Nekro (1998)

Aaah, corpse fucking. Cadaver boning. Postmortem poon pounding. Givin’ stiff to the stiff. Whatever you want to call it, fact is that a bit of good old necrophilia onscreen tends to be a divider among audiences. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone say “Y’know dude, regarding the subject of necrophilia in cinema, I have no strong feelings one way or the other”. Not one single person has ever said that sentence to me. No joke. 

I’m a big fan of dead body banging myself. Nothing says taboo quite like seeing some perve gettin jiggy with the dearly departed. But it’s definitely a love it or hate it kinda thing. So really, all I need to say about Nekro is that about a third of its 15 minute running time is devoted to showing a deceased broad have rather untender love made to her, and you’ll already know if you want to watch it or not. A review would be fairly redundant. But I’m gonna give you one anyway. Aren’t I nice?!

So Nekro starts off with some dude, our ‘hero’, bringing home a date in his van. Not bringing her home in an asking her in for coffee kind of way, but more in a carrying her unconscious body through the front door sense. He slowly drags her up some stairs, before the screen cuts to black and we get a short philosophical speech about how lust leads to anger and other such uncontrollable urges. A short note about the sound effects at this point: There’s a constant roar of demonic howls and laughter, presumably meant to illustrate the internal soundtrack to this psycho’s mind, that continues for almost the entire duration of the film. And it’s pretty damn effective. It sounds a little like the Deadites in the first Evil Dead only more cacophonous and chilling.

Anyway, the young lady wakes up in a dark room and has a little panic attack, before our Lancelot comes in and stabs her an unnerving number of times. It’s a brutal little sequence, with geysers of blood spewing everywhere, drenching both of them from head to toe. The FX are damn good, especially for such an obviously low-budget production. Now’s when things start to get icky. Really icky. You may want to consider not reading any further....

Still here? Ha, you sicko! So anyway, our young hero’s first port of call is to get this nubile young lady lubed up. Let’s face it, when your foreplay technique involves kidnapping a woman and mercilessly stabbing her in the chest, then vaginal fluid flowage is going to be minimal to say the least. So, he follows the time-honoured tradition of hocking a couple of loogys into his hand and smearing them on in there. I was pleased to see this classy move finally get a bit of mainstream recognition in the Oscar-nominated Brokeback Mountain. In fact, I’d say Ang Lee was heavily influenced by this film. Yeah.

Next, our libertine stoops down to give a little oral pleasure. Why does he do this? Maybe he feels a tinge of remorse for murdering this innocent and wants to make it up to her in some small way, like when douchebags hit their girlfriends and then give a teary-eyed speech about how they’re just so in love that they can’t control their emotions. Or maybe he’s just a revolting pervert. I’m going with the latter. She’s somewhat unresponsive throughout this, not even giving the obligatory “Mmm, yeah baby, that’s nice!”, so he has to imagine her squeals of delighted glee. Even when he’s finished, he’s forced to do all the work himself in getting his soldier to stand to attention. Dead chicks ‘ey? So goddamn selfish.

We finally get to the coitus itself, and it’s lengthy, ugly and a little sickening. If your neighbour happens to peer through your living room window while this is onscreen, you’ll have a very difficult time convincing that you’re mentally sound. In fact, they’ll probably move house just to get away from you. It’s very grim indeed. There’s a final twist, which I won’t spoil, but it doesn’t make much sense anyway. Despite its silliness, it does make for an extremely intense finale.

So that’s Nekro. It’s twisted, sick and actually pretty damn good. The duo who made it, Vince Roth and Mick Nards, certainly have a great deal of talent and sadly haven’t produced anything since. Overall, if you found Aftermath to be too beautiful to be disturbing, then give this one a try.

Mama's Boy

Walter had always loved to dote on his mother, ever since he was a boy. Fatherless from an early age, he took it upon himself to be the man of the house - her provider and protector. When she’d fallen ill, he dropped out of medical school immediately, less than a month until completion, to care for her. Her illness brought with it not just a sense of immeasurable sadness, but also inadequacy – an inability for Walter to fully perform what he felt was his most important duty in life. Despite his efforts, he was unable to ease either her physical pain or her emotional anguish. When she had strength to talk, her words came out in a raspy whisper, each word dripping with a morbid finality that only the terminally ill can truly affect. Walter couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving him, yet couldn’t bear to see her live in such a way.

Ironic then, that his mother’s death solved both problems.

