Author: adminbitch

On 28 February 2026, the United States and Israel killed the Supreme Leader of Iran.

Not a general. Not a proxy commander in somebody else’s country. The head of state. Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, eighty-six years old, thirty-six years in power, killed in a coordinated strike on a building in central Tehran that housed his offices and residence. The Pentagon called its half Operation Epic Fury. Israel called its half Operation Lion’s Roar. Iran confirmed the death within hours and declared forty days of national mourning.

Donald Trump announced it. Of course he did.

Six months later, Iranian state television ran a segment about his twenty-year-old son.

What aired

Last weekend, the state broadcaster IRIB put out a multi-minute video. According to CNN’s reporting on it, the thing opened with a banner reading “Where to kill Barron Trump?!” It went through places he is known to go. It closed with a narrator saying people were “eagerly waiting” to collect a $10 million reward for his assassination.

The Secret Service confirmed it is looking at it. Their statement, in full: “The US Secret Service is aware of the video and investigates anything that can be perceived as a threat toward our protectees.”

Two things you should know before you get too far into this, because most of the coverage buries them.

First: the video has not been independently verified. It aired on Iranian state media and it does not appear on any of IRIB’s own social accounts. No Iranian government official has confirmed the bounty, authorised it, or claimed it. It may be exactly what it looks like. It may be a state broadcaster’s producer freelancing into atrocity. Nobody outside Tehran currently knows, and anyone telling you they do is guessing.

Second: this is not the first one. A comparable video aimed at Melania Trump surfaced the month before. This is a pattern that started after February.

What I am not printing

The broadcast reportedly listed specific places the kid goes. Other outlets have gone further and published more of that detail — where he studies, what his movements look like, even the usernames on his gaming accounts.

None of that is going on this page.

Not out of delicacy. Because there is a stated ten-million-dollar bounty and an open Secret Service investigation, and every outlet that reprints the targeting package is doing unpaid distribution for whoever cut it. You can report that a threat exists without helpfully re-transmitting the part that makes it actionable. That so many newsrooms could not work this out is its own small disgrace.

Now the part I am actually angry about

Barron Trump is twenty. He is a university student. He has held no office, made no policy, ordered no strike, and cast no vote that killed anybody. The single decision that put a foreign state broadcaster’s crosshairs on him was made by his father.

You can think the Khamenei operation was justified. There is a real argument there and serious people make it. But the argument does not come with an exemption clause. You do not get to decapitate another government and then be astonished when that government’s media apparatus starts talking about your family. That is not an unforeseeable consequence. That is the consequence. It is the first thing anyone in the room should have said out loud.

And this is a man who has spent a decade treating his mouth as a foreign policy instrument. The taunting. The nicknames. The announcements. The compulsive need to put his name on the boldest, loudest version of every action, to stand at the podium and own it personally rather than let it be an act of state. He did not simply authorise the killing of a head of state. He performed it.

Fine. That is a choice a president can make. But the bill for that performance does not land on him. He has the best protective detail on the planet and he will die of old age in a well-guarded building.

The bill landed on a twenty-year-old walking to class.

Where that leaves me

I am not going to pretend to a sadness I do not feel about the Trump family generally. I have no warmth there and I am not performing any.

But I am not celebrating this and neither should you. A bounty on a civilian kid is not a punchline, it is not karma, and it is not a scoreboard. If you find yourself enjoying it, the problem has stopped being about Trump. There is no version of “his son should be killed” that any of us should be comfortable saying out loud, and there is no political argument worth the price of getting comfortable with it.

What I am going to say is this. Every consequence in this story was predictable, and it was predicted, and it was ordered anyway by a man who could not resist announcing it with his own name attached.

Twenty years old. Walking to class. With ten million dollars on his head because of daddy’s big orange mouth.

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Sources: NPR, Al Jazeera and PBS on the 28 February 2026 killing of Ali Khamenei; CNN, NOTUS, Euronews and the Washington Times on the IRIB broadcast and the Secret Service response. The video’s authenticity has not been independently confirmed and no Iranian government body has claimed it. Written 27 August 2026 — if that changes, this post is wrong and I will say so.

In which the bar addresses the question every adult has whispered at least once.

The question

“Does it actually make it better, or do we just think it does?”

The bar gets this one weekly, usually about cannabis, usually from someone already grinning. So let’s do this properly — feet on the ground, doctor’s warmth, bartender’s honesty.

What people actually report

Where it’s legal and the dose is right, the reports are remarkably consistent: time slows down, skin wakes up, and the chattering self-critic in the back of the skull finally shuts up. That third one is the real mechanism, if you ask the bar. Most of what stands between adults and great pleasure isn’t technique — it’s self-consciousness. Quiet that voice and people stop performing and start noticing. Presence is the whole game. Some people find it in meditation. Some find it in a shared joint on the back porch first.

