Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" No tithes, no offerings, just good ol' front porch rambling! Set a spell. You'll see what I mean.
This morning I read a movie review for a French film called "The Mistress." The movie is not MPAA rated, but the reviewer noted that the film is crammed to the plimsol line with nudity and hot sex.
The review got me to thinking. Once before I die I'd like to have movie sex. But it ain't gonna happen.
I'm not talking about having sex while being filmed. (I think that's been done, but not by me.) I'm talking about the kind of sex people have in the movies.
Movie sex is always perfect. No one gets a cramp, the bed doesn't creak, the cat doesn't explode into the middle of everything looking for a bowl of Meow Mix. With movie sex there aren't any kids creeping around the house, even when there are kids in the movie. With outdoor movie sex, no one ever gets stung by a bee or pricked by a thistle. It's bliss, bliss bliss!
Don't take this as a quibble about my life partner. He's a hot hunk, and we have had us some good times. Lots of good times. But it's never been movie sex. He's not Clark Gable. I'm not Vivian Leigh. If he lifted me into his arms and kissed me at the same time, he'd strain his back. And his arms gripping me that tight would hurt. The sunset would be covered in haze, and someone would steal the damn wagon.
I'm not gonna name any names, but I knew someone who knew someone whose cousin had sex outside once and got poison ivy on her elbows and her knees. With movie sex you can roll around in an acre of poison ivy and never get a pimple of it.
Sometimes movie sex is accompanied by appropriate music. Real-world sex is usually accompanied by a ringing telephone. Or the doorbell ... oh there are the nice Seventh Day Adventist ladies again!
Think about the wildest ride you ever had, and then compare it to movie sex. Was it that good? I'm thinking. Thinking. Mulling over my wild youth...
Okay, maybe twice we came close. Pardon the double entendre.
Please be advised that we aren't talking about pornography here. Porn is just fake as hell. Everyone knows that. What I'm talking about is the makeout scenes in your standard film fare. One of my favorite examples is Madonna getting a piece while perched on a pinball machine in Desperately Seeking Susan." Perched on a pinball machine? Does that sound like a fun place for whoopie? Maybe I'm missing something.
There's one bit of sweet revenge we can all enjoy as we contemplate that oh-so-perfect movie sex we're watching on the silver screen. Those scenes are hell to film. It takes hours, there are directors and gaffers and who knows who else watching, analyzing, saying "cut" and "action" and "could you open your mouth a little bit more as you orgasm?"
In real life, it's hey baby baby, cha cha cha ... and put out the cat.