Another terrible movie,

the only reason to watch The Long Hot Summer is Paul Newman’s abs, or his eyes. He’s so incredibly beautiful and a marvelous actor, I wish I could say the same about Joanne Woodward. There’s nothing wrong with her, but she’s just not girly enough or sexy enough for me. Okay, I’ll say it: she’s not a drag queen. Mere actresses are not required to be drag queens  but movie stars are. This film is a bogus, boring copy; it was apparently cobbled together from Faulkner short stories to take advantage of the success of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.  The starkest evidence lies in Orson Welles determinedly lacklustre performance as this film’s ‘Big Daddy’; he makes it nauseatingly obvious that he’s very unhappy. He’s acts too much — puts on a gruff voice and a frowny face, but that’s it. His performance keeps yelling ‘I'm playing a character!” Will Varner is an ugly, mean man — but it turns out the fault is not his; he simply loved his wife too much— the lead character 's arc is identical in Queen of Outer Space; this is the favoured backstory for all ‘thought-provoking’ American message films — ‘I’m nasty because I was not satisfactorily loved ‘— and you always find out in the last 10 minutes, so why even bother? Also the film is all about fathers, sons, and emasculation, I couldn’t be less interested, frankly. They just need to play some football and then screw each other in the locker room; stop this shilly-shallying around. Then there is the blue of Paul Newman’s eyes. Speaking of which, I got laid last night in Montreal! I will accept congratulations from those of you who have my email. There’s a reason to live again (as Blanche Dubois says “Sometimes -- there's God — so quickly!”). I started drinking early, as restaurant patios are few and packed. So after fighting with my boyfriend (don’t worry, we made up right away, and yes, we still love each other, but it was getting very stressful, I mean him getting laid constantly and me not at all. He had sex yesterday in the change room of Priape — a little sexy gay store. The boy clerk said 'Can I help you?' the oldest trick in the book, and so they did it. The others in the store apparently didn’t notice. Meanwhile I was at home, knitting!) So by the time I hit the streets I was drunk as a skunk. Approaching a patio I was accosted by a big, bearish, bartender from Toronto's Woody’s bar — Joe — who I have somewhat vaguely known for years (several of my friends have been in love with him). He invited me to sit with his pals — his lover (a big bear), and un autre bear and his 'boy.' They were a jolly bunch and all ate ravenously (one of them had a macaroni ’n cheese hot dog, yummy). They were terribly kind to me. They kept saying ‘didn’t you write plays or something?' I said yes ‘I did do something a long time ago.’ One of the bears kept asking me to play with his nipples while his boyfriend watched. I obliged. it was very invigorating. Leaving, I thought — well that was kind of like getting laid, so maybe it doesn’t matter whether I get it tonight or not. This is precisely the type of zen thinking that facilitates successful cruising. I was wearing my see-through-net shirt and my ‘Looking for Loads’ hat—a winning combination. I passed a young man who was quite lovely, dark, bearded, somewhat middle-eastern looking. We did the stare thing, he circled back and started to walk down a side road. I followed him. It was tough getting him into an alley at first, he was frightened of being seen. Yes there were people in the alley, but they were obviously crack addicts, and had their own business to attend to. I could feel it pressing against me, and I pulled it out of his pants, and then did what God put me on earth to do. (It was delicious.) He zipped up and we wanted out in to the street again. I thought he was gone, but somehow he appeared again and smiled at me, walking in the opposite direction As I have said here often, before, I’ve never been able to cobble up the requisite regret on these occasions. One is supposed to feel lonely and unloved; that’s the necessasry emotion. (We didn’t even kiss! But sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you just kiss it.) Relieving him of that very personal stress was all I needed; instant intimacy with no complications.  No, it's not intimate? (I can hear you whispering in my ear). Who are you to judge? Real sex (i.e. real pleasure) is always intimate, and loving, even if you are not in love. It’s always kind, civil and respectful too, since nobody’s in it to put anything over on anyone else; it’s pretty impossible to lie about anything significant when your 'you-know-what' is out. I’m now sitting on St. Catherine Street opposite ‘Bar Relaxe’; it’s a bar for the old and their hooker boys, we call these places ‘wrinkle bars’. It frightens me. I only went there once. I love the name though. Was it perhaps originally built across from an establishment called 'Bar Stresse' — Bar Relaxe, of course being the necessary antidote? I’ve been typing blogs since 9 a.m. because my boyfriend is working from our home, and I am not to disturb him. I’m off now to the pool. Whenever I go there, I think of Charles, he was my second lover, and I don’t talk about him ever. He had a large penis (I know, I know) and liked screwing me. He would watch me eat — gleefully — and say 'That food will make your ass plumper!' I didn’t really like getting screwed up the bumhole -- never really understood it until recently -- that is , until now when the 'front' is somewhat unreliable. Well, the back door is certainly open, just so you know! Anyway Charles’ older lover (I was the 'other woman') used to have an apartment in the abuilding overlooking the pool I now frequent when I'm in Montreal. He let me stay in the apartment once, when he wasn’t there, I took cocaine -- for the one and only time -- and had a panic attack — thinking I was going to jump. I’m sorry Charles, for never falling in love with you, even a little bit. But you either see God, or you don’t; and it’s not a matter of religion, really.