How the gods handle their children's death:

  • Romans: They were a warrior. Their destiny has been foretold since the age of time. They died a hero and will end in the paradise of Elysium.
  • Greeks: *wails*



so today i learned that in the late 1800s-early 1900s, the navy became concerned about possible homosexual activity among their sailors

so they sent in decoys, whose job was to pretend to want to engage in homosexual activity in order to find gay sailors

except then the job of the decoy got popular

like, really popular

like… worryingly popular?

reports said that the decoys were performing their jobs with “much enthusiasm and zeal”

eventually the navy decided. to. just stop.

Reblogging because I’ve found a source to support this, quoted below (my bolding for emphasis):

The ex-detective from Connecticut who boasted that he could pick out the “cruising” fairies on Manhattan’s Riverside Drive with 90 percent accuracy—not a challenging task, given the blatant style of the area—convinced his superiors that an undercover operation was the only way to secure evidence that would stand up in court. Accordingly, he quietly enlisted a staff of Navy investigators “in the capacity of detectives” who would circulate among the suspected population of perverts at the YMCA or elsewhere, strike up friendships, and take careful note of all that transpired. He wanted no one over thirty, he said, on the well-known assumption that homosexuals never bothered with men that old. His ideal volunteer was in his late teens or early twenties, handsome, none too intellectually inclined (to judge by their later testimony in court), and willing to put himself in awkward situations for the good of the service. He found an ample number to take on the assignment, more than a dozen at first, and sought assurances that his men, if forced to break the law—that is, go the limit to complete their mission—would not themselves be subject to prosecution.

    The specific duties the recruits were charged with fell into three areas: to gather information about “cocaine joints” and the sale of liquor; to gather information “pertaining to cocksuckers and rectum receivers” and any network of “said fairies”; and to gather information about prostitutes in the area. In reality, once their project hit its stride, Arnold’s band of investigators showed no interest to speak of in the “fallen women” of Newport and only minimal concern with the illegal drug traffic. What went on behind closed doors at the YMCA or in the romantic shadows of Cliff Walk was another matter. In their pursuit of the “cocksuckers” Arnold had charged them to find—and in the fairly staggering amount of oral sex they enjoyed in the line of duty—this group of young men was all but tireless. In fact, their assiduous performance was to become by the end of the summer a profound humiliation to the Department of the Navy and its leadership.”

- The Other Side of Silence, by John Loughery; Chapter One, 1: A Scandal in Newport

“I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.”
— Virginia Woolf (via nnairi)

I’ve been a massage therapist for many years, now. I know what people look like. People have been undressing for me for a long time. I know what you look like: a glance at you, and I can picture pretty well what you’d look like on my table.

Let’s start here with what nobody looks like: nobody looks like the people in magazines or movies. Not even models. Nobody. Lean people have a kind of rawboned, unfinished look about them that is very appealing. But they don’t have plump round breasts and plump round asses. You have plump round breasts and a plump round ass, you have a plump round belly and plump round thighs as well. That’s how it works. And that’s very appealing too.

Woman have cellulite. All of them. It’s dimply and cute. It’s not a defect. It’s not a health problem. It’s the natural consequence of not consisting of photoshopped pixels, and not having emerged from an airbrush.

Men have silly buttocks. Well, if most of your clients are women, anyway. You come to male buttocks and you say — what, this is it? They’re kind of scrawny and the tissue is jumpy because it’s unpadded; you have to dial back the pressure, or they’ll yelp.

Adults sag. It doesn’t matter how fit they are. Every decade, an adult sags a little more. All of the tissue hangs a little looser. They wrinkle, too. I don’t know who put about the rumor that just old people wrinkle. You start wrinkling when you start sagging, as soon as you’re all grown up, and the process goes its merry way as long as you live. Which is hopefully a long, long time, right?

Everybody on a massage table is beautiful. There are really no exceptions to this rule. At that first long sigh, at that first thought that “I can stop hanging on now, I’m safe” – a luminosity, a glow, begins. Within a few minutes the whole body is radiant with it. It suffuses the room: it suffuses the massage therapist too. People talk about massage therapists being caretakers, and I suppose we are: we like to look after people, and we’re easily moved to tenderness. But to let you in on a secret: I’m in it for the glow.

I’ll tell you what people look like, really: they look like flames. Or like the stars, on a clear night in the wilderness.

What People Really Look Like  (via modernhepburn)

This makes me tear up. I spent quite a lot of my childhood on a nude beach, bathing suits were a fashion item, we took them off when they got wet and sandy. And yes, on the beach it is the same, saggy, wrinkly, lumpy, splendidly human.

(via eglantinebr)

This is fantastically beautiful, but I had to read it twice because initially after the first half all I could think about was what if when you squeeze dudes’ butts they make squeaky toy noises. 

(via vrabia)

“Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.”
Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (via elucipher)
“When we took Shakespeare’s “Measure for Measure” into a maximum security woman’s prison on the West Side…there’s a scene there where a young woman is told by a very powerful official that “If you sleep with me, I will pardon your brother. And if you don’t sleep with me, I’ll execute him.” And he leaves the stage. And this character, Isabel, turned out to the audience and said: “To whom should I complain?” And a woman in the audience shouted: “The Police!” And then she looked right at that woman and said: “If I did relate this, who would believe me?” And the woman answered back, “No one, girl.” And it was astonishing because not only was it an amazing sense of connection between the audience and the actress, but you also realized that this was a kind of an historical lesson in theater reception. That’s what must have happened at The Globe. These soliloquies were not simply monologues that people spoke, they were call and response to the audience. And you realized that vibrancy, that that sense of connectedness is not only what makes theater great in prisons, it’s what makes theater great, period.”
— Oskar Eustis on ArtBeat Nation (he told the same story on Charlie Rose)


lol: lots of lesbians

rotfl: really open to friendly lesbians

lmao: lesbians make awesome omelettes

omg: oh my girls

ily: i love yuri

wtf: where’s the females

fyi: females… yes… interesting…

“I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.”
— Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena  (via ephemeralintimacy)
“The winds that awakened the stars
Are blowing through my blood.”
— W. B. Yeats, from Maid Quiet 
“In reaching out to explore the distant hills where the gods dwell and the deeps where the monsters are lurking, we are perhaps discovering the way home.”
— H. R. Ellis Davidson, Gods and Myths, 1964  (via mirroir)