Category: Straight / Gay

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Queer lessons for straight couples

Book shows how heterosexuals can learn from LGBT people to have better relationships

By Holly Ober

The tragedy of heterosexuality isn’t that men are heterosexual. It’s that they’re not heterosexual enough.

That’s according to UC Riverside professor of gender and sexuality studies Jane Ward, whose new book, “The Tragedy of Heterosexuality,” examines marriage manuals, self-help books, and “dating science” seminars, concluding that for over a century these products have tried, and failed, to solve the problem at the heart of heterosexuality: Men and women don’t like each other very much.

The dislike is not rooted in biological difference but patriarchal gender dynamics in which men gain prestige in the eyes of other men by having sex with women, whether the women receive pleasure or not. The assumed natural inevitability of heterosexual attraction, called heteronormativity, makes this uncomfortable and frustrating situation intolerable for both sexes. Men require sexually yielding female partners who make few demands of their emotions or time and women hate the demeaning, manipulative, even painful roles they must accept to make their relationships work.

“One of the ways that heteronormativity has survived is by convincing both gay people and straight people that being straight makes for a happier, healthier, easier life. This has made people fearful to explore queer desire by depicting gay life as tragic and difficult,” Ward said. “But more to the point of my book, it has masked over how much misery straight people —straight women, in particular — actually experience.”

Ward argues that if we take misogyny, violence against women, and the daily inequities of straight relationships at all seriously, we start to see that gendered suffering is a core part of many straight women’s —and men’s— experiences. We also start to see this kind of suffering is as tragic as the kinds produced by homophobia. The difference is that straight people are expected to be made wildly happy by the very relationships that actually cause them to be miserable. 

“Straight culture promises women the world, but, in reality, offers women very little,” Ward said. “Queer culture, on the other hand, is a source of joy for most queer people; it’s homophobia and straight culture, not queer culture, that is the source of most queer suffering.”  

Looking in on heterosexuality as a queer outsider and ally, Ward rejects the commercialized self-help tactics she examines and proposes a more radical approach, adapted from queer and feminist writers and personal conversations, which she calls “deep heterosexuality.” Straight couples don’t need to learn cleverer and more subtle ways to manipulate each other. They need to find ways to relate that don’t depend on patriarchy and misogyny.

Men need to learn to genuinely like women and situate loving and pleasing women at the center of their sexual attraction to women. Men can learn from lesbians how to desire and have sex with women and love them as true equals. They can identify with women, share women’s interests and concerns, and still find women as thrilling as lesbians do.

“From a lesbian feminist perspective, many straight men seem to have only a half-baked desire for women, a feeble version of what lesbians feel,” Ward said. “What I am arguing for is what I call deep heterosexuality, wherein straight men learn to like women so deeply that they actually like women. I am arguing for straightness to take its own impulses even deeper, to make them more authentic.”

Cover of "The Tragedy of Heterosexuality," by Jane Ward
The cover of “The Tragedy of Heterosexuality,” by Jane Ward, published by NYU Press.

How did it get to be this bad? Ward reviews popular marriage manuals from the 19th century onward and finds that marital rape and mutual revulsion at each other’s bodies contradicted the developing belief that a husband and wife should be loving companions. Books emphasized the innate aggression of male sexuality and women’s duty to submit.

Many of these books were written by white eugenicists concerned that this mutual antipathy would reduce the white birthrate and emphasized harmonious marriages and reproduction as a tool to maintain white supremacy.

Ward shows that misogyny, or men’s hatred of women, was an accepted fact of heterosexual relationships when the American self-help movement began in the early 20th century. The physicians, sexologists, and psychologists who were considered experts on heterosexual courtship and marriage took for granted that men’s first impulse toward women was disdain and even violence, and that husbands found their wives’ ideas, conversation, and emotional and sexual needs to be unimportant and irritating.

Though some of the language has changed over time, and some feminist ideas have crept in,  Ward finds the same ideas repeated in contemporary, wildly successful self-help books such as John Gray’s “Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus” and in an array of self-improvement seminars.

In the popular consciousness, women and men are assumed to have totally different interests, personalities, and sex drives, making them inherently incompatible. Heterosexual relationships, thus, become a battleground where partners get what they want from each other through coercion and manipulation.

“Self-help books for straight couples in the 1980s and ’90s doubled down on the idea that the gap between women and men was innate and therefore unavoidable. The best men and women could do was learn a few tricks — or ‘skills’ — to get what they wanted from the opposite sex while minimizing conflict,” Ward said. “This same approach still persists today, as self-help books, webinars, dating coaches, marriage therapists, and a whole slew of what I call ‘hetero repair’ professionals teach straight couples to work around gender inequality, rather than undo it.”

But queer people have escaped this prison, Ward says, showing what straight people have to learn from queer relationships. This does not necessarily mean embracing common queer practices such as nonmonogamy, kink, or chosen families. It means straight people can learn to desire, objectify, satisfy, and respect their partners all at the same time, as well as have hot sex and equitable relationships in the way that most queer couples strive to do. 

Men, Ward shows, have the most work to do in this regard.

“Psychologists have been arguing that men and women are fundamentally different, with different emotional and sexual interests, since the inception of the discipline of psychology. This approach, and the way it has been tethered to heterosexual romance, has gotten us nowhere,” Ward said. “It is possible to shift gears and imagine what it would be like if men thought of themselves not just as ‘sexually attracted’ to women, but powerfully oriented toward all women’s well-being and liberation. This will not only be good for straight women, but also tremendously healing for men.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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Cisgender vs. Straight

— It’s Not Always One and the Same

by Alysse Dalessandro Santiago

If you aren’t familiar with the many terms used to describe members of LGBTQIA+ communities, they may seem like a big ol’ bowl of alphabet soup. But there’s a good reason for all those terms: People are unique, and varying gender identities and sexual orientations can make it hard to fit into a two-gender box.

But what about other terms, like “cisgender,” that often (but not always) exist outside the LGBTQIA+ community? Are you automatically straight if you’re cisgender?

Let us explain cisgender vs. straight.

A cisgender, or “cis,” person identifies as the gender they were assigned at birth. So a cisgender person’s sex on their original birth certificate matches their current gender identity.

You might also see terms like “assigned male at birth” (AMAB) or “assigned female at birth” (AFAB) used to describe someone’s birth gender.

If a person’s gender identity doesn’t match the gender they were assigned at birth, they may identify as transgender or nonbinary.

Are you always male or female at birth?

In the United States, there’s a legal movement for a more inclusive approach to gender. Currently, 13 states allow you to change your birth certificate to say “male,” “female,” or the gender-neutral option “X.”

Identifying as straight is pretty, er, straightforward. Having a sexual orientation of straight means that someone’s attraction, either sexual or romantic, is to a gender other than their own.

This definition is deeply ingrained in societal norms. A straight relationship is typically between a person who identifies as a man and a person who identifies as a woman.

“Cisgender” is a gender identity. Gender identity describes how a person identifies themself, such as man, woman, nonbinary, or another identity they prefer. So if someone who was assigned male at birth identifies as a man, he’d be a cisgender male.

“Straight” is a sexual orientation, which describes one’s attraction to other people. Someone is straight if they identify as one gender and are attracted to the “opposite” gender.

A straight relationship is typically seen as involving a cisgender male and a cisgender female. But people whose gender differs from the one they were assigned at birth can still be straight if they’re attracted to a different gender.

When Murray in “Clueless” refers to Dionne as “woman,” that’s her gender. But calling her “female,” well, that would be her sex. What’s the difference? It’s not a simple answer.

Gender is typically influenced by society, not biology, and is responsible for the association of certain traits, language, behavior, and characteristics with being a man or a woman. But gender can be more complex and nuanced than the binary terms.

A person’s gender is often conflated with their sex. Sex is traditionally designated by doctors based on a person’s genitalia at birth. But gender identity is a more expansive view that goes beyond your sex. For example, a trans man could have female genitalia but identify as a man, not a woman.

Bottom line: Your sex (based on genitalia) doesn’t have to “match” your gender (how you identify). Your gender identity isn’t stuck in the construct of your sex.

What about intersex?

The term “intersex” refers to someone’s biological sex not fitting into the binary of male or female. But this term doesn’t dictate gender.

When a person is born intersex, their genitalia, sex organs, hormones, or chromosomes have both female- and male-identifying characteristics. This means an intersex person can have both a uterus and testicles, but they could identify as a man, a woman, nonbinary, etc.

This is also known as a person having a difference in sex development (DSD). It occurs naturally, although some characteristics don’t develop until later in life. Research suggests that about 1 in 100 people are born with DSDs.

As with most things related to gender, it’s not as simple as a person being either cisgender or transgender.

To be either cisgender or transgender still relies on the gender binary of male or female as the framework. Have a penis and identify as a man? Cisgender. Assigned male at birth but identify as a woman? Transgender.

Other gender identities or expressions that don’t always fit into the category of cisgender or transgender include:

  • Nonbinary. Some folks don’t identify as either a man or a woman, while others identify as both. “Nonbinary” is often used as an umbrella term for people whose gender identities exist outside the binary of man and woman.
  • Gender-fluid. A person can also identify as gender-fluid, which means their gender identity is not fixed — instead, they move between identities. One moment “man” fits, and another “woman” feels best.
  • Gender nonconforming. This means someone’s gender expression doesn’t match the gender they were assigned at birth. But people who identify as gender nonconforming may also identify as cisgender.

These are just a few examples. There are more than 64 terms that can describe a person’s gender identity or expression.

The deal with gender identify

Gender identity is up to each individual to decide. And someone’s gender identity may not match their gender expression. For example, someone may identify as a woman, but their appearance may be masculine.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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A Groundbreaking New History of Gay Sex and Capitalism

Christopher Chitty’s “Sexual Hegemony” is a galaxy-brain examination of the ways in which markets and sexuality intersect.

Buckingham Palace during London’s Lesbian and Gay Pride event in June 1995.

By Josephine Livingstone

In the earliest phase of European capitalism, Marx’s old story goes, a significant number of laborers renounced agrarian communities for towns and cities, dissolving the family unit and moving from one place to another. As Christopher Chitty writes in Sexual Hegemony: Statecraft, Sodomy, and Capital in the Rise of the World System, these workers encountered the state of propertylessness for the first time and transformed from husbands of women and the land into people connected by “impersonal market-mediated relations.” In early modern towns and cities full of solitary laborers, and in the Mediterranean ports where sailors flowed through a porous social texture like water, large numbers of men mingled in common lodgings. These towns, where maritime trade and merchant capital had led to new pools of artisanal, servant, and slave labor, “therefore tended to favor homosexuality,” Chitty writes.

