May 6, 2017

is not
what you meant
to say
when you locked
the door
behind you;
you meant
to say wait —
look how
the irises reveal
in the retreating
light, their
petals glowing in
the morning’s
full flower moon.

Matthew W. Schmeer

This is so wrong…

May 6, 2017

When I Was Thirteen

May 6, 2017

“Are you and Ted being good?”
Mom’s face floated
on the hospital pillow.

I nodded as lies puffed my cheeks;
Her smile formed wings
I could hide behind.

She loved my tricks.

Robert Joe Stout

Witch in a bottle

May 6, 2017

“There be a witch closed in this bottle. Let her out and there be a peck of trouble.” He picked the bottle up and rolled it gently from one hand to the other. Then he held it up to the light. The glass was cloudy and scratched. It wasn’t possible to see if there was anything inside.

Judy Allen
Lord of the dance

Eating my heart

May 6, 2017

My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.

Charles Baudelaire
Les Fleures du Mal

Give me a man

May 6, 2017

A lesbian pulp fiction paperback first appeared before my disbelieving eyes in Detroit, Michigan, in 1957. I did not need to look at the title for clues; the cover leaped out at me from the drugstore rack: a young woman with sensuous intent on her face seated on a bed, leaning over a prone woman, her hands on the other woman’s shoulders.

Overwhelming need led me to walk a gauntlet of fear up to the cash register. Fear so intense that I remember nothing more, only that I stumbled out of the store in possession of what I knew I must have, a book as necessary to me as air.

The book was Odd Girl Out by Ann Bannon. I found it when I was eighteen years old. It opened the door to my soul and told me who I was. It led me to other books that told me who some of us were, and how some of us lived.

Finding this book back then, and what it meant to me, is my touchstone to our literature, to its value and meaning. Yet no matter how many times I try to write or talk about that day in Detroit, I cannot convey the power of what it was like. You had to be there. I write my books out of the profound wish that no one will ever have to be there again.

Katherine V. Forrest

Introduction to Lesbian Pulp Fiction: The Sexually Intrepid World of Lesbian Paperback Novels 1950-1965

6th May

Morning: gradually easing into sentience; emerging from my all too familiar Ligottiesk like nightmares, a nihilistic bug escaping from the pages of some forbidden grimoire. In the next room the girls sleep on, labyrinthine mazes of flesh and blood, both set going by simple acts of love. Dreaming, perhaps, of diamond dust or brick forests? Or vases of dead flowers? Farewell flowers, possibly? Who knows? Who can say?

I desperately need coffee.


Pornography is a male invention, and is mostly misogynist by nature. Women submit to the urgencies of a stiff penis and the stringencies of ritualized erotic performance. A quick search of the internet will expose film and photographs of millions of women, both amateur and professional, in poses that would bring a blush to the cheeks of the most seasoned gynecologist. Here female bodies are stripped, bent over, spread apart, twisted. Labia wear clothespegs or are pieced. Breasts are tightly tied to swell to an abnormal size and colour. Nipples are pinched by clamps. Buttocks gape wide. Wannabe virgins metamorphose into groveling, cum dribbling nymphomaniacs. Lesbians eat pussy with the rapaciousness of half-starved cannibals. Cocks pump powerfully into cunt, mouth or arse, spurt streams of thick cum over upturned, rapturous female faces. This subjugation and denigration of women is there to enable assorted males to wank off while viewing the women’s contorted and tormented bodies. These impossible, sadomasochistic scenarios exist to excite and appease male masturbatory lust. That, and nothing more.


Girls skipping in the street. Such an early memory, this one. Sunlight in their hair, glowing on their skinny legs, as they skip to a chanted rhyme:

“Teacher! Teacher!
I declare!
I can see your underwear!
Is it black or is it white?
Oh my God it’s dynamite!”

Such sure-footed girls. Where are they now? What’s become of them? Such beautiful, sunkissed, skipping girls. Wonder what finally tripped them up?