#eroticism of fruit

[texas-junk-drawer]

Girls turn 17 and become addicted to

[gothsuguru]

figs and matcha as symbolism for suguru & reader……… by god there’s something there and i WILL find it

[vintage-tigre]

[oocca]

they should invent a sunday meme that's just like erotic without veering into blatant smut territory

[kamesama]

Hiii, I have a request! Ok so hear me out, what if Sukuna finds another woman and replace reader. make it as angsty as possible with a happy ending pretty please with a cherry on top🥹

you have no idea how excited i got when i read this, and then i got disappointed when i ( after my 3rd time reading the request ) noticed you said a happy ending. BUT SINCE IT HAS A CHERRY ON TOP, i will oblige. i would have made this worse if it wasn't for the happy ending.

— favourite: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: *cracks knuckles* utter, sheer, disgusting sensation of feeling replaced; jealousy; mentions of self-loathing; mentions of intimacy/intercourse ( sukuna sleeping w/ another woman, etc ); implication of violence / cruel sukuna moment ( what do you expect? ); happy ending tho ( ? ); hurt/comfort ( ? ); unspecified but it's heian era / true-form! sukuna; concubine w/ an attitude! reader. — word count: 1224

oh, to be the apple of one’s eye — utterly adored, all-too-greatly desired, cherished beyond measure. irreplaceable.

oftentimes you felt like so, when sunken into the mattress for the sake of being ravished. when preyed on by an intense blood-hued gaze. when cradled almost gently upon the throne that was sukuna’s lap. 

but how foolish of you to think that you were the single person privileged to chant his name in ecstasy. how adorable of you to think that only your fingernails could claw down his back to leave incoherent trails of pleasure you always lost yourself in. how pathetic of you to think that it was solely your own luxury to occupy the spot upon his thighs. how audacious of you to think that your lips, and your lips alone, were entitled to the act of worshipping his skin; from the sharp angle of his jaw, down his beating pulse, across the expanse of his broad chest. how bold of you to think that your tongue was the single one capable of conjuring up tales that could tickle his fancy and shackle his interest and entertain his unpredictable whims. 

and so, you pondered. when another had come to occupy his chamber after dark, with her lush skin and silken hair and slender legs, you pondered, for what else could you possibly do, contained between the walls of your room? 

have you rotten already?

you’ve seen her march and stomp to his chamber, leaving an invisible trace of the scent so strong you could swear it still haunted your nostrils. her lips glistened in the candlelight as if coated with a thick layer of honey that she must have rubbed into her tongue and gums earlier that eve. she wore her eroticism proudly; the subtle arch of her mouth was an aphrodisiac of its own. 

the walls were always thin, but that night, they seemed thinner than ever. you could swear you’ve heard every gasp, every moan, every writhe. the curl of her toes, the grip of her slender digits at the sheets as her back arched in that wondrous curve. did his lips touch every inch of her body? from the saccharine spot on her neck to the delightful mounds on her chest? the thin skin of her hip; the lush softness of her thighs?

did his tongue utter praises of her performance, of her appearance, of her? did he claim her with nothing short of delight coursing through his accursed veins?

the sole thought made you so sullenly disappointed. your own bedding had never felt colder.

“you look miserable, woman. what is it with that attitude?” as blunt as ever, sukuna questioned, his knuckles sunken into his cheek as he watched you peel a pomegranate. despite the skillfulness faithfully coating your movements, your digits remained stained with the rich hue of the fruit’s insides; despite the effort to be flawless.

your lips pursed in response, a small sign of displeasure standing hand-in-hand with reluctance. perhaps you are acting coy — sukuna concluded — lacing your foul mood with a girlish act and bratty demeanour. not that it would render him surprised. rather, it tickled his curiosity, fueled his fantasy, and made him just a tidbit of something somewhat akin to concern.

“speak, princess,” he cooed, deciding to humour your wits with barely a mouthful of niceties. he leaned back in his seat, patting his lap with one of his hands, whilst one rested on the thigh of his other leg. the remaining two were crossed over his chest either out of boredom or superiority; or perhaps both. 

you wanted to disobey; to turn your head away with a huff as your fingertips dug into pomegranate seeds. to maintain your shred of pride, wearing your displeasure with a sense of dignity out of sole respect for all the umbrage and anguish lulling you to sleep on the nights when you weren’t worthy enough. 

but you didn’t.

almost too eagerly, you put away the fruit into a bowl to bleed, nearly crawling to his lap. despite the willingness of your body to nest so closely against his, however, your face remained with its little scowl, your eyes almost overfilled with chagrin. 

