I’M a violent reader. I throw books across the room and enjoy watching them land helplessly, half-opened, their pages curled inward like a dog’s humiliated tail. I rip out pages with lust, gloating at their mangled carcasses. Rarely, however, do I want to slap an author. But Gregory Martin is just the kind of well-meaning straight guy that I’d like to beat some sense into. Except it probably wouldn’t do any good. Stories for Boys is a classic example of the memoir as unreliable narrator. Martin looks into the mirror and allows himself to see almost nothing.