Richard Griffin's Flicks and Sarah Nicklin's Tits

Part 1

Way back in 2007, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's plan to create a double feature emulating trashy '70s B-movies was quite a novelty. Since then, the idea has become as far from a novelty as you can get. In the wake of Grindhouse, a fucking motherfuckton of exploitation homages have been jizzed on to the eyeballs of horror-loving audiences. Throwbacks are now about as original as found-footage flicks. Most of them are pre-packaged cult films, frustratingly filled with faux-seriousness and knowing winks-at-the-audience. Still, I quite like them because, unlike found-footage, they're actually entertaining. I'm the kinda guy who thinks tits, gore and rape are a lot more fun than night-vision handicam shots of doors moving slightly. Crazy, I know.

So next up on the chopping block is Richard Griffin's The Disco Exorcist, a movie I'd been absolutely dying to check out for ages, ever since I first laid eyes on the cool DVD cover earlier that afternoon. We're talking 3, maybe even 4 hours of anticipation. Did it live up to all the incredible things I hadn't heard about it? Let's find out!

 Imagine if Saturday Night Fever was a splatter flick. Sounds cool, right? That's pretty much what you've got with The Disco Exorcist. Our hero is a fella named Rex Romanski. This is him -

Damn, those are some suave motherfuckin' threads. Naturally, looking that cool, Rex is a total pussy magnet who spends his nights loving and leaving all the ladies down at the local disco. The mayhem starts when he poons a voodoo priestess, only to then promptly ditch her for his favourite porn star Amoreena Jones. The spurned witch bitch unleashes demonic forces en masse onto the couple and everyone around them.

As throwbacks go, this one is pretty freakin' great. It avoids any faux-serious pratfalls by being a straight-up horror-comedy; not especially funny, but still a shitload of fun. The look of the film is a balance between authentic and exagerrated, filled with gaudy colours and general '70s stylings. Best of all, Richard Griffin does the one thing that Grindhouse totally failed at - he fills his movie with lots and lots of tits.

Right from the off, there's tits before the opening credits - 

There's tits during the opening credits -

The evil chick is kind enough to give us a gander at her tits -

There's even some male tits for all the women and pillow-biters out there -

Basically the only chick who doesn't show tits is the headliner, Sarah Nicklin. Instead we get shots like this -

Or this -

Most annoying, I'm sure you'll agree, and doubly so because she plays a fucking porn star. Admittedly, my short-term memory ain't the best nowadays and it's been around 17 minutes since I watched any porn, but I seem to recall that the actresses involved in such productions usually get their tits out.

I couldn't help but wonder: Who's to blame for this tit-covering travesty? Does Sarah Nicklin simply not want to bare her tits for the world to see? Or was it a deliberate directorial decision, echoing low-budget productions of the past where tits would appear in abundance, but the main starlet would remain clothed?

There's only one surefire way to fucking solve this cunt of a conundrum. I need to watch another Richard Griffin flick...

**********************************************

Part 2: The Retitsening

This is a sequel review to the review you just finished reading. Kinda like what Aliens is to Alien - faster-paced and more action-packed. It blows the first review out of the goddamn airlock. State of the badass art. And you, you little shithead, you're staying here. You always were an asshole, Gorman.

But mostly it's just pictures of tits. Mostly.

So there's Sarah Nicklin on the poster, looking all hot in a nun's getup. Surely she exposes her tits in this one, right? I'm not expecting her to be topless for the whole movie or anything. I'd be happy with just a 10-20 second shot of her with tits thrust straight at the camera, maybe with her sensually caressing them and uttering a line or two of dialogue about how she loves it when drunken, 30-something Aussie guys shower them with warm semen. I don't think that's asking for too much.

So, Nun of That is about a supertroupe of highly trained, vigilante nuns who kick ass for the Lord and gun down drug dealers and murderers. Blah blah, blah, plot stuff, etc. Let's cut to the tits.

Whilst it has nowhere near the level of tits as The Disco Exorcist, there's still a few nice pairs on display. Sarah Nicklin's is not among them. I don't understand it. Does she hate me? Here she is in a shower scene, not showing her tits -

Debbie Rochon has a small role in the film, but she also doesn't show her tits. She just wears a nun's habit, which is fairly hot, but not as hot as her tits. Here's her tits as seen in a different movie -

What the hell, I love the Rochons, so let's have another look at them -

Linnea Quigley and Brinke Stevens aren't in this movie at all. You think that's gonna stop me from showing a piccie of those 2 sultry vixens and their awesome tits? Not a chance. Here you go -

You know who else has really great tits? This chick from the 2007 movie Brain Dead -

I haven't seen that one, but shit on my chest and call me Stinktits if that isn't one of the greatest racks you've ever seen.