*   *   *   *   *

“Breakfast, Mother.”

Walter was sprightly as he opened the curtains. She had taken a physical downturn after passing on – a bluish tinge to her skin, slight flesh atrophy here and there; simple bedsores had grown to some nasty lesions and of course a touch of stiffness in the joints. But her awareness and vitality had in part returned, and although still bed-ridden she was remarkably animated for a corpse. When she barked “MEAT! MEAT!” at him, sure it sounded like she was hocking up phlegm, but there was an energy there that was totally at odds with the life-less shell she’d been before she was actually lifeless.

And when she ate! Ravenously wrenching chunks of steak or pork chop from his hands with the strength of a pit-bull! Of course he’d tried introducing vegetables into her diet, but these inevitably wound up on the floor or on him. Walter didn’t mind. He was just glad she was here with him. Exclusively carnivorous and undead she may have been, but those early weeks after her death were among the happiest of Walter’s life. Feeding her Mongolian lamb, wiping hoi-sin sauce and garlic off her chin, having one-sided conversations where he reminisced about his childhood while she drooled and grunted. Although gaining strength daily, she was still entirely bedridden which suited Walter fine. Even at medical school - learning to analyse, operate, heal, cure, save lives – he’d never had such purpose to his life.

Of course, the good times had to end. Walter's life had again and again proved to him that his happiness would only ever be temporary so he was only mildly surprised when one day, in a particularly ravenous moment of frenzied hunger, his mother chomped her teeth down so suddenly on her chicken Maryland that she took the tip of his right middle finger with it. As  he clutched the bleeding digit, his mother looked greedily at him as she licked blood off her lips and growled primally.

*   *   *   *   *

“Lunch, mother.”

It hadn’t been a difficult decision really. Mother was hungry and she now rejected all the meat he prepared for her, snapping her teeth wildly at any part of him that came close to her. For Walter, this constituted a basic equation, with only one solution.

For the first time in his life, his obesity would be a positive. His weight had been the object of ridicule all of his school life, and had denied him any female attention later. But now it meant that his mother’s new preferred diet could be provided in abundance.

He still had plenty of his mother’s medication for her illness, painkillers without equal. Knocking back two pills with a glass of milk, he’d gotten straight to work. Though he had only light, sparse hair on his belly, he’d shaved it anyway. It wouldn’t have been right to ask his mother to eat a meal dotted with charred stubble.

 It was slow work getting a decent sized steak from his left side. Although the knife was sharp, he’d had to go inch by inch over a period of two hours to give himself plenty of time to stem blood flow between slices. There was too much responsibility resting on his shoulders to risk weakness from excessive blood-loss. He’d come to the conclusion halfway through the impromptu surgical procedure that body-parts that could be tourniqueted would probably make the process much easier. He kept at it anyway. This was, after all, a learning experience.

At the end off this long and arduous ordeal, he had finally prepared a nice-sized slab of medium-rare Walter sirloin, lightly seasoned with sea salt and rosemary, with a crispy and aromatic layer of skin on top.

Clutching his left side, Walter entered his mother’s room to find her eagerly awaiting him, her longing gaze focussed intently on the plate he carried. The enthusiasm she exhibited devouring the meal brought a tear to Walter’s eye.

*   *   *   *   *   

“Dinnertime, Mother.”

The words were muttered weakly as Walter stumbled toward his mother’s bed on his makeshift crutch. His chemical-addled brain dealt with a swarm of mixed emotions. This was, after all, the final meal he would serve.

The timing couldn’t have been better. Mother’s health had finally reached a level where she could fend for herself, just as the last of the painkillers had been used. Walter had tried to keep himself well nourished to provide for his mothers needs, but the level of damage he had inflicted on himself was such that he could continue no longer.

His left leg was gone from mid-thigh down, the femur jutting out from below the tattered flesh. It had served well for several days of meals. Both his buttocks provided a number of tasty rumps, which his mother had especially enjoyed. Several fingers had been the victims of bolt-cutters – deep-fried and served in chilli sauce as a midafternoon snack. Plus an assortment of cutlets here and there had also been required for her recovery. It had been worth it though. Looking at the healthy state his mother now enjoyed, Walter smiled broadly. Rather, he smiled on the inside. Smiles were no longer possible, as his lips, cheeks and the rest of the flesh from his lower face had been painstakingly removed with a scalpel and lightly sautéed with some ginger, soy and lime juice. His joy now manifested itself as a gory, leering rictus.

