By Olubunmi Familoni
They make it look so easy in the movies; because film-making is about that ‘show-not-tell’, they don’t tell you how ugly it gets when you eventually get down to it, they only show you the cream on the surface — the low musical moans that rise and fall in pre-orgasmic harmony; the bodies shiny with sweat so beautiful you could lick it off the actors’ butts; the hair tucked tidily behind the ears, properly-behaved and catching the light to make a halo on the actress’ crown; the sensual gasps from mouths open in the throes of cinematic climax; and the cute post-coital cigarette break, fine smoke dancing in the air around the couple while they chat easily like siblings, the man (looking totally unruffled, as though he had only just been picking his nose the whole while) leaning on an elbow and drawing circles on his lover’s arm, a slice of breast just peeking from the sweetly-rumpled luscious silk sheets covering her.
None of this prettiness prepares you for the field; nobody tells you it’s a war out there, son — you don’t just slide in like it’s butter, right after you have ‘toasted’ her to a good crisp, like it happens in the movies. They show you the fancy foreplay, but don’t warn you that nobody is playing out here. It’s hard work.
They don’t tell you that when you launch the move to kick off the campaign you might get a mouthful of hair, because she wasn’t ready and turned away just as the starting pistol went off, because an image of her father on the pulpit suddenly flashed across her mind on the wings of a bible verse about fornication, but the devil quickly breaks into the projectionist’s booth and changes the reel to a scene from Porn Hub.
All this misunderstanding is understandable because the movies never told us when the right moment was; in the film they just dive into each other’s mouths after four seconds of intense, unblinking, starry-eyed staring into each other’s eyes. You try it with this one and she starts panicking: “What’s wrong with your eyes? Are you okay? Have you eaten?” Girl, I’m trying to create a moment here, sit your mothering ass still!
The movies don’t tell you that you might knock teeth with her, painfully, probably because while you learnt how to kiss from watching Angelina Jolie and her gorgeous lips do it, she got her own ideas from watching Africa Magic, where they ‘kiss’ by rubbing lips against lips furiously as if trying to start a fire. (By the way, am I the only one who has noticed that our darling Angelina always gets her edible-looking lips chewed on in all her movies. Those lucky co-starring bastards.) Anyway, if you’re lucky not to get your tongue bitten off by this Nollywood-tutored kisser and the movie progresses smoothly, you soon come upon another hurdle in your script: the clothes. Movies make you believe you can’t ever have any meaningful bonk with your clothes on, that you have to strip down to bare shiny bums, with a big-baritoned black crooning the blues soft in the background. Oh, and the scented candles! (I tried candles once — the poor darling involved hopped to her feet, jumped into her clothes and hotfooted it out of there as if my room was on fire. She sent a text later saying she was scared of Cele guys, that they use girls for rituals. Apparently, the bloody red candles in Nigerian movies only feature in ‘money ritual’ scenes, never in the romantic/sex scenes. Sigh.)
In the sex scenes though, when the man reaches for her button, she reaches for his zip, eyes locked in romantic understanding; but you try to flick a speck of dust off the tip of her collar in a real-life experience and she’ll move hundred seats away, to the next continent. And since consent is very important in these things, as well as respect for boundaries, you humbly gather your hands back home and carry on the Netflix-and-chilling in Bible-Study silence, cursing the blasted misleading movies in your chest. When you finally manage to touch half a button on her blouse, or you’re lucky enough to have made it to the door and you’re trying to pick the locks on her bra, she gives you a hot look reserved for a pickpocket caught with his fingers in her handbag, someone would think you were trying to rob her of her boobs or something.
They show you the clothes falling off the actors’/actresses’ bodies like scabs but never tell that you might need teeth, fingernails, and maybe razors, to peel the stick-on jeans off a girl’s legs, and that sometimes you might need a crowbar to prise a belt open.
And the sweat in the movies always looks sexier, it doesn’t make bodies sticky and body parts stick to each other, doesn’t make the actress’ hair get plastered to her cheeks and forehead, it never drips irritatingly into the actor’s eyes or mouth! Neither does the actress’ hair pour into the actor’s eyes and mouth, while he tries to slap it away and she tries to gather it up and hands are everywhere in a tangled mess, making the whole lovemaking business a clumsy affair.
The scene is finally over and she’s expecting a chat or some spooning, as seen in the movies, but he’s sprawled to the side, snoring away; or he starts saying something interesting, but she’s already lost inside her phone, in some other boy’s DM who isn’t trying to talk about Quantum Physics.
Hey, in the movies the girl doesn’t ask for cab money! Neither does she ask to be dropped at home. Thank you, let’s keep this sweet and decent like adults.
P.S. Before we wrap: even in death Angelina Jolie would still be the sexiest woman alive, and every man’s (and not a few women’s) ultimate kissing fantasy. Argue with Brad, please.