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Frost
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Frost was published in 1971 by Olympia Press. In 1976, the novel was banned in Great Britain for obsenity, according to "A History of Homoerotica"

Frost tells the story of young college professor DeWitt Frost who is hired by a corrupt and wealthy businessman to find a missing Cal student. While searching for the missing student, Frost falls in love with a mechanic named Clint.

The novel, which was promoted as a "gay thriller," is equal parts romance, mystery, pornography, and anger at the racist and homophobic establishment. It also contains a generous sprinkling of references to Spanish literature.

The story takes place in a city called San Geronimo, California, which is a psuedonymn given to Hayward, California, where the author lived. The streets within the novel –  Santa Clara, Winton, Redwood Road, Amador, 'A' Street  –  all exist in Hayward. Some scenes occur in a bar called the Aloha Club, which also existed in Hayward. Flashback scenes take place in Columbus, Ohio, where the author grew up.

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From the Prelude:

DeWitt Frost was seventeen, a freshmen at Ohio State, when someone first called him "queer boy." He didn’t look queer or act it, and as a matter of fact had never at the time touched a man in any but the most casual, offhand way, but he was, and he knew it, and in a secret part of his mind he rejoiced in the fact with an almost vicious glee.

It happened in Columbus. It was one of those beautiful Ohio September evenings, and he had gone downtown to take in a movie; when the theater let out he decided to walk back to campus, just for the hell of it.

On High Street a little past Chestnut, he spotted a pair of young men coming toward him, half a block away. One of them, he could tell, was a sailor. 

 

Page 63:

Like all white liberals, Frost was mildly prejudiced, but he had the good sense not to let it show; he didn't laugh at ethnic jokes and he wasn't phony-friendly with every black in sight, so when he saw that the seat next to him in Anthro 502 was being taken by a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted Negro, he paid no attention whatsoever and kept his social distance. 

 

Later:

Clint’s stomach and ribs were a corrogation of muscle and bone and skin; the fine hairs on his belly and forearms glowed in the lamplight. Frost pulled off his socks, dropping them on the floor, and said, "The only guy I ever really liked got killed by the MPs in Saigon several years ago. He was a Negro."

He heard himself saying it, but only after the words had come out did he fully realize what he’d done. Of all the stupid times to say a thing like that – he’s going to say something dumb or racist, and I’ll have to kick him out.

Clint drained the last of his beer and started unbuckling his belt. Softly, he asked, "Did you like him a lot?"

"Plenty," Frost said, and then added, "Actually, I loved him like my own skin."

"I’m glad," Clint said. "I was beginning to think you weren't human."

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