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#queer pulp fiction
queerliblib · 1 month
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Pulp Fiction anyone??!
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Here at Queer Liberation Library we’ve got you covered! from Beebo Brinker, to the Gay Detective, this was such a fun collection to put together for our readers
they are flying off our digital shelves though, so get your holds in when you can! 🌈
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icarus-archives · 1 year
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lesbian pulp fiction from the 1950s
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by-izz · 3 months
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smutheaven · 9 months
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newblvotg · 18 days
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uwmspeccoll · 7 months
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Steamy Saturday
The novel that dares to tell the truth about a perverse love.
Theirs was a love no man could share!
Draga yielded her long-legged girlishness to unnatural embraces. . . . it was an ecstasy such as Draga had never known.
Her lips were tender and clinging as she pressed them to Jo's voluptuous flesh. . . .
She was on the brink of total perversion. . . . Draga's only hope now was -- a man!
Oh, the steaminess of it all!! Carol Emory's pulp novel Queer Affair was published in New York as a Beacon Book, an imprint of Universal Publishing and Distributing Corp., in 1957, and even by today's standards, the sexual frankness of the novel is pretty steamy. Unfortunately, because it's the 1950s, a fully-realized lesbian relationship will not stand. At least one of the partners has to be off her nut (in this case, Jo), while in the end male heroes come to the rescue.
The story centers around up-and-coming dancer Draga Hamilton who is introduced to celebrity sculptor Jo Stanhope by Draga's lawyer Gilbert Young who is desperately in love with Jo. Jo, however, has other ideas, as she seduces the vulnerable Draga and they begin a torrid love affair, which, as already stated, is quite frankly narrated. Draga is head-over-heels, until of course her old flame Ronnie Marsh shows up on the scene and ruins everything for Jo.
In the end, the whole sordid love quadrangle literally devolves into a barely-suppressed S&M encounter. Jo takes her revenge on Draga's infidelity by grabbing a bullwhip that is inexplicably hung on the wall and beats Draga almost senseless with it. The whipping, however, sends both into a building sexual frenzy until both Gilbert and Ronnie come bursting through the door. Ronnie whisks Draga out of harm's way (at least as he perceives it), and Gilbert gives Jo a taste of her own whipping medicine, to which both react with this memorable passage:
Jo Stanhope looked up at him with misted eyes. "Oh, Gilbert -- you've done something for me. You've rescued me. Why, it--it was --" "Never mind," Gilbert said. "And you won't find it so bad being married to me. After all, I'm sort of womanish, you know."
Meanwhile, Draga is recovering in Ronnie's soothing arms, to which she responds, "Move over a little, sweetheart . . . I want to sit in your lap." THE END. Ugh!!
Despite Queer Affair being mentioned in several texts on early lesbian pulp novels, we could find nothing on the author Carol Emory, who we suspect is possibly a man. Nevertheless, the author makes sure early on that the reader knows Emery has done their homework on lesbianism:
Gilbert had warned her that the sculptress was a lesbian, but at the time the fact had seemed to her irrelevant. Love between women was not altogether a new and startling idea to Draga. She had read many books on the subject, including those by Radclyffe Hall and Diana Fredericks.
Appropriately, Barbara Grier, in her iconic The Lesbian in Literature, gives Queer Affair a rating of A for having "a major lesbian component but not sympathetically portrayed." While we may not know who Carol Emory is, we do know that the butch/femme cover art is by Frank Uppwall and was first painted for another pulp novel, Gutter Star by Dorine B. Clark, published in 1954, and then reissued for the cover of Queer Affair three years later.
View more posts on lesbian romance fiction.
View more LGBTQ+ posts.
View other pulp fiction posts.
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battydeville · 4 months
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FLESH EATING LESBIANS FROM OUTER SPACE 👽
IG: BattyDeville
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For the readers out there, I recently read The Price of Salt (Carol) by Patricia Highsmith and it left me thirsty for more! So, I have now started a collection of Lesbian Pulp Fiction, which is, I have to say, amazing! The cover art alone is magnificent! I can't help but imagine every lesbian character as Cate Blanchett in Carol (testament to how well she played her *ahem* part!) but that's not a bad thing. Here are some I'm adding to my reading list, any suggestions are welcome. To you, I suggest any of Ann Bannon's books... GO READ!
