A Gothic Fit for a Queen

Gaywyck as it first appeared in 1980,
published by Avon.

Back in the mid-2000s, while attending the Saints & Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans, I went to a reading of selections from an anthology of gay erotic short stories. One of the anthology’s authors, a woman, prefaced her reading by telling the audience that her story was originally a heterosexual one but that she re-tooled it to fit the anthology’s genre. Except she hadn’t, really, she just changed the gender of one of her characters, leaving intact the prose of a spicy hetero romance targeting female readers. The give-away was her describing one of her male protagonists as having nipples like primroses.

I thought a lot about that woman’s story while reading Vincent Virga’s GAYWYCK, touted as the first gay gothic romance, published in 1980. Almost all the male characters in this book are written as if they once wore Charvet dresses and had menstrual cycles. In fact, one of the novel’s surprises is there isn’t a revelation that one of our protagonists is a woman in drag, à la Yentl. Were anyone’s nipples described at all, I’m sure they would resemble primroses.

Perhaps no character in Gaywyck could have his gender so easily reassigned as the book’s narrator, Robert Whyte. Really, all it would take is adding an “a” to the end of his first name, changing some pronouns and dressing him in bodices and skirts instead of cardigan vests and double-breasted suits. Robert is a fragile young man, so much so he’s home schooled.  He’s shy, but as he explains to the reader: “‘Shy’ is an evasion of the truth. ‘Easily frightened,’ yes. ‘Morbidly sensitive,’ yes. ‘Timid and cautious,’ yes. But also, much more than that.”

His fragility is indulged by his mother during Robert’s early years living in upstate New York, much to the chagrin of his school principal father. Mrs. Whyte’s mental health begins to decline by the time Robert’s reached his teens, however, and she’s soon institutionalized after being diagnosed with “profound melancholia.” With his mother gone, Robert’s father issues an ultimatum: the 17-year-old can go to Harvard, or he can just go. He is no longer welcome in his father’s home. Robert reaches out to a local priest, who helps secure a new home for Robert at the Long Island estate of the wealthy (and obviously named) Gaylord family. “[O]n 28 September 1899, I left for Gaywyck. My fate galloped to meet me.”

Before arriving at Gaywyck, Robert is first taken to Gramercy Park to meet his benefactor, Donough Gaylord, the sole surviving heir to the Gaylord fortune. He’s hot, of course (think Henry Cavill circa The Tudors or Immortals), as well as mysterious and kind of sad, having lost his mother at an early age, and later losing his twin brother, Cormack, and their father in a fire. He’s initially sympathetic to Robert’s plight—his late mother Mary Rose also had mental health issues—but takes a genuine liking of the teen upon discovering Robert’s knowledge of and enthusiasm for the works of Paul Cézanne. Robert is also easy on the eyes (if you limit your choices to the blonds, you can find a NSFW visual representation here).

At Gaywyck Robert meets Brian, the household’s young, ginger-haired houseboy/apprentice chef, initially described as a mute but he’s later revealed to just have a speech impediment. He quickly becomes Robert’s confidante. Robert also meets Julian Denvers, a former Jesuit who had served as the live-in tutor of Donough and Cormack, and Everard Keyes, the twins’ music teacher, who now has only a tenuous grasp of reality (“Sometimes he is Beethoven and sometimes not”). The two men—especially Keyes—aren’t exactly warm and friendly, but as far as the bookish, “morbidly sensitive” Robert is concerned, Gaywyck is heaven on earth. Not only does he have entrée into a world of extravagant wealth like he’s never known, he’s now part of Donough Gaylord’s world. It’s not long before he’s scrawling hearts with D.G. + R.W. written within them on the pages of his journal. (OK, what he really writes in his journal is “We are the same person, Donough Gaylord and I,” but the gist is the same.)

But Gaywyck houses more than beautiful art and old queens. It is also home to many secrets—secrets that involve incest, hidden rooms, child abuse, mutilated penises, faked deaths and murder. There’s even an out-of-nowhere twins-separated-at-infancy revelation. It’s often too much for young Robert to bear, the poor twink fainting from shock at the merest suggestion of a sordid past or ulterior motive. OK, I’m exaggerating. Robert doesn’t pass out that much, but he does spend an inordinate amount of time in bed recuperating from one thing or another during the course of the novel. I shouldn’t throw shade, though. Who among us hasn’t dreamed of being ordered to stay in bed all day at a fancy estate, waited on by a fawning staff? And yet despite all this time lolling about in bed, Robert is described as having a beautiful, athletic body. Gurl, bye!

Robert isn’t the only delicate flower. The strapping Donough is also frequently so overcome with emotion that he can’t finish stories about his past in a single chapter. Brian disappears when distraught, Keyes locks himself in his room, and Denvers becomes bitchy and brooding.

Gaywyck got a sexed-up cover
when Alyson Publications
reprinted it in 2000.

If the men of Gaywyck aren’t fainting, sulking or disappearing, they’re discussing—and quoting from—the works Walt Whitman, Alexandre Dumas, Joris-Karl Huysmans, and William Shakespeare. And that’s just the authors; art and opera are also discussed at length. When the men get tired of discussing arts and letters with each other, Donough invites his friends from the NYC, an interracial gay couple named Mortimer and Goodbody (they must’ve turned heads in the late 1800s), to spend Thanksgiving at Gaywyck. And what does the group get up to? Reciting passages from The Winter’s Tale.

To be fair, the book is set at the turn of the twentieth century, with characters who inhabit the rarefied air of the One Percent, so it’s entirely appropriate that the majority of the men in the story have a keen interest in music, art and literature. It’s not like they’d be talking about James J. Corbett’s chances in the ring against Jim “The Boilermaker” Jeffries. That said, there is only so much swooning over Paul Cézanne or Richard Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde a reader can take. Virga is a very learned man with an impressive resumé (feel free to download a copy) and he makes sure to share his knowledge on every fucking one of Gaywyck’s pages. By the book’s midpoint I felt I was entitled to college credits in art and music appreciation.

Vincent Virga’s 2001 Gaywyck
sequel, Vadriel Vail.

