Soaked in Sex, a 99-minute semi-hardcore porno released in December of 2007 by Playgirl TV, is an oddity from start to finish– not for the sex contained therein (for the most part, it’s pretty predictable stuff), but for the hazy concept of audience that Playgirl’s going for.

But first let’s talk about sex. I’ve been popped in the past for my “reviews” not actually, well, talking at all about the nuts and bolts of what goes on in the movie, so I’ll try to tackle the prurient interest first (if briefly).

1st scene: Jasmine Byrne gets it on with her landscaper, Kris Knight. This typically dumb porn scenario leads to seven minutes (seriously!) of making out, and then the clothes start to fall off. I believe in foreplay, but this is a bit much. An unrealistic, passionless cunnilingus episode goes nowhere fast; then, they go straight for the sex, only later getting into a boring, cut-laden blowjob scene with none of the original sounds kept in. Bad electronic music runs rampant through your mind. Then it’s back to the same position(!), and Kris Knight immediately cums on Byrne’s shapely leg. Not a keeper.

Jasmine Byrne and Kris Knight

2nd scene: Dani Woodward and Jack Lawrence are waiters. Dani’s sexy, and Jack Lawrence is a waxen-chested boring rod of a penis. Sparks fly, and they end up having one-position sex, too, but not before they make out for like ten minutes, also. Look. If I wanted to see people who didn’t really love one another kiss, I’d go over to my friend Rich’s house and watch him and his wife tongue-wrestle on their couch. But this ain’t what I need from a porno. Anyhow. A sad twenty minutes later, Jack ejaculates on Dani’s pretty stomach.

Dani Woodward and Jack Lawrence

Hey, I think you get the basic picture: this is a pretty useless porno. In terms of sexual cinema, this movie is well-nigh unwatchable, and it’s bad for all the reasons that porns are usually bad: the music is consistently offensive, the sex is utterly without passion for 75% of the scenes, and the thespian-styled touches that come with the film - i.e, the “scenarios” and the narrative voice-overs - are poorly executed and jarringly intrusive. The saving grace? These actors, both male and female, are very attractive.

Attractive people like to have sex

But that attractiveness is implicated in the problem that plagues Soaked in Sex. For maybe I’m just super-dense, but it took me literally the entire movie to figure out who this film was marketed for - and to be honest, I’m still sort of confused.

Let me explain: I’m a heterosexual male who’s watched roughly six million porn movies in my time. Left to my own devices, I’m nearly always going to choose a gonzo film, hopefully one that features a pretty girl (or several) who’ll do disgusting things. I always want to see real sex - where you can feel the vibe, and hear the asides, listen to the mistakes, and basically just feel like people are honestly fucking. I don’t need a mansion as a backdrop. Give me a starkly lit, non-pretty setting, and I’m happy. When it comes to dudes, I like my porn to be orchestrated by a team of working-class kind of guys with big dicks, who have a sense of humor and, if at all possible, a rudimentary sense of the absurd. That’s my ideal porn world.

Now, I admit, when it comes to male talent, I do prefer seeing “hot” guys to guys who are old/fat/look like they smell sort of bad. Good-looking guys are fun for me to watch in a scene. Maybe it’s because I want to pretend that I’m hot like they are. Maybe I just enjoy looking at beautiful bodies, no matter the gender. I’m not sure, but I do know that I’ll happily take Billy Glide over Ron Jeremy any day of the week.

Billy Glide in “Milf’s Like it Big.”

“Soaked in Sex” features Dani Woodward, Gia Paloma, and Taryn Thomas as the female eye candy. There’s not a bad-looking girl in the movie, actually - and the only pair of enhanced breastices we get are on Gia Paloma and Audrey Hollander, and neither woman sports giant, weird mammaries. All in all, they look good. But as hot as the girls are, the guys are even hotter. And they have even less hair on their bodies. Marco Duato, Kris Knight, Jean Val Jean and Eric Masterson are the notable beefcake.

Jean Val Jean in “Soaked In Sex.”

Now, I’d wack off to that, wouldn’t you? He doesn’t even look like a man. He looks like a blond Horse.

