I was going to name this article “How my boyfriend tricked me into sleeping with him while he watched the Paris Hilton sex tape (on his 52 inch TV) as he maintained complete power over the remote control” but I figured that title was too long. Hell, it’s longer than the anatomical anomalies of the lucky bugger who tapped Paris Hilton, America’s favorite slut heiress on video for all of the world to see. But I’m getting a head of myself. I wouldn’t want to blow things out of proportion. But honestly, it’s no cock and bull. Okay, I can hear you groaning so I’ll stop with the puns.
It all started innocently enough. We wanted to see Silent Hill at the theater but it was playing too late so we decided to stay in and rent a movie instead. Neither of us has a video store membership, which put a significant dent in our whole ‘rent a movie’ plan until we stopped at Target on a whim. Target occasionally has good movie sales and spending money there makes me feel a little less dirty than when I drop a paycheck at Walmart. Our backup plan was to watch Cheech and Chong: Up in Smoke, which (I know it’s a shock) my genius boyfriend happens to already have in his video collection. But I quickly found a ten dollar movie I wanted to watch and didn’t mind owning: House of Wax. No, not the old Vincent Price version, which I’m sure is better than the remake for those of you who can stomach black and white movies. But yours truly has a rare physiological condition which prevents me from watching anything filmed before 1970. I break out in hives, truly I do.
Anyway, I’d already seen House of Wax twice in the theaters, once with my friend Cecil (who winced when the killer sliced off the girl’s finger) and the other time with my mother (who didn’t wince at all, oddly enough). But my soon to be Mensa material boyfriend had yet to see the movie. I picked up the box and announced my intentions. For a cheap B grade horror flick, it’s a good movie with a clever plot line. Plus, the killer looks like Nascar hottie Jeff Gordon.
“I dunno,” my boyfriend shrugged. “Why not save ten bucks and we can just watch Cheech and Chong?”
Rather than answer him honestly (which would’ve went something like this: “Because I prefer that you use your few surviving brain cells to comprehend a movie not about illegal aliens with a cannabis addiction”) I just said, “Are you sure? It’s got Paris Hilton in it.”
“Does she get naked?”
“Are you kidding?” I answered. “Her wardrobe was practically nonexistent. Why do you think the production costs were so low?”
A small and believable lie. A tiny speck of a fib in the grand scheme of the universe. And judging from his reaction, I may as well have said that the package was stuffed with twenty dollar bills. Apparently Paris Hilton Naked is a magic combination of words, when uttered out loud, capable of triggering the male brain into doing damn near anything. I was going to have to remember that. The possibilities seemed endless. We were in the checkout line in a matter of moments. My boy Einstein even insisted on paying for the movie. But, as I was soon to discover, it was not the first time he’d purchased a movie starring Paris Hilton.
At home, the doomed teenagers in the movie had not even discovered the House of Wax before my boyfriend found logs to saw. But somehow, if awoken by the hand of God, he was conscious enough to watch Paris do a strip tease for her boyfriend soon before she tiptoed for her life away from the killer, wearing nothing but a sheer red thong, only to die on her knees in such a way that’s tempted me to make another real bad ‘giving head’ pun. Paris Hilton’s death scene was, hands down, the best part of the movie.
It was after the film, when my boyfriend made his transformation from ordinary grown up boy who needs knock knock jokes explained to him to a super genius of Stephen Hawking caliber, and by that I mean a prolific discoverer of black holes. The transformation was subtle at first. He’d cleverly popped in another movie as I attended to business of a personal matter in the next room. At first I thought he’d put in Up in Smoke but if this was Cheech and Chong, Cheech was very orally skilled blond girl and Chong had a supersized bong. I scratched my head for a minute, half of me inspired by the visual poontang, being the voyeur that I am, and the other half in awe of the cavernous depth of the blond girl’s mouth.
“Do you know who that is?” asked my now wide awake boyfriend, totally unashamed of the porn in his VCR. It was hard to tell judging only from the back of her head.
“It kinda looks like my cousin Julie,” was all I said before he shook his head, mumbled something about wanting to meet my family and fast forwarded it to the doggy style scene. Of course once I saw her face, I recognized the little rich harlot as the same woman whose head was chopped off in the House of Wax. Her acting was no better in this movie. But somehow the night vision lighting compensated for it. I think it was her glowing eyes that gave the three minute film a forbidden feel, as if the man was with a woman possessed by Satan.
After the standard customary questions that any girl would ask her guy when she found out he owns the infamous Paris Hilton Sex Tape (Where’d you get it? How much did it cost? Have all your friends seen it? Do you think of her when you’re doing me? I’m as fine as her, right? Right?!) we started to kiss each other while we watched her out of the corner of our eye. Then we started to neck. Next thing I know, my shirt’s undone and his pants are off.
I could have predicted it from a mile away. My clever boyfriend managed to sleep through my movie and he intended to sleep with me through his. But for as fraternal as it all seemed, I couldn’t help but to indulge in my super genius yet predictable boyfriend’s fantasies. I couldn’t help but to smile as I saw that sinister grin on his face. I would’ve done anything he asked. Is it love? Or just reckless reverence to the libido and abandonment of morality? I may never know. All I know is I would’ve never watched the Paris Hilton tape alone. For that sly reason I’m convinced that my man is a genius. And yours can be too.
But they still won’t stop to ask for directions.
