During the years of her popularity it never occured to me that Twiggy might be sexually attractive.
But seeing her dressed in suit and tie she’s appealingly androgynous.
Were she a boy I’d find her meltingly irresistible. Not that I don’t enjoy androgynous girls. They are beautifully androgynous.
Thoughts of intimacy with Twiggy leaves me picturing her crushed to to splinters.
Not that I don’t find wholesome aesthetic delight in the photographs.
Last week I finished Sir Thomas North’s translation of Plutarch’s The Lives of the Noble Grecian’s and Romans.
Plutarch is mentioned far more often in Renaissance writings that Plato and Aristotle. I think that he along with Cicero and Augustine constitute the real main classical influence of the time.
North’s Plutarch was famously read by Shakespeare and shaped his story of Anthony and Cleopatra (and eventually Cecil B. DeMill).
And I like English Renaissance prose. I’d rather read that than a more faithful translation.
It was lots of fun. You can see how it gratified the desires of those who wished to be pious heroes.
Easy to read, it makes better starting point for someone wanting to become familiar with the prose of the time than, say, the more amiable Thomas Nash.
I was thinking this might be the longest work that I’d read to the beginning. But the unabridged G.B. Hill Life of Johnson may be longer. The the print and margins are smaller.
It has been a surprisingly long time since I’ve posted any androgynous imagery (though I’ve been putting some on Queer Pop Culture).
The best thing about Adonis in High Heels is the title. The cover art is far from Gene Bilbrew’s best. I’d like to see the cover recreated by someone more able and personally interested.
Recently I finished Keith Thomas’ The Ends of Life.
I learned of a couple of hateful and peculiar notions some Christians held about the salvation of females.
I’m co-owner of a used bookshop.
We never tried this sort of approach to the shop’s exterior. It might have been amusing. My partner wouldn’t have liked the idea.
I ran across this Bachelor magazine cover years ago. The unquestionably queer snooty cutie on the cover made me feel sure this was an early 20th attempt to publish a magazine aimed at gay men. Sometime like After Dark decades later.
This handsome young man does nothing to contradict my notion.
Not sure how he fits in.
I never expecte to be posting images of fashion models on Pansexual Sodomite. Certainly not with any regularity. But I had no idea how often women are depicted androgynously.
Sophie Vlaming in Boy Meets Girl from Elle Sweden, 9/11. Photographed by Carl Bengtsson .
Another instance a girl doing an androgynous, boyish turn: Stella Tennant.
Photographed for Le Magazine du Monde October 2011 by Peter Lindbergh.
Fifth and sixth grades I spent at the Eli Whitney Elementary School. In one of both of those years Larry and Barry were my classmates. They were identical twins.
Walking down the street one day shortly after my eighteen birthday I ran into Larry and Barry. That each boy was the mirror image of the other wasn’t the only thing that made the pair recognizable. They’d aged but looked like larger editions of their elementary school selves.
Two boys, blonde, beautiful and very nelly. We exchanged a few meaningless words. I walked on never to see them again.
I’ve wished and wondered if I could have brought the meeting to a different outcome.
But I was freshly queer. I’m not sure if I’d finished shedding teenage fat. Wound up with the scruffy look that recollection has shown me was something boys found appealing (wrongly thinking me a bad boy).
I had no game. Not that I ever really do. My approach was looking at a boy signalling interest. Either he made the first approach or we never met. That sound arrogant. It was timid. People were opaque, baffling, untrustworthy. That is how I felt when young. Thankfully I got over that.
Any when I met Larry and Barry I’d yet to discern that it was the swishy, femme boys who thrilled me most.
There are always boys you wished you’d been able to fuck. This would have been a neat way to shed my virginity. In stereo.
Transvestism in Elementary School?
Luciano Castelli by Pierre Moliniere.
I have a false memory of my first day in public school All of my classmates walk in wearing military uniforms. I’ve had this bogus recollection since childhood. I’ve always known that the image’s only reality was subjective.
I hate regimentation and conformity. I must have even as a little boy. Else that image wouldn’t have appeared in my brain.
I don’t claim that as a virtue. It isn’t as if I worked at it. People who work at nonconformity are never as individualistic as they think. Many of them attach themselves to some form of that cant word lifestyle. And a lifestyle is a systemization of a group of clichés.
