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GAY SEX

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Disclaimer: I haven’t had sex in three weeks.

Hello Queer Cinema Acolytes and Seasoned Friends. I’m writing you from a windowless basement in Peterborough, New Hampshire, decorated only by a wire sculpture of a cat and a plastic tub of disinfectant wipes. Yes. I am at the famed MacDowell Colony, writing the next great American play, hobnobbing with fancy folk and consuming at least three thousand calories a day. Exercise here consists of walking to meals and bumming rides to town, where I purchase cigarettes, microbrews and organic coffee syrup. But after savoring a fine port and a collection of politically-aspiring Portuguese video essays this evening at a raucous open studio, I was reminded of those who got me here and the dues I must pay. And no, I didn’t call my mother because I’m a good forty minutes away from actual phone reception. Downing the last of my Sandman mixed with a delectable rosé, I made the trek back to Colony Hall, six-pack in tow (not the abdominal muscles, little scamps) to take in an On-Demand and was quickly reassured, it has not been too long. These are the sacrifices I make. We are a community.

Tonight, I had the perverse pleasure of consuming Michael Baumgarten’s The Guest House, an LA-based lipstick lezzie concoction featuring loads of soft-core and some bad Aimee Mann rip-off vocals, courtesy of Ruth Reynolds playing the film’s luscious, just-eighteen protagonist Rachel. Kool-Aid dye job aside, Rachel is all the right stuff and she even makes a hideous tramp stamp forgivable when she strips out of her Hot Topic get-up and into the arms of Amy, her father’s recently-hired intern, played with pouty vulnerability by the comely Madeline Merritt. Amy’s just hit Los Angeles to pursue vague work with Rachel’s recently widowed pop, the sleazy Tom McCafferty, and she’s conveniently being housed in the title’s guest house where Rachel’s mom used to render abstracts and be “arty.” The duo paint the town red while Dad’s away on business, boning jail bait (by the looks of a long-distance phone call he makes to Rachel from the hallway of a Holiday Inn). They visit a carnival, ride bikes and while away the afternoon dancing to a generic alt-country soundtrack so you’re sure to feel really firmly located in the land of the predictable. Long story short, all that bike-riding gives Amy a serious knot in her traps and about two minutes into a generous massage at the hands of our faux-goth heroine, she’s on her back and tribbing‘s never looked so good.

Then some other things happen.

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Greetings gays and allies. I’m writing to you from the confines of my bedroom.  My dear roommate, bless him, just illegally downloaded a copy of some Mark Wahlberg vehicle and I am typing against the strains of straight copulation blaring from our wall-mounted dumb box.  So you must forgive your writer if they are under some degree of distress.

Recently I had a disturbing conversation over an otherwise idyllic car ride to Fire Island and no, we weren’t just just complaining because we were exactly one day late to see Liza Minnelli perform at Cherry Grove.  Far worse, one of my companions suggested to your sensitive critic that Instant Netflix was a thing of the past, observing that services like Hulu and Hulu Plus and something else with a seemingly irrelevant name were the way of the future.  Disoriented (and somewhat dissatisfied with the healthy snacks my generous hosts had packed) I was left to wonder: what is this all really worth? Is our Homoflix a thing of the past? Is anyone even reading? Watching? What is my life for?

Enter Lip Service, a relatively new addition to our site of criticism and a welcome relief from the thirty minutes of Kate Clinton – she’s a got a “new” special according to IN which means enough Bush jokes circa 2005 to make us all regret the invention of the double entendre – I subjected myself to before deciding I was not in fact suicidal, just desperate.

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Hi. You probably didn’t notice, but a few months ago, homoflix slid off the face of the earth in a poof of sparkle and santorum, but now we’re back, astroglidden and ready to rock once more. What better way to ring in the new year, Chinese or otherwise, than with an understated, Brit flick about a one-night stand turned lovey dovey? Yes, ladies, you too can Grind(r) your way to love. Weekend proves it… then shits on it.

Before we dive in, I must issue an important warning. I hesitated to put the FOREIGN label on this film. It is technically “foreign” as it was made ‘cross the pond, but it’s in English, and the FOREIGN category is really for films that require some kind of translation. These people are definitely speaking my language, but they still get the title because boy do they mumble! I had my MacBook’s speakers cranked up to full blast, and I could barely make out one flirtatious British murmur. These blokes share a lot of things with us during the course of this film, but not their voices. I strongly advice getting some speakers or get some headphones ready before settling in to this one. Seriously. You’re gonna think it’s fine and then 10 minutes in, you’re gonna have to put your dick down and get those $99 Altec-Lansing speaks your mom got you for christmas in college from your storage nook. Oh yeah. Did I mention that there’s GAY SEX in this film? And jizz!? JIZZ!!!!

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Good news for you: my boyfriend moved to California, so I’ll be watching a lot more homoflix (and eating) to cope with the loneliness. What better place to start than a movie that purports to deal with San Francisco, hustling and domestic abuse? The Stranger In Us was just the ticket for my overworked, under-cuddled state, and not only is it the first gay guy, non-MO CLASSIC movie to be dubbed FULL ‘MO, but it also introduces PHAGAMONES, a new category that reps gay dudes doing stereotypically nasty gay things.

The best part about this film for me was Raphael Barker playing lost-soul Anthony. I know I’d seen him before in Shortbus, fucking that chick against a glass door, but never realized that he looks just like my boyf, only with more manicured eyebrows! So I can safely say that my slight approval of this film is heavily influenced.

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UPDATE: This movie has been removed from Netflix Instant!!! It is still available if you get DVDs delivered. Sorry y’all.

A straight (but not narrow) dude, a slutty gay boy, his douche-bag friend, and a poor-man’s Chloe Sevigny take to the streets on Halloween in Frisco. A drawn out non-plot and really washed out pretty scenes take place over the course of the 74 minutes of The Lost Coast, and the payoff is so-so. But if you’ve got little to lose on a Wednesday night, this might be a fine choice.

This is like a road movie without the road, a party movie without the party. It’s characters are bored and disappointed and so am I, a little bit. But alas, this film is PRETTY. And what self-respecting gay guy doesn’t love a good ole straight best friend hookup every now and then?

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Ok, I’ll be honest. I just discovered that Cagney & Lacey is on Netflix Instant, so I’ve ben lax in contributing to your instant viewing salvation. I’m sorry. Donsies.

I watched Role/Play a few weeks ago and considered watching it again to refresh my memory for writing this review, but thought better of it, seeing as I already have indigestion and frankly, am running out of Tums. I hope you appreciate that I do this for you, dear reader, braving 1.5-star Netflix shit-shows so you don’t have to. My point: this movie is so stupid.

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My cup of iced red wine almost drained (thank you, Trader Joe’s), I turn myself to the matter at hand. Dreya Weber. And it appears she’s turning into a homoflix category all of her own (see The Gymnast). But she is more than that. She is a goddess of some singular genre devoted to “pansexual” women (I swear I read that self-proclaimed shit on Wiki, but it’s possible that’s the four beers I had before the red talking) who wish to make art with their male partners about fucking women. Should I be upset? Or overcome by her pale, gauzy tops? I think you know the answer.

In honor of 9/11, I decided to watch A Marine Story today. Just shy of four minutes in, the incomparable Weber had already thrown some meth head punk to the ground and a minute later was ordering tequila from a small-town shop clerk. And this is all after she got her gay ass discharged from the military. Nice work – and you can get it if you try.

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