A Story of Big Business and Blue Balls

Harry Whittington is one of my favorite novelists, so I’m kind of surprised I’m just now getting around to reviewing one of his books. But better late than never, and this particular book is even somewhat topical, it being about the railroad industry, which is kind of a hot topic in the U.S. now. Although the likelihood of people following the disaster in East Palistine, Ohio, immediately seeking out historical fiction about the expansion of a railroad in Florida during the 1800s is negligible, I figure it’s worth a shot.

Anyway, back to Harry. I first discovered Harry Whittington when I caught the movie adaptation of his 1956 novel Desire in the Dust on the Fox Movie Channel, back when that was a thing. I thought the movie was awesome and immediately sought out the book, which was just as good. Since then, I’ve been going on periodic eBay binges, searching out his work. Luckily, there’s a lot to choose from, and in a wide variety of genres: westerns, crime thrillers, mysteries, sexploitation, soapy potboilers and even queer pulp.

Of course, not all of Whittington’s books were written under his own name. Among his many pseudonyms was the name Blaine Stevens, which he used for a trio of historical epics he published in the very late 1970s and early ’80s, the first of which was 1979’s THE OUTLANDERS.

Set in the late 1800s, The Outlanders is the story of Ward Hamilton, a man with a dream: to own his own railroad. He’s so driven to achieve this goal that he hunts down his older brother Robert, wanted for stealing $100 thou in gold, so he can collect the $20,000 bounty. Also, he wants to know where Robert hid the gold. “I can use that money you stole,” the 19-year-old Ward explains to Robert when he finds him, hiding in a shack in the wilds of Florida with his servant (and recently freed slave) Thetis, “and warrant you a tenfold return you’ll never get with it planted somewhere in the ground.” Robert, out of spite, doesn’t admit to having stolen the gold, let alone divulge where it’s hidden. Ward will just have to make do with the $20 grand reward money.

Twenty-thousand dollars isn’t enough to buy a railroad, but Ward doesn’t let that stop him from bidding on the East Florida & Gulf Central railroad when he learns it’s for sale—information he gets when he beds the frustrated wife of its owner (“It’s been ten years since [my husband has] had an erection. Five since he’s wanted one.”) With some financial sleight of hand and the kind of self-confidence only found in those too young to know better, Ward’s bid for EF&GC is accepted. Now he must cover the full purchase price. So, he heads to Atlanta, where he calls on Lily Harkness, the prettiest of the Harkness daughters and Robert’s fiancée prior to his incarceration. She’s pretty, sure, but what Ward wants as much as access to her pussy is her knowledge of where Robert stashed the hidden loot—surely, he’d have told the person he loved the most. He gets neither, even when they marry. Lily has her own motive for marrying Ward, and that motive ain’t sex, the very concept of which she finds disgusting (the couple only bones two times during their decade-long marriage). Worse, Lily has no clue where Robert stashed the stolen gold (hint: the person Robert loved the most was not a woman). Ward gets more out of a business arrangement with one of Lily’s other suitors, the homely but goodhearted bank vice-president Hobart Bayard, from whose bank Ward secures a generous line of credit.

As the story progresses, Ward’s business success increases while his home life becomes more and more miserable. He and Lily have two children, only one of which is Ward’s: a son, Robin, and daughter, Belle. Lily becomes a religious nut, and then just plain insane. Ward isn’t always the easiest guy to root for — he’s a bastard in many instances — and his reasons for courting Lily were hardly admirable, but it’s hard not to feel a little sorry for him as he tries to do everything possible to give Lily a happy life, only to see her grow more hostile, poisoning Robin against him and resenting Belle for her closeness to Ward. Lily is also a sad case, but since The Outlanders is told from Ward’s point of view her behavior is often presented as the result of her being a spoiled bitch and not mental illness.

Adding to the tension is Julia Fredrick, the daughter of Dayton Fredrick, a one-time successful developer who was depending on buying EF&GC to transport vacationers to his struggling resort in Port St. Joe, Florida. When the two first meet, Julia is a precocious 13-year-old who develops an immediate crush on the young Ward Hamilton, which, fortunately, Ward doesn’t take advantage of even though the book is set at a time when sex with underage girls wasn’t necessarily frowned upon (“I like to pluck ‘em young, too,” a sleazy EF&CG rail executive tells Ward conspiratorially when he discovers Dayton Fredrick’s teen daughter in Ward’s company). Her feelings change, kind of, when Ward buys EF&GC, and she swears she hates him as much as she loves him, even though Ward and her father continue to be friendly. Ward’s feelings also change, from viewing Julia as a smartass kid to seeing her as a woman and realizing he has romantic feelings for her (mitigating factor: by the time Julia is in her twenties Ward’s balls are the color of Concorde grapes).

Ward’s fortunes begin to turn as the 19th century draws to a close. He is granted a divorce from Lily, but by the time it’s final Julia has married someone else — Hobart Bayard, now a bank president. Ward’s son Robin will have nothing to do with him, while Belle is uncontrollable, having been kicked out of every school she’s been enrolled in. Then Belle marries Laddie, an arrogant aspiring artist and abusive prick who beats Belle as regularly as she cheats on him. 

The stresses aren’t confined to Ward’s personal life, however. Industrialist Henry Flagler needs a railroad to transport guests to his Ponce de Leon Hotel in St. Augustine, and the railroad he wants to buy is Ward’s. He asks Ward to name his price, but Ward is too proud to sell. But Flagler’s not the type of man to take no for an answer. If Ward isn’t going to sell willingly, Flagler will use his power and influence to make sure he’ll have to sell. Still, Ward holds out, until a hurricane forces his hand.

Harry Whittington by Any Other Name is Just as Good

I’ll admit that I was wary of this one before I started reading it. Several years ago, I read Whittington’s second Blaine Stevens novel, Embrace the Wind, which was marketed as a bodice-ripping romance, and found it tough going for its first fifty pages or so, when Whittington really leans into the romance genre, adopting an uncharacteristically florid prose style (the book picks up when it becomes more of an adventure story). Thankfully, Whittington keeps the flowery descriptions to a minimum in The Outlanders, the novel being more discount John Jakes than Johanna Lindsey rip-off, though the eBay seller I bought it from categorized it as a western, probably because of the cover.

The Harry Whittington copyright
was enough to sell me on this book.