Maybe I resented being removed from the soft balm of motherly and grandmotherly love and becoming an indistinguishable social unit. Not that my six year old self could’ve quite expressed it that way.
An almost unlikely true memory is one that I prize.
His name was Gilbert. There was no way for a little kid in elementary school to not notice him. Even one as impassive as myself.
He was pale, very thin and as tall as an adult.
And he wore girl’s shoes. White high heels. In the early 1960s that was astoundingly exceptional. It is hard to credit. But my home town - at least when I lived there - was sometimes oddly tolerant.
Dimly I recall that I was in school with Gilbert for at least two years. His exterior is all I remember. He must have been much older than the rest of us. I’ve wondered if he were mentally disabled, autistic or …
Perhaps his gender dysmorphia so impeded social relationships, even with his own family that he retreated into himself and was judged as defective.
About ten years later I came to understand my erotic affinity for guys. This opened and would continue to deepen my understanding of hitherto mysterious aspects of life.
At that time I saw Gilbert walking down the streets of downtown Savannah. His appearance was identical with the images from childhood: pale, skinny and wearing white heels.
I was too stunned to feel anything other than surprise. Later I wish I had spoken to him. But really: what would I have said. Whatever it was it would’ve been wrongheaded. It would be a long time before I began to appreciate the diversity of transgender experiences.
I wish the naïve, ignorant boy that I was had been man enough to perhaps offer Gilbert comfort or something.
I’ve been thinking about my enthusiasm for the feminine.
For my ear there is a direct link between the voices of Diana Ross, Kylie Minogue and pretty boys. Girl groups produces the same blissful tingle as a boy whose gestures are graceful and emphatic.
But with gentic women my imagination goes down a different road. I remember my strong crush on the voice of June Christie. And the strong sexual power I feel in Anita O’Day singing.
The feminine allows me to offer my hand in support. The female may be the strong half of the equation.
With the boy in the dress I can be sexist.
The woman in pants wouldn’t tolerate that.
An exceptionally lovely photograph.
My response to this boy’s email is necessarily superficial. A book or two would be necessary for a proper answer.
I am trying to figure out my sexuality. First I am a 23y/o skinny androgynous guy with shoulderlength wavy/curly hair and a hourglass figure :) I love my waist lol (i like to be a bit feminine) What made me think I am not a normal straight boy, but more of a kinky person, is the following: I dont like to be dominant with women, ie ‘shoving it in them’
There are straight men who don’t want to penetrate a woman. They want to perform cunnlingus exclusively. And there are healthy and sane women who don’t want a man’s penis inside them.
How many of these men and women are inclined to D/s I have no idea. Sexuality finely gradated and nuanced. Labels are signposts for discussion but can be very imperfect instruments for actually describing one person’s sexuality.
but thats how straight sex usually goes. i want to make them happy, but i also think its sexy if they are dominant (taking the initiative) but also caring (petting you on the back etc…those small touches that show you care). …
The need for love an affection, even to be treated as a beloved pet is perfectly OK.
so i guess this makes me submissive. yet in the bdsm world submissive often means being a slave, and being humilated.
In BDSM jargon the submissive person is distinguished from the slave. Folks say the submissive male or female has the right to say no. The slave does not. That is silly: when a slave says no the top better stop before he or she winds up in jail.
But the distinction is useful in describing the experience the bottom desires and needs.
You want someone to take charge, to make the choices, to use you for pleasure. And you need affection and approval. You need to be esteemed. Not every bottom is humiliation junkie.
i also like slight bondage/toys. does this make me a switch or still submissive?
You would be a switch only if you at times wanted to be the top.
i just dont like the power exchange i guess.
I think you do. But you want a kind and tender power exchange. There are women and men who find that beautiful. Don’t be misled by men begging to be used as beasts or boast that they are worthless. Who wants a worthless person?
Master and sissyboy by Bernard Montorgueil
lately i have been> interested in (other peoples) cocks as well.
Welcome to bisexuality. If it were for social conditioning and inhibitions we’d see that more men are bisexual than they suspect.
its a sign of submissiveness for me.