Nevertheless, the question remains: Who is Playgirl intending their audience to be? At first glance, I thought this was a couple’s movie. But when I watched it, I felt no man in the world could deal with the stuff they were serving up. I mean, literally, three of the five scenes have only one position. There are zero facial cumshots. There’s no original sound in the entire movie - just really bad music coupled with really bad voiceovers. So, that means that they were marketing to women, right?

Maybe not; because when I looked up “Soaked in Sex” on Google, my first hit was for DVD Climax, a gay video sex site. Also, there’s a bonus segment on this film that featured a “solo” - ie, just a dude stroking his cock. I don’t know many women who like to sit at home in front of their VCR’s and watch buff gay guys stroke their own cocks and come on their tanned stomachs. I just don’t.

Kris Knight in “Soaked in Sex.”

Fine then: it’s a gay movie, for gay men, who like to watch hetero sex, or at least who will tolerate it, if that means they get to watch hot gay guys fuck, and pretend to be straight - or hot straight guys fuck, and pretend to be gay. (Confusing, isn’t it? Kris Knight is a gay porn star - it took me 2.2 seconds to find a picture on the Net of him barebacking a li’l twink - but here he’ll bone a woman, with the objective being that a gay guy can watch him and imagine that Knight’s straight.) The main point being, the male body is on display here. And while the women do get naked and show some passion, it seems that they’re not there to be lusted after, so much as they are present to simply complete the equation.

Let’s face it, the movie has an identity issue. Playgirl in general has an identity issue, I think.

Playgirl has always mystified me. The magazine was supposedly meant to appeal to women, but did you ever see copies of Playgirl magazine littering the floor of your favorite bachelorette’s apartment? For that matter, have you even heard the absurd word “bachelorette” since the Dating Game? No and no. Instead, the magazine had to have reaped most of its profits from gay men who bought the magazine. Michele Zipp, the editor-in-chief in 2003, said that the gay readership was “30%.”

Suuuuure. Why didn’t Playgirl just come on out and say, “we’re a gay magazine?” A few reasons spring immediately to mind: one, it never would have made the grade in 1980’s Evangelical Christian heterosexist America. Hell, just getting Playboy to go over in 7-Eleven was a minor miracle in those days. Not to mention, the magazine was started as a supposed feminist reaction to Playboy magazine, and admitting it was designed for gay men would have blown their cover.

Playgirl was never designed for women; it’s not interested in women’s minds, not in any real way. The dumb fantasies introduced in these films as much as prove it. Boned by a landscaper. Boned in a bowling alley. Boned in the kitchen. There’s no “seduction” here - more, a series of perfunctory nods to the concept that women like their minds engaged, without the work done to really accomplish that task.

So we’re back to men - but Playgirl could never be up front with the fact that they were a magazine for gay guys. After all, gay guys might not have liked it as much. If they wanted straight-up gay, they could go and get a Bear Monthly. Buying Playgirl his had an air of appropriation to it, a cultural “winking” that, in the end, promised more fun.

The same may be true for Soaked In Sex. Forget the fact that this movie doesn’t feature any honestly hot sex, and that it’s musical directors have obviously studied at the Vivid Video School for Casio Synthesizer Surround-Sound Sex. If you are a person who can’t get enough beef in your cake, and prefers to watch hot men up against the backdrop of a pretty woman, instead of a different hot man, then this could be the movie for you. From Playgirl: the magazine for Men.

$33.99Playgirl: Soaked In Sex DVD by Playgirl TV Stars: Eric Masterson, Joey Ray, Alexis Malone, Dani Woodward Genre: Couples / All Sex / Straight Buy from EdenFantasys

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Like everyone else at Staples Center, I had a little extra hop in my step Saturday night. LeBron was in the house.

I skipped the second half of a live NFL playoff game for him.

I shaved and dressed up a little. For me, anyway.

I showed up early. Seven o’clock. Gotta watch the warm-ups. Gotta see everything.

