I know I've been doing a lot of complaining lately, but the world has been pretty shitty to Ol' Sherman the past couple of months and it's tough to let things go. I can't even get any relief at Happy Hour anymore because of all the assholes that flock to the bar after work. You know the kind. The ones who have no concept of simple barroom etiquette.

You can't save a barstool for a friend who's going to show up in a fucking HOUR, dimwits!

So as a public service, today I'm offering a few simple rules for newbies to follow while imbibing at their local watering holes...

Rule Number One: Always defer to age. When you see an old man drinking in a bar, don't treat him like he's old. Treat him like he's just one of the guys and don't laugh at him no matter how much hair is growing out of his ears. If he talks to you, listen carefully. You just might learn something. If he ignores you completely when you try to strike up a conversation, leave him alone. He's probably hung over.

Rule Number Two: Always defer to regulars. These are the people who go to the same bar or bars on a regular, sometimes daily basis. If an old man is a regular and you find yourself sitting on his favorite stool when he comes in, get up and let the guy sit. He's probably hung over.

Rule Number Three: You cannot save your seat at the bar unless you leave one or more of the following at the bar: your drink, your money, your car keys or your cell phone. Hanging a jacket on the back of the chair while you run around with your drink in your hand hitting on the girls won't do it.

Rule Number Four: You cannot save a seat next to you at the bar under ANY circumstances. Barstools are made for temporary seating and if you are saving the only available opening at the bar for a date that has yet to show up, that seat is to be used by the next thirsty customer who wants to sit. You cannot save a seat next to you by leaving the items mentioned in Rule Number Three, and you cannot buy a drink for the empty stool. Even if the bar you're in is the only place in the world where you can watch the Stanley Cup Finals.

Rule Number Five: Do not drum on the bar top with any of the following: knuckles, palms, pocket change, cell phones or beer bottles. This ALWAYS annoys the regulars, especially the older ones. I don't care if you're able to play 'Wipe-Out' in perfect time with the jukebox. Do not do it.

Rule Number Six: Avoid passing out. Avoid vomiting. It seems like a pretty obvious thing, but remember: bartenders are not obligated to cut you off when you get too drunk unless you start to annoy them. They will gladly pour you drink after drink as long as you are tipping and keeping your hands to yourself. My advice is to get out enough cash for no more than six drinks and pay for them one at a time. When your money is gone, it's more than likely well past time to go. And as a bonus, that dwindling pile of bills on the bar will also help keep your seat while you empty your bladder for the fourth time. If the money's gone when you come back and the bartender didn't take it thinking it was a tip, then you should probably do your drinking somewhere else.

Everybody will tell you no discussions of politics or religion are allowed, but I've never found that to be true. In fact, some of the best conversations I've ever had at the bar were spirited debates pertaining to Presidential elections and the Almighty Wrath of Allah.

So that's pretty much it. Think you can handle it? Good.

Now, if you see me sitting at a bar and drinking all by myself, what are you going to do? That's right! Leave me alone!

I'll probably be hung over.

More vintage porn reviews for the twick and sisted!

Today we're featuring a pair of my favorite starlets: Nina DePonca and Dominique Simone.

Before I go too far, though, I want to point out that somewhere in the mid-nineties, Dominique lost me as a fan. The reason? Bad plastic surgery. And I do mean bad. Check out the photos and judge for yourself. Honestly, I think the guy who mutilated her should be shot.

No, tortured... THEN shot!

As a beginner, the young Dominique was a natural, with lots of enthusiasm and fiercely magnetic sexuality (plus she reminded me of an old girlfriend), but somewhere along the way she was hoodwinked into thinking that bigger boobs and some facial reconstruction were the answers to her becoming a bigger star. Know what? She was right.

There is a direct cause-and-effect relationship between the size of her knockers and her relative fame, the biggest ones she eventually had sewn on making a huge splash with the large bust fetish crowd.

But they never seemed right to me.

If you look close, you can see a dark half-circle scar carved at the bottom of each aureole, the incisions used by some M.D. butcher to insert a pair of ridiculously over-sized bags of silicone. Take a minute to imagine that...huge bags of silicone forced into the chest of this naturally beautiful young girl...