You can also throw in a half credit for classic literature. As much, if not more, attention is given to Gaywyck’s prose as its story. Almost every paragraph in Gaywyck’s 376 pages is dipped in gold and presented on a red velvet pillow for the reader to admire. I found Virga’s word craft simultaneously effective—it really does transport the reader back to the dawn of the twentieth century—and enervating. By the time I got to the juicy parts I was so exhausted that it was all I could do to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

I know it sounds like I’m shitting all over this novel, but it is not bad. (Armistead Maupin supposedly dug it.) It’s just not to my taste. I bought my copy of Gaywyck a few years ago, excited to discover there was such a thing as a gay Gothic. I tend to prefer a more straight-forward prose, however, and my gay characters a bit more…carnal. Gaywyck’s prose—very purple, bordering on turgid—just isn’t my thing. I enjoyed parts of it more than the whole. One of the parts I especially enjoyed was when we’re introduced to a character named Jonesy, the teen-aged son of a recently deceased employee of Donough’s who comes to stay at Gaywyck. Jonesy is ill-mannered, poorly educated, and willing to use his body to get what he wants (think a young Daniel Craig with poor dental hygiene, or maybe Tiger King’s John Finlay, pre-dentures and minus the tattoos). Jonesy is a horrible character, but he livened up the story considerably. Finally, I thought, after 200 pages this story is springing to life. Alas, Jonesy is only a supporting character, and we’re soon back to the florid observations of Robert Whyte.

Virga published a sequel to Gaywyck, Vadriel Vail, in 2001. A third book in the Gaywyck saga, Children of Paradise, was written in 2010 but it never found a publisher, though there is a copy of the manuscript available to students and faculty of the College of William and Mary. Virga writes on his website about his frustration of trying to get his work re-released:

[A] young twinkie gay editor at Plume recently told my agent he couldn’t understand why anyone would care about old gay romances... He found Gaywyck unreadable! (I admit it bears no resemblance to the dreary stuff being churned out by graduates of the Iowa School of Writing, thank god, which is probably his and most NYC fiction editors’ idea of “real” writing!)

I think that “young twinkie gay editor” was being short sighted, not to mention unfair. There is a market for old gay romances, and that market is straight women. Virga might be asked to punch up the sex scenes, however. (When it comes to sex, Virga is so coy that it’s not always obvious anything naughty has occurred.) I could also see this adapted into a pretty enjoyable movie. A visual medium could bring the story to life in a whole new way, streamlining the narrative by showing in a single shot what the novel takes pages to describe—or show what the novel doesn’t dare describe. Virga would hate it, I imagine, but I’m sure he’d enjoy cashing the check.
 

I’d watch it!

Bonus Vocabulary Section

Not only does Gaywyck bombard one with an avalanche of references to classic literature, art and music, it also expands the reader's vocabulary. Or maybe that’s just me? At any rate, here is a list of some of my newly acquired vocabulary words I can attribute to Gaywyck. I doubt I’ll ever use them in conversation, and I see very few of them finding their way into my writing, but it’s still nice knowing there’s a fancy word for horny.

Eventide — end of the day; evening.

Orangery — greenhouse where trees are grown.

Cupidity — greed for money or possessions. (Eileen Bassing gets credit for exposing me to this one first. Who knew I’d encounter the word again so soon?)

Purling — (of a stream or river) flow with a swirling motion and babbling sound.

Gamboge — a strong yellow

Tintinnabulation — a ringing or tinkling sound.

Dado — the lower part of the wall of a room, below about waist height, if it is a different color or has a different covering than the upper part.

Concupiscence — strong sexual desire; lust.

Even Ten Minutes is Too Long

Our sexual fantasies and our public selves don’t always match up. Incest doesn’t become any less icky with the “between consenting adults” or “the incestuous couple is hot” qualifiers, yet it was the fastest growing trend in pornography in 2018. I have, delicately put, responded to porn videos that I otherwise find disgusting (I have a complicated relationship with the work of Aarin Asker). It’s the taboo that’s exciting. So, the idea that women, even those identifying themselves as feminists, would have rape fantasies or fantasies in which they’re dominated by men, isn’t that far-fetched. It’s when these taboo sex fantasies are inflated into romances that #MeToo becomes #WTF?

One of the earliest mainstream movies to give life to this uneasy coupling of rough muffin buttering fantasy and gauzy romance was the 1986 film adaptation of Elizabeth McNeill’s novel, 9 ½ WEEKS.

From one angle, it reads like the outline for a by-the-numbers Playgirl short story: An attractive woman, successful in her professional life but unfulfilled sexually, meets a handsome, wealthy man who treats her to sumptuous dinners, shopping sprees with no spending limits, and thrusts her into sexual realms no other man had ever dared to, consequently giving her some of the best—perhaps the only—orgasms she’s ever experienced.

Sounds hot! But this is also the outline for a typical Lifetime thriller: A successful career woman meets a handsome, wealthy man who showers her with compliments, woos her with fancy dinners and expensive gifts, and pleasures her with mind-blowing sex. But her prince soon reveals himself to be less charming, treating her like a child, isolating her from her friends and family, demanding she wear what he wants her to wear, punishing her if she disobeys his instructions. The sex games become less playful and more uncomfortable. He is her master and she, his willing slave. Will she come to her senses before it’s too late?

A still from 9 1/2 Weeks, or
a 1980s perfume ad?

The two outlines don’t exactly mesh, do they? I haven’t read McNeill’s novel (there are only so many hours in the day), but based on what I’ve read about it, the Lifetime thriller outline better describes it. The novel was significantly darker, playing out more like a psychosexual horror story than kinky erotica. But “psychosexual horror story” just wasn’t the sort of shit studios were willing to risk financing in the 1980s, so a twisted romance is what we got.

