I HATE DEWEY COX

not the thick fleshy kind just before they gush into orgasm, that fuckin' new movie starring John C. Reilly.

how can a sweet movie spoof inspire such ire, U ask? . . . because the poster that's plastered all over bus stops in Manhattan robs my erotic memory bank every time I ride past it on my bike . . . U see I grew up in a time and place when U were more likely to find a picture of a bare chested man in news magazine review of an Andy Warhol movie than in any other media . . . just the other night I was watching Marnie, that overwrought and underrated Hitchcock movie starring a seriously disturbed Tippi Hedren yes, yes, i'm like some caged bird to u aren't I and couldn't believe it when the camera turned away from Sean Connery as he got out of bed wearing only his pajama bottoms . . . today it would have lingered on his pecs and a jpeg would have found its way onto the internet where i would grab it and use it as my screen saver until some other image du jour replaced him . . . sorry, Daniel Craig but as much as I loved you in Casino Royale, in a world saturated with beefcake the bulge in your light blue boxer swimming trunks lacks the frisson that a split second glimpse of Sean's nips would have offered in 1964 (hey girls check out Gapar Ulliel in the Gus Van Sant segment of Paris, je t'aime . . . his hotness is such that i paused the DVD to focus in the thumbnail shot of him that appears in the opening credits and even added the dreadfully reviewed Hannibal Rising to my Netflix queue).

but back to Dewey Cox . . . thank U Columbia Pictures for parodying the iconic image of Jim Morrison . . . i gotta hand it to the marketing department: they got the hair and the beaded necklace exactly right . . . it has been burned into my mind since 1968 when i would go to sleep and jerk off at least twice a night, awakening with jammies crusty from jism . . . in truth Morrison's sulky pout did more to bust my nut than what now appears to be a woefully undeveloped and unshaved torso because i was still at that stage in my sexual development when i tried to pretend he was hovering in my consciousness like an exhibitionistic angel because i wanted to be him . . . when Morrison was arrested in Miami for exposing himself i tried really, really hard to banish him . . . i didn't want to be a pervert, after all . . . of course now i realize now that my fondness for black leather probably dates to that very same period and hey, isn't just about the whole world nowadays guilty of indecent exposure? . . . times have changed, bois, times have changed.

U want more proof? . . . then rent Flesh, released in 1968, and starring Joe Dallesandro as the archetypal male hustler and living embodiment of Adonis . . . now in a world where pornography of the most explicit and rarefied kind is just a mouse click away from the wired bedroom of any teenage boy confused about his sexuality this underground film may seem tame and excruciatingly boring but believe me, Andy Warhol movies, even the ones directed by Paul Morrissey, never made it to the local theatres in El Paso . . . I probably would have had to hitchhike to Los Angeles to see what may very well have been the first film with male frontal nudity.




Little Joe, immortalized by Lou Reed in "Walk on the Wild Side", is, hands down, the hunkiest guy ever to have paraded through my masturbatory fantasies but he earned that title without exposing much of himself . . . maybe that explains why whenever i visit Xtube or Rentboy i scroll past all the dick shots and keep looking for the same combination of face, chest and attitude that fueled my kidnapping fantasies as a kid and got me off hundreds of time during my adolescence.

Fuck U Dewey Cox for trashing my sexual nostalgia!