A Paperback Mockbuster

The cheesy cover for Pinnacle’s
1978 edition of The Love Merchants.

 

THE LOVE MERCHANTS by Stephen Lewis, first published by Ace in 1974 and republished in 1978 by Pinnacle (the edition I have), is of a genre I love but has been out of vogue for a while: the Hollywood novel. Used to be you could count on the New York Times Best Seller list featuring at least one novel about the sleazy underbelly of glamorous Tinsel Town—and the sleazier the better. Of course, these books were popular at a time when Hollywood tried harder to sanitize its stars’ images. Then the Internet came along and that all went to shit.

But before celebs were showing more than they intended or sharing more than we wanted to know on Twitter, we had authors like Jacqueline Susann, Jackie Collins and Harold Robbins revealing, in XXX-plicit detail, the sordid goings on Hollywood tried so hard to keep under wraps. Their books were fiction, but it was understood they were roman à clefs. Half the fun in reading the books was figuring out a character’s real-life celeb counterpart. 

Stephen Lewis was much lower on the literary ladder than his trash fiction contemporaries, a writer who appears to have been more concerned with making a quick buck than earning a solid reputation. I first learned of Lewis on the Glorious Trash blog, which reviewed Lewis’s Massage Parlor and its creatively titled sequel Massage Parlor, Part II, both books published under the pseudonym Jennifer Sills. But Lewis did not restrict himself to providing the pornographic “exposés” of the rub-and-tug biz. He also cranked out novels inspired by other bestsellers, the literary equivalent of mockbusters. 

Such a novel is The Love Merchants. Even its title is derivative of other bestsellers, a mash-up of Susann’s The Love Machine and Robbins’ The Dream Merchants. Its storyline, however, has more in common with another knock-off in the Hollywood sleaze genre, Burt Hirschfeld’s 1970 novel The Love Thing, written under his Hugh Barron pseudonym. Like Love Thing, The Love Merchants is largely told from the point of view of a Hollywood publicist, and as in Love Thing, publicists are portrayed as wielding as much power as any studio executive. 

Hollywood publicist Laura Chesnay still remembers when she was starting out in 1942, when she was still known as Lola Cheifitz and working for Milton Sakowitz in New York, trying to “take second rate actors from one of the second rate shows Milt handled and plant an item that had them ‘spotted’ at a second-rate restaurant, also one of Milt’s accounts.” Ever ambitious, she changed her name to “rid herself of her obviously Jewish heritage,” and with the new name came a greater reputation. After being hired away by the much more prestigious Baker and Hammond firm, she not only scored a publicity coup for screen goddess and walking scandal machine Faye Reynolds but befriended the star as well, assuring Laura’s ascension to the top of her field. 

Now running her own P.R. firm in early 1970s Los Angeles, Laura does everything from advising her clients on which projects will best benefit their careers to smoothing over marital spats lest the couple jeopardize their successful husband-and-wife act (and Laura’s income). 

The 1974 cover was better
yet still missed the mark.

Aiding Laura are her two assistants, the oily Bob Siberling and young Karen Hewitt, who was recently hired away from the publicity department of the declining Wolfe Studios. Though Karen finds Laura’s mood swings tough to navigate she enjoys having access to the glamorous life, primarily via arranged dates with one of Laura’s biggest clients, Les Thomas, an aging screen stud and closet case. Karen enjoys the Hollywood glitz but, being a simple girl from Stockton, Calif., she is just as content going to cheap burger joints—and having hot sex—with Keith Stephens, a struggling actor who lives in her apartment complex. She might even be in love with Keith. However, when she’s forced to choose, she takes her chances with Les because, despite the reader being told Karen is smart as a whip, she thinks her love will change his proclivities. That goes about as well as one would expect—anyone except Karen, it turns out.

Jack and Betty Martin also require a lot of Laura’s attention, the couples’ image as, per the back-cover copy, “Hollywood’s Mr. & Mrs. Wholesome” constantly being threatened by Jack’s fucking every woman who steps within three feet of his dick and their teenage son Denny’s drug busts. A more closely guarded secret than Jack’s infidelities is his abuse of his wife Betty, which she forgives because the make-up sex is oh, so good. 

