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    SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

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    EMPATHY
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    SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  EMPATHY on Sat Jun 26, 2010 5:29 am

    Sex, Death and Michael Jackson


    Published: April 19, 2010Posted in: Health, TheoriesTags: Dr Susan
    Block, Song:
    Beat It


    Dr. Susan Block is a sex
    educator, cable TV personality, author of The 10 Commandments of
    Pleasure
    and hostess of Dr. Suzy’s Speakeasy.
    Here, she writes about the subject that has for so long been at the
    center of so much speculation about Michael Jackson; sex.
    By Dr. Susan Block | August 3, 2009
    Like millions around the world, I was shocked when the news of
    Michael Jackson’s death hit me harder than I’d ever imagined it would.
    True, I grew up on MJ, enjoyed my first make-out session to the guiding
    notes of “ABC,” slow-danced to “I’ll Be There,” moonwalked to “Billie
    Jean,” jilled-off to “Beat It,” and opened my heart to “We Are The
    World.” But throughout our lives, I had no problem taking Jackson’s
    music, his moves, his scandals and paraphilias in moderation. I always
    liked to dance – and make out – to his tunes (who doesn’t?), but I was
    never a huge fan, never even went to a live concert. He seemed so,
    well…commercial. And then there was his tacky taste in art, not to
    mention those bizarre pajama parties with boys the age that he was when
    he taught me my ABCs.
    That all changed on the afternoon of June 25, 2009. As soon as I got
    the news, I caught the wave. Where were you when MJ died? Like
    millions, I was on Twitter. Within seconds of TMZ’s scoop, “RIP MJ” hit
    #1 on Twitter’s trending topics, with “Michael Jackson,” “Jacko,”
    “Gloved One” and other nicknames occupying almost all the other top
    spots. From Farrah Fawcett to the Iran Election, all other news was
    kicked to the curb. Make way for the King of Pop! Twitter wasn’t the
    only site infected with MJ fever. News of his demise sent the internet
    an unprecedented surge of traffic that caused crashes and slowdowns in
    what many referred to as a major “wake-up call” for internet
    infrastructure.
    At first, I didn’t believe the news, assuming it was a Jeff
    Goldblum-style hoax, or maybe even Jacko’s own amazing scheme. Could he
    have somehow slipped out of his looming 50-concert tour, then stolen
    away to some far off palace in Bahrain where he would live as a woman,
    going out to the local mall in an abaya and watching sales of all his
    old records soar in his wake? The family could have been in on it too.
    After all, Saint Michael’s Ascension to Heaven has buoyed the whole
    Jackson Juggernaut. Unsolved mysteries pervaded the news, and didn’t
    get solved even as facts emerged. Visions of Zombie Michael rose from
    the grave like a “Thriller” creature in my dreams, maniacally laughing
    at our tears and quietly raking in the revenues.
    That might have made a hot Michael Jackson video, but it wasn’t the
    cold corpse of reality. With various authorities examining the body,
    pronouncing it dead as a multi-platinum doornail and even removing MJ’s
    brain for further study, I put the Elvis-Is-Alive theories to bed, at
    least for a while. That started my spiral down into the depths of Dead
    Michael Mania. Forget Swine Flu; I had MJ fever, which is a lot more
    contagious and sometimes lethal. Supposedly, 12 Michael Jackson fans
    killed themselves when they heard the news that their idol was gone.
    Even as I derided their devotions, I joined the zillions already down on
    their knees worshipping Dead MJ in the interdenominational Church of
    the World Wide Web, scouring YouTube for scratchy old Jackson 5 videos
    and “exclusive” interviews with the Gloved One, awaiting breaking news
    of the autopsies, perusing scholarly assessments of the Pop King’s
    famously “weird” sexuality, gawking at photos of the freshly unmasked
    Jackson 3 – Prince, Paris and the MJ-lookalike Blanket, and studying
    amateur videos of a fourth kid, love child Omer Bhatti whose mom is
    rumored to have been the Norwegian-Pakistani Billie Jean. The mass
    hysteria over the “welfare” of these kids is like that over the heirs to
    a crown.
    MJ Backlash

