Sex and the City s01e01 Episode Script
Sex and the City
Once upon a time, an English journalist came to New York.
Elizabeth was attractive and bright.
Right away she hooked up with one of the city's typically eligible bachelors.
The question remains-- Is this really a company we want to own? Tim was 42, a well-liked and respected investment banker who made about two million a year.
They met one evening, in typical New York fashion at a gallery opening.
Like it? Yes, actually.
I think it's quite interesting.
What? I feel like I know you from somewhere.
Doubtful.
I only just moved here from London.
London? Really? That's my all-time favorite city.
- It is? - Absolutely.
It was love at first sight.
You know I think perhaps I have met you somewhere before.
For two weeks they snuggled went to romantic restaurants had wonderful sex and shared their most intimate secrets.
One warm spring day he took her to a town house he saw in Sunday's New York Times.
How 'bout if we start at the top and work our way down? There are four bedrooms upstairs.
Do you have any children? Not yet.
That day, Tim popped the question.
How'd you like to have dinner with my folks Tuesday night? I'd love to.
On Tuesday, he called with some bad news.
My mother's not feeling very well.
Well, gosh, I'm sorry.
- Could we take a rain check? - Of course.
Tell your mum I hope she feels better.
When she hadn't heard from him for two weeks, she called.
Tim, it's Elizabeth.
That's an awfully long rain check.
He said he was up to his ears and that he'd call her the next day.
He never did call, of course.
Bastard.
- She told me one day over coffee.
- I don't understand.
In England, looking at houses together would have meant something.
Then I realized no one had told her about the end of love in Manhattan.
Welcome to the age of "un-innocence.
" No one has breakfast at Tiffany's, and no one has affairs to remember.
Instead, we have breakfast at 7:00 a.
m and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.
Self-protection and closing the deal are paramount.
Cupid has flown the co-op.
How the hell did we get into this mess? There are maybe tens of thousands of women like this in the city.
We all know them, and we all agree they're great.
They travel.
They pay taxes.
They'll spend $400 on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals.
And they're alone.
It's like the riddle of the Sphinx.
Why are there so many great unmarried women and no great unmarried men? I explore these sorts of issues in my column and I have terrific sources: my friends.
When you're a young guy in your 20s, women are controlling the relationship.
So by the time you're an eligible man in your 30s you feel like you're being devoured by women.
Suddenly, the guys are holding all the chips.
I call it the mid-30s power flip.
It's all about age and biology.
I mean, if you want to get married, it's to have kids, right? Not with someone older than 35, 'cause you have to have kids right away and that's about it.
I think these women should just forget about marriage and have a good time.
I have a friend who'd always gone out with extremely sexy guys and just had a good time.
One day she woke up, and she was 41.
She couldn't get any more dates.
She had a complete physical breakdown couldn't hold her job and moved back to Wisconsin to live with her mother.
Trust me-- this is not a story that makes men feel bad.
Most men are threatened by successful women.
If you want to get these guys, you have to keep your mouth shut and play by the rules.
I totally believe that love conquers all.
Sometimes you just have to give it a little space and that's exactly what's missing in Manhattan-- the space for romance.
The problem is expectations.
Older women don't want to settle for what's available.
By the time you reach your mid-30s you think, "Why should I settle?" You know? It's like the older we get, the more we keep self-selecting down to a smaller and smaller group.
What women really want is Alec Baldwin.
There's not one woman in New York who hasn't turned down 10 wonderful guys because they were too short or too fat or too poor.
I have been out with some of those guys-- the short, fat, poor ones.
It makes absolutely no difference.
They are just as self-centered and unappreciative as the good-looking ones.
Why don't these women just marry a fat guy? Why don't they just marry a big, fat tub of lard? Happy birthday, dear Miranda Happy birthday to you Another 30-something birthday with a group of unmarried female friends.
We would all have preferred a nice celebratory conference call.
- You were saying? - Look.
If you're a successful single woman in this city, you have two choices: You can bang your head against the wall and try and find a relationship or you can say "screw it," and just go out and have sex like a man.
- You mean with dildos? - No, I mean without feeling.
Samantha was a New York inspiration.
A public relations executive she routinely slept with good-looking guys in their 20s.
Remember that guy I was going out with? Oh, God, what was his name? Drew.