My List:
A Woman's Woman by Toni Adler
I Am a Woman, In Love With a Woman by Ann Bannon
I Prefer Girls by Jessie Dumont
Spring Fire by Vin Packer
The Third Street by Joan Ellis
The Girls In 3-B by Valerie Taylor
Three Women by March Hastings
Twilight Girls by Sherry Dale
Women's Barracks By Tereska Torres
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laurenfoxmakesthings · 3 months
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So, I've started reading the first book in Adam Diment's spy series. I mean, after hearing about the author's story, I was pretty damn curious. And, well...very 'everyone's felt that before, right?'.
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bshutsky · 4 months
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The more I think about how pulp fiction and reservoir dogs are the same universe, the more fun I get.
So I'd like to think that Jimmy Dimmick (from Pulp Fiction) is Mr. Brown, and waiter Buddy (also from Pulp Fiction) is Mr. Pink.
Jimmy's wife works nights at the hospital (her name is Bonnie and nice guy Eddie called her in res dogs).
So imagine how Mr. Brown sleeps at night in the same bed with Mr. Pink (purely platonic. Because Brown is absolutely incapable of sleeping alone at home).
And in the morning, when Bonnie returns from work, Pink (aka Buddy) performs a “changing of the guard.”
He prepares breakfast, talks about how they spent the evening, says that Jimmy is washed, washed, dressed, combed and ready for new achievements. The three of them sit in the kitchen and eat, discuss all sorts of nonsense, and then Buddy goes to his house.
But only to come to Jimmy in the evening at Bonnie’s request and spend the evening watching another second-rate movie and discussing music.
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queerliblib · 1 month
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omgg Ive actually been looking for vintage queer pulp fiction but haven't been abel to find any! and there are so many I dont know what to look for at my library . I'm so happy to see you carry some but sadly I live outside of USA so can't borrow. do you know any other ways I can borrow some copies?
hellll yeahhhhh we’re glad we could give you some ideas!
Hmmm.. most of my familiarity with pulp fiction, and particularly queer pulp is in the US publishing context, so even the special collections & research guides I know of (Library of Congress, CSUSB, NYU, William Way LGBT Center archives, Duke) are also US based. You can always use these as a starting point and start to cross reference with your country & local libraries. I’m sorry I don’t have a better solution off the top of my head!
If you don’t know what to look for at your library, you can also always ask your librarian! They’ll have a better sense of the local collections (and would probably love to get a reference question this fun)
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Nemeses
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Shortly thereafter they’re all outside, on a flat and pebbly stretch of dirt, which has another of those cheerful little signs marking it, Designated Dueling Ground. Brodcrum and Bhelg kneel opposite each other, each trying to drown the other out as they bellow their intention to sacrifice each other to the Grim Lord of Death. Bhelg accentuates this by raising her axes crossed over her head. Brodcrum punches himself in the face after each pronouncement. This goes on for a surprisingly long time, so Naewoon sidles over to Lunria and whispers, “We’re not really going to let them do this, are we?”
            Naewoon flinches as Lunria’s gaze locks on him. The spider witch would’ve been on the tall side even if she were a man. “Would you love Brodcrum as much if his passions were restrained like some civilized man?”
            Naewoon turns red. “He and I--we’re not--” 
            “I’m sorry, I forgot you Barbarians like to pretend you don’t do that with each other,” Lunria says. Naewoon can’t tell if her smile is kind or mocking. 
            By this point the pre-duel ritual has devolved into Brodcrum and Bhelg roaring at each other. They really seem a matched set. Naewoon can imagine their lovemaking leveling buildings, and he turns even redder as he wonders why he imagined such a thing. Finally the duel begins, the combatants’ feet shuffling back and forth as they test each other, Brodcrum’s sword held cautiously in front of him, one of Bhelg’s axes held low and the other high.
            “My poor Bhelg.” Lunria’s eyes sparkle as she covers her mouth with a hand that has at least three spiders on it. “She’s not ready for this nemesis relationship to end.”
            “Yeah, I’ve never seen Brodcrum not go straight through someone before,” Naewoon says, wondering, Does she actually not know about the two of them? She has to be able to tell they're exes just looking at them!
            But when Naewoon looks at Lunria again he finds her eyes aren’t on the shuffling sorta-fight. Her face has snapped round to gaze west, over the Crags of Calamity. Naewoon wonders what she’s looking at before he hears it too: a distant rumbling, growing steadily louder. 💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀⚔💀
BEHOLD! Chapter 6: Nemeses is up on the Runesword Productions website.
