Sex in a Porsche

I've never done it. I mean, in a Porsche. But Wilhelm Oehl has. In fact, he thinks everyone should do it in a Porsche.

He's one of the Silicon Valley tycoons interviewed in Sylvie Blocher's "Living Pictures/Men in Gold" now at the SF Museum of Modern Art.

This guy may connect money with sex, but some of his buddies confuse the two altogether. One middle-ager says, "Money certainly is erotic. It makes you feel big, powerful and safe." And another: "Money can be a sexual experience without an orgasm." One of them tells how, just out of college, he landed a gig for $100,000 in cash. Then he and his girlfriend, fully clothed, spread the money on a bed and took pictures of themselves rolling around in it.

Is it just me, or does this seem kinda strange?

But despite this occasional confusion, these men have "an unbelievable wish to do something," Blocher says, "even if they can't say what." True, that desire can get derailed into trivialities--like simply making more money for its own sake, for example. Still, this deeper restlessness is a good thing, this genuine longing for more love, more life. One of them laments his inability to find a woman who values him for himself and not just for his money. Another hopes his legacy will be appreciated years after he's gone. Hints of deeper desires.

For a few of these men, the film shows a vulnerability rarely seen by Silicon Valley drones like myself. They're not the one-dimensional, driven, moral underachievers I thought. I like Jean-Louis Gassee's self-reflection: "I had a reputation for being flamboyant and abrasive, and now that I'm at peace, I call myself a recovering ass-aholic."

Having seen this film, I can only wish them well. I hope each of them finds someone to love, and the sparkle in their kids' eyes better than that of gold. Oh, and that money really isn't a substitute for good old, delicious, sweaty, passionate sex. I hope they discover that most people in this world have barely enough to eat, much less a Porsche to have sex in. And that they can make things better.

Rob's Recital

It wasn't a major event in his musical career. Rob played beautifully as his teacher sang Schumann and Caldera. Then Rob smiled broadly, bowed, and yielded the ivory to the next student. His part of the recital was over in five minutes.
Still, it's a moment to give thanks for my husband and his music. It tumbles out to the sidewalk on Saturday mornings to greet passersby, ambles down the hall to the kitchen to mingle with the electronic whirrs and beeps of David's gameboy and the clatter of dishes. It winds up the stairs to our bedrooms and office, then on into the rafters of our house. It weaves itself into the fabric of our life as a family. It's known to bring a satisfied gleam to Rob's eyes, goosebumps, a flush to the cheeks, and joy to my heart.
Not a major event, but still...

Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things

In India, Arundhati Roy writes, "Love Laws" define who should be loved, and how, and how much. Defy these laws and you may lose your life; conform to them and you are sure to lose your soul.
These laws take their toll on Ammu, a young mother and divorcee, who returns with her children to her family home. Life there is poisoned by Baby Kochamma, the ubiquitous aunt whose youthful, unrequited love for an Irish priest has left her bitter, overweight, frightened of the world, and glued to the TV. Baby Kochamma has, by plight of circumstances, conformed to the Love Laws, and lost her soul.
By contrast, Ammu falls in love with Velutha, a gorgeous carpenter employed by the family business. The relationship is sensuous and powerful, but doomed. Velutha is an untouchable; in loving him, Ammu is breaking the Love Laws and publicly disgracing her family.
To preserve the family's reputation, Baby Kochamma trumps up charges that Velutha both raped Ammu and caused the death of a little girl, Baby Kochamma's grand-niece. (Does Baby Kochamma secretly envy Ammu's love for Velutha since her own equally forbidden love for the Irish priest could never bloom?) Velutha is hunted and brutally killed by the police.
Ammu must grieve Velutha's death silently and alone. Broken and embittered, she alienates her own children, is driven from the family home, and, despite desperate efforts and wild dreams of rebuilding a life, dies alone in a hotel. The church refuses to bury her. She is wrapped in a dirty sheet and fed to the incinerator in a crematorium for beggars, derelicts, and police-custody dead. Defying the Love Laws has cost both her and her lover their lives.
The theme is familiar to us gay men. It is echoed in films like Brokeback Mountain, dances like Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake, many gay novels, and the lives of untold numbers of gay men like Matthew Shepherd whose love never had the chance to be spent. Like Ammu, many a gay man has grieved the loss of a lover silently and alone.
This story taps into the profound sadness so many of us gay men feel; but it also energizes our resistance to the Love Laws--whether in South Asia or here in the US--that constrict our hearts and crush our spirits.