This is but one moment from Chitty’s sweeping history of the relationship between sexuality and capital, which seeks to answer a seemingly trollish question: What if there were no such thing as homophobia? Chitty’s not suggesting that violence against gays is some fiction. Instead, he’s pointing out that homophobia tends to be treated as a “timeless force of exclusion,” some inevitable element of human nature, rather than a relatively recent historical behavior. Specifically: behavior brought about by the convulsions of market capitalism. To read Chitty is to experience something like the “galaxy brain” of meme culture, the kind of world-upending feeling one gets from Antonio Gramsci or Silvia Federici, who also use Marxian theory to question the aspects of our social reality that we take for granted.

Chitty is not alive to see the publication of these striking ideas. Max Fox, the book’s editor, explains in his foreword that Sexual Hegemony “represents both a precious record and a bitter loss”: Chitty committed suicide in 2015 before he could submit a version of it as his doctoral dissertation. In Fox’s words, he was a “brilliant young scholar and activist” in the University of California Santa Cruz’s History of Consciousness Department. After his death, Chitty’s family and friends gave Fox access to “early drafts of chapters, essays submitted as coursework, notes for further refinement or research,” and so on. The book is structured like a dissertation, though a hair shorter than most. The style is academic but sparklingly clear, if you concentrate, though it’s not what anybody would call skimmable. Fox must get the credit for the polish and sheer rhetorical coherence that Sexual Hegemony boasts as a whole.

Here’s another historical example, Engels-style, from the mid-nineteenth century. In 1841, urinals “towering twelve feet above the street, capped with a round glans-like finial,” popped up along the busiest streets of Paris, sparking a trend in sanitation reform that would soon see public toilets studding all the major capitals of Europe. Britain was in the full bloom of industrialization, and the towns buzzed with young workers. Almost immediately, a new problem emerged, as women—especially middle-class British women—complained that these new conveniences provided them with unwanted glimpses of men’s penises. Middle-class bourgeois outrage spread fast and caused literal walls to be built around men’s public toilets, which, in Chitty’s rather luxurious phrasing, “erotically intensified the experience of urination in public by providing a semiprivate, same-sex urban space.”

Sexual Hegemony: Statecraft, Sodomy, and Capital in the Rise of the World System

At the very same time, forensic medicine in France and Germany “discovered” the psychological definition of homosexuality. British elites suddenly became terribly concerned about deviancy among the nation’s poor, of all genders, and “mobilized forces of social control” to make them behave better—hence the invention of the public urinal, and crackdowns on sex between men. It was a “struggle over the phallus,” instigated by capitalism and animated by conflicts between various combinations of class and gender, one where “the entry and influence of middle-class women into the public sphere is the decisive factor in changing norms of urban policing around public displays of sexuality—namely, prostitution and homosexuality.”

Running through all this, Chitty argues, is a deeper truth that doesn’t quite line up with anything historians have said before: “[S]ocioeconomic progress is directly to blame for a wider basis for sexual repression.” Where markets tremble, sexuality is policed, and wherever there are police, the “deviants” of a society become more visible. From this truth then emerges another, just as the big brain follows the littler brain in the meme: “Thus the massive American economic boom of consumer society following the second World War extended middle-class sexual norms to ever more Americans and led to the most extensive policing of homosexuality in any period of history.”

If we think this way, Chitty writes, we can see how America’s fundamentalist Christian revival and the “free love” radical counterculture of the 1960s were “perhaps two faces of the same spiritual awakening,” paired forces that antagonized and inflamed the other according to a logic dictated by—you guessed it—capital.

If Chitty’s theory of the universe makes intuitive sense to you, then you are not alone. As I read Sexual Hegemony slowly, like a child trying to understand all the big words, it felt obvious: Of course more men would have sex with each other when compelled to live side by side, bereft of the family structures they’d left behind. Of course those sexual dynamics would bear some relationship to markets. Of course all that helps explain the correlation between the mad, intense American postwar boom and the massive postwar fuss called “homophobia,” which grew so powerful we needed scientists to study it.

Chitty’s study could probably only have come out of UCSC’s “HistCon” department, a peculiar institution founded in the 1970s. Among its first appointed professors were the literary theorists Hayden White and James Clifford, who were later joined by Angela Davis and Donna Haraway, among others. Founder of the Black Panthers Huey P. Newton received his Ph.D. in HistCon in 1980, which gives you a flavor of the department’s inclinations.

The chief authority Chitty takes aim at in Sexual Hegemony is Michel Foucault, the theorist whose work made HistCon possible. His History of Sexuality had an explosive effect on the twentieth-century postwar intellectual scene, because he had figured out a way to speak about sex and capitalist development in the same breath. Among its sledgehammer ideas is that the new medical science of the nineteenth century produced the “homosexual” by defining it. For Foucault, repressive forces don’t just push marginalized communities to the edges of society but cause them to exist.

The problem with this argument, Chitty thinks, is that it frames oppressed communities as totally passive, as well as suggesting that there is some unique quality to modern gay sex that it never had before. Foucault’s argument doesn’t much account for what was happening before modern science reached its position of authority. Surely there were changes going on in the way people formed sexual relationships as capitalism marched across the globe, Chitty insists, that we can read about and observe in action?

It matters what we forget and what we remember. Perhaps the saddest moment in the book comes toward its end, when Chitty notes that the “boldest propositions have tended to be advanced at the margins of gay history, buried in endnotes or writing not published in the historian’s lifetime.” It’s certainly true here. Lovingly, he frames Sexual Hegemony as a tribute to the unremembered working-class gays of centuries past, who have not been part of the inherently elitist microscope of queer literature. “The oblivion faced by working-class homosexuals was an oblivion of historical memory,” Chitty writes; “by contrast, their elite counterparts left behind a labyrinthine wardrobe of tortured interiority, self-involvement, and coded references in which subsequent generations of queer readers have wandered.”

When we do history this way, Chitty argues, we can sidestep the problem of trying to guess whether queers from history were “authentically gay” or just responding to the pressures of poverty or class hierarchy. We think of modern queer sexuality as defined by the individual’s freedom: a tenet we can see most clearly in the importance we place on the concept of consent. When we read about a poor teenaged boy having sex with rich older men in early modern Venice, our ordinary language of consent just doesn’t apply. But this binary between “real” and “situational” gayness is a false one, Chitty thinks. All sexual encounters, whether present-day or historical, are subject to the contingencies of time and place and power dynamics.

The story behind Chris Chitty’s book also moved me, for a reason the author himself specified. Gay people, he writes, have a particular desire to understand themselves as part of history, for the very reason that we don’t see ourselves in the past. This makes the “homosexual desire for history … itself historical,” he writes, a phenomenon that always leads us to feeling out of place, cut off from solidarity. We have an uncertain kinship with the misunderstood and the dead, who have also lost their place in the world. The desire for history that runs so hot through queers today is also a desire to recognize and be recognized. Both a labor of love and a collaboration across the frontier of death, Sexual Hegemony is one of that desire’s most uniquely affecting expressions. 

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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Dating All Genders for the First Time?

Here’s Where To Start.

Explore dating new people with care and compassion front of mind.

by Taylor Hartman

Sara Saito was nervous. Her palms were sweating as she sat at a crowded bar, waiting for her date.

Saito had been in the U.S. for a semester studying business abroad at the University of Utah, and she was about to go on her first real date since starting school.

The date itself wasn’t what was giving Saito nerves — after all, she’d dated people in high school and had a boyfriend for a year.

She was nervous because after struggling with her sexual identity for years, this was the first time she was going on a date with a woman.

“I’d always been attracted to women but I was too scared of the unknown,” Saito said. “I’m a pretty shy person, so doing something social that’s new is scary for me.”

As a single person in a new city, Saito said she was finally ready to better understand herself and explore dating a wider variety of people. When she first found out she wanted to start date women, Saito felt lost, unsure of where to look or how to begin.

“I can download Tinder and change the gender to women, but for me, I was still nervous,” Saito said.

“What if I say the wrong thing or break a ‘rule?’ What if I find out I am less attracted to girls [than I thought]? Those were real concerns for me because I was so new to everything, it all was overwhelming and scary.”

Ready to date different genders? Self knowledge is key

Like Saito, many young people feel more comfortable with exploring their sexuality these days, but navigating a new social landscape can be a scary prospect.

For mental health experts like Sorin Thomas, exploring and understanding one’s gender is a beautiful part of life. But it should be done with care and other people’s well-being in mind, and always remembering hearts are at stake.

Thomas is the founding and executive director of QUEER ASTERISK, a Colorado-based nonprofit organization providing queer-informed counseling services, educational training and community programming.

“When we explore dating different genders the danger is people can get tokenized,” Thomas says,

“And then that could become further harmful when the person doesn’t have a good framework for how to validate another person’s gender, body, sexual identity and more.”

Thomas points out if a person isn’t sure what gender they’re attracted to, it may not be the best time to experiment with other people.

“It comes from that person unlocking things in themselves first,” Thomas said.

Get rid of misconceptions in you and others

One of the most common misunderstandings Thomas sees in counseling queer individuals and their families is that biological sex, gender and sexual orientation are all the same part of a person’s identity. In reality, the notions of gender, sex and attraction are much more nuanced, and often act independently of each other.

For example, Thomas said many people assume a transgender man would identify as heterosexual.

“The parent who’s saying something in their head like, ‘Gosh, I can’t imagine my child as a trans boy, they’ve always been attracted to boys,'” Thomas said.

“We try to help people understand that these things aren’t determined by each other.”

Thomas says the first step in dating new genders is to do some self-searching, and find out how you may identify, and how your biology, gender, and sexuality relate. When we understand how we’re oriented in the world, we can better understand how other people are.

Find inclusive resources and communities

No matter who we date, getting out there and meeting potential partners is a challenge. For folks who are just starting to date all genders, the usual resources for meeting people can be overwhelming.

Jake Arnold came out of the closet in December 2018, his senior year of college.

“I decided to download Grindr because I figure that’s where I’d meet people,” Arnold said.

“I was immediately bombarded with d*** pics and messages of people wanting to hook up. It was overwhelming.”

Arnold took a step back from Grindr and decided to research other dating platforms that were queer-friendly. He joined OkCupid, an app long hailed as an inclusive dating service, and felt less pressured. He eventually met his boyfriend on the site.

Arnold now volunteers with his local pride organization to provide a safe, pressure-free space for queer people — a space he felt he missed.

“I know how scary it is to come out and start looking,” Arnold said. “I want to be there for those people who are scared and say ‘I know what you’ve been through, I know how crazy gay dating can get, here’s what I did.”

Dating services and resources tailored to include queer people are becoming more common, Thomas said. At the end of the day, it’s important to realize that one’s sexual journey is just that — a journey.

Most of the time, we never arrive exactly where we thought we would, and the journey itself is something to celebrate.

