Government Can’t Prove Force in OneTaste Case, So It Redefines Consent

The case was excremental to begin with. If you listened closely, you could hear flatulation through the corridors of justice.

Somewhere, a grand jury coughed. Somewhere else, Ayries Blanck sobbed into a podcast mic and wrote a phony journal. FBI Agent McGinnis accessed a hard drive without a write-blocker and wondered how he got caught tampering with evidence.

Back in October 2024—the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York tried to explain its case against OneTaste executives Nicole Daedone and Rachel Cherwitz. It dropped a 144-page motion in limine that hit the docket like a freshman term paper.

There were twenty-four Jane and John Does. No names. No dates. They came; they cried. They left. The Does were all adults. They had jobs. Phones. Credit scores.

The government didn’t charge sex trafficking. Or fraud. They did not charge forced labor. Instead, they charged forced labor conspiracy.

Trapped in the Laws of Suggestion

OneTaste was built on consent. People were taught that yes meant yes. No meant no.

The government responded: If someone says yes, it might mean they were manipulated.

The government charge forced labor conspiracy. But not the old kind—with fences and chains. This was mind-forged manacles.

No bruises. No rope. Just tone. Suggestion. Vibes. The government called it: coercive control.

Shameful

“OneTaste participants were expected to OM,” wrote the government. “Or they would be shamed.”

Shame is in every religion, marriage, and middle school lunchroom. It gets kids to do homework, adults to go to church, and juries to forget due process.

“Shame.” “Disapproval.” “A look across the room.” “Silence.” In other words: a normal Thanksgiving dinner.

If making someone ashamed is a crime, your grandma’s been running a forced labor camp since 1975.

Debt Is Not the Borrower ‘s Choice

The government alleged that some people borrowed money to take the classes on credit. Borrowed from friends. Took out loans. They said Cherwitz once enrolled a woman with no money. Wells Fargo would have given that woman a toaster. Harvard would have given her a sweatshirt.

The government’s theory is built on psychological harm—a term so soft, you could nap on it.  It wasn’t bruises. It was vibes.

OneTaste encouraged people to explore sex. Explore identity. Explore each other. Ayries Blanck once lost her mattress when VIPs arrived. Life’s rough.

The prosecution did its best to dirty up the defendants. Daedone may have been a sex worker once. Cherwitz allegedly said something mean. Somewhere, a BDSM tape was reviewed like it was Citizen Kane. There were “co-conspirators.” One left a dirty comment on a forum.

That was conspiracy?

If you couldn’t pay for courses, yet you wanted to take them, you mopped floors. Took out trash. You staffed the workshops. If someone paid your way? They called it “sponsorship.” One woman’s rent was covered by an older man she met online.

People worked day, all night. They were asked to OM. Then clean. Then recruit. Then OM again.

Jane Doe 17 declined a promotion. An hour later her group texts stopped pinging. No goodbye. No drama. Just silence.

Yet still—no locks. No handcuffs. No warden.

A Lot of Sound and Fury and Whining

They had videos. Time logs. Breast exposure documents. Yes, those exist. Audio files. Magic School spreadsheets. Over 500,000 pages of documentation. All of it pointing to one count. Forced labor conspiracy.

Not prostitution. Not trafficking. Not kidnapping. Not even failure to validate parking. A conspiracy to suggest things.

The government led with sex, of course. Kink. Costumes. Alleged oral sex in classrooms. Yet the front door was never locked. The sidewalk was always there.

These were adults with bus passes, families, Uber apps and unlocked iPhones.

There were rules. No alcohol while OMing. No drugs. No sex working.  Sexual energy was not forbidden. OMing was encouraged. Monogamy was not required. Sales quotas were competitive.

There are rules at Goldman Sachs.

Money was tight. Courses weren’t free.  They pushed. Toward risk. Toward debt. Toward truth. But a push isn’t a shove. And nobody signed those Discover cards but the people who clicked submit.

Some had sugar daddies. Others had roommates. Others had loans. The hours were long. But that’s how people live when they think something matters. Founders. Soldiers. OneTaste staffers. They hustled. They OM’d. Sometimes they cried in hallways, overdrafted bank accounts, or slept two in a bed. That’s not forced labor.

They called it RCR. Rapidly Changing Realities. You packed. You moved. You OM’d in new zip codes. And if you declined the hustle, sometimes the “community” ghosted you. But that’s not exile. That’s growing apart.

Nobody ever accused OneTaste of concealment. Everyone was free to exit. The rules were printed. Assignments were given. You got research partners. You got “orgasm goals.” If you were picky, you were told you had a “golden pussy.” If you weren’t picky enough, you were “asleep.”

Still, no one was shackled. No padlocks. No prison gates. These were adults with bank accounts. And the ability to walk out and say, “fuck this.”

The government called it indoctrination.

Rituals. Orgasmic priestesses. Church groups have ceremonies. Universities have weird hats. Sports teams have uniforms and drills.

OneTaste had their own dialect. “Up-stroke.” “Down-stroke.” “Safe port.” “Golden pussy.” “In the game.” “Out of the game.” It sounded more like Dr. Seuss.

Some people separated from lovers. Sometimes lovers left them for somebody else inside OneTaste. Some were told whom to kiss. Some were told whom to ignore. And some of them listened. What held them was not ropes. Not bars. Not tasers. Not guards. What held them was belief. Ambition. Hope. Hormones. Sometimes love.

It’s what makes the whole case so hard to prosecute. Because everyone stayed until they didn’t. All the Jane and John Does came and left exactly when they wanted and the worst that happened to anyone is … they were left alone.

When they left, some were broke. Credit cards maxed. Venmo empty. Some left with hurt feelings. And the government rolled out a forklift of paperwork to prove that people made choices they later regretted. Still, no one chained to a radiator.

OneTaste didn’t promise comfort. It promised transformation. Just like grad school. Or the Navy.

Some Call it Whatever Suits Their Agenda

Some called it a cult. Others called it a phase. Some called it a bid for enlightenment. The government called it crime.

They’ll say Daedone walked away with twelve million bucks in 2017. She bought houses. Flew first class. She posted selfies from Europe.

But nobody said OneTaste didn’t make money. It was capitalism. A startup. You paid for the ride; you got the ride. Sometimes it made you cry.

And who paid? Adults with search histories, and shoes. They showed up. Signed the waiver. Had sex with people they did not know before – or did not have sex. Called it enlightenment. Called it hell. Then went home.

If this was a forced labor conspiracy, it was the strangest one ever charged—where the doors were open, the consent was signed, and the greatest weapon was suggestion. We’re here right now watching the government try to prosecute discomfort.

Yes, the case was excrement to begin with. It’s a shit show now, at the end – as it falls apart thanks to Ayrie’s lies and Agent McGinnis’s crimes. But even if it hadn’t imploded, the case was bullshit.

An expensive, slow-moving, overly footnoted bowel movement dressed up in federal pinstripes. They called it justice. To me, it always smelled like something else.

Deer Readers…

Read the Frank Report for more info on this ongoing story – including news on Ayries Blanck AKA Ares Milligan AKA Ayreis Blanc-Milligan’s upcoming arrest.

Frank Parlato

Frank Parlato is an investigative journalist, media strategist, publisher, and legal consultant.

Frank Parlato

Frank Parlato is an investigative journalist, media strategist, publisher, and legal consultant.

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