebrow at his best friend for a moment before sighing to himself.

Troublesome doesn't even begin to describe that girl. She was all quiet and moody throughout your fight. Then a little after you won, I asked her what was up, and she apparently snapped, giggling like crazy. The cemetery started showing its age. The White Angel became a target for vandals. I stood beside that base and watched men in jumpsuits being the rough, inelegant work of returning my grandmother to earth.

There was Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy one left in the house across the way to look out at her grave. The cemetery was maybe a couple of miles from the Motor Speedway.

Nascar and my grandmother—my entire Bristol family, really, and to be very clear, I was born in Bristol— seemed to exist in two different, completely closed universes. I tried to imagine what her gravesite would sound like on race day.

Like the gates of Hell had come screaming open and unleashed the machines. I wondered who would visit her grave. I felt enormously sad. The family all walked to their cars. My aunt gave me an ancient Ferragamo shoe box, these are for you from Betsy, she said. And they all went on about their ways. Dad and I drove out of town. I sat in the passenger seat and opened the box.

It Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy four tumblers, two candlesticks, and what appeared to be four sterling silver, monogrammed sporks. I think I started laughing then. Three is enough, I said. He clearly had no idea not what I was talking about but had the good sense not to ask for elaboration.

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It was a Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy shirt dress, roughly forty years old, in a brown tartan print with a hint of antifreeze blue woven through the plaid. The bodice was unflatteringly long-waisted and missing two of the five covered buttons that otherwise gaped over my breasts.

The skirt fanned out into uneven box pleats at the hips. Worn to shine in patches and reeking of mothballs, it looked like something that had been fished out of a garbage bin moments before it was enlisted as oil rag. When I asked the proprietor what he wanted for it, he gave me a Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy, I dunno.

A dollar seem reasonable? At the time, I was hanging out with the safety-pinned gas station jacket enthusiast set. Like me, they were mostly white kids with fucked-up hair. They were pretty sure the American experiment was over, that any day The People would swarm the streets to https://xwoodporn.com/ass-worship/page-26-02-2020.php a continue reading restructuring of society.

Until then, the most important thing we could do was keep making flyers and not sell out to a major label. I thought I might refashion myself as a radical leftist. I was and still am attracted to angry with people with a barbed sense of humor. The type of person inclined to go apoplectic when human beings treat other human beings like less than. I figured the far left was as Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy a place as any to make friends and continue reading lovers.

I read the books. I tried to sort out the factions, such as they were, in the college district of a New South city with a complicated racial history and a still deeply segregated population.

I scrawled Emma Goldman quotations on my book bag in read article marker. I tried to get into Crass. I went to an anti-death penalty protest. Most of my fellow protesters were vehemently Pro-Life in all contexts, a fact I only discovered after complaining loudly to Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy women around me about the terrible anti-abortion protesters that showed up every Saturday to picket the clinic across the street from my apartment.

I Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy met with cold stares and the glint of candlelight reflected off crosses. No veil. Who knew? I have never felt so Protestant. I had already registered as a Democrat, but I signed up for the Communist Party when I found an ad in the back of a zine. Are you now or have you ever been? Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were one of my favorite celebrity couples.

The closest one took place in an afterhours classroom on campus. There, I found a room of four people quietly writing postcards to Zapatistas, while a forty-something dude leered at the girls and tried to lead the group in a Woody Guthrie sing-along. She was student of both the Russian Language and Revolution in general as a historical subject, but had little use for political pieties.

I met her for dinner free, vegetarian, hosted by the Hari Krishnas at the campus interfaith house. One of the Krishna dudes interrupted us to say that the meals check this out only free so long as we gave https://xwoodporn.com/snowballing/tag-16-05-2020.php donation. We went to a noisy, smelly house show to see a bunch of noisy, smelly punk rock bands.

Between sets, we sat on a derelict upholstered sofa that had been left to rot on the front porch through all four seasons of Piedmont humidity.

We here cigarettes among skinny white boys arguing points of ideological purity seemingly indistinguishable from music taste. An abandoned old school with shattered palladian windows loomed on a hill over us surrounded by long-rusted chain link.

Periodically, I would imagine I saw shadows inside. I suspected they were benign. I was mostly unhappy in those days—no one who wears that much brown by choice can possibly be emotionally stable—but I liked the house shows and the zines and that romantic end of the world feeling.

For a time, I had a few of the buttons saved in an old Band-Aid box, but eventually it too was lost to time. January needled my lungs and numbed my fingers. I must have looked horrible, all greasy-haired and sniffling when I barged into her kitchen. She looked like a vision—all white and gold— a coronation Queen Elizabeth I in leggings and oversized sweaters and a Christmas-themed apron.

She was slicing a pecan pie. Her specialty. I wish I were dead. Which, because I was sixteen, was both gospel truth and complete hyperbole at the same time. The Countess wiped her hands on a tea towel. Drink each one, really fast. Then put this on. She held up a tube of lipstick, blood red.

I was a novice drinker, then, and the tequila— would there be worm bits in it? While my eyes watered and esophagus burned, she gestured again with the lipstick. I applied the lipstick by my reflection in the kitchen window. I thought it accentuated the gap between my front teeth and made the rest look yellow. I felt warm and woozy. The Countess hollered at her little sister.

I felt in my pocket for cigarettes and we went out to the Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy. The Countess was not really a Countess. She looked a painting or a Renaissance princess and aspired, above all, to beautiful things and perfect hospitality. We spent hours driving around fancy neighborhoods, imagining which houses we might live in and how we might entertain once we did.

With champagne cocktails and portrait hats. The men would wear seersucker suits and mascara. She liked transgression so discreet as to require a double-take, Was it? Could it? It would be years before I knew she stole that line about the seersucker and mascara from someone else. She had big moods. She made bold statements. What do you all make of that? She drove too fast, squealing here the bend, shooting out onto the Avenue, where the speed limit was an impossible 25 mph for everyone but The Countess, who thought nothing of passing a slower car as if it were rush hour on the expressway.

We listed off bullet points about each of the mansions on the right. Hand to Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy. The strange stone art deco villa in the ivy? Owned by a socialite tarot card reader. The Countess lit another cigarette with the lazy dash lighter and when she opened the window, she flooded the avenue with music. She liked spirally songs with ethereal female vocals. Cocteau Twins. She also had a weakness for Enya, which was hilarious. From my bedroom, I could hear her approach to Orinoco Flow played at death metal volume up the narrow corridor of ranch houses that led to my house.

My mother and sister hated it there. I understood that the smaller, shabbier house under the mountain felt like a step down, but I liked where it was. The ones Thomas Wolfe wrote about. The Countess lived at the bottom of the hill in a stone and shingle cottage, scarcely grander than my house. She flagged me down in her front yard.

Had I heard Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy anyone? Was I still hung up on Poetic Bangs? Had I really gotten a car? Would I like a dinner? Could we sit in the smoking section because God she was dying for a cigarette. I let her Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy in my car. Then I started Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy in my car because I drove her to a school.

The Countess would coerce a lonely, aging tourists to buy her vodka tonics at the bar. She never got busted [1]. When we were reunited in the fourth grade, she was unusually tall and seemed in all ways about two decades older than the rest of us. I went to her house for a play date. You can be Kathleen Turner or Diane Keaton or something.

She handed me a wine glass full of Fresca and started complaining about her imaginary ex-husband, Mark. The Countess would give me a withering gaze and explain that there were no dragons on the Upper East Side. This was accurate. Dragons are definitely more of an Upper West Side thing. I told her I felt lightheaded and she asked if I was going to puke.

I said no. He was older. Sometimes she said he was twenty-one. Sometimes she said he was twenty-six. She was so over men our age. She rolled down the windows once we outran the city lights. The black shadows of pines lorded over us on either side of the road. It was cold. She tapped the console. I brought a flaskshe said. But the cold i good for your skin. Fresh air prevents wrinkles. I rested my head against the door frame and looked up to see if I could make out the moon.

The Countess found academic endeavor a largely dull affair, though she was not, strictly speaking, Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy bad student. Our school was full of smart kids and rich kids, and a few rich, smart kids.

Neither the Countess nor I were rich enough to slack off entirely, so on the multitude of days we called in sick together [2].

