The other night, I came across a made-for-TV documentary about sex, starring Kim Cattrall. I would have skipped right over it if I hadn’t heard her say the word Cli’ Taurus. Whenever I hear this word pronounced like this, rhyming with “Sit, Borus” I hear nails on a chalkboard. Why can’t Kim say it to rhyme with “Twitter this?”
Well, the ways of Kim Cattrall are mysterious. In this documentary, she is the ultimate cougar, and I mean that in a bad way. She emerges from a lagoon or something wearing a gold lame bathing suit with cutout sides and huge hoop earrings. She reminds us that no other animal has a Cli’ Taurus. She would certainly know, if anyone would!
There’s a nerdy male doctor who speaks about the neurology of sexual desire, gasping between sentences like it’s all too much for him. There’s a guy named Thomas Moore who talks about sex in mythology, looking very, very depressed about the whole thing. There is Betty Dodson, a scary gray-haired lesbian who wants mothers to tell little girls about the clitoris as the counterpart to the penis.
Most of all there’s Kim, smiling smugly throughout everything, letting us know that it’s okay to fantasize about geese. I know from good sources that Kim does in fact get a lot of sex, demanding it from any nice looking guy who crosses her path. Not that I’m against this! You go, Kim, and if you and SJP ever get in an actual fistfight, I’m in your corner.
Why can’t we have a documentary about male sexuality, starring George Clooney? He could discuss the vas deferens and the glans, and he’d probably pronounce them correctly. He could paddle around a lagoon, and then confide his weird sexual fantasies, assuring us that they’re perfectly normal. Maybe John Travolta could talk about his penis, and how much he loves having one.