I couldn’t wait for our cinema first date – then porn started playing

‘I bet he wouldn’t fancy me.’

That was my first thought when I initially saw my now long-term partner, Andrew.

We’re now in our early 50s – but back then, I had just arrived in London in the 90s, studying English and Drama at Middlesex Uni, when I headed to the student union.

The moment I walked in, my eyes zoomed in on this dark-haired, lanky guy sitting surrounded by women. I felt the strongest of tugs – I literally spotted him across a crowded room – but then, noticing his good looks, had that (rather tragic) first thought and doubted he’d be interested.

Luckily, I was wrong. Ten minutes later, his friend came over asking where I was from. Hearing my answer, he chirped: ‘My mate’s from Manchester too,’ and suddenly I was being plonked down in front of the very same bloke I had eyeballed as soon as I walked into the bar.

Soon the two of us were talking, and when Andrew asked if I wanted to see him again, I was quick to agree.

Our first date came quickly. We’d arranged to meet outside a pub in Wood Green, where he suggested we take the Tube to Kings Cross. There was a cool-looking ‘arthouse classic’ on at the Scala, he said, which was a very trendy, members-only cinema, known for its weird and wonderful repertoire and the fact that it had its own cat.

As someone new to London (and a lover of cats), I was thrilled.

My previous boyfriends had never quite shared my penchant for indie films, so to be spending my fifth night in London tripping out in style with this cool art student was definitely enticing.

Even better, the movie he’d chosen was French and, fancying myself as the cultured sophisticate, off I went, expecting some Parisien black-and-white moodfest, probably starring a young Juliet Binoche, with a Miles Davis soundtrack.

The first indications were good. The Scala was a very cool place indeed, with an eclectic line-up of films, and, as we shuffled into some ridiculously uncomfortable seats, our conversation flowed easily.

Full of anticipation for the classy movie I thought lay ahead, I started mentally practising my GCSE French, thinking that I could impress Andrew by not needing the subtitles.

Maybe the fact that our fellow viewers seemed mostly single, middle-aged men wearing long macs and shady expressions might have sounded a faint alarm, but the film started well: a young 19th-century lady playing the harpsichord, lambs frolicking pleasantly outside.

Just like Merchant Ivory, I thought, settling into my seat. I loved Room With A View! This was going to be brilliant!

Then, suddenly, things turned a little weird.

Gradually, to my shock, the characters transformed into a cast of sex-craved lunatics. I seem to recall an ejaculating gorilla chasing a lady in a white nightdress around a gothic house, who then seemed to pleasure herself on a bed post.

Some highly erotic dreamscapes followed, with the woman running naked through a forest, eventually getting it on with a hairy black beast, who sported a rather visible erection.

So – not exactly Merchant Ivory then.

Looking back, it’s strange that it never crossed my mind that he’d deliberately brought me to see porn.

I suppose it took me a few minutes to process what kind of film it was, but as I looked over, I could see the confusion on my date’s face, soon turning to mortification as he realised that what we were viewing was erotica.

As for my GCSE French, there was no way that could equip me for this dialogue. In fact, the film featured very little dialogue at all – just a series of grunts, and some very saucy words, which certainly didn’t appear on my syllabus.

Eventually – and I think it was the monster’s erection that did it – Andrew turned to me and gulped, ‘It’s not quite what I expected. Shall we go?’. We sloped out of the auditorium, leaving the men in their shady macs behind.

Outside the cinema, we broke into embarrassed laughter. Luckily, I saw the funny side, and could see that he hadn’t actually intended to take me to view porn on our first date. Instead, in an effort to impress, he’d genuinely misjudged the genre.

We went for a drink, where he apologised profusely, and we read more about the movie in Time Out.

It turned out that La Bête (The Beast) was indeed an arthouse classic, made in the 70s by Walerian Borowczyk, but also an ‘erotic horror’ film.

Months into our relationship, maybe we could have appreciated the infamous scenes – but perhaps bestiality, teratophilia, masturbation and sexually-explicit shots are not the best viewing for two fresh-faced students enjoying their first date.

Fortunately for Andrew, it didn’t put me off. Soon, we’d arranged to see another film – but this time, the choice was mine: Les Amants du Pont-Neuf (The Lovers on the Bridge) – and this one really did star a young Juliet Binoche, without a hairy beast in sight.

After that, we started seeing each other regularly, and soon became a couple. Thirty years on, and three children later, we reminisce and laugh about La Bête; but Andrew still can’t believe that I carried on going out with him after such a dubious, shady beginning.

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