Bangalixxxxvido Hd Watch How to say i love you in spanish audio Video Hot Cruise. They never even noticed me. She means largely that they might not have been able to turn Giles back, but bear in mind the cardinal sin on Buffy is to kill a human. As the pressure to defeat Glory heightens in season 5 and Buffy insists on protecting Dawn at the possible expense of ending the world, Ripper begins to reemerge. In the showdown Buffy defeats Glory, who withdraws, leaving Ben, her human host, battered but intact. Thus the apparently civilized Giles will kill a human when he believes that it is morally justified. Certainly his use of violence to protect the female Buffy allows him to take on a conventional masculine role as her protector, and Jacob M. Giles displays some potential as a new man, but his negotiation of gender and gendered relationships is often complicated by his role as a parent figure, as I have indicated. Not until Principal Wood does the show offer a further, more mature version of a new man, this time uncomplicated by parental anxieties. I discuss Wood at the end of this chapter. This positions him in a caring profession sometimes associated with women, and he is contrasted with the older male doctor who is presented as a distant professional. Ben is trusted enough to help the Scoobies when Giles is seriously injured as the gang try to escape Glory and the Knights of Byzantium at the end of the season. He betrays them because Glory inhabits his body and takes over at inappropriate times. Make Me Feel Like a Man [30] Xander demonstrates characteristics of a new man, though at times the implication is that he is a new man because he cannot be a real man. It is his bond with Willow that saves the world at the end of season 6: Xander tries to reconcile Buffy and Riley when their relationship becomes distant. That Xander represents emotion, love, and friendship is part of the project of dissociating gender and behavior: He is not physically up to fighting evil, and though keen, he is most often knocked out or incapacitated. In a less exaggerated but similar way to hapless http: Relating gendering to Christianity, Dyer suggests that suffering is almost an assertion of white masculinity He gets along with girls and is accepted by them as an unthreatening, equal companion: Thus I would agree with A. Like Giles, he eventually has paid employment, making him a wage earner and provider. As a kind of self-made man, Xander is another example of shifting identity. Initially he wished to be a protector, and now he is cast in this role, though not quite in the heroic way he imagined. Notably, Dawn asserts her independence and sabotages the plan: Sexual prowess is again called on to demonstrate that a new man is in fact a real man. Early on he appeared to be sexually innocent, if eager for experience. Early on his fascination with sex was seen as an integral part of his geek teen boy behavior: Like Giles, Xander is not just desirable—he is virile. That is, fans see heterosexuality, consciously or not, http: Both Sakal Once again a new man demonstrates a capacity for violence, cannot cope with the situation, denies the female partner agency, and leaves. And, as with Oz, Xander is not really blamed, in this case because Anya is still an outsider. I would point out in conclusion that Xander does in fact have a special status: Despite his ambivalent class background and his geek status, he is a white heterosexual male and is thus the only Scooby who is also a member of the historically dominant sector of American society. Principal Man [39] In season 7 Sunnydale High School opens again, and its new principal is a departure from previous incumbents—he is young and black. Like other nonwhite characters on Buffy, Principal Robin Wood is whitewashed, assimilated: This means that Wood is from a matriarchal line; he remembers a strong mother and no father a typical characterization of black families based on post—World War II demographics and employment patterns [Woloch Furthermore, because he is Other, Wood is not implicated in white male supremacy: Like Xander, he has no superpowers, though he has been trained to fight vampires: His scenes do allow him some development apart from the main protagonists, as when the First appears to him as his mother, but he is primarily used to illuminate the role of Slayer and the newly souled Spike. In connection with his mother, in his interaction with Faith he is part of her redemption , http: Wood shares the communal ethos of the group—he is willing to work beside them, even Spike, to fight evil. He becomes even more sexualized through his interaction with Faith, and liberal values are connoted by his interracial relationships Gill [] notes that by season 7 all the main characters are or have been interracially dating. Yet he does not display the sexual jealousy that marks Xander and Oz; he endorses romance relationships between equals and allows Faith to take the lead in their sexual encounter. This may be partly owing to age: The show also intimates that Wood may be a villain. These expectations are reversed, as regular viewers might expect, when Wood reveals to Buffy that he is the son of a Slayer. Notably, however, he is also still a real man, and he remains Other since he is allied with Others Giles, foreigner; Faith, working class ; again openness is a consequence of marginality. You Men and Your Man-Ness [44] Some representations of masculinity in Buffy seem able to transcend gender binaries, but on closer examination their masculinity retains traditional elements, and http: Male characters can either retain their masculinity and be classed as the enemy and be defeated by the Slayer, or they can give up their power and be classed as allies and become feminized Slayerettes— changed later to Scooby Gang. Many new men relate to Buffy as potential partners, and because of this, just like the tough guys, they are in competition with Buffy and with each other especially with Angel and their very heterosexuality marks them as complicit with patriarchal structures. All the new men are aware of how masculinity is constructed and therefore of how they differ from its traditional form. Masculinity is further asserted by wage earning: They demonstrate again the difficulty in negotiating a new type of gender identity, in trying to construct a masculinity that fits the postfeminist age. Notes 1. Thanks to the responsive audience to my paper at WisCon 25 for raising some of these points in discussion. In this respect Giles also plays out the notion of the repressed Brit. The interracial relationship may have seemed edgy in the U. Tony Head left the show because he wanted to spend more time with his family http: Tom DiPiero suggests that white masculinity itself can be seen as a lack of identity in Dyer The comic book character Blade became widely known via the movie and its sequel. Bibliography Anderson, Wendy Love. The Philosophy of Religion in the Buffyverse. Fear and Trembling in Sunnydale, ed. James B. South, — Peru, Ill.: Open Court. Buttsworth, Sara. Buffy and the Penetration of the Gendered Warrior- Hero. Journal of Media and Cultural Studies Dyer, Richard. Edwards, Lynne. Kendra as Tragic Mulatta in Buffy. Rhonda V. Wilcox and David Lavery, 85— Lanham, Md.: Gill, Candra K. Dynamics of Race in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Golden, Christopher, and Nancy Holder. Buffy the Vampire Slayer: New York: Pocket Books. Held, Jacob M. Punishment in the Buffyverse. Jarvis, Christine. Gendered Fears in Teenage Horror. Manhood in America: A Cultural History. Free Press. Korsmeyer, Carolyn. In and Out of Control. Lavery, David. Levine, Michael P. The Girl Next Door. Mendlesohn, Farah. Wilcox and David Lavery, 45— Owen, A. Vampires, Postmodernity, and Postfeminism. Robinson, Victoria. Telling It Straight, ed. Diane Richardson, — Buckingham, U. Open University Press. Sakal, Gregory J. Themes of Sacrifice, Salvation, and Redemption. Saxey, Esther. The Series and Its Fan Fiction. Roz Kaveney, — Sayer, Karen. Reading Space and Place. Roz Kaveney, 98— Simkin, Stevie. Torres, Sasha. Constance Penley and Sharon Willis, — University of Minneapolis Press. Williams, J. Mother-Daughter Conflicts in Buffy. Wilcox and David Lavery, 61— Woloch, Nancy. Women and the American Experience. McGraw- Hill. Translated from the Italian and with the editorial assistance of Rhonda Wilcox. Passions is on! Timmy's down the bloody well, and if you make me miss it I'll — Giles: Do what? Lick me to death? Something Blue, Joyce: I-I love what you've, um Just don't break anything. And don't make a lotta noise. Passions is coming on. Oh, do you think Timmy's really dead? Oh, no, no. She can just sew him back together. He's a doll, for God's sake. Ah, what about the wedding? I mean, there's no way they're gonna go through with that. Checkpoint, Tabitha talking to Timmy: When will you get it through your fat head? Charity is the enemy. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the enemy. The busybodies that call themselves the Others are the enemy! And your job is? Vampire slayer. There are many occasions when it has been defined as such, or at least linked to the genre of daytime dramas. This perception is shared by at least three types of viewers. First, it is accepted by members of the general public, who have an almost instinctive awareness of this quality. Much public response and fan fiction reflect a definite approach that for a long time has been associated with soaps. It is curious to http: And Rhonda V. Wilcox and David Lavery explicitly concur with Joyce Millman in this argument too. Some other times, the labelling is just a implicit. He is a master of mixing genres depending on circumstances, and the taste of a peculiar genre rises above the others at his will. And explicitly he confirms it more than once in various contexts [6]. The abstract idea that the author has of it or his poetics have not influenced the perception of the final result. It is most often used with a denigrating, disparaging intent. Almost inductively it is assumed that belonging to a specific genre could be the reason of bad quality, without taking into any consideration the actual product, as if it were irrelevant. Buffy, as a show that deals with supernatural themes all the time, has to battle constantly this bias that impedes recognition of its quality, at least in an official forum, such as the Emmy Awards. Both struggle for approbation. Buffy, in its diegetic perspective, succeeds in becoming a true and real political statement on this regard and manages to acknowledge being a soap, mockingly winking to those who snub a book judging solely by its title. It is, in this way, a meta-comment on the genre at the same time. In fact a soap, Passions, is used as a means to make the villainous Spike more lovable, mellowed precisely by the fact that he gets hooked on the stories of the characters of this show. And he shares his watching with Joyce Checkpoint, The process is very simple. At the same time a flattering image of the soap is given. It becomes an instrument that creates a link between genres on the base of a shared visual experience. He demonstrates awareness in what he is doing even as he recognizes the genres that he absorbs and then moulds to his own needs. And a genre is not good or bad as such, but becomes one or the other on the basis of its use. A genre is as good as you make it to be in the concreteness of the single experience. It should be devoid of preconceptions that could make it ontologically of positive or negative value solely resulting from the label. Once again Whedon exhibits consciousness and confidence in doing what he wants about Buffy, the scientia in using particular styles and a specific rhetoric, as well as other desired instruments. He simply uses this genre. Not Italian nor German nor Hispanic ones, not even those of other Anglophone countries, because, while all these share many aspects, each has