Signing Back On!

IMG_0754So much can happen in just over a year, can’t it?

When I shut the blog down last October, I received some wonderful comments, Facebook notes, and personal email, and I learned how much it actually meant to people. Ours was one of the few voices out there reviewing gay literature, poetry, and drama. Unfortunately, that hasn’t changed.

So, what has changed?

The political landscape, for one. We in the LGBT community find  ourselves on the brink of losing the rights and respect we fought so hard to achieve, and in order to enter that fray once again, we are going to need all the voices we can muster–to educate, inform, and entertain. Warriors need songs, poems, battle cries, and most of all, stories. Stories that thrill and excite and inspire. Stories that we can hear time and again. Stories that matter to us. I have been proud to present those stories in the past (and even write a few), and we need them now more than ever.

We are back. And to remind you of what we did, we’ll be spending the month of December looking at some of our previous posts–books I’ve reviewed that I’ve been especially keen on or interviews I’m particularly proud of. New posts will begin January, 2017.

If you’ve written for us before, please contact me either here or on Facebook. I’d love to work with you again. If you have feedback or something you’d like to see, again, let me know. I’m open to suggestions.

We are proud to once again be all you need to read about all you need to read.



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Signing off

IMG_0754Any writer will tell you endings are one of the toughest parts of the story to write. But we have to, because the story isn’t complete without them.

I have to reluctantly call an end to new posts at Out in Print: Queer Book Reviews. The existing site will remain up for an as yet undetermined amount of time. I’m sorry to go, but the demands on my time as an editor as well as my own writing are such that something has to give. When my good friend William Holden and I started this blog in July, 2009, we did so because — as Lethe Press publisher Steve Berman pointed out to us — so few avenues for the review of both genre and non-genre gay literature existed. That’s improved as far as genre review sites go, but non-genre and poetry are still seriously lacking places that cover those authors. I certainly hope someone out there can step up and fill that gap.

For my own part, I can’t say how much I’ve enjoyed the experience. I’ve gotten to meet and work with and interview some terrific authors and can now call some of them my closest friends. But those previously cited time constraints are weighing too heavily on me, as is a desire to read something outside this box for fear of my own writing becoming insular.

Many, many thanks are in order, starting with the aforementioned William Holden and Steve Berman for being there at the inception. Thanks are also due to Ryk Bowers (my housemate and former Scandinavian underwear model) for the title of the blog. And I couldn’t have done it without the occasional guest reviewer, so a big shout out to George Seaton, Felice Picano, Keith John Glaeske, Kent Brintnall, Gavin Atlas, Lloyd Meeker, Ron Suresha, Jeff Mann, ‘Nathan Burgoine, David Pratt, and anyone else I may have forgotten. And thanks for all the reader support I’ve gotten throughout the years as well as Duncan and Lexie, who slept at my feet throughout the whole thing.

It has truly been a remarkable six years, and I won’t be disappearing totally. My website is sorely lacking and needs overhauling, but I’ll be relocating it with bigger and better links along with a blog where I will occasionally review books. The rest of the time, I’ll…well…blog.

Thanks, thanks, and ever thanks.



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Next to Nothing: Stories – Keith Banner (Lethe Press)

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“There ain’t no sin and there ain’t no virtue. There’s just stuff people do.” 
― John SteinbeckThe Grapes of Wrath

 These vignettes of life in a place and time where big box stores, fast food, obesity, American Heartland heartthrobs and heartaches, self-pity eased by pitying the pitiful, laundromats, Olive Garden, Ponderosa and Bonanza Steakhouses, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, Arby’s, McDonalds, Applebee’s, homo sex with the large lady’s skinny husband, cancer, ambiguous aspirations to become an assistant manager of anything, fathers loving sons in that way, big ideas, trailer parks, miscarriages on the toilet, convenience stores, baldness, Goodwill, Alzheimer’s; this is a place and time where dismalness is a religion to be embraced or rejected, where, as Camus suggested, “Nothing is given to men, and the little they can conquer is paid for with unjust deaths. But man’s greatness lies elsewhere. It lies in his decision to be stronger than his condition. And if his condition is unjust, he has only one way of overcoming it, which is to be just himself.” Yeah, there’s that, “There’s just stuff people do.”

Consider these: “He has the sense of optimism it takes to not have a job and yet be able to belly laugh at Home Improvement and eat a whole pizza and smoke dope and play on his sons’ Xbox all day.”

