Tag Archives: bisexuality

Link Dump: #66

It’s a kitty! Being cuddled by Jimmy Stewart! In William Wellman’s Magic Town! How cute. Similarly cute are all these fun links:

A pair of funny search terms this week: first, “do princesses fuck commoners”? Good question. Second, “what does a wolves vagina look like”? Not-so-good question.

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Link Dump: #28

One of my favorite parts about the fun-but-forgettable Go, aside from the guts and raw energy of Sarah Polley, was this kitty. Look at it! It’s so cute and it’s terrifyingly telepathic! This is why you don’t pop tons of Ecstasy. Because that’s when cats start messing with you. In other news, the Internet has been happening for the past two weeks. Here’s the best of it:

  • I love my minimal movie posters, and these Stanley Kubrick pictogram posters are both well-made and dryly funny. (Also, spoiler warning on Full Metal Jacket!)
  • This Total Film article about inserting Doc Brown into every other time travel movie is pretty hilarious, and very British.
  • Pajiba has a list of “The 50 Most Expensive Movies of All Time,” with their budgets and grosses listed, plus some fun/informative trivia.
  • Badass Digest inducts Pauline Kael into its “Badass Hall of Fame,” which is a very appropriate place for her. I don’t think I’m alone in saying that Ms. Kael is a personal hero of mine, and the piece is thoughtfully written; give it a quick read!
  • The two things I never get tired of, Black Swan and Rebecca Black’s memetastic “Friday,” have finally been combined into one horrifying/funny video. (Huge spoiler alert for Black Swan.)
  • Few directors are as eloquent or congenial as David Cronenberg, and interviews with him are always a pleasure to read. This Q&A from Macleans.ca is no exception, as he dishes out yummy details about A Dangerous Method. (SO EXCITED!!)
  • Jonathan Coe in The Guardian digs into the hazards of the literary adaptation, with special emphasis on Barney’s Version and John Huston’s The Dead.
  • The YouTube channel MisterSharp has a series of hilarious pseudo-educational videos, including “The Bizarre World of the Bisexual,” which made me laugh out loud several times and is highly worth a view.
  • For The New Yorker, Tad Friend talks about the comic genius of Anna Faris, a woman we love around these parts. (This is also probably the most praise you’ll ever hear for The House Bunny.)

We had some weeeeeird search terms! I like the rhyming and biological inaccuracy of “zit on my clit,” and of course I adore the utterly inexplicable “george w bush sex in bed.” I was kind of creeped out, not gonna lie, by “female dead hand,” but the best two were definitely “молчание ягнят,” which is Russian for Silence of the Lambs (yay international readers!) and “i dont know why they dont explodes.” I don’t know why either. Maybe someday we’ll all find out.

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Link Dump: #7

Damn, life in 1930s Connecticut was swanky. Look at that dress! It’s really perfect leopard-petting apparel. Here’s some links I gathered over the past week that could come in handy if you need to go “gay all of a sudden“:

  • From the “Last Year’s News” department, I just read this 7-month-old article by Paul Tatara bitching about Avatar and eulogizing Eric Rohmer. I wouldn’t link to it, but it’s so insightful, well-written, and bittersweet that I couldn’t help it. Besides, it contains a still from Claire’s Knee.
  • Say it ain’t so, PTA! The Master, the latest project from the genius/director of Magnolia and There Will Be Blood, has been indefinitely suspended. And it would’ve starred Philip Seymour Hoffman, too!
  • Shanna Katz writes in “No, I’m NOT Her Roomate” about heteronormativity and fuckers who refuse to acknowledge queer relationships as legitimate.
  • Static Nonsense at Some Assembly Required talks about sexuality and OCD, touching on some problems with the word “bisexual.”
  • Jezebel has the scoop on what’s next for DADT. Maybe soon the answer can firmly be “repeal”? Eh, Obama administration?
  • Dan Savage has started the beautiful It Gets Better project on YouTube to help gay teenagers. It’s really inspiring; go watch some of the videos. (Happy Bodies talks about It Gets Better as well.)
  • Big Think has a 20-minute interview with John Waters about filth, art, his new book Role Models, Salò, and more! The man is an indisputable genius and you need to watch this whole thing. Right now.
  • From the 13th issue of Rouge, a film magazine, published in March ’09, here’s an essay entitled “The Secret Life of Objects” by Mark Rappaport. It’s lengthy, but very rewarding, as it addresses Hollywood studios’ reuses of certain sets, paintings, and statues across the films of the 1940s and ’50s. Give it a read.
  • You know what’s freaking aweso.me? Freaking Aweso.me’s “ridiculous detailed” zombie poster. It’s a rotting hand and it’s got the names of almost 1,000 zombie movies/books/video games and you can zoom in to read it closer online. All I can say is, “BRAAAINS!”

