Original subtitles

Bye. Bye.

And welcome to Kabaredi Saya.

It is my immense pleasure to offer each and every one of you a

very special evening full of passion, live music,

dance, and erotic readings.

Our poets will seduce and delight you with tales of intimate erotica,

evocative imagery, and much more.

In exchange for a symbolic token, they will undress themselves and

reveal their most provocative performance for your ears

only.

Tonight, they are all for sale.

Please choose whoever entices you, and above all, enjoy the show.

Hi. How are you?

Pretty well. And you?

Good. It's your first time here?

Yeah. It's my first time.

Thanks.

Do you have my payment?

Thank you.

Yes. Okay. Thanks.

I'm tired of having to define myself.

Sweet or savory.

Black or white.

Friend or lover.

Man or woman.

Dominating or submissive.

Think. Or whore.

Fuck everything having to be labeled and classified.

It all started last spring, when Alex and Alex showed up a few days apart at

bar.

I don't usually get involved with clients, but if fate would have it, I

liked both of them.

Opposite sexes, but with the same name.

Perhaps that is precisely what turned me on.

After eavesdropping for a while, I introduced myself.

And between one drink and another, I served up my infallible specialty.

The Kalashnikov.

Call it plain mischief, or just playing the game, but the truth

is, that little shot of vodka with lemon, coffee, and sugar

got them more than a little bit excited.

It was incredible how well we got on and what great conversations we had.

It was getting late, but I wanted to make sure the night would go on further.

Finally, it ended with an exchange of phone number, email, Facebook.

We were getting it on.

No doubt.

Obviously, we made another date.

But this time, during daylight hours, a sure sign that things were getting

serious.

I love the simultaneous relationship with my two Alexes.

So easy to repeat scenarios and moments.

I will not see tears, only salty tears in your

eyes.

I would give half a day for one evening

spent with you in silence.

You are so tender, you are so tender, you are so tender, you are so

tender, I don't know.

I don't know.

After all, now you're a friend,

you're rolling your hands around.

I can't believe that I loved you, that I loved you.

And now you're gentle, dearly gentle.

You've let go of your hair, you're white in love.

You've let go of your hair.

And you can't hear a voice Because your lips

are stuck But now you are gentle You are

a gentle queen You let go of your hair On white

shoulders You let go of your hair And you can't hear a

voice

One thing led to another, and as you can imagine, we ended up having

an affair.

And it was good.

Damn good.

Two lovers.

Two flavors.

Two smells.

This intensity lasted for months.

Thank you.

Thank you.

But all good things must come to an end.

At least that's what they say.

Jealousy reared its ugly head.

And the fact that they both had the same name only made matters worse.

They both started to ask me uncomfortable questions and began to

unannounced at the bar.

Aren't my other regular thoughts.

On Cineity, they said.

Controlling, I thought.

In the end, what had to happen, happened.

One afternoon, there we were, the three of us.

Nothing to say to one another.

If instead of real life, this was a French indie film, the three of us would

have ended up fucking and living happily ever after as a trio.

And though that proposal did cross my mind, I finally decided that it was far

better to keep my mouth shut.

The fight, if you can call it that, was very civilized.

Both Alexes were in agreement about one thing.

Neither wanted things to continue as is.

So I had to choose between them.

Are you gay?

Or straight?

They asked me.

Make up your damn mind, Sophia.

They gave me a few days to think it over.

How generous.

Meanwhile, they both decided, without consulting me, that I couldn't meet up

with either of them.

Time to reflect, they called it.

So I did just that.

What they failed to understand is that if you put too much pressure on Sophia,

she's out.

You lose.

Now my new love is this beauty.

Which, by the way, I've named Alex.

Hello. Hello.

Will you tell us a story?

I'd love to. How much would that cost?

Two chips.

Thank you.

What's your name?

My name's Tanya.

Tennessee. Pleasure. Mine.

And you?

I'm Juan.

Nice to meet you, Juan.

Are you ready?

No one, man or woman, ever fucked with my mother.

She was the most progressive, refined...

libertine, and sensual woman anyone had ever seen.

Her family left her a small inheritance, and she used it to become the youngest

and most brilliant art historian in the country.

She was a real revolutionary.

Everything about her, from the way she dressed to her paintings and her

to become a single mother, went against the grain, and she knew it.

Her decision to have me, alone, showed her conviction to the counterculture.

Everything I know came from her.

My extensive knowledge of modern art.

My love of chamber music.

My ability to tell a true Fabergé egg from a forgery in about five seconds.

The writing of Anaïs Nin and D .H. Lawrence, to name a few.

And the simple fact that I was regularly eating, savoring really, fine beluga

caviar before my 10th birthday.