It took a couple of tries at the boobs before Dominique was happy with them, and the first movie here - 'You Can Touch This' from 1991, features her completely au naturale. One year later in 'Nookie Court' (even by porno standards, a lame parody of the TV series 'Night Court'), her real ones have been slightly enhanced.

Unfortunately, she didn't stop there, and by the time 'Black Butt Jungle' was released in 1994, she had dozens of XXX features under her belt, had changed the spelling of her name from 'Dominique' to 'Domonique', and had been transformed into the pathetically hideous Michael Jackson lookalike that you see here before you.

She had also become the biggest black female pornstar in the business. So what do I know?

By stark contrast, the lovely and talented Nina DePonca (aka Jane DeVille, aka Feline, aka Nina Deponce) left her breasts and lips just as God had intended, also filming dozens of dirty movies before retiring in the late nineties. (Nina has since made a comeback, but more on that at a future date.)

'Taste of White', which was released in 1987, features a barely-legal Nina in a pair of scorching scenes that play back-to-back right smack dab in the middle of the movie.

I have to be honest, I don't really know what the plot is here, if any. Each scene is introduced by a pair of starlets, one of them Nikki Randall (who's the cover model on the box), as though there was some sort of thought put into a storyline. I couldn't see any real evidence of that, though.

What you do get is a series of unrelated pairings strung together and loosely based on an 'interracial' theme (even though there is more than one scene with same-race sex, including a steamy one between Nina and veteran F.M. Bradlee). And although Nina appears nowhere on the box and is reduced to third billing in the credits, she definitely comes off as the star.

If it weren't for the fact that each of her scenes here is stretched by repeating sections of it over and again to make it longer (My theory is Nina was so sweet that the guys just couldn't hold out any longer and the director had to figure out how to come up with more footage!), I would say this ranks right up there with her best performances.

Nina is an expert at the dirty talk, too, and in her second scene she tosses off a series of sexy syllables while Don Fernando puts it to her hard on the floor... “I'm gonna just lay here and let you fuck me,” says Nina in her best Betty Boop voice. “I want you to fuck me good.”

Nina never did achieve the fame that Domonique managed to get (even after her newer stuff has come out), but I tip my hat to her anyway for sticking with what God gave her and making the most of it.

I'll take natural milk bags over the Pam Anderson kind any day.

All three of the Dominique movies you see here (I can't really recommend any of them, but her scene in 'You Can Touch This' is pretty hot, marred only by the fact that her partner is a muscle-bound ham) were purchased for four bucks each at a local used book store that also sells 'smut' (the shop-owner's term, not mine), and 'Taste of White' was another rare find on Ebay that I stole for $3.99 plus shipping!

There's more on the way, so stay tuned!

Dear Lyzako,

The first full week of summer finds us still cooler than average here in southeast lower Michigan, the high today predicted to reach only into the middle seventies. There's also a lingering chance of showers that threatens to put a damper on the annual Independence Day fireworks display which takes place tonight on the Detroit River.

As you well know, the timing of the fireworks is designed to recognize both the Canadian and the U.S. holidays, so it falls awkwardly early to be thought of as a Fourth of July party here. Nevertheless, the show goes on. The event (now a part of the new River Days Festival) draws millions of slack-jawed, gun-toting spectators, and in addition to recognizing the two international holidays, ushers in the start of summer as well.

I avoided the downtown area over the weekend, which was when the River Days Festival actually started, preferring to keep to myself after a long week of difficult work that left me tired and sore, my right hand numb and pained from overuse to the point where I could barely grip a can of beer.

Notice: I said 'barely'.

For my part, I planned to begin the summer with a simple meal cooked outside, washed down with as many cans of said beer as seemed necessary to both alleviate my aches and pains and inspire a summery mood. Since I was hungry for some good-old down-home barbecue, I made a beeline to Ferndalia Foods on Sunday and picked up a couple thick slabs of ribs, along with all the spices necessary for my super secret dry rub.

There's nothing like the scent of charcoal in the air, and the accompanying odor of charred meat as it wafts into the nostrils and wraps its saliva-inducing bouquet around a hungry heart (by way of the stomach, of course). For we fellow carnivores, it's a defining summertime moment.

After my grocery shopping, I primed the beer-drinking pump with two tall Blue at BW3, then home by four, the ribs gently smoking as the sun sank below the trees. I continued to down Blues as the pig flesh roasted until my right hand no longer pained me. In fact, somewhere around can number seven, I wasn't even sure it was my hand anymore.