Essentially a rags-to-riches story, The Outlanders doesn’t necessarily offer a lot of surprises—you’ll realize early on that Dayton Frederick’s story foreshadows Ward’s, that Ward and Julia are destined to end up together—but that doesn’t diminish its entertainment value. Whittington’s writing keeps the story moving, and he cleverly weaves in real people (Flagler, Dr. Lue Gim Gong) and events (e.g., using prison labor to build railroads), as well as a few Easter eggs. One character that I thought was a real person in history was Marve Pooser, leader of a homesteader uprising against Ward’s ever-expanding railroad. I was sure I’d read about him somewhere before. And I had: that was the name of the villain in Whittington’s 1959 novel, A Moment to Prey (a.k.a. Backwoods Tramp).

If I have one quibble with the book, it’s that while Whittington successfully keeps us in the world of the late 1870s, a few of his characters behave as if they stepped out of the 1970s, specifically Julia. Yes, she’s supposed to be wise beyond her years, but sometimes she’s a little too sexually blunt for the time. The likelihood of a young woman in this time period declaring, in her father’s company, that she would like to go to bed with a man, and that her father would not rebuke her for doing so, strains credulity. Less anachronistic, though still behavior more closely associated with our time, is when Ward’s sister-in-law Lavinia seduces him (hey, Ward was bound to stray sooner or later), immediately giving him a BJ (He felt her face pressed against him, her breath across her parted lips hot and moist upon his glans). I realize blowjobs were discovered long before the Summer of Love, but I don’t think one would be so freely given by a young woman with limited sexual experience and raised in the Antebellum South. But considering that readers of the 1970s expected at least a dash of smut in their pop fiction, this can be written off as fan service. The sex scenes, BTW, aren’t all that frequent and are just explicit enough to make it clear what’s going on without straying too far into raunch.

I find Harry Whittington to be a safe bet, no matter what the genre. Even his lesser books are, if nothing else, entertaining. The Outlanders, while no classic, is a satisfying read, well worth checking out if you should happen upon a reasonably-priced copy.

Short Takes: ‘The Leather Boys’ (1964) ★★★ 1/2

A gay-themed movie entitled The Leather Boys suggests it’s a porno about twinks being initiated into the world of BDSM. Except, remarkably, there isn’t a gay adult feature by that name, at least not one I could find (the closest I got was a video series of suspect quality called Little Tattoo Leather Boy, Parts 1-3). No, The Leather Boys is a 1964 British drama about a young married couple and the man who tries to come between them.

Dot (Rita Tushingham, who most recently appeared in 2021’s Last Night in Soho) is a teenager in love with Reggie (Colin Campbell), a cute biker who wants to make her his bride. Their parents’ reaction to their engagement speaks volumes about their home lives: Reggie’s parents, who at best share a grudging tolerance for each other, savor a bit of schadenfreude at the thought of the teens’ doomed marriage, while Dot’s mother looks forward to her 16-year-old daughter getting hitched so she can rent out Dot’s room. The teen couple may be too young to get married, but who can blame them for wanting to get out from under their respective parents’ roofs ASAP?

We see the first sign of trouble during the couple’s honeymoon at Butlin’s Camp. Dot wants to experience all the resort has to offer; Reggie just wants to stay in their room and bone (“If you must know, I’ve had enough,” Dot says). Things only go downhill from there. Dot wants Reggie to take care of her, funding her shopping sprees and trips to the hair salon, but Reggie wants Dot to take care of him, keeping their one-room flat clean and having dinner—preferably something other than canned beans—waiting when he gets home from work. And forget sex. They argue more than fuck.

Reggie starts spending more time down at the Ace Cafe, the diner where all his biker buddies hang out. (I call them bikers, but they have more in common with middle-aged motorcycle enthusiasts than Hell's Angels.) This is where he meets Pete (Dudley Sutton), a slightly older guy who leads a seemingly carefree, itinerant life of a merchant marine. Reggie and Pete become fast friends, spending more and more time together—practically living together when Pete rents a room from Reggie’s grandmother. Dot is coached by her mother to lie about being pregnant to force Reggie’s return to their marriage. The ploy fails, with Reggie preferring Pete’s company. It’s only when Dot snarls that he and Pete “look like a couple of queers,” that Reggie begins to worry about the optics of their friendship. He’s quickly talked out of those fears—by Pete, who clearly wants to be more than just friends. Still, Reggie starts to rekindle his relationship with Dot, but don’t expect a happy ending for any of the three main characters.

I knew nothing of this “classic [of] ’60s British cinema” before putting it in my Tubi queue, so I went into The Leather Boys expecting a campy good time. But instead of something kitschy like The Set, you get a kitchen sink drama akin to Tushingham’s film debut, A Taste of Honey. 

Though Dot’s blond helmet rivals some of
the ’dos in John Waters’ Hairspray.

Screenwriter Gillian Freeman adapted The Leather Boys from her novel of the same title, and though she was credited under her own name for the movie, her book was published under the pseudonym Eliot George. According to Wikipedia (I haven’t read the book, though I might now that I’ve found an affordable reprint), the relationship between Reggie and Pete is more explicitly gay than in the movie, though still quite restrained (i.e., don’t expect graphic descriptions of cock sucking and butt fucking, though do expect Dick, as that’s Pete’s name in the book). Fortunately, not much is lost in the story’s sanitation for the screen, thanks largely to the quality of the production. Tushingham, Campbell and Sutton are all excellent. Even though the story is kind of straight-washed, the character of Pete is sensitively handled. He’s not a villain, he’s just fallen for a guy who doesn't like him in “that way.” Director Sidney J. Furie treats the material with respect, delivering a film that’s far more thoughtful and stylish than what I’d expected. (There are a lot of acclaimed titles in Furie’s filmography, but he also directed Superman IV: The Quest for Peace, so The Leather Boys really could’ve gone either way.) While I’m disappointed that I can’t make fun of this one, I can’t complain when my exploration of cinematic trash unearths a genuine treasure.

Short Takes: 'Cola de Mono' (2018) ★★★

A rare instance when the movie
delivers what its poster promises.

Spending Christmas at home does not always mean saving the family business, finding love and exploring the erotic possibilities of candy canes. While the characters of Chilean writer-director Alberto Fuguet’s Cola de Mono are also into sexual exploration—though not with holiday candy—their Christmas is primarily spent dealing with feelings of loneliness, alienation, and getting hammered on the movie’s titular cocktail.

