Teen Foursome
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Teen Foursome
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Two ostensibly ordinary middle-aged couples, Marie and Vitek, and Dita and Ondra, are linked by more than just a lifelong friendship, a shared house in a small town and same-aged adolescent children: they are linked by love. Both men, Ondra and Vitek, who are work colleagues, sincerely love their wives, but they both also harbor a secret yearning for the other's wife. When, by a stroke of fortune, the foursome finds themselves on an almost uninhabited island in the Caribbean, it's just a matter of time before their long-suppressed feelings come out.
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“They’re making babies down there,” my brother told my mom after walking in on me and a friend fooling around. Little did I know that he was right. That was the day I conceived my first child. I was only 16.
My mother was blasting Al Green like she did every Sunday when she cleaned the house. “No, we weren’t,” I tried to assure her, but I doubt she believed me. I was usually pretty open about my sex life with her. She had known for quite some time that I was sexually active. I probably could’ve just told her the truth, like I had many times before, but this time was different from the rest. This time I did it in her house, and my heart was still racing from the excitement.
You’d think the experience of being a teen mom would make me want to keep all boys at least 10 feet away from my daughter, or at least ban boys from her room. Certainly, I don’t want her to go through what I did as a teen mom. I want her to wait until she’s ready to experience motherhood on her own terms, until she’s lived life for herself at least a little bit.
But I know that trying to keep teens from having sex is impossible. If they want to have sex, they’ll find a way. I know this because I remember being a teen. I remember a dark moonlit bedroom not being a requirement for fooling around. I remember taking advantage of my boyfriend’s parents being at work. I remember the sex in parked cars, the park and garages. And I remember not being the exception — almost all of my friends were having sex.
Banning boys from spending the night wouldn’t have prevented my teen pregnancy. It won’t protect my daughter either. Not from pregnancy, or the other potential consequences of unsafe sex. If my daughter were to engage in unsafe sex with a person of any gender, she could contract an STD or STI. It would be completely irresponsible of me to ignore the possibility that my daughter isn’t heterosexual. If I am worried about boys, I should be equally worried about girls. It’s either no one can spend the night, or everyone can.
That’s the logic I used when I asked my mother at 15 to have a good friend who happened to be male sleep over.
“You realize I could be sleeping with my girlfriends when they spend the night, right?” I remember asking her. I identified as bisexual at the time, and she knew it. But I could tell she had never even considered the possibility that my girlfriends were anything more than friends.
“Well, have you?” she asked. “No, never,” I responded. “Well, if he’s just a friend and you trust him, I’ll trust you.”
My mom trusted me. After that day, she often let me have boys spend the night. Every male friend I had knew what my bedroom looked like. And although it may seem counterintuitive, this is what she did right. She understood and listened. She never judged or punished me for being sexual. She believed me when I told her that a boy was just a friend and nothing sexual would happen if he spent the night. She created an environment where talking about sex was natural.
But despite her trust in me, she also failed me. She never talked to me about safe sex . I don’t know why. Perhaps she intended to but didn’t know how, or maybe she trusted I was getting accurate information somewhere else. She never once mentioned birth control or condoms; she just vaguely mentioned staying safe a few times.
And it’s not that I didn’t know birth control existed; I did. I just didn’t know how to ask for it. Every time I confessed my sexual activity to her, I hoped she would offer to get me the pill, buy me condoms and teach me about safe sex with both girls and boys. I wanted her to teach me how to be assertive and insist protection be used. But she never did.
I won’t fail my daughter the same way. She’ll have my trust and guidance. She already knows about my own experiences and that I could never be mad at her for being sexual. I’ll give her support and information. She can have boys and girls spend the night just like I did as a teen, but unlike me, she’ll have access to condoms, birth control and information about STIs and STDs. The conversation about sex will be ongoing and comprehensive.
I know I can’t stop her from having sex, but at least I can help her stay safe.
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Arriving on a wave of high anticipation, hype and bag-headed public appearances , the first “volume” of Lars Von Trier’s two-part, five-hour magnum opus Nymphomaniac will start rolling into theaters on March 21st. ( Vol. 2 doesn’t arrive until April 4th, though you’ll be able to catch both chapters on video-on-demand starting on March 20th.) Never one to shy from provocation — he’s more likely to sprint towards it — the Danish director’s chronicle of one woman’s sexual awakening is littered with spankings, fellatio, a ménage à trois or two, sodomy, masturbation and good old-fashioned humping. Though some stunt, er, parts were employed, you are basically watching actors like Charlotte Gainsbourg and Shia LeBeouf engage in the sort of unsimulated activities you associate with porn stars. (LeBeouf even sent in a homemade pornographic videotape for his audition.)
