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The Lure
When a deferential sociology professor tries to help a stabbing victim, his actions tangle him in a web of violence and drugs in the seamy world of New York leather bars
409 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1979
42 people are currently reading
541 people want to read
About the author
Felice Picano
99 books210 followersFelice Anthony Picano was an American writer, publisher and critic who encouraged the development of gay literature in the United States. His work is documented in many sources.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 60 reviews
March 30, 2018
The NYC Gay scene in the mid '70s, a twisted whodunit mystery about a serial killer of Gay men, a coming out story of a young, hunky, sociology assistant professor, a platonic ménage à trois, a deep conspiracy of undercover spooks and their patsy, the life and death of a European supermodel, sex, wealth, drugs, gangsters... The plot is an apparent convoluted mess that somehow makes sense and resolved by the ending. It is a page turner.
I loved it. What appealed to me the most perhaps was being in NYC again in the 70s and learning about Gay life then, though at that time I was playing a straight guy (à la The Best Little Boy in the World). It reminded me somewhat of Gay culture described in Dancer from the Dance which is the gold standard for the era.
The protagonist—the sociology prof and the patsy—is Noel (pronounced know'ul and not know-ell' except by the supermodel), I found difficult, almost having a love/hate relationship with him. He was physically appealing, could be personable, and I empathized with his sexual identity confusion. But he could be a paranoid jerk with a temper and often missed offered help. But then he had good reasons to feel paranoid and was generally exhausted and drugged up. The evolution of his relationship with Eric was appealing. In the end I decided we could be friends if not lovers.
Recommended - 8 of 10 stars
I loved it. What appealed to me the most perhaps was being in NYC again in the 70s and learning about Gay life then, though at that time I was playing a straight guy (à la The Best Little Boy in the World). It reminded me somewhat of Gay culture described in Dancer from the Dance which is the gold standard for the era.
The protagonist—the sociology prof and the patsy—is Noel (pronounced know'ul and not know-ell' except by the supermodel), I found difficult, almost having a love/hate relationship with him. He was physically appealing, could be personable, and I empathized with his sexual identity confusion. But he could be a paranoid jerk with a temper and often missed offered help. But then he had good reasons to feel paranoid and was generally exhausted and drugged up. The evolution of his relationship with Eric was appealing. In the end I decided we could be friends if not lovers.
Recommended - 8 of 10 stars
Read
June 29, 2012Evaluating this novel poses a real conundrum for me. It's so filled with implausibility that I could pick away at it for paragraphs on end -- especially at the loopy, and highly questionable, psychological tangles in which the MC becomes ensnared.
In addition, the book is longer than it needs to be, the prose goes deep-purple at times, and superlatives abound (the MOST renowned or beautiful or sought-after or well-built or fabulous or crowded or drug- and sex-saturated or despicable person/place/scene ever).
That being said, and as lost as I got sometimes in a labyrinthine plot too thickly strewn with red herrings, the damned thing really held my interest! Somewhere at the midway point, I think, I just chucked all my irritation and disbelief, gave my eyes a rest from rolling, and went along for the ride . . . and enjoyed it right up to the end.
NOTE: The paperback copy I read is from 1979 or '80, so I don't know if the novel has undergone any changes since then.
In addition, the book is longer than it needs to be, the prose goes deep-purple at times, and superlatives abound (the MOST renowned or beautiful or sought-after or well-built or fabulous or crowded or drug- and sex-saturated or despicable person/place/scene ever).
That being said, and as lost as I got sometimes in a labyrinthine plot too thickly strewn with red herrings, the damned thing really held my interest! Somewhere at the midway point, I think, I just chucked all my irritation and disbelief, gave my eyes a rest from rolling, and went along for the ride . . . and enjoyed it right up to the end.
NOTE: The paperback copy I read is from 1979 or '80, so I don't know if the novel has undergone any changes since then.
November 5, 2012
A friend recommended this book to me, and the version I have is blurbed by the unlikely but appropriate pair of Andrew Holleran and Stephen King. The story is meant to be a psychological thriller/mystery set in the mid-1970s of an exceedingly and often hilariously gay, drugged out, and discoed New York City. The main character aka "The Lure" (who is apparently straight) witnesses a murder early on and is recruited by an NYPD undercover operation to infiltrate the inner circle of a gay nightclub owner who may or may not be murdering gays (during which infiltration the character discovers -- surprise/lol! -- that he may or may not be as straight as he once thought). Questions arise about who's actually pulling the strings and why. The criminal psychology of this book and much of the double-agent plotting make absolutely no sense, which didn't stop me from enjoying it quite a bit. It's like the gay equivalent of a Pam Grier movie from the 1970s, so what's not to love about that?
September 24, 2021
Bit of a cocktease. SO unbelievable and SO unbelievably fun to read.
November 5, 2020
Trashy pulp rubbish. Its one redeeming feature is that it goes into a subcultural milieu that does deserve more attention, but it's done with so little taste or tact that it's little more than cut throats and hard cocks.
On a positive note, I did admire the kaleidoscopic description of tripping on LSD.
On a positive note, I did admire the kaleidoscopic description of tripping on LSD.
September 5, 2014
This book had me on the edge of my seat all the way to the very last word on the very last page. A fantastic read. It kept me guessing, but left me happy. What a perfectly scary book, I have to say. I loved it, and wished I'd read it sooner!
April 18, 2025
This book isn’t just a thriller.
I remember the tension creeping in as I followed Noel, a seemingly ordinary man caught in something far bigger than himself. The novel does something remarkable: it plunges us into the dangerous and exhilarating world of the late 1970s.
It has an atmosphere so vivid that you can almost smell the cigarettes in dimly lit bars, feel the pulse of disco beats, and sense the undercurrent of fear as a killer lurks in the shadows. It’s not just a mystery; it’s a portrait of a time when living openly meant stepping into the unknown. The way the story unfolds—it’s clever, unsettling, and deeply immersive.
I remember the tension creeping in as I followed Noel, a seemingly ordinary man caught in something far bigger than himself. The novel does something remarkable: it plunges us into the dangerous and exhilarating world of the late 1970s.
It has an atmosphere so vivid that you can almost smell the cigarettes in dimly lit bars, feel the pulse of disco beats, and sense the undercurrent of fear as a killer lurks in the shadows. It’s not just a mystery; it’s a portrait of a time when living openly meant stepping into the unknown. The way the story unfolds—it’s clever, unsettling, and deeply immersive.
October 28, 2020
Picked up at library sale, no cover or synopsis. Very enjoyable 1979 thriller set in New York. Fun find.
