The nipples, however, were another story they'd gone as hard as ski-pole tips. They even seemed a bit forlorn-bewildered little patties blinking and withering in the harsh fluorescent light of the shuttle. So palpably natural, those breasts, utterly unbuoyed and uninflated. Whereas the alien had its exoskeletal armor, Ripley had that skimpy white tank top, thin as cheesecloth, which only made her seem more human, more vulnerable. (Glimpses of the creature were fleeting at best.) So it was that Ripley's breasts remained sheathed. Now, Alien worked on the principle that what can't be seen is always more vivid than what can. They popped up near the end, after the last human standing-Sigourney Weaver's character, Ripley-had blown up the mother ship and escaped in the shuttle. When the spawn emerged from Hurt's chest, spraying gore and squealing triumphantly, he promptly pissed himself-then fled the theater. That birth-is there a more violent, violating moment in filmdom? As Hurt bayed in pain, my dear, sweet, credulous brother, sitting beside me, began to whimper. Such a filthy movie: exploding retractable jaws acidic body fluids a severed droid head whose mouth issued lewd taunts ('perfect organism!') along with a strange milky effluent a man who gave birth. raped his face! Clasped its insectoidal legs to his scalp, noosed his neck with its muscled tentacle, and pumped a fleshly funnel down the man's throat, through which it.planted its seed. Then, in response to Hurt's whispered exclamation ('.organic life!'), that wicked wobbling vagina-squid sprung forth and. Moments later, thick black lips peeled back to expose-no doubt about it-a glistening, pulsating vagina. Firstly: that loathsome leathery pod that grew translucent as John Hurt neared, revealing a jellied organ aquiver within. Indeed, Alien teemed, burst, with inner private parts that had no business seeing the light of day. Learned that space was cloyingly organic, infected and infectious, rapacious-and that to experience space was to experience not the infinite void but rather the claustrophobic horror of being caged with a sexual predator. Before, I'd believed outer space an antiseptic realm soundtracked by strauss.

The cable arts channel Bravo included this scene in its Sexiest Moments in Film-in which the model-pundit Roshumba Williams helpfully explained, 'In the male world, boobs are huge.' Here, hooters star in a compressed version of the male adolescent's tragic arc: from the soaring heights of erotic fantasia to the bleak depths of sexual humiliation, as the sleek naiad of Reinhold's imaginings actually walks in on him log-flogging to her image. The boob shot would soon become stock-in-trade of the Porky's epoch, but it would never be used to such weighty narrative effect. And boy, do they move in stereo, those pert, secondary sexual characteristics of teenage Phoebe Cates, as-in one breathtaking gesture-she frees her frisky buds from their front-fastening red bikini top to quiver in the balletic perfection of Judge Reinhold's furtive spank dream. Then-in a scene that will forever grant an otherwise incomprehensible erotic aura to the Cars-the new-wave chestnut 'Moving in Stereo' kicks in as Phoebe Cates begins her slo-mo poolside strut. She rises from the depths like the Venus of the San Fernando Valley-slicked hair glistening, water dripping from her smiling lipps, dark eyes glittering with libidinal mischief.

Panty glimpses