The Need in Me

Oh, what summer stirs up.

As I write this, I can’t help but think…”Should I write this?” But, you already know how I can get, or I think you do, so here we go.

As we are deep into the summer months here in the States, my thoughts are turning to the dreamlike, the ethereal, my head filled with frail wisps of memories that achingly remind me of what once was.

When the “New Normal” wasn’t a thing. When summer was something to look forward to because we were free! We were out and about, mixing and mingling and reveling in everything the season had to offer.

Summer is a season for passion. For skin warmed by the sun with the lingering scent of saltwater and Coppertone.

For gin and tonics and hanging out with friends through “last call” and beyond.

For long, languid lovemaking on crisp, white sheets with the windows flung wide and a breeze wafting the curtains.

For the belief that we are sexy and sensual, desired and desirable, fierce…and immortal.

Is it because we wear fewer clothes in the heat of summer and in turn are less inhibited by the revelation of more skin? Perhaps. Who knows? But I do know this:

Summer is magic. And I want, no, need to feel that way, again.

One of my favorite movies is 1958's The Long, Hot Summer, directed by Martin Ritt and produced by Jerry Wald.

The film stars Paul Newman, his real-life wife, Joanne Woodward, Orson Welles, Anthony Francioso, Lee Remick, Angela Lansbury, and Richard Anderson.

Adapted from several William Faulkner stories rolled into one, the film tells the story of a mysterious and very studly young drifter, Ben Quick, played by Newman, who takes the sleepy Mississippi town of Frenchman’s Bend by storm.

Welles’ character, Will Varner, owns nearly everything in Frenchman’s Bend, including his son, played by Francioso, daughter-in-law, a very sexy Remick and his own daughter, Woodward, whose schoolteacher character is well on the road to becoming what stood for an “old maid” back then.

Lansbury is spot-on as Varner’s longtime mistress, who really, really wants him to “put a ring on it.”

Varner takes a liking to the rebellious Ben Quick, who has the unfortunate and false reputation for being a barn burner. Spoiler alert: It was his Daddy.

Varner’s daughter takes a shine to Quick, as well, to her own dismay as she has been “keeping company” with her gentleman caller of many years, played by Anderson.

Even though she wants more out of the relationship, the two have never had sex or anything remotely like it. There is a strong “insinuation” that Anderson is homosexual. Something that is only hinted at, given the time and place.

Compounding this southern-fried romp, Varner usurps his own son, who he considers to be a wimp, to let Quick take over the town’s general store, which he owns along with everything else.

I won’t give away much more other than to say that it is hella hot in Mississippi! And it seems that every person in Frenchman’s Bend has one thing on their mind: Sex.

And more sex.

In fact, this movie fairly stinks of sex and I freakin’ love it. I can recite whole passages from the script. It’s not a cinematic masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, but the stars are on top of their game — Welles especially is a hoot — and the title theme song, written by Sammy Cahn and sung by Jimmie Rodgers, is the perfect accompaniment.

What especially moves me about the title track: Rodgers’ voice fairly aches with need. You can practically feel the repressed longing in his words.

Here’s a clip from one of my favorite scenes where Newman’s ladder-climbing drifter attempts to seduce Woodward’s virginal schoolmarm:

Can you see the sweat on Newman, AKA Ben Quick’s brow? That sweat…that heat…permeates the whole film. Everyone oozes sweat and sexual tension.

So what does the movie have to do with me? I want that “long, hot summer” feeling. Rather, I want it back.

I want to lie on a towel on a hot, sandy beach, a nameless, faceless lover’s hand resting on my bare stomach which has turned brown as a berry.

I want to feel sexy in my own skin. Sexy and confident and ready to take on the world.

Side note: Years ago when I was single and living in Chicago, I had a favorite outfit, one that made me feel invincible: A pair of fire-engine red pants that I wore with a white, midriff top.

I remember climbing up the stairs of the Devon Avenue bus, on the way to my neighborhood pub, and feeling the appreciative stares. I looked, and felt, smokin.’

You women know what I mean, don’t you? Certainly, you do.

What else do I want?

I want a scorching hot roll in the hay on those blinding white sheets that are in sharp contrast to my tanned body…where the scent of skin on skin is heightened by the musky note in my perfume.

After, I want to lay there, sated, imbued with that infused glow one’s body takes on after mind-blowing sex.

And then, I want to roll over and sleep, while dreaming of long, hot, summer’s past.

“Summertime and the livin’ is easy.” Bullshit. Not any more. Maybe that’s why I’m having these thoughts. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling this prolonged ache in my soul.

Perhaps it’s a combination of summer’s spell and the Quarantine Crazies. That must be it. That must be the reason. Eureka!

I’ve gone round the bend. That’s why I have this need…to be full-tilt sexy and desired and devoured. And invincible.

But, that’s just me.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

I hope you enjoyed this story. If so, please check out the others, below.

Also, if you’re seeking further distractions during this tough time, please consider subscribing to my new newsletter, where I’ll do my damndest to keep you entertained.