Private Magazine

Tag: christmas

Movie Santas I’d Like To F**k

eggnog

The stockings are hung, and my presents are wrapped.  Because when a random dude in red infiltrates your chimney, one has to be ready.  I’ve tied myself up and am awaiting the arrival of this man, the Man in Red.  But who is he? A total enigma, duh, according to limited folklore.. So here I lay, submissive and content, reflecting upon Santas from contemporary cinematography that I’d like to fuck. (Aka, SILFs).

Ironically, my favorite Christmas film doesn’t contain a single Santa. It’s A Wonderful Life (1946) is my favorite Christmas film, probably because it was first a short story and contains philosophical themes as well as social commentary. These themes include: Post War financial depression, suicidal thoughts, pharmaceutical culpability, existential crisis, marital abuse, and dare I say, feminism. Even though I loved It’s A Wonderful Life from a young age, I didn’t fully appreciate certain aspects until now.  Upon reflection, I know it’s because of what happens once George Bailey is “dead.”  When “Violet Buck” (Gloria Grahame) comes back into George Bailey’s life post mortem, she showcases an early example of the hooker-with the-heart-of-gold archetype, plus a case of shoulda coulda woulda as far as girls that got away in George’s life are concerned.

5cf07e5209ef4beac012213f7f6b866d--classic-christmas-movies-classic-movies

Forties-era rhinestone-ed necklines aside, scenes in Christmas films captivate for subjective reasons. Holiday films appeal to our most childlike instincts and associations.  In a Christmas-themed Golden Girls episode, the ladies wait in a psychologist’s office for Rose, who is a receptionist there at the time. A “Santa” enters the waiting room, and Blanche’s horniness suddenly goes into overdrive.  Apparently, she has a Santa fetish.

Blanche

While I do not have a Santa fetish, given all of the representations of this enigmatic character in film, turns out there are a few who could potentially be a turn-on.

Billy Bob Thornton in Bad Santa and Bad Santa 2

Thornton portrays a complete nymphomaniac, alcoholic, nihilistic man named “Willie” who plots to rob businesses while employed as their in-house Santa.

BcTniw3CQAAzu8E

I figured Thornton wrote these scripts, but turns out they were penned by a bunch of random people.   Thornton taps into his “outsider” and “low life” persona well, fleshing out this character of “Willie” so well that I assumed he was a product of Thornton’s own imagination. Willie is a drunken pervert without a conscience, except for moments when, it turns out, he does seem to have a conscience. Is this guy boyfriend material? In my world yes, because I refuse to accept reality and always pine after those who consistently show me they are bad news.

Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places

Dan-Aykroyd-Trading-Places

Being unable to appreciate what you are given in life is a common holiday conundrum.  The movie “Trading Places” showcases such a tribulation in a way only an 80’s movie can, without regard for being politically correct and employing the comedy skills of early-era SNL greats (namely, Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy). I’m slightly embarrassed to mention (but not too embarrassed not to publish for the whole world to see) that I’m infatuated with the young Dan Aykroyd,  because he probably did lots of blow with John Belushi and never got in trouble for it.

In “Trading Places,” Aykroyd plays Louis Winthorpe, an upper-class commodities broker at Duke & Duke.  The two crotchety partners, Randolph and Mortimer, are at odds with each other – one thinks people are either born criminal low-lifes or not, and the other thinks even an upstanding financier such as Winthorpe would resort to a life of crime if he lost it all tomorrow. They wage a bet. They toss Winthorpe out on the street after framing him for petty theft, and a gregarious street hustler played by Eddie Murphy moves into Winthorpe’s penthouse and takes over his life.

Winthorpe winds up gaining the friendship of a prostitute (Jamie Lee Curtis), but does break into the Duke & Duke Christmas party totally drunk off his ass and weilding a gun. He sneaks in wearing a dirty Santa outfit and stuffs an entire salmon under his lapel, later devouring it on the subway to the horror of a female onlooker.

