#mime society

[inkjardev]

Edit: I’m gonna use this pinned post as a library of my Mime Society, will be updated frequently.

Drawing some mimes types

[idal-noiw]

More like pol-mime-te so-mimety

[slavicgerman]

The dog gets me every time 😂

[wilwheaton]

I woke up yesterday morning to learn that Don Trump—the famed rapist, convicted felon, and white christian presidential candidate—had mimed performing a blowjob on his microphone stand to the clear delight of his crowd. There's a famous Christian thinker named Jesus H. Christ who you may have heard about; people will often say his full name when they see things like this. [...] It cuts against the dominant social narrative to say we need to fight the white supremacist cult, and this is for the very good reason that our society is traditionally white supremacist. If you suggest that a white supremacist cult's behavior and intentions are indecent and absolutely unacceptable, there is a general realization that this means not accepting it, which would inevitably mean the social exclusion and isolation of people committed to pursuing unacceptable behavior, and who have made indecent and unacceptable behavior a core part of their identity. And it's very unhealthy to be socially excluded and isolated. And who could be against health? In the eyes of those who control the platforms of communication, and in the halls of power, and in the minds of many comfortable and privileged people, it is a far less divisive act to hold a Nazi rally, crammed with racism and hatred and bigotry and Nazi speakers delivering Nazi slogans and Nazi intentions to enact Nazi policies, than it is to refer to such a thing as "a Nazi rally." In the eyes of those who control the platforms of communication, and in the halls of power, and in the minds of many comfortable and privileged people, saying you intend to fight a white supremacist cult is considered far more divisive and radical than being a part of a white supremacist cult who intends to force a fight with everyone else. In fact "we're still going to be sharing a nation with them and there are millions of them" is usually what's said to anybody who suggests we even oppose them. It's said as a reason to not oppose them, as a reason to not even name them for what they have chosen to be. "You can't just get rid of them," it's said. The suggestion seems to be that in so doing we are excluding them from society, isolating them, dehumanizing them, by naming what it is they have chosen to become (which, again, is a white supremacist cult), and by refusing to accept their unacceptable propositions as acceptable. It's not so popular to suggest that the answer is for white supremacists to change their behavior. It's far more popular to say we need to heal the white supremacist cult. It's far more popular to issue reminders that we need to leave paths open for the white supremacist cult to find redemption

Apology Not Accepted

Another exceptional post from Andrew Moxon that I encourage you all to make some time to read.

When all of this is over, no matter how long it takes to send Shitler to prison, I will not forget and I will not forgive the christian nationalist white supremacists who have brought us here.

This includes people I thought I knew.

We must drive these cancerous, violent, hateful people back into social isolation and societal rejection, where they have always belonged.

This includes people I thought I knew.

[heartfullofleeches]

More mime reader shenanigans because I adore and miss them-

[Mime Darling finds a sad person crying alone on a bench]

Mime Darling: :(

[Throws an invisible blanket around them, pulls a handkerchief from their pocket and wipes their tears then holds their arms as if offering a bouquet of flowers]

Person, confused by the smell of roses: thank....you?

Mime Darling: :) ♡ [Opens an invisible umbrella and floats away with the passing breeze, waving at their new friend]

[Later]

"Why do you have so many mime dolls in your house?"

Yan: I don't judge you for what gives your life meaning.

-

Yan: Hey, Darling- Did you know that if you shake an imaginary salt shaker on your tongue you can taste it? You should try it~

[Mime Darling holds a salt shaker, staring between the empty space and Yan. They pour the salt onto their hand and throw it into yan's eyes who falls to the ground screeching]

-

Yan Scientist/Villian: You are a scientific marvel, my dear. With your powers we can bring society to its knees. Join me - and we will rule the world!

Mime Darling: :/ [shakes their head and goes back to juggling invisible pins in their cell]

[onei-ro-piss]

Edwin A. Abbott gave Flatland an unreliable narrator that describes his sexist, classist, racist society with pride in terms of “I am a Square. I have 4 sides. the more angles and sides you have, the better you are as a person. Also you can't change this even though the people in power will encourage you to try,” and he wrote this for Victorian societies in 1884 to the tune of “THIS IS WHAT YOU SOUND LIKE. THIS IS HOW STUPID YOU SOUND.

"You claim to know intimately the nature of every being around you, yet you know nothing. You call yourself a square despite the fact you’ve never seen one! YOU'VE NEVER ACTUALLY SEEN A SQUARE.”

In the book, A Square goes down a rabbit hole of thought until eventually drawing the conclusion that women should be educated. It is after this that A Sphere chooses to teach him about the 3rd dimension, and says it's because A Square “seemed a man of sense.” A Sphere mentions the importance of love and art, something A Square thinks is ridiculous because "love" is for women, and "art" is for socialists I mean chromatists. A Square never really does get it though. He fails to explain the 3rd dimension to his fellow Flatlanders, partly due to comedically terrible political timing, largely due to the fact A Square has always been prone to understanding only what is directly in front of him. He lives out the rest of his days in prison.

And then 123 years after the book was published, Ladd Ehlinger (an incredibly reactionary misogynist and racist) makes an adaptation of the book where he voices the main character. He releases a movie that pathetically mimes the social commentary of the original, and now lives out his days as a sad, angry man crying on YouTube about leftists. He's lived out the plot of Flatland, playing an even worse version of A Square's role. The only thing that's missing is getting sent to jail and that’s bc unlike A Square, Ladd Ehlinger doesn't experience oppression of any kind. 

However, exactly like A Square, he didn't get it. He didn't fucking get it.

[andy-wm]

his “coming out” should not be in any way shape or form be connected to jungkook. idk why you shippers can’t leave them tf alone when they’re not dating ffs.

[Select.font=sarcasm]

Oooh I am so glad you came here to tell me this, Anon! You are clearly well informed on both Jimin’s life, and "coming out".

I didn't even know that "coming out" needs to be in inverted commas. Thank you for helping me understand.

I also didn't know what his "coming out" should or should not be! I didn't know there were rules for "coming out"! I'm so grateful to have this information now.

I hope you've also told Jimin how he should "come out"?

I hope he listens to you since obviously, you have his happiness at heart.

Because "coming out" with no significant other to support him - and facing the inevitable repercussions alone - that would DEFINITELY make things better for him, right?

