Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Sex
Are there any bad sex scenes?
From IFC.com, the people who brought us The 50 Greatest Sex Scenes in Cinema, comes The 50 Worst Sex Scenes in Cinema.
I think you can make a good argument that there are no bad sex scenes. Rape doesn’t count because that’s violence, not sex. And the Brown Bunny doesn’t count because it’s not the terminal BJ which makes the movie rotten, it’s everything that precedes it (the whole movie, that is). So: can IFC convince me that bad sex scenes exist?
Let’s focus on the Top Ten. Right away, I have to agree with them. Any sex scene that features Tom Cruise is a total cold shower. Now if it were a gay scene, that I could believe. Next up is Madonna doing Willem Defoe in Body of Evidence. Okay, I’ll grant them that Madonna is a turn-off, too, even a fifteen-years-younger Madonna.
My thesis is going to hell.
#8, Killing Me Softly — how can Heather Graham naked ever be anything but hot? I don’t buy it. Okay, the asphyxiation stuff, not cool. Children might be watching this and they might try it at home. But Heather Graham is still hot.
Same goes for Gong Li (#7, Miami Vice).
Color of Night, #6: okay, I can’t remember this sex scene, and I saw the movie. So that’s saying something. But I’m willing to forgive Jane March just about anything. Have you see The Lover? Woof.
I haven’t seen the strap-on scene in Myra Breckinridge (#5), but they’ve conveniently linked to it on YouTube. Yes, this truly is vile. Not only do you not get to see Raquel Welch naked, you also get dozens of ridiculous cutaways, including, I’m not kidding, an atomic bomb detonation. The one thing that would have made this a perfect storm of inanity would have been a cutaway of the Nuremburg rallies. Yes, as the seventh minute dawned of this well nigh interminable scene, I found myself thinking, “What, no Nazis?”
#4, Ma Mère: okay, pretentiousness and incest are a bad combo. (Speaking of which, why isn’t Spanking the Monkey on their list?) Point IFC.
#3, Irréversible: rape. Blech.
Kyle MacLachlan is entirely too pretty in Showgirls for me to buy him as hetero (#2). That was my problem with Blue Velvet, too. Anyway, I had to register at DailyMotion to watch this video, but it was worth it. While I cannot disagree with IFC’s observation (“Berkley’s in flagrante flailings are so wild, in fact, you’d have to be a seizure fetishist to get off on them”), the actress’s performance brought to mind another icon of aqueous cinema: the opening scene of Jaws.
And what film did IFC save for the #1 spot? You’ll have to check out the story for yourself, but I have only one comment. With all that melted butter, someone should have brought popcorn.
D.
See, live bloggers? I didn’t make this up.
Macrophile: an individual (typically a man) who fantasizes about making love to big women. REALLY big women.
From Salon (so it has to be real):
You never forget your first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. A towering monument to freedom, democracy and the big-girl aesthetic, she looms over New York Harbor, 225 tons of womanhood, 151 feet from toes to torch tip, her head high and huge, her massive bosom outthrust to welcome the tired, the poor, the huddled masses. For immigrants arriving on America’s shore, the statue is the earth mother of international acceptance. For macrophiles, she’s something else — the ultimate sex goddess.
With very little effort, you can find stories and photoshops of macrophilic fantasias. Here, this one is safe for work (provided you don’t have to explain to your boss why you’re looking at an image of a little man pretending to be toe jam). This one is not quite as safe for work. So that’s what happened to my missing Army Man!
Giantess stories abound (google ‘giantess’ or ‘gts’). I wonder if anyone has ever separated the good from the bad? This one caught my eye; it’s about Hillary Clinton (as First Lady — it was written in ’97) um . . . outgrowing the Lincoln Bedroom? Snip:
Hillary was extremely disappointed. She wanted no one to be as powerful as herself, especially a man. However, she still had grown to immense porportions, and possessed unreal strength. It was only natural that the inventor of this wonderful gene therapy would experiment on himself. For now. she’d have to settle for being second-best. For now anyway.
Can’t say I understand this particular fetish, but it is unique. And did you know there are men who fantasize about being eaten alive? Vorarephilia.
I’m beginning to think that if you can imagine something strange, anything strange, someone somewhere will find it arousing.
D.
Sweat it out
A question for the women in the room: In high school phys ed, did y’all strip naked for showers? Purely an academic question, naturally, since you never know when I might have to write a scene featuring high school girls in a locker room setting, and I wouldn’t want to get it wrong, would I?
Well, we stripped. It began in junior high, and I’m not sure what the point of it was. Lord knows it wasn’t necessary. We didn’t get all that smelly. At the time, I considered it a rite of passage, or perhaps a hazing ritual. We dissected cadavers in med school in small part to learn anatomy, in large part to overcome the taboo of not cutting people open with sharp implements. So what was the point of getting naked with a bunch of other guys? For what part of adult life did that prepare me?
