Best 581 quotes in «lgbt quotes» category

Crushes are very strange things; they’re a warning sign in the word itself—crush: to deform, pulverize, or force inward by compressing forcefully. Whoever decided it was a good idea to equate deformity and compression to blooming affection was either very high or a genius—or maybe lost somewhere in between. But for good or bad, I could feel it: my heart pressing inward until the sound of it beating filled my ears again. I had a deformed, pulverized, compressed force on Chris, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Dammit, it should be easy to come out. I mean, Mom and Dad aren't a problem. I'm not worried they'll disown me or tell me some crap like I'm going to hell or take away my stuff. I'm just afraid they'll look at me differently. I don't know, like I'll be their gay son Noah instead of just Noah. I just want to be Noah Andrews, the simple, slightly nerdy, socially awkward guy, minus the big-ass secret.

Das Geheimnis der Liebe ist größer als das Geheimnis des Todes.

Déjame estar triste, es la única forma que conozco de estrujar la felicidad para que después no me pene.

Desire cannot be tamed. That’s what the King told me the first time I was here. Well, King. You should see how untamable love makes you.

desire was warm recently shot from inside a body into a body, strange little birth, happy death ritual, sweet lord i've seen thy wrath & it taste like sugar lay thy merciful hand around my neck

Despite their frequent cries to the contrary, politicians have rarely demonstrated an ability to walk and chew gum at the same time. If they are focusing their time on bathroom bills against transgender people, chances are they’re not doing much else on the sexual assault prevention front. They shouldn’t be allowed to pretend that they care about the public.

Dextra’s obsidian gaze burns into her soul, branding it as hers for all eternity.

Did I use enough lube last night?” I turned my head to the side and closed my eyes with blushing cheeks. “Don’t…don’t call it that.” “What? Lube?” he asked. I nodded and covered my mouth with my hand. He chuckled and smirked. “All right, did I use enough stuff last night?” “Mm-hmm.

D’improvviso, il mondo attorno a loro tornò ad avere un colore e un profumo ed entrambi si sentirono di nuovo vivi, poiché, in fin dei conti, poco importava chi fossero singolarmente: contava solo che insieme fossero John e Benjamin.

Discrimination is discrimination, even when people claim it's 'tradition.

Does it go away?" she asks. "Missing each other?" I think about how much I missed Maman. I still do, though it isn´t as acute as it once was. "A little bit," I whisper. "Enough so that life continues. In a year you won´t even think about me. " She turns around in my arms and looks up at me, tugging at a strand of my hair. "don´t say stupid things, Sahar. You´re smarter than that.

does it ever get easier? is there an end to these questions? do you have any answers? will you say them to me? can you stop this unraveling? will you bring me your closure? or am I the only one who sees anymore? who sees . . . who sees . . . who sees?

Do not start. Do not blush. Let us admit in the privacy of our own society that these things sometimes happen. Sometimes women do like women.

Don’t answer the door without a shirt! Now, go get dressed before you catch a cold,” I scolded. “Why? He was kinda cute. Do you think he would’ve went for it if I said I didn’t have any money?” Wesley asked. “You’re mine and I wouldn’t let you prostitute yourself for pizza. Now go put on a shirt,” I said, pulling two slices onto a plate.

Don't try to be brave all at once. Take it in steps.

Don’t tell me that I can’t write a memoir just because I’m not world famous. I mean, when you really break it down I’m the most famous person currently sitting in my living room. The point is that I don’t like people telling me what I can’t do.

Do you have any idea," Kent continued,with a smoldering rage," how many young men i have prayed over in the last two years,boys, torn apart by that stupid, senseless war, or cut down by disease? Yet, somehow, someone somewhere decided that shooting a man in the head or stabbing him with a bayonet is more acceptable than touching him with love.(...) But it's God i must answer to, not the whimsical laws of men.

Do you think, for a moment," she whispered, "that I would have done anything differently? That I could have chosen anything but this, now?" Her dark eyes were alive, bright, shining. "I would suffer any lie, Persephone, for you.

Do you fall in love with boys or with girls?" I asked her. "Sometimes boys," she replied. "Mostly souls.

Do you wanna go out for lunch? In celebration?” I asked and then touched my lips in thought. “Or we could swing by the store and get something really good for dinner?” Wesley glanced at me sideways with a puzzled expression I couldn’t figure out. He looked back at the road. “Maybe later,” he said, chewing on his thumbnail. “Why? Since we’re out, we might as well stop….” “We can’t right now. There are things I have to do first,” he said, looking at me with a grin. “What?” I asked, innocently walking into his trap, though I should’ve known better by now. “Like take you home and fuck you up, down, and sideways,” he answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

During those snowy New England winters, besides learning to rise at five to study calculus and trudge two miles through the drifts for breakfast down the road, he had suppressed some tremendous element in himself that took form in a prudish virginity. While his life was impeccable on the surface, he felt he was behind glass: moving through the world in a separate compartment, touching no one else.

