Review

Manhattan Sex Party
Review written by Keeneye Reeves:
The Walt Disney Corporation and New York City tourist board's worst nightmare, and a cause for celebration for the rest of us! This NYC-set sexclub slopathon completely rocked me. Featuring a bevy of pigs (hot as shit pigs, mind you), the director behind the now-classic Don't Ask, Don't Tell! has outdone himself with this jaw-dropping, non-stop, wall-to-wall homage to Joe Gage's landmark pre-condom orgy classic Closed Set.

A sure-fire nominee for Best All-Sex Video of 2001, I'm going to go out on a limb here by saying that not only does this loose remake live up to that standard, it may very well be one of the 10 best all-out orgy flicks ever made.

Filmed on location in New York at the El Mirage, there’s no plot whatsoever. After some great establishing shots of NYC (hello Radio City!) the opening credits (which are a little lengthy, but important nonetheless) show a variety of guys looking for an address; we see guys on the subway, leaving their apartments, jumping out of taxicabs, etc.

Next thing you know, we’re inside, and being treated to what turns out to be nearly two hours of roiling sex. It’s all non-stop, with the cameras simply taking in what it can, and moving on to the next round. There’s no way to fully describe individual scenes (it would take two hours!), as the camera just keeps on moving all over, capturing everything that’s going on in this basement whoreville. So I’ll just give you some play-by-play.

To begin with, Gabriel Cortes is hands-down a nominee for sexpig of the year. Looking terrific (shaved head, pierced cock, killer abs), he gets the film off on a simple note as we see him taking a shower. That’s about the cleanest the guy gets in this flick, as he pops up seemingly in every scene that’s taking place: in a sling, on the floor, taking his very breath from a filled glory hole, you name it - there he is.

There’s a terrific sequence involving Carlos Morales standing in front of a mirrored, "double helping" glory hole. Carlos writhes like a stuck pig, eyes rolling back in his head as he sits on the cocks poking through, alternating deep throating them. We even get a behind-the-wall shot of Gabriel and Chad (more on his monster in a minute) deep kissing and propping up against each other for support, all the while Carlos is gagging on the glamour.

Speaking of deep throating, there’s one here that’s award-worthy. Max Grand takes Chad Hunt’s ridiculously oversized portion of mancock all the way down to the pubes – gagging all the way. It’s totally awesome, and the director knew it: the scene replays several times in hilarious slo-mo action. (Guess he figured you’d be doing it at home with your remote; he took the work out of it for ya – how thoughtful!) Normally slo-mo works my last nerve; here it made me nearly come! From every angle we see Max taking Chad’s Grand, drool and all. DVD chapter alert!

Nasty alert:
One of the hottest fucks occurs when long-haired, Fu-Manchu-mustachioed, greasy-baseball-cap wearing Rick Allen (who looks like he stepped right off of a Gage set) gets a younger redheaded dude on the sofa, lays back, and proceeds to ram the redhead from behind. Reds is fucked while wearing his barely-removed jeans at first; in a few moments, someone’s helping hand removes his jeans, and exposes his jockstrap – and a dirty hole! Yup, a full-on poopy hole alert. Yeah it skeeved me out, but it plays very "naturally." Any of you out there who have never had this happen to them before is a liar.

More grinding occurs, including blonde and buff Trey Rexx forcing his feed down and in any open orifice, sling fucks, cock slapping, facials, moaning and groaning galore, and so much more.

However – here’s the piece de resistance:
Throughout the flick I noticed guys wandering about with camcorders in hand. What I initially thought was an editing snafu (I shoulda known better!) lends itself to the year’s most inventive camera stunt. Mike Miller is receiving one helluva deep throating as the camera catches up with him. We intercut between the film’s actual cameraman (Jett Blakk, by the way) and footage of what Mike is taping (a P.O.V. overhead shot, looking down at the guy blowing him). Suddenly the screen splits in half, and we see both images.

In the best use of split-screen technology since Sissy Spacek wreaked havoc on her prom in Carrie, as Mike begins to cum, his legs begin to shake, he starts moaning, and his camera goes nuts. The right hand side shows the cameraman’s angle, the left-hand side what Mike is seeing (and feeling - too bad this wasn’t shot in Sensurround, as you can pratically feel Mike’s orgasm). His huge load fires forth, and you’ll feel like you’re right there. In Carrie it was pig’s blood that was dropped; here it’s buckets of cum. I guarantee you’ll hit your rewind immediately: it’s funny, it’s hot, and it’s sure to get you off.