“Robert’s mom turned lesbian last year…”

“He understood he could get away with things, and he also understood that people like me and Elaine would always be there, the kind of people who liked the feeling of being used.”

“He loves me back like he loves everybody else, quick grunts and long pauses.”

“The apartment complex parking lot is filled with just-bought used cars.”

“I was always on the verge of being a good guy—I had the smile, the look, the feelings, I was ready to be activated. But then something stopped me. My human-being card was always being spit out of the ATM.”

“This is the secret nobody tells you: there is so much happiness when you finally give in, a kind of happiness you can’t imagine until you hit the very bottom.”

I will tell you that Banner captures the underbelly of American life in the heartland with an eye for the exquisite subtleties of it. One of my favorite lines is, “The apartment complex parking lot is filled with just-bought used cars.” No, it’s not brilliant, and probably not something most would hone in on. But, when I read that line I said, “Yes! He’s got it.” The purest essence of observation. It was as if he and I had spent an afternoon with beer and Fritos, trading our catalogs of taglines for what we’ve seen in our life experience as representing the subtleties of living on the edge—a place where life is lived from hand to mouth, where life is confronted with the desperate humility of an aged dog tied to a tree. What else is there to do but just simply deal with it?

The dark picture of the American Heartland Banner gives us, is peppered with the kind of off-color humor that, at times, causes you to stifle your amusement, put your hand to your mouth, and sincerely enjoy the giggle inside. His storytelling is contagious. It infects that part of you that you don’t often want to acknowledge is there, but it is, and sometimes it’s good to just release the defenses and let it in. I did that, and I’m happy I did.

You wrote a good book here, Mister Banner. Thank you for that.

“They were trying to save their souls- and who but a fool could fail to see that all that was the matter with their souls was that they had not been able to get a decent existence for their bodies?” 
― Upton SinclairThe Jungle

© 2015 George Seaton

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3-Pack Jack Performance Art Book Set – Steven Reigns, ed.

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I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.”

–Walt Whitman – Leaves of Grass

Okay, then…

Here’s the deal: The Deluxe Edition of The 3-Pack Jack Performance Art Set  is now sold out. A pity, because for forty bucks you could have gotten the full-color three-book set, bound with a hand-sewn, sparkly jockstrap elastic band. However, you need not despair. You can still get the three-book set, bound with a fold-out poster of a vintage jockstrap advertisement, for only twenty bucks.

This work, this set of three chapbooks, this cut-and-paste collection of supposedly the best moments from performance art presentations in Los Angeles—West Hollywood, I will assume—is notable for its silliness, for the most part, with snippets of seriousness intertwined. Here’s a review that lauds the project in such a way that is, for me, a little too lofty. But hey…that’s just me.

“In an era when gay men increasingly strive for assimilation and normalcy, these artists shamelessly insist on their perverse erotics and subcultural difference. How thrilling to see a new generation of queer men who believe that radical sexual politics are at the core of gay liberation and who, even more audaciously, see the literary and performing arts as its primary cultural practice. This is a book immediately necessary for our times.”

–David Roman, author of O Solo Homo, Acts of Intervention: Performance, Gay Culture, and AIDS, and Performance in America: Contemporary U.S. Culture and the Performing Arts

Steven Reigns, who is noted as the curator of the performance art from which these chapbooks originated, is, according to his bio, the first City Poet of West Hollywood, an educator, and is credentialed in creative writing and clinical psychology. He is currently touring The Gay Rub, an exhibition of rubbings from LGBT landmarks.

So… Mister Wheeler, the owner of this review site, was kind enough to share a review copy—sans the sparkly jockstrap—for my perusal of this, as it’s described, ‘cum’ pilation of stories. What I found was silly, delightful, disturbing, and thought-provoking.

The chapbooks are divided into three categories: The (W)hole Story, Cum As You Are, and Cock Tales.

Book No. 1 – The (W)hole Story, is introduced by Mister Reigns with this observation: “I believe our life story could be told through the lens of our butt. …I want a world void of ass shame.” The book then segues to the performance artists who, for this part of the show, celebrate, yes, the butt.