Minor-Role Santa in Home Alone  

In the first Home Alone, Kevin McAllister (Macaulay Culkin) walks over to Santa’s cottage on his suburban Chicago-area block to ask for his family back. Santa’s cottage is closed, but Kevin spots Santa trying to start up his broken down car while smoking a cig.

screen-shot-2014-03-21-at-11-49-59-am

Santa doesn’t have any candy for Kevin because “his elf took all the candy canes home to her boyfriend,” but he does give Kevin a few orange Tic Tacs. Santa unfortunately discovers a parking ticket on his station wagon – “What’s next, rabie shots for the Easter bunny?” – and then Kevin heads home. The actor who played  Santa in this scene was Ken Hudson Campbell, who, according to his IMDB page, just starred as an Uber driver in a 2017 Christmas movie called The Trouble With Mistletoe.

I do have a thing for sad, chubby guys with glasses, so I think that back in 1990, this down-on-his-luck Chris Cringle and I might have made a nice pair.

Conclusion

This blog stands as a warning to those unafflicted by holiday woes – do not drink too much, or eat too much, or smoke too many cigars like a chimney this holiday season, because your mind will turn into a blizzard of weird thoughts that you won’t be able to see through, until the only topic you can think up for your Holiday Blog is about “Movie Santas you’d like to F**K.”

So… did I leave any of your favorite Santas off the list?

Reader Survey: WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MEN WHO CONSIDER “DIE HARD” A CHRISTMAS MOVIE? FACTORYGIRL1987@GMAIL.COM

 

Filthy Confessions

“What’s your fanta-ta-ta-sy?” -Ludacris

The first adult film I ever watched was called “Naughty Fantasies,” or something like that, from Baby Doll Productions. I found it in a CD case for Now That’s What I Call Music: Volume 18 that my college roommate left lying around. She was out of town when I made the discovery, so I invited all of my little college dorm friends over for a viewing party. Since then, I’ve become well-versed in adult film genres: gonzo, amateur, POV, MILF, transsexual, fetish, and “special interest,” which is basically an all-encompassing term used to describe anything and everything outside the status quo. (Trust me, if you can dream it, it’s out there. It exists).

I recently had the question posed to me: Do you have any taboo fantasies? I don’t really consider anything that taboo anymore, so I had no clue how to respond. I mean, define taboo. Go ahead:

taboo

I took the wind out of this guy’s sails when I didn’t answer his question.  I’m pretty sure he wanted to tie me up like a Christmas goose and spank me with a spatula. In fact, this blog, and therefore my LIFE, cannot be accessed at any Erie County public libraries anymore because it’s been deemed unacceptable for children under 18! It’s been banned. Found to be “suspicious.”

Now I have no choice but to put this up:

parental-advisory

Last night, I wanted to make sure I still had the ability to vocalize my fantasies. When I was driving with Mick in his car, I let everything out.

“The cop who just drove by, omigod, he looked pretty sexy,” I said while eyeing a police SUV cruising down Allen St.

“Like I care,” Mick said, totally pissed and smoking a cig. I’m pretty sure Mick considers the two of us in a relationship, but I fail to grasp this and continuously try to date other men. I’m not super satisfied with monogamy, what can I say?

“That’s definitely one of my fantasies,”  I said, oblivious and smoking weed in a nonchalant manner. “For a hot police officer to arrest me and beat me into submission.”

“Great…” Mick said.

“But not in the holding center,” I said. “I heard it’s pretty smelly in there.”

“Whatever,” Mick said. “We’re here.”

Mick brought me to a Christmas party in a dark Allentown mansion. I love going to mansion parties – they are excellent networking opportunities. In the middle of the party, when a bunch of people found themselves on pink striped chaise lounges listening to an elderly art dealer play the trumpet, I embarked on another taboo discussion with two people I thought were a couple.

“….Swingers parties,” I heard the guy next to me say. My ears perked up, full-on SONAR, and his female accomplice noticed.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just, I attempted to infiltrate the swingers scene here before. I’m a writer.”

“I’ve never gone to any swingers parties before,” the woman said. She was pretty and tan. “But he has.”

“It’s pretty wild out in Calabasas,” he said. “Have you seen Eyes Wide Shut?”

“Yes, and honestly, I don’t think it gets that steamy around here,” I said. “At least, everything I went to just had a bunch of people sitting around eating mozzarella sticks.”

