Lezers,

gisteravond brachten wij, al drinkend en etend, door met een Prettige Dame. Daarbij kwam op enig moment een interessant vraagstuk aan de orde. Wij zouden dit graag aan u voorleggen.

Is een etentje/afspraakje van een man en vrouw hetzelfde als die van een vrouw met een vrouw of een man met een man? Wij doelen dan niet op de onderwerpkeuze tijdens een dergelijke ontmoeting, maar meer op de vraag of er bij een man-vrouw ontmoeting niet toch altijd een ‘aantrekkelijkheidscomponent’  aanwezig is, ook als er geen verdere amoreuze doelen zijn voor beiden.

Wij meenden dat dat wel degelijk het geval was: Er is toch vaak een ander soort spanning tijdens dergelijke ontmoetingen. Hij weet het, zij weet het. Uw partner ziet u dan ook waarschijnlijk liever een avondje doorzakken met een goede vriend van hetzelfde geslacht dan met een van the opposite sex.

Wij zijn benieuwd hoe u hier tegenaan kijkt. Als uit uw reactie blijkt dat u het niet met ons eens bent, dan nemen wij gevoegelijk aan dat uw partner meeleest…..

Bij thuiskomst gisternacht herinnerden wij ons een scene uit Pulp Fiction. Deze scene over voetmassages geeft eigenlijk feilloos deze problematiek weer. Omdat hij zo briljant geschreven is, bieden wij u hieronder graag de tekst.

6.      INT. ELEVATOR – MORNING                                        

                                  VINCENT
                       What’d he do, fuck her?

                                  JULES
                       No no no no no no no, nothin’ that
                       bad.

                                  VINCENT
                       Well what then?

                                  JULES
                       He gave her a foot massage.

                                  VINCENT
                       A foot massage?

        Jules nods his head: “Yes.”

                                  VINCENT
                       That’s all?

        Jules nods his head: “Yes.”

                                  VINCENT
                       What did Marsellus do?

                                  JULES
                       Sent a couple of guys over to his
                       place.  They took him out on the
                       patio of his apartment, threw his
                       ass over the balcony.  Nigger fell
                       four stories.  They had this garden
                       at the bottom, enclosed in glass,
                       like one of them greenhouses —
                       nigger fell through that.  Since
                       then, he’s kinda developed a speech
                       impediment.

        The elevator doors open, Jules and Vincent exit.

                                  VINCENT
                       That’s a damn shame.

7.      INT. APARTMENT BUILDING HALLWAY – MORNING                      

        STEADICAM in front of Jules and Vincent as they make a beeline
        down the hall.

                                  VINCENT
                       Still I hafta say, play with
                       matches, ya get burned.

                                  JULES
                       Whaddya mean?

                                  VINCENT
                       You don’t be givin’ Marsellus
                       Wallace’s new bride a foot massage.

                                  JULES
                       You don’t think he overreacted?

                                  VINCENT
                       Antwan probably didn’t expect
                       Marsellus to react like he did, but
                       he had to expect a reaction.

                                  JULES
                       It was a foot massage, a foot
                       massage is nothing, I give my
                       mother a foot massage.

                                  VINCENT
                       It’s laying hands on Marsellus
                       Wallace’s new wife in a familiar
                       way.  Is it as bad as eatin’ her
                       out — no, but you’re in the same
                       fuckin’ ballpark.

        Jules stops Vincent.

                                  JULES
                       Whoa…whoa…whoa…stop right
                       there.  Eatin’ a bitch out, and
                       givin’ a bitch a foot massage ain’t
                       even the same fuckin’ thing.

                                  VINCENT
                       Not the same thing, the same
                       ballpark.

                                  JULES
                       It ain’t no ballpark either.  Look
                       maybe your method of massage
                       differs from mine, but touchin’ his
                       lady’s feet, and stickin’ your
                       tongue in her holyiest of holyies,
                       ain’t the same ballpark, ain’t the
                       same league, ain’t even the same
                       fuckin’ sport.  Foot massages don’t
                       mean shit.

                                  VINCENT
                       Have you ever given a foot massage?

                                  JULES
                       Don’t be tellin’ me about foot
                       massages — I’m the fuckin’ foot
                       master.

                                  VINCENT
                       Given a lot of ’em?

                                  JULES
                       Shit yeah.  I got my technique down
                       man, I don’t tickle or nothin’.

                                  VINCENT
                       Have you ever given a guy a foot
                       massage?

        Jules looks at him a long moment — he’s been set up.

                                  JULES
                       Fuck you.

        He starts walking down the hall.  Vincent, smiling, walks a
        little bit behind.

                                  VINCENT
                       How many?

                                  JULES
                       Fuck you.

                                  VINCENT
                       Would you give me a foot massage —
                       I’m kinda tired.

                                  JULES
                       Man, you best back off, I’m gittin’
                       pissed — this is the door.

        The two men stand in front of the door numbered “49.”  They
        whisper.

                                  JULES
                       What time is it?

                                  VINCENT
                            (checking his watch)
                       Seven-twenty-two in the morning.

                                  JULES
                       It ain’t quite time, let’s hang
                       back.

        They move a little away from the door, facing each other,
        still whispering.

                                  JULES
                       Look, just because I wouldn’t give
                       no man a foot massage, don’t make
                       it right for Marsellus to throw
                       Antwan off a building into a glass-
                       motherfuckin-house, fuckin’ up the
                       way the nigger talks.  That ain’t
                       right, man.  Motherfucker do that
                       to me, he better paralyze my ass,
                       ’cause I’d kill’a motherfucker.

                                  VINCENT
                       I’m not sayin’ he was right, but
                       you’re sayin’ a foot massage don’t
                       mean nothing, and I’m sayin’ it
                       does.  I’ve given a million ladies
                       a million foot massages and they
                       all meant somethin’.  We act like
                       they don’t, but they do.  That’s
                       what’s so fuckin’ cool about ’em.
                       This sensual thing’s goin’ on that
                       nobody’s talkin about, but you know
                       it and she knows it, fuckin’
                       Marsellus knew it, and Antwan
                       shoulda known fuckin’ better.
                       That’s his fuckin’ wife, man.  He
                       ain’t gonna have a sense of humor
                       about that shit.

 

 

AC/DC – Touch Too Much

 

Paul Stanley – Magic Touch

 

The Platters – Magic Touch