Martin Matamoros gives us an account of a seventeen-year-old hooks up with a twenty-two year old “old” man. After vodka, and conversation, the “old” man finally whispers: “Mmm, Martin, sweet Martin, can I touch your mangina?” I kinda freaked out! “My, my what? My what!” He went on, “You know: your man-cunt, your boy-pussy, your guy-gash, your male-slot, your manhole, your boy-beaver, your mangina.” At that point I was totally creeped out. I was thinking, “This guy’s totally gonna Jeffery Dahmer my ass! Oh god, I hope I go good with Ranch!” And yet, I looked right at him and said, “Yes, touch my mangina.”  

Well, the “old” man did more than touch that young man’s mangina. The deed done, the young man concludes, and remembers fondly that, “The nice man elevated my anus from pathetic butt hole to a kind of heaven.”

One of the next performers, chronicled in Book 1 with vivid color pictures, explains his performance this way: “For my performance I stood on stage and shot colored water out of the lower end of my colon onto a white swath of fabric, thus dyeing the fabric in bright colors of red, yellow and blue. I was mostly nude except for a jockstrap and footwear. I preserve the resulting dyed fabric by making it into personal garments for me to wear; the jockstrap is never washed again after it has been stained by the remnant of liquid that lingers after the performance. …Creating a rainbow from my anus is a provocative expression, symbolizing beauty, innocence and play created from what many people consider to be filthy.”


Let’s just do a few random quotes from Book 1: “…the cereal and milk of your choice cheerfully splash around in the receptive boy-butt of meta-icon James Franco.”

“The flexibility of the asshole provides a model of creativity, reciprocity and expansion.”

“Is the rectum a gallery?” (Well, yes, in Book 1, you will get a gallery of rectums in color and black and white.)

“Turns out, my anus is a source of glory and enlightenment. Turns out, my anus is a gate­way to the numinous transpersonal gay psyche. Turns out, it’s basically a sacred-slutty, needy-powerful, tight but receptive buzzing hive of pleasure. Sometimes it’s like a bee hive is in my butt buzzing and full of honey, dripping and sweet, gooey and firm and needy!”

On to Book 2 – Cum As You Are. Mister Reigns explains that he curated this portion of the performance because of his feelings about cum: “Cumming is my favorite hobby, cum a byproduct of the heaven that is climax. …There’s a Buddhist saying that you cannot walk through the fog without getting a little bit of mist on your face. I’d like to add: one cannot sit through Cum As You Are without getting a little bit of cum on your face. Here is my honor to some of you in the audience.” Mister Reigns’ honor, then, is to provide, again in living color, photographs of young men with cum on their faces and clothes.

In “Cumming to Terms with Cum or How I Became a Bareback Gangbang Bottom,” by Ben Cuevas, we find a young man who wants, yes, to become a gangbang bottom. For me, this one was a little hard to smile through. The storytelling—perhaps a biography—reveals a young man who wants to become a super-duper bottom, but feels that becoming such a vessel is shameful. Until his leather-daddy explains that if he wants that as his destiny, then that’s okay; the risks of such behavior are secondary to the pride and pleasure of realizing his goal. So, he does it. With ten men, and concludes afterwards, “I’d become more than a super slut. I was a sacred whore, a vessel for the pleasure of others, a container for the creative juices of man. And lying there after the fact, with cum pooling out of my asshole onto the mattress, I thought to myself how blessed I was to receive such pleasure: to see that what I once viewed as transgression had metamorphosized into transcendence.”

In the “Whore of Babylon,” by Keith Hunter, the performance artist pours a white liquid onto his face from a seashell, wears a dildo on his head, is draped in pearls and tells us that, “I have come because my coming precedes the second coming, and as you ejaculate on me so shall Christ. And in the Lord’s sacred cum shall be washed clean even sins such as mine. In that shower of sacred cum I will be reborn! In that pool of hot semen, horse semen, dog semen, I will wallow and become God. For I am a whore, Hallelujah may the world fuck me for three pieces of silver and a kiss upon the cheek!”

The next performer, a young Asian man, Rich Yap, explains, “I cannot change the fact that I am gay, that I am Asian, and that I come across as effeminate. I cannot change someone’s preconceived notions about me. And it’s not going to do me any good to give in and hate those things about myself and to be passively mad at the world for unjustly valuing narrow views of masculinity. My cum no longer represents all the parts of myself I don’t like that I flush down the toilet or watch as it spirals down the shower drain. My cum is a part of me— literally. It carries my DNA. It carries all the love that I have to give to the world, and all the love that I have to give to myself.”

Book 3 – Cock Tales, which is about… (Do I really have to say?)