“Really?” the woman said.

“Yeah, apparently there’s some Bad Kitty Club that meets down in Dunkirk,” I continued. “We should go! What are you two doing after this? We’re going to Mother’s. Want to come? Hey, Mick -”

Mick stormed off and left me sitting on the couch to talk about the swingers lifestyle on my own.

“Are you guys dating?” the woman asked me.

“Um, not really,” I said. “At least, I don’t think we are.”

“We’re not a couple either,” she laughed and swirled her chardonnay.

“I’ll go find Mick,” I said. “He probably had to go to the bathroom. One sec.”

I found Mick slouched in front of the kitchen sink.

“Um, what?” I said.

“Look, I don’t want to hear you talking about threesomes and inviting random strangers into our romantic night alone -”

“I didn’t know we were having a romantic night alone,” I said. “You have to be honest about your needs and wants. Now that I know, we can have one.”

“If you are into these things, threesomes, group sex, blah blah blah, ” Mick continued to rave like Steve Aoki in Vegas,  “Then we are just not compatible. I want a normal life, marriage…”

“That’s not what I’m into!” I clutched Mick by the shoulders. “That’s not my real life!”

Later on in the evening, after meeting tons of interesting people at the party, I went into one of the many bathrooms to think.

“STOP TELLING WELL-CONNECTED MIDDLE-AGED MEN THAT YOU WORK AT THE ADULT STORE,” I paced around the bathroom. “EVERYONE IS GOING TO THINK YOU ARE COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY INSANE.”

“But I’m a writer,” the other side of me said, and whether it was the angel or devil on my shoulder I’m still not sure. “Anything goes if you are a writer with talent.”

“EVERYONE AT THE PARTY THINKS YOU ARE A TOTAL NUT,” the voices in my head continued. “AND IT’S BECAUSE YOU ARE!”

“Ok, shut up and stay positive,” I said to myself. “You are indeed crazy and talking to yourself but it works for you.”

Mick and I left a little while later. We went off to continue our supposedly romantic evening, but in my estimation, it really wasn’t. He kept criticizing my life choices the entire time, mainly because Mick is from an older and more traditional generation.

“Your generation, all you want to do is cohabitate and share living expenses and fuck each other,” Mick said while driving me home, furiously puffing on cigarette after cigarette.

“So what?” I said. “My generation, we don’t need someone else to make us happy. We find strength within ourselves.”

“Whatever.”

I went to sleep knowing I’m insane. And when I woke up, I didn’t care.

stickers

The Silver Fox

ricks
I have a silver-haired suitor named Mick. He’s a fortysomething banker who proudly goes commando.

As Sunday morning turns into afternoon, light fog permeates the air. A misty gray sky hangs above downtown. It’s calm after last night’s drinking crowd. Mick is driving me around in his ‘01 Beamer, six-foot-two frame squished behind the wheel. He stickshifts around the Harbor Center, taking a meandering route to nowhere in particular.

We check out construction on the new ice rink, killing time before an afternoon Christmas party. This mysterious soiree – hosted by a priest – will contain local politicians. Or so I’m told by Mick. My hunger for adventure made me accept his invitation, which came along at just the right time. I’m going through a Jon Stewart phase.

“Thanks for the wine,” I say. Beringer Estates white zinfandel sits in a little wicker basket.

“I need that basket back though,” Mick says. He lets out a chuckle, peering at me sideways with crystal blue eyes.

This is the first time I’ve gone anywhere with Mick. I definitely didn’t expect a gift. We relax at the Main and Chippewa intersection. All is still. The street, vacant. As the light changes from red to green, Mick shifts the car into gear.

Instead of moving, the turn-of-the-century BMW just absently rolls forward and stalls out.

“There’s something wrong with my car,” Mick says, turning off the ignition and turning it back on again. The car does the exact same thing – nothing.

“This has never happened before,” he says. “Oh my God why is this happening?”

“Maybe you should take the keys out and let it rest,” I say, putting my hand on his thigh.

Mick swiftly exits the car and starts pushing.

“Do you want me to help? I really don’t mind.”

“No, absolutely not. It’s fine!”

