On the other hand, photos like this are just simply amazing photographic snapshots of history, regardless of context. Some of these just depict people sitting next to each other or holding hands, but others are unmistakably sexual or romantic.
Some of them could be posed or theatrical as well; we can't be sure that the photos affirm the couples as real-life couples. In any case this is one of my favorites. I loved this-- thanks so much for posting it. I have a rather nice collection of paper back books dealing with historical "erotic pulp" its a niche. WGAF there rare and worth money. Huh I remember seeing a site devoted in pres gay porn, lots of very interesting like s stuff, both obviously porn and obviously couples so no question of taboo or anything which is something I think is a big factor For the French Postcards yes.
Some of the nineteenth-century images looked conventionally "sentimental" to me, sure, but we shouldn't overestimate just how much leeway two people of the same sex actually had to be demonstrative with each other. Or, to approach the "they did it differently back then" problem from another angle, read what Edmond Malone had to say about Shakespeare's sonnets. In the eighteenth century. That picture you linked of the reunited soldiers totally made my evening. So charming! While the pictures are interesting, the tumblr as a tumblr has an annoying picture-"OMG I love this tumblr" comment ratio.
There are many lovely examples of very gay people over there. It's rather heart warming, really. Actually, now that I've scrolled back to the beginning, a lot of the early stuff is from Gloria's Oversexed Mind. So, if you like this blog, check out the one that has fewer comments between pictures And it's tricky to categorize old photos like this -- some of them look more like jokes, while others scream "gay! I'd like to submit this photo of some Michigan outdoorsmen. It's vintage and it has man touching.
Just sayin' posted by zzazazz at AM on November 10, There's just this modern stratification there, the whole notion that you're gay or you're not, the gathering of teams and tribes that makes everyone have to stake a position and stop being naturally handsy with each other. I look to photos of men in poses of intimacy, from the adorable to the provocative, and I read them as representing my sort of feeling, regardless of what's actually in the photograph. It's my right, as a guy from a category that's been so meticulously rewritten out of history by the powers that be, and while I know that many of the men slouching luxuriantly against each other, hands clasped in what is clearly some form of intimacy, are principally dear, dear friends who've never stepped over the manufactured boundaries of sexual class, they are the loving couples I choose to celebrate.
It's my right, to read them as being like me, after centuries of being taught that Gilgamesh and Enkidu were just very good friends, or that Rock Hudson and Randolph Scott were just chums, sitting around their pool in matching monogrammed bathrobes, or that that thing we do is really a modern invention. It's not just a demise of intimacy between males, either--it's something worse, as we're all so cynical that we have to let everyone drop into precise little slots like falling pachinko balls. Oh honey, that guy's clearly gay.
When the boundaries are less proscribed, and when they aren't enforced by our own obedient little policemen, relentlessly drilled in the tiresome regimentation of post-seventies acceptable roles, people drift in and out of those intimate roles as we're designed to, the raucous lot of us touching and holding and leaning into each other like bonobos , sometimes serious, sometimes playful, in a whirl of touch. I see all this in photographs of men and men and women and women, the stacks of what's real, what's a daydream, and what I see because it's my right to look at the world as if what I am, and who I love, and what I do is as true and real and worthy as what you do, whoever you happen to be.
People like me had to work harder for what we had, and we had to be impossibly subtle--masters of context, subterfuge, and the lush, illegal world tucked in neatly behind an ever so slightly raised eyebrow.
I choose to see myself in the past, even if things were different, as we put up with the ten thousandth year of pulpit-fueled bullshit. My absurdly detailed five thousand word online sex personal ad used to wax romantic about my twitchy, obsessive interest in the amateur pornographic snapshots of the men of the Civilian Conservation Corps. That's the place for me, in that sepia-toned masturbatory dreamland where guys bent and sucked and pulled and twisted and displayed the untold realm of the joyous possibilities inherent in bodies with protuberances, sensitive surfaces, and a variety of holes, where they're almost always smiling, posed in states of captured wonder as they fucked each other in front of enormous Kodak box cameras, as if to say "this is something we can do, and it's fucking AMAZING!
What's the 'Civilian Conservation Corps'? Your hot. You wanna fuck or what? So I drag the time machine out of the closet, carefully dusting off the wiring and the tarnished crowns of the old-style rheostats, fire it up, and bear myself ceaselessly back into the past. GayTwogether's Vintage Photo Memories is the source for some of these photos. Porn these days is worse than fast-food: it's the protein pill; all that is required for reptilian satisfaction and nothing more. Even the high budget parodies in their sex devolve into fifteen-minute long circus tent exhibitions of the stamina of toned thigh muscles and high performance lubricants.
It's a sport, nothing more, and I suppose it won't be much longer before there are tattoos from edgy beverage and fragrance manufacturers. One thing it isn't, is intimate.
I like fumbling. I like uncertainty. I like laughing at odd moments and having to explain what it was, and getting a laugh or a raised eyebrow in return. I like sometimes just getting too tired to continue and falling asleep, spent yet unspent, in the embrace of my lover. I like the confidence and strength of a relationship that means there's no defined beginning or end to a sex act, it is simply something that comes and goes at its own pace, and that one can be in the moment without pretending anything and without a goal in mind.
Intimacy isn't an two-column list of holes and protuberances, and it isn't a tickybox list of secretions. Intimacy is a raised eyebrow or a little smile where there doesn't need to be one.
It's a lingering glance and holding hands and friendship. These are intimate portraits of real people. Thank you for sharing. What is this from? Looks 50s era and content could be a pulp but the illustration doesn't look like it. Maybe a modern retro thing? I really recommend watching the video linked from the blog of the Chicago Gay Pride Parade.
