F o r a w r i t e r c r e d i t e d w i t h i n v e n t i n g medical and moral anxiety about female masturbation, the author of Onania fought shy of offering too many details. “It would be impossible,” he protested, “to rake into so much Filthiness, as I should be obliged to do, without offending Chastity.”1 Such admirable delicacy was perhaps overstated. Addressed to readers of both sexes, an exposé of the secret vices of the fairer sex was integral to Onania’s appeal, and the author’s professed scruples proved little bar to waxing lyrical on the subject. Self-pollution, he claimed, was almost universal among women, subjecting them to disease, disfigurement, and even death. The most lurid and arresting depictions of women, however, he displaced onto his correspondents. The readers’ letters reproduced in Onania offered the most dramatic descriptions of women in the entire work: candid, allegedly firsthand accounts of the physical destruction that masturbation supposedly wrought on the body. This correspondence played a key role in its rhetorical and commercial strategy, with advertisements trumpeting the existence of letters from and about women as soon as they appeared.2 Although critics were quick to seize on their dubious provenance, the accounts in these letters took on a life of their own. Within a few years of their first appearance, these stories of female masturbation were appearing elsewhere. More critical writers like Samuel
{"title":"<i>Onania</i>’s Letters and the Female Masturbator: Women, Gender, and the “Abominable Crime” of Self-Pollution","authors":"Elizabeth Schlappa","doi":"10.7560/jhs32304","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32304","url":null,"abstract":"F o r a w r i t e r c r e d i t e d w i t h i n v e n t i n g medical and moral anxiety about female masturbation, the author of Onania fought shy of offering too many details. “It would be impossible,” he protested, “to rake into so much Filthiness, as I should be obliged to do, without offending Chastity.”1 Such admirable delicacy was perhaps overstated. Addressed to readers of both sexes, an exposé of the secret vices of the fairer sex was integral to Onania’s appeal, and the author’s professed scruples proved little bar to waxing lyrical on the subject. Self-pollution, he claimed, was almost universal among women, subjecting them to disease, disfigurement, and even death. The most lurid and arresting depictions of women, however, he displaced onto his correspondents. The readers’ letters reproduced in Onania offered the most dramatic descriptions of women in the entire work: candid, allegedly firsthand accounts of the physical destruction that masturbation supposedly wrought on the body. This correspondence played a key role in its rhetorical and commercial strategy, with advertisements trumpeting the existence of letters from and about women as soon as they appeared.2 Although critics were quick to seize on their dubious provenance, the accounts in these letters took on a life of their own. Within a few years of their first appearance, these stories of female masturbation were appearing elsewhere. More critical writers like Samuel","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"58 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135348393","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
I n t h e s u m m e r o f 1891 , J u l e s V a n d e n p e e r e b o o m , a Belgian Catholic politician who had become the first minister of telegraphs, mail, and railroads in 1884, declared a “war on pornography” by banning the transportation of five pornographic journals by mail and train. The minister proclaimed in Parliament: “We are invaded by pornographers. . . . I declare war on these scoundrels.”1 In a manner similar to what scholars describe as “concept wars,” such as “the war on terrorism” and “the war on drugs,” Vandenpeereboom used the metaphor of war to stress that his responsibility was to stop the “transportation of pornography.”2 Vandenpeereboom’s declaration of war can be seen as the final step of a process in which pornography became understood as a danger of movement; hence, it was the responsibility of the government to stop its transportation. Vandenpeereboom’s ban on the transportation of pornographic material was almost immediately contested by liberal politicians and some publishers of the targeted journals, with one of them even suing the Belgian government. The court ruled in favor of Vandenpeereboom’s actions. Celebrating his win, he wrote a letter to Jules Lammens, a Catholic Party member of the Belgian Senate, informing him that the court agreed with him and that the state could “refuse the transportation of [pornographic] writings [by train and mail].”3 Lammens was pleased with this news, since
