Sadists! Masochists!

"I love fucking," the fucking lovely Brittney Skye informed me at the recent Adult Video News Expo and Awards in Las Vegas. "I don't have an ulterior motive—I love fucking." Brittney—whose first video, Dirty Debutantes 213, was shot this time last year—is probably porn's most promising up-and-comer: Possessed of a tastefully augmented rack, preternaturally bright green eyes (possibly augmented by contacts), (bottle?) blond hair, and a pleasing thickness, she's often compared to Jenna Jameson, and is even holding out on anal! I mention all this for reasons even more perverse than usual. Having just returned from Vegas, where I met starlets who represent Porn Valley as typically and successfully as one may, I decided to review three films (not videos; OK, two of them are videos) produced in New York City (not Chatsworth or wherever) in which riding crops and spike heels stand in for penises, "pain" replaces pleasure, and hot wax substitutes for man juice. Not only is there no anal, but fucking gets no love, either!

You can read all about the AVNs in the Voice's next issue—that's right, in the actual newspaper. (But be careful: sometimes the ink comes off on your hands!) Les Vampyres 2: The Resurrection won Best Couples Scene (Nikita Denise and Joel Lawrence), so I was a little confused when I found 2000's Ladies of the Night (Les Vampyres) in my mail when I returned to the office. Turns out the former is a mainstream, non-fetish feature, and the latter was simply part of an overdue package sent to me by Bleu Vision's Maria Beatty, who directed all three of this week's selections. Coincidence, folks. I decided to review Les Vampyres, as I said, in the spirit of perversity. And I'm not the only contrary party here: My VCR decided to show the picture but not play any sound. Although they have no dialogue, one of the movies, Lust, advertises a soundtrack by Malcolm McLaren, Sex Pistols svengali and eclectic musician in his own right. Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?

But let's cut to the chase: Les Vampyres, shot in inky-shadowed black and white, opens with a schoolgirl darting nervously across cobblestones, gothic spires shooting into the gloomy sky behind her, something unseen in pursuit. Then she suddenly disappears. Cut to a just-turned hourglass, and a silent-movie-style message appears on the screen introducing "ladies of a very different breed": statuesque goth types, one less dominant, with loose curls and a gown, the other leather-clad and in charge. They approach the pixie-cut blond, who dozes in a plush, high-backed chair; the corseted, straight-haired Mistress probes tantalizingly in her mouth with two fingers encased in black leather. Laughing maniacally in slo-mo, the Mistress then pushes the schoolgirl's bare thighs apart—her dangling Mary Janes scuffing the floor in weak protest—and blows the smoke from her cigarette (stuck at the end of an exceptionally long and elegant holder) into her screwed-up face. ("Rape me if you must," I imagined the girl pleading, "but please, no second-hand smoke!")

Details

Ladies of the Night (Les Vampyres)
Bleu Visions

Lust
Bleu Visions

The Seven Deadly Sins
Bleu Visions

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Things move deliberately, as they must, but not exactly slowly. Mistress unties the girl's wrists and unbuttons her white sailor blouse to reveal . . . a plain white undershirt. Standing the girl up, they lift her skirt to reveal tight but not too-small white panties, which Mistress firmly tugs at the edges of, eventually working the fabric into a major wedgie (though not an atomic wedgie; that would not be so sexy). Once the panties have been dropped and ground into the floor with a sleek, black boot, the naked girl becomes a glorified (or is it humiliated?) ottoman for the enthroned Mistress, who pokes the girl's nips with spike heels and vigorously slaps her crotch with a riding crop, all while playing tongue table-tennis with fellow captor Curly. But, a new screen message flashes, "something is not quite right"—girlie needs to be tarted up with black makeup! After all, what's slumber party without a makeover?

Or a friend's basement without a "torture chamber"? "The pet's trials begin . . . ": Lying on a narrow table, the girl is subjected to a variety of solemn, not especially shocking, punishments, including having her nipples clamped, ass reddened by a big furry slapper, and, most notably, Curly's six-or-so-inch Edward Scissorhands nail-extenders dragged all across her pale little body. Finally, the Mistress summarily shoves a glass dildo into her presumably virginal pet (though we cannot see the actual penetration), leaving blood on her thigh to match Curly's bite marks on her neck.

Like Les Vampyres, Lust runs for only about 30 minutes—and costs $40. Still, those of you always sending me e-mails wondering where to find vids with teenage girls in birdcages and "whispered renditions of the spells of Masoch" probably won't mind paying so much (shit, for all I know, submitting to Maria's prices turns you on). Much less strange than that oversized-bird-cage scene in Naked Lunch, the one-on-one pet-mistress Lust nonetheless fulfills my freaky quotient, with what appears to be a spherical Christmas ornament used for purposes other than holiday cheer; pet hair-pulling; mild bondage; the pet's mouth literally used as an ashtray (and I thought second-hand smoke was bad!); demands for the pet's soul ("Give me your soul!"); spanking; hot-wax pouring; and screen messages like "Her head was magnificent/Lifeless eyes/Sublime creature/Wrapped her marble body/in great furs/Huddled like a shivering cat." Mee-ow!

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