    The backlash began before the body was cold. Bill O’Reilly announced
    that he was “fed up” with the likes of me and my Jacko-inspired brothers
    and sisters. Of course, O’Reilly is just an old, natal white guy with a
    loofah up his butt, freaked out by the fact that not only is his
    President black, but so is the most internationally successful – and
    internationally mourned – entertainer the world has ever known.
    But O’Reilly wasn’t the only one outraged by the mass adulation of
    this “poor black boy who grew up to be a rich white woman” (thank you,
    Red Buttons). Over a month after his death, right-wing ranters John
    Kobylt and Ken Chiampou were still ranting on KFI-AM 640 about the
    travesty of spending taxpayers’ money on security for a “memorial
    service for a pedophile.” In the Twitterverse, explosions of MJ backlash
    constantly roiled – and still roil – the enormous sea of adoration:
    “Hopefully there are child rape survivors out there shouting down this
    worship of Michael Jackson,” tweeted ConservativeLA. “Infuriating.
    Unacceptable!”
    Unacceptable as it was, there it was – and still is, a tsunami of MJ
    awareness. Gandhi may have had a bigger funeral, JFK more conspiracy
    theories, and Princess Di more swag, but no one had more of an instant
    international outcry of very personal yet universal grief – as well as
    equally passionate outrage over the grief – as Michael Joseph Jackson in
    the moment of his death. It was as if his last breath – a final
    high-pitched “hoo-hoo” – shattered light bulbs in a zillion rooms. The
    sheer magnitude of the worldwide response was enough to make me feel
    eminently justified in my newly acquired MJ addiction. How could I help
    but be swept up in such a tremendous tidal wave of feeling?
    I must confess that, at the time, I was plagued by a major web
    development problem (which is still plaguing me – Drupal experts, please
    help!), and MJ’s untimely death provided what seemed like the perfect
    means of escape. Immediately, I stopped focusing on my own problems to
    stare at the many masks of Michael, the different phases of his face,
    from little Boy Wonder to Awkward Adolescent to Androgynous Hottie to
    Peter Pan Man to Diana Ross’ Sister to Whiteface Mime to Creepy Mug Shot
    to Masked Dad to Dead Head on the Gurney. I played hit after MJ
    megahit, on and off RadioSuzy1. I binged on *pop* salted with tears,
    stuffing myself with MJ music, moonwalks, celebrity hype, interracial
    politics, sexual drama, illicit anesthesiology, hints of homicide and
    toxic cotton candy-textured gossip.
    So now, like a pop cultural bulimic, I am purging by writing this
    voluminous bloggamy. Please excuse my verbosity, my darling reader, but
    the life and death of the King of Pop is giving me the hiccups. So…how
    do I really feel about MJ? Like the jewels on his coats of many colors,
    there are multiple facets to my feelings…
    Voice of an Angel: MJ as Castrato