- Drew the sex god.
- Right.
Afterwards? I didn't feel a thing.
It was like, "Hey, babe, gotta go.
Catch ya later.
" And I completely forgot about him after that.
But are you sure that isn't just 'cause he didn't call you? Sweetheart, this is the first time in the history of Manhattan that women have had as much money and power as men plus the equal luxury of treating men like sex objects.
Yeah, except men in this city fail on both counts.
I mean, they don't want to be in a relationship with you but as soon as you only want them for sex, they don't like it.
All of a sudden they can't perform the way they're supposed to.
- That's when you dump them.
- Ladies, are we really that cynical? What about romance? - Yeah! - Who needs it? It's like that guy, Jeremiah, the poet.
I mean, the sex was incredible.
But then he wanted to read me his poetry and go out to dinner and the whole chat bit, and I'm like, "Let's not even go there.
" What are you saying? That you're just going to give up on love? - That's sick.
- No, no, no.
Believe me the right guy comes along, and you two here, this whole thing-- - right out the window.
- That's right! Listen to me! The right guy is an illusion.
Start living your lives.
So you think it's really possible to pull off this whole women-having-sex-like-men thing? - You're forgetting The Last Seduction.
- You're obsessed with that movie.
Okay, Linda Fiorentino fucking that guy up against the chain-link fence.
And never having one of those "Oh, my God, what have I done?" epiphanies.
I hated that movie.
Was it true? Were women in New York really giving up on love and throttling up on power? What a tempting thought.
I'm beginning to think the only place one can still find love and romance in New York is the gay community.
It's straight love that's become closeted.
Stanford Blatch was one of my closest friends.
He owned a talent agency and, at the moment, was down to a single client.
So, are you telling me that you're in love? How could I possibly sustain a relationship? You know Derek takes up like, a thousand percent of my time.
Don't you think that's a bit obsessive? I'm a passionate person.
His career is all I care about.
When that's under control, then I can concentrate on my personal life.
Stanford, he's an underwear model.
With a billboard in Times Square.
Oh, my God.
Don't turn around.
The loathe of your life is at the bar.
It was Kurt Harrington a mistake I made when I was 26 and 29 and 31.
Carrie, don't even go there.
What? Do you think I'm a masochist? - The man is scum.
- Good.
Because I don't have the patience to clean up this mess for the fourth time.
Will you relax? I don't have a shred off eeling left.
Thank God.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to visit the ladies' room.
It was true.
I no longer felt a thing for Kurt.
After all these years, I finally saw him for what he was: a self-centered, withholding creep who was still the best sex I ever had in my life.
However, I did have a little experiment in mind.
Wow.
What are you doin' here? Hey, babe.
- God, you look gorgeous.
- Thanks.
So, how's life? Not bad.
Can't complain.
You? Oh, you know, just writing the column.
The usual.
So, you seeing anyone special? Not really.
You? Oh, just a couple guys.
- Well, you look good, though.
- So do you.
So what are you doing later? I thought you weren't talking to me for the rest of your life.
Who said anything about talking? What do you say to my place, 3:00? All right.
See ya there.
Are you out of your mind? What the hell do you think you're doing? Oh, calm down.
It's research.
Oh, God.
Oh, Kurt.
Kurt was just like I remembered-- better-- because this time there would be none of that messy emotional attachment.
All righty.
My turn.
Oh, sorry.
I have to go back to work.
What? Are you kiddin'? You're serious? Oh, yeah.
Completely.
But I'll give you a call.
Maybe we can do it again sometime.
Yeah, but-- As I began to get dressed, I realized that I'd done it.
I'd just had sex like a man.
I left feeling powerful, potent and incredibly alive.
I felt like I owned this city.
Nothing and no one could get in my way.
- Number one, he's very handsome.
- There ya go.
Number two, he's not wearing a wedding ring.
Number three, he knows I carry textured Trojans with a reservoir tip.
Thanks a lot.
Anytime.
Later that night, Skipper Johnston met me for coffee and confessed a shocking intimate secret.
Thank you.
Do you know that it has been, like, a year? Really? I don't understand that.
You're such a nice guy.
That's the problem.
I'm too nice, you know? I'm a romantic.
I just have so much feeling.
Are you sure you're not gay? No! I'm sensitive and I don't objectify women.