This was a disappointing week in search terms, but we did get some wacky pussy-related entries. Like that immortal question, “woman puts dog food in pussy why”? Why indeed. Or another timeless riddle: what is the “sound made by pussy when fucking”? Forsooth, learned men have been pondering the sound of one pussy fucking for eons now. Someone wonders, “do you see princess mononoke’s pussy”? I reply: 1) her name’s not actually “Princess Mononoke,” but San and 2) NO, YOU DON’T! Duh. Next: “pregnant open pussy and baby can be seen.” Ummm. Yeah. And finally, “the old testament the book of smut.” I do not believe the Old Testament contains such a book. But I could be wrong.

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Goy’s teeth and sensual daydreams

So, after a Thanksgiving week spent in suburban squalor, I am back at Carleton to act as the Cinema & Media Studies office assistant for three weeks. Mostly, this involves receiving mail, filing applications, and inventorying movies for 6 hours a day. [Note: Ashley suggests I wear “sensible, yet stylish heels and a pencil skirt” for my secretarial duties; if anyone wants to go back to 1959 and fetch those for me, I’d be more than willing to oblige.] Plus, I have to make my own food for once in my life. Eek! My computer was tragically damaged on the way down here so now the monitor’s pretty brutally fucked up, but I will blog on nonetheless in an attempt to remedy my absence.

So first of all: I had a number of fun cinematic experiences in the past week. Most of them involved me being cuddled up next to my DVD player watching great movies like The Wind (1928) or Brief Encounter (1945), but two actually required me to visit a theater and pay for a ticket. The first of these was the Coen Bros.’ latest film, A Serious Man, which I’m still trying to puzzle out. Are the filmmakers sadistic or sympathetic? Does their universe contain even the slightest glimmer of hope?

I won’t spoil anything since Ashley hasn’t seen the movie yet (and is pissed about it), but A Serious Man is basically about Larry Gopnick, a Jewish physics professor living with his family (a wife, son, and daughter, each dysfunctional in their own way) in late-’60s suburban Minnesota. At first everything seems superficially fine, but then everything pretty much starts going to hell, all at once. The Coens are no strangers to tormented Minnesotans – see William H. Macy as Jerry Lundegaard in Fargo, fielding viciously bureaucratic phone calls just like Larry does throughout A Serious Man. The big differences here are the personal and religious elements.

While Fargo was based on a true story of violence and local color that never really happened, A Serious Man is steeped in a milieu that did happen, to the Coens themselves – i.e., growing up Jewish in St. Louis Park in the ’60s. (Worth noting that Joel and Ethan would’ve been about 13 and 10 respectively when the film takes place.) In this regard, I think you could view A Serious Man as akin to Woody Allen’s Radio Days or Spike Lee’s Crooklyn; the director’s fondly (or in this case, brutally) nostalgic return to childhood roots.

Then there’s the Jewishness, which stretches into every corner of the film, glazed over with a layer of Coen quirkiness, whether we’re talking about the prologue’s beautiful recreation of shtetl life or the kafkaesque visits to increasingly unhelpful rabbis who mark the film’s progress. Woody Allen’s protagonists just crack wise about perceived anti-Semitism; a Coens protagonist has a deeply disturbing yet oddly funny nightmare about it. (OK, maybe Allen does too, if you count the monks-with-crosses dream from Bananas…) Similarly, one of the best parts of the film is probably the story of the Goy’s Teeth, simply because it’s so weird, so very Jewish, and manages to sum up film’s major themes in a few short, bewildering minutes.

I don’t think enough time has passed yet for me to determine where this film stands in the Coens’ filmography, let alone in film altogether. But I do think it’s a great direction for them to go in – we’ve got the same dark oddball humor as The Big Lebowski, only toned down to match the film’s evocations of a real time and place in its colors and characters. For example, instead of a hair-trigger Vietnam vet, we get a slightly autistic brother with a sebaceous cyst. The one aspect that’s been ramped up is the torturous ambiguity of the ending: if you’ve seen Barton Fink or No Country for Old Men, you know what to expect, only count on more.