Okay, where was I? No idea. Guess I should wrap this up.

In summary, The Disco Exorcist is the bomb; a near-perfect mixture of cheese and sleaze that's guaranteed to satisfy unless you're one of those fuckwits who cares about fancy production values. Check it out. I hate to be too forceful with my recommendations, but if you don't watch this then I'll skullfuck your mother, film it and put the tape on youtube, understand? No pressure. Nun of That is not as essential, but it's a fun enough time if you've got a spare 90 minutes to kill.

As for Sarah Nicklin? She's my latest mission. The world needs to know that it is not acceptable for a woman to star in an exploitation movie without flashing her tits. I'll scour every inch of this globe, leaving no stone unturned, until I find a picture of her tits. She makes the slightest nip-slip, then I'll be there to capture it on camera. I don't care if she's standing topless next to the prophet Mohammed, I'll take that photo and publish it here. I'll gladly risk jihad in the name of filth. If anyone reading this knows Sarah Nicklin's tits, then you tell 'em I'm coming... and hell's coming with me, you hear? HELL'S COMING WITH ME!!!
 
Until next time... You stay filthy, folks.

The Many Faces of Rik Mayall

If I went through and counted up every single laugh I've ever had in my life, then tallied up the individuals who'd given me those laughs, Rik Mayall would easily be in my top 3 laugh providers. Considering how obsessively I used to rewatch Bottom - a show where even the opening credits sequence makes me laugh every single time - he may be numero uno on my official laughter list. I have a lot to thank him for.

They say that laughter is the best medicine. If that's true, then Rik has probably cured me of a few dozen terminal cancers.

As a comedian, he had every big gun there is - a fine character actor, a tremendously witty wordsmith and a sensational physical performer. He could take a fake punch better than anyone on the planet. One of the most naturally gifted funnymen there's ever been. Just look at Lord Flashheart: In 12-odd hours of Blackadder, Flash appears for a total of about 15 minutes. That's all the time Rik needed to steal the show and create a character that's still remembered. It takes a truly special talent to pull that off.

He didn't write the part of Flashheart, but he owned it. When Rik stepped out on the stage or in front of the camera, it was like a fucking hurricane of comedic energy. Few could stand up to that force, let alone compete with it.

Of course, one man not only competed with that energy, but complemented it and drove it to greater heights: Adrian Edmondson.  Although they'll both be most well known for the Young Ones, it's the Rik and Ade partnership that stands out for me, in whatever form it took - Bottom, Dangerous Brothers, Mr Jolly, etc.

With most comedy duos - Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Jerry and Deano - there's the Straight Man and the Funny Man. With Rik and Ade, it was more like the Mad Man and the Even Madder Man; the two of them swapping roles on a minute-by-minute basis. Separate, they're both still great, but put them together and a magical concoction of pure chaos is formed. Utterly demented and utterly hilarious carnage. Like nitro meeting glycerin. Like the Henry Lee Lucas and Otis Toole of comedy.

Never before or since have two men so extensively and exhaustively beaten the living shit out of each other in the name of comedy. Fists, boots, cricket bats, frying pans - any object on hand, these guys would smash into each others faces. We've seen broken noses, broken limbs, chopped off fingers, countless mortal injuries, oceans of guzzled booze and an entire Kleenex factory worth of spunk rags. They made an artform out of punching each other in the bollocks. If that wasn't enough, they also invented the now-classic party game, Put A Bit Of Sellotape On The Fridge.

There's been plenty of other characters throughout the years too, including Alan B'Stard...

Adonis Cnut...

Colin Grigson...

Micky Love...

Generally, I don't much care when a celebrity dies. This time, it hurt. I popped in a Bottom DVD, tentative about rewatching his classic material, because I thought the humour would now be tinged with melancholy. But it wasn't. It was just as funny as the first time I saw it. That's how good he is. Not even his own death can prevent him from being funny. A genius is dead and I can't stop laughing my fuckin' arse off.

So yep, The Lamb and Flag is closed for good. Richard Richard has left the building. The crazy, mad, wild-eyed, big-bottomed anarchist has gone up in flames. The Falklands veteran will never again shut Tucker's finger in the tank door and is off to meet his mates Ginger, Tommy, Tiddles, Spot, Joey, Snowy and, uhm, Corky...

