sex and the city s1

S101 Sex and the city aired

 

"Once upon a time an English journal-ist came to New York.

Elizabeth was attractive and bright, and right away she hooked up with one of the city's eligible bachelors.

The question remains, is this a compa-ny we want to own?

Tim was 42.

A well-liked and respected banker, who made about two million a year.

They met one evening, in typical New York fashion, at a gallery opening.

Like it?

Yes, actually I think it's quite interest-ing. What?

I feel like I know you.

Oh, doubtful.

I just moved here from London.

Really?

That's my favorite city.

It is?

Absolutely.

It was love at first sight.

You know, I think perhaps

I have met you somewhere before.

For two weeks they snuggled... went to romantic restaurants... had wonderful sex... and shared the most intimate se-crets.

One day, he took her to a house he saw in the New York Times.

How about if we start at the top?

There are four bedrooms upstairs.

Do you have any children?

Not yet.

That day Tim popped the question.

Would you like to meet my folks Tues-day night?

I'd love to.

On Tuesday he called with some bad news.

My mother's not feeling very well.

Oh, gosh, I'm sorry.

Can we take a rain check?

Of course.

Tell your mum

I hope she feels better.

When she hadn't heard from him for two weeks, she called.

Tim, it's Elizabeth.

That's an awfully long rain check.

He said he was up to his ears and that he'd call the next day.

He never did call... Bastard.

She told me one day over coffee.

I don't understand. in England, look-ing at houses together would have meant something.

I realized no one had told her

about the end of love in Manhattan.

Welcome to the ''age of un-innocence''.

No one has ''breakfast at Tiffany's'', and no one has ''affairs to remember''.instead, we have breakfast at 7:00am and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.

Self-protection and closing the deal are paramount.

Cupid has flown the co-op.

How did we get into this mess?

There are thousands of women like this in the city.

We all know them and we all agree they're great.

They travel, they pay taxes, they'll spend $400 on a pair of Manolo Blah-nik strappy sandals, and they're alone. It's like the riddle of the Sphinx.

Why are there so many great unmar-ried women and no great unmarried men?

I explore these issues in my column and I have terrific sources: my friends.

When you're in your 20s, women con-trol the relationships.

By the time you're in your 30s, you're being devoured by women.

Suddenly the guys are holding all the chips.

I call it ''the mid-thirties power flip''.

It's all about age and biology.

If you want to get married, it's to have kids, right?

If you do it with someone older than 35, you have to have kids right away.

And that's about it.

These women should forget about marriage... and have a good time.

I have a friend who'd always gone out-with extremely sexy guys and just had a good time.

One day she woke up and she was 41 .

She couldn't get any more dates.

She had a breakdown, couldn't hold on to her job, and moved back to Wis-consin to live with her mother.

Trust me, this is not a story that makes men feel bad.

Most men are threatened by successful women.

If you wanna get these guys, you have to keep your mouth shut and play by the rules.

I totally believe that love conquers all.

Sometimes you just have to give it a little space.

That's what's missing in Manhat-tan———the space for romance.

The problem is expectations———older women won't accept what's available.

By your mid thirties, you think why should I settle?

You know?

The older we get, the more we keep self-selecting down to a smaller group.

What women really want is Alec Bald-win.

There's not one woman in New York who hasn't turned down ten wonder-ful guys because they were too short,

or too fat, or too poor.

I've been out with short, fat and poor guys. It makes no difference.

They are just as self-centered as the good-looking ones.

Why don't these women marry a fat guy?

Why don't they just marry a big fat tub of lard?

Happy birthday

Dear Miranda

Happy birthday to you

Another thirty-something birthday with a group of unmarried female friends.

We would all have preferred a cele-bratory conference call.

You were saying?

If you're a successful woman in this city, you can either struggle to find a relationship or just go out and have sex like a man.

you mean with dildos?

No. I mean without feeling.

Samantha was a New York inspiration,a public relations executive.

She routinely slept with good-looking guys in their 20s.

You know that guy that I was dating?

What was his name?

Drew.

The sex god.

Afterwards, I felt nothing.

It was like, ''Gotta go, catch you later.''

And I completely forgot about him af-ter that.

That's because he didn't call you.

Sweetheart, it's the first time in the his-tory of Manhattan that women have had as much power as men, plus the e-qual luxury of treating men like sex objects.

Yeah, except men in this city don't want to be in a relationship with you, but if you only want them for sex they don't like it.

Suddenly they can't perform.

That's when you dump them.

Come on, ladies, are we really that cynical?

What about romance?

Who needs it?

It's like that guy, Jeremiah, the poet.

The sex was incredible, but then he wanted to read me his poetry and go out to dinner and chat, and I'm like, ''Let's not even go there.''

What are you saying? Are you saying you're just gonna give up on love?

That's sick!

Look, if the right guy comes along, this whole thing's right out the window.

That's right!

The right guy is an illusion.

Start living your life!

So you think it's possible to pull off this whole women having sex like men thing.

You're forgetting The Last Seduction.

You're obsessed with that movie.

OK! Linda Florentine fucking that guy up against the chain-link fence.

And never having one of those

''God, what have I done?'' epiphanies.

I hated that movie.

Was it true? Were women in New York giving up on love and throttling up on power?

What a tempting thought.

I think the only place where one can still find love and romance in New York is the gay community.

Straight love has become closeted.

Stanford Blatch was a close friend.

He owned a talent agency who was down to a single client.

Are you telling me that you're in love?

How could I possibly sustain a rela-tionship?

Derek takes up like 1000% of my time.

Don't you think that's a bit obsessive?

Carrie, I'm a passionate person.

His career is all I care about.

When that's under control, then I can

concentrate on my personal life.

