The Movies

Do you ever watch a love scene in a movie, and suddenly you're not turned on, but you want to be that lucky woman? That lucky, beautiful woman with her lucky beautiful man, swimming in between the sheets with the greatest of ease. The way they hold each other posed perfectly for the camera and how his bottom lip silently slides over her chin and how graceful and smooth every little detail is.

Do you ever finally get to that point with whomever your with, and you're somewhat disappointed? Because sometimes you clack your teeth together and you have to let out an embarrassed giggle, and most of the time your tongue is whipping back and forth rather than gliding over his. And you can't just float down onto a bed while kissing ever so passionately, slowly and gently, you just sort of fall onto it with a thud as the springs give way. And sometimes his stubble hurts your upper lip and he can only look straight into your eyes while its happening for so long until his back starts to hurt, and he has to lean forward so you can't see his face, and it doesn't feel quite as romantic when the best way to do it is to stretch your legs as far in the air as they can reach towards the ceiling.

Does it ever feel like maybe the movies get our hopes up of what sex is? Sex is a clumsy exchange of fluids achieved by awkward thrusting and strange contortions of the body that for the most part we've made up along the way. It's not delicate and rarely is it as gentle as when the lead casa nova closes his eyes and whispers into the supple ears of the vulnerable yet sultry virgin vixen. Sure you can make love, but is it ever really as perfect as the soft orange glow on their skin as they float through each other like ghosts, and you find yourself crashing like waves as your bed squeaks and thumps against the wall with the comforter tangled at your ankles.

Is it really fair to dream that sex is only good from the waist up, and from the waist up it's a beautiful tantric dance on red satin sheets as radiant and quiet as a sunset, when quivering bodies come together with the music score climbing and the lights dimmed just right so you cant see the tattered posters on the wall or the dirty clothes on the floor or filthy dishes, all you see are glistening torsos meshed in harmony. And they rip each others clothes off as if they were made to be torn, and meanwhile you've just now noticed that he forgot to take his socks off again. Is it really fair to nurture this image that sex is as flawless as an airbrushed model on the cover of a hip fashion magazine, who once she emerges from the pages and appears on a street corner she resembles an overgrown, underfed, awkward little boy with a perpetual frown and the ugly stain of cigarette smoke in her dead, bleached hair.

It's simply not fair to the frail state of the human mind which already puts far too much emphasis on physical intimacy and expressions of love, that we imagine ourselves as movie stars only to be let down by the harsh reality of constant imperfections. We shouldn't have to see ourselves frame by frame in our minds and edit our fantasies until everything that makes the experience so genuine is left on the cutting room floor and we are forced to "settle for less" than this unattainable dream of sweet sexy red lipstick that doesn't smudge when kissed and slender, lily hands sliding up and down his motionless back. When you take away the lights and the camera and the action, you're left with flesh and bone, more real than any set or stage. Why do we lie to ourselves on silver screens? I am determined to want nothing more than love itself, raw and pure and....

Cut. Line?