    First there is The Voice. Ironically, Jackson’s death pushed the death
    of Neda, the Iranian “martyr” whose name literally means “the voice,”
    out of the news. MJ’s was not Neda’s voice of protest; it was a voice
    of amazing grace, high and sweet from childhood until death, a voice
    that has both seduced and repelled me since Michael first taught me my
    ABCs. Unlike Prince and the Temptations, MJ wasn’t singing falsetto when
    he hit those skyscraper notes. He just had an unusually high voice for
    a man. His speaking voice – even his laughter – was girlish and sweet
    was girlish and sweet, without apparent strain. Of course, most young
    boys have high counter-tenors, and little Michael’s was one of highest
    and sweetest of all. But how did he maintain that treble tone which
    almost all males lose in puberty?
    My MJ-feverish thoughts raced back through time to the notorious
    castrati of Renaissance Italy, adult male counter-tenor sopranos who had
    been castrated before puberty to preserve their high angelic voices.
    Some of these boy-men were the Michael Jacksons of their day, wildly
    adored by fans for their beguiling androgynous voices and flamboyantly
    sexy manners. I raced to the Internet to find that I was not the only
    one wondering if Joe Jackson, in addition to notoriously beating his
    gifted child, also had his son castrated to guarantee Michael’s sweet
    voice would be preserved and continue ringing in the dough.
    Was Motown mogul Berry Gordy in on the deed? Was a literal lack of
    balls the “distinguishing characteristic” of MJ’s genitalia to which
    young Jordy Chandler was referring in 1993 when he claimed to have been
    up close and personal with the Pop King? Is that why Jacko thought he
    could play in bed with the boys – because no penetrative harm could come
    of it?
    Hmm…interesting, but probably no more real than a “Thriller”zombie.
    After all, how could Joe, Berry and Michael pull off such an outrageous
    stunt all these tabloid-infested years with no one spilling the beans?
    Jackson could have been a virtual castrato due to some endocrinological
    condition. But that too would have hit the tabloids by now. MJ’s high
    speaking voice may even have been a partial put-on, says Court TV’s
    Diane Dimond in her new book, Be Careful Who You Love who wrote that
    Jackson had “a big, deep voice…if you bring him bad news or if you make
    him mad, his voice gets very, very deep.”
    Nevertheless, the image of MJ as Castrato moves through our
    collective imagination. Many have called him “sexless.” Michael
    Kinsley alluded to the Castrato Theory 25 years ago when the young adult
    MJ had just become “bigger than Sinatra, Elvis, the Beatles, Jesus,
    Beethoven – all of them” in popularity. “What’s happened to Michael
    Jackson isn’t too different from what they used to do to young male
    singers in Europe a few centuries ago, to keep their voices sweet,” he
    wrote in the New Republic back in 1984.
    Kinsley wasn’t just referring to MJ’s Mickey Mouse voice here. He
    was talking about how Jackson was kept by his handlers – and eventually
    by himself – in a state of perpetual arrested development “living in a
    fantasy world…that he thinks is real.” Conventional wisdom is that
    Michael “never had a childhood.” That’s often said of child stars, and
    that’s how the singer himself described his life. But perhaps it’s more
    appropriate to say that, with the help of his immense fortune and
    formidable talent, MJ managed to make his “childhood” last 50 years.
    Whether or not Jackson died with his testicles intact, he exhibited
    the diva/castrato style throughout his life. Being a cross between male
    and female, the castrato can seem to be a kind of god, elevated above
    mere male or female humans. But of course, the castrato is also a
    victim, a tragic child sacrifice on the altar of our entertainment.
    MJ as Child Sacrifice

    Whatever the condition of the Jackson Family Jewels, Michael was a child
    sacrifice. He was “raised on the stage” for our pleasure. As Agamemnon
    sacrificed his eldest daughter Iphigenia on the altar of ancient Greek
    military politics, and as Abraham almost sacrificed his son Isaac on the
    altar of God in Genesis, so Joe the Jackson Family Patriarch sacrificed
    his fifth son Michael on the altar of American showbiz.
    I’m not joining the chorus of MJ lovers who hate Papa Joe for his
    drill sergeant style of raising young musicians. There is no good
    excuse for using violence against children. But not all parents had
    read Dr. Spock in the 60s, and if not for mean old Joe, MJ might have
    become nothing more than a singer in a Gary, Indiana church choir. Then
    again, he might still be alive.
    Both Joe and Katherine Jackson were Jehovah’s Witnesses, the type of
    Christians who are supposed to avoid “sinful” music and dance. Michael
    was more like a Jesus freak, the child star who followed his paternally
    ordained destiny to “Heal the World,” killing himself in the process.
    Christ-MJ lived and died for our sins of hypocrisy. He rose up on the
    wings of our desire, thrived on the gold, frankincense and myrrh of our
    accolades, suffered from the thorns of our accusations, bled from the
    spears of our derision, burned in the fires of our commercialism, and
    choked on our conflicted fantasies, nailed to the cross of his own
    success. He enhanced this image during concerts, often stretching his
    arms out, Christ-like.
    When he died for real, we who grew up on MJ felt a collective pang of
    longing for our own misbegotten childhoods, coupled with communal guilt
    over our participation in his sacrifice. That was my first reaction to
    Jackson’s death: We killed him. I twittered, “Why such a huge orgasmic
    outpouring of RIP MJ grief? Partly bc #MichaelJackson was a pop genius.
    But also bc we feel guilty 4 hounding him.” We gave him the greatest
    honors, and then we charged him with the worst crimes. How could the
    world’s greatest entertainer also be the world’s most well-known accused
    child molester? How could our God on Earth and the Devil Incarnate be
    one and the same?
    This stark dichotomy is integral to his mass appeal, an appeal that
    blossomed into full-fledged worship, iconography, pop sanctification and
    the gestation of a commercial posthumous enterprise that has just
    begun. My own MJ Fever is just a tiny flickering particle of this viral
    frenzy ricocheting around the world, a communal agony bordering on
    ecstasy. The King is dead! Long live the King!
    MJ’s ABCs

