scene and heard

Oh. My. God. Every girl in the Quincy JCR is trembling, from perfectly coiffed hair to spiky-heeled Manolos.

Like all good things, “Sex” is finally coming to an end.

Carrie wannabes and Samantha fans perch sofas on coffee tables, trying to claim prime viewing spots for the Quincy screening of the “Sex and the City” finale. Quiet chatter belies the tension that only a much-hyped finale can bring. 40-plus students only have one question in their mind: will Carrie end up with her dashing Russian artiste or the New Yorker from her past? (Well, maybe there’s one or two girls wondering about whether Charlotte gets her baby.)

The rest of the world, however, already knows the answer. Only here in Quincy is SATC a 10 p.m. event on Sunday nights, taped an hour before by devoted tutors.

At last, Quincy House Resident Tutor Lauren E. Brown, renowned for her sponsorship of these SATC viewings, comes with episode and snacks in hand. Wearing a purple silk flower pin of the sort Carrie popularized, she sets up a pink-tissue-paper-festooned dessert table before admonishing all to “turn off your cell phones.” A hush falls. It’s time to begin.

But first there’s the lead-in to watch. HBO filmed a nostalgia, nothing-really new special. The production crew and various random Hollywood personalities like Starr Jones and Alanis Morisette (how do they pick these people?) gush over how they are just exactly like the “girls,” the cultural significance of bringing blowjob talk to brunch, and the perpetuation of New York stereotypes, which the glammed-up producer, director, and cast assure us are totally true—except for the fact that none of the characters wear the same outfit twice. But that’s all part of the zany/glamorous fun, we are told. Cast members’ teary confessions of their love for SATC, set to the tune of “Memories,” wrap up the one-hour “oh so very” special. The evening’s theme, by the way, seems to be that what was once a sexfest is now a love-fest, and the waterworks are turning on, full-force.

“I’ve already cried,” Brown declares, waving her hands. During the break between the pre-show and the real thing, the estrogen-dominated crowd devours the cake Brown has baked especially for this viewing. The pink-icing letters spelling “Sex” and “City” disappear within minutes—apparently the desire to emulate the bone-thin Sarah Jessica Parker has not inspired any eating disorders. Cosmopolitans in the hands of the lucky and legal few, the expanded audience settles back down.

Fifty-some hearts twinge and fifty-some pairs of feet tingle at the sight of Carrie listlessly wandering the streets of Paris, alone, unhappy, in her teetery Manolo Blahniks. Squeals and sighs erupt periodically, when sex-crazed Samantha gives her boyfriend...actual love, when Charlotte and her husband find a baby to adopt. Squels turn to smothered shouts (“Leave!”, one viewer implores her) as Carrie lingers too long on a museum bench, once again alone.

The character obliges—Carrie rises and departs. Only one small squeal breaks the tense, pre-glee silence as all wait for Big and Carrie to kiss. Three cheers for reuniting with your true love, or giving the audience exactly what it wants, or—ooooh, it was just so cute when they got together.