November 23, 2013
I had wanted to read this for years, and I finally had the chance after discovering a copy at Powell's. It's a page-turner full of lurid details about the New York gay community in the 1970s. Picano certainly knows how to introduce the right level of gruesome detail and to engineer well-organized cliffhangers. By the end, though, I had found the whole thing a little exhausting and somewhat hard to accept, despite the excitement I felt. The premise ended up seeming like a stretch (maybe it would have been more believable in a movie). I'm also not sure that the protagonist ever made sense to me as a believable character--perhaps, though, Picano doesn't want him to make sense given his circumstances. Also, I was a bit surprised about the sex...there was less of it than I expected. This would be a great vacation read, though it falls short of _Like People in History_.
April 18, 2009
A sociology professor becomes a deep-cover operative trying to suss out who is behind murders in the gay community in mid-70s New York. He initially identifies as straight but his identity develops during the course of the plot. Came out before the movie Cruising, which is somewhat similar. The other comparison I would make is to Philip K. Dick's A Scanner Darkly, which also concerns an undercover operative. As in Dick's book, there are a lot of psychological games being played and it's unclear who is worse, the secret agency doing the investigation or the people they are supposed to be investigating.
September 9, 2018
I can't say the book is good. Much seems to have been made of the implausability of the story and it's true, the ending is a stretch. The real problem here is the writing. The story is supposed to be a documentary of late 70's gay life and other than a few Studio 54-esque moments nothing transports to that era. None of the characters are likeable, the writing doesn't flow. The story feels like it's been done before, or maybe more accurately like the movie Cruising, that it never should have been done at all.
September 26, 2012
1970's hay day of gay in New York City and an undercover detective that infiltrates the high end of society to get the inside scoop. LOVED THIS BOOK! Sounded a lot like the beginning of the Human Right Campaign Fund creation.
April 7, 2019
Excellent nail-biting gay psychological thriller. Devoured it.
December 31, 2019
Felice is often credited with being an inventor of contemporary gay fiction but there were many predecessors that wrote far superior works to this. However, still an interesting historical document of the heady era of gay liberation in the pre-HIV age of monied disco.
January 5, 2025
“Sometimes the prettier they are, the more they like to have their faces pushed in shit, no?”
“It was Noel's turn to be silent. Because I'm sleeping with him, he wanted to say, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Because Randy is the only one I'm sleeping with. He's my only cover, my only credential that I'm just a normal, man-loving homosexual. I'm doing it despite myself, overcoming long-ingrained habits and ideas about sex and about my own sexuality. I'm as disturbed by it when it's easy with Randy as when its difficult. It scares me as much as Mr. X and his henchmen do. It's my only security. So it damn well had better be security. That's why I have to know if Randy Nerone is working for Whisper.”
““It's not true. There's an entire aesthetic to inflicting pain, to domination, if you will, and on the other hand to being submissive, that you can't begin to understand until you've experienced it. Of course there are a lot of jerks around, of all sexes and genders, who are just out to hurt. Barbarians! Done right, it's an art. An art with great refinement—a stretching of sensory abilities we seldom even notice. When someone steps into that room, and few do, he knows in advance he is going to come out knowing a great deal more about himself—his attitudes, his fear, his desires, his thresholds—than when he went in. He comes out of that room altered forever. Not on the outside—that would heal anyway. But inside. Where only he can see it.””
“He seemed to enter a bubble. He could still hear the music, but nute, subsumed in a sough of sliding, rubbing sound, as of many bodies in constant motion. Hands reached out, touching him lightly, tentatively, and he turned away from them, he moved into other hands, other bodies, stoking, caressing. Then he was floating along, slowly turning, bodies siding against him, hands more forceful now, someone opening a shirt button, someone else unzipping him, someone else lifting his shirt from behind, a hand slipping down the back of his trousers. All the while he was moving, revolving through the mass of bodies, until he saw a face that looked familiar, kind, and hands reached out for him.
The face bent to his and he felt caressed all over, hands in front, in back, until his clothing was open or off, and he felt freer, more flexible, more comfortable with this stranger kissing him slowly all over. In time with the music, thinking nothing, unwilling to think, letting him be guided, shown what to do, how to do it, Noel let go.”
““So you tell me, what is sex all about? A little pleasure, a lot of work, and for what?””
“He wandered along the abandoned shoreline, finally sitting on a dune where the tires from police cars and contracting trucks had left deep, patterned tracks. There he allowed himself to shake violently all over. He felt all the muscles around his neck were knots that had to be untied, hoping the roaring, grating surf in front of him would pound away the tensions, and fears, and anger.
After a while, he felt some relief. The stillness helped, as did the balmy night air, sharp with fetid sea life strewn on the sands, and the regular thump of the waves. Occasionally, a large wave, its froth moonlighted like glitter, would break long and straight and very hard like a crack of cannon that thundered in his ears. Then all would be silent again.”
““What has happened to you that is so special?
Nothing! You went to bed and made love to a man. Maybe you'll do so again. So what? No one cares about that. No one will care. It is not so important. It happens. Sometimes it means something. Sometimes not. Don't listen to the voice of your father or grandfather or scoutmaster, listen to your own inner voice, Noel. I am offering you a life where it won't matter to anyone if you make love to a man or a woman or...a potato. Is that so difficult to understand?””
“Beneath him, huge speakers ten feet tall erupted into staccatto thumping so deep he could feel its pulse in his arteries. Around him, suspended in the air, every few yards, tweeters shrieked, chattered, whined, aahed, beeped, sang, screamed. Suddenly two soprano voices in a shrill chorus were twittering at his left ear. Just under them, a dozen trumpets blared the same color red that streaked across his eyes from a reflection off a double-hinged mirror, then subsided into a punctuating throb. Beyond them, behind him, the multiple rhythms of tambourines and maracas suddenly began like chattering monkeys, like wild-eyed, screeching, tropical-colored birds of prey. Now a thin edge of stiletto-sharp silver also held the air, as the lead singer's voice began the words. Between it, beneath it, all around it was the bedrock visceral, blood-pumping, heart-strumming, ear-buzzing bass which he fought as it reached out to grip his legs like a viscous, life-sucking force. But he couldn't resist, and slid into it deeper and deeper, slid forward inexorably and was now off the rubber grip of the escalator steps and pushed far into the center of the dance floor, where he was suddenly still for a half second, like a frame from a film of a hydrogen bomb's mushroom cloud, absolutely still for the instant, as the fatal atoms did their deadly shatter. Then everything was in motion again.”