    The fever then took me down a more personal memory lane when the King
    started out as the Little Prince. The first Jackson 5 song I ever heard
    was “I Want You Back,” ironically appropriate for how so many feel
    about his passing. But the song that really hit me where I lived was
    “ABC,” the children’s ditty that’s also a love song. Here was Michael,
    just a kid like me, but wiser and ever so much cooler than me, teaching
    me that complicated adult feelings like love could be simple as child’s
    play. With the Little Prince’s irresistible timing, megawatt smile and
    adorable James Brown imitation, how could I resist that lesson? If I
    could do my ABC’s and Do-Re-Me’s, I too could master the art of love as
    little Michael apparently had. Ha! Little Michael sold me a bill of
    goods. This was the message of pop – love is as simple as carrying a
    tune – and MJ was the carrier of the message.
    I realize now that I was a little jealous of Michael Jackson. I
    wanted to shake my bootie in crazy colorful outfits with a band of
    brothers behind following my lead, surrounded by crowds of proud
    grown-ups and adoring fans. Of course, I wasn’t quite as talented as
    Michael. And I was a whole lot lazier. Plus, my Dad didn’t beat me,
    and my Mom made me go to school to actually learn the real ABCs. “They
    shouldn’t make a child sing and dance for adults like that,” she
    disparaged. “He should be in school. “ On the surface, I agreed with my
    moral mom that it was “bad” to make Michael Jackson perform like a
    monkey for the pleasure of grown-ups. But Mom couldn’t stop that
    powerful little Peter Pan Voice from infiltrating my head and whisking
    me off to Neverland “1-2-3 Baby, You and Me…”
    Body of MJ

    It defied gravity. Light and magical as a marionette, Jackson was skin
    and bones with soul. So many original signature moves: the moonwalk,
    the robot, the mime, the lean, the tiptoe stance, the lightening spins,
    white socks glittering as he goes. Michael was born into a dancing
    family like circus people are born into circus families, and he danced
    all of them – and all of us – under the table.
    MJ danced like a man on fire. That’s why most fans took it in stride
    when his hair caught fire during the making of that horrific Pepsi
    commercial. He never complained about it. And Pepsi made sure we didn’t
    know how bad it was; only releasing the video of the freaky accident
    after his death. Supposedly his addiction to painkillers kicked in after
    this. When you see the video of the man’s head ablaze, you can’t blame
    him for wanting something stronger than a Tylenol.
    Then there’s another, more unsettling aspect of MJ’s Body:
    Modification. Jackson constantly experimented with music, dance,
    costuming and performance, usually with awesome results. He also
    experimented with plastic surgery. Even his own face was a stage, a
    place to try to create something new. Obviously, in most people’s
    opinion (including my own), he was more successful with his performance
    experimentation than he was with his face. Some of his later facial
    appearances are downright frightening, like one of the desiccating
    zombies who surround and possess his younger, more supple self in
    “Thriller.” But sometimes his Kabuki-like visage catches the light at
    just the right angle, such as in “Ghost” or “Scream,” and it is utterly
    beautiful in an otherworldly, Pierrot-esque, only-MJ way.
    MJ as Integrator

    Michael brought black and white together, sometimes in the most
    politically correct, universally admired ways, such as breaking the
    racial barrier on MTV or bringing all those mega-stars of different
    races and musical styles together to warble “We Are The World” for
    African relief.
    Other times, he did it in the most politically incorrect, utterly
    “weird” ways, such as lightening his chocolate skin to paler and paler
    shades of beige. Whether he did this to combat the skin-mottling
    effects of vitilago or because he wanted to deliberately produce what I
    call his “whiteface mime effect,” it was unnerving to see a black man
    turn white over the course of a few years, especially for people who
    like to think of race as a fixed factor.
    Beyond the bleach, Jackson was an African American icon who married
    two Caucasian women, the daughter of Elvis and the nurse of his
    dermatologist. Obviously, he liked white women. A lot of black men do.
    And vice versa. It’s all part of integration through sex. Not that MJ
    necessarilyhad sex with either wife, or anyone else – which wouldn’t
    make him “sexless,” just not into partner sex, but more on that when we
    “beat it.”
    MJ mainly integrated through his music. “Black or White,” brown or
    pink, it always reached out to us and made us want to dance, make love,
    make peace, or just hug someone a little different from ourselves. He
    also appealed to different generations. An idol to the young, he was
    not vilified or feared by the middle-aged, because they had known him
    since he was a child.
    If Only MJ Had Seen A Sex Therapist…