Propping his back against the headboard, Walter sat down in bed next to his mother. She looked at him tenderly and spoke to him, her first real words he’d heard since she had died and the last words he’d hear before he died: “You’ve taken good care of me Walter. Thank you. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Walter had thought his body would be too weak to produce an erection, but as she unzipped his pants, he hardened instantly. As she took him into her mouth, a feeling of absolute relaxation swept over him. He knew that this was her way of thanking him, by giving him this moment of intimacy that he had never shared with another. As she worked him expertly, tears sprung to his eyes to run down the exposed muscle of his face and drip into her hair, his remaining fingers clutched at the bedsheets frantically as his climax approached and pleasure surged through him. When the moment of orgasm arrived, and he exploded into his mother’s mouth, pure ecstasy engulfed his being, and he knew there could be no greater way to spend his final moments. His soul was full to the brim with unconditional love. No pain, no fear and no regrets.

So great was his pleasure, that he barely felt a thing as the teeth closed together on the base of him, his blood mingling with his semen in the mouth of his life-giver. His penis had served its purpose, so it only seemed natural that his mother, its sole beneficiary, should keep it inside her. As she swallowed and gazed up at him, Walter just continued smiling.

He smiled as fingernails sunk into his throat and tore outwards, warm wetness splashing onto his chest.

He smiled as teeth tore into the flesh of his belly, tongue probing his intestines.

He smiled as dizziness surged over him and his vision grew hazy.

He smiled as he looked down at his mother, seeing pieces of himself torn away to slide down her throat.

He smiled. Happy that he could die as he’d lived, providing for his mother, and being what he’d always desired to be. A good son.

Press Release for the revolutionary new Alhazred Dark-bulbsTM

The ability to create light amidst the darkness was among mankind's first scientific discoveries. Right from the first Neanderthal who created a spark, our fascination with illumination has been a defining characteristic of humanity. But now, thanks to Alhazred Laboratories, an invention has finally arrived to null our primitive desire for light - the Dark-bulb! Welcome to the 21st century!

Our company gathered together the world's finest physicists along with the world's most reviled practioners of magick and the black arts with one sole purpose - to take an enormous, steaming dump on the legacy of Thomas Edison. Working from the principle that light is a form of heat-emitted radiation caused by the excitement of molecular particles, our experts combined their knowledge to create the opposite effect. Our physicists used the principles of black holes to nullify both the wave-like and particle-like properties of light, giving the molecules an existence close to nothingness, while our crack team of Satanists depressed the resultant energy with a combination of chanting and human sacrifice. 

The result of over a decade's hard work was the anti-matter filament at the core of the bulb, which draws light into itself creating an aura of pure blackness. After months of exploitative slave labour in Vietnamese sweat shops, which resulted in tens of thousands of deaths from pure exhaustion (plus a few hundred more that we just killed for fun), the fruits of our toils are now finally available to you, the public!!!

The uses for this invention are endless:

You can put a dark-bulb in your bedside lamp, perfect for afternoon naps or that final satisfying 10 minute snooze before you have to get up for work.

A nightclub party doesn't have to end at sunrise anymore. You can party forever with a few Alhazred dark-bulbs!

Need to obscure your facial features for that all-important bank robbery, blackmail or rape? Just throw a dark-bulb on a miners helmet and the police will never catch you!

Say you've got some tasty, chubby little captive in a pit in your basement, and you need to explain that unless it puts the lotion on its skin, it'll get the hose again. Chances are it'll see your face, which puts you at risk if it escapes. Alhazred dark-bulbs to the rescue once again!

Here's some comments from a few satisfied customers:

"Yeah, I have to sleep during the day and my curtains suck. Thanks to the dark-bulb I sleep much better,so I'm more productive at work and I'm less likely kick the shit of anyone that pisses me off!" - Dave Finch, night-shift worker.

"I use them all the time. Darkness is soooo beautiful. It's like a reflection of my soul." - Lucretia, goth chick.

"This invention is like capturing the souls of God, Satan, Buddha and Jimi Hendrix in a capsule, ya dig what I'm sayin man?" - Charles Manson, celebrity.

"Back when I used to lure men into my house for my darling Frank to drain, I had to pull the curtains shut so they wouldn't see his skinless body lurking in the corner. I wish I'd had some dark-bulbs 24 years ago!" - Julia, psychotic British bitch.