“Noel couldn't take the barrage on his optic nerve anymore and closed his eyes. But that made no difference in the lights or shapes, except that now there was no point of reference anymore. The sounds continued, deeper, louder, closer to his skin it seemed, invading him. So he opened his eyes and felt terror and nausea sweep up through his body into his mouth and ears and eyes, and out of him. Then it began again, from within, only he stopped it from emerging, and it shot back inside this time, detonating every individual cell, until he could see their tiny nuclei individually shatter, and the blackness that had threatened to suck him below engorged him and he was sucked into the blackness, darker than any imaginable, until he almost thought, then he was sure, then was absolutely convinced, it wasn't blackness at all but the white, white, white of nothingness forever white…”
“Nothing to cool off the heat in his hand, racing up his arm, burning his elbow, his shoulder, his neck, his fingers. Nothing to ease the burning but to push it into something soft, wet, fleshy.”
“He felt the split, saw the two men facing him, expressionless, as he froze them both to stillness trapped against the fender of the car, both mouths open to beg, scream, cajole.
And the knife was a burning coal. It had to be doused or the fire would consume his flesh, too, so he plunged it in, feeling the urgency take over, and the soft tissue melting under the frozen blade, finding sweet relief in the wet coolness that surrounded each thrust, cutting, ripping, tearing, upward, downward, in, across bones, muscles, cheeks, ears, eyes even, those deceiving mirrors, those lying reflectors, immersing himself in the methodical slashing and tearing, finding the split resolving itself in relief, not minding the pummeling of fists at his back, the futile attempts by mere human hands to dislodge him from this preordained encounter, but taking his time, cutting, and plunging again, feeling all time stop, feeling both the heat in his hands and the coldness that had frightened him so before evaporate now, as the head in front of him began to slide off the slimy wetness of the metal fender, the torn mirrors of its eyes hidden now, as it crumpled slowly onto the tops of his shoes, and he plunged once more into air, unable to stop himself, then stopped, and all he could feel was utter, total, complete, and life-restoring relief.”
“It was Noel's turn to be silent. Because I'm sleeping with him, he wanted to say, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Because Randy is the only one I'm sleeping with. He's my only cover, my only credential that I'm just a normal, man-loving homosexual. I'm doing it despite myself, overcoming long-ingrained habits and ideas about sex and about my own sexuality. I'm as disturbed by it when it's easy with Randy as when its difficult. It scares me as much as Mr. X and his henchmen do. It's my only security. So it damn well had better be security. That's why I have to know if Randy Nerone is working for Whisper.”
““It's not true. There's an entire aesthetic to inflicting pain, to domination, if you will, and on the other hand to being submissive, that you can't begin to understand until you've experienced it. Of course there are a lot of jerks around, of all sexes and genders, who are just out to hurt. Barbarians! Done right, it's an art. An art with great refinement—a stretching of sensory abilities we seldom even notice. When someone steps into that room, and few do, he knows in advance he is going to come out knowing a great deal more about himself—his attitudes, his fear, his desires, his thresholds—than when he went in. He comes out of that room altered forever. Not on the outside—that would heal anyway. But inside. Where only he can see it.””
“He seemed to enter a bubble. He could still hear the music, but nute, subsumed in a sough of sliding, rubbing sound, as of many bodies in constant motion. Hands reached out, touching him lightly, tentatively, and he turned away from them, he moved into other hands, other bodies, stoking, caressing. Then he was floating along, slowly turning, bodies siding against him, hands more forceful now, someone opening a shirt button, someone else unzipping him, someone else lifting his shirt from behind, a hand slipping down the back of his trousers. All the while he was moving, revolving through the mass of bodies, until he saw a face that looked familiar, kind, and hands reached out for him.
The face bent to his and he felt caressed all over, hands in front, in back, until his clothing was open or off, and he felt freer, more flexible, more comfortable with this stranger kissing him slowly all over. In time with the music, thinking nothing, unwilling to think, letting him be guided, shown what to do, how to do it, Noel let go.”
““So you tell me, what is sex all about? A little pleasure, a lot of work, and for what?””
“He wandered along the abandoned shoreline, finally sitting on a dune where the tires from police cars and contracting trucks had left deep, patterned tracks. There he allowed himself to shake violently all over. He felt all the muscles around his neck were knots that had to be untied, hoping the roaring, grating surf in front of him would pound away the tensions, and fears, and anger.
After a while, he felt some relief. The stillness helped, as did the balmy night air, sharp with fetid sea life strewn on the sands, and the regular thump of the waves. Occasionally, a large wave, its froth moonlighted like glitter, would break long and straight and very hard like a crack of cannon that thundered in his ears. Then all would be silent again.”
““What has happened to you that is so special?
Nothing! You went to bed and made love to a man. Maybe you'll do so again. So what? No one cares about that. No one will care. It is not so important. It happens. Sometimes it means something. Sometimes not. Don't listen to the voice of your father or grandfather or scoutmaster, listen to your own inner voice, Noel. I am offering you a life where it won't matter to anyone if you make love to a man or a woman or...a potato. Is that so difficult to understand?””
“Beneath him, huge speakers ten feet tall erupted into staccatto thumping so deep he could feel its pulse in his arteries. Around him, suspended in the air, every few yards, tweeters shrieked, chattered, whined, aahed, beeped, sang, screamed. Suddenly two soprano voices in a shrill chorus were twittering at his left ear. Just under them, a dozen trumpets blared the same color red that streaked across his eyes from a reflection off a double-hinged mirror, then subsided into a punctuating throb. Beyond them, behind him, the multiple rhythms of tambourines and maracas suddenly began like chattering monkeys, like wild-eyed, screeching, tropical-colored birds of prey. Now a thin edge of stiletto-sharp silver also held the air, as the lead singer's voice began the words. Between it, beneath it, all around it was the bedrock visceral, blood-pumping, heart-strumming, ear-buzzing bass which he fought as it reached out to grip his legs like a viscous, life-sucking force. But he couldn't resist, and slid into it deeper and deeper, slid forward inexorably and was now off the rubber grip of the escalator steps and pushed far into the center of the dance floor, where he was suddenly still for a half second, like a frame from a film of a hydrogen bomb's mushroom cloud, absolutely still for the instant, as the fatal atoms did their deadly shatter. Then everything was in motion again.”