“No one is a polished finished product,” Thomas said. “Trying something is messy. But to be able to do this with as much grace and integrity as possible is really great.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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Sexual Orientation And Gender Identity Are Not The Same

by Dyuti Gupta

There are a lot of people out there who are confused as to how sexual orientation is different from gender identity, myself having been one of them for the longest time. It’s a common misconception that both are connected when they are really not. In fact, the meanings of these two terms don’t even intersect at any given point. For example, many people automatically assume that if someone is a transgender person, they must also be gay. However, that is not the case. So what exactly is the difference between gender identity and sexual orientation?

What Is Gender Identity?

According to the Human Rights Campaign, gender identity is defined as the “innermost concept of self as male, female, a combination of both or neither–how individuals perceive themselves and accordingly, what they call themselves.” In layman language, gender identity is one’s internal and personal sense of being a female, male or as someone outside of that binary. There are more than a dozen of genders, outside of just man or woman, that people can identify with. One can be gender-neutral, non-binary, agender, pangender, genderqueer, two-spirit, third gender, and all, none or a combination of these. People’s gender identity can mirror what they were assigned at birth, or be entirely different. And accordingly, they might or might not want to be referred to with certain pronouns—it all really depends on what they identify as.

Usually, cisgender is the umbrella term used to describe people whose sense of personal identity and gender corresponds with their chromosomal and phenotypic sex, while transgender is the larger umbrella term used to describe people whose sense of personal identity does not correspond with the sex assigned to them at birth.

What Is Sexual Orientation?

According to the Human Rights Campaign, sexual orientation is defined as the “inherent or immutable enduring emotional, romantic or sexual attraction to other people.” In simpler terms, it’s who one is interested in dating and being intimate with. A person might identify as straight, bisexual, pansexual, queer, asexual or use a host of other words that reflect their capacity to be attracted to more than one sex or gender or to not feel sexual attraction at all. Sexuality is a complex phenomenon and attraction can manifest very differently for different people. This emerging language illuminates a complex world in which simple either/or designations such as gay or straight are inadequate. Categories are commonly used to understand our attractions, but they aren’t always inclusive of the vast variety of expression that makes up human sexuality. Hence, one would notice that the language about sexuality is constantly evolving.

The Difference

Perhaps no one can put the difference between sexual orientation and gender identity in simpler terms than the Youtuber Brendan Jordan who identifies as gender fluid: “[Sexual Orientaion] is who you go to bed with, but gender identity is who you go to bed as.” Sexual orientation really doesn’t have anything to do with gender. Therefore, the next time you meet someone who identifies outside the binary system, don’t ask questions like, “because you don’t identify as a female, does that mean that you’re gay?” “How can you be straight when you identify as a transgender?”

People having different sexual orientations, i.e. who are straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, asexual, etc., are cisgenders if they identify themselves as the birth sex assigned to them. On the other hand, transgender people can be straight, lesbian, gay, bisexual, and so on. For example, a person who has transitioned from the gender identity of a male to a female and is attracted solely to men would typically identify as straight as far as their sexual orientation is concerned. The truth is that both gender and sexual orientation are essential components of who we are, and how we live our lives. But even so, the two, in any scenario, are not the same, and that’s a crucial fact we need to remember.

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From Graysexual to Heteroflexible

– Here’s A Big List Of Sexualities In 2020

by Stephanie Barnes

When it comes to sexuality, there is no one-size-fits-all approach, which explains why there is already such a long list of terms to describe sexual orientation, with more popping up every day. For someone who is searching for the perfect word to describe their sexual desires, this could take them a step closer to finding sexual liberation. For others, these terms can be a little bit confusing, and that’s OK if you feel that way.

Most people are familiar with the widely recognized acronym LGBTQ+, which stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, plus anyone who doesn’t identify as straight but also doesn’t fit in under the definitions of the other letters either. But the acronym is really just the tip of the rainbow iceberg. Here’s everything you need to know about sexuality, plus a fuller list of some of the most common sexualities in 2020.

Sexuality is an umbrella term describing the parts of your identity that deal with how you present yourself to the world, who you love, and who you find yourself attracted to or not attracted to. According to sexologist Carol Queen, Ph.D., it’s the way a person feels and expresses their relationship to sex, desire, arousal, and eroticism.

“It can include a lot of varying elements (what kind of person you’d want to have sex with, specific preferences, and more), but often we use this term as shorthand for sexual orientation and the number of ways people may express both desire and identity,” she explains. She also points out, “Sexuality can be fluid in a person’s life, so its elements may change.”

How many sexualities are there?

There’s no definitive number of sexualities since new words are constantly being conceived and integrated into popular language as the way we talk about sexual orientation evolves. This isn’t to say that new types of sexuality are being “invented” out of the blue; rather, people are creating new language to describe nuances of sexual attraction and behavior that have always existed. These terms serve as a way for people to feel seen and find communities of like-minded people. They also help with describing one’s identity, communicating with others about what you look for in relationships, and establishing compatibility with potential partners.

While there is no finite number of sexual orientation types, there are a handful of terms that you’re likely to see more than others.

The term allosexual refers to anyone who experiences sexual attraction. Those who identify as allosexual can also identify as gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, or any other orientation, because allosexuality isn’t linked to gender but simply attraction. This is as opposed to asexuality, described below.

Someone who is androsexual will find themselves sexually or emotionally attracted to folks on the more masculine side. For some people, this attraction has very little to do with biology; it’s more about having a masculine identity or gender presentation. Alternatively, some people also use the term androsexual to refer to attraction to any folks with penises, though still with a focus on people with more masculine presentations.

An asexual individual typically doesn’t experience sexual attraction to any gender. However, it is possible for an asexual being to be romantically attracted to people of other genders or the same gender, and some asexual people do have sex in certain circumstances.

Have you ever wished there were two of you so you could have sex with yourself? If you answer yes, then you might be autosexual, aka someone who is sexually attracted to themselves.

Bi-curious refers to someone who is looking to explore or has already begun exploring bisexuality. There’s some disagreement about whether this term has roots in biphobia, however.

Someone who is bisexual will likely find themselves romantically, sexually, or emotionally attracted to more than one gender. It can sometimes overlap with pansexuality, which is the attraction to people regardless of gender. (Here’s more on how to know if you’re pansexual, as opposed to bisexual.)

Closeted, also referred to as “in the closet,” refers to anyone who is a part of the LGBTQIA+ community, but they have yet to publicly acknowledge this truth. These people typically have good reasons to keep their sexual identity to themselves, such as for safety from an intolerant community or to avoid discrimination associated with being “out” of the closet. Some closeted people may or may never “come out.”

Demisexual falls on the asexual spectrum. It describes someone who only experiences sexual attraction to folks they already have established a strong romantic or emotional relationship with.

Some people describe themselves as sexually fluid. A person who is fluid experiences their sexuality or sexual identity as changing over time or in different contexts rather than having one finite way they experience attraction.

The word gay is used to describe someone who is sexually, romantically, or emotionally attracted to people of the same gender. In some cases, women who date other women prefer to use the word lesbian, while others opt to use queer.

Graysexual people are all about the gray area of the sexuality spectrum and tend to experience limited sexual attraction. This means they’ll rarely experience sexual attraction, and when they do, it’s usually not very intense.

Gynesexual people are attracted to women and folks with more feminine gender presentations, as opposed to androsexual people who are interested in the masculine. Alternatively, some people also use the term gynesexual to describe attraction to people with vaginas, breasts, and a more feminine physical presentation.

Heterosexual or straight refers to people who are only attracted, whether sexually, emotionally, or romantically, to people of the “opposite” gender—i.e., men who are attracted to women exclusively, or women who are attracted to men exclusively.

Heteroflexible or homoflexible

A heteroflexible person is mostly straight (heterosexual) though occasionally is attracted to the same gender or other genders. A homoflexible person likewise is mostly gay (homosexual) though occasionally is attracted to the “opposite” gender. For example, a homoflexible man might primarily date and sleep with men but occasionally date or sleep with a woman. Like bi-curiosity, there’s still ongoing debate over whether these terms are rooted in biphobia.

The term homosexual is a bit outdated, but it refers to anyone who is attracted to people of the same or a similar gender.

A lesbian is a woman who is mentally, physically, and emotionally attracted to other women. Some women who date women prefer to be called gay or queer. Some people who don’t identify as women but do have more feminine aspects to their gender—for example, a more feminine-leaning nonbinary person—might also use the term lesbian to describe themselves and their relationships with other feminine people.

Someone who identifies as pansexual experiences attraction to folks regardless of sex or gender identity.

The dictionary defines queer as something “odd, strange, or weird,” but the word has since been reclaimed and redefined. These days, queer is an umbrella term that is sometimes used to describe anyone within the LGBTQ+ community. The term also provides a sense of community for those who may not fit into one of the other categories specifically but also don’t identify as straight or cisgender. 

Someone who falls into the questioning category is someone who is questioning their current sexual identity and curious about exploring different aspects of sexuality or gender. For example, this could apply to someone who has always identified as a lesbian but is now wondering whether they’re also attracted to men.

You might be seeing this word used in social media and dating app bios more often these days. A sapiosexual person is someone whose attraction is based on intelligence rather than sex or gender.

Someone who is sex-repulsed is repulsed or disgusted by sex or sexual behavior. This person falls on the spectrum of asexuality.

Skoliosexual is one of the newer terms on the sexuality scene, and it refers to a person who is attracted to anyone who isn’t cisgender. This means a skoliosexual will usually find themselves drawn to people who are trans or nonbinary.

A spectrasexual is sexually or romantically attracted to a wide range of sexes, genders, and gender identities.

You might’ve heard the saying “Sexuality is a spectrum” before. The sexuality spectrum is the idea that all sexuality exists on a spectrum with binary “absolutes” on each end, explains sexologist Tanya M. Bass, Ph.D. The spectrum most often referenced is the Kinsey scale, which describes sexuality as existing on a spectrum from exclusively heterosexual to exclusively homosexual. Any individual can fall anywhere on this spectrum.

Here’s every stop on the Kinsey scale:

0 – Exclusively heterosexual

1 – Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual

2 – Predominantly heterosexual but more than incidentally homosexual

3 – Equally heterosexual and homosexual

4 – Predominantly homosexual but more than incidentally heterosexual

5 – Predominantly homosexual, only incidentally heterosexual

6 – Exclusively homosexual

X – No socio-sexual contacts or reactions

Bass points out that there are other spectrums of identity as well, such as the gender spectrum, which views gender identity as existing on a spectrum from maleness to femaleness. Any individual can fall anywhere on this spectrum. Asexuality is considered another spectrum, where people can experience varying degrees of asexuality or fall somewhere on a spectrum from asexual to allosexual.

“Spectrums describe sexuality as fluid related to gender, orientation, attraction, and expression,” Bass explains. “It can often challenge the binary for both orientation, expression, and identity.”