{"title":"Pornography on Rails: Trains and Belgium’s “War on Pornography,” 1880–1891","authors":"Leon Janssens","doi":"10.7560/jhs32302","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32302","url":null,"abstract":"I n t h e s u m m e r o f 1891 , J u l e s V a n d e n p e e r e b o o m , a Belgian Catholic politician who had become the first minister of telegraphs, mail, and railroads in 1884, declared a “war on pornography” by banning the transportation of five pornographic journals by mail and train. The minister proclaimed in Parliament: “We are invaded by pornographers. . . . I declare war on these scoundrels.”1 In a manner similar to what scholars describe as “concept wars,” such as “the war on terrorism” and “the war on drugs,” Vandenpeereboom used the metaphor of war to stress that his responsibility was to stop the “transportation of pornography.”2 Vandenpeereboom’s declaration of war can be seen as the final step of a process in which pornography became understood as a danger of movement; hence, it was the responsibility of the government to stop its transportation. Vandenpeereboom’s ban on the transportation of pornographic material was almost immediately contested by liberal politicians and some publishers of the targeted journals, with one of them even suing the Belgian government. The court ruled in favor of Vandenpeereboom’s actions. Celebrating his win, he wrote a letter to Jules Lammens, a Catholic Party member of the Belgian Senate, informing him that the court agreed with him and that the state could “refuse the transportation of [pornographic] writings [by train and mail].”3 Lammens was pleased with this news, since","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"21 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135348394","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Wh e n C a p i t o l h i l l s e C r e t a r y e l i z a b e t h r a y told Washington Post reporters in the spring of 1976 that she had been having an affair with her powerful boss, Rep. Wayne Hays (D-OH), they were not surprised; he had a reputation. Illicit sex had long been a topic of gossip on and around the Hill, but the majority-male press corps avoided reporting on political leaders’ sexual affairs out of a sense that what men did in their “private lives” was their own business and off-limits for public scrutiny. “That’s the sort of thing that legitimate newspaper people don’t write about or don’t even make any implications about,” White House
1976年春天，当C a p i t o l h i l l s e C r e t a r y e l i z a b e t h r a y告诉《华盛顿邮报》记者，她与她强大的老板、俄亥俄州民主党众议员韦恩·海斯有染时，他们并不感到惊讶；他有名声。非法性行为长期以来一直是国会山内外的八卦话题，但大多数男性记者团避免报道政治领导人的性行为，因为他们认为男性在“私生活”中所做的是自己的事，不允许公众监督。白宫说：“这是合法的报纸人不会写的事情，甚至不会对此产生任何影响。”
{"title":"Sexpo '76: Gender, Media, and the 1976 Hays-Ray Congressional Sex Scandal","authors":"Sarah B. Rowley","doi":"10.7560/jhs32202","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32202","url":null,"abstract":"Wh e n C a p i t o l h i l l s e C r e t a r y e l i z a b e t h r a y told Washington Post reporters in the spring of 1976 that she had been having an affair with her powerful boss, Rep. Wayne Hays (D-OH), they were not surprised; he had a reputation. Illicit sex had long been a topic of gossip on and around the Hill, but the majority-male press corps avoided reporting on political leaders’ sexual affairs out of a sense that what men did in their “private lives” was their own business and off-limits for public scrutiny. “That’s the sort of thing that legitimate newspaper people don’t write about or don’t even make any implications about,” White House","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"144 - 173"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-05-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"45710570","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
I n a n I n t e r v I e w c o n d u c t e d I n 2018 , Elżbieta, a female laboratory technician born in 1961 and living in the large industrial city of Łódź in central Poland, narrated her experience of sex education: “When I was fourteen or fifteen the famous book Sztuka kochania [Art of love] was published. And during winter holidays, it so happened that the secondary school pupils did a work placement at a press, and each of us got a copy. So the four of us [who did the placement], two boys, a girl, and myself, had the book, and we lent it out as well. It had influence. Of course, our parents did not know what kind of a book it was. We considered it to be forbidden fruit, because we were still underaged.”1 Individual and collective interaction with expert literature was central to Elżbieta’s narrative of how she acquired sexual knowledge. This article examines personal narratives of formal and informal sex education by two generations of Poles, the first coming of age in the immediate aftermath of World War II and the second approximating to their children’s generation. We argue that the state-supported expertization of sexuality and reproduction played an important role in the development of sexual identities among Polish men and women during the second half of the twentieth century. We demonstrate how, from the 1950s onward, knowledge about the sexual body began and continued to be framed as valuable and symptomatic of modernity, as well as necessary for personal and familial happiness. The
