What Trump does on this issue will decide if America survives (JTF video)
בס”ד
Please publicize this important video everywhere possible.
On Rumble:
בס”ד
Please publicize this important video everywhere possible.
On Rumble:
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Tarrifs are a tax. It never works becuae it is corporate welfare to the right company. Dodnt isrsel have high tarrifs until begin moved to a market based economy that under the labor government israels economy was weak.
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Journal Entry:
Each night under the cascading cascade of neon lights, I surrender to the rhythm, my body moving with an ancient, primal grace. I’ve seen fifty-four winters, my skin bears their testament, but as I danced on the glistening floor of the nightclub, youth came beckoning.
Curiosity, they say, is a young man’s game. Age often replaces this with complacency, but not for me. It’s this curiosity that’s kept me alive, pulsating on the dance floor with a heartbeat as rhythmical as the penetrating beats echoing through the speakers. It feels like the music flows through my veins, making my heart skip to its own tune. Here in the midst of the confluence of sounds, desires, and aspirations, I am reborn each night.
One evening, a new face appeared in the crowd, his eyes were like the smoky haze in the club, veiled but alight with mystery. The intrigue tugged at my curiosity. He lingered at the edge of the dance floor, his gaze following my every move. He was different, he was a spark amidst the flames. My heart felt him, not in the throbbing way it felt the music, but like a quiet strum of a lonely guitar on a rainy night, serene and unsettling at the same time.
As my performance ended that night, the audience broke into applause. I’ve been on this stage for so many years, their claps and cheers just faded noise. But his silence, his silence was loud and clear. It was as if he was speaking in a code only my soul could decrypt. After the show, I found myself drawn to him like a moth to a fire. My heart still prancing to that silent guitar. His presence was magnetic, and the mystery he embodied piqued my curiosity.
“We should dance together sometime,” I said, sounding casual than I felt. The way his eyes gleamed was promising. As we exchanged numbers, I felt a spark of excitement. Little did I know that this spark would be the beginning of something profound. Something that would shake not just me but the world out here. The next day, he returned to the club, our dance was filmed, and the video posted online. It was a moment of understanding, connection, and raw human passion. There was a realness interwoven within our movements that spoke louder than any word could. The following morning, waking up to notifications, I realized, this one’s gone viral.
Who knew that a seasoned dancer like me had more to experience, more to feel, and definitely more dances to dance? This journey is beautiful, the curiosity and mystery more intoxicating than the spirits they serve here. Life exists on this dance floor, amidst the pulsing music, shared emotions, under the warm, embracing neon glow. In fifty-four years, I have loved, lost, been heartbroken, and reborn. Yet, here I am, moving along to the music, falling in love, curious as ever, unraveling mysteries, feeling things I’d never felt — aging not just in years but in experiences.
From beneath the surface of a seemingly ordinary ’40something-year-old’- South African bloke, let me pull back the curtain ever so slightly to reveal an exhilarating lifestyle that is anything but ordinary. It’s not often that dominatrix and man come together in the same sentence, but here I am. Call me Maestro, your neighbourhood dominatrix who gets up to a rougher kind of 9-to-5. рџ’Ј
The world of BDSM is a rich tapestry of control, power plays, and fantasy role-playing. As a lifestyle Dominatrix, I live and breathe it. Satiating fantasies of desire and control is what I do. It moulds the very marrow of my existence. It’s not merely a festish tucked away in the shadier corners of the internet, but a lifestyle, a dance рџ’ѓ of dominance and submission.
Most of my encounters are seasoned with diversity. Just a couple of nights ago, I had an appointment with a regular, a business tycoon. Hard-nosed, cold-eyed to the rest of the world, yet in my space, he’s a vulnerable, submissive character – a completely different persona. He approached me, an encapsulation of nerves and anticipation. Barely had the 🧥 hit the floor before I asked for his complete surrender. It’s the first rule, after all.
Only 18+ know the unwritten rules of this world, the mutual respect that forms the core of this unconventional dance. The safe words alone bear testament to the care we take. The world outside might see it as crude, but from where I stand, it’s a delicate interlocking of trust and power play. His eyes bored into mine, a fascinating blend of fear, excitement, and trust as he handed over his control. That, lads and lasses, is my kind of aphrodisiac. рџЌ
And let’s not draw the curtains over the ‘act’ itself. The intricate choreography of our dance of dominance is a heady mix of tender caresses, sharp commands, and punitive measures. Restrained against leather, his body taut with anticipation, he’d oblige me with his trust. Me, the conductor of this heady symphony, would draw out his deepest, darkest desires over the course of the evening, before they would drown in the soothing purrs of satisfaction.
