Brutal Uncut
by Aiden Shaw
Running Press. 288 pages, $14.95
AIDEN SHAW’S 1996 novel Brutal was, with apologies to Thomas Hobbes, a nasty, brutish, and short book about Paul, an HIV-positive male prostitute. It was a memorable effort by a writer who made his name in gay porn. The novel’s copious descriptions of drug-taking and sex-for-pay hinted that this was less fiction than a thinly veiled memoir. This suspicion was corroborated a decade later with the publication of Shaw’s sex- and drug-filled memoir, My Undoing.
Perhaps owing to the success of the memoir, a new, expanded edition of Brutal, ticklishly titled with the addition of “Uncut,” has now been published. While Uncut has both the merits and drawbacks of My Undoing—escapades of excess that can both fascinate and bore—the new edition proves that bigger is not always better. The “expanded” edition doesn’t add any new adventures but rather goes back to the old ones and simply spells them out more fully, effectively dumbing down Paul’s emotional journey. The upshot is that the narrative of Uncut is often less compelling, albeit more graphic. Much of the book is given over to Paul’s thoughts about his mother, with whom he has a troubled relationship; about his friend Ace, a drug buddy who is dying from AIDS; and about his efforts to have a “normal” relationship despite working in the sex industry. These themes still come across in the new edition, but, at twice the original book’s length, the fleshing out of details leads to needless repetition. What made the original Brutal engaging was its short, sharp chapters and staccato sentences. Uncut moves at a more languid pace.
Uncut would benefit from editing because the book’s plot takes a while to form. Paul does drugs and fucks guys. There are mildly amusing and arousing sequences, but a chapter late in the book, in which Paul is worried about a German john he services, has no payoff for all the tension it creates. Better are the descriptions of Paul admitting that he has sex to keep from becoming emotionally involved with men—an issue he faces when he falls in love with nice guy Keenan. At one point in the book, Paul decides that clean living may be the best way to cope with things. He stops the drug abuse, takes up transcendental meditation, and tries to rediscover himself. Paul’s efforts to reconcile his relationship with his mother do have their poignancy. In contrast, the big dramatic sequence in which Paul’s buddy Ace asks Paul to help him end his life loses power after a long and repetitive buildup.
One thing readers should be aware of is that the names have been changed from the original (UK) edition, for reasons not altogether clear. In Uncut, the protagonist’s therapist Gaia is renamed Sky, Kevin becomes John, Marcus becomes Ace, and Rick is renamed Keenan—all for no apparent reason. It should also be said that Uncut is riddled with copyediting errors. Several sentences are missing words, and typos are littered throughout the book.
None of this is to say that Uncut is without merit. The book contains some very beautiful passages—especially in its final chapter, where Paul recounts periods of happiness in his life. And Shaw’s message about reclaiming one’s self-esteem is valuable: we must all learn to love ourselves before we can love others or be loved. But most of Uncut would have needed to sharpen these points for them to be driven home.
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Gary M. Kramer is a Philadelphia-based freelance writer and film critic.
