#fellow useless lesbians uNITE!

[firesong-writes69]

Hey! Just letting you know that I followed you because my name is also Nikki and I’m a useless lesbian!

[lucky-clover-gazette]

this is about the handmaid's tale

if you don't want to hear about the handmaid's tale, or think it's useless literature or not worth mentioning because of its failings, just move on from this post and find something else that speaks to you

that said

the handmaid's tale does have value. it does. genuine question - have you read it, and/or the recently published sequel the testaments? what do you know about them? there are issues with both, as with any media with any substance, but tht is a relevant satire and its sequel is atwood's attempt to write something NON defeatist in the same world.

intersectionality is important and the handmaid's tale does have a main character who is a white, straight, privleged afab person pre-gilead. june is that, yes. however, there is a LARGE cast of afab people designated handmaids and others who are actually allies to gilead, and their stories, races, sexualities, and socioeconomic backgrounds are all very different. personally when i read the book i saw myself in june's friend moira, who is a lesbian but is forced into sex work with powerful men because she wasn't compliant as a handmaid, and fellow handmaid ofglen, who is punished for falling in love with another women working at the house where she is a handmaid. to suggest that the book is just for and about straight women, at least, is fucking absurd.

i'm not going to go over an Intersectionality Laundry List of the boxes each character checks, because honestly i think it's performative bullshit that prevents important stories from doing their jobs, and i doubt i'm changing someone's mind by doing so. if you don't want to care about anything i'm saying, you're completely entitled to that, especially if you feel the story doesn't resonate with you. but the story is NOT just for straight white privileged women to get off on their own suffering, and to portray it as such at a time where women are processing these events in the best ways they can, is... i mean, come on. especially in their comment sections, where countless pro-life idiots are probably already attacking them if they've gotten any kind of attention.

hell, and atwood is even trying to make a point about women who side with gilead through characters like serena joy and aunt lydia, who are both privileged white women who are never framed in a way that asks for the reader's empathy--in fact, the opposite. serena is almost a greater betrayal to women's rights than the men in charge of gilead, and she is far more brutal to offred our main character. that's saying something about people like amy coney barrett, and if we just write off this book as a pity piece for the white women who see themselves in offred it's honestly a disservice to other characters' roles in the story. it has so much to say and goes even deeper in the show, sometimes in ways i personally didn't even like, so don't think i'm a total apologist for the whole thing. in fact, i'm kind of cold towards atwood now, because while she seems not to be actively wishing harm to trans folks the way jkr is, she also seems not to really care about advocating for trans people. but handmaid's tale doesn't equal atwood, and it's such a cultural cornerstone at this point that it's unreasonable to expect any person who cites it to have a thorough timeline of everything problematic about the story and author.

anyway, in the books and show -- each handmaid that's given any kind of backstory is different, but they are united by one thing: being oppressed by a christofascist society. kiiinda like real life, right now. it's very relevant to EVERY afab person's potential future and does a good job of showing what a christofascist state looks like. when i saw that term for the FIRST TIME EVER yesterday i immediately was like, "oh, that's gilead." probably a lot of people had the same thought process, just by being somewhat exposed to literature and popular media.

i just think it would be rly nice if people stopped shutting down others who are trying to put into words what they fear for their own futures the best way they can, relating to popular media. it's not helpful and it feels, at least to me, like yet another straw of "shut up women" to add onto the camel's back. you don't have to like or reference tht or find value in it as a feminist piece of literature, but i would love to see fewer tweets belittling the analogies people are making in their shock or people directly replying to tweets like "well actually," especially if the person being critical isn't afab.

i'm not advocating for the handmaid's tale to be the pinnacle of feminist literature at all, but you have to acknowledge that to a lot of afab people of ALL races and sexualities and socioeconomic statuses, especially those older than gen z, it has been for the majority of their lives. let them hurt and explore that hurt. be kind. we're all so fucking pissed and hurt and tired right now.

