All language subtitles for Sex and the City - S01E01 - Sex and the City

Once upon a time

an English journalist
came to New York.

Elizabeth was attractive
and bright,

and right away she hooked up
with one of the city's

typically eligible
bachelors.

The question remains,

is this really a company
we want to own?

Tim was forty-two.

A well-liked and respected
investment 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 interesting.

What?

I feel like I know you
from somewhere.

Oh, doubtful.

I only just moved here
from London.

London, really?

That's my all-time
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 secrets.

One warm spring day
he took her to a townhouse

he saw in Sunday's
New York Times.

How about if we start at the top
and work our way down?

There are four bedrooms
upstairs.

Do you have
any children?

Not yet.

That day,
Tim popped the question.

How'd you like to have dinner
with my folks Tuesday 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 mom 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,
of course. Bastard.

She told me one day
over coffee...

I don't understand.

In England,
looking at houses together,

would have
meant something.

Then 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 7:00 a.m.

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 the hell did we
get into this mess?

There are thousands,

maybe tens of 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 Blahnik
strappy sandals,

and they're alone.

It's like the riddle
of the Sphinx.

Why are there so many
great unmarried women

and no great
unmarried men?

I explore these sorts
of issues in my column

and I have terrific sources,
my friends.

When you're a young guy
in your twenties,

women are controlling
the relationships.

By the time you're an
eligible man in your thirties,

you feel like 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.

I mean,
if you want to get married,

it's to have kids,
right?

And you don't want to do it
with someone older than 35

'cause then you have to have
kids right away

and that's about it.

I think 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 forty-one.

She couldn't get
any more dates.

She had a complete
physical breakdown,

couldn't hold on
to her job,

and had to move back
to Wisconsin

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 want to
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

and that's exactly
what's missing in Manhattan,

the space for romance.

The problem
is expectations,

older women don't want to
settle for what's available.

By the time you reach
your mid-thirties,

you think,
why should I settle?

You know?

It's like the older we get
the more we keep self-selecting

down to a smaller
and smaller group.

What women really want
is Alec Baldwin.

There's not one woman
in New York

who hasn't turned down
ten wonderful guys

because they were too short,
or too fat, or too poor.

I have been out with
some of those guys,

the short, fat,
poor ones.

It makes absolutely
no difference.

They are just as self-centered
and unappreciative

as the good-looking ones.

Why don't these women
just 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 nice celebratory
conference call.

You were saying?

Look... Look, if you're a
successful saleswoman
in this city,

you have two choices.

You can bang your head
against the wall

and try and find a relationship,
or you can say "screw it,"

and just go out
and have sex like a man.

You mean with dildos?

No. I mean
without feeling.

Samantha Jones was
a New York inspiration.

A public relations
executive,

she routinely slept
with good-looking guys
in their twenties.

Mmm! Remember that guy that
I was going out with?

Oh, God,
what was his name? Drew?

Drew.
-Drew the sex god.

Right, well, afterwards,
I didn't feel a thing.

It was like, "Hey, babe,
gotta go, catch you later."

And I completely forgot
about him after that.

But are you sure that
that isn't just 'cause
he didn't call you?

Sweetheart,
this is the first time
in the history of Manhattan

that women have had as much
money and power as men,

plus the equal luxury of
treating men like sex objects.

Yeah, except men in this city
fail on both counts.

I mean, they don't want to be
in a relationship with you,

but as soon as
you only want them for sex,
they don't like it.

All of a sudden
they can't perform
the way they're supposed to.

That's when
you dump them.

Oh, come on, ladies,
are we really that cynical?

What about romance?

-Yeah!
-Who needs it?

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

I mean the sex
was incredible,

but then he wanted
to read me his poetry

and go out to dinner
and the whole chat bit,

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!
Oh, no. No, no.

Believe me, the right guy
comes along

and you two right here,
this whole thing,

-shew, right out the window.
-That's right!

Listen, the right guy
is an illusion.

You understand that,
you can start living your life.

So you think
it's really possible

to pull off this whole, um...

women having sex
like men thing?

You're forgetting
The Last Seduction.

You're obsessed
with that movie.

Oh, okay!
Linda Fiorentino

fucking that guy up against
the chain link fence.

And never having
one of those,

"Oh, my God,
what have I done?"
epiphanies.

I hated that movie.

Was it true?

Were women in New York
really giving up on love

and throttling up
on power?

What a tempting
thought.

You know,
I'm beginning to think

the only place where
one can still find

love and romance
in New York

is the
gay community.

It's straight love
that's become closeted.

Stanford Blatch was one of
my closest friends.

He was the owner
of a talent agency

who at the moment
was down to a single client.

So are you telling me
that you're in love?

How could I possibly
sustain a relationship?

You know 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 twenty-six,

and twenty-nine...

and thirty-one.

Carrie,
don't even go there.

What, do you think,
I'm a masochist?

The man is scum.

Good, because I don't
have the patience

to clean up this mess
for the fourth time.

Will you relax?

I don't have a shred
of feeling left.

Thank God.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have
to visit the ladies' room.

Carrie!

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
withholding creep,

who was still the best sex
I ever had in my life.

However,

I did have a little
experiment in mind.

Kurt...

Wow, what are you
doing here?

Hey, babe.

God,
you look gorgeous.

Thanks.

So, how's life?

Not bad,
can't complain.

You?

Oh, you know, just writing
the column, the usual.

So, you seeing
anyone special?

Not really...
You?

Oh, just
a couple guys...

But you look good though.

So do you.

So, uh...

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 to
my place, three o'clock.

Alright.

See you there.

Are you
out of your mind?

What the hell do you
think you're doing?

Oh, calm down,
it's research.

Oh, God!

Oh, Kurt!