This film has been frequently described as the Coens’ retelling of the story of Job. I’d go one step further and apply it to the whole Old Testament. Larry Gopnick wanders around the desert, falls to his knees, asks, “Why me, lord? Why me?” What answer does he get? You’ll have to see the movie to find (and even then, good luck), but let me say that familiarity with the poetry of Stephen Crane couldn’t hurt. Also, special kudos to Fred Melamed, who plays Sy Ableman. At least in my eyes, he’ll probably be 2009’s Best Supporting Actor.

The other, possibly even more amazing, film-related experience of the weekend was seeing The Rocky Horror Picture Show at Minneapolis’s Uptown Theater on Saturday night. I love pondering the Rocky Horror phenomenon – why should this weird, gleefully perverted ’70s rock musical-cum-tribute to Poverty Row B movies be so wildly popular among nerdily obsessive audiences who treat it like the Second Coming of Halloween? Or did I just answer my own question? (Note: I am myself a member of said nerdily obsessive audience, as is Ashley.)

If you’re not familiar with the cult of Rocky Horror, you can familiarize yourself at rockyhorror.org; basically, fans will dress up as characters (Tim Curry’s Frank-N-Furter is understandably a favorite), reenact the movie while it plays on-screen (which the talented troupe Transvestite Soup did last Saturday), shout at the characters on-screen (e.g., calling Brad an asshole every time he introduces himself), and throw things! (Rice, toilet paper, playing cards…) That’s the gist of it.

Better yet? It’s lots of fun! Granted, many people do it with more than a little chemical alteration, but I’ve seen the play and movie sober, and enjoyed myself greatly. I think a lot of it has to do with the breaking down of barriers, the cutting loose of inhibitions encouraged by both the film and its surrounding cult. For example, “virgins” are required to make a twisted Pledge of Allegiance which concludes,

…and to the decadance for which it stands,
One movie, under Richard O’Brien,
With sensual daydreams and erotic nightmares for all!

These sentiments – in praise of decadents, tolerance, and freely exploring fantasies – are echoed in Transvestite Soup‘s mission statement:

…to all other freaks, punks, Goths, Christians, pagans, gays, straights, misc., hippies, normals, whatever you are,
that here shall be a place where fun and humor rule supreme…

I think this is part of Rocky Horror‘s beauty, and maybe why so many flock to it – that is, so many of the people who’d be going to a midnight movie anyway. I mean, wasn’t the original cult/midnight movie Freaks, a similarly bizarre movie all about rejecting normality while embracing deformity and weirdness in all their forms? At least until its (very perplexing) finale, this is what Rocky Horror proclaims, too, through the desire-driven character of Frank-N-Furter, who sings, “Give yourself over to absolute pleasure!” as he and the other cast members swim orgiastically, draped in soaking lingerie.

So this, at least to me, is a large part of the appeal: it’s freedom, it’s acceptance, it really is Halloween all over again. In his It’s a Bird – a semiautobiographical meditation on Superman in graphic novel form, much of which deals with Superman’s relationship to the Other – Steven Seagle tells about an unpopular kid who dresses as Superman for Halloween. All of a sudden, he’s popular for a day. So naturally he decides to dress as Superman the next day. He’s promptly picked on and told to change his clothes.

I think the connection to Rocky Horror should be pretty clear: that theater is a self-contained world where no one will ever tell you to change your clothes (unless they’re being “a bitch,” as Carleton’s production of  the stage musical put it). It’s also a world without homophobia, or transphobia, or heteronormative discrimination of any kind – because what’s cooler than being a sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transsylvania, at least while you’re watching Tim Curry sashay up and down that carpet? And what’s wrong with being at least a little – if not a lot – attracted to him, or the other fishnet-clad men (or women, or those who aren’t quite sure!) around you?

This is why I think Rocky Horror is more than just some goofy little ritual, and why so many people take it so seriously (which, at the same time, means taking it very lightly): it’s not just a case of another “so bad it’s good” movie you can get some laughs out of. It’s a campy, sequined, madness-drenched romp with a new motto advocating sexual exploration at every turn. And if you can get all that with a live, enthusiastic audience doing the Time Warp in the aisles – what more can you ask for? God bless Lili St. Cyr, and God bless Richard O’Brien.

