Speaking of masseuses, I remember a blonde who gave me a rub way back in the late 1970s, when there were still walk-in massage parlors on Eighth Avenue near Times Square...$10 plus a tip...boy I miss those places today...instead there are just a lot of too expensive stripclubs, or video stores with their glaring fluorescent lights, but no easily accessible, readily affordable, and safely acquired massage...

It was a cold winter night, but I remember how this girl told me her job was to make me feel good and that I should just lay back and relax. The place was a dump and not too comfortable, but she was a gentle girl with a round face, sweet smile, and dimples...around my age then (late twenties)...

She told me while she was giving me the massage that she was the descendant of a famous Civil War general...

When she was done with the massage, she gave me a big hug. "Come here, let me hug you," she said. The whole thing probably cost me $20. The night was a little warmer after that...maybe for her too, because I definitely hugged her back. I wonder whatever happened to her, because the place closed shortly afterward as New York "cleaned itself up"...that's a laugh...everything just moved up into the apartment buildings and became harder to access and more expensive.

I haven't gone for a massage in a long time...but it was often a pleasant experience, back in the sleazy old days before masseuses wrote memoirs and revealed that many of them are lesbians and consider lots of their male customers pathetic. Thanks for sharing, ladies...I suppose that viewpoint is what sells books and memoirs these days...and although I'm not naive, and always suspected that some of you felt that way, I could ignore your attitudes as long as I lacked any hard proof...

The obvious difference between this blog and a meticulously-polished and slowly-marinated literary work is that my blog is often written quickly, with emotions served up hot. It defeats the purpose of my having a blog if I labor over my entries too much...I would end up not posting them because of my very critical nature and lack of confidence that I am saying something that makes total sense.

For some peculiar reason, I feel that I always must make complete sense, as if I were actually capable of it!

Although I polish my blog and hone its words, it is more like a diary in that I don't scrutinize the premises of my entries with the same critical eye as I do its grammar or style. Quite frankly, I don't have the time, nor perhaps even the inclination; because I see the blog as an ongoing exploration of my life, and as such full of my personal quirks and flaws.

Anyway, a comment from Lady Blumoon, one of my favorite fellow Blogstreamers, confirmed my fear that I didn't completely make sense in what I wrote yesterday. I talked about my mental perception of "Good Girls vs. Bad Girls" being blurred by the idea of a woman working as an undercover handjob-dispensing masseuse and not telling her boyfriend.

This is closer to how I see Good Girls vs. Bad Girls, which I should have said yesterday:

It is not a sexual designation, but a moral one. To me, a woman can make a living with her sexuality and be "good" if she is honest about it. You're a hooker? You're a porn star? You're a stripper? Fine. That's what you do. I may see the act as somehow degrading, but that a perceptual problem on MY part that doesn't really relate to the women. Who is to say that selling sex is degrading in the most objective sense? It may be frowned upon by modern religions, but pagan religions used to have sacred prostitutes in the temples. In today's world, if a masseuse relieves a man's loneliness, is that a bad thing? Is she a criminal or a good Samaritan? The exchange of money does not necessarily mean she is a bad person, or that the guy is a degenerate. Great literature teaches us to see the gray areas in life. Too bad Shakespeare never wrote a play about a masseuse. More than one masseuse or stripper got Sir Cranky through a cold lonely night. No, my idea that commercial sex is "degrading" is a personal neurotic conflict, and I should have made that clearer.

It's not giving the handjobs that makes a masseuse bad in my eyes; it's lying to her boyfriend about the true nature of her job that earns a "bad" designation from me. And yet I suppose there are many gray areas about why she would lie...so in the end, who am I to call anybody "good" or "bad" because she deceives a boyfriend? All the classifications break down, and we are left with the the chaos and confusion that is life, and our feeble attempts to make sense of it.

I woefully admit I am not Shakespeare, but merely a most cranky blogging sir. And I sometimes feel too cerebral and cut off from reality's flow and ebb...