You know, most guys, when they meet a girl the first thing that they see is-- - You know-- - Pussy? Oh, God! Oh! I hate that word.
Don't you have any friends that you can hook me up with? - They're too old for you.
- I like older women.
Maybe.
- Maybe my friend Miranda.
- When? Tomorrow night.
We're all going downtown to this club, Chaos.
Great.
Don't tell her I'm nice.
Miranda was gonna hate Skipper.
She'd think he was mocking her with his sweet nature and decide he was an asshole the way she had decided all men were assholes.
- Hello? - Hey, Carrie, it's Charlotte.
- Hey, sweetie.
- Hey.
Look, I can't meet you guys for dinner tomorrow night because I have an amazing date.
With who? Capote Duncan.
He's supposedly some big shot in the publishing world.
- Do you know him? - Did I know him? He was one of the city's most notoriously "un-gettable" bachelors.
Wait, don't even answer that question because, frankly, I don't care.
And another thing.
I'm not buying any of that women-having-sex-like-men crap.
I didn't tell her about my afternoon of cheap and easy sex and how good it felt.
All right.
Fine.
Have a good time, and promise to tell me everything.
Well, if you're lucky.
- Bye.
- All right.
Bye.
Friday night at Chaos.
It was just like that bar in "Cheers" where everybody knows your name except here they were likely to forget it five minutes later.
Hi.
Still, it was the creme de la creme of New York whipped into a frenzy.
Sometimes you got a souffle sometimes cottage cheese.
It is like a model bomb exploded in this room tonight.
Is there a woman here aside from me who weights more than a hundred pounds? I know.
It's like "Undereaters Anonymous.
" That's funny, Skippy.
- Skipper.
- I have this theory that men secretly hate pretty girls because they rejected them in school.
Right.
But if you're not part of the "Beauty Olympics" you can still become a very interesting person.
Are you saying that I'm not pretty enough? No, no, no.
Of course you are.
So, ipso f acto, I can't be interesting? Women fall into one of two categories: beautiful and boring or homely and interesting, is that it? No, that's not what I meant.
Excuse me.
Is this your hand on my knee? Let's just keep 'em where I can see 'em, all right? Well, I guess you must find me beautiful.
- Or interesting.
- I was about to rescue Skipper from an increasingly hopeless situation, when suddenly-- Lucky me, twice in one week.
Well, I don't know if you're going to be getting that lucky.
You know, I was really pissed off the way you left the other day.
- You were? - Yeah.
Then I thought, how great! You finally understand the kind of relationship I want and now we can have sex without commitment.
Yeah.
Right.
Sure.
I guess.
- So when I feel like it, I'll call you.
- Yeah, please.
Whenever you feel like it.
If I'm alone, I'm all yours.
Right.
I like this new you.
Call me.
Yup.
I didn't understand.
Did all men secretly want their women promiscuous and emotionally detached? And if I was really having sex like a man, why didn't I feel more in control? You see that guy? He's the next Donald Trump except he's younger and much better looking.
Hi.
- You know him? - No.
I've never seen him in my life.
He usually dates models, but, hey, I'm as good-looking as a model plus I own my own business.
Samantha had the kind of deluded self-confidence that caused men like Ross Perot to run for president and it usually got her what she wanted.
Well, if you're not gonna hit on him, I will.
And there she went-- off to take her best shot with Mr.
Big.
Meanwhile, Charlotte York was having a splendid evening with Capote Duncan.
Wanna go back to my place and see the Ross Blechner? I'd love to, but it's really getting late.
No problem.
- What year was it painted again? - '89.
Though Charlotte was determined to play hard-to-get she didn't want to end the evening too abruptly.
Well, maybe just for a minute.
This could easily go for a hundred grand.
Ross is so hot right now.
It's beautiful.
No, you're beautiful.
Thank you for tonight.
- Yeah? - I had a wonderful time.
Well, it was my pleasure.
I have to get up really early tomorrow.
I'll get you a cab.
Charlotte told me she thought she had played the entire evening flawlessly.
So, what are you doing next Saturday? I'm having dinner with you.
- You're going to the West Side, right? - Right.
West Fourth and Bank, please.
Hey, scoot over, will ya? Two stops: Fourth and Bank and West Broadway and Broom.