I owe it all to her.

Having her as a mother was fascinating.

Almost delirious at times.

My life was nothing like my friends.

For one thing, I never knew my father.

There were never any men around.

She was so discreet, almost secretive.

She was the kind of person who rarely spoke.

She always used to say, You have two ears, but just one mouth for a reason.

You should speak half as much as you listen.

Her penchant for silence was far from accidental.

It wasn't just that she was a private person.

My mother had a lot to keep quiet about.

In fact, her livelihood depended on our ability to keep our mouths shut.

Few people ever knew about it, but my mother was a thief.

Not a common burglar, though. She didn't knock off banks or pick pockets or

break into rich people's houses.

She was an art thief.

She stole one -of -a -kind pieces, from deco jewelry to paintings from the

Renaissance and the modernists, and she especially loved incredibly old first

editions from her favorite authors.

There was nothing she couldn't find and acquire.

Her intelligence and her training in art history made her the best there ever

was.

If she wanted something,

It was hers.

There was one thing that made her a legend.

She never spoke of it, but it said that Interpol nearly had her once, but the

detective handling the case fell in love, and they had an affair before she

vanished.

There are always rumors about important men, the director of the Louvre, a

famous art restore at the Prado, private collectors.

Curiously enough, they all ended with something incredibly valuable missing.

And more often than not, it wasn't even reported to the police.

But of all her adventures, there was one that she considered her masterpiece.

One story that she told with more vigor, pride, and excitement than all the

others.

She called it her best work.

And it was funny because it was never clear just what she had stolen or what

made it so special.

All I really know about that particular, and in her words, ambitious caper, is

the mark.

Carl Razman.

The famous novelist and playwright who revolutionized the entire world with his

experimental work on sexuality, seduction, and the equality of the

She had all of his work.

It comprised almost one -fourth of her extensive library.

She often spoke of him in fact, and always with the most sincere and

intellectual admiration.

I would listen intently, trying so hard not to ask questions, but

always asking too many and causing her to snap out of it and change the

Oh!

Bye.

Thank you.

I was always suspicious that it was more than just a simple robbery.

Especially after Razman wrote a best -selling novel whose protagonist

mysteriously resembled my mother.

But neither the novel nor my mother ever revealed exactly what precious objects

she stole from him that day.

Of course, in the end I figured it out.

After years of stalking around the house looking for some...

hidden objects, it finally came to me.

There wasn't any mysterious treasure hiding around the corner.

As it turned out, the thing she stole, her greatest work was

me.

You're dying in the night I'm waiting for a

right time to pick up the pieces

Like a glassy river,

haughty But this hollow place, I'm missing I've

a morning fever, I just want to build you now an empty bay

Your

heart will softly fade

Like the sweet grace of the winter day The

year

is dying

Like a glassy river,

hopping off this hollow place, I'm missing our

moment fever, I'm in slumber, you know it.

So pleased to introduce you to Simone, one of our most exciting poets.

Please sit down.

I always thought that when I turned 30, I'd be an adult, living the life I'd

always fantasized about.

The one we create when we're little girls.

A beautiful home, two kids, a dog, a fulfilling career, a handsome

and adoring husband.

It's funny how life plays its course.

Our white picket fantasies that seem so clear as little girls.

Change and transform as we become more who we truly are.

As the years pass by, my best friends and I have lived through many things

together, made little packs to support and pique our every desire.

Every birthday has become a sort of showcase of sexual playthings.

A few days ago, I turned 30.

And I have to confess, I was intensely curious to know what mischief my friends

had dreamed up for me this year.

Amongst giggles and champagne and that perfect evening you have with best

friends.

They pulled out an envelope.

Inside was a card with a phone number on it.

That's it.

Call this number at 6 p .m. on Friday was all they said.

Lips were sealed.

However, after a few glasses of champagne, Patrick did let it slip that

other end of this phone line was not completely unknown.

That by 30, we should all finally get over ourselves and become more ballsy.

Friday, I was a mushy mess of excitement and nervousness.

But I called.

A male voice said, I'll pick you up in an hour. Be ready.

Don't make me wait.

Who was that?

Damn, he had a sexy voice.

But the main question was, what the hell was I supposed to wear if I didn't know

where I was going?

Or with whom?

Six outfit changes later, and I opt for sexy.

When in doubt, heels.

Leather. but with a tinge of femininity.

I was just about to lose myself in a little fantasy when the doorbell rang,

jolting me into reality and causing me to go all weak -kneed and schoolgirlish

again.

A black motorcycle.

A blindfold.

a hard -bodied man, and oh yes, my friends know me oh too well.

I tried to conceal the fact that I was so wet I was practically sliding off the

seat.