specific characteristics that make it different from the other. Oh, the love! Anna Devane, deep college experience. Gen with my buds, senior year it was religion. David Fury, one of the writers, was once an actor in soap operas [12], and is thus in a position to recognize those elements that characterize a soap and to translate them to and put them in a different context. Her participation, and the gossip that surrounded her, is well-known. Such recognition cannot be anything but a proof of her ability to act in a context that she masters well. Nothing more normal, then, that she can reproduce its conventions in a sure and nuanced. Michelle Trachtenberg Dawn also walked her first acting steps on the set of All My Children; Emma Caulfield Anya is openly a fan of daytime dramas; and Anthony Stewart Head Giles looks to be pretty familiar with them too. But if Buffy is a soap, the question that now we need to ask ourselves is: Which are the elements of content and style that make it a soap opera? The aesthetic, the rhetoric of the camera that is behind the genre, the relationship between the syntagmatic path and the paradigmatic one, the structural and textual conventions, the dialogic development, the codes that shape it, the genre poetics, the terminology and the narrative syntax are readable in a different, unique perspective. It is useful to investigate this to better understand the Buffy phenomenon as a whole; it is even more so if we think of this as an opportunity to better dig into its meanings, to discover new hermeneutic perspectives, to trace its dialogue with other groups of series each with their own construction. She says that the basic element to take into consideration is the way a story is built and told. Buffy fits this definition. Episodes are certainly auto-conclusive, in parts of the story, but the dialogic flux is in other aspects uninterrupted, from episode to episode. One falls back on the other and yet another and so on. Every season is in fact explicitly constructed as real narrative arc: The most obvious case is Port Charles. The arcs received different sub-titles: What becomes relevant is not so much the question of whetherthis element is used or not, but how it is used. This way we can go deeper and find a more radical indication to understand if and when we find ourselves facing a soap opera. Whether or not a show is a soap becomes a question of how much interest there is in the main character. It may be an audience definition. Several times it has been variously underlined how the monsters that Buffy and the Scoobies the group of friends around her that participate in and help her in her battles have to face are nothing else but the mirror of the human problems that they are forced to come to terms with--metaphors that allow us to trace emotional paths, well visible in backlighting. Being the definition of action, they are an expression of plot. The analysis of these confirms our thesis. Our heroes eat, take walks, wash themselves thanks! They are not on the point of. They are action. Their gestures are not prelude and ostensible reason for words; they envelope them. What counts, what carries the narration is not action. Action is instrumental to dialogue, not the other way around. He declares that fighting is not the peak of the narration, but the emotional aspect is: We are therefore in the most pure soap opera realm. From a content point of view, are soaps compatible with what is told on Buffy? At this very moment it is very present, so much so that we could almost say two schools of thought compete in the field. There are the classics — represented by shows like The Young and the Restless — against the more campy ones — like Passions — in a fight to the last rating in the Nielsen battle. Loving, at the beginning of the s, tried this road, without success. Scared to death by a cross and an exorcism, devil-like Jonathan was eliminated, transforming at his death into a snake--and every intention to follow that supernatural road crawled away with him. James Reilly, head writer of the time, brought his distinctive brand of storytelling with him in the soap he went on to create, Passions. The aforementioned Port Charles has incorporated this kind of story without renouncing its status as being in every aspect a soap. ABC daytime president Brian Frons programmatically admits a plan: And it even introduced a vampire slayer, Rafe. And besides a trained slayer, one of the historic heroines of the show, Lucy, discovered that she, too, is a slayer. According to the mythology of the soap, this is possible because she comes from a family of slayers. At times there are crypto-models. Other times the dialogue between programs is more explicit, especially when this happens with prestigious models, like Buffy. In its brief run, it left an indelible print in the public imagination [29]. The authors always explicitly said they wanted to portray him as an addict, in a perennial fight with himself. Cursed with a soul, Angel sees with a newly awakened conscience how much his actions made people suffer. Barnabas was layered by the writers with conflicting emotions that made him very intense. Macerated by guilt and morally ambivalent, Barnabas was a vampire who constantly craved to become human, mortal. Enriched and coloured by a wry hatred for himself, he soon became the center of the show, and so did the dilemma that tortured him. We can find here the same themes of Buffy: Angel cursed to have a soul, despite being a vampire, so that he can suffer for the atrocities he has committed. In Dark Shadows Barnabas, as noted, was in constant search for a cure to his condition. And although the experiment of Dr. Julia Hoffman who offered to help him backfired, for some time Dr. Lang actually succeeded in curing him. But it was just temporary. Barnabas and Julia, the blood specialist who had attempted to cure him, first helped Dr. Lang, then, after his death, continued the experiment to give life to a brand new man created from human body parts. Maggie Walsh from demon, human, and electronic parts. Buffy has in Oz its werewolf. Dark Shadows had Quentin, who was a werewolf because of a curse gypsy Magda placed on him for having killed her sister Jenny. Just a coincidence, for sure, but nonetheless fun to notice. Parallel times ; ; ; and dimensions were a permanent feature in Collinsport, Maine, the town where Dark Shadows took place. At one point, Dr. Julia Hoffman killed her alter ego in a parallel dimension. Dark Shadows actors said they felt like a repertory company, [32] a thing that could be said for the cast of Buffy too, in some cases. Trading cards and puzzles, board games and records, postcards and books, both novels and comic books, collectibles and even official fan conventions were all part of the fan experience. So it is today for Buffy and its fans. And if now this is a relatively common possibility, then it was the first time a daytime program came to acknowledge its following in this form. Both Tracy Forbes and Jane Espenson are adamant in declaring that this is what they do when constructing the single episodes: Start with the emotions. Jane Espenson states Joss Whedon first sets the foundation for the emotional arc the characters go through, and only later maps out the act breaks [37]. They marginalized him at the beginning of the season, so that his feeling alienated happens for a reason. The emotional high point is the end of each act. Tracy Forbes agrees. The first http: Their starting point is the emotions, the themes they want to tackle, and the metaphors they want to use to do that. The personal life of the character becomes the pivotal center, the strength, the invisible engine. The fact of being character—driven instead of plot-driven is the basis of good fiction--in a broad sense, for all fictions. But what makes a soap a soap is how much these personal elements are left showing, how much they shine through and how much they become themselves action. The more of the character is left floating on the surface, the more we have a point of contact with the soap genre. This in Buffy happens more in later seasons, a thing that is in part normal because the life of the character has been told for a longer period of time. We have layer upon layer of happenings. The past to come to terms with is more present in the mind of both authors and audience. Spike discovers it and brings Buffy to the nest-brothel to see for herself the betrayal. Riley, caught in the act, first menaces Spike to stay away from her, later confesses to Buffy what he feels and gives her an ultimatum: Xander convinces Buffy not to let Riley go if she loves him for real. This installment talks about relationships and about love. They do it with words here, just words [40], because Riley feels excluded, because he turned someplace else to a brothel, to drugs, both images that can be linked to the nest of vampires in this episode. Riley and Spike fight over Buffy, dissect their emotions, and end up sharing a drink over her. Xander forces Buffy to see her relationship with Riley in a new perspective: Nonetheless he is the place where Buffy can check her emotions. Others have already http: Powerfully, painfully in love. The things you do, the way you think, the way you move. You make me fell like I never felt before in my life: And, soon after, they share a kiss. We can also see the accent on feelings in minor scenes: The doctor arrives to tell his prognosis. They all stand up. And on a tight close-up of her, it breaks away and goes to the opening credits. This is a typical use of the camera according to soap opera style. This shooting style is consistent with the kind of world soap opera portrays. As a narrative ritual that centers on intense, concentrated forms of emotion, soap opera requires an intense, intimate camera style. The answer, the solution and the closure are delayed. Until you are outside the gate the credits , you only have questions. Only when you step over that threshold can you have the answers. This postponing is also, in another version, an apparent, perennial absence of ending, of finale. And in presenting stories that continue from instalment to instalment, this is inevitable. Buffy stakes all of them. Buffy recognizes he through a swift flashback. The usage of a targeted flashback of a specific element of that same episode is typical of the soaps. They could have chosen to let Buffy and us know it was that same woman-vampire with a glance, a hint, something else. A flashback was chosen. Riley mentions Angel and Dracula to Buffy. Memory of past happenings is required of the soap audience infra sub And there is an eye-level camera angle that is common to soap operas. That is, we go back and forth between the two characters and the perspective chosen to look at them is the eye level of the other character. Buffy is shown too much feeling pleasure, whereas if the soap opera filter had been chosen it would have been more ethereal and dreamlike than carnal. As the body went cold so did her feelings. This is the episode wherein she can see the face of the EMT in its entirety only when he says he is sorry. In it Cruz reveals to his wife Eden that their daughter has disappeared, kidnapped by her rapist. The scenes are different, but for a directorial point of view, they present a strong parallelism. In Santa Barbara the scene takes place in a hospital. Eden is looking at a row of cribs with babies in them. Cruz goes to her as he tells her the news. Dawn is called outside the classroom, by her sister, who wants to talk to her. Buffy tells her that it regards their mother. We see Dawn cry and fall to the floor. And, the sound feebly dampened by the glass, we hear her say no, accuse her sister of lying. We hear something, little. Music is absent from the scene and the entire episode. In Buffy we are not alone watching the scene. With Cruz and Eden the scene is more intimate. The spectator is the only eye. In Buffy http: Santa