“I like your shirt”. This is how it usually starts; I give my thanks in return, not quite acknowledging but still wondering whether the comment is meant to be a sly nod of sorts. It’s rare that I offer more information, despite knowing quite well that the question which will follow is close to surfacing from the well-meaning customer’s lips. We do get there eventually; somewhere between after they’ve ordered and right before they pay, the game they initiated reaches its peak. “Have you ever been?”. I’m probably pouring their coffee with my back turned to them, and I provide the response which tends to confuse the curious. I’m exposing myself (pun in poor taste and fully intended) when I relay that I’ve not once stepped inside of Cinéma L’Amour. I just happen to own and frequently wear one of their shirts.

I also have their hoodie, switching between the two as the seasons change. I’ve created something of a narrative when it comes to explaining ownership of the shirt. Years ago, I gave some secret Santa the option to choose between what I considered to be necessities: various books of interest, the quality underwear and socks combination, or merchandise from Cinéma L’Amour. We can loosely and contextually define necessity as that which I’m happy to have more of, though the shirt was an outlier and would be the first of its kind. I’ve never formally purchased anything of theirs; both items were gifted to me, thus I accidentally started a collection. The donning of this shirt is a bit I’ve unapologetically committed to and doesn’t feel all that complicated in its nature, until someone asks me if I’ve ever been inside and then my response merits a slew of questions as to why I’d be representing this infamous Montreal institution. My bearing of Cinéma L’Amour’s logo morphed into a conversation starter at best, and an accusation at worst.

Often, the person commenting on my choice of apparel gets a laugh out of it as much as I do, as if we’re both in on a very specific joke. Cinéma L’Amour is singular; it’s one of the last theatres in North America which screens movies with the most to-the-point titles that leave little to the imagination. As a venue, it isn’t all that well known to people who live outside of Montreal and even for those who have spent the better parts of their lives in the city, the odds of them having passed by and given the matinee posters a hard look are small. As a matter of fact, they pointedly gaze elsewhere, hoping to avoid eye contact both with the nude blondes on the posters and the actual customers slinking in through the door. Tourists travelling to less controversial hotspots might not even be aware of the space’s existence (Schwartz’s is a mere block away). Simply put, you must go out of your way to be aware of what Cinéma L’Amour has to offer.

This is where the subtle accusation comes in, an accusation which becomes funnier the more I mull it over—that of purposeful and conscious deception. I’m being misleading; I’m suggesting something which isn’t true. When someone inquires as to whether I’ve gone to Cinema L’Amour, I’m also being asked much more than just whether I’ve spent time inside the theatre; my response is fraught with implications on either side. It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that to wear this article is to make a statement; after all, we’re living in the era of unprecedented performativity. What I’m announcing to the world, along with the dissonance which follows my logic, perhaps demonstrates a desire for proximity to the thing without participating in it. And to be perfectly frank—I love that there’s a place in the city dedicated to showcasing adult films and at the same time, the stepsister and babysitter tropes don’t do much for me. The theatre also hosts many events unrelated to its main attractions, but to explain as much almost sounds like justification for entering the space and associating with it. And here lies the confusion: I have no issues associating with it. To do so delights me.

Which is probably why I don’t feel as if I must explain myself; I can provide my surface-level response to whoever wants to know while also continuing to explore the subject, which has evolved from countless discussions with friends and others who approach the shirt with more playful gestures. Of course, the choice doesn’t exist in a vacuum; I’ve thought a lot about what it is that I’m advertising when I wear my Cinéma L’Amour merch, even more so to how it presents a contradiction between private pleasures and public perceptions. It’s not in my habit to go around announcing to unsuspecting passerby that I identify as a proud perv; as much as I enjoy discussing the overlap and constraint between bedroom matters and their consumption (while also challenging those who condemn it), these conversations are usually limited to the more intimate spheres of my life. Which is to say that there very well could be a connection between my proclivities and interacting with Cinéma L’Amour; alas, by wearing the shirt or hoodie, I’m not deliberately signaling my desires or lack thereof. Rather, I’d like to think I’m displaying my appreciation for an institution which is so resolutely itself it can thus be many things at once.

You could say I’ve then made my peace with being a fake Cinéma L’Amour fan. I make myself chuckle by considering how the “You’re a fan of (blank)? Name five of their albums” line of interrogation could transform into someone quizzing me on which pornos have dramatically altered the course of my life. The imaginary disappointment isn’t much of a deterrent; by continuing to wear the shirt, I embrace the hypothetical invitation it poses as well as the inevitable questions it inspires.