The best-known type have no facial features. One prominent example of a commercially produced ragdoll is the Raggedy Ann doll. Raggedy Ann first appeared in as the main character of a series of children's stories by Johnny Gruelle.
Raggedy Andy, her brother, was introduced in In their earlier forms, rag dolls were made out of cloth scraps or cornhusks. Rag dolls have featured in a number of children's stories, like the 19th century character Golliwogg , Raggedy Ann in the book by Johnny Gruelle and the British children's television series Bagpuss and Ragdolly Anna. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Not to be confused with Ragdoll. Submissive blonde human doll Lola Taylor gets fucked by two studs. Anal Puppet Girl, with Luna Lovely. Naked doll amazing fetish bondage sex scenes with old chap. Submissive patient Tiffany Doll spanked and dominated by Dominica Phoenix. Alexa Tomas and Zoe Doll enjoy lesbian bondage and strap ons. Shelly Winters also has fond memories of Marlon. He sounds impossible here, but both Rita Moreno and Shelly Winters convey his intelligent, funny, social side well, as least in his youth.
He was always "Brando was professional. Brando was intelligent. Brando had talent. In person, Elvis had a face that was pretty rather than handsome. His features echoed those of his mother, Gladys, to whom he was famously attached. Gladys was obsessed with Elvis from the time he was a baby, since he was a twin but she lost the other baby at birth. Consequently, she overwhelmed her only surviving son, Elvis, with love, food, and possibly her own genetic predisposition to addiction and depression.
In , a year after I dated Elvis, Gladys died from hepatitis after decades of drinking hard. She was still a young woman, and Elvis threw himself into her grave at the funeral. Elvis asked me out several times, and things always went the same way between us. The red glare of the traffic lights lent a carnal glow to our activities. I could feel him thrust against my clothed body, and expecting the next move, I knew I would have to confront my own conflicted motives when the time came, but it never did.
Maybe Elvis was inhibited by inbred religious prohibitions or an oedipal complex, or maybe he simply preferred the thrill of denied release.
Whatever put the brakes on the famous pelvis, it ground to a halt at a certain point and that was it. Later, I discovered that my experience with Elvis was typical. He was a fine match for his teen fans, arrested, apparently, at their level of development. I was already a fully grown woman with adult desires—and I had been with Marlon. Elvis and I were in perfect sync. There were only so many times that I could be in a clutch with a kid whose pouty lips could hardly express an idea or recount an experience.
One night, as I watched Elvis wolf down a bacon, mashed banana, and peanut butter sandwich that had been home-fried in bacon fat, I realized that he probably desired that sandwich more than he desired me. I liked Elvis well enough, but there was just nothing left to say or do. Still, my heart ached when, twenty years later, I heard the news with everyone else that the King had been found dead in his bathroom of a prescription drug overdose.
He was obviously very fertile; he ended up having fifteen children. For reasons so deep that I have not yet unearthed them, I allowed myself to get pregnant by Marlon. Maybe subconsciously, I thought he would offer me marriage, since during the course of our affair he had married two other women and fathered children with both.
To my shock and horror, Marlon immediately arranged for an abortion. Abortion was illegal then, but I had seen abortion scenes—usually botched procedures—in many movies. I went to his office alone and disliked the doctor on sight. He seemed typecast as an abortion doctor: a shifty, ferretlike man who skittered sideways like a crab. In my nightmares I can still see his small eyes, too close together, darting around.
He seemed to have only peripheral vision. The doctor put me out on sodium pentothal for the procedure. I was shaken, but I imagined that my ordeal was over and that Marlon and I could go back to being together the way we had been.
He had only interrupted my pregnancy. Marlon called a doctor when I began cramping and running a fever and bleeding. I was rushed to the hospital, where the rest of our baby was then removed from me. Marlon wanted his money back! I raged and wept.
I was in the kind of agony that only an obsessed, mistreated lover can understand. The memories of tenderness and passion between Marlon and me only added to the torment. Marlon seemed to be testing me: Where was my pain threshold? How much more could I take? Why was he both tender and indifferent?