Maybe I really should just stick to writing about what I like in DVDs...

My friend Sid, the actor-writer who lives in Queens, has repeatedly asked me why I get so upset by things women say or do or write, fueling some of my rants on this blog. I answer flippantly that being cranky is what makes me “Sir Cranky," but I sometimes wonder myself why I take things so personally.

You can see the various sides of my personality on this blog. I can be scholarly and contemplative, or emotional and critical. I can be serious and thoughtful, or pretentious and narcissistic. Then there’s Cranky the Comedian; I like making people laugh--so I really enjoyed it when readers commented that my last post cracked them up. I do like to entertain and I like to entertain myself too as I write.

But then there is the childish part of me that wants women to be nice to me--and if they’re not nice to other men, like some chick dissing a guy in a personal ad on craigslist--I feel somehow that she’s dissing me, too. This sets off the cranky baby part of my personality that I’ve discussed before.

I suppose I could dredge up memories to figure out why I’m like this, as a sneaky, roundabout way of apologizing for it, but how much can the past tell me, really? Especially since any explanation would still only be an approximation of whatever would be the ultimately unknowable full truth.

Human behavior just can’t be reduced to the incidents or feelings that cause it. It’s too complex, and too many factors come into play.

So if I remember (because she implies this was the case) that my mother focused all her intense attention on me for three years before my first sister came along...and if I also remember (on my own) that when I went out into the world of public school I got a rude awakening that I wasn’t exactly the perfect prince that my mommy exalted me as--well, that’s only part of the story. But it probably does contribute to why I take it so personally when females don’t gaze at me lovingly--or gaze lovingly at other men I view as proxies. I’m probably reliving that rude awakening from long ago.

Why don’t all women love me as mommy once did?

The reason why I’m writing this now is that a little while ago I went to the New York media blog Gawker.com and read about a short memoir on the website Nerve.com. Entitled “Body Work,” it was written by a young woman, Stephanie Serizy, about her work at a Manhattan massage parlor. It was a typical article of its type: the college-educated narrator feels that giving handjobs is her best financial option in a tough town, less degrading than working various “regular” jobs, and she spends a good deal of the piece justifying her decision in all sorts of intellectual, interpersonal, sexual, and creative terms.

As a customer of strippers in the present, and of hookers and masseuses and dominatrices in the not-so-distant past, I am drawn to these articles because I want to understand the women who cut the edge of my loneliness--but after I read the articles, I realize that I don’t like understanding them because they seem so conflicted, so bitter, so cynical, so manipulative, so jaded, so morally coarse--and that except for the catchy facades they present for my erotic fulfillment, they rarely appeal to me as people.

When I say “morally coarse” I am referring to how these women constantly do not comprehend why lying to their boyfriends about how they make a living is a truly nasty deception that shows a complete lack of understanding of the territorial emotions of the human male animal.

It’s a funny thing. If I met a woman who told me upfront she was a masseuse, a stripper, or a dominatrix, that wouldn’t necessarily prevent me from getting involved with her; but if I met a woman who pretended that she wasn’t a sex worker but was, and then I found out, I would feel betrayed and humiliated. You see, even though I’ve paid for sexual entertainment, I still find it an extreme thing both to purchase and to sell--perhaps even degrading to both the man and woman. Maybe that degradation is part of its appeal to me, being a “good Jewish boy” at heart who is forever rebelling against his background.

In a non-commercial relationship, I would be looking for something different; something I could put my trust into. I really have a hard time trusting women for whose company I pay. I may like them; I may desire them; I may get emotionally attached to them; I may feel tender affection for them; but the money always adds an element of distrust on my side, and probably degradation too. “Regular” relationships may be difficult, but I don’t see them as degrading right out of the gate.

To find out that a woman I thought was non-commercial was actually selling her sexual favors (and a handjob IS a favor) to other men would break down the split of good girl/bad girl that I hold so dear to my heart. To keep such a secret would be like the woman was degrading me without my knowledge...my answer to her would be, “If I wanted a whore, I would have gotten one! I didn’t want a whore IN YOU.”

