Memoirs: Letters From a Pandemic, The Loves of My Life, My Life as a Pornographer, and Confessions of a Rodeo Clown
04 Jun 2025.

by Drew Rowsome -

I do a great deal of reading for sheer pleasure. Due to a confluence of events both personal, professional and within the publishing industry, memoirs have found their way into my hands. So much of our lives is defined, both as lived and in memory, by our sexuality; who we loved, who we lusted after, who we had sex with, who broke out hearts but never our spirit. The coming out narrative is still the dominant narrative in gay memoirs, but there is also rich material to be mined in what came after. In the best memoirs individual experiences—no matter how unusual, extreme or mundane—feed into the collective experience and intersect to become universal. These are the last four memoirs I read and learned from, not in any particular order or ranking, and excluding Cher who is in a category of her own so she got her own review.

Bruce Duncan Skeaff will be familiar to readers of this blog for his work creating Stratford Winter Pride and promoting Stratford, Ontario as a gay tourist destination. Skeaff is a very social person—as I can well attest from several dinners and lunches where he mixed charm with pontification—and the pandemic hit him hard. Aside from the Stratford Festival going dark for an entire season and Stratford Winter Pride not existing, making Stratford a desolate hamlet, Skeaff writes, "I realized it would be very easy to slip away from friends—especially those at a distance—as each of us went into an unknown period of isolation." His solution was to write a weekly newsletter of his musings, memories and thoughts. He took a sampling, if he did stick to the weekly schedule there must be considerably more material, and published it as Letters From a Pandemic, a title reminiscent of Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year and uncomfortably echoing the multitude of memoirs chronicling the last plague (Brad Fraser's All the Rage, Gerald Hannon's Immoral, Indecent & Scurrilous, Harvey Fierstein's I Was Better Last Night, are all recent examples from this blog, it is a trauma we all carry).

Skeaff is mostly interested in memory, in anecdotes that stuck in his mind. His background is in journalism and there is a fact-based rat-a-tat structure to the chapters that also include the relevant historical facts and lineage to add clarity. Curiously his editing skills have slipped slightly as the copy I purchased contained the same story twice. Mind you it was the second best story, "The Day the CBC Outed Me," so, like a raconteur who threads a theme, it is possible to savour the variations. 

The chapter I would consider the best, possibly because it intersects literally with my memories and past, is "Bemelman's, Gary, and Me." Skeaff captures the casual intensity of the late, great Bemelman's (also evoked stunningly in Casey and Diana which, another intersection, I first saw in its legendary first production at Stratford), its important role in the gay world of the time and the world that evolved within its walls. The chapter also contains a sweet, bittersweet love story that is more delicious than Bemelman's food ever was. It is a rare moment where Skeaff reveals his emotional core as opposed to his journalistic skills and if there are more Letters From a Pandemic in the offing, I hope there is more of that heart.

However more letters will have to wait, the pandemic has eased, the festival is back in all its glory, and Skeaff is already plotting Stratford Winter Pride 2026. In yet another intersection with a memoir to follow, Skeaff had established a friendship with esteemed author Felice Picano (The Lure, Fred in Love), one of the seven illustrious members of The Violet Quill. Skeaff says that Picano was charmed by Stratford, awed by the theatre on offer, and wanted to stage an unproduced play of his, The Birthday Club, as part of the next Stratford Winter Pride, giving the rights to stage the production to Skeaff. Picano is no longer with us, tourism is up in the air due to the turmoil and grifting in the US, but Skeaff is determined that the show will go on as a tribute to Picano and queer resilience. But best to let him tell it at gofund.me/ae67f0bd. And we can look forward to a full recounting after the fact in Letters From a Pandemic II.

Among the other seven members of The Violet Quill was Edmund White (Arts and Letters) who wrote the definitive, and the first of not many to crossover into the mainstream, coming out novel, A Boy's Own Story. Now 85-years-old and aware of his mortality, White has written a memoir The Loves of My Life. It is a peculiar and absorbing book as it meanders seemingly through the multitude of erotic memories haphazardly stored in White's brain. As he writes in the preface, "I'm at an age when writers are supposed to say finally what mattered most to them—for me it would be thousands of sex partners." At this point I'm tempted to quote the entirety of the preface, it contains a precise history of the gay history that White lived through so far, as well as a solid defence of sexual promiscuity as a lifestyle choice. As is the whole book, it is eloquently and sumptuously written, pulling quotes would be redundant as the very next sentence would be as pertinent and perfectly phrased. The Loves of My Life is a joy to read just for the sensual pleasure of consuming the words and their arrangements. One almost doesn't notice that the title is misleading at best.