“am i not your favourite?” 

the audacity soaked your words, dripping heavily off them. sukuna sensed it; the thickness of envy in your voice, and all the more loathing that nearly looked like some deranged form of self-pity.

his slit brows rose up, his crimson gaze intense enough to have made you feel that — if he were to look just a little deeper into your eyes — he would see the way your hands massaged your own breasts as if to grasp whether or not they were shapely enough; the way you trailed one same line underneath your eye time and time again in an attempt to determine if sleeplessness has made you revolting.

“why should you desire another to warm your bed?”

a grin tugged at the corners of sukuna’s mouth as a sense of understanding weighed on his shoulders. a small hum of acknowledgement sounded from the top of his throat, his eyes closing as he took your stained hand and brought it up to his lips.

“so that’s what this is about,” he mused, his tongue shamelessly trailing across your digits to lap up the sour sweetness coating them, “jealousy is a pesky thing, little one.”

“i don’t care,” you scoffed, trying to ignore the way he gently sucked on the tip of your finger before looking at you, one of his hands absentmindedly caressing up your thigh through the silken material of your clothing, “it should be me. just me. i am the only one you summon to peel your fruits and to accompany you while you write, so why call upon another to please you at night?” you demanded. it seemed to amuse him all the more.

he raised a brow at your words and their curious tone, “you’re forgetting your place, woman,” he spoke coldly, yet the edge of his statement was somewhat softened by a dash of entertainment. nonetheless, it was enough to send shivers down your spine as his fingers sunk into your cheeks, making your luscious lips pucker. he observed your features; that small tidbit of defiance standing in defence of your vulnerability, your need, your craving. it made him grin with a certain kind of wickedness.

“but i do suppose that makes you my favourite,” he uttered, “no one else would dare be such an audacious thing…” his thumb grazed over your lower lip, parting your mouth open just enough to catch a glimpse of the pink flesh inside, “i could rip your tongue out for your insolence,” he cooed slowly, as if imagining your bleeding mouth, filled to the brim with crimson, “and you’d still be just as pretty.”

a shiver ran down your spine enough to make your bones feel frozen to the marrow, yet his touch left your body scorched; blood boiling with desire for whatever wicked debauchery his mind could conjure up.

“but i do appreciate your tales. very much so.” he spoke, easing his grasp on your face, instead morphing it into an almost appreciative caress.

the uncharacteristically gentle kiss planted to your brow seemed to calm your pounding heart for a mere few moments.

“perhaps i have some reminding to do.”

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[mezmer]

The straight woman is unsatisfied with straight studio porn. She wants to get off to something in which the actors actually emote and show passion beyond canned moans from the women and, at best, vacant grunts from the men. She turns to gay porn. She knows it's not "for her," but neither was the straight porn, and at least the actors look like they're enjoying themselves. And for a short while she is satiated by Sean Cody et al, but she runs into the same problems she had to begin with. She was not looking at sex but a simulacrum of sex, trapped in Plato's cave. Unsatisfied, she turned to vintage gay porn, harkening to a time when most gay bars still had darkrooms and reliably smelled of piss and Amyl Nitrite. Here was the real thing, in all its animalistic passion. But she still couldn't immerse herself in the fantasy. She wanted the media to engage with her own imagination and meet her half-way, rather than having it spoonfed to her onscreen. She turned to yaoi, with its elongated figures reminiscent of mannerist portraiture, then bara, including hardcore BDSM scenes. But the tactile sensations depicted in the pages didn't do justice to their real life counterparts. She turned deeper into her own imagination, this time reading erotica. No, not the poolside paperbacks sold at Barnes and Noble. The good shit. Why then, was she still not satisfied? She dug deeper, searching for the true meaning of eroticism. She studied the psychoanalysis of Freud, the cultural criticism of Susan Sontag, the feminist poetry of Audre Lorde. She took vacation time and flew to Europe, starting at the caves of Lascaux to explore the human urge to create, then traversed the Camino de Santiago on foot, along the way meeting a 56 year old carpenter from Burgos named Andrés, with whom she had an explosive affair. They both knew it couldn't last, which made them cherish each other's touch all the more. Upon flying home, she gave up. If her search for true eroticism never bore fruit this whole time, why would it now? It would take years before she stumbled upon the answer by pure happenstance: Progressive metal

[derangedrhythms]