- You're going to Chaos? - Oh.
Yeah.
Why? Look, I understand where you're coming from and I totally respect it but I really need to have sex tonight.
Back at Chaos things were swinging into high gear and Samantha was putting the moves on Mr.
Big.
I've been smoking cigars for years back when they were terminally uncool.
I've got this great source that sends me Hondurans.
Do you want to try one? - No, thank you.
- Really? You can't find them anywhere.
Cohibas-- that's all I smoke.
Look, I do the PR for this club and I have the key to the private room downstairs.
Really? You want a private tour? No, thanks, but maybe another time.
Meanwhile Skipper Johnston was hopelessly smitten with Miranda Hobbes.
- So, where we goin' now? - Listen, Skippy you know, you really are a nice, sweet guy, but-- Oh, I understand.
Good night.
Miranda told me later that she thought he was too nice but that she was willing to overlook one flaw and Capote Duncan found his fix for the night.
Where is it? I wanna see the Ross Blechner.
Wait.
Later.
Later.
Oh, listen, l-- I gotta get up really early and, actually, you can't stay over.
Cool? Sure.
I have to get up really early too.
Taxi! Taxi! And so another Friday night in Manhattan crept towards dawn.
Just when I thought I would have to do the unspeakable-- walk home-- Well, get in, for Christ's sakes.
- Where can I drop you? - 72nd Street and Third Avenue.
- Have you got that, Al? - Yes, sir.
So, what have you been doing lately? You mean besides going out every night? Yeah.
I mean, what do you do for work? Well, this is my work.
I'm sort of a sexual anthropologist.
You mean like a hooker? I write a column called "Sex and the City.
" Right now I'm researching an article about women who have sex like men.
You know, they have sex and then afterwards they feel nothing.
- But you're not like that.
- Well, aren't you? Not a drop.
Not even half a drop.
Wow.
What's wrong with you? I get it.
You've never been in love.
Oh, yeah? Yeah.
Suddenly I felt the wind knocked out of me.
I wanted to crawl under the covers and go right to sleep.
- Thanks for the ride.
- Anytime.
Wait.
Have you ever been in love? Abso-fuckin'-lutely.
Captions, lnc.
Los Angeles
Elizabeth was attractive and bright.
Right away she hooked up with one of the city's typically eligible bachelors.
The question remains-- Is this really a company we want to own? Tim was 42, a well-liked and respected investment banker who made about two million a year.
They met one evening, in typical New York fashion at a gallery opening.
Like it? Yes, actually.
I think it's quite interesting.
What? I feel like I know you from somewhere.
Doubtful.
I only just moved here from London.
London? Really? That's my all-time favorite city.
- It is? - Absolutely.
It was love at first sight.
You know I think perhaps I have met you somewhere before.
For two weeks they snuggled went to romantic restaurants had wonderful sex and shared their most intimate secrets.
One warm spring day he took her to a town house he saw in Sunday's New York Times.
How 'bout if we start at the top and work our way down? There are four bedrooms upstairs.
Do you have any children? Not yet.
That day, Tim popped the question.
How'd you like to have dinner with my folks Tuesday night? I'd love to.
On Tuesday, he called with some bad news.
My mother's not feeling very well.
Well, gosh, I'm sorry.
- Could we take a rain check? - Of course.
Tell your mum I hope she feels better.
When she hadn't heard from him for two weeks, she called.
Tim, it's Elizabeth.
That's an awfully long rain check.
He said he was up to his ears and that he'd call her the next day.
He never did call, of course.
Bastard.
- She told me one day over coffee.
- I don't understand.
In England, looking at houses together would have meant something.
Then I realized no one had told her about the end of love in Manhattan.
Welcome to the age of "un-innocence.
" No one has breakfast at Tiffany's, and no one has affairs to remember.
Instead, we have breakfast at 7:00 a.
m and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.
Self-protection and closing the deal are paramount.
Cupid has flown the co-op.
How the hell did we get into this mess? There are maybe tens of thousands of women like this in the city.
We all know them, and we all agree they're great.
They travel.
They pay taxes.
They'll spend $400 on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals.
And they're alone.
It's like the riddle of the Sphinx.
Why are there so many great unmarried women and no great unmarried men? I explore these sorts of issues in my column and I have terrific sources: my friends.