You do these things when LeBron passes through town. Hey, we see celebrities all the time in Los Angeles. We walk by them on the street, pull up next to them at intersections, sit near them in restaurants. There’s something of a code in place. You don’t stare at celebs. You don’t approach them. You don’t stand two feet away and snap cell phone pictures. You show them respect. You leave them alone. Along with the weather and the lifestyle, that’s the biggest reason stars like living here. They aren’t treated like lions in the zoo.

So when a basketball player gets thousands of NBA fans to geek out 25 minutes before a game, especially here, he has to be special. In my newest book, I wrote about how Michael Jordan’s competitiveness separated him from everyone else, but so did his force of personality. He had a knack for pulling every eyeball in the room his way … even a room with 18,000 people in it. Referees and opponents fawned over him. Teammates followed his instructions like drones. If he made an unusually splendid play and glanced into the stands for approval, entire sections would swoon. Command of the room. That’s what Jordan had. Kobe doesn’t have it, and he never had it. That will always be the difference between them.

LeBron? He’s getting there. I saw it with my own eyes Saturday. The Cavs emerged for warm-ups and I heard that same familiar squeal from MJ’s prime. Urgent. Pleading. Desperate.

LeBron! LEBRON! LAAAAAAA-BRONNNNNNNNNN!

I saw the same flashbulbs clicking, thousands of fans taking photos so they could tell people some day that, yes, they saw LeBron James play basketball. I saw the same people crammed around one half of the court, everyone standing — standing! — to watch 12 guys in warm-up suits halfheartedly shoot jump shots and get loose. I saw hundreds of fans inexplicably holding out pens and papers, screaming LeBron’s name and praying for the miraculous chance that he’d hop out of a layup line, jump into the crowd and start signing. I saw the same look on LeBron’s face that Jordan once had — a Tupacian “All Eyez on Me” smirk, an expression that happens when everyone stares at you no matter what you do, even if you’re scratching your balls or rubbing your head, and once you come to grips with that fact, it’s a little bit liberating.

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Kevork Djansezian/Getty ImagesTeammates love LeBron. Even Shaq has settled in as second banana.

LeBron gets a kick out of it. To say the least. He’s the most charismatic athlete of his generation, only you wouldn’t fully know it until you studied him in person. Command of the room. He might dunk in the layup lines. He might try to make a one-handed half-court shot. He might call for an alley-oop and soar above his incredulous teammates just for the hell of it. Simply saying “bursting with energy” wouldn’t do him justice. It’s like watching a super-coordinated, mutant 4-year-old dealing with a severe sugar rush.

I’m gonna go block Delonte’s shot from behind! HAH! He didn’t see me coming! Wait, I’m in the mood for an alley-oop. I need me some oop. Mo, throw me an oop. Ah, yes … it’s in the air … I’m jumping … DUNK! What now? I want to try a one-handed shot from the corner. Jamario, come play with me. Hold on, I just saw Baron Davis! Hey Baron! What up, dog! Watch this, I’m gonna make a half-court shot with my eyes closed … DAMN! Just missed it. You know what I really feel like doing? Jumping on Shaq’s back. Look out, Big Fella, eeeeeeeeeeee-yah!!!!!!!

Jordan saved his legs before games, using that time to stretch, practice specific shots and butter up referees. LeBron can’t pace himself. Even when he walks from Point A to Point B, there’s no loping or strolling. He prances. He hops up and down. And if all these people are staring at him anyway, why not rile them up with a couple ridiculous dunks? You never forget he’s on the court. Not for a second. Even his teammates are enamored with him; they jockey for his attention like Octomom’s kids. Jordan’s supporting cast interacted with him warily, like lower-level executives tiptoeing around their CEO. You were always aware of the pecking order. With LeBron, it’s a team in the truest sense. Everyone takes part in every joke. Nobody is excluded. They feed off him. Of all the superstars we have seen, there can’t be a better or more beloved teammate. There just can’t.