How (Not) to Speak of God who has tried to reach us, who will do anything to reach us who is enough, who is more than enough who should be extolled with our sugared tongues who knows us in our burnished windshields as we pass who remembers the honey-colored husks of the locust who knows the scent of dust, the scent of each sparrow whose shadow does not flicker under streetlights who can feel without exaggerating anything who will care when the iridescent flies swarm toward us who shall be as the wings of the dove, its coppery shadows who waits in the midst of the mosquitoes who devoured the fruit of our ground, the skin of the overripe pears who saw the world incarnadined, the current flowing whose face is electrified by its own light who could be a piece of flame, a piece of mind shimmering who can feel without eroticizing everything who will pity us when the bees disappear into their shadows who loves the dank earth, its wolves and its tigresses

Mary Szybist, from 'Incarnadine'

[starbuck]

the people who say that john darnielle should stop eroticizing wet fruit are among the most ignorant in the world

[pmamtraveller]

EVE, ADAM, AND THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN /1911/ by BYAM SHAW

Eve takes center stage in the painting, her fair naked skin contrasting against the dark red flowers surrounding her, while Adam, clenching a fist, is easily noticeable in the background. Although the serpent's head is fairly conspicuous, his coiled body in the top left is not as obvious.

Additionally, in this Garden of Eden, vibrant tropical birds are camouflaged within the flowers and enhance the scenery. Eve is the epitome of womanhood, and she stands alluringly in front of Adam, possibly enticing him to partake of the fruit of knowledge of good and evil.

Eve poses sensually conveying allure and temptation. Adam, standing behind her, represents both strength and passivity, suggesting his eventual giving in to temptation. The sneaky serpent, coiled and cunning, represents deception and sin, lurking in the shadows as a warning of inevitable human weakness.

Shaw merged traditional subjects with eroticism, leading to debates on art and sensuality limits. His emphasis on the human body and biblical stories also matched with wider artistic movements that delved into mythology and spirituality in the art of the early 1900s.

[femalethink]

Pornography is regularly used in ways that have nothing to do with sexual explicitness. Rather, pornography is commonly understood as a form of propaganda, a representational style linked with defamation and desensitization, if not destruction. Patricia J. Williams, who thinks legally, critically, and gracefully about race, sex, and injustice, calls pornography a "habit of thinking," and one that informs all manner of abusive and exploitative attitudes and relationships. Pornography, as I am using the term, is just that, a worldview, a way of thinking and acting that sexualizes and genders domination and submission, from the bedroom to the war room, making domination masculine (even when a woman plays that role) and submission feminine (even when a man plays that role), and making both the essence of sex. By wedding sexuality to inequality, pornography conditions women and men to have a substantial investment in maintaining the oppressive status quo—again, from interpersonal relationships to international politics.

Pornography kills off, and then substitutes itself for, the erotic—the life force, the earthy and ethereal force of growth, fruitfulness, exuberance, ecstasy, connectedness, and integrity. Pornography severs eroticism from intimacy and empathy and bonds it to voyeurism and objectification (of the self and of another). It incarnates pleasure in acts of hatred. It would have all of us believe, even those of us getting the "fuzzy end of the lollypop" (Sugar/Marilyn Monroe's lament in Some Like It Hot, Billy Wilder, 1959), that without a certain measure of power and powerlessness, danger, fear, pain, possession, shame, distance, and violence there wouldn't be any "sex" at all. Of course, the simultaneously pornographic, monotonous, and erotophobic culture tends to make that true. Variously damaged, alienated, and desensitized, pornography can become what we need in order to feel at all.

Some applaud pornography because it allows access to sexual imagery and language and easily offends offensive religious morality. Yet pornography is no real alternative to systemic sex-negative morality; rather it is an intrinsic part of it. Pornography and mainstream morality both stem from and continually reinforce a worldview that first makes a complex of body/low/sex/dirty/deviant/female/devil and then severs these from mind/high/spirit/pure/normal/male/god. For both, sex itself is the core taboo. Moralism systematically upholds the taboo and pornography systematically violates it. In the complex that evolves from this absurdity, taboo violation itself becomes erotically charged. Evil becomes seductive and the good mostly boring. Without patriarchal moralism's misogyny, homophobia, demand for sexual ignorance, and sin-sex-shame equation, pornography as we know it would not exist. And, together, the two work to maintain the sex and gender status quo.

—Jane Caputi, "Goddesses and Monsters: Women, Myth, Power, and Popular Culture."

[efemmera-archive]

Here is my medieval lesbian nun essay for those interested!

