The Wrong Man. Like Henry Fonda in Hitchcock’s film I have been unduly punished for a crime I never committed. I am innocent. I recently watched the engrossing Truman and Tennessee (a new film about Capote and Williams in their own words) and was shocked to hear that Williams' sexual history is not unlike mine. At one point, when interviewed by David Frost I think (dear me, what were people watching on televisions back then!) Williams says ‘I never masturbated.” And then later he admits something like ‘The first time I actually had sex with a man was when when I was 27 - no — 28.’ This is exactly my story. Precisely: I didn't touch myself until I was in my late 20s, I used to rub up against the bed (I could pretend it was not happening) and I slept with women until I was 28. What I’m realizing now, being in Montreal and stepping out of my COVID-19 cocoon (yes I am somewhat like a butterfly now -- while I was dour, creeping, and furry in an unattractive way during lock down) is that having sex with men constantly (which is my wont) changes the way I look at men, generally. When I was in the closet I was not just not having sex with men, I was punishing myself constantly for wanting to -- for desire -- writing in my ‘journal’ about how to stop fantasizing about men, about how I was a good person and didn’t need to give in to my emotions (i.e. sexual desires). This meant a daily exercise in which I saw men on the street who aroused me but I tried not to be aroused. Also; much more horrifying, my resolve was never to be gay, ever -- which meant I could never partake of these impossible pleasures, though that banquet was laid before my eyes, daily (men are beautiful). So until I was 28 years old I viewed all men really with regret — they were something that I wanted but could not have. When I started having sex with men, suddenly I allowed myself to be attracted to them. This is a proof of my essential puritanical nature; it just didn’t make sense to me that I would desire and not act on that desire. So why desire at all? When this lock down happened, it was impossible for me not to fall prey to the same exact feeling once more, to fall back into the dark pit of repression. So for months I have been gazing at men, feeling attracted to them, and then feeling bad about myself. I can’t have sex with them, so I will not desire them; as before. (Please don’t ask why it is so necessary for me to have sex with men constantly in order to give myself permission to desire them; leave that to my therapist, but the point is that after 28 years of being a puritan in the closet, it became a kind of habit.) Anyway, when I was walking along St. Catherine last night I noticed that I could relax, that I could breathe again, look at beautiful men and desire them; because later I would have one. And I did. Last night -- he was as delicious as an ice cream cone and twice as sweet, and I melted under his lips into helpless, messy pleasure. He had skin as pale as — but I won’t go on. But "rough winds do shake the darling buds of May" and I’m sure one day he will be older. (Fortunately I got to him before that all happened. Sigh!) The Wrong Man is fascinating because it is Hitchcock’s attempt at realism (he actually filmed on location, something he didn’t like to do) and it is the very opposite of films like The 39 Steps which are sheer candy floss. (How many German spies are missing the top of their left baby finger? How many times does a flock of sheep interrupt an arrest? And try hiding under a waterfall, geesh…) But there are things that are not real in The Wrong Man, for instance the credits say that Fonda’s wife in the film (Vera Miles) recovered from the insanity that was induced by the wrongful accusations and temporary imprisonment of her husband. In fact Manny Balestrero’s wife never fully recovered. Hitchcock couldn’t resist giving us a happy ending after showing us this nightmare. Also Henry Fonda is very good at just thinking,which is a rare quality in an actor. Finally, what I find fascinating about this film is that the real Manny Balestrero was almost jailed due to eyewitness accounts of his ‘robberies’ (when he was in fact somewhere else -- apparently a quarter of all eye witness accounts of crimes are bogus). So much for trusting your eyes. Hitchcock includes the icky scene in which the two women who swore that they had for sure seen Henry Fonda rob them, are confronted with Henry Fonda after the actual robber is brought to justice. They of course avoid his gaze. Don't trust your eyes. Trust your dreams instead. And definitely don’t trust a soul who says 'I saw it!' Or worse yet 'I have proof!' Or (mostly found in those who claim to want safe sex) -- 'I’ve had the HIV test and I’m negative!'. I saw a robbery with my own eyes last night at the bathhouse, or rather I should say, I had finished my lovely business and was attempting to exit the place, when someone started screaming ‘Voleur!’which even with my pigeon French I know means 'Thief!' I think he was accusing a meth addict. I immediately felt guilty because I had allowed some guy to smoke his pipe in my room on my first night there. First, I guess I should not do that, and second, I apologise. Jesus who am I apologizing to? You’re certainly not there -- and God doesn’t exist -- so I guess I’m apologising to my mother. Sorry Mom, for letting a meth addict smoke his pipe in my room at the baths, but frankly I wanted to suck his you-know-what and that was the only thing that would make him stay. They leave, all of them. I don’t mind. I prefer it that way. They do leave me with a warm heart though. I get along a lot better with my lover now that we are both getting laid.This may seem odd to you -- but frankly I don’t care, because you don’t exist. You may insist that you do. But I press on disbelieving you because what I share here is private, and should never be read by anyone, and certainly never believed.
