Afterward, most of the virgins are dispatched, but four or them — college-age kids— are kept on stage.
“We’re going to have a contest!” McCleery calls out. “It’s time to see who can show us the best orgasm!”
I am uncertain what she means. At least, I hope I am. I have students around the ages of those children on the stage. If my worst suspicion is true, I want to run up and say, “No, please don’t! This is nothing to be taken so lightly — I don’t care how drunk you are.”
Yet, I sit and watch, as horrified and mesmerized as if I were witnessing a hanging, while the “virgins,” each in turn, go through the shivering, hip-thrusting motions of simulating an orgasm on stage. The girl who wins the contest engages in a performance so long and so full of moaning and shrieks, it’s not clear whether she’s acting or not.
And this is where my internal monologue starts. Am I a prude? Have I grown that old? What has happened to me? Shouldn’t I be having a good time?
In fact, I am not. I’m wretched. I feel irrationally trapped, completely alienated by these loud and perpetually profane goings-on, miles from home. It’ll be better when the movie starts, I think. And it is, for a couple minutes.
The lips come on and begin singing, “Science Fiction/Double Feature.” It’s a great song, and I actually enjoy a bar or two. Then a woman comes out on stage. She is wearing a coat and holding a whip. The boy who’s playing Columbia follows her and kneels. She begins to flog him.
Around mid-song, she tears off her coat. Underneath, she’s wearing a leather bra and underwear. The crowd goes wild. (This, I will discover later, is Trixie — a character from O’Brien’s original play who did not make it into the movie.)
When the film does start, the people playing Brad and Janet appear onstage. Finally, something I recognize. This Janet has nothing in common with Susan Sarandon; but Brad is eerily like a young Barry Bostwick. I settle back in my seat; I start to watch. There’s a large blond man behind me, breathing a heavy, steady Budweiser odor. But I’m able to ignore him — mostly — until he begins to yell.
“Slut!” he bellows when Janet walks across the screen/stage. He has a voice like a foghorn. “Slut, slut, slut. Fucking WHORE!”
That’s when I make a decision. Rocky fans have a right to experience this movie any way they choose. But I just don’t hang out with people who talk about women that way, real or imaginary. So I get up and leave.
Outside, the air is cool. I breathe, incredibly relieved. I turn to walk toward my car.
That’s when I notice the small person hunched down in front of the theater, smoking a clove cigarette — the luminous transgender kid who was putting V’s on foreheads earlier. I stop to say good night and meet two quiet eyes. Then I don’t know what else to say, so I simply nod and move on.