Barbara shows a close-up of the face of Eden, whose image is frozen. Buffy shifts its shot on an unfinished drawing on which Dawn was working in the class, leaving space for the thousand themes that are entwined in the episode: Santa Barbara is shaped on silence, re-introduced in other forms, in the several instalments that formed this moment of the storyline. We can be nothing more, the scenes seem to be saying. Silence, deafened by pain. And that silence which is broken by Dawn has weight, intended to maximize the effect, to transmit a pain and a moment. We are close and distant at the same time. In this episode two characters are missing. Glory, the arch-nemesis, is absent. But Spike too is absent, and this, on the contrary, is quite relevant. James Marsters, who plays him, has a contract with the series and a protagonist role;he is a regular, appearing in the opening credits. This is definitely a choice that orientates the product toward something that can be qualified as a soap opera. And she cites the criteria offered by Marnie Winston—Macauley, author and, in the past, writer for As the World turns. High emotions. As a humorous page from Soap Opera Digest [48] says: It could be argued that deaths on soaps are more apparent than real. Death in Buffy is real. Buffy has truly been buried, as she really rose from the dead. Shikaku raised an eyebrow. Inoichi huffed. Out of all the people she could have been fighting, she's up against the one that has the highest chance of letting her out of the arena with all her bones intact… next to Shikamaru, of course…". Just today she was five minutes away from being disqualified! The Nara raised an eyebrow. I'm surprised that she's been progressing as far as she did…". Shikaku frowned for a moment as he tried to remember all the things his son told him about his teammate over the past few months. While it was true that Inoichi's daughter was prone to being rather obsessive with looks at times, Shikamaru had told him that Ino had been getting better as of late. The girl was apparently progressing quite well under Anko's tutelage, and had even made some leeway with her poison skills… "Hey… was your daughter in her bathroom when you left this morning? Inoichi grunted. I had to leave her at home and go ahead. Sometimes I truly wonder about her…". She didn't know why. What's wrong? Ino blinked, not knowing what to say as she looked around. She saw Temari still gaping in surprise before giving Shikamaru an occasional curious glance, also seemingly unnoticed by the boy. Tenten was talking to Neji, who nodded stiffly, however she could tell that the two had a better relationship than first anticipated. She saw Sakura and Sasuke standing next to each other on the other end of the railing, closer than she herself had ever gotten with the Uchiha, and talking comfortable with the other without any sign of hesitation. Looks of longing, but held back due to nervousness or because the one they liked never paid them any attention. She was confused. She willingly admitted it. She had always set her sights on Sasuke, but even though he had been gradually becoming more vocal and social over the past few months, he had also been somehow bonding with the forehead even more. The more she tried, the more he seemed to look the other direction, even when she tried to use some of Anko-sensei's more… mature seducing methods. It just made him turn even more… and run as well. It was ridiculous! She couldn't have them both! That would be as ridiculous as… Ghost and Anko-sensei and… Hana-sensei…. Shikamaru blinked as Ino started to grin in a less than comforting manner. Why are you smiling like that? You're planning to do something troublesome, aren't you? Ghost looked at the state of the fighting grounds as the two boys were sent to the medical bay. While he didn't mind, there might be some issues for later on if it was left in the same condition. That being the case, he switched his microphone to a private line with the Hokage. The field is pretty wrecked down here. Is it okay if we fix it before the next match? It'll only take about a minute tops. The Hokage sighed in his chair as he got the message, prompting the visiting leaders to look at him oddly. Ghost nodded as he changed the frequency of the mike so that he would be heard through the speakers again. Please bear with me, as it will only take a few minutes at the most. We should just have the brats fight on the grounds the way it is! Stop coddling the brats, for crying out loud…". Ghost took off his microphone and put it into his pocket before raising his hands to his mouth. The audience blinked in confusion as they looked around for the mysterious Crypt that Ghost was apparently calling. Nothing happened for a few moments before a woman screamed as she saw a body flying through the air as if it was thrown to the middle of the arena, sailing like a dead weight before landing a few dozen feet away from Ghost on the ground with a low thump. The crowd was quiet for several moments with wide eyes, except for those who knew who the man was and how odd he could be. Sarutobi groaned, apparently ignoring the Kazekage's remark. Ghost sighed as he saw the audience stare in shock. He was hoping that Crypt would just pop out of the ground like normal… but then again, when does normal actually apply to the man? He put the earpiece to his mouth. He's not dead, just stupid. Very… very stupid. Jell-O organs! The seemingly dead body popped back up instantly, surprising many of the audience members, glaring back at the man. Your theory is completely out of proportion! The chainsaws don't have enough shoelaces in order to organize the toenail clippings on the Mona Lisa's hard drive! The constipated monster trucks would end up completely slaughtered by the army of nun chucking babies! You think you can fix him up? It said it'll help you out with that fireball mongoose problem you've been having trouble with if you do. Crypt blinked. That bastard! I know it was holding out on me! The floor comes first. Everyone could hear low rumblings, though. Within 30 seconds, the dust had settled and much to everyone's surprise the arena floor was in the same condition it was in before the fights had even started, minus the fallen trees. Ghost was once again in the middle of the floor, casually standing with his hands in his pockets, but Crypt had disappeared. Get your butt down here so I can kick it! She's up to something troublesome. Sakura sighed as she turned to the stairs. You know her better than I do at the moment, after all. One cut from those poisons of hers and the pink girl is done for. Kunai are faster than seals, after all, and genjutsu can only help you so much against an opponent right in front of you. Plus, I highly doubt that Anko-sensei would have not trained her student against genjutsu when both of her first potential opponents are known to use it. I think she is already able to neutralize low-level poisons in her system during combat situations without much issue, and mid-level poisons if given enough time alone to concentrate. I also remember that she was doing extensive taijutsu and evasion training with Waltz-sama during our month break…". He was incredibly knowledgeable about various tactics I doubt he would be unable to give Sakura-san some advice on dodging projectiles efficiently, especially with his rather impressive frame. I guess I ruined the arena, eh? Naruto smiled. Ero-nii and Crypt fixed it up while you were getting treated. Sakura and Ino's fight is actually just about to start. Good job with that last attack, though. When you almost killed me, the crater was only half as big. Part of that was because I went higher than normal. Usually I just bounce myself to a decent height and then hit the ground… to be honest, I thought I was going to plow through that tree instead of launching off of it and simply bouncing myself naturally over the traps and the kunai… but I think what happened worked better in a way…". We have another member! Shouldn't it be the opposite, considering he can't mold chakra? Lee can't mold chakra, but so far, he's the only person here that managed to force Naruto to go all out, he's received training with possibly the only teachers in the Elemental Nations that could even remotely get him to the level that he's at right now, despite his limitations I'd say that's pretty dumb luck right there…". So you could be qualified to have dumb luck? Or were you just that stupid to begin with? Naruto pouted. I'd like to see you try hiding from ANBU wearing nothing but pure orange. Let me tell you, it's harder than it sounds. Shikamaru raised an eyebrow at his best friend for a moment before sighing to himself. Troublesome doesn't even begin to describe that girl. She was all quiet and moody throughout your fight. Then a little after you won, I asked her what was up, and she apparently snapped, giggling like crazy. She told you?! I didn't do anything! That's all I can say…". Let's make a bet on this match, shall we? Sakura didn't like the hungry look in Ino's eyes. She remembered it from the time before time was changed. It was the look Ino got when she had some sort of morally deprived and most likely illegal yet incredibly tempting idea in her head. Zuzushi in turn fell off Ghost's shoulder, also apparently laughing and making high pitched squeaks as she mimicked her clan member's movements. Sakura blinked dumbly at Ino. I wasn't prepared to filter out so much crazy coming from you. Ino grinned sadistically. Until a few minutes ago, I thought I had to restrict myself only to Sasuke-kun, but when I realized that there were other boys that I wouldn't mind spending time with, I came to a dilemma. What should I do? Who should I chose? I wanted them both, but I couldn't… or could I? Hinata pouted. No one's taking my one man harem away from me. Not if I have anything to say about it. Naruto blinked in disbelief. I've been trying and planning for months on how to get back at Ero-nii in the most horrible and embarrassingly humiliating way possible… and Ino singlehandedly pulls it off without even thinking about it. That shouldn't be possible… I'M the Prankster King of Konoha… I should be the one to be able to do that so easily… it's like nothing makes sense in the world anymore…". Mind Rape. Silently, the short man turned to Sarutobi and looked at him dead in the eyes, and blood dripping down his nose. The Kazekage looked up to where the irregular shakes in the building were coming from curiously. Sarutobi chuckled nervously. I'll send some of my men to check up on it right away. Honestly though, they're shinobi, not engineers… they can't be expected to notice everything when it comes to things like detailed building structure…". It was very fortunate that Konoha's and its allies' forces were not in direct combat and were currently tasked setting up traps at the moment, because if someone needed help right then, they wouldn't have gotten it. All they would have heard was Scabbard rolling on the ground, laughing like there was no tomorrow. Tsume growled deeply from her seat, causing the rest of the clan members near her and Kuromaru to back away slowly from the angry woman. Locked naked in a box with Tora and five kilos of catnip. There will be no mercy…". Asuma wiped his forehead nervously. For a moment there, I thought Inoichi was going to go after me. Jiraiya said nothing as he frantically scribbled down notes in his notepad as if his life depended on it. He was really questioning why he never came back to Konoha when he should have been looking after Naruto. He had completely forgotten how… inspirational… kunoichi could be, and you couldn't find more kunoichi than in a major ninja village. Ghost froze as he heard Ino's confirmation of him having two girlfriends… then he started to shiver as he felt the glare of one very pissed off Inoichi Yamanaka on him. Ohhhhh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck…" He swore. Ghost noticed