Review

I can deny it no longer. Those Anti-New-World-Order militia groups from West Virginia were right - lobbying doesn’t work. You want change, you gotta pick up a gun. Half the readers are freaking out right now over this new attitude from the usually-liberal Frou, whilst the other half are nodding their heads in agreement, but that’s because they belong to those same Anti-New-World-Order militia groups from West Virginia.

What brought on this redneck epiphany? I’ll tell you. You may recall my wonderfully courteous letter of complaint to the producers of Muscle Beach’s prequel, Sunstroke. I politely put across the viewpoint that Mr. Borbely’s insistence on reusing the same cast repeatedly was beginning to become slightly tiresome. And yep, the letter was ignored. Look at the box-art. Coverstar Antonelli letting sand run from between his fingers? I can think of no better symbolic representation of my rapidly diminishing patience.

We all know this film is gonna be great, why even bother? It’s part two and I’m too bored to tell you what occurred in the first. Shagging. Lots of it. It’s exactly the same cast, the sly trick of introducing them in a different order in the opening credits fools no-one! We start in Cannes, where I’ll wager half the guys prayed to be discovered by dirty old film producers, but we soon hit the harbor. And here come those fabulous Pacific Sun fucked-up subtitles: "Let’s have some delicious vine." Yummy! Would that be red, white or straight from the rainforest, sir?

Amazingly enough, there’s a plot, but I’m not too concerned about it; lets start with the first boat-bound sexual encounter. On the Good Ship Lollipop (where it’s a sweet trip to a candy shop) Phillips is given an oral seeing-to by Antonelli and Laurel; he loves every second of it and they continue back on dry land, in front of a roaring fireplace. Here Laurel fulfils his contractual bottoming duties, as both guys fuck the shit out of him. Oh please, I couldn’t be bothered making it sound hot. You know it’s hot, I know it’s hot; these bastard titles are always sizzling! But I really want to see sexier-than-Hell Laurel actually fuck someone. Come on Mr. Borbely - why does he always have to take it up the crapper? Did he lose a bet or something?

Oh, I forgot to mention. Phillips and Brensen finished Part One as a couple. The rate they’re going through the other performers makes me think a divorce is looming.

More boat sex, this time with Goldsmith and Wels. Both are big, beautiful and have massive uncut cocks screaming to be released form their restrictive Speedos. The camera circles around the boat as the two work each other orally, leading to Goldsmith riding his hunky gap-toothed shipmate. They magically appear poolside and continue their ardor, even harder, getting the sunbathing Brensen jerking off as he watches the flip-flop-fuckathon.

Brensen proceeds to blow fellow sunbathers Magera, Felder and Manzel, until he angrily releases a volcanic plume of spume which is quite a sight to see. The guys cover the rest of his body with their own offerings of liquid-lurve.

"We’ll feel ourselves great" - another classic line but I’m too busy whizzing through this review to put it into any kind of context, because you know it all already. Brensen takes Felder on a pleasure-cruise - enough with the boats, already! - that becomes pleasurable for everyone as the incredibly hung Brensen is ass-pounded by the taller (by almost a foot!) muscle stud. Didn’t Brensen have a boyfriend? Gay men have the morals of a she-cat’s behind, I tell you. Still, I loved their Kate-and-Leo-in-Titanic-style fuck over the bow.

Night falls and we end up in a bar with two miming drag-acts. They’re uncredited, so may I christen them Emma Barrassing and Doris Karloff. For some reason all the guys end up shimmying topless for the bewildered patrons, most of whom probably didn’t realize they were being filmed for a porno! But I swear to The Almighty, that mortified tourist drunkenly clapping along has got to be none other than Sylvia Kristel of Emmanuel fame. I swear!

Oh, and Brensen still can’t stop with his dancing. He started it in the first film, and continues it here. Shudder. Is he half rainmaker? Is he wearing the Red Shoes? Is he auditioning for Kids from Fame? I need to know!

If you survive the epileptic cinematography of the disco you’ll be rewarded with the sight of all the guys (minus Laurel, mysteriously) turning their yacht into the Love Boat. Their sea-faring gang-bang ends up poolside, natch, where everyone becomes one large quivering mass of fucking-fabulous-flesh! As night falls its "good to fuck with you" for bottoming Manzel, Nielsen and Wels. Oh, and Brensen, who gets spitroasted - often. But at least he ends up back with his boyfriend Phillips. The finale sees the plucky little star covered in all their cum-offerings - you gotta witness the "I’m-about-to-pop" Magera elbowing the others out of his way in order to be first to christen Brensen’s pecs with his baby-batter.

The usual frolics in the pool close the movie, as they splash about and cover each other with what’s supposed to be champagne, but I’m guessing they’ll be lucky if it’s Asti Spumanti (Spew-manti!). With that the credits roll and it’s goodbye to the guys, for, oh, at least two weeks.

As I’ve been intimating, I could think this film is crap but you know I’d be lying. It’s too fabulous, as per-frigging-usual, and I’m hoping that Borbely gets burn-out sooner than I do. Might I recommend next week?
-Froufrou A. Gogo