The Crying Scene

Okay, so here’s the thing. Before we go any further, you need to know something about me.

I cry at sad movies.

Yeah, you heard right. I cry. This six-foot-two galoot turns to loose change the minute a sad scene unfolds on-screen.

Field of Dreams? Ruined me. Final scenes of Dark Knight Rises? I was a mess. Mall Cop? Honestly, could YOU make it through that shit without crying?

I’m not particularly proud of this, and I’m not quite sure where it comes from. But as long as I can remember, I’ve always been the kind of sap who makes like a six year old girl at anything even remotely sad unfolding on the movie screen before me.

The one advantage is that some women have found this trait endearing, opening the door for the sort of nerve-shattering sex that is frequently bestowed upon “sensitive guys.”

Unless it’s a first date. In that case, you’re simply a pussy. End of story.

I realized this back in my college days, when I took a rather striking young lass to the movies. Much to my chagrin, she wanted to take in a rare, big-screen showing of It’s a Wonderful Life at a local arthouse — a flick that’s been known to reduce me to pulp, especially during the final moments.

But I told myself this was nothing. I could make it. And the ample rewards waiting inside her trousers were clearly going to be worth the effort.

Then, somewhere around the scene in which George Bailey begs to go back to his wife and kids, I felt my throat starting to swell. I fumbled around in my seat, then made like I was going to get up.

“I’ve got to run to the bathroom,” I whispered.

“But this is the end. You’ll miss the best part,” she implored. I relented and sat back down as she draped her hand over my leg, her fingers dangerously close to my crotch. I watched the screen, feeling my eyes start to well up, even as she slowly began to trace the outline of my cock with her finger. And as much as I tried to keep focus on the impending handjob, the power of Frank Capra proved too much. When the lights came back on, I was shielding my eyes from her, rubbing them as if I’d just woken up.

“Oh my god. Were you crying?” she asked, her voice soaked with disappointment.

“Uh. Yeah,” I chuckled. “This movie always gets to me.”

And that was that. We’d planned to go for drinks, but she said she was tried. I drove her back to her place, watched her walk back inside without even a snog, then went about my miserable, handjob-free existence.

So, ladies, on our first date, if you suggest going to the movies and I suggest Saw 7 or The Headless Postman or The Anal-Probing Aliens of District 10, just trust me. It’s for the best.

3 Comments

  1. Gina

    August 27, 2012 at 10:21 am

    Well, whatever you do, DON’T choose The Last Station next time you have that at-home snuggle-and-a-DVD date lined up. Oy. When Helen Mirren begged to see Christopher Plummer as he lay on his deathbed and was told to get right back on the train and go home, I fell all to pieces. Mascara Rorschach effects and all. My guy just sat silently and handed me one kleenex after another….

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