Writing Teen Sex: Should We?

I've been on a mission the past few months to watch a lot of indie gay-themed films. Unfortunately, that means that I have to watch many more foreign-made films than American: not only are they just plain better quality (the American films tend to be cliched and cheesy), but they are braver. According to European filmmakers, teenagers actually have - gasp! - SEX.  Not only do they have it, no one is punished, lightening does not hit, God strikes no one dead.

One can't help but be struck by the way teen sex is presented in many European films as healthy, a normal part of life. American films have established a sort of Porky's mentality - when teens are shown as sexual beings, they are shown as pigs, sluts, or whiney, self-righteous virgins. Is that a fair - or even an ethical - portrayal? Everyone knows about the slasher film cliches - the victims are usually female, have just had sexual relations, and are clad in lingerie. Are these portrayals that promote a healthy attitude toward teens in this society? Have we become a society that condones this garbage but shies away from the portrayal of a caring, equal, non-violent sexual relationship between teens due to some misplaced moralistic logic?

It has always been interesting to me that statistics consistently show that European teens practice safer sex, get pregnant far less often than American teens, and are generally more knowledgeable about sexuality. I don't think it is coincidental that these realities occur in a population that presents teen sex in media as a normal acceptable behavior. Now, I am not saying that American teens - or any teens - who choose to abstain are misguided - each individual needs to choose what is right for him or herself. But moral codes differ according to culture and family. I have to wonder if we - in our zeal to paint sex as a no-no to our teens - fail to speak to the real moral issues: we criticize the act itself and don't address the immorality of using another human being, without affection, without compassion, for one's own gratification. 

But this is not an article about the morality of teen sex; it is an article about the morality of the unrealistic, timid, hand-wringing (or worse, hands-off!) way the subject is treated in American film and literature. In 1975 Judy Blume wrote a courageous book called Forever - the first that dealt frankly with teen sexuality. It was a coming of age story, written for a young adult audience. It immediately became the subject of wide-spread protest and book bans. By today's standards, the story is tame: two kids having a first sexual experience, in the context of puppy love, who then go on to break up and move on into adult life. There is a broken heart involved, but that would have been there with or without consummation. The dramatic movement of the story is not tied directly to the sexual relationship; rather, the sex is presented as part of a healthy relationship.

What concerns me as a writer is that in this society there is an implicit rule that writers are expected to avoid talking about teen sex in a positive light, whether in YA novels or adult.  Sex between teens must contain angst, someone must get a disease or become pregnant, there must be enormous negative emotional consequences. Sex is presented as a frightening thing, a thing present only in the lives of stupid kids; never is it something positive.

Many of you are familiar with my short work of fiction, QUANDARY, which is now available at Amazon.com and other retailers. In it, a young man pushing thirty finds himself seduced by and falling in love with, a seventeen-year-old boy.  James questions his own motives, questions the moral implications, loses sleep over it. The younger man is street-wise, savvy, sexually experienced. In my mind this is a realistic scenario. Seventeen-year-olds have sex: it is a fact. It is also a fact that some of them do it responsibly and happily. The fact that it occurs doesn't necessarily mean something psychologically damaging is happening.

Interestingly, one of the beta readers for the story emailed me to say that she thought I needed to make the younger man older by a year. The number of his years was making her uncomfortable. To be fair, she has a teen-aged son, and it may have hit too close to home. However, I think she was misguided: the character in the story is wise beyond his years, and more experienced than the older man. The literary tension is created by the fact that he is so young, and by the age difference. But I found it fascinating that she could say in one breath that she loved the story and in the next that I needed to change or remove the most interesting element because it was offensive to her.

When I was a teen, I lived for a time in Denmark. Scandinavia is one of the most liberal places in the world. Teen sex was common and accepted (however it was happening too young: there was at the time an epidemic of cervical cancer in Danish women who had begun sex at 12 or 13).  It was seen as healthy, normal, an expression of affection and libido, a part of experimenting with the intricacies of adult relationships. It was occurring by the way between teens themselves, not between teens and much older people, which is an issue in some less progressive societies. We are talking here about sexual relations between equals. (If you are interested, no I didn't lose my virginity in Denmark!)