{"title":"Unawareness and Expertise: Acquiring Knowledge about Sexuality in Postwar Poland","authors":"Agata Ignaciuk, Natalia Jarska","doi":"10.7560/jhs32201","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32201","url":null,"abstract":"I n a n I n t e r v I e w c o n d u c t e d I n 2018 , Elżbieta, a female laboratory technician born in 1961 and living in the large industrial city of Łódź in central Poland, narrated her experience of sex education: “When I was fourteen or fifteen the famous book Sztuka kochania [Art of love] was published. And during winter holidays, it so happened that the secondary school pupils did a work placement at a press, and each of us got a copy. So the four of us [who did the placement], two boys, a girl, and myself, had the book, and we lent it out as well. It had influence. Of course, our parents did not know what kind of a book it was. We considered it to be forbidden fruit, because we were still underaged.”1 Individual and collective interaction with expert literature was central to Elżbieta’s narrative of how she acquired sexual knowledge. This article examines personal narratives of formal and informal sex education by two generations of Poles, the first coming of age in the immediate aftermath of World War II and the second approximating to their children’s generation. We argue that the state-supported expertization of sexuality and reproduction played an important role in the development of sexual identities among Polish men and women during the second half of the twentieth century. We demonstrate how, from the 1950s onward, knowledge about the sexual body began and continued to be framed as valuable and symptomatic of modernity, as well as necessary for personal and familial happiness. The","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"121 - 143"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-05-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"46671542","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"\"Your Town Is Rotten\": Prostitution, Profit, and the Governing of Vice in Kingston, Ontario, 1860s–1920s","authors":"Margaret O'Riordan Ross","doi":"10.7560/jhs32203","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32203","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"174 - 201"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-05-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"41618753","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
“B a r o n e s s V e n u s H e i n r i c H V o n K r a m m knew every sinkhole of vice and bizarre experience sought by the jaded jet-set as they roamed the sin cities of the world, seeking to plumb ever further into the shame swamps of human depravity. And Jimmy Bergner, an American on the bum through Europe played right into her hands,” teases the 1966 pulp Shame Chateau. Confronted with “torture and terror,” the unassuming American Jimmy stumbles upon “a whole subculture based on violence” as a “sin guest” outside his own country.1 Leftover Lust’s Magda, “an exciting girl who thought she had left all the horrors of her European past far behind her and was happily married to American, Frank Dane,” likewise soon finds herself thrust into the horrors of sadomasochism when “Anton Lupescu, the evil, heartless beast-master tracks her down for more of his depraved delights.” The text, published in 1965, titillated readers with promises of “sadistic love-hunger” and “degradation smothered behind a gag.”2 Shame Chateau and Leftover Lust are two of the thousands of pornographic pulp novels that circulated in the post–World War II United States. Many of these texts depicted scenes of “sadism” and “masochism” for the titillating pleasure of readers, situating the practices as delightfully horrifying. Officially categorized by the American Psychiatric Association (APA) as a form of mental disorder in 1952, sadism and its flip side, masochism, were subjects of intense interest for medical and scientific institutions in the postwar years. Alfred Kinsey’s landmark studies, psychiatric authority, and popular culture all turned toward sadomasochism, querying why one would desire pain, violence, and degradation as part of one’s sexuality. Situated within a national milieu dedicated to defining the boundaries of
{"title":"Pulp Sadomasochism and Sensational Narratives of Sexual Violence in the Postwar United States","authors":"Alex O'Connell","doi":"10.7560/jhs32204","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32204","url":null,"abstract":"“B a r o n e s s V e n u s H e i n r i c H V o n K r a m m knew every sinkhole of vice and bizarre experience sought by the jaded jet-set as they roamed the sin cities of the world, seeking to plumb ever further into the shame swamps of human depravity. And Jimmy Bergner, an American on the bum through Europe played right into her hands,” teases the 1966 pulp Shame Chateau. Confronted with “torture and terror,” the unassuming American Jimmy stumbles upon “a whole subculture based on violence” as a “sin guest” outside his own country.1 Leftover Lust’s Magda, “an exciting girl who thought she had left all the horrors of her European past far behind her and was happily married to American, Frank Dane,” likewise soon finds herself thrust into the horrors of sadomasochism when “Anton Lupescu, the evil, heartless beast-master tracks her down for more of his depraved delights.” The text, published in 1965, titillated readers with promises of “sadistic love-hunger” and “degradation smothered behind a gag.”2 Shame Chateau and Leftover Lust are two of the thousands of pornographic pulp novels that circulated in the post–World War II United States. Many of these texts depicted scenes of “sadism” and “masochism” for the titillating pleasure of readers, situating the practices as delightfully horrifying. Officially categorized by the American Psychiatric Association (APA) as a form of mental disorder in 1952, sadism and its flip side, masochism, were subjects of intense interest for medical and scientific institutions in the postwar years. Alfred Kinsey’s landmark studies, psychiatric authority, and popular culture all turned toward sadomasochism, querying why one would desire pain, violence, and degradation as part of one’s sexuality. Situated within a national milieu dedicated to defining the boundaries of","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"202 - 223"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-05-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"42792270","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
T h e r e i s a d o c u m e n T f r o m my first book, Sex and the Family in Colonial India, that continues to haunt me because it represents an important omission in how I explained sexuality in colonial India. The document I am thinking of is the will of a woman named Elizabeth who died in 1803 leaving three children fathered by three European men who had come to India as soldiers in the army.1 She left a substantial estate, as well as a list of debts that she was owed. She asked her executors to distribute her estate to her three children. She named her children and their respective fathers in the will, while she identified herself as “a native woman.” Whether Elizabeth was her “real” name or the name given to her by her English partners is unclear. She has no last name, nor do we know if Elizabeth was her only name, a problem that plagued my research on enslaved and subjugated populations.2 I had an aha moment when I found this will in a bound volume of Bengal wills at the British Library in London, because texts written by women who identified as “native” were extremely rare at the turn of the nineteenth century. One of the continuing dissatisfactions I have with my early work is how quickly I gave up on researching families with gay, queer, and trans* subjects.3 Elizabeth’s reproductive biography is relatively easy to track—there were offspring who “proved” the predominance of sexual relationships between white men and brown women, which was the goal of my first book. As I reflect on my adherence to the logics of the archive, I know that
{"title":"Revisiting Sex and the Family","authors":"D. Ghosh","doi":"10.7560/jhs32105","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32105","url":null,"abstract":"T h e r e i s a d o c u m e n T f r o m my first book, Sex and the Family in Colonial India, that continues to haunt me because it represents an important omission in how I explained sexuality in colonial India. The document I am thinking of is the will of a woman named Elizabeth who died in 1803 leaving three children fathered by three European men who had come to India as soldiers in the army.1 She left a substantial estate, as well as a list of debts that she was owed. She asked her executors to distribute her estate to her three children. She named her children and their respective fathers in the will, while she identified herself as “a native woman.” Whether Elizabeth was her “real” name or the name given to her by her English partners is unclear. She has no last name, nor do we know if Elizabeth was her only name, a problem that plagued my research on enslaved and subjugated populations.2 I had an aha moment when I found this will in a bound volume of Bengal wills at the British Library in London, because texts written by women who identified as “native” were extremely rare at the turn of the nineteenth century. One of the continuing dissatisfactions I have with my early work is how quickly I gave up on researching families with gay, queer, and trans* subjects.3 Elizabeth’s reproductive biography is relatively easy to track—there were offspring who “proved” the predominance of sexual relationships between white men and brown women, which was the goal of my first book. As I reflect on my adherence to the logics of the archive, I know that","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"79 - 85"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"49197539","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
T h e i n T e r e s T i n d e u n i v e r s a l i z i n g the West is so common nowadays that it is hard to imagine postcolonial criticism without it.1 Even so, historians of gender and sexuality seem to have fallen behind. This is far from suggesting that the field has witnessed no interest in non-Western cultures. Quite the contrary. Over the last few decades, scholarship on the history of gender and sexuality in Africa, Asia, Latin America and the Caribbean, and the Middle East has grown in a steady and promising rate.2 Yet an implicit norm continues to govern our scholarly apparatus, trickling down to the everyday politics of knowledge production in the history of sexuality. Inasmuch as it would be acceptable for scholars dealing with specific cultures such as those of Britain, France, and the United States to evade regional specificity in titling their work, historians of the non-Western world are expected to designate our project with descriptors such as “in Mexico,” “in South Asia,” “Iranian,” “Japanese,” and so forth.3