The People's Poet is dead. But he's still making me laugh and he'll keep on making me laugh, until my own freedom bus to Goodtime City plummets over a cliff.

RIP, farewell and, most of all, thanks.

L.A. Zombie (2010)

With the recent decease of the Reverend Fred Phelps, I thought I'd honour his passing by reviewing some gay porn. It's what he would have wanted, I think. Perhaps while you're reading, you could also pay your respects by mentally picturing him in a massive gangbang with loads of muscular, hung studs. An image I'm sure the man himself thought about on many an occasion...

I must admit, I was a little disappointed with Bruce La Bruce's Otto Or Up With Dead People. Sure, it had plenty of microbudget creativity, but it just didn't deliver on the gay zombie front. When I hear a movie described as "ya know, that gay zombie porno", I expect a throbbing, pulsating bonerload of gay zombie porn. Scene after scene of sweaty gay zombie on gay zombie bumlovin'. Well-hung gay zombies cornholing pert gay zombie ass, slobbering gay zombie tonguelove all over gay zombie ballsacks, slurping out gay zombie shitholes and spurting massive loads of warm gay zombie ejaculate all over silky-smooth, immaculately waxed gay zombie chests and gay zombie eyebrows. I have standards, and Otto sadly didn't meet them. Fortunately, Brucey well and truly rectumfied this gay zombie shortage with his follow-up feature, LA Zombie, a movie that fully deserves the title of "Ya know, that gay zombie porno".

It's important that I state upfront that I'm not the target audience for this movie, because I'm not gay. Seriously. Not even a little. My fashion tastes are rubbish, I don't own any skin moisturising products, I'm a terrible dancer and I didn't get one single erection when I watched Fight Club. Given the choice between eating a chocolate icecream and having a lengthy bout of frantic anal sex with another man, I'd choose the icecream everytime. And I don't even like chocolate icecream all that much. If a male friend of mine wore a trendy new pair of pants, I probably wouldn't notice, and even if I did, I'd just say something like, "Hey bro, cool pants." I definitely wouldn't say, "Hey bro, cool pants. The tightness in the crotch really accentuates your nicely-sized and highly desirable penis which, incidentally, I'd love to have thrusting vigorously inside my aching man-minge over and over until it gushed baby yoghurt all over my lower back." Nope. Wouldn't even think something like that. That's how not gay I am.

So now that any doubts about my sexuality are out of the way, it's time to press Play and watch a bunch of hot, big-dicked studs fuck the fucking shit out of each other. FUCK YEAH!!!

Our undead homo poonfest begins with the main character, hereafter referred to as "Z", wandering out of the ocean, looking all zombieish and with his dead gay johnson flappin' around in the waves. He hitchhikes naked for a while, as gay zombies tend to do, before being picked up by a handsome young man. In fact, almost everyone in the movie is a good-looking male - a fairly sensible casting choice for any gay porno. Anyhoo, a car crash ensues which leaves the driver splattered all over the road and Z with an aching death-boner in need of a warm hole to be filled. He has sex with the dead guy's intestines for a while, which brings him back to life. Not particularly plausible, but I applaud any movie that prizes gutfucking above medical accuracy. The two dudes have some more sex (this time in the bumbum instead of the abdomen) before Z pulls out and delivers a massive bloodspunk facial from his horned cock. Even for a straight dude, this is already way more badass than that fancy-schmancy Pirates crap.

The movie is, like most porn, structured around the sex scenes, only with a gay zombie twist. We get a series of unrelated events where Z happens across tragedy and raises the deceased with his unholy hard-on. Death lurks behind every corner, ready to fucked back into the light.

There's enough variety to keep things interesting though.

Take the scene where a dead gangbanger is dumped out of a car with a gunshot in his forehead and Z does his Lazarus thing by rubbing his dick on the bullet hole. Original, to say the least. This moment also highlights what a low-budget endeavour this is. A higher budget would have been nice for better FX, to give us viewers the full pleasure of a forceful skullfucking. I guess, even among gay porn enthusiasts, not many people want to chip in funds to see some dude in zombie makeup pounding his fuckin' hardon into another dude's gaping cranial wound. That's the tough thing about being a filmmaker - balancing cash against pure artist vision; making allowances and on-the-spot aesthetic judgements; forever being assaulted with difficult questions like "Does my movie really require graphic closeups of a zombie splunging his fuckstick into a corpse's trephinated skull-pussy?" All the greats - Murnau, Welles, Hitchcock, Kurosawa, Coppolla, Spielberg, Nguyen, etc - have had to ask themselves this exact thing at some point in their career.

