Can we go back to the old tom fandom?
Can we go back to the old tom fandom?
“It’s always about, somehow, finding a part of myself that is relevant, and then turning the volume up on that particular part. So, I am all of the characters I’ve ever played, and I am none of them at the same time.” — Tom Hiddleston
A 14 year-old boy was recently raped at knife-point by a 20 year-old woman. When the story broke, it was primarily men who claimed he should have enjoyed it. It was feminists who validated his pain and spoke in support of him.
This is why we need feminism.—
"but men get raped too-"
AND LOOK HOW YOU HANDLED THAT
My goal is to be that rich single aunt that flies everywhere and wears designer clothing and brings expensive gifts to her less successful family members
I just wanna be able to do anything that I want because it makes me feel alive as apposed to giving me the appearance of normality.
—- Boyhood (2014)
It’s a competitive world I guess, but all we can do is feel our best. I’m not a competitive person, I love women, I’m intrigued by them. I think women are fascinating and complex.
Liv Tyler by Guy Aroch for Violet Grey, July 2014
Here’s a basic rule: if you’re reading or watching a Shakespeare play, and you’re not imagining the actors standing in front of a mosh pit of jeering Londoners waiting to throw vegetables at the stage, you’re doing it wrong.
Shakespeare might have written the best works in the English language, or given us profound insight into the nature of humanity, or whatever — but his works wouldn’t have survived to our day if he hadn’t been popular when he was alive, and he wouldn’t have been popular when he was alive if he hadn’t been able to please the crowd. And that includes a lot of dirty jokes. A lot.
Sometimes in incredibly inappropriate places. We’re here to rescue a few of those for you, and retroactively embarrass the heck out of your fourteen-year-old self, who had to stand up in English class and read things that, in retrospect, are absolutely filthy.
This isn’t about the stuff that always does crack fourteen-year-olds up in English class, but is totally innocent: the “bring me my long sword, ho!” sort of thing.
But the kids who lose it every time the word “ho” is uttered are closer to the spirit of Shakespeare than the teacher who demands they treat the words like museum pieces.
Sure, it would be awkward for teachers to explain the Elizabethan double entendres to their students — but pretending they don’t exist makes Shakespeare seem unnecessarily stuffy and difficult.
So we’re going to start with the most obvious innuendoes, and move on to some seriously advanced sex punnery that is probably going to blow your mind.—Reading Shakespeare without the sex jokes is the real tragedy. (via newsweek)
Too many men look at me like I owe them something, like the word ‘beautiful’ should mean something to me just because that’s how they choose to describe me. Too many men think that the black heels I wear to the grocery store is my way of saying, “Look at my legs. Do you like the way my dress hugs my curves?” When the truth is I just got off work and need some fucking beer and bread. Don’t look at me like that, the only reason my lips are painted red is because I ran out of Chapstick and this was the only thing I could find in my car.
I once dated a man who said that for Valentine’s Day all he wanted was me in red lace. He said that I would taste like chocolate, that he wanted to show me just how good love can feel. He talked like his sex skills were the best gift he could give me. I wore black lace and showed him how it feels to be fucked harder than the night he lost his virginity to a stripper. He said I tasted like mystery and black coffee as he got down on his knees to find his boxers. He said he couldn’t find the taste of chocolate on my neck. That was the morning he realized that being a man had nothing to do with ‘how hard you can fuck’. If that was the case, I would be ten foot tall and bullet proof and one hell of a guy with nice boobs.
One time I fell into the arms of a drunk man who claimed that he loved me afterwards. He called me a bitch when I said I just wanted to be his friend. I told him if me giving him my friendship made me a bitch then me giving him my heart would make me a cunt from hell. That was the day I stopped kissing boys who had to prove that they were men and started holding hands with men who didn’t realize they turned heads when they walked by.
Love rests in the heart and is spilled from your throat.
Lust rests in your pants and prefers to not ask for a name.
One day those men will realize that sincere, kind words
are the way to a woman’s heart, not a good fucking.
One day those men will realize that their Adam’s apple
is the forbidden fruit,
not their dick.