Sexual orientation versus romantic orientation.

A person’s sexual orientation can sometimes be confused with their romantic orientation, but the two things aren’t quite the same. Your sexual orientation is linked to who you want to have sex (or some sort of erotic experience) with, while your romantic orientation refers to who you want to love or be in a relationship with.

“You can have sex without being in a relationship; you can be in a relationship without sex. So these things explain two elements of sexuality that can be teased apart or are always experienced together—depending on the person. And they don’t even need to match. Plenty of people fall in love with the other gender but like to have sex with people of their own gender, for example. And vice versa,” Queen explains.

The prefixes a-, bi-, pan-, hetero-, and homo- can all be attached to either element. For example, a biromantic asexual person might be someone who’s open to romantic partnerships with more than one gender, but they do not want sex in those relationships. Panromantic, biromantic, and aromantic are examples of other variations of romantic orientation.

When you put sexual and romantic orientation together, you learn more about the specifics of the person embracing the identities.

There’s a lot of nuance when it comes to sexual identity, which can be both exciting and overwhelming. Remember that these words aren’t meant to be prescriptive or frightening: They’re here to make your life simpler by making it easier for you to tell people who you are and what you want from your relationships. If you were searching for your word, we hope you’ll find yourself one step closer.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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How to Be Supportive When a Friend Comes Out to You

Don’t try to set them up with the only other queer person you know, who they have absolutely nothing in common with.

by Rachel Miller

At the end of a Pride month in which a lot of people are newly thinking about how to be a good ally, it’s a great occasion to think about how to be an ally to the queer folks in your life year-round—starting with the moment they tell you they are queer.

First, it’s important to know that there’s no singular “coming out” with regard to sexuality—it’s something that those of us who choose to come out have to do over and over again. As Tom Vellner wrote in a BuzzFeed essay, “It isn’t a one-step process. I don’t have to sit down at my kitchen table with every new person I meet, like I did with my parents—knees weak, palms sweaty, mom’s spaghetti (wait…)—and explain to them that, yes, I’m queer and, no, it won’t change anything between us. But as long as I exist in a heteronormative world, where the presumption is that I must have a girlfriend because I’m a man, I’ll never stop coming out. It happens whenever I meet a new coworker, whenever I see a new doctor, whenever I talk to a friend of a friend at a party.”

Because coming out happens in so many small, often mundane ways, there’s no single response that’ll work for every situation. Tearfully replying, “I just want you to know how much I love you!!!” isn’t going to be appropriate if you’re, say, working the cash register at Bath & Body Works and a customer mentions the candle she’s buying is for her wife. And a peppy “Cool, got it!” probably isn’t the move when your best friend since childhood sits you down to tell you they are queer. Ultimately, you should try to mirror and respond to the specific individual’s emotional intensity, and to let your established relationship guide you.

When it comes to the more emotional, capital-C–capital-O Coming Out situations, aim to affirm and honor your friend.

Here are some tips to consider:

  • Recognize the importance of this moment, and how vulnerable they are being with you by saying something like, “Thank you so much for trusting me with this” or “I feel honored that you chose to share this with me.”
  • Say “I think this is really great!” or something else really affirming that communicates that what they are telling you is fundamentally good. And remember to smile.
  • If you’re close, it’s OK to ask gentle, non-probing questions—e.g., “I have to admit that I actually don’t know what pansexual means; I can look it up, of course, but I’d love to know what it means to you, if you’re up for sharing.” (Just avoid nosy questions about their body and/or sex.)
  • Maybe say, “Is there anything you’d like to do to celebrate?” Recognizing this milestone—whether that’s via drinks, going shopping for a new outfit, getting a tattoo or piercing or haircut, or having a party—lets them know that you are aware of what a big moment this is, and is a way to honor what they’ve just shared.
  • It’s really important to let people share their stories on their own terms, and to not accidentally out a friend, even if it’s an attempt to normalize what they’ve told you. On the other hand, they might actually prefer if you share the information with other people in your circle so they don’t have to have really intense coming out conversations with everyone they’ve ever met. The best way to know what they want is to have a conversation about it. So if they haven’t told you how public this information is, you could say something like, “Just to make sure we’re on the same page, can I ask you if other folks in your life know?”
  • If you’re not sure what to do next, go with “How can I best support you right now?” It’s really OK to not know exactly what to do or say for a friend, and to simply ask them what they need from you in this moment.

In any coming out conversation—whether it’s intense or fairly casual—what you don’t say is just as important as what you do say.

Here are some things to avoid:

  • “I’m not surprised” or “I always knew.” It’s not about you right now!!! Also, it doesn’t feel good to know that other people knew something about you that you didn’t know about yourself, or to learn that the thing you were working so hard to hide was actually obvious to everyone around you. (If the person asks if you knew, you can say something honest but gentle like, “I thought that could maybe be the case, but I wasn’t really sure!”)
  • “It’s no big deal!” This kind of response is often well-meaning, but can trivialize a person’s lived experience, or gloss over the fact that they just shared something that is a big deal to them. (In the newest installment of ¡Hola Papi!, JP Brammer gave advice to a reader who was hurt by their loved ones’ neutral reaction to coming out; it’s a good reminder that your friend might be expecting a little more fanfare, or at least something beyond just tolerance.)
  • “I love you anyway!” Again, well-intentioned, but it inadvertently communicates that you are doing them a favor, and care about them despite their sexuality.
  • “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!!!” Trust that they had their reasons for telling you when they did. And, again, this isn’t about you.

Be sure to keep showing up for them after that initial conversation, too.

Talking to you is likely just one step in a bigger process; here are some things to keep in mind going forward:

  • Follow their lead. If they call themselves a lesbian, use the term lesbian; if they say gay, go with gay. (And don’t whisper it like it’s something shameful; say it.) If they refer to the person they are dating as their partner instead of their boyfriend, say partner instead of boyfriend. (And don’t call their partner “your buddy” or “your roommate.”)
  • Support their efforts to make more queer friends. Yes, that might mean sometimes you won’t be invited to join a group activity, but try not to take it personally—it’s really, really not.
  • If you’ve said or done anti-LGBTQ things in front of your friend in the past, seriously consider apologizing. Don’t make your guilt a Huge Thing for them to manage—they shouldn’t end up comforting you here—or pressure them to accept your apology, but it’s worth owning up to your shortcomings as a friend in this moment. You might say something like, “I also wanted to say I’m sorry for the comments I made about [_So-and-So bringing a same-sex date to prom/gay marriage/homosexuality being a sin_]. I’m sure that really hurt for you to hear, and made you feel less safe around me. I know it was wrong of me, and I’m so sorry.” If you said things or held beliefs that were particularly harmful, you might also say, “Here’s what I’m doing to educate myself on this topic, so I can be a better [_f__riend/sibling/ally_] going forward.”
  • Continue to be supportive and affirming. A friend of mine just sent her newly-out niece a Pride care package, which I thought was really thoughtful and cute. This could also look like trying to get to know the person they are dating, or joining your school’s PFLAG group… or simply not pretending this conversation never happened (which happens more than you might think).
  • Look out for them. Systemic, pervasive oppression means that LGBTQ people are at higher risk of mental health conditions, suicidality, intimate partner violence, and police violence. Just because you accept your friend doesn’t mean that their family or employer or the world at large does, so keep an eye out for signs that they aren’t doing well.
  • Avoid referring to them as your “gay best friend.” You can just say “best friend.” And know that having a queer friend doesn’t give you license to start making jokes about LGBTQ people, or about your friend.
  • Don’t try to set them up with the only other queer person you know, who they have absolutely nothing in common with.
  • Remember to see your friend’s whole self. Being queer is one facet of a person’s identity, but it’s not their entire personality.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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How prison and police discrimination affect Black sexual minority men’s health

by Rutgers University

Incarceration and police discrimination may contribute to HIV, depression and anxiety among Black gay, bisexual and other sexual minority men, according to a Rutgers led study.

The study, funded by the National Institute of Health (NIH) and published in the journal Social Science & Medicine, examined associations between incarceration, and law enforcement discrimination and recent arrest with Black sexual mens’ psychological distress, risk for HIV and willingness to take pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP) for HIV prevention.

“Evidence suggests Black sexual minority men in the United States may face some of the highest rates of policing and incarceration in the world,” said lead author, Devin English, assistant professor at the Rutgers School of Public Health. “Despite this, research examining the health impacts of the U.S. carceral system rarely focuses on their experiences. This study helps to address this gap.”

“We examined how incarceration and police discrimination, which have roots in enforcing White supremacy and societal heterosexism, are associated with some of the most pressing health crises among Black sexual minority men like depression, anxiety, and HIV,” English added.

The researchers surveyed 1,172 Black, gay, bisexual, and other sexual minority men over the age of 16 from across the U.S. who reported behaviors that increased their risk for HIV over the previous six months. Participants reported on their incarceration history, experiences of police and law enforcement discrimination, anxiety and depression, sexual behavior, and willingness to take PrEP.

They found that 43 percent of study participants reported police discrimination within the previous year, which was most frequent among those with a history of incarceration. Respondents who faced high levels of police discrimination within the previous year also tended to show high levels of psychological distress and HIV risk, and a low willingness to take PrEP compared with their peers. The study also found that respondents who were previously incarcerated or recently arrested had a heightened HIV risk and lower willingness to take PrEP.

“These findings transcend individual-level only explanations to offer structural-level insights about how we think about Black sexual minority men’s HIV risk,” says co-author Lisa Bowleg, professor of psychology at The George Washington University. “The study rightly directs attention to the structural intersectional discrimination that negatively affects Black sexual minority men’s health.”

The article states that the findings support the need for anti-racist and anti-heterosexist advocacy and interventions focused on reducing discrimination in U.S. society, and the carceral system specifically.

“Despite experiencing a disproportionate burden of violence and discrimination at the hands of the police, and extremely high carceral rates, Black queer men are largely invisible in discourse on anti-Black policing and ,” says co-author Joseph Carter, doctoral student of health psychology at the City University of New York’s Graduate Center. “Our study provides empirical support for the intersectional health impacts of police and carceral that have been systemically perpetrated onto Black queer men.”

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How Quarantine Helped Me Overcome Stigmas Surrounding Queer Dating

By Meggie Gates

I’ve been out since I was 19, and insecure since the day I was born. I’ve shied away from intimacy my entire life, something psychologists label “avoidant attachment” and my mother calls “frustrating.” I am 26, I do not like to be touched, and incidences of sexual assault have only heightened that feeling, narrowing an already limited number of partners I’ve had in the past. I’m sex positive, I support whatever anyone else does sexually, but I can’t go about the act without some wine notched under my belt, something I consider leveling my anxiety and something my therapist describes as “bad.” I rarely know how to approach casual sex. How the heck do I fit in to In a community where sex is constantly, seemingly, on the table?