Also we all know how much Jimin LOVES being alone, so naturally we should wish that for him.

Objectively, he would be happier if he was single I guess? Because having a secure and healthy long term relationship with someone who loves and supports you is known to be pretty shit. Makes sense... that's why nobody looks for love. They certainly don't write songs about love.

Ever.

People aspire to being isolated, like Jimin showed us this with his song Serendipity.

When he sang "just let me love you" he probably meant he wanted to be single and live alone forever in his bubble. That makes sense.

And of course they aren't dating!

You're right, there's absolutely nothing special between Jimin and Jungkook. They are 100% platonic and good pals.

It would be ridiculous to look at them and see love and intimacy.

I dont know what love looks like, but this is not it...

Definitely not this either.

Just friends here.

So friendly!

Brothers even!

Keeping to the bro code here too, 100%

Absolutely no crossing of boundaries here....

I always caress my friend's clothes when I sing their own love song back to them. Especially when my face is less than a foot from their face. It's very platonic.

Anyway, there's no reason to think they might be dating.

Why would people even think they COULD be?

It's unimaginable.

Society has never ignored or dismissed loving romantic relationships between same-sex couples, and that's certainly not what you're doing. Not at all. You just know they aren't dating because ... reasons.

I'm sure you don't object to Jimin being gay because that would be homophobic (you even know how he should "come out"). If that was the case you might as well just get a tattoo of an L on your forehead and throw away all your Jimin merch because our boy is gayer than a rainbow cake. Gayer even than the rainbow cake his appa has *always in stock* in his coffee shop in Busan.

And if you generously tolerate his gayness, i imagine you will allow that one day he could date (definitely not now, because he probably has no interest in sex. He's too busy working and anyway he has ARMY to love him) yeah, but not now please.

But one day he could have a nice boyfriend who sits beside him on the sofa and smiles benignly and holds his hand like a good boy.

Definitely NOT one that sings about fucking night after night seven days a week, or watching in 3D, or DEAR GOD... the imagery... champagne confetti.

Not someone who sings Sam Smith songs on his Live, or who goes around whacking off fire hydrants in his music videos or miming blow jobs on national tv.

Not someone that demands you see him as an adult who enjoys adult things and wont accept your judgement of him. Not one who puts boundaries in place.

Not someone who (the audacity!) lies in bed naked and begs Jimin to come over.

And that brings us to the villain of our story:

JEON JUNGKOOK

I guess, since you will allow a relationship in theory, you just object to the idea of a relationship specifically with Jungkook.

And I can see why. Jungkook very obviously has no interest in Jimin’s happiness. Jungkook doesn't support him at all.

He doesn't hold jimin when he cries, he doesn't spam us with Jimin content when Jimin has a comeback, he doesn't cook Jimin’s favourite food for him, or fold his underpants while he does his own laundry.

He doesn't take him on trips to Japan, or send thirst-trap messages for his birthday, or play his songs, or sing on his albums.

He doesn't carry him, bridal style, any time Jimin jumps into his arms, and I can guarantee you that he doesn't let Jimin fuck him just the way Jimin likes it, as often as he wants it, wherever and whenever he gets the chance. And vice versa.

They didn't enlist in the military as companions, after all.

So reallly, what would Jungkook even know about Jimin's happiness?

What could he POSSIBLY know about Jimin that you don't know. Nothing, right?

What could POSSIBLY happen behind closed doors and away from the camera, that you don't see with your third eye and your vivid imagination? Again, nothing. You know ALL, right?

[Deselect.font=sarcasm]

I think we've covered everything?

Theres only one thing left to say i guess.

Whoever you are, you'd do well to consider whose happiness you're supporting.

If you don't support what makes Jimin happy, you don't support Jimin. Period.

[catnoli]

🎪🌈 This month’s silly shark is an Oceanic Whitetip Shark!! i’ve been wanting to do a clown shark for quite some time and the little fishes that follow oceanic whitetips around were perfect mimes!! if you’d like to receive April’s postcard + sticker, join my Silly Mail Society tier before March 31st!!

[eelhound]

"Rituals are architectures of time, structuring and stabilising life, and they are on the wane. The pandemic has accelerated the disappearance of rituals. Work also has ritual aspects. We go to work at set times. Work takes place in a community. In the home office, the ritual of work is completely lost. The day loses its rhythm and structure. This somehow makes us tired and depressed.

In The Little Prince [1943], by [Antoine de] Saint-Exupéry, the little prince asks the fox to always visit at the exact same time, so that the visit becomes a ritual. The little prince explains to the fox what a ritual is. Rituals are to time as rooms are to an apartment. They make time accessible like a house. They organise time, arrange it. In this way you make time appear meaningful.

Time today lacks a solid structure. It is not a house, but a capricious river. The disappearance of rituals does not simply mean that we have more freedom. The total flexibilisation of life brings loss, too. Rituals may restrict freedom, but they structure and stabilise life. They anchor values and symbolic systems in the body, reinforcing community. In rituals we experience community, communal closeness, physically.

Digitalisation strips away the physicality of the world. Then comes the pandemic. It aggravates the loss of the physical experience of community. You’re asking: can’t we do this by ourselves? Today we reject all rituals as something external, formal and therefore inauthentic. Neoliberalism produces a culture of authenticity, which places the ego at its centre. The culture of authenticity develops a suspicion of ritualised forms of interaction. Only spontaneous emotions, subjective states, are authentic. Modelled behaviour, for example courtesy, is written off as inauthentic or superficial. The narcissistic cult of authenticity is partly responsible for the increasing brutality of society.

In my book I argue the case against the cult of authenticity, for an ethic of beautiful forms. Gestures of courtesy are not just superficial. The French philosopher Alain says that gestures of courtesy hold a great power on our thoughts. That if you mime kindness, goodwill and joy, and go through motions such as bowing, they help against foul moods as well as stomach ache. Often the external has a stronger hold than the internal.

Blaise Pascal once said that instead of despairing over a loss of faith, one should simply go to mass and join in rituals such as prayer and song, in other words mime, since it is precisely this that will bring back faith. The external transforms the internal, brings about new conditions. Therein lies the power of rituals. And our consciousness today is no longer rooted in objects. These external things can be very effective in stabilising consciousness. It is very difficult with information, since it is really volatile and holds a very narrow range of relevance."

