Guilty, the first novel from the Toronto playwright and performer Sky Gilbert, explores the fate of Jack, a man so convinced that the world’s troubles are his fault that he’s willing to take the blame for a murder he’s not sure he committed.

The victim is Cassidy, an irritating, sexy and crazy hustler (points to Gilbert for coining the phrase, “Very Andrew Cunanan”). Jack knows he’s nuts, but can’t help having sex with him on occasion. After one such tryst, Cassidy is assaulted, raped, and almost murdered.

Jack didn’t do it – he’s not even sure Cassidy is telling the truth about the attack. But when Cassidy is found dead a few weeks later, Jack’s the prime suspect. The question for everyone – including Jack – is: Did he do it?

The novel has real energy, but it doesn’t fully deliver on its promise. The ethical dilemmas and Jack’s struggle with feelings of guilt are underdeveloped. And after a terrific beginning and an intense, sexually charged climax, it all kind of peters out.

Worse, Gilbert falls into the first-time novelist’s trap of using too much autobiographical detail. Jack’s bio (“actor, performer, drag queen, gay activist”), his appearance, his taste for short-shorts, his gig as a genie on a kids’ show, even his latish coming out at 28 are all pure Gilbert. There are worse people to base a main character on, of course, but it ends up coming off as self-indulgent.

Still, Gilbert is a wonderfully funny, clever storyteller. And Guilty is an admirable debut. He’s got a real knack for describing the mores of urban gay men – a scene in which Jack throws a hiss at a snooty art fag for serving coq au vin on General Idea plates is hysterical. Best of all, Gilbert is terrifically comfortable writing about sex. Guilty’s many erotic scenes – including a police interrogation involving Wolfie and Hans, a couple with a taste for bondage – are refreshingly funny and effective.