No wanking this Saturday morning because I had a date playing netball on a car park by the beach in Santa Monica. The last time I played netball I was 15 years old at my school Tremough Convent in Cornwall. Now I am nearly 50 and it turns out I am a much better player than I was. I’m convinced that driving round America having thought-provoking conversations about sex and doing unexpected sexual things has helped my game. It’s about feeling good in your skin. Everyone aims for ‘flow” in California and you can’t get into that unstoppable state if you’re wearing a stupid gym slip or wondering why you don’t want to go to the school disco. At the convent, we didn’t actually have a school disco (We had the “Passion Play” which took the form of motionless tableaux vivants about the life of Jesus. I played Herod.) We also weren’t allowed to chew gum or wear basketball shorts or admit that we were chanelling Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. But now I’m admitting it. Also, I had no idea about my sexuality when I was 15, athough I was having interesting noctural encounters with my hairbrush. (bristle side up). Funny how our PE teacher, Mrs Coleman once commented on the fingerless gloves I was wearing when I played one game of netball. “They look a bit floozy,” she said. I didn’t know what ‘Floozy” meant at the time although I suspected it was something to do with “sexual immorality” as Sister Angela used to call it. Thank goodness we can blow the idea of “sexual immorality” out of the water now.
Netball, meanwhile, is a game played by alpha career women types (if you ever meet a woman who plays recreational netball and she says she’s a center or a goal attack, then run for the hills). I always thought it was a bit like the Passion Play ie nobody got to move very much (unlike basketball)but I got into the Santa Monica game, in spite of the fact that the other players all seemed to be straight girls. They’re sweet, the cool straight girls. Lesbians have mich more in common with them than they do with gayboys. Anyway, I played pretty well as a Goal Defense, although I kept getting told off for fowling. That’s my inner Herod coming out.
Then Sunday night was an Oscars party in the house of Buck Angel who is known as “the man with a vagina.”
Check him out at: http://buckangel.com He was just back from New York and London where he’d been performing at X-rated cabaret club, The Box. He would be off Mrs Coleman’s Floozy Scale. I went there a few months ago and my friend complained that there were soooooooo many enema acts on these days. He goes on stage and swaggers around and then he finally reveals that he has a vagina and everyone goes “eeek!” in an excited way. Like the character in that freak show at the end of Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex. (It’s terrible I’ve got into the habit of calling a “vulva” and “vagina” because that’s what everyone does around here).
Buck Angel is all about doing what you must do in order to feel good in your skin. He is also a rule breaker. The received wisdom is today, for instance, is that you shouldn’t use the word “transexual” any more. You’re supposed to say “transgender.” But Buck Angel says that he totally considers himself a transexual because he sees his whole body as his sex. He says his vulva actually feels “very masculine.” (It’s interesting that in French and Spanish, “cunt” is masculine and “dick” is feminine). His sexuality doesn’t reside in his genitals, he says. He also dismisses the current trend for saying we shouldn’t think of gender as a binary. “I’m happy to be a dude,” he says. He’s got a really cool commercial project coming up but he’s not ready to reveal what it is until April.
Doing the X-rated cabaret circuit seems to pay the bills. Buck Angel has a lovely house with banana trees and Jasmine in the garden. His area of town has that typical LA ambient smell: wafts of honeysuckle followed by wafts of piss and marijuana.
All the guests at the party including American Psycho screen writer Guinevere Turner, and VS from Go Fish, liked the Chris Rock bits at the Oscars, about racism and the lack of black i.e. African American people honoured with nominations. But I kept wondering why nobody was talking about the lack of Latino American presence at the Oscars. There were a lot of indigenous Latins who got prizes but no home-grown ones. It was a bit of a boring Oscars. Clips of that boring, violent The Revenant film kept coming on. And the rest. Finally, Guinevere Turner, drawled. “Do you know what we’re missing? Movies about white men who make a lot of money.”