Best 581 quotes in «lgbt quotes» category

It is interesting how - depending on the person in power - our LGBT issues are either right at the top of the list - or right at the very bottom. And almost always for exactly the wrong reasons.

It is strange... the reasons one feels he doesn't deserve things.

It might seem daunting to a congregation to have to learn about pronouns, or to designate a bathroom gender-neutral, or to have difficult conversations about what it means to affirm LGBTQ+ identities. But transgender people are not a burden for Christianity, or for the church. They come bearing gifts!

I took Lysi’s hand, deciding that as long as we had each other, we would be all right.

It's difficult to make the argument that one female fist inserted into one male ass--or, for that matter, dozens or even hundreds of fists inserted into as many asses--can really make a difference for, say, lesbian mothers fighting for custody of their children. -Katherine Raymond

It shouldn't have mattered, not when Miel and the other girls in his class wore jeans more than they wore skirts. Not when they told their brothers what to do, and borrowed their fathers' books. But there was everything else. The idea of being called Miss or Ms. or worse, Mrs. The thought of being grouped in when someone called out 'girls' or 'ladies.' The endless, echoing use of 'she' and 'her,' 'miss' and 'ma'am.' Yes, they were words. They were all just words. But each of them was wrong, and they stuck to him. Each one was a golden fire ant, and they were biting his arms and his neck and his bound-flat chest, leaving him bleeding and burning. 'He.' 'Him.' 'Mister.' 'Sir.' Even teachers admonishing him and his classmates with 'boys, settle down' or 'gentlemen, please.' These were sounds as perfect and clean as winter rain, and they calmed each searing bite of those wrong words.

It’s never too late to find that one person who can change you, for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

it's not a death sentence anymore it's not death anymore it's more it's a sentence a sentence

It's not conversion 'therapy;' it's conversion brainwashing.

It's not 'over-sensitivity' to ask to be treated with the same dignity and respect shown to others.

It's not that there are no differences between human and non-human animals, any more than there are no differences between black people and white people, freeborn citizens and slaves, men and women, Jews and gentiles, gays or heterosexuals. The question is rather: are they morally relevant differences? This matters because morally catastrophic consequences can ensue when we latch on to a real but morally irrelevant difference between sentient beings.

It's official, then. Everyone knew I was gay before I did.

It's stillness and pressure and rhythm and breathing.

It started to rain suddenly and ferociously as they pulled up in front of Rose’s house. A mist covered the truck. It was as if a fire hose had opened up on the dusty, dry earthen roads. The smell of moist earth and damp, pungent flowering trees gave off the last bit of heat from the former Carolina summer sun of a few minutes ago. Now cooled suddenly by the rainwater, an immediate fog to rose off the hot metal of the truck and the soil. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in the formidable rain and sudden fog. Rose pulled Carmen to her and wrapped herself around her, one hand playing around through her T as she kissed her, one hand pushing gently at her pants.

It's terrifying to think you could become the next statistic.

It's uncommon, far from unheard of. The elves and the angels have done it since the dawn of time, penning great epics of beautiful women loving beautiful women. No need for shame, little angel. You are full of surprises." Tears did leak from Flowridia's eyes, but of relief. No more fear.

I've fought for religious freedom and I can tell you that anti-gay 'religious freedom' bills aren't it.

It's what he needs, and whether he ever admits it to us or not, it's what he loves" - Theoden (From Commanded:House of Theoden)

It wasn't the first time I'd been with someone, but it was different this time. Maybe it was because when I told them I was bisexual they weren't like the girls who thought I was *really* a lesbian; they weren't like the boys who thought it was hot. Maybe it was because when they told me they were genderqueer I just said that I knew and they cried as they smiled at me. Or maybe it was just because our limbs fit together, maybe because it tasted like salt water and was the colour of sunlight through grass. Or maybe it was just all these things.

I've always loved being gay. Sure, Kenya was not exactly Queer Nation but my sexuality gave me joy. I was young, not so dumb and full of cum! There was no place for me in heaven but I was content munching devil's pie here on earth.

I’ve lived in this world a long time, and you can’t change what you like, even if you’d want to.

It was duck apocalypse!

I've always wanted to wake up one day in a world where I liked the right people, and they lied me in return. I worry it'll never happen.

I’ve spent every minute of these past months trying to figure out why I feel the things I feel, and if there’s a way to put that into words, I won’t find it. I am who I am. I’ve never acted on less than that, and I never want to.

I was broken and I was beautiful. I was nothing and I was everything. I didn't matter to the universe, but I mattered to him.

I want to understand about change--I don't just want to be at the mercy of it. I feel like I'm waking up inside. I want to know about history. I have all this new information about people like me down through the ages, but I don't know anything about the ages.

I want to watch you walk through the world before you leave it and if you stumble I'll rush forward to catch you. I like to think I'd show you the kindness you never showed me. I'd like you to owe me a favour. I want to show you that I did it. I want you to be proud of me.

I was finished with assuming the best intentions of those who abandoned me, done trying to assuage my loneliness in barren places.

I wasn’t sure if, upon laying eyes on me, they wouldn’t know (by parent telepathy or something) that, far from behaving as a Christian young man should, I had spent the evening using illegal narcotics and engaging in sodomy.

I want to confess. I thought that her story was comprised of scenes. I thought the tragedy could be glamorous and her grief could be undone by a sunnier future. I thought we could pinpoint dramatic events on a time line and call it a life. But I was wrong.