Kurt was just
like I remembered...

-Better.
-Yes. Oh...

Because this time

-there would be none of that
messy emotional attachment.
-Yes. yes. Oh!

Alrighty.

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?

But...

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 incredibly alive.

I felt like
I owned the city.

Nothing and no one
could get in my way.

-Number one...
-Here you go.

... he's very handsome.

he's not wearing
a wedding ring.

he knows I carry
a personal 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, like, a year?

Really?

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

That's the problem.

You know, 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, um...

You know...

-Pussy?
-Oh, God!

Oh,
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.

Mmm.

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.
-Hey, look,

I can't meet you guys
for dinner tomorrow night

because I have
an amazing date.

With who?

Capote Duncan,

he's supposedly some big shot
in the publishing world.

-Do you know him?
-Did I know him?

He was one of the city's
most notoriously

un-gettable bachelors.

Wait, wait.

Don't even answer
that question

because frankly,

I don't care,
and another thing,

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

I didn't want to tell her
about my afternoon

of cheap and easy sex
and how good it felt.

Alright, fine.

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

Well, 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.

Hi.

Still, it was the
creme de la creme of New York,

whipped
into a frenzy.

Sometimes
you got a soufflé,

sometimes
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 hundred pounds?

I know, it's like
under-eaters anonymous.

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.

Right, but if you're not part of
the beauty Olympics,

you can still become
a very, you know...

interesting person.

Are you saying that
I'm not pretty enough?

No, no, no,
of course you are.

So, ipso facto,
I can't be interesting?

Women either fall into
one of two categories,

beautiful and boring,
or homely and interesting?

Is that what
you're saying, Skippy?

No, no, no, no,
that's not what I meant.

Excuse me,
is this your hand on my knee?

No.

Alright, let's keep 'em
where I can see 'em, alright?

Well, I guess you must
find me beautiful...

or interesting.

I was about
to rescue Skipper

from an increasingly hopeless
situation when suddenly...

-Hey!
-Hey!

Lucky me,
twice in one week.

Well, I don't know
if you're going to be
getting that lucky.

You know,
I was really pissed off
the way you left the other day.

-You were?
-Yeah.

And I thought,
"How great!"

You finally understand the kind
of relationship I really want,

and now we can have sex
without commitment.

Yeah, right.

Sure, I guess.

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

Yeah, please. I mean,
whenever you feel like it.

If I'm alone,
I'm all yours.

Alright.

I like this new you.

Call me.

Yup.

I didn't understand,

did all men secretly
want their women

promiscuous and
emotionally detached?

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 wanted.

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 passing 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.

Uh...

What year was it
painted again?

'89.

Though Charlotte was determined
to play hard to get,

she didn't want to end
the evening too abruptly.

Well...

Maybe just
for a minute.

This could easily
go for a hundred grand.

Ross is
so hot right now.

It's beautiful.

No, you're beautiful.

Thank you...

-for tonight.
-Yeah?

I had
a wonderful time.

-Well, it was my pleasure.
-Mmm.

I have to get up
really early tomorrow.

I'll get you a cab.

Charlotte told me later

that she thought she had played
the entire evening flawlessly.

So, what are you doing
next Saturday?

I'm having
dinner with you.

Hey...

Hey, you're going to
the West Side, right?

Right, uh, West 4th
and Bank please.

Scoot over,
will you?

Two stops.

4th and Bank, and, uh...

West Broadway
and Broome.

You're going
to Chaos?

Oh, yeah.

Why?

Look, I understand where
you're coming from,

and I totally
respect it...

but, uh, I really need
to have sex tonight.

Back at Chaos,

things were
swinging into high gear

and Samantha was putting
the moves on Mr. Big.

I've been smoking cigars
for years,

back when they were
terminally uncool.

I've got this great source
that sends me Hondurans.

Do you want
to try one?

-No, thank you.
-Why? You can't
find them anywhere.

Cohibas...

That's all I smoke.

Look...

I do the P.R.
for this club...

and I have a key to
the private room downstairs.

Really?

You want
a private tour?

No thanks,
but maybe another time.

Meanwhile,
Skipper Johnston

was hopelessly smitten
with Miranda Hobbes.

So where
we going now?

Listen, Skippy,
you know,

you really are
a nice, sweet guy, but...

Oh,
I understand.

Goodnight.

Miranda told me later that
she thought he was too nice,

but that she was willing
to overlook one flaw.

And Capote Duncan
found his fix for the night.

-After you.
No.

Where is it?
I want to see the Ross Bleckner.

Later.

Oh, listen, I, uh...

I gotta get up
really early,

so you can't stay over.

Cool?

Sure, I have to get up
really early too.

Taxi! Taxi!

And so another Friday night
in Manhattan crept towards dawn.

Taxi!

And just when I thought I would
have to do the unspeakable,

walk home...

Well, get in
for Christ's sakes.

Where can
I drop you?

72nd Street,
Third Avenue.

You got that, Al?

Yes, sir.

So, what have you been
doing lately?

You mean besides
going out every night?

Yeah, I mean what do
you do for work?

Well, this is my work.

I'm sort of a sexual
anthropologist.

You mean,
like a hooker?

No.

I, um, I write a column called
Sex and the City.

Right now I'm researching
an article

about women who
have sex like men.

You know, they have sex and then
afterwards they feel nothing.

But you're
not like that.

Well, aren't you?

Not a drop.

Not even
half a drop.

Wow, what's
wrong with you?

I get it.

You've never
been in love.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah.

Suddenly I felt the wind
knocked out of me.

I wanted to crawl under the
covers and go right to sleep.

-Thanks for the ride.
Any time.

Wait.

Have you ever
been in love?

Abso-fucking-lutely.