"I hate the light, I just hate it... I feel it on my skin, and no matter how much I scratch at it, it's still there... I just keep clawing and clawing at it but it won't go away... Thank you so much Alhazred for getting rid of all the GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING LIGHT!" - Abernathy Flungeworth, weirdo.

But don't take their word for it. Take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime offer and you could get not one, not two, not four, but THREE patented Alhazred dark-bulbs for the low, low price of $27.95 minus postage and handling. Step into the future people! Let darkness reign supreme!

Note: Alhazred dark-bulbs will cause an immediate temperature drop of between 5 and 17 degrees Celsius. Other side effects include nausea, rickets, athletes foot, small-pox, violent diarrhoea, headaches, depression, cancer, excessive but amusing flatulence, appendicitis, tuberculosis, rapid lowering of blood pressure, mild sociopathy, dry scalp and almost certain death. Use at your own risk.

Muscle (1989)

I've been *ahem* curious to see Muscle for a while. I was in an experimental mood and, at 31 years of age, I figured it was about time for my first gay pinku experience. So after grabbing myself a copy of this one, I coyly bit my little finger, asked it to be gentle and did a quick reach-around... of my wine glass to click Play on the mouse.

The movie opens with a photoshoot of sweaty muscular guys posing, the camera leering over their baby-oiled bodies and tight undies bulging with manmeat. So far, so gay. The main character is the editor of a men's magazine, who quickly strikes up a relationship with one of the models, a rather scrawny wimpy fellow. They have some of the sex and dance around in their underwear, as you do, before their relationship takes a darker turn when the wimp brings a knife to bed and introduces his new lover to the sexual possibilities of pain. Our main man grows fearful of this new world and responds by lopping off his bumchum's arm with a samurai sword. A fairly excessive reaction, I'm sure you'll agree. A simple "Excuse me, but I'd prefer it if we could have sex without you sticking sharp objects into my penis, please." probably would have done the trick.

Pinku flicks are very often concerned with power dynamics. In fact, I'd say that's what elevates them to something much more than basic softcore porn. It's possible that this fellow chose a wimpy looking partner because he wanted to be the dominant one. But when the knives come out, it's always the one who's willing to go furthest that dominates the proceedings. The naturally dominant will react excessively when their power is threatened. Essentially, chopping off a limb was this dude's way of saying, "I ain't the bitch! You're the bitch, bitch!" Anyway, enough of my Sadean psychobabble. Back to the gay sex.

Cut to 1 year later and our man is getting out of prison. Yes, you read correctly, 1 whole year for a little dismemberment. Man, I gotta move to Japan. I could stand to lose a year out of my life if it meant I got to once, just once, go all Lone Wolf on someone who pissed me off. So, upon his release, he starts trying to track down his ex lover (who's apparently become a hooker), to rekindle their relationship. Much of the rest of the movie focusses on his lengthy search. Remember, this is pre-internet days, so he can't just log on to www.one-armedmanwhores.com like this guy that I know who totally isn't me did right before he started writing this review. What's interesting is how his search becomes a obsessive journey of self-discovery. Now that he's found this world of forbidden pleasures, he tries to work out his place in it. Now he's the aggressor, as we see when he brings some random dude back to his flat, splatters cream cheese on his chest (no euphemism, it's actually cream cheese, and no, I've got no idea why he does this), slices his chest up a little and quite vigorously cornholes him. Oh, and did I mention that he keeps his ex's severed arm in a jar next to his bed? Yeah, that's a little odd, although noone in the movie seems to think so. Those wacky Japanese, 'ey?!

Now, I know the only reason all you cockaholics are reading this is to find out the phallic dimensions of our protagonists, right?. Well sorry, but there's no schlong on display here. I can tell you that when our main guy has sex with someone, they tend to respond with shocked gasps and kind of animalistic gruntings that suggest more pain than pleasure. So I'm gonna go out on a limb and say he's 7.1245 inches long and a touch wider than a German kransky. Pretty decent for a Japanese guy. Obviously, this may not be exact. Judging penis size from the penetratee's vocal expressions is a delicate science indeed, and I don't claim to be an expert. But yeah, he's hung. There, ya' happy now?