- Byung-Chul Han being interviewed by Gesine Borcherdt, from "Byung-Chul Han: 'I Practise Philosophy as Art.'" Art Review, 2 December 2021.

[inkjardev]

Mime Types - #4 Halloween Edition

[thehmn]

I made a post some time ago (LINK) about how trolls are more nuanced creatures in Scandinavian folklore than in modern English speaking pop culture and are often used as sympathetic allegories for people who just can’t fit in with mainstream society, be it because of their disability, gender or sexuality.

I realized I forgot about the Danish 1856 ballet A Folk Tale (you can watch it on YouTube here LINK) despite it being an excellent example because in modern times it has been reinterpreted to fit this new view of trolls. (Because it’s an older ballet it has less dancing and more miming and acting than you’re probably expecting)

The story to help you better understand the ballet: The human girl Hilda and the troll girl Birthe are swapped as infants.

Many years later during a picnic Birthe is flirting with the nobleman Sir Mogens even though her fiancé Junker Ove is present. She enjoys toying with both of them, much to Ove’s dismay and Mogens’ delight. It all ends in Ove and Birthe having a fight resulting in Birthe leaving with Mogens and Ove staying in the forest past sundown to collect his thoughts.

Suddenly a nearby hill opens and reveals the troll sorceress Muri and her adopted daughter Hilda. Muri tells Hilda to lure Ove closer and get him to drink from an enchanted cup but he refuses, spills the drink and won’t give the cup back. As revenge Muri summons the elves who dance him into madness and leave him scared, confused and half naked in the dark forest (if you only know fantasy elves this is a perfect example of what the original elves are like in Scandinavian folklore)

In the underworld we learn that Hilda has been told she’s an elf girl but she senses something is off. Both of Muri’s sons, Diderik and Viderik, are in love with her but Muri has decided that Diderik should marry her because he’s the oldest. During the engagement party Hilda and Viderik get the guests drunk and run away.

They end up near a sacred spring where they see a priest feed the healing water to sick people. They try to cheer the sick and poor people up with music and dance but suddenly Ove shows up. He still has the elf madness and scares everyone. Mogens happens to walk by and thinks Ove is attacking people so he runs to get help, secretly plotting to get Ove out of the way so he can marry Birthe. Meanwhile Hilda feeds some of the sacred spring water to Ove and dance him back to sanity. Mogens returns with soldiers, hunters and farmers and trap Ove. Viderik helps him escape using his magic music and sends Mogens and his men on a wild goose chase.

Back at the mansion Birthe is terrorizing her servants and even goes as far as to threaten to throw her mother out of the house. Hilda who had been running from Mogens’ men makes her way into the mansion where she is recognized as the true heir to the estate. Because of her horrible treatment of the household Birthe is immediately thrown out onto the street and runs to Mogens for help only to find him under a troll spell. Instead of being horrified she’s delighted. Viderik realize she’s his real sister and while they talk it out other supernatural creatures come out and trap Mogens. Muri and Diderik have been looking for Hilda and Viderik and arrive just as Birthe is starting to come around to the idea that she might be a troll. Muri sees an opportunity and asks Mogens if he wants to marry her daughter Birthe. He’s too terrified and refuses until Muri offer him treasure. When Birthe realizes her troll family is even richer than her human family she immediately accepts that she’s a troll and together Birthe and Mogens follow the trolls into the underworld.

Back at the mansion Hilda and Ove have been reunited and are celebrating their wedding. Mogens and Birthe arrives which at first scares people but they’ve come in peace and to show their good will they’ve bought a dance troupe and preform for the newly weds. The ballet ends on a freeze frame of Hilda and Ove standing in the light, looking towards the human world, and Birthe and Mogens in the dark, raising their arms towards the supernatural world, both couples getting their happiest possible ending.

Now, the original version took place during the renaissance and had a strong Christian theme. Hilda wanted to return to the human world because she longed for Christian values and Ove was like a beacon of purity for her to follow. At the end all trolls left Denmark, symbolizing Christianity finally taking hold of the country.

The updated version takes place in the time it was written and the Christian themes have been severely downplayed. Trolls and all supernatural creatures are still very much present, even watching the wedding from a distance. It is now a personal story about people feeling misplaced and longing for a community that understands and accepts them.

Birthe is aggressive, even cruel at times, but this version also implies her behavior is part nature and part nurture. She is described as spoiled meaning her parents had a huge hand in how she turned out, unable or perhaps unwilling to handle her condition and now her mother despise what she has become. This is evident in how Birthe behaves around her mother. She LOVES her wet nurse who took on the emotional parenting role but recoils at her mother’s touch. She also directs most of her abuse at the housekeeper because she most openly mocks Birthe’s clumsiness and inability to act refined. There’s a heartbreaking scene where Birthe gets so frustrated with her inability to dance and fit in that she screams at her own reflection until the wet nurse calms her down.

Only two people are able to calm Birthe down, her wet nurse who cuddles her when she gets upset and Mogens who is seen directing Birthe’s attention to himself which softens her demeanor because she likes him and doesn’t want to cause him more harm than he can handle.

Both her and Mogens are also more queer coded in this version. Birthe wants to be a dancer and gets very up and close with the female dancers. In the first scene Mogens can be seen flirting with the female staff and in the last scene he feels comfortable openly flirting with the male dancers. It’s worth noting neither acts jealous when they see their partner flirt, again shining a light on their alternative relationship.

And who could forget when Birthe tricks Mogens into kissing Ove. In the taped version he kiss Ove’s hand but in the version I watched live they kissed on the mouth which better explained why Mogens grabs Ove’s face later as if to mockingly say “You think I’m disgusting? Look at what you’ve become”

And you’d think Mogens had more reason to be mad than Ove but no, he’s flustered but gets over it almost immediately while Ove is so angry he rips his jacket off like the good pure boy he is.

And something that really stands out is Mogens’ worship of Birthe. The first time Birthe appears all the other characters run to the opposite end of the stage but Mogens doesn’t even flinch. He just bathes in her presence. When she asks him to push her on the swing he unprompted gets her whip.

