Original subtitles

I get it now.

I get everything.

Life is a moment of infinite bliss.

There is nothing to be ashamed of.

There is only joy and ecstasy.

We invent our pain and misery.

They're just works of fiction.

It all works out in the end.

There's no fear.

Only love.

Now I know.

Just like that.

Lickety split.

Now I know.

That life is a moment of infinite bliss.

And the moment is forever. And the bliss never, ever, ever

ends.

And how do I know this?

Because you just made me cum.

Oh, God.

In most movies, especially most American movies, sex is viewed as a bad thing,

something shameful or wrong.

Well, I don't find that to be true at all.

So, dearly beloved, I'm here to tell you there's something else.

There's two sides to everybody.

The side we show the world and the side that we only show to ourselves.

But when we're having sex, really good sex, you can show the side that you can

side to the person or persons that you're with.

When someone puts themselves inside of you and you go inside of someone, you

find truth there.

And all the masks that we wear and all the armor we put on to protect ourselves

disappears. And it is then that we fully realize the truth of our life. That we

are all connected.

That we are one beautiful dancing ball of energy and light.

And that there is no death. That those masks we wear are simply the imagination

of ourselves.

The reality is, you, me, this guy on the bed.

Everyone are all one thing.

Now, isn't that just the greatest thing ever?

So, why are we so ashamed to know that?

If sex can tell us this, why is it such a dirty word?

Shouldn't shame be the dirty word?

Shouldn't guilt be four letters instead of fuck?

Are you with me, people?

I mean, what's the problem here?

I'll tell you this much.

Shame isn't something we're born with.

It's something we're taught.

Shouldn't he be writing bliss and joy on the blackboard instead of abstinence?

I mean, was this guy born in a test tube?

Isn't he himself the simple reason of his existence, the result of his parents

making love?

Think about that phrase for a second.

Making love.

Isn't that a wonderful way to put it?

Making love.

So how do we go from making love to making fucked up, repressed, shameful,

-ridden guys like this?

He's from love.

What'd he do? Make the wrong turn at Albuquerque?

I think it's time for the students to teach.

The teacher.

What do you think?

Oh, my God.

Oh,

shit.

Oh yeah.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, my God, that's good. Look.

Yeah.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

Oh yeah.

Oh, look.

Yeah. Fucking amazing. Good try, girl.

I'm being taught.

I'm being educated.

Oh, the irony.

It's delicious.

Every story.

Yeah.

Oh yeah.

Now, you were saying?

Clad.

So you get out of school,

and then what? Then you go and try to live your life burdened by all the guilt

and shame you've learned regarding your natural -born lust and desire.

So you move out of mom and dad's house and can have sex with as many people as

you want and as much as you want, and you can enjoy it.

Nuts to that.

I say, if life is a play, rewrite it.

Enjoy the show.

Meh.

You know what, dear?

I'm not going to say that anymore.

Yes, dear.

Mother, father, I leave you now to attend a university so far from home.

Yes, we know, dear.

We've heard this speech before.

Where I will release myself of the shackles and the post -war chastity and

experience the true joys of being a modern sexual woman. I will flash my

stockings to any eyes brave enough to look and I will satisfy the desires of

men. And since it's college and I'm bound to experiment, a few women who

themselves a...

Yes,

dear. We know.

Yes, we've definitely heard this before. As a matter of fact, it's all you've

talked about. Or even, as is the scenario involving Fretich, I may allow

to rub up against me, perhaps on a crowded train, ever so slowly until he

releases his feet upon my backside, staining the blacks of my stockings

Yes, dear.

We know.

Actually, it's a little bit more information than I actually wanted to...

henceforth, I'd be begrudged to receive, on occasion, only after indulging in an

ample amount of peach -flavored liquor, a man's throbbing member within my

cramped rectal cavity. And on that occasion, I may want to warm up a bit

perhaps starting with a finger and working my way upwards to a thumb, or a

fruit or vegetable, such as a banana or a cucumber.

Maybe thought about a papaya.

Oh, no, dear, not a papaya.

It's much too oblong.

What are you thinking of with the plantain?

But isn't that the famous banana?

It appears to look like one, but the flavor and taste is a little bland.

Well, I really don't think that she's going to care what it tastes like unless

she's going to eat it afterwards. You're not going to eat it afterwards, are

you, dear?

And if you are, may I... Highly suggest that you wash it, because it is a bit

unsanitary, but yet effective.

Yes. Yes, it is. We'll give you that. We'll give you that. So in conclusion, I

can only say that when you see me again, you shan't recognize a waif -like

wallflower you once called daughter, for a true woman has blossomed in her

place, now free of the repressive soil that you so restrictively raised her in.

And in that, mother and father, I bid you farewell.

For you shan't see this one you called girl again.

Goodbye, hon.

Ta -ta.