Given the cheapness of the production, it all looks quite nice though. Hard to judge porn on its technical qualities really. I'm not gonna pretend the acting is Oscar standard, but I can say that the main actor, Francois Sagat, is totally hot. I'd blow him. Not in a gay way obviously. But after a few beers, if he asked nicely, I'd tentatively give his penis a squeeze and delicately wrap my lips around his glans (wiping away any precum first, coz I'm not gay), then rub the tip of my tongue over his frenulum and corona while jerking his shaft (only lightly though, coz I'm not gay), cupping his scrotum in my other hand and tickling his perineum with my index finger, slowly moving it further back to softly probe his anus (only up to the first knuckle though, coz I'm not gay), while I finally engulf his entire length and work it with hand and mouth while massaging his swollen testicles, until he reaches exploding point and jets man-seed in my hair (obviously I wouldn't swallow any, coz I'm not gay). That's as far as I'd go though. Just a totally straight dude giving some other dude a non-gay blowjob for being especially handsome. Ain't nothin' gay about that. Hell, I'm so goddamn hetero, I'd probably pretend it was a woman's dick in my mouth.

An extra layer of interest is added to the film by reality

becoming skewed as the perspective flips between Z being a zombie and being a homeless bum. Is he an actual undead saviour with a life-giving boner, or just a mentally ill tramp? The latter option adds an extra layer of discomfort, purely due to the scene where Z gets his asshole tongued out. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally cool with analingus. I thought the mass ass-eating orgy was the finest scene in Sorority Sex Kittens 4. Even for fellas that love fellas, if you've got some fresh-faced twink who's just had a shower, then sure, go wild. Part those silky smooth ass cheeks and give his pristine, pink, puckering hole a tongueload of passionate loving. But a scungy homeless guy? How's that erotic in any way? You yank down his piss-stained pants that haven't been changed in a month. You stretch apart his grimy buttcheeks. Congealed anus-sweat causes his ass hairs to cling together, with dried ancient dregs of unwiped shit caught in them, like flies trapped in a spider web. You part the strands and dig your tongue inside. Slobbering saliva causes the dags of feces to moisten and smear against your cheeks and mouth, as wafts of unwashed rectal stench assaults your nostrils, so thick you can feel it in the back of your throat. Anyone turned on by that? Cause I'm not. And I'm a pretty weird guy.

On the other hand, this zombie/bum dichotomy does add depth and provide the movie with its overarching theme, which is alienation. Regardless of which he is, Z goes about his business deliberately ignored or abhorred by everyone. The freeform, non-plot driven porno style gives the whole thing an almost existentialist slant; the lonesome wandering of the outcast, trying to understand an alien world. This is outsider art about the plight of the outsider. Director Bruce LaBruce is an anomaly among gay filmmakers, in that he produces queer art that rejects standard gay culture as being no less normative than any paradigmatic exemplar of the hetero status quo. He uses the queer film template not to conform the culture to the norm, but to be anarchic within it; gay porn designed to be rejected by the gay community. From the Nazi regalia of Raspberry Reich, to the anal amputee stump-fucking of Hustler White, to the zombie porn here, to the zombie terrorist porn of his photographic art, LaBruce is the black sheep of the gay world, relatively unacknowledged even among the most liberal and accepting. This is quite special considering the GayVN happily handed a lifetime achievement award to Roger Earl, director of the piss-and-rape gay classick Born to Raise Hell. In a world where those desperately trying to stand out from the crowd are starting to become the biggest crowd of all, LaBruce makes being a genuine oddity seem natural and effortless.

I can't help but think that LA Zombie is an intentionally

grotesque satire on the whole porn industry. Watching porn that you're not turned on by really shows how ludicrous it all is. At the end of the day, zombie makeup, fake gore and blood facials ain't that much different to excessive eye-shadow, silicon tits and money shots. But more than that, it drives home how silly-looking sex itself is. All the tangled limbs and sweat and moaning and shuddering and protein mess. Take off your libido goggles and the whole thing is quite ridiculous. In a way, that's what makes good sex so awesome, because you don't care about looking ridiculous. It's where you can leave behind all your worries, forget about the outside world and truly live in the now. An orgasm is where you shed your entire personality and momentarily become a being of pure sensation. Even zombies deserve that feeling.

