Please refresh the page and retry. A man who caused life-changing injuries to the genital area of his female lover after a sexual fantasy went catastrophically wrong, has been jailed for a decade. David Jeffers, 47, fled from a Manchester hotel leaving his partner dying on a bed after a loaded shotgun, which was inserted into her vagina, was mistakenly fired. The 46 year-old victim, who cannot be named for legal reasons, had informed her partner of her sexual desires via text message a few days prior to the incident, which left her with life changing injuries to her bladder and female reproductive organs, with one message saying: "I can't sleep, so excited. T he victim, who worked as a manager in Stockport, Greater Manchester, had arranged and paid for Jeffers to stay with her at the Britannia Hotel on the evening of January 30 where the couple consumed drink and drugs before engaging in sexual activity. Sometime after, Jeffers, who lives in Harehills, Leeds, inserted the loaded shotgun, which he claims to have found in the toilet of the Wetherspoon's pub at Leeds train station, into her genital area where it is agreed his hand was on the trigger at the time it went off.
Home for the holidays for the first time in two years, I found myself in my childhood bedroom looking through old photos. Among all the glossies of me as a totally hot teen with overly plucked eyebrows and white flared, low-rise jeans, several albums spanning two years of my pubescence stood out. In almost every picture in those albums I was clutching a babe with a Craig David chin-strap and frosted tips. This, dear friends, was my high school sweetheart.
Zafira. Age: 32. The ultimate adult XXX star usually available only for traveling meetings. Services: Sex In Different Positions, Oral, Oral With Condom, Kissing, Kissing With Tounge, Cum On Body, Deep French Kiss, 69 Position, Extra Ball, Erotic Massage, Striptease, Couples, Light S/M, Toys.
Dedee: Oh, please. This baby owes its life to Long Island iced teas, if you know what I mean. Teachers everywhere have to learn that no means no Lucia: Oh, no, no. But bring another human life onto the planet - that's whim time. Randy: I'm just askin' that you stand by your man, like I'm standin' next to you! You know, a lot of guys, man, they woulda said that, "Shucks, man, she took up with them homosexuals. You know, she turned her back on righteousness.
Hips working, Christina Ricci saunters across the lobby wearing low-slung jeans and highish heels, a well-read woman of twenty-six who recently emptied all the books from the shelves in her house to make room for her collection of designer shoes. Her stride is overlong for her five-foot frame, a little slutty, a postmodern Betty Boop, reminiscent of so many of the characters she has created—the zaftig, sexually adventurous teenybopper in The Ice Storm; the manipulative jailbait trollop in The Opposite of Sex; Woody Allen's ripe embodiment of vagina dentate in Anything Else; and, soon in theaters, the writhing, damaged, sex-addicted white-trash antiheroine Rae in Black Snake Moan, during which she spends much of her considerable screen time in dirty underwear, chained to a radiator in Samuel L. Jackson's rundown Tennessee farmhouse. She removes her oversized sunglasses to reveal her large and devastating hazel eyes, which are set like twin navels beneath the porcelain swell of her expansive, pale, Buddha's belly of a forehead. Her hand is small and fluttery and childlike, the nails without polish, the grip unsure, as if she is not entirely positive that she wishes to be here, even though she has committed to this bit of necessary business, the hour and location being convenient to her next appointment, one of her twice-weekly sessions with her therapist, which she calls "the best thing that I do. The last time she was here, at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood, dining at this very same restaurant, she'd excused herself to go to the ladies' room only to encounter a trendy unfortunate in a stall with her two girlfriends, the apparent victim of an overdose, heroin from the look of it—the lolling head, the eyelids at half-mast, the drool—a scene Ricci will later recall in a pitch-perfect, party-girl singsong: "Ohmigod! She asks for a table in the sun. She is tiny and Hollywood thin, wearing an antique polka-dot sweater that hugs her form—the zaftig years are over but her shape does not disappoint. Her hair is pulled back off her face. Her red rosebud mouth is neither opened nor closed; there is an awkwardness to the set of her jaw, a palpable unease.