When you're a young guy in your 20s, women are controlling the relationship.
So by the time you're an eligible man in your 30s you feel like you're being devoured by women.
Suddenly, the guys are holding all the chips.
I call it the mid-30s power flip.
It's all about age and biology.
I mean, if you want to get married, it's to have kids, right? Not with someone older than 35, 'cause you have to have kids right away and that's about it.
I think these women should just forget about marriage and have a good time.
I have a friend who'd always gone out with extremely sexy guys and just had a good time.
One day she woke up, and she was 41.
She couldn't get any more dates.
She had a complete physical breakdown couldn't hold her job and moved back to Wisconsin to live with her mother.
Trust me-- this is not a story that makes men feel bad.
Most men are threatened by successful women.
If you want to get these guys, you have to keep your mouth shut and play by the rules.
I totally believe that love conquers all.
Sometimes you just have to give it a little space and that's exactly what's missing in Manhattan-- the space for romance.
The problem is expectations.
Older women don't want to settle for what's available.
By the time you reach your mid-30s you think, "Why should I settle?" You know? It's like the older we get, the more we keep self-selecting down to a smaller and smaller group.
What women really want is Alec Baldwin.
There's not one woman in New York who hasn't turned down 10 wonderful guys because they were too short or too fat or too poor.
I have been out with some of those guys-- the short, fat, poor ones.
It makes absolutely no difference.
They are just as self-centered and unappreciative as the good-looking ones.
Why don't these women just marry a fat guy? Why don't they just marry a big, fat tub of lard? Happy birthday, dear Miranda Happy birthday to you Another 30-something birthday with a group of unmarried female friends.
We would all have preferred a nice celebratory conference call.
- You were saying? - Look.
If you're a successful single woman in this city, you have two choices: You can bang your head against the wall and try and find a relationship or you can say "screw it," and just go out and have sex like a man.
- You mean with dildos? - No, I mean without feeling.
Samantha was a New York inspiration.
A public relations executive she routinely slept with good-looking guys in their 20s.
Remember that guy I was going out with? Oh, God, what was his name? Drew.
- Drew the sex god.
- Right.
Afterwards? I didn't feel a thing.
It was like, "Hey, babe, gotta go.
Catch ya later.
" And I completely forgot about him after that.
But are you sure that isn't just 'cause he didn't call you? Sweetheart, this is the first time in the history of Manhattan that women have had as much money and power as men plus the equal luxury of treating men like sex objects.
Yeah, except men in this city fail on both counts.
I mean, they don't want to be in a relationship with you but as soon as you only want them for sex, they don't like it.
All of a sudden they can't perform the way they're supposed to.
- That's when you dump them.
- Ladies, are we really that cynical? What about romance? - Yeah! - Who needs it? It's like that guy, Jeremiah, the poet.
I mean, the sex was incredible.
But then he wanted to read me his poetry and go out to dinner and the whole chat bit, and I'm like, "Let's not even go there.
" What are you saying? That you're just going to give up on love? - That's sick.
- No, no, no.
Believe me the right guy comes along, and you two here, this whole thing-- - right out the window.
- That's right! Listen to me! The right guy is an illusion.
Start living your lives.
So you think it's really possible to pull off this whole women-having-sex-like-men thing? - You're forgetting The Last Seduction.
- You're obsessed with that movie.
Okay, Linda Fiorentino fucking that guy up against the chain-link fence.
And never having one of those "Oh, my God, what have I done?" epiphanies.
I hated that movie.
Was it true? Were women in New York really giving up on love and throttling up on power? What a tempting thought.
I'm beginning to think the only place one can still find love and romance in New York is the gay community.
It's straight love that's become closeted.
Stanford Blatch was one of my closest friends.
He owned a talent agency and, at the moment, was down to a single client.
So, are you telling me that you're in love? How could I possibly sustain a relationship? You know Derek takes up like, a thousand percent of my time.
Don't you think that's a bit obsessive? I'm a passionate person.
His career is all I care about.
When that's under control, then I can concentrate on my personal life.
Stanford, he's an underwear model.
With a billboard in Times Square.
Oh, my God.
Don't turn around.
The loathe of your life is at the bar.
It was Kurt Harrington a mistake I made when I was 26 and 29 and 31.
Carrie, don't even go there.
