The Last Orgasm 1

"TAKE ME TO THE MOVIES!" she would say like a petulant child; and of course he would. She loved the movies as much as he ...

"Have you ever seen anything by Fassbinder ..." he asked looking up from the movie guide he had been studying all morning since coffee and croissants; "Rainer Werner Fassbinder?"

She loved the movies as much as he ... but she knew nothing of movies. "Who's he?" she enquired absently.

"Fassbinder? A fascinating film maker — made something like 40 movies in the eight years before he died: Despair with Dirk Bogard; Querelle with Brad Davis and Franco Nero; Lily Marlene; The Marriage of Maria Braun and others with Hanna Schygulla — she was a 'Fassbinder person', one of the inner circle who..."

"Hey," she said as she rolled her stockings on and clamped them into her suspenders. "Slow down, you're rattling off these movies and stars as if I should know them..." She didn't look at him, rather concentrating on her stocking tops — smoothing them, stroking them, making sure they sat just the right way. She spent some time with her knees parted smoothing her stockings and stroking herself — all the way to a quiet, selfish orgasm.

She knew nothing of the movies and yet she urged him to take her every week. Fooling himself with his own independence, he would go to the movies as often as he could ... with or without her, every week, sometimes twice or three times. Once (when she was away for the weekend) he went to the Valhalla at 11:00am and stayed all day and all night, only leaving after the last movie closed at 1:30am. Six movies in a row — she would not have enjoyed this sojourn ... more than two movies at a time would bore her and she would become restless, spoiling his enjoyment of the third, thus preventing him watching the fourth.

She knew nothing of movies and refused to see the same movie twice...

"We've seen that!" she would say and all further discussion was ended.

"But," he would retort trying to make her see the world through his eyes, "this is the sort of movie you have to see more than once if you are going to get anything from it — I've seen Withnail and I at least half a dozen times and I'll go again the next time it's on. I've seen The Wall more times than I care to count and I still can't get enough of it ..." but he knew he was talking to the air and pursued the point no further.

She refused to see the same movie twice but would always watch Turner Classic Movies on Cable when at home on a Saturday night. There was one weekend he remembered distinctly where Casablanca was playing at the Orpheum ... complete with rising Wurlitzer and cute ice-cream boys with bow–ties. It was playing on a Sunday afternoon and that Wednesday morning as they lay in bed idly masturbating each other before facing their own day's respective crises: "Let's go to the movies on Sunday — we can make a whole day of it. We can have an early lunch at that café nearby and then go to the Orpheum where Casablanca is playing at 1pm ... and then ..."

But she cut him short: "Casablanca's on television Saturday night," and that was the end of the conversation.

She would always watch Turner Classic Movies on Cable when at home on a Saturday night and loved the way he would idly play with her naked body whilst keeping his eyes glued to the screen. At the moment of orgasm she would silently grip his arm and bury her head into his shoulder. When she could again focus her eyes they would continue to watch the movie as if nothing had happened ... he propped up in bed with pillows behind his shoulders and head; she resting her cheek on his chest. Occasionally he would bend forward so he could run his face through her hair, pausing only briefly to kiss her there.

She loved the way he would play with her naked body ... but she didn't love him any more.

It was, perhaps appropriate that the last movie they saw together was 'Querelle' at the Chauvel on a warm Spring evening as, sitting in his traditional sixth row from the front he idly brought her to a quiet orgasm with his middle finger just as Brad Davis quietly slit Dieter Schidor's throat after his (Querelle's) first homosexual encounter. She wasn't wearing anything beneath her new white dress so access to her cunt was easy ... just as it was whenever they watched Turner Classic Movies on Cable when at home on a Saturday night ... she gripped his arm and buried her head into his shoulder as the warm essence of her cunt flowed into his hand; on screen no more than 50 feet away, the essence of Dieter Schidor's life flowed from the gash in his throat across Brad Davis' hand. The simile was not lost to him.

As they left the cinema a lazy, almost vagrant breeze caught her new white dress, idly blowing it around her waist. For a few moments she stood with a cheeky, sexy smile ... not unlike the other, more famous Marilyn in The Seven Year Itch.

She didn't love him any more but she loved movies as much as he ... she knew nothing of movies ...

"Take me to the movies!" she would say like a petulant child ... and of course, he would.