I recently finished reading Aiden Shaw's autobiography - though I am rather skeptical about how much of this is factual information considering the rampant amount of drug he reports would leave anyone bereft of a memory - My Undoing: Love in the Thick of Sex, Drugs, Pornography, and Prostitution. Given the amount I read, it really is quite remarkable that this particular work has left me mulling over its content for quite sometime.
I should preface my rant by stating that I read more than half the book within hours of purchasing it - this is partially due to the fact that Shaw's writing isn't terribly demanding and requires little engagement from the reader. I did, however, risk a number of disgusted judgmental stares from passersby as I was reading the book while walking the dog and sitting on the train. Not only does the title rest on the cover in rather large print, but so does Mr. Aiden Shaw himself grace the cover in all his glory. Thankfully - or not- the photo cuts off just before it could land me in jail for disclosing obscene content to minors.
Now, what has baffled me, and I'm still not sure that I've come to any sort of conclusion, is why I was so compelled to devour Shaw's story as quickly as possible. Certainly the title is compelling: who doesn't want to read about the decadent sex life of a porn star as handsome as Shaw? Perhaps, though, the initial draw compels those of us who would like to think we are a bit less superficial than the average reader - and even perhaps the average gay reader. In other words, we hope that there is an unspoken agreement between author and reader: I've taken the time, and money, to purchase your book and hear your story because - I think - you have taken the opportunity to distinguish yourself from your peers by offering an articulate, and therefore perhaps a bit keener vantage than those of your counterparts into a profession and lifestyle otherwise thought to be void of thought, dimension, and coherence. It seems as if Mr. Shaw's story is perhaps going to undermine all preconceptions of not only prostitution and pornography - professions often regarded as below the bottom of the barrel, suitable only for the dregs of society - but gay prostitution and pornography which increases the superficiality exponentially.
OK, Mr. Shaw, I'll bite.
Shaw's preface to his story warns us that the excitement to share his story was commensurate to his fear of revisiting past haunts. He tells us that while nostalgia can be empowering, excavating old ghosts can be crippling. Ok, fine. He's about to peel back layers. Again, blame cannot be placed on me for falling for Shaw's ruse, as he's already promising something most gays can't: depth.
At this point, I'm really quite sold on the possibility of a deep introspection; a series of anecdotes offering insight as to why he found himself on what would seemingly be such a self-destructive path. Or, perhaps make a case in favor of his particular career choices, alleviating the misconception that only someone already resting on a downward spiral might make these decisions.
Instead, the only thing this book does debunk is that age old adage and that you can, in fact, on occasion, judge a book by its cover. Rather than offering method to his mayhem, this three-hundred page memoir -which I can guarantee is 300xs deeper than the content it purports to offer - Shaw strings together a series of drug induced sexual encounters - most of which are comedic flops (pun intended) as they are nothing more than groups of men pathetically staring at one another and their flaccid penises; a direct result of rampant drug use - and offers zero explanation to his behavior.
Shaw, tangentially, encounters elements that would be part and parcel of an autobiography during the moments he claims to be in love with a man, but these moments fall short of any lengthy personal consideration and are commentated only by fleeting haphazard reviews. Instead of really engaging the subject of his love life and narrating the hows and whys this particular flavor of the week has caught Shaw's eye and supposed heart, he punctuates these moments with sex and drugs. The conclusion I've drawn from Shaw's love encounters isn't really any major breakthrough, but one that repeatedly surfaces with this topic: he finds that it is easy to conflate love and lust. Shocker, I know. We've all been there before, but what is especially biting about Shaw's accounts of love is that he peddles his story as if its a tragedy of unrequited love. This is offensive for a number of reasons. To begin, Shakespeare already cornered this market much more eloquently than Shaw. Secondly, Shaw's romances read like MadLibs; it didn't take long to figure out how each "romantic" encounter would conclude. Finally, even if the melodramatics and the formulaic pattern of Shaw's love life were in fact accurate, we should at least be offended by his cavalier use of the word 'love'.