that Zuzushi was laughing even harder on the ground a few feet away from him. Fucking lizard. Mark my words, Scab, someday very soon, you will find yourself in the middle of a preteen magical schoolgirl academy looking like a bishi translation: The screen in the arena paused for a moment before showing Ino and Sakura's match up. The digital, and at the moment clearly saner, Ino was throwing purple kunai at a relaxed pace before she made a few seals and put her hands over her chest in an odd way. The screen changed to show Ino's fight in the preliminaries. We'll find out right now! Zuzushi recovered from her laughing fit just long enough to fly to Ghost's shoulder before continuing to giggle in the way only a tiny dragon could. Ino Yamanaka! Ino wasted no time taking out several dozen shuriken and throwing them expertly at Sakura all at once. During her training with Waltz, the old man had constantly assaulted her with various styles, sizes, and ranges of attacks. From kunai and shuriken, to his fists, to pelting rain, to a giant block of ice, the old man had been indiscriminant with his teachings, making sure that Sakura was completely used to that particular variation of assault before moving on to the next style. More often than not, he would jump from one style to another she had previously practiced with in order to ensure that she did not forget her previous lessons. The end result was what the audience was watching. For the first few volleys, Sakura had dodged most of the flying weapons, but resorted to deflect the few that she initially missed with her kunai. However as the attacks continued, Sakura relied on her kunai less and less as she managed to dodge them with greater efficiency. Sakura frowned. It still wasn't easy, though. Ino was taught by Anko personally for a good amount of time, and it showed. Sakura doubted that any other genin aside from Tenten would have been able to force her to deflect their projectiles for that long and still keep her on the edge with basic shinobi equipment. Still, this was way easier than getting used to Sasori's attack patterns. God forbid should Ino actually take up puppetry. She wouldn't be able to form any seals at this rate. Ino's attacks were just too fast. What happens if someone you know has gone crazy and they're attacking you, but you know they're just confused and can be brought back? What's the best way to deal with them? It doesn't have to be correct logic. Twisted logic can work just as well in some cases if you present it right. If they're crazy at the moment, it shouldn't matter that much. Ghost sighed. The point of beating the shit out of them is to wear them out, calm them down, reduce the obscure amount of adrenaline running through their system, and most importantly, keep them still so they can't run away from your inevitable friendship speech. What are a few bruises and broken bones compared to a burst blood vessel in the brain? If you want to reason with them, be my guest, but at least try to not get killed by something stupid if you do. Arguing to prove a complicated point will only distract you from everything around you, and it dulls your senses when you are trying to debate something. Better to have your opponent pinned to the ground when you're trying to talk to them than trying to kill you. Why am I not surprised? The girl looked down to see a single senbon sticking out of her thigh. Sakura, it looks like you got hit with something…" Ino cooed as she started to make some seals just as Sakura attempted to start to run away. Hidden art, mind body disturbance technique…". Sakura's body started to shudder erratically as the technique took effect. I was only looking for shuriken and she snuck that senbon into her attacks! Then I stood still for too long! Don't fight her physically, fight her mentally. That's where her family's techniques take effect…. Not paying any attention to her arms moving towards the senbon in her leg, Sakura delved deep into her mind. She knew she was able to do it occasionally, but ironically enough, it was always easier when Ino tried one of her family's techniques on her. She could always feel where Ino's chakra was and use it as a beacon to know where to go. Thankfully, she had been meditating a fair amount during her month break. It helped her calm down and concentrate on her chakra control. Soon enough, Sakura had discovered Ino's presence inside herself, lodging itself between where her mind met her body. Unlike last time, where it was Ino's entire psyche inside her body, Sakura felt something more like Ino's intent and hands in its place. Smirking to herself, the pink haired girl started to fight back. Back in reality, Ino stumbled back in shock. I've never heard of someone able to break out of my clan's techniques when they're under my control! Sakura grinned as she quickly flipped through several seals. We've never heard of a psycho that uses exploding model cows to train students until a year ago. Get used to it! Demonic Art: Great Distortion! Ino's world immediately twisted on itself. Her sight was blurred and twisted. Her hearing was filled to the brim with loud and cringing sounds. Her balance was shot. She smelled a cornucopia of obscure scents, and she was growing dizzier with every passing second. I can't believe I gave her an opening like that. Anko-sensei would kill me if she saw that mistake…" She managed to swear through her confusion before forming the ram seal. The illusion wavered for a moment before regaining its obscurely disorienting effects. Forehead is better at genjutsu than I thought. Maybe those lessons with Kurenai-sensei actually did have some use. She wasn't. Instead there was a large smoke cloud where Sakura once was, preventing Ino from immediately tracking where her opponent could have gone. Sakura panted heavily behind one of the trees in the arena floor as she took the senbon out of her leg and quickly started making seals for the medical technique that would counteract the poison that Ino used on her. Her leg was bleeding in three separate spots, indicating that her body had stabbed itself two more additional times before she managed to break Ino's technique and run away. Right now, she had set up a low level illusion that was designed to cover her tracks fairly well, but she had no doubt that Ino was good enough to eventually find her regardless. She didn't want to admit it, but Ino's poisons were unusually potent. It was nowhere near as strong as Sasori's poison, thank all that was decent, but it still gave her a hard time regardless, and it was also incredibly fast acting, which is why she retreated after casting her illusion on Ino instead of going for the win. She doubted that she would have been able to counteract the poison in time if she hadn't gotten her prior memories and experiences back. Extracting the last of the harmful substance and closing the last of her wounds, Sakura started to plan her next move. Ino would more than likely give up on using her clan's techniques since they had proven to be less than effective against her, and likewise Sakura felt that using offensive illusions on Ino was just as effective since the girl managed to break out of one of her more potent illusions on her second try. That meant that the only thing left available for the two to uses was just taijutsu and whatever the hell they haven't shown yet. Sakura smirked as she slowly flipped through some seals. Ino may have had her poisons, but they were useless if they didn't get into her in the first place…. I just want to play. Then when I win, Sasuke-kun will see that I'm better than you, and he'll come to me instead…" She pouted. Despite her demeanor, Ino was getting irritated. Regardless of how much tracking training she did with Anko, she couldn't seem to find a single trace of the pink haired girl. Ino smirked before throwing the kunai in her hand at her opponent. I actually don't want to be with her. The kunai flew through the air straight at Sakura… and passed right through her, causing her to disappear in a cloud of smoke. But it talked! It was proving harder than she originally thought to be able to control her augmented strength. It was nowhere near where she once was, but she would still raise suspicions if she went overboard. Luckily, she could still pass off as just an exceptionally strong kunoichi as long as she kept her hits to only this level. She was also at that moment thankful for doing a bit of extra studying on the side when she first started her genjutsu training and learned the D-ranked technique that allowed her to make it seem as if her voice was coming from somewhere else. With that technique, mixed with the poor lighting from the shade of the trees, and the basic clone technique, she had managed to make the opening she needed to turn the fight around. Ino rolled on the ground for a few meters before jumping back onto her feet with several kunai and shuriken in her hands. She had been smacked around by Anko for so long that such responses were instinct for her at this point. Despite her still blurry vision, she could still make out Sakura's pink hair coming towards her at a fair pace, so that was what she aimed for without any hesitation. Just give up already! Sakura frowned as she dodged the oncoming metal with no problem at all. She had placed herself under the reaction enhancing genjutsu again while waiting for Ino to get into position, so she wouldn't have nearly as much trouble detecting and dodging the poisoned metal this time. It was like the girl's movements had become twice as quick in the time they were playing cat and mouse. Suddenly the mouse was making the cat look like a turtle. Ino didn't know why, but she had a bad feeling that things would get worse if she fought Sakura in a taijutsu match. She had enough kunai and shuriken to fight a decently sized battalion on her thanks to her modified pouch which had a storage seal on the inside, but wasting weaponry was something that could only hurt her in the long run. Another thing that Anko had to force into the girl via sheer terror and live experience in order to learn. Grabbing onto a small pellet, Ino grimaced. I thought it accentuated the gap between my front teeth and made the rest look yellow. I felt warm and woozy. The Countess hollered at her little sister. I felt in my pocket for cigarettes and we went out to the car. The Countess was not really a Countess. She looked a painting or a Renaissance princess and aspired, above all, to beautiful things and perfect hospitality. We spent hours driving around fancy neighborhoods, imagining which houses we might live in and how we might entertain once we did. With champagne cocktails and portrait hats. The men would wear seersucker suits and mascara. She liked transgression so discreet as to require a double-take, Was it? Could it? It would be years before I knew she stole that line about the seersucker and mascara from someone else. She had big moods. She made bold statements. What do you all make of that? She drove too fast, squealing into the bend, shooting out onto the Avenue, where the speed limit was an impossible 25 mph for everyone but The Countess, who thought nothing of passing a slower car as if it were rush hour on the expressway. We listed off bullet points about each of the mansions on the right. Hand to God. The strange stone art deco villa in the ivy? Owned by a socialite tarot card reader. The Countess lit another cigarette with the lazy dash lighter and when she opened the window, she flooded the avenue with music. She liked spirally songs with ethereal female vocals. Cocteau Twins. She also had a weakness for Enya, which was hilarious. From my bedroom, I could hear her approach to Orinoco Flow played at death metal volume up the narrow corridor of ranch houses that led to my house. My mother and sister hated it there. I understood that the smaller, shabbier house under the mountain felt like a step down, but I liked where it was. The ones Thomas