Today I am grateful for Sophia Loren. For you young-uns out there who might not know the name, go to a dictionary (that’s a book that has a lot of words in it), open it up to the word SEX and right next to that you’ll see Sophia’s picture. Wow! What a babe!
Okay so today there are wanna-be sex symbols. Madonna tried to look like Marilyn Monroe. All you have to do is watch Marilyn in “Gentlemen Prefer Blonds” and you will see how Madonna failed miserably. Others try to emulate the sex symbols of the past, but until they eat a few hamburgers and pack on 30 pounds they, too, will fail. Stars like Sophia had “real” shapes and I’m not talking about pencil/popsicle/breastless ones. I’m talking full, healthy, abundant, a little jiggily, and rollingly round. Zaphtic!
Last night after a wonderful early dinner with friends, we came home and watched “Houseboat” a Turner Classic Movie I had recorded starring Cary Grant and Sophia Loren. Someone for each of us to ogle! Cary Grant was my childhood crush, then I morphed to James Garner, but with both of them dead, I’ll take Hugh Jackman, thank you very much. Not too shabby. My husband, on the other hand, has stood by Sophia Loren for his entire life. So much so that when we went away for a weekend with friends, one of them took a picture of John and I, then cut me out and pasted Sophia next to him instead. He put it in a two-way glass frame with John and me on one side and John and Sophia on the other. He keeps it on his night table with our picture facing out. Most of the time. Yet now there she was, on the screen in more than living color.
The movie, which we’ve both seen many times before is playing, and I say, “Wow, she opened her top button from that scene before. Did you notice that?” His eyes were glazed when he nodded. Okay. Dumb question. But I wasn’t done. Later, during a close-up I said, “Holy smoke, look at those eyes!” He said, “She has eyes?”
Even Cary couldn’t hold my attention when she was on the screen. I was awe-struck by her voluptuous beauty. “Oh I remember this part.” I couldn’t stop myself. “Do you remember the dress she’s going to wear?” Tongue hanging out, drool slipping down his chin, he lamely nodded, unable to speak. Gold. Like liquid sex. When she moved the light caught every curve. . . and she has more curves than a rocky mountain pass.
When she and Cary danced at the country club, their cheeks touching, then moving and touching on the other side, as they twisted their faces everywhere but in an actual lip-to-lip-kiss, I had to pick my husband up off the floor. Except I was down there, too. Wow!
Do I have to turn the hose on you, yet? Nothing happened. Everything happened. It wasn’t the slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am type of “intimate” smash-her-against-a-wall-while-ripping-clothes-off scene that seems to be in every current movie.
It was subtle and sexy. And hotter than Vesuvius!
Today I am grateful for Sophia Loren. I understand my husband’s lifelong fantasy. I get it. But this morning when I went to take a picture of the pictures, there she was, facing the front, standing next to my husband looking sultry and sexy, while the picture with me in it looked at the wall. It’s okay. I still have Hugh Jackman.