Kim Basinger is Elizabeth, the aforementioned attractive woman. Elizabeth owns a successful gallery, but she’s been adrift in her personal life since her divorce. It’s established right away that Liz is sexually unadventurous, something conveyed by costuming (Elizabeth has a penchant for baggy sweaters) and more directly in dialog, such as when she accuses her roommate and business partner Molly (Margaret Whitton) of being “gross” and “perverted” for suggesting Liz owns a vibrator. That all changes when Liz meets John (Mickey Rourke), a handsome Wall Street broker who arouses her dirty tickle*.

Younger readers might be wondering what “Mickey Rourke” and “handsome” are doing in the same sentence. Hard to believe now, but before he fucked up his face with boxing and plastic surgery, and well before time took its toll, Rourke was actually kind of hot. He didn’t exactly do it for me, but, yeah, I could see why he was cast as the male lead of an erotic romance. Of course, 9 ½ Weeks could just as well starred present-day Mickey Rourke given that it is just one of many, many examples of movies that purport to appeal to the desires of female audiences yet only showcases the bodies women (you ladies just want to see tits, right?).

This is as naked Mickey gets for the entirety of 9 1/2 Weeks.

Looks aside, it’s not entirely clear why Liz puts up with John beyond a couple of dates. As played by Rourke—whose performance falls somewhere between Ben Affleck at the height of his early 2000s douchey-ness and a late-caree,r not-giving-a-shit Bruce Willis—John radiates more smarm than charm. Even if Elizabeth can see past John’s personality, and even if he’s found her G-spot, I still wondered why she didn’t break things off after he pays a carnival worker to leave her parked atop a Ferris wheel while the worker takes a coffee break. She at least responds appropriately when John tells her to face the wall and raise her skirt for a spanking: “Who the fuck do you think you are!?” Alas, she stays, persuaded by John’s phenomenal cunnilingual skills. It’s not until he subjects her to the roving hands of a Latina hooker that Liz loses her shit and runs away, hiding out at a Times Square sex show (no, really).

 Yentl for Protestants: Gentl.

I remember 9 ½ Weeks being hyped prior to its release as pushing the boundaries of what could be shown in an R-rated film. Indeed, the movie had to be cut to avoid an X (and appease fucking test audiences). Now, no one was expecting to see Kim’s split Basinger or Rourke’s erect Mickey, but when the film was finally released it was hard not to find its sex scenes… underwhelming. To director Adrian Lyne’s credit, the sex scenes are quite stylish, but of course they are. Style over substance is Lyne’s thing. (Lyne’s on set emotional manipulation of Basinger is less praiseworthy, even though it worked to the film’s benefit.) The scene where John teases a blindfolded Elizabeth with an ice cube is effective, and Elizabeth masturbating while reviewing art slides as Eurythmics’ “This City Never Sleeps” plays on the soundtrack is another standout scene. Other scenes, like the “sploshing” scene in which John feeds a blindfolded Elizabeth, or when Elizabeth cross dresses, are just silly. But more often than not, 9 ½ Weeks pulls its punches. It’s a movie that shows John and Liz purchasing a riding crop but never shows the couple using it.

No Means No—Unless He’s Hot, Hung and Rich

9 ½ Weeks doesn’t quite succeed as erotica, but it’s not a terrible film, just a tedious one. Screenwriters Patricia Knop, Sarah Kernochan and the late Zalman King (yes, he of The Red Shoe Diaries) don’t sidestep the toxicity of the Elizabeth and John’s relationship, even if they don’t quite sell their attraction beyond she’s pretty and he buys her things and makes her come. Elizabeth has agency, gradually surrendering her free will for love until she realizes that this relationship is costing her soul.

Poland’s answer to E.L. James.

Such character arcs are beyond the grasp of 365 DAYS, a Polish-made Fifty Shades of Grey knockoff currently streaming on Netflix. (I know Fifty Shades would be the more obvious companion to 9 ½ Weeks, complete with a Kim Basinger connection were I to review the whole series, but to do so would require renting the Fifty Shades movies, something I refuse to do. Besides, other people have done a more thorough exploration of both the books and the movies. You can experience one man’s pain for your pleasure here.)

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that most of the basics of storytelling, such as character development and plot, are beyond the grasp of 365 Days, a 114-minute rape fantasy that asks its viewers to accept a woman’s abduction and subsequent captivity by hot-tempered gangster as the springboard for a steamy romance.

“Imagine a strong alpha male who always knows what he wants. He is your caretaker and your defender. When you are with him you feel like a little girl. He makes all your sexual fantasies come true. What’s more, he’s one meter, 90 centimeters tall, has absolutely no body fat, and has been molded by God himself,” our heroine, Laura (Anna Maria Sieklucka), tells her girlfriend.

“Did God mold his dick, too?” the girlfriend asks.

“The devil did,” replies Laura.

Laura fails to bring up that the “strong alpha male” in question, Massimo (Michele Morrone, who can also be blamed for some songs on the soundtrack), also kidnapped her while she was vacationing in Sicily, held her prisoner, tied her up and molested her on a plane (“Sometimes fighting is futile.”), and repeatedly threatened her with physical violence. Also, he’s a Mafia boss who traffics drugs and kills people (but it’s OK, the man he kills is a sex trafficker). Then again, he got her away from her worthless boyfriend and he’s got that devilish dick. All is forgiven!

What makes 365 Days and its inspiration, Fifty Shades, especially repugnant is they conflate abuse with BDSM, rape with rapture.

You would be forgiven for thinking 365 Days was written by a 45-year-old incel while he was under house arrest for violating a restraining order, but no, it was written by a woman. Polish cosmetologist-cum-author Blanka Lipińska, perhaps realizing she could never be the next Olga Tokarczuk, decided to became Poland’s answer to E.L. James instead, writing her own trilogy of dirty books with regressive/offensive sexual politics. I haven’t read any of Lipińska’s novels as they have yet to be translated into English (also, I don’t want to), so I can’t speak to their quality or how close the movie adaptation follows the book. However, Lipińska is credited as a “screenwriting associate” and even has a small cameo in the movie, so I’m going to assume the author is at least OK with how the movie turned out. I’m also going to assume that, based on 365 Days, that Lipińska is the sort of woman who would respond to a friend asking for help out of an abusive relationship by asking what the friend did to provoke the beatings.

