Filmdom’s titan of the unconventional is ready to expose himself to Santa Cruz audiences. We tell you why
A few weeks ago I was a John Waters virgin—pure, untouched, unscathed by the 59-year-old filmmaker. But then we met one day. In one hand I gripped a thin pencil, its eraser head erect, its lead point ready to be unleashed. In the other hand I held firmly on to a giant cup of green tea. I was nervous. I was about to be deflowered by John Waters.
I’d never imagined that sex with John Waters would be like this: Two people thrashing around on a bed, blood spewing, with a chicken between them as they—to use a Johnny vernacular—“fucked.”
Thankfully, my only interaction here was as a voyeur, a bystander watching bestiality on screen—just one sexual moment of many, featured in Waters’ controversial, groundbreaking if not highly praised and criticized 1972 film, Pink Flamingos. I figured I’d get the full service experience with Waters right off the bat. I’d start with his hardest ride.