Bruce LaBruce: Artist. Iconoclast. Pervert. Legend.

Dog 1 (1969)

"Where are the products that the arch feminists promise?  The ones that complement and support their rants of brutal misogyny and sociopathic self-absorption?  The pornography that breathes and breeds abuse?  The videos, magazines, and photo sets that exist unequivocally above the common, simple-minded analysis of doggerel and money-charged excesses?  The work crystal clear in motive and hard action that lays waste to any need for the clichéd female rhetoric of thoughts-equal-action?
Where can one go for the good stuff?  The mean, mean evil-minded material that proves the monolithic porno business to be as dirty and sad as the feminists need it to be?" - Peter Sotos
 
"One of my claims to fame is that I knew the dog even before Linda did." - Jamie Gillis

Although certain draconian definitions state that pornography's single-minded purpose is that of sexual arousal, porno has always been a two-sided coin. You do indeed have the aphrodisiac side, your basic jerk-off material. However there's always been a grimy underworld that deals, not in eroticism, but in obscenity and degradation and taboo. Outside of a minority of fetishists, the demand for this darker material is driven almost entirely by basic human curiosity. Enter... Dog 1 aka Dogarama aka Dog Fucker. Although Bodil Joensen's Animal Farm was the smash-hit animal porno among bootleggers and tape trading circuits, Dog 1 was a lesser-known and rarer slice of filth that became highly prized due to its lead actress - Linda Lovelace, an unknown at the time of filming. Just as Linda went on to become the world's most famous pornstar, Dog 1 eventually became much larger than just a dog-sex porn loop, achieving notoriety for considerably more unsettling reasons...

First, to the movie itself: We open on Linda, facedown and spreadcheeked, getting pooned from behind (this was before her mouth became such a desired commodity) by a nameless dude. He finishes up and shoves her away, leaving her unsatisfied. Desperate, she reaches for fulfillment by other means, of the furry, 4-legged variety. Her sweet German Shephard. Woman's best friend, all too eager to roll over, bury his bone and go fetch the pieces of her broken heart.
 

Jaunty music plays. The air is thick with romance; forbidden lust unbound. She sensually fondles his doggy meat. He tongues away at her delicates in a gentlemanly manner that suggests he'd gladly have bought her a fancy French dinner first, if only he had any idea what was going on. She takes him in her mouth for a mere 2 seconds, as long as his furiously jackhammering pelvis allows, before he returns his probing tongue to her nether regions to repay the favour. Then... he mounts! Tail up, boner a-quiver, he pounds against her, switching from doggy style to missionary with the natural skill of a pro. Then, as quickly as it began, it's over...

Of course, the reality of this so-grainy-its-almost-unwatchable porn loop is far less obscene than I'm making it out to be. Anyone with the most minor interest in bestiality porn will already know that the dog material out there is little more than harmless hilarity. If you've ever seen a dog hump someone's leg, then you'll know that they're far from the most attentive of lovers in the animal kingdom. The canine pornstar is always too desperately frantic in his sexual efforts to allow genuine coitus to take place. Actual penetration is non-existent, outside of the occasional happy accident. W.C. Fields once said, "Never work with animals or children." I'd say that's probably more true of porn than any other line of work.

 
About a decade after Dog 1 was made, Linda Lovelace was taken under the wing of anti-pornography feminist group Women Against Pornography - most notably undercover Playboy bunny Gloria Steinem and unfuckable warthog Andrea Dworkin - and became outspoken about the unsavoury truth behind her porn career. She left her life of "sexual slavery" and became the first big-name "porn survivor", to use Dworkin's own terminology. We all know the story by now: supposedly forced into prostitution and porno by her husband, Chuck Traynor, who would beat her regularly. Gang-raped, hypnotised, forcibly sleep-deprived and threatened with a gun. Some friends and co-stars have backed up her tales of abuse. Others have labelled her a compulsive liar and an insatiable sex freak unwilling to take responsibility for own choices.

 

Dog 1 played a part in this dark tale, though mainly through rumour of its existence; a mystical Holy Grail of depravity that showed just how used and degraded Lovelace once was. Although she initially denied even starring in the stag loop, when video copies surfaced, she professed to have been forced at gunpoint to perform. The cameraman of Dog 1 has since come forth to say that Linda starred with no coercion. Others on the set have stated that not only was she willing, but highly enjoyed herself. The question arises: If Dog 1 is so perfectly emblematic of the misogynistic brutalisation of women that's rampant in the porn arena, why did she deny her involvement? Her unwillingness to even acknowledge its existence suggests her anti-porn crusade was driven as much by shame as it was abuse. And, of course, a good deal of the shame forced upon porn performers comes from, you guessed it, anti-pornography groups like Women Against Pornography.
 

