R-Rated Movies are Not for 12-Year-Olds
5 mins read

R-Rated Movies are Not for 12-Year-Olds

I went to see Hangover: Part Deux over the holiday weekend with my boyfriend and his son. It’s rated R. I have a problem with taking a twelve year old to see R-rated movies. I can see that my objections might sound a wee prudish but isn’t there plenty of time for kids to be exposed to boobies, and tushies, and hearing cussing like, “Fuck that shit man. You’re an a-hole.” Or sexually explicit language like, “He took it up the ass and loved it. I’m going to tap that tonight.”

I’m not living under a rock. I know what kids are listening to on the radio, and what they’re watching on television, because they’re doing it under my roof. And here’s where the biological parent, not the Girlfriend Mom, runs the show. If it were my child, I’d keep them locked in a closet (figuratively speaking of course) until I deemed them ready (I’m thinking mid twenties) to handle graphic language and mature sexual content.

Parents use excuses for letting their offspring see these types of movies. I’ve heard some say that all the kids do it, and they’re going to see it one way or another. This is equivalent to the, “If Barbara jumps off the bridge, would you jump off the bridge?”

It’s a lame defense for letting your child be verbally and visually assaulted by adult movies. Another excuse I hear is that kids don’t understand what’s being said or ‘acted’ out in these movies. Oh, really? Hey, mom, get your head out of your butt and wise up. They do to understand, so that logic is severely faulted.

I sat in the movie theater next to my boyfriend with his son next to him. Whenever something inappropriate came on screen, I just reminded myself that it’s my boyfriend who’s corrupting his son’s sweet and innocent twelve year old mind, not this girlfriend mom. 

I was able to get through the movie without having an aneurism, even during the (spoiler alert) scene with the naked transvestites in the strip club. However, when the credits rolled over the outtakes, the real shit hit the fan, and I almost lost it. There we were, sitting in a nice little theater in Jersey, watching an Asian woman shooting balls out of her hoo hoo. Don’t ask me, I don’t know how she did it.

Another woman pulled a scarf out of her hoo hoo, (like the endless ones magicians pull out of their mouths) but you had to be paying attention to catch that one. Not to mention an onslaught of boobs, drunken debauchery and sexual positions I’ve only recently come to know (and love). And all the while I kept thinking how my boyfriend’s son had seen the movie the first time around with his mother.

I don’t know if the Girlfriend kid was embarrassed watching this in front of his father and me, but I sure as hell was. It reminded me of the time my overly responsible and parental  (read sarcasm) mother took me to see Saturday Night Fever, also Rated R, in 1977, when I was, ahem, eleven years old! I’m pretty sure my father was in attendance, thereby intensifying my embarrassment.

Let me take you to the backseat of the car scene with John Travolta (Tony Manero) and Donna Pescow (Annette). The poor slut wasn’t even given a last name. When the scene started, I wanted to die. I didn’t want to watch people screwing (whether I knew what they were doing is up for debate) sitting next to my parents. Why would I?

Even at eleven years old, it felt wrong. Obviously my parents did not share this sentiment because they continued to chow down on their popcorn and Twizzlers, paying no mind to what this might be doing to their impressionable daughter’s young psyche. And as I had to do on so many occasions in my childhood, I self parented.

I grabbed my macrame and beaded hippie purse and told my parents that I was going to the bathroom. I didn’t have to go to the bathroom but I didn’t want them to think that watching a sex scene with them pushed my boundaries (and wasn’t cool?) which it did!

I walked out of Hangover: Part Deux, praying that no one would bring up the magical wonders of the vagina. They didn’t, at least not to me. “Hey you guys, next week Kung Fu Panda: Part Deux?” And much to my surprise and satisfaction, my boyfriend’s son gave me a thumbs up. Okay, so maybe if he sees some cuddly panda bears he’ll forget about the tits and ass. Here’s hoping.

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