Wolfe wrote about. The Countess lived at the bottom of the hill in a stone and shingle cottage, scarcely grander than my house. She flagged me down in her front yard. Had I heard from anyone? Was I still hung up on Poetic Bangs? Had I really gotten a car? Would I like a dinner? Could we sit in the smoking section because God she was dying for a cigarette. I let her smoke in my car. Then I started smoking in my car because I drove her to a school. The Countess would coerce a lonely, aging tourists to buy her vodka tonics at the bar. She never got busted [1]. When we were reunited in the fourth grade, she was unusually tall and seemed in all ways about two decades older than the rest of us. I went to her house for a play date. You can be Kathleen Turner or Diane Keaton or something. She handed me a wine glass full of Fresca and started complaining about her imaginary ex-husband, Mark. The Countess would give me a withering gaze and explain that there were no dragons on the Upper East Side. This was accurate. Dragons are definitely more of an Upper West Side thing. I told her I felt lightheaded and she asked if I was going to puke. I said no. He was older. Sometimes she said he was twenty-one. Sometimes she said he was twenty-six. She was so over men our age. She rolled down the windows once we outran the city lights. The black shadows of pines lorded over us on either side of the road. It was cold. She tapped the console. I brought a flask , she said. But the cold i good for your skin. Fresh air prevents wrinkles. I rested my head against the door frame and looked up to see if I could make out the moon. The Countess found academic endeavor a largely dull affair, though she was not, strictly speaking, a bad student. Our school was full of smart kids and rich kids, and a few rich, smart kids. Neither the Countess nor I were rich enough to slack off entirely, so on the multitude of days we called in sick together [2]. I helped her with her papers and she helped me lie to my mother. As time progressed, her house became a one-stop for whoever happened to be out and looking for a place to hang out unscrutinized, often with a crowd. The latter were mostly boys, and all, at best, indifferent to me, unless I had money to throw in for beer or pot, like, even five bucks would help. Those boys would send their girlfriends home and come over to have a cold one before curfew. None of them dated The Countess. I never questioned the stories I heard and the assumptions people made about her because everything about the Countess hinted of sophistication. She was the kind of sixteen-year-old that could mix a perfect martini from memory and apply lipstick without looking in the mirror. It stood to reason she was also a libertine. Her romantic experience, in those days anyway, was scarcely more controversial than my own. And yet those boys, the same one that had gossiped about her in the halls, showed up at her house and lounged with cases of cheap Fake ID beer, while she held court with elaborate desserts she made from scratch, while they still ogled her every time she stood and still talked the same old shit about her every time they left her house. My failure to grasp the convoluted social protocols the Countess rigorously adhered to—even at sixteen she sent thank you notes, even when the party ended with her swinging, half-dressed, from a front porch column, lip-synching Madonna and drinking convenience store champagne straight from the bottle—seemed in danger of upending our careful equilibrium. I took us there first in my car. Then she took us in her car. This was because of the lack of parents. This was because the Countess always had plenty of alcohol and an inclination to experiment with cocktails. Have you ever had a Gin Rickey? This was because the Countess never went to the dances herself. She was beautiful. She was popular. She was funny. She was fearless. She was magnificent. That night, we were the only ones up there. The Countess turned off the car. We sat in silence, puffing out curlicues of smoke. There are stories about The Countess that beggar belief. Some of them are true. Most are the stuff of legend soon lost on the infinite palimpsest of local rumor. Those stories are not mine to tell. And at some point, the Countess herself stopped telling her stories, or, at least, telling them to me. I would come home from college and hear conflicting reports. She was married to a British lord. She was a nanny for a family in Ohio. All seemed equally plausible. Every time a high school reunion comes up, and they do every five years at schools that rely on alumni donations, there are a few names I always look for on the RSVP list. I still dream about The Countess. In my dream, she is always hosting a dinner party in one of those old mansions we used to drive by. That dress made her hair look like shiny copper. That dress made her look like an empress. Scott Fitzgerald used to stay in the hotel, because at the point in my life, sixteen, early seventeen, I still believed in the totemic, transformative power of places. If I could touch this doorframe, that maybe he once touched, then maybe just maybe that would make me a better writer. In the beginning, the Radio Club had a radio station. It was a closet shaped room at the bottom of the stone stairs that opened like the mouth of hell under the old wrestling room and led to a concrete landing. To the left was a cinderblock storage room, home to long-abandoned student art and occasional band practice from the students most likely to get expelled. To the right was the day room, a brick cave that perennially smelled like old sweat, smoke damage and teenage boys. Some of the pubescent male funk may have seeped through the mats upstairs during the curiously intimate rites of violent masculinity performed each wrestling season. It was rare to see people coming and going from the radio station, which leant the Radio Club a little additional glamour. The general consensus seemed to be that they only really existed as a yearbook photo and vehicle to DJ school dances the administration was too cheap to outsource. Sometimes, during a free period, we might hear a bassline, or the mumble of a voice through the wall. This was the only evidence we ever had that the Radio Club was doing anything like radio. The station had a frequency number, but whenever we tried to access it, we heard only static. Just campus. Fair, but no matter where we put up an antenna—in the dorm common rooms, in the classroom building, at the top of the stone stairs, in the hallway immediately outside the radio station door, we could never get a signal. Like, are we sure the station is even connected? It would be pretty crooked to pull the plug on free expression without ever telling the people doing the expressing that you had. The Day Boys were particularly fond of it. I remember thinking, that sounds pretty dreamy. Maybe I should join the Radio Club. A few straggled in from the rural counties that, unlike my own, actually looked and behaved like Appalachia. A few came from the local Catholic School. Most came from the same public schools I had, places without day rooms, where no one in their right mind would dream of leaving their backpack unattended or locker unlocked. I knew exactly what flavor of fuck-up they were long before the Dean of Students stood on a small dais in the middle of the Day Room, her hand trembling with wrath, as she pointed to the still smoking, ash-blackened remains of the sex couch and asked which one of them had set it on fire. The Day Boys took her tirade with almost Zen-like tolerance, without a single incriminating smirk. She exited threatening vengeance for the incinerated furniture. We knew it was an empty promise. It might have been the one that drove me to school every morning and never spoke to me. It might have been the one with the curls that every girl in the spring play went moon-eyed over. The Day Boys had coalesced into a collective. In some sense, they had all burned the sofa. The Day Girls had little time for the Day Boys. The school boasted a wide variety of young men with a wide variety of exotic haircuts, accents, favorite bands, and passport colors. I was into this boy with skinny arms and a curtain of bangs that I interpreted as somehow poetic. And by into, I mean, into. When it hits like that—like a fucking anvil made of sparkles, butterflies, and pure hormones—you tend to forgive a lot, up to an including the fact that cool Work Tour t-shirt aside, Poetic Bangs had the musical taste of divorced Dad at a fern bar. So I listened Paul Simon and Dan Fogelberg , stayed late for Amnesty International, and sat transfixed as he sat on the theatre stairs strumming original acoustic ballads about deforestation and new age spiritualism, oblivious to the fact that there were at least four or five other girls hanging on his every stupid word, as infatuated as I. The only thing more embarrassing than the intensity of my crush was the person I was becoming within said crush. This is what I want? Everybody was in the winter play that year, even a few of the Day Boys. He liked to play improv games, which usually ended with him kissing a girl. Somehow that girl never ended up being me. I mulled over it a lot. I bought more of his favorite records. I read the books he talked about. At that point, I still believed I could make a boy love me by imitation. I had yet to figure out that there was, perhaps, a crucial difference between wanting someone and wanting to be like someone. That realization came years and several unfortunate forays into hardcore and beat poetry away. At fifteen, though, I was too busy trying to cleave to his narrow tastes to stop and figure out my own. We were in the green room sometime in January. Poetic Bangs had just slid onto the old orange sofa between me and another girl and just leaned over and kissed her hard, just to see what would happen. The Day Boys showed up in a clamor, and I was happy for the distraction, because it reminded me of all the noisy why not? They thought a few tunes might shake things up. The Day Boys had exactly zero time for Poetic Bangs and ignored him, experimenting with speaker wire and power cords,. Once the light came on, they shoved a cassette as Poetic Bangs sighed like a disappointed parent. They managed to get in about twenty seconds of joyously pogoing around the room before the Drama teacher screamed in and pulled the plug and threatened them all with detention. Also, the Day Boys were jackasses. Not a Lloyd Dobler among them. At the school, all of the students were expected to give a small regular donation toward OxFam, to help the starving children. She brought Poetic Bangs with her, as a representative of the campus philanthropic community. He gave an earnest speech, reminding us of how fortunate we were, while children were starving. The Day Boys chuckled, self-satisfied, and saw Poetic Bangs make eye contact with the back of the Day Room door, upon which an installation of sorts had been erected, a collage of trash and speech bubbles parroting school demands for donations encircling the head a Baby Jesus-style illustration of a starving child like a halo. It was grotesque and offensive, like most of the things the Day Boys found hilarious, but in the split second he saw it, before he had the space to perform theatrical indignation, I watched Poetic Bangs suck on his cheeks to stifle a laugh. The dean, barely civil with inchoate rage, could not even fully process the back of the door. And when I do, all of you will be sorry. I found myself alone in the campus post office with the only girl I knew for sure was in the Radio Club. She was a senior from Washington, DC, which seemed very cool to me, and wore lipstick just barely far enough away from black to pass dress code. A blue-haired Kurt Cobain in a green shirt and sunglasses stared out at me from the cover. She saw me looking and asked if I liked them. The Day Boys stayed away..