I live in Chicago, and in Boystown, there is a sign—an advertisement for a dating app with two shirtless, hunky gay men rubbing bodies in boxer briefs. In Wrigleyville, there is a friend—a person regaling hookups on Grindr every time I see them, years of casual lovers. In the queer community, there is commercialization—the kind we celebrate with plenty of skin showing at Pride festivals come June. Condoms are handed out and dental dams are distributed. It is good, safe, serves to destigmatize, and celebrates what years of hate has told us not to embrace. It is beautiful and poetic and deserved of that celebration, but it is not me.

The perceived stereotype of casual sex in the queer community can make some hesitant to date. The questions of casual sex looms overhead in the queer community and that stereotype can affect many people’s approaches to exploring their sexual identity. The pressure sex puts on the queer community can be isolating for some. Worse, it can feel invalidating. In their article “Mr. Right Now: Temporality of Relationship Formation on Gay Mobile Apps,” professors Tien Yeo and Tsz Fung write about the pressure queer people can feel to compromise sex for love.

“For those seeking more durable relationships, tensions arising from the specific temporality of app use that privileges casual sex but which also maximizes the pool of potential partners versus the temporal norms prescribing friendship and long-term romantic relationships become a major source of frustration,” write Yeo and Fung. “Ultimately, these tensions resulted in users conform to routine patterns of interactions, developing alternative modes of interactions on apps that decelerate relationship development, or (temporarily) deleting the apps.”

For people who buy into hypersexualized LGBTQ+ media representation, the anxiety and doubt surrounding conversations on sexuality can feel like another reason not to pursue meaningful connections. In a society focused on hook-up culture, it’s hard trusting someone will have the patience to get to know me. The conversation of how good you are at sex circles the internet; the question of how queer you are hinging on past relationships focused on binary. Sitting across from women on a first date, anxiety constantly creeps up, making me wonder how the night will end.

Quarantine has changed the game for dating across the board. People must decide whether someone is worth putting their life (and the lives of others) at risk. Zoom dates can be awkward, uncomfortable, and the lack of intimacy can be hard. Building a relationship over FaceTime is seemingly impossible. But, strangely, this is the first time I’ve felt truly comfortable approaching dating in years. Why? Because without the expectation of kissing or sex following a date, I’m confident having conversations I’d usually never have regarding my sexuality and gender. It finally feels like dating in a way that’s truer to myself.

Without the expectation of kissing or sex following a date, I’m confident having conversations I’d usually never have regarding my sexuality and gender. It finally feels like dating in a way that’s truer to myself.

I met Ana through Hinge two months ago, another app in a sea of apps geared toward dating. From our first date, I let her know of the anxieties I foster when it comes to queer dating. I ask if my slowness warming up to intimacy makes a difference to her, if my lack of history with people of the same sex erases me in her mind as legitimately queer. She responds surprised, shocked I’d even ask. “Your past doesn’t matter and if someone makes you feel bad for that, you’re better off without them,” she says. “The queer community isn’t a contest.”

It’s no secret gay love has, and still is, stigmatized in many parts of the world. Religion, race, gender, and class all play a part in the need for people to hide their sexuality for different reasons. Being ostracized, ridiculed, or neglected creates a desire for many queer people to feel loved and attractive, resulting in fast connections of momentary fulfillment. Casual sex has many benefits for those who enjoy it. You can share a strong connection with someone for a passing period and go your own way, no strings attached at the end of the night. For me, the anxiety of waking up to someone I barely know overshadows all pleasure. I feel I’m missing out on my 20s as I watch friends stumble out of bars with others. This is what TV said adulthood would be like, but it’s never been that way for me. I miss all the nuance of feeling fun and alive in a city because I’m too focused on my shoes whenever someone asks for my number.

I walk through an obsolete Boystown recounting memories of all the love Saturday nights once held. The avenue is painted with the past of people who carried themselves over the rainbow boulevard looking for a home in someone else, a late-night rendezvous heading out of Berlin hand-in-hand. I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss Red Bull vodka shots at midnight and making out with strangers whose names I don’t remember; how a photo strip of a girl in passing isn’t poetry that spans the lengths of years.

Relationships take a toll and farther into heartbreak we get, the easier it is to run at the sight of something new. Flings that are fleeting outweigh tangling yourself in something messy and complicated. Dating hardly takes off for me because I’m too stressed about the motions, if I’ll be critiqued for the physical instead of the emotional. Now, there’s nothing but time to explore one another as the world around us stops shifting. After two months talking, Ana and I finally met. My family encourages me because they “like her” and think she’s “a good match for me.” We’re slow and have found a rhythm that suits us, one grown from patience and time.

For once, I’m trying to walk rather than run.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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7 LGBTQ sex facts you probably didn’t learn in high school sex ed class

By Canela López 

Comprehensive sex education in the US has been a point of contention for decades, with former Surgeon General Dr. Joycelyn Elders even being asked to resign from her post in 1991 for endorsing sex education and masturbation.

While some states have moved away from an abstinence-only curriculum, only 29 states mandate some kind of sex education curriculum. And the problem of proper sex education is even worse for LGBTQ teens. 

According to Dr. Sara C. Flowers, vice president of education for Planned Parenthood Federation of America, only 9 states and the District of Columbia include LGBTQ-inclusive sex education in their curriculum.

“Queer young people are often left out of the conversation altogether,” Flowers told Insider. “This can result in a lot of misinformation about their identities, bodies, and health — leaving them without the skills or resources they need to have healthy relationships or safe sex, if and when they make that decision.”  

Gina Desiderio, director of communications for The Health Teen Network, told Insider that not only does this do a disservice to LGBTQ youth, it actually worsens their mental health. 

“Research shows that LGBTQ+ young people report disproportionate experiences of depression, bullying, and feelings of unsafety at school — and these experiences are even more common among LGBTQ+ youth of color,” Desiderio said. “However, queer youth that do receive inclusive sex education are less likely to feel unsafe and report lower levels of victimization because of their identity.” 

Insider compiled a list of the most critical queer sex education facts left out of the classroom. 

Some people using hormones aren’t sure what protection to use, but there are some creative solutions.

Barriers like condoms are not just used to prevent pregnancy. They serve an important role in preventing the spread of STIs like gonorrhea, chlamydia, and HIV.

According to Flowers, they should be used regardless of you or your partner’s genitalia. However, oftentimes condoms are framed as the only option. Dental damns, latex gloves, and other alternatives can better suit the needs of different people.

“If you or your partner has an enlarged clitoris from taking testosterone, you can create a barrier method using a latex glove by cutting off the fingers and placing it over the clitoris, or by cutting the glove or a condom into a dental dam that leaves extra space in the thumb for the clitoris,” Flowers said.

Even if you’re performing non-penetrative sex, these kinds of barriers should be used.

Use barriers on your sex toys as well.

Barriers are important even if you’re using a sex toy on a partner.

If you use sex toys on multiple people (like yourself and your partner), putting a condom on them can help keep everyone involved safe.

“Condoms can also be used on sex toys to reduce the chance of passing STIs between partners,” Flowers said.

You can still get pregnant even if you or your partner are taking gender-affirming hormones.

Sometimes, trans and non-binary people undergo Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT), and take gender-affirming hormones like estrogen and testosterone. 

While these hormones change the body, affect fertility and even eliminate periods for some, they are not a form of birth control. People on HRT can still get pregnant or impregnate another person. 

“People taking gender-affirming hormones like testosterone and estrogen can still become involved in a pregnancy,” Flowers said. “To prevent pregnancy, consider non-hormonal birth control options, including the copper IUD or barrier methods like external or internal condoms, which still work while taking gender-affirming hormones.”

‘Losing your virginity’ isn’t necessarily penetration between a penis and a vagina — it can look like many things.

Oftentimes, sex and losing your virginity is framed as having penetrative sex between cisgender man with a penis and cisgender woman with a vagina.

But sex and losing your virginity can look like a variety of ways for people and certainly doesn’t have to involve penetration.

In addition to penetrative sex being centered, sex in many sex ed classes is oftentimes from as a means to an end to have a child. Not only does this undermine the importance of pleasure in cisgender heterosexual sex, it completely erases many queer people who cannot have sex that results in a pregnancy.

“Too often, sex education casts all adolescent sexual activity in the narrowest, most sex-negative of lights: potentially dangerous at best, and catastrophic at worst,” Desiderio told Insider. “This failure to integrate sex positivity matters to queer and straight, cisgender young people alike.”

Desiderio told Insider instead educators should be openly talking about pleasure in the context of sex.

“Having frank, open conversations about sexual pleasure acknowledges people have sex for reasons other than reproduction, affirming the identities of LGBTQ+ people too often erased by curricula infatuated with the nitty-gritty details of when sperm meets egg,” Desiderio said.

It’s important to be aware that homophobia and transphobia can drive low self-esteem. And that can affect relationships.

According to Flowers, dating violence is oftentimes mentioned in the context of cisgender and straight relationships, but it’s crucial for LGBTQ youth to understand dating violence can happen to anyone, regardless of gender identity, presentation, or sexual orientation.

In fact, because LGBTQ people are at risk of being rejected by their family and facing homophobia or transphobia in their day to day life, they are more at risk of falling into toxic relationships.

“LGBTQ+ young people deserve sex education that helps them learn how to identify healthy and unhealthy relationships, teaches them about consent, and lets them know they deserve to be supported if they are in an unsafe or unhealthy relationship,” Flowers told Insider.

These are some good techniques to consider when coming out to your family.

While the decision to come out differs from person to person, having the proper language to talk about sexual orientation and gender identity is necessary for a young LGBTQ person to talk to their family.

“Including tips for coming out about gender identity or sexual orientation in classroom instruction is one way to de-center heteronormative relationships and ensure all young people are getting what they need from sex education,” Flowers said. 

Here are some tips Flowers suggested that can make you feel more comfortable and prepared:

  • Choose a private location
  • Plan what you’re going to say ahead of time
  • Prepare for questions about your sexuality or gender identity

Pay attention to politics. Race, gender, ability, and class all affect your access to sexual health.

The way we have sex, and access sexual healthcare, can be greatly impacted by our gender, sexuality, or race. For example, HIV/AIDs still disproportionately impacts Black and Latinx queer men in the United States.

That’s why it’s important to understand the challenges you personally face in life, beyond in the bedroom, according to Desiderio.

“These factors combined affect the health and well-being of LGBTQ+ and gender nonconforming youth, as evidenced by high rates of attempted and completed suicide, unplanned pregnancies, and HIV and sexually transmitted infection diagnoses,” Desiderio said.

At school, Desiderio says, there should be open discussions about each child’s identity, so they can be prepared for oppression and the barriers they may face in life.