“Noel couldn't take the barrage on his optic nerve anymore and closed his eyes. But that made no difference in the lights or shapes, except that now there was no point of reference anymore. The sounds continued, deeper, louder, closer to his skin it seemed, invading him. So he opened his eyes and felt terror and nausea sweep up through his body into his mouth and ears and eyes, and out of him. Then it began again, from within, only he stopped it from emerging, and it shot back inside this time, detonating every individual cell, until he could see their tiny nuclei individually shatter, and the blackness that had threatened to suck him below engorged him and he was sucked into the blackness, darker than any imaginable, until he almost thought, then he was sure, then was absolutely convinced, it wasn't blackness at all but the white, white, white of nothingness forever white…”
“Nothing to cool off the heat in his hand, racing up his arm, burning his elbow, his shoulder, his neck, his fingers. Nothing to ease the burning but to push it into something soft, wet, fleshy.”
“He felt the split, saw the two men facing him, expressionless, as he froze them both to stillness trapped against the fender of the car, both mouths open to beg, scream, cajole.
And the knife was a burning coal. It had to be doused or the fire would consume his flesh, too, so he plunged it in, feeling the urgency take over, and the soft tissue melting under the frozen blade, finding sweet relief in the wet coolness that surrounded each thrust, cutting, ripping, tearing, upward, downward, in, across bones, muscles, cheeks, ears, eyes even, those deceiving mirrors, those lying reflectors, immersing himself in the methodical slashing and tearing, finding the split resolving itself in relief, not minding the pummeling of fists at his back, the futile attempts by mere human hands to dislodge him from this preordained encounter, but taking his time, cutting, and plunging again, feeling all time stop, feeling both the heat in his hands and the coldness that had frightened him so before evaporate now, as the head in front of him began to slide off the slimy wetness of the metal fender, the torn mirrors of its eyes hidden now, as it crumpled slowly onto the tops of his shoes, and he plunged once more into air, unable to stop himself, then stopped, and all he could feel was utter, total, complete, and life-restoring relief.”
January 19, 2015
The Lure by Felice Picano
Noel Cummings is an NYU student in sociology. One day while riding his bike, he witnesses a murder. He's so sick from it that when a mysterious police agent called Anton Loomis requests Noel's assistance in catching the killer, Noel accepts and becomes part of the operation called "the Whisper." Noel becomes "the Lure" that will help catch the criminal labeled "Mr. X."
Noel is told to leave his normal heterosexual life and infiltrate the gay subculture of 1976. Bars, bathhouses, discos, back rooms and all the achronisms of gay life become everyday life for Noel.
But soon things change. Another of the Whisper associates, Buddy Vega, shows Noel a dossier of his life. In it Noel's life is summarized as someone who can be manipulated and he gets a label of latent homosexual - one who will kill if managed appropriately. Noel realizes he's a pawn in Loomis game, and Lommis may be behind a most sinister plot to overtake the gay businesses. Soon Noel has no clue who he can trust - and most importantly who's the real bad guy.
Narrated from Noel's third person point of view this is Mr. Picano's finest psychological thriller. Noel is drawn into the two parts of his self: "He felt as though he were splitting into two selves. One Noel was absolutely astonished, crushed by this final disaster, the last blow of months of confusion and pain and uncertainty, the knowledge that he was being controlled by someone else; worse, turned into a robot with a deadly mission. But the other half - his professional, intellectual self - was utterly fascinated. Here he was, playing around with minority group social attitudes ans Loomis - a genius - was performing effective social-modification behavior - not on laboratory monkeys, not on children, but on 'him.'"
The book is also a study on gay culture in the late seventies: Noel had "always associated homosexuality with feminine gestures and speech. But in here it was just the opposite: an extreme manliness, unruffled, almost frontiersman calm as though all those Gary Cooper movies had come to life."
But most important, the book is a love triangle between Noel, Eric Hull Redfen (owner of most of the gay clubs in Manhattan) and his girlfriend, Alana de Vijt (a famous model). In the end, Noel chose Eric: Noel "had fallen in love with Eric as he had with Alana, expecting nothing back, not even desiring a return from either of them now."
I love everything Felice has ever written and find it hard to believe he has not gotten more recognition....
Noel Cummings is an NYU student in sociology. One day while riding his bike, he witnesses a murder. He's so sick from it that when a mysterious police agent called Anton Loomis requests Noel's assistance in catching the killer, Noel accepts and becomes part of the operation called "the Whisper." Noel becomes "the Lure" that will help catch the criminal labeled "Mr. X."
Noel is told to leave his normal heterosexual life and infiltrate the gay subculture of 1976. Bars, bathhouses, discos, back rooms and all the achronisms of gay life become everyday life for Noel.
But soon things change. Another of the Whisper associates, Buddy Vega, shows Noel a dossier of his life. In it Noel's life is summarized as someone who can be manipulated and he gets a label of latent homosexual - one who will kill if managed appropriately. Noel realizes he's a pawn in Loomis game, and Lommis may be behind a most sinister plot to overtake the gay businesses. Soon Noel has no clue who he can trust - and most importantly who's the real bad guy.
Narrated from Noel's third person point of view this is Mr. Picano's finest psychological thriller. Noel is drawn into the two parts of his self: "He felt as though he were splitting into two selves. One Noel was absolutely astonished, crushed by this final disaster, the last blow of months of confusion and pain and uncertainty, the knowledge that he was being controlled by someone else; worse, turned into a robot with a deadly mission. But the other half - his professional, intellectual self - was utterly fascinated. Here he was, playing around with minority group social attitudes ans Loomis - a genius - was performing effective social-modification behavior - not on laboratory monkeys, not on children, but on 'him.'"
The book is also a study on gay culture in the late seventies: Noel had "always associated homosexuality with feminine gestures and speech. But in here it was just the opposite: an extreme manliness, unruffled, almost frontiersman calm as though all those Gary Cooper movies had come to life."
But most important, the book is a love triangle between Noel, Eric Hull Redfen (owner of most of the gay clubs in Manhattan) and his girlfriend, Alana de Vijt (a famous model). In the end, Noel chose Eric: Noel "had fallen in love with Eric as he had with Alana, expecting nothing back, not even desiring a return from either of them now."
I love everything Felice has ever written and find it hard to believe he has not gotten more recognition....
September 6, 2018
The first half/two-thirds are intriguing enough, but the end just ruined it for me. I really wanted to enjoy this book! All the same, this must have been groundbreaking in 1979/80, and Picano's writing and structuring of the story makes for entertaining reading. I just found myself tiring of the characters and story by the end.
Still, I'll read more of Picano's work.
Still, I'll read more of Picano's work.
August 10, 2020
This was on one of the Guardian’s ten-best-books-about-X lists and intrigued me. A young man witnesses a murder and agrees to go undercover for the police into Manhattan’s 1970s gay nightlife. I took it seriously at first, but gradually lost patience and finally skimmed the last 100 of its 409 pages. What a load of tosh! The descriptions of the gay scene ring true early on, but soon the plot takes off into cloud cuckoo land, and the overblown descriptions of places and people are wearisome. Characterisation is skimpy, and actually worthless because every character is a shape-shifter. The back cover says it was an international best seller when it came out in 1979. Gay lit was a novelty then, which must have helped sales. I’m guessing many buyers regretted their purchase.