White does specify that "for me sex was always linked to love, even during so-called anonymous sex. I fell in love ten times a day and still take the sappy lyrics of those old love songs as wisdom," yet the first chapter is titled "First Lust" and the second "Hustlers." While White does pay lip service to that quest that is not necessarily specific to gay men, where the next trick or the one after that will be the one, he very early on seemed to realize that sex for sex's sake, for companionship, for fun, or even to pass the time is perfectly legitimate. Sex and love aren't dependent on each other, though it is still the ideal combination. White does regale the reader with numerous sexual encounters but they mainly serve as digressions into more philosophical, literary or political concerns. He even crams in a fair amount of family history and coming out anecdotes. There is no specific framework and the chronology goes out the window by the second chapter, but it is White's prose that keeps one hooked and if it is occasionally mystifying why we have arrived where we are, we relax because wherever else we are going, it is a journey worth taking.

The lack of a narrative or structure does deny the reader a catharsis, and The Loves of My Life wanders to a close leaving fragments and images embedded in one's brain. White is equally as adept at using a description of décor to summon a tangible mood as he is at making non-reciprocal butt-fucking a romantic gesture. In many ways they are one and the same. White is extremely self-deprecating, especially for someone who got lucky so many times, referring to his weight and "small" endowment repeatedly. That and his age leads to that complicated space where bottoming becomes subbing and White explores an erotic area not often admitted to, let alone celebrated. However there is a throbbing thread of eroticism that runs throughout The Loves of My Life that, along with the aforementioned glorious prose, keeps the book compelling. My one complaint is that White seems to have found a loving relationship but he refuses to discuss it while it is still ongoing, denying the memoir a solid conclusion. White writes, "I sometimes think of my kind of autobiographical writing as spider's work, as pulling big glistening webs out of one's body, of searching about for twigs to attach one's floating gossamer constructions to . . ." The web is gorgeous and shines while its construction is erratic and perhaps all the more beautiful for it.

While Letters From a Pandemic and The Loves of My Life were published in 2025, My Life as a Pornographer & Other Indecent Acts by John Preston dates back to 1993, with many of the contained essays being of an even earlier vintage. Preston is famous, notorious, for the classic gay BDSM novels Mr Benson and I Once Had a Master. Their scandalous success, I remember literally smuggling a copy of I Once Had a Master across the Canadian border in the '80s, provided Preston with not only an income but also a cause. Preston is determined that pornography, work written specifically for the purpose of getting the reader off, is every bit as valid as literature. And more valid than erotica which he sees as pornography masquerading as literature. Preston edited the collection Flesh and the Word which was groundbreaking, a mainstream publisher promoting a book of gay pornography. The tale of how Preston found his way there, from browsing Physique Pictorial as a young boy to battling the would-be censors of the literary world, is fascinating. And full of enough personal anecdotes to fully qualify as a memoir. 

What remains shocking about My Life as a Pornographer is that little has changed in 32 years. The debate over pornography is far from over despite explicit exposure of the human body and sexuality being ubiquitous in almost all mediums. And the internet having turned porn into a massive industry. While it might seem quaint to rub one off to the printed word, it still happens and book banning is being attempted at every level, though most of it has to do with gay content rather than explicit sexual content. Several of the chapters of My Life as a Pornographer are speeches that Preston gave at universities or conferences. There is overlap between chapters, but Preston's righteous fury and wry sense of humour make it worth repeating. The only thing that has dated is his condemnation of feminism and lesbians who in the '90s, and a bit beyond, were frantically and somewhat successfully trying to have porn banned because of the damage it did to women. Preston's rebuttal is accurate but more than a little condescending and bitter. How was he to know that that particular argument would mostly fade away to be replaced with women and other marginalized creators grabbing the helm and following his example in creating their own pornography.

Preston writes about meeting his contemporary and muse Sam Steward, and perusing Steward's cataloguing of sexual partners (Julian Spring's biography of Steward, Secret Historian, deserves a recommendation here). Preston began a book about fellow sexual outlaws and we are treated to chapters profiling fellow deviants and entrepreneurs. He includes a chapter on how to write pornography that is as helpful and insightful as it deliriously funny and itchingly erotic. Never underestimate the skill and artistry that Preston possessed, as I found during a stint of penning porn commercially, it is hard work getting a rise out of a reader. Again there is so much I want to quote here but Preston sums it up best with, "I write pornography because it is a form of gay men's vernacular literature. It is created in our own language about our own passions and the ways we use our bodies to express those passions. If another person can get beyond his or her prejudices to be able to hear the beauty in pornography or listen to its truths, they are welcome, but the purpose of pornography is not to win endorsement. Nor should any gay art be an attempt to at sympathy or approval. Gay art of all kinds should be a statement of being." Preston makes his statements eloquently and with gay style revealing his soul.

