“Ursula felt herself very small, tiny against Claude, and at last she felt warm. She placed her cheek on Claude’s breast. Her heart beat violently, but she didn’t feel afraid. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. Claude was not a man; then what was she doing to her? What strange movements! What could they mean? Claude unbuttoned the jacket of her pajamas, and enclosed one of Ursula’s little breasts in her hand, and then gently, very gently, her hand began to caress all of Ursula’s body, her throat, her shoulders, and her belly. Ursula remembered a novel that she had read that said of a woman, who was making love, “Her body vibrated like a violin.” Ursula had been highly pleased by this phrase, and now her body recalled the expression and it too began to vibrate. She was stretched out with her eyes closed, motionless, not daring to make the slightest gesture, indeed not knowing what she should do. And Claude kissed her gently, and caressed her.” (from Women's Barracks)
If you hadn’t guessed my blog this week would be about something gay, I’m honestly surprised. When leaving the library the other day after some time in the archives studying Edra Bogle’s letters, I walked by a car covered with pro LGBTQIA+ stickers. Immediately the two people with me asked if that was my car. They assumed because of the stickers it was mine, and honestly, I don’t blame them for that. I make the joke often that people should prepare themselves because I’ll bring up something gay once per class after all. Much of my life revolves around being queer, being the daughter of a queer woman, reading queer writers, consuming queer media, and participating in queer activism. So much so I’m beginning to become known for it.
Why is my life so gay? It’s not just cause I’m queer. It’s cause I want to uplift the stories of queer folx. I want to normalize talking about being queer. So often queerness has been pushed to the side. It’s been forgotten. So, when we were asked today to talk about a forgotten narrative, I immediately knew I wanted to talk about something queer. I debated between a lot of queer subjects because, well honestly, most queer narratives have been forgotten. If you aren’t in the community, you don’t know it. Even those in the community often don’t know the history or the people in it because we don’t teach it in schools. Do you know who Harvey Milk is? Marsha P. Johnson? Edie Windsor? Eve Sedgwick? Jeremy Benthan?
How about Tereska Torrés, author of Women’s Barracks, which is commonly referred to as the first lesbian pulp novel? Rather than choosing to share the lost narrative of one of the many many queer folx who have been forgotten (read ignored) by history, I chose to instead talk about the story of a forgotten genre of literature: lesbian pulp fiction.
Not everyone may agree with me that this genre is forgotten, but, in my opinion, both the genre and its history have been. I did know about lesbian pulp fiction until one day while on a Tinder date, I ended up at Recycled Books, a phenomenal used book store here in Denton. In the basement, tucked away in a corner is the LGBTQIA+ area. Most of the books are old self-help books or books that explain what to do if your kid was gay (in the 80s usually). There were often fantastic memoirs, many of twinks who made a living hustling on the streets. However, that particular day, there was a new sign, one that exclaimed “Lesbian Pulp Fiction.”
An entire shelf full of romance novels that featured women loving women was in front of me. I’m not gonna lie, I felt some tears coming up when I started looking over them. I hadn’t ever known this was a thing. I was amazed by them. The girl I was on a date with was just as surprised as I was. We sat in front of the bookshelf, knees touching, and began reading sections of the books aloud to one another. We laughed at their absurdity because some of the plots were pretty wild, but we also marveled at the stories.
I’m sure at this point, you might be asking yourself what exactly is lesbian pulp fiction and why I started crying on a date over them. Well, crying on dates is normal for queers. First dates typically involved divulging trauma because queer folx live traumatic lives thanks to rampant homophobia, bullying in schools, fearing for our lives whenever we leave a bar, Vice Presidents that believe in conversion therapy, lawmakers who say they’d drown their kids if they were gay, having a whole generation wiped out due to disease (also that disease is still ongoing and disproportionately effecting queer folx), and so on. However, for once, these were happy first date tears. They were happy because, for the first time, I saw queerness in a form of mainstream literature.
Growing up, the few queer kids at my high school would trade a handful of queer novels back and forth. When I handed off my copy of Kissing Kate by Lauren Myracle to a friend, they shoved it under their shirt out of fear someone would see them holding it. I didn’t get to see books about adult lesbian relationships. I definitely hadn’t seen much lesbian erotica outside of some particularly lemony Hermione x Luna Lovegood fanfiction. Yet, lesbian pulp fiction was blatant in its woman-on-woman sex. Well, maybe not as blatant as that fanfiction I mentioned a moment ago, but for books that were sold in stores, lesbian pulp fiction was pretty raunchy.
What I’m talking about when I say “lesbian pulp fiction” is a genre of books published predominately in the 1950s and 60s that talked about lesbian relationships. They were cheap books that were made with pulp paper. They were usually small enough to fit in your pocket and featured sensational covers. This cover of Flying Lesbian by Del Brit is probably my favorite.