Mick steers the car towards a parking lot 30 feet away. A random pedestrian in prison orange appears out of nowhere, and helps him push. I feel like Cleopatra being carried by two male attendants. We make it to the parking lot and I get out of the car.

The random pedestrian asks Mick for money.

“What? No! Get out of here!”

I’m shocked Mick doesn’t toss him a couple bucks, but then again, I don’t either.

“Whenever someone’s car dies, there’s always that random helper nearby, and they always ask for money. It’s a known hustle,” I say.

“That was the same guy?! I was too shaken up to notice.”

We are in a parking lot right by The Lodge. We go there to figure shit out. I left my car on Elmwood and Auburn. The party is around Nottingham Terrace/Parkside, at Father John’s crib.

We take a seat at the bar.

“Look, I have AAA,” I say. Mick orders a martini, straight up. He’s visibly frazzled.

“It’s going to be ok,” I reassure. “The party doesn’t start for like, two hours.”

Mick emits a deep exhale. “You’re sweet.”

The two of us hang out for a while, eventually abandoning the car. AAA would only tow it five miles with the policy I have, and what good would that do? We take a taxi to my car and head to the party.

uncork
At the party, the cozy kitchen is stuffed with middle-aged couples. A long table is lavishly spread with various canapes and hors d’oeuvres. The host, Father John, emerges from the crowd in a nubby Christmas tree sweater.

“Hello, very good to see you Mick,” Father John says, giving Mick a long, hard embrace.

Mick introduces me to Father John, who extends a polite handshake. The two of us head to the open bar. A couple older bartenders are mixing drinks in Father John’s cleared-out living room.

Mick and I stand against the wall, close together.

“Father John is in love with me,” Mick says.

“Oh come on,” I say, “In love?” I look over my shoulder. Father John is staring at us from across the room, with a twinkle in his eye.

Guests gradually fill up the kitchen, living and dining rooms. A state Senator who I spot around town all the time shows up. Mick points out another Senator rocking a hideous royal blue fleece in the kitchen. I force my tipsy self to not ask him questions about his latest controversy. They aren’t as attractive as Mick, anyway, and not just because they’re both Republican.

Mick and I make a few more trips to the bar. The martinis and wine are flowing. A carving station opens up, offering turkey and succulent roast beef sandwiches.

After we chow down, I lead Mick down a random carpeted hallway. We find an empty den with bowls of chips everywhere.

“Ugh, finally – we’re alone,” I lean into Mick.

“You are gorgeous and young,” Mick says. “Everyone here is looking at you.”

“No they’re not. I haven’t noticed, anyway.”

We sit down on the futon.

“How could you not have noticed?”

I want to make out with Mick badly, but go figure – the damn door is clear glass. Not exactly the privacy I had in mind. Suddenly, a goofy-looking short guy with a crooked tie enters the room. He slumps in an armchair with a beer.

“Hey, I’m Jack. Sorry – mind if I sit in here? You weren’t trying to have a private moment – were you?”

Mick and I look at each other.

“Uh, it’s fine,” I say.

Jack starts carrying on about his public speaking job with the county.

“Oh you know, I give tours. Looking to retire soon. It’s been very rewarding….”

He carries on and on and neither Mick nor I say much in response. I’m waiting for this Jack creature to vamoose but then…a fiftysomething woman in one inch heels and candy cane socks comes in!

“Oh, this is my wife,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. Jack’s wife sits on the other side of the room. She looks tired and bored. Jack keeps talking about his job while his wife just sits there looking miserable.

After 25 minutes or so, Jack and his wife leave. Mick and I emerge, going back into the soiree. Father John rushes towards us.

“We’re gonna get going,” Mick tells him.

“Oh, Mick, so good seeing you. Merry Christmas.”
We go off into the night, stopping to make out in the Historical Society parking lot.

Later, I fall asleep while reading a text from Mick.

“See – listen to this. I told you Father John has a crush on me. He sent me an email saying he wishes I slept over and that he loves me! And that asshole Jack. I should have told him to give us some fucking privacy! They are so fucking nosy! And then his wife walks in. I should have told them to go away. You are beautiful and amazing. Let’s go to Rick’s on Main next weekend. Good night.”