Then there was the time I saw my first tits and ass – but mainly tits – on TV. And The Terminator was right there beside me, as always.
I remember how very strange the tits appeared to be. So peculiar. So unreal. They just didn’t seem natural. Is that what tits really look like? I pondered in my six- or seven-year-old brain.
It was the notorious Panty Raid sequence from 1984’s Revenge of the Nerds, and there I was watching it all, reclining comfortably in a brownish La-Z-Boy.
The room is rather dark, the floor-to-ceiling canvas curtains beyond the television set are blocking off the light attempting to jailbreak its way through the glass door on the other side of the cream-colored barrier. We’re watching a very R-rated film in the family room of my friend Kevin-from-Karate’s quaint, one-story ranch-style house.
The fake-looking, almost plastic-seeming, oddly-colored tits that are far more triangular in shape than one would have originally expected are out for all to see onscreen, and Kevin-from-Karate is sitting back on the tangerine shag couch cattycorner to my leather recliner.
There The Terminator is standing guard off in the corner to our right, in his characteristic black leathers (jacket, pants), boots and cool-customer Gargoyles that are in fact reflecting the tits onscreen from off of his mirrored lenses.
This makes the tits look even weirder, but I’m not looking at The Terminator’s glasses for long before turning back to watch the show on the TV proper.
After some more nudity-infused shenanigans onscreen, I turn back to my best friend The Terminator and regard him standing there stock-still, almost at ease as a statue in perfect equanimity.
I can’t help but wonder what he must think about the obtrusive nakedness before us.
Kevin-from-Karate’s zoned-out. He’s a portly Pilipino kid with onyx waves of hair moussed into a perfect part down the middle of his large, olive-colored face. His stubby olive-colored legs jut out as very smooth tree trunks from long denim shorts, and his knees are wide apart as he sinks back further into his comfy couch.
Rather than gawking at the many jiggling boobs overwhelming the screen with the same off-orange color as the couch (as Kevin-from-Karate and I are), I now notice my cybernetic friend in black seems to be almost intentionally standing askance.
It’s as though The Terminator is fine with us watching near soft-core porn, but he’ll personally have nothing to do with the glowing box of carnal mischief himself.
Revenge of the Nerds proceeds onscreen, Kevin-from-Karate is an unmoved blob of olive-skinned boy on the orange-peel couch and The Terminator stands.
Is he disappointed in me? I wonder. Is this perhaps The Terminator’s first viewing of boobacious babes baring breasts, too?
But, no. I quickly remember that The Terminator’s CPU contains “detailed files” of the human anatomy that allows him to be a “more efficient killer,” according to the manual.
It’s at this moment, ironically, that The Terminator asks Kevin-from-Karate and I if we would care for some popcorn. We had lunch four-hours-and-thirty-two-minutes ago, he reminds us as the dutiful compatriot he is, and we must be feeling just about ready for a mid-movie snicker-snack.
(This last part he says in his prototypical military parlance, but for purposes of my parboiled memory, I’m hard-pressed to recall his exact words now.)
“Hey, man …” Kevin-from-Karate mumbles as inquiry out of the side of his saliva-dripped gape of a mouth, “Did your Terminator just ask if we want popcorn?”
Sure, it may have seemed a bit odd at the time to Kevin-from-Karate, but truth be told, The Terminator was not only my friend but best friend, after all, and – yes – he was always there to make us popcorn or cripple if not vanquish any oncoming foe who might dare approach.
I may have only been six or seven at this time, but I can tell you: The Terminator and I? We’d already gone through much together. And despite its probably seeming incongruous that such a mechanical killing machine – at 6’3”, with harsh Austrian accent, flattop hairdo, opaque frogman glasses and cold-as-metal glare was offering us piping-hot popcorn (that he himself would presumably be making, as there was none yet available to eat), it was in reality no more strange to me (or The Terminator) than those weird-ass breasts displayed for all onscreen.
Friends are friends, breasts are breasts and popcorn is popcorn.