Her Noble Beloved: Lesbian Eroticism and Faith in Medieval Convent Life

For almost as long as nuns have existed, the existence of lesbian nuns has been a topic of endless speculation, derision, titillation and fascination, and yet very little is known about the actual lived experiences of the nuns who engaged in such relationships. Because of the fact that women have been mostly ignored throughout history both in their own times and by historians, and the fact that homosexuality has been both loosely defined and hidden throughout most of Christian history, it is difficult to put together an understanding of who the lesbian nuns of the Middle Ages were, what their lives were like, or what defines a woman as lesbian at all. In more recent years, there have been several sources collected uncovering a hidden history of medieval nuns who could be understood as lesbians, either through engagement in homosexual acts, envolvement in passionate close friendships and/or creation of homoerotic literature and poetry.

However, even though there is now a general agreement that lesbian nuns have existed and even some information on how they lived their lives, there is still a common misconception that lesbian sexuality in convents existed despite or even in contradiction to the faiths of the nuns involved. This is assumed because throughout its existence the Catholic Church has condemned homosexuality. However when looking at the records left behind by nuns themselves, it becomes clear that they did not see their lives in that way. I will argue that not only did many nuns view their lesbianism as an important and positive part of their faith and relationship with Christ, but that understanding lesbian nuns is integral to understanding the role of nuns and convent life in the history of Christianity overall.

In order to develop a fruitful understanding of the ways in which lesbianism has played a role in the history of convent life, it is first necessary to define the term “lesbian” as it is being used in this paper. “Lesbian” in the modern sense refers to a particular social and political category and identifier for women who engage solely in romantic and sexual relationships with other women. This definition has emerged mostly in the past 150 years, and is not applicable for understanding the lives of women in the Middle Ages. There was no such thing in medieval Europe as an identity for homosexuals, rather there were only people who engaged in homosexual acts. The few records of female homosexual sex acts in the era are all from records of legal proceedings and criminal persecutions, and those acts were grossly misunderstood. If it is difficult to uncover histories of male homosexuals, it is even harder to create lesbian histories because, as Judith M. Bennett simply explains, “Women wrote less; their writings survived less often… and they were less likely than men to come to the attention of civic or religious authorities.”

Furthermore, since the historical understanding of homosexuality at the time has been defined solely on the basis of sex acts, it ignores “the evidence… of intense emotional and homoerotic relations between medieval nuns.” Bennett explains. Both the modern and historical definitions of female homosexuality are not appropriate for understanding a history of lesbian women in the historical contexts they existed in. Because of this, I am using part of Bennett’s definition of “lesbian-like” as “women whose lives might have particularly offered opportunities for same sex love.” This is how the term “lesbian” should be understood as it applies to the women discussed in this paper.

Some medieval convents were places of learning and scholarship, where nuns were not only literate and well read but produced works of theology, poetry and literature. In some of the works that were produced in these convents, there can be found poetry and prose which celebrates amorousness and homoerotic love between women. Hadewijch, a thirteenth century Flemish Beguine (woman who lived in monastic poverty without taking official vows), wrote often on the theme of Minne, or love, the same word often used in secular romantic poetry of the time. In Hadewijch’s writing, the Minne she expresses towards her fellow Beguines is inextricably linked with her love of Christ. As Professor E. Ann Matter explains, “these writings stress that only through the imperfect experience of earthly love can union with the heavenly lover be glimpsed.” In Hadewijch’s “Letter 25,” the section addressed to a fellow Beguine named Sara is a clear example of the important relationship between lesbian love and love for Christ in the monastic lives of women.

“Greet Sara also on my behalf, whether I am anything to her or nothing.

Could I be fully all that in my love I wish to be for her, I would gladly do so; and

I will do so fully, however she may treat me. She has largely forgotten my

affliction, but I do not wish to blame or reproach her, seeing that Love [Minne]

leaves her at rest, and does not reproach her, although Love ought ever anew to

urge her to be busy with her noble Beloved. Now that she has other occupations

and can look on quietly and tolerate my heart’s affliction, she lets me suffer. She

is well aware, however, that she should be a comfort to me, both in this life of

exile and in the other life in bliss. There she will indeed be my comfort, although

she now leaves me in the lurch.”

The intensity of Hadewijch’s love for Sara is apparent in this writing, and as Matter puts it, “whether or not their relationship was explicitly sexual, it seems a possible interpretation that Hadewijch and Sara were ‘Particular Friends.’” Notably, it is through this love that Hadewijch urges Sara towards the “noble Beloved,” Christ. The lesbian affections present are far from a contradiction of Hadewijch’s faith, rather they are an integral part of it.