Dude,” he said instead, “I’m flattered as hell.” And then he kicked my foot, lightly, twice. He was smiling. He couldn’t see the chasm that had opened behind my ribs.

Être homosexuel n’est pas plus anormal que d’être gaucher.

El amor no tiene género, la compasión no tiene religión, el carácter no tiene raza

Entertainment in its broadest sense- popular ballads, vaudeville, films, sculptures, plays, paintings, pornography, pulp novels-- has not only been a primary mode of expression of LGBT identity, but one of the most effective means of social change. Ironically, the enormous political power of these forms was often understood by the people who wanted to ban them, not by the people who were simply enjoying them.

Even in the gay spots around town, he could walk in and suddenly realize he was the only person of color in the room. He faced questions in all the eyes he greeted. What’s he doing here? Does he think he’s one of us? How ironic that even here in the nation’s self-proclaimed “gay summer capital” he should feel unwanted, excluded.

Either you are homophobic or you are a human - you cannot be both.

English. That was where I met him.

Everyone's life matters and everyone deserves to be happy but not everyone is in a place where they think, or even believe, happiness is possible.

Everyone’s assumption is for women and men to be together, and yet here we are, human girls, the Demon King’s concubines. Surely love between two women wouldn’t be so strange?

Fin da piccole sapevano quanto poco valore il mondo attribuisse ai libri, e non perdevano tempo a leggerli. Mentre io, anche adesso, continuo a credere che quei puntini neri su fondo bianco abbiano il più alto dei significati, che se insisto a scrivere potrò cogliere l'arcobaleno della coscienza e rinchiuderlo in un barattolo.

Father Brendan Flynn: "A woman was gossiping with her friend about a man whom they hardly knew - I know none of you have ever done this. That night, she had a dream: a great hand appeared over her and pointed down on her. She was immediately seized with an overwhelming sense of guilt. The next day she went to confession. She got the old parish priest, Father O' Rourke, and she told him the whole thing. 'Is gossiping a sin?' she asked the old man. 'Was that God All Mighty's hand pointing down at me? Should I ask for your absolution? Father, have I done something wrong?' 'Yes,' Father O' Rourke answered her. 'Yes, you ignorant, badly-brought-up female. You have blamed false witness on your neighbor. You played fast and loose with his reputation, and you should be heartily ashamed.' So, the woman said she was sorry, and asked for forgiveness. 'Not so fast,' says O' Rourke. 'I want you to go home, take a pillow upon your roof, cut it open with a knife, and return here to me.' So, the woman went home: took a pillow off her bed, a knife from the drawer, went up the fire escape to her roof, and stabbed the pillow. Then she went back to the old parish priest as instructed. 'Did you gut the pillow with a knife?' he says. 'Yes, Father.' 'And what were the results?' 'Feathers,' she said. 'Feathers?' he repeated. 'Feathers; everywhere, Father.' 'Now I want you to go back and gather up every last feather that flew out onto the wind,' 'Well,' she said, 'it can't be done. I don't know where they went. The wind took them all over.' 'And that,' said Father O' Rourke, 'is gossip!

Fear of homosexuals is never far from the surface.

First of all, being gay is far from a curse. It’s more like an extra order of fries at Wendy’s because the lady in the window isn’t paying attention while she fills your bag. It’s awesome.

Fear is the intended result of codifying homophobia into law.

First, I’m going to teach you how to Irish Whip someone.” “Oh, that sounds kinky. I want my safeword to be peaches,” I said, grinning.

For her and Nurul merely to share a meal cooked in their own kitchen was a triumph; to wake up together each morning a luxury.

Forget 'pray the gay away.' I you're more turned on by an AR-15 than a pair of tits, time for some serious therapy. Time for all you gun-humpers to come out of the closet. Is this really about the 2nd Amendment and self-defense -- or just a pathetic fetish for guys with tiny pee-pees?

For the fact was drugs were not necessary to most of us, because the music, youth, sweaty bodies were enough. And if it was too hot, too humid to sleep the next day, and we awoke bathed in sweat, it did not matter: We remained in a state of animated suspension the whole hot day. We lived for music, we lived for Beauty, and we were poor. But we didn’t care where we were living, or what we had to do during the day to make it possible; eventually, if you waited long enough, you were finally standing before the mirror in that cheap room, looking at your face one last time, like an actor going onstage, before rushing out to walk in the door of that discotheque and see someone like Malone.