It's joyful and heartwarming, even though at one point somebody throws something that looks like a baseball. Partly it's heartwarming because we know how things turned out. We know that today gay rights is triumphant. Sure, there are still plenty of backwards people, and some regions and countries are better than others, but on the whole things are light-years better today than they were back in and it's thanks to the people in that video and people like them who stood up and were counted and didn't back down.
They fought for what no one should be forced to fight for, the right to love who you want to love. But it's also heartbreaking, because this is filmed just as HIV is starting to spread in the gay community. I can't help but look at all these happy, brave, proud people and wonder how many of them would live to the end of the next decade. Both relatively femme-presenting at the time, we laughed that we probably just looked like a couple of gal pals advising each other on what our boyfriends would like.
The fitting room assistant cheerily introduced herself and ushered us into a cubicle together without blinking an eye. I was a DD. I looked at my boobs in the mirror, encased in a red lace bra with matching underpants. I did buy a bra that day, but I no longer own it, or any other bra. A couple of months ago I gathered up all of my lacy, ribbony underwear and slips and gave them to one of my friends. A few weeks before that we did an impromptu photoshoot in her room where I wrapped her naked torso in bondage tape to make a crop top.
On my initial attempt I wrapped it round like a mummy and she looked in the mirror and laughed. I tried again.
This time shaped her chest the way she wanted it to be, instead of the way I want my chest to be. I decided to buy a binder off the internet. When it finally arrived it took me about 10 minutes to squeeze it over my head. I looked in the mirror and freaked out.
I could do nothing but focus on how fat my stomach looked now that my chest was also flattened. I felt so ashamed. I had no right to hate having breasts when it was a natural result of female fat distribution! How could I not be ok with it! The only solution was to embrace my newfound femininity by ignoring my discomfort.
I struggled for a while to get the binder off of my body before I gave up, cutting it off with a pair of scissors and throwing it into the bin. My girlfriend and I broke up a few months later, and I started dating a cisgender man for the first time in my life. In the early weeks of our flirtation I wore an underwire bra, a skintight black turtleneck and high-waisted black skinny jeans every day. He told me he had never dated a woman like me before. He thought that I was beautiful and sexy, and he wanted me to belong to him, so I felt like maybe everything would be ok.
I hardly thought about my breasts for the year and a half we were together. Would you like to pay in cash? I never went back for the bra. I kept having this vision when I was trying it on of my boyfriend. Me, taking off my clothes, and him, laughing at me trying to be sexy. It was long and tight and black. I tried it on with trainers.
It just ruins it, such a svelte dress. It was fun, I love playing dress up. Or a razor? We were going out to an alternative Pride event. I had been planning on wearing boxer shorts and a red sweater with a fried egg painted on it. Instead I sat in the car in the dress and the shoes, feeling like someone wearing fancy dress to a formal party for a dare. Later, after my card was declined and I went home, I phoned him. We talked for three hours while I panicked and told him repeatedly:. I broke up with my boyfriend earlier this year.
Soon afterwards, I noticed that my old discomfort with my chest returned. Nearly two years to the day after I ordered my first binder, I bought another one. This time it was the right size. When I rolled it on and looked in the mirror, I almost cried. It was the complete opposite of the first time. I felt like I was coming home to myself. The sensation of tightness around my chest was a strong hug. I am hugging myself. I thought. I am hugging my actual self. My mother hates her thighs. I cannot remember a time when I did not know this. She has been so accepting of how I dress without seeming to try, but once my breasts grew we kept having conversations like:.
When I was 15 or 16 I bought a pack of rainbow tie-dye mens boxer briefs from the UK bargain clothing store Primark. My mum noticed the briefs, and commented with confusion and concern:. I felt like a woman who was constantly told that she was not doing a very good job. This was a common occurrence in my teenage years. I would wear something camp and outlandish velvet trousers, a snakeskin waistcoat, chelsea boots and my mother would express confusion about my gender identity.
In a way I feel I should give her credit for having such a flexible vision of masculinity that my attempts to dress like Noel Fielding registered to her as strictly male. My dad, who reminisced fondly on the days of his waist-length blonde hair and three-piece maroon suit, seemed to understand better. My mum asked more than once if I wished I was a man. As far as I was aware, it was only men who had the potential to be beautifully androgynous. It was an incredibly crude and old-fashioned stereotype. It makes me sad to think that as a year-old closeted lesbian I believed that when a man dressed androgynously he was beautiful, but when a woman did it, she was ugly.
I wore my femininity like a costume, dressing like a 19 th century cabaret performer, and feeling that somehow I still would never look as good as Jonathan Rhys Meyers. I remember the conversations I had with my best-friend-who-was-secretly-my-girlfriend. They tended to go along the lines of:. I had no awareness that with the decriminalization of homosexuality in the UK being only a few years before, and the AIDs crisis looming, that to be a gay man in the 70s was not just a case of wearing amazing outfits and huge shoes.
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Instead, I had fully absorbed a misogynistic cis male perspective of queerness that made me think that being a queer woman was somehow impossible. So if I was gay I must actually be a gay man, or should wish that I was one. When my mum found my tie-dye pants in the washing basket I made my excuses, and then threw them away. The shop assistant pointed out that if I selected a fifth pair, I would save a fiver.
I went back and rummaged through the leopard prints and skin-tone options until I found a pair that were perfect. They were tie-dye. Rainbow tie-dye. I bought them and wore them until they turned grey with repeated washing. I had just got back from A-Camp and was filled with a seemingly undentable queer confidence. I went into Calvin Klein. As I was browsing, I overheard a couple of feminine-presenting folks asking about sizing. They smirked and held hands.
The pants I bought that day turned out to be made of some mysteriously sweat-inducing fabric. I thought that I would see it in a whole new light.