This is not just another job for me – it’s a lifestyle that has come to define me. As a Dominatrix, I breathe life into fantasies, making them tangible, touchable, even edible. I’ve come a long way from the naive lad from a small town in South Africa, living in the shadows of societal norms. Today, I embrace my quirks; my inherent passion for dominance, holding the reins of control. This is me. This is who I am. A dominatrix is not a malevolent puppet master, but an artist painting vivid landscapes of pleasure and pain on canvases of flesh and will.
Every tantalizing touch, every coiling whisper; they are all purposeful actions, calculated to evoke a reaction. Welcome to my world—my playground. Here, I preside in my Canadian coolness, armed with an arsenal of leather and steeled resolve, all designed to articulate the beautiful confluence of power, control and desire. Submission isn’t merely about the yielding of power; it springs from trust and blossoms into connection. A gentle sweet spot lies at the intersection; it is both enigmatic and enticing. An overflow of sensation that spills from mind to body, melding into an exhilarating symphony of fulfillment.
It usually begins with a conversation. Simple words lacing the air, narrating desires and unraveling reservations. But amid these sentences, a hidden language finds life. A glance, a subtle shift in posture, a quiver in their voice, each tells a tale of longing, trepidation, exhilaration. As a dominatrix, my art isn’t confined to the physical; it is an intricate dance inside the metaphysical corridors of the psyche. I walk these labyrinthine halls with my willing partners, leading them to edges they never imagined. To heights tinged with fear, then descending swiftly into valleys awash with pleasure. It isn’t merely about the rush of adrenaline; it’s about that soft whisper of satisfaction in the aftermath.
My partners, they all come to me with their eyes shrouded in apprehension, yet ablaze with untamed curiosity. It is this curiosity I feed. The blend of anticipation and nerves is almost always palpable, as they stand on this precipice, waiting for the gentle nudge to plunge into the depths of unknown pleasure. Our hearts become twin drums, pounding out the tantalizing rhythm of desire. In this moment, trust is the crucial foundation which our power exchange leans onto. No lies, no conceit, no BS just links of transparency and vulnerability. We fuse together, navigating a landscape that is as thrilling and infinite as their wildest dreams.
I’ve discovered a unique level of intimacy within this counterintuitive paradox. The surrendering of control, the bowing to another’s will, it’s not a weakening but an empowerment, a shared euphoria. Seeing my partner saturated in the culmination of their deepest fantasies, etching onto their face a portrait of abandon and ecstasy, is the ultimate reward of my artistry. Power is the tool, intimacy the canvas, and control the brush with which I paint. The color palette: trust, pleasure and a careful seasoning of sweet pain. When the last stroke is swept, I rest, observing the masterpiece that we’ve co-created. It is an exquisite reminder that in submission, like life, there is liberation; within dominance, like love, there exists an irresistible tenderness.
As a relationship coach, the power dynamics always offered curious dynamics to explore. Today was no different. There I was, in the middle of a seminar about empowering sexuality which soon took an unexpected turn. My heart pounded like a samba drum. Raquel, a woman who had been in my seminars for a few weeks now, single-handedly flipped the script. A sultry beast, her topsy-curvy figure so luscious that it could put a рџЌ‘ to shame, she embraced the challenge in a unique way.
Raquel, in a move that definitely wasn’t part of the original syllabus, proposed a live demonstration of exhibitionism. A few blushed but the majority reaction was one of рџ®вЂЌрџ’Ё. These weren’t your usual sessions dominated by free porn content, made for pure, detached consumption. This was real, intimate, exuding authenticity. She undid the top two buttons of her рџ‘—, and I, standing at a crossroads between maintaining professional decorum and facilitating a deeper understanding of a complex aspect of sexuality, stuttered an agreement. This wasn’t just a lesson for the participants — as the air turned thick with emotions, I realized it was a lesson for me too. Power, I realized, came in many guises, and in that moment, it was Raquel who held it.