or don't, but i've said my piece and it felt good to get out

(also it's not lost on me that tht is written by a woman and i don't see nearly as much "well actually"ing about male authors' literature that is commonly mentioned in progressive social justice-adjacent spaces)

(and yeah it's corny for people to cosplay handmaid's i'm pretty sure margaret atwood is cringing too)

[ellelans]

Queer person with smaller boobs here! Can confirm I find all types of boobs attractive. Big, small, perky, saggy, big nips, little nips, even no nips! They're just a sexy bonus to whoever they happen to be attached to and if I'm attracted to the person as a whole then whatever their boobs look like is fine by me! I hope the other anon does whatever makes them happy, because ultimately it's about their own comfort and self-love. I know it's easier said than internalised, but what other people think really doesn't matter, especially when it comes to your body. <3

Agree with everything you said fellow queer nonnie-all boobs are just amazing,but they are really just a part of a person you find attractive.I have a lesbian friend who is losing her marbles when she sees girls with serious implants,you know boobs that look so unnatural its ridiculous and another one who couldn't care less if they are big or small as long as there are big areolas and me I just prefer them as bigger as possible but all of this is useless when you find someone you're attracted to and what you're looking for is not there.We are all different in our preferences,but also united by our love of boobs lol

And of course you indeed should only do what makes you comfortable because its your body,the only one you got and you live there <3

[edelgard-more-like-baedelgard]

Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth Characters: Jeralt (Fire Emblem), Rhea (Fire Emblem), Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Claude von Riegan, My Unit | Byleth, Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dorothea Arnault, Caspar von Bergliez, Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir, Petra Macneary, Bernadetta von Varley Additional Tags: more character tags will be added as they show up, Byleth is a useless lesbian, Canon-Typical Violence Summary:

Byleth led a simple life, working alongside her father and his company of Mercenaries. But all that changes the day three strangers come stumbling into camp and her gaze locks with eyes of pale lavender.

Story is based on Crimson Flower, as such expect spoilers as the story continues.

NEXT CHAPTER FINALLY DONE, MY FELLOW GAYS.

[employee645-a]

i again, it's the anon with the best friend predicament. I also have a NSFW confession to make. So I told best friend 2 about my crush on best friend 1 during a sleepover at her house. And she's been really supportive ever since I came out. But in the morning I had this weird dream where best friend 2 was giving me little kisses and um other stuff. In my defense i was telling her we shouldn't because it might ruin the friendship. But it came out for nowhere and left me feeling guilty confused

And a little dirty? Like I betrayed her trust or something? And is my subconscious telling me my feelings for best friend 1 aren’t valid? Or do I just develop feelings for anyone I’m emotionally intimate with? Btw best friend 2 has a boyfriend and is mostly straight even tho she keeps saying we should move to the states and get married if we’re both still single at 40 (cos I’m from Singapore where gay sex is illegal even though the law isn’t enforced) PS I finally tried junior mints

Oh, the promises (or weird confessions?) of straight girls who want to move in with their lesbian pals. Been there, honey… been there. I had my best female friend (who I had a mega crush on) tell me that she wanted to move in with me and live together before she married a (very useless) guy.

What.

Yeah, I’ve heard it. They broke up. I cackled in the corner. Mental breakdowns occurred and we never spoke again. C’est la vie, mon vieux.

So I looked up the LGBT laws in Singapore because, well, it’s a Monday morning and my groups are on the road. From what I see (and someone PLEASE correct me if I’ve made an error), back in 2007 “…oral and anal sex were legalised for heterosexuals and female homosexuals only.” Your male counterparts, however, have a much more clearly defined write-up of yea and nay in regards to these matters, and yes, it’s illegal, but sporadically enforced under the Penal Code, Section 377A.

Whether or not it’s legal doesn’t necessarily mean it’s perfect safe for *you* and *your circumstances* despite the grey area of it. It’s legal throughout the USA, but that doesn’t mean my girlfriend and I are skipping down the street, hand-in-hand in front of the donut shop in rural Michigan or a barbecue joint in Greenville, NC or a fried brain sandwich hut in Indiana… okay, so we stop for food a lot, but you get the point. You know the time and place for things, and what you want for the future. You’re just starting out here!