In other works produced by nuns, the passionate love expressed between women extends into the territory of the erotic. In one poem written by an unknown author in the twelfth century in a Bavarian women’s monastery, the female poet addresses another woman in the style of finamour- courtly love- with the poet acting as the lover and the subject the beloved.

“To G.; her singular rose

From A. the bonds of precious love.

What is my strength, that I may bear it,

That I should have patience in your absence?

Is my strength the strength of stones,

That I should await your return?

I, who grieve ceaselessly day and night

Like someone who has lost a hand or a foot?

Everything pleasant and delightful

Without you seems like mud underfoot

I shed tears as I used to smile,

And my heart is never glad.

When I recall the kisses you gave me,

And how with tender word you caressed my little breasts,

I want to die

Because I cannot see you.

What can I, so wretched, do?

Where can I, so miserable, turn?

If only my body could be entrusted to the earth

Until your longed-for return

Or if passage could be granted to me as it was to Habakkuk

So that I might come there just once

To gaze on my beloved’s face-

Then I should not care if it were the hour of death itself.”

This poem is quite remarkable for its seeming overt lesbian sexuality, to the point that John Boswell has called it “perhaps the most outstanding example of medieval lesbian literature.” However, although the content of the piece itself is exceptional, it is fairly conventional in terms of structure and themes. It is composed of rhymed couplets and, Matter explains, tonally echoes the spirituality of medieval readings of the Song of Songs. Even as the piece pushes the boundaries with its eroticism, it harkens back to and celebrates a deeply rooted Christian faith in its language and style. Additionally, Matter notes that the piece fits within “the sophisticated and venerable tradition of spiritual friendship.” And its theme of “longing for the absent beloved” situates it among the many works of verse on the topic of courtly love, a concept also explored by Hadewijch in her writing.

While Hadewijch expressed affection and intimacy for her monastic sisters, and the anonymous poet above composed erotic love verses, one later nun’s lesbian affair made her an exceptional and outrageous figure- and an invaluable reference point for understanding the complexity of lesbian nuns’ relationships with their faith, Christ, and the Church.

Benedetta Carlini was an exceptional woman even before the sex scandal which she is known for. She became a nun in a fairly common way, being brought to a convent at the age of nine by her parents. She was from a well-off family as evidenced by her literacy, and managed to become Abess of the Convent of the Mother of God before the age of 30. She is best known, however, for her sexual relationship with fellow nun Bartolomea Crivelli which was documented in Ecclesiastical records from 1619-23. While this places her in a slightly later time period than the other women discussed in this paper, it is still important to consider her case as it is the most well documented case of a sexual relationship between nuns in the Medieval or Early Modern period, and furthermore much of the detail is taken directly from the testimony of Bartolomea, albeit recorded by a male scribe. While it is important to note that the truth of the relationship may be obscured by the women’s attempts to minimize their actions as well as the misunderstandings and misgivings of the authorities creating documentation, it is still a remarkable record of the life of a lesbian nun and how her faith was deeply interwoven with her sexuality.

One document describes the sex acts of Benedetta and Bartolomea in detail. However, Judith C. Brown notes, “because [the authors] lacked an imaginative schema to incorporate the sexual behaviors described, they had a rather difficult time assimilating the account.” She further explains that as the sex acts are described, the handwriting of the document itself deteriorates and words are crossed out, rewritten, or completely illegible.

“For two continuous years, two or three times a week, in the evening after disrobing and going to bed and waiting for her companion, who serves her, to disrobe also, she would force her into the bed, and kiss her as if she were a man she would stir herself on top of her so much that both of them corrupted themselves because she held her by force sometimes for one, sometimes for two, sometimes for three hours. And [she did these things] during the most solemn hours, especially in the morning, at dawn. Pretending that she had some need, she would call her, taking her by force she sinned with her as was said above. Benedetta, in order to have greater pleasure, put her face between the other's breasts and kissed them, and wanted always to be thus on her. And six or eight times, when the other nun did not want to sleep with her in order to avoid sin, Benedetta went to find her in her bed and, climbing on top, sinned with her by force. Also at that time, during the day, pretending to be sick and showing that she had some need, she grabbed her companion's hand by force, and putting it under herself, she would have her put her finger in her genitals, and holding it there she stirred herself so much that she corrupted herself. And she would kiss her and also by force would put her own hand under her companion and her finger into her genitals and corrupt her. And when the latter would flee, she would do the same with her own hands. Many times she locked her companion in the study and making her sit down in front of her, by force she put her hands under her and corrupted her; she wanted her companion to do the same to her and while she was doing this she would kiss her. She always appeared to be in a trance while doing this.”