    Like most of us, Michael Jackson’s sexual life was a rich tapestry of
    nature and nurture, feelings and experiences. His greatest, most
    passionate, tempestuous and erotic love affair wasn’t with any
    individual woman or man, or any particular young boy or chimpanzee. It
    was with the public. In a sense, Jackson’s sexuality was that of a
    consensual exhibitionist with the public as his bedazzled voyeurs. The
    exhibitionist-voyeur relationship between MJ and the public was not
    always overtly sexual, but when it was – as in his signature crotch grab
    or those humiliating allegations – it really was.
    From pubescent sex symbol to accused sex offender, Michael Jackson’s
    sexuality has long been objectified by the public, ever since he was a
    little boy teaching the world the ABCs of Love. Though MJ’s sexual
    nature was inherently personal, just like every other human being’s, it
    was inextricably intertwined with his relationship with the public.
    Ironically, the public – and certainly the media – never could *get*
    MJ’s sexuality, and still can’t. So we called him Wacko Jacko, and
    still do. And some of us called him a pedophile, the worst label to
    slap on a human being in modern society.
    So let’s get one thing straight (so to speak) in the land of labels.
    There is no evidence – hard or hearsay – that Jackson was a pedophile,
    meaning that he was turned on by children younger than prepubescent.
    There is some evidence that he was a hebephile, an adult who is sexually
    aroused by pubescent youths (10-14). He certainly seems to have been
    psychologically stuck in pubescence himself, a Puer Eternis, as Marie
    Louise Von Franz put it, an “Eternal Boy” or Peter Pan. Those fantastic
    toys and rides in Neverland weren’t built *just* to seduce kids; they
    were there for Michael himself to enjoy.
    Michael was raised as a sex object, groomed to be an exhibitionist,
    dressed up and made to dance and sing for the pleasure of adults. In
    his off-stage hours, he observed two very different attitudes towards
    sex. Performing in strip clubs at age nine, he saw his “strict” father
    cheating on his mother and his brothers having casual sex with groupies
    while he hid under the covers, probably scared that these older females
    would come after him. Maybe some of them did. Maybe some of the guys
    did. Whatever happened in those seedy venues, eventually little Michael
    went home to his beloved mother who was strict in a very different way,
    a devout Jehovah’s Witness, who taught him that “lust in thought or
    deed” was horribly sinful. No wonder his adorable head explodes into a
    monstrous werewolf right after a girl embraces him lovingly in the
    opening scene of “Thriller.”
    I don’t think MJ ever talked to a sex therapist about his feelings.
    No, Deepak Chopra doesn’t count, though he is an endocrinologist in
    addition to being a “healer.” I’m talking about a sex therapist who
    wasn’t too starstruck to be able to help Michael to sort out his erotic
    feelings and memories. Of course, being a sex therapist myself, I’m
    biased. Though I would never divulge the identities of my clients, I
    will reveal that MJ was not one of them. And it’s too bad, because he
    might have greatly benefitted from sex therapy; it could even have
    prevented his untimely death.
    Bi MJ

    Young Michael went out with a few high-profile It-Girls like Tatum
    O’Neal and Brooke Shields, as well as more mature divas like Cher, Liz
    Taylor and his first “older woman” crush Diana Ross Of course, he never
    seemed to be having sex with any of them. Each female was a kind of
    Wendy to his Peter Pan; she might have had sexual feelings, but he
    didn’t, though he loved her anyway. Did he break his own Peter Pan mold
    in marriage? According to his ex-wife Lisa Marie Presley, too wealthy
    on her own to have been paid off, Michael was a “hot” lover, and they
    had “normal” hetero sex.
    He’s also rumored to have had “hot” homo sex. Another unofficial MJ
    biographer Ian Halperin, author of Unmasked: The Final Years of Michael
    Jackson, claims to have spoken to two of MJ’s male lovers, including an
    actor named Lawrence who told the author: “He was very shy. But when he
    started to have sex, he was insatiable.” With lyrics like “Your butt is
    mine, gonna take you right” (Bad), the idea of a gay MJ is a natural.
    Another unnamed lover supposedly told Halperin, “The very first time
    he had sex with me he said, “The King of Pop’s going to lick your
    lollipop.” Lollipops are for kids, of course, but at least these
    alleged male lovers were all grown-ups. Though gay love is bad too,
    according to Jehovah’s Witness doctrine and Mama Kate who fended off
    would-be outers in 1983, saying, “Michael isn’t gay. It’s against his
    religion. It’s against God. The Bible speaks against it.”
    Paraphiliac MJ