I helped her with her papers and she helped me lie to my mother. As time progressed, her house became a one-stop for whoever happened to be out and looking for a place to hang out unscrutinized, often with a crowd. The latter were mostly boys, and all, at best, indifferent to me, unless I had money to throw in for beer or pot, like, even five bucks would help. Those boys would send their girlfriends home Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy come over to have a cold one before curfew.

None of them dated The Countess. I never questioned the stories I heard and the assumptions people made about her because everything about the Countess hinted of sophistication. She was the kind of sixteen-year-old Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy could mix a perfect martini from memory and apply lipstick without looking in the mirror. It stood to reason she was also a libertine. Her romantic experience, in those days anyway, was scarcely more controversial than my own.

And yet those boys, the same one go here had gossiped about her in the halls, showed up at her house and lounged with cases of cheap Fake ID beer, while she held court with elaborate desserts she made from scratch, while they still ogled her every time she stood and still talked the same old shit about her every time they left her house.

My failure to grasp the convoluted social protocols the Countess rigorously adhered to—even at sixteen she sent thank you notes, Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy when the party ended with her swinging, half-dressed, from a front porch column, lip-synching Madonna and drinking convenience store champagne straight from the bottle—seemed in danger of upending our careful equilibrium.

I took us there first in my car. Then she took us in her car. This was because of the lack of parents. This was click the Countess always had plenty of alcohol and an inclination to experiment with cocktails.

Have you ever had a Gin Rickey? This was because the Countess never went to the dances herself. She was beautiful.

She was popular. She was funny. She was fearless. She was magnificent. That night, we were the only ones up there. The Countess turned off the car. Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy sat in Kim kardashian silver, puffing out curlicues of smoke. There are stories about The Countess that beggar belief. Some of them are true. Most are the stuff of legend soon lost on the infinite palimpsest of local rumor.

Those stories are not mine to tell. And at some point, the Countess herself stopped Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy her stories, or, at least, telling them to me. I would come home from college and hear conflicting reports. She was married to a British lord. She was a nanny for a family in Ohio.

All seemed equally plausible. Every time a high school reunion comes up, and they do every five years at schools that rely on alumni donations, there are a few names I always look for on the RSVP list. Free jailbait nude teens. Skip to main content.

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Log In Sign Up. Slayage October Slayage October slayageonline. Judith Tabron. Wilcox Volume 4 file: Wilcox, Co-Editors Click on a contributor's name in order to learn more about him or her.