It sounds like you have some nice, ally friends, which is a terrific start. Huzzah! It’s very easy for me to say while sitting at my comfy desk in the snuggly safe corner of the Northeastern United States that you need to get some LGBTQ friends. It’s not that easy given your social climate and circumstances. You are brave, dearest anon, for coming out to Best Friend #2, but it might help as you go through this journey to also find some fellow LGBTQ pals as well, others with whom you can talk (commiserate? :-) about the social situation where you are. Perhaps your high school or college/university has a group of LGBTQ and allies? Or, if you are planning to go to college/university outside of Singapore, maybe wait until then? I know the waiting can seem like an impossible amount of time, but you need to consider your well-being, safety, and comfort levels in doing so. By coming out to your friend, I think you’re on the way to being ready for that and opening yourself to fellow LGBTQers out there.

And I am so excited you finally tried Junior Mints. Did you know, we have a Halloween edition here too…

*sending hugs!*

[michaelbartram]

Illusion (earlier chapters in reverse order below beginning with Prologue)

Chapter 7

 Felicia took a long time getting ready for the evening entertainment. Bath, hair-wash, trim and comb. Calf-length ‘forties gown, elegant cast-off from a theatrical costumier. Mascara, rouge, lipstick. Gleaming, precious jewellery that had belonged to her grandmother. Finally, scent from Tchi-tcho in Paris, a gift from Claudio.

Already in his dinner jacket, Claudio was lounging on the bed reading. She turned from the mirror. He breathed in sharply. ‘Felicia… my goodness…You look… superb…’

He tossed the book on to the table and gazed at her as she turned back to the mirror, checking herself, shifting positions.

Claudio was a poet, a minor, perhaps a failed one, but a man whose habit was to spin conceits and allusions, particularly in response to beauty. He might have said, ‘Till now, Felicia, if I speak truly, you’ve been pretty and very sexy but, heaven help me, now I see it gives way to something serious. You are beautiful. Your beauty in fact staggers me. One could say you have become a woman but actually I tremble in your presence now as before a goddess, or creature from myth. Dressed – ironically I presume – like Eva Perón in her heyday, you are Aphrodite, Kali, Lilith… Circe, who at a stroke can turn your admirers into grunting pigs. I am in great trepidation, Felicia. I must beware as never before.’

But that kind of declaration would have both incited mockery and increased her power over him, so he merely repeated, ‘Superb… superb…’

This praise seemed to gratify her. Leaning across him, engulfing him in her Parisian scent, she patted the front of his dress shirt. ‘You’re smart in your tux, Claudio. You may partner me in the dancing. You’ve never seen me dance, have you?’

‘I’d rather kiss you.’

‘You’ll smudge my make-up.’

She dug him in the ribs as was her habit. ‘Come on, Claudio. You can show a leg. Back in the ‘70s when they all turned to rock I’m sure you stuck with Argentine tango.’

‘Hardly,’ he riposted, struggling to break free from her prodding fingers. ‘You know I don’t dance.’

While she went back to the mirror, he stepped through to the balcony, to the warm night air and the moon rising over the mountains. ‘What does she know about the ‘70s?’ he asked himself. ‘La Represión. Then the Malvinas tragedy, Alfonsἱn, the return to democracy after the dictatorship, mean as much to her as if they’d happened on Mars. She has no politics, no opinions. She knows nothing about the ‘70s.’

A few minutes later they joined the stream of guests heading down the poplar avenue. As they made their way round by the lake, reflections from the summerhouse lanterns pointed a path across the dark waters to their destination. There was much chatter and a great air of anticipation. Everyone arrived at once but with the efficiency of the practised restaurant-goer Claudio cut through and made sure of a lakeside table. They sat down. Instantly a waiter appeared and poured a concoction. The taste of fruit and spices was so arresting that Claudio scarcely missed the alcohol. The guest mingled and chatted. The waiters moved among them with trays of vegetarian canapés.