W

ith sensuous daydreams and erotic nightmares for all!

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The Ingloury of Basterdom

The baseball bat: an apt symbol for the level of subtlety in Inglourious Basterds

Well, my mind is newly filled with cultural jelly, and so I’m ready to talk about a few topics. Where to start? Well, for one, last night I went and saw Quentin Tarantino’s new film Inglourious Basterds. My attitude toward Tarantino is basically this: his films are hip (though actively, aggressively hip; not laid-back hip like Jarmusch), cool, fun, sexy (Uma), etc. They’re also fairly, albeit superficially, intelligent, self-reflexive, and knee-deep in homage (especially to his pet subjects – Godard, kung fu movies, blaxploitation, and spaghetti westerns). I think highly of him as a maker of funny, blatantly postmodern films; however, I don’t exactly think he’s breaking new ground. More like reshuffling old soil. As I read in Paul Schrader’s essay “Canon Fodder“:

It’s been said assemblage is the art form of the 20th century and Joseph Cornell its Godfather. If so, Tarantino is its Michael Corleone.

My point is that what I gathered from Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, and the Kill Bill duology was further confirmed by Inglourious Basterds: these are cool, neatly stylized movies, but don’t go digging too deep. I think the phrase “all flash, no substance” becomes very appropriate. Just take the example of Basterds. We’ve got two parallel plots: one about a group of gung ho Nazi killers led by Brad Pitt whose main drive, ambition, and desire is to “kill [and scalp] Nazzies”; the other is about a Jewish escapee running a movie theater in Paris. The Nazi killers kill a lot of Nazis, the Jewish woman orchestrates a massive (and strangely undetected) revenge plot, and it all ends with lots & lots of fire, shooting, and Nazi deaths. Including gratuitous shots of Hitler’s face being machine-gunned.

So what do we take away from this? Is there much to discuss (as there is with the book I’m reading, Art Spiegelman’s Maus) about the conflict of good and evil in WWII, or the Nazi attitude toward and treatment of the Jews? Can we learn something about our perceptions of history – how it could have turned out vs. how it really did? Or is the most likely initial impression, “He carved a swastika into that guy’s forehead! Awesome!”? You want a high-class brand of mindless escapism that does some thrilling tricks with the hoary war movie genre? You got it. But I still don’t recommend Inglourious Basterds very highly. It’s just a question of what you want out of your movie. E.g., despite the often jarring presences of race- and gender-based conflict in his films, Tarantino never really seems obliged to say anything about them. He retools stereotypes, but at the end of the day it’s still because “the ass-kicking black chick is cool” or “Uma Thurman’s feet turn me on” (Basterds also has its fair share of QT foot fetishism).

There’s a sequence in Basterds that made me think maybe Tarantino had seen Ms. 45 a few too many times (though I can’t say for sure if it’s an actual influence on him, it wouldn’t surprise me), and I think this could be indicative of part of the problem: yes, exploitation can be cool and informative, as I indulge every time I watch Sex Madness or some other shitty opus. And so yes, it’s fun to make a self-conscious homage to exploitation. But at the end of the day, it’s still self-conscious exploitation, stuck in a netherworld between actual exploitation and an actually thoughtful, meaningful movie. So that’s, for now, what I have to say about Mr. Tarantino.

Out of the other subjects to address: a couple weeks ago I rewatched that great classic-among-classics, Casablanca (see, the title even sounds like the word “classic”). And one aspect of the film to which I paid especially close attention was Claude Rains’ performance as Captain Renault, a character who’s described as “amoral” even in the intro paragraph of Rains’ Wikipedia page. Now first, Rains himself: amazingly versatile, moved between leading and character parts in a huge number of films across decades.

He could be a great villain, or a great hero. He was the original invisible man (a part that showed off his voice, which was capable of rapidly going from dignified to menacing); he was the corrupted senior senator Paine in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (his attempted suicide at the end always brings a tear to my eye); and of course he was Sebastian, the mother-dependent but sympathetic Nazi villain of Hitchcock’s Notorious. He could be a supportive friend, as in Now, Voyager or an overbearing father like in The Wolf Man and Kings Row. Or he could be an ineffectual, sleazy, and easily amused officer of the law as he was in Casablanca.