It’s Christmas Eve, 1986, and Santiago teenager Borja (a very effective Cristóbal Rodríguez Costabal) is whiling away his time reading Stephen King, pestering his older brother Vincente (Cristóbal’s real-life brother Santiago Rodríguez Costabal) and irritating his embittered mother (Carmina Riego). “Pay respect to the occasion,” he tells her during dinner. “God was born today.” “And he was killed 33 years later,” his mother sniffs.

After Mama puts herself to bed with pills and booze, the brothers embark on separate sexual journeys. Vincente goes cruising in a city park, while Borja breaks into his brother’s locked room and riffles through his things, discovering Vincente’s poorly hidden collection of gay skin magazines. It’s all sexy fun until a sexual assault/bashing sends Vincente running home, only to discover his privacy violated and that he and his brother have a shared secret, a secret that Borja shows little interest keeping. “We’re alike,” Borja taunts. “We’re brothers. And we like cock.” Then Mama comes to and overhears her sons, at which point the movie suddenly becomes a thriller.

Cola de Mono, its title referencing both an eggnog-like drink and a gay slur in Chile, gets a lot of attention for featuring copious amounts of male nudity and explicit sex (including a brief unsimulated blowjob), but for me its appeal is largely nostalgic. The 1980s pop culture references, from Borja liking books by King and Robin Cook to the boys decorating their rooms with movie posters for Desperately Seeking Susan and the more obscure Willie & Phil, were a treat, as was Fuguet’s resurrecting adolescent memories of hoarding gay porn mags and ogling guys wearing tight polyester gym shorts, with the added bonus that this time I could do so openly if not guilt-free. (I’m sure Cristóbal Rodríguez Costabal is of age, but I felt a little pervy admiring the ass of what is supposed to be a 15- or 16-year-old, though clearly the movie’s marketing team weren’t as conflicted).

As much as I enjoyed Cola de Mono for artistic and prurient reasons, the movie veers off course in its final third when it jumps to 1999, following an adult Borja (now played by Santiago Rodríguez Costabal, sporting a full beard) in what’s essentially an extended epilogue. This part of the movie, which includes a long sequence set inside a gay bathhouse, is titillating, but it serves little purpose beyond adding some bonus sex and nudity. Fuguet hurts his movie further by giving it a shocking ending, then muddying the waters by suggesting it was a film within a film. As much as I appreciated the extra skin, Fuguet would’ve done better to confine Cola de Mono's narrative to 1986. 

Queer Christmas 2022 Gets Sweet n' Sticky

It probably has nothing to do with conservatives getting all worked up over LGBTQs—especially Ts—in 2022 (it’s 2004 all over again!), but there was a dearth of queer-themed holiday movies this year compared to last. Though I only reviewed Single All the Way, 2021 also had The Christmas House 2: Deck Those Halls; Under the Christmas Tree; The Bitch Who Stole Christmas; Love, Classified; Christmas at the Ranch; Christmas on the Farm; and A Jenkins Family Christmas. Christmas 2022 has a paltry three LGBTQ-themed holiday movies (four if you count Falling for Christmas, Lindsay Lohan’s attempt at a soft comeback on Netflix, which I do not).

Though Merry & Gay provided an opportunity to shine a spotlight on some lesbian holiday action and A Christmas to Treasure, a Lifetime movie directed by Jake Helgren, provided low-hanging fruit ripe for picking, I decided to check out Hallmark’s THE HOLIDAY SITTER, starring The Christmas House’s Jonathan Bennett.

But then I learned about another queer holiday movie, Falcon Studios’ CUMMING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS. Though I really didn’t want to subscribe to another streaming service, I figured, what the hell, it’s Christmas. Besides, Falcon was having a sale on memberships. How could I resist?

The two movies do have a lot of similarities. Both feature main characters who lead very hectic lives in New York City, played by men who nicely fill out a pair of slacks, though I suspect only one of them is wearing any underwear. In Sitter, Sam (Jonathan Bennett) is a financial adviser to the super rich. “Right now, I’m trying to convince one client not to buy a social media company,” he tells a date at the beginning of the movie. In Cumming, Dan (Dan Saxon) is an attorney working “twenty-four-hour days.” Maybe that’s why he’s so sleepy.

Jonathan Bennett (right) of The Holiday Sitter and Dan Saxon
of Cumming Home for Christmas play very busy men, though
only one appears to be handling the stress well (#edibles).

The characters in both movies visit families living in smaller towns for the holidays, albeit on different coasts and for different reasons. Sam originally planned on spending his holidays in Hawaii, but as he’s packing for his trip, he gets a call from his sister Kathleen (Chelsea Hobbs), asking for a favor. The surrogate with whom she and her husband Nate (Matthew James Dowden) are having a baby has gone into labor a week early. Could he watch his 13-year-nephew Miles (Everette Andres) and 8-year-old niece Dania (Mila Morgan) while they go retrieve their newborn? He’s not their preferred choice, but Mom’s in Italy and Dad’s up at the hunting cabin in Vermont where there’s no cell reception. Sam may be career-obsessed and self-absorbed, but he’s not an asshole, so he reluctantly agrees to watch his niece and nephew, postponing his trip to Hawaii and heading for the New York suburbs.

Dan, on the other hand, travels to sunny California where his brother Trevor (Trevor Brooks) lives in the family home with his partner Dakota (Dakota Payne), simply because he wants to visit. So, clearly, Dan doesn’t need to be guilted into spending time with his family. Maybe that’s because his family, unlike Sam’s in Sitter, doesn’t give him shit about putting so much energy into his career.

Jonathan Bennett smiles bravely as he walks through hell.

Of course, the families in both movies have gone all out for Christmas. Sitter’s fictional suburb of Brayden has an edge simply because it has snow and almost all its residents—all as white as the snow blanketing their town—seem to always be fighting back an urge to sing carols. In sharp contrast, there are hardly any other residents in the un-named town where Cumming is set, and the ones we do meet, while a bit more racially diverse, all appear to have a take-it-or-leave-it attitude towards the holiday, which I fear unfairly plays into conservative beliefs that the godless liberals of California have outlawed celebrating Jesus’ birthday and are mandating gay marriage between the races. However, the people populating both movies—none of whom appear to earn less than six figures—have appropriately and tastefully decked their halls, though the holiday décor of Cumming appears to be a little more upscale, like a Neiman-Marcus Christmas display. The holiday decorations of Brayden, on the other hand, are accessible to any Target shopper.

