100 Books Like Becoming a Man

"You're always looking for something better," somebody told Jeremy Atherton Lin. His response? "I thought that was the whole point."

When Lin arrived at college, in 1992, HIV was still a death sentence. Newly out, he didn't know, well, how to be gay. So he went out dancing. (I did the gay bars too when I first came out, found a lover at one, and stopped. Lin found a life partner there, too; they've kept dancing.)

This erudite, affecting book merges personal saga with gay history and theory, mapped onto bars in L.A., San Francisco and London (most, due to online dating, now gone). We see evolution in music, dance, costume, even architecture and neighborhoods—and, profoundly, in the blooming and maturing of how queer people see themselves. 

Sexual desire, acted on or repressed, is either the text or subtext of every gay man's life.

Edmund White treats sex explicitly and with bracing honesty. His frankness—for example, in describing his fumbling, agonized, danger-courting attempts as a kid to find love—recalled my own youthful risks and failures, but freed those memories of shame.

I've read few of White's many books. (Guess I was jealous of his output and acclaim; better I should have emulated his driving curiosity and intelligence.) His recent death, at 85, prompted me to read this narrative of his long, unruly, ceaselessly questing life.

A sharp observer of trends and sub-cultures, White moved among the famous—writers, artists, intellectuals—and descriptions of and dish about them are an extra, but only slightly guilty, pleasure.

Kevin Sessums was the kind of kid who just can't hide it. Too exuberant, drawn to fantasy, costume, theatrical gestures. 

He might disagree, but to me, he seems never even to have been in the closet. Not that he had it easy. There was family trauma. He was bullied by classmates, targeted by older men. His big extended family of certifiable characters in the small-town South was right out of Flannery O'Connor. He asked himself, at thirteen—and I wish I'd had such guts—"Why not just be what everyone expected I was?" There were Blacks and Civil Rights activism intimately close, and young Kevin was equally no-nonsense about the stupidity of racism.

Spoiler alert: he escaped to a life of arts and culture and queer adulthood in New York.

I never heard a more harrowing story of the closet and coming out.

There was no bullying, rape or damnation to hell in Andrew Tobias' childhood. He was a high-achieving, good-looking son of an affluent family in cosmopolitan New York who came to adulthood in the anything-goes sixties. He realized he was homosexual at age 11—then never allowed himself to tell a soul, or have sex (even with himself) until 23. When he finally, tentatively, began to own being gay, he remained twisted up by stereotypes of masculinity and queerness.

Paradoxically, because he was afraid of it, his saga gives a colorful rendering of gay culture around 1970. (And I happen to know that he eventually found self-acceptance, love, and a prominent, honored role in gay politics.)

Fadeout is the first book in Hansen’s Dave Brandstetter mysteries. The protagonist, an openly gay insurance investigator in 1970s California, is convinced that a man who has been reported dead is actually still alive, and he must hurry to find him. Another classic in the gay mystery canon, Fadeout is vividly noir, grittily honest, and rejects cliches and stereotypes in a way that is still shocking over fifty years later.

My first sexual experience after I moved to London in 1957 was with a slightly older man I met at one of the parties I got invited to after my book was published. When we got to his flat I knew enough to take my clothes off and lie down on the bed, but what was I supposed to do then? Clueless, I lay there like a stick of celery. “You’re not gay,” he kept repeating. “Yes I am,” I kept repeating, but didn’t know how to prove it.

Too many years later, in 1966, The Song of the Loon filled in the blanks of how gay men actually had sex. It’s very well-written explicit erotica, a backwoods fantasy about impossibly handsome masculine men living far from those city gays corrupted by shame and disappointment. Song is no quick potboiler. It’s a gay author’s well-realized attempt to bring to life… show more.

I'm a political junkie. And if you want Veep in book form, this is for you. Are Thom and Clay likable? Eventually, yes! Is the premise completely nuts? Totally, and I love it.

I am a huge sucker for enemies-to-lovers. And pining. And the public lens being trained on our MCs. And this one has it all. The banter, the chemistry, everything you want in a romance, plus the absurd US political system is like a cherry on top. 

This was the first book by Alexis Hall I’ve read, and I fell in love with his writing. It’s witty and charming and perhaps a bit ridiculous at times. But that’s what makes it charming. Luc’s job is in danger unless he begins to get his life together. What job? He works for a nonprofit charity whose goal is to save the dung beetle—Coleoptera Research or Protection Project, or CRAPP. The solution? A fake boyfriend.

I love the large supporting cast this book has, each quirky enough to get their own story one day. Hall is a master of comedic writing, but more than that, I love that he can also write poignant moments. This book is one of my all-time favorites.

This rare Black queer romance novel is a heartfelt exploration of friendship and second chances.

It doesn’t shy away from the complexities of maintaining relationships in the midst of grief, addressing head on one of the most difficult and underexplored aspects of loss. It’s a reminder that our past shapes us, but our present can redefine us, through the refreshing lens of Black queer characters just trying to figure out their lives.

The descriptive writing in this book is beautiful and full of evocative metaphors and similes. Still, it’s the central relationship between the forthright Robin and the secretive, standoffish Edwin that keeps me re-reading it repeatedly.

Unlike the first few recommendations, we see Edwin’s POV, so we know straightaway why he feels the need to hide his true intentions and desires. We also get to experience his quiet, almost reluctant yearning as his and Robin’s shaky friendship turns into more. This one is a lovely, well-developed romance and generally an excellent historical fantasy with an interesting world-building and magic system.