I am nowadays most familiar with what is happening in the world of gay-themed fiction of course, and in it I see some of the same problems. A series by Diane Adams collectively called The Making of a Man deals with the relationship between boys three years apart in age. As the story opens, one is under eighteen and much of the literary tension in the books revolves around the two inching slowly and painfully toward a full-fledged sexual relationship, which occurs when the younger is eighteen. The attempt by the author to present moral issues and to paint the older character as one who wants to behave responsibly and with integrity is a valuable part of the story and creates the main point of dramatic tension in the series; still, one has to blink at the subtle prudishness of the premise in this day and age - after all these young men are a mere three years apart. (Note here that the books offer an extremely positive view of a gay relationship, and for that Ms.Adams should be commended.) Writer J.P. Barnaby is known for more realistic situations involving teens, such as that which she portrays in her Little Boy Lost series - these stories are written for an adult audience and pull no punches. But perhaps because they are realistic they are more respectful toward readers, the GLBT community, and even toward teens that are reading them.

For me, literature at its best does not only entertain, but inspires and informs.  It might inspire the reader to open his or her mind and let go of prejudices; it might inspire him or her to greater courage in living everyday life; it might simply inspire the reader to do some further research on a previously unknown subject. When it informs, I believe it has the responsibility to inform based on reality: after all, the value of information is that we as readers can apply it to our own lives in some way. You can't apply bad information. Unrealistic discussion in a novel is bad information. Now I'm not saying that one can't write a wonderful fantasy novel, but within the context of that fantasy story should be a realistic discussion of the human condition, otherwise the work is unable to inspire or inform and is rendered worthless.

I believe personally that any story is permissible and possible in a novel. (And as a reviewer I commit to never commenting on the moral value of a story - which is no one's business but the author's - but rather on the technical merit.) To the extent that we tell difficult stories, to the extent that we tell honest stories, we celebrate the human spirit.  To the extent that we tell stories about the world the way we insist that it is - ignoring reality - we kill the human spirit a little bit, because when we do that as authors, we fail to live up to the wonderful tool that literature can be.

For that reason, we need to present teen sex how it is: never black and white, but complicated, joyous, frightening, experienced, not experienced, laden with emotional consequence, or simply carrying the potential of wonderful individual growth.  Presenting it, as is the American habit, as raunchy, disease-carrying, irresponsible, and always carrying the direst of emotional damage, is simply to perpetuate a myth. If we care about teens, we have to present them as they are, and respectfully celebrate the intricacies of their experience.

See Diane Adam's Making of a Man series at:http://dianeadams.virtualdelusions.com/?page_id=934
See J.P. Barnaby's Little Boy Lost books at: http://www.jpbarnaby.com/

It's Not About a Faceless THEM, It's About All of Us

I generally don't post anything non-literature related, but this article so moved me that I want to publish it here. We have such a long way to go.  I remember years ago, when I was heavily involved in public education around the subject of sexual assault, that one lesson I learned is that it would take men's voices to stop violence against women.  Now, it will take the voices of those of us who identify as straight to effect change around the rights of those who identify as gay. They can't do it alone, and we in the straight community can't ignore our moral responsibility forever.

Most reasonable people regardless of personal beliefs understand that physical intimidation and violence is wrong. But what about emotional violence?  In this case, we are talking about emotional violence so self-righteous, so insidious, that it extended to a family member of a gay person. How common is this? - I would guess very common. And when we stand by and let these incidents go unchallenged, how much damage have we done?

~~//~~

Defriended Over a Wedding, A Straight Man Gains Perspective

Originally posted on September 3, 2012 by allydavidstevens on evolequals.com.

My younger brother is gay. Gay as laughter. Gay as the day is long. One of the finest moments in my life, and one of the greatest compliments anyone has ever paid me, was the day he felt safe to come out to me. He's in his mid-30s now, but he'll always be my little brother. And man, I love that kid. He's brilliant, he's funny, and he's kind. And he just married a phenomenal man.

I was always predisposed to like his husband because, y'know, he's my brother's partner and therefore has automatic status in my heart. The wonderful bonus is that I really like him. He's brilliant, he's funny, and he's kind. He's a cool dude to hang out with. He also stood by my brother like a rock when my brother had a life-threatening cancer that cost him his left eye.

They married in May. It was a wonderful ceremony in which I was honored to stand by my brother, supporting him in his vows. My eyes teared up like they always do at weddings. I had the joy of watching two people commit to a lifetime together. It filled my heart.