You see, some founding members of Women Against Pornography were proponents of an especially vehement brand of radical feminism that insisted that almost all forms of sex equate to sexual subjugation of women, that sex itself is inherently disempowering to females. You enjoy a hard peen inside you, ladies? Well, then you're assisting in the enforcement of male sexual dominance. Feel confident when you wear a sexy outfit? Sorry, you're merely beautifying yourself to satisfy the all-powerful male gaze. What about if you don a studded leather dominatrix get-up and horse-whip a man into submission, that's pretty powerful, right? Nope, wrong again. You're only fulfilling male desires, shaping yourself as a slave to male expectation.

These attitudes were even more extreme when it came to pornography. Female porn performers were labelled as "objects" or "things" or "commodities" or "filthy" or "inferior". All of these words were supposedly employed in the defense of women, yet effectively served purely in the offense, with not a hint of self-realisation that, in denying any form of female sexual power, women are relegated solely to the role of victim. I am woman, hear me roar... but only because men enjoy the sound of my roaring. This is 'feminism'?? And these broads actually had the nerve to call other people misogynists???
 

Don't get me wrong, in the midst of all the varying stories about Linda Lovelace, there lurks the undeniable fact that she was physically abused, to an unknown extent. Make no mistake, Chuck Traynor was a grade-A scumbag. But why should porn take the blame for his douchebaggery? The porn industry is certainly not the only big business to treat its workers like meat. As far as I can see, porno offers a comparatively high rate of reward for a comparatively low level of work. Unlike other industries, a lifetime's employment in porn is not gonna lead to crippling back and joint pain from heavy manual labour. Nor do you find ex-pornstar's spending their twilight years frantically gasping for air into asbestos-filled lungs. No risk of Carpal tunnel syndrome, unless one specialises in handjob vids. The only potential damage is psychological. I'm supposed to care because getting fucked on camera for a bit of easy money might lead to self-esteem issues? You gotta be kidding me.

Fact is, life is a series of mistakes, some of which you learn from. We protect children from the harsh realities of life, because they're not yet equipped to handle the obstacles that life presents. When you're an adult, you're on your own. Expressing concern about the role of women in pornography is essentially saying that women should be treated like children. That women are too stupid to make their own life decisions, too weak to deal with their mistakes and too fragile to handle the consequences. There's no way around it. The porn industry is more honest and upfront about itself than any of those who oppose it.

 

The most loathsome thing about Lovelace's whole ordeal is the way that, without a shred of irony, the anti-porn feminist brigade objectified her, in a different manner than that which they accused the porn industry of doing, but no less dehumanising. Instead of viewing her as tits, ass and cunt, they used her as a symbol. She was their trump card. The misused piece of meat that proved all their cock-fearing speculation about the grunting, knuckle-dragging, woman-hating porn industry to be every bit as depraved and misogynistic as their wildest, most rape-filled dreams. She was no longer a woman. She was women. She was the face of an entire demographic. She was every female who'd ever been filmed getting filled with man-meat and later regretted it. They reeled her out in front of rallys, sociology lectures and government hearings. They quoted her in books. They put her name on placards. And, much like the porn industry, they gave her a small sliver of their profits, then left her to fend for herself. What a pack of hypocrites.

A human being is always objectified and condescended to whenever they're considered part of a demographic. Reduced to a gender or a race or a sexual preference or a career choice. So, to conclude, I'm gonna say that, as a person, as an individual, I like Linda Lovelace. I like her despite her hypocrisy in turning against the institution that made her a superstar. I like her unequivocally, because she stood tall in front of a judgemental world and proclaimed with a beaming smile that she gives a damn good blowjob, and that giving a good blowjob is something worth being proud of. In doing so, she irrevocably changed the psychic landscape of human sexuality, far more than Krafft-Ebing or Freud or Kinsey or any other high-falutin' academic could ever dream of. And she did a damn sight more for the sexual freedom of women than anyone who tried to use or control her. The fact that she also starred in a mildly entertaining dogfuck tape... well, that's just gravy.

Dog 1, in all its hi-definition glory