January 5, 2019
What a train wreck. So disappointing.
His book LIKE PEOPLE OIN HISTORY is brilliant, on my ever changing list of top ten bests of all time. This one though..,,yikes. Hated every character. Skip it.
His book LIKE PEOPLE OIN HISTORY is brilliant, on my ever changing list of top ten bests of all time. This one though..,,yikes. Hated every character. Skip it.
April 26, 2010
the plot's pretty good and remarkable for it's time. but it's about a hundred pages too long and far too easy to figure out what's happen - despite it myriad twists.
January 18, 2018
Felice Picano is an excellent author and The Lure is a suspenseful, deftly written mystery novel. I was hooked from the very first page...!
May 3, 2013
I still have my first edition of this book, and the poor thing is just ragged. I read and re-read this book every so often. What does that tell you.
December 21, 2024
New York, 1976; Genre: Verschwörungs-Thriller in Nachbarschaft zu zeitgenössischen Dustin-Hoffman- und Robert-Redford-Filmen wie „Marathon-Mann“ (1976), „Stunde der Bewährung“ (1978), „Drei Tage des Condor“ (1975), „Die Unbestechlichen“ (1976). Was definitiv nicht stimmt, ist, was der Gmünder Verlag 1999 auf der mir vorliegenden Taschenbuch-Ausgabe James Spada aus der US-Zeitschrift „The Advocate“ sagen lässt: „Das beste schwule Buch, das ich je gelesen habe!“ Dieses legendäre Buch ist arg verkümmert mit der verstrichenen Zeit. Ein Wälzer, ein spannender Schmöker - und er zieht einen schon immer noch kräftig rein.
Ganz früh am Morgen fährt ein junger Soziologe mit seinem Rennrad oberhalb der schwulen Jagdgründe an den stillgelegten Piers am Hudson-Ufer entlang, als Hilfeschreie ihn zum Schauplatz eines grausigen Mordes locken. Das (offenbar schwule) Opfer wurde vom Sexpartner nicht nur erstochen, sondern zuvor geblendet und sein Gesicht wurde ihm zerschnitten. Kaum wieder droben auf der leeren Straße, wird Noel von einer merkwürdigen Polizeitruppe unter dem Kommando des autoritären Mr. Loomis festgenommen, gefoltert und dann gezwungen, ihren Lockvogel für eine Recherche in den schwulen Jagdgründen abzugeben.
Äußerlich entspricht Noel dem schwulen Traummann der amerikanischen Vor-Aids-Jahre. Er ist Clone: Schnurrbart, Jeans, Brustbehaarung, Karohemd, lässig maskulin, ordentlich, adrett geschnittenes Haar. Die akademische Karriere des Endzwanzigers tritt allerdings auf der Stelle. Mit Andeutungen über bevorstehende Verpflichtungen von ganz Jungen oder Frauen scheint ihn sein Fachbereichsleiter einschüchtern zu wollen. Ah so, obwohl er wie der schwule Bildmedienheld jener Zeit aussieht, ist Noel eigentlich hetero und auch noch Witwer. Seine Frau ertrank im Urlaub und er hat sie nicht retten können. Hinzu kommt, dass Noel ein schwules Sexerlebnis aus seiner Jugend zu verdrängen sucht. Der zwielichtige Polizist Loomis weiß das alles und spielt Klavier auf seinen Schuldgefühlen, der Einsatzbereitschaft und den proto-masochistischen Opferfantasien. Wir erfahren, dass Loomis schon vor Noel mehrere schwule „Soldaten“ in die Szene geschickt hatte, wo sich ein sadistischer Serienmörder auszutoben scheint. Loomis weiß auch schon, dass Noel vom Typ her genau die Sorte Frischfleisch ist, die der Killer zu lieben scheint.
Tagsüber bleibt Noel weiterhin Dozent, wird von jetzt an von seinem Vorgesetzten allerdings auf verdächtige Weise geschont. Nachts lässt man ihn als Barmann in der Aufreißkneipe „Grip“ arbeiten. Schnell werden seine Vorurteile korrigiert. Die Männer dort wiegen sich nicht in den Hüften, spreizen nicht den kleinen Finger ab, kieksen nicht hysterisch vor sich hin, sondern sind gute Kumpel, mehr so die Holzfäller- und Handwerker-Sorte. Nicht zuletzt wegen seiner Ausstrahlung von Klasse und seiner großen Höflichkeit und menschlichen Anteilnahme wird Noel von Kollegen wie Gästen ins Herz geschlossen. Dabei könnte allerdings jeder freundliche Plauderer ein verdeckter Mitarbeiter der Polizei, der sich nicht offenbart, oder eben auch der Mörder sein. Dass nebenbei einiges an Drogen und Prostitution läuft, entgeht ihm nicht.
In dieser Phase seiner Entwicklung spielt der chamäleonartige Krimi damit, dass es sich um eine Rache unter Koksgangstern handeln könnte oder um einen SM-Serienmörder, einen Ledermann und Sadisten, der den Sex bis zu Folterkammer und Exekution treiben muss, um kommen zu können. Überhaupt scheinen dies die Formate gewesen zu sein, unter denen die Verkäufer, namentlich in Deutschland, Picanos Whodunit-Krimi lange Jahre haben laufen lassen. Er wäre ein extrem hartes Ledermänner-Buch bzw. ungeschmälertes SM. Beides wird sich - nach ein paar Hundert Seiten - als Illusion herausstellen.
Seine erste große Wende nimmt der Roman (bevor er nach etwa 60 Prozent des Gesamtumfangs nahezu alles in den Graben schmeißt, was er sorgfältig aufgebaut hatte, in ein anderes Genre überwechselt, unglaubwürdig wird und stak an Niveau verliert), als Noel den bisexuellen Millionenerben und Philanthropen Eric kennen lernt. Und in dessen Hofstaat und Haus dann auch Alana, das französische Model, Erics Geliebte. Eric steht als Finanzier hinter so ziemlich jeder der von Loomis überwachten schwulen Kneipen und Saunen. Privat ist er unglaublich sanft, kultiviert und aufmerksam, könnte aber schon noch der gesuchte Mafia-Pate wie andererseits der durchgeknallte Super-Sadist sein. Vor allem erlebt Noel sein Bisexuellen-Coming-out, hat Sex mit Eric, verliebt sich prompt noch in Alana, wird somit zum heimlichen Rivalen Erics. Ein Tänzchen auf dem Pulverfass.
