A few weeks ago my sister Melissa and I were on one of our dates. These usually involve beer and bad movies. I don’t mean bad like a John Travolta-produced movie (a little Battlefield Earth, anyone?) I mean the movies you know better than to like, but lovelovelove anyway (which for me includes A Knight’s Tale, Batman Forever and pretty much anything with Vin Diesel).
Our “dates” started after the whole Twilight-mania ignited a few years ago. We were trash talking everything about it (the movie, the books, the actors, the fans), and after our clever banter petered out, I said quietly, I kind of want to see it. To which Melissa sighed and said, Yeah, totally.
I drew the short straw and had to rent Twilight (yes, we were both embarrassed to be seen with it in our hands, to be JUDGED by the film snob elite of rental employees). Sadly, the movie turned out to be terrible. Not guilty-pleasure-secretly-loved-it terrible. Just plain terrible.
But our love of indulging in bad flicks stuck. Our latest was a trip waaaay down memory lane, to a movie of our shared childhood. I’ll give you a hint: Kim Cattrall is a sassy Egyptian who doesn’t want to be married off to some slouch.
So she prays reallllly hard and the gods flash her to late 80s, where she can meet her true soul mate, Andrew McCarthy. The only down side to this match made in heaven (literally) is that poor Kim is a…
…wait for it…
…a store mannequin.
This story gets made into a movie. Meanwhile, I can’t even get an agent to look at my screenplay. I’m not bitter.
Anyway, hilarity ensues as Andrew and his dummy get all hot and heavy, fall in love, and save the day. In case this description has you just itching to run out to your video store and rent this movie, it is oh-so-cunningly named Mannequin.
I got a little off topic there. My story isn’t about this bad movie. It’s about what happened on the way to watch this bad movie. We were walking down the hall of Melissa’s apartment building, when all of a sudden she grabbed my arm and said wait until you see something!
We were stopped in front of a small window. It looked out over the roof of the next building. On the other side of that roof was another apartment complex. Our little hall window lined up with the window of a kitchen in that complex.
What are we looking at? Oh. Oh my…
Cooking. Stove. Man.
It was the best porn I’ve ever seen.
We stood in the hallway, weak in the knees and sighing, while this MAN puttered around the kitchen. He was backlit so we couldn’t really see his face. But we could see his body. Oh, yes. We could see that. Stirring, adding spices, opening a cupboard, closing a cupboard, stirring some more. Then serving this food (food that he cooked) onto dishes, and carrying them, one by one, out of our line of sight.
Finally, when it was clear that the show was over, we dragged ourselves onward to our beer and our movie.
This weekend I found myself cat sitting for Melissa (previous tales of these cat-antics include My Sister’s Pussy) while she was off enjoying some kind of shenanigans. And I could not walk down that stupid hallway without stealing a peak out the window. Was Mr. Tall and Wonderful (I mean, seriously tall. Did I mention that? At one point I swear he was resting his elbows on top of his fridge.) doing a day-time performance? Perhaps getting a snack or a glass of water? No?
I’m aware that this is wrong. Wrong and bad. And probably kind of creepy. But I also think that curtains were invented for a good reason, and if you don’t want to use them, you risk being seen, and possibly appreciated. By strange girls.
With questionable motives.
Mannequin © Wikicommoms. Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.
Man At Fridge © Flickr. Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.