I don’t know if I’m making any sense, but I’m just trying to present these complicated feelings because the attitude I pick up in these memoirs, “Body Work” included, is that somehow men should easily understand and accept the blurring of the good girl/bad girl lines.

I’ve always tried to see women as individuals and not just as sexual objects, in spite of all the sexist and chauvinistic promptings I received growing up in the 50s and 60s; despite my eyes and soul being dazzled by Playboy, Italian movie starlets, Elke Sommer in A Shot in the Dark, Shirley Eaton in Goldfinger, Chelo Alonso in Son of Samson and Sylvia Lopez in Hercules Unchained; but when I read articles like “Body Work” and find out some of the things these strippers or masseuses or dominatrices do and think when they’re not lapdancing or handjobbing or role-playing, I realize that except for the sexual part, most of these women do not appeal to me as individuals...and therefore, their appeal to me is ONLY as the embodiment of my needs and fantasies. As objects...almost like holograms.

Perhaps I feel angry at the writers of pieces like “Body Work” for making me see this truth about myself. It’s as if they’re forcing me to realize my mental process when it comes to the women I pay for erotic pleasure: “You are a whore, I am a trick, and that’s all it could ever be...because of YOU, girl, because of YOUR attitudes!” See, cash-and-carry is not enough for Sir Cranky! He wants to LOVE his strippers, his hookers, his dominatrixes!!

In “Body Work,” the narrator keeps her job as a masseuse secret from her boyfriend. When she finally reveals all, he says, “Get your dirty hands off of me.” After reading a couple of thousand words about the unpleasant attitudes of this masseuse, I could only cheer, “Right on, brother! You tell her!”

Here’s a link to the article for your interest:

BodyWork

I hate days when I don't get much work done, like yesterday (Tuesday)...it's just after midnight now as I write this, Wednesday morning...I like to have a productive Monday through Friday, a normal type of week, even though I'm a freelancer and my time is my own...anyway, I got a bit of stuff done, but I could tell I felt very burned out and needed to rest my mind, so I slacked off a bit...got some exercise in the late afternoon by taking a walk up to Tower Video, where I expected to find a copy of Kings Row, one of my very favorite movies just released on DVD...but drat, it wasn't there! Which is unusual for Tower, they seem to always have the new releases on the days they're announced...Kings Row is a 1942 movie with Ann Sheridan, Robert Cummings, Claude Rains, and Ronald Reagan about the dark secrets in an American town at the end of the nineteenth century. It's a helluva soap opera with fine music...I'll have more to say about it once I get the DVD...so come on already, Tower!!

Anyway, as I said, I was feeling a mite exhausted...I'm overdue for a vacation...even my eyes hurt a bit after an hour or so on the computer...

On my way back from Tower, I saw two Russian girls walking down the street arm-in-arm. At least, they sounded like they were speaking Russian. One a blonde, one raven-haired...they were dolled up in bright low-cut blouses, tight skirts and slacks, and really high heels...everybody was looking at them...it was quite a show...it was the Eat-Your- Heart-Out Revue...they didn't look pretty enough to be models, but they sure didn't look like they worked in an office either...these days, though, you never know. A slutty-looking redhead with a tongue piercing and tattoos used to live on my floor, good tits, fine booty, and I was shocked to find out she was an attorney--a public defender no less...one day I walked by her door and could hear her getting fucked by her boyfriend...I mean, they must have been jammed up against the front door and she was moaning loudly...that's what you can hear in the middle of the afternoon when you're a freelancer, and you're walking down to the corridor to throw your trash in the compactor...a public defender with a little barbell in her tongue! What the fuck ever happened to Perry Mason??