Folks started posting photos from the wedding on Facebook, and I proudly reposted photos of the ceremony (with me looking awesome in my new suit, of course). Shortly after that, I received this message from a FB friend:

"Hey David, I am removing you from my friends list...sorry man, that latest post is way over the top! Homosexuals joining in "Holy" matrimony...I don't think so??? The Holy Bible speaks out against homosexuality and speaks highly of Holy matrimony between a man and a woman. It's nothing more than a slap in the face to those who choose God's Word, for homosexuals to join in a Holy marriage. I'm only defriending you so I don't have to look at your anti-God stuff anymore...nothing personal!"

Wow.

This came from a man I used to work with. A man I respect in his dedication to his family, and in his desire to live a moral and ethical life. A man with whom I have had some very interesting religious debates. He has become a Baptist preacher since we last spoke in person, and I suppose that makes this message unsurprising.

But, I was still surprised. I was taken aback. I needed a moment. I was hurt.

I was inclined to hurl some expletives in his direction.

But, only for a moment. He's not really that important of a person in my life. I had actually at times grown rather tired of his Facebook postings...I don't have a great need for fundamentalist dogma in my day. So, on some level, good riddance.

I sent him a letter at his church, expressing my disappointment in his withdrawal. I had a few friends read the letter before I sent it, to make sure that it didn't contain too much bile. I'm not surprised that I haven't heard back from him.

The situation got me thinking: What if this hadn't been about my brother's wedding, but about MY wedding? What if it hadn't been from a distant friend, but from a beloved family member?

Ouch.

How many millions of gay kids (and adults) have had that exact thing happen to them? How many millions more will in the future?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for that pain. I'm sorry for that rejection. I'm sorry for that isolation.

I'm straight. Straight as a yardstick. Straight as an arrow. I am in your corner. If I could take on that pain for you, I would.

I love you.

If you're gay, I think that's wonderful, and I'm truly happy for you. I wish you all the love and joy in the world.

If you're straight, I think that's wonderful, and I'm truly happy for you. I wish you all the love and joy in the world. And I charge you, I charge you to imagine the above scenario played out with YOU as the target of rejection. Imagine the people closest to you telling you, essentially, "You are fundamentally flawed and I want nothing to do with you." Our LGBTQ brothers and sisters face this everyday. Please don't forget that.

The poor, misguided soul is no longer in my life. That's okay. My brother and his husband still are. I just hung out with my brother a few weeks ago, and it was a blast. He's brilliant, he's funny, and he's kind. I couldn't be prouder to call him my brother. I love him, and love wins, period.

Interview With Brandon Shire

One of the best voices in current literature, let alone gay-themed literature, is Brandon Shire. Like Jeff Mann (see my last interview) he is an expert at using the musicality of language to reel in the reader. Plus, he spins a damn good tale.  I had the privilege of chatting with him for the GLBT Bookshelf this month. See more about Brandon and read the entire interview here. Below is a sample of our conversation.

Lichen Craig:  Brandon, it is such a pleasure to get the chance to pick your brain. From when I first picked up The Value of Rain, you struck me not only as an unusual and gifted writer but an unusually passionate person.  I’ve been dying to ask you this: You have said that you write with a pen and paper – some psychological studies have suggested that doing so may allow the writer’s brain to connect more readily with emotion and creativity. Do you believe that?
Brandon Shire: Absolutely. Writing, especially in handwritten form, allows one to go deep into the spaces between the words to that point where the breath lives and drives us. It is within those small spaces that passion exists and where a writer seeks to go to pull that passion from the reader.
My personal conviction in writing is that it is the writer’s responsibility to connect with the reader on a deep emotional level, regardless of genre. I think good writing often reflects that connection.

LC:  In an era when much of gay fiction is given over to vampires, werewolves, and light Harlequinesque romances, you have dared to reach for a social statement in your work. Was turning to writing novels a natural outgrowth of your work with GLBT youth?
BS: Actually it was an outgrowth of my practice of Zen Buddhism. It was through an active listening exercise that I met the men on which The Value of Rain was based. Many of the characters in Rain were based on the stories of real people, what they went through, what they suffered, and how they felt. I did a tremendous amount of listening and very little talking. As you noted, I am a deeply passionate person, so their stories affected me deeply, ultimately all that passion needed an outlet. Rain was the result.

