Writing in New York City in the 1950s and 60s, March Hastings, a pseudonym of Sally Singer, was one of the most prolific authors of the lesbian pulp era. She now lives in Florida.
I bought this in Boston, at a used book store, where they had a rack of old pulp books.
Yes, it's a trashy pulp novel. Sordid and exploitative. And yet it's surprisingly well written. Our heroine is a nymphomaniac and bangs a lot of people - men and women. But don't worry. She has a therapist and he is going to save her.
It's a weird little book that both dives deep into smut, but also reads like a romance novel. Her throbbing molten core begs to be filled by his manhood - that kind of stuff. You can tell the book is flirting around the edges of some old moral code. It still manages to be arousing, hilarious, and readable.
March Hastings, I've read, is a pen name for a woman who wrote a series of lesbian pulp novels. Kind of fascinating stuff. I am tempted to look for more of her books. Her writing is surprisingly good.