I talked to my doctor yesterday about the results of the bloodwork I did for my physical ten days ago. I was afraid that the numbers on the report indicated that my glucose (blood sugar) was too elevated, that my body wasn't processing sugar as well as it should; but I needn't have panicked. Still, what would the life of Sir Cranky be without a little superfluous panic??

The doc said the numbers were okay, nothing to be alarmed about. My weight has also stayed stable for several years. I could lose a few pounds but it is nothing serious. In any case, the panic has served to get me to watch my diet more. I cut back on too much sugar in the coffee, potato chips with the lunch sandwich, and as my bodybuilder friend Rexx reminds me, "cookies and ginger ale" for dinner. Yes, I've not always eaten wisely...

As with many people, I eat sometimes to relieve stress. Only recently did I start surfing the "women seeking men" personals on craigslist instead of stuffing my maw with Hershey's delectable Extra Creamy Toffee and Almond Nuggets! And I've eaten cashews sometimes to stay home instead of going out to spend money on lapdances I cannot as readily afford nowadays...I was just joking with my friend ZP (the writer who looks like a tall Kafka) that I should bring a doctor's note to my favorite stripclub and hand it to the dancers, instructing them that for health reasons Sir Cranky must get two-for-one lapdances! I need my dances or I will eat too much chocolate and my blood sugar will skyrocket! Simple cause-and-effect. Perhaps I could give the same note to the managers of the club so they'll give me a "lapdance scholarship" which will enable me to get dances for free...as well as have all my drinks on the house!

Dream on, Cranky...

In any case, I am getting diet tips from Rexx and may even start on a simple exercise regimen...I hope this panic has made me learn my lesson!

We'll see...

Meanwhile...onto other matters...

Throughout my life, I have often described the women I’ve been involved with, or just known, in terms of their resemblance to famous actresses.

I once lived with a girl who looked like Susannah York, the comely British actress who starred in Tom Jones (1963) with Albert Finney...I lived long ago with another girl whom I have variously described as looking like Linda Ronstadt, Rachel Weisz, but whose most recent incarnation in my mind is the brunette Kate Bosworth from Superman Returns...

I have been a customer of strippers who look like tv and movie hotties...

I don't seem to pick them for their resemblances, though, at least not consciously; it's only later that I seem to realize the girl dancing on my lap resembles, say, Jamie Lynn Sigler.

I also had a relationship more than two decades ago with a gal who looked a lot like Suzanne Pleshette, although with a few more pounds on her.

Upon reading that Pleshette is undergoing chemotherapy for lung cancer that, thankfully, was caught in its very early stages, I reflected on how just her very name conjures up the world of 60s movies for me. I’m not a big tv viewer; I never saw her much on the Bob Newhart shows, so in a way she is still a figure of the past for Sir Cranky.

I most remember her playing book editor to James Franciscus’s lusty novelist in the trashy melodrama Youngblood Hawke (1964)...and as the schoolteacher Annie in Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963).

Last night I watched a 1959 show called "Summer of Decision" on a DVD compilation called The Golden Age of TV Drama (from www.passportdvd.com), wherein she plays a young New York social worker. It wasn’t a large role, and she hadn’t yet quite ripened into her more sultry 60s beauty, but it was still fun to watch Suzanne, especially seeing her wearing gloves in the middle of a summer day as women did in those days!

I went on the Web to look for some pictures and info about Miss Pleshette, and found a fun site by a writer named Blase DiStefano that has an interesting bio, reviews of her movies and pix, and some funny quotes from witty Suzanne. Looking at the listing of her movies, I realize I have a lot of her 60s classics to catch up with via DVD. Rome Adventure, A Rage to Live...yet it’s a tribute to her talent and allure that she made such a deep impression on me with only the few performances I saw long ago. That sexy throaty voice, and those dark sensual eyes...

So you can imagine how pleased I was to have a girlfriend who looked like Suzanne Pleshette!

I wish her a speedy recovery, and here’s a link to Blase DiStefano’s cool site for your own interest:

SecretCareerOfSuzannePleshette