This is no small point. Like girls, boys mature at different rates. In my 10th grade gym class, side-by-side in the locker room we had a boy who lacked the slightest poof of pubic hair (NOT me, so get that out of your mind) alongside a fellow I’ll call The Donkey (also not me, but if you want to think I’m lying, I won’t argue with you).
The Donkey once told the story of how his girlfriend had broken up with him, but had wanted him back within the fortnight. Implicit was the suggestion they had been sexually active and her dalliances elsewhere had not matched up. We all shook our heads knowingly. With clothes on, we would have figured him a BS artist, but in the locker room, we trusted the evidence of our eyes.
I used to wonder, and perhaps worry a little, about the prepubescent kids. The Hairless Ones. To me, this would be more profoundly disturbing to the adolescent male psyche than girls comparing their breasts’ Tanner Stages. Some girls never get past a Tanner 2, yet they’re just as feminine as a Tanner 4. But the guy with the Tanner 1 prick really does have something to worry about. His whole sexual future depends on making progress. If he’s thirteen and hairless and surrounded by a bunch of Tanner 2s and 3s and even a well endowed 4 (The Donkey), why shouldn’t he worry?
It’s not the worst part about PE. The worst part is war ball. Nevertheless, it ranks up there if you’re one of those Tanner 1s. So I’ll ask again: why was this necessary? Admittedly, I have to get nekkid around the guys in my gym’s locker room, but we’re all adults. It ain’t the same dynamic.
Maybe it’s that old life lesson that the world isn’t fair. I learned early on that some kids were richer than me, cuter than me, stronger or faster than me, more talented than me. That’s the way it was. That’s the way it always would be. I would never be the star quarterback, no matter how much I willed it, and I would never run a mile in under nine minutes. I would never play guitar like Peter Frampton, play chess like Bobby Fischer, or look good with an assault rifle like Patty Hearst.
And I would never, ever be hung like The Donkey.
D.
Shaggin’ Quest
Remember CNN’s Richard Quest?
Well, he gets around.
CNN personality Richard Quest was busted in Central Park early yesterday with some drugs in his pocket, a rope around his neck that was tied to his genitals, and a sex toy in his boot, law-enforcement sources said.[…]
Quest was initially busted for loitering, the source said. Aside from the oddly configured rope, the search also turned up a sex toy inside of his boot, and a small bag of methamphetamine in his left jacket pocket.
It wasn’t immediately clear what the rope was for.
I think you can count on John Oliver (who has frequently spoofed Quest in the past) to enlighten us on Monday’s The Daily Show.
D.
Inevitably, I’ve graduated from MILFs to GMILFs
This trophy wife thing? I’ve always thought it unseemly . . . except for Dennis (age 61) and Elizabeth (age 30) Kucinich. Dennis gets a pass, since he’s the poster child for LAWHSHC, Leprechauns of America Who Have Scored Hot Chicks.
Go Dennis. Too bad about that failed Presidential bid, but you still have Elizabeth.
Anyway, with great rarity, I’ve been an age-appropriate crusher. There was Cathy Rieux, a sixth grader who gave me a respectable kiss when I was a mere third-grader, but she was the exception to the rule.
Get a room!
Ye who ken dreams well, interpret me this:
It’s Sunday morning and the wife and I are having sex. Everything is fine and dandy, but then I notice the big picture window behind our bed is wide open and the neighbors in the apartments next door can see into the bedroom without any trouble at all. No one is looking, mind you, but they could. It’s bloody distracting.
It takes an extraordinary effort to close the drapes — hey, it’s an old house, everything is buggy here — but in the end I am victorious, and we resume our activities.
Seconds later, the contractor and two of his guys traipse through, on their way from one part of the house to another. I cover Karen up, shout, “Hey!” and they apologize and leave by way of the full-service gym which has suddenly appeared in the back part of our bedroom.
If you blew off Steak and BJ day, don’t fret
You can still make it up to your disappointed man.
He waited all year for this day, and what did you do? Fixed him vegie burgers and gave him a kiss on the cheek good night. Maybe you didn’t understand his crestfallen expression; maybe you didn’t realize he had abstained from caffeine and alcohol and had been eating nothing but pineapple for the last three days. Maybe you didn’t notice the two inch-and-a-half-thick rib eye steaks he’d left in the fridge along with the note, TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!!!!! And maybe you thought it was an accident that someone had changed your homepage to this one — on Firefox, Netscape, and Internet Explorer.
You don’t even use Internet Explorer.
So, now that you see the error of your ways, you want to do something to put your relationship back on track, and you don’t think you can afford to wait until any of those other holidays. What will you do?
Simply tell him, yes, you knew all about March 14, but you figured he would much rather celebrate April 14.
