“We identify as genderqueer,” the narrator
tells us, “GQ isn’t about who I fuck or my sexual orientation but rather my
gender identification. Rye and I each see our genders existing somewhere along
the gradation between male and female, somewhere outside the gender binary.
Having a boi like Rye as my lover somehow feels right.
. . . Many people want there to be only one or maybe two choices .
. . like male and female . . . but that’s a societal construct of the
domination culture designed to reduce our options, limit our thoughts. . .
I like the way Rosenthal’s characters relate
to one another; the feelings they inspire in each other; the very natural way
they banter and play together—at least when they’re not obsessing about process. It’s true. Smart people want the same thing
as everybody else; we just insist on going on ad nauseum about meta-everything
while getting it. Subsequently we complain that we are unhappy, other people
think we are boring, and life is passing us by. Tracing chains of causality;
working back to first principals; it’s the surest way I know of inducing a
migraine while putting my party guests to sleep. And so I was at first taken aback by the
characters’ constant retreat into the metacognitive ether; it felt like bad narrative
non-fiction or an overly preachy film documentary—the author makes little
attempt to disguise his “evangelistic” motives.
But after a while, I relaxed and accepted that this was simply the way these
people talk to each other—and what they say can be quite fascinating.
“I’ve thought a lot about that word ‘queer,’” I say. I’m still
getting comfortable with it. It was a slur when I was a kid.”
“But there’s been a change in how people use it.”
“I know, hear me out. My interests are queer in the original
eighteen-forties sense of the word. ‘Strange or odd from a conventional
viewpoint. Freakish, unusual. I’ve always been attracted to people outside the
mainstream. But when you get to the more modern ‘effeminate, unmanly.’ Then I
start to bristle. Why do things have to be classified as manly or unmanly? You
know there’s this Buddhist monk named Thrugpa, I really love his writing. He
says ‘true reality is hidden by the labels we use. Things are, and then our
mind tells us about them.’ Right! Can’t things just be? I’m just a guy. . .
This feels good. What does it mean? What does it matter? Why do we
need to label things? Why? I was raised to think in classifications.
Deliniations, Categories. Divisions.What went where and what wasn’t allowed to
go where. Not just about sexuality, but about how to interact with the world.
About the traits boys needed to hide and traits we were meant to emphasize.
What would the neighbors say? I learned it is correct to be tough and
insensitive, and never show you really care. Or cry. Or that you miss your pop.
Or that there are things that turn you on that some unspecified ‘they’ say
should not. I’m not afraid of getting fucky with men. I’m afraid of how the
world will judge me if it finds out I like getting fucky with men . . . I like being genderqueer. It’s vague. I wish
I wasn’t concerned with definitions. No labels. Life would be easier . . .
Rosenthal’s prose is serviceable; not
great or exceptional, and might, in spots, have benefitted from a more aggressive
(or, at least, a less solicitous) editorial hand. The book is over-long, inflated
by too much that is simply beside the point. The author has an annoying habit in
narrative passages of remarking unnecessary detail—material that should have
hit the cutting room floor on a first or second pass—dallying with banal arcana
like a third-rate juvenile diarist. Especially in the novel’s second half, some
of the sex scenes have the tired, warmed-over feel of superfluous reprise. The
constant exchange of clichéd text messages does very little to advance the
story or deepen our understanding of the characters, and becomes increasingly
boring as the book wears on. Some artful narrative compression might have
helped keep things focused—did we really need to hear about how Rye slept on
the train from New York to Washington, and then slept some more on the return trip?
Better self-editing could have enhanced word-flow; chopping redundant scenes
could have given some portrayals a less artificial feel along with much greater
emotional impact.
Readers who want to explore this world
should naturally check their inhibitions at the door, along with any inflexibly
prejudiced notions of what is and isn’t sexy. (Personally, I try to keep an
open mind, especially when reviewing; I don’t judge anybody for their
particular kinks, even if I am viscerally repulsed by some types of ritual
humiliation, certain portrayals of group rape play, and pretty much anything
involving Golden Showers or scat.) Of
course, we all bring our own personal set of hard and soft limits to any story
we peruse; one’s earth-rending turn-on may well be another’s gorge-rising
gross-out; the question is; do we allow our hang-ups to get in the way of an
otherwise interesting and valuable learning experience? The irony is that many
of those who would most benefit from the ideas presented in Rye will probably never read it, or stop
reading at the first foray beyond their narrow comfort zones. More’s the pity.
While Rye certainly has its flaws—what book doesn’t?—it is a work of unique
vision; the product of a serious passion; one of those unusual efforts that
genuinely transcends the sum of its parts. Well worth a download.