The prurient detail of the document is astonishing considering the sexual taboos of the time, however what follows is even more fascinating as the Benedetta’s role in the affair takes on a fascinating mystical and religious element.

“Her Angel, Splendidiello, did these things appearing as a boy of eight or nine years of age. This Angel Splendidiello, through the mouth and hands of Benedetta, taught her companion to read and write, making her be near her on her knees and kissing her and putting her hands on her breasts…

This Splendidiello called her his beloved; he asked her to swear to be his beloved always and promised that after Benedetta's death he would always be with her and would make himself visible. He said I want you to promise me not to confess these things that we do together, I assure you that there is no sin in it; and while we did these things he said many times: give yourself to me with all your heart and soul and then let me do as I wish...

He made the sign of the cross all over his companion’s body after having committed with her many dishonest acts; [he also said] many words that she couldn't understand and when she asked him why he was doing this, he said that he did this for her own good. Jesus spoke to her companion [through Benedetta] three times, twice before doing these dishonest things. The first time he said he wanted her to be his bride and he was content that she give him her hand, and she did this thinking it was Jesus. The second time it was in the choir at 40 hours, holding her hands together and telling her that he forgave her all her sins. The third time it was after she was disturbed by these affairs and he told her that there was no sin involved whatsoever and that Benedetta while doing these things had no awareness of them. All these things her companion confessed with very great shame.”

The role of Benedetta’s apparent spiritual visions in her lesbian affair raises numerous questions, the answers to which can only be speculated on. One of the most obvious considerations is the possibility that Benedetta did not in fact believe in what she was saying, and simply lied to excuse her behavior and prevent Bartolomea from going to the authorities. I believe this can be refuted on the grounds that Benedetta reported many other miraculous experiences during her life which had no association with her affair. In fact, it was during an investigation into claims that she had been visited by Christ and male angels and received stigmata that the affair was discovered in the first place.

It is entirely possible that Benedetta really believed in some or all of the experiences she claimed to have. There were many cases in the time period of nuns claiming to have visions from Christ or angels, and even precedent for those visions being in an eroticized context as in the experiences of the 12th century Hildegard de Bingen, a fellow abbess who was venerated after her death and recently canonized as a saint. While on the surface Benedetta’s claims of being possessed by Jesus during lesbian sex acts may seem outrageous, they can be better understood within the culture of the “heavenly bridegroom” which positioned Christ as a husband figure to nuns. As seen in the above writing of Hadewijch, there is precedent for situations in which the Christ as husband figure worked to sublimate lesbian desires between nuns. While Benedetta’s case is certainly an extreme version of that dynamic, it is not necessarily as idiosyncratic as it seems at first glance.

Ultimately, it is clear that rather than lesbianism contradicting their faiths, many medieval lesbian nuns actually used faith as an integral part of their lesbian affections and relationships. Be it a scorned lover urging her sister beloved to follow the noble Beloved, a monastic woman using biblical style and allusions in her erotic poetry, or a nun enacting lesbian sex acts as part of purported visions from Christ, faith played an essential part in the experience of many medieval lesbian nuns. In order to build a clearer and better rounded understanding of these women and their lives, we must unlearn the assumptions we have based on homophobic and heteronormative histories, and begin to meet these women as they understood themselves and their faith on their own terms.

Works Cited

Bennett, Judith M. “‘Lesbian-Like’ and the Social History of Lesbianisms.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 9, no. 1/2 (2000): 1–24. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3704629.

Brown, Judith C. “Lesbian Sexuality in Renaissance Italy: The Case of Sister Benedetta Carlini.” Signs 9, no. 4 (1984): 751–58. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3173632.

Matter, E. Ann. “My Sister, My Spouse: Woman-Identified Women in Medieval Christianity.” Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 2, no. 2 (1986): 81–93. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25002043.

[vintage-tigre]

[soberpluto]

Scribble: Scorpio & Pluto Rising

First post here! This is a brainstorm on what it feels like to be a Scorpio Rising, Pluto (Rx) conjunct ASC (personal case here). Any given position can't be generalized, but this configuration definitely colors my personality BIG TIME! I'm sure other fellow plutonians will agree on this… let me know!