Loomis, mit dem Noel hauptsächlich über Telefonanrufe an einen nie vergebenen Anschluss kommuniziert, Loomis, der ihm abwechselnd väterlich gütig und faschistoid erpresserisch kommt, unterstützt Noels Eingehen auf die erotischen Wünsche des Beautiful-People-Paares. Nebenbei entdeckt Noel, dass ein blutjunger femininer Schwuler, der ihn von Anfang an unverschämt angemacht hat, ein Agent von Loomis ist. Und hat auch mit diesem noch Verkehr, darf also auch wieder mal Mann und aktiv sein.
Das Buch macht den Eindruck, als hätte Picano tatsächlich einen „Heterosexuellen“ die „Metamorphose“ zum geilen, schwulen Nacht-Schmetterling durchlaufen lassen wollen, als wäre wirklich geplant gewesen, promisken Sex mit unsichtbaren Unbekannten in Kellern, Hinterzimmern, Kerkern zu schildern, in denen dann auch der alle Grenzen sprengende schwule Maximal-Sadist zuschlägt. Als hätte Felice Picano dann aber kalte Füße gekriegt. So ein Buch hätte man zur Pornografie erklären und verbieten können. Sämtliche weiblichen Kritiker und Käufer hätte es ihn kosten und das schwule Ungeheuer hätte ihm den Vorwurf der Homophobie einbringen können. So hätte er eines Tages entschieden, auf dem Absatz Kehrt zu machen und den Rest des Buchs in eine ganz neue Richtung zu treiben. Nämlich, wie schon angedeutet, in Richtung des in den siebziger Jahren modischen systemkritischen Thrillers. Ein Buch, in dem weder leitende Politiker noch Kapitalisten die unglaublich Bösen sind, allerdings schon eine kleine Clique mehr oder weniger treu und faschistisch an ihrer Seite operierender Geheimsoldaten. Ein Staat im Staate.
Man müsste wohl auf einen, von mir leider weder als Buch gelesenen, noch in der Verfilmung gesehenen Politthriller aus dem Kalten Krieg zurückverweisen, „The Manchurian Candidate“ von Richard Condon (1959). In Deutschland war das nie ein Erfolg, obwohl seinerzeit Frank Sinatra mitspielte und es 2004 ein Remake mit Denzel Washington, Meryl Streep und Liev Schreiber gegeben hat. Dort ist es der Krieg, der Koreakrieg, der die Seelen der amerikanischen Jungs bricht, namentlich ein kommunistisches Gefangenenlager, in dem per Gehirnwäsche aus dem Sohn eines (nachmaligen) Vizepräsidenten ein Attentäter gemacht wird, der es gar nicht merkt, wie er zum Mörder umprogrammiert wird. Das ist die Zielgerade, für die sich Picano nach einiger Zeit der Ratlosigkeit entschieden hat. Loomis ist nun also doch der Schuft und Noel soll zur Waffe werden. Ein vergeigter Schluss für ein Buch, das lange doch ganz schön unterhaltsam und wahrlich nicht übel gemacht gewesen war.
Es waren die Jahre nach dem Vietnam-Desaster, nach zusammengeschossenen, niedergeknüppelten Studentenprotesten, nach dem Abgang von Tricky Dick. Da hielt man solche Ein-Mann-Verschwörungs-Krieger auf eine Art wohl noch für glaubhaft. Gegen eine Verfilmung mit Robert Redford oder Burt Reynolds hätte Picano bestimmt nichts einzuwenden gehabt. Die hat es allerdings nie gegeben. Die achtziger Jahre wurden dann auch ganz anders.
Ganz früh am Morgen fährt ein junger Soziologe mit seinem Rennrad oberhalb der schwulen Jagdgründe an den stillgelegten Piers am Hudson-Ufer entlang, als Hilfeschreie ihn zum Schauplatz eines grausigen Mordes locken. Das (offenbar schwule) Opfer wurde vom Sexpartner nicht nur erstochen, sondern zuvor geblendet und sein Gesicht wurde ihm zerschnitten. Kaum wieder droben auf der leeren Straße, wird Noel von einer merkwürdigen Polizeitruppe unter dem Kommando des autoritären Mr. Loomis festgenommen, gefoltert und dann gezwungen, ihren Lockvogel für eine Recherche in den schwulen Jagdgründen abzugeben.
Äußerlich entspricht Noel dem schwulen Traummann der amerikanischen Vor-Aids-Jahre. Er ist Clone: Schnurrbart, Jeans, Brustbehaarung, Karohemd, lässig maskulin, ordentlich, adrett geschnittenes Haar. Die akademische Karriere des Endzwanzigers tritt allerdings auf der Stelle. Mit Andeutungen über bevorstehende Verpflichtungen von ganz Jungen oder Frauen scheint ihn sein Fachbereichsleiter einschüchtern zu wollen. Ah so, obwohl er wie der schwule Bildmedienheld jener Zeit aussieht, ist Noel eigentlich hetero und auch noch Witwer. Seine Frau ertrank im Urlaub und er hat sie nicht retten können. Hinzu kommt, dass Noel ein schwules Sexerlebnis aus seiner Jugend zu verdrängen sucht. Der zwielichtige Polizist Loomis weiß das alles und spielt Klavier auf seinen Schuldgefühlen, der Einsatzbereitschaft und den proto-masochistischen Opferfantasien. Wir erfahren, dass Loomis schon vor Noel mehrere schwule „Soldaten“ in die Szene geschickt hatte, wo sich ein sadistischer Serienmörder auszutoben scheint. Loomis weiß auch schon, dass Noel vom Typ her genau die Sorte Frischfleisch ist, die der Killer zu lieben scheint.
Tagsüber bleibt Noel weiterhin Dozent, wird von jetzt an von seinem Vorgesetzten allerdings auf verdächtige Weise geschont. Nachts lässt man ihn als Barmann in der Aufreißkneipe „Grip“ arbeiten. Schnell werden seine Vorurteile korrigiert. Die Männer dort wiegen sich nicht in den Hüften, spreizen nicht den kleinen Finger ab, kieksen nicht hysterisch vor sich hin, sondern sind gute Kumpel, mehr so die Holzfäller- und Handwerker-Sorte. Nicht zuletzt wegen seiner Ausstrahlung von Klasse und seiner großen Höflichkeit und menschlichen Anteilnahme wird Noel von Kollegen wie Gästen ins Herz geschlossen. Dabei könnte allerdings jeder freundliche Plauderer ein verdeckter Mitarbeiter der Polizei, der sich nicht offenbart, oder eben auch der Mörder sein. Dass nebenbei einiges an Drogen und Prostitution läuft, entgeht ihm nicht.