And the ribs were fantastic! For side dishes I had some grilled Cubanelle peppers and baked a pan of mac and cheese right over the coals.

As to the fireworks display...

Well, it's been years since I actually attended the annual event, the hordes of people at ground level making the entire process a difficult and often dangerous proposition at times. I don't plan on going tonight, either. While attending the fireworks in the past, I've seen bloodied faces, been pushed and threatened, and one time was nearly run down by speeding traffic as it rushed from Jefferson onto the I-375 ramp. At least one poor soul gets beaten and/or shot nearly every year, and I don't relish the thought of being another victim of celebratory violence.

No, I'd much prefer to watch from the comfort of my basement as the lovely and ageless Carmen Harlan hosts the live broadcast on Channel 4. I'll read about the stabbings tomorrow.

Happy Holiday(s)!
Marty Sherman

OLD MAN SHERMAN'S SAVORY SPARE RIBS

Super Secret Dry Rub:

One 3 oz. container (approx. six tbsp.) chili powder
One tbsp. ground cumin
One tbsp. ground black pepper
One tbsp. hot Hungarian paprika
One-half tsp. cayenne pepper
Two tbsp. coarse salt
One tsp. garlic powder
One tsp. onion powder
One tsp. Cajun seasoning

-This should make enough rub for a couple slabs, but if you're short, just make more. I like to keep some in a shaker and use it on chicken, too. These proportions aren't carved in stone, so have fun with it and make the dish your own, but don't get too carried away with changing it. For example, I wouldn't recommend reversing the ratio of chili powder to cayenne unless you have a very sturdy digestive system.

-To prep ribs: Place slabs meat side down and remove white membrane that runs along the back sides of each. This is an important step! If you find the membrane too slippery to grip, use paper toweling to get it started. It should pull off in a single piece if you're steady and patient.

-Place ribs in a large plastic bag and apply dry rub while wearing latex gloves. Start with the meat side but be sure to cover front and back thoroughly.

-Soak several hickory chunks in hot water for at least forty-five minutes. A couple of good handfuls should be enough. When coals are hot, place on one side of grill only, leaving half the grilling surface for placement of the ribs. I use a Weber kettle grill and a rib rack that holds each slab on its side when bent into a U shape. Situate the ribs in the rack on the side of the grill away from the coals, place wood chunks directly on hot coals and replace lid tightly, adjusting the airflow so that the vent is only half-open.

-Do not remove lid for at least ninety minutes! Resist the urge to even touch it! It's important that the fire dies down to a slow burn and the smoking and cooking evolve at a leisurely pace. Every time you feel the urge to look and see what's up, have another beer, just make sure you don't pass out. Your patience will be rewarded with some of the tenderest, juiciest ribs your tongue has ever experienced.

-Sauce them if you must (make your own from scratch or use a commercial brand), but dry is the way to go. The rub supplies plenty of flavor without the added mess. Enjoy!

Playboy Playmate of the Month, beauty queen and B-movie starlet Jayne Mansfield patterned her career and image after the reigning dumb blond of the fifties, Marilyn Monroe. Although Mansfield didn't quite measure up to Marilyn in the looks department, her hourglass figure and willingness to expose her enormous breasts in public earned her a loyal following among the less cerebral movie-going crowd.

Infamously promiscuous, Mansfield was romantically linked to many rich and famous men (other than her three husbands, of course) around the globe, including both of the dead Kennedys (Jack and Bobby, not Klaus Flouride and Jello Biafra).

Her marriage to former Mr. Universe Mickey Hargitay helped keep her photo in the tabloids while key roles in films like 'The Girl Can't Help It' (1956) and 'The Wayward Bus' (for which she won a Golden Globe for New Star of the Year in 1957) began to earn her respect as an actress.

But alas, those huge boobs got in the way, and at some point Jayne couldn't buy a role that didn't cast her as the dumb blond with the big chest. So she took advantage of it, becoming the first mainstream American actress to appear naked in a movie in 1963. Her scandalous role in 'Promises, Promises' resulted in the movie being banned in Cleveland (not a surprise really, I've been there) and also got Hugh Hefner slapped with an obscenity charge after he published some nude shots of her in Playboy that were taken during the film's production.