Queer Eye for the Stockholm Gal.

There is a small kernel in the existing story that could have, had the screenwriters seized upon it, made 365 Days a lot less problematic. One of Massimo’s henchmen, Domenico (Otar Saralidze), befriends Laura, kind of (this is a movie where shopping montages set to annoying Europop are used in place of character and story development). Had Laura and Domenico formed a romantic bond, with the plot hinging on Domenico helping Laura escape, then 365 Days could have been a palatable romantic thriller. It would definitely be a more exciting one. Instead, the Domenico character is little more than Laura’s occasional chaperone. Guess he didn’t have that satanic cock that Laura craves.

What makes 365 Days and its inspiration, Fifty Shades, especially repugnant is they conflate abuse with BDSM, rape with rapture. If imagining a swarthy, God-built Italian stud ripping your designer panties off against your protests and pile-driving you into multiple transcendent orgasms is what it takes to paddle your pink canoe down river, more power to you. But don’t try to convince us his threatening violence, confiscating your phone and holding you prisoner is romantic. A good rule of thumb: if your story requires a trigger warning for survivors of sexual abuse, your story is not a romance.

There is a sequel for 365 Days planned — Lipińska crapped out a trilogy, after all — so maybe the narrative redeems itself as it goes along, but I doubt it (reportedly, the other books in the series are just more of the same). The one positive thing about this movie compared to its American counterparts is it doesn’t hold back on the explicitness of its sex scenes (no backlit, fully clothed humping here). There’s nothing hardcore, as some reviewers have implied, but it’s definitely in NC-17 territory, unlike some other movies I could mention. And, while their characters display no discernibly human traits, Sieklucka and Morrone are easy on the eyes. So, out of a desire to cater to readers’ prurient interests while also sparing them the chore of watching this piece of shit, here are the time codes for movie’s “good parts”:

10:45 – Laura pleasures herself with a pink vibrator intercut with a scene of Massimo getting blown by a flight attendant. (Warning: even out of context, it’s impossible to pretend the B.J. is consensual.)

43:30 – Laura takes a shower, and Massimo joins her. No sex, just nudity, including some full-frontal flashes from both actors.

51:40 – Laura sexually teases Massimo, then tries to leave the room before closing the deal. Massimo responds by shackling her to the bed and then summoning another woman. The other woman, dressed in generic dominatrix gear, slinks into the room and proceeds to suck off Massimo while a bound Laura watches.

An ass molded by God himself.

1:06:53 – Laura wakes up and smells the Stockholm Syndrome, finally “consenting” to sex with Massimo, the pair going at it for six-plus minutes, a sequence that’s as sleazy as hardcore porn without actually being hardcore.

1:17:30 – A quickie in the bathroom.

1:32:10 – Rear entry while overlooking Warsaw.

You’re welcome.

But, seriously, you’re better off just watching a hardcore porn flick than this glorification of date rape.

Here’s a link to go to in case you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence: thehotline.org

*I owe Georgina Spelvin a dollar for the phrase “dirty tickle.”

A Gay Man Watches Straight Porn #2: ‘A Place Beyond Shame’

I watched a crappy VHS rip online
(#cheapassqueen), but Vinegar
Syndrome has a pristine DVD available.

I knew the next straight porn film I watched would have to feature Seka, but which one? There were a lot of contenders: Blonde Fire appealed to my love of noir, even if Johnny Wadd wasn’t exactly Philip Marlowe (more of a draw was the trifecta of three porn legends, Seka, John Holmes and director Bob Chinn), and Ultra Flesh, with its vaginal laser beams, looked fun. Prisoner of Paradise—also with Holmes and co-directed by Chinn—was another strong contender. But, at the end of the day, I went with 1980’s A PLACE BEYOND SHAME because of the title. I love the title, which would be perfect for a lurid novel about backwoods debauchery or an early Russ Meyer drive-in movie.

 A Place Beyond Shame likely wasn’t going to be a hardcore take on RM’s Mudhoney, of course, but by this point I was so enamored by the title that I felt compelled to watch it, even if its story was considerably less ambitious than I wanted it to be.

Said story is slight indeed. Seka (or “Seka,” as the star is cast as “herself”) has an acute lack of sex drive—you know, just like Seka. Sex repulses her, in fact. When her suitor in the opening scene, Paul (Don Fernando), makes advances, she tries to put him off. “I’ve got hors d’oeuvres warming in the oven,” she says, trying to escape his embrace. “You’re the tastiest hors d’oeuvres I see,” is Paul’s leering reply. (Three people are credited with writing the script.) Seka tolerates Paul’s roving hands, but she can’t hide her revulsion when he guides her hand to his dick—not that Paul notices. “I’m gonna fuck you,” he pants. Not tonight, he isn’t. Seka angrily pushes him away.

“I said I CAIN’T!” Seka shouts, exposing her Virginia origins. (When I was 14—the time I first learned of Seka’s existence—I thought Seka was Swedish because she was a frequent star of all those Swedish Erotica movies that I saw advertised in various skin mags, not realizing Swedish Erotica was an American brand name. I also thought her name was pronounced See-ka.)

Who can fuck with a boom mic looming overhead?

The following morning Seka calls her friend Diana (Lori Blue), wanting to talk. Diana says she’ll be over in an hour, allowing enough time for the man sitting beside her chair, idly jerking off, to go down on her. “There’s always time for breakfast,” Diana drawls. After her morning sexing, Diana gets dressed in her tightest disco finery (1980 was really just 1979: The Sequel, after all) and visits her frustrated friend.

It turns out Diana had problem similar to Seka’s (“Not a heavy one. I just couldn’t come.”) and she knows a guy who can help. That guy is Michael, played by Paul Thomas. During Seka’s first meeting with him we learn that she’s a computer programmer (I feel cheated that we’re denied scenes of her at work, busily coding). “And you’re here to be reprogrammed,” Michael says. (Three screenwriters, ladies and gentlemen.) He tells Seka that he can help her complete her “book of thoughts.” Translation: he’s a hypnotist. Now if only someone can help Michael get rid of that boom dangling just above his head.

