I watched the movie Last Vegas last night. The only thing you really need to know is that Last Vegas is a commercial for the following products: Aria in Vegas, Southwest Airlines, Budweiser, Grey Goose Vodka, Sapphire Bombay Gin and various makes of automobiles.
But Morgan Freeman is in this movie and I love Morgan Freeman. I have written about this before, with xTx. She wrote about famous ladies and I wrote about famous men. But I am still stuck on Morgan Freeman. I love the freckles on his face. I want to connect them with my mouth. I love his skin tone. He smells so good–cologne and Ivory soap and linen spray and I don’t even know what. I love the honey bourbon soaked timbre of his voice. What I love most is how Morgan Freeman plays an older man–with such pathos and gravitas. He is God and the president and all great and powerful men all at once. He is charming and wise but vulnerable. He has a heart and he is not afraid to show it. Morgan Freeman is at peak Morgan Freemanness in Last Vegas. In the movie, he has recently suffered a mild stroke but he is still full of life. His son is Michael Ealy so you know the DNA is good. He is willing to gamble and wins. He does this amazing little dance move, holding one hand to his stomach as he shuffles his feet like an elderly James Brown. He’s still got it. My god does he still got it. He is a gentleman and will defend a lady’s honor in a crowded nightclub. He offers advice to young men who simply don’t know how to talk to a woman like a human being. He enjoys a good drink. I feel like Morgan Freeman would, as his character in this movie, as Archie, be a very passionate lover. He would know things about a woman’s body, how to touch a woman’s body, how to satisfy her needs. He has a nice tongue and strong thighs. Don’t try and dissuade me of this. Let me have this one thing. I bet Morgan Freeman’s skin would be so soft. I would probably always say his first and last name because there is no Freeman without Morgan and there is no Morgan without Freeman, not for me. I want to touch all of his skin and especially his cheeks, behind his knees, the undersides of his elbows. I want to trace the dark lines on his hands. I want to kiss his patella. I don’t know why. I even want to nibble on Morgan Freeman’s well-manicured fingernails. I just want Morgan Freeman to know I accept all of him. Because he’s older, I would happily rub various ointments into his tender places. Each morning, when we woke, I would ask him, “Tell me where it hurts, Morgan Freeman,” and when he showed me, I would kiss and make it better. I would administer his medications on the proper schedule and rigorously consult Google to ensure that there were no potentially harmful interactions. I would accompany him to doctor appointments and always wear very fine underthings (La Perla, Agent Provacateur, etc) so he could know about this intimate secret when we are out in pubic and then later, he could unearth these intimate secrets, handle with care. I would prepare Morgan Freeman delicious and extravagant but healthy meals. I would try not to wear him out at night but sometimes, well, a lot of the time, I would be insatiable and greedy for Morgan Freeman and he would be okay with that. I would try to like his friends, even if they smoked cigars or smelled funny. I would take such good care of the idea of Morgan Freeman. I would say, “Morgan Freeman, real man who I am confusing with the various characters he plays in the movies, I want you to live forever and ever.” He would smile at me, you know how he does, with his eyes crinkling at the corners and his lips stretching seductively, slowly across his perfect face. He would say something ambiguous like, “I know,” and I would hear something unambiguous like, “I fucking love you so much."
Sometimes, when I think about Morgan Freeman I just want to cry. I love the idea of him so much.