By Anna Merlan
By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Darwin BondGraham
By Keegan Hamilton
By Anna Merlan
By Anna Merlan
By Tessa Stuart
Sex is so much more captivating when it's rooted in some specific contexta UPS man asking you to sign for a large package, a street vendor peddling a giant gyro, or maybe a construction worker offering some quality time with his special private drill. All the above scenarios have happened to yours trulyin my dreamsbut generally in porn flicks, you just get your basic sucking, fucking, and rimming, without any banter served except for an occasional "Yeah, take ittake it all, bitch." Well, I want you to shove the DVD of The Matinee Idol(VCA) way up your assI mean I'd like you to watch it, if you so kindly please.
The Gino Colbert production is wildly different from the other kids on the block: It actually has a plot and even dares to dabble in someget thisdialogue. With a script by Rick Allen, the flick goes to great pains to surround all of its plow-chow and slurp-burp action with relatively elaborate gabbing that some of the actors even manage to enunciate as if it were English. (A few of those inbred-type stiffs do creep in, but they're in the minority here.) Knowing that they all went to the trouble of pretending that this is a real movie makes things way sexier, the script helping to flesh out all the pulsing anuses on parade. There's a message, toothat for big stars, hiding in the closet is not nearly as rewarding as living openly, no matter what the career repercussions. How forward! How downright progressiveeven if it's basically just a showcase for lots of your basic sucking, fucking, and rimming.
Ken Ryker is alluring as the title character, a famous movie star who once appeared in a gay porn flickhaven't they all?though he stopped the scene halfway through, paid off the director to keep things hush-hush, and promptly found himself one of those beards you always see posing as arm candy at awards shows. When his dark secret is finally about to come out, Ryker's almost relievedin fact the first thing he does is go into the bathroom with two other male staffers, who set about servicing his dick, nipples, and asshole with celebratory glee. I loved it! The movie is almost as tight and entertaining as my butthole, and though one of the actors has the smallest dick I've ever seenmind you, this might not mean much, since I don't have eyes in the back of my throatthat'skind of refreshing too. Best of all, it has a point of view, which is not the same thing as just pointing a schlong at the camera and giving you a view.
But wait, I take everything back. I've just found a movie that eschews context, reason, plot, and even dialogue (except for an occasional "Oh, yeah"), and it's plenty hot, thank you. In fact, I want you to take it, bitch. It's Road Trip(MSR Videos), and it places a bunch of studly guys on a bus for no good reason except that they can suck and fuck all around the vehicle, occasionally taking rest stops in order to suck and fuck outside too. These guys gotta have it wherever they can, and at one point they even pull a hitchhiker aboard to add to the wang-doodly fun. Things mount, so to speak, to the point where a three-way daisy chain of ass-licking is soon topped by a Partridge Family-sized outdoor orgy, with enough cum spurting to match the fountain shot in The Producers. The guys aren't your typical steroidy-looking droids, by the way, and that helps you miss any semblance of a plot even less. They're randy, tattooed, and off-looking enough to be way sexier than the usual Chad and Kyle types. Of the spunky cast, Joey Russo makes a really top bottom, Rhett O'Hara could easily ignite Atlanta, and Steven Richards does a stellar job of drivingand fuckingevery last one of them. The net effect isn't nearly as gross as the Tom Green Road Movie. In fact, it isn't gross at all!
Let's stay with MSR because their mascot is an oinking pig with a leather capthat's reason enoughplus they truly seem to have mastered the art of wordless communication. Their Manhattan Sex Partyvideo (the director's cut) proves once and for all that no one throws a bash like New Yorkersand by the way, you're invited plus dick! Once again, there's no strained attempt at plot or character development to take away from all the horny hole-filling. After a few quick establishing shots, the flick throws itself headlong into the festivities, as game guys in a brightly lit sex club break up into random permutations with the obvious intent of pleasuring every penis within miles. The Tony Alizzi production brings on the pierced pingas, the lubed butts, and the frisky fun, with side action that'll have you cheering "Glory-glory-hole-ellujah!" A mysterious masked man lurks around the fringes, pushing his wee-wee into people's faces in a way that rules out any argument, and since the guest list is pretty flexible anyway, they welcome him with open mouths. In another highlight, you gotta give the director a hand when a guy's fist slides neatly up another's rear. (Play it in reverse; it looks like the birthing process.) The soundtrack consists of nonstop moaningand that will no doubt include yours if you accept the invite.
Of course, the West Coast always has to try and top us, so the same company has put out a "hardcore director's cut" of L.A. Sex Party, and it's even more wantonly debauched. After tons of the usual downing of dicks and such, things get trèskinky, with all sorts of divoon flogging, ball thwacking, and nipple torture. (Welcome to the city of angels.) There's everything but someone making a cocky-doodyand I thought everyparty had a pooper! Amid all the festivities, a lot of the guyswho obediently wear condoms for fuckingend up throwing caution to the wind and downing cum as if it were cream soda, though you do have to applaud one ensemble player for at least guzzling his own. (He j/o's, then hand-feeds himself the result in a marvelously self-sufficient, ecologically sound act.) Maybe they're all so busy swallowing the stuff because they simply have nothing to say; again, there's no script, and though you don't exactly expect Tom Stoppard, after a while the refreshing lack of structure becomes a tiny bit numbing. I know I'm flip-flopping again, but a little small talk might have been welcome. Maybe an occasional "Cum here often?" Or perhaps not.