Doin' It in the Butt!

Oh! if instead of being a hell this universe had been but an immense celestial anus—behold the gesture I make, hard by my lower abdomen: yes, I would have plunged my prick through its blood-stained sphincter, smashing the very walls of its pelvis with my impetuous movements! —from Maldoror, by the Comte de Lautréamont

Before getting started, I'd like to give a big "whoa there" to my man the Comte—dude earned that exclamation point. (Which reminds me of a little known, but indeed fun, fact: using exclamation points in the late 1800s, when Maldoror was written, could get you 30 lashes with a length of braided goat hair. Punctuation mark of the devil, they called it.) This is most certainly not what Eminem meant when he wished for an ass "big enough for the world to kiss." But "fuck you" is "fuck you," no matter how you stick, er, slice it. Who, for instance, has not hoped for "alleged" statutory rapist R. Kelly to get the ol' flesh shank when he winds up in prison?

OK, I'll forgo the Chocolate Factory joke and get to this week's very special topic: doin’ it in the butt. Not much of an assfucker myself, and long content to let Waldo Lydecker handle that "end" of things, I've neglected what some consider to be the holy grail of straight sex. Call it what you will—anal, bringing the milk in through the back door, putting the tire iron in the trunk, fishin' in Muddy Creek, taking the hot dog out of the steamer and putting it into the bun, making Joe sit in the back of the pickup, poking out the ugly eye, cheap birth control, whatever—bum love is indeed the highest order of love that mankind has ever known.

May the cynics among you bray maniacally, like maddened dogs at the moon’s heaven-illuming glow! Point is, Jules Jordan, arguably porn’s best-respected gonzo director, thinks the ass worth worshipping, like some sort of round, luscious diety. Hence Ass Worship #3: Bionic Butts (Evil Angel). Bionic here does not "designat[e] an artificial replacement for a bodily part," per Webster's; the subtitle merely means to call attention to the superiority of these butts over the average thang backing all up into your personal space on the subway. And indeed, they are off-the-hizee booties.

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Another dereliction in my duties: not discussing, until now, Gauge. (So named because it is difficult to gauge just how fine she be.) Think pre-eating disorder Christina Ricci generous, underwear-model tight. For us, she models shiny, pale purple pants and a white tube top on a highway overpass. I'm guessing her boobs are real, but I do have to guess. She gives L.A. traffic a chance to think it over, then heads back to a mansion with Jules. Falling to all fours at a small set of stairs leading up to the living room, she juts out her junk. Jules and a friend waste no time breaking out a string of three anal beads, each just bigger than a ping pong ball, and pop-pop-popping 'em in and slapping their dicks against her chunky li'l cheeks.

After pop-pop-poppin' 'em out (the last one hits the camera lens, smearing it with lube), they work in green ones the size of plums. Though this sounds like the pits, Gauge seems to be, if not entirely enjoying herself, not wholly uncomfortable. Next comes the butt plug—perhaps the world’s least sexy sex toy, funnel-shaped, tapered again at the top, and crowned with a flat stopper—this one with a tail. ("You like horses?" asks Jules, not unkindly. "I’ll turn you into a little pony!") Thus accessorized, Gauge gives the guys her incomparable oral treatment, head bobbing furiously, spit dripping onto her boobies.

After a little more horsing around, the men jump in the saddle. Papa Maldoro once told me that "you need a lean horse for a long ride," but Gauge proves him wrong, taking her ass jockeys on an endurance race, from the bar stool to the arm chair to the floor. Remarkably, Ass Worship just about maintains this level of pornographic excellence, even though costar Friday, with an "F" tattoo on her crotch and plug up her meaty backside, has a bodybuilder’s thighs and says, "Pardon me if I walk like I have a stick up my butt!"

Speaking of horses, I wouldn’t be surprised if the ladies of Bang My Tight White Ass 4 (Pure Filth) walked bow-legged after filming. The short and not too sweet flick begins with British hottie Donna Marie. Wesley Pipes—whose tattoo of a gun stuck in his waistband looks disturbingly like a handle and trigger for his dick—and a buddy constantly chatter and giggle while forcing their pieces down her throat and up her ass: "Spit on my dick, bitch, shit"; "Fuck him back; "I’m balls deep in this muthafucka!"; "Heh heh, heh heh." Throughout the movie, the cameraman relies almost exclusively on claustrophobia-inducing ultra-closeups—in most scenes, there’s not much else focus on besides the meat shot.

The holy grail runneth over in Ass Cream Pies (Anabolic), where the whole point is to watch women fart out jizz and get real cream pies smashed in their faces, clown-style. As if these fucking nauseating gimmicks weren't enough, even the scenes with skinny Latina Catalina and freckled Allison Wyte are ruined by a skinhead stud who mumbles constantly and pauses after every few thrusts, as if he's about to blow it. Then there’s Jessica Darlin, who pukes repeatedly from the skinhead's face-fucking and, during anal, sounds like a 13-year-old boy having a temper tantrum. But Olivia Saint's enthusiastic turn takes the gross-out pie: After some messy dick sucking and a cumshot, the makeup caked on her face runs, clumps, and discolors. I myself just about puked when she got slammed with her actual cream pie and began to scrape it off and eat it. Forget dessert; I didn’t even want the tossed salad.

Anabolic, 21707 Nordhoff Street, Chatsworth, CA 91311,

Evil Angel, 14141 Covello Street, 8C, Van Nuys, CA 91405,

Pure Filth, 9145 Owensmouth Avenue, Chatsworth, CA 91311,

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