With a roll of drums, a man in crimson jacket and bow-tie leapt on to the stage.

‘I’m not going to make a speech,’ he declared, ‘but simply welcome you with a few well-chosen words. We hope you’ll enjoy your time here. We uphold a vision of how life might be. We ask you to surrender sluggish appetites and diseased preoccupations, to throw off your addictions and obsessions. Be happy and healthy. Return to the world changed. Four amazing weeks. Grasp it. Make it yours.’

The band started up: violins, guitars, bandoneons and some older instruments. The music pleased Claudio. It was melodic and plaintive, above all in keeping: tango and melonga rhythms but older perhaps, with even a touch of pre-Columban influence.

Felicia looked out across the lake. He scrutinized her fine profile, her shapely nose and sensual lips. Her shoulders were bare. Her necklace shone.

He took her hand.

‘Felicia.’

She turned to look at him with sparkling eyes.

‘I want to know…’ he began, but he noticed that her attention was elsewhere. The music had moved from its soulful beginnings to something livelier. Felicia was watching the band and tapping her feet.

‘Hey,’ she whispered, ‘come on…’

Guests were gliding on to the floor from every side. Those without partners were taken in hand by staff. Soon the floor was full.

Claudio shook his head. She pleaded with him. ‘Go on, Claudio I’ll show you how to dance.’

Still he refused.

The dancing continued. Felicia got up, strode from the table and disappeared right into the crowd of dancers.

As it happened, the music at that point quickened and turned raw. Now it was passion laid bare, more furious as the dancers formed units which expanded then teetered and snaked towards others to form yet larger groups.

The dance space was writhing: a single creature, it seemed to Claudio who alone sat at his table staring, aghast. He saw a monster whose name was Copulator, a rutting and roaring mass of pumping flesh, of sweat and streaming hair.

He ran trembling fingers across his brow. ‘Where is she in all this?’ He rose and prowled round the beast Copulator with narrowed eyes.

‘Where? Is she nowhere? Did she run off?’

He moved to the other side and peered out. His eye swept the lakeside path lit by the moon. ‘No…’

Turning back he saw her. He went forward. Not only was she there, she was the very heart of the writhing Copulator. To his astonishment a space had formed round her. She bent back in an acrobatic arch, pointed one toe-cap forward and lifted the hem of her 1940s gown. Knee, thigh, stocking tops. With all revealed she pulled back her head and gazing up swayed dreamily as if to say (it seemed to Claudio), ‘Where is the man who is worthy of feasting on me?’

She surveyed the crowd, gently gyrating her hips, lowering her hem then lifting it to tease again. She tapped her foot in time with the drum beats. The drumming grew fiercer. She stamped and called out, expressing a gypsy sorrow and impatience. The circle round her clapped the rhythm. They urged her on with shouts and whoops.

Samuel was there. Sabatini’s mousy wife had thrown restraint to the winds and was jumping up and down like a child. (Where was Sabatini by the way?) To Claudio, who had by now pushed his way to the front of the circle, they were all transformed. A field of donkeys braying at Felicia. It had all happened so quickly. It was inexplicable.

Still the queen was looking for her consort.

A man stepped forward. A tango dancer from the Perón era with suit and greying hair.  He clasped her waist. The band started up with a melancholy-sensual tune, Ilusión. The dancer led the queen-whore into the dance.

Paulus.

Claudio stared at the floor, breathing hard, temples pulsing, transfixed. Ilusión. That music, so haunting, which his mother and father used to dance to after guests had left, while he peeped down through the banisters, spoke to him like no other. It was the lilting heart of love and loss. Of hope dashed and mind broken. Of final abandonment, solitude, the abyss.

‘Ilusión…’ he murmured. ‘Oh Ilusión. You will kill me.’