Jason (George Krissa) kisses his Mr. Right in The Holiday Sitter
while Dan Saxon kisses his Mr. Right Now, Cole Connor, in
Cumming Home for Christmas.

But while everyone in both movies appears to have ample income, not everyone enjoys financial security. Jason (George Krissa), the attractive contractor in Sitter who lives next door to Kathleen and Nate (not Kate n’ Nate, though that seems too precious for Hallmark to pass up so maybe I’m misremembering), is doing alright, but he’ll need additional funds to cover attorney fees if he goes forward with plans to adopt a child in the coming year. This need for extra cash is why Jason accepts Sam’s offer to hire him as a “co-nanny. Or manny.” Also, Jason has a bit of crush on Sam, the power of boners making him deaf to cringe portmanteaus.

The financial concerns are a bit more dire in Cumming. Trevor tells Dan that the family bakery is not doing well and could close its doors for good if business doesn’t pick up before Christmas. A bigger, corporate bakery is already angling to buy them out, cheap. As in Sitter, help comes from outside the family unit, in the muscular form of Dan’s high school boyfriend DeAngelo Jackson, played by—you guessed it—DeAngelo Jackson. Though Dan is initially reticent about getting back together with DeAngelo, he soon lets him back into his life. When Dan tells DeAngelo about the plight of the family bakery, his former-soon-to-be-current beau offers to help, arranging a meeting between DeAngelo’s friend Isaiah Taye, who “runs a bunch of restaurants in the area,” and Dakota.

Dakota is a shrewder negotiator than Trevor.

The kitchen figures in the narratives of both movies as well. Sitter establishes that Sam is not much of a cook, the movie frequently referencing the last time he babysat Miles and Dania and nearly burned down Kathleen and Nate’s house (he burned a fucking omelet, but that was enough for Kathleen and Nate to file an insurance claim, apparently). However, after Jason, who’s a fabulous cook, teaches Sam how to squirt Redi-Wip on pancakes, Sam’s suddenly whipping up a whole breakfast buffet, complete with vegan options.

Which is about as believable as the movie’s assertion those
muffins are homemade.

Meanwhile, in Cumming, DeAngelo assists Dan in the kitchen when (spoiler alert!) Isaiah Taye orders a thousand holiday cookies to serve in his restaurants. Why is the attorney being tasked with fulfilling this order and not his brother or Dakota—you know, the guys who actually run the bakery? Well, because Trevor and Dakota “have some making up to do in the bedroom.” This casual disregard for overseeing operations gives the audience insight as to why their bakery was failing to begin with. Alas, leaving Dan and DeAngelo unsupervised further jeopardizes the bakery’s future. At least when Sam finally declares his love for Jason, he has the courtesy to do so in a fashion that does not get pubes in his family’s Christmas morning breakfast.

The lawsuits alone will finish this bakery once clients discover
where the butter has been.

Who Christmases Best?

TV holiday movies are so formulaic that whether they feature CisHet or queer leads, Whites or people of color, you pretty much know what you’re in for and The Holiday Sitter and Cumming Home for Christmas are no exception. Both exist in a fantasy world where all problems, be they personal or financial, are easily solved with a Christmas miracle. The Sitter at least takes a moment to acknowledge the realities of gay life, albeit mildly, as when Sam tells Kathleen about why he’s never considered fatherhood: “You’ve known your whole life that marriage and kids were at least an option. That hasn’t been my experience.”

Yet, while Falcon gets props for casting people of color in Cumming Home for Christmas, it makes no mention of LGBTQ’s historic struggles to get the rights to marry and to adopt, instead perpetuating the myth that the only hardship a gay man faces is having to decide which hot guy to fuck and when. Well, that has not been my experience, Falcon Studios. On the other hand, it was refreshing to see a queer storyline in the 2020s that didn’t feel beholden to hetero-normative values. As John Waters once observed, not having kids is one of the privileges of being gay.

The subtle acting style of Jonathan Bennett.

Both The Holiday Sitter and Cumming Home for Christmas have strong production values, with Sitter feeling a bit more TV bound (please don’t judge the cinematography on the shitty SD stills in this post) while Cumming directors Steve Cruz and Ben Rush give their movie a more vibrant, cinematic feel. Alas, when it comes to acting, Sitter is the hands-down winner, though only Bennett truly shines (Bennett also has a story credit and was one of The Holiday Sitter’s executive producers, so this may be by design). He mugs shamelessly, but he still makes for a charming lead. Though there are a couple standout performances in Cumming Home for Christmas (Dakota Payne and Cole Connor, in a bit part as one of Dan’s hookups), most of the cast are so wooden you could use them for tentpoles. Dan Saxon has beautiful eyes and a sweet smile, but you’ll never believe for a moment that he has a job that requires an advanced degree.

Cade Maddox and Taylor Reign make
ATM festive (but no less disgusting)
for the holidays.

Of course, how can audiences expect Emmy (or Grabby) winning acting when both movies trade in cliches, with characters so blandly written that you barely remember them (this might be why Cumming’s screenwriter Rush just has the performers’ names double as character names). There are a few attempts early in Cumming to suggest it will be campy fun (Dakota: “I thought the main characters couldn’t even kiss until the last frame of these holiday greeting card movies.” Trevor: “But did anyone ever say no anal in act one?”), but that’s quickly dropped once the fucking starts, and then it’s the same ol’ “suck that big dick” drivel we’ve heard time and time again. That said, I would adopt a child just so I could sacrifice it if George Krissa were to gasp, “Oh, I love your hole,” before burying his face in Bennett’s ass, just as Dakota Payne does before giving Trevor Brooks a toe-curling rim job in Cumming.

Ultimately, for all their similarities, The Holiday Sitter is the better of the two queer Christmas movies. However, Cumming Home for Christmas does set itself apart in one important way: it’s likely one of the few Christmas movies you’ll see this year to feature candy cane butt play.

Your move, Hallmark.

A Kennedy Era ‘Melrose Place’

For all the racy passages in L.A. 46, what
got me hard was the revelation that the
luxury building at the center of the book’s
action had rents as low as $275*.

