Burton Dickson – Snowjob (1970)

Review by Justin Tate

In honor of Netflix’s Hot Frosty, I dug deep into the archives to discover this 1970 paperback of frozen titillations. It’s not a tale of snow sculpture brought alive by Christmas magic. But, if you’re someone who wished Hot Frosty had gay orgies along with those Hallmark feel-good vibes, look no further than Burton Dickson’s novel Snowjob.

There is a snowman here too, of sorts. During a treacherous blizzard near a ski resort, Barry stumbles upon a naked ass buried in snow. Thinking it an attractive woman’s ass, he eagerly jumps into a rescue effort — and discovers he’s actually saving a man. A man with a stiff, frozen dick. Barry carries the unconscious, nude man to his cabin where he learns the poor fellow was caught drunk and naked in an avalanche. No doubt he would’ve been dead in a few hours.

The worst of his injuries are concentrated on the reproductive organ, where frozen ice had caused substantial bruising and discomfort. Barry, a doctor-in-training, wastes no time mending his new companion to proper health. Along the way, and with much medicinal fondling of a sore penis, he learns to embrace his closeted gay desires.

While there are certainly moments of M/M (and eventually M/M/M and M/M/M/M) erotic description, this novel is another example of why early gay pulp fiction should not be neglected for study of historical significance and literary value.

By far percentage wise, the book is more about self-discovery and roughing it in harsh climates than it is about pornographic delights. I would argue its literary lineage is closer to Jack London than Fanny Hill. The prose cannot compare to the great London but, like London, most of the book is focused on the logistics of surviving in a frozen climate with limited supplies and under physical distress. Even the sex scenes are written in an educational manner. There’s as many sentences devoted to sanitary measures as there are on pleasure.

Readers today might find these “educational” descriptions an annoying distraction from all the excitement. But, we must remember, this book was published in 1970. The literary ambition of gay pulp authors often included educating their readers, who are probably closeted and without confidants to discuss sex matters. Those “boring” sentences where Barry “learns” how to take care of himself, and his partner(s), were likely among the most riveting passages to the novel’s original readers. Honestly, these 55-years later, there’s still shockingly little sex education available for queer people. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for modern authors to take note.

In the end, like Hot Frosty, this is also something of a Hallmark movie. Having made friends and experienced self-discovery, Barry finds his cabin—once lively and full of academic discussions—now empty. It’s the bleak, hopeless image of a man not sure what to do with his life going forward. Then, at the peak of despair, his friend returns and, with him, the renewed promise of a joyous, bright future together.

It’s so sappy and cute it’s disgusting. But did a little tear form in my eye? Sure, it did. And I won’t apologize for it!

~ happy holidays, and please avoid avalanches everyone ~