By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
It is time again to give thanks, holding in mind the gifts of corn and stuff that filled the settlers' bellies, and the settler-distributed, smallpox-tainted blankets that warmed the Native Americans. What does Thanksgiving mean to me? Mostly, chunks of dry turkey that I do not eat because meat is grodynext to delicious mounds of vegetarian stuffing! Just as Christmas would not be Christmas without Uncle "Eggnog" Larry feeling up your sister and Chanukah would not be Chanukah without night after night of Menorah-print wrapping-paper shredding, T.G. would not be T.G. without cooked animal flesh. This week's theme, therefore, is fauna, both pre- and post-slaughter.
As The Private Gladiator (Private) proves, there's an exception to every rule: the first installment in a planned trilogy, the movie never quite delivers the gladiator-fighting-lions-and-guys-in-helmets coliseum scenesbut soldiers do ride around on actual horses! For this, we have a "record-breaking budget" to thank. In porn, mo' money usually means mo' problems. In this, The Private Gladiator is not an exception: no amount of Roman finery and epic battle scenes involving several can make up for stilted, multiple-couple fucking and even worse overdubbing. But the storybased rather specifically on Ridley Scott's general-release Gladiator, a film that never fails to bring tears to my eyesis classic. The great general Maxximus (Toni Ribas) has just defeated the barbarians, taking what appears to be a nasty splash of ketchup on one arm in the process, when emperor Marcus Aurelius names him successor to the throne. Meanwhile, rather than fight barbarians, spoiled prince Commodus (Frank Gun) and his ravishing sis Donatella (Barby) fuck two of 'em in their carriage. (To his credit, Commodus raises an eyebrow before sleeping with the enemy, namely two fur-clad, female "savages." "But I thought you loved wild sex!" Donatella responds.)
At the battle after-party, the few soldiers left alive ignore the pigs on spits and focus on some other hot barbarians. It is as if we have entered a house of mirrors: each sex act is multiplied by two or three, leather-breastplated men gripping the backs of fur-ringed heads, or letting the ladies ride them like horses into glory. In what becomes a pattern, one curly blond gets impaled below the waist by two flesh swords. Of course, the crowning scene brings together Maxximus, in leather cuffs and white arm bandage, and the ever-flirtatious, frowning Donatella, wearing a black, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. Just as Gladiator featured dream-like sequences of Russell Crowe wandering through heaven's tall grasses, this Maxximus cannot wait to go whistling in the weeds, heading downtown seconds after liberating Donatella's full, cutely-birthmarked chest. I can hear him now: "Are you not entertained?"
I was quite entertained by John Leslie's Fresh Meat 15: Roll That Hole (Evil Angel). Things get rolling in a bowling alley, where larger-than-life star Taylor St. Clair and the similarly stacked blond Friday meet up with Lexington Steele and this other ubiquitous white guy. Squeezed into vinyl outfits several sizes too small, and apparently out of clean underwear, the ladies flash the whole place every time they pick up a ball or, say, pull their tops down. Cutting the alley after closing, we watch them give sometimes collaborative, always phlegmy blows for a bit, and then throw their legs over the ball return and score-keeping desk. (Friday, to white guy: "Are you in her ass?" White guy: "Yeahhhhhhhhhh.") Also a good sportnot to mention a K.O. P.O.A.Cindy, sheathed in this insane, sheer, almost leopard-print crotchless bodysuit and red g-string, meets her man in a boxing ring, plays with herself as he hits the bag, goes down for the count, and then takes a one-two vag-anal punch. Her main competitor in the fly(weight) division, queen of underground porn Kate Morgan, dons a white-vinyl nurse's uniform absolutely made by the bows at the top of her thigh-highs and hooks up with Kaylynn, clad in a black-vinyl French maid's outfit with the ass cheeks cut out, and some dude. Although very good, a later scene featuring a soccer MILF and the two mechanics repairing her minivan cannot compare with the resulting round-robin's panoply of positions and Kate's trademark velvety whimpers. Holy rollers, indeed.
As a Roman Catholic, I've long known it was my destiny to someday visit the homeland. After finally making it to Italy last month, I discovered the great pride Italian men take in sick fucker and native porn producer-actor Rocco Siffredi. Three vignettes totaling more than two hours, "all-anal slutfest" Rocco: Animal Trainer 10 (Evil Angel) rates with the circus in terms of abusing its "animals." In the first scene, centered on a seven-sided bed, Rocco videos an English-accented, anonymous buddy; Bella ("Ciao Bella!" the charming Rocco greets her), who wears a rather large buttplug under her micro denim shorts; the elegant, quiet Sara; and a blond dressed as a dominatrix, who gapes at Bella's gaping asshole and Buddy's uninvited slapping, choking, and face-fucking. Bella, who I've previously seen perform some of the filthier acts I've witnessed, takes the brunt of this abuse, with tears streaming down her cheeksperhaps the simple physical result of having a large dick forcibly held down her throatand an insistent, not entirely convincing smile on her face.