Despite evidence to the contrary, I don’t seek out books set in expensive hotels or apartment buildings, but they always seem to find me. I was hunting for a vintage paperback copy of Day Keene’s Joy House on eBay (OK, another book that has a piece of real estate in the title, but it’s a single-family residence, not a multi-family), despairing that I couldn’t find any copies under $150, when I found two other Day Keene titles that looked wonderfully lurid, and for the combined price of $15. One of those novels was 1964’s L.A. 46.

The title refers to the postal zone for West Hollywood (this book was written ahead of the introduction of the ZIP code), specifically the stretch of Melrose between Doheny and La Brea. And in that area is the Casa del Sol, a luxury apartment building open to anyone who can afford it, be they psychiatrists to the stars, high class call girls, or small-town hicks with big city dreams—all are welcome so long as they don’t have pets or children.

Casa del Sol’s no children policy means the newly pregnant Eva Mazeric and her husband Paul, both WWII refugees, will have to find a more child-friendly place to live, but this is the least of Eva’s troubles. And Eva, though beautiful and seemingly happy, has had a lot of troubles in her young life, from losing her family during the Soviet occupation of Hungary to enduring (and, sometimes, guiltily enjoying) sexual abuse while in displaced persons camps and with a foster family. What’s got her so despondent that she seeks out the help of psychiatrist—or “sickey-ackey”—Dr. Jack Gam, who resides in the Casa del Sol’s penthouse, is learning that her older brother, whom she never knew, is still alive and living much, much closer than she’d like.

Dr. Gam has problems of his own. One of his patients, movie goddess (and Marilyn Monroe analog) Gloria Ames, has died of a drug overdose, putting Dr. Gam on the radar of police looking for answers and news media hungry for Hollywood scandal. So, he’s a bit preoccupied when Eva shows up for her appointment, and easily irritated when Eva can’t bring herself to discuss what’s got her so upset (“So, what’s your problem, Eva?”) Eva cuts the appointment short, apologizing for wasting the doctor’s time. Dr. Gam’s failure to gain Eva’s confidence, not to mention the suicide of his high-profile patient, has him wondering if he’s in the right line of work. The reader will also come to wonder about Dr. Gam’s aptitude for his profession as he comes across less a compassionate healer than a professional mansplainer.

Another Casa del Sol resident having a shitty day is “second-rate fighter” Marty Romero, a.k.a. Marty the Wonder Boy. When he’s not in the ring, Marty spends his days sexually harassing all the women in the building, including plump matron Mrs. Katz. Even his own mother can’t stand him. Finally sick of Marty’s shit—and taking care of Marty’s neglected wife Alicia and son Pepe —Mama Romero informs her son during one of his visits that he won’t be leaving alone; he’ll be taking Alicia and Pepe with him. And if he doesn’t? Well, maybe the boxing commission would be interested in hearing about how Marty threw his last fight. Then, just to make it clear she’s out of fucks to give, Mama Romero tells her son she wished she’d aborted him (“A goose quill I should have used before I brought such a son into the world.”)

As the book progresses, Eva falls apart, Dr. Gam falls for Eva, and Marty flips the fuck out. But while the bulk of L.A. 46 revolves around Eva, Dr. Gam and Marty, there are a host of other characters residing at Casa del Sol, far too many to be developed properly in a 250-page book. Those other characters include Lili Marlene, a one-time child star now earning a living as a stripper; Ernie Katz, a retiree whose business in New York didn’t always operate within the law; Colette, a high-priced call girl; has-been film director Mike Melkha, who spends his days drinking on the lanai and blaming his flops on a public too dumb to understand his work (sounds familiar); and Grace Arness, a model who, per the back cover copy, “pursued a strange kind of love.” Only Ruby Morgan, a rebellious teenager (exempted from the apartment complex's no child policy, evidently) living with—and desperately trying to get away from—her older sister and brother-in-law, gets a full-fledged story arc. 

A Banker Going Down on Mama and
Other Unsettling Childhood Memories

Day Keene (née Gunard Hjertstedt), better known for his hard-boiled crime thrillers like So Dead My Lovely and Home is the Sailor, is not an author you’d expect to write a melodramatic potboiler. Then again, he was the head writer for a few radio soap operas, so maybe it’s not that unexpected. He certainly had the talent to write this “Peyton Place of the West Coast,” to quote the cover’s ill-fitting teaser copy. (Peyton Place was notorious for exposing the sleazy underbelly of a genteel New England town, while Los Angeles’ trashy side was never much of a secret. Adultery, rape, incest and abortion in 1950s small town America? Shocking! In Los Angeles? That’s a slow Tuesday, even in the 1950s.)

And Keene goes for it, peppering L.A. 46 with several scenes of sexual debauchery, like Ruby’s sister Vera recalling a moment from their childhood, after their father had died and her mother faced foreclosure from the bank. To save the family farm, the girls’ mother gives in to banker Mr. Cronkite’s sexual advances, telling him she won’t enjoy it. Unbeknownst to Mama, her daughters are spying on the action through a crack in the window shutters.

[Vera had] seen animals serviced. She’d listened to her father and mother for years. But this was the first time she’d seen a man and a woman close coupled and the sight of Mr. Cronkite’s rigid protruding flesh, huge out of all proportion to the rest of him, first disappearing into then emerging briefly from the hairy patch between her mother’s thighs, had at the same time so excited and disgusted her that despite Ruby’s protests she’d had to leave the window and be sick.

It had gone on like that all afternoon. Every time she stood barefooted in the hot dust outside the window, the man from the bank had been beating his lean flanks and scrawny buttock even leaner. Then toward the late afternoon when she peered through the crack in the shutter, she thought Mr. Cronkite had gone. At first all she’d been able to see was her mother laying with her back arched and her head thrown back and her eyes closed and her lips drawn away from her teeth as she made small, animal sounds in her throat. Then looking on down between the massive breasts and equally massive thighs and drawn-up knees, she’d seen the top of Mr. Cronkite’s bald head rising and falling industriously, like a banty rooster pecking corn.

It’s not exactly spank-bank material, but still fairly explicit for a book penned in the early 1960s. Keene is just as detailed in his writing of Eva’s childhood sexual abuse, which had me wondering if these scenes were meant to be titillating or just shocking? It’s also interesting to note that it’s only when the sex is coerced or transactional that Keene provides more graphic descriptions. Good, clean romantic —or at least consensual—sex usually happens off page.

