#public shaming

[parakavka]

柴犬·͜·♡もも on X: "泣いていい？ https://t.co/BDGlwG46Ns" / X

[emilycastlevania]

Public shaming lol

[glitterpom]

Would you talk to an older guy and let him have a crush on you?

no I think you guys are gross fucking pedophiles and should find someone your age to jack off to or WHATEVER you do. PLEASE get a life you absolute peace of shit😇

[notaplaceofhonour]

No, “canceling” does not simply only refer to “accountability”; it refers to a specific mode of consequence, an approach to accountability, and the ideological assumptions that come with it—all of which is the subject of most genuine criticisms of “cancel culture”.

Yes, it started as a term coined by Black people for just being done with someone, especially after they wronged you.

No, it did not stay meaning that, nor is its origin a reason to withhold warranted criticism of the phenomenon being described by it.

By and large, when people say they are canceling someone, the actions that are taken against that person as part of their cancellation are aimed at their removal from public life, if not society as a whole. Whether this is the conscious or stated aim of every individual in the group trying to “hold them accountable”, it is very clear that, in practice, nothing will satiate the collective anger until that goal is accomplished.

The volume, intensity, and duration of these informal campaigns, even when they derive from legitimate grievances, are routinely disproportionate to the grievances, and in many cases far more extreme than the human mind and emotions are even capable of experiencing without causing immense psychological distress, trauma, and other health problems.

Tactics often include stalking, harassment, public shaming, death threats, sui bait.

Parasocial dynamics create a disproportionate amount of investment in seeing the cancelee suffer. Even in cases where the anger of the individual cancelers is not necessarily excessive in a vacuum, taken together and at volume, it is.

Are there people who will call any pushback “cancellation” and claim they are being “silenced” from the biggest stages available; absolutely, and they’re often grifters, and they suck.

That said, the existence of bad faith claims does not necessarily reduce the validity of criticisms of this fundamentally destructive model of supposed “justice”.

One does not have to be totally & completely “silenced” to have been the subject of a cancellation campaign and suffer the intense psychological & social damage of public shaming, social ostracism, mass harassment, & stalking from it, or to deserve to be heard about that issue. Nor is a “canceled” figure having a comeback proof that “cancel culture isn’t real”, anymore than someone having a comeback after being blacklisted for coming forward about sexual abuse proof that “blacklisting isn’t real”*

*(You may not like that comparison, because you believe one is good or deserved and the other is bad, but the value judgment is immaterial to the “a is to b, as x is to y” construction; what they have in common is being a form of ostracism, and the point is that ostracism does not have to be totally and eternally effective for it to be a real phenomenon with real effects on the person in question).

[stuffytummystories]

Villain origin

bit dark, this one. fat girl with growing belly contemplates what made her this way while recovering from overfeeding her big fat tummy

She woke up with her belly still bloated and sore from overeating the night before. Not just overeating really. She’d stuffed herself senseless. A few beer too many, plus smoking up, it’d made her ravenous. She’d been high enough she didn’t feel the pain of her protesting stomach till it was much too late.

For a while, she lay in bed, feeling the effects of her midnight feast. The roundness of her full full tummy. How it swelled up under the blankets. Its weight holding her down, making it a bit hard to breath. The sides puffed out and swollen. Most of the food had settled in her lower belly. She could feel it rise, heavy and full and much bigger than usual. But even her upper belly was still taut and jutting out under her fatty little breasts. Her stomach a bit sore, definitely not empty yet.

She hadn’t always been this fat. She’d been quite slim actually, in her late teenage and early twenties. Not skinny but a cute little chub. Finally rid of her baby fat. But at 26, after almost a year of confinement measures, and working from home, that period of her life was most definitely over. She lived alone, got bored easily, and all too soon all her good intentions had gone out the window, healthy home-cooked meals were replaced by comfort food, more and more of it. Daily runs became slow walks, to help her overfull tummy digest a much larger than needed meal. She gave in to her greed, her need to feel full, sated, numb to the world around her. She relished the feeling of a tummy taut and swollen with food. She didn’t care if it made her fatter – at first. No one saw her anyway. All too soon, her tummy was back to the tubby pot it had been in her overfed childhood. And then some.

She often thought about how she’d gone from not even realising how fat she was, to feeling shame and guilt for her growing gut, and her inability to lose weight. And then later from shame and guilt to fetishising her own tubby tummy, being both embarrassed and turned on by the fatshaming she had to endure. Alternating between obsessively stuffing her fat face, purposefully overeating, fattening her swollen belly, and loathing it and her own greed and starving and hating herself for her dark desires.

She’d enjoyed eating when she was a very small child. She’d looked forward to mealtimes, to the comforting feeling of a full round tummy. She’d always finish her plate, and ask for more. Which she got. People commended her parents because she wasn’t a fussy eater, told them how healthy she looked. Photos often showed her with both chubby hands on her round little potbelly.