Special dinner
In college, my friend Sam lived in a co-op called Ridge Project. Once each quarter, they would have something called Special Dinner. The Special part was, I gather, the lack of Tuna Jello on the menu. Sam had me over for Special Dinner once, but I don’t remember what they served. I was too effed up on Olde English 800.
Hmm. Maybe that was the special part.
For tonight, I made filet mignon wrapped in bacon, seared on a cast iron pan, dressed in mushrooms and shallots; steamed broccoli; focaccia. Dessert: classic strawberry shortcake with buttermilk biscuits, fresh strawberries, and mascarpone whipped cream.
All dinners are Special at Chez Walnut. This has nothing to do with Steak and BJ Day.
***
Admittedly, I’m violating the spirit of the holiday by preparing the steak myself. St. Fellatia would not be pleased.
***
I was trying to explain chastity belts to Jake when I found this image. Owie.
***
Ever wonder what you get when you search Flickr for Steak and BJ Day? The answer below the cut.
Note to those of you who are fond of saying “I should know better than to follow your links”: DON’T GO BELOW THE CUT.
A late SBD: caring
Hey, Beth, here’s another late one for SBD.
This isn’t funny anymore. WHO recommended this Nora Roberts book to me, huh? Fess up. Because this story is pissing the shit clean out of me.
I don’t care, that’s the thing. I don’t care about Cam, who had this privileged life tootling around Europe racing boats and dirt bikes, nailing Eurotrash in his spare time, buying pricey silk thong underwear, and now he’s stuck back in the States honoring a promise to his dead adoptive father who’s like a ghost now, only he (Ghost Dad) never says anything worthwhile, only, “You can do it, I know you can, you’re a Quinn.”
Guess I remember some things. His name is Cam Quinn. Sounds like a junior varsity cheerleader. But the book’s title? So not memorable.
The Something Tides. Rippling Tides? Festering Tides? I don’t know. First in the Chesapeake Saga. It’s a SAGA, for the love of God. That has to be worse than a trilogy, hell, a SAGA must be six seven eight nine books, and I can’t even get fired up about book one.
So. Cam. Adoptive Dad dies, has a Hollywood death which I’ve already bitched about (and oh, I see this one’s called Sea Swept, so I wasn’t even close, unless Random Nautical Title is close), makes his three sons swear to take care of young punk-ass Seth, Dad’s latest acquisition. See, all three of them, Cam, Moe, and Curly, they were all runaways who gravitated to Ghost Dad Quinn the way ferrets gravitate towards empty boxes and closed doors. But Seth, maybe he’s a real Quinn, which would mean Ghost Dad cheated on Mom.
zzzzzzzzzzzz
And there’s this social worker, Seth’s caseworker, and she’s supposed be this fugly librarian-looking chick one moment, hell on wheels the next. Cam has the hots for her, she has the hots for Cam because he looks good doing carpentry shit. I can’t remember her name, either. It took almost two hundred pages for them to end up in the sack and I still don’t feel any REAL magnetism between them, nothing that wasn’t artificially contrived by the author. I DON’T CARE if they shag and I don’t care if they don’t. I don’t care when Manny, Moe, and Cam fight like kids in the car because
zzzzzzzzzzzzz
Getting back to Cam. Why don’t I care about him? Because his life in Europe was shallow, not in the emotional sense (well, that too) but in the characterization sense. Because his desire to get back to his old life is neither interesting nor sympathetic simply because that old life feels and looks like a cheap postcard. Because he has no emotional life. We’re told (insert show and tell lecture here) the only woman he loved was his adoptive mother. But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything from Cam, least of all his passion for Ms. Social Worker.
Life’s too short for this. I’m in the mood for romance, and I’d prefer to try out a new writer other than my old standby Jennifer Crusie, but this book is so not worth it. I think I’ll reread that one Crusie novel about the guy who decided to become a detective more or less on a dare. THAT one had feeling. Or Bet Me. That was a good one, too. Both of those books had heroes and heroines I cared about.
Because in romance, if I don’t care about either the hero or the heroine — then what’s the point?
D.
Leather Goddess of Phobos visits Earth
Today’s Friday Flickr babe: bow down to your goddess, by legskirtluver.
I think I might finally be getting the right mindset. WRONG is to approach the domme thus: “I would love to be your slave; I would love to lick your feet, be your human ashtray, etc. etc.” RIGHT is: “Please let me serve you.”
Because it’s not about what the sub wants, loves, desires. It’s all about serving the domme.
Of course, it’s about the sub’s desires, too. If the sub didn’t want this, he wouldn’t be in the sub role in the first place. But he doesn’t say that is what he wants, because saying so is an assertion of dominance, which violates the role. Got it?
I hope I’m understanding this. Can’t wait to see what the muse does with all this lovely information. You gotta feed the muse.
D.