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Posts in Category: Sexual Velvet

It’s a Young Girls Thing #7

Two weeks ago, I rode director Greg Lansky hard for his inept sequel, Fresh Outta High School 9. Unlike other filmmakers of limited means, Lansky opted to coast on past successes by attempting to insert an inferior product. Well, I wasn’t swallowing it, and It’s a Young Girls Thing #7 might do a good job of explaining why.

You see, the uncredited director hired by Legal Pink Productions did a fucking phenomenal (in more ways than one) job of using his limitations to his advantage. With the exception of some sloppy production design (scenes two and four shared the same room, swapping out chairs without making an effort to mask the distinctive and unattractive bamboo glued to the wall), It’s a Young Girls Thing #7 gives audiences exactly what they want, but this doesn’t satisfy the director. He pushes everything a little harder (in more ways than one), and I thank him for it.

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Stan McKagan Proposes a Ban on Breast Implants

CANOGA PARK, CA—I’m very surprised that, with the recent admission of several websites that video and subscription-service sales have gone down, no one has yet stated what appears to be obvious to me. The cause of all these problems are fake breast implants.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve prowled the Internet for a new erotic adventure to enjoy, only to be taken in by misguided reviews declaring, “This bitch has perfect tits!” Perfect tits, I always think, stroking my soul-patch in deep contemplation. I have to see this. As soon as I click on the link, the cover photo or screenshot captures throw me into a fit of rage and disappointment. Of course they have perfect tits—they’re 100% fake.

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Asian Street Hookers #46

I felt a strange sense of déjà vu after watching Asian Street Hookers #46. Its disastrous attempts to undermine and demean Asian culture reminded me of Screwing Asia, while its rock-bottom production values and sloppy direction made Fresh Outta High School 9 look like 2005’s Pirates.

Here’s how lazy the Asian Street Hookers series has become: they’ve all but abandoned the “hooker” pretense, referencing it only twice (in five scenes). We’re left with the implication that, while all the featured women, only two are opportunistic tramps, which is very different from being a “hooker.” For example: if they got all skanked up and walked up and down Melrose until a half-drunk embarrassment going through a hard divorce pulled up in his tan Volvo station wagon and slurred, “Wanna party?”—that’s a hooker. If they’re casually walking home from work, a guy stops them and starts rubbing their genitals and they say, “Wait a sec—that’ll cost you”—that’s the free market at work. These women aren’t hookers. Or maybe they are, appearing in tripe like this.

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Hookers and Blow

Addiction. Man’s most dangerous of foes. No other force can alter a man’s psychology and physiology so rapidly, so completely. It can render the most virile of men impotent; it can hurtle the weak among us to the precipice of death. Addiction is a force that can be stopped, with great effort and expense (both financially and spiritual), but it can never be destroyed. It always remains, in the hidden recesses of the mind, waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce and destroy again.

Brandon Iron’s tour de force Hookers and Blow explores this disease with a jarring mixture of harrowing drama and gentle humor. In casting this film, auteur Iron trusts friend and longtime co-star Joe Blow to carry the brunt of the emotional heavy lifting. Iron himself co-stars, and the two actors—ostensibly playing themselves, lending additional verisimilitude to the gritty, realistic world Iron creates—drift down a tragic path. Contrary to what you might expect from the title and DVD box cover, this is a tale of sex addiction—Iron brilliantly uses “blow” as a pun, alluding to both Blow’s name and the film’s harrowing final scene but not cocaine.

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Edward Penishands

I’d like to start this review with a brief history to put this important work into its proper context. For those who do not remember, by the late ’80s the U.S.’s post-feminist malaise caused a shift in relationship dynamics. A sort of unusual emasculation of the male gender occurred, trying to reconcile the sudden, male-like aggression of the opposite sex by embracing the softer so-called “feminine side” within themselves. This spawned an archetype designated at the time as “Sensitive Ponytail Man” or “Sensitive Man of the ’90s,” currently referred to by the less cumbersome “Pussy.” This type of person went into films like Wall Street and Point Break as affirmations of their machismo and intellectual superiority, but they invariably shed a few tears before the closing credits, often waiting long after the theatre emptied out, so they could wipe their tears and let the redness fade from their cheeks before leaving the dark theatrical womb.

Of course, such a drastic change in the male psyche also dictated a change in their adult entertainment. Watching the erotica from 1985 to 1995, you’ll see a radical shift in the type of sexual endeavors portrayed—gone is the “woo ‘em, bang ‘em, leave ‘em” attitude, replaced by a gentler emphasis on foreplay. Manual stimulation and cunnilingus became rote aspects of each sex act, rather than the “classic” model of stripping down for intromission.

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Fuck My Mom and Me 5

I confess I had some reservations about reviewing this, the fifth in a series, when I hadn’t seen any of the previous entries. Would I be lost in the drama, or did these movies work as standalone features? I found out rather quickly that the Fuck My Mom and Me series is an anthology of shorts with little connection to one another outside the premise and the unending presence of producer/director Stoney Curtis, the semi-mythical “man behind the curtain” who interviews the female subjects before and after their love-making sessions. There is no story to speak of, so I had no problem plunging in to the depths of depravity contained in Fuck My Mom and Me 5.

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Stan McKagan Proposes a Ban on the Industry’s Midwinter of Cocks

CANOGA PARK, CA—All right, everyone. We’re going to go around the room, and I want to see an honest show of hands from the men in the audience: who thinks double-penetration is erotic? I didn’t think so. So why is it that the adult industry, over the past few years, has forced DP down our throats like so many tumescent cocks? What began as a strange fetish secreted in the darkest corner of the adult industry has become nigh unavoidable.

