WORDS ROXY BOURDILLON
Madame Butch, The Demon Dyke, Satan Was A Lesbian. No, I’m not brainstorming riot grrrl band names. I’m getting your attention, using the titillating titles of mid-century novels. You see, when I hear “pulp fiction”, I don’t think of Uma Thurman in a black wig dragging on a cigarette. I think of the saucy, sapphic paperbacks that sold in their millions in the 1950s and 60s. I picture the colourful, kitsch covers that decorate my bookshelves. I imagine the handsome butches and glamorous femmes that live and love in their pages. I smile at the enchanting descriptions of New York’s Greenwich Village, a bohemian paradise where women dance to the jukebox in gay bars run by the Mafia. And I’ll admit it, I grin knowingly at those luscious sex scenes, all soft caresses, ardent lovemaking and convulsing with desire. The characters are constantly ravenous for each other and I’m into it. What can I say? I like my erotica in juicy technicolour, bursting with passion, and just a little bit trashy.
But far from merely being artfully packaged smut, lesbian pulp is a crucial part of our lez literary canon and a gorgeous documentation of queer herstory. The earliest example was Tereska Torrès’ 1950 army romance Women’s Barracks. Recounting illicit affairs between butch officers and their femme subordinates, it sold a cool 2.5 million copies.