So, would you like to begin with or without the fruit warm -up?

Without. My ass is so blown out, dude.

Blended.

Fucking A.

So where did you find him, dear?

Church.

Suck it!

You're invited to explore our well -stocked cows, Radish Farmer.

What are you doing to my wife?

Ooh.

Oh yeah.

Shuffle it.

Wave it.

Oh, yeah.

Now see, this wasn't a cautionary tale.

Rebecca left home and pursued her fantasies just as she'd wanted.

She didn't get raped down some dark alleyway somewhere, and she didn't

prostitute. She simply had to decide between a banana, a plantain, or a

Now, why she chose the papaya, I don't know.

But good luck to her on that one.

Anywho, you get the idea.

If shame is the main character in your play, just write that sucker out, and

then you'll be able to appreciate sex as the work of art it really and truly is.

If you think about it, all art is based on the template of erotic rhythm. Every

song, every poem, every film has the same basic form as sex.

Foreplay, the act itself, and then climax and release.

Even art that lays still, like a photograph, has within it the inherent

the sexual act. As you follow your eyes from the beginning of the piece to the

end, you invest your own sexual rhythm into your experience of looking at it

responding to it.

Isn't that right, Mr. Art Critic?

Absolutely.

You see, every piece of art is a reflection of the sexual experience.

Why's that?

Well, because art is a creative expression.

And there's no greater form of creative expression than love.

It is perfect in every way.

During the act of lovemaking, nothing needs to be said for everything to be

perfectly understood.

And that's the goal of all art.

To be universally experienced without having to say a word.

Like this sculpture.

Exactly.

You see?

It's perfect.

It's perfect form, perfect function, bursting with passion.

Touch it and see.

That being said... We shall say no more.

Ah.

Um, can I get you anything?

Cranberry juice, please.

All right.

Now, before you go thinking that what I'm trying to say is that in order for

to be shame -free, it needs to be put on some sort of pedestal, like in a play

or in an art gallery.

Well, let me stop you right there.

Getting down and dirty is absolutely fucking great.

Take the whole strip thing, for example.

Girl gets up on stage.

May or may not have a full set of teeth.

May or may not really even be a girl.

But she's beautiful up there.

It's not exploitation.

She's empowering herself.

Look at these guys.

She's got them in the palm of her hand.

And they're eating it up.

Are they exploiting her?

Taking her down the road to ruin?

Hell fucking no.

She's giving them a little thrill, and they're watching in awe.

And for the guys here with rings on their finger, which is, let's face it,

of them, are they being bad husbands?

Again.

Hell fucking no.

They're just getting warmed up so they can go home and have something baking in

the oven for their little dove in their loving nest.

Now what's wrong with that?

I'll give you a few seconds to think about that.

You don't have an answer, do you?

Do you know why?

Because there's nothing wrong with it.

And if there was, then how come you're still watching?

Excuse me.

Sex is a dance.

And what is dance?

What does it say?

It says we're alive.

Even in the most repressed times, when the shame of sex held cultures down in

shackles, there was dance.

And through dance, from waltzing to crumping, it doesn't matter what kind,

people have been allowed to tap into the divine power of their erotic selves, to

move with the energy of eros, to trip the light fantastic to their heart's

content.

When you dance, you can be anyone you want to be.

And live forever in the grace of the music and in whatever follows after the

song is over.

Oh God.

oh oh

Oh.

Well, I think so.

What do you want me to do?

I want you to fucking pee.

I don't want to.

I don't want to.

I don't want to.

Ready?

Oh, I'm waiting.

Thank you.

So with all that said, why do we still choose to feel shameful about something

as wonderful as sex?

This may or may not be our only chance at life.

You never know.

But let's say that it is.

That you really do only get one turn around the carousel.

Why deny yourself a single moment of this bliss that is born into this body

yours?

This warm winter coat that holds your infinite consciousness, at least for the

space of the season of your life.

It makes me want to cry when I think of all the joy wasted in this world, all

the negativity that's put upon these things of beauty, these things of grace,

art, dance, performance, even a ratty -ass

strip club.

It's all beautiful, this whole life.

So much to feel, so much to see.

So why hold back?

Life is a moment of infinite bliss.

I had that thought earlier while I was coming.

Not that life was a prison of shame and remorse, but that it was a moment of

infinite bliss.

Think about that while I put these tears away and finish what I started and

share a little bliss with you.

And please, while you watch, touch yourself.

I love knowing that people are coming while I am.

That way, this isn't just for me.

It's for you too.

Enjoy.

You do it.

Thank you.

Ugh.

So you got it, I hope.

And who knows?

Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think I am.

In fact, I know I'm right.

And all I'm saying is sex is nothing ever at all

to be ashamed of.

Like a piece of cherry pie.

If you want to enjoy it, just dig in.