Watching Dean Martin as Van Morgan, cool dude gambler, detective, charmer, shuffling cards like a pro in a western whodunit was a bit of a tickler, Robert Mitchum’s portrayal of black-garbed, Colt-toting, Bible- bashing revenge-seeking Jonathan Rudd with “the you-know-he-is hiding-something” strut, well matched with cigarette-butt flicking, poison-spitting Roddy McDowall, felt right at home in Mama Malone’s saloon or Ms. Langford’s establishment where a man could avail himself of a $1shave, $2.50 hair-cut, $3.00 shampoo, and miscellaneous… $20… Western movies, in particular those with Dean Martin remind me of J.C. J.C. was smooth, suave, debonair, charming... a very handsome con-man with a very high I.Q; he was simultaneously a gambler, a bookie, a forger, a safe-cracker, a thief, a mining prospector or a devoted stock market agent… He wore raw-silk suits in various shades of grey, preffered alpaca sweaters and Ferragamo shoes and his permanent address was the ***** Hotel. Apart from personal apparel he didn’t own anything but a black convertible Thunderbird with red leather upholstery, he had an interesting foot fetish, a passion for western movies, drank Crown-Royal and 7up and would trade any fancy steak and lobster dinner for Deluxe Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
I was his friend! I was often invited to his bed yet by each other hardly aroused, we frolicked once, maybe twice, without great success. We watched late night westerns on TV, talked and slept. Casual and anonimous was the best sex for J.C. He liked show girls, Las Vegas girls, Playboy girls, call girls, strippers and teasers... Beautiful but not permanent, briefly delightful not domestic…
No comments:
Post a Comment