Not all of lesbian pulp fiction was as gay as we think it is though, "Set in women’s dorm rooms or prisons, a significant portion [of lesbian pulp novels] are seamy “true accounts,” written by men with women’s pseudonyms, and marketed as cheap thrills to male readers." Few were written by women, and even fewer of those women were queer. Those that were written by women are often called the "pro-lesbian" novels of the genre by the few scholars who study it. Those "pro-lesbian" novels are the ones that made me start crying.
Even though these novels were supposed to be both steamy and sticky (it's a Music & Lyrics reference because I'm still crushing on Drew Berrymore), they were also pretty depressing. There were a lot of rules about these novels with the biggest one being that they "could not have a happy ending lest it be seized by the Post Office as obscene." What does this mean? Here I wrote a poem to explain it.
Yep, that's right. They couldn't let anyone who read these think that being gay was okay, so everyone either renounced their queerness, went into a mental hospital, or died at the end of the book. At least for the most part.
Back during this time period, homosexuality wasn't looked upon well. According to Ann Bannon, one of the major lesbian pulp fiction authors, during the 1950s, "You didn’t want to have, or to acknowledge having, gay friends, or to be consorting with gay people, or defending them...And I think at the root of that was a lot of anxiety about converting children to a gay life, because it seemed to be so seductive and fascinating that merely having contact with a gay person or reading a gay book would lead you down the wrong path.”
Because of that kind of attitude towards queerness, it was a big deal to queer people that this genre existed. These were the only books available in which women loved each other. This genre was the only place queer women could see themselves in print. Dr. Rhoda Zuk Professor of English at Mount Saint Vincent University describes it rather well, "Many lesbians turned to this pulp fiction since it constituted their only source of affirmation of sexual identity."
In many cases, even though they ended poorly, these books were empowering for women. Take this moment between Anne, the protagonist of Artemis Smith's 1959 novel Odd Girl, and her father.
“No daughter of mine is going to be a—a lesbian!” He said the word with intense hate.
Why is my life so gay? It’s not just cause I’m queer. It’s cause I want to uplift the stories of queer folx. I want to normalize talking about being queer. So often queerness has been pushed to the side. It’s been forgotten. So, when we were asked today to talk about a forgotten narrative, I immediately knew I wanted to talk about something queer. I debated between a lot of queer subjects because, well honestly, most queer narratives have been forgotten. If you aren’t in the community, you don’t know it. Even those in the community often don’t know the history or the people in it because we don’t teach it in schools. Do you know who Harvey Milk is? Marsha P. Johnson? Edie Windsor? Eve Sedgwick? Jeremy Benthan?
How about Tereska Torrés, author of Women’s Barracks, which is commonly referred to as the first lesbian pulp novel? Rather than choosing to share the lost narrative of one of the many many queer folx who have been forgotten (read ignored) by history, I chose to instead talk about the story of a forgotten genre of literature: lesbian pulp fiction.
Not everyone may agree with me that this genre is forgotten, but, in my opinion, both the genre and its history have been. I did know about lesbian pulp fiction until one day while on a Tinder date, I ended up at Recycled Books, a phenomenal used book store here in Denton. In the basement, tucked away in a corner is the LGBTQIA+ area. Most of the books are old self-help books or books that explain what to do if your kid was gay (in the 80s usually). There were often fantastic memoirs, many of twinks who made a living hustling on the streets. However, that particular day, there was a new sign, one that exclaimed “Lesbian Pulp Fiction.”
An entire shelf full of romance novels that featured women loving women was in front of me. I’m not gonna lie, I felt some tears coming up when I started looking over them. I hadn’t ever known this was a thing. I was amazed by them. The girl I was on a date with was just as surprised as I was. We sat in front of the bookshelf, knees touching, and began reading sections of the books aloud to one another. We laughed at their absurdity because some of the plots were pretty wild, but we also marveled at the stories.
I’m sure at this point, you might be asking yourself what exactly is lesbian pulp fiction and why I started crying on a date over them. Well, crying on dates is normal for queers. First dates typically involved divulging trauma because queer folx live traumatic lives thanks to rampant homophobia, bullying in schools, fearing for our lives whenever we leave a bar, Vice Presidents that believe in conversion therapy, lawmakers who say they’d drown their kids if they were gay, having a whole generation wiped out due to disease (also that disease is still ongoing and disproportionately effecting queer folx), and so on. However, for once, these were happy first date tears. They were happy because, for the first time, I saw queerness in a form of mainstream literature.
Growing up, the few queer kids at my high school would trade a handful of queer novels back and forth. When I handed off my copy of Kissing Kate by Lauren Myracle to a friend, they shoved it under their shirt out of fear someone would see them holding it. I didn’t get to see books about adult lesbian relationships. I definitely hadn’t seen much lesbian erotica outside of some particularly lemony Hermione x Luna Lovegood fanfiction. Yet, lesbian pulp fiction was blatant in its woman-on-woman sex. Well, maybe not as blatant as that fanfiction I mentioned a moment ago, but for books that were sold in stores, lesbian pulp fiction was pretty raunchy.
