The most recommended books about homophobia

Mary Gaitskill is capable of infuriating empathy. I shouldn’t be invested in her characters as deeply as I am: The vagrant in love with her toxic brother; the aging suburbanite who once raped a friend; the homophobic, abusive midwestern father. Gaitskill tackles one difficult character after another through her surgical exploration of the human experience: All the embarrassing things people hate about themselves, the nervous tics, the in-jokes, the often contradictory feelings running through our heads.

Just when you think you’ve got her pegged as this dark, gothic writer pumping out weird sex stories, she crafts a hilarious piece about an idiot screenwriter trying to embarrass his ex. I read this in college and learned I could, in fact, write about the dark subjects I wanted to.

This is a searing memoir about siblings—Annabet and Anders—who grew up in an abusive household in a privileged Sydney suburb; but it is also the author’s search for the reasons behind her gay brother’s suicide. Anders Ousback became an accomplished restaurateur and potter, yet Annabet explores how despite this success, he never really outran his demons. She courageously searches for their source, using his surviving journal as clues, and what she finds throws up an incomplete and terrifying picture of a young gay Australian boy faced with the ‘rules’ of gender and sexual politics in postwar Sydney, where gay men were expected to pretend to survive. The real red herring in this story is unforgettable.

Novelist-screenwriter-director Richard Sale’s scabrous, compulsively readable 1963 novel is packed with malicious characters scrambling up Hollywood’s “glass mountain of success” only to tumble into what Jacqueline Susann would call four years later would call “the Valley of the Dolls.” Pretty much set in Movieland’s seven circles of hell, the novel charts the rise and fall of an ex-gigolo who becomes a major movie star leading man. Grabbing a "Best Actor" Oscar nomination, he becomes hellbent on knee-capping -- or flat-out destroying -- his competitors. An acid-laced smorgasbord of its era, it teems with transactional sex, unapologetic misogyny, homophobia, and groovy Swinging Sixties dialogue – all of it as despicably and wondrously monstrous as its 1966 movie version (scripted by Harlan Ellison!) is unintentionally side-splitting.

Lynn’s trilogy, The Chronicles of Tornor, was published in the late 70s. Set in lands with strong similarities to Europe, but with a different geography and with some influences from Eastern philosophies, the last of the trilogy, The Northern Girl, envisioned a world where the open expression of sexuality is not restricted to heterosexual relationships. When I set out to create the cultures of my world, this was one of the societal structures I used as a model: not the only one, but an important one.

I was a freshman in college and still closeted about my homosexuality when I found Numbers in an LGBTQ+ bookstore. The description on the dust jacket got my blood racing: in an effort to reclaim his youth, a handsome gay man strikes out to see how many sexual conquests he can rack up during a ten-day stay in L.A. I bought the book and read it in my dorm room when my roommate wasn’t around.

I got more than I bargained for. Along with descriptions of sexual encounters, the novel opened my eyes to the ramifications of internalized homophobia and explored the value of sex among an oppressed people who are persecuted for their carnal desires. This novel written in 1967 spoke to me across the decades. It still can.

I can’t resist a queer femme YA story, and this one hit me so hard that I cried in joy and heartbreak.

Young lovers separated by culture and family made a Shakespearean drama that gripped me to the last word.

The world of arranged marriages, family honor, and homophobia reminded me of personal stories from friends in Vancouver. It echoed the fights that many queer people face coming out to family and being their true selves.

This book will be among the best books about motherhood and madness and the best books I have ever read. A beautiful and heartbreaking memoir of a young mom who suffered from post-partum psychosis, it’s the one book that most closely mirrors my own struggles. 

Cho delicately explores not only her devastating experience but also the guilt and shame surrounding a pregnancy that doesn’t look like how it does in the movies and doesn’t turn out the way we had anticipated. I rarely reread books, but I’ve reached for this book many times; the pages are well-worn with love and admiration.

A tale of three American athletes and their coach, all gay, and told from the POV of the coach. Included because, to me, it is a piece of queer fiction history. It was published in the seventies pre the nationwide legalisation of gay sex in the United States. Gay friends have told me how important it was for them to read The Front Runner back then. It’s all about the validation that arises from seeing people like oneself in print, as aces know. There’s nothing on the page to worry aces. The only worrying thing is that sportspeople still have homophobia to contend with.

This book is almost 400 pages long, but it absolutely does not feel like it. It’s one of the most riveting and absorbing books I’ve ever read, in part because of its relatively simple art style and small number of words per page.

It stars Aiden, a teenager who struggles with homophobia and suicidal thoughts as he comes to realize that he’s gay. So much of the dialogue and behavior in this book resonated with my own teenage experiences dealing with toxic “bros,” who made me feel like coming out would be an unsafe thing to do.

Curato creates an incredibly sympathetic character in Aiden, and his two-color artwork—grayscale with well-placed pops of orange and red—deftly supports the book’s thematic and emotional content. 

Elliott came out to his fans with this beautiful novel charting the life and times of Seaton Ross, a protagonist in the author’s image. Despite the terrible series of obstacles placed in Seaton’s way, from overbearing or absent family, deeply closeted and self-centred lovers to furious fag hags, he manages to escape Australia—just as Elliott did—without developing a lasting hatred in his exile. Rendered with the author’s signature wit (he took a leaf from E. M. Forster), the homophobia of Australia’s working classes becomes a source of this novel’s pathos, so that when Seaton encounters the most shocking consequences a gay man can face, we are ill-prepared. A wry, sexy, heartfelt swan song from the Australian who made it big in the American broadcasting industry.