Jayne appeared on the covers of a slew of LPs for other artists, and she even recorded a few as a singer herself. While she doesn't perform on 'Music for Bachelors', she practically glows as the cover model here in one of the cheese-cake-iest of all poses, her shapely and tender pink flesh barely, just barely covered by a translucent wisp of lingerie.

I'd rate the listening experience on this one as a shade on the too-mellow side for my tastes, the orchestra under the direction of Henri Rene with guitar solos by Barney Kessel working my internal doze button better than four shots of Nyquil and a lullaby. Rene was a house conductor for RCA in the fifties and sixties and also recorded LPs with Eartha Kitt and Harry Belafonte. Barney Kessel made a career out of white-guy jazz-guitar playing, moonlighting as a pop session musician and appearing on top-forty records by groups like The Monkees and The Beach Boys.

Jayne's career came to an abrupt halt when, while traveling from Mississippi to New Orleans in 1967, the car in which she was riding collided with the rear of a slow-moving semi-trailer, killing both her and the driver immediately. Contrary to popular belief, Mansfield was not decapitated in the accident, but the coroner who performed the autopsy on her body was quoted at the time as saying: “Boy, that must have hurt.”

Did you know?...

-Jayne recorded a couple of singles with rock guitar legend Jimi Hendrix. Yep, Jimi played bass and lead on 'As The Clouds Drift By' and 'Suey', both from 1965.

-Although she encouraged the perception that she was the proverbial 'dumb blond', Mansfield actually had an I.Q. over 160 and spoke several languages, including Hindi, Aramaic and Ig-Pay Atin-Lay.

-After her death, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration began requiring a special bar be built into the rear of semi-trailers to prevent accidents like the one that killed her. The device is known as a 'Mansfield Bar'. No shit.

-During the course of her adult life, Jayne's bust size varied from 40D to 46DD depending on whether she was breast-feeding or not.

-While working as a writer for Jack Paar, debonair funny man Dick Cavett wrote an introduction for Paar to use when Jayne appeared on 'The Tonight Show' one night... “Here they are, Jayne Mansfield!”

I bought my VG+ copy of this LP a long time ago for three bucks, but the going rate now is higher. I saw as much as $22 on the Internet, and all of Jayne's covers fetch a better than average price, whether she sings on the records or not.

One of the funnier stories of Jayne's early career as a beauty queen was how, after winning a number of competitions (including Miss Fire Prevention and Miss Magnesium Lamp), a young Mansfield refused to accept the title of Miss Roquefort Cheese, declaring that the moniker just didn't "sound right" to her.

I love her and all, but Miss Some-Kind-Of Cheese sure sounds right to me.

All I did last weekend was sleep. No writing, very little drinking (one more shaky red X on the calendar for June) and NO work whatsoever. Want to know why? Because for the past two weeks all I've been doing is working. Ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day and then some. Work work work.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm sick to fucking death of working. My Uncle Dick did it right when he hired into a tool and die place at age eighteen back in the heyday of the automotive industry. With a policy of 'thirty-and-out' he was retired by age forty-eight. Forty-eight, people.

The only place you can get perks like that these days is working for the government! Make the Army your career! Do more before eight in the freakin' morning than most people do all day long. Then retire just in time to go to college. If you live long enough!

Hey, I work to live NOT the other way around! And, yes, I am complaining. What're you gonna do, fire me? Good luck with that! I'm self-employed! I quit!

No, really, though. I'll never be able to retire. I picture myself working the counter at McDonald's when I'm in my seventies, pushing that Big Mac button on the register with a crooked and numb index finger, the dust in my throat making it nearly impossible to squeak out the words “May I help you, sir?” to the grinning, twenty-something little prick who just bellied up to the counter with his girlfriend.

“Two Number Ones and an extra order of fries... That comes to twenty-nine-fifty, sir. Would you care for one of our hot apple pies?”

* * * * * * * * * * *

Another thing that irks me is the condition of the roads here in the Detroit metro area. I defy you to drive anywhere in this god-forsaken hellhole without encountering long-term road repairs. You can't cross fucking town without figuring in an extra hour for sitting in a traffic jam. The biggest headache is an ongoing project on I-75 at the Ambassador Bridge that won't be finished for two years. Yes, you read that right: TWO FUCKING YEARS! How the hell am I supposed to get to Mexican Village? Helicopter?