After Mister Reigns’ introduction, we see a series of pics where a young man in stripping from his noir detective outfit to his jockstrap. Then comes a narrative from Johnny McGovern—Remember? The Big Gay Sketch Show on Logo? The Gay Pimp videos on YouTube?—whose has a lot to say, and ends with a song full of angst because:

“…I Saw yer Cock on Craigslist/You’re telling it’s bullshit/but baby I know yer junk by sight…”

Then, Torrie Gregor reports that, “I’m trapped thinking about cocks past and the promise of cock to cum. Where my cock has been, what he has enjoyed, the cocks that have enjoyed me and the ones who want to. Not only is thought of cock ruining the possibility of my holding down a normal conversation, it’s ruining my life! You gotta help me!” He develops a mantra: “Dear Universe, it is I, cockmatized. I beckon your powers now more than ever. I beg of you, release me from the spell of cock. Allow to me to expend my energy in ways other than getting a 10 incher to explore my pleasure canal. Allow me to move from this incessant need to play with a throbbing rod. Allow me to see beyond the cock. Universe, I beg of you, allow me to move on. I need to move on! Please, give me strength to move on!”

Ian MacKinnon ends this third chapbook with a song and, after a key change, declares, “And one day you will find out that jerking off is spiritual if you do it right. You will see that you are a symbol of the archetypical dick of the universe and that you are the doorway to the new gay spirit revolution which will one day destroy homophobia and destroy sexism and racism and war and the cash-nexus and replace it all with gay love. Penis, make my dreams come true! Hey Penis, Penis”

Well… I don’t know if I’ve ever written a longer review. Actually, the boys who managed to put this thing together wrote it for me. It, ahem, speaks for itself. And, right now as I ponder the meaning of holes, cum, and cock in my own life, I’m not absolutely sure if, as David Roman said, “This is a book immediately necessary for our times.” Maybe. I mean… I mean that right now I’ve got a shitload of logs down the road that need cutting, splitting, and stacked. That’s part of what my “times” consists of. Years ago, I lived in Hollywood, near Hollywood Blvd. and Western, where the “times” were quite different, quite…gay. Now, about the only thing gay about my “times” is getting little missives from Mister Wheeler suggesting that even though I won’t get the jockstrap-bound edition, I might like this one.

“But if I were to venture my own generalizations, I would say that with the collapse of other social values (those of religion, patriotism, the family and so on), sex has been forced to take up the slack, to become our sole mode of transcendence and our only touchstone of authenticity. The cry for scorching, multiple orgasms, the drive toward impeccable and virtuoso performance, the belief that only in complete sexual compatibility lies true intimacy, the insistence that sex is the only mode for experiencing thrills, for achieving love, for assessing and demonstrating personal worth — all these projects are absurd.”

–Edmund White

© 2015 George Seaton

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The Music Teacher – Bob Sennett (Lethe Press)

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“In the Somme valley, the back of language broke. It could no longer carry its former meanings. World War I changed the life of words and images in art, radically and forever. It brought our culture into the age of mass-produced, industrialized death. This, at first, was indescribable.”

–Robert Hughes, The Shock of the New


Imagine an event so horrible that words cannot describe it. Consider the Battle of Verdun where an estimated 700,000 souls perished. Or the Battle of the Somme, where over a million men perished. Consider the particular horror of World War I.

More than 200,000 Irishmen served with the British forces during WWI, which occurred at the same time that the Irish were seeking their independence from Great Britain; a decade-long struggle known as the Irish revolutionary period. Irish leaders believed that their struggle for home rule would be enhanced by their participation with Great Britain in the War to End All Wars.

This is the backdrop for Sennett’s The Music Teacher.

We first see the protagonist, Joe Dooley, as a ten-year-old boy, who hears music in the mundanities of everyday life in Dublin and Queenstown. He has a fine voice, too, and is chosen to lead his class in the weekly singing of hymns. When he enters college, he becomes the principle tenor in the Choral Union, a position that provides him with some little status among his peers. He learns to play the piano, and as a young man becomes a piano teacher. Finding that he cannot support himself on the income from music lessons alone, Joe enlists in the British Army reserve force.

