Romantic Movie

 

Romantic Movie

Every Saturday night, my boyfriend took me out.  He held doors for me, and said, “Ladies first.”  I replied, “I can open a door myself,” and I did.  He pulled chairs out from tables for me, and I called him, “Pig,” under my breath.  What was sexist to me was chivalrous to him.  Boys require so much training.            

             

             He always took me to the movies.  He loved movies.  I suggested we go to plays, restaurants, and nightclubs, but no, he always took me to the movies.  I didn’t know if he was cheap, lazy or dumb, but I intended to re-train him.  Boys. 

            “Let’s go to the movies tonight,” he said.

            I said, “I can’t stand one more of your sci-fi war movies.”

            He said, “I agree.  Tonight it’s a romantic movie.  You’ll love it.”

            “Romance?” I asked.  It was a small step, but maybe my training was working on him.

            When he arrived to pick me up, I said, “I’ll drive.”  I have a nicer car and a cleaner record, plus, as we all know, boys turn down side roads, park in the dark, and try to kiss you in the oddest places.

            I parked the car under a streetlamp, a smart move for girls everywhere.  Darkness is a boy’s best ally.  As we walked across the lot, he took my hand, and I pulled it away.  His hands were big and rough.  Mine were soft and moist, with perfect cuticles and nails.  I want people to notice them, which they won’t if my boyfriend wears them down. 

            Ten minutes into the movie, during coming attractions, he put his hand on my kneecap.  The kneecap is not a hotspot, but I still found it vaguely threatening, so I brushed it away.  Thirty minutes into the movie, when the star onscreen kissed his wife, my boyfriend whispered in my ear, “That’s us up there.”  I elbowed his ribs and scooted as far away as I could.  Boys.

            The stars on the screen argued, then he hit her.  I whispered “Kill that sonofabitch.”  He hit her again and I glared at my boyfriend.  He had told me it was a romantic movie.  Bastard. 

            The actress ran out of the house, the actor hot on her heels.  She ran through a dark forest, occasionally falling because she’d worn wedges, not sensible shoes, while he wore cross-trainers.  He caught up, threw her to the ground, pounced on top of her, and pulled up her skirt,  Just when all was lost, when he was on top of her, on the verge of rape, a shot rang out and he slumped, bleeding all over her knit pullover.  There stood her lover, standing over them, holding his hot gun.  He was the reason her husband was so angry.  Her husband had found out about their affair and gone into a jealous rage.  Her lover picked her up, carried her to safety, put her in his car, and took her home. 

He said, “Why don’t you take off those bloody clothes and I’ll get you a robe.”

She said, “Thank God you came along.  How did you find us?”

He said, “I’ve been following you, to see if you were cheating on me by sleeping with your husband again,” and pulled a bread knife from the butcher block.   

That was all I could take.  That’s when I walked out of the movie, stomped across the lobby, and crossed the lot to my car, my keys in hand for use as a weapon.

            My boyfriend was right behind.  He held the car door so I could jump in.  I was shaking too much to drive, so he drove me home, walked me to my front door, and opened it for me.  Somehow, the way he held doors now was protective, not sexist.  I was helpless, but he made me feel secure. 

            “Goodnight,” he said, turning to walk away.

            I said, “Don’t go.  Please, come in.  I’m too frightened to be alone tonight.”

            We sat on the couch, holding hands, which gave me a sense of security this time.

            My boyfriend hugged me, a polite, asexual hug, the kind of hug a woman needs when the world becomes a scary place.  I held him tight.  Our chests squeezed together, naturally comforting.  Slowly, I became aroused.  I noticed  movement in his pants.  I’d heard that danger  and sex had some primitive connection, but I never thought it would happen to me.  I was more civilized than that.  Men were the animals, not us.  Now, my inner animal arose, and fear gave way to lust.  I hated myself for feeling that way. 

            We went further that night than I had planned.  I wanted to wait ten more dates before intimacy, but no longer.  It was too late now to put him back on my training schedule.  We did it, we did it again, and I laid in his arms, feeling safer than ever.

I complained, “You said it was a romantic movie.  That wasn’t a romantic movie.”
My boyfriend said, “It is now.”