Finally, he could not bear to watch. He went back to his table by the water.

After intolerable minutes, Ilusión drew to a close. The applause was thunderous. ‘Bravo Felicia! Bravo Paulus!’ Felicia appeared. Her mascara eyes came to rest on Claudio, then she re-joined him.

The music of Ilusión still ran in his head. Unable to look at her, he gazed at the moon high above the mountain crests. That night, as if by some cruel enchantment, besides becoming beautiful, she had revealed herself as that he admired above all else: an artist – despite her shallowness, materialism and ignorance. How could it be? How bear it?

A waiter, an old gentleman, made a flourish of pouring a drink for the star performer. ‘Magnificent,’ he said. ‘May I ask where you learnt to dance like that?’

‘Ballet school,’ Felicia replied, wiping the sweat from her forehead and gulping the drink down.

‘Yes,’ said the waiter, revealing himself as a man of culture, ‘I thought I detected the mild contempt of the classical dancer obliged to perform for tourists at the Crazy Horse.’

She shrugged. ‘We had Saturday night parties. The teachers were all dikes. They got off on teaching us to dance sexy.’

‘Well,’ said the waiter, exuding graciousness tinged with lechery, ‘in your case they certainly succeeded. To be candid, after seeing you dance I will find it hard to sleep tonight.’ He bowed and moved away.

Claudio took her hand. ‘The waiter was right, Felicia. Your dancing was fantastic.’

‘Thank you, Claudio. You see, I’m not entirely useless, in spite of your low opinion of me. Perhaps I should have been a dancer.’

‘Definitely, to judge by what I’ve just seen. But,’ he added with studied casualness, ‘I didn’t know you’d been to a lesbian ballet school.’

‘Oh yes.’

The party atmosphere, the darkness hovering over the waters, emboldened him. ‘Were you lesbian yourself at the time, Felicia? I know you aren’t now, by the way, because you told me so in connection with your gay friend Bel.’

‘I fooled around back then.’

Claudio tried to turn away from the images that came to him but was compelled onward. ‘Did you take drugs then?’

‘I smoked grass when I was thirteen.’

‘Who did you first have sex with?’

‘Claudio…’

‘Was it a boy or a girl?’

She threw her head back. ‘Claudio, it was a female if you must know but listen, what can I do to stop you asking me all this?’

‘I just like to know things. It’s quite innocent. I am a connoisseur of the human heart.’

‘No. You’re a pervert who likes to think of doped up schoolgirls getting into each other’s knickers.’

This picture, conjured on her sensual lips as she eyed him provocatively, caused Claudio’s heart to race. He turned away and pondered the glistening waters.

‘You mentioned that fellow Leman. Did you have sex with him?’

‘Leman? Did I tell you about him?’

‘Yes. He corrupted you apparently.’

She shook her head but this evidently didn’t mean, ‘No, I didn’t have sex with Leman’ as he hoped, rather ‘I despair of you.’ ‘Draw your own conclusion,’ she said. ‘and if you must know he gave me acid and, yes, fucked me when we were both tripping.’

‘Wasn’t that dangerous?’

‘It was something else, I can tell you.’

‘Dios mἱo.’

He looked down, rubbing his forehead to hide the eyes he sensed were near to tears. What did he know of sex on acid? Felicia: so much sex, so many lovers, the girls, the boys, the sexy dancing, the corrupters of youth, the drugs, how could he endure it?

‘Felicia, can we go.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t you want…’

‘I’m tired,’ he said.

She did not seem unduly upset. They sat on a little while with their drinks and then got up.

‘Goodnight… Goodnight.’

‘Are you going soon?’ someone said.

‘What a shame, Felicia,’ said another. ‘I thought you might give us more.’

Felicia’s heels clattered down the wooden steps and hand in hand they took the path back along by the lake. As the music faded the only sounds in the enveloping dark were their footsteps, the breeze rustling the trees, and the lapping water.

‘Felicia, over there is something strange.’