I was in Buffalo for work last week and aside from a few lane closures here and there I saw almost nothing. Even the turnpike was relatively free of orange barrels.

The sobering thing is, the roads in Detroit really do need the repairs. After a winter of cobbled patches and cracked and heaving asphalt, you can barely drive over the ones that aren't closed without chipping your teeth. I'm told it's because we have the nation's highest load limits for truck transport, which puts undue pressure on the pavement during the spring thaw.

I don't really care what causes our constant skeleton-rattling road conditions. I just know that I'm sick to fucking DEATH of driving over them. SICK OF IT!

* * * * * * * * * * *

And lastly for today... I know you miss the porn reviews and I'm doing my best to keep up, watching as many as possible and making careful notes so I can bring you the straight poop on the best of the best. As you probably remember, I've tapped into the 'Mature' section on Ebay as a resource for many early vintage movies, mostly on VHS, but the buying has become increasingly difficult due to skyrocketing selling prices.

So let me share the vital stats on a few recently auctioned items that I had my beady eyes on but was unable to get my sweaty hands on...

First up is 'Salt and Pepper', a vintage interracial compilation starring Shanna ('Fleshdance') Evans, Desiree West and Linda Wong. I recognized the box (that's Angel Kelly on the cover) and remember renting this one from a Hamtramck video store back when it came out in 1986.

Here's the seller's blurb:

The Box and Video are in Near Mint condition! Cast: Shanna Evans, Linda Wong, Desiree West, John Holmes, Karen Summer, Chelsea Manchester, Sahara, Sandra Martin, Don Hart, Marc Wallice.

Guess how much this one sold for. No, go ahead guess. Uh-uh, way too low. This baby garnered 33 bids and sold for an unbelievable $147.05! That's right, there's a fucking one in front of that four! Is this a snuff movie or something? I'm sorry, but I just don't get it.

Next we have 'Natural Pleasures', another vintage tape from 1988, this time starring my favorite girl Nina DePonca. Pretty innocuous, eh?

The same Ebay seller's description:

The Box and Video are in Excellent condition!
Cast: Aja, Nina DePonco (sic), Stephanie Rage, David Elliot, Sasha Gabor.

After ten bids, this one sold for $94.86! Plus shipping!

I gave up after the bidding hit ten bucks on both of these items. Who the fuck can afford to spend over a hundred dollars for one lousy porn video? Quentin Tarantino?! Yeah, I'll bet it's fucking Quentin Tarantino, that sick, perverted fuck.

My Dear Lyzako,

As I sit here in this stale, beige room at the Airport La Quinta in Buffalo nursing the various aches and pains brought on by ten more hours of mind-numbingly pointless physical toil, I find myself just now sipping the day's first Blue. It is just past six and all I have for company at the moment is the television, which is alright by me.

'Hollywood's 100 Best Celebrity Bodies' has just counted down to the top five with two of my very own favorites - Beyonce and Jessica Alba, making the cut at Numbers Four and Three respectively.

In case you care, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie claimed the Silver and Gold in a surprise husband-and-wife finish that left many viewers (including myself) speechless and bewildered. Good old cable television. I had truly forgotten how little I missed it.

The view out my second floor window is of a stand of wind-battered scrub trees, broken branches dangling earthward here and there calling to mind human skeletal remains, one pale limb amidst the greenery looking more than a little like an arm stripped of its flesh, the tiny end branches mimicking the shape of an open hand.

I've punched the mute button on the remote and opened the window as wide as it will go (three full inches until the frame encounters a burglar-proof stop) and am grateful for the occasional cooing of a lone mourning dove hiding somewhere in those trees, her plaintive call luckily surviving the predominant hum of tires racing over asphalt and the whine of jet engines as planes arrive and depart from the airport, which is about a mile due east.

Tomorrow is another day of work, I'm afraid, including a six-hour, rattle-bang drive in an aging and creaky delivery van that shudders and shakes and rolls and bounces to a degree that deprives both driver and passenger alike of any real sense of comfort. As the lone passenger I will long for sleep and an opportunity to forget about the past few day's work and all my troubles, a chance to forget about the rising cost of oil and the salmonella-tinged Texas tomato crop as I replace reality with a few sweet, lazy napping dreams.