Stanford, he's an underwear model.

With a billboard in Times Square!

Oh, my God, don't turn around.

The loathe of your life is at the bar.

It was Kurt Harrington.

A mistake I made when I was 26...and 29...and 31 .

Carrie, don't even go there.

What do you think, I'm a masochist?

The man is scum.

Good. I don't have the patience to comfort you a fourth time.

Relax. I don't have any feelings left.

Thank god.

Excuse me, I have to visit the ladies' room.

It was true, I no longer felt a thing for Kurt.

After all these years, I finally saw him for what he was - a self-centered with-holding creep, who was still the best sex I ever had in my life.

However, I did have a little experi-ment in mind.

Wow, What are you doing here?

Hey, babe.

God, you look gorgeous.

Thanks.

So, how's life?

Not bad, can't complain. You?

You know just writing the column, the usual.

So, you seeing anyone special?

Not really. You?

Oh, just a couple of guys.

But you look good though.

So do you.

So... What are you doing later?

I thought you weren't talking to me for the rest of your life?

Who said anything about talking?

What do you say, my place, three o'clock?

Alright. See you there.

Are you out of your mind?

What do you think you're doing?

Calm down, it's research.

Oh, God! Oh, Kurt!

Kurt was just like I remembered.

Better.

Because there would be none of that messy emotional attachment.

Alright.

My turn.

Oh, sorry. I have to go back to work.

What are you kidding? you serious?

Oh, yeah completely.

But I'll give you a call.

Maybe we can do it again some time?

As I began to get dressed, I realized that I'd done it.

I'd just had sex like a man.

I left feeling powerful, potent, and in-credibly alive.

I felt like I owned the city - nothing and no one could get in my way.

Number one - he's very handsome.

Number two - he's not wearing a wed-ding ring.

Number three - he knows I carry a per-sonal supply of ultra textured Trojans

with the reservoir tip.

Thanks a lot.

any time.

Later that night, Skipper Johnston met me for coffee and confessed a shocking intimate secret.

Thank you.

Do you know That it has been a year?

Really? I don't understand that, you're such a nice guy.

That's the problem.

I'm too nice, you know?

I'm a romantic.

I just have so much feeling.

Are you sure you're not gay?

No!

I'm sensitive and I don't objectify women.

You know, most guys when they meet a girl, the first thing that they see is... you know.

Pussy?

Oh, God!

I hate that word.

Don't you have any friends that you can hook me up with?

No, they're too old for you.

I like older women.

Maybe.

Maybe My friend Miranda.

When?

Tomorrow night. We're all going downtown to this club, Chaos.

Great.

Don't tell her I'm nice.

Miranda was gonna hate Skipper.

She'd think he was mocking her with his sweet nature and decide he was an asshole.

The way she had decided all men were assholes.

Hello?

Hey, Carrie, it's Charlotte.

Hey, sweetie.

I can't meet you for dinner tomorrow, because I have an amazing date.

With who?

Capote Duncan, a big shot in the pub-lishing world.

Do you know him?

He was one of the city's most un-get-table bachelors.

Wait, wait. Don't answer that question, because I don't care.

And I'm not buying into any of that women having sex like men crap.

I didn't tell her about my afternoon of cheap sex and how good it felt.

Alright. Listen, have a good time, and promise to tell me everything.

If you're lucky. Bye.

Alright, bye.

Friday night at Chaos.

It was just like that bar in Cheers where ''everybody knows your name''.

Except here they were likely to forget It five minutes later.

Still, it was the crème de la crème of New York, whipped into a frenzy.

Sometimes you got a soufflé, some-times cottage cheese.

It is like a model bomb exploded in this room tonight.

Is there a woman here aside from me that weighs more than a 100 pounds?

I know, it's like under-eaters anony-mous.

That's funny, Skippy.

Skipper.

I have this theory that men secretly hate pretty girls because they feel that they're the ones who rejected them in high school.

But if you're not in the beauty Olympics, you can still be a very inter-esting person.

Are you saying that I'm not pretty?

No, Of course you are.

So ipso facto, I can't be interesting?

Women fall into one of two categories,beautiful and boring, or homely and interesting? is that it, Skippy?

No, that's not what I meant.

Excuse me, is this your hand on my knee?

No.

Let's keep them where I can see them.

I guess you must find me beautiful.

Or interesting.

I was about to rescue Skipper from a hopeless situation, when suddenly...

Lucky me, twice in one week.

You may Not be getting that lucky.

I was pissed off the way you left.

You were?

Yeah. Then I thought how great!

You finally understand that we can have sex without commitment.

Yeah, right. Sure, I guess.

So whenever I feel like it, I'll give you a call.

Yeah, whenever you feel like it.

I mean, if I'm alone, I'm all yours.

Alright.

I like this new you.

Call me.

Yup.

I didn't understand, did men secretly want promiscuous and emotionally detached women?

And if I was really having sex like a man, why didn't I feel more in control?

You see that guy?

He's the next Donald Trump, except he's younger and much better looking.

Hi.

Do you know him?

No, I've never seen him in my life.

He usually dates models, but, hey, I'm as good looking as a model, plus I own my own business.

Samantha had the kind of deluded self-confidence that caused men like Ross Perot to run for President.

And it usually got her what she want-ed.

Well, if you're not gonna hit on him, I will.

And there she went, off to take her best shot with Mr. Big.

Meanwhile, Charlotte York was pass-ing the most splendid evening with Capote Duncan.

Want to go back to my place and see the Ross Bleckner?

I'd love to, but it's really getting late.

No problem.

What year was it painted again?

89.

Charlotte was playing hard to get, but

she didn't want to end it too abruptly.