Credits. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, whee, go xylophone! Splashy bus! Cha cha cha.
Lights up on Samantha's apartment -- in the bedroom, naturally. She's vacuuming rigorously, wearing a black negligee and high heels. Of course. A man steals in, wearing a ski-cum-robber mask, and grabs her around the neck. Wow, a domineering woman like Samantha has rape fantasies? How totally predictable. I once had a sexual fantasy that shocked me -- or should I say, shocked even me. It was the early '90s, I was living in Philadelphia, and Jonathan Demme was in town shooting a movie in my neighborhood. I was riding my bike home after a late night out and rode right past one of the movie's sexy stars (hint: he's got an Academy Award). God, he was gorgeous. Tall and strong. He looked right into my eyes. And he smelled good, too. So fucking handsome. Right after that, I started having fantasies about tying that big strong man up and beating the hell out of him. Can you believe it? I'm not even into that stuff normally. The thing that shocked me wasn't the beating stuff -- the connotations of me, a white chick, tying up and beating an African-American man. Oh, now I've gone and given it all away. I'm no better than that actress with the huge smile that's always climbing all over him at awards shows. Now guess that one. Anyway. Carries VOs that "it's a statistical fact that once every seven minutes a woman..." The man with the mask pulls it off and tells Sam to "shut the FUCK UP." Sam whimpers and cries and pleads for her life and Carrie finishes with "...dates an actor." Okay, we get it. Sam can now act out her fantasies with a good-looking scene partner with a résumé. And chops. And maybe a degree from Circle in the Square? You get it.
The girls and Berger have martinis and listen to Sam's recap of her latest sexcapade. "It's so refreshing to be with someone who likes to fuck outside the box!" Berger stares, open-mouthed. Dumbfounded. You know. Shocked to shit. Because who talks about their rape fantasy brought to life over cocktails with a new acquaintance? Or with anyone? Carrie waits until she's done, and then gestures toward her and says, "And this is my friend Samantha!" She does not add, "The one with the huge sex drive who derives a lot of her self-worth from adding new notches to her lipstick case." Carrie's in a white tuxedo jacket with a yellow Mickey Mouse shirt underneath. What the fuck is up with that. Oh, right -- craaaazy outfits on this show. It's intentionally funny. And only when people start copying the looks in, say, Cleveland or Topeka will SJP say it's "over" (cough cough nameplate necklaces cough) even though everything is supposed to be a joke in the first place, or so they say. Char says that Sam's fantasy is "offensive," since violence against women is a serious issue. Sam says that "fantasies can't be censored!" Hence my Denzel fixation. I couldn't stop myself.
Mir cracks that she thinks the Supreme Court is working on that now. Sam continues, "All fantasies are healthy and harmless." She asks Berger if he agrees. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably and says he thought that, "as a guy, anything about rape or in the rape family was off-limits. Can I go home now?" The girls giggle at his Chandler-esque witticism. Oh, ha ha! A dude who toes the line and won't cop to even a single bad fantasy in order to placate the ladies -- hee hee. How very conventional and PC -- oh, my sides. My knees, they are sore from the slapping. But Carrie VOs that "there is no greater sound than your girlfriends laughing at your new boyfriend's jokes" anyway. Sam categorizes her other fantasy scenarios -- senator, principal, prison -- and Carrie interrupts to ask Mir how her date with the real estate guy went. Mir starts with "not horrible!" She tries to go on, but Sam takes a call on her cell from "Doctor Smith," who thinks she may have mumps. Sam dashes away from the table, murmuring that she is "swollen," and we get a shot of Mir's sad, demure little face. Seriously, Sam, way to rain on Mir's lonely, unsexy parade.