I want to hear his laugh. I want to see him smile. I want to watch him look at the stars and to see the stars in his eyes.

I was an I, an opera of feeling with a very small audience, a writer of articles about culture but with no real voice, living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, a dream of love growing ever more expansive because it was impossible, especially in the gay bars I sometimes frequented in Manhattan, where AIDS loved everyone up the wrong way, or in a way some people weren’t surprised by, particularly by those gay men who were too indifferent to be sad — in any case night sweats were a part of the conversation people weren’t having in those bars, in any case, taking your closest friend in because he was shunned by his family was part of the conversation people weren’t having, still, there was this to contend with: that friend’s shirt collars getting bigger, still, there was this to contend with: his coughing and wheezing in the little room off your bedroom in Brooklyn because TB was catching, your friends didn’t want you to catch it, loving a man was catching, your friends didn’t want you to get it; his skin was thin as onionskin, there was a lesion, he couldn’t control his shit, not to mention the grief in his eyes, you didn’t want to catch that; those blue eyes filled with why? Causing one’s sphincter to contract, your heart to look away, a child’s question you couldn’t answer, what happened to our plans, why was the future happening so fast? You didn’t want to catch that, nor the bitterness of the sufferer’s family after death, nor the friends competing for a bigger slice of the death pie after the sufferer’s death, you certainly didn’t want to catch what it left: night sweats, but in your head, and all day, the running to a pay phone to share a joke, but that number’s disconnected, your body forgets, or rushes toward the love you remember, but it’s too late, he’s closer to the earth now than you are, and you certainly don’t want to catch any of that.

I wasn’t raised in a household where it was considered abnormal to be gay. So for me to meet people who use the word 'faggot' as an insult, with a derogatory meaning, I can’t take it. I don’t understand it. It’s so foreign to me. I was raised in a household where being gay was like, the most normal thing. You know, my brother is gay, all of my best friends are gay. When my brother came out of the closet, it wasn’t a big deal for my family. Even my grandpa, who is like, super old-school, was like, Good for you! It’s outrageous to me when I see people hate on someone because of their sexuality. I hate the intolerance. I hate the judgment. I hate it so much. Most of my favorite people in my life are gay. It’s something I’m super passionate about, because whenever I would see my friends get bullied, or my brother get hurt for his sexuality, I would become a raging lunatic. I would literally become a raging lunatic because I just can’t take it. When you see someone you love hurting, for such a superficial, bullshit reason, it’s like, how small and spiritually unenlightened and dumb as fuck can a person be? How much further can your head get up your ass that you’re actually judging someone as a person based on their sexuality before you even have a conversation with them?

I watched that film the other night and it embarrassed me. So dated, so coy, so evasively homosexual only a fellow homosexual might recognize the subtext.

I will grant you one wish, for your birthday. Anything at all, except sex.” “Wait…what?” “You heard me. So what do you want?” Grayson questioned, keeping calm about the whole thing. Konnor thought those words over in his head again. He was literally telling him he could do what he wanted with him, as a birthday treat, as long as they didn't sleep together. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that if I wanted to…” he asked, but found that he didn't want to embarrass Grayson by saying it. His eyes went there any way. They focused on his crotch withoutshame, wondering if he would get to remove clothes. “Yes,” he nodded. “And you'd let me? Why?” he asked, too stunned to do anything else but ask. “Because it's not your fault I'm straight. And it's not your fault you're attracted to me. If I can't give you everything you want I can at least give you a birthday to remember, right?” Grayson smiled. Konnor felt like kissing him so hard he wouldn't be straight any more.

Living in a world of darkness doesn't mean we must surrender, but to survive, we need to occasionally unleash the diva from within.

Living in a world that is grossly opposed to who you are, the bravest and most radical thing to do is to be yourself. And being a part of the LGBT+ community is just that – brave.

Living with stress and secrets is both stressful and secretive.

Love has no gender - compassion has no religion - character has no race.

Lo sconosciuto sbadigliò nel sonno e si rigirò, scoprendosi fino all’inguine. Era davvero un giovane ragazzo. Il viso, sporco e provato, possedeva le fattezze di un angelo, la chioma color del grano ricadeva morbidamente sulle spalle, conferendogli un’aria quasi soave e le labbra ben disegnate, davano l’impressione di essere morbide e succose come una pesca matura. Era bellissimo. Johann provò l’istinto feroce di tenerlo tra le braccia, carezzare quei riccioli d’oro con le sue grandi mani e lambire quella bocca con la propria. Con urgenza si liberò della camicia e si infilò nel letto.

Love is a career with its own stages, rewards, and failures . . . a vocation as concrete as a calling in the Church, worth giving a lifetime to.

Love is cursed by monogamy

Love and sex with a man is like listening to a soloist. Pleasant, sometimes beautiful and moving. But with a woman.” She was wistful. “It is a symphony of sound and colour. You cannot help be swept up in it.

Love doesn't discriminate and nor should the law. Not in this country, not in this world, not in this lifetime.

Love Is Not A choice

Love isn’t a choice. You fall for the person, not their chromosomes.

Love your children, for they are the seeds that will make this city bloom.

Love will work no matter what job i have, what nationality I claim, or what street i live on. It will work even if i kiss a woman. and it does.

Love should never mean having to live in fear.

Male? female? both? No one's ever asked me that question, I see myself as neither. I'm something different all together.