Piper Laurie, eat your heart out!

What I really liked best about this flick was it's simplicity; there's no pretense here of being anything other than what it is: a non-stop wall-to-wall orgy. The lighting is suitably moody, the pulsating (and initally annoying) music is kept way in the background, you can tell time and care went into the set design (it's probably the best this basement has ever looked), the guys were obviously having a blast (no eyeballing of the camera here), and the atmosphere is electric. Sure there are bigger budgeted flicks out there (while spare, this never feels cheaply done) and this ain't gonna cure cancer or bring about world peace. But for what it is, it's simply terrific.

Manhattan Sex Party 2
Review written by Froufrou A. Gogo:
I love my job. Not only do I make a living with my trousers round my ankles (How do you people think I review porn? Smoking a pipe in my library?), I get to see the latest fuckfests way before you mere mortals. I load in a disk, review the thing and jerk off. It’s so cool. With this job I don’t even have to date, which is a good thing too, because I’ve had so many "dinner and a movie" with snakes that I took to carrying a mongoose in my duffel.

Those ugly, hairy-lipped feminists, who really should’ve stayed in the 70s with their loon-pants and their home-knitted museli, were right about one thing though: Men are pigs. And director Tony Alizzi happily has this as his philosophy, finally creating a sequel to his biggest-ever hit. Fourteen guys get together and deliver a show-stopping show-stopper of a sex-show that’ll get you feeling a kind of high (like a Hendrix Haze!), taking you to pleasure-pinnacles so wonderful you’ll never want to come down.

Those of you who are familiar with the plotless fabulous Cavalcade of Carnality in the original will be glad to know that they’ve lovingly paid care and attention to this one, too. No rush-jobs here. Nope. In the interim, director Alizzi further sharpened his teeth (trotters?) as he hosted another videoed sex party, this time in L.A. to see how the West Coasters do it (most probably with an agent and a Hollywood Tan). Also worthy of note is the amount of unfamiliar faces this time around. But fret not - pretty soon you’ll want to sit on them all. As the t-shirts used to say; "I Love NY."

Some may be disappointed to discover that Manhattan Sex Party 2 is missing some elements that made the first so striking. The shock-value for a start, but also no split-screen, no glory-holes and no dirty-bumholes showing a little too much poopie-paste this time. The latter’s no-show is a good thing really. Believe me. Some things you don’t wanna see. The other things you won’t miss though as the credits begin to rock and roll.

Like the first, it’s set in New York’s El Mirage, located on East Houston Street - a dirty, dirty sex-pit that escaped Giuliani’s Khan-like wrath, that could probably also double as a roller-disco-skate-rink for vermin, but this totally matches and stays in keeping with the sex-vibes let loose in this title. Whoops, let me rephrase that. It’s a classy establishment that caters to a discerning private clientele of in-shape guys. (Please don’t sue. Oh, and George W. Bush is a Democrat. Didn’t you know?) Also, as with the first, it shows the Gotham Guys arriving, but luckily it cuts the tedious travelogue of the original to a minimum. No subway shots or the like this time, as the studs eagerly looked forward to their 101 Nights of Sodom (but try to mask their worries as to whether or not they left the coffeepot on the stove).

Alvarez and Rivera lead the all-sucking, all-rimming, all-fucking crew, a wonderful party-mix of rough and ready older daddies, cute Latino youngsters (read: uncut) and the odd Chelsea Boy (but we’ll forgive them for that just this once). Sex pigs come in all shapes and sizes, after all.

From the opening shot of sexy Ortiz sucking on Alvarez’s heavy equipment you’ll know you’ve struck porn gold, because it just keeps getting better and better - Green eating out Rivera’s brown-eye and Sands lubing up Sarge’s hole. Jeez, I’m not even two minutes into this thing and I’ve already shot so high I’m gonna have to tell my roommate I started to redecorate the ceiling.

