The Loves of My Life: A Sex Memoir, by Edmund White.

I've read several of Edmund White's books over the years, particularly when I was coming out, and they left a lasting impression. A Boy's Own Story and The Beautiful Room Is Empty helped define a generation of gay literature, and White's elegant prose and sharp observations have always appealed to me. So, when I learned that, at age 85, he had written what he describes as his final memoir (a "sex memoir," no less) I was curious.

The premise is exactly what it sounds like. White looks back over more than six decades of sexual encounters, relationships, infatuations, hustlers, lovers, and adventures. Along the way, the book also serves as an informal history of gay life, carrying the reader from the closeted Midwest of the 1950s through Stonewall, the AIDS crisis, and into the era of dating apps.

White remains a great writer. He can still turn a phrase, and his wit is definitely intact. Some passages are laugh-out-loud funny, and there are a few moments of genuine tenderness. I particularly enjoyed the glimpses into how gay culture evolved during his lifetime and his reflections on aging, desire, and the transition from young heartthrob to elder statesman of queer literature.

Still, I found myself wishing for a different book.

I was half expecting a memoir that used sex as a lens through which to examine a remarkable life and an extraordinary period of social change. Instead, much of the book is exactly what the subtitle promises: a catalog of sexual encounters. That's certainly honest, and White deserves credit for his brutal candor, but after a while the endless procession of lovers began to blur together. Some stories are amusing, some are touching, and some are frankly a bit revolting. Like, really disgusting.

What surprised me most (and bummed me out) was how little wisdom White seems interested in offering. He has lived through enormous cultural shifts and witnessed much of modern gay history firsthand, yet he rarely pauses to draw larger conclusions. The memoir is rich in experience but comparatively light on reflection, especially given his previous works.

That said, there is something oddly charming about White's refusal to reinvent himself. He remained, even at 85, a witty, cultured hedonist determined to squeeze every last drop out of life.

I admired the honesty, enjoyed the writing, and occasionally winced. In the end, though, I wanted a little less sex and a little more Edmund White.