-When we left Jersey Shore yesterday, JWOWW (Jennifa) was prick-teasing her pathetic boyfriend, Tommy, on the duck phone. As she spoke to his gullible, idiotic, cuckolded ass, toying with the cord of her duck phone, and insulting him at will, she also idly fingered her silicon-infested boob and then, seizing upon an idea, found a serrated knife and began to saw at her own nipple. Soon blood was running down her open-necked guido t-shirt, and, thick with self-hatred, she continued to mutilate her own body, drunkenly butting Marlboro cigarettes into her now festering nipple wound. Well, it didn’t take long for Vinny to break out the video camera! His waxed eyebrows gleaming in the sun, Vinny jumped into the hottub, went to the gym, did his laundry, and then returned to continue making a snuff/self-hatred film that starred JWOWW, who by now had progressed to “cutting” and had made a bevy of horizontal razorcuts into her left breast, which had deflated and now was leaking green, sickly silicone.

At the sight of the industrial-grade tit-poison, Vin instantly took a haricut, ate a tray of manicotti, and briefly fist-pumped, but luckily had the wherewithal to place the VHS-C videocamera in Nicole “Snooki”’s rigor-mortis-frozen pig mouth, which served as a sort of tripod. WOWW, still hatefully berating her boyfriend, Tommy, on the duck phone, then began to insult The Situation, and his fade. The Situation and Pauly D then retreated to the beatific solitude of the hottub; Pauly D brought his turntables in with him, which electrocuted them both, although not fatally. Nicole “Snooki”’s body was tossed into the hot tub; but the stench her rotting flesh created when melded with the chlorine was almost too much for the boys to bear, and Sammi “Sweetheart” was called to take a bulimic laxative shit into the burbling waters, and the gang headed to Karma, to dance the night away.

JWOWW’S LEFT BREAST HAS BEEN SEVERED BY A KNIFE

-Ronnie, sickened the largesse of his roomies, fastened a noose around his bullneck and hung himself in a relatively clean closet on the second floor of the beachfront apartment. Finding his giant, dead corpse hanging by a string, Mike “The Situation” and Pauly D immediately commenced to buggering Ronnie’s still warm and suprisingly moist asshole. Pretending they were “macking” on “a woman” in a dance club, The Situation and Pauly D shaved Ronnie’s sack and upper thigh area with a straight razor, then used a hammer and a Phillips-head screwdriver to make his bloody anus more dead and more accessible to both of their dicks at the same time. Performing a “double-anal” on Ronnie’s dead ox body that still hang from the strong length of rope, The Situation and DJ Pauly D tongue-kissed soulfully, their erect penises rubbing up against one another, with little spurts of cum dribbling onto the now-cold body. Italian guido jizz dripped onto the bloody, wet floor of the closet.

RONNIE: NO MOTHER IN THE WORLD WOULD TOUCH HIM

Finally off the duck phone, Jennifa (JWOWW) came into to gawk at Ronnie’s horrible body, quickly suggesting that the “gang” rent an affordable chainsaw so they could dismember then eat Ronnie’s flesh, and possibly make Tequila Sunrises from his body, if there was enough pus to go around.

Sammi “Sweetheart” was sent out into the night to procure a cheap tequila; her heart was pounding into her perky, springy-fleshed boobies. She bobbled down the Jersey streets, nervously, her stomach tight and alert. Dropping to her knees with sudden pain, Sammi cried out, sliding her rubber thong out of the way, and shitted explosively and uncontrollably. Hot turds diddled her black, stupid, shiny heels.

SAMMI: SHITTING ON HERSELF BULIMICALLY SINCE 1998

Meanwhile, Vin was threading his eyebrows with dental floss and Twittering relentlessly with his mother, her Twitter handle being @Italian_Lard_Fuck. Taking out his small (but extraordinarily thick) penis and placing it into his right paw, Vin began to squeeze his rod gently and think about his mother - not in a romantic way, he told himself, but more as if they were “fuck buddies.”

He continued to masturbate while imagining his obese and diabetic mother’s grey back hair that spread from the cleft of her water buffalo ass all across her sacrum and up to the middle of her back like a matted cum trap. He splooged all over the duck phone, then absentmindedly used dead Snooki’s dusty hair to wipe his balls clean.

Suddenly enraged, Vin kicked Snooki’s lifeless head with the tip of his expensive sneakers, but, weak, and for all purposes impotent, he made nary a dent.

JUST AN IMPOTENT SACK OF SHIT

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