Let’s look at the facts. The only thing gayer than an MMF threesome is actual gay porn. An MF duo with anal might seem a little bit gay, and while I admit I don’t much enjoy anal myself, not even I can deny that some men simply prefer it, and it has less to do with latent homosexual impulses than with alarming fetishistic inclinations often brought upon by childhood traumas—men use it to announce sexual power, not to express their craving of throbbing man-wood. But let’s think about the recipe for gay porn: (1) anal sex, (2) two penises. So, whether a woman is present or not, double-penetrative MMF threesomes fit the bill.

With the millions of men in the United States with deeply repressed homosexual tendencies, often manifesting as a hate or fear of “the gays,” wouldn’t you think DP is actually contributing to the financial losses plaguing the adult industry? If I hated or feared homosexuality, the last thing I’d want to look at is two men engaged in something tantamount to a cock swordfight. Whether or not a woman’s vagina is present on the screen, the image of two engorged rods duking it out for superiority would scar my homophobic brain forever, and I’d engage in a quest to seek out only couple scenes or, at worst, MFF threesomes. No orgies, no fellatio parades—just one penis per scene, preferably seen only in the presence of a female mouth or vagina.

As somebody who is not personally offended by DP, I confess I still don’t enjoy watching it. It’s just too busy and impersonal, watching two men grope and groan as they struggle to work themselves into comfortable positions without their scrotal sacs accidentally touching, desperately trying to avoid eye contact or anything else that would create the impression of homosexuality. That level of awkwardness and emotional distance is neither erotic nor arousing. From the ground up, DP is a complete disaster.

Where did this industry-wide lust for DP come from? The audience certainly doesn’t clamor for it. Producers have dulled the cinematic landscape into what can only be described as a midwinter of cocks. The aching cold of this penis-filled world has numbed them to the fact that DP is not what their audience wants. We’re eagerly awaiting a spring thaw. I seem to be the only adult reviewer willing to say it, but believe me, producers, your audience agrees with me. Eliminate DP! Give us a springtime of pussies!

Sincerely,

Stan McKagan

Sexual Velvet

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Not the Bradys XXX

In eager anticipation of X-Play/Hustler Video’s latest classic-sitcom spoofs—Not Bewitched, This Ain’t the Munsters and Not the Bradys 2—I’ve decided to take a closer look at 2007’s highly popular, award-winning erotic comedy, Not the Bradys. Although it’s a mixed bag, I admit that it entertained and aroused me. Can I ask for more than that? Yes. Will I get it? In this case, no.

The trio of Will Ryder (director), Jeff Mullen (writer, producer, composer, art director) and Scott David (producer, art director) have crafted a loving parody of Sherwood Schwartz’s hokey sitcom, The Brady Bunch (1969-1974). References abound (Cindy’s Kitty Carry-All doll!), although Mullen misses opportunities to go deeper here. More puzzling, it includes some odd moments that I assume were intended as references, but they don’t quite pan out.

At one point, Greg begs Sam the Butcher (played with bizarre spunk by Ron Jeremy) for a job, but Sam grumbles that he already gave that job to Bobby. I think they were trying to reference 1972’s classic “Big Little Man,” in which parallel stories feature Bobby trying to overcompensate for his diminutive stature while Greg gets the job at Sam’s. When Greg and Bobby both get locked in the freezer, Bobby’s size actually saves them—he can squeeze through the freezer door’s window, which Greg couldn’t have managed. It taught us all a valuable lesson about finding strength in who we are, no matter what our perceived shortcomings. But at no time in the episode does Bobby get the job or attempt to steal the job out from under Greg. Perhaps if they had boned up on their Bunch trivia (or engaged me as a consultant—I’m happy to help out, pro bono), such absurd mistakes wouldn’t exist.

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SEXth Element

I’ve come to expect very little from Private. Their pandering to bizarre Eastern European fetishes in films like Top 40 DPs and Without Limits gets worse with each film, but I had some hope for SEXth Element. A big-budget sci-fi film driven by special effects, the film could have been a genre masterpiece. Instead, its disappointing, incomprehensible storyline sinks it, making this a late entry in the competition for “Most Disappointing Film.”

I guess I should have known better than to expect anything from writer/director Andrew Curtis and executive producer Milk; they’re in too deep with the Private aesthetic. Still, I didn’t expect a film so confusing and dramatically inert that I could only say, “What?” when it faded to black. That’s the bottom line: SEXth Element has a story that makes no sense. Apparently, Curtis and Milk assume the effects will dazzle us into believing we’ve watched a Star Wars-like epic. This plunges even lower into the depths of badness than Star Whores: The Phantom Anus.

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Election Day Special: Who’s Nailin’ Paylin?

During election season, what stirs the male imagination more than female candidates? Hustler Video picked up on the instant popularity of Alaskan sex kitten/vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin by rushing into production Who’s Nailin’ Paylin. It follows in the footsteps of 1976’s Union of American Socialists (whose alarming storyline follows Constance Blomen and Willie Mae Reid surrogates through a depraved, expressionistic vision of post-Watergate Washington) and 1984’s Ferraro Fever, notable primarily for the Geraldine Ferraro-Nancy Reagan sapphic gymnastics that close the picture.

Unfortunately, Who’s Nailin’ Paylin lacks the variety and vivacity of older titles. The film suffers from an overall lack of focus and mostly atrocious casting. Much as I wanted to enjoy director Jerome Tanner and writer Roger Krypton’s absurd take on the circus the 2008 campaign became, the plot never jells and the humor never rises to the heights of great political satire. Instead, they rely on cheap stereotypes (portraying “Serra Paylin” as an airhead) and lame-brained humor.

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