Through Joe’s formative years, and once at college, the ambiguousness of his politics, his beliefs about what was going on around him, his heritage, sees him “…In the company of Jesuits, he defended the Church of England; amongst recruits in the Brotherhood [The Irish Republican Brotherhood; a secret fraternal organization pledged to seek the establishment of an independent democratic republic in Ireland], he found common ground with the R.I.C. [The Royal Irish Constabulary was Great Britain’s police presence in Ireland]. When a student committee proposed requiring knowledge of the Gaelic language as a prerequisite for granting a degree, Joe signed up at once and drafted their charge.”

What Joe was certain about, however, is that as a boy and a young man, his love for his friends—his boyhood friend, Heinrich, called Harry, a German boy in Ireland who would later serve in the German Army; Severin, an older boy who became Joe’s mentor, and was an Irish Nationalist; Donal, a college chum, whose brother was a wealthy businessman who encouraged Joe to join English army—yes, his love for his friends was emotionally, and, in all cases but one, physically reciprocated. Later on, in the war, there was Davy, a volunteer ambulance driver, from whom Joe would learn the essential passion of love. The word “friend” became for Joe a mantra, a magical gift surely given by God; much like music, friendship was at the core of Joe’s understanding of the worth of life.

Joe became a good soldier. Promoted to corporal, his duty became, above all else, to protect and care for his small unit of “Dubs,” his band of Irish brothers fighting in a war that eventually became for Joe an incongruity; something not compatible with the more meaningful fight for Irish independence back home. As he led his men to battle on the Western Front, Joe’s priorities became crystallized, leading eventually to desertion from the British army and taking his friends with him in a circuitous journey back home.

Richard McCormak, the man who had urged Joe to join the British Army, and who later was central to bringing the disillusioned Irish soldiers back home, justified his actions—and certainly mirrored Joe’s eventual epiphany—this way: “In every section and in every regiment…everywhere I went I found men full of disillusion. Some were willing to fight on and if they believed in what they were doing I would offer every bit of metériele, money, and support I could muster. In that I am sure we never compromised their bravery or their commitment. But for every man who stayed and fought I found another who was broken or unable to raise his sights to massacre. These were honest and noble men who feared less for their own lives than for the lives of their friends and their fellows and who thought that it was for their cause we were truly fighting and it was for their freedom and dignity that we had to abdicate our roles as soldiers.”

Sennett is a fine writer. This story flows with ease, and provides a good explication of the historical period in which it is set, as well as one man’s struggle to know himself. It would have been helpful if English translations had been provided for the Gaelic passages in the work. Additionally, I would have liked to have seen a more vivid portrayal of the horror of the war in which much of the storytelling occurs. Yes, I know, that probably wasn’t Sennett’s intent, but the horrid specter of an event that, as Robert Hughes notes, was, at first, “indescribable,” and “changed the life of words…forever” is something that would, at least for me, beg a more thorough description.

© 2015 George Seaton

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What Color Is Your Hoodie? Essays on Black Gay Identity – Jarrett Neal (Chelsea Station Editions)

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Barack Obama’s presidency has brought a number of changes, regardless of how you look at it. Perhaps the most important is bringing racial dialogue back to the country’s collective consciousness (assuming one exists). It’s never really been away, but the focus seems to be sharpening exponentially in Obama’s second term. Although the voices on both sides are many, Jarrett Neal’s is particularly interesting due to his perspective as a black gay man. His collection of thirteen essays, What Color Is Your Hoodie?, provides a quiet common sense as he tries to fit together the pieces of the puzzle that matter most to him. And us.

Neal starts out strong with “Guys and Dolls/Weights and Measures.” Though they appear as separate essays, they’re linked in my head due to their similarity in structure. Neal’s powerful recollections of his childhood and early influences alternate with analysis from the man he’s become, giving the reader an excellent baseline understanding of both Neal and his views. This leads into Neal’s exploration of the homo-thug trope in “Let’s Talk About Interracial Porn.” He delves into popular culture, and even porn again, in other chapters (“Film Studies for Black Gay Men,” “Real Compared to What”), but “Let’s Talk About Interracial Porn” certainly gave me some things to think about and titles to search out. Purely for intellectual purposes, you understand.

Neal deals with current(ish) topics like Barack Obama (“My Last Love Affair”) and the furor surrounding out football player Michael Sam (“Sam I Am”) as well as Trayvon Martin in the title piece. For my money, however, the most winning of the entries were “Baldwin Boys and Harris Homies” and “Peewee’s Peepee.” The former is an account of the relationship between Neal and a gay writer friend named Langdon, but it’s also Neal’s statement about where he stands between James Baldwin (intellectual, literary) and E. Lynn Harris (neither–but that’s my assessment, not Neal’s).

