Gay erotica fiction

As American teenagers, my friends and I hung out at the mall on weekends doing what older teens with driving licenses called 'loser laps' – walking around aimlessly until we’d meandered around most of the shops, then walking around them again. One night, my mom was slow to pick me up, so I lingered in a bookshop. I browsed books to pass the time, and when some of the novels’ titles started sounding odd I panicked; I had wandered into the upstairs queer corner of the store.

For a young man not yet out of the closet – I was too afraid to look for for gay erotica, thinking my computer might somehow alert the FBI or get tainted beyond the repair of clearing my browser history – the desire I felt, opening and reading those pages, seemed dangerous. I couldn't help but look over my shoulder; I needed to make sure the coast was clear for my thoughts.

I peered at book covers of ideas and themes I assumed were forbidden. But I was wrong – they were sold here as commercial reading material. Gayness existed as a profitable entity and community, void of insult or sin (unless ironic). My handset ra