What? Do you think I'm a masochist? - The man is scum.
- Good.
Because I don't have the patience to clean up this mess for the fourth time.
Will you relax? I don't have a shred off eeling left.
Thank God.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to visit the ladies' room.
It was true.
I no longer felt a thing for Kurt.
After all these years, I finally saw him for what he was: a self-centered, withholding creep who was still the best sex I ever had in my life.
However, I did have a little experiment in mind.
Wow.
What are you doin' here? Hey, babe.
- God, you look gorgeous.
- Thanks.
So, how's life? Not bad.
Can't complain.
You? Oh, you know, just writing the column.
The usual.
So, you seeing anyone special? Not really.
You? Oh, just a couple guys.
- Well, you look good, though.
- So do you.
So what are you doing later? I thought you weren't talking to me for the rest of your life.
Who said anything about talking? What do you say to my place, 3:00? All right.
See ya there.
Are you out of your mind? What the hell do you think you're doing? Oh, calm down.
It's research.
Oh, God.
Oh, Kurt.
Kurt was just like I remembered-- better-- because this time there would be none of that messy emotional attachment.
All righty.
My turn.
Oh, sorry.
I have to go back to work.
What? Are you kiddin'? You're serious? Oh, yeah.
Completely.
But I'll give you a call.
Maybe we can do it again sometime.
Yeah, but-- As I began to get dressed, I realized that I'd done it.
I'd just had sex like a man.
I left feeling powerful, potent and incredibly alive.
I felt like I owned this city.
Nothing and no one could get in my way.
- Number one, he's very handsome.
- There ya go.
Number two, he's not wearing a wedding ring.
Number three, he knows I carry textured Trojans with a reservoir tip.
Thanks a lot.
Anytime.
Later that night, Skipper Johnston met me for coffee and confessed a shocking intimate secret.
Thank you.
Do you know that it has been, like, a year? Really? I don't understand that.
You're such a nice guy.
That's the problem.
I'm too nice, you know? I'm a romantic.
I just have so much feeling.
Are you sure you're not gay? No! I'm sensitive and I don't objectify women.
You know, most guys, when they meet a girl the first thing that they see is-- - You know-- - Pussy? Oh, God! Oh! I hate that word.
Don't you have any friends that you can hook me up with? - They're too old for you.
- I like older women.
Maybe.
- Maybe my friend Miranda.
- When? Tomorrow night.
We're all going downtown to this club, Chaos.
Great.
Don't tell her I'm nice.
Miranda was gonna hate Skipper.
She'd think he was mocking her with his sweet nature and decide he was an asshole the way she had decided all men were assholes.
- Hello? - Hey, Carrie, it's Charlotte.
- Hey, sweetie.
- Hey.
Look, I can't meet you guys for dinner tomorrow night because I have an amazing date.
With who? Capote Duncan.
He's supposedly some big shot in the publishing world.
- Do you know him? - Did I know him? He was one of the city's most notoriously "un-gettable" bachelors.
Wait, don't even answer that question because, frankly, I don't care.
And another thing.
I'm not buying any of that women-having-sex-like-men crap.
I didn't tell her about my afternoon of cheap and easy sex and how good it felt.
All right.
Fine.
Have a good time, and promise to tell me everything.
Well, if you're lucky.
- Bye.
- All right.
Bye.
Friday night at Chaos.
It was just like that bar in "Cheers" where everybody knows your name except here they were likely to forget it five minutes later.
Hi.
Still, it was the creme de la creme of New York whipped into a frenzy.
Sometimes you got a souffle sometimes cottage cheese.
It is like a model bomb exploded in this room tonight.
Is there a woman here aside from me who weights more than a hundred pounds? I know.
It's like "Undereaters Anonymous.
" That's funny, Skippy.
- Skipper.
- I have this theory that men secretly hate pretty girls because they rejected them in school.
Right.
But if you're not part of the "Beauty Olympics" you can still become a very interesting person.
Are you saying that I'm not pretty enough? No, no, no.
Of course you are.
So, ipso f acto, I can't be interesting? Women fall into one of two categories: beautiful and boring or homely and interesting, is that it? No, that's not what I meant.
Excuse me.
Is this your hand on my knee? Let's just keep 'em where I can see 'em, all right? Well, I guess you must find me beautiful.