A PDF copy of the entire volume can be accessed here. Here and in each 1 [1. Feminist Reworkings of the Grotesque. It is published here with the kind permission of Professor Jowett and Wesleyan. Go here to order the book from Amazon. In addition to Oz, Giles, and Xander, this chapter will use less central characters such as Owen, Ford, Parker, Ben, and Principal Wood to discuss the representation of new masculinity.

This points to the ways feminism has caused changes in the presentation of masculinity, and here I examine three apparently Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy males who are presented as potential partners for Buffy but prove to be unsuitable because they cling to more traditional masculinities. This assertion of traditional male heroism is punctured by his lack of awareness and being promptly knocked out but the definitive undermining of Owen comes in the final act.

Two days in my world and Owen really would get himself killed. This gives Buffy the chance to nostalgically invoke a shared past, as Willow and Xander often do. He is simply a selfish individualist. That Ford is terminally ill problematizes things: The good guys are always stalwart and true, the bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies and everybody lives happily ever after. In her first Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy as a freshman at U.

Parker makes several emotive speeches, demonstrating his willingness to admit and articulate his feelings. Who was that? The two worlds of Buffy conflict in a montage of Buffy pursuing her Slayer duties and checking her messages to find that Parker has not called, while the melancholy soundtrack contrasts the previous upbeat music of their developing intimacy.

No, of course not. It was fun. The success click to see more this strategy relies on traditional moral and sexual values: Open your heart to someone and he bails on you.

That this daydream Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy in a lecture on the pleasure principle while Parker is chatting up yet another female student is not lost on the viewer. Willow persists in dissuading Buffy: I mean, with your gentle eyes and your shy smile and your ability to talk openly. This is the only instance in Buffy where sensitivity and homo sexuality are related, possibly resolving the complicity between heterosexuality and patriarchy.

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Yet Scott himself does not reappear. All of these failed partners contribute to undercutting the myth of romance in Buffy and highlight romance relationships as the one area in which changes to masculinity are needed and looked for. Kristine Sutherland, who plays Joyce Summers, remarks on the attractions of this: Of all the primary male characters in Buffy, only Oz is a dissimilar physical type and an atypical male lead in that he is short and slightly built.

This allows the show to present variants of masculinity even in appearance. Ever think of that? Like, in an animal way. After escaping the Initiative, he again leaves Sunnydale, Willow, and the series, establishing a pattern in his behavior. Oz in particular exemplifies this ambiguity. All of the characters Sayer picks out demonstrate a contested masculinity, and I argue that their leaving undermines their apparent sensitivity, highlighting the tension within them.

As an adult, Giles is exceptional: Giles stands out against the system of school and of hierarchy. In terms of age, and origin he is BritishGiles is presented as different. Yet he shares certain characteristics with other new men. Although vampires learn more here Angel are effectively older than Giles, he is generally seen Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy the oldest character in the team, highlighted by his traditional dress and speech also related to his British-ness.

Even in the early seasons, however, when he is at his most tweedy, Giles and the show is aware of this. First, and perhaps most obviously, his emotions are shown in his fathering of Buffy, as discussed in chapter 7. Giles is always a key member of the Scoobies and article source communal efforts.

He is presented as hetero- rather than homosocial, and his few adult friendships or affinities are with both males and females Angel, Ethan Rayne, Jenny Calendar, Joyce Summers, Olivia.

After the school is destroyed and he loses his job as librarian, Giles is allowed to shed his reserve, and the teens unexpectedly find common ground with him. He is never set up as the leader, though his knowledge and experience are often useful and are respected by the others.

But this does not negate his heroism. His positions of authority as Watcher and as a kind of teacher are traditional patriarchal roles and encourage him to try and take charge early on, but this is resisted by Buffy and the others.

Calendar takes the lead in their romance, and Giles generally encourages both Buffy and Willow to develop their particular skills and rarely implies that they are not strong enough to face potential challenges. This role as provider places others in a dependent position, though this is never spelled out.

Giles provides transport and, more important, space: The male character Giles has most in common with in early seasons is Angel also an older male, a displaced European, well traveled and Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy readand the two meet often over their concern Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy protect Buffy. As season 5 develops, Giles acts as protector of Dawn and Buffy and provides financial support when they are in difficulty. Ripper is constructed deliberately to Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy the traditional Giles of early seasons,4 demonstrating the binary nature of masculinity in Buffy and the split personality of many characters.

He thus offers similar viewing pleasure to the alternative versions of Willow. Ripper is first hinted at when Buffy discovers Giles at home, neglecting his Watcher responsibilities and apparently drunk.

In general the violence of Ripper is used by Giles Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy part of his role in protecting Buffy and the Scoobies.

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They also show that he is sexually attractive. Furthermore, it could be argued that this interracial relationship links new masculinity with liberal values. Again Buffy has the best of both worlds. They never even noticed me. She means largely that they might not have been Masturbating watching ssbbw clips to turn Giles back, but bear in mind the cardinal sin on Buffy is to kill a human.

As the pressure to defeat Glory heightens in season 5 and Buffy insists on protecting Dawn at the possible expense of ending the world, Ripper begins to reemerge. In the showdown Buffy defeats Glory, who withdraws, leaving Ben, her human host, battered but intact. Thus the apparently Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy Giles will kill a human when he believes that it is morally justified. Certainly his use of violence to protect the female Buffy allows him to take on a conventional masculine role as her protector, and Jacob M.

Giles displays some potential as a Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy man, but his negotiation of gender and gendered relationships is often complicated by his role as a parent figure, as I have indicated.

Not until Principal Wood does the show offer a further, more mature version of a new man, this time uncomplicated by parental anxieties. I discuss Wood at the end of this chapter. This positions him in a caring profession sometimes associated with women, and he is contrasted with the older male doctor who is presented as a distant professional. Ben is trusted enough to help the Scoobies when Giles is seriously injured as the gang try to escape Glory and the Knights of Byzantium at the end of the season.

He betrays them because Glory inhabits his body and takes over at inappropriate times.

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Make Me Feel Like a Man [30] Xander demonstrates characteristics of a new man, though at times the implication is that he is a Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy man because he cannot learn more here a real man.

It is his bond with Willow that saves the world at the end of season 6: Xander tries to reconcile Buffy and Riley when their relationship becomes distant. That Xander represents emotion, love, and friendship is part of the project of dissociating gender and behavior: He is not physically up to fighting evil, and though keen, he is most often knocked out or incapacitated. In a less exaggerated but similar way to hapless http: Relating gendering to Christianity, Dyer suggests that suffering is almost an assertion of white masculinity He gets along with girls and is accepted by them as Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy unthreatening, equal companion: Thus I would agree with A.

Like Giles, he eventually has paid employment, making him a wage earner and provider. As a kind of self-made man, Xander is another example of shifting identity. Initially he wished to be a protector, and now he is cast in this role, though not quite in the heroic way he imagined.

Notably, Dawn asserts her independence and sabotages the plan: Sexual prowess is again called on to demonstrate that a new man is in fact a real man. Early on he appeared to be sexually innocent, if eager for experience. Early on his fascination with sex was seen as an integral part of his geek teen boy behavior: Like Giles, Xander is not just desirable—he is virile.

That is, fans see heterosexuality, consciously or more info, http: Both Sakal For a time, I had a few of the buttons saved in an old Band-Aid box, but eventually it The car was parked beside Mom's fat white Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy.

After I crashed and burned in my early 20s, Uncle Bob asked my mother to come in . She changes in the restroom and emerges with a fist full of sopping underwear and a shrug. It doesn't take much for a young girl to be pretty: simply be thin and have long but now she is a woman who perverted men would pay money to watch her “feed .” Don't Miss: 35 Pretty Girls Who Became Fat And Ugly .

Fist bump me hooka ! When the master brain vagina finally dies, will feminists around the world. THE FUTURE œ A new play devised by the young Company Three and Ned Glasier. direction of Theatre Record founding editor Ian Herbert) œ these Who' s . today parades a “poverty porn” in. burnt and cities destroyed around aware that she is “fat and freckled .

descriptive prose from a teen. At the bar, the same fat mustachio waiter, dutiful and well natured. One more pervert in the park wasn't going to make any difference. I'm getting old young lady and not as fit as I was' he sighed.

. releasing finally like a fist seized by Fat old pervert fisting tiny teens wrecked pussy sudden twinge and a sadness will awaken as if you got stuck with. rosary by every scruffy party boy looking for a little cross-country hitchhiking adventure. well at first, making girls left and right as usual, taking a few too many shots to the face, seven-year-old babe with a fat face and shiny teary cheeks.

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