Shaw dated out of convenience, not love. I realize the counterargument to this is his relationship with what's-his-name (see? the characters all sort of bleed into one another) living in Cali while Shaw was in London. While this wasn't physically convenient, it provided an emotional instant gratification. Though Shaw could confidently claim he had a counterpart, the only disclosure he made in his narrative was the fact that he was an emotional jealous wreck when he gave any sort of thought to what activities his boyfriend was engaging thousands of miles away. Otherwise, the rest of his so-called love affairs occurred briefly in whatever city he was currently visiting. After his departure these encounters seemingly lingered as nothing more than a sexual afterthought. If this was in fact not the case, Shaw did little to privy the reader to this fact. My criticism, then, stems from Shaw's repeated subversion of relationships. His decision to quickly label some club twink or drug addled trick an object of love and affection is ridiculous to the point of being offensive.
It would be remiss not to discuss what I assumed to be the crux of his tale. About half way through the book, Shaw suffers a horrific accident temporarily paralyzing and nearly killing him. This particular scene remains unsettled with me because of the means by which he decides to execute it in writing. This particular section of the book is told not only from his point of view, but accompanied by three others as well. It is unclear as to whether he took artistic license and composed what he thought were to be the thoughts and emotions of his friends present at the accident or he actually asked them to draft their own recollections. Either way, this is offensively narcissistic. It seems as if the only point he was attempting to make was the void he was leaving in everyone's life because of his incapacitation and perhaps how life would just be one series of bleak events after another in the event of his death. I suppose, to play devil's advocate, that this was Shaw's way of paying homage to his friends for sticking by his side but instead he managed to spin his gratitude into a shrine honoring himself. His only literary accomplishment here was finding another medium to blow smoke up his own ass.
Most of us are fortunate enough to have not suffered such a tragedy, but most of us have at least been brought to a moment in our life that forces us to reconsider the way we have been living it. Apparently, this wasn't so much the case with Shaw. This is a man, who prior to his accident, repeatedly treated his life with such gross disregard it was a shock he wasn't dead already. Rather than considering his accident as an opportunity to reconsider how seriously detrimental his life choices were and how lucky he is to have survived all of it, he simply squanders his mulligan returns right back to his decadent life.
Again, not once does Shaw offer any accountability. No one really needs to justify their behavior except in the case of an autobiography. If you're going to open the door for someone you can't just crack it with the chain still on. Shaw repeatedly tells us that he has frequent emotional breakdowns and often feels sad and depressed. The problem with these accounts is that it ends there. If Shaw was attempting to land himself among serious autobiographers than he needed to divest himself of these insipid terms and perfunctory accounts of his emotion and really work to excavate feeling.
Instead, this book was hurried along by the interspersed sexual encounters. While vivid and arousing, this isn't what was supposed to propel the book. I can look up one of his films - I did in fact - if I want raw visceral stimulation, but he promised us more.
In the preface of his book he informs us that he isn't sorry for his life, and I think I'm a little sorry that he's not sorry. Not once in his memoir does he acknowledge the repeated amount of times his life is in jeopardy. His refusal of an apology, to me, equates to a silent approval of unprotected sex and habitual drug abuse. In the long run, this book not only lacked any moral, but it lacked morals. We hope, I hope, that if we were to sit down at the age of, well, whatever age, and chronicle our existence we would want to see some growth and maturation; I can't possibly fathom how Aiden Shaw could read through his treatise and find growth of any kind (Note: I did not make any flaccid penis jokes here). In addition to his unapologetic disregard for human life, is the disturbing fact that Shaw operates under the delusion that he, unlike his professional counterparts, operates above the system when he is simply part of the problem. Shaw carries on as if his actions have no repercussions. In choosing to write this biography, he also assumed the role of spokesman - not THE spokesman, but one of few of the gay community.
Alas, after entering into my unspoken agreement with Mr. Shaw - taking the bait, hoping that someone, finally, was going to fight the good fight and dispel the stereotypes the gay community has rested itself on for so long - I regret to inform you that this was sadly not that book. Shaw only reaffirmed what so many have already come to regard as the standard queer: we are a shallow narcissistic people, motivated only by the prospect of attention in whatever form -famous or infamous - and perpetually imprisoned by the warmth of our own personal spotlight we believe to be forever highlighting our presence.
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