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I stay with my mother’s sister. She is 39 years old. I am addicted to her, and her sight arouses me.
I am a 22-year-old guy. I stay with my mother’s sister. She is 39 years old. I am addicted to her, and her sight arouses me. When she sits down to cut vegetables, I get aroused seeing her breasts. I cannot stop myself. How do I approach her? I know it’s not good. I am a virgin and have never masturbated until now. So I want to experience the pleasure of sex with her. How do I do it?
You should stop whatever you are doing. If you do not do so, it may cause problems in the future. To enhance your knowledge of the subject read the book It’s Normal.
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What makes for a great sex film? We reveal the best sex scenes ever committed to celluloid, from lesbian dramas to gritty portrayals of sex addiction
Welcome to a countdown of the greatest sex films ever made about the small but preoccupying part of the human experience known as sex - from coming-of-age lesbian dramas to gritty portrayals of sex addiction to, erm, loincloths.
Put simply: these are the sex movies with the most to say about doing it, charting a history of how our attitudes towards sex and nudity on the big screen have shifted through the decades.
So get comfy - well, not too comfy - and enjoy.
Art house movies. We get it. They do sex. That's their thing. From Swedish nudes in 1953 ( Summer with Monika ) to the butter-based penetration of 1972 ( Last Tango in Paris ) to crazy irascible beach-side sessions in 1986 ( Betty Blue ), nothing screams "art house" more than a smartly directed and gamely acted sex scene. Then came Blue is the Warmest Colour .
The film, which won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival in 2013, wiped away everything that had gone before it. The hideous rape of Monica Bellucci in Irreversible (2002)? The grimly determined humping from Japanese 1976 classic In the Realm of the Senses ? All gone. Faded in comparison. Plus, it was gay sex. So it made the cutesy girl-on-girl action in Bound (2006) and Mulholland Drive (2001) seem dubious and cheap.
Instead, what it gave us was two young and relatively untested actresses, Léa Seydoux and Adèle Exarchopoulos, deftly describing, in the grim northern French town of Lille, the heady emotional rushes and sudden power shifts of an emerging relationship. Looks are exchanged, picnics are arranged, kisses are traded and then everything grinds to a halt at approximately one hour and 11 minutes into the movie, when director Kechiche and his two lead actresses deliver the type of jaw-to-the-floor sex scene that has subsequently raised the movie-sex bar to insane heights of verisimilitude and has pushed the literal definition of "simulated" to breaking point.
For here, over seven long breathy, sweaty, brightly-lit minutes, we run the unapologetic gamut of licking, sucking, squeezing, fingering, rimming, ramming, slamming, and general slithery, grindy, intercrural mayhem.
The scene has many detractors including the actresses themselves, who famously rounded on their director: Seydoux said making it was "horrible" and she would "never" work with Kechiche again. Once the film began sweeping up during the 2013 awards season, however, they recanted and said that they were "happy" with it. And yet, look at the scene now, within the movie, and away from the hype, and it doesn't play too well. It's crudely lit. It's brazen, and yet also crass. And what it says, in its many nipple shots, arse close-ups, and vaginal teases, is that perhaps all sex scenes, no matter how well-intended, or how groundbreaking and profound, are inherently, well, kind of sleazy.
When it comes to the millennial generation’s defining coming-of-age movies, Clueless has a lot to answer for. The success of the teen-centred Emma adaption inspired a frenzied craze for remaking celebrated centuries-old classics as cheeky modern high-school romps. Twelfth Night became She’s the Man , A Midsummer Night’s Dream became Get Over It , Pygmalion became She’s All That and The Taming of the Shrew became 10 Things I Hate About You . And Dangerous Liaisons became the most excitedly whispered-about pulpy teen sex drama of the decade – the one where Buffy the Vampire Slayer seduces her step-brother with the never-to-be-forgotten offer: “You can put it anywhere”.
If the template’s central attraction lay in the playful contrast between the teen-movie genre and the scholarly source material, then Cruel Intentions mined this for all it was worth: lowering the tone, upping the vulgarity, and telling its steamy story with gleefully frivolous tone. Depending on your age, it appealed as either thrillingly grown-up drama or hilariously guilty-pleasure trash.
But while the film’s promotional material featured its stars in skimpy outfits and the picnic-scene kiss between Sarah Michelle Gellar and Selma Blair became an early (and much-parodied) viral sensation, the film’s raunchiest moments were all verbal ones. It’s real turn-on was a screenplay that ran the full gamut from suggestive to risqué to laugh-out-loud outrageous.
For the army of enraptured 12-year-olds who got their hands on a VHS copy, this bawdy verboseness lent the film a sophisticated, adult sensibility. Looking back now, of course, Cruel Intentions is about as openly adolescent as they come (“How are things down under?” our pervy protagonist asks Blair on her return from Australia). The screenplay’s trump card, though, was less its racy content than its sheer unrepentant spirit: it was appealing to randy teenagers via cheap means, and it didn’t mind admitting it.