Life is tough, but you're tougher. Nobody can break you but you. You desire to annihilate your ego before it annihilates you. Defensiveness is a deep ingrained instinct. Extremely bullied or overpowered in childhood. Or, unwillingly intimidating. Nobody dares to touch you. Nobody wants to mess with you. You don't fear death, you provoke it. You destroy to build. You build to destroy. Finding yourself in power struggles time after time. You are what people fight or obsess for. You fight and obsess for objects of interest. Addictive tendencies. You need something to be fixated upon. Obsession with looks. Your appearance matches your inner changes. You are master of your image. You push your body to the extremes. You command others to back off with just one glance. Your eyes do the talk. Your stare kills. Eyes that fuck. Thick, stern brows. Hormonal imbalances. Fertility issues. The gravity in your voice. Magnetizing or repelling beyond logical explanation. Mystery is your trademark. You get under people's skin and nerves. X-ray vision. X-ray intuition. Inborn detective. Secrets bow to you like lovers. Deciphering motives is your innate talent. You study and deconstruct people as if they were machinery. You read the room and know where power emanates from. Your presence is never lukewarm. Others fear you. You intrigue others. You don't understand why people react so extremely about you. Other's think you are angry or mournful when you're not. You pretend you don't care, but deep inside you do. You see beyond, but nobody sees inside. Privacy is your sanctuary. You are your sanctuary. Your place of retreat is unknown to the world. Once you let others in, your charm shines effortlessly. Your charisma emerges when you trust. Fear becomes power. The underworld is appealing. You are protected by Death. Dark night of the soul is your terrain. You see beauty in darkness. The darkness inside radically transforms you, for the better and worse. You harness power from grief. Sorrow can be your executioner, but also your savior. Your demons become your friends. You are not afraid of people's disturbing side. Others project their shadow aspects unto you. Others can't understand you. Others can't read you. You make them curious to see what's inside, what you're made of. Do you even know what you are made of? You are a collection of personas, no single identity. You are never the same after critical experiences. You attract intensity, like it or not. Your deepest desire is intimacy, but it never seems safe enough to get there. When you desire something, you know no middle grounds. You die for what you love. You love to death. Your secret wish is to merge souls with the one you love. You draw unwanted attention. You attract over-sexualized people. Animal magnetism. Unspoken seduction. Others want to sex you beyond their control. You desire the forbidden. All things taboo spark your interest. You are the forbidden fruit. You awaken dark desire in your erotic partners, and they like it. Your sex is like a drug. Sexual chemistry is addictive to you. You transform yourself through sexual encounters. Sex partners regenerate when they lie with you. Highest level of intimacy is through eroticism. Tantra. Spiritual sex. Orgasm is resurrection. You like it rough. BDSM and power plays are tasteful. Others want to tame you. You secretly want to dominate those you love. Intense pleasure in being submissive, too. Unspoken and dense sexual tension. The Shaman. The High Priestess. The detective. The psychologist. The prostitute. The soul surgeon. Autodestructive. Self-healing. Are you the hero or the villain? Desire is your basic drive. You despise when someone messes with your vices. Betrayals are your last straw. They happen more than you'd wish to admit. Best way to get you raging is by trying to fool you or cheat on you. Whomever breaks your heart is irremediably dead to you. You don't recycle relationships. You design your own heaven, and also your own hell. Which one shall you cross over this time? 💀 

[droughtofapathy]

"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby

Cabaret

April 24, 2024 | Broadway | August Wilson Theatre | Evening | Musical | Original | 2H 45M + 1H preshow

I am kicking my feet and twirling my hair as I lovingly, tenderly, reverently carve Bebe Neuwirth's name into the Tony personally.

Bebe Neuwirth Verdict: My Soul Transcended Space and Time

A Note on Ratings

Oh. The rest of the show. Right.

Cabaret is one of the greatest pieces of musical theatre to exist. I have seen four productions of this show on multiple "levels" of production (Broadway, community, regional, etc.) The show being what it is, it seems inconceivable to ever stage a poor production of a show with such rich material. Even if the talent pool came from a small town, the music, the lyrics, the story would be so strong, so moving, so timeless, that nothing coupled possibly ruin it.

I was wrong.

The fifth Broadway revival of this beloved Kander and Ebb musical is a stagnant spectacle whose price tag seems to actively encourage its potential audience to pick up their knitting, their book, and their broom, because the holiday of the Kit Kat Club is only meant for the rich denizens of society. Helmed by a director with no prior experience in musical theatre, the show fundamentally mistrusts its audience's intelligence and the once-masterful subtext is now about as subtle as a brick through a fruit shop window.

It's a bad sign when the security staffer at the entrance line tells you the design is excellent, the visuals are excellent, "the show is...good," with pointed hesitation and eyebrow raising. What would we do without New York honesty?

