vera blossom

@cuteflesh.bsky.social

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learning how to fuck like a girl (writer)

opening excerpt from the article. My rosary: pitch-black beads, each puzzlingly slick, like greasy fingers have handled it, held together by an intricately woven silver chain, a lovingly sculpted silver crucifix trailing the end. It has heft, not like one of those cheap ones, with craft beads that could as easily be from promise bracelets or animal toys. It feels like it was made before mass production—before trash. When I first saw it in the parish gift shop, my hunger for it was almost sinful. That was before I knew what religion had to do with money. Before I knew some people grip their faith so tightly because what lives in their hearts exceeds their or anyone’s grasp. In Catholic school, you had to look the part. Our dress was uniform, obligatory, without much room for personality. Perhaps that’s not surprising. Private schools, religious or not, make you carry the weight of expectation, of isolation from the rest of the world. My school was in an upscale neighborhood in Las Vegas and one of the largest Roman Catholic congregations in Nevada. For most of its history, the church’s parishioners were almost entirely white. It was a place where you could still buy your way into heaven.