Lifestyle: Chick Flicks
The mask of discontent
Chick Flicks Delight
"Chick Flicks" are those sweet, unrealistic films that portray a dream world of beguiling, young, innocent and gullible women becoming romantically involved with handsome, sexy, rich, and above all, perfect men that harbor —wow— nothing less than noble intentions.
Offering a total suspension of reality, chick flicks' are the subtle planting of celluloid seeds of desire. The delusional and impossible desire for perfection that is, — perfect happiness for a perfect couple in a perfect world in a perfect time.
In our model, the young, always beautiful, slim, perfect, and panting heroine is the eternal virgin momentarily. She is drawn ever closer to total disaster as the perfect man saves her and drives off evil villains, saving her from a fate worse than death. Her knight, wearing shiny white armour, mounts a white stallion with silver stirrups, magic and charm. Her hero, undoubtedly in great danger retrieves the Golden Chalice of life for her from the top of the mountain on the other side of the Valley of Death. Before his return, he fights off ogres and villains, picks magic apples, and then offers her the golden chalice with sweet strawberry wine as he takes her to bed ever so gently.
She smiles sweetly and knowingly, glowingly giving away her perfect breasts, and spills her precious cherry wine upon the finest white linen, dedicating her chaste innocence, virginity and her very soul to her knight for one night, and they live happily ever after in the castle on the hill, —or the contemporary equivalent in just the right neighborhood in the midst of lush green lawns.
On the chick flick screen, he's always rich to avoid the necessity and consequences of workday economics, the tedium of lawn-cutting, and flat tires. The solution is perfection; wine, sex, servants, red convertibles and money. Oh yes, and there are no contentious mothers-in-law skulking about in golden bathrobes to criticize the housekeeping with forked tongues or otherwise surreptitiously poisoning the mind of her virtuous knight.
Back in the real world, our young, gullible, now deflowered maiden voraciously consumes more delusional chick flicks, and the suspension of reality extends, time warps and blends with afternoon sips of sherry. She steps across a threshold, believing that her life must be fashioned, indeed be equated to, those of heroines. Life for her must retain that form, if only because from childhood she has been encouraged to believe life imitates that found in fairy tales or found in castles found at the end of Yellow Brick Roads.
Her eyes are soon opened.... life does not follow storybooks or chick flicks. The boyfriend isn't rich at all, but rather gambles, and drinks to all hours. There is no castle, no magnificent steed, no convertible. In the driveway of rented suburbia, a rusted minivan sits with bad tires. It's called reality.
Ultimately, her dashing, bold knight eventually achieves the status of slovenly couch-potato. He grows a voluminous pot belly, four days growth of unshaven chin, and prefers to watch sports events than be intimate with her. He observes and comments daily she is gaining weight too, has become miserable, and he complains bitterly. Why did I swim that stinking moat? He asks himself. "Gimme a beer!" he shouts at her.
The tortured mind soon becomes obsessed and confused. Her real life clearly has not followed the right chick flick plan. Our princess is now far more than unhappy. The celluloid Seed of Perfection has been planted, but has produced an abundant harvest of empty beer bottles, laundry, burned potatoes, and a sink full of dishes.
Expressing much discontent, back to the video rental store she races.
A new chick flick. " Maybe two or three," She reasons, " There must be a way, I shall be the new heroine'. She dreams endlessly, obsessively, and hopelessly.
"My Prince shall come and rescue me" she says out loud to herself, and the forlorn voice echoes on the bathroom tile as she scrubs soap scum ring from the bathtub at midnight while the knight snores on the couch. The suspension of reality, the delusion, has become far more desirable. The Princess can never go back. She has crossed the threshold.
Her fallen knight, her chosen companion obsessively drinks beer and watches pornography from Three-X Video, three for five bucks and a free bottle of soda —while the princess is out of sight making dinner or sleeping from exhaustion. Damn, she used to be hot and sexy too, but no longer. She's not interested in much these days, I wonder why? he reasons.
The next day he picks up an extra 3X to watch instead.
"It's not pornography, my dear. It's just sex. Just hot, sultry, perfect skinny women, not fat like you, they're doing things that are normal, it's just entertainment." He remembers. It was with the boys on a hot Saturday night.
"Look! " someone shouts as the screen blinks. Bare bosoms. Real tits. Wow. Someone hooked a stag film. The introduction of titillation to the curious, the innocent. The embarrassment of the uninitiated, the knowing stares at the pretty toys. Breathing hard. The laughter.The embarrassment lessens. Excited glances around the room. Silence. Jaws drop.
They stare, each male in his own world of desire.The breath-stopping moment -the threshold, the rising of lust.
Perfect women with
tits bare bosoms having sex. Tits. Now only mothers have breasts. Naked, hot and moving bodies intertwine.Raw sex.
The film ends, the curious, momentary silence. The sudden laughter that breaks out was jaded, deeper, more serious.
"Play it again!"
The desire to see lust returned a few days after the party. The Three-X Adult Entertainment Center had all of the right videos. Pornographic films of all genres. Cheap disconnection of the mind at 3X, T&A, three for five bucks. The gawky clerk smirks. He hands him the free bottle of soda. "Free" he says.'Enjoy'. Wanna membership card?" Ya get a free soda."
"Don't need soda, I got a fridge full of beer".
" 'Ya can give it to the kids, it's free."
"Ain't got a kid yet, but she's big as a whale though, wife's due any day now."
"No wonder you're in here" the gawky one smirks. "These will get her attention. Come back soon."
At home, the inserted video fulfills the connection of the mind from the penis.Lust. Lust on demand.
At first the Princess went along with it.
"We could try that if you want."
The threshold between love and lust has been crossed. The excitement continues to fade, as both reality and emotion are further drained with each flick. Sex acts on screen are boring, mindless sex. A threshold built of Jade is crossed. Nothing is exciting. The libido languishes. Acting out begins.
Watching videos of ever-increasingly extreme sex acts becomes desirable. The bruised and brutalized, trapped princess with two black eyes and torn housecoat cooks and cleans silently, strangely and obsessively dreaming of being rescued. More chick flicks distract from reality. It will get better, won't it? I have to leave. No. We must like it. The princess watches his flicks instead, thinking it will please him. She hides the bruises and black eyes with makeup, the mask of discontent.
The act is complete, the final threshold crossed. Or is it?
Brutality and fetishes flash across the screen and lock them forever in the mind of the observer. Lust, control, and brutality facilitate the reduction of the bruised, princess to status of broken sex object and whore, the image of women of the screen. They have crossed the threshold from chick flick —into the reality of hard core porn.
Both screen and life... fade to black...
Is that Incoming I hear?
tags: #Makeup the mask of discontent, #pornography, #chick flicks, #sex #entertainment #films
© 2007, 2014 by Raymond Alexander Kukkee