{"title":"Trans without Borders: Resisting the Telos of Transgender Knowledge","authors":"H. Chiang","doi":"10.7560/jhs32103","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32103","url":null,"abstract":"T h e i n T e r e s T i n d e u n i v e r s a l i z i n g the West is so common nowadays that it is hard to imagine postcolonial criticism without it.1 Even so, historians of gender and sexuality seem to have fallen behind. This is far from suggesting that the field has witnessed no interest in non-Western cultures. Quite the contrary. Over the last few decades, scholarship on the history of gender and sexuality in Africa, Asia, Latin America and the Caribbean, and the Middle East has grown in a steady and promising rate.2 Yet an implicit norm continues to govern our scholarly apparatus, trickling down to the everyday politics of knowledge production in the history of sexuality. Inasmuch as it would be acceptable for scholars dealing with specific cultures such as those of Britain, France, and the United States to evade regional specificity in titling their work, historians of the non-Western world are expected to designate our project with descriptors such as “in Mexico,” “in South Asia,” “Iranian,” “Japanese,” and so forth.3","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"56 - 65"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"42542073","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
D e p i c t i o n s o f s e x a n D t r av e l are impossible to avoid in West German gay print culture during the 1970s and 1980s. Magazines such as du&ich and him printed travel reports, images, letters to editors, personal advertisements, and travel bureau advertisements that enthusiastically described or depicted the “exotic” possibilities awaiting a predominantly white readership. Guides such as the Frankfurt-based Gay Reiseführer, Copenhagen-based Golden Key, and, perhaps most widely consumed, Spartacus International Gay Guide, which moved from the UK to Amsterdam in 1972 and then under new ownership to Berlin in 1986, offered travelers easier ways to access popular gay destinations, as well as information about the political, legal, and societal situation in countries of interest.1 Placed in a longer history of gay travel, these publications are not tremendously surprising.2 Not only were they relatively popular, but discussions of sex
在20世纪70年代和80年代的西德同性恋印刷文化中，D e p i c t i o n s o f s e x a n D t r av e l是不可避免的。杜和他等杂志刊登了旅行报告、图片、给编辑的信、个人广告和旅游局的广告，热情地描述或描绘了等待以白人为主的读者的“异国情调”的可能性。总部位于法兰克福的Gay Reiseführer、总部位于哥本哈根的Golden Key，以及消费最广泛的Spartacus International Gay Guide，1972年从英国迁至阿姆斯特丹，1986年由新东家迁至柏林，以及感兴趣国家的社会状况。1这些出版物被放在同性恋旅行的较长历史中，并不令人惊讶。2它们不仅相对流行，而且对性的讨论
{"title":"Defining Sex Tourism: International Advocacy, German Law, and Gay Activism at the End of the Twentieth Century","authors":"Christopher Ewing","doi":"10.7560/jhs32102","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32102","url":null,"abstract":"D e p i c t i o n s o f s e x a n D t r av e l are impossible to avoid in West German gay print culture during the 1970s and 1980s. Magazines such as du&ich and him printed travel reports, images, letters to editors, personal advertisements, and travel bureau advertisements that enthusiastically described or depicted the “exotic” possibilities awaiting a predominantly white readership. Guides such as the Frankfurt-based Gay Reiseführer, Copenhagen-based Golden Key, and, perhaps most widely consumed, Spartacus International Gay Guide, which moved from the UK to Amsterdam in 1972 and then under new ownership to Berlin in 1986, offered travelers easier ways to access popular gay destinations, as well as information about the political, legal, and societal situation in countries of interest.1 Placed in a longer history of gay travel, these publications are not tremendously surprising.2 Not only were they relatively popular, but discussions of sex","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"27 - 55"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"49297784","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"\"Not to Produce Newspapers, but Committed Radicals\": The Underground Press, the New Left, and the Gay Liberation Counterpublic in the United States, 1965–1976","authors":"Benjamin Serby","doi":"10.7560/jhs32101","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.7560/jhs32101","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":45704,"journal":{"name":"Journal of the History of Sexuality","volume":"32 1","pages":"1 - 26"},"PeriodicalIF":0.6,"publicationDate":"2023-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"43623134","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":2,"RegionCategory":"历史学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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