Then there were sleepovers with a girl from the neighbourhood. She remembered one time, they were both in their pyjamas, already in bed. Inspecting each others’ bodies, as children are wont to do at that age. The other little girl had admired her big tummy. She’d stuck it out as far as she could, puffing it out, making it bigger. It’d made them both giggle. She still remembered the feeling of that small hand on her round tummy, petting and stroking.

In primary school the teasing started. Namecalling. Fatty. Piggy. Tubby. Not being allowed to join games, because they thought she was too slow. Because she was fat. That’s when she noticed how much bigger her tummy was, compared to the other kids’. She started sucking it in, but it still stuck out. And when she forgot, or had to exert herself suddenly, there it was, in all its round glory. She found ways to eat her lunch alone, avoid the other kids watching and judging her every bite. She needed the comfort of a full belly, but she had started to feel ashamed.

She’d been as round as a little tub as a child. As she grew taller, her tummy grew wider, a little barrel of fat that preceded her, and got in the way when she tied her shoelaces. She’d gotten a double chin too, and little fatty breasts, way before any of the other girls started to develop them. People didn’t seem to think it was all that cute any more. And her parents were worried too. They’d started measuring her portions at mealtimes. She wasn’t allowed seconds, and sometimes not even dessert. And the comments! We need to watch your weight a little bit. You’ve probably had enough, don’t you think? You mustn't eat more than you need. We want you to be healthy. You need new clothes again? Maybe try something that hides your tum a little bit?

She missed the feeling of fullness she’d grown up with. She needed it. It had become protection and comfort. But while she wasn’t exactly hungry when she left the table these days, she wasn’t full enough to feel nice and satisfied. So she started sneaking food on the side, using every occasion she could be alone and unnoticed to fill her tummy, eat and eat, until she finally felt her tummy grow heavy and tight, so full she couldn’t suck it in if she tried. She remembered the relief, finally being able to relax, her belly stuffed full. It made her drowsy, so she’d doze off watching TV, or daydreaming, rubbing her distended tummy.

It became a matter of urgency, she never knew when she could eat her fill again. She had to cram as much food as possible into her belly now, make the wonderful feeling of fullness last. She started overeating, indiscriminately forcing more food down. More than her belly could take. Anything she could get her hands on and that wouldn’t be missed later. More and more, eating till her tummy was rock hard and hurt so bad she had to stop. The pain of an overstuffed stomach straining to contain the growing amounts she gorged herself with became mixed in with the feelings of relief and comfort she craved. Now she needed both. And more and more food to get there. A belly rub became an essential part of her illicit little ritual. Collapsing on her bed, panting from pain and fullness, belly ballooning upwards.

The more she secretly stuffed her tummy, the fatter she got. The fatter she got, the more her parents chastised her, showing their disappointment in their tubby daughter’s inability to lose weight more and more openly.

They took her to a doctor once. Whenever she wondered why she’d started associating feelings of arousal with her fat gut, that memory popped into her head. She’d been early teens probably. With a tummy that rivalled most grown-ups’. She hadn’t wanted to go, but that changed the minute she’d stepped into the doctor’s office. He was beautiful. Young, with thick wavy hair and soulful brown eyes. Within two minutes she’d had a massive crush on him, the way only teenagers can get crushes. She wanted him to like her. She sucked her tummy in.

Thankfully her mum left for the examination. He’d given her the routine check-ups, easily chatting, making her feel special. Then it happened.

“That’s quite a big tummy you’ve got there.” She’d never forget those words. The beautiful doctor with the soulful eyes had put his hand on her tummy and it felt like it burned a hole. Had his fingers lingered?

“Do you like to eat?” She had blushed furiously. “Did you eat something before you got here?” More blushes, a shy nod. Oh how she regretted eating her entire stash of emergency food before coming. But she’d been nervous, and a full tummy numbed her just enough to calm her down.

“Yes, I can feel your stomach is quite full” He continued gently prodding her tummy, checking her inner organs. She was fat enough that he had to push down quite hard sometimes. It had made her gasp a little. When she thought back now, she thought he’d run his hands over her tummy between prods, brushing against her skin. But her imagination had probably added that detail. He did give her tummy a little pat when he told her he was all done, and she could get up.

She’d spaced out after that, barely noticing the conversation between the pretty doctor and her worried mother: “…obese, but nor morbidly so… diet… much too fat for a girl her age… health risk… slim down now…”

All the way home and for days after that, all she could think of, was his hand on her fat tummy, his soft voice gently commenting on its fatness, it’s fullness. His beautiful eyes on her as his fingers felt the soft flesh of her round middle. Now when she rubbed her tummy she imagined it was his hands over her skin… it made her blush, just thinking of it. The shame – he saw exactly how fat she’d fed herself – and the excitement of being touched by a handsome man – it all became one.

