While I object to the sepia tinge, strobe vignetting and canted frame, the pervert in my is intrigued by this image.
I have certain reservations about imagery depicting threesomes; therefore, I appreciate how the above eschews the typically stultifying heteronormative script.
I read something about fluid sexual orientation. Namely, I don’t stop to ask is that boy gay or bi. (Although I admit that with the way his head is being forced into the woman’s pubis, I could understand that reading.)
Does it really matter? Everyone here is clearly enthusiastically engaged/invested in the proceedings.
‘Straight’, ‘gay’, ‘bisexual’ and ‘genderqueer’ are words, labels. Increasingly, treated as if it were a discrete street addresses: 123 Main Street, Podunkville, ID.
I don’t think it’s that simple. At best, ‘bisexual’ is comparable to one New Yorker telling another she lives in Brooklyn–as opposed to Manhattan, Queens or the Bronx. (As far as I’m concerned there are only four boroughs.)
Saying I am a bisexual woman who prefers women to men is analogous to mentioning that she lives off the Lorimer L stop.
If she really trusts the person with whom she is talking, she might say: I’m on Ainslie between Leonard and Manhattan.
Even that falls short. Each of us manifests a singular sexual persona; labels are broad, vague and ambiguous, they will always fail to summarize the intricacies of our desires. Words merely facilitate communication by nudge us toward a better heading, towards the truth.