In a later scene she’s seen using a bell to bully her servants and the final thing that makes her realize she has lost all power is when they ignore it, which makes it very symbolic that Mogens gives her the bell back in the final scene and holds her up high while she rings it. Boy loves his Dom GF so very very much.

It also says something about Mogens that he randomly appears in the bad part of town. He’s very good at playing the upper class game and seems to be quite respected but also seeks escape in the outskirts of society. When Birthe really gets going you can see Mogens acting shocked followed by pure joy at such a free and wild woman. The Danish translation of Shakespeare’s Taming of The Shrew is Troll can be Tamed and this ballet almost feels like a response to that. Trolls/wild women should not be tamed! They should be free around people who love them for their wildness!

Their behavior is perfectly in line with what we see in the underworld. Muri is played by a male dancer to give her the proper imposing height and it’s left up for interpretation if older female trolls are just bigger than the males or if she’s a trans mommy. The engagement party is risqué from the start and quickly turns into a drunken sex orgy (Good luck to Mogens when he is engaged to Birthe. All I’m saying is as a human he’s going to be very popular with the other creatures) It might seem like an evil world but this version of the ballet really tries to make it clear that this is normal and expected behavior in the underworld. They act like that because they like it and are all happy with the way their society works. Even the more gentle troll Viderik prefer the underworld to the human world. It’s not bad just different.

Birthe and Mongens almost come of as lower level money-happy Disney villains, deserving of a fitting punishment for their treatment of the people around them, but certainly not death and the story is overall sympathetic to them as people who have been mangled by a society that mistreated and punished them for something that was out of their control which is why they get a happy ending. Definitely worth a watch.

[kala-mies]

I love dnd

[VIDEO TRANSCRIPT:

Troy: Are you telling me that since I've been gone, no one's even thought to shit themselves ONCE?! What has this school fuckin' gone to, coach, put me back in!

Charlie: Like a single bead of sweat like– (mimes it rolling down his forehead)

Bizly: Go ahead and roll persuasion with advantage 'cause you got two fuckin' hype men around you.

Blink: Yeah!

Charlie: Okay.

Bizly: Actually, you know what, Ripley jumps in and is like: (as Ripley) I'll shit myself right now, I'm just not cool enough!

Blink: I'll do it too! I'll shit myself right now, if I need to.

Runt: I'm like, not personally interested in being that cool so I'm gonna fuckin'... not do it!

Lint: Oh... I think I already did.

Charlie: I grab Runt by the scruff. (As Troy) I will give you whatever you want. Whatever you've always wanted in life. I can give you more than that. Runt, I'm so fucking rich. My dad owns fuckin' EVERYTHING, dude. I could change the fuckin' world. Society could change. We could turn this fuckin' city on its' head. I need you to shit yourself.

Charlie: Is there a way that I could make this a performance check if we all shit ourselves? Dude I love DnD.

END TRANSCRIPT.]

[aylavirizu]

society if marik didnt try to flex on the pharaoh by leaving god with a mime

[lousylambsblog]

watch me yap about my ocs ( my friend proofread this thankksss )

tw: death, blood and child neglect

Neyora was born out of a fling between her payan mother and talpian father. Her father was absent for all her life and her mother was emotionally unavailable. She was raised by her payan mother who was ashamed of Neyora’s heritage, she refused to call Neyora her daughter, she had seen her as a disappointment the moment she bore her. Her mother had isolated Neyora from other children, she was kept under strict rules that she wasn’t allowed to go outside, unless she wanted society to see how hideous she was. 

Her childhood left her bitter, growing deep resentment toward her mother. At a young age, she began practicing magic, unbeknownst to her mother. Neyora dedicated her whole life to magic, to prove that she was something more than an inept half-breed. Her talpian genetics are more dominant than her payan blood, missing the third eye and the ability to foresee the future, but she did inherit the magical potential of Payans. After years of honing her magical skills and becoming quite the powerful sorceress, she had grown to become more confident in showing her abilities to her mother. All she wanted was the approval of the only person she had, she wanted to make her proud despite her hate,,,, but all she was met with the all-to-familiar look of disgust plastered onto her face. 

She belittled Neyora throughout her entire life, but this was the final breaking point. She had thrown away her own childhood, spent sleepless nights perfecting herself,,, just to be met with the same degrading words. Neyora snapped at the woman who bore her, a fervid hate running through her blood as she strangled her mother to death. She watched as the life in her mother’s eyes slowly disappeared, but she felt no sympathy, blinded by her own emotional rage. She only tightened her grip the more strangulated noises her mother pathetically spat out. Her grip slacked when her mother ceased her feeble fighting. Once she realized what she had just done, Neyora felt a pang of terror shoot through her as she saw her mother’s lifeless body on the floor, leaving her trembling with dread. She had fled her home in a panic, the Payan Chiefdom, Neyora was afraid that they would discover what she had done to her mother, that she had killed her.

On the mainland of Stolla, Neyora continued to live alone,,, isolating herself from the outside world, fearful that people would recognize her and know of her crimes. She continues to practice magic up until the fault, where she is forced to flee from her hiding place. Neyora deals well with the mimes at first, but they pursue her with a bloodthirst as the fault drags on. After a week of being relentlessly hunted with no opportunity to replenish her energy, she succumbs to magical overload. Neyora is proficient at magic, but her talpian side slows down her ability to prolong and stabilize her magic for a period of time. She can cast powerful spells, but it can make her incredibly burnt out. 

( Magic overload happens due to the body acting as a sort of resistor when trying to manipulate energy. The more energy is channeled and manipulated, the more residual energy remains in the caster’s body. This can have a number of effects: Diminishing the effectiveness of one’s spells, requiring more focus in order to properly control the energy, other effects being added to their spells or happening at random, and increase in the body’s temperature. * p.s i know this isn’t canon but im so interested in this concept* also credits to BelicCat from 5yrs ago on reddit,,,,,, love you bro, wherever you are,,, )

Unfortunately, she was caught off guard during a supply run in a ghostly town,,, a gash to her stomach. Neyora suffered a slow and excruciatingly painful death, she could’ve used her healing magic to mend her wounds but she had fallen unconscious due to the stinging pain. She met a pathetic death for someone who held so much power, she was never able to see that she was more than a hideous half-breed. She died believing that she was a disappointment. 

