Cha cha! Splashy bus!
A beautiful shot of the Statue of Liberty at night looms large as Carrie waxes about how Manhattan was, "for millions of our forefathers," the path to dreams. Now, that path takes place in bars, as mating rituals replace traveling to Ellis Island, and the state the "hordes of women" crave to occupy is that of "matrimony." Oh, boy. If a date won't do, a hot meal will suffice, adds Carrie. Yeah, we needed you to spell that out for us. Thank god for Samantha, who savors her wine and lets her date dab a stray drop from her smiling lips. Carrie VOs that Sam "doesn't believe in first dates, but does believe in sex afterwards." Good! Let's make this less about mating rituals and more about mating, please. The VO continues; Sam's date is a litigator, takes "steam baths with Ron Perlman," and has a fancy apartment. Which I guess makes him appealing, or something. ["Ron Perlman is, I think, the inspiration for Mr. Big in the original 'Sex & the City' column. Or is it Ron Galotti? Ah, forget it." -- Sars] After dinner, of course Sam gets an invitation to see the view. They smooch. He says (rather uncharmingly) that his specialty is sexual harassment, and that he could claim impairment from the wine he had at dinner. Sam adds that she does have a history of driving men crazy. He's all, "You fit the profile; most sexual harassment cases are filed by older women." This is the part where I thank god this isn't Ally McBeal and that the producers of this show can allow a moment like this to happen without using that needle-being-pulled-off-a-record sound. But that's the gist. Sam, older? Or, Sam, being told that she's older? Sam pulls away and is all, "I'm sorry?" He's like, no offense, but what are you, forty, forty-one? She looks stunned. He's being very impolite, it's true. But he's a lawyer. She says she's going to freshen up, and he's all, "You're pretty fresh already." Oh, he's so cruising for a bruising. For whatever reason, Sam doesn't belt him a good one.
Sam scrutinizes her face in the bathroom mirror. You're gorgeous, honey! Don't listen to that cad. Well, maybe a lift. No, don't listen to me! She comes out of the bathroom and hears the strains of Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy." Sam? Run. The evening, she is ruined. Her loathsome date is all, I'm in heeee-eeere! She opens the closet door to see the litigator, stripped, trussed, and chained to a hanging contraption in his walk-in closet/dungeon. Okay, if this were Charlotte's date, maybe this would freak her out. But it's SAMANTHA, Supervixen. This should be like going to the movies for her. He purrs, "Come on, slap me. Slap me hard." What's not to oblige? The guy is lame. Just belt him one and ask for cab fare.