the month i lost my orgasm marked the beginning of the end. march, the crocuses bloomed too soon, died a week later in the rain. it was saturday, maybe sunday. we tacked a sheet over the window to block the sun. we tried everything—legs bent, sandalwood incense, a record with heavy drumbeat. nothing. when the futon broke, you asked for the last time how does that feel? it doesnt.
Elizabeth Hall and I discovered each other's writing online ages ago. A mutual intimidation was immediate; girl is good. We talked on the phone for years before finally meeting this past January. The spirit of her work and mine intersect, though mine is dedicated to the Cult of Sensualism and hers embodies a simultaneous worship and discard of the act of The Fuck. Elizabeth's stories exude a distressed femininity that I just can't get enough of, the subtleties of women blended with the crudest, most tender sex, that easily disrupted balance of being Female. For damsels in distress, or damsels distressing themselves, Elizabeth is my first pick.
Elizabeth Hall & Coquetry
I like her writing very much, thank you for posting this.
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