Paul Thomas with special guest star: the boom mic.

While hypnotized, Seka doesn’t relive past experiences but rather, achieves a sort of clairvoyance, seeing events for which she was never present, such as her ex (Ken Scudder) on his honeymoon with another woman, and her mother (Veri Knotty, who made me feel retroactively vindicated by also pronouncing Seka “See-ka”) in a three-way with Mike Horner and Blair Harris.

There is also an extended sequence during which a hypnotized Seka “sees” Jesse Adams as a cowboy getting it on with cowgirl Lysa Thatcher; Diana Holt getting her cooch crushed by Cossack cosplayer Aaron Stuart; and some obligatory girl-on-girl action between Mai Lin and China Leigh, who are later joined, all of a sudden, by Billy Dee. Intercut between these different sex scenes is footage of a Seka, uncontrollably turned-on, stripping off her clothes, turning her butt to the camera and digitally exploring her lower orifices.

TL;DR: A Rant About Scene Length, Unimaginative Filming

This montage of four different sex scenes makes up nearly a quarter of the movie’s 75-minute runtime, which is damn near epic compared to all the movie’s other sex scenes that usually clock in at four minutes. Yes, four minutes! That’s barely enough time to work up a hard-on. Lest you feel cheated, the brevity of the sex scenes is offset by the sheer number of them: a whopping nine, counting that 23-minute montage as one and not counting Seka and Fernando’s abortive attempt at the movie’s opening. Of course, 23 minutes seems stingy by current porn standards, when a single scene can be over 30 minutes long, with at least 20 spent on pounding ass (or pussy, though my experience with current straight porn is limited to my hasty perusal of what’s available on aebn.com). They’re not scenes anymore; they’re gifs. Personally, I find 10-15 minutes per hardcore sex scene a happy medium: long enough to perform a variety of sex acts, but short enough to keep the scene from becoming boring and repetitive.

Speaking of boring and repetitive sex scenes, the aforementioned montage highlights directors Sharon Mitchell and the late Fred Lincoln’s lack of inventiveness in filming them, the pair favoring the alternation between close-ups of faces and close-ups of genitalia. At one point I lost track, as can happen when you check your phone, and couldn’t be sure if the out-of-context cock and pussy on my screen belonged to Adams and Thatcher or Holt and Stuart (Lin, Leigh and Dee were a bit more distinguishable). Sure, the draw of these movies is that they show non-simulated sex, but we want to appreciate the rest of the performers’ bodies, too. I certainly wanted more coverage of a few of the guys—namely Blair Harris, Jesse Adams and Aaron Stuart—but even the women are often little more than disembodied vaginas.

And Now, Back to Our Feature Presentation

The therapist, Michael, having shown remarkable restraint while his patient masturbated a few feet away from where he sat, finally gives Seka the necessary hot meat injection to push her Beyond Shame (a surprisingly underwhelming scene). A cumshot later, Seka is all horned up and ready go out into the world and fuck, starting with a jogger (R.J. Reynolds) she and Diana pick up in the park. (When the jogger responds to Diana’s proposition with, “I’m game!”, I thought he said, “I’m gay!”, which I thought would’ve been a funny twist.*) Seka may be horny, but she’s still apprehensive, having to be coached by Diana when handling the jogger’s member: “Wanna try to suck it? C’mon, it won’t bite you.”

The finale sees Seka having a do-over date with Paul, the newly confident “computer programmer” ordering the young man to get out of his clothes and promising to give him the ride of his life. Once said ride is completed, Seka turns to the camera and says, “Look out world, here I come”—and it’s obvious by her seductive tone how “come” should be spelled.

Look out world!

Sharon, Fred and Seka

A Place Beyond Shame was an early effort for co-directors Lincoln and Mitchell, both better known in 1980 for working in front of the camera (this was Mitchell’s directorial debut). In the 2005 book The Other Hollywood: The Uncensored Oral History of the Porn Film Industry, by Legs McNeil and Jennifer Osborne, Mitchell recounts how she got the money together to make some movies and brought in Lincoln to help her. According to Lincoln, the original plan was to re-shoot a movie Mitchell had started with Vanessa Del Rio (the rushes sucked so the project was scrapped), but none of the original players were available. They had heard about Seka, who was shooting loops at the time, and booked her as the new lead. “[Seka] was very nice, very cool, and I just liked the way she liked to fuck,” Mitchell is quoted in The Other Hollywood. She later adds: “A Place Beyond Shame was Seka’s first movie. I probably made about $35,000 off of it.”

In her interview with the Rialto Report, Seka says Dracula Sucks was her first feature (IMDb lists Love Notes as her first movie but that just may be the first of her movies to be released). In fact, there are a lot of contradictions in the recollections in The Other Hollywood and what Seka herself told the Rialto Report (she wasn’t interviewed by The Other Hollywood authors). Mitchell says she was the one who coached Seka on losing her “horrible Southern accent” and pornographer Roy Karch says it was the late porn star Bill Margold who came up with the name Seka. In her Rialto Report interview, Seka says she took voice and elocution lessons to lose her accent before she ever got into porn and that she got the name Seka from a woman she knew in Las Vegas. Was I to read Seka’s autobiography, Inside Seka, I’m sure I’d encounter even more contradictions, but my to-be-read pile is pretty daunting as it is. Considering that everyone involved is recounting events from decades ago and all have consumed more than their fair share of drugs during that time, it’s best to just take everyone’s account with a grain of salt (or, in the spirit of the Golden Age of Porn, a line of coke).

So, how about the final product? Lincoln and Mitchell did a respectable job (we’ll forgive those boom mic intrusions and sometimes murky lighting, though these aren't issues in the Vinegar Syndrome DVD release), but I didn’t enjoy it as a film as I did Every Inch a Lady. It’s just something to jerk-off to, the work of performers looking for a Plan B, not aspiring filmmakers looking for a creative outlet. (Lincoln directed nearly 350 porn videos before his death in 2013, so the move to directing clearly worked out for him.)  The only thing that makes Shame distinctive is its leading lady. “I’ve never been an actor,” Seka told the Rialto Report, and she’s not—she’s a star, and she’s about the only reason to see Shame. I still love the title, though.