It would seem Laura would be plenty busy with these train wrecks for clients, but she’s always on the prowl for new business. When the smoothly confident Ray Cummings, a media mogul specializing in the teen market, meets with her and proposes working together to make Denny Martin the Next Big Thing, she jumps at the opportunity. The partnership proves profitable, yet Laura finds herself becoming increasingly suspicious of Cummings, though she’s unable to pinpoint exactly why. 

Maybe she’d be able to figure it out if she wasn’t suddenly busy with Faye Reynolds, who has returned from several years of exile in Europe following her firing from Worldwide Studios. Faye has been surgically restored to her youthful prime and is now ready to get back into the Hollywood scene. If Laura helps her buy the rights to the movie she made in Europe, Faye just knows she’ll once again be the reigning queen of the big screen. 

Let Me Ruin ‘The Partridge Family’ for You 

Per his bio in the back page of the book, Lewis used to be a gossip columnist and it shows in his characterizations of the celebrities in The Love Merchants. Though Faye Reynolds most closely resembles Elizabeth Taylor, I thought she was more of an amalgamation of several different movie stars (I detected shades of Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in her as well). Les Thomas, on the other hand, is so obviously based on Rock Hudson that he might as well have been named Hock Rudson. Lewis not only includes a flashback to when Les was coerced into marrying his agent’s secretary to quell gay rumors, just like Rock Hudson, he also incorporates a plot point in which Ray Cummings has doctored photos sent to media outlets showing Les marrying county comedian Grant Holmes, very similar to a joke gone awry involving Hudson and Jim Nabors. 

The real-life family of entertainers that Jack, Betty and Denny Martin immediately brought to my mind were Jack Cassidy, Shirley Jones and David Cassidy. Once that association got stuck in my head it put a whole new spin on some of the book’s more lurid passages, such as when Jack enters the bathroom while Betty is taking a bath: 

[Jack] dropped his pants slowly, enjoying her reaction. 

“I have to take a piss,” he said softly. “Want it?” 

Before she could answer, the hot yellow stream was flowing out of him into the tub. She felt it splash over her breasts and shoulders, then onto her neck and face. It happened so quickly that she had no time to react. 

“You bastard!” she shouted. “You son of a bitch!” 

Jack laughed as she hurriedly opened the drain and stood up, turning on the shower. She scrubbed at herself furiously, then Jack reached for her. Betty thought she was going to slip in the wet tub as she tried to pull away from him, but Jack’s arms went around her, lifting her out of the tub in one movement.

Before Betty could stop him, he had lowered her onto the bathroom rug. 

“Now,” he said heatedly, “now you’re going to get what you want.” 

Or when Betty walks in on Denny taking narcissism to a whole new level:

David Cassidy in his 1974 prime.

She gasped at his nakedness. He was sprawled on the bed, hard and swollen, leafing through a magazine. For a time neither of them moved. Betty was amazed—at seventeen, Denny was as large as his father. She blushed, realizing it had been years since she’d seen her oldest son totally nude.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said as Denny slowly brought the magazine down to cover himself. She noticed that it was a copy of Teentime, an issue that had a big story on Denny himself. There was a glimmer of amusement in the boy’s eyes as he watched her growing discomfort. 

“That’s okay,” he said.

And, finally, when Betty hires a hustler:

[When] he returned, the drinks in hand, she was waiting for him. He paused at the edge of the bed, and she swung herself around, her hands reaching for him. His testicles were heavy and swollen. Betty lifted them and released them, then her fingers moved to his penis, sliding it up and down until he was erect.

She moved faster, taking him in her fist, and what she found most enjoyable was not her own action but the passion she provoked in the boy. His eyes were closed and his head back. For a moment Betty thought of her son—was this what Denny and his girlfriend did? Had he ever—

The boy’s legs began to quiver, and a splash of scotch fell on his arm.

“Careful…” she said softly as he climaxed on her breasts. “You don’t want to spill the drinks.”

Then, taking one of the glasses, she used her free hand to guide his lips to hers, then downward. She leaned back as his eyes met hers, then he bent his head, understanding.

Betty smiled, watching him. It would be a long time before anyone came home—and next week she’d see they were all out again.

Rock on, Mrs. Partridge, you kinky bitch.

