I don't think watching old movies is a good idea. And I'm talking about those cult ones, like A Fish Called Wanda, Pretty Woman, Dirty Dancing and Ghost. (A misspent youth I had indeed. I knew what the term 'vulgarian' meant by the age of 7; - 'No, you're the vulgarian, you fuck.' - and by 10, I was dreaming of a life as a prozzie so I could be picked up by a filthy sex-crazed businessman, teach him how to drive, spend bucketloads of his cash on 80's inspired fashion - though I'd never lose touch with my roots by hanging onto those thigh high leather boots - and then we'd get married. In, like, a week.)
Look, I'm speaking from experience. One night this week - each night indistinguishable from the next, given that I'm back at work so each night is characterised by extreme exhaustion and the wit of fridge goop - whilst channel surfing, I happened upon Ghost. The excitement was unbearable. In spite of the chill of Winter evenings, I loosened the belt on my fluffy white gown to cool my heaving chest. I topped up the wine. And snuggled into my couch.
My first dilemma with the situation presented itself quite early on in the film. Look, I'm working on not being judgemental at the moment (I have even been back to The Pan & Kettle for another quart - this time without hand sanitiser handy) but I can't quite get how Demi Moore managed to bag that beef-cake Patrick Swayze (a hottie hot pants in spite of his tight black jeans and billowing latino mullberry shirt) with that hair. I mean, honestly now. The crop is more masculine a wig than any of the lovers with whom I've liased.
All through my teen years, I berated myself for my lack of artistic talent. Especially considering it didn't quite fit with my wounded artist soul image that I tried to present to the world. (If you must know, I wore things like one-size-fits-all tie-dyed wrap-around pants, old suit trousers purchased from second-hand stores, Smell's dad's jerseys. I wore bindis. I burnt incense. I put the base of my bed in storage so I simply had a mattress on the floor "to be nearer the earth". - Oh God, I'm cringing.). But I always dreamed of having a pottery wheel upon which I could throw some kind of container whilst simultaneously getting felt up by my lover. Oh, and I'd be wearing his shirt. A work one.
That is, of course, until I rewatched, in my adult years, that famous scene. The whole shebang is quite phallic, really. But the wrong way around. There is nothing sexy about a woman - forget her pronounced manliness - with her legs apart in manner of forgotten scissors on a child's desk, with a massive grey-brown phallus twisting within.
And clay is just not sexy. I'm sure I'd handle the situation something a little like this:
Patrick Swayze Look-Alike: What are you doing up?
The Pant: Couldn't sleep.
PSLA: Why aren't you reading, like you normally do when you can't sleep?
TP: Didn't want to wake you.
PSLA: That's a change.
TP: Yup. I'm being artistic and caring.
PSLA: I feel like getting dirty.
TP: Well, I'm nearly finished. Then you can have a go.
PSLA: Not that kind of dirty.
TP: Oh? Oh. It's 2 am and I'm being artsy.
PSLA: Well, let's combine the two.
PSLA: Well, I could sit behind you and rub clay on your arms and you could moan as if you were enjoying it
TP: But it'll be dirty.
TP: No. The wrong kind of dirty.
PSLA: That's the whole point.
TP: Give me five minutes. I'll finish this pot, then we can get clean dirty.