For those who haven't read the first five chapters, here's a link to the very beginning of this queer fantasy adventure serial. Wishing you all the contentment that comes of knowing if *your* partner got into a duel with her ex, you'd be happy to watch because you know she's probably gonna kill that guy, - Rune
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ravagez · 2 months
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impybutt · 4 months
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Garden of Bones 01 || Rex does a GTA
Servitor Rex lands with a SPLAT on the windscreen of an unsuspecting motorist, traveling at highway speed down the M3. “Ryan!”
The driver’s name is not Ryan; he screams.
“Ryan I need the car, get in the passenger side!”
“WHAT THE FUCK”
“I SAID GIMME THE CAR”
Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans one size too big, Rex clambers in via the driver’s side window, too fast and too small for the motorised glass to forbid his ferret-like squirming. Thankfully, not-Ryan is present enough of mind to swerve onto the shoulder and judder the car to a halt, grinding the front bumper against the guard rail. His full-volume objections go unheeded as Rex kicks him to the opposite side of the cabin, with far more wiry strength than his tiny, fatty frame belies.
“Aurgh, of course it’s a fucking manual,” Rex growls, and struggles impotently with the gear stick.
Not-Ryan is still screaming profanities, pressed against the passenger door to maximise the distance between himself and the clearly unhinged, dog-faced Fae who just hijacked his vehicle, and is now attempting a clumsy, grunting dance with the uncooperative clutch.
The chaos rattling around inside the cabin is interrupted by a thunderous tremor, vibrating up from the ground beneath them.
Then another, boom. Scrape; boom; scrape, rhythmic, as something titanic approaches from the rear on claws and legs big enough to disrupt the surrounding traffic.
Both occupants turn to look through the back window, in time to shriek in unison at the serpentine figure bearing down on them teeth-first.
CRASH, as a spidery, articulate hand the span of the entire car slaps down on its roof, cracking every window and irreparably buckling both axles. “REX, YOU SQUIGGLY FUCK” the serpent howls; Rex and not-Ryan redouble their screaming, before the driver’s side door is pinched in half and ripped from the hinges.
Another, similarly arachnine hand reaches into the car and wraps around Rex in his entirety, squeezing just enough to deflate his mania with a little squeak! He kicks formlessly as he’s pulled from the driver’s seat, leaving nothing behind but the thumps and honks of his bullet-like feet striking at least every square inch of the front console.
By now, it’s all not-Ryan can do to hyperventilate; the air hitches in his lungs as the serpent’s colossal face makes its appearance in the gaping void left by his car door. Human features, unsettlingly soft and smooth around those horrible pointed teeth, regard him with a matronly kind of exhaustion.
“I am sincerely sorry, he has a seizure condition. Let me get you my details, for the… the car stuff. I have a guy.” Its voice is too smooth and lilting to pick a gender, unlike Rex, who looks and sounds like a bogan vampire — despite his petulant screaming having returned at a helium pitch.
In all the confusion, not-Ryan latches on to a concept more foreign to him than the existence of Fae at all, which is barely news in the era of camera phones. “Wait—Fae can have seizures?”
The serpent’s statuesque face was withdrawing, but the promise of an impromptu lecture brings its aquiline Germanic nose front and centre once more. Huge, pale yellow eyes peer into the rumpled cabin. “Oh! Yes, and Rex is right from the taproot of our tree, so actually his spasms hit all of us. It’s quite fascinating, in fact—”
Not-Ryan half-listens, figuring himself more or less a captive audience, while his wider awareness registers the rest of the serpent’s pied coils compressing into a more catlike form under the initial forty-or-so feet of muscular neck.
“— And I’m forced by necessity to bear down on mine, so of course I have constant pounding headaches while I have to deal with his dissociative episodes—”
“Dissociative episodes, uh-huh,” not-Ryan mutters, eyes flickering around for signs of where the serpent stashed its prey. He hasn’t decided which one is the more present threat: the titanic Sphynx making a resting spot of the entire highway while it vents its frustrations; or the tiny, hyper-manic dogman who seems to be some kind of literally spastic escape artist, smuggling a frightening amount of lean muscle and compacted rage.