I don’t know if Keene was judging readers looking for smut by making the more explicit sex scenes the novel’s more unsettling situations, but he definitely judges some of his characters. As much as I’d like to say he’s surprisingly progressive, many of Keene’s depictions are very much in alignment with people of his generation. So, expect plenty of sexism and homophobia, with just a soupçon of casual racism. Though he writes of Grace, the “lesb” model, with some empathy, she is presented as someone who is broken and therefore needs to be “fixed.” More disheartening is that Grace also thinks there’s something wrong with her. When Ernie Katz comes to her aid after she’s been raped, Grace says: “I’d almost wished I enjoyed it. You don’t think I want to be the way I am, do you?” This attitude is mitigated, somewhat, by Katz, who tells Grace that she should be able to live with her “problem.” “People have lived with worse,” he says, later adding: “What can you expect from a world that was made in six days?” Grace’s rape, BTW, goes unreported because she fears it could cost her her job should it get in the papers. So, yeah, there are some fucked-up attitudes here.

But Keene also skewers some of the attitudes of his (and our) time, particularly regarding the media, represented in L.A. 46 by one of its residents, John Johns, a TV pundit whose name telegraphs that he's not meant to be taken seriously. Though Johns regularly spouts his “liberal” views on air (his editorials are only mildly progressive; readers today would be forgiven for mistaking him for a moderate Republican), his only deeply held belief is that the more controversial his positions, the greater the ratings. He’s nothing more than a rabble rouser. He even conspires with his wife to invite Marty’s poor wife and son over to their apartment for brunch, not out of genuine kindness but because it builds up his own image as the compassionate liberal, not to mention there’s the added kick of pissing off the neighbors. (“Are you certain you don’t believe some of that stuff you broadcast?” Johns’ wife asks.)

Overall, L.A. 46 is better-than-average trash fiction, with Keene steering this Kennedy era Melrose Place toward a violent conclusion worthy of the crime thrillers he’s more famous for. And it’s Keene’s crime fiction that I’ll continue seeking out, though I think I’ll just have to make peace with the fact that if I want to read Joy House and still be able to afford groceries I’ll have to settle on the more reasonably priced (and decidedly less cool looking) Stark House edition. What else can I expect from a world made in six days?

*That’s a boner-killing $2,411 in 2022 dollars, but possibly still worth wanking over depending on where you live.

Self-Discovery Through Camp and Cocksucking

What makes journeys of self-discovery exciting—and scary—is the unknown. You’re travelling to an undefined destination with only a vague idea of what direction you’re headed. If you’re secure enough to know where you’re going and how to get there, then there’s no need to start the journey—you’ve discovered your “self” already.

But often self-discovery doesn’t start as a journey; it’s more like a prison escape. Escape is foremost in the mind of Paul (Sean Myers, billed as Sean McEuan) when he leaves the dreary seaside town where he lives with his miserable parents for the swinging life of 1969 Sydney in the 1970 Australian movie THE SET.

The catalyst for Paul’s departure is not, surprisingly, his crater-faced father insisting Paul take a job at the shipyards rather than waste his time at some candy-ass college. No, it’s after some beach ballin’ with his girlfriend Cara (Amber Rodgers, billed as Julie Rodgers), when she reveals that while in boarding school, she had an affair with—OMG!—a girl. This admission so horrifies Paul that he runs away, bare-assed naked, lest he get any more of Cara’s Sapphic cooties on him. 

Paul doesn’t stay mad at Cara for long. Also, this scene is
allegedly taking place at night (during May in Fairbanks,
Alaska, apparently.)

Paul then moves to Sydney. While on break from his department store job, he admires the window display of a downtown antiques store. On the other side of the glass Paul is admired by the store’s owner, renowned designer Marie Rosefield (Brenda Senders). Marie’s visiting GBF, Theo (Tracey Lee), is also intrigued by the young handsome window shopper, but politely waits his turn, letting Marie call dibs. Marie, encouraged that Paul is familiar with her work, happily takes the cute bumpkin under her wing, hoping he’ll eventually work his way under her skirt. She even goes so far as to recommend him as an assistant to the famous artist Mark Bronski (Denis Doonan, whose Van Dyke, despite all appearances, is not made of felt). All Paul has to do is make a good impression when he meets Bronski at a party, something Paul immediately jeopardizes by downing two drinks in rapid succession. I’ll admit I had trouble staying focused on the drama of this scene as I was too distracted by the Lhasa Apso sitting on Marie’s head.

The Set didn’t win any awards, but Brenda Senders’ hair
deserved Best in Show.

Though Paul’s drinking too much and too quickly, it’s Marie who gets drunk, and Marie’s a bitter drunk. After watching Paul cut a rug with a much younger woman wearing a halter jumpsuit similar to Marie’s, Marie demands Paul go home with her and repay her years of kindness (though viewers will swear only a few months have passed) by allowing use of his young, firm body. Paul’s response is less than kind, telling Marie that people thought she was his mother. Before rejoining the party, he tells her: “Your eyelash has come unstuck. Looks a bit revolting. Better fix it, eh?” Meow!

RuPaul’s Drag Race: Bike Lane Edition.

Marie, devastated by her protégé’s rejection, promptly leaves, only to get killed in a car accident. “Poor bitch. She was in no state for driving,” says Theo when he relays the news to Paul. With the “poor bitch” out of the way, the path is now clear for Theo to make his play for Paul, and rest assured Theo wastes little time doing so. He takes the aspiring designer to a party, and though its populated by men of a distinct persuasion, Paul is oblivious to it being a gay soiree. He only gets a clue when he discovers the truth about the party’s sole female attendee: “Oh god! You’re a man!” Paul quickly flees the scene but not the party. When he returns moments later, the drag queen warns him: “Watch out, Red Riding Hood, the wolf is after your basket.”

Paul’s walk of shame is made more shameful.

In the next scene Paul awakens alone in a strange bed. Though it’s implied he was roofied, the expression on his face when he looks in a mirror confirms he was well aware of what went on in that bed. Ashamed, he tries to sneak away, only to be confronted by Theo, wearing nothing but a towel. “Aren’t you even staying for breakfast?” he grins as Paul makes a run for it.