What the tiny grandmother would insist you hear

Dose is everything. The distance between “everything is velvet” and “I am now a philosophical houseplant, do not touch me” can be one gummy. Start embarrassingly low. You can always add; you cannot subtract.

The conversation happens before, not during. What you’re both up for gets settled while everyone’s clear-headed. Enhancement never substitutes for a yes — it follows one.

Don’t stack the deck against yourself. Piling drinks on top is how a promising evening becomes a nap with regrets. Pick a lane.

Know yourself, know your laws. Not every body loves it — for some it’s anxiety in a party hat. And what’s a farmers-market purchase in one state is a problem in another. The bar assumes you’re a grown-up on both counts.

The verdict

Better? For many, honestly, yes — not because the chemistry invents anything, but because it gets the noise out of the way of what was already there. The pleasure was always yours. Some folks just need help hearing it.

And when Sunday’s guilt arrives wearing its little hat: the Ministry of the Juvan Resurrection offers full absolution, no appointment needed. Tell them the bar sent you.

Letters to the Bar publishes reader stories — composites and fictions, every name invented, every participant enthusiastically consenting. This is the letters page, not the news.

The letter

Dear BITCHLOVE,

Nineteen years married. Two kids, one mortgage, a shared calendar that could run a small nation. Last month my wife texted me at 2pm on a Tuesday: “Don’t come home. Meet me at the hotel bar on Fifth at seven. Introduce yourself. Your name is now Daniel.”

I have never been so nervous in my life. I got there early. She arrived at 7:10 in a dress I’d never seen, sat two stools down, and made me work for every inch of that conversation. She laughed at my lines like she hadn’t heard them for two decades. We told each other invented histories. When she finally leaned over and said “I don’t usually do this,” I nearly knocked over my drink.

We didn’t get home until Wednesday. I’m not telling you what the room service bill was. I’m telling you I can’t stop thinking about the fact that the hottest night of my forties was with the woman I see every single morning. — “Daniel,” Long Island

The bar answers

Daniel. Sweetheart. Sit down, the bar is buying.

What your wife engineered is what the research crowd drily calls novelty reintroduction, and what the rest of us call the oldest magic there is: she made you strangers again. Desire runs on distance — a little mystery, a little pursuit, a person you have to win rather than a person who’s simply there, like the furnace. Nineteen years of proximity is wonderful for love and murder on longing. She rebuilt the gap, and you both got to fall across it.

Here’s your homework, and yes there’s homework: it’s your turn. Don’t repeat her play — that’s a cover band. Write your own. The only rules are the house rules: she has to want in (send the text, let her say yes), and you have to commit to the bit. The dress she’s never worn is optional. The husband she’s never met is not.

Guilt about the room service bill? The Ministry of the Juvan Resurrection handles financial remorse too. Confession hours are eternal.

The neon’s warm, the door’s shut, and what happens at this bar gets written down. Welcome to the back room.

This blog is where BITCHLOVE talks about the thing every bar is actually about, underneath the bottles and the jukebox: pleasure. Wanting it, finding it, being honest about it. Think of the format as a love child with excellent genes — the heat of a certain magazine’s letters page, raised right by a tiny German grandmother who happened to be the best sex educator who ever lived.

Who gets in

Everybody drinks here. Black, white, and every shade the light catches on its way down the bar. Gay, straight, bi, ace, and still working it out. Trans and cis. Whoever you are, whoever you want, and whatever you have or have not figured out yet — pull up a stool. Nobody gets asked to explain themselves before they get served.

There is exactly one way to get turned away from this bar, and it is this: make somebody else feel unwelcome. Bigots do not get served here. Not because we are delicate — you have read the rest of this page — but because they wreck the room for every person who walked in to be honest, and honesty is the only thing we actually sell.

The house rules

1. Consent is the cover charge. Everyone in every story, every letter, every scenario walked in wanting to be there. No exceptions, no fine print. It’s also — and the good doctor would want you to know this — the single most reliable aphrodisiac ever documented.

2. Curiosity beats performance. Nobody here cares how impressive you are. We care what you noticed — about your body, their body, the ridiculous tender comedy of two humans trying to find each other in the dark.

3. We talk honestly about enhancement. Grown adults sometimes bring chemistry to pleasure — a glass of something, a little smoke, the occasional adventure. We’ll talk about what people actually report, what helps, what wrecks the evening, and how to keep body and soul attached. Honestly, like adults — never like a dare.

4. No shame is served at this bar. Ever. However —

The exit through the gift shop

— we understand that some patrons enjoy the guilt almost as much as the sin. The management respects the full arc of the human experience. So when the neon fades and the remorse rolls in around 4am, the professionals at the Ministry of the Juvan Resurrection stand ready to receive you. Full-service absolution. Confession hours are eternal. Tell them the bar sent you.

Letters open. Write the bar: what you did, what you wish you’d done, what you want to understand. Names changed, dignity optional, honesty mandatory.