The sorrow over losing the baby and the humiliation of knowing what I had done with Marlon—and kept doing, over and over—was destroying me. Again and again I had taken Marlon back, running to him no matter what he did, only to have him do something even worse the next time.
These were the redundant agonies of a dangerous love affair that had long ago spun out of control. Things only worsened between us after that, if that is possible. Marlon was filming Mutiny on the Bounty, mostly on location in Tahiti, and we were apart a great deal.
He was playing the role of Fletcher Christian, a lieutenant aboard the Bounty who falls for a Tahitian princess. The princess was played by the exotically beautiful French Polynesian—Chinese actress Tarita Teriipia, and Marlon was soon as smitten with her as his character was with the princess in the film.
This, along with the sheer number of his infidelities and the depth of his involvements, marriages, and babies, drove me to my limit. Despite his new relationship with Tarita, Marlon called me upon his return from shooting Mutiny on the Bounty. As always, he was eager for me to come over to his house and resume our affair. I was alone in his house, waiting for him to arrive, when my pain became intolerable.
How can you keep taking him back? I asked myself. It will never stop! I constantly, coldly, cruelly reminded myself that, during the years that Marlon had been carrying on his passionate affair with me, he had married and definitely impregnated not just one, but two other women. I must have had at least five or six breakups with Marlon, only to return to his bed after massive wooing and purring and dinners and implied promises that things would be all right once he returned.
I felt used and thoroughly humiliated every time. Empty, the life sucked out me. And at the same time, sooo disappointed in myself, which made me feel even worse, if that was possible. I knew that things were getting really, really bad when I stopped crying despite the fact that my eyes watered constantly from keeping tears at bay.
I felt battered and completely passive. He was shocked by my appearance. I had barely eaten for a week, and I truly looked like a wraith.
Did that stop him from desiring me? The one thing that both of us had always clung to—well, that I had clung to—was the intimacy and warmth of sex. When Marlon and I were making love, it seemed like we could share astonishingly deep feelings of warmth and trust. Those arms, those bloody arms! Nobody else could give me what his arms did. I wanted to be buried in them forever.
They were the only thing that gave me solace and made me feel protected. But not this night. On our first night together after Marlon returned from Tahiti, I felt like a rag doll with no strength or free will whatsoever. I felt only disgust at myself for being back with him. At last, on April 19, , my pain had become unbearable. The strongest desire I felt was to escape and not feel anything anymore. When I woke up very early the next morning, Marlon had already gone to the studio, but this time I did not drive home.
I reminded myself that this was not a scene in a movie—that if I swallowed these venal little bullets, I would surely die. I truly detested the image reflected back at me: a weak, self-pitying, frail woman with disheveled hair, hollowed cheeks, a shiny red face, and a swollen, leaking nose. What could be salvaged here? You see? I just desperately wanted to finally be at peace. My immune system was further depressed by the phenobarbital that I was taking, which meant that my chemical cocktail worked quickly.
If she had arrived a few minutes later, I most certainly would have been dead. Yet, I did some odd things for a suicidal person. Sometime during my attempt at eternal sleep—I moved. I groped my way to the toilet, climbed up on it, and urinated! Then I fell off the commode and crawled and crashed my way back to bed.
I seemed so inert when she checked on me again that she tried to awaken me. Alice saw that I was unresponsive and assumed the worst. Panicked, she called Marlon to rush home from the studio.
The cold water must have momentarily shocked me into a dim consciousness, because I answered. The cold shower probably sent me into shock. The doctor who treated me later said that a cold shower is about the worst thing for someone whose system is already in severe distress and shutting down.
Marlon, and my therapist, who also came to the house. Korngold, my therapist, told me of a curious occurrence in those moments before the ambulance arrived, when the doctor was trying to resuscitate me: Every time something was said by him or the doctor trying to help me survive, apparently I would start to sob and vocally keen.
He has always believed that I responded that way because I was so moved by the efforts to counteract my profound sadness, and found my will to survive. Korngold told me. To be thrown from your bike during a crash with your arms and legs flailing whilst you're hitting the ground, trees, etc. Man, I got rag dolled on that road gap. Ragdolled unknown. What Khabib does to his opponents in UFC. Joe Rogan " Conor got Ragdolled by Khabib.
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