But the van will allow none of that silly nonsense as we traverse northern Pennsylvania, travel the Ohio Turnpike and head for Michigan, each tiny crack and bump in the road magnified tenfold by failing shock absorbers and rusty springs.

Once home, I have to hit the ground running and work again until the wee hours tomorrow night. All this after an early five-o'clock rising in the morn, my spirit dog-tired and my colon still laden with the day's first defecation, the one that usually arrives between eight and nine.

I figure I'll be somewhere between Erie and Cleveland when I actually shit my pants.

But work is work, and as such, is necessary. The work, mindless though it has become, provides a roof over my head, Blue in the fridge and food in my gullet, while occasionally allowing me precious time to sleep and to dream.

I've little choice but to take the bad with the good, I guess.

I'm just grateful that once in a great, great while... once in a month of Sundays... once in a goddamned coon's age... I'm still able to savor a quiet moment of peace when the voice of a single mourning dove rises over the evil mechanical din of this horrible, hideous modern world.

Regards,
Marty Sherman

Much as I hate to shove another ass down your throats so soon after the last one, I have to get this off my chest before I explode.

Former White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan's newly-released memoir 'What Happened: Inside the Bush White House and Washington's Culture of Deception' accuses the Bush administration of using propaganda and lies to further their agenda to invade Iraq and bring down Saddam Hussein.

Is this a surprise? Doesn't everybody already know this stuff?

Of course the White House, while not denying any of the book's assertions, reacted by characterizing McClellan as a 'disgruntled former employee'. There's also been widespread condemnation of the book by Republicans, Senate Majority Leader Bob Dole going so far as to accuse McClellan of being a 'greedy opportunist' and a 'miserable creature' who didn't 'have the guts to speak up or quit'.

Hey, it's hard to give up a gig where you're knocking down some serious cash, getting your mug on television every week and climbing the political ladder in Washington. I can understand. I probably would have had a hard time quitting myself. You'll notice that Dole doesn't really deny any of the accusations either. He's just pissed that somebody would write a book about them.

In another surprisingly harsh criticism (and unwarranted religious comparison), former Bush staffer Mary Matalin used the word 'Judas' when referring to McClellan. Hmmm... if McClellan is playing the part of Judas in this production, I guess that puts George W. Douchebag in the role of Christ.

Christ was unavailable for comment, but I hear Judas held up a clenched fist and shouted “Right on!”

Unfortunately, this all comes at a really bad time for the Republicans. You see, they're still trying to shoehorn a stodgy, aging and stale John McCain into the Oval Office come next January and McClellan's memoir just might blow another big hole in the hull of that already sinking ship.

When pressed by the press on 'Meet the Press', McClellan admitted to making some serious errors in judgment himself by issuing what he knew to be misleading statements on the White House's behalf during his tenure as Press Secretary. He's hoping the book will set the record straight.

And earn him some big money, the kind of bread that Karl Rove makes fairly balancing the news for FOX.

I got fired from a job once. Yeah, it's true. I had a boss that was such a prick that he practically forced me to complain about everything. And I did so loudly in an attempt to change the work environment. By the time it was all said and done, though, my unemployment claim was denied. You know why? Because I was openly vocal in my criticism of the work place.

Our system is one that rewards loyalty above all over truth and more than likely that fact will never change. In a nutshell, that's why McClellan kept his mouth shut at the time and did what he was told to do for so long.

Greedy opportunist? Judas? Disgruntled employee?

You decide. I think he's probably all of the above, but bless his little heart for telling the truth now, even if it's way too late to save the lives of over 4,000 U.S. troops and Allah-only-knows how many Iraqi civilians who have died during this horribly misguided war.

With a little luck, though, McClellan's memoir might be just in time to slow the miserably efficient Republican election machine, and help get Barack Obama elected President.

For a change.

This week's Craig's List girl is Ms. Panther. Ms. Panther can be found on the Atlanta page where she specializes in fetish role play and domination. She also claims to have 'the juiciest booty in the whole A-T-L'. Check out her two-girl oil wrestling special on Sundays only. Call or email for rates. 'Guaranteed 100% real photo' or your first visit is 'F-R-E-E'!

Back in the day when porn flicks had a plot, the stars actually considered themselves 'actors' and the directors prided themselves on making 'films'. Often sporting higher production values than B-movies of the era, these flicks were shot on film and employed careful editing, props, period costumes and professional lighting... all the technical stuff that makes a movie a movie, porn or otherwise.

