Sex
Is that all there is?
When we lost Miss Peggy Lee we lost a voice that could tunnel right into a listener's heart.
Though she barely made it out of Jamestown, N.D., after losing her mother when she was 4, and being thoroughly abused and intimidated by a stepmother, Miss Peggy Lee guarded some special knowledge or sophistication. She was a very accomplished singer with several different voices, or styles. But when she was most herself, she exulted in minimal accompaniment and making her intimate, husky yet very clear voice like a small-gauge tunnel right into the listener’s heart. She said she could sing before she could talk, and I daresay she was more grown-up, more knowing, more close to people when she sang to them. “Peggy Lee sends her feelings down the quiet center of her notes,” wrote music critic Whitney Balliett. It was as if you were alone with her, or she was murmuring the song into your head next to her. Pillow talk.
Except that she was too sad, too wondering, to be exactly comfortable. Sure, “Fever” was her great hit in the ’50s, and, with just drums, bass and clicking fingers, the song was full of sexual urging. But maybe the better song, at least a dozen years later, was “Is That All There Is?,” which is not quite the question anyone wants to wake up to.
Or to put it another way, in her own words, somehow the former Norma Deloris Egstrom, beaten and whipped to make sure she looked after the cows on a grim farm, had acquired wisdom or resignation. As well as the sure knowledge of how to deliver a deadpan list so that the timing made you collapse. “I learned courage from Buddha,” she said, “Jesus, Lincoln, Einstein and Cary Grant.” It’s the story of the 20th century, and if it were a movie it ought to close with the serene, desperate Grant gazing into the camera, as if looking for the tunnel that was Peggy Lee’s song — would it arrive in time to rescue him?
Was she a turn-on, then, you are asking? Well, yes, even in her later years when poor health, some dismay and perhaps a few drinks too many had slowed her train and left her looking like a powder puff, a sighing “O” in which it was hard to be sure where hair, face, fur wrap and aura met or separated.
Her life cried out for a movie — not just the terrible childhood, and the way, at 21, she replaced Helen Forrest with the Benny Goodman band, but because, somehow, without education or guidance, she had this phenomenal crushed torch voice, so far ahead of its time that you could hear flat-out depression in it as well as more direct carnal satisfaction than most singers had noticed. The men went through her life like drinks. She once said her marriages were like extended cocktail parties. Her first husband, and her best, was Dave Barbour, guitarist with the Goodman band, and a lush. She also married hunky actors Dewey Martin and Brad Dexter. And there was a time when Sinatra would do anything for her because he had learned so much from her singing.
There’s no point in really thinking about the movie. It’s sadder and more instructive to wonder why she never had a proper movie career of her own — though she got a supporting actress nomination once for “Pete Kelly’s Blues,” where she’s the singer in love with the hot trumpet player (played by Jack Webb). It’s a very white film, if you know what I mean, whereas in timbre and soul she was much closer to black. There’s a wild novel by Norman Mailer, “An American Dream,” in which a white woman is involved with a trumpet player clearly based on Miles Davis. That was a part for Peggy Lee.
Of course, it’ll never happen, just as we no longer seem to be making the singers, the songs and especially not their melancholy poetry that allowed for the brief age of Miss Peggy Lee.
David Thomson is the author of "A Biographical Dictionary of Film" (new edition just published), "Rosebud: The Story of Orson Welles" and "In Nevada." More David Thomson.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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