I’ll never view The Partridge Family the same way again. And if I’m reading the above scene correctly, I believe it’s implying Mrs. Partridge’s Betty’s call boy is lapping up his own load. Of course, I may be reading it that way because the Glorious Trash review mentions that a man gets a similar protein fix in Massage Parlor, Part II.  (Or maybe I’ve just seen too much gay porn.) It could be that Betty’s call boy was just going down on her, I but I think she’d do more than just watch him if he were. My husband thought Betty was just discouraging the hustler from kissing her, which tracks but seems a little too polite for this book.

Easy to Digest, Not as Filling

Lewis’ easy-to-digest style was just what I needed after Gaywyck’s fussy prose. He didn’t elevate the genre above itself like Herbert Kastle did, but he was a better writer than some of the established authors he was ripping off (Jackie Collins and Harold Robbins, specifically). The writer he reminded me of the most was another 1970s sleazemeister, William Hegner, though Lewis is neither as outrageous nor as quotable.

As easy as the The Love Merchants goes down, its story isn’t that filling. I suspect Lewis was trying for a specific word count, because by page 300 he seemed more interested in wrapping the story up than fully telling it. Several dramatic moments happen largely off-page (Faye confronting and assaulting Laura’s ex-business partners) or in flashback (Denny discovering his mom with a call boy), and we don’t get proper endings for several characters’ arcs as Lewis rushes to bring the book in at 341 pages. Usually readers can expect a lot of padding when publishers mandate writers keep to specific word counts, but Lewis could have really used an extra hundred pages or so to flesh out his novel. He also deserved more careful editing. The Love Merchants is riddled with typos and misspellings. Evelyn Grippo, who’s credited with editing the book (yes, this book has production credits), should be embarrassed.

The Love Merchants may not be fully satisfying trash, but it was enjoyable enough to whet my appetite for more of Lewis’ work. I recently bought Buried Blossoms, Lewis’ posthumously published (he died in 1981, in his 30s) Flowers in the Attic knock-off, which I fully intend to review. Eventually.

The Unofficial ‘Baywatch’ Movie

The only thing actually at the beach in
this poster is the ocean.

It’s Labor Day weekend in the U.S., which doesn’t really mean anything in the Age of COVID-19 except that we can count on seeing depressing repeats of the videos we saw during spring break and Memorial Day weekend*. Those not interested in actively thinning the herd can experience the beach vicariously with any number of beach movies, from cheesy classics like Beach Blanket Bingo (1965), to the less classic Spring Break (1983). Maybe re-watch Jaws (1975) and imagine the shark chowing down on covidiots. If you’re in a thoughtful mood, check out John Milius’ surfer film Big Wednesday (1978), and the dramedy The Way, Way Back (2013) is supposed to be pretty good, I hear.

Or you could just say fuck quality and watch the 1992 Australian movie WET AND WILD SUMMER!

Wet and Wild is not much of a film. It is, however, something of an unofficial Baywatch movie, made decades before 2017’s official big screen adaptation starring Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and Zac Efron. Even its a.k.a., Exchange Lifeguards, suggests the movie was angling to ride on Baywatch’s rescue cans.

Full disclosure before I continue: my knowledge of Baywatch comes solely from Allison Pregler’s Baywatching YouTube series, in which Pregler does hilarious capsule reviews of each episode of Baywatch and its ill-fated spinoff, Baywatch Nights. Though I’ve never seen a single full episode of Baywatch proper, Pregler’s series has convinced me that should I ever become incapacitated I want a loved one to buy me the box set of the series. I can think of nothing better to watch while I’m recovering from a heart attack or waiting for the cancer to finish its job, as I feel Baywatch is the one series that could make me glad to be alive and welcome death simultaneously.

Though Wet and Wild Summer! has a lot in common with Baywatch—a lifeguard-centric theme, hot bodies in swimwear, bad writing—it is its own, unique thing. For starters, in Wet and Wild many of the bodies, hot or not, frequently lose their swimwear. And while Baywatch was fond of featuring an Australian cast member (Peter Phelps, Jaason Simmons), Wet and Wild flips the script, featuring an American amidst its cast of Australians.