See the entire interview at the OurStory section of the GLBT Bookshelf:  http://bookworld.editme.com/Our-Story-GLBTQ-Historical-Fiction-Features

It's a Tragedy....

In the next week I will be interviewing writer Brandon Shire, author of acclaimed novel The Value of Rain. Mr. Shire may be a highly unusual phenomenon in the world of gay-themed fiction:  he writes tragedy, and does it well.  And I mean this in the classical sense.

True tragedy has been with us as a literary form since the ancient Greek civilization raised it to an art form in theatre. It was a common literary form and was greatly appreciated right up until well into the twentieth century.  Nowadays, one need only peruse the pages of GoodReads to get the feeling that when it comes to popular novels, and perhaps in particular when it comes to "romances", the American public has little patience with tragedy - and perhaps this extends to the audience outside America as well, but to a lesser extent.

It amazes me to see readers state outright without shame that they will not read anything without a "HEA" - a Happily Ever After - ending. Or, some dare to venture, "at least a HFN" - a Happily for Now.  When my novel Gentlemen's Game first came out,  a fairly well-known internet-based critic of gay romance reviewed it and gave it a mediocre rating because it was not a feel-good book. He admitted this to me openly, proclaiming that he read a book to escape from the world and its troubles - he didn't want anything dark in a book.  I was astounded. Although Gentlemen's Game has its tragic theme, it does have a rather happy ending. It occurred to me that what he was really saying is that he didn't want to be bothered to feel too deeply or think too much.  Is that wrong?  I don't think so - we all go through periods in our lives when even a sad film is too much to take. I get that.  But a self-porclaimed reviewer of books should not be wallowing in such self-indulgence: some of the world's best books are tragedies.

Historically some of the best literature of the western world involves a tragic story that proves unforgettable to many generations. "Tragedy" as a literary form is traditionally described as a story in which an admirable hero or heroine suffers a downfall due to his or her own character flaws. It is at its core a morality tale: it is meant to suggest a lesson about life. In the end, when it is successful, it inspires.

A tragedy inspires in the most profound of ways. Frequently it involves not only the central story of the protagonist's misfortune, but also makes some statement about society.  It is meant to convey deep messages, move the reader to consider his or her own life, decisions, relationships.  In high school, many of us were asked to read Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet as an example of classic tragedy.  In the play, the central characters fall victim not only to the inherent cruelty of an old inter-familial feud and the emotional and physical violence it inevitably imposes, but to their own youth, naivete and raging teenaged hormones. The theme demands that the reader considers questions around the themes of loyalty to family, loyalty to one's own ideals, romantic passion, destructive irreversible decisions, the fragility of life, the senselessness of suicide. These are questions that matter in any age, in any life.

It's a shame that today's younger readers are not being taught - at least I see no evidence of this - to understand the value of tragedy in literature.  To insist upon only being exposed to HEA's is to do oneself a great disservice. Because, an HEA stretches one's mind only so far.  It can teach only so much.  Perhaps a reader who insists upon a happy ending is a reader who never learns much of anything new.

Has this failure to be open-minded to an age-old and well-tested literary form occurred because life has somehow become so difficult that people need an escape?  I don't buy that for a minute: in the nineteenth century tragedy was common and popular in literature (Dickens, Hardy, Bronte) and surely no one will argue that life in that century was easier that in this one.  I can only wonder if the nineteenth century mind was a product of a life less sheltered from hardship, a product of a world where physical comfort was hard-won, early and unforseen death happened frequently and unexpectedly, where the luxuries that make our work life easier did not exist. Perhaps such a mind was more open to profound thinking, ideas about life and death, about the nature of suffering, about the consequences of a character flaw.

I will continue to admire courageous writers like Brandon Shire - and there are a few besides him who dare to walk down the path of the tragic story  within their own novels, and without apology - and I will continue to hope that the tragedy as a form of literature will not only survive but see a revival in generations to come.

The Read of a Decade - for this writer!

(This review appears at the GLBT Bookshelf: http://www.glbtbookshelf.com)
 

A Review of Purgatory by Jeff Mann
Genre: Literary Fiction
Edition: Kindle, Published by Bear Bones Books, Inc. 2012 
Widely available in EBook and Print editions.