All this leads up to a reuniting with his former lover at a party in a theatre. I won't spoil what happens, and frankly the scene is so strange that it'd take me a couple of paragraphs to explain. I've spoken enough, so I'll just say it's a satisfying conclusion. In fact, probably the biggest compliment I could pay this movie is that it's interesting enough that I could easily write more, even though it's only 58 minutes long. There's a whole subplot about the main guy trying to see Salo that I didn't even touch on. And there's the fact that the only female character is a full-on, high-heels-to-the-balls dominatrix. Fairly different to your average pinku, where the wimmin tend to consist of either the recently raped, the being raped or the soon-to-be raped.

Final assessment: It's not a great flick, but it's a damn unique one. Hisayasu Sato is a bizarre filmmaker even by Japan standards, and he knows to create a fine atmosphere with moody lighting, simple dialogue and nice camerawork. I realise some straight dudes will be put off by the gay sex, but watching this movie is waaaay less gay than trying to suck your own dick. Which every guy currently reading this and every guy not currently reading this has tried to do, at least once. So give it a shot. The movie that is, not sucking your own dick.

A short series of haikus about walrus rape

Haven't slept in weeks
Memories of walrus rape
Define my nightmares

Feminism's right
Tusk rape isn't about sex
I came anyway

Stampeding blubber
Foot long teeth rammed in my ass
Rectal blood gushes

Masochistic thrill
Bob Flanagan envies me
No tusk rape for him

Walrus spit-roast hell
Mouth full of fishy jism
Arsehole pouring blood

Toothy walrus grin
Forced up deep inside of me
Now I know true love

Water Power (1977)

Disclaimer: This review is of considerable length (not to mention girth) and contains a high degree of dirty, dirty sexiness. At first, you may be a little intimidated by the size of my review, but if you sit back and relax, I think you'll enjoy it. If at any point it becomes too much, just keep pushing onward. The climax is worth it.
For those of you who are game, here's a smooth soundtrack to enhance your reading pleasure - 

Enjoy.

Water Power

Wrong time, wrong place, man. That's the story of my life. Nowadays I wander down to my local cinema and all I see is screaming teens, 7 dollar popcorn and glossy Hollywood crap. It's a consumerist nightmare. A world made by fatcats for people who aren't me. What I really wanna do is strap on my bell bottoms, primp my killer 'fro and take a DeLorean ride to the mean streets of NY City, circa 1977. Walk on past all the jive cats selling smoke and coke on dirty street corners (picking up a few bucks worth of reality enhancement for myself naturally), down to the porno district and find a dingy little adult theatre. And when I'm there, what better movie to check out than the enema-themed, roughie porn classic Water Power.

These days I check out the latest releases and all the eye candy is tanned, toned, scrawny little girls who look like they've spent way more time in the gym than they have in the bedroom. What happened to all the women? I wanna see chicks where the eyes are full of lust, the inhibitions are non-existent, the tits are real and the minges are so untamed you could lose a set of keys in all that wilderness. What's even worse is all the films around now where the guys are girlier than the women. The concept of the man's man, the kinda dude you can idolise for the duration of the movie, is dead. All we get now is wimpy little douchebags like Shia LaBeouf and Jake Gyllenhall. "Men" who wax their chests and spend 120 bucks on a haircut. There's no new Clint Eastwood. No more Warren Oates. And there sure as hell ain't anyone close to the legend known as Jamie Gillis.

Gillis really is the driving force behind the awesomeness of Water Power. It's one of those rare times where an actor inhabits a character perfectly; where the character seems tailor designed for that actor. Because Gillis, aside from being a decent actor, is one grade A sleazeball. He was once praisingly described by fellow porn star Rick Savage as "by far the most perverse person I've ever met". When the world's biggest perverts are in awe of your perversity, I'd say that makes you pretty damn perverted. And that's exactly why Water Power works so well - the guy was turned on by anything so long as it was dirty. When the misogyny and enema fluid start to spray all over the screen in equal measures, there's nothing fake about the sheer enjoyment that Gillis displays. Even in the opening credits, we get a close-up screen of his face, and with one glance at his eyes, you can tell that the soul behind them single-mindedly yearns for extreme sleaze. He's so sleazy that I like to think he was somehow conceived when his mother was fucked in the ass. Such an unimmaculate conception would only too fitting for this anti-Jesus.