“Institutions organized for the dominant population too often marginalize, ignore, or erase the LGBTQ+ experience and queer sex,” Desiderio said. “Young people face vast systemic inequities and structural barriers to ensuring their health; affirming, inclusive sex education is one way we can support and empower young people to thrive.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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Can the Gay Community Survive Without Hyper-Sexuality?

by Devin Randall

Sex. It’s driven gay society for years. Through sexually charged clubs, bathhouses, movies and more. But as we enter a new decade, will queer men be able to live without the gay hyper-sexuality that made our society for so long?

The Unhealthiness of Gay Hyper-Sexuality

Let’s face it, gay hyper-sexuality has been in our culture for centuries. From the times of ancient Greece, to the truck stops and bathhouses of the 1900s, and to the sex-fused dating apps, gay movies, and gay video games of the present, hyper-sexuality has kept gay society going.

Of course, that’s not always good. Gay men have put themselves in unhealthy situations because of our unhealthy attachment to risky sex. For instance, a recent UK study found that 24% of gay UK men had casual sex during lockdown.

There’s also the idea that not all gay men are the same. Not every gay man wants to hang out at a club or have anonymous sex at men’s only hotels. As time goes by, that section of gay society is growing larger and stronger.

Going Mainstream & Losing Spaces

As homosexuality and LGBTQ people become more accepted by the mainstream populace, we are becoming expected to follow mainstream rules. That means gay apps having to stick to the family-friendly rules of the app store, movies having to lower the sexuality factor if they want to include LGBTQ representation while still marketing to conservative box offices, and more. 

On the app front, this has been happening for a few years now. Two years ago, Tumblr, which used to be a great space for gay bloggers and adult content viewers, announced that it would ban all adult content. Doing so was in response to the Apple app store taking Tumblr’s app off its service for breaking policy. The same happened to other apps in the gay digital sphere.

On top of this, the current coronavirus pandemic has put many gay spaces in dangerous situations. The historic Royal Vauxhall Tavern, which is a hotspot for England’s gay community and once housed Freddie Mercury and Princess Diana as patrons, has announced possibly facing closure and eviction. The venue has resorted to crowdfunding in order to fight off bankruptcy. This is just one establishment among many with similar circumstances.

Unfortunately, that has all led to the erasure of some gay spaces. With gay men finding each other through apps or other spaces, gay bathhouses and clubs are closing down and disappearing. Or, they are opening up to straight/cis audiences and changing the very natures of the spaces altogether. How many of us have entered a “gay bar” and seen bachelorette parties or heard straight DJs openly hitting on women?

Love, Victor & Wholesome LGBTQ Content

But again, going mainstream can be nice. Being gay isn’t just about the sex. Our lives amount to more than hooking up in alleyways. Wholesome LGBTQ content is on the rise, showing that being LGBTQ means a lot of things. Just think about Hulu’s recently released Love, Victor, which spotlights a wholesome portrayal of LGBTQ existence. It’s about a teen who is just discovering his sexuality and what he wants in love and life. We can all be like Victor. We can be more than just clubs.

Sexuality & LGBTQ Spaces Must Thrive

But, of course, we deserve to still have those spaces preserved and present in our lives. LGBTQ people, and gay/bi men specifically, don’t need the hyper-sexuality as much nowadays. But that doesn’t mean we don’t need it at all. As long as there are gay/bi men, there will be little hole-in-the-wall bars, bathhouses and clubs providing spaces for sexual activity. As long as there are horny men, there will be sexual games and movies to entertain us. Sexuality, hyper or not, will thrive for years and decades to come.

That said, we also have to accept that hyper-sexual aspects of gay society will be on the decline in the future. As we get more accepted by the general populace, we’ll be less able to openly participate in hyper-sexual spaces. Gay society is changing. Part of that is sad, but part of that is great too. And in the end, all of it is a natural part of life.

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What LGBTQ-Positive Sex Ed Should Look Like

Sex education should give students the tools to take ownership of their lives and bodies so that they can feel empowered. And that includes LGBTQ students.

In many states, sex ed curricula isn’t required to be comprehensive or medically accurate; abstinence-only is the norm; consent doesn’t need to be mentioned; and instructors emphasize the benefits of monogamous, heterosexual marriage.

By Cassandra Corrado

I’m a sex educator, but my own experience with sex education wasn’t great.

I went to high school in Florida, which is one of many states that doesn’t require sex education—the decision is left up to individual school districts. For schools that opt to teach sex ed, the curriculum isn’t required to be comprehensive or medically accurate; abstinence-only is the norm; consent doesn’t need to be mentioned; and instructors emphasize the benefits of monogamous, heterosexual marriage. Imagine the turmoil this messaging could cause young LGBTQ students.

It was clear to me early on that talking about sexual health wasn’t a priority for the people who made decisions about our education, even though almost everyone I knew was having some type of sex.

That all changed my first year of college, when I went to a sex ed workshop hosted by the Center for Sexual Pleasure & Health. In three hours, I learned more than I did in all of my middle and high school sex education classes combined. I can point to that workshop as a true point of transformation in my life—it helped me take ownership of my sexuality and boundaries, and changed my career path. (I later interned and then worked at the center in an education role.)

It was also the first time I had ever seen queerness centered, normalized, and celebrated in an educational setting. It was the first time I ever felt like sex ed really applied to me. That workshop changed my life for the better, and that’s what sex education should do: give students the tools to take ownership of their lives and bodies so they can feel empowered. And that includes LGBTQ students.

But here’s the thing: You shouldn’t be 18 the first time you feel included in the conversation, or learn about consent, or have your sexuality affirmed. All of those things should happen much earlier.

So, I had a conversation with two other LGBTQ sex educators to figure out what we really want for our students when it comes to LGBTQ-positive sex education. Here’s what we wish all students learned in school.

Fluidity is the norm

When I say that queer-centric sex education benefits everyone, I mean it. Everyone can benefit from an education that celebrates different identities, represents the many ways that people can love, and talks about health inclusively.

According to Cindy Lee Alves, a queer, nonbinary femme sexologist, the main difference between curricula that simply references LGBTQ folks and curricula that centers LGBTQ folks is shame. “Many curricula think about sex ed solely as disease prevention, and that doesn’t do much for us,” they said. “What would it look like if we taught folks from a young age that things in all parts of your life can be expansive and that you don’t have to pick a lane right away? How much shame would that remove? When you couple inaccurate information with shame, it makes people small.”

Any education that says “this is how things always are and always will be” teaches shame, Alves said. Sexuality and gender identity are fluid, so rather than be prescriptive in what we teach young people, we should teach that it’s okay and expected to explore who you are a little bit. It’s also normal for those things to shift, which doesn’t invalidate any part of your past, present, or future identity.

Sex is all-encompassing

When many people think of sex, they’re thinking of one thing in particular: penis-in-vagina intercourse. But sex is much more than that. Sex includes oral, anal, and vaginal sex, as you might have expected. But it also includes acts typically categorized as “foreplay,” like handjobs, fingering, using toys together, and more.

Everyone’s definition is different, but the way that you define sex matters, because that definition will likely influence your sexual boundaries, the contraceptives you use, and who you choose to do it with.

LGBTQ-positive sex ed doesn’t just teach heteronormative sex; it recognizes that sexual behavior is expansive and affirms that no type of sex is less important or relevant than others.

Sex and gender are not binary

Sex and gender are different things, and both are more expansive than we’re currently taught. You may have grown up thinking the terms were were interchangeable (I know I did), but they’re not, and learning this distinction can make a huge difference in how you approach sex education at home and in the classroom.

Sex is a label you’re given based on your genitals, chromosomes, or hormones—or a combination of these factors. What’s on your birth certificate is the sex you were assigned at birth, which is usually based on what your genitalia looked like. But chromosomal pairings and genitalia don’t always match up, and there is an entire spectrum of biological sex.

Some people are intersex, meaning they have sex characteristics (genitals, hormone levels, and chromosomes) that don’t fit the typical definitions of male or female. So the argument that “there are only two sexes” is wrong. Intersex people are proof of biological variation and that nature hates binaries.

Truly LGBTQ-positive sex ed would celebrate gender diversity, accept all bodies, and positively represent all genders.

On the other hand, gender isn’t determined by anything bodily—it’s the way that you situate yourself in society. While your body parts might affirm that placement, they don’t define it. If someone’s gender identity aligns with the sex they were assigned at birth, they’re cisgender. If someone’s gender identity doesn’t align with the sex they were assigned at birth, they’re gender nonconforming or transgender.

Many people who are teaching sex ed aren’t trans and may not even be familiar with what it means to be gender nonconforming. Because “folks who actually identify [these ways] aren’t creating the content, there are going to be blind spots,” said Jimanekia Eborn, a queer sexuality educator and trauma specialist. Those blind spots aren’t small, either, and they can be really harmful.

While some curricula might try to take on gender, they often fall short because they talk about gender as a binary when it simply isn’t—nonbinary, genderqueer, two-spirit, and agender people exist, along with so many more identities. You might not have the words for them, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real.

Truly LGBTQ-positive sex ed would celebrate gender diversity, accept all bodies, and positively represent all genders.

You can’t separate the issues

When you try to teach sex ed as if sex happens in a vacuum that isn’t affected by other parts of one’s life, you’re doing a disservice to your students. Queer and inclusive sex ed “centers folks who are system-impacted,” Alves said. “I think about intersectionality. If we’re bringing up queerness, we have to bring it up with other identities, too.”

Race, class, and neurodivergence are three areas that must be woven into sex education curricula. There are many ways to do this, but it starts with talking honestly about the history of sexuality in the United States, from the forced sterilization of people with disabilities to reproductive control over women of color.

“All of the roots are connected, and some people want to just focus on their one tree. But it’s our responsibility to show up for our young people and get their needs met,” Alves said.

From the photos and anatomy tools you use to the cultural examples and historical figures you turn to, representation in sex ed matters. Students need to be able to see themselves in what we teach.

Queer people deserve healthy relationships

Violence prevention and healthy relationships workshops can too often leave students thinking that victims of violence are always cisgender women and that perpetrators are cisgender men.

That just isn’t true. Interpersonal violence, including sexual assault and dating violence, can be committed and experienced by people of any gender or sexual orientation. In fact, queer and trans women experience higher rates of violence than cisgender, heterosexual women.

“Often, evidence-based curricula will use nongendered names or not give a lot of context clues about people’s identities,” Alves said. “That doesn’t do much for queer youth. Outright including and centering someone’s identity in a lesson plan offers the opportunity to discuss how their identity might affect their other experiences.”

When the lessons we learn about consent, boundaries, and healthy relationships only show one type of relationship dynamic, we’re passively telling our LGBTQ students that this information isn’t relevant to them.

And while we’re here, remember that there’s no one right way for a relationship to be structured. Monogamy isn’t right for everyone, so when you’re talking about healthy relationships, make sure to include ethical non-monogamy, too.