A five-star review should be hard-earned, in order for it to carry weight. A really brilliant piece of literature displays the writer’s ability to perform a few acrobatic feats – this requires a real understanding of the technical aspects of writing. If a writer can do this, and do it in a unique fashion, the book will be inspiring, not merely a good read. With “Purgatory”, Jeff Mann has offered up a gourmet feast of a book for the discerning reader, the hopeful historian, the language-loving fellow writer, and certainly for this picky reviewer.

“Purgatory” is a story of and within the worst campaigns of the Civil War. It is a literary novel in the true sense, not a romance – the romance in the book, while central to the story and consistently engaging, is only a tool by which the author discusses deeper meaning about the human experience. The bloodiest battles of the Civil War took place in and around the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia: in 1862, during the early years of the war, southern general Stonewall Jackson waged a successful campaign to turn away Union invaders to the traditionally southern enclave, observing “If this Valley is lost, Virginia is lost.” But shortly after, the tide began to turn as first the north-western section of Virginia split off in 1863 (later to be called “West Virginia”) in order to disassociate itself from the Confederacy, and the North realized that the Shenandoah Valley was a major source of food supplies to General Lee’s troops. The campaign the North waged in late 1864 that burned, ravaged and destroyed the Valley, turned the tide of the war for good and sealed the fate of the Confederacy. Jeff Mann’s insightful, moving story tells the story of the hearts of the men who watched their farms and fields burn and their heritage disappear into ashes. These are poor soldiers, trudging almost blindly from one corner of the Valley to another, both fearing and anticipating encountering the enemy, subsisting on meager supplies and often little to no food (while Northern troops are federally supplied and eat well).

Young Ian, a farmer from the mountains of northern West Virginia, has watched the North invade and pillage his home and that of his relatives, for three years and for political reasons he hardly grasps. As the war nears its closing weeks – a fact of which he is of course unaware, as all they are – he finds himself still a soldier and weary of destruction and killing, beyond homesick. His commanding officer – his uncle Sarge – is equally weary and bitter to boot: as is the case with many of the straggling remaining soldiers of a once large company, his farm was burned, livestock shot, wife murdered. He nurses his anger by periodically capturing a Yankee soldier and torturing him slowly to death. Ian is routinely given the exalted position of nursing the victim, just enough to keep him alive for more torture - until either Sarge gets bored and kills him with his bare hands, or the man dies of starvation, his injuries, or exposure. Sarge means to “toughen up” his gentle, book-loving nephew by forcing his compliance in the torture and murder, but the challenge is even greater for Ian than Sarge knows: Ian is sexually attracted to men, and has found himself more than once attracted to a prisoner that was later killed. As the book begins, the nightmare is repeating itself once again: the newest prisoner, a young Yankee from Pennsylvania, quickly inspires the deepest of desires and emotions in Ian, and this time Ian is not willing to lose the battle of wills he will inevitably wage with Sarge and his cohorts.

As the days crawl by and the torture increases in its cruelty, as it becomes more and more difficult for Ian to heal Drew’s wounds and save his life, Ian realizes that the principles that once fueled his devotion to the Confederate cause are dimming: he will risk his own life and turn his back on his friends and culture, in order to save his lover and build a life for them – a chance at a life where two men can touch one another as they do in the stories of The Iliad and in Walt Whitman’s poems. These works of literature are the thing that Ian, and through him Drew, clings to as evidence that he is not some freak in the world – where terms like “gay” are not available. The author invites the reader into a world before mass media, where one’s circle of acquaintances was small, where religious tolerance was limited, where it was easy to think you were the “only one”, a freak of nature, God’s joke. The painful isolation these men feel screams from the pages time and again, and is heartbreaking.

Jeff Mann is a writer’s writer: he was first a poet, and it shows. The book is relayed in a first person, present tense narrative mode – something little attempted in modern literature, and terribly effective when so expertly done. It lends a sense of immediacy and intimacy that, combined with the author’s extensive use of historical detail, pulls the reader into the filthy, tired, poverty-stricken last days of a too-long war. Mann’s command of language is complete: it is luxurious but never overly-sentimental. A description of the climax of their first sexual contact:



"His thighs stiffen, his hands grip the back of my head, he heaves against my face, and my mouth floods with the milk of him, surge after surge I gulp down. He tastes like sarvis berries, marigold petals, prayer. If prayers were solids, not sounds, this is what God would taste, what God would learn to crave.”