That's not to say there aren't some similarities between Gillis and Jesus. Just as JC washed the feet of his disciples to teach them humility, Water Power revolves around Gillis washing out the colons of dirty bitches to teach them... umm, not to be dirty bitches I guess. It all starts when Gillis's character, Burt, a loner who spends his evenings spying on the hottie across the street and taking naked photos, takes a trip down to his local brothel. At first he just wants to look around, but pretty soon the madam has convinced him to try their $10 introductory offer. As she says, "it's less than a cab ride to the airport, and it's so much more fun!" Woah, more fun than a cab ride to the airport?!?! Who could resist that sales pitch?! I sure as hell couldn't and neither can our man Burt, so quicker than you can say "junkie pornstar gobjob" he's handed over his 10 bucks and is gettin blown by Sharon Mitchell.

But that's not enough for Burt, so the madam allows him to sit in on one of their 'specials' - a fellow dressed as a doctor giving a young lady an enema. Personally I doubt this guy's credentials, because even I know that "extreme disobedience" is not a medical condition, and I'm pretty sure that it's not appropriate conduct to get sucked off by a nurse whilst performing a medical procedure. Regardless, the enema is given and, lo, a fetish is born in the heart and balls of our hero.

So, Burt's decided that enemas are where it's at and, unfortunately for the woman he spies on, this is when she decides to *gasp* have sex with a man. Obviously Burt can't let that behaviour stand so, with enema kit in hand, off he goes to clean her out. The rest of the movie basically consists of Burt giving a few more enemas to random women, all the while leading toward a final confrontation with the female cop who's trying to put an end to his bowel-cleansing rampage. Bet you can't guess what happens to her! If you guessed that she gets sold car insurance by a one-armed Chinese midget in a leather G-string then... well, you'd be wrong. And frankly, a little weird. Weirdo.

Kudos here has to go to director Shaun Costello. Water Power could have been a one-note premise, but he keeps things creative in a number of ways. There's the Taxi Driver esque portrayal of Burt's declining mental state. The bizarre soundtrack ripped off from several Bernard Herrmann scores. Even the enema scenes are done with variety, escalating levels of wrongness and, most importantly, a great deal of wit. I could go on but I need to wrap this up so I can wipe the semen of my laptop before it damages the keys.

All up, Water Power is an exploitation masterpiece, the likes of which we'll never see again. A filthy, depraved and hilarious ride with a magnificent, one-of-a-kind, centrepiece performance from the god of sleaze. If, like me, you've ever wanted to spend 80 minutes in the smoke-filled, jizz-soaked atmosphere of a 70's porno theatre, then it's a must see. Dare I say it, it's even more fun than a cab ride to the airport.

Guinea Pig: Flower of Flesh and Blood

These Hollywood parties never get boring. The sex, the drugs, the bubblegum pop. It feels good to be young, rich and famous, and there's never been a better year to be those things in than 1985.

Bowie and Jagger extol the virtues of dancing in the street, tantalising your ears with cheesy auditory bliss. The chemical sludge of phlegm mixed with quality cocaine oozes through your sinuses like a slow-motion river of pure heaven. Surrounded by the beautiful people where you belong, in this opulent mansion of decadence. Your eyes awash with narcotic glaze, you make your way through the throng of leather, denim and hairspray to the bar, where you grab a large unwatered-down scotch that's worth more than the bartender's annual salary. You quickly down two more, then head underneath the mirror ball to show off a few moves which look utterly ridiculous, but in this place, at this time, you will not be judged so harsh. The vibrations in the air urge you forward toward your latest conquest - another frantic, sweaty coupling that you'll immediately forget... but she never will. Who will the lucky lady be this time?

And then it happens. You spy a vision of pure beauty across the dance floor and your eyes lock. She's perfect. Like a mixture of Farrah Fawcett's sensuality, Madonna's attitude and Molly Ringwald's innocence. Her leather pants are so tight that removing them in under an hour would require an angle grinder. Her fluoro pink midriff top barely covers her natural, untanned tits. Her hair stands a full 8 inches high, like a lion's mane. But she's no lion. You are. And you've spotted your prey.

As you close in, the amount of product in her hair causes your eyes to sting and water, but it doesn't deter you. This is fate. This is destiny. It was meant to be. You move with fame fueled confidence into the cloud of CFC's, until you are finally face to face with this exquisite dream. And as the opening bars of Mr Mister's Broken Wings fill the room with liquid ecstasy, you stare deeply, passionately into her cleavage and utter the sacred words, "I am the Keymaster. Are you the Gatekeeper?" That's what you intend to say anyway, but your drug-addled vocal chords can only produce a stream of garbled nonsense. She seems impressed regardless. Of course she's impressed! After all, you're not just some nobody. You're Charlie fucking Sheen.

