It was a Thursday night, and my best friend Dana and I couldn’t think of anything to do. Our usual evening activities, as is probably true for many people aged nine, were of the destructive nature; we’d erect elaborate blanket forts, and then demolish them with supplies from her father’s arsenal of shaving cream bottles. However, because my mother was much less tolerant of our childish tomfoolery, we agreed to watch a movie.
My video collection at home was nothing to be proud of. It consisted of pre-Disney childhood classics (meaning, for example, the first ever rendition of Beauty and the Beast (1987), with real life actors). I suggested that we rent a movie instead. Dana shrugged. I shrugged. We proceeded to look through the dictionary-sized movie catalogue of the nearby rental place.
“I really want to see that Flintstones movie,” I told her, while frantically flipping through the cartoon section, skimming the descriptions of every movie.
“Why? It’s the same as the T.V. show anyway.”
“No, I want to see the one where they meet the Jetsons!”
She rolled her eyes and began to tug the large book from my hands. “That doesn’t exist, you’re confused. I think we should try to find a Sailor Moon movie.”
Disappointed, I conceded, and allowed her to peruse the pages as I reflected the possibility of having completely fabricated the plot of a movie in my head.
“How about this one?” Dana was open to a page with the headline ‘Anime.’ The list was only about a page long. She began reading the description of a movie entitled Venus 5, The Inma Ball. “Venus 5, a group of sexy warriors fight the ancient evil rule Necos as she attempts to fain infinity powers. 49 minutes, NR.”
“Wait, Dana, why does it say the word sexy? That doesn’t sound like Sailor Moon.”
“They just say that to get teenagers to watch it,” Dana assured me. “I promise you, it’s Sailor Moon, but they’re just on Venus or something this time.”
It was approaching ten o’clock at that point, and the rental place would soon stop delivering. We had no time to spare. Dana shrugged. I shrugged. I called in and ordered Venus 5, The Inma Ball.
About a half hour later, I found myself sitting cross-legged, beside Dana, three feet in front of the staticky foot-wide display of my living room television. We eagerly inserted the video into the VCR, and proceeded to traumatize ourselves.
The video started off as any Sailor Moon episode would. There was a large gym floor, on which there seemed to be a dance party (perhaps prom?). There were girls—teenage girls—sexy teenage girls— innocently dancing with each other. They were wearing the typical, anime superhero girl outfits: short white skirts, thigh high boots, and crop tops. As these flicks often go, things took a turn for the worse; as the girls were dancing, the music and lights suddenly went out. Slowly, a faint hissing sound began to rise. The girls let out nervous giggles and looked around, shaking and sweating (in the form of a singular, gigantic sweat drop forming on each of their absurdly tiny anime noses). The hissing became louder, and we saw a yellowish haze rising around them.
“Told you this would be good,” Dana said to me. She was right. This did indeed appear to be a decent movie.
On screen, the girls began to lose consciousness. Each of them swooned, and became limp. One girl was desperately trying to overcome the powerful toxicant in the air. She took a decorative pin from her shirt and pricked herself with it. With this little burst of energy, she was able to drag herself over to a corner, where the fumes wouldn’t get to her. However, it was too late.
Soon, dozens of cats (that is, cats with cult tattoos and squeaky human voices) came prancing into the room. I believe they were chanting. Immune to the fumes, they began delightfully dragging the girls away. They took them down to a dungeon where they proceeded to lick the girls.
“Dana, this is definitely not Sailor Moon,” I said, unable to peel my horrified eyes away from the monitor.
“Yes it is, Lily. You just don’t understand what’s happening.”
“I guess not. Why are the cats licking people?”
“Cats do that all the time to baby cats. Just watch.”
I decided she was correct. Cats lick things all the time. We continued to watch. I will spare you details, but the next two minutes of animation explored the erotic potential of the use of ropes, felines and what appeared to be tennis rackets (although I cannot fully recover details from the heavily distorted and suppressed memory).
Finally, after we began seeing things that we had never seen before, Dana elected to turn off the television monitor. I accepted this action as an acknowledgement of her failure. As we watched the glowing screen fade to black, Dana and I stared forward, afraid to look at each other. My heart was pounding. All that was going through my head was “what did I just see” and “I know that the Flintstones met the Jetsons at some point.”
After about a minute of silent reflection, we turned to each other and began to frantically come up with justifications of what just saw.
“The cats were just cleaning them.”
“That stuff on the tennis rackets was probably just pudding.”
“The ropes were- the ropes were for… what were the ropes for?”
After that night, we never spoke of the movie again. Not to each other, not to our parents. When I switched schools in fourth grade, I lost touch with Dana, and after than, I slowly forgot about the entire experience, until the first day of my freshman year at Princeton.
On move-in day, when inspecting the digs at my new home (Joline Hall), I noticed someone’s dad lugging boxes in from a car. From the distance, this man looked oddly familiar. I tilted my head and squinted my eyes. Where did I know him from? After a few seconds of internal deliberations, I figured it out—he was the man who stocked the shaving cream arsenal of our blanket forts. He was Dana’s dad.
It turned out that Dana not only went to Princeton, but was also a neighbor of mine (and is again a neighbor of mine in Little Hall). I have since seen her nearly every single day, and always say hello. However, I have yet to speak to her about this experience.
While this is an experience I haven’t had the will (or contextual prompt) to bring up in conversation, I’ve finally come to terms with it. Pornography viewing is undeniably the most fascinating practice of a human being; it is an interest that is as stigmatized as it is ubiquitous. We’ve all had those traumatizing coming-of-age moments, whether it be accidently walking in on your parents, or ordering a VHS of cat-fetish anime porn. The best way to grapple with these moments is to take a step back and realize that the loss of innocence, whether sudden or gradual, is inevitable—and aside form the traumatic psychological repercussions, it’s way more fun to lose it in a way that’ll be funny to tell your children one day.
Years later, I still have the urge to approach Dana and say, “Hey! So I checked IMDB. The Flintstones met the Jetsons. It’s a movie. Also, that wasn’t Sailor Moon” Perhaps this article will be the catalyst for that uncomfortable conversation. I hope she reads the Nassau Weekly.