Wet and Wild’s token American is Christopher Atkins, who was, by 1992, only a few years away from updating the top line of his resume from “Star of Blue Lagoon and Dallas” to “Ex-celebrity/reasonable rates”. Atkins plays Bobby McCain, son of real estate developer Mike McCain, and to ensure that the audience understands the familial relationship, Bobby refers to Mike as “father” no fewer than three times in less than three minutes. His father, played by Elliott Gould (oh no!), has been acting a little erratic lately, making mud pies on his desk and staring into the sun. Were this 2016, Mike would be announcing a campaign for president, but since it’s the early 1990s—not to mention Mike’s babbling about renewable energy like a goddamn leftist—he’s considered a threat to his company’s survival. So, his second in-command Richard (Christopher Pate) enlists Bobby’s help to push through a deal in Australia’s Mullet Beach. Naturally, the best way to do this is to send Bobby to Mullet Beach as part of a lifeguard exchange program.

“See this here in my hands? This is my career now. I was the star of
M*A*S*H and The Long-motherfuckin’-Goodbye, and now I’m playing
opposite the star of A Night in Heaven. Oh, fuck me.”

Though Bobby left the U.S. wearing a business suit, he arrives in Australia wearing an outback duster coat and cattleman hat because comedy. He also has an alias, Bobby Carter (you weren’t expecting something creative, were you?) At the Mullet Beach Surf Club, fellow lifeguards Mick (Julian McMahon, in his feature film debut) and Kylie (Amanda Benson, billed here as Amanda Newman-Phillips) have some fun, taking the visiting American to the nude beach, where clothing isn’t optional, it’s motherfucking forbidden. Atkins, who partially owes his career to onscreen nudity, almost convinces us he’s embarrassed. And here I thought he had no range.

Bobby (Christopher Atkins) is dismayed to find he’ll be
sleeping in a Bert I. Gordon movie.

Julian McMahon shows Christopher Atkins the sights
of Mullet Beach.

Dem asses! From left: Christopher Atkins, Amanda
Newman-Phillips (a.k.a. Amanda Benson) and Julian McMahon.

But it’s Julie (Rebecca Cross), the owner of the Surf Club and the one property owner who hasn’t sold out to the McCain company, whom Bobby really wants to win over. Julie shoots down Bobby’s initial advance yet changes her mind a minute later because they’re thirty minutes into a 96-minute movie; if a clichéd romance is going to happen, they need to get their asses in gear.

Meanwhile, back in the U.S., Mike decides to join his son and leaves for Australia. In his absence Richard, with assistance from his Mike’s wife Donna (Lois Larimore), with whom he’s having an affair, plots to take over the McCain company. “It is my melancholy duty to assume control of McCain World Resorts,” Richard tells the board of directors after explaining Mike is no longer mentally competent to run the company. Mike’s mental decline, by the way, is attributed to some pills Donna gives him, though I’m not sure what medication causes a sudden interest in environmentalism. (The movie’s equating environmentalism with poor mental health might have been funny in its day; today it could just be a talking point pulled from the Koch Brothers’ Twitter feed.)

You can hardly tell that Christopher Pate and Lois Larimore
are supposed to be playing Wet and Wild’s villains,
so subtle are their performances.

There are no surprises ahead as the movie trudges to its conclusion. Are Bobby’s friendships jeopardized when his cover is blown? Check. Do Bobby and Julie have a third act break up? Check. Does Mike McCain’s sudden interest in environmentalism factor into the McCains winning over the locals? Check. Does Bobby’s participation in a competition—the Australian Surf Life Saving Championships in this case—ultimately save the day? Check. Are there montages? You better fucking believe it!

The unfortunate faces of Christopher Atkins.

Wet and Wild’s marketing suggests it’s supposed to be raucous sex comedy, in the vein of Hardbodies or Spring Break, except it’s none of those things. There’s a smattering of scatological humor (e.g., a farting dog), but it’s more lazy than edgy. And though the movie sets expectations high for lots of sexual shenanigans, what with all the bare flesh on display and Bobby being given condoms by both his secretary and his father before leaving for Australia, it quickly loses interest in the characters’ Down Under activities. There’s only one sex scene, between Atkins and Benson, with all other fucking occurring offscreen. As for the laughs … well, I’m sure a dog peeing on a guy or that same guy getting canned dog food stuffed down the front of his underwear might tickle a few giggle boxes, but I imagine even 10-year-olds would roll their eyes and dismiss these scenes as lame. If Baywatch was a drama that was unintentionally hilarious, Wet and Wild is a comedy that’s unintentionally hilarity-free.