The movie takes its title from Paul’s primary job assignment from Mark Bronski: to design a set for a musical production. Though Paul is praised for having creative vision, he lacks the technical skill necessary to complete the job. Then he’s visited by his sexually frustrated aunt Peggy (TV presenter and comedienne Hazel Phillips in her film debut), his teen-aged cousin Kim (Bronwyn Barber) and Kim’s hot-for-1969 boyfriend Tony (Rod Mullinar, who went on to star in Breaker Morant and Dead Calm), who is studying engineering. Paul’s solution to his dilemma is to recruit Tony for collaboration on the set design. There’s just one hiccup: Tony is an asshole. He first scoffs at the suggestion, then reconsiders when Paul’s girlfriend Leigh, (Ann Aczel, the weakest actor of the bunch), whose hair could house a family of six in Whoville, drops in for a visit. Tony says he’ll help Paul on the condition he gets to move in with him, and Leigh moves in, too. Paul readily agrees, and so does Leigh, happily prostituting herself for the sake of her boyfriend’s career.

Alas, while Paul looks good, he’s a lousy lay. Like, really, really bad. “I am just feeling so damned let down and so frustrated that I could just kill you!” rages Leigh before storming out of the bedroom and the movie, never to be heard from again. Later, Aunt Peggy drops by and, finding Tony alone and not averse to sex with older women, decides to have what her daughter’s having, only to discover Kim’s likely never been served. “Oh, I just can’t win. A husband who’s lost all interest and a boy who wouldn’t know how,” she muses after Tony “leaves [her] in mid-air.” But unbeknownst to Peggy, Kim is being delivered by a plot contrivance taxi, and it drops her at the apartment just in time to discover her mother’s and her boyfriend’s betrayal.

Reflections of a failed fuck.

Tired of all these demanding bitches wanting attentive lovers, orgasms and faithful boyfriends, Tony turns his attention to Paul, who, despite having had two girlfriends and a gay one-night stand, is supposed to be too inexperienced to know better. Though Paul was disgusted with himself for having fucked Theo, he’s delighted to be used as Tony’s sentient Fleshjack, and fancies himself in love with the prick Tony rather than just loving Tony’s prick.

Tony decides he and Paul should be roommates with benefits.

The department store where Paul is still employed, apparently, learns of his work with Bronski, and decides to make him the host of a radio show about interior design that they sponsor. But Paul quickly reveals himself to be out of his depth, making things worse for himself by adopting the radio persona of a pretentious old queen, for reasons never explained. The show is quickly scrapped, and Paul fired. On the same day Paul’s canned, Tony announces he’s leaving him for a girl (“Good grief, she’s a prostitute!” Paul exclaims upon seeing her straddled on the back of Tony’s motorcycle). After an extended sequence showcasing the many anguished faces of Sean Myers, Paul takes a fistful of pills. Tony, his new relationship barely lasting until nightfall, returns and discovers Paul on the floor unconscious. “The woman’s way, right to the end,” he scoffs.

John L. gets dolled up to meet his latest
conquest collaborator.

It’s Bronski, delivered by the movie’s other car service, Deus Ex Uber, who actually calls for help. Bronski’s reason for showing up all of a sudden is to tell Paul about how his work—so far unseen by the audience—has attracted the attention of London producer John L. Fredericks, who wants Paul to design something for one of his upcoming shows. 

Paul survives, recovering in time to design something—with Tony’s help—for the famed producer. Then Paul finally meets “John L.” (Michael Charnley, flaming so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t spontaneously combust), who makes it clear he plans to give Paul a #MeToo story to share 50 years down the road. But the producer’s plans are thwarted when Paul recognizes John L.’s “cold hard fish” secretary, and suddenly realizes he’s not queer, after all.

More an Aussie Curiosity than a Camp Classic

The Set is based on a then-unpublished novel by character actor Roger Ward (Janus Publishing ultimately published the book in 2011.) In an interview with FilmInk, Ward said every publisher he showed the manuscript to rejected it “not because I was an actor attempting to be a writer, but because I was a writer peddling filth.” Then a fellow actor got the manuscript in the hands of director Frank Brittain, who wanted to adapt the book into a movie. But there was a catch: “Frank told me I had to lift every homosexual narrative from the novel and write a screenplay on that.” Certainly not the note I would’ve expected, especially in the 1960s.

Ward’s assessment of the final product is it’s “a shit film,” which I think is a little too harsh. The Set isn’t good, but it’s not shit, either. A B-grade melodrama that mixes 1960s kitsch with grindhouse sleaze (its subject matter and nudity earned it an “adults only” label in its day, but it’s now rated PG-13), The Set seemed the type of movie I’d fall in love with at first viewing. But as much as I enjoyed the movie for its campy excess, its story is uninvolving. The script, co-written by director Brittain’s wife Diane, is more concerned with plot points than character development, so people’s actions come off as contrivances rather than rooted in character motivations. And for all that happens, the movie has almost as many moments of characters just standing there, silently, waiting for another character to finish packing his bags or another to begin her tirade. Did the editor not realize these parts were supposed to be cut out? Also, set design, at least as presented in The Set, isn’t the most gripping narrative driver. The model of Tony and Paul’s design, when we finally see it, looks like a creation from one of those At Your Fingertips educational shorts from the 1970s that are a staple of the RiffTrax catalog.

Cara and Paul end up right where straight audiences demand.

As for its treatment of queer characters, The Set isn’t totally insensitive, so I guess that makes it progressive for its time. Hell, considering how things are going in the United States, it’s progressive in our time. Homosexuals are presented as stereotypes, but they aren’t entirely vilified, and there’s some ahead-of-its-time acknowledgment of the fluidity of human sexuality. Still, Paul ending up in a hetero relationship by the movie’s end feels like a cop out.

A Sensitive Coming Out Story or Hardcore Twink Action?

“I’ll never forget that summer—that restless summer, when I found out who I was, and that long walk to tell my father what I learned.” So recalls Billy Joe at the beginning of THE EXPERIMENT, setting the tone for this 1973 coming out drama. And for the first 20 minutes, watching Billy Joe (Mike Stevens, in his only film role) and his best friend Gary Lee (Joey Daniels) roughhouse in the desert, cool off in the swimming pool of what they think is a vacant house, and drink beer stolen from the fridge of the diner owned by Billy Joe’s dad, you might think this is a regular queer indie movie.

Though there are hints of what’s to come.