Under this new "immersive" direction, patrons enter through a seedy back alley door (with too many steps, which granted, they did warn me about before and I should have listened) and into a massive three-story club design with pre-show entertainment and drinks galore. With limited seating and rather underwhelming acts, my disabled ass went to my seat in the theatre instead where the whole auditorium has been gutted and renovated to create a theatre-in-the-round setup that ultimately does not suit the staging. Instead, actors play primarily to the "east" side, leaving the "west" to see a lot of backs throughout.

As characters, the Emcee and Sally are deranged, clownish, and utterly devoid of layers and complexity. They are exactly what their outlandish costumes, garish makeup, and overwrought performances say they are: too much. Eddie Redmayne is going for some kind of demonic muppet clown portrayal. This interpretation fails to do what the character is meant to do. Seduce, entice, enchant, all of which can be done in a morbid or even unsettling way, but Redmayne only ever irritates and repels. Similarly, Sally is an easy character to misunderstand. She's seemingly vapid, ignorant, and concerned with nothing more than having a good time. She's a character on the verge, but only ever on the verge. Too often I have seen performers act out the titular song as a full-blown breakdown. It is not. It is a triumph. It is a discordant celebration as the rest of the show falls into despair. In directing all of Sally's numbers to be as hysterical, unhinged, and off-putting as they are, it's clear the director, the producers, and to an extent, the actress who went along with it, do not understand this character, this story, this world. Less is more. Trust the material. Trust the audience.

Cabaret is a racy show with plenty of lewd and lascivious content. But this production takes the graphic nature to an extreme that ultimately misses the mark. Instead of a seductive coaxing, or even a morbid eroticism, we're granted such overt choreography (a man jerks off a giant black phallus into a woman's mouth, a woman mimes raining her tit milk all over a man's face, a woman graphically masturbates to Mein Kampf) that it becomes a juvenile display. Like children who make sexual jokes to be edgy, but only ever sound immature. It's off-putting, it's annoying, it's dull. There are multiple rewrites to the "Willkommen" introduction schtick, and the new lines are such a downgrade.

There are moments of relief amidst the spectacle that somehow still lacks spectacle. Bebe Neuwirth is a wonder of wonders, and her chemistry with Steven Skybell as Herr Schultz is a miracle of miracles. They are the saving grace of this monstrosity. Age, experience, and deep connection to the writers and the show give their performances a joyous, heartbreaking, beautiful tone. They are real, they are grounded, and they will shatter your heart. These scenes are the only places the director shows she's capable, perhaps because she has only ever done dramatic straight plays. The decision to stage "Married" as a trio with Kost spot-lit and singing in tandem was simple and brilliant and poignant. The way this show is meant to be. "What Would You Do?" is staged perhaps a little oddly, given the director's inability to remember she's doing an in-the-round show, but Bebe's rendition is the best I've ever experienced. I have heard this song sung beautiful by stronger singers, many who still grasp the acting well, but none hold a candle to her. This is a woman who has torn out her own beating heart from her chest as she chooses safety and self-preservation, even if it breaks her. This is a woman who is old and tired and not brave. Who has been given this one moment of happiness in her life and she has no choice but to saw it off like a gangrened limb before it poisons her entire body. Schultz and Schneider are the heart of this show. They deserve better.

It's been said by others, but the issues with this production seems to stem from its creative team's fundamental misunderstanding of Jewish culture. The show was written by three Jewish men who understood what was at stake. They had all lived through WWII. This is a production with a distinctly English tone, directed by gentiles, for gentiles. Broadway and New York, more familiar with Judaism than perhaps the West End, clearly received this revival differently.

Final Verdict: A Long Slog to Curtains

A Note on Ratings

[karlkapri]

How (Not) to Speak of God

who has tried to reach us, who will do anything to reach us / who is enough, who is more than enough / who should be extolled with our sugared tongues / who knows us in our burnished windshields as we pass / who remembers the honey-colored husks of the locust / who knows the scent of dust, the scent of each sparrow / whose shadow does not flicker under streetlights / who can feel without exaggerating anything / who will care when the iridescent flies swarm toward us / who shall be as the wings of the dove, its coppery shadows / who waits in the midst of the mosquitoes / who devoured the fruit of our ground, the skin of the overripe pears / who saw the world incarnadined, the current flowing / whose face is electrified by its own light / who could be a piece of flame, a piece of mind shimmering / who can feel without eroticizing everything / who will pity us when the bees disappear into their shadows / who loves the dank earth, its wolves and its tigresses

― Mary Szybist, from 'Incarnadine'

Hockey Poetry Post 68/?

photocredit: dan_kozel93