I've never seen a book spend so much time threatening to be interesting without managing to do so.

Maybe I should've given up on this book sooner and saved myself from it, but there was always just enough of something around the next corner that kept pulling me forward to see what would happen next. There was an underlying logic that you would get flashes of, that wanted to be told, but the whole thing never materializes into an "aha!" moment. Instead you're left with an ending that's not so much a resolution as much as where the words simply stop coming.

Just about the only positive thing I can say about this book is that the descriptions of urban gay life felt authentic; the bar and club and drag show scenes took me right back to my twenties in Philly's Gayborhood. And as the book is broken up between 8-year time skips (1984, 1992, 2000, 2008, and 2016), each one also managed to feel unique and distinct. Beyond that, nothing clicked for me.

Of course I didn't expect a horror story about gay men going missing to have a feel-good ending or shy away from difficult scenes, but this book was just so overwhelmingly negative. No aspect of this story felt like a celebration of gay culture, like you're meant to sympathize with these victims. Instead it came across as a steady stream of punishments for damn near the entire (unnecessarily large) cast for something they couldn't control about themselves. And then at the end of each chapter we're subjected to a fourth wall break where the author writes as himself directly to the reader in an exercise in self-flagellation for being gay - for no discernible benefit to the story. If anything, I feel like the book suffered for these detours.

I love being a gay man. Yes, there are times when I am afraid to wear certain clothes, or act a certain way, and to this day I don't hold my husband's hand in public, but I will never hyperfocus on my victimhood as this story did. I hope people who read this book understand that not all of us hate ourselves like this.