Very many people see the penis as an instrument of power. And dominance or submission in one’s relation to penises.
the main thing that bothers me is if not wanting to use your own penis on others makes me submissive
Not necessarily. There are transsexuals who don’t want the cock they were born with who have no desire to be submissive. But in general, yes.
makes me a person with a brain more suited for a female.
You will have to figure that out. There are guys who are satisfied just by wearing women’s lingerie. Others need to dress as a woman, crossdressers. And some actually need to cross the gender divide and become female.
It can take years to actually discern what your needs are. How bisexual. How submissive. A feminine male. Or a male who needs to become female.
It is only with experience that you can really begin to learn. Sexuality and sexual identity often evolves or unfolds in response to what happens to us.
i read that you have known transsexuals and different bdsm relations.. so maybe you have some valuable experience
My shame is that you wrote to me two years ago. I promised you a quick response. I let you down. You are the kind of person I should never fail.
Louche Literacy
There is a complicated backstory that I shan’t burden you with.
I’m currently seeking to draw attention to my most recent active site, Erotic Amusements.
To a very limited degree this is an outlet for my opposite sex loving and lusting component. Perhaps more my never ending enjoyment of the risible. And weird old junk.
Of of the site’s theme s women reading. That is arousing or funny images of women with books, sometimes newspaper or magazines. Or merely near books or in a library.
I.e.:
Anybody got a nice illustration of a girl reading a Kindle or Nook?
When I think of Oscar Wilde’s pale blonde souls that walk between passion and purity this is the kind of image that comes to mind.
A boy you want to both own and pamper.
All that awful homoerotic drivel that closeted gay men of the 19th century were capapble of bubbles in my mind.
I also like white go go boots (though the ones I bought for Alexandra were powder blue). I like that sort of very short pants with the wide belt.
Yes, I do like her large breasts.
And I really do like seeing ties on women.
The core of my androgynophillia seems to be to somehow make males and females more alike without losing their distinctive qualities. I’m not sure that is really true.
I want to escape the norm. But I tend to despise people who work at being atypical. You are or you aren’t: you can’t manufacture real distinctiveness.
But my penis is always at hand to verify the authenticity of my inclinations.
Without denying my own superficiality I think that much of what moves me erotically is of the mind.
Man Ray Transvestite Muse Barbette
The most attractive guy that I know encompasses genderedness in a way that I’ve learned is so very well. Knowing him established expectations that ultimately has never met.
Merle Oberon
A woman who too often comes to my mind has inclinations very special to me - particularly nowadays - with sanity. Sanity isn’t normally sexy. Usually it is madness. (I might be the poster boy for destructive passions.)
When I first started writing about sexuality on the web a dozen years ago I paraphrased Casey Stengle: sex is 90% mental. The other half is physical.
I dreamt of you last night. More honestly I stroked my cock while I thought of you.
There you were with you wrists bound above your head. My canes cut into your buttocks. First the wooden cane, then the acrylic and lastly the metal one. Your flinched, your breath became ragged but you wouldn’t cry, you wouldn’t beg me to stop.
With the metal cane only I moved down to the back of your thighs. Your twitches told me that each stroke hurt. Still there were no tears. Again you wouldn’t beg. I felt like I was eating you. At least eating your pain. Finally I stopped. Sitting on a tall stool I sat near you and let my hands roam across your body. I licked some of your welts hoping to taste what I’d done to your flesh.
I yanked you around. My cane cut into the front of your thighs. You spasmed, you whimpered. Selfishly you never asked for mercy. Tiring I sat before you and planned my triumph.
I thrust my tongue down your throat. I burned with love for your strength as much as I wanted to conquer it.
Your face assumed so many beautiful expressions of anguish when my cane cut into your nipples. But no tears flowed.
Finally I released you. But had you kneel one more time before me. My fingers rifled your hair. I treasured the shudders that still racked your body and your seeming indestructibility.
Finally I raised you up as friend and equal and hugged you tightly to me.
It can be difficult to respond to images without knowing the context. If the suffragette is expressing her freedom to wear clothing ordinarily associated with men then the photograph is appealing. If it is mockery by anti-feminists of the period then it is a bad thing.
I’ve lost my place.
I’ve lost my role
Perhaps I could once have fulfilled my friend. But I’ve lost everything.
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