You take her hand to lead her somewhere a little more private. The main downstairs bathroom is no good as you know Rob Lowe is in there, getting blown by a 14 year old anorexic as he vacuums up lines of ketamine from between her jutting, razor-sharp shoulder blades. Living the dream. You drag her onward toward the guest bedroom, eager for that special moment of solitude that will both fulfil her starry-eyed sycophantic fantasies and ease the aching lust in your balls.

Through the living room, past the people crowded arounded the TV, watching some video.  Faces turn your way, shocked expressions set like stone, saying things like "You gotta watch this" and "Dude, I think this is real", but you have more pressing matters on your mind. You glance briefly at the screen to see a grainy picture of a dazed, near comatose Asian girl, barely conscious, tied to a bed as a samurai man slowly approaches her. For a split second, you consider stopping to watch, thinking it's one of the crazy pornos that Emilio picked up on his last Japan trip. But there'll be time for that later, only just before you turn away the man in the video pulls out a knife and drives it hard into the girl's wrist...

...

... and a wave of nausea sweeps over you so damn strong it nearly knocks you off your feet and suddenly you start to really, really regret that 43rd line of coke. The blade digs further into her wrist, carving through flesh, blood spattering onto the girl's face until the hand is severed altogether, the butchered wrist stump oozing blood onto the white sheets. The man starts to talk at the screen, but the words mean nothing to you. All you can think about is the gushing scarlet blood and how realistic it looked. Could this be the real thing? After all the rumours of snuff tapes circulating, are you now face-to-face with the genuine article? The picture is so grainy and the sound so muffled that you can't tell for sure, but then this kind of thing isn't ever likely going to get a crisp remaster with English subtitles now, is it? All you can do is keep watching. You can't not watch.

Now her shoulder is sliced open, gouts of gore spurting out as the blade parts flesh. Your hand is yanked by the woman who was to be tonight's entertainment, notch number 400-something on your tomahawk, but you barely even notice. Your surroundings fade into nothing until all that exists here with you is the fuzzy image of a bloodthirsty madman and his innocent victim, and the realisation that you are watching the slow murder of a human being. Your dream evening has become nightmare incarnate, far worse than any phantoms that have ever existed in a sleeping dreamscape - even worse than the time you dreamt that in the future you'd be a washed-up has-been starring in a terrible sitcom with an annoying kid. That was pure fantasy, but these pictures of a psychotic samurai proudly carrying a severed hand-less arm, this is real.

As a chisel is inserted into the deep rent on her shoulder, the wrenching sound of tearing cartilage vibrates through your gut, the sensitivity of your nerve endings heightened to ungodly levels by enough cocaine to give Tony Montana an embolism; each individual sound of rending and tearing flesh adding extra icicles to the cold sweat dripping down your back. And still it continues...

The girl's legs sawed off slowly, the back and forth slicing of the metal teeth through meat and bone echoing through your brain like a plague of locusts big enough to swarm over the USSR. The blood arcing through the air like crimson flowers. The entrails dragged out of her gut with cold methodical efficiency, slippery and slithering, the full glorious gory viscera that makes the human body function, now just a pile of offal - unattractive and unimportant... meat. The head sliced clean off to land in an unceremonious heap on the floor, only to be retrieved for further degradation as the eyeballs are clumsily scooped out. This is more than just murder. This is a complete deconstruction of the human form - splayed out on a butchers slab and taken apart piece by piece, treated like a carcass before it was even dead.

You can take no more. Your hands are shaking, your heart is pounding and your brain is throbbing like it's trying to escape your skull. You watched it; you can't unwatch it. Grabbing your companion by the arm (what was her name again?), you wordlessly drag her roughly to the guest bedroom, still in a state of disbelief at how someone could be so inhumane as to treat another person with such total disregard, as merely a source of personal amusement. Tomorrow, you'll turn the tape over the authorities. But for now, it's time to give this piece of ass a good 3 and a half minutes of passion that she can brag about to her friends afterwards. Snuff tape aside, you still have a reputation to uphold.

Gusomilk

There are very few films that achieve legendary status. Citizen Kane is legendary for the ground-breaking way in which it smashed through accepted ideals of cinematic storytelling. Apocalypse Now is legendary for its cursed, problematic, 2 year long filming shoot. Murder Set Pieces is legendary for its reports that, during production, the director smelled really bad and continually ate his own boogers. And Gusomilk has become legendary as an endurance test for even the most jaded of shock-hounds.