“Often, evidence-based curricula will use nongendered names or not give a lot of context clues about people’s identities. That doesn’t do much for queer youth.”
– Cindy Lee Alves

Asexuality isn’t a problem to be solved

Some sexualities are completely ignored in sex ed, like asexuality—an umbrella term that encapsulates many different identities that are defined more by a lack of sexual attraction or desire than who the person is attracted to.

At its core, asexuality means the absence of sexual attraction, but it’s a bit more layered than that. Demisexuality, for example, means only experiencing sexual attraction after forming a deep emotional bond (not necessarily romantic) with someone. Gray asexuality means experiencing sexual attraction rarely or occasionally.

While some asexual people might also be aromantic (not experiencing romantic attraction), plenty of sexual people have romantic relationships. Sex isn’t a requirement for being in a relationship. Asexuality can also be combined with other sexual orientations, so someone might identify as both bisexual and asexual. I’m queer and demisexual (and happily married).

Just like any other sexuality, asexuality isn’t a problem to be solved, so sex educators should never treat it that way. Asexual people still need education about consent, healthy relationships, and sexual wellness, even if they never have partnered sex.

Condoms aren’t the only option

When it comes to barrier method contraceptives for STI and pregnancy prevention, people often think of external condoms (the type that goes over a penis or sex toy), but there are so many more options. As a sex educator, you should educate students equally about all types of barrier methods, because queer students might not have a need for external condoms.

When you teach about condoms, also educate students about internal condoms, dental dams, finger cots, and gloves. They can all be used as safer sex tools, and you can save your exploratory students a lot of confusion if you just go ahead and teach about them now.

We deserve to be empowered, not ashamed

Those of us who teach pleasure-positive sex education know how deeply shame and fear root themselves. Shame does weird stuff to you. It only takes one comment to make someone feel bad about who they are, and that one comment can have ripple effects throughout your lifetime.

Things have changed for young queer people in recent years. But for all the empowering messages, there are still parents, teachers, peers, and media that will pass on that shame. When I was in high school, my internalized homophobia ran so deep that I refused to acknowledge that I might not be straight. I was afraid to not be straight, and that fear led me to have sex with people I shouldn’t have and not set any boundaries for myself.

Queer people deserve to grow up feeling empowered to set boundaries, make their own decisions, advocate for themselves, and explore their sexuality in a way that makes them feel good. Straight people deserve that, too. We all do. We all want “love, pleasure, and to be seen, heard, and respected,” as Eborn said.

Sex education can change and even save lives, but empowerment must be at the heart of our work. Otherwise, we’re missing the point.

“The people who have the access and the power have to make these changes to center our young people and their experiences—we can’t rely on our old expertise; we have to make these shifts,” Alves said.

We all deserve better sex ed.

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The Forgotten Origins of the Modern Gay Rights Movement in WWI

In the winter of 1915, a German soldier died in a field hospital in Russia. We don’t know his name, but he helped revolutionize the way people advocated for gay rights.

German infantrymen aim machine guns from a trench near the Vistula River in 1916.

By Laurie Marhoefer

One of the World War I’s most enduring legacies is largely forgotten: It sparked the modern gay rights movement.

Gay soldiers who survived the bloodletting returned home convinced their governments owed them something – full citizenship. Especially in Germany, where gay rights already had a tenuous footing, they formed new organizations to advocate in public for their rights.

Though the movement that called itself “homosexual emancipation” began in the 19th century, my research and that of historian Jason Crouthamel shows that the war turned the 19th-century movement into gay rights as we know it today.

A death in Russia

In the winter of 1915, a German soldier died in a field hospital in Russia. The soldier, whose name is missing from the historical record, had been hit in the lower body by shrapnel when his trench came under bombardment. Four of his comrades risked their lives to carry him to the rear. There, he lay for weeks, wracked by pain in the mangled leg and desperately thirsty. But what troubled him most was loneliness. He sent letters to his boyfriend whenever he could manage it.

“I crave a decent mouthful of fresh water, of which there isn’t any here,” he wrote in his final letter. “There is absolutely nothing to read; please, do send newspapers. But above all, write very soon.”

This soldier, who had to keep his relationship hidden from those around him, was just one of the approximately two million German men killed in World War I. His suffering is not unlike what many others experienced. What his loved ones made of that suffering, however, was different, and had enormous consequences.

His boyfriend, identified in surviving documents only as “S.,” watched the man he loved go off to serve in a war that he did not fully endorse, only to die alone and in pain as S. sat helplessly by hundreds of miles away. S. told their story in a letter to the Scientific Humanitarian Committee, which published it in April 1916.

The Scientific Humanitarian Committee was then the world’s leading homosexual emancipation group, boasting a membership of about 100 people. The soldier’s story took a cruel twist at its very end: S.‘s loving replies were lost in the chaos of the war and never reached the soldier.

“He died without any contact from me,” S. wrote.

Demanding the rights of citizens

After the war, many believed the slaughter had been for nothing. But S. saw a lesson in his partner’s suffering and death.

“He has lost his bright life … for the Fatherland,” wrote S. That Fatherland had a law on the books that banned sex between men. But the sodomy law was just the tip of the iceberg: S. and men like him generally could not reveal their love relationships in public, or even to family members. Homosexuality meant the loss of one’s job, social ostracism, the risk of blackmail and perhaps criminal prosecution.

S. called it “deplorable” that “good citizens,” soldiers willing to die for their country, had to endure the status of “pariahs.” “People who are by nature orientated toward the same sex … do their duty,” he wrote. “It is finally time that the state treated them like they treat the state.”

A new phase of gay rights

A magazine put out by the League for Human Rights in 1930.

Many veterans agreed with S. When the war ended, they took action. They formed new, larger groups, including one called the League for Human Rights that drew 100,000 members.

In addition, as I argue in my book, the rhetoric of gay rights changed. The prewar movement had focused on using science to prove that homosexuality was natural. But people like S., people who had made tremendous sacrifices in the name of citizenship, now insisted that their government had an obligation to them regardless of what biology might say about their sexuality.

They left science behind. They went directly to a set of demands that characterizes gay rights to this day – that gay people are upstanding citizens and deserve to have their rights respected. “The state must recognize the full citizenship rights of inverts,” or homosexuals, an activist wrote in the year after the war. He demanded not just the repeal of the sodomy law, but the opening of government jobs to known homosexuals – a radical idea at the time, and one that would remain far out of reach for many decades.

Respectable citizens

Ideas of citizenship led activists to emphasize what historians call “respectability.” Respectability consisted of one’s prestige as a correctly behaving, middle-class person, in contrast to supposedly disreputable people such as prostitutes. Throughout the 20th century, gay rights groups struggled for the right to serve openly in the military, a hallmark of respectability. With some exceptions, they shied away from radical calls to utterly remake society’s rules about sex and gender. They instead emphasized what good citizens they were.

In 1929, a speaker for the League for Human Rights told an audience at a dance hall, “we do not ask for equal rights, we demand equal rights!” It was, ironically, the ghastly violence and horrible human toll of the World War I that first inspired such assertive calls, calls that characterized gay rights movements around the world in the 20th century.

It would take nearly a century for these activists to achieve one of their central goals – the repeal of sodomy laws. Germany enjoyed a 14-year period of democracy after World War I, but the Nazis came to power in 1933 and used the sodomy law to murder thousands of men. A version of the law remained in force until the 1990s. The United States struck down its sodomy laws only in 2003.

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13 Necessary Queer Literary Classics For Every Bookshelf

From Virginia Woolf’s Orlando and James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room to Alice Walker’s Pulitzer Prize-winning The Color Purple and Ocean Vuong’s 2019 debut — the queer literary landscape is vibrant, expansive and ready to be explored.

By Rosalind Jana

The history of queer literature is a long one. From Greek poet Sappho to Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, many writers have approached the challenges and pleasures of the LGBTQ+ experience with great depth and imagination. This hasn’t always been an easy endeavour; often, it’s been a history read in gaps and implied meaning, with obstructions for those depicting the nuances of sexuality and gender identity without censure. Thankfully, this has slowly changed, and the queer literary landscape is now both vibrant and expansive.

In fact, this list of 13 queer classics offers just a handful of the books that could have been chosen. For every inclusion, there is another notable absence. E.M. Forster, Ali Smith, Audre Lorde, Christopher Isherwood and numerous other novelists aren’t listed here, but have all written fantastic fiction that has helped both shape and pluralise the stories that now make up a queer canon. Think of these suggestions as a starting point — a handful of bold and brilliant books perfect for picking up at any time, with lots more to discover when all is read and done.

‘Giovanni’s Room’ by James Baldwin (1956)

Giovanni’s Room condenses an incredible sweep of emotion into its scant length. Detailing the fraught relationship between American David and Italian bartender Giovanni, the former narrates the tale of their time together over a night leading “to the most terrible morning of my life”. This terrible morning, we soon discover, marks the day of Giovanni’s execution. With this looming, David recounts the trials and tumult of their love affair, and, in doing so, sketches a complex portrait of masculinity at war with itself. It is an astonishingly vivid novel, grappling not only with the heady contours of desire, but also the disturbing consequences of shame and self-loathing.

‘The Line of Beauty’ by Alan Hollinghurst (2004)

Nick Guest has left university and summer is in full swing. Living in the Notting Hill house of an affluent school friend whose father is a Conservative politician, the book opens with Margaret Thatcher’s second election victory in 1983 and skilfully interlaces questions of politics, class, and sex. At first, Nick’s sexuality is largely hidden from the upper-class world he drifts into — with trysts in gated gardens and behind closed doors. But as time passes and the AIDS crisis develops, this no longer becomes possible. Taking aim at the hollow allure of wealth and the moral vacuum of Thatcher’s rule, Hollinghurst’s novel is sumptuous and increasingly sombre.

‘Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit’ by Jeanette Winterson (1985)

“People like to separate storytelling which is not fact from history which is fact. They do this so they know what to believe and what not to believe.” Jeanette Winterson’s debut, rooted in her own experiences of growing up as a lesbian in a Pentecostal adopted family, is structured around the religious texts that permeate protagonist Jeanette’s upbringing. Delving into what happens when the expected narratives — both theological and personal — are rejected, Winterson’s voice is fresh, startling, and funny. It’s a brilliant novel, illuminating the consequences of a devout and claustrophobic mother, and an institution that punishes nascent love with cruelty. For a follow-up, try Winterson’s 2011 memoir, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?.

‘Orlando’ by Virginia Woolf (1928)

Some novels are dialogues with difficult questions. Others aim to capture a particular history: cultural, collective, individual. A few are love letters. Orlando is all of the above. Inspired by and written for the magnetic, imposing Vita Sackville-West, with whom Virginia Woolf had a long affair, it follows the titular protagonist through three centuries of history, several romantic liaisons, one gender switch, and a very lengthy poetic project. It is a giddy read, full of humour and warmth as well as searching examinations of gender, sexuality, power and artistic process.