[averagejoesolomon]

In light of, uh, recent news I'd like to present a slice of comfort. Please enjoy a couple thousand words of a man written by a woman. The book agent hunt is going well, so I may not be back until the later end of December, but here's a little treat to get you through the wait.

The Cameron-Morgan Wedding (1987)

“Shit.”

Matt’s bow tie droops during the first few notes of the Canon. With a glance down his front, he spots one end hanging lower than it should, slipped through the neat little knot at the crest of his collar and somehow fraying into messy, tattered strands.

This never would have happened if Rachel had done it, the way she always does up his bow ties. She’s good luck. But Abby had been insistent that he not see the bride before the ceremony and notably, Abby ain’t of any help now. Her eyes widen across the way, both of them knowing that Rachel has planned this moment down to second, down to the step, down to the snap of the photographer’s shutter. She has a comprehensive list of every last shot she expects to capture and none of them include a busted up bow tie.

Thankfully, the photographers ain’t looking at him. No one is. As the stringed quintet fills the grand atrium with the classic tune, all 342 attendees take their cue to stand and turn toward the bride. Matt can’t make out any details from his place at the end of a long aisle, but he doesn’t need to. She takes up all the air in the room. She fills it from wall-to-wall, balcony-to-balcony, stack-to-stack-to-stack. The George Peabody Library has 300,000 books and fifteen-hundred first editions, but it’s never felt as full as it does when Rachel Cameron walks through its doors, dressed all in white.

And Matt refuses to look like this, when she looks like that. “Joe.”

“Keep your cool, cowboy.”

Joe’s already at his front, pulling the bow tie from Matt’s neck with the same sort of precision he pulls a trigger. He tucks this into his jacket pocket, right next to the rings, then unloops the half-Windsor around his own neck. Matt’s collar is popped, in a way Rachel explicitly prohibited when he asked months before, but Joe makes quick work of wrapping the new tie into place, tying it into a neat knot, then tucking Matt’s collar back into place. It’s not a bow tie, but it’ll do.

Joe takes his place at Matt’s back once more, tie-less and without enough time to redo his top button before the room turns slowly toward the towering floral wedding arch. Rachel’s halfway down the aisle when Matt looks back up and, not for the first time in their lives, her beauty strikes him straight on.

She’s a fresh snowfall on Christmas Eve. She’s the crystalline frost on the window, catching rays of winter sunlight. She’s angelic. She’s godly. She’s divine.

On her arm, Henry locks eyes with Matt and mimes a subtle tuck into the front of his suit jacket. With a quick glance, Matt realizes the tail of his tie hangs free and quickly tucks it behind his buttons, just in time for the photographer to snap a picture.

_____

The George Peabody Library is the sort of place where a woman like Rachel Cameron deserves to get married, even if she is marrying a farm boy from Nebraska. 

It’s all black-and-white tile, gold-leafed columns, and old wood shelves brimming with books that smell like a stack of newspapers. It’s twinkling lights strung from five stories of intricate iron balconies. It’s low, golden sconces lighting up a crowd of elegant evening wear and it’s a private stringed quintet playing from the second balcony.

This is a prestigious enough event to be covered by the local papers—which is a tricky sort of affair given that half of their attendees are deep in the world of covert intelligence, but Rachel navigates this with ease, and everyone here knows how to dodge a reporter if need be. The invitations had been embossed with real gold, tucked into parchment envelopes sealed with golden wax and addressed to the most important names in Maryland High Society. The governor is in attendance. Both senators. Multiple members of the Secret Service, all of them off-duty, given that the Vice President and Second Lady regretfully declined. Sports stars, and business moguls, and socialites. Rachel Cameron’s wedding is the undisputed event of the season.

Matt forgets about all of this, the moment Rachel smiles up at him.

That’s all it takes. From her, it never takes much. Rachel is made from carefully restrained might, always looking for an avenue to escape. When it finally finds a place to land, it strikes in these dense, controlled bolts of intention, and Matt reckons he could spend a lifetime on the receiving end. One look from her, done up in white, is all it takes to steal him away. To notice her, and only her, even as he stands in a gorgeous venue among a gorgeous crowd.

She’s lace, hand-sewn into her bodice. Satin trailing at her back. There are pearls around her neck, hanging from her ears, wrapped around her wrists. Daisies, daisies, daisies done up in braids, reminding him of the first time he truly met the real and ruthless Rachel. The woman he’s come to love.

It’s them. Only them, right up until the moment Rachel passes her white rose bouquet to Abby and Joe passes a pair of golden rings to Matt. 

Do you, Rachel? “I do.”

Do you, Matthew? “I do.”

Her lips break into a wide smile when they kiss. The strings, and the lights, and the applause all come second to her. _____

As two of Langley’s best and brightest, Matt and Rachel know how to sneak away from a crowd, and they make quick work of it as their cocktail hour comes to a close. The day so far has been a blur of travel, timelines, dresses and ties, and more posed photos than he can count. Finally, finally they find an intimate moment in the chaos, slipping between the fifth-floor stacks appropriately labeled Romantics.

Matt’s only want in the world is to grab her, pull her in close, and steal a moment just for himself. Except his hands are otherwise occupied with two armfuls of satin and lace. “Love of my life,” he says, with some exasperation. “It’s time to change your dress.”

Rachel runs her fingers along the spines of leather-bound books, train trailing as she goes. “Says who?”

“Says you, four hours ago,” he reminds her. “And for the past week. And for the last three months, when you said under no circumstances were you to wear the same dress to dinner that you wore to the ceremony.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she says, scanning the shelves. “Three dresses is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

It’s a quick and efficient reminder that this is only her second dress of the night, and the two of them will do this all over again with a third, smaller dress moments before the dance floor opens to the room. Matt doesn’t mind. So far, this small sliver of a shared moment is the best part of the best day of his life.  “I do think,” he replies. “And said so, when you were first fitted for them, but I was told it was rude to decline designers when they offer you a free dress. And also, I was outvoted.”

“By Abby.”

“By you and Abby,” Matt says. “And by your dad who, in my book, counts as five votes.”

“You shouldn’t be worried about my father.”

“M’not worried about your father,” he insists. “I’m worried about you, six weeks from now, when we get our photos back and you’re not in the right dress.” “Because you’d never hear the end of it?”

