As a school-age girl growing up in the sixties, watching movies on the big screen was a huge deal. Everything about it felt surreal. Being able to get an armful of goodies such as popcorn, candy and a soda and be allowed to eat these things without a TV tray seemed the ultimate. I remember how seriously the ushers performed their job duties and were like the policemen of the movie theatre. They stood regal in their uniforms and offered help to anyone in need of a seat. I would settle into the comfort of my cushioned chair as a short cartoon or two would play before the feature. Then before my awestruck eyes appeared my favorite heart throbs such as Paul Newman and Robert Redford making them seem larger than life. Of course, on the over-sized screen, they were larger than life.
These stars were perfect; not one flaw ever apparent. Everything they did, I wanted to emulate. When my hormones began to kick in during my prepubescent years, my eyes were glued with fascination to the love scenes.
Though the characters along with their costumes frequently changed, the love-making scenes became predictable. The guy would kiss the woman once or twice and though what followed was either under bed blankets or impaired by some other visual obstruction, the audience simply knew what was happening. Within seconds of that first kiss, the guy was now mounted up on top of the woman and within another second, she was screaming her heart out in pure ecstasy. Over and over again it was the same. Kiss, kiss, mount up and scream. I always wondered what made the woman scream. Was it the guy’s big penis going inside her that made a woman scream? Why would that make a woman scream? None of my health classes covered any of this — especially the screaming part — and there was no way I was about to ask anyone.
I just figured this was how sex was. After all, this was the movies. No one questioned the movies. Despite the fact I had been raised to question the world around me though the example of two very intelligent parents, all of that went “poof” sitting inside a movie theatre or even in front of our TV. I simply intuitively considered that whatever appeared on the screen before me was The Truth. That is, until a friend of a friend became pregnant at the tender age of fifteen. Let’s call her MayLou.
I was fourteen years old and what I learned that day awakened my critical thinking skills like ammonium carbonate under the nose of an unconscious person.
MayLou had invited me to see her new home after the birth of her son. She had married the father of the baby and was taking classes at night so she could get her GED. I remembered thinking how MayLou was like a real grown-up. She had a real kitchen with pans and utensils and plates and napkins and she even had a bathroom and a separate bedroom for the baby with pictures on the wall. When the tour of her double-wide mobile home was complete, I was impressed at the vast chasm separating our worlds. She was a girl who knew all about everything, even sex. I had had only one boyfriend and all we ever did was hold hands under the table during art class.
Outside her son’s bedroom, MayLou confided, “You know, it’s not that great. In fact, there’s nothing fun about sex at all.” Her face seemed so disappointed like someone who had been promised some great gift but found the box empty. I can still see her face.
“Honey, you had a dressed rehearsal!!” exclaimed a voice in the back. Then peals of laughter filled the room and threatened to get us noticed by our dorm mother.
My curiosity could not be contained. “Did you scream?” I asked Nydia. Her eyes closed to think and her voice softened, “I think I moaned or something. I really don’t remember. Oh, it was so wonderful.”
So Nydia had had an orgasm and with all her clothes on. And the process had taken over an hour at least. Lots of kissing, playing with her breasts, his erect penis rubbing against the outside of her perineal area. Totally clothed! The whole theory of the large penis entering a woman and causing her to scream felt questionable. I finally realized that the sex portrayed via the lens of filmmakers did not match up to what happens in real life.
That was nearly 40 years ago and little has changed in the movie world. Sure, the stars now have far more tattoos and spiky colorful hair. And the price of popcorn is way beyond the blame of inflation. Today’s movie theatres are like miniature cities and ushers are more likely found standing next to empty trash cans while texting on their phones.
However in 2012, sex on the big screen (in homes as well as in theatres) is much the same as when I was growing up. Kiss, kiss, mount up and scream. Same old, same old. How many young impressionable minds would believe this portrayal of sex as THE “truth?” When would The Truth become apparent?
That is, that all these women screaming their hearts out in earnest are called “actresses.”
What do you think?
Dr T Please click on About Us on the HOME page menu to read my life summary. (You'll find it at the bottom of that page)
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