Gusomilk opens quite suspensefully with an anonymous fellow leading 3 cuties (also anonymous) into a hotel room, where another hottie is fast asleep. They all undress her and fondle her body for a while, before one of the cuties decides to take a squat and let loose a mound of rectal fudge onto Sleeping Beauty’s chest. Naturally, the other 2 girls follow suit, each squeezing out their own turd onto this blissfully unaware young lady. Oh by the way, did I mention that this movie is Japanese?

What strikes the viewer immediately is just how different and distinctive each of the pooping styles are. From huge deluges of brown matter, through to sickly mucus-covered sludge-balls, through to thin, delicate strands, the variety of poops on display always keeps the viewer guessing just what exactly the next butt-belch is going to look like. I can’t help but wonder: Was this a planned decision on the director’s behalf? Do these girls have to audition for the roles at all? Are there ads in Japanese newspapers that say “Wanted: Actresses who are willing to be filmed whilst pooping and/or being pooped on. Own transport required.”? Does some casting director watch dozens of girls poop and then select the ones whose poop has the most on-screen charisma? Are different poops compared side-by-side to see if there’s any chemistry between them? This is thought-provoking cinema indeed.

But the attention to detail doesn’t stop there. There’s labia cover to ensure that visual fogging can be kept at a minimum. When the girls are ready to poop simultaneously, they’re carefully grouped together to provide the most visually appealing tableau of Asian ass. When the giant anal syringes full of milk are brought out, they’re kindly shown with measurements on them, so any trivia freak watching will know that each colonic dairy expulsion to be sprayed over our snoozing protagonist is exactly 200 mLs. You have to applaud when scat porn is produced with such craft and care, sensitivity and respect for the viewer’s intelligence.

Finally, our heroine wakes up and seems strangely unconcerned that she’s been coated in feces and ass-milk. If I woke up in a similar situation, I’d be a little annoyed. But then again, I’m not Japanese.

In the next scene, our sleepy lady is back, now fully awake and has a friend with her. This your basic lesbian romance story – Girl meets girl. Girl 1 shoves weird things up Girl 2’s ass. Girl 2 expels objects from ass. Girl 1 puts afore-mentioned expelled objects in mouth, chews them to a fine paste and spits them in Girl 2’s mouth. Girl 2 does gargantuan crap into Girl 1’s hands. Girls smear crap on each others bodies and in each others mouths. And they both live happily ever after. How many times have we heard that one before … This scene is not only the finest of the film, but also the most famous as it provided us with the Eel Girl clip that I’m sure you’re all familiar with. If not, then look it up. I ain’t givin no links, folks.

Scene 3 starts and our sassy girl is back, this time dressed up as a dominatrix and doing all dominatrixy things like crapping on some guy and extinguishing a cigarette on his chest. It’s here that the whole theme of the film starts to solidify. In using the same actress in a succession of varied scenarios, the experience becomes, not just a series of gross-outs, but one woman’s personal exploration of the intricacies of sexual power dynamics, a fantasy exercise where she gets to take on the roles of the submissive and the dominant in varying degrees. With poop.

This theme is cemented in the final scene where we see our girl in a sexual encounter where the power dynamic is 50/50. They meet. There’s a little foreplay. He goes down on her. She goes down on him. And then they couple in the traditional missionary position. It’d be a typical porno scene, were it not for the line-up of random people taking turns unloading steaming dumps on our star’s chest and squirting colonful’s of milk on her face. When the climax arrives, he naturally jerks out a ball-load of baby snot onto her chin, and she flashes the camera a winning smile and a saucy wink.

This final shot really summarises what is so pleasing about the movie, because the smile she gives us is genuine. Unlike other Jap-scat flicks, your Squirmfest’s and what not, where the focus is entirely on degrading the female, this one is full of folk who honestly enjoy what they’re doing. If someone can get to the end of a working day and truly be happy with what they’ve achieved, then that’s a reason for all of us to smile. We all get crapped on in life, but if you can do something that makes you happy, then at least you’ve held on to your dignity.

So, that’s Gusomilk. A journey through sexual power dynamics and a treatise on human dignity, both shown via the medium of anal excretions. Or it could just be people pooping on each other. I don’t know. Hey, you try thinking straight after watching 90 minutes of Japanese scat porn.