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DUMB FEMINISM

summer_lover

There’s no other way to put it.  This is not a review.  It’s a goddam public service announcement.

Dear readers, last night it was brought to my attention that what Brother Chris and I do here on homoflix is not merely light-hearted fun,  but sometimes an actual mission to protect you, your family, friends and allies from the horrendous shit that can worm its way into the gay and lesbian section of Netflix.  Last night, I watched the 2008 stink bomb/1920s period piece Summer Lover (not to be confused with the 1982 Peter Gallagher/Daryl Hannah vehicle Summer Lovers or the totally decent if totally depressing lesbian flick My Summer of Love.)

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Ah, sweet mistress Procrastination. It’s a Friday night and I’m home alone, feeling blissfully inept at applying to something called the Princess Grace Fellowship. So what better way to while away an hour and forty-five than cue up a little IN action. What’s on my plate tonight? I’ll tell you – The Sex Monster, starring my old fantasy flame, Mariel Hemingway. Last seen (by me) in Personal Best, time has only done magical wonders for the tawny blond, elevating the baby-voiced icon into some MILF-transcendent category due utter homage. Yes, rum does make me hyperbolic, but we’re out of Old Overholt, so there you go.

Laura (Hemingway) is a devoted wife/part-time sculptress and in this film that means we see her prepare a lot of salads and occasionally invite people into a studio. Her husband Marty is a stressed-out developer, obsessed with getting Laura to take her salad-tossing out of the kitchen and into the bedroom – with Marty and a plus-one. That is, a lady plus-one. After a serious amount of coaxing, a surplus of liquor and a late-night swim the couple finds itself in bed with Didi, a sweet piece of tail and Laura’s coworker at the hair salon where she works. Initially tentative, Laura’s eventually munchin’ like a pro, putting Marty way to shame and sending Didi into a serious conundrum. Initially Marty is stoked, but his enthusiasm quickly wanes when he discovers his wife is a. a champ and b. not gonna be shy about going back for seconds. And thirds. And fourths. Laura turns out to be a serious box nymph. Unfortunately for us connoisseurs, all the action goes down (never has the phrase been so appropriate) right under our noses in a series of shots where Marty comes up gasping for air only to see his wife plugging away like an Olympic diver. I wish more women knew their potential.

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Alright, before I head out to start decorating for the lezzie bachelorette party of the century, I thought I’d put down a few thoughts I had recently while watching The Gymnast which apparently was a big shit hit in 2006 and won the Best Feature prize at Outfest.  Film’s first line: “You’ve stopped taking your antidepressants.”  Absolutely, pass the popcorn, I’m ready.

But here’s the deal, ladies.  This barely softcore story of two women who want to do aerial dance in Vegas will leave you clit-chafed ‘til Sunday.  But if you accept that fact you might enjoy yourself on the ride.  (See BLUE BALLS.)  Especially if you like really built chicks with eight-packs and long hair who softly whisper things like “I got you” to women they are supporting in mid-air by the strength of their forearms alone and their husbands still don’t know they’re GEH.

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