To celebrate being twenty-one, we went to a porn cinema. It felt like a necessary rite of passage, like teenage boys peer-pressured into visiting blase prostitutes. Afterwards, we even experienced a similar ache of disillusionment. For practical reasons - it being the only film in English - and because it possessed the most promising title, we chose Body Chemistry 4, praying it wasn't the worst of the series. Our tickets read Body Cheristry 4.

We were slightly unnerved, if not surprised, when old men began pouring out of an earlier screening. They mostly wore shorts and loose t-shirts, validating every generalisation made about porn cinema frequenters. One was pulling up his trousers. There was no talking, just nose-picking. I wondered if they were embarrassed by our presence. From the back, the cinema smelled like a toilet sprayed with excessive amounts of disinfectant to mask its years of grime.

Did I enjoy the movie? It could've been more plotless. Whenever I sensed tension between the female leads, I mentally urged them to consummate their mutual hatred, but the couplings were predictable at best; lawyer with his wife, lawyer and femme fatale. I've also developed an aversion towards soft-core pornography. It's perfectly acceptable when subtly inserted in serious films, but should never be a genre on its own. The same way you can't make a career out of stripping if you insist on keeping your trousers on.

A sidenote: I liked the opening music though. Nothing like an ambient saxophone, combined with thunder and lightning, to herald a low-budget erotic thriller.