Then the dick sucking starts. Yup, it’s a porno! Billy Joe and Gary Lee giving same sex scrompin’ a try is the titular experiment (“Oh, Gary, it feels weird.”) The teens—at least we’re not meant to believe they’re older than 18—are awkward at first, but quickly get into it, taking turns blowing each other and even getting into a sixty-nine. The sex acts aren’t all that varied, which makes perfect sense. I always find it funny when present-day porn scenes attempt a similar scenario, where one, or both—or all three—guys are supposed to be inexperienced/straight, then end up deep throating like pros and getting DP’d with ease. I’m not saying it isn’t hot, it’s just not believable.

Billy Joe works up his nerve while Gary Lee lies back and waits.

Anyway, back to Bill Joe and Gary Lee, who get off with some frottage. Alas, shame comes shortly after they do. The next morning Billy Joe wants to keep “experimenting,” but Gary Lee pushes him away. Just like Paul in The Set, Billy Joe flees—not just the shed in which he and Gary Lee sucked each other off, but the small southwest town where he lives, hitting the road for Los Angeles.

Jimmy Hughes prepares for his scene.

Of course, Billy Joe’s literal journey is also a journey of self-discovery. His first encounter along the way is “the salesman” Jimmy Hughes, not only rocking a head of shoulder-length hair but an impressive set of mutton chops as well. In a motel room that makes Motel 6 look like a Four Seasons resort, Billy Joe strips while his older trick, still dressed, takes sips from a pint of whiskey. The nervous teen lays down on the bed while his trick (or john; this encounter might be transactional) looks him over approvingly, then starts to undress.

Billy Joe might be nervous, yet he’s intrigued, too, and so will you once Hughes gets naked. His ‘70s hair may not be for every taste, but his muscular physique has timeless appeal (too bad he’s a convicted rapist). Yet, the salesman’s hot bod isn’t enough to silence Billy Joe’s self-loathing inner dialog: “Goddamn you, Gary. Goddamn you for making me see what I really am.” Then, as so often happens, Billy Joe gets too horny to give a shit about his conflicted feelings, going from lying there like a cadaver to writhing like a voracious cock gobbler.

Self-loathing cured.

All good things must come to an end, and in the morning Billy Joe and the salesman go their separate ways. He hitches a ride from a dark-haired twink in a Mustang, David Craig. Craig makes a play for Billy Joe’s dick, but Billy Joe ain’t having it.

It might have something to do with David Craig’s Grinch-like
smile. (I hadn’t anticipated that this post’s movies would
each merit a Dr. Seuss reference, but there you go.)

Undaunted, Craig picks up another hitchhiker, Tony Ross, who is much more accommodating. Ross is a lanky guy with a majestic penis. He also looks he could be Warren Oates’ little brother, which might be why the camera seldom moves above his waist. Not helping is neither Craig nor Ross are particularly dynamic sexual performers, with Craig either tentatively licking Ross’s dick or playing dead while Ross mechanically pumps his ass. Billy Joe, who is napping in the car for the duration of this scene, isn’t missing anything (except a gander at Ross’ dick, which, I repeat, is quite magnificent).

Better call (Gorton) Hall.

But Billy Joe’s dad, Herm (Gorton Hall, also the movie’s writer and director), is missing Billy Joe, and so is Gary Lee, who checks out their usual haunts—the desert, the creek—looking for his best friend. He gets sidetracked when he’s cruised by a young guy from Hollywood, slumming in the boonies. Gary Lee takes him back to the shed where he practices his sword swallowing. The encounter isn’t as fulfilling as his night with Billy Joe, however. “Well, I guess is doesn’t matter, as long as you get your nut off,” smirks the Hollywood dude before telling Gary Lee ciao.

Billy Joe has found a Hollywood dude of his own, and it’s from his home that Billy Joe calls his father. He assures his dad he’s OK; there are just some things he needs to figure out on his own (a touching scene, actually). Billy Joe’s Hollywood dude is the skinny son of a film director who looks like a cross between Jason Gould (a.k.a. Barbra’s son) and Jane Adams. Billy Joe is visibly creeped out by him, but the director’s son persuades him to stay. “I thought there were some things you had to find out about yourself. I can think of no better place than in my basement. Call it the acid test.”

Presenting “the acid test.”

This time Billy Joe joins in, though most of the action involves his host, as well as Craig and Ross, who are a bit more spirited this time out, though it could just be the kaleidoscope camera tricks making it appear that way. The next morning Billy Joe wakes up on a bed covered in sheets from Bed, Bath & Fuck You!, with the director’s son advising him to go back to where he came from. “Depravity isn’t something you learn all at once. It takes time and practice.”

From the Peter Max Nightmare Bedding Collection...

Billy Joe takes his host’s advice and returns home, where he tells his father that he’s gay. Herm’s response is not what Billy Joe—or audiences in 1973—expects. 

The Experiment is available
through Bijou Classics, and
presumably so is the movie from
which they grabbed that cover image.

According to the Ask Any Buddy podcast, Gorton Hall was the head chef of the ABC Studio commissary, but he had a number of creative side gigs, including writing pulp novels under his real name (unfortunately the AAB hosts don’t divulge what that real name is; I’d be combing eBay for one of those novels right now if they had), before getting into film via Pat Rocco. He was also a trained actor, which is why he liked to give himself roles in his films, and he gives one of the more polished performances in The Experiment. His acting background was also why he liked to rehearse lines with his cast prior to shooting. Hall certainly got better-than-expected performances from Stevens and Daniels (other performers, like the guy cast as the director’s son, are lost causes).

The Experiment was released by Jaguar Films, the same studio that released The Light from the Second Story Window. Like Second Story Window, The Experiment attempts to mimic mainstream Hollywood product and explore the struggles of being gay, as well as prominently feature Joey Daniels. Unlike Second Story Window, however, The Experiment succeeds by keeping its story simple, its scope small. It knows it can’t be a Douglas Sirk melodrama and doesn’t bother trying (though bless Second Story Window writer/director/star David Allen for going for it, budget and talent limitations be damned), Furthermore, The Experiment actually remembers it’s a porn film (though Hall reportedly preferred writing the scripts to directing the movies). It even has a few scenes that are borderline erotic. That said, the movie works better as a coming-of-age/coming out drama, so maybe don’t watch this one if you’re hoping to rub one out.

Billy Joe and Gary Lee try to decide if they are friends
or fuck buddies.