“Because from here on out, it’s my job to make sure you’re never disappointed again.”

Her wandering finger freezes, casting a long shadow through dim library lighting. The golden glow of the stacks hugs her cheekbones, her jaw, her neck as she tosses a glance over her shoulder. “You really are very sweet, you know.”

He shrugs, and the movement brings fifteen pounds of fabric with it. Arms growing tired, he hangs Gown Number Two from one of the shelves, in a way that would almost certainly make a librarian cringe. “I’m a catch,” he agrees. “Now please let me put this dress on you.”

She studies him, in that harsh, glaring way only she can. He’s come to love that glare. He married her for that glare. He must have seen this exact look a hundred times over and he’ll probably see it a thousand times more—but never again from Rachel Cameron. No sir. Her severity belongs to Rachel Morgan now.

Maybe she feels the shift too, because she softens and nods, collecting her cascading curls to pull them over her shoulder. Her back is exposed, shoulder blades sitting just along a lace seam and casting a shadow like wings. 

Dress Number One is held in place by no less than twenty individual buttons, so he doesn’t waste a breath. He meets Rachel at her back, methodically unlooping one satin button after another, the fabric smooth and stiff along his thumbprint. Inch by inch, the corset falls away and he spots another layer of buttons as he goes—but these ones can’t come undone. These buttons are bright and red, pressed into her skin, following the lines along her back. A full wedding day, etched into her spine, promising to stay through the evening.

He lets his touch linger along the ridges, confirming their phantom existence, and Rachel’s shoulders melt.  She lets go of a breath that she’s been holding all night.

“The poets were wrong,” she says.

With the last button undone, her dress drops into a puffy puddle, wrung around her ankles and revealing the silk slip she wears below. He catches a preview of the garter he’ll remove later, holding up sheer white stockings that stretch to her thigh, then takes her hand to hold her steady. “About what?”

She steps out of the ivory pile, landing square at his front. Her gaze cranes upward when she says, “About love,” she says, surrounded by Keats, and Shelley, and Byron, and Blake. “About how it feels.”

Dress Number One is left abandoned on the tile, while Matt dutifully fetches Dress Number Two. This one trades buttons for ribbons and he helps her step into it before lacing her up. “Is that right?”

He threads and pulls at silk, relishing in the fact that he’ll get to undo these same knots later. Rachel glances over her shoulder once more and says, “I’ve never read a single sonnet that made me feel the way I feel with you.”

And it ain’t fair, the way she looks at him. Like she’s somehow known the whole time. Like she knows everything, and he’s got a lot of catching up to do. Fine, then. He’s more than happy to make up for lost time, and he starts with a kiss—not their first as husband and wife, but certainly their best so far, with plenty more to follow.

They’re late to dinner, but Rachel Morgan seems to glow when she finally enters the ballroom in her second gown of the night. The room cheers, Abby gives a speech, and Matt’s pops says a prayer before dinner.

_____

“Dance with me.”

“Not much of a dancer.”

“You’ll dance with me, though.”

When it comes to Abigail Cameron, there’s not much Matt won’t do. Unfortunately, no one knows this better than Abby herself. She’s smiling that monumental smile of hers, hands falling to either side of his lapel as she steps into time and pulls him right along with her. Together they fall into the sway of an Elton John song, not quite a ballad, not quite rock and roll.

Their practiced ballroom steps feel familiar after spending so much time dancing across the world. “This is the part,” she says, “where you tell me how pretty I look.”

“You do,” he says, and he means it. He’s always thought so, since she first strutted into his life. She’s a good looking girl in a good looking dress, every part of her carefully curated to draw the eye. “I like the dress.”

“It has pockets,” she points out.

“Very handy,” he says.

“Matt, we’re family now,” she says. “You’re going to have to get more excited about my dress pockets. It’s what family does.”

With nothing more than the shape of her step, Matt senses a twirl coming on and he sets her up with ease. He spins her not just once, but twice, because Abby always likes to go for a little extra flair. “We’ve been family for a while now, I think,” he says, pulling her back into their shared frame. “I think you knew, even back then.”

“Back when you were a true-blue farm boy who’d never seen a woman before?” she says with a doting look. “I’ll take credit for a lot, but I can’t take credit for that one. Truth be told, I expected to burn through you as quickly as I burned through all the others. I had no idea what you’d eventually mean to me. To her.”

Abby doesn’t say her name, but even so, Matt can’t help but glance toward Rachel, standing on the far side of the room and chatting with the Secretary of Transportation. The whole night has been like that—finding Rachel, wherever she may be. Landing on her. Lingering.

It must be the same for her because she turns, as though she feels his eyes on her. Catches his glance. Beams.

“When was it?” he asks, prying his eyes back toward Abby. “When did you know?”

Abby studies him, debating. Matt is trusted with Pentagon secrets and espionage of the highest international order, but still she searches his features as though she’s not quite sure he’s ready to hear the truth. “Long before either of you,” she says. “That’s for sure.”

“Abby—”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I have a sisterly duty to uphold a longstanding tradition between bridesmaids and groomsmen.”

“There’s only one groomsman,” Matt reminds her. “And it’s Joe.”

“Isn’t that interesting?”

“When did you know?” he tries again, grabbing hold of her arm before she can step away, and again, she holds her tongue. Tests the answer in her head.

Finally, she lets a softer smile slip. “The first time you called her, instead of calling me.”

There’s something bittersweet in her tone, which Matt only hears because it’s Abby. He’s known her longer than just about anyone here, enough to know that she wants to be wanted. That she stands with the sort of confidence that comes from other people, rather than someplace deep within herself. For Abby, Matt is the one who got away—not in the traditional sense, but rather, in the sense that Matt stopped needing Abby before she stopped needing him. 

Him, getting away from her. What a world.

So he says, with a smile all his own, “Thank you for trying to burn me, way back when.”

She tuts, a manicured hand reaching toward his cheek where she leaves two farewell pats. “Anytime, hot stuff.”

From the surrounding speakers, Elton John turns to Cindy Lauper. Matt is quickly left in the dust as Abby squeals, turns toward Rachel, and races across the room to pull her onto the dance floor next. The two of them find the center of a dance circle made entirely of women, screaming along to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” 

_____

Matt slides a glass of good scotch across a bar top. “Thanks again,” he says, “for flying my folks out.”