    The Bible speaks against crossdressing too: “A woman shall not wear
    man’s clothing, nor shall a man put on a woman’s clothing; for whoever
    does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy
    22:5)
    Of course, MJ hadn’t been a practicing Jehovah’s Witness for years.
    Towards the end of his life, there were rumors that he converted to
    Islam, like his brother Jermaine, and changed his name to Mikaeel. In
    any case, Islam condemns gay sex as well as crossdressing, pointing to
    the same Biblical passages (another reason that Islam, Christianity and
    Judaism are really all the same old-time patriarchal religion with
    slightly different spins).
    Whatever his faith, Michael was often seen in dresses and other
    feminine attire. He was practically a transvestite or at least, a
    modern-day dandy. Not that the original, flower-power and
    sequin-festooned Jackson 5 costumes were what you’d call “masculine.”
    And performers commonly wear some makeup. But from Thriller on, MJ’s
    makeup ontop of the plastic surgery and skin-bleaching got more and more
    extreme. The running joke was that he was trying to look like Diana
    Ross. What was he doing? Jackson may have had a paraphilia clinically
    known as “autogynephilia,” sexual arousal at the idea of being a woman.
    His autopsy report declared that he had had at least 13 plastic
    surgeries, the essential objective of which seems to have been to make
    his face more feminine. But not totally. The general effect of his
    surgeries was a softer look, but then there are the pointy nose and the
    cleft in the chin, not conventionally feminine characteristics.
    According to Northwestern University Professor J. Michael Bailey, MJ was
    a “homosexual autohebephile” attempting to look like Disney’s version
    of Peter Pan.
    Again, a good sex therapist could certainly have helped Michael to
    deal with these conflicting feelings, especially as they relate to his
    private and public lives.
    Mortification of MJ

    No doubt Michael was obsessed with the elusive Disney-fied Neverland of
    “childhood” where he and the Lost Boys ran the ranch, sending their
    dimwitted parents off to get facials, body waxes and new cars. Like
    Peter Pan, MJ shamelessly proclaimed that he “slept” with pubescent boys
    in the infamous interview with Martin Bashir, trying to make an
    incredulous Bashir understand that “the nicest thing you can do for
    someone is to share your bed” before nonchalantly adding that he
    actually slept on the floor while the kids slept in the bed.
    Neither Halperin’s book nor any other hard evidence has emerged that
    Jackson had actual sex with anyone on these odd sleepovers. There’s a
    reason that the Santa Barbara court acquitted him in 2005 of all of
    District Attorney Thomas Sneddon’s pumped-up charges. Sneddon and his
    team were hungry to eat MJ alive. They wanted to “make an example” and
    put that uppity Man in the Mirror behind bars for a long time. But the
    jury, despite MJ’s loopy behavior, couldn’t find any real proof of
    lawbreaking, and acquitted him fully.
    Jackson’s own statements in the Bashir interview were Sneddon’s most
    damning “evidence.” So, why did he brag on national TV that pubescent
    kids slept in his bed? Why did he go so far as to say “It’s good.
    It’s very loving”? Why did he allow himself to be filmed in front of
    that tacky painting of himself as an angel surrounded by doting little
    boy cupids? Was he crazy? Drugged? Going too far with his exhibitionism?
    Suffering from sleep deprivation? Or did he somehow think that just as
    he changed the racist policy of MTV, he could change the dirty minds of a
    molestation-crazed public? If so, he was in for a hard smack in the
    face.
    Michael Jackson may have been fully acquitted, but just being charged
    and tried for such a mortifying offence punished him severely –
    mentally, physically and financially – and poisoned his relationship
    with his one true love, the voyeuristic public. All in all, it
    virtually ruined his life, as it does to so many who are similarly
    accused in our current witch-hunting climate. Some say that Sneddon’s
    charges were, on a certain level, what really killed MJ. Here is where
    intensive compassionate sex therapy could have helped Jackson a great
    deal.
    Beat It!