While reading and reviewing Fear of Clowns: A Horror Anthology, I lamented that, while I love killer clown literature, I wished there was literature exploring the erotic potential of clowns. Inspired by Preston, I started my search in the most mainstream way possible: on Amazon. While a disappointing amount of clown porn was straight-oriented, I did find several intriguing titles with my favourite so far being Confessions of a Rodeo Clown by Peter Shutes. The confessions turned out to be a novel but it still belongs here as it is a meta-memoir in the most delightful way. The cover of Confessions of a Rodeo Clown is styled as a vintage stroke book with faux-distressed edges and prominent warnings of "Adult Only" and "Not for Sale to Minors." A throwback to those books that were the literary, and racier, equivalent of Physique Pictorial. I was well into the novel before I realized it was a novel of recent vintage and immediately googled author Peter Schutes. According to peterschutes.com:

He was born in the United States in 1896. After a brief study period at Harvard University, he enlisted and fought in World War I. After the war, he was incarcerated at Napa State Mental Hospital because of his homosexuality. When he was released, he came to Hollywood, where he became a hustler. Arrested for drug dealing, Peter escaped and fled to Kentucky. There, he worked in a coal mine, where he met his first real love. After the death of his lover, Peter retired to a Bunkhouse in Montana, where he found an old typewriter and began exploring his fantasies in writing. Eventually, after laws changed, he was able to publish his gay pulp fiction books in Denmark and then the United States. Peter returned to Los Angeles and lived out his days in the increasingly accepting society of that city. He died in Santa Monica, CA, in 1981.

But that too is fiction. Again according to peterschutes.com: 

Peter Schutes is the nom de plume of a prolific and acclaimed novelist. As Peter Schutes, he is the author of The Slaves of Rome, Dark as a Dungeon, The Gospel of Priapus, and Panama Heat. He writes in the style of vintage pulp authors from the 1960s and 1970s. He lives in Los Angeles with his husband and a very cute dog.

There is even a The Autobiography of Peter Schutes wherein "Peter lays bare his life in this unusual autobiography. Born in the last years of the 19th Century, Peter grew up at a time when being gay meant jail, hospitals and electro-shock therapy. The problem he had was a big one – and everybody wanted it. His endowment attracted many admirers and brought him great fame, but at the cost of his dignity and even his freedom." So a memoir written by a memoirist who is fictitious: meta-memoir. Confessions of a Rodeo Clown became even more fun. 

Dating from 2018 but set vaguely in the past when homosexuality was more furtive and gay rodeos had yet to be invented, Confessions of a Rodeo Clown is the story of Brightie, a rodeo clown, and his initiation into the wonders of gay sex at that hands of Cody, a big-built, gargantuanly hung bull rider. As well as hot porn, Confessions of a Rodeo Clown is also a romance novel wherein Brightie and Cody learn about each other's bodies, hearts and jealousies. Schutes is not a cocktease and the coming out dilemma is dispensed with as soon as Cody gets his first glimpse, and then taste, of Cody's giant cock Cody's dilemma of finding someone able to take that cock anally takes a little longer. Spoiler alert: Brightie proves up to the task eventually but it is a fraught and hot journey. The two travel the rodeo circuit and learn that sex with other men—and there is a lot of sex with multiple men in multiple groupings, combinations and locales—doesn't affect their bond. It is a sweet and powerful moral. The sex is explicit, hot, and despite the size queen fixations (which of course is a staple of gay porn of all eras) inventive. Despite the lack of greasepaint smearing—to my disappointment, the clown angle is barely explored except in the title and the initial plot—Confessions of a Rodeo Clown is an absorbing and arousing read.

Being a novel, Confessions of a Rodeo Clown can't be read for insight into gay history, the gay experience, or for that matter clowning. However Schutes does draw on our collective history and as Preston phrases it, our "vernacular literature," in order to evoke a nostalgic celebration of where we came from. It is a brilliant use of literary re-creation and imitation to create a steamy sepia-toned ode to gay sex. And though this gay voice may be fictitious, it is oddly a memoir of Schutes', and our, desires. John Preston would be proud.