Henry Cameron catches the scotch at the bar’s end. He doesn’t spare a glance for it, too caught up in watching his girls dance. “A mother should get to see her only son’s wedding,” he says. “And your mother, in particular, is a delight—is it possible my guest room is somehow cleaner than it was the day she arrived?”

“Yessir, that’ll be my mama,” Matt says, ordering a glass of scotch for himself. “I appreciate the accommodations.”

“She may stay as long as she likes,” he says. “And your father was asking about some of the memorials. I thought I might take them downtown while they’re here, if that’s alright with you?”

His parents have a three-week stretch in DC and while he knew the Cameron Estate would take good care of them, he never expected the man of the house to personally show them the sights. “Yeah,” he says, a little too quickly. “Yes, absolutely—you should know, though, that my pops has a hard time walking long distances. He won’t say anything about it, but he’s had a limp since he first came home and he’s never managed to shake it. And my mama—”

Henry lifts a single hand, finally shifting his gaze to Matt. “Rest assured they’ll be well taken care of while you’re away,” he says. “I have a connection or two, when it comes to touring the Mall.”

Matt’s got no doubt. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Henry over the past few years, it’s that he has a connection for everything. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you.”

Henry’s attention falls back to his girls. The space between them seems to grow as Matt runs out of words, opting instead to take a sip from his drink as it arrives. Their relationship begins and ends with the Circle of Cavan, and this hardly seems like the time to talk strategy.

“I suppose it’s the least I can do,” Henry finally says. “You make my girls happy, and for that I owe you a great deal.”

Matt follows his look across the dance floor to find the sisters now dancing arm-in-arm to a ballad, talking and giggling through the slow waltzy rhythm. Rachel swipes dirt from Abby’s dress. Abby fixes one of Rachel’s wayward daisies. They both laugh at a joke Matt can’t hear from this far away. “They make me better,” he admits. “They’ve taken care of me. And I reckon it’s my turn to take care of them.”

Henry nods, in that sage way he passed along to his eldest. “I know that,” he says. “I know you’re going to try, anyway.”

This catches his ear. “Try, sir?”

Henry sips back the last of his drink, letting the glass land hallow on the bar. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to keep your lives separate?” he asks. “Your life with her”—he casts a glance toward Rachel, then swiftly shifts towards Joe—”versus your life with him?”

Little does Henry know, Matt’s been asking this same question since stitching up Joe in an Italian bathroom, but he’s right. Matt feels it, too. There’s a disconnect between his dreams—between wanting to keep Joe out of his past, and diving straight into a future with Rachel. No matter how many times Matt turns the options over in his head, they end up overlapping. “Every night,” Matt tells him. “Right after I close my eyes, and just before I fall asleep.”

Familiarity creeps into Henry’s expression, and Matt can’t tell if that’s a good thing. “That feeling,” he says, “never, ever goes away.”

For years, Henry has served as Matt’s barometer for what this case can do to good men after chasing it for a very long time. By and large, all those extra years come with benefits—contacts, authority, expertise. But every so often, Matt spots a shadow below Henry’s eyes, signaling some bone-deep exhaustion that feels more and more inevitable every time Matt sees it.

“Promise me this,” says Henry. “Promise me that no matter how long this goes, no matter how close you get—you prioritize her. You make sure she’s safe, above all else.”

Matt considers this. Nods once, definitive. Seems like a fair enough request. Taking the final sip from his own glass, Matt promises, “‘Til death do us part.”

_____

“You know,” says Matt, voice raised over the roar of turbine engines. “My pops gave me all kinds of grief about taking a private jet.”

“What’s the matter?” Rachel calls back. “Haven’t the people of Lake Hayfield ever seen a private plane?”

“I dunno about Lake Hayfield,” says Matt, taking her roller bag to carry up the steps. “But I’ll tell you what, the people of Hay Springs sure haven’t.” 

In a career where jetsetting and globetrotting are commonplace, the only real vacation is spent at home among familiar sights, sounds, and textures. Rather than spend their honeymoon looking over their shoulders in a foreign country, Matt and Rachel decide to keep things domestic, where they can afford to be entirely single-minded about the next few weeks. Someplace safe. Someplace they don’t have to think about.

The apartment, they decided, was out of the question. While Joe may be a discrete and quiet roommate, Matt intends to do some downright indiscreet things to Rachel that will make her anything but quiet. And because he also has no desire to do so under Henry Cameron’s roof, her place was booted off the list just as quickly. 

“Your father’s flown private before, hasn’t he?” she asks.

Matt doesn’t know how to break it to her, that normal people don’t ever see the inside of a private jet. “Not unless you count an Army flier.”

This sends her lips into a puzzled frown, and Matt just wants to kiss them straight.

After some back-and-forth, Matt convinced his folks to spare the one and only home he’s got left. It’s a trade, of sorts. His parents finally make a long-awaited trip to DC, courtesy of the Cameron Estate, while he and Rachel take the ranch. All he had to do was promise to watch the wheat and let the animals out every morning.

Rachel was less enthusiastic about the animals, but Matt’s certain she’ll come around when she sees the first sunset across the plains.

“We should send him back on the jet,” Rachel offers.

“I love you,” he says, “but my pops would sooner die than show up back home in one of these things.”

Matt’s only proven right when he steps into the cabin, finished with fine woods and leathers. A bottle of Champagne waits for them on ice, the label written in French and the vintage starting with an eighteen. The smell of steak fills the air, which is a relief to his grumbling stomach because even though he paid for most of the wedding food, he somehow didn’t eat much of it. It’s the last taste of luxury they’ll have for the next few weeks, so he vows to enjoy every second of it.

He stows her bag, then his. Pops the Champagne, then pours both of them a glass. She holds out her flute toward his, crystal chiming as their glasses clink, and they sip. Take a breath. With the taste of grapes on his lips, he kisses her the same way he has all night, just so damn lucky to be here.

“You know,” he says, barely pulling away. “I’ve always wondered—”

“Matthew,” she scolds.

“I haven’t even said it yet.”

She falls into her seat, digging for the buckle to strap herself in. There’s a subtle edge to her foreboding glance. The one that begs him to challenge her. “You didn’t have to,” she says. “It’s an eight hour flight. We can wait.”