*R.J. Reynolds was bi, with a few gay porn titles— Jockstrap, Joe Gage’s Closed Set—in his filmography. He died in 1987 from an AIDS-related illness at the age of 32. Now I’ve made you sad.

Bulges, Bitches and Bad Wigs

Strip clubs generally don’t do it for me—I find it difficult to objectify someone I’m interacting with—but movies about male strippers are another story. Besides eliminating that pesky direct interaction, movies about male strippers are, with a few notable exceptions, enjoyably ridiculous.

When women strip in movies, they’re often presented as victims or sluts (again, there are notable exceptions). But if a man takes his clothes off for an audience of women—and they’re always women in mainstream movies — he gets a wink and a nudge. Dude, you must be up to your tits in pussy, amiright?

Christopher Atkins shows off his talent.

Rick, an exotic dancer by night and junior college student by day, has easy access to pussy in 1983’s A NIGHT IN HEAVEN. He’s got a girlfriend, sexy redhead Slick (Sandra Beall, whose acting style is best described as Kristen Stewart with wired jaws), but she’s cool with him bedding other women, like the dimwitted blonde neighbor in his trailer park, where he lives with his mother. But when his professor, Faye, whose class he’s failing, shows up at one of his performances—at a club called Heaven, of course—Rick makes it his mission to give her a (hard pounding) F.

Rick is played by early ’80s heartthrob Christopher Atkins, who was sort of like ’70s heartthrob Shaun Cassidy, only with a third of the talent and a 100% more likely to take his clothes off. Being naked with Brooke Shields (and her body double) in The Blue Lagoon put Atkins on the map. He kept his clothes on for musical comedy The Pirate Movie in 1982, though he did sport a skimpy diaper during the song “Pumpin’ Blowin’”(there might be a god, after all…). That Atkins was cast as a stripper was inevitable, though his stripper costume is surprisingly modest, a pair of silver lamé shorts rather than the high-waisted thongs—dad thongs?—of his fellow dancers. Viewers need not give up hope: Atkins goes full Monty later in the movie, when he finally beds his professor, Faye.

Faye is played by Lesley Ann Warren, who is kind of like an insecure Susan Sarandon. Though Heaven is Atkins’ vehicle, and there is potential to develop Rick’s story into one about the struggles of working-class America, this movie primarily belongs to Warren because sometimes it’s best to just accept that you’re dealing with a Playgirl fantasy and nothing more. Faye is all high collars and hand wringing, married to a NASA engineer (Robert Logan), who rides a recumbent bike and who sulks when she doesn’t take a day off from her job at the college so they can mess around (the selfish bitch!). Faye’s dragged to a strip club by her visiting sister, Patsy (a feisty Deborah Rush), and because college boys in silver lamé shorts trump recumbent bikes, her libido is suddenly kicked into high gear. Faye’s timing is off, though. Her husband loses his job and his sex drive just when Faye wants to put some lovin’ on him. Suddenly Rick’s flirtations become harder to ignore, but is he really smitten or is she just another notch in his belt?

A Night in Heaven bombed in theaters, though its soundtrack, featuring Bryan Adams’ hit “Heaven” (Adams’ connection might be problematic now), gained some traction in pop culture. Unsurprisingly, the movie has a gay cult following. Enjoyably dumb and we get to see Christopher Atkins’ cock? How could we resist?

Even dumber is JUST CAN’T GET ENOUGH, a 2002 made-for-Here! TV movie about the rise of Chippendales in the early 1980s and its co-founder Somen Banerjee’s hiring of a hit man to kill choreographer Nick De Noia. The movie is quick to disabuse anyone of the notion that they are about to see a serious account with a title card that reads: What you are about to see pretty much happened. Although most of the names have been changed for legal reasons, we did use a few names of real people who, as a result of their untimely deaths (details to follow), can no longer sue.

But if you’re expecting to see a satirical take on a true crime story, à la To Die For or Bernie, guess again. Just Can’t Get Enough was written and directed by Dave Payne, and Dave Payne, whose credits include Alien Terminator, is no Gus Van Sant or Richard Linklater. What you get is the equivalent of Showgirls with the production values of Behind the Camera: The Unauthorized Story of ‘Dif’rent Strokes’, made slightly less awesome by the fact that Just Can’t Get Enough is self-aware. There is a lot of intentional, if poorly executed, comedy in Just Can’t Get Enough, like when a dancer lands in jail after whipping off his thong (the movie’s one shot of peen) and dry humping a female vice cop, but I also suspect the makers of this movie were hoping to hide this movie’s shittiness under the comedy label. Nice try, but no.

Hilarious.

I’ll give the movie this: the actors cast as Chippendales men do have some pretty hot bodies, especially Jonathan Aube as Chad, the club’s “innocent” host, who I found much more appealing than Christopher Atkins’ in A Night in Heaven. Whatever lustful feelings their bodies inspire is immediately undone by some horrendous wigs, however. A pre-Six Feet Under J.P. Pitoc, as the club’s cokehead emcee Clayton, appears to be wearing Lorraine Bracco’s hair from Goodfellas. At least Aube’s fake mustache isn’t too obvious.

Who wore it best?

A bit more disturbing than the wigs is the racism. Almost every character in this movie is an airhead, but you can subtract 20 extra I.Q. points if that character is a person of color. Banerjee wasn’t an easy guy to love, and he clearly made some questionable decisions, but this movie portrays him as a fucking moron. That actor Shelley Malil was evidently directed to really Apu the fuck out of the role doesn’t help matters. Worse is the Mexican hit man hired to off De Noia. It could be argued that his stupidity is attributable to his heroin addiction, not his nationality, but that’s a weak argument, considering the actor playing him, Alejandro Patiño, plays him like a white actor doing brown face. There is one lone black dancer in this movie’s Chippendales crew, but he’s nothing more than an extra. Considering how other people of color are treated in this movie, I’d say that actor dodged a bullet.