Despite the abundance of explicit sex on display, however, Von Trier’s film is not pornography. Rather, it’s the latest in a long line of films that have pushed the envelope in terms of what can be shown in “mainstream” films and not be considered the sort of movie that requires you to give your credit card to a Web site in order to watch. These films are cast with A-list movie stars and directed by world-class filmmakers. They are designed to play in multiplexes and art houses. Some have been imported in as prestige foreign films, and others have been produced and distributed by Hollywood studios. But the 3o films here all share one thing in common: They all come as close to being pornographic as mainstream films will allow. Read this NSFW list with someone you love.
It wasn't just the pubic hair on display that got Vilgot Sjoman's political screed-cum-melodrama seized at customs when it was brought here in 1969, put at the center of an obscenity case tried by the Supreme Court and considered one of the more notorious films of its day. (Although the few scenes in which actors Lena Nyman and Borje Ahlstedt show off some hairy nether regions certainly helped distinguished this Swedish import from the usual foreign-film fare.) No, what put this story of a radical student having an affair with a married man in boiling hot water was the sequence in which Nyman plants a kiss on her costar's penis in full view; that was enough to brew up a shitstorm that woud end up breaking down censorship barriers and ultimately help usher in an age of cinematic permissiveness. No one talked about the interview footage of Martin Luther King Jr., or footage of actual Vietnam War protesting, or the cheeky subversiveness of the movie's antiauthoritarian humor. They focused on the genital smooch. The curiosity and the contrversy helped garner it a broader audience. And the rest is history. DAVID FEAR
Cinematographer-turned-director Haskell Wexler's mix of narrative and nonfiction (including actual riot footage shot during the '68 Democratic Convention in Chicago) is fueled by the tension of watching performers interact with real situations. One scene in particular, however, struck the MPAA board as a little too real for their tastes: A naked-as-jaybirds romp between future Tarantino favorite Robert Forster and Marianna Hill, with the two of them ending up literally between the sheets. The almost documentary-like feel of their tryst earned Wexler's movie an X, though he'd claim that the rating was more reflective of the political rage he portrayed onscreen. We still think the you-are-there canoodling in the buff may have had something do with it, Haskell. DAVID FEAR
Ken Russell's majestic adaptation of D.H. Lawrence's novel was one of the outré director's more somber, "respectable" films – save for the naked wrestling match between Alan Bates and Oliver Reed, considered by many to be mainstream cinema's first instance of full-frontal male nudity. It's also the stuff of acting lore: Both actors kept trying to back out of doing the scene, until one night they got drunk together and went for a joint pee, during which they were able to check each other out and realize there was nothing to feel self-conscious about. (Or maybe there was: Reed spent his time in between takes off to the side, as he put it, "trying to get a semi on so that it would look more purposeful and stop all my girlfriends saying ‘why bother' and deserting me.") Seen today, the homoeroticism is undeniable regardless of the scene's supposedly plantonic male-bonding intentions. It's a man-on-man sex scene in everything but name. BILGE EBIRI
It may not have been as momentous as Stravinsky's The Rites of Spring (as Pauline Kael notoriously claimed at the time), but Bernardo Bertolucci's seminal film was a watershed how sex was depicted on film. The Italian director originally wanted French stars Dominique Sanda and Jean-Louis Trintignant to play the leads; Sanda had just gotten pregnant, however, and Trintignant wouldn't do nudity. So the director enlisted newcomer Maria Schneider and, in a casting coup, Marlon Brando — with the latter quickly turning this tale into a riveting, expansive meditation on his own screen image. His character is a widower who's been beaten down by life, and who uses his anonymous, athletic and often creative sexual encounters in an empty Parisian apartment as his way of escaping from the world. Audiences weren't used to seeing a major movie star having fingers shoved into his rectum, and though its sex scenes seem somewhat tame today, the film's exploration of how carnality can destroy boundaries is still something to behold. And you'll never hear the phrase "go get the butter" the same way again. BILGE EBIRI
Nestled inside Nicolas Roeg's blood-chilling paranormal thriller is one of the best sex scenes ever committed to film. Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie play a couple relocated to Venice after the accidental death of their daughter. Before becoming unraveled by an English psychic claiming spectral visions of their child, the two stars disrobe for a night of marital bliss. The details are one thing (a pocket of saliva gleaming on Christie's neck, an exchange o
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