As X-rated movie directors go, Alex de Renzy was one of the best, and today we're featuring a pair of his early pictures, brought to you in glorious LO-DEF on the now-defunct VHS tape format, both starring the alluringly beautiful Desiree West, among others.

To start it off we have 'The Pleasure Masters' from 1975, an inventive sexual romp consisting of two unrelated vignettes that take place a century apart. The opening sequence is highlighted by a torrid three-way involving a husband and wife and their maid, and the second story is set in a turn-of-the-century brothel on the Barbary Coast.

Both parts of this movie are great, but my favorite scenes are in the brothel where Desiree plays one of the prostitutes. She has an unbelievable girl-on-girl with real licking and kissing sounds that are recorded as the action took place and not dubbed (which makes it twice as arousing, by the way) before one of the lucky dudes joins in. Eventually the entire cast strips down and there are several sex scenes running at the same time with something to suit every viewer's fancy.

De Renzy spared no expense on the set and the costumes, which are both completely believable for the time period depicted, right down to a horse and carriage driven along a rutted dirt road.

The storyline in this one involves some lucky guys traveling by night who get lost in the fog before finding a house in the middle of nowhere, which of course turns out to be the brothel. After they all get their pipes thoroughly cleaned by the friendly women of the place, the strangers depart for their original destination promising to come back.

But when the fog lifts and one of them does return, the house has mysteriously vanished and a policeman (comically dressed in a Keystone Cop uniform) informs him that the house in question burned down several years prior, killing everyone inside. You practically expect Rod Serling to lean in, take a drag on a smoke and say: “You have been traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Twilight Zone!”

Next up is de Renzy's 'Babyface'. Made in 1977, the movie garnered de Renzy an Adult Film Association award for Best Director and is still considered a classic of the genre to this day, employing a solid plot, good acting and once again, some fantastic sex.

The story revolves around the bad luck of the main character, a giant of a guy who gets caught with an underage girl (the Babyface to which the title refers) played by a completely shaved Lyn Malone in what would be her only adult film appearance. Chased by a cop (Oakland Raider Otis Sistrunk) who thinks the girl was raped, the big guy eventually falls into a river and washes up in front of Amber Hunt's crib, where she and her roommate offer him a place to chill until the heat dies down.

The hiding place? You guessed it - another brothel! But this time the twist is that it's filled with studs who service local rich bitches, one of whom happens to be the young girl's mother. The big guy meets Desiree right off, and she fondles and strokes him as though she's checking the teeth on a thoroughbred horse she's about to purchase.

All sorts of crazy sex ensues thereafter... three ways, bondage, gang bang... you name it. Desiree even gets fake raped in one heated scene by veteran sex star Paul Thomas, who plays one of the studs working at the joint.

The climax occurs when the young girl's mother books the big guy for a session and wraps him head to toe in Saran Wrap before attempting to cut his junk off with a chef's knife! I can't recommend this one enough! It's like a Hershell Gordon Lewis movie with people fucking in it!

After a successful career making plot-driven features for the adult movie theater market, de Renzy joined everybody else by switching to video in the early nineties, changing his name to Rex Borsky and churning out hundreds of low-budget quickies.

A partial list of videos from the second half of de Renzy's illustrious career include: 'Anal Coed', 'Anal Sensations', 'Anal Siege', 'Anal Taboo', 'Anal Urge' (nothing to do with dropping a deuce, I'm pretty sure), 'Anal Carnival', 'Anal Cuties of Chinatown', 'Anal Delights' (not to be confused with 'Whipped Cream and Other Delights'), 'Anal Ecstasy', 'Anal Inferno' (too much hot sauce?), 'Anal Madness', 'Anal Rampage' (starring Edward Norton as The Hulk), 'Anal Rookies', 'Anal Savage', 'Anal Sluts and Sweethearts' (a touching story of anal love), 'Anal Thrills', 'Anal Climax'... Well, I think you get the picture.

A member of the AVN Hall of Fame, de Renzy suffered a stroke and died in 2001 at the age of sixty-six. Hmm... It's a shame he couldn't have held out until he was sixty-nine. I could have ended this with an obvious joke.

Hey, how about this one... Know what a 'Sixty-Six' is? No?

You do me, then I'll owe you three.