Sex movies et cetera
they don't make em like this anymore
Graham: You’re right, I’ve got a lot of problems... But they belong to me. Ann: You think they’re yours, but they’re not. Everybody that walks in that door becomes part of your problem. Anybody that comes in contact with you. I didn’t want to be part of your problem, but I am.
I will come back to James Spader.
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The girl who was washing her hands first at the Angelika did it like she was scrubbing in for surgery. There were only two sinks, one of which was inconveniently placed and caused delay, so we all lined up and watched her. After that, it took forever. Every woman ensured she was washing her hands just as much. I don’t think it had to do with feminine competition or anything. Seeing that woman scrub her cuticles with purpose brought me back into presence. Handwashing probably shouldn’t be an automatic process anyway. We’re in New York City, and everything is dirtier than we could ever imagine.
I’ve been watching sex movies this month — sex, lies, and videotape (1989), Secretary (2002), and Pillion (2026) last week at the Angelika. My sense is that we must be due for some kind of cultural reckoning vis a vis kink, though I am known to extrapolate my own personal revelations onto culture at large (I’m a beautiful, clear vessel for God’s everlasting light and eternal message…sorry!). But I think we’re all hungry for an alternative to The Gooniverse or the otherwise pearl-clutched fear of touch. God knows I’m not suggesting we all become normal about sex, as this is my worst nightmare not to mention functionally impossible, but I think playing with the basics could be good for us as a culture. I sat in a quiet room and thought about it. Do I want to be big or little? Strong or weak? Taking care of things or being taken care of?1