- Or interesting.
- I was about to rescue Skipper from an increasingly hopeless situation, when suddenly-- Lucky me, twice in one week.
Well, I don't know if you're going to be getting that lucky.
You know, I was really pissed off the way you left the other day.
- You were? - Yeah.
Then I thought, how great! You finally understand the kind of relationship I want and now we can have sex without commitment.
Yeah.
Right.
Sure.
I guess.
- So when I feel like it, I'll call you.
- Yeah, please.
Whenever you feel like it.
If I'm alone, I'm all yours.
Right.
I like this new you.
Call me.
Yup.
I didn't understand.
Did all men secretly want their women promiscuous and emotionally detached? And if I was really having sex like a man, why didn't I feel more in control? You see that guy? He's the next Donald Trump except he's younger and much better looking.
Hi.
- You know him? - No.
I've never seen him in my life.
He usually dates models, but, hey, I'm as good-looking as a model plus I own my own business.
Samantha had the kind of deluded self-confidence that caused men like Ross Perot to run for president and it usually got her what she wanted.
Well, if you're not gonna hit on him, I will.
And there she went-- off to take her best shot with Mr.
Big.
Meanwhile, Charlotte York was having a splendid evening with Capote Duncan.
Wanna go back to my place and see the Ross Blechner? I'd love to, but it's really getting late.
No problem.
- What year was it painted again? - '89.
Though Charlotte was determined to play hard-to-get she didn't want to end the evening too abruptly.
Well, maybe just for a minute.
This could easily go for a hundred grand.
Ross is so hot right now.
It's beautiful.
No, you're beautiful.
Thank you for tonight.
- Yeah? - I had a wonderful time.
Well, it was my pleasure.
I have to get up really early tomorrow.
I'll get you a cab.
Charlotte told me she thought she had played the entire evening flawlessly.
So, what are you doing next Saturday? I'm having dinner with you.
- You're going to the West Side, right? - Right.
West Fourth and Bank, please.
Hey, scoot over, will ya? Two stops: Fourth and Bank and West Broadway and Broom.
- You're going to Chaos? - Oh.
Yeah.
Why? Look, I understand where you're coming from and I totally respect it but I really need to have sex tonight.
Back at Chaos things were swinging into high gear and Samantha was putting the moves on Mr.
Big.
I've been smoking cigars for years back when they were terminally uncool.
I've got this great source that sends me Hondurans.
Do you want to try one? - No, thank you.
- Really? You can't find them anywhere.
Cohibas-- that's all I smoke.
Look, I do the PR for this club and I have the key to the private room downstairs.
Really? You want a private tour? No, thanks, but maybe another time.
Meanwhile Skipper Johnston was hopelessly smitten with Miranda Hobbes.
- So, where we goin' now? - Listen, Skippy you know, you really are a nice, sweet guy, but-- Oh, I understand.
Good night.
Miranda told me later that she thought he was too nice but that she was willing to overlook one flaw and Capote Duncan found his fix for the night.
Where is it? I wanna see the Ross Blechner.
Wait.
Later.
Later.
Oh, listen, l-- I gotta get up really early and, actually, you can't stay over.
Cool? Sure.
I have to get up really early too.
Taxi! Taxi! And so another Friday night in Manhattan crept towards dawn.
Just when I thought I would have to do the unspeakable-- walk home-- Well, get in, for Christ's sakes.
- Where can I drop you? - 72nd Street and Third Avenue.
- Have you got that, Al? - Yes, sir.
So, what have you been doing lately? You mean besides going out every night? Yeah.
I mean, what do you do for work? Well, this is my work.
I'm sort of a sexual anthropologist.
You mean like a hooker? I write a column called "Sex and the City.
" Right now I'm researching an article about women who have sex like men.
You know, they have sex and then afterwards they feel nothing.
- But you're not like that.
- Well, aren't you? Not a drop.
Not even half a drop.
Wow.
What's wrong with you? I get it.
You've never been in love.
Oh, yeah? Yeah.
Suddenly I felt the wind knocked out of me.
I wanted to crawl under the covers and go right to sleep.
- Thanks for the ride.
- Anytime.
Wait.
Have you ever been in love? Abso-fuckin'-lutely.
Captions, lnc.
Los Angeles