One of Wet and Wild’s comic highlights.

Alternate artwork for
Wet and Wild’s alternate title.

At best, Wet and Wild succeeds at being an affable time waster. It’s exactly the type of movie you’d expect Christopher Atkins to be starring in in 1992. Atkins is easily upstaged by his Australian co-stars, though his innate likability almost makes up for his shortcomings as an actor. More baffling is why Elliott Gould is in this thing. Gould was well past his 1970s heyday, but were his finances so dire in the early 1990s that he needed to accept whatever part came his way? At least he got an Australian vacation out of it, because he definitely didn’t work too hard for his Wet and Wild paycheck, obviously having calibrated his performance to fuck it, this ain’t Altman. On a side note: would a dark-haired, Jewish man sire a blond WASP? This is sort of explained away with Bobby’s mother—Mike’s first wife—being a blonde Australian (and, yes, she and Mike do get back together in the end), but it still strains credulity. Mark Hamill or David Soul would’ve been more believable casting choices, is all I’m saying.

The Australian actors fare better, but even hunky Julian McMahon—who later found success in the U.S. in the TV series Profiler, Charmed and Nip/Tuck—can’t elevate Phillip Avalon’s uninspired script above barely watchable.

One other thing that Wet and Wild has in common TV show Baywatch: in spite of all the nudity, it’s weirdly wholesome. One of Pregler’s criticisms of the 2017 Baywatch movie was that making it a hard-R comedy missed the point of TV show’s charm. What made the show so funny, she said, was “the contradictory juxtaposition of TV cheesecake with family-friendly values.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say Wet and Wild is “family-friendly,” but it’s certainly closer in spirit to Baywatch than the raunchy 1980s teen comedies it’s aping. That said, I’d stick with the show Baywatch (or Baywatching), which may not show as much man-ass but are a hell of a lot funnier.

Turns out, there’s a reason Aussie lifeguards
hike their Speedos up their butt cracks, and it’s not just
to entice spectators.

You probably won’t enjoy Wet and Wild this much.

*And lo, it came to pass.

About Racism, or Just Racist?

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Of Course He Prefers Dick to Karen

The original poster for Tom DeSimone’s
1979 classic The Idol.

As many a queer person can attest, the hardest person too come out to is often yourself. It can be obvious to everyone around you, but you’ll still perform some truly awesome feats of mental gymnastics to land on the conclusion that lots of 14-year-old boys have a passion for the works Barbra Streisand, and that it’s perfectly normal to be distracted by the size of Brian’s package, especially when he wears those 501s where you can practically see the outline of his dick. It doesn’t mean you’re gay.

Others are so deeply in denial that they don’t even realize they’re gay until they get a rim job from the coach. At least that’s how it happens for the protagonist of Tom DeSimone’s 1979 gay porn classic THE IDOL.

Gary (Kevin Redding) is the star of his college track team with a cute, if hairstyle-challenged, girlfriend. He’s such a big deal that his glamor shot practically takes of the entire top half of the Los Angeles Chronicle. But don’t go thinking Gary has a charmed existence. He’s got some big problems, his biggest being he’s dead. That glamor shot accompanies the news story about Gary being killed in a car accident. (Front page, above the fold coverage seems a bit much for the death of a college athlete, but maybe it was a slow news day.)  What we learn of Gary’s life—specifically his sex life—we learn posthumously.

Mark Bitler puts his whole face into the role of Terry.

Terry (Mark Bitler, who, if we’re being kind, sort of resembles a young Roger Daltry) was one of Gary’s biggest fans. One might even say he Idolized him (and then immediately hate oneself for saying it). But as much as Terry pined for the hunky track star, he always remained on the sidelines. Even at Gary’s funeral the mopey loner keeps his distance. As Terry watches the outdoor funeral from behind a tree the audience is treated to flashbacks involving specific attendees—and often Terry as well. 