Grrrl!

Most of the acting in the movie ranges from barely passable to offensive, but Peter Nevargic as Nick De Noia deserves a special shout out, not for being especially skilled but for best embodying the campiness that the filmmakers claim they’re going for. Wearing over-sized aviator glasses and a Members Only jacket, Nevargic minces into every scene, teeth bared, ready to bite into every line. And when he bites, he bites down hard. Other than being called a faggot by a disgruntled dancer, De Noia’s sexuality is never remarked upon, but Nevargic makes it clear the choreographer is a vicious queen. He’s not on screen nearly enough.

Not all male stripper movies are stupid, as Magic Mike recently proved (not so its pointless sequel, Magic Mike XXL). And some male stripper movies are actually TV shows, like TOY BOY, a Spanish-made series currently streaming on Netflix. I was drawn to its male stripper-seeks-justice storyline, envisioning thong-clad men beating the shit out of people, something I’d hoped Jean Claude Van Damme might have treated us to in the ’90s. Alas, Toy Boy doesn’t give us something so glorious, though it’s still very much worth watching. Hugo (Jesús Mosquera) is a stripper framed for a murder he’s sure he didn’t commit (he was drugged at an orgy; how that flaming corpse ended up on his sailboat is a mystery to him), and once released from prison he seeks to clear his name by finding the real killer. Though he gets in plenty of dangerous situations, Hugo’s quest, aided by his lawyer Triana (Maria Pedraza), is more methodical than violent. The story that unfolds, involving rival wealthy families, corrupt policemen, rape, pedophilia, illicit affairs and doomed loves, is more Prime Time soap than crime thriller, and that’s OK. More than OK, in fact.

Though Mosquera and his exotic dancing brethren are easy on the eyes, it’s the women who make Toy Boy interesting. Macarena Medina (Cristina Castaño, stealing almost every scene she’s in), Hugo’s sugar mama until he was sent to prison for murdering her husband, is the show’s vixen character, a bit more dangerous than Dynasty’s Alexis Carrington but not quite as vicious as Game of Thrones’ Cersei Lannister. Just as ruthless is Benigna (Adelfa Calvo, also excellent), matriarch of the wealthy Rojas family. Benigna presents herself as a kindly grandmother, content to just tend to her tomato garden while her son-in-law manages the family fortune, but she’s a ball-breaker of a bitch behind the scenes. She’s a live action embodiment of Mom in Futurama.

Carlo Costanzia as Jairo.

There’s also a gay romance between one of the dancers, Jairo (Carlo Costanzia, whose got a Kit Harington sad-eyed-puppy thing going on), a mute, and Macarena’s blue-haired son Andrea (Juanjo Almeida), a basket case. The show is very matter of fact in its treatment of homosexuality. None of Jairo’s co-workers seem to care that he’s gay, only expressing concern that he’s turning tricks to supplement his income (never mind that Germán, the sole Black stripper, regularly services older women for cash), and Macarena is more concerned about her son’s mental health than his homosexuality. Jairo and Andrea’s relationship doesn’t really progress beyond the hand-holding stage, though this can be attributed to Andrea being a fucking mess. Most of same-sex action shown in Toy Boy occurs during drug-fueled orgies, as if gay sex is nothing more than a kink to be indulged once the molly kicks in.

It’s in the prurient interest department that Toy Boy disappoints. Sex scenes, straight and gay, are few and relatively tame, and the series is surprisingly stingy with the nudity. In scenes showcasing the dancers in action, of which there is at least one per episode, the men don’t even strip down to thongs but Speedos and boxcuts. You’d see more man ass in a season of American Horror Story, and don’t even think about seeing any dick.

You’ll see some dick in the 2018 documentary THIS ONE’S FOR THE LADIES — if you watch the NC-17 version, that is. What I saw streaming on Hulu was rated R and the exposed, erect cocks were all blurred out. In the words of one of the women interviewed, “Why’re you running? It’s just penis.” Fortunately, like Toy Boy, This One’s for the Ladies has more to offer than just bare flesh.*

Director Gene Graham focuses his camera the male exotic dance circuit in Newark, New Jersey. What sets Graham’s documentary apart from other docs about male dancers is he’s focusing on Black dancers (according to IMDb, Graham made this movie in response to the lack of diversity in the Magic Mike films). Though the temporary venues aren’t much, the shows are flamboyant, rowdy and plenty raunchy, making Magic Mike look like a church Christmas pageant. (Channing Tatum never sported a sequined cock sock on his stiff member or ate a cupcake off a woman’s ass.) “Y’all ready to see some sexy motherfuckers?” emcee Sweet Tee asks the crowd. Hell, yeah!

Among those sexy motherfuckers are Young Rider, who learned showmanship from a drag performing uncle; Fever, a hardcore Superman fan whose energetic performances make him a fan favorite; Satan, whose ripped body makes a church-going woman shudder with dirty thoughts (“…[H]e got up on stage, took his piece out, and I’ve just been in love with him ever since,” she gushes); and, my favorites, the brothers Raw Dog and Tygar, who were encouraged to dance after taking their shirts off at a house party. Only Tygar was interested initially: “Raw Dawg told me from the rip, ‘It’s gay and I don’t want nothing to do with it.’” As so often happens, money helped change Raw Dog’s mind.

One of Raw Dawg and Tygar’s promotional photos. Raw Dawg
had no worries about appearing incestuous, either.

There’s even a female dancer in the mix, Blaze. She a lesbian, but what’s interesting about her story is that she is able to find a place in the roster of male dancers, and that she has fans in an audience of straight women. “When Blaze is here I’m gay that one night,” says one fan, who goes by the handle Poundcake. I’m pretty sure audiences at  Penthouse Executive Club, say, would not be as accepting if a male dancer were introduced into the mix.