This is porn for those with A.D.D., or perhaps the memory capacities of goldfish. Or even for those whose attention spans have been diminished due to years of unprecedented substance abuse. The camera constantly crosscuts between the action, but in a way that’s complimentary, not distracting or annoying.

Self-loathers beware (I know you’re out there - Dionne Warwick and I can feel you squirming) because what’s especially great, and intensely liberating, are the guys’ attitudes towards each other. They’re all there to have a great time and ensure that their respective partners do too. It’s give and take all the way, with wonderfully adaptive performers sharing each other with a passion that’s unbridled and unsurpassed. And hotter than the Seventh Circle of Hell! No plucked and preening poseurs here, thank you very much, these guys know what they want and know how to get it.

The four debut performers here need to be taught nothing. They are totally confident and relaxed. It’s like the cameras aren’t even there. Too often performers look self-conscious (even uncomfortable) when they’ve got a cock in their cakehole and a massive one up their chocolate-starfish. Not here though. Did the videographer wear his Cloak of Invisibility or what?

After deep-throating everyone in sight, coverstar Alvarez gets sling-bound and offers anyone interested a free go. Never one to turn down a bargain, Ortiz is first to slip him his length, thrusting away before open-season is declared and everyone wants some – especially the spit-happy Prince-Albert-ed Green who pounds him like a crazed mental patient on his first day-release in fifteen years. Having the lead player on the sling is great because it means we’ve finally hit the point where porn bottoms are just as respected, and have the same star potential, as the tops. Remember when they used to be ignored? I guess there are hundreds of pillow-biters out there still cursing Jeff Stryker for stealing their fifteen minutes of fame.

Jordan West - a hot, muscular older blonde with a ruddy complexion - spies some of the guys in an oral daisy-chain and moves in, with the intention of stealing them for one-on-one sessions. Selfish twat. Self-nipple-tweaking Chelsea is first on his list, whom pre-hijack was doing a great job getting Kole’s pole standing to attention. Chelsea’s ass is pummeled before sweaty West goes for a spin on Gonzales’ equipment.

Boyish couple Leon and Heights rodger each other like-I-don’t-know-what in another corner whilst Scott takes Gonzales’ pork-sword for a test-drive. What can I say, these guys are greedy. And my pen is so about to melt as I jot down what I’m seeing; it’s just way too hot! And way too many times I’ve lost count of who’s doing what to whom with whoever giving a helping hand. You gotta love the look on Height’s face though, as he’s penetrated by Berlin. It’s a look of total pleasure, but also bewilderment and all-out-shock. Relax, bitch! Sit back and think of England!

Baldie Sarge remains sling-tied, and spends half the movie trying to coax people to service him. (He should have brought cookies and the offer of a chance to see some puppies - always worked for me.) Maybe the music is putting the others off - it’s techno, but I swear there’s a ghostly wail in the mix too. I’d be afraid to approach him as well; I’m sure the Blair Witch wasn’t on the guestlist. Still, Sands plugs all his gaps, so he can’t complain - and he gets to eat out yummy Kole’s hole. I like this guy's name: so easy for creating dirty rhymes.

Alvarez (ever the star) is now seen presenting his ass like a mandrill and mounts a massive turn-table, servicing Gonzales, then Berlin, then Heights and finally Ortiz, and the uncut skank-ho loves every last second of it. Then again, who wouldn’t? This is slightly reminiscent of that fab scene in the otherwise banal Catalina movie Hot Rods, and perchance it’s homage, but they won’t be able to sue. Casey Kasem has been using a turntable for years; so has Wheel of Fortune. So you’re on safe-footing guys. As the wheel turns, the action gets hotter and hotter. Like Kylie Minogue sang: "I’m Spinning Around..."

As they say in those overlong Pringles® ads, "Once you pop, you can’t stop" because the collected slut-studs break out their homemade champagne and give the Best Little Whorehouse in Tenth Street a right-royal send-off, covering Alvarez (narrowly missing his mouth, I checked and checked again oral cumshot fans - close, but no cigar!) in their baby-batter that they proceed to rub into his body like moisturizer.

The closing credits give special thanks to pornomakers Joe Gage and Jerry Douglas. It’s a fitting tribute that this film has successfully brought their sleaziest moments smack bang into the new millennium.