Two metaphors are central to the story: the first is made up of religious imagery. Many times, Drew is described in Christ-like terms, as an innocent (despite his crimes as a Northern soldier against the Valley), as a wounded martyr to the fury of war-weary soldiers. As Drew trudges along shackled and tied to a cart, increasingly weakened by his torture, increasingly humiliated and demoralized, at one point forced to carry a log upon his shoulders like a cross, he is described as marching toward Calvary (the place of crucifixion) and fed hope by Ian that if only he can will himself to survive until they reach Mount Purgatory (Purgatory being the Christian symbol of second chances, of redemption from sin) they will run for freedom. These Christian images are particularly interesting because Ian has long-since ceased to believe in the faith of his childhood, and also because Christianity is used by Sarge and his thugs to justify torture and hatred, and disgust at “sodomites” – which is of course what Ian knows he is.

A second, and even more interesting metaphor has to do with mythology and the image of the Greek or Roman warrior, held in bonds, bleeding, yet physically perfect and still strong at heart. Tangled with this imagery is Ian’s sexual arousal at seeing his love object tortured: Ian is a small, wiry man (although given to fits of ferocity in battle), and wrestles with a part of himself that enjoys the power he feels at seeing a large, handsome, strong warrior of a man broken. His continuous fight with himself throughout the book to reconcile his love of Drew with his desire to see him tortured, parallels the human desire to see a stronger individual lose to oneself and the seldom admitted-to and common sexual link. The book has been described as an exercise in BDSM: but that cheapens its message. The torture in this book is non-consentual, and as it increases, the turn-on Ian feels decreases. At some point he recognizes it as just plain brutality and he wants it to end: he is in fact human not only in his demons, but in his compassion. The message is universal to us all.

At the book’s poignant end, as the two lovers discuss whether anyone will remember them and how they lived and fought, Drew imagines a near-unimagined future of tolerance:


“No, I mean the men who come.” Drew swallows hard, resting the butt of his rifle on the rock beneath us, “Who will come to be born. Men like us. Men who, well, touch one another like you and I touch. Like in the Whitman poems you read me. Like in The Iliad. It’s a comfort thinking that they are there, somewhere. That they might be there, long after we’re gone, they’re thinking of us. Looking back for us. From some more fortunate place.”


Ultimately, “Purgatory”, like the best of books, is about all of us – about the demons within ourselves of which we are ashamed, about loneliness and the terror of isolation, about a world that often presents unimaginable cruelties and how we each must decide how brave we are going to be – and what we will give up for the freedom to love.

- LC 

Read my interview with Jeff Mann for The GLBT Bookshelf! 

Review: On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch by Shelter Somerset
Amazon Kindle Edition, May 2012
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This review appears at OurStory/GLBT Bookshelf: http://bookworld.editme.com/REVIEW-ON...


REVIEW: On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

By Shelter Somerset

Rreviewed by Lichen Craig

Four out of five stars.

The first thing that must be said about The Trail to Moonlight Gulch is that is a rollicking good read – never less than entertaining. Somerset has a knack for drawing interesting characters, compelling the reader to stay glued to the story. And a good story it is: set in late nineteenth-century Chicago and Dakota Territory, it is full of angst, twists and turns, surprises, sweet romance, danger and suspense. Unfortunately, for the discerning reader, the book contains some glaring flaws, but these are made up for by the excitement inherent in the story itself.

Nineteen-year-old Torsten Pilkvist is a good boy. The son of Swedish immigrants, the owners of a bakery and boarding house in Chicago, his days are filled with diligently and respectfully working at his family’s business. But Torsten dreams of finding a way to leave home and start an adult life, and he is tormented by the shame in the realization that he is sexually attracted to men. When he meets the love of his life, things seem to be looking up, until a tragic accident changes the course of his hopes. Despairing, he answers an ad for a mail-order bride to the Black Hills of the wild Dakota Territory– but he answers it deliberately keeping his gender to himself. Predictably he falls for the letters’ recipient, and vice-versa. And more predictably, a final confrontation with his parents over his sexual preferences leads to Torsten’s fleeing toward the West to find the frontiersman of his fantasies – despite the lie upon which their correspondence has flourished.

Somerset is a master at painting a picture of the daily details of the past. One can see the streets of Chicago, smell the air, feel the surge of immigration. The pages are furnished with historical factual details that make reading fascinating for the fan of a good historical novel. Likewise, the latter part of the book paints a picture of the American frontier in which one smells the pine, hears the trickle of waterfalls, senses the tension of the gold-rush years, and appreciates the stark contrast between the easier life east of the Mississippi and the hard physical labor required to carve out a life in the West. The homestead on which Franklin Ausmus lives is so vivid that one deeply feels its terrific impending loss when it is threatened.

