The books I have written do not only tell the story of my life, so they entertain the reader through the Great American Novel.
The books I have written do not only tell the story of our world, so they inform the reader through a great work of history.
And the books I have written do not only have more than seventy thousand downloads after fewer than three years.
The MK-Ultra Series celebrates so many amazing places, plants, animals, and people—along with the stars, the sky, the sea, and the earth—to record our stories, so we may all grow in reknown.
Brave, good, and influential women shaped my character—one of many things that makes me different from the homosexual trash, abused by female degenerates, in the global intelligence community.
As an epic poet, I sing of the beauty, trials, and achievements of the amazing women who posed for Playboy.
While I expose sexual programming, I make no apologies for healthy relations between consenting adults.
My books have a visual component, through which I will sometimes describe the geometrical composition, the color palette, and the wholesome effect of an iconic, erotic, and historic photograph, showing a beautiful naked woman, embodied in Playboy.
And, so, as a proper incentive to read my books, and to explain this literary device, which might else lie hidden, I wish to share an artistic example of yet another lovely person who is one of us.
Cheryl Bachman appears at the end of my second book, as a single parent, with a deep religious belief, whose little dreams were derailed, for nothing, by the satanic trash in the global intelligence community.
In this regard, she resembles Sharry Konopski, who serves as an inspiration not only through her martyrdom but through her tenacity, so she appears at the end of my first book.
She was one of more than a dozen women who were put in Playboy, just for me, while you can read more of the amazing story in my third book.
The global intelligence community put Sharry Konopski in a wheelchair, hounding her for decades, and finally murdering my hero.
But Cheryl Bachman was a different lady who caught my eye—because of a misfired suggestion.
Here I record her beauty through literature—while you can read more in my books.
Cheryl pioneered a photo combination that would become my favorite, as it gave an all-around view of her body….
Facing the camera, on the left-hand page, she stood bare-chested, looking me straight in the eye, while she hiked her meshy bottoms down to reveal, below the supple curves of her belly, thick wiry bush, while on the right-hand page, she faced away, over the water, on the dock, stroking her hip, her hamstring, legs positioned wide, furry tail on display, tossing her wild mane back.
So I could imagine nuzzling the neck of the bronze woman, who wanted a man who was wild in bed, while we held left hands, fingers interlaced, arms raised high, and our right hands explored our bodies, gently tracing goose-fleshed skin, muscles stretched and relaxed, making love, listening to the buoys, or a distant foghorn, as we enjoyed the salty breeze and the beautiful calm of the seascape.
Here’s part of the basis for that scene.
And here, again, I record her beauty through literature—while you can read still more in my books.
Squatting in a mesh bra and bottoms, riding high on her hips, while a spray of hair escaped her panties, and her belly-button took the place of her privates, like Raquel in the famous swimsuit poster, only with natural hair, beautiful auburn, delicate nose, high cheekbones, and oceanic eyes…
Cheryl Bachman moved, from this pose, to another, to another…
on the wooden dock, overlooking the slate-blue water, silvery moonlit, with crab-traps, and pots, piled to the side, her bright yellow old-salt jacket cast to the floor, wallpaper showing sailboats I could not name…
So she made me wonder about the real Florida, which my daughter and I would later visit.
Here’s my inspiration partly clothed, stroking her body, before she slides out of the old salt jacket, braced against the wall of unidentified sailboats, with the lobster-traps piled to the side.
And here she is, one last time, blue water brighter because it no longer competes with her oceanic eyes, while it casts the oranges of her body, and her hair, brighter because they no longer compete with the yellow jacket, into strong and sexy relief through the use of complimentary colors—while you might even say that the heat of her body further contrasts with the cold of the water.
Not only her navel but her lips, which are the brightest red in the palette, take the place of her labia, while her hair takes the place of her bush, enlarged, through visual metonymy, in a way similar to what I discuss, in my first book, with respect to Andrew Wyeth’s Huntress, where a similar game is played with the dog and the rug, which pick up the model’s bush, while the hardness of the chair and the surrounding wood pick up her body—and the pencil study for this painting features a giant bush, which Wyeth painted out, because he had what he wanted in the other furry bits.
(And I hope you accept my apologies for the very low quality of the reproduction, since it does not do justice to the tempera on panel masterpiece by the man who lived down the road from me—while I am proud to say that his most famous model, who also posed naked, lived in my house).
The Virgin Playmate of the Year, Donna Edmondson, who later married, while she embraced healthy sexuality, was right.
Playboy was art.
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Our enemy depends on silence.
Fighting Monarch 
Might be nice if you put a warning for nudity or gore. More for other people than me… but for everyone. Seems more reasonable than just sending naked pictures
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Hey Grey Area–
That warning is at the top, when I speak of centerfolds, and erotica, in the title, while there is a great big build-up, where any reasonable person could stop reading at any time instead of continuing to scroll downwards.
So sorry, little boy, virgin, and pervert, that you continue past an obvious alert, so you can pretend to be offended by the artistically, and tastefully, celebrated bodies of naked women.
There is a whole internet, which has the most hateful and disgusting images, all anti-woman, where you say absolutely nothing.
But here, where it is pro-woman, and you fail to identify yourself, you show up within six hours of my writing of my article….
You are one of the little criminals, and that is plain and simple–while your English spelling of gray (‘grey”) shouts MI-7.
Tell me exactly why you show up here, at a site that fights perversion, to object, within hours of this article.
Take your fake, woman-hating, sex-hating, morality elsewhere, because it is very obvious who sent you.
Timothy Shelley
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P.S. And where exactly was the gore, which you strangely associate with the celebration of women?
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P.P.S. Stop spamming me, and find something else to do, in the wee hours, in England, while you responded with roughly seven comments after I told you to buzz off. Your comments will not be posted here, so stop wasting your time, you little woman-hating loser. Go away, you imbecilic hypocritical troll. Real people see through you in a moment, so take it to wherever in England. Whatever your stance, I know you come from the same place as Paul Golding—while I dearly wish that WordPress afforded me a chance to block you, so we could avoid the “conversations” where you crash your way onto the site for which I pay good money.
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Nice to have some *ahem* lower energy center activation, Tim. I guess the chip has kept me in my head forever, rendering me a recluse. Who knows though, maybe that’s what’s doing the writing right now.
I
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