Gary’s ex-girlfriend Karen (that’s unfortunate) remembers when she met Gary in a secluded wooded area to make out. Gary, of course, wants to do more than smooch and hold hands. “Everybody doesn’t do it, and it’s only natural when two people are married,” says Karen (Darla-Lee Barnett), shooting down Gary’s two arguments for fucking. After Gary tells her his previous girlfriends gave it up, Karen asks why, then, does he take her out. Gary’s reply is fit for a drag queen’s Valentine’s card: “Because I love you, bitch.”

“I want a Dorothy Hamill haircut...no, wait, stop!
Make it Suzanne Somers instead.”

Karen leaves in a huff, as Karens are wont to do, almost running over Terry, out for a late-night bike ride, while driving her VW Bug out of the woods. (Karen demands to know what he’s doing out there, because of course she does. “Catching fireflies” is Terry’s lame-ass excuse.) Meanwhile, Gary takes things into his own hands, as it were. While Gary beats off to Barry White playing on the radio—music that I’m 99.9% sure wasn’t used with permission—Terry watches from the bushes. In a surprising subversion of porn tropes, Terry neither rubs one out as he watches nor joins Gary.

Not the “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” that Meatloaf
— or Gary— had in mind, but it gets the job done.

‘Nobody’s Asking You to Switch’

Chuck (curly-haired Greg Dale) has some memories of Gary, too, like that time on the beach when he told his friend about an alternative sexual outlet. After Gary complains about his blue balls, and that Karen wouldn’t like it if he saw other girls (“We’re kind of engaged.”), Chuck suggests letting “one of the boys” get him off, adding a limp-wrist gesture to ensure we get his drift. Gary rejects the idea, saying he’s not into that scene. “What scene? Nobody’s asking you to switch,” Chuck says. “All you do is get your rocks off.” According to Chuck, the locker room showers are teeming with friendly homosexuals happily providing orifices for frustrated straight men like Gary. “Half the guys there aren’t even there to make the team. They’re there to make the team. Get it?”

Gary wonders why he’s just now encountering all
the hot man-on-man action in the gym showers.

Then it’s time to hit the showers! And, sure enough, waiting for the pals are two mustachioed hunks, Derrick Stanton and Jim Battaglia, who waste no time in offering their services. Chuck has no reservations about availing himself of Stanton’s blowjob, but Gary is wary of Battaglia’s nipple tweaking. The track star remains frozen in place when Battaglia moves lower down, though his resistance does not extend to his cock which is, well, extended. “Don’t worry about it,” Chuck tells him after everyone has delivered a money shot. “It’ll be a lot easier the next time.” And whatta you know, Gary’s No. 1 fan saw the whole thing from the locker room.

Terry is also around to witness Gary getting a massage from the coach (Nick Rodgers)—a massage that crosses boundaries quicker than the coach peels off Gary’s shorts. “When did you get laid last?” the coach asks, as college coaches do, his hands staying just above the waistband of Gary’s jock. Gary says he got some a couple weeks ago, but even the coach knows Karen’s waiting for a ring. “I know what kind of tense we got here,” the coach says confidently. He then utters a line that could’ve been ripped from some real-life depositions: “It’ll be easier if you just trust me.” Without further ado, the coach gives Gary a rim job. What would drive some to indirectly finance their therapist’s vacation home actually sets Gary on the path of self-discovery. By the time Gary cums, he is, if not gay, at least a confirmed bisexual. The coach is just that good (to be fair, it is one of the movie’s hottest scenes), though he should be careful to lock the door next time. The things Terry could share in open court!

“Let’s get these off.”

Nick Rodgers (left) is a good erotic fantasy stand-in for fans
of the late Baywatch actor Michael Newman.

Gary later tells his cousin Jerry (Jerry Foxe) about his experience with the coach during an afternoon of nude sunbathing and pot smoking. His cousin admits he’s messed around with the coach, too.

“Did you like it, Jerry?” Gary asks.

“I dunno,” Jerry says tentatively. “How ‘bout you?”

“Yeah,” Gary says, nodding emphatically.

“Me too. You wanna do it?”

After negotiating how to proceed (“First you do me, then I do you”), the cousins get it on to some unlicensed tunes playing on the radio, including John Paul Young’s “Love is in the Air,” which plays while the guys are in a sixty-nine. This is the only one of Gary’s sexual experiences not witnessed by Terry.