But the bike's vibration wasn't helping us.

I think the driver could feel my legs trembling, pressed against his ribs.

The ride could have been five minutes or thirty.

I couldn't gauge.

But by the time we arrived, and he told me to go inside, I was

practically dizzy with anticipation.

This has to be some sort of elaborate ruse.

I'll go in, and all my friends will be there for my surprise party.

I hope they invited the guy on the motorcycle.

If he looks half as good as he felt, I'd be happy.

Okay, a surprise party with scantily clad angels or what?

My friends do know that I've always been curious about that.

Hello?

Hello?

And Patrick did say that I needed to become more daring.

A bed in the clouds.

Okay.

Where are the angels?

This is strange.

Did I go into the wrong room?

Am I early for my own party?

Or am I just imagining that I'm seeing the silhouette of a gorgeous man, or

what?

Matisse, please tell me this is not a dream.

How did they manage to convince him?

I've been onto him for months.

The only man sexy enough to paralyze me.

Literally.

And as if all this wasn't wild enough, he actually leans in and whispers to me,

now we can finally sweat together.

Now I can finally taste that sweat of yours.

I know you've been watching me sweat.

Now I want to make you sweat.

God, he tastes better than I could ever imagine.

Did those bastards pay for him?

Or how in the world did they lure him here?

Lucky me.

30. Yes.

Here's to being 30.

I have to. My past is bleeding and I'm longing as I'm walking, longing to get

where I'm supposed to be and stay focused.

I can't

get

no more.

I'm going to tell you a story.

But first...

After

15 minutes of walking in high heels that were too high and too new,

her feet were killing her.

God, I'm so uncomfortable.

And the dress is too short.

These shoes are ridiculous.

I don't feel right.

Do I really have to try so hard to impress?

Couldn't I just have worn something more me?

A teenager.

That's what I look like.

Someone who is dumb enough to go on a date riding a bicycle in the heat,

a suit no less.

Shit, I'm nervous.

What we had was good.

Damn good.

But it's not going to go anywhere.

It was just amazing sex for a few days over a year ago.

And that's it.

Oh, and he is so not my type.

Older than me, divorced with a kid. Oh, such a bad idea.

Why the hell did I say yes?

What am I doing?

What are we even going to talk about?

It's been over a year since we've seen each other.

I don't even know where to start.

Man, why do I always complicate my life like this?

I can't even remember how old she is.

Maybe I should just buy one of those cupcakes and eat it alone and skip the

date. Problem solved.

We just locked ourselves in that apartment for three days straight and

it.

And for the life of me, I just can't remember the first thing about her.

It's pathetic.

What should I do?

What am I doing?

What if he doesn't want anything serious?

What if I don't want a relationship right now?

Or what if I do?

I don't know. I just...

This restaurant is rank.

Why didn't I just decide to hit that amazing sushi joint right by my place?

So, here I am, trying to make a good impression with this ridiculous outfit

a tie.

Nice going.

You gotta chill, man.

Please, just try to have a good time and be yourself, right?

Thank you.

right first.

Just what I was hoping wouldn't happen.

Oh, this guy's going to show up, right?

Now that would be the icing on the cake, let me tell you.

Just what I needed. A flat fucking tire.

Another glass?

Sure, why not?

At least I'll be in a good mood when he arrives.

Or, depending on how long he takes, stumbling drunk.

And now, of course, I'm going to be late. Such an idiot.

message nothing he's not coming you'll see

typical me always messing it up

well I'm polishing off a bottle of champagne all alone great

Okay.

That's enough.

I'm going.

This guy is making such a fool out of me.

I look fucking hot, and I'm going to call Marie to go out.

I'm going to the bathroom, and I am so out of here.

She's not here.

She didn't come.

Or she came and she left.

Shit. I lost her again.

For the second time.

You know that moment on the terrace.

I was the tangled mess.

It was all so smooth.

And we were so comfortable.

We were great together.

And I.

felt something.

That was the moment to speak.

To say something.

Anything.

Like, stay.

Be with me.

I want you.

I... But I just sat there.

I ate, and I kept my mouth shut.

I didn't say a word.

Nothing.

Way to go, man.

Way to go all wrong.

When will I learn?

It's been really good for your skin.

Do the tadpoles poke around while the demon soaks in? I've got a million

foolish things to remind me of you.

I tried to wash away the sin, but the one

of the devil is bonded to my skin.

And oh, how the scent of you clings.

Thank you.

Then offers girl power But all the subjugation Won't wash off in one shower

so glad my pipe has wings To remind me of you

You

were gonna

Let it out your name.

Next time, don't remind me.

Next time, you'll never find me.

live longer than the memory.