Captain Renault (Claude Rains) opposite Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart)

I’m running out of time, so I’m afraid I can’t do justice to his performance and the beautiful balances and flourishes it adds to the movie. Rains has a very light touch here; his character’s snide quips give the film a levity it might have lacked if Bogart were left to brood alone. The city of Casablanca is, among other things, an absurd place, and Renault is a man who recognizes the absurdity and gives in to it. From his position of meager authority (a Vichy official being perpetually overruled by the Germans), he practically runs an industry of delightedly taking bribes from young ladies (with some undisclosed added benefits). One of my favorite parts is when a young woman tells Rick she’s about to give herself to Renault, and the following exchange ensues:

Woman: My husband is with me, too.

Rick: He is? Well, Captain Renault’s getting broadminded.

That’s right: even Casablanca has a pretty clear (yet still under the radar) reference to Renault’s bisexuality. And, after all, Casablanca is a mixed-up town full of people escaping from the brand of normality imposed by the Nazis. It only makes sense that the gatekeeper should be, well, “broadminded.”

I’m afraid my time’s up; hopefully I can explore this topic at greater length on another date. Here’s looking at you, kid.

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Gender roles and bullshit

I’ve been thinking recently about gender differences, roles, and how they affect our lives. There is, after all, a lesson I’ve tried to communicate to children a number of times: Different men behave differently; different women behave differently; there are no absolute, gendered behavioral norms. And there are no inherent bounds saying that only men or women can do some particular activity. I mean, okay, I grant that there are some little biological and psychological differences caused by, oh, the XX or XY chromosomal difference leading to outpourings of certain quantities of certain hormones, causing a few changes in neural structures and, yeah, the genitals, too. But other than that, who’s to say that shopping is for girls and fighting is for boys?

There are all these ridiculous assumptions that are so widely accepted; that have dictated laws and standards of behavior for much of history. When, well, what’s the basis, really? “This is how it’s always been”? Girls have weak nerves and are all fickle, while guys are steadfast and direct? It’s all bullshit, more or less, and I for one am sick of it. It constrains so many lives, restricts so much behavior, puts a damper on so many dreams.

And it causes a lot of other bullshit, too: for example, in my Japanese Cinema class last term, a girl responded to a guy’s dislike of a certain movie (maybe Hula Girls) by describing it as a “chick flick.” And I, naturally, retorted, “I don’t think that good or bad movies have any gender boundaries.” And I don’t. I think that a good movie is good and a bad movie is bad, regardless of whether you’re male, female, or a hermaphrodite. I remember reading in Jonathan Rosenbaum’s Movies as Politics an essay about Sleepless in Seattle where he talks about how characters constantly refer to An Affair to Remember (1957) as a chick flick; Rosenbaum then points out that he and a number of other male friends love the latter film and that he can never get through it without crying. So basically, these artificial boxes of gender appeal are less than worthless when trying to accurately talk about a movie. They also tend to bring about worsening extremes of trends dreamed up to appeal more to specific genders: e.g., guys like car chases, guns, and scantily clad women; women like hot guys, steamy romance, and sappy bullshit. So why not make movies focusing solely on one set of characteristics, in order to get plenty of business from the target demographic, dismissing such concerns as an intelligent script or a point to get across? And so we hear tell of girlfriends being “dragged along” to action movies and boyfriends being forced to go to chick flicks.

As a random example of these trends, let’s take the two top-grossing movies in the nation, neither of which I’ve seen, and broadly apply these criteria. G.I. Joe: the Rise of the Cobra: action? Guns? Loud noises? Check. Julie & Julia: cooking? Emotions? Meryl Streep? Check. I think it’s pretty clear which genders these movies are for. (The third-most-popular, G-Force, must be for those sexless little subhumans called “children”.) I’d go so far as to say that these pointless gender divisions serve the interests of those faceless corporate giants I was talking about the other day. Why else have TV channels “for men” and “for women”? So they can pander their gender-specific products to the right markets, of course.