There’s a side of social commentary that creeps into this documentary, though it’s never explicitly addressed. The dancers and their fans live working class lives, and expectations are calibrated accordingly. One dance event, benefiting an autism organization, nets less than $300, which is nothing to sneeze at but still seems low. Yet the organizer deems the event a success. More positively is the strange sense of community that shown among the dancers and fans—strange only because it arises from doing Jell-O shots and watching men swing their dicks around. I can certainly think of worse causes for communities to coalesce.

*That said, when I watch a movie about strippers, I expect to see everything, goddammit.

The Divas’ Whore Complex

On the surface, NUTS and RENT-A-COP couldn’t be more different. One is a courtroom melodrama; the other a craptastic cop movie. One was meant to earn its star awards; the other exists to give its stars jobs. One was directed by Martin Ritt, director of such classics as Hud and Norma Rae; the other directed by Jerry London, director of the TV mini-series Shogun, as well as several episodes of Hogan’s Heroes, The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch. One was based on an acclaimed play written by Tom Topor, who also wrote the screenplay for The Accused; the other has a screenplay co-written by Michael Blodgett, who rocked leopard-print bikini briefs in Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.

But the movies have some distinct similarities. Both were made in 1987 and star Oscar®-winning gay icons playing hookers with incredibly irritating personalities. These divas are also the least convincing prostitutes in movie history, no mean feat given that Hollywood’s portrayal of sex work seldom represents reality.

Nuts stars Barbra Streisand, which, if you’re a hardcore Streisand fan, as I was in 1987, is pretty much all you need to know to be sold on the film. For those needing more of a plot synopsis, here goes: Claudia Draper (guess who?) is a call girl accused of murdering a john, but the issue isn’t proving her innocence, but rather proving Claudia’s mental fitness to stand trial. Her parents think it’s best that Claudia accept confinement to a mental institution rather than risk going to prison. Claudia wants her day in court, and with the help of her public defender (Richard Dreyfuss), she fights to prove she’s not crazy, she’s just a bitch.

Being a hardcore Streisand fan when this movie was released, I went to see it the weekend it opened, or possibly the weekend after (my early twenties are a bit of a repressed memory). The point is, I didn’t dawdle. And at the time I thought Nuts was excellent, one of the best, if not THE BEST, movies of 1987, and that Barbra should clear a space on her awards shelf for her inevitable Oscar® win. (Ultimately, she’d have to be content with a Golden Globe nomination.)

Though I still consider myself a Streisand fan, I’m well past my blind adoration of her. I re-watched Nuts recently and found it to be… OK. Just OK. Though attempts are made to open it up, it’s quite obviously based on a play, and a very dated one at that. Topor wrote his play in 1979, but the movie adaptation had me thinking of movies from an earlier time: the 1940s. Seriously, remove the profanity and references to overpriced blowjobs and Nuts would’ve been the perfect vehicle for Joan Crawford in 1948. Not only that, 1948 audiences might actually believe Joan as a hooker. Not so for Barbra in 1987.

Nuts wasn’t the first time Streisand was turned out. She played a hooker in the 1970 comedy The Owl and the Pussycat, and did so convincingly. In Pussycat, Streisand happily gets in touch with her trashy side in portraying prostitute/porn actress Doris, and she sells it. Streisand had starred in a string of G-rated musicals prior to being cast in the then R-rated Pussycat, so she was eager to get down and dirty, to show the world that the star of Funny Girl could wear lewd lingerie and drop f-bombs with the best of them.

Sometimes cheaper is better: Barbra in The Owl and the Pussycat
(left) and Barbra in Nuts.

In Nuts, however, Streisand has to Streisand. Claudia is a high-class call girl, not some sleazy ’ho. As shown in flashbacks, Claudia, tastefully and expensively dressed, joins her soon-to-be-murdered john (Leslie Nielsen!) for cocktails and suggestive repartee at a chic Manhattan restaurant before they go back to her place for (off camera) sex. It’s the Second Wife Experience. Claudia may flash her cooch to her attorney and graphically detail her services from the stand, but she’s still a lady, and a well-paid one at that. Which begs the question: Would a woman in her forties, who, though striking, is not conventionally attractive, and who I’m pretty confident would refuse to do anal, really command such a high price that she could afford the large, exquisitely decorated New York apartment she has in Nuts? Only if Barbra herself were turning tricks.

I’m also pretty confident Della, the hooker character Liza Minnelli plays in Rent-A-Cop, wouldn’t do anal, either, though, unlike Barbra’s Claudia, she’s a lot more flippant about her profession.

“Hey, Della, what’s happening?” asks a hotel desk clerk as she enters the lobby, dressed in a beaded red dress with a white fur boa around her neck. (An Amazon reviewer observed that Liza looks like she’s about to perform at the Sands.)

“Well, I don’t know yet,” Della replies. “That depends on if my date wants his mommy, Little Bo Peep or Helga the Bitch Goddess.” That’s right, kids: prostitution is just like playing dress-up!

 Liza-with-a-Z out to get some D.

Though made in 1987, the Burt Reynolds vehicle Rent-A-Cop wasn’t released until January 1988, lasting in theaters just long enough to be panned by critics before slinking off to collect dust on video store shelves. I watched it ironically last year, surprised to find that it wasn’t nearly as godawful as expected. It’s bad, yes, a flatly-directed jumble of clunky comedy, gritty action and straight-up camp, but it’s not unwatchable.

Reynolds, as the disgraced cop Tony “Churchy” Church, hired by Della to protect her from a ruthless killer, gives the performance of a man who’s just beginning to realize his leading man days are coming to a close. Minnelli, breathless and jittery, gives the performance of someone who likes a little coffee with her cocaine. (Minnelli had gone through rehab in 1984, but if any movie would cause a relapse, Rent-A-Cop is that movie.) In Minnelli’s defense, her jangly performance fits the character. She isn’t bad. In fact, I’d go so far as to say Minnelli gives a better performance in this shitty movie than Barbra gives in her Oscar® bait role. But never once did I believe Liza as a woman who is paid for sex.

That said, if I had to choose between hiring either diva for the evening, I’d go with Liza. I’m not really a Liza fan, but she seems like she’d be more pleasant company, or at least less likely to make me cry. And, besides, Liza’s used to dating gay men.