Not all of lesbian pulp fiction was as gay as we think it is though, "Set in women’s dorm rooms or prisons, a significant portion [of lesbian pulp novels] are seamy “true accounts,” written by men with women’s pseudonyms, and marketed as cheap thrills to male readers." Few were written by women, and even fewer of those women were queer. Those that were written by women are often called the "pro-lesbian" novels of the genre by the few scholars who study it. Those "pro-lesbian" novels are the ones that made me start crying.
Even though these novels were supposed to be both steamy and sticky (it's a Music & Lyrics reference because I'm still crushing on Drew Berrymore), they were also pretty depressing. There were a lot of rules about these novels with the biggest one being that they "could not have a happy ending lest it be seized by the Post Office as obscene." What does this mean? Here I wrote a poem to explain it.
each shelf filled with tales
of women lazily touching
each other’s thighs and forearms
with soft wandering fingers
in back alley motel rooms
and army barracks,
kisses hidden in shadowed corners,
hands held under the covers,
side glances in public spaces,
gentle hands cupping breasts
late at night with slow and gentle movements,
climaxes filled with women screaming
women’s names and institutionalizations and suicides
because they said
no woman could be both
happy and homosexual
Yep, that's right. They couldn't let anyone who read these think that being gay was okay, so everyone either renounced their queerness, went into a mental hospital, or died at the end of the book. At least for the most part.
Back during this time period, homosexuality wasn't looked upon well. According to Ann Bannon, one of the major lesbian pulp fiction authors, during the 1950s, "You didn’t want to have, or to acknowledge having, gay friends, or to be consorting with gay people, or defending them...And I think at the root of that was a lot of anxiety about converting children to a gay life, because it seemed to be so seductive and fascinating that merely having contact with a gay person or reading a gay book would lead you down the wrong path.”
Because of that kind of attitude towards queerness, it was a big deal to queer people that this genre existed. These were the only books available in which women loved each other. This genre was the only place queer women could see themselves in print. Dr. Rhoda Zuk Professor of English at Mount Saint Vincent University describes it rather well, "Many lesbians turned to this pulp fiction since it constituted their only source of affirmation of sexual identity."
In many cases, even though they ended poorly, these books were empowering for women. Take this moment between Anne, the protagonist of Artemis Smith's 1959 novel Odd Girl, and her father.
“No daughter of mine is going to be a—a lesbian!” He said the word with intense hate.
“I’m afraid you have nothing to say about that,” Anne said quietly. “I am what I am.”
“You’re a victim of this—this awful woman,” her father sputtered. “She has you hypnotized!”
“No, Dad,” Anne continued, quietly, “I have always been this way. I won’t be changed by you or anyone else. This is the first time my life has really felt right and happy.”
“You are breaking the laws of nature—” her father said.
“The law I’m breaking is against nature,” Anne returned, strongly. “The law will have to be changed.”
You get it, Anne. Characters like Anne saved queer women's lives. They showed them they weren't alone. This is why lesbian pulp fiction was and is still important.
The golden age of lesbian pulp fiction only lasted about 15 years. We've seen resurgences of it off and on with occasional reprintings of some of the "pro-lesbian" novels. But when was the last time anyone in this program (other than me) ever talked about this genre? When was the last time you heard it mentioned in casual conversation? Read an article about it?
This genre is being forgotten. Today's queer young people don't even know it existed. That's why I wanted to tell you about it. I wanted to share the forgotten story of lesbian pulp fiction with you all but I also wanted to share the other forgotten stories that are a part of this one. I wanted to share the forgotten stories of the queer readers who had to hide these books when they read them so they wouldn't be ostracized, and I wanted to share the story of queer people today who still have to hide queer books so they don't end up beat up, kicked out, or otherwise subjected to homophobia. I wanted to share with you the forgotten stories of these female writers who wrote about lesbianism in a time that it wasn't accepted (not that it's fully accepted today). I wanted to share with you the forgotten stories of queer people like me who struggle with finding themselves in media. Queer people are forgotten. Our struggles are forgotten. Our triumphs are forgotten.
For those who are heterosexual reading this post, do you ever have a day where you forget queer folx exist? I've known plenty of heterosexual people who have because they don't have to actively think about what it means to be queer.
However, queer people like myself can never forget we are queer. I can never forget that my queerness has come to define me in this program. I can never forget the horror I felt when I have come out and not been accepted. I can never forget what it is like to be called a f**. I can never forget that I must constantly monitor my language, my hair, my dress, and so on at work because I can be fired for being gay. I can never forget that there are places in this world that I can be legally killed for being gay.
So while this blog post started out being about the forgotten story of lesbian pulp fiction. It's not just about that. It's about the forgotten story of queerness.
Going forward, don't forget about the story(ies) of LGBTTQQIAAP+. They are important. We are important.
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