“I’m not saying we have to go for the home run,” he teases, dropping to his place just at her front, down on his knees for her, just as he always seems to be. “Just that if you let me warm up my throwing arm now, I might be able to pitch a perfect game later.”

She laughs, short and haughty and delighted. Her hand falls into his hair, scratching warm streaks into his scalp. “You hate pitchers,” she reminds him.

“I’ve got a third-base metaphor I could use instead.”

“Matthew.”

“Alright, alright,” he says. She’s still wearing her final dress, the shortest of the three. It was made for dancing, and the alternative benefits are a nice bonus. “I can scrounge up a golf metaphor instead.”

“You,” she says, taking another sip of Champagne, “are a smartmouth.”

“Agreed,” he says, just as his fingertips find the lace on her stockings. His lips follow close behind, landing along the hem as his wide eyes search for her answering smile. “So how about we see what else my mouth can do, hmm?”

Another laugh. A lifetime of her laugh. It sends his stomach twisting in all the best ways.

Two of her fingers find his chin, lifting his head up to look at her properly. “Buckle up, so we can take off,” she tells him. “And when we’re in the air, you can help me get this dress off. Fair?”

Now it’s his turn to smile, but he doesn’t hold it long before Rachel’s lips are on his, a smile of her own sneaking in.

[spiderfreedom]

I read a book a while back about the erotic appeal of 'women with penises' (don't close the page yet I promise it's useful). the book was called Ambisexuality. it's basically two things, a history of the sexual fantasy of a 'woman with a penis' and a study of transgender women sex workers in australia. content warning for sex work and children forced into sex work.

in the history portion, one of the things it talks about is how it seems that prepubescent boys who enter the sex industry in some cultures are basically taught to perform femininity. dressed like women, taught to dance like women, perfume themselves like women, basically appear cosmetically like a woman. since prepubescent boys don't look too different from girls, many adult heterosexual johns found this attractive. the presence of the penis was considered a positive, because male customers knew how a penis worked and could understand it. from the book:

References to the training of older boys and young men, in the twin arts of seductive dancing and sex work, can be found in many historical religious texts, not just of Afghanistan but as an aspect of cultures in many cities in South Asia and the Middle East until modern times. [...] The historical record also provides clues that the link between feminised males and sex work even existed in some hunter-gatherer societies. In North America, the journalist and critic, Peter Ackroyd suggests that some native Indian societies accommodated feminised male sex work. The Pueblo Indians for example, maintained a mujerado, a 'trained male prostitute' in each village, who identified as a 'man-woman, not as a male [source mine]. Similarly, records suggest that the berdache were males who took on the roles of wife, communal concubine, prostitute and participant in certain sexual rites of native Indian tribes. The berdache wore women's clothing, did women's work and in sexual relations with their male partners, behaved like women as far as possible. Many Roman brothels offered boys of different races, skin colours and professional abilities. Boys from the Middle East, for example, were prized for their dancing abilities and exotic appearance, while boys from Northern Europe were valued for their bawdiness and sensuality. Some brothel owners refined the process of procuring, raising and training very young boys to an art form. Boys considered to possess the appropriate attributes were purchased as young as two or three years of age and were raised and trained by their owners. Their sole purpose in life was to entertain men and pander to the sexual tastes of wealthy clients. Many of these boys were feminised during their training. They were beautifully groomed and perfumed, had unwanted body hair removed and wore their hair long and curly. Some were trained to perform for their clients - as dancers, mimes, singers and storytellers. All were trained in fellatio, sodomy and analingus.

it's disturbing to think about how femininity is conflated with being attractive to men, so much that you can take a prepubescent boy, dress him up like a woman, and apparently plenty of people go "yeah, this is the perfect sex object, like a woman but better."

it also had a section on how trans women and gender non conforming men who dressed femininely across the world were basically often forced into prostitution. since they could not find employment due to their gender nonconformity, the only place they could get money was as prostitutes. being feminine dressed also meant they could make more money than gay male prostitutes who dressed in masculine style. from the book:

According to some cultural historians, the reason why the xanith presented as women was to enable them to make a living from sex work. As will be seen later, the suggestion that this lifestyle is driven by 'economic necessity' probably belies a considerable degree of individual choice in the matter. For many, the rewards of sex work led to a comfortable lifestyle, which was infinitely preferable to other occupations which paid less, demanded longer working hours and offered fewer other intrinsic benefits such as personal gifts.

there's a myth that there exists a certain type of person who enjoys being prostituted, because of some social category they belong to. it has variably applied to women of the lower classes, black people, gay men, and in this topic, trans women. it exists to excuse the dehumanization of these groups who are excluded from normal labor markets, experience higher rates of poverty, and enter sex work to make money.

i've noticed some radfems have suggested that trans women prostitutes 'enjoy' being prostitutes, on the basis of quotes from bailey's book 'the man who would be queen' and taking twitter quotes from unverifiable 'trans sex workers' at face value. but i would be very hesitant to believe that. just in the same way you would not believe a woman who told you she 'loves sex work' without doing further research on her background to see if this statement is honest or produced by trauma, you should also consider the same for transgender women and gender non conforming men. especially since they are often forced out of legitimate labor industry for gender nonconformity.

the idea that trans women inherently love prostitution reinforces the idea that there are feminine people who it is okay to degrade and treat as sex objects, because they love it. the femininity is taken to be a lure to men and proof that they love being 'used'. there may be some portion who are 'erotic professionals' who love it, just like there are women who say they same, but there's a high rate of traumatic background from trans women who become prostitutes. and that's before whatever traumatization happens during prostitution.

in short, there's a dirty history of treating gender non conforming male people as the sort of perfect sex object, the ideal combination of feminine presentation and "comprehensible" male anatomy. radfems should not help this myth by repeating it mindlessly. all this does is spread the idea that a. being dressed feminine means you exist to lure men, b. there exists a 'perfect sex object' who wants nothing more than endless sex with strangers for money, whose trauma, poverty, mental illness play no role in their life, and c. therefore there is no need to include these people in efforts to exit the prostitution industry, because they "love" it after all. no human is a perfect sex object. accepting that it can happen to one group of people means you naturalize it and allow the possibility it can happen to you.