In many ways this unashamed juvenilia made it an infinitely more mature film than something like Closer, which five years later lured in the same generation of kids via the same brand of smut-tastic dialogue, but this time did so while masquerading as Serious Grown-Up Drama.
"You know what your problem is?" Reece Witherspoon tells a chastened Ryan Philippe in Cruel Intentions . "You take yourself way too seriously." Nothing could be less true of the film itself – and therein lay its brilliance.
A longing romance between human and non-human has been a surprisingly frequent feature of Hollywood cinema since King Kong turned on the charm with Fay Wray back in 1933. Since then we've had romances between human and amphibian ( The Shape of Water ), human and shop-window dummy ( Mannequin ), and human and inflatable sex doll ( Lars and the Real Girl ). And when it comes to human and computer programme, well, Weird Science , Electric Dreams and S1m0ne have all tackled that from one angle or other.
But while all those movie all tended towards the fantastical or comedic, Spike Jonze's 2013 film is notable for playing its central romance – between a depressed divorcee and his Alexa-like virtual assistant – almost totally straight.
Despite sounding like the plot of an unbearably quirky absurdist comedy, Her comes about as close to a genuine romantic drama as its premise permits. The relationship between Joaquin Phoenix’s miserable Theodore and his husky-voiced operating system (Scarlett Johansson, obviously) is sincere and candid – on the part of both parties – and is played for neither easy laughs nor clever-clogs social satire. And while its central relationship may turn out to be even more prescient than we thought, the way the film draws a contrast between Theodore's readiness for a digital relationship and his complete incompetence when it comes to human intimacy has only become more timely in the near-decade since the film’s release.
In the end, the vital scene may be the one when Theodore and Isabella try, somewhat inevitably, to consummate their blossoming relationship. They do so via the use of a human surrogate, and it is an all-too-real situation that a panicked Theodore can’t handle and quickly curtails. His online amour has been a sweet and satisfying remedy to his chronic loneliness… but it comes at a real-world price.
The late 80s and early 90s saw the quickfire rise and fall of one of cinemas most fascinating subgenres: the erotic thriller. Hollywood tends to work in trends, but rarely as frenzied or short-lived as this. In the six years after Fatal Attraction was released in 1987, we got Sleeping With The Enemy , Poison Ivy , Single White Female , Bitter Moon , Body of Evidence , Sliver, Disclosure and The Last Seduction – plus countless quickly forgotten imitations (Wikipedia lists no less that 207 erotic thrillers in that period).
But the most infamous, most flocked-to – and very probably the best – was Paul Verhoeven’s 1992 fornication-fest, which introduced Sharon Stone as Hollywood’s steam queen. There were various reasons behind the sudden explosion of the erotic thriller: the loosening of censorship restrictions, the proliferation of cable TV and the rise of the video-rental market. But most interesting is the genre’s treatment of women, which in most cases was a straightforward updating of the femme fatale – the unchaste evildoers of film noir – but in some instances was a bit more thoughtful.
At first glance, and indeed for many years after its release, Basic Instinct looked like it belonged in the first camp, with the plot revolving largely around the difficulty had by Michael Douglas in investigating Stone’s trashy novelist for a debauched murder while trying (in pitiful vain) to resist her seductive efforts. This was lewd, thrilling, throwaway nonsense – right?
Hindsight – and the fact that the film has managed a shelf-life far longer than its peers – suggests differently. Taken alongside Verhoeven other films of the same period ( RoboCop , Total Recall , Starship Troopers , Showgirls ), it now looks a lot like a key part of a masterful project to paint a portrait of American depravity using the very trashiest materials within Hollywood itself. Watching it now, Basic Instinct looks less like a brazen attempt to titillate viewers than a winking, eyebrow-raised comment on viewers’ appetite for titillation – not that it altogether neglected the former, as many late-night Channel 5 viewers will be well aware.
While muscle-bound men were dominating big screens in the 80s with rugged tales of machine gun-toting heroism, back in the offices and business centres of the real world, women were starring in their own story of conquest: the presumed housewives of yesteryear were now entering the workforce in record numbers. The traditional family model of apple-pie America was being blurred, with the accompanying moral panic hardly helped by the fact that the emergence of convenient birth control had granted women a sexual freedom hitherto unseen.
Soon enough Hollywood would spawn an entirely new genre founded on the terrifying allure of this new archetype of American life: the empowered career woman. And if Fatal Attraction wasn’t necessarily the first ever erotic thriller, it was certainly the first one that truly saturated the public consciousness: it was a phenomenon, the second-highest grossing film of the year, and gave the term “bunny boiler” the place in the popular lexicon it holds to this day.
The premise is well known – a seemingly no-strings fling between a married man and a seductive publisher turns deadly when our hero tries to return to married life – and the film’s attitude towards the issues of its time seems, at a glance, straightforwardly reactionary. Glenn Close’s sexually liberated career woman unmasked for the murderous nutjob she truly is, Anne Archer’s non-working housewife remains the true
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