In this honest look at sex addiction and grappling with identity, L Scully has laid bare their most intimate scars and dared the reader to trace the outlines. With personal essays, photographs, and journal entries, L Scully invites us to examine our own motives and question the lies we often tell ourselves. L Scully is a wholly unforgettable and much needed new voice in memoir.
With Fuck Me, L Scully has given readers not just the best—and most appropriate —title in recent memory, they’ve given us an utterly original, unforgettable new voice in memoir: simultaneously wry, honest, utterly direct, and deeply vulnerable. This is a queer coming of-age story told through the lens of sex addiction and two quests, one for lasting love, the other for mental and emotional health. The resulting narrative is laced through with bracing critical rigor and an inventive poetic sensibility. And when Scully’s emotions roam beyond words, they include handwritten notes, photos, drawings, and texts from a deep personal archive to suggest what can’t be said. The result is a many-layered testimonial to an extraordinary identity-in-progress.
In FUCK ME: A MEMOIR, L Scully unearths the complexities of unrequited love stories and mental health in this tumultuous life of bliss and strife. We ride not only a voyage through gender from high-femme-to-butch-to-femme-as-drag, but also brace the splitting hearts and skin of all parties involved—clinicians, lovers, friends, family, metamours. Through juxtaposed sketches of relationships graced with the utmost passion and the obscure ways that they end, and relishing femininities with a masculine demeanor, there is an undeniably fazed honesty of sexcapade, yearn, and death in L Scully’s FUCK ME: A MEMOIR. The love stories croquet therapized worksheets and dream-like diary entries in such a diligent manner, it makes readers release our memories, too. Strapping feverish revelations of multi-selves of passion and manipulation with humor, lesbian whimpers, and unearthed poetic darlings, FUCK ME: A MEMOIR reads like a gilly of mirrors.
A chronology of how intimately and casually sex and terror are interwoven. How cyclically our desires preempt our dysfunction. How our defensiveness breeds addiction. Fuck Me cuts an uncomfortable autopsy of intimacy - eat or be eaten. L Scully's feat is turning over these stones of everyday catastrophe to reveal the ecosystem thriving beneath, without wincing. There's an inviting blase-ness to the language, a road worn indifference from someone who's been the mouth and the meal. Structurally, I enjoyed the alternating forms of memoir, scrapbook drawings, screenshots, poetry, lyricism. Honest without aggrandizing, Fuck Me will fuck you up, like a forehead kiss after a hard slap.
Rendered in a fresh, witty, unforgettable prose, Fuck Me: A Memoir explores what happens when people, love and pleasure become akin to addiction. It’s a raw account of the yearning that comes with attempting to mitigate the singular loneliness of the human experience. Tender and funny, poetic and vulnerable, L Scully has written themselves into the literary archive of the queer, trans experience.
Fuck Me is truly teeming and masterly. L Scully’s writing is so intimate as to make me feel like I myself am speaking it into existence, wearing their rain-damp clothes. Although Scully’s memoir posits their own toxicity and strictures, I found myself believing Scully to be totally guileless. That is to say, I fell in love with them. Fuck Me is a devouring matrix of romance and addiction. It is a memoir well-versed in what love gives, making us feel both removed from time and more situated in its torment.
It's late and night; the lights flicker on inside. You find yourself pausing to admire the flawless architecture of the house, which is made of glass. It is made of essays, archived diary entries, stick-and-poke tattoos from an ex-lover--spilling out of its closets are the beautiful, discarded garments of your host's previous gender(s). You realize, of course, that you're inside the house--you, who thought you were outside, watching. Someone takes you by the hand. You can't wait to see where they'll lead you next. Hilarious, unflinching and relentlessly self-aware, Scully does the confessional genre with rare panache, guiding the reader through a history of sexual and romantic entanglements that are sometimes delicious, sometimes harrowing, and always narrated with a stunning and revelatory eye for detail. Intimate and engaging inside and out, Fuck Me left me satisfied. And wanting more.
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