Review

Ahhh, Michael Lucas. The Man. The Myth. You all know his back-story by now: Born to poor plantation-workers, he overcame terrible childhood afflictions to become one of the most well-respected and influential black musicians of the Twentieth Century. Oh wait, that’s Stevie Wonder.

Lucas is that guy who’s way too gorgeous for his own safety, leaving Babushkaland to become a Falcon model (by way of a brief stint with Jean-Daniel Cadinot) then got behind the lens, found he missed the attention and now works on both sides of the camera.

This is his twentieth production as director/producer/star, and this is my first date with the legendary stud - a "Clarissa Explains It All"-style piece in which he addresses the camera, letting us plebs drink from his vast cup of wisdom.

Lucas introduces French stunner Rochelle and Latino love-boat Martinez. However, Lucas spends way too long explaining his porno philosophy when all we want to see is the couple jump each other’s bones. His philosophy is commendable (he worships versatility in his performers), but someone should have pulled the emergency cord on his train of thought, because it goes insanely fast before derailing completely. (He tells us "pornography should be hungerfill," before incorrectly correcting himself with the equally specious "hungryful.")

Luckily the uncut guys begin their love-scene just as my sexual frustration was about to kick in big-time. I really was five seconds away from curling into a ball and sobbing. This amazingly hot opener is set on a Manhattan roof garden, and is and intensely passionate affair. Slow moving at first, the two deep-kiss whilst disrobing to reveal perfection in flesh-form, then orally pleasure each other - you really have to see Martinez deep-throat. Wow. He’s worked with the best in the past and has no doubt picked up many a handy tip or three along the way. (And he’s hung like a bison, too - poor Rochelle can’t even get it all in his mouth!) Martinez threatens to spoil the scene briefly as he pulls a few odd faces whilst receiving a fabulously intense rimming from his Parisian Paramour.

The dynamic duo flip-flop-fuck, as noted by Lucas earlier (I hate it when someone gives away the ending) and wind the scene to its close with Martinez being covered in their United Colors of Spentathon. I guess they had to finish quickly, though. Once Rochelle started banging down Martinez’s walls, his moans of pleasure got way too loud, and I’m sure the neighbors were phoning both 911 and the Noise Abatement Society. But what was wrong with the microphone that day? Way too much background-hiss that put me off slightly, as I took to wondering exactly when Manhattan developed a monsoon season.

We’re back with Lucas as he introduces us to Canadian stud Allen, who struggles to get a few words in during their “interview”. Allen’s a med student (so much for models being dumb as all-hell) who’s trying to find a way to legally stay in the States (Clue: Marry a dyke). He’s brought along his boyfriend Morelli to perform their video debut together, and we find that the two have been an item for over eight months. In the gay timescale that’s well into the “our sex is getting stale, we should liven it up with a threesome” season.

Cut to naked Lucas getting to grips with the horny hairy totally do-some twosome; beefy older Morelli slurping away on our protagonist’s perfect pecker whilst Allen gets over his cold feet by sucking on Lucas’. Turns out Morelli’s quite the deep-throat expert, spending huge amounts of screen-time worshipping Pretty Boy’s length, who I’m afraid to say comes across slightly smacking of the old “I’m so beautiful I’ll just lie here looking fab whilst you do all the work” routine. Don’t believe me? The only time he really reciprocates is a few seconds worth of blow-job, and for that shoots them a look so demanding of a courteous response you’d think he’d just donated a kidney.

It’s pretty easy to see which one is the lady of the real-life couple, as Daddy Pop takes a whack on his younger lover’s cornhole, Lucas watching before taking over and pumping Allen’s Hershey highway to a very wet climax. Still hungry, Lucas forces his way up Morelli’s alley, causing the vocal-heavy dude to detonate a love-bomb of his own! The pair finally lick Lucas’ nads to eruption. I wish Temptation Island could have been like this!

Lucas’ slightly-off-synch show-and-tell continues as he’s on the couch with Bolt, Gonzales and Edwards, who’s making his return to porn after a four year absence. (Four years? He looks way too young!) Lucas’ encyclopedic knowledge of the trio’s entire careers, screen-partners and sexual positions seems phenomenal until you realize he’s describing his own productions. I really wanted Bolt to interrupt with, “Well, I did do Oral Exams, you know”. The couch pep-talk concludes and Lucas is replaced by black stud Westin, and I’m hoping this signifies the end of the talented guy’s Bacchus-based days of second-ratedom.

The four slowly undress each other, the camera panning between their bodies in tight close-up, creating a wonderfully erotic disorientation where you can no longer tell where one body finishes and another begins. Out come four memorable pricks, some peeking out to say hello from their turtle-necked comforters. Two pairs of inter-changing kissing couples compete in a sizzling sex-marathon featuring a non-stop session of licking, sucking, nibbling, caressing, sixty-nining and ass-eating before Westin leads a flip-floppety assault on our senses, with tops changing ends and partners so quickly you’ll lose count. I swear, sometimes it’s a case of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it! They all look so great it’s enough to turn a grown man bitter. And their money shots? Woof! It’s a competition to see who can shoot the most, the highest.

In the Director's Cut there’s a brief two minute scene up next as the four guys are transplanted outside in what was no doubt supposed to be a sizzling, controversial high point - golden showers. Unfortunately, the performers go all pee-shy, limp and eventually it’s only Westin and Gonzales who manage to get off a few spurts of the old yellow, spraying the other guys’ naked bodies. I’ve suffered more splash-back when I’m alone at a urinal, drunk. Pretty soon they give up and do a Golden Girls-style group hug. Fade out.

The fourth scene sees the return of Rochelle and Edwards, already bed-based and clad in their tighty-whities, the elastic of which is suffering serious stretching, as their throbbing tools scream to be released from their 100% cotton cocoons. Lucas tries to introduce the scene but gives up, deciding to let actions speak louder than words. Aha, so that’s how you silence Chatty Kathy. You upstage him.

I wonder if Lucas did this scene as an afterthought. You know the duo fancied each other and were gonna fuck anyway, and he had the camera for a full day after all; might as well get his money’s worth. Who cares, though, because these two studs are naturals, sixty-nining on what I’m hoping are flame-retardant sheets! Some serious rim-jobs follow, leading to a Tribute to Versatility as the fantastic fuckbuddies take turns riding each other’s donkey-sized dongers in wonderfully athletic poses before The Pleasure Express drops them both off at Spoogeville.

Vela and Heights are the performers in the final scene, a stunning little romp. The guys mess around as if they were powered by Energizers. Some funky blow-jobs lead to a greasy ass-fingering probe-job-session that could have been controversially close to fisting, were it not for the fact that I wipe my ass deeper than this. Vela, who I’ve been a fan of ever since I first saw his maple-leaf tattoo in ManPlay 5, takes it like a man from his buddy, who in return gets a massive black dildo up his own garden-path, before a final flipjob sees the screen sizzling like bacon. Hiss! We got steam heat!