Lolitarexpress /triptych



J. E.

I can’t stop pushing my speculative tongue into this loose tooth of a mystery.

he had this half-smiling cool and obnoxious and entitled swag. that aloof and elusive vibe which tells you that he knows stuff that you don’t. that he’s got some thang you aren’t even aware of existing.

the flimsy mystique merely of a slick (wretched and sick) sleazebag perhaps?

still: what a fascinating and captivating character he seemed. the kind whose pix online you can hardly stop staring at.

was bright and smart as well as interested (and invested) in science and tech. and most of all he was a master manipulator. always and already angling for an overall frame control. an in-your-face troll who loved to baffle his high-flying peers with inapt comments about quim.

he was himself a puppet—of course—chasing a moving target. scratching an infected itch. collecting scalps and leaving a scar in the souls encountered—etching himself in people’s psyches—in order to own and possess them. hung up (in short) on the ultimate snatch: of subduing all.

turned on by dominating others and by extending the sphere of his dominion. by coercing his will onto others. through gaming the system and puppetifying people.


what particularly turned him on was the act of bending people’s volition to align with his own. warping space around himself by the gravity of an obscene charisma. by the sheer force of intent. which (again) was to game the system. and to satisfy his lust for domination. and he had this ill fixation with young poosy to boot. about 15-16 (?) as his favorite flavor.

now. some say that he was a self-made brainiac pedophiliac billionaire. others that he was a construct of an intelligence agency—whose task was to set up honey traps in order to build geopolitical leverage. (but then: who is not a construct —of a multiplicity of agencies and institutions anyway?) god knows what the fuck. but in his case the saying definitely holds: truth is stranger than fiction.

and indeed in the end he succeeded in searing his silver fox-y image into the collective mind of humanity. especially in his death. his mystery gained added depth. right at the point where he was finally cornered.

his last picture’s lying on a bed—so much time he spent getting massaged at. but the questions remain. and still abound. did he commit suicide? or was he suicided? what exactly happened and why?

the questions are numerous.

was he a victim of circumstance? of affluence? was he a bad seed from the get? what determines the trajectory of a human unfolding? was he an agent of deliberately inflicted traumas? was he the victim of his own powers? was he more enlightened and conscious than we would like to believe?

who the hell was Jeffrey Epstein?



G. Max

I saw your pictures online and right away I felt drawn to your wide and clear-cut eyes. a socialite you are labelled as a person who knows them social circle jerks.

Ghislaine this is my naïve impressionism of you. based on a couple of YouTube clips and Google pics. all with the captions that say you’re a depraved wolf in sheep’s clothing. pure evil caught red handed in a heinous scheme—feeding (as it were) a high-flying Lucifer on the flesh of young and innocent birds.

they claim that after you lost your dad and your way you found your match in (the lust of) J.E.. still I feel something more tender than a perv perp deserves when I look at your bright but troubled (?) face.

perhaps all you ever and always wanted was to please an unpleasable dead? that TerraMar project of yours (for one) does strike me as a symptom of just such an itch. a good girl initiative that.

and why is it—I wonder—that yours feels more becoming while your victim’s bearing’s more redolent of malice? as if you were in effect the victim? now. invoking naïve impressionism won’t temper the unokayness of such statement. still. I can’t shake the feeling that you deserve somewhat fairer a shake than you seem to be getting. on a deeper order of analysis—say?

at any rate. I like the pronunciation of your name—Ghislaine. (and from the obvious rhymes—alas—I cannot refrain. no matter how lame.)

but who is really to blame? Ghislaine—

why did you stray from your natural lane?

when did you get derailed?

have you ever

at all?


what a shame—dear Ghislaine

what a shame

you just wanted to prove something

to somebody perhaps

for some unconscious reason



but you crossed the point of no return—

(you were doomed enough to have

all the necessary means

to do that)


tell us—was it all in vain?

is it all in vain?

riding it all the way?




perhaps no word whatsoever should be wasted on the following aspect of the whole speculation but . . . I feel compelled to address it. which is the issue of the fuzzy nature of victimhood.

as I understand it: the victimized girls felt compelled to oblige but were never directly threatened or physically forced? they were financially compensated? they were introduced to a world of privilege? they accepted the lateral perks and benefits in exchange of their services? they went along with it but felt like crap about it? they felt troubled by it and deeply conflicted about it? they felt ashamed? they felt paralyzed? they felt terrified? they felt trapped? they felt tricked? and diabolically manipulated and used and abused?

and now they want some sort of redemption through (judicial) revenge? they want to transcend their shame and their guilt by publicly demonizing their seducers? they want to come clean and cleanse their conscience of all the slime they let stain it? they want to atone for their sin of having had weak personal boundary (as a young person) by stomping on their abusers now as (strong and compassionate) adults?


I wonder.


is there a critical difference between being abused and allowing oneself to be abused? is age the critical factor here? who defines the boundary that’s been violated? the boundary that separates the psychological from direct physical rape? is there a boundary there at all? are there better questions to ask?


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