If you can’t explore your sexuality with your cousin, who can you
explore it with?

But Terry is more than the Zelig of Gary’s sex life. Just when it appears we’re going to flashback to a scene of Gary blowing the preacher officiating his funeral, it’s revealed that Gary and Terry were boyfriends after all. It’s a scene that successfully balances the romantic with the raunch, though the sappy ballad that’s played over their post-cumshot embrace is overkill. Neither Redding nor Bitler are actors, but they do generate a fair amount of heat. (According to the Bijou Blog, Redding wasn’t interested in Bitler sexually [see link at the end of this post], so maybe he’s more of an actor than I’m giving him credit for.) You could almost believe they’re lovers, which makes Terry’s watching Gary’s funeral from afar that much sadder. IRL, two male college students in 1979 would likely have kept their relationship on the down-low, meaning Terry probably figured it was better not to attend his boyfriend’s funeral service than risk outing him, or have to lie about how he knew Gary. No, that’s not right but that type of thinking is typical within the confines of the closet.

Goes Beyond the Head of One’s Cock

It’s the poignancy of The Idol’s story that sets it apart from its peers in the genre. In gay porn, one’s gay identity seldom extends beyond the head of one’s cock because who wants to think about the harsh realities of being gay when you’re jacking off? Consequently, the struggles of homosexuals are rarely addressed in gay porn, and the porn films that do address it don’t do it as deftly as writer-director Tom DeSimone does in The Idol. Though some of its messaging is archaic at best (if you don’t put out, girls, your man will turn gay!), problematic at worst (it’s not sexual assault if the student cums), the overall depiction of Gary’s struggle with his homosexual desires, as suddenly aroused as they may be, as well as Terry’s pining for him from afar, resonates.

The Idol is available on DVD from
Bijou World. Not sure what movie the
cover photo came from, though.

I can’t say The Idol is one of my favorite gay porn films from the ’70s (I’m still partial to Joe Gage’s “Working Man Trilogy”: Kansas City Trucking Co., El Paso Wrecking Corp., and L.A. Tool & Die), but I did like it and can see why it’s considered a classic in the genre. While there’s no mistaking it for anything other than a porn movie, The Idol looks and plays like a mainstream movie, albeit one released by an exploitation outfit like American International Pictures. It’s definitely better than the R-rated movie DeSimone made for AIP a few years earlier, 1977’s Chatterbox! (still recommended for fans of so-bad-it’s-good entertainment).

DeSimone, who had been directing gay porn movies since 1970, went on to direct quite a few R-rated exploitation films in the 1980s, including The Concrete Jungle, Hell Night (starring Linda Blair), Reform School Girls (a personal favorite), and Angel III: The Final Chapter (well, they can’t all be winners). He continued to make gay adult movies until the 1990s, when he worked exclusively in TV. His last directorial credit is an episode of She Spies in 2002.  

The Idol’s cast did not enjoy the same career longevity. Most only racked up a handful of movie credits before bowing out of the industry, either by choice (Jim Battaglia, Greg Dale) or for more depressing reasons (Nick Rodgers). Only Derrick Stanton worked in porn until 2000, though there are large gaps in his filmography after 1984.

As for the two stars, Kevin Redding and Mark Bitler, they were one and done. I couldn’t find anything online about Bitler beyond his appearance in The Idol, but the Bijou Blog’s post about the making of this movie reveals a bit more of Redding’s story, at least up to 1989. A few choice tidbits include Redding saying he felt like a prostitute after he finished filming The Idol and was embarrassed by it, though DeSimone says Redding was proud of his work and even invited his family to a showing of the movie (oh, hell no!); and that Redding was so turned on by his co-star Jerry Foxe he could barely wait for the cameras to start rolling. The post also mentions Redding had some problems in the decade following The Idol’s release (drugs, rehab, repeat), but he had, circa 1989, started a landscaping design business, so hopefully that worked out for him. You can read the full Bijou Blog post here. As for the movie, it’s definitely worth seeing. It’s a rare example of a porn that actually engages the viewers’ heart as much—well, almost as much—as their crotches. I still wouldn’t invite my family to watch it with me, though.

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.