By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
Hey, sailor. Bend over. Grunt. Blow me. Slurp. Bend over again. Grunt. Cigarette?
That's the story of my life, andcall me crazyit's so borderline empty, don't you think? You can get the same hollow scenario just by randomly looking into a Chelsea windowor by renting any dime-a-dozen smegma epic from the bargain rack at the local emporium du sleaze. It's so much fizzier to surround all that in-and-out stuff with some surreal David Lynch like production values, a batch of portentous special effects, and a few smoke machines up the (lubed) wazoo to elevate it from mere gobstopper to actual humdinger. Your everyday gay probably won't achieve any of that while sober, but it's just the kind of fancy raunch dressing they serve in Night Walk, the Michael Ninn Gino Colbert classic whose DVD release (on VCA Interactive) gives aficionados a chance to see how the genrealong with Blue Blake's buttholewas seriously expanded. Is it sexy? Not really. But it's provocative, titillating, and more eye- and thigh-opening than your usual fuck-and-suck extravaganza. From its gargoyles who come to life to pounce on Chad Conners to the trippy Marilyn Monroe impersonator with a dick, the movie keeps surprising and enticing, and by the way, it doesn't stint on the penetration parade either. There are fetishy frolicsyou'll simply adore the enema hose dance and will cheer the enforced shaving scenethough you'll mostly come away humming the spectacle, as "the Master" (Dino Dimarco) leads Conners into a dreamlike world of degradation, dancing, and cumshots. How daring is this movie? In one scene, two of the stars actually kiss!
A gimmick drives Knight Heatalso from VCAbut you have to trudge through some marketing weirdness, without the help of any perv-master, to get to it. On the DVD cover, Ted Matthews is pictured holding a scepter and chalice, next to the slogan "The penis is mightier than the sword," but hello, the movie has bupkiss to do with medieval pageantryCum-a-lotthis isn'tand if Matthews is the star, then Waldo won an Oscar for Monster's Ball. The thing is called Knight Heat, damn it, because the lead player is actually Todd Knight, he of the deceptive apple cheeks and cute li'l Mayberry RFD-meets-Sodom and Gomorrah mouth. Knight plays a writeryes, we're a studly lotand his pen is (hey, that spells penis) especially good at conjuring up steamy flashbacks of three-ways and all-the-ways up various Hershey highways. Alas, cheesy music, too bright lights, and overly tasteful setups on nicely appointed beds make this one less than boner producing. But the ensemble cast, while not exactly up to Gosford Park's, does feature two studsyoung Jeff Stryker look-alike Sean Hunter and the smoldering Ryan Peterswho might merit a square peg at my round table.
Let's stay with VCA releases, shall we, since they put out such a diverse array of cummy entertainmentsand besides, they're the only company that supplied review tapes as of press time! Their city-slicker licker epic, Idol Country, is a zany fuckathon with the mildly Baldwin-esque Ryan Idol as a business consultant named, get this, Ryan, who mainly gets to consult his own schlong. But when Ryan goes to the country on a betlong storyyou're wrong to expect him to nail everything that isn't glued down, short of the cattle. It turns out he only has thighs for his country host, Steve Marks, which is a delightful reminder that some men think with their balls, not their dicksbut while we learn this, oh, the shtupping that goes on! The flick kicks off with the vaguely Tom Cruisey Marco Rossi romancing a fellow stud on a big-city lawn chair, and though they don't talk muchtheir mouths are too busythat's actually a blessing since once they do speak, Rossi seems right out of an Ed Wood movie. But who really gives a waxed ass? He sucks really well, and besides, director Chi Chi Larue keeps the action moving from that poolside scene all the way to the Minnesota farm, where Idol's gracious enough to semi-bottom out till the cows come home. Add two shirtless ranch hands, a Spanish-speaking (but Greek-doing) visitor, and some oh-so-funny business with animal plop, and you've got a winner that redefines cowpoke. The credit "written by Gender" alone got Waldo throbbing.
Trucking rhymes with all sorts of things, so Waldo knew Kansas City Trucking Co. would be a gem, but he had no idea it was practically the Sleazy Riderof the free-sex generation. The Joe Gage-directed '70s road movie is one of the steamiest gay pornos evera woozy, trancelike flick with raunchy voice-overs and gritty mood music layered over the raw, trippy scenes of hot guys driving it home. The pre-steroid-era stars are hot looking with their thin moustaches andyou gotta believe mechest hair, and it's a special treat to see Jack Wrangler, who went on to be a theater director and marry singer Margaret Whiting, in his full-throttle dick-umentary days. Look for the cum-on-the-windshield shotit's worthy of Bergmanand see if you agree with me that this voracious vehicle is more hormonally hypnotic than anything at Sundance.
Finally, Jeff Stryker's Underground is worth a peek just for the fact that it presents Stryker as an insatiable fuck-bunny whose cinematic antics are nothing compared to the nonstop action he requires offscreen (though, of course, no one could really stick his dick in that many orifices and live. This "real life" behavior seems like a complete phallusy). "I have a huge cock," Stryker coos, prefacing all the pre-cum on faces. "I have desires. I need to fulfill them." And that he does, from sex clubs to stables, telling one farmhand straight out of Idol Country, "Maybe you can prep this stud for breedin'." It's a gorgeous moment, though when Stryker rams his donkey dick into the guy's tight butt, I swear there's a loud flatulence soundor maybe it's just the annoyed whinnying of a nearby horse. Either way, it's the biggest sexual turnoff since Waldo last picked up a guy with a Liza poster in his bedroom.
Got that? Good. Then bend over. Grunt. Cigarette!