Enough Gay Sex To Braid A Tunisian Bride's Pubic Hair

So this weekend, I finally saw "Brokeback Mountain." And I must say that I was initially unimpressed. Yes it was a beautifully written, acted and directed film, but there wasn't enough sweaty man-squared action for me. Honestly, there's never enough gay sex for me in anything, ever, particularly in my own personal film, "Bitter, Repressed Gays Crying Into Their Own Ejaculate."

There's only one scene of gay sex, and it is hot, but I left the film surprisingly limp. In hindsight, I think the problem was not the lack of sex, but rather the lack of impact the film had on me. It was such a quiet, introspective movie that I kind of waited for that one scene in which everything explodes, implodes or self-destructs. This isn't that kind of film, though, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. It's a piece of subtlety and brilliance amidst a world of "Stealth" and "Kong." So there wasn't an orgy of anulingus,* but that's what the second feature of the weekend was for.

"Gay Sex In The 70s." There really is no better title to guarantee my presence in the theater, other than perhaps "Gay Pot Liza 54 In The 80s Featuring Free Hand Jobs and Snacks." Usually, I skip documentaries, because if I wanted to listen to some half-crazed drunk lecture me for two hours, I would have dated Sean Penn. But this was pretty well done. However, my judgment was automatically impaired by the rush of blood to my pants, but as I remember it, this was clearly the best movie in the history of the universe. After leaving Quad Cinema, I was inspired to find a mustachioed paramour in the wet,hot sticky dungeons of Christopher Street and re-enact one of the many scenes of naked, Disco love. Sweet, pulsing Disco love. But by the time the cold air hit me, any hopes of rectum abuse shriveled in the wind.

Film-wise, this weekend was much like a good date. I had the soft, longing of romance with "Brokeback" on Saturday followed by the staff infection of fulfilled longing with "Gay Sex" on Sunday. Only, this time I won't be in a hurry to get rid of this burning sensation.

Hmm, take that Gene Shalit.

Yeah, right there.

Mmm, that's how I like it.

A tower of eyefuls indeed.



*I'm pretty sure that's [not] a word.