Meet the faces of the “I’m Sorry” campaign, a group of Christians who go to Chicago’s pride celebrations every year to apologize for their past hateful actions against LGBT people. The group started in 2010 and has since moved to other cities across the world. This is what love looks like. (via the Advocate)
I know it’s color but this needed to be shared
Amazing
A reminder that everyone can change, and that there are truly wonderful and supportive people out there.
Look it’s a little self-serving and feel-good for the Christians in question, I’m sure, but you have no idea how healing this can be for LGBT Christian folks. Even if they grew up in a welcoming tradition. Especially if they did not.
When it’s not 3:30am I’m going to write a ficlet to go with this
Oooh! That would be fabulous!
I LIED. I QUITE LITERALLY COULDN’T SLEEP BECAUSE YOUR ART IS SO AMAZING. OMFG.
*
The air is heavy with the soft, dusky warmth of a summer night in London. Mycroft walks, for something to do; Sherlock is missing, has evaded all attempts to locate him for more than three days. Mycroft has been worrying, alone in his office, for hours.
“Got a light?” the voice, slightly rough and with a strong Estuary accent, startles him. Mycroft freezes, looking up.
The man’s deep brown eyes catch his attention first; soft and wide, they are framed by luxuriant eyelashes. His mouth tips in an irreverent, rebellious smile; his jawline is… Mycroft realises he’s just staring at the very unsuitable young man. Alongside the beauty of his appearance goes a choice of dress that would usually make Mycroft shudder. He tries to ignore the fact that, on this occasion, the ripped jeans are simply making him want to touch the expanse of knee pushing through the ruined fabric.
His first coherent thought is no, I have not, but then he realises that he actually – has. Fingers clumsy, he steps forward and flicks the lighter into life; the man leans in, drawing his cigarette alight with a practiced pull of air.
“Not been smoking long?” he asks, the corner of his mouth turning up. He shields the flame with his left hand, soft skin brushing the heel of Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft is uncomfortably aware that, usually, he would do anything to avoid skin-to-skin contact with a man who chooses to dress like this.
“Are these the searching questions you seek to ask of authority?” he asks, eyes dipping to the man’s t-shirt. He hears how snide he sounds as he speaks.
He’s surprised to hear a grin in the man’s voice. Mycroft glances up and finds himself disarmed by the power of a rakish smile that makes something shake itself almost audibly loose inside Mycroft’s chest.
“Are you authority?” grins the man.
Mycroft looks down at the toes of his carefully-cleaned, shiny shoes. He has a horrible feeling he might be blushing. “What makes you say that I am new to smoking?” he deflects, coldly.
“Way you hold the lighter. You hesitated when I asked. Might be because you just don’t want to talk to someone like me, but then why come closer instead of just throwing it?” the man puts his head on one side and smiles again. “Or maybe you just didn’t trust I’d throw it back.”
There’s a gentleness to his voice that relaxes Mycroft, somehow. The man sits back, resting against the statue, and blows out a stream of smoke through softly-pouting lips.
“You have the instincts of a detective.” Mycroft snaps his lighter closed and puts it back into the inner pocket of his jacket.
The man’s lips twist in contempt. “With what that lot do to us? Not bloody likely.”
Mycroft’s gaze flicks down. Lying next to the man is a worn, battered leather jacket. Pinned to the lapel is a faded, scratched enamel badge: a pink triangle on a black background.
He’s gay. Something tightens in Mycroft’s chest. He blinks, looking down at the floor.
“So then, Authority,” says the man, taking a drag on his cigarette. “What are you? Not police, are you.” It’s not really a question.
Mycroft glances up, and finds himself caught in the dark brown gaze. “Not police,” he agrees. “I work for – the government. Nothing – nothing important.”
The man grins. “Council, yeah? Arranging bin collections or something?” His eyes rake Mycroft from head to toe. “Seems about right, mm?”
Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Thank you very much,” he says, primly, but he’s having to fight off a smile. The man’s hairstyle is terrifying. I wonder what it looks like soft, ungelled, spilled across a pillow –
He winces at his own thoughts and looks quickly away. “I should… Goodnight,” he says, abruptly, turning to go.
There’s a note of urgency in the man’s voice, suddenly, that makes him sound much younger. “Hang on.” He’s scrabbling in his jacket; he draws out a pen and a piece of paper – a receipt, notes Mycroft’s brain automatically. The man transfers his cigarette to his left hand so he can scribble hurriedly on the back of the receipt. He folds it up and pushes it into Mycroft’s hand. “Call me,” he says, and he sounds completely sincere.
Mycroft blinks and clears his throat. He can feel himself definitely – damn – blushing now. He nods, awkwardly, once, and turns away.
At a safe distance, he unfolds the note. There’s a London phone number, and underneath:
Double chins and belly rolls and still beautiful, fat and happy.
I know people still cringe at my photos, or any photos that show a fat person not hiding their fatness, their cellulite, visible belly outlines, big arms and thighs, double chins, back rolls and so on and on. I know it’s a long process unlearning that all those above body parts are not inherently less valuable, attractive or appealing. Most of us live with bodies that have some or many parts that are not the specific shape and size or color that society and media have taught us are beautiful. GOD it’s so fucking tiring being told OVER and OVER and OVER that you’re not perfect and that you should constantly strive to be and look different. I’m here to let them cringe at me over and over and over until they un-learn the constraints the media has placed on beauty, bodies and ourselves. Until they’re used to seeing a FAT person without feeling entitled to fatshame, dish out unsolicited diet/workout tips, ridicule and diminish our worth and work. I’ll be here until you can’t count how many fat people you’ve seen in sexy lingerie ads and editorials, fat leads in movies (that aren’t about them losing weight or are self deprecating) until every store carries our sizes and nobody ever feels like they aren’t perfect.
Shot by @iridessence
Panties @lanebryant
They had not been seen together in the museum galleries for quite a while. Monet’s “Women with Umbrellas” are once again side by side in the Impressionist gallery.
AND THEN THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER THE END!!!!
ok every time this post comes by i resist geeking out on it but NO LONGER so these women are probably the same woman and that woman is monet’s wife camille doncieux. he painted her a LOT. but fun fact: monet had this asshole friend named ernest hochede, and ernest racked up some debts, and like an asshole he basically just fled the country, leaving his wife alice and their six kiddos behind. monet immediately got alice and kids to move in with him, camille, and their two kids. at this point, monet, alice, and camille became my favorite probably historic poly threesome. they lived together, taking care of the kids. they were so poor that alice and camille took turns wearing the nice dress so they could go out with monet. when camille got uterine cancer and began dying, alice helped monet cope and took care of things while he painted camille over and over. when camille died, alice is the reason monet was able to survive. when ernest finally died, monet and alice married, and remained married until alice died. at that point, blanche, the oldest daughter, took care of monet until he died. anyway, the point is, the umbrella ladies are probably the same ladies, but as far as i’m concerned, there WAS a historically queer poly family in that household and they were wonderful.
Beltainefaerie's Flights of Fancy 