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After all, we're told that they're suicidal, so heavy masochistic fetishes would go with that. The Orange Men look like extreme submissives into heavy sensory deprivation. The photographer invites the viewer/voyeur to peer through a hole in a barbed wire fence, to sneak a peak on some state-of-the-art torture, heavy bondage, a little sense denial, maybe some brainwashing (what are they listening to on those earphones anyway?), a bit of wretched mortification.
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Actually, I started writing this because I was staring at it, even finding it to be, I confess, weirdly erotic in that perverse way that Hardcore Male-on-Male Sado-Masochistic Porn often is.Īctually, the original photograph is a voyeur's delight. I myself haven't been able to stop staring at The Photo for the last two days, and that's not just because I'm writing this. Maybe the shrinks at the Pentagon think we'll feel better about ourselves upon seeing a young US Marine with a Big Stick in his pants lording it over a harem of hapless, hogtied Orange Men made to bow down before their Masters in utter, abject-and in the case of Orange Man #2 and possibly #3, even bare-assed-submission.ĭoubtless, for some Americans, it is. Maybe this is the Revenge of the Raving Castrati after the pain and phallic humiliation of 9.11. Maybe they wanted our hearts to race, our spirits to soar at the image of our Marines boldly dominating and humiliating The Enemy. Maybe the Pentagon released The Photo becauseit's so racy. Does that mean that this is the mild stuff? This is where they just plug up their ears, not their other orifices? The shocking part is that this Guantánamo S&M scene was not snapped by a plucky journalist's lens. And yes, if you squint, it looks like an elongated erection, slim but stiff, towering like a sword over his helpless, senseless captives. And, in what's probably just an innocent juxtaposition of objects, a long fence pole seems to be emerging from his pants. The Marine closest to the camera is leaning over the Orange Men in a casually menacing posture. Obviously, he can't pull them up.Ībove this trussed-up, sensory-deprived platoon of bad boys stand two taut Marines (a third is in the distance), clad in crisp camouflage, their heads shaved around the sides, a modern spin on the Medieval bowl-cut. One of the Orange Men appears to be losing his pants. They are blindfolded with black, high-tech-looking goggles, earplugged (or are those ear phones?) and practically gagged with surgical masks and electrical tape, their day-glo orange outfits blowing in the Cuba Libré breeze, revealing sections of their naked flesh. About eight or nine submissives are shown kneeling, their knees grounded into the gravel, their legs crossed and shackled under them, their arms manacled in front, their hands bizarrely mittened. You know, the one that appears to have been taken on the set of a gay male heavy S&M training film or a Robert Mapplethorpe photograph. In short, we not only won The War on the Battlefield (though not many of our guys stepped onto an actual battlefield-too dangerous), but we were winning the War of World Opinion. We helped women get on the road to liberation who doesn't want to see what's under that burqa? We encouraged Afghans to play long-forbidden music, and hey, everybody loves music-except those Evil-Doer, No-Fun Talibans. We dropped food packets too bad they looked just like landmines, confusing the now-dead or maimed children who grabbed them. We triednot to kill civilians, though sometimes, of course, when you're bombing the crap out of a country, it can't be helped. I was impressed with our government's apparent concern for the Afghan people (unlike Vietnam). But at least we gave the impression that we were trying to conduct a relatively "humane" war. Sure, we seemed to be bombing more out of revenge for our wounds and lust for a nice friendly place to lay our pipeline than anything the least bit noble. If any values were worth defending, these were.
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A fight for my freedom to fly, shop, drink champagne, wear miniskirts and, of course, have lots of sex. I was beginning to accept The War for what the Great Pretzel Swallower had proclaimed it to be (in so many malapropisms): a Fight for my Freedom to Party.