For that is the curious quality of the discotheque after you have gone there a long time: in the midst of all the lights, and music, the bodies, the dancing, the drugs, you are stiller than still within, and though you go through the motions of dancing you are thinking a thousand disparate things. You find yourself listening to the lyrics, and you wonder what these people around you are doing. They seemed crazed to you. You stand there on a floor moving your hips, wondering if there is such a thing as love, and conscious for the very first time that it is three-twenty-five and the night only half-over. You put the popper to your nostril, you put a hand out to lightly touch the sweaty, rigid stomach of the man dancing next to you, your own chest is streaming with sweat in that hot room, and you are thinking, as grave as a judge: What will I do with my life? What can any man do with his life? And you finally don’t know where to rest your eyes. You don’t know where to look, as you dance. You have been expelled from the communion of the saints.

From little seeds great flowers grow.

For you cannot live in New York City very long and not be conscious of the niceties of being rich—the city is, after all, an ecstatic exercise in merchandising—and one evening of his visit to Venezuela Sutherland sat straight up when he read a line of Santayana’s: “Money is the petrol of life.

From the standpoint of integrity, I think we all need to own up to our dirty little secrets. I believe that when we are open about our own strange desires or unusual lives, it paves the way for others to do the same. In the past thirty years, gay men and lesbians took a lot of flack to tell the truth about their love lives and their courage opened the door for a mass migration out of the closet. We’re now at a moment in time when unconventional families (even thirty-year triads and gay couples) are losing their children in custody battles because their families don’t conform to mainstream ideas about what a family should be. Given this context, I want to be someone who stands up for my choices even if they’re unpopular, even if I get snickers at cocktail parties.

Gay people were seen as magical, too. I mean, like in many cultures, men were viewed as warriors and women were viewed as caregivers. But gay people, being both male and female, were seen as both warriors and caregivers. Gay people could do anything. They were like Swiss Army knives!

Gay rights aren't predicated on being born gay or having the right gene. Gay rights are predicated on having choice and consent. If you're a man and you can find another man that consents to have sex with you, it's the consent that gives you the right to have sex with him. Genetics are irrelevant when it comes to sexual rights. Just as gay rights are based on choice and consent, so are prostitution rights. All sexual rights are based on choice and consent.

G: Did you ever go through a period of trying to imitate boys? F: When I thought it was wrong to be a lesbian, what I did then was really go over into trying to cut off all of my male behavior, to the point of shaving my arms! I thought that anybody who looked at my arms would know immediately that I had hair on them and that was a sure sign of lesbianism! So I went the other way really. I didn’t go into the male role. I went into trying to hide it from everybody else until I figured it out. G: So you figured it out? F: Yeah, it was like a secret that I didn’t want anybody else to know until I was able to handle the situation and cope with my feelings about it. And during that period, I changed into being-- into acting the female role. During that time I would just go off by myself for long periods of time. And this happened for several years. G: When did you really feel that you were strong enough to openly be what you were? F: That went on until Jeanne happened. And then I had it all together. Jeanne was all I needed to know it was right. And then I had thought it all out, all the angles of it. Enough to hit anybody who went against it. G: How old were you when that happened? F: Twenty.

Girls who like each other have a different energy. More intense. Furtive. They're part of a secret world. They speak in code, like spies. Everything has a hidden meaning.

Get your sticky fingers away from my cookies,” Ben ordered, without turning his head, to see Jaxton trying to steal one from the cooking tray. “You weren't saying that last night,” Jaxton retaliated, coming up to Ben's side, to give him a nudge. They were both smiling, while looking down at the counter, where Ben was making his delicious rosemary cookies. “In fact, I seem to remember you grabbing my sticky fingers and putting them in your mouth,” he teased, speaking quietly, so that Lyon wouldn't hear them at the other side of the room. Ben turned to Jaxton and abandoned his baking, to catch his face in flour covered hands and plant a deep kiss on his lips. Jaxton opened his mouth, in acceptance of his kiss. ~ From the Heart

Girls love each other like animals. There is something ferocious and unself-conscious about it. We don't guard ourselves like we do with boys. No one trains us to shield our hearts from each other. With girls, it's total vulnerability from the beginning. Our skin is bare and soft. We love with claws and teeth and the blood is just proof of how much. It's feral. And it's relentless.