The problems with the book come mainly in the last quarter. The first three-quarters of the book read quickly, enticingly – although this reader heaved a sigh at the suggestion that a nineteen-year-old finds a forty-year-old sexually attractive, particularly in an era where people who lived hard lives aged quickly; the May-December cliché is much overdone in gay romance. But barring that failed suspension of disbelief – there are some problems that should never appear in an otherwise well-written book. Perhaps most frustrating is the abundance of clichés. These come to a head when during a final shootout at the homestead, we have someone falling shot from a tower, then crawling on his belly to painfully raise a rifle and fire the shot that saves the hero; we have a villain having been dispatched with several gunshots, then rising from the dead to stand and aim a rifle at the hero one more time. These kinds of things leave the reader rolling eyes. There are also lapses in logic – for example when a character steals a horse and drops his duffle bag, only to magically be in possession of the contents of the bag later; men have anal sex repeatedly without anyone using any type of lube or adequate preparation (elementary research for a writer hoping to write gay sex scenes!). Most annoying are the glaring grammatical errors in the final quarter of the book. These matter because they break the flow of reading – forcing the reader’s mind to stop abruptly.

Unfortunately, such a foray into cliché, illogic, and technical error hurts the believability of the story overall and lessens the quality of the book. Still, the story as an idea is so terribly good, the description so well-done, and the characters so strong, that this reviewer must somewhat reluctantly assign a four of five stars. If the reader can look past the occasional silliness, the book is well worth the time.

View all my reviews

Sex Scenes: How Much is Too Much?

Actually, the better question may be "How Much is Too Little?" I have noticed two interesting trends in gay fiction and I imagine it holds true across mainstream fiction as well:

First, there is the trend toward separating well-written fiction with explicit sex scenes into its own category: "erotic". I imagine this began as a way to flag the reader that he/she was stumbling into some frisky ground. I understand that. At some times in my own life I have not wanted to have to stand in someone's bedroom in the middle of a scene: it felt invasive. I was embarrassed. For me and for them. A warning is understandable. But my concern is that in our zeal to pass on a polite warning we have relegated some high quality fiction to a seamy back room.

The second trend I notice is that in a well-written book or story where the reader would benefit from more detail in a sex scene, the writer shies away. At times, one can almost feel an author holding sex at arm's length - his or her own squeamishness getting in the way of the integrity of the story. If you think about it, sex is part of human experience. It is such a deep part - and a necessary one - that how can one hope to paint a true picture of human experience without exploring a character's sexual viewpoint?

I just recently read a really amazing novel, full of truly beautiful language, imagery, characterization - everything a great book needs and a great writer boasts. But where a sex scene should have been was a paragraph of euphemisms and a hasty retreat to the following morning. The thing is, this scene was pivotal, and what happened in that bed mattered. Details mattered. It mattered to the state of mind of the main character, because that event changed his life. If the author had been courageous enough to add more detail, the scene could have been spun into a haunting one that would have informed the story on a deeper level and enriched the entire novel. It was good enough as it stood, but could have been so much better because it could have made the novel better quality story-telling.

There is for most of us a difference between "erotica" and "porn". To me there is. It's quite simple: in pornography the explicit scene is about the sex, as is the whole piece. It is offered for the reader to revel in the detailed mechanics; it assumes that the reader isn't overly invested in the characterization or plot. In erotica/erotic fiction, the scene informs the story in the rest of the piece - the rest of the piece being of the same quality as any work of fiction worth its name. Porn examines the technical detail of the sex act; erotica examines the emotion, physicality, the story as a whole, with the details of a sex act being only one more layer of meaning amongst the many offered. Perhaps writers avoid writing sex scenes because they assume others will see them as writing pornography. Perhaps we as writers need to speak up more about the difference, and the merit of a good graphic sex scene.

I believe that we as a society, and therefore the literature that reflects our collective psyche, are evolving. I see a day when a writer won't think twice about including graphic sex in a story within the context of the story - as naturally as human sexuality occurs within the context of a life. Sexuality is so integral to our core, to omit it when it is part of our story, seems to me a real disservice to a good book.