In dieser Phase seiner Entwicklung spielt der chamäleonartige Krimi damit, dass es sich um eine Rache unter Koksgangstern handeln könnte oder um einen SM-Serienmörder, einen Ledermann und Sadisten, der den Sex bis zu Folterkammer und Exekution treiben muss, um kommen zu können. Überhaupt scheinen dies die Formate gewesen zu sein, unter denen die Verkäufer, namentlich in Deutschland, Picanos Whodunit-Krimi lange Jahre haben laufen lassen. Er wäre ein extrem hartes Ledermänner-Buch bzw. ungeschmälertes SM. Beides wird sich - nach ein paar Hundert Seiten - als Illusion herausstellen.
Seine erste große Wende nimmt der Roman (bevor er nach etwa 60 Prozent des Gesamtumfangs nahezu alles in den Graben schmeißt, was er sorgfältig aufgebaut hatte, in ein anderes Genre überwechselt, unglaubwürdig wird und stak an Niveau verliert), als Noel den bisexuellen Millionenerben und Philanthropen Eric kennen lernt. Und in dessen Hofstaat und Haus dann auch Alana, das französische Model, Erics Geliebte. Eric steht als Finanzier hinter so ziemlich jeder der von Loomis überwachten schwulen Kneipen und Saunen. Privat ist er unglaublich sanft, kultiviert und aufmerksam, könnte aber schon noch der gesuchte Mafia-Pate wie andererseits der durchgeknallte Super-Sadist sein. Vor allem erlebt Noel sein Bisexuellen-Coming-out, hat Sex mit Eric, verliebt sich prompt noch in Alana, wird somit zum heimlichen Rivalen Erics. Ein Tänzchen auf dem Pulverfass.
Loomis, mit dem Noel hauptsächlich über Telefonanrufe an einen nie vergebenen Anschluss kommuniziert, Loomis, der ihm abwechselnd väterlich gütig und faschistoid erpresserisch kommt, unterstützt Noels Eingehen auf die erotischen Wünsche des Beautiful-People-Paares. Nebenbei entdeckt Noel, dass ein blutjunger femininer Schwuler, der ihn von Anfang an unverschämt angemacht hat, ein Agent von Loomis ist. Und hat auch mit diesem noch Verkehr, darf also auch wieder mal Mann und aktiv sein.
Das Buch macht den Eindruck, als hätte Picano tatsächlich einen „Heterosexuellen“ die „Metamorphose“ zum geilen, schwulen Nacht-Schmetterling durchlaufen lassen wollen, als wäre wirklich geplant gewesen, promisken Sex mit unsichtbaren Unbekannten in Kellern, Hinterzimmern, Kerkern zu schildern, in denen dann auch der alle Grenzen sprengende schwule Maximal-Sadist zuschlägt. Als hätte Felice Picano dann aber kalte Füße gekriegt. So ein Buch hätte man zur Pornografie erklären und verbieten können. Sämtliche weiblichen Kritiker und Käufer hätte es ihn kosten und das schwule Ungeheuer hätte ihm den Vorwurf der Homophobie einbringen können. So hätte er eines Tages entschieden, auf dem Absatz Kehrt zu machen und den Rest des Buchs in eine ganz neue Richtung zu treiben. Nämlich, wie schon angedeutet, in Richtung des in den siebziger Jahren modischen systemkritischen Thrillers. Ein Buch, in dem weder leitende Politiker noch Kapitalisten die unglaublich Bösen sind, allerdings schon eine kleine Clique mehr oder weniger treu und faschistisch an ihrer Seite operierender Geheimsoldaten. Ein Staat im Staate.
Man müsste wohl auf einen, von mir leider weder als Buch gelesenen, noch in der Verfilmung gesehenen Politthriller aus dem Kalten Krieg zurückverweisen, „The Manchurian Candidate“ von Richard Condon (1959). In Deutschland war das nie ein Erfolg, obwohl seinerzeit Frank Sinatra mitspielte und es 2004 ein Remake mit Denzel Washington, Meryl Streep und Liev Schreiber gegeben hat. Dort ist es der Krieg, der Koreakrieg, der die Seelen der amerikanischen Jungs bricht, namentlich ein kommunistisches Gefangenenlager, in dem per Gehirnwäsche aus dem Sohn eines (nachmaligen) Vizepräsidenten ein Attentäter gemacht wird, der es gar nicht merkt, wie er zum Mörder umprogrammiert wird. Das ist die Zielgerade, für die sich Picano nach einiger Zeit der Ratlosigkeit entschieden hat. Loomis ist nun also doch der Schuft und Noel soll zur Waffe werden. Ein vergeigter Schluss für ein Buch, das lange doch ganz schön unterhaltsam und wahrlich nicht übel gemacht gewesen war.
Es waren die Jahre nach dem Vietnam-Desaster, nach zusammengeschossenen, niedergeknüppelten Studentenprotesten, nach dem Abgang von Tricky Dick. Da hielt man solche Ein-Mann-Verschwörungs-Krieger auf eine Art wohl noch für glaubhaft. Gegen eine Verfilmung mit Robert Redford oder Burt Reynolds hätte Picano bestimmt nichts einzuwenden gehabt. Die hat es allerdings nie gegeben. Die achtziger Jahre wurden dann auch ganz anders.
March 30, 2018
Published in 1979, just a few years before AIDS would change everything, this deliciously pulpy thriller is a time portal to New York's hedonistic post-Stonewall gay scene. It's shamelessly sexy, but also brilliantly subversive, using an ostensibly straight protagonist as a lure in more ways than one. For heterosexual readers for whom a flagrantly gay novel would, even in the late 70s, be too much of a provocation, the title character (Noel Cummings) is a great distancing device. Recruited by the NYPD as bait for an apparent serial killer stalking gay men, Cummings begins the novel as an ingenuous academic vaguely repulsed by homosexuality. Only mid-novel, once he's engaging in drug-induced orgies, do you appreciate the skill with which Picano has lured in straight readers. Much of the plot, such as it is, revolves around a fundamental misapprehension, but the real pleasure in the book is to be found in its vivid portrait of an era just before sex became not just taboo, but deadly. In that sense, the slasher that haunts the pages of The Lure is a harbinger of very real violence to come.
