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.