‘Paul Takes The Form of a Mortal Girl’ by Andrea Lawlor (2017)

What would happen if you transplanted Orlando to 1993 and added dozens more explicit sex scenes? The result would possibly look something like Andrea Lawlor’s Paul Takes The Form of a Mortal Girl. This raucous novel follows the adventures of Paul — also known as Polly — whose body is malleable, metamorphic, and endlessly hungry for pleasure. Able to physically transform at will, Paul revels in the sexual and romantic possibilities offered by numerous adjustments in face, height, torso, genitals, and more. Slipping between guises and identities, the polymorphous Paul offers a lucid look at trans identity — as playful as it is serious.

‘Dancer From The Dance’ by Andrew Holleran (1978)

Holleran’s book — dubbed ‘The Gay Great Gatsby’ — takes its title from a Yeats poem. It reads: “O body swayed to music, O brightening glance / How can we know the dancer from the dance?” It’s an apt reference, given the book’s preoccupation with observation, as well as the physical intimacies and distances found in a social whirl. Set in New York in a pre-AIDS era, Holleran brilliantly captures a generation of men for whom hedonism is never-ending, while desire, loneliness, and a restless wish for love continually jostle.

‘The Color Purple’ by Alice Walker (1982)

A devastating, but ultimately hopeful narrative told in a series of letters from protagonist Celie to God and her sister Nettie, Alice Walker won the Pulitzer Prize for The Color Purple in 1983. Detailing the stark realities of abuse, misogyny, and racism in rural Georgia, Walker’s novel offers both a damning indictment of institutionalised and culturally encoded oppression, and the tremendous potential found in reclaiming one’s life for oneself. With the introduction of blues singer Shug Avery, it also becomes a love story — one in which pleasure and passion is reciprocated, and female solidarity provides great solace.

‘Carol’ by Patricia Highsmith (1952)

Published under the pseudonym “Claire Morgan”, the formerly titled The Price of Salt swiftly became a runaway hit. Inspired by a “blondish” woman in a mink coat who had made her feel “odd and swimmy in the head” while working at Macy’s (and influenced too by her relationship with heiress Virginia Kent Catherwood), Highsmith conjured a love story full of erotic charge. Documenting the unfolding relationship between 19-year-old Therese and thirtysomething Carol, it is a crisply observed story in which desire simmers and the constrictions of nuclear family life are stifling. At the time, it was praised for its open-ended suggestion of a happy future. In recent years, it’s enjoyed a renaissance thanks to Todd Haynes’ stylish film.

‘On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous’ by Ocean Vuong (2019)

Language, lust, addiction and inherited trauma coalesce in Ocean Vuong’s debut. Written in the form of a letter from a son to a mother who can’t read it, Vuong combines the precision and lyricism of his poetry with the varied forms of intimacy that exist between lovers, between parent and child, and between the ill and well. Growing up with a Vietnamese mother and grandmother for whom war and violence have left deep imprints, the novel’s speaker Little Dog approaches the question of survival with searching intensity. Combining fragmented memories of childhood with an account of his first troubled love — Trevor, the 16-year-old son of a tobacco farmer — Vuong’s narrative of growing up gay and escaping is tender and heartbreaking.

‘America is Not the Heart’ by Elaine Castillo (2018)

Hero goes by several names. Named Geronima De Vera, in the Philippines she is known as Nimang. But on arrival in Milpitas, near San Francisco, her seven-year-old niece dubs her Hero. It’s a nickname both uneasy and fitting for a woman whose life has taken several distinct turns, from a wealthy upbringing, to a decade as a doctor in the New People’s Army, to two years of torture, to a new beginning in the US. Arriving with broken thumbs and a brittle exterior, Hero’s affections unravel slowly. Castillo’s book is sprawling and energetic: sharp in its interrogations of language, immigration, and class, and bold-hearted in its depiction of Hero’s frank, unsentimental approach to sex and love — with things complicated and transformed by local beautician Rosalyn.

‘Stone Butch Blues’ by Leslie Feinberg (1993)

“The law said we needed to be wearing three pieces of women’s clothing. We never switched clothing. Neither did our drag queen sisters. We knew, and so did you, what was coming. We needed our sleeves rolled up, our hair slicked back, in order to live through it.” Leslie Feinberg’s novel is a blistering and incisive depiction of lesbian and trans experience. Exploring the life of Jess Goldberg, a working-class gender-queer butch lesbian growing up in 1950s Buffalo before moving to New York, Feinberg sheds light on horrific police brutality and queer networks of community and care, and asks what it means (and what it takes) to resist.

‘Under the Udala Trees’ by Chinelo Okparanta (2015)

In 2014, Nigeria’s then-President Goodluck Jonathan signed the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act with incredibly serious sanctions ranging from imprisonment to death. This sobering fact forms the author’s endnote in Chinelo Okparanta’s moving, sparingly written novel. A coming-of-age tale taking place against the backdrop of the Nigerian civil war, it focuses on a young Igbo woman named Ijeoma who struggles to reconcile faith, family, and her sexuality. Coming to terms with being a lesbian in a culture hostile to homosexuality, Okparanta skilfully weaves between resignation and revelation — unstinting in her focus on the horrors of both war and deep prejudice, while offering a fragile note of hope.

‘After The Parade’ by Lori Ostlund (2015)

As Aaron Englund leaves his older partner after 20 years, his life packed up in the back of a truck, the past constantly infiltrates his chosen future. Relocating to San Francisco, disturbing recollections from childhood mingle with examinations of his time with Walter — a quiet, ordered man who wished “to serve as benefactor to Aaron’s wishes and ambitions, and so bind Aaron to him.” In breaking free of all that has tethered him, Aaron finds room to unravel a complex web of trauma and loss. After The Parade is a stunningly written book, deft in its understanding of love and alienation.

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How To Raise Kids To Be LGBTQ+ Allies

When They’re Growing Up In A Heterosexual Home

by Stephanie Kaloi

This month, you will probably be hearing a lot about one very spectacular celebration: June is Pride Month, and communities across the world will be celebrating.

As a parent, you might also be wondering how to navigate the month with your kids, and you might be extra curious about how you can raise your children to be LGBTQ+ allies if they’re growing up in a heterosexual home.

If you’re nodding along, trust: I get it! My son’s dad and I are both straight, and our self-identified genders correspond with the biological sex we were born with. We are huge allies of the LBGTQ+ community and have so many friends we love and cherish who are part of it.

As such, it’s been really important to us that our son is a fierce ally and friend to this community and really to everyone who isn’t bigoted.

If you don’t have friends who identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community, it might feel extra hard to figure out how to have a conversation about being an ally with your child. After all, one of the best ways to foster empathy is to know and love the people you are empathizing with. With that in mind, I thought it would be helpful to put together a list of ideas and resources for heterosexual parents who are hoping to raise LGBTQ+ allies.

1. Have honest conversations about sexuality early.

My first tip is this: Start talking about sexuality, gender identity, and sexual preference early in your child’s life. And I really do mean early: There are totally board books for babies that cover these topics and ideas. The earlier you normalize the many ways people live and love on this planet, the easier it is. Once you get started, I think you’ll be amazed by how little of a big deal this has to be.

For example, a lot of us already have built-in expectations about gender identity and gender performance due to how we have been socialized, so you can start by examining the ideas you already have and believe. Then identify the areas where you need more growth and learning. From there, find the words that you’re comfortable using with your kids.

Tip: Keep in mind that LGBTQ+ is about way more than just being gay or straight. The community encompasses a huge range of sexual expressions and preferences, and it’s important to give all of them equal weight.

2. Recognize that your children might also be LGBTQ+.

While you’re learning and having these conversations, realize that your own children might actually be part of the LBGTQ+ community, or they might not know if they are and be interested in exploring it. You don’t want to talk about all of this as if it’s something that is distant and removed from your own family. It’s normal and healthy for your kids to explore sexual identity and preference, and if they feel safe and supported in their home (and are raised loving this community of people), then they’ll feel like they can talk to you about those explorations and questions.

Plus, they’ll never have to doubt whether or not you love them.

3. Challenge gender and sex-based stereotypes all the time.

If there is one thing I know about myself, it is that I am relentless. A friend recently asked me how often we talk about racism with our 11-year-old son. I told my friend every single day. They were surprised, but when I explained that either someone we love experiences racism every day, or there’s a story in the news, or we watch or read something and racism is present in it, it started to make sense.

We also talk about other -isms every single day, such as sexism and ableism. We talk about bigotry and anti-LGBTQ+ attitudes and beliefs every day. These aren’t always big, scary conversations about subjects and events that are hard. In fact, more often than not, we’re having celebratory chats.

It can be tempting to only bring up these topics when the news “forces” us too, but I found that deliberately making it part of everything that we do in a day eventually made it come quite naturally.

4. Know and love LGBTQ+ people in your life.

I am absolutely not saying you need to run outside and find the first LGBTQ+ person you see and make them your new best friend, because that would be rude and gross. What I am saying is that if the only LGBTQ+ representation your kids get is from a book or TV, then that’s not really good enough. I know some people truly do live in very homogenous towns, but a lot of us live in diverse cities and communities and, either on purpose or without realizing it, self-choose to be distant from others who we don’t immediately identify as like us.

If you really don’t have any friends who are LGBTQ+ and you’re doing the work to learn to be an ally yourself, I suggest volunteering with an organization that supports LGBTQ+ people in your community as a good way to get to know the people you’re pledging your time to learn more about.

5. Celebrate diversity in your home in obvious ways.

And finally: I always remind myself that, as much as I would love for him to, my child does not learn through osmosis. I can’t assume he will be a kind, gentle person who is a friend and ally just because I want him to be one, or because I believe I am raising him to be “a good person.” The idea of “a good person” is so general that it’s hard to even know what I might mean — and I am sure that how I define “a good person” is not the same definition another family uses.

Celebrating diversity in your home isn’t too hard. Go to events, go to rallies. Support communities that need your support. Make sure your kids see all sides of the LBGTQ+ spectrum — don’t only bring up stories of pain and oppression; bring up stories of love and joy, too. Everything from the books you introduce to the media you consume to the people you spend time with will impact your children.

And on that final note: If your family and friends are bigoted and homophobic, your kids will see it. If you’re really the ally you want to be, then you absolutely have to speak up and educate the people you allow your children to be around. Otherwise, you’ll be little more than a walking contradiction, and your kids will respond accordingly. It can be tough to have hard conversations, but if you’re armed with the right mix of knowledge, facts, and empathy, you can do it. Lives are on the line, so really … you have to.

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