    Whatever his sexual orientation, paraphilias or fetishes, there is no
    doubt that MJ was an avid, though covert, proponent of the art and sport
    of solo sex. Maybe he wasn’t the greatest sex partner, but he sure
    knew how to “beat it.” At least he sang like he did. One of his top
    songs and one of my own personal favorites, “Beat It” manages to be both
    a catchy paean to non-violence and a joyous celebration of
    masturbation.
    It’s a lot more acceptable as an anti-gang song, of course. But
    “Beat It” as the ultimate “beat off” anthem is undeniable. The video
    starts with some Lost Boys of the “young, dumb and full of cum” variety,
    roaming around, strutting their stuff, looking for trouble. MJ makes
    his entrance alone in his bed, wearing just a white T shirt before he
    dons his iconic red leather jacket to penetrate the cold, wet, nasty
    world and lead the testosterone-pumping Lost Boys into a better, more
    peaceful and even more potent Neverland. The rumble is on, but MJ is in
    fine dancing form, so fine he gets two knife-wielding toughs to stop
    fighting and dance with him. Then he makes an extravagant beat-off
    gesture with his right hand, blending a long fast stroke with his
    finger-snapping West Side Story style.
    It’s kind of corny, but inspiring in a bonobo way that this
    precocious Child of the 60s who grew up into the Pop King of the 80s
    turned “Make Love, Not War” into “Don’t Fight, Just Beat It.”
    Soon enough, all the chorus boys in both gangs are jacking with Jacko
    in a giant circle jerk without the circle. At least, that’s what it
    looks like to me. I admit, it takes a particularly dirty mind, or a sex
    therapist’s mindset, to see the “beat off” in “Beat It.” But in concert
    footage, Jackson did even more of these masturbatory stroke movements,
    enhancing them with some lingering crotch grabs as well as sensuously
    rubbing his chest, and miming the zipping and unzipping of his fly. The
    crowd went into an orgiastic frenzy. I wish I could have been there
    live; I’d probably have creamed my jeans. It was a great moment in
    exhibitionist-voyeur history.
    A more politically historic moment in exhibitionist-voyeur history
    occurred when Michael’s little sister Janet bared her heavily pierced
    nipple during half-time on the Super Bowl, stirring up a storm of
    outrage and censorship. Is there a tendency toward exhibitionism
    running through the Jackson genes? More likely it’s just that many
    successful performers are driven exhibitionists. They love the
    limelight with an erotic, sometimes crazy passion.
    Dead MJ

