Sex
That’s how strong his love is
Bryan Ferry has always been a Casanova -- helpless in the face of love, transforming his lust into flights of ardor.
If he seduces, it is because he is seduced. The first dupe is always himself, incorrigibly in love, open to any stratagem to preserve the illusion of infinite love, like the endless reflections cast by the beveled edges of the Venetian mirrors.
–Lydia Flem, “Casanova: The Man Who Really Loved Women”
Being a Don Juan, a lounge lizard roué who racks up conquests for the sheer pleasure of accumulation, was Bryan Ferry’s pose, a thin, brittle shell of protection. The true, beating heart beneath that exterior was that of a Casanova. Helpless in the face of love, transforming his lust into flights of ardor, Ferry, as Lydia Flem wrote of Casanova, “cannot help being sincerely infatuated by each woman he desires … for him, love is neither philandering nor vanity. It is a kind of madness, an incurable disease.” Or, as a crystalline song on his new CD “Frantic” so simply puts it, “a fool for love.”
The humor and the veneer of camp with which Ferry has overlaid some of his most moving music (the quavering “Oy vey” in the midst of “The Thrill of It All”; the bizarreness of any number of cover versions, especially his breakneck take on Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s A-gonna Fall”) has always functioned as a defense mechanism. You can’t avoid the wit, but to hear only the wit is to miss the soulful emotion beneath, the same as experiencing Noel Coward’s “Private Lives” as only a comedy.
But then, style has always carried its own curse, the assumption that the surface is all there is. And who is more stylish than Bryan Ferry? Last year, on Roxy Music’s reunion tour, a regrouping so vital and strong it banished all traces of nostalgia, Ferry, in black leather tuxedo jacket and crisp white French-cuffed shirt, was as handsome as he has ever been. Better-looking than when he first appeared in the early ’70s, Ferry has acquired the delicately chiseled face of a great beauty, the aquiline nose denoting both strength and vulnerability. But his handsomeness and the clothes he wears with the unconscious elegance of a second skin have always seemed an emanation of the sensibility underneath.
Where Lotharios are boastful, Ferry has been reticent. Think of how he details the lead-up to a one-night stand on “Love Is the Drug,” only to pull the plug on our voyeurism with a cutting “You can guess the rest.” The man who Greil Marcus once wrote had “enough soul in him to record for Motown” has sung most often as a romantic seeker, looking for a love that was “out of reach, gleaming, very Holy Grail.” Never more soulfully, or more devastatingly than on 1978′s “The Bride Stripped Bare.” Befitting the art-school vein of English rock, the title was from Duchamp. The sensibility was from Raymond Chandler and cutout bins. Philip Marlowe rose from the dead on the album and walked the streets of L.A. with a mix tape of Sam and Dave, Al Green, ancient folk songs of dread and longing, the Velvet Underground, the ageless voices of blues singers echoing through his head as he made his way through bars and ballrooms before ending in a self-imposed exile that might as well have been another planet.
Elvis Costello may have proclaimed himself a man out of time, but it’s Ferry who deserves the title. Not just because he understands that style is a different thing from the ephemeral nature of fashion. And not just because of his predilection for standards (explored on the lovely 1999 set “As Time Goes By”) or oldies (“Frantic” opens with a version of Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” that seems meant to test the song, to see how much of a rocker it can become and still retain its poetry). Ferry is the eternal lover, whether he’s singing with the dry irony of Dracula cruising a singles bar, a ’30s crooner at an enormous old microphone, or the soul singer he has always longed to be and, at his best, has been. He’s been the songbird, way up there, going with love most everywhere. That’s how strong his love is.
Charles Taylor is a columnist for the Newark Star-Ledger. More Charles Taylor.
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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