And ever since then she’d been torn between hating her fat body, wanting to feel slim and pretty, and feeling slightly turned on amid the shame of another cruel comment, turned on by her belly filled to bursting, eating to feel aroused. For years now she’d managed to keep her desires under control, shape her body to what her parents and her peers deemed acceptable, only bingeing once in a while, usually when she was off her face drunk.

Not lately though. Oh no, not lately. Although there really was no one to feel up her fattening body but herself. She’d had to rely on stares and snide comments from strangers when she went on walks with her distended gut on display to get the kick she needed in addition to stuffing herself silly. Well, at least she got some exercise that way…

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Public shaming about littering in Times Square, 1955.

Photo: Viewing NYC

[lushl1f3]

Why are people on this app talking so freely about how they want to be r*ped…? Is so freaking disgusting and so freaking disrespectful to the people and the kids who actually go through that. I’m so sick to my stomach. Y’all need to get a fucking grip, this is absolutely outrageous and it’s so easy to fantasize about something you’ve never gone through before and even if you went through it, why the fuck would you be fantasizing about something like THAT? And why are people not writing more about this shit? This is absolutely insane and ridiculous. It really gets to a point and y’all need to get fucking locked up.

[pantsingfan89]

In the frenetic whirl of Liverpool's Bold Street, where hawkers peddled trinkets and hordes of pedestrians navigated the narrow walkways like a human tide, 25-year-old Finn was the perpetual spark of absurd gambles in his uni posse. His defined jaw, disheveled auburn waves, and assortment of retro garb had him boasting over lagers the night prior about his reliable Levi's and slouchy gray hoody—mementos from a manic interrailing escapade across the continent. "These rags are glued to me; no thieving git could strip 'em off in daylight," he'd proclaimed with a cocky grin, his mates rolling their eyes but chuckling along, none the wiser that fate had its own twisted punchline in store.

Beneath a fitful sky the next afternoon, Finn sauntered through the drizzle, hoody zipped snug against the chill, idly scrolling socials on his phone. A brutal impact from behind slammed him onto the damp pavement, his device skittering into the gutter as two wiry opportunists—spotting an easy mark in the distracted lad—descended without warning. One crushed his arms down with brutal efficiency, the other clawing at his waistband. "Sod off, you bastards!" Finn howled, his tone veering into desperate squeaks as he bucked futilely. The swarm of shoppers stalled—hushed exclamations buzzed, mobiles materialized to record—but the urban apathy prevailed; no rescuers materialized. The thieves wrenched savagely, the jeans scraping down his pale thighs, trainers wrenched away in the tussle, abandoning him to the gritty chill underfoot.

Embarrassment surged as Finn's resistance backfired hideously: his boxers bunched into a excruciating cinch, the worn material stretching sheer from the strain and damp, contouring every humiliating bulge and quiver for the leering crowd. A frantic twist ripped a seam along the side, airing a sliver of his hip to peals of laughter, while the hoody's zipper snagged in the melee, dragging it upward and binding his flailing arms overhead, his stifled yells reverberating as it was torn free—leaving him utterly bare-chested, his slender, speckled torso on full display with its smattering of uneven fuzz and that regrettable, lopsided anchor tattoo etched crookedly on his flank from a foggy Amsterdam haze. The robbers, grinning at their impromptu haul, escalated: one stripped the jeans entirely, pockets disgorging Finn's wallet, a crumpled tissue that floated mockingly, and a half-eaten protein bar wrapper that clung stickily to his sweat-glazed skin, while the other claimed the hoody, rolling it all into a hasty bundle.

"Nice gear, soft lad—our lucky day!" one jeered with a smirk, before they melted into the throng, dodging carts and disappearing down an alley. Finn clambered to his feet, quaking in naught but his tattered boxers, every exposed inch—from his flushed chest heaving with ragged breaths to the goosebumps rippling across his arms—inviting stares, hoots, and vulgar gestures from a huddle of blokes nearby. A mime artist halted his act to guffaw, a falafel seller proffered a greasy paper bag "for your modesty," and the relentless camera flashes etched his degradation into eternity as a digital sideshow.

His crew, catching wind of the ruckus from a nearby café, dashed over, their banter silenced by sheer dismay. "Finn, bloody hell, you alright?" one blurted, but bereft of extras, they could merely cluster as an awkward guard while blue lights flashed, officers rolling up to the frenzy. Finn relayed the ordeal right on the curb, near-nude and shuddering, his words faltering under the weight of prying eyes from the encircling gawkers, skin crawling with every draft. The clips inundated the net, branded #BoldStreetBared, birthing a storm of memes that plagued him relentlessly. The coppers' pursuit fizzled—the swag was vanished—and Finn crept home via dim backstreets, scraps of dignity evaporated, vowing eternal silence on cocky claims, now championing whispers and ironclad fasteners.