    MJ’s untimely death is fraught with as much intrigue as his life,
    beginning with the Pop King’s own morbid fascination with his impending
    mortality. Jackson was obsessed with the idea that he would die young
    “like Elvis,” according to his ex-wife Lisa Marie who just happens to be
    that otherKing’s daughter. According to his sister LaToya, MJ was
    afraid he might be murdered, saying, “They’re gonna kill me for my
    publishing. They want my catalogues and they’re gonna kill me for
    these.” Did he have some kind of death fetish? Though he always seemed
    to be a peaceful, guy, his videos are filled with shootings, killings,
    ghosts and zombies.
    Or was he done in by his own exhibitionism? Did he perform himself to
    death? The accusations of 2005 were a 21st century tar and feathering.
    Some say MJ wanted to make it up to his fans and his legacy, to do one
    last P.T. Barnum-esque spectacle of fantastic proportions: This Is It!
    And it was personal. He wanted to show his own kids that this guy they
    called Daddy really was Peter Pan.
    Or was he being pushed? This time, instead of Papa Joe forcing him
    to “perform or die,” there was a team of money-driven handlers, doctors
    and enablers. Was this just business as usual with an aging,
    debt-plagued pop star? Or are they guilty of homicide? Manslaughter?
    Is kooky sister LaToya right that “Michael was murdered…in a conspiracy
    to get his money”?
    He looked pretty good doing those high kicks and spins on that
    rehearsal tape. I understand how he could be performing like a dynamo
    one day and dead the next. The same thing almost happened to me. One
    night I was doing a show and within 36 hours, I was in a coma, almost
    dead from septic shock. The only thing that saved my life was the speed
    with which my husband called 911 and the paramedics got me to USC’s
    Emergency Room. MJ – with all his mega-fame and fortune – somehow
    didn’t get that kind of care. The King of Pop didn’t even have a phone
    in his room.
    What he did have was his own personal IV drip, several tanks of
    oxygen and a stash of the powerful drug propofol. When the Pop King said
    he was “bad” and “dangerous,” he wasn’t just playing. Propofol,
    commonly known by the brand name Diprivan, isn’t kid’s stuff. It’s a
    super strong anesthetic, only legally administered for surgery in
    hospitals. MJ must have had some harrowing insomnia to demand propofol
    for regular home use. Or maybe he suffered from yet another paraphilia:
    anesthesia fetishism. Here again, and most critically, a little
    focused sex therapy might have saved MJ’s life.
    The French call orgasm le petit mort, the little death. But a more
    literal “little death” is general anesthesia. Your consciousness is as
    good as dead on the stuff. And yes, some individuals, including some of
    my sex therapy clients, have an erotic craving for the knock-out punch
    that ultra-strong anesthesia delivers. Sometimes they want a sexy nurse
    or doctor to “put them to sleep.” Other times it doesn’t matter who
    delivers the goods, as this type of heavyweight drug is so hard to come
    by outside of a hospital. Some anesthesia fetishists actually feign or
    induce medical conditions in an attempt to obtain general anesthesia
    from medical personnel. This could have been one of the hidden reasons
    for MJ’s numerous plastic surgeries: He craved entering the blissful,
    blacked-out Neverland of anesthesia.
    Whether he was an anesthesia fetishist or just a misguided, stressed
    out insomniac, just because the spoiled star demanded propofol doesn’t
    mean he should have received it, not from a responsible doctor anyway.
    Most of the medical professionals he begged for the drug refused to get
    it for him. Eventually he found a Houston cardiologist named Dr. Conrad
    Murray who seems to have given him propofol on several occasions,
    including the day he died. Rumor has it that the $150,000/month
    cardiologist had fallen asleep while MJ’s pulse was dropping, and by the
    time he woke up, the world’s biggest star was already dead. Murray is
    now the subject of a federal manslaughter probe. Many unsavory
    possibilities are now being savored all over the Internet, as we the MJ
    Feverish await the police reports, toxicology results, news of even more
    beautiful children and zombie sightings.
    Whatever comes, it all seems like destiny. Whether his death was a
    homicide, a trick, an act of astounding criminal negligence or just a
    simple tragedy, his spirit has taken on the wings of Saint Michael the
    Archangel of Pop in the hearts of his beloved voyeuristic public.
    Finally, like Peter Pan, he can really fly.


    _________________
    "You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back,
    whenever you need me, I,ll be there".

    - MICHAEL JACKSON TAROT
    http://epitarot.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=tec
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    EMPATHY
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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  EMPATHY on Sat Jun 26, 2010 5:30 am

    I wondered what anyone else thought about this 'opinion'.


    _________________
    "You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back,
    whenever you need me, I,ll be there".

    - MICHAEL JACKSON TAROT
    http://epitarot.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=tec

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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  Guest on Sat Jun 26, 2010 12:24 pm

    My opinion on this...
    One it's nobodys business
    Two.. burn it and then stomp on this trash.

    Well alrighty then.. odd I just typed in dr susan block , and well hmm a porn site came up called drsusanblock..
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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  EMPATHY on Sat Jun 26, 2010 4:24 pm

    OMG well I suppose 'anyone' can be a Michael fan.



    _________________
    "You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back,
    whenever you need me, I,ll be there".

    - MICHAEL JACKSON TAROT
    http://epitarot.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=tec

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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  Guest on Sat Jun 26, 2010 5:38 pm

    EMPATHY wrote:OMG well I suppose 'anyone' can be a Michael fan.

    LOL.. or using his name , for business.
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    butterfly

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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  butterfly on Sat Jun 26, 2010 6:56 pm

    You could say Susan Block has a one track mind???


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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  Guest on Sat Jun 26, 2010 7:02 pm

    butterfly wrote:You could say Susan Block has a one track mind???

    Seems that way huh
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    EMPATHY
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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

    Post  EMPATHY on Sat Jun 26, 2010 7:17 pm



    _________________
    "You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back,
    whenever you need me, I,ll be there".

    - MICHAEL JACKSON TAROT
    http://epitarot.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=tec

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    Re: SEX DEATH AND MJ BY SUSAN BLOCK

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