Still another jerky transition, and now there was a close-up of her face. Her eyes were half shut, her lips moving to the Bolero, her nostrils dilating. Her forehead glistened as if with a fine perspiration of passion. Then the camera pulled back to reveal that the bra had been discarded. Both breasts were concealed by her hands now, and she was squeezing them in time to the music. Her hips thrust upward suddenly, and then she subsided. So, for a moment, did the background music.
Her hands dropped to her sides. The camera angle shifted to focus on her breasts and face from the other end of the couch where her feet were. Her breasts stood up firmly, despite the fact that she was lying flat. Her eyes focussed on first one and then the other elongated nipple. The music started again—still faster. Her hands stroked her legs and the upper part of her body thrashed about so that the breasts bounced.
She slid off the couch to her knees. The camera hit her from the other side now. Her bosom rested on the sofa like twin pieces of fruit being offered. Her hands were out of sight. Her mouth formed and O and the lips pulsated. The breasts heaved rapidly. After a moment of this, the angle changed abruptly to catch her from behind. The panties had been rolled down so that almost all of her derriere was visible. It was oscillating wildly as she pressed against the couch and the concealed hands. The music quickened; so did her movement.
Another fast close-up of her face to register first satisfaction and then frustration. Then back to catch her full-length as she stood up and stretched. She shook herself as a dog does when it comes out of the water, and her breasts swung freely from side to side, She was still for a moment then. She cupped one breast in her hand. Her neck bent and she fastened her lips on the tip. There was a long close-up of the point of contact. It ended when she removed her lips. There was a series of quick dissolves from the even more fantastically enlarged nipple to her still sucking lips and back.
Then again she was shown full-length, doing a wild dance to the Bolero. Her fingertips were at her hips now, pushing down the waistband of the panties. A back shot caught them rolled to their limit. Her naked buttocks, high and plump, rolled against them, forcing them even lower. A front shot caught the tiny black triangle the panties formed now. Her legs arched, and they slipped away quickly, ffording the viewer just enough for a glimpse of the area they had concealed to show that it was clean-shaven. The camera pulled back for a long shot as she turned around.
She stretched out on the couch again, her back, at first, to the camera. She picked up the book, read a few lines, then set it down. One of her hands was in front of her, the other behind. A long, frilly black lace kerchief appeared in her hands. She pulled it slowly from one hand to the other through the passage formed by the now tight V of her legs.
She rolled over on her back. The tempo of the music was frantic by now. So were her movements. The black laced moved as it was jet-propelled, hiding and teasingly revealing the track it was traveling. Her breasts bounced wildly. Her stomach rippled. And her thighs seemed to go mad with mounting excitement.
At last her legs were clenched together and the toes of the high-heeled shoes pointed straight toward the ceiling. The length of the netclad legs formed a right angle with the fulcrum which seemed to be swallowing up the piece of lace. Indeed, it disappeared and reappeared as her hands pulled it back and forth so quickly that they were a blur. Ravel’s Bolero reached its climax. There was one long shudder that traveled the length of her body and then one hand reached skyward with the lace clutched in it. The point at which her clenched thighs met was now the focus. Slowly the thigh muscles relaxed to reveal all. A drawn-out shot, a final drumbeat, and then the short was over.
Movies are better than ever? Well, yes, C. B., I’ll buy that! So did the fellow three rows in front of me. He was sitting alone, and as the short concluded he had groaned aloud. A moment later the groan was followed by the sound of a zipper, and a couple of minutes after that he got up and left.
Slice of life? Well, it could have been if he’d miscalulated with the zipper in the darkness. But all’s well that ends well, which may have been the moral of the picture, which should prove that a moral—as apart from morals -- and morality need not necessarily be in juxtaposition in the dramatic arts.
But, to coin a triteness, I diverge. And that’s just what I did at the moment --diverge. My eyes wandered curiously around the theater, searching out the sidelights of the experience.
The number one sidelight was only a row in front of me and slightly to the left. There were a pair of teenagers there, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. The boy had the duck’s pratt haircut and was wearing the inevitable filthy T-shirt and blue-jeans. The girl sported a ponytail and was wearing a blouse and shorts. She was sitting on his lap, facing him – and me. His hands were under her blouse from the bottom and my eyes detected her bra lying on the seat beside them. She was bouncing up and down, her head thrown back. The tight-stretched shorts, however, seemed to be giving them both a good deal of trouble.
My eyes roved from their predicament to a pair of girls in their twenties who were seated two rows down to my right. From my vantage point above them, I could see that both their skirts were up over their waists. Their hands were busy in each other’s laps. Red nail polish gleamed in a nest of blonde curls, and the one to whom the curls belonged relinquished her grip to grab the other girl's shoulders and rock back and forth. They were late, I reflected, at least as far as the opus which had just ended was concerned.
Still another one, presumably just as inspiring, was beginning. I turned my attention to it. Well, well! Technicolor!
It started with a blonde entering a bedroom. She was wearing a fur coat and an evening gown and carrying a small purse. Obviously she had just come home from a date. She shrugged off the coat, dropped the bag, and strode over to a vanity table. She picked up a man's picture, framed and signed, and hugged it to her breast. Then she caught her image in a full-length mirror and struck a pose. Her breasts overflowed the low-cut gown. She started dancing slowly and sexily in front of the mirror. In the background a band played an old-fashioned slow blues number.
At this point my attention was distracted by someone taking the seat on my left. The theater was half-empty, and there was no doubt that the person sitting next to me had chosen deliberately. From the corner of my eye I made out a pretty woman, demurely dressed, in her mid-twenties. She was staring straight ahead at the screen, her lips parted.
There was the rhythmic sound of a seat creaking a few rows away. I glanced toward it and saw a very old man leaning forward, his rms on the seat in front of him, staring at the screen and rocking back and forth. Glancing away from him, my eyes met those of the woman seated on my left. The noise had attracted her, and she'd been looking at him, too. She shot me a knowing smile that held my eyes an instant, and then turned back to the screen.
The Technicolor blonde was still digging herself in the mirror. She was sliding out of the evening gown now, her lush body undulating to the sleazy tempo of the blues. She wore a one-piece fundation garment under it, bright red, the bra a push-up type over which her lush breasts spilled.
The girl beside me put her arm on the chair-arm between us. Our shoulders touched. She shifted in her seat a little and the pressure increased. She kept staring at the screen, seeming not to notice, but she was breathing very deeply.
So was the teeny-bopper straddling the boy's lap in the row in front of us. Her sighs were audible as she bounced up and down. Her blouse was opened now, and the boy’s face was pressed against her heaving, bared bosom.