Attn. gender roles: YOU FAIL.
Things that make me 'gay', 'effeminate' or both according to a stupid person of my acquaintance who shall remain nameless:
*This is a short story by C.S. Lewis that is probably one of the most genderfailing things I have ever read. Like, Frank Miller-level. Lewis is an interesting case study in genderwin and genderfail because his ideas about sex (and race, for that matter) fluctuated to a ridiculous degree throughout his life. Thus you have relatively good portrayals like the female Narnia characters up until The Last Battle juxtaposed with a howling depth of fail like, uh, the female Narnia characters in The Last Battle. Sometimes even within the same book--That Hideous Strength (among its many other ambivalent aspects) is an example of this. Lewis isn't really a writer from whom you can ever expect genderwin, exactly (Til We Have Faces arguably comes closest), but 'Ministering Angels' plumbs such abyssal depths of genderfail that I can only assume that he was having a serious, SERIOUS off-day even by relatively-conservative-mid-century-British-writer standards.
- Crying at movies that are supposed to make one cry.
- Not liking red meat.
- Picking and arranging flowers.
- Reading 'Ministering Angels'*.
- Various gestures that I occasionally make that apparently count as 'mincing'.
- Listening to music by female artists. I AM FUCKING SERIOUS.
*This is a short story by C.S. Lewis that is probably one of the most genderfailing things I have ever read. Like, Frank Miller-level. Lewis is an interesting case study in genderwin and genderfail because his ideas about sex (and race, for that matter) fluctuated to a ridiculous degree throughout his life. Thus you have relatively good portrayals like the female Narnia characters up until The Last Battle juxtaposed with a howling depth of fail like, uh, the female Narnia characters in The Last Battle. Sometimes even within the same book--That Hideous Strength (among its many other ambivalent aspects) is an example of this. Lewis isn't really a writer from whom you can ever expect genderwin, exactly (Til We Have Faces arguably comes closest), but 'Ministering Angels' plumbs such abyssal depths of genderfail that I can only assume that he was having a serious, SERIOUS off-day even by relatively-conservative-mid-century-British-writer standards.