The story of queer liberation is often told as beginning in the streets. Near Christopher Street and Waverly Place, to be exact, where the police raid of a New York City gay bar set into motion a literal and symbolic fight for freedom.
The Stonewall Uprising of June, 1969, wasn’t just about defending a favorite weekend haunt. It marked a dramatic shift in handling oppression, from passive acceptance to active resistance. As Stonewall participant Mark Segal explained: “We’re going to take back our identity. We’re no longer going to allow society to label us. We’ll be out, loud, and proud – and in your face.”
An appetite for revolution brewed thick that night. To understand why, we must zoom out to three years earlier when a different kind of riot took root. Not in the streets, but at newsstands, bus terminals and drug store paperback spinners. This was an uprising in book form. A literary Stonewall, if you will. And Victor J. Banis threw the first tome. At least the first that struck.
In the mid-1960s, publishing queer fiction remained risky. For one, you could be charged with violating “obscenity” laws. This meant expensive legal defense fees that could extend all the way up to the Supreme Court. Consequently, most publishers either avoided gay characters entirely or presented them as suicidal, predatory deviants, capable of redemption only by forsaking their sexuality. The “Morality Squad” welcomed these negative portrayals which reinforced their belief that being gay was a sickness.
Legal liabilities aside, publishers doubted enough readers would purchase celebratory, sex-positive queer novels to make them profitable. Paperback writer Victor J. Banis felt certain they would and convinced Greenleaf Classics to take a chance.
At the time, Greenleaf was a rising publisher of taboo fiction, a free speech advocate, and never one to turn their back on a buck. Later—shortly after signing with Banis, coincidentally—they exploded in popularity and ranked among America’s most successful so-called porno publishers.
As a “trial run,” Greenleaf purchased two of Banis’s queer manuscripts. Both became landmarks of the era and paved the way for an entire Golden Age of audacious, unrepentant gay pulp fiction.
The first manuscript, The Why Not, was a novel written in vignettes. Each chapter highlights a different character preparing for an evening at the same gay bar. Some seek escape from personal troubles, others are just excited for the weekend. The novel’s revolutionary aspect was its simplicity. These queer characters weren’t diabolical or unstable—at least not unusually so. They were fully realized, everyday people in need of a night out.
“Read this book,” urged the gay-centric periodical Tangents. “You may meet yourself in it.”
This review is as relevant today as it was then. While blackmail and social angst of that era have diminished, gay bars remain irreplaceable sources of support for the queer community. Few historical documents deliver a better contextual understanding of why someone would risk everything to defend a small, Mafia-run bar like the Stonewall Inn.
The Why Not surpassed commercial and critical expectations, but the second manuscript captured lightning in a bottle. This was the book which cemented Banis’s place in queer history.
A spoof of James Bond and The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Banis’s The Man from C.A.M.P. follows gay secret agent Jackie Holmes as he thwarts plots against the gay community. A man-eating pet poodle and high-tech gadgetry—false asscheeks hiding a dagger, for example—give Jackie an edge against assassins. True to its source material, a sidekick love interest tags along. This time it’s a hunky straight guy who grows increasingly bi-curious with each near-death experience.
Hilarious and relentlessly entertaining, C.A.M.P. remains a raucous good time for readers who appreciate the camp aesthetic its title invokes. It also remains liberating all these years later. Jackie Holmes is both proudly fey and a counter argument to queer stereotypes. His physical strength and mechanical adeptness continually puzzle friends and enemies who expect otherwise. Through the sidekick’s perspective, readers witness the emotional struggle of a heterosexual outperformed by a gay man and chuckle at his confusion when accidentally aroused by Jackie in drag.
Far from a one-hit-wonder, The Man from C.A.M.P. quickly spawned numerous sequels and spin-offs—even a tie-in cookbook. Each new adventure expanded this compelling world of espionage, where gay bars hid secret agent headquarters and queer heroes put an end to homophobic groups like B.U.T.C.H. (“Brothers United To Crush Homosexuality”).
The C.A.M.P. books were decidedly political novels masquerading as comedy. They dared to present gay sex as positive and pleasurable while empowering readers to recognize how opposing forces impacted their livelihoods. Gay secret agencies might be fictional, but real political groups actively sought to dismantle their civil rights. The C.A.M.P. books, subtly and overtly, called on readers to embrace their inner Jackie Holmes and join the fight.
It’s a fight that marches on today. Sixty years later, we still need heroes like Jackie to inspire us to claim the equality we deserve.
Justin Tate
May 2026
—Justin Tate is a biographer and literary historian specialized in Gothic Studies and queer pulp fiction. His essays have been published by Pearson and Edinburgh University Press. You can often find him on Goodreads, Instagram and SpookyBooky: https://linktr.ee/justintate