“—I could go into the nitty-gritty of Fae physiology, all the interlinked psychic viscera, the somato-sensory homunculus, shapeshifting and dysmorphia, etcetera—”
Actually, the long-winded hyperfixation is helping not-Ryan locate his own  frantic pulse again, and he’s able to start absorbing specific details — like the serpent’s magpie-styled fur and disturbingly graceful fingers, as it gesticulates with (he counts briefly) at least eight arms. He finally spots the captive hijacker, and breathes a sigh of relief; it’s far more comforting that ‘Rex’ is visibly accounted for, lest he airdrop on a less experienced driver.
“S-sorry,” not-Ryan begrudgingly interrupts, “you said something about—about fixing my car?”
The Sphynx-Fae blinks a couple of times and makes an exasperated “nguh” noise, shaking off the word-vomit. “Of course, I’m so sorry. My name is Weaver, let me just— uh. Hold on, I have no pockets—” two or three arms disappear into the fur… feathers… coat of Weaver’s neck, which begins rustling around like they’re looking for something. One arm darts back out and places a pair of low-profile spectacles atop that proud nose.
Not-Ryan points a hesitant finger at Rex, who has since stopped thrashing and looks suspiciously limp in Weaver’s sinewy grip. “He okay? Or uh. Alive?”
It pauses in its rifling and turns its attention to Rex, who has been absent-mindedly compressed for the last few minutes. Embarrassment flashes across its ambiguously feminine features. Sitting upright, Weaver relaxes its grip and examines Rex for a moment, well above not-Ryan’s field of vision.
Rex appears well and truly unconscious, his limbs dangling uselessly from between Weaver’s fingers. It takes a moment to appraise him; consternation twists up its features briefly. A free hand gingerly rises up as if to poke him awake, before prod, prod, prod, precisely ten times at random spots on his torso, and Rex’s floppy ragdoll is lifted to one side of Weaver’s head. They release a frustrated little huff from the nostrils, mouth pressed into a thin line.
Not-Ryan squints his confusion at the weird silhouette before him.
BR-R-R-R-INGGG
“Agh fuck me, Jesus!”
Bones is shocked alert by the brassy ring-tone, which seems to come from everywhere in the treehouse. They plug one saucer-sized ear with a pinky, and raise a piece of yellow fruit to the other.
“Banana phone, what’s up.”
“Can you check Rex’s vitals for me?” Weaver’s exasperated voice bounces around in Bones’s primordial skull.
“Chrissakes, did he take off again? Hang on,” the banana phone is lashed under a convenient headband for hands-free correspondence, so that Bones can start tapping away at the immense console built into their work station. “Swear to fuckin’ god, lose track of that cunt for five fuckin’ minutes—”
“I got him before he caused any serious damage, but we owe somebody a new Camry and there’s some havoc on the motorway.”
“I call an entire fuckin’ car ‘serious damage’!”
“Not compared to the first incident.”
Bones pauses in their tapping and sets their jaw for a moment, conceding that point without argument. Hiding the carnage from the police was a day-long job. “I suppose as far as cars go, a Camry is pretty easy to fix up. His vitals are fine, looks like an adrenaline crash.”
Weaver heaves out a sigh of relief. “Good, I was worried I squeezed a bit hard… he’s gone very limp, normally he doesn’t sleep this well.”
“Just hard enough, apparently. Crush his soul back into his body, all that good autsy shit. Anyway.”
As promised, Weaver exchanges “information” with not-Ryan, in the form of what appears to be a holographic tarot card with some kind of nursery rhyme hand-written on the back. “Speak this out loud into a mushroom ring to get in contact with our correspondence guy. Name of Bonesy, looks a bit like a spider monkey with too many legs.” This being the first time he’s been involved in a traffic incident with some Fae, not-Ryan is more relieved that he still has skin and teeth.
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smutheaven · 9 months
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Yall know those old pulp novels where a woman is laying on the ground clinging to a guy's leg or whatever?
As much as I like to see the queer versions of that I also want to see the reversed version of that.
I want to see novels for women where the woman has all of the power, where the man is the one on the ground clinging to her as though she will save him, or at the very least look his way.
Like, maybe that's because my introduction into pulp scifi, or rather the first pulp scifi story to actually catch and hold my attention, was about a bi woman, but I feel like that should be a more standard thing in scifi.
Strong women are one of the most important things in science fiction stories.
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