But “Peewee’s Peepee,” the account of Neal’s adult elective circumcision, is the most involving and engaging piece in the book. It deals with the Neal’s major themes of body image issues as well as the masculine ideal and the many factors both subtle and overt that play into why and how we buy into that ideal. Personal in ways that many of the other essays are not (yes, in part because it deals with genitalia), this piece is the one I remember a month after having read the book. It’s worth the price of admission alone.

However, there’s much to love and think about in What Color is Your Hoodie? from an academic perspective as well as the street view. And one is as valid as the other, because if we can’t grasp both, we really can’t get a handle on either.

© 2015 Jerry L. Wheeler

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A Father for Lilja – Ryszard Merey (Lethe Press)


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“Art was a union of the father and mother worlds, of mind and blood. It might start in utter sensuality and lead to total abstraction; then again it might originate in pure concept and end in bleeding flesh. Any work of art that was truly sublime, not just a good juggler’s trick; that was filled with the eternal secret, like the master’s Madonna; every obviously genuine work of art had this dangerous, smiling double face, was male-female, a merging of instinct and pure spirituality.”

–Hermann Hesse, “Narcissus and Goldmund”

Merey gives us storytelling that requires us to gut the fish, then examine what’s been done; the offal of it sifted through our bloody fingers as we search for the essential meaning of what it is we have before us. Is this offal so awful? And look! The scales still shimmer rainbows! Or do they?

We have Jain, the protagonist, the diarist, the narrator, the little girl whom we learn becomes a software engineer as an adult. She works in code. She writes code: a precise, exacting exercise where there must be a beginning, a middle, and an end. Code requires logic; one event must necessarily lead to the next; premises and conclusions must be known before they are posited. Oh, but life is not like that. Jain understands this. Indeed, her story will, as she says, “…fold on itself like a snake eating its own tale and it was not my intention to make it that way, it is just the way it ended up coming into existence.”

The storytelling, the diary shows us Jain as a young girl, infatuated with her cousin, Viju, as she visits her grandfather’s estate in Provence. “Viju,” Jain tells us, “wasn’t a boy and she wasn’t a girl, though sometimes she was both and sometimes she was neither, but at most she was a person, nothing more and nothing less.”

Jain ages, becomes involved with Nine—to whom much of the diary is written—a “common” boy who eventually becomes a chef, whom Jain finds similar to Viju in appearance, and who, as a teenager, meets Emilio in an online chat room. Emilio, or as we learn later is called Lio or Lia, engages Nine online for some time before actually meeting him. Emilio eventually becomes Nine’s lover/companion in a relationship that defies convention. Lio/Lia is sexy but asexual, never taking his/her clothes off for sexual encounters, and ambivalent about Nine’s sexual forays with other men or women. And Jain, inextricably caught up in Nine’s and Emilio’s sphere, becomes one of those women.

This is a literary work with a “…dangerous, smiling double face…male-female…” It is indeed “…a merging of instinct and pure spirituality.” Merey’s prose is lovely, complex, questioning. This work is heavy in content and length; its bulk weighted in places with dialogues that seem a wee bit unnecessary, a little forced, a little TMI.

An early hint about what this storytelling will become is a reference to Ovid’s story about Iphis, a female child whose mother concealed her true sex because the father, Ligdus, had announced he would kill the child if it weren’t a boy. Eventually, Iphis is promised in marriage to a beautiful girl, and before the wedding the mother brings Iphis to the temple of Isis and prays that this conundrum can be somehow rectified. Isis comes through by transforming Iphis into a male, and the newly wedded couple lives happily ever after.

Gender assignment flows throughout the work as something vaguely wrong, or something that exists as a mere inconvenience without any substantive worth. It’s beside the point. It’s the wrapping quickly discarded because it is not essential to the prize inside.

Will there be a father for Lilja? Oh, I will not tell you the answer to that. What I will tell you is that this work is fascinating, so literary; it is a tale so full of meaty and vague references that the careful reader will understand that it was written with “…mind and blood…,” and the ultimate meaning of it all is perhaps left to the reader. I believe the author would agree.

“The body is not a thing, it is a situation: it is our grasp on the world and our sketch of our project.”
–Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex

© 2015 George Seaton

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