Dirty Dancing!

I'm gonna do my kind of dancin' with a great partner who's not only a terrific dancer, but somebody who's taught me that there are people willing to stand up for other people no matter what it costs them—somebody who's taught me about the kind of person I wanna be. —Patrick Swayze, as Johnny Castle, in Dirty Dancing

Clap . . . clap . . . clap . . . clap. Nicely put, Johnny. I hold that, while a potential fount of edgy academic discourse, the influence of Dirty Dancing on "Dirty Pornos"—or, if you prefer, J. Castle on J. Maldoro—should remain unexplored, the hidden cross-currents of creativity unbottled. In the words Swayze mouthed with such passion, borne as much of indignance as lust: "Just put your pickle on everybody's plate, college boy, and leave the hard stuff to me." To that end, I herewith note that Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights debuts in theaters everywhere on February 17. Rated PG-13, the prequel-remake promises to unleash a wave of sensuality unseen—nay, unfelt—since America dipped and bumped to the Lambada.

I well recall the excitement with which I furtively viewed an instructional video, purchased by an earnest Papa Maldoro, for that "forbidden dance." But I remember frustration, too—a taste of lost innocence; the realization that not every intimation of the horizontal tango will blow one's load; that the world is not, as he had so shiningly hoped, a young man's cum rag. From there, on down the sticky slope, from soft-lighting to softcore to hard-as-Hell: boy meets underworld, where the underworld face-fucks sentimental mouths, and actresses, not Hollywood screenwriters, sloppily regurgitate sublingual sounds. I mention all this because the dance-themed flicks I stared down this week prove, in their own ways, more gag-worthy than Johnny Castle's fake smile-on-your-sister spew.

DD's patriarch, the father of Castle's partner Baby, tells his dirtied daughter, "I won't tell your mother about this—right now I'm going to bed. And take that stuff off your face before your mother sees you." How the makeup runs in Sweetie Baby (Vivid), the box of which advertises a "lapdancer from Hell." (If you think it's expensive to get in the champagne room . . . ) Crossing Office Space with Monster, this lumbering feature "shows that the tastiest strippers might just be the sweetest way to die," according to the back cover. Women—tempting us right into the grave. All we ever did was pop out of our mothers!

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It's about to pop off when Jack and a buddy leave work—"My boss is an asshole!"—to unwind at a nudie bar. A balding schlub who suggests death drive more than sex drive, Jack immediately catches the attention of slight waitress Holly, who makes eyes at him for so long I began to appreciate the tired conventions of Hollywood editing. Later, as Holly dreamily awaits the bus home, a phalanx of five bitchy strippers led by huge-unned Mercedez swagger up and accuse our heroine of thinking she's better than them. The nerve! Things get worse at home, where Holly's heavy-metal boyfriend sits, pulling his pud to porn. Apparently an aspiring fuck flick screenwriter, Meaty, as I'll call him, muses on writing a Psycho adaptation while shoving Holly's head onto his cock in time to the that movie's "Er! Er! Er! Er!" theme. Then, calling her a "good lil' cocksucking animal whore," he splatters her grill.

Holly need not worry about taking that stuff off her face before seeing her mother—Mom's dead. But guilty daughter still chats with "Mommy" at the graveyard, where a sprinkler shoots in the background; it is decided that needy Jack shall replace jack-booted Meaty. Fair enough. But Holly must get to him before the twin-turbo'd Mercedez does! This view of sisterhood is a little cynical. M, we guess, must be the dancer from down under. She drags Jack away for a lap grind, and when Holly later asks what they talked about, replies, "Mostly my titties." When pathetic H then asks to smell the cologne that clung to said titties, M demands a pussy licking. And then she fucks Holly's dad—wearing ugly-ass Timberland spike-heeled boots!

Those boots walk all over Holly, but Mercedez, it turns out, is not from Hell, just around the way. Long bitter story short and sweet, Holly kills Meaty and seduces Jack, who recognizes Holly as an "animal" when she laps up his cum, tries to run away after spotting Meaty's body, and gets slayed himself. Jack on, Jack offed. Holly then "applies" to be a stripper, presumably murders happily ever after, The End.

Men can't get a break in Sweetie Baby. Meanwhile, in Dirty Dancing: The Movie (Adam & Eve), empty-headed, helium-voiced stripper Katie Morgan (as herself) catches a big break. Veteran nudie dancer Alex comes to Buffalo to perform at Katie's club and, after fucking the foot-fetishizing owner, whisks Ms. Morgan off to Hollywood. A collage of shot-on-location antics follow: Katie and Alex holding hands, walking down some main strip; Katie and Alex holding hands, window shopping; Katie and Alex holding hands, walking the other way down some main strip. Katie meets Kurt Lockwood and partner before a shoot; "You guys are embarrassing me!" she squeaks, as off-color remarks are made. "I'd like to bare-ass you!" wily Kurt rejoins. Evan Stone soon fucks Katie and gives her balloons, then—on!—Katie wakes up back in her dressing room in Buffalo. Somebody needs to introduce her to Ed Powers before she goes on a killing spree.

In the end, the box for the mediocre Strip Tease Then Fuck 2 (Zero Tolerance) puts it best: "No hole is sacred and nobody gets blue balls when our eager young ladies are on the prowl. . . . Now that's what we call dirty dancing!" I call it jacking off, but hey, whatever.

Adam & Eve, 302 Meadowland Drive, Hillsborough, NC 27278, adameve.com

Vivid, 15127 Califa Street, Van Nuys, CA 91411, vivid.com

Zero Tolerance, 8944 Mason Avenue, Chatsworth, CA 91311 zerotoleranceentertainment.com

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