Plot Details: This opinion reveals minor details about the movie's plot.
Author's Note: It needs to be noted that Dr. Freudine is only a character I created and not me. She is for entertainment purposes and to offer a new perspective.In the last Dr. Freudine post, her client Irish and she are left kissing. For that link and the others, please go to my profile page.
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I am scarcely aware of what is happening beyond the smothering sweetness of peppermint, scarcely aware for long moments of where or who I am. When finally I feel the floor under my stockinged feet and the peppermint clouds break up, I open my eyes. Irish, flushed and eyes aglow with almost manic delight, steps back.
"Now you see why I don't need sex therapy!"
I gasp at his words, ogling him and then my watch. Oh my Freud, I'm going to be late. David and Miss Cunengonde will doubt my support of their sessions. When I raise my eyes, I am all business and Irish is taken aback and concerned. I rush to explain.
"David is meeting the sex therapist tonight for a get-to-know-you soft porn movie. By his reaction and expressed feelings about it, she and I can identify..."
He looks amused, sizing me up so I blush. Why do I have to act like such a schoolgirl around him? "I...I don't think they'd mind if you came along to prove you don't need sex therapy," I challenge with the first words that come to mind. He only grins and agrees. A half hour later, I pull up into David's driveway to the sound of Irish's Wagner CD.
This eleventh episode of Showtime's Red Shoe Diaries by "master of erotica" Zalman King continues its premise of a lonely man (David Duchovny in brief scenes) left by his wife who seeks the answers to betrayal and loss of love through replies to an ad he placed.
The first letter, so called "The Game," is from a young Jacqueline Bissett-type who we see on the empty beach amid distracting surf with her boyfriend, but they're not happy. Before long she confesses to being a bad girl with another guy and how special and horny he still made her feel, but that sex was just a game to him. They play a board game with "Tell Me," "Touch Me," "Show Me," and "Wild Card" for the spinner to land on. He pushes her to get in touch with a wild side and this leads her to become a sex-addicted prostitute one night, from which the bad boy rescues her with glee.
The boyfriend understands her pain and all ends well. I glance over at Irish whose eyes have closed and I nudge him.
"Is it over yet? I hope?" he mock-whispers. "Tell me, touch me, show me! I was having a nightmare hearing those words. How long is this, anyway?" I smile and shake my head as I point out that the next letter, "The Birthday Cake," is being read. This Juliet Prowse-twin (even named Juliet) is a good wife looking for something different for hubby's birthday and discovers a French bakery that will turn her into a lavish birthday cake in French maid style. Sex is only implied.
Soon everyone is giggling or whistling in the guys' cases. We all hiss at the end when two cops, then relatives gawk at her, and it becomes even more corny. "Finally he could have his cake and eat it too!"
The last sleeper of a letter is also French. Called "Like Father, Like Son," a smoky-eyed blonde who may remind one of Angelina Jolie is pursued by her husband's twenty-year old son whose teeny bopper girlfriend, also the narrator of the letter, realizes he's in love with the older woman and is "kind of ticked off." She says she couldn't stop him from making a mistake in his immaturity and gets her revenge later...
Pillows are thrown at the TV with groans of "Gimme a break!" David, though, checks out the bonus footage on the main menu. These five scenes could be accessed during the movie by clicking on a red shoe, but after the first dud they were skipped. He finds the scene where the older woman agrees to teach the son, this time in French!
"Oooh, this really is a turn-on!" he howls. "Speak dirty to me, lady!"
Miss Cunengonde laughs. "Was any of it a turn-on for you?"
"Well," he toys with the word, his smile hesitant. "I imagined you as Juliet, becoming a birthday cake, but my birthday isn't for a while."
"That did look like fun," she murmurs. "But there's no holiday soon either."
David blushes. "Dr. Freudine, the rest of The Game was just a turn-off. Sure, the gals were gorgeous, but a great body isn't enough. They were so shallow and repetitive, like I know how to spell "love," thank you. It must've been made for idiots by idiots."
"Irish? Do you agree?" I prod, expecting bored agreement. He stretches his arms behind his head, eying me like a cat about to pounce.
"Hot, naked ladies are never boring, even if they're idiots who think they're smart and guys stupid, like that French teen and even that first one who confessed to her partner. Such detail she gave the poor guy! I can't fathom how that Red Shoes guy feels better to know these idiots. There's too much talk, little action. I need hardcore porn."
"But these women wanted both physical and emotional intimacy, don't you think? Wanting to be understood and accepted and loved," I argue a bit sharply.
"That came through loud and clear, but the other message was that women can't help making mistakes when they get bored, or men out of immaturity, so can we ever really understand each other, according to the flick? Did it turn you on?"
It takes me a bit to realize he'd asked a question. "Oh, one naked man's butt and glimpses of chests without hair. It's a desperate man's prolonged movie with snazzy music. Excuse me, Irish, David. Miss Cunengonde?" I rise from the couch. "Let's talk in the kitchen."
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