Comfortable and Furious

Icky Sex in Movies: Part 2

Floating boobies: Jess and Kady Tyler in Butterfly (1982)

This critically scorned, box-office disaster gives us the grown-up debut of Pia Zadora, an ‘actress’ that you would love to overhear gabbing with Madonna about their storied attempts to become movie stars. Here she plays 17-year-old Kady, a sexpot who unexpectedly arrives at her estranged father’s shack in 1937 Nevada. “Something you want?” he asks her. “How can I tell,” comes the teasing response, “until I see what you got?”

It gets more blatant.

When she picks up a ladle of freshly squeezed cow’s milk, he tells her it ain’t gonna be cold. “I like it warm,” she replies, “with foam on it.”

Have you finally twigged where this one is going? Or do you still need to hear Zadora singing It’s Wrong for Me to Love You on the soundtrack?

Soon they decide to see if there’s any silver left in the nearby mine he’s paid to guard, the hard physical work later causing Kady to collapse with near-exhaustion on his bed. Daddy (Stacy Keach) considerately fills a tin bath for her. “You can’t sleep dirty like that. C’mon, you’ll feel a lot better.” She steps into the bath in front of him, her full frontal causing his jaw to drop. Speech also temporarily fails him while certain motor skills prove tricky. Then she asks for her aching shoulder muscles to be rubbed. He kneels on the floor behind as she holds her long hair up and he hesitantly places his coarse hands on her sweet, young flesh. “Harder, Jess,” she moans.

By now, Jess’ expression suggests a cross between a recently completed lobotomy and imminent orgasm. Slowly, ever so slowly, as Ennio Morricone’s tasteful score permeates the rising steam, his hands slide around onto her wonderfully firm titty-tit-tits. Oh boy, he’s got hold of ’em. We are officially in dodgy territory. Now saliva is threatening to leak out of his open mouth, his penis-shaped brain no doubt doing its best to turn the top of his head into a tent pole. Zombies look more in control than this dude.

However, somewhere within, a synapse of decency spasms and Jess tries to pull away. She holds his retreating arms fast. “What’s wrong?” she cries. “It just ain’t right,” he says. But Kady isn’t done yet. “It’s right,” she counters in her best sultry voice, “if it’s good.”

Well, actually, sweetie, not too sure that would hold up in court.

“You’re my daughter, Kady,” Jess explains during one last determined attempt to break free.

“And I’m a woman, too,” she replies, forcing his submerged arm between her legs.

Hmm, me thinks this pair is in hot water.

Giving head: Dr. Carl Hill and Megan Halsey in Re-Animator (1985)

Perhaps the bloody marvellous Re-Animator took part of its inspiration from the likes of a 1970s serial killer such as Ed Kemper, a cheeky chappie who liked to face fuck a female’s severed head. Why not just reverse the situation and play it for deeply icky laughs? Of course, that would mean the guy would have to be dead but when you’ve got a director as fearless as Stuart Gordon that’s not really a stumbling block.

Even while still alive, it’s obvious Dr. Hill (David Gale) is a bit of a shit. For a start he’s got his eye on the boss’ much younger daughter, the scrumptious Megan (Barbara Crampton). She’s a blue-eyed bombshell and so much woman there’s almost two of her. “I want you to think of me as someone you can come to with your problems,” he tells her. “Or if you’re ever lonely.”

Shortly afterward her dad ends up as a zombie, thanks to the pioneering work of Dr. Herbert West, the re-animator of the title. This leads Hill to try to get his grasping hands on the death-nullifying reagent, but a shovel to the head and a gory decapitation soon halt his attempt. Following a bunch of complicated necro-hijinks, the re-animated Hill (occasionally carrying his own head in a blood-filled, stainless steel tray) arranges to have Megan abducted in preparation for one of the least romantic scenes in all of cinema.

As Hill watches her unconscious body placed onto a table, the lust etched across the face is palpable. “Oh, yyyeeesss….” he drawls as she’s stripped and strapped down. By now he’s almost drooling as his disconnected hands fondle her naked breasts. Jesus Christ, this is one helluva graphic scene, but that shockmeister Gordon isn’t finished with his blackly comic bout of bravo filmmaking yet.

Megan wakes, sees she’s being pawed by a headless monster, and can only scream when locking eyes with the grinning, obviously deranged Hill. Arranging to have his head picked up, the dripping stump is held over her face as he half-hisses: “I’ve always admired your beauty, my dear. I think I’ve always loved you. And you will love me.”

Fine, tender words, but somehow Megan’s not going for it, despite Hill’s slobbering kisses and enthusiastic nipple licking as his head is pulled down the lower half of her body. Perhaps a bout of cunnilingus will promote a more favorable response…

What more can be said about this astonishing scene, except I imagine it would tickle Ed Kemper pink.

Some things can’t be unseen: Nicky and Ginger in Casino (1995)

Despite being a shortarse and almost thirty years older, I imagine Joe Pesci could beat me in a nightclub pulling contest. I mean, he’s famous, rich and won an Oscar ‘n’ everything, but hand on heart you’ll never convince me he’s ever been a stud muffin. And so to endure the sight of him getting it on with one of the hottest women in Hollywood is neither my idea of a plausible lady-gentleman interaction or something I ever wish to see again.

I’m talking about his tryst with none other than Sharon Stone, just three years after her show stopping turn in Basic Instinct. About 130 minutes into Scorsese’s Las Vegas-set epic, I started getting a sinking feeling that this hook-up was going to happen. Ginger (Stone) has married Ace (De Niro) but all they do is argue and fight, leaving the door open for other penises. Ginger seeks out Nicky (Pesci) for a heart to heart and they sit next to each other, with his arm resting on the sofa back threatening to snake around her lovely shoulders. Still, it’s not one-way traffic. Ginger’s leaning closer, they’re only inches apart. They hug. She’s stroking his jacket lapels and face. His little arm is pulling her closer.

And, oh God, I’m getting queasy.

“You’re a toughie,” Nicky tells her as she begins to sob. “You can take this.” Is he talking about Ace’s harsh treatment of her or the fact his lips are now brushing her forehead? Now he’s promising to take care of her, they’re kissing and aargh! her exquisite face has dropped like a dead weight into his lap.

Bad as this is, we’re in Scorsese territory and we all know how this guy likes to push the envelope. And so five minutes later a sweaty Nicky has got Ginger in a stranglehold in a motel bed and is tonguing her face while humping away with all the grace of a grunting Chihuahua that’s somehow lucked onto the upper leg of a magnificent Bengal tigress.

Sometimes I dunno why I watch movies.



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