Billy Tipton, gender fugitive of the musical worldJames Barry, Victorian surgeon (and lifelong transvestite)

Of course this brings up lots of difficult little questions about what gender differences mean or what they’re worth, if they shouldn’t restrict behavior or opportunities. How can we turn these borderlines into advantages for all involved instead of walls that cordon off our lives? Instead of answering these really hard questions, I’ll veer off into another, related topic that’s fascinated me for a long time: gender ambiguity. Take, for example, two fairly notorious cases of women masquerading as men: Billy Tipton and James Barry. Both of them dressed as men both for professional advancement and in their private lives, keeping their secrets from almost the entire worlds until their deaths. Tipton dressed as a man in order to work as a jazz musician, and ended up carrying on “heterosexual” relationships with a number of women, even going on to adopt 3 children. Barry crossdressed so as to become a surgeon in 19th century Scotland and ended up travelling the world receiving many medical accolades. In both cases, their “true” gender was only discovered when they died.

So, the questions are many: how do cases like these fit into this dichotomized world we’ve constructed, where we have the pronouns “him” and “her,” where we align the word “masculine” with a collection of attributes and behaviors, and its opposite, “feminine,” with a totally distinct set? A fascinating book called Vested Interests by Marjorie Garber has directed me to a 1620 pamphlet called “Hic Mulier” (Latin for “This Woman,” but using the masculine word for “this,” hic), which condemns women who behave or dress in a masculine manner as base deformities, and worse. It’s just amusing to see how shocked and offended people get when the frameworks, however inaccurate, they have set up for perceiving the world get violated by a real-life example. Hell, I’ve personally been attacked, jokingly or otherwise, a number of times throughout my life for not fitting well enough into the established ideas about how a man should look, think, and act. I’m reminded of the comics masterpiece Fun Home when Alison Bechdel talks about Proust’s theories of homosexuals as gender “inverts” – basically, that gay men are actually women in male bodies and vice versa. It’s a belief that, in less sophisticated or meaningful manifestations, is pretty wide-spread, even turning up in the particularly insane Jack Chick tract “Wounded Children.”

Jack Chick's bizarre take on homosexuality

Earlier in the same tract, the inconsistent, self-defeating devil tells David, “You are really a little girl inside a boy.” Man, Chick has an ear for dialogue. But this inane association and confusion of homosexuality, transgender, and just behavior outside of gender norms is pretty pervasive. Hence, kids in high school who don’t like sports are gay, or sissies, or maybe even “girly,” “like a girl,” feminine, etc. You know. And they’re probably accused of having boyfriends, and insist that no, no, they’re not gay, they’d never want to be saddled with a label like that. Incidentally, if you want to see a very funny interrogation of gender roles and sexuality in high school, check out But I’m a Cheerleader from queer filmmaker Jamie Babbit. It’s a flawed movie, as Ashley and I discussed while watching it, but it does a great job of taking on issues like homophobia and the very real insanity of conversion therapy, and it has a great cast including John Waters regular Mink Stole and RuPaul dressed as a man.

Speaking of movies and gender roles, I also just wanted to mention Young Man with a Horn (1950) starring Kirk Douglas. I watched it last night, largely because I was curious to see Lauren Bacall being noticeably bisexual. And she was (having a pretty obvious dalliance with a pretty female painter), though interestingly Doris Day’s character constantly refers to her as sick, mixed-up, disturbed, etc., etc., and warns Douglas, the young trumpeter, away from her. This is pretty consistent with the tendency, at the time, to regard homosexuality as a problem, a sign of a very confused mind, and bisexuality? Well, there’s a trope for that (and one given new life by Sharon Stone in the early ’90s). It just seems interesting, odd, and illogical to me to associate attraction to a certain gender (or both) with corruption and sinfulness. I mean, heterosexual males commit a vast majority of the world’s rapes, so why isn’t there a “violent, disturbed heterosexual” stereotype?

These are a lot of difficult questions, but they’re ones we need to keep in mind. They affect us everyday, and we often don’t even realize it because these norms and expectations are so deeply ingrained into the way we think. Gender differences exist, but it’s about time we stopped plowing ahead with all our assumptions and stereotypes, and instead stopped to reconsider: is it really a “guy” or “girl” thing? Is this really something only girls have to deal with, and guys should have no interest in? Men are not from Mars; women are not from Venus (fuck you, John Gray). We’re all pretty clearly from the planet earth, we’re all the same species, and maybe some of us love the same sex, or like wearing nightgowns or having long hair or playing with dolls, dammit. Or wearing trousers, or driving trucks, or doing other stereotypically masculine shit. Each of us lives a different life and the options are not black and white, or pink and blue. I think it’s about time we’re allowed to live whatever shade we want to.

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