In the light of the moon shining through a gap in the trees a body hung from a branch. The head and trunk was hidden by foliage. All that could be seen was a pair of dangling legs. The owner of the legs appeared to be talking urgently, and without stopping. The listener, looking up with hands clasped, was dressed in full-length black, her hair streaming pale in the moonlight.

‘Elena,’ whispered Claudio.

‘Come on, leave her,’ said Felicia.

‘But who’s in the tree?’

‘Who cares?’

Claudio was happy to walk on. At that moment his curiosity about Elena was as nothing to his other concerns.

Once they were back in main building of Arcadia, the piano quartet in the salon restored him momentarily.

‘Salon music of the old Mitteleuropa played as it should be, under chandeliers,’ said Claudio. ‘Gypsy dance, Slavic yearnings. It’s right that we should find that here too.’

A night porter leant against the banister, cleaning his nails with a silver fork which he slid into his pocket as the couple approached. He was humming along with the music.

‘Good night sir, madam.’

Claudio stopped. ‘By the way, you seem to know it, what is this piece?’

‘The F minor.’

‘The F minor. Of course. I knew I knew it.’

They climbed the stairs. He turned to Felicia. ‘Even the porters are men of education. He knew the piece better than I – even though I’ve spent my life exploring music.’

Felicia glanced down at the guests scattered around the salon. ‘The F minor by who?’ she asked.

He smiled and lifted his hand towards his ear. ‘Listen to the music, Felicia. Some phrases edge upwards indirectly, refuse to resolve. The composer…’

‘Yes, but who is the composer?’

‘Just listen…’

‘You’ve no idea who composed it.’

‘Well I do, actually.’

‘You’re a fraud.’

‘I know music.’

‘And I know when people have to pretend at all costs even when it doesn’t matter shit to anyone else.’

He shrugged and reached for her hand. He lifted it to his lips. ‘Darling, you’re sweet.’

They walked along the corridor past gilded portraits of Hispanic military men and engravings of gauchos riding the plains. In the room he left the light off and pulled her down on to the bed. They sat side by side. He lifted his finger to her cheek. The music from the summerhouse wafted through the open window.    

‘The lake here,’ he whispered. ‘It reminds me of our first meeting. Do you remember that winter. Drinking maté at the deserted waterside café. The geese, the motorboats moored for the winter.’

‘I froze my butt.’

‘I’m going to make love to you, Felicia. Here. Important that it’s here. I’ve always imagined such a place. No rubbish or mess. No ruined landscapes, nor filthy rivers. No vile music. No machines. No… modernity… nothing… perfect.’

He stroked her back and kissed her neck.

Music from across the lake. Were they playing Ilusión again?

Gently he pulled her to him. But over her shoulder, by the chest of drawers, a woman was yielding to man. They were devouring, yes, almost eating each other. Felicia and Paulus. Teeth, tongue, nails, hair. Both with clothes ripped off and scattered, breathless lovers tearing at each other.

Claudio eased her down and edged himself on top of her. His eyes were tight shut. He had to get rid of the vision. He felt between her warm thighs. ‘Oh God… Lust…’  he murmured. ‘Lust… I want…’

‘Claudio… Wait… I can’t…’

He froze. ‘Why… what…’

‘I can’t…’

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing. I just can’t… not tonight.’

‘Is it the dance?’

‘What?’

‘The dance… Paulus?’

‘What?’ she repeated. ‘No. You’re crazy with this Paulus thing.’

She shifted from under him. He stared over by the chest-of-drawers. Where Paulus and Felicia had lately panted and gasped – nothing.

‘Very well,’ he said.

Without a further word they undressed and prepared for bed like two people who hardly knew each other.

Claudio read. The music stopped before too long. Felicia was already asleep. He heard the guests come back. Some were boisterous, which annoyed him even though it the noise they made was ‘natural’. Silence descended on Arcadia. He switched off the light and fell asleep soon enough despite his broodings.