January 25, 2020
This is... pretty good. 3.5 rounded up. Maybe a 4, regardless. Definitely the writing is a product of its times, I think, but overall good and enjoyable. I think the plot got maybe a bit too fantastic in the last 25%, that's really all that's keep it from being a solid 4. In his review, Marshall Thornton says it's about 100 pages too long, and that's probably about right. I love that Picano did so much research, and his intro in the version I read is super interesting.
AND groundbreaking for the time, right?? Very happy it's still available for purchase despite being 40 years old.
I also think that I would have given it a higher rating if I'd really loved Noel, and I liked him a lot early on and then... IDK. Maybe a product of the length or... I just really don't know, but in the last half, I found Noel less sympathetic than I originally had. I think it's probably hard to write a character that's so... embroiled in uncertainty in himself and the situation and make that character 100% sympathetic.
Overall, very enjoyable. I can't even remember now how this book came to my attention, but I'm glad I found it and Picano!
AND groundbreaking for the time, right?? Very happy it's still available for purchase despite being 40 years old.
I also think that I would have given it a higher rating if I'd really loved Noel, and I liked him a lot early on and then... IDK. Maybe a product of the length or... I just really don't know, but in the last half, I found Noel less sympathetic than I originally had. I think it's probably hard to write a character that's so... embroiled in uncertainty in himself and the situation and make that character 100% sympathetic.
Overall, very enjoyable. I can't even remember now how this book came to my attention, but I'm glad I found it and Picano!
November 26, 2024
I read this as part of an omnibus of three of Picano’s novels, the other two being Late in the Season and Looking Glass Lives. At first I thought this was going to be the best of them; it just turned out to be the longest.
I enjoyed the early stages – there’s some quite amusing fish-out-of-water comedy, and the compromises required to publish a gay thriller aiming for the mainstream were interesting to identify – but then my enthusiasm cooled. The book grinds on and on. Less than halfway through, I wondered how on earth the narrative was going to stretch for another 35 chapters. The answer: a ridiculously implausible plot twist. A certain film from the early sixties starring Laurence Harvey and Angela Lansbury must have made a strong impression on the author.
There are some bright spots, some effective scenes of suspense, but not many. I had the impression Picano was more of a literary novelist (perhaps he writes in a variety of styles; I haven’t read Like People in History), but the three titles chosen for the Bold Strokes anthology make him seem a bit of a schlock merchant.
I enjoyed the early stages – there’s some quite amusing fish-out-of-water comedy, and the compromises required to publish a gay thriller aiming for the mainstream were interesting to identify – but then my enthusiasm cooled. The book grinds on and on. Less than halfway through, I wondered how on earth the narrative was going to stretch for another 35 chapters. The answer: a ridiculously implausible plot twist. A certain film from the early sixties starring Laurence Harvey and Angela Lansbury must have made a strong impression on the author.
There are some bright spots, some effective scenes of suspense, but not many. I had the impression Picano was more of a literary novelist (perhaps he writes in a variety of styles; I haven’t read Like People in History), but the three titles chosen for the Bold Strokes anthology make him seem a bit of a schlock merchant.
June 23, 2025
Do not fall for the reviews that call this a "Gay Erotic Thriller Classic in Fiction"....it is the farthest from being that.
When I read this back in 1979 I thought it was better then than it was today. The book just becomes this silly and stupidly pridctable wanna be 'gay erotica thriller' and it quite never becomes that. Even when I have read Picano's so called Horror Novel "Smart as The Devil" I was not impressed there either. Would not recommend this, as there are way more books out there that are a LOT better than this 'so called classic'. If you want to read GREAT Gay mens Classics....check out any of the late Gordon Merrick novels about 'Peter and Charlie', now THOSE were sex filled classic fiction.
It is far from ever being sexually graphic, and for what it was supposed to be betraying in the book, the gay men's Leather sex scene in the seedy New York in the 70's, it should have been more sexually graphic, as also that was when it was written and released.
2 Very Limp yawns
When I read this back in 1979 I thought it was better then than it was today. The book just becomes this silly and stupidly pridctable wanna be 'gay erotica thriller' and it quite never becomes that. Even when I have read Picano's so called Horror Novel "Smart as The Devil" I was not impressed there either. Would not recommend this, as there are way more books out there that are a LOT better than this 'so called classic'. If you want to read GREAT Gay mens Classics....check out any of the late Gordon Merrick novels about 'Peter and Charlie', now THOSE were sex filled classic fiction.
It is far from ever being sexually graphic, and for what it was supposed to be betraying in the book, the gay men's Leather sex scene in the seedy New York in the 70's, it should have been more sexually graphic, as also that was when it was written and released.
2 Very Limp yawns
February 3, 2025
Published in 1979, this suspense novel is much too long (the paperback edition I read has 442 pages). Starting with an unbelievable premise -- a college professor comes across a grisly murder in progress during the night which he single-handedly tries to stop -- the book then follows as the professor allows himself to become recruited by a special police unit to help catch a serial murderer, all with the "attraction" of giving the professor access to information that will help him write an academia career-making book. While much of the novel offers a good suspense read (hence the three-star rating rather than two stars), it morphs into a highly unrealistic journey through mind control and (of course for the time) more realistic wide drug use.
December 26, 2019
I had recently read a review of The Lure by Felice Picano and the book sounded fascinating. True, it doesn't paint gay life in mid-1970's New York in the most flattering light, but it was accurate. Pre-AIDS epidemic, New York's gay scene was awash in hedonism.
Where the book takes an unbelievable turn is the whole mind control scheme. The author had not done his homework on mental illnesses, even by the standards of the 1979 publishing date.
Also, I didn't really sense any chemistry between Noel and Eric. Where was all the heat that would make Noel risk his own life to save Eric's.
Where the book takes an unbelievable turn is the whole mind control scheme. The author had not done his homework on mental illnesses, even by the standards of the 1979 publishing date.
Also, I didn't really sense any chemistry between Noel and Eric. Where was all the heat that would make Noel risk his own life to save Eric's.
April 23, 2022
It's not as gory as I expected, nor as sultry or lurid as depicted in some synopses or as hinted by the title.
It has an amazing array of very unique and refreshing story developments which arouse often a very welcome sense of surprise but only a few shocking detours or twists.
The writing is superb throughout the book and keeps you on a comfortable edge most of the time.
I would probably have felt more excitement if the solution and the ending were different but its very 70s elements were completely unexpected.
It has an amazing array of very unique and refreshing story developments which arouse often a very welcome sense of surprise but only a few shocking detours or twists.
The writing is superb throughout the book and keeps you on a comfortable edge most of the time.
I would probably have felt more excitement if the solution and the ending were different but its very 70s elements were completely unexpected.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 60 reviews