All language subtitles for Sex and the City - 1x01 - Sex and the City.ENG

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.

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