Manhattan Sex Party 2

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Descriptionanhattan Sex Party 2
I love my job. Not only do I make a living with my trousers round my ankles (How do you people think I review porn? Smoking a pipe in my library?), I get to see the latest fuckfests way before you mere mortals. I load in a disk, review the thing and jerk off. ItÂ’s so cool. With this job I donÂ’t even have to date, which is a good thing too, because IÂ’ve had so many "dinner and a movie" with snakes that I took to carrying a mongoose in my duffel.

Those ugly, hairy-lipped feminists, who really shouldÂ’ve stayed in the 70s with their loon-pants and their home-knitted museli, were right about one thing though: Men are pigs. And director Tony Alizzi happily has this as his philosophy, finally creating a sequel to his biggest-ever hit. Fourteen guys get together and deliver a show-stopping show-stopper of a sex-show thatÂ’ll get you feeling a kind of high (like a Hendrix Haze!), taking you to pleasure-pinnacles so wonderful youÂ’ll never want to come down.

Those of you who are familiar with the plotless fabulous Cavalcade of Carnality in the original will be glad to know that theyÂ’ve lovingly paid care and attention to this one, too. No rush-jobs here. Nope. In the interim, director Alizzi further sharpened his teeth (trotters?) as he hosted another videoed sex party, this time in L.A. to see how the West Coasters do it (most probably with an agent and a Hollywood Tan). Also worthy of note is the amount of unfamiliar faces this time around. But fret not - pretty soon youÂ’ll want to sit on them all. As the t-shirts used to say; "I Love NY."

Some may be disappointed to discover that Manhattan Sex Party 2 is missing some elements that made the first so striking. The shock-value for a start, but also no split-screen, no glory-holes and no dirty-bumholes showing a little too much poopie-paste this time. The latterÂ’s no-show is a good thing really. Believe me. Some things you donÂ’t wanna see. The other things you wonÂ’t miss though as the credits begin to rock and roll.

Like the first, itÂ’s set in New YorkÂ’s El Mirage, located on East Houston Street - a dirty, dirty sex-pit that escaped GiulianiÂ’s Khan-like wrath, that could probably also double as a roller-disco-skate-rink for vermin, but this totally matches and stays in keeping with the sex-vibes let loose in this title. Whoops, let me rephrase that. ItÂ’s a classy establishment that caters to a discerning private clientele of in-shape guys. (Please donÂ’t sue. Oh, and George W. Bush is a Democrat. DidnÂ’t you know?) Also, as with the first, it shows the Gotham Guys arriving, but luckily it cuts the tedious travelogue of the original to a minimum. No subway shots or the like this time, as the studs eagerly looked forward to their 101 Nights of Sodom (but try to mask their worries as to whether or not they left the coffeepot on the stove).

Alvarez and Rivera lead the all-sucking, all-rimming, all-fucking crew, a wonderful party-mix of rough and ready older daddies, cute Latino youngsters (read: uncut) and the odd Chelsea Boy (but weÂ’ll forgive them for that just this once). Sex pigs come in all shapes and sizes, after all.

From the opening shot of sexy Ortiz sucking on AlvarezÂ’s heavy equipment youÂ’ll know youÂ’ve struck porn gold, because it just keeps getting better and better - Green eating out RiveraÂ’s brown-eye and Sands lubing up SargeÂ’s hole. Jeez, IÂ’m not even two minutes into this thing and IÂ’ve already shot so high IÂ’m gonna have to tell my roommate I started to redecorate the ceiling.

This is porn for those with A.D.D., or perhaps the memory capacities of goldfish. Or even for those whose attention spans have been diminished due to years of unprecedented substance abuse. The camera constantly crosscuts between the action, but in a way thatÂ’s complimentary, not distracting or annoying.

Self-loathers beware (I know youÂ’re out there - Dionne Warwick and I can feel you squirming) because whatÂ’s especially great, and intensely liberating, are the guysÂ’ attitudes towards each other. TheyÂ’re all there to have a great time and ensure that their respective partners do too. ItÂ’s give and take all the way, with wonderfully adaptive performers sharing each other with a passion thatÂ’s unbridled and unsurpassed. And hotter than the Seventh Circle of Hell! No plucked and preening poseurs here, thank you very much, these guys know what they want and know how to get it.

The four debut performers here need to be taught nothing. They are totally confident and relaxed. ItÂ’s like the cameras arenÂ’t even there. Too often performers look self-conscious (even uncomfortable) when theyÂ’ve got a cock in their cakehole and a massive one up their chocolate-starfish. Not here though. Did the videographer wear his Cloak of Invisibility or what?

After deep-throating everyone in sight, coverstar Alvarez gets sling-bound and offers anyone interested a free go. Never one to turn down a bargain, Ortiz is first to slip him his length, thrusting away before open-season is declared and everyone wants some – especially the spit-happy Prince-Albert-ed Green who pounds him like a crazed mental patient on his first day-release in fifteen years. Having the lead player on the sling is great because it means we’ve finally hit the point where porn bottoms are just as respected, and have the same star potential, as the tops. Remember when they used to be ignored? I guess there are hundreds of pillow-biters out there still cursing Jeff Stryker for stealing their fifteen minutes of fame.

Jordan West - a hot, muscular older blonde with a ruddy complexion - spies some of the guys in an oral daisy-chain and moves in, with the intention of stealing them for one-on-one sessions. Selfish twat. Self-nipple-tweaking Chelsea is first on his list, whom pre-hijack was doing a great job getting KoleÂ’s pole standing to attention. ChelseaÂ’s ass is pummeled before sweaty West goes for a spin on GonzalesÂ’ equipment.

Boyish couple Leon and Heights rodger each other like-I-donÂ’t-know-what in another corner whilst Scott takes GonzalesÂ’ pork-sword for a test-drive. What can I say, these guys are greedy. And my pen is so about to melt as I jot down what IÂ’m seeing; itÂ’s just way too hot! And way too many times IÂ’ve lost count of whoÂ’s doing what to whom with whoever giving a helping hand. You gotta love the look on HeightÂ’s face though, as heÂ’s penetrated by Berlin. ItÂ’s a look of total pleasure, but also bewilderment and all-out-shock. Relax, bitch! Sit back and think of England!

Baldie Sarge remains sling-tied, and spends half the movie trying to coax people to service him. (He should have brought cookies and the offer of a chance to see some puppies - always worked for me.) Maybe the music is putting the others off - itÂ’s techno, but I swear thereÂ’s a ghostly wail in the mix too. IÂ’d be afraid to approach him as well; IÂ’m sure the Blair Witch wasnÂ’t on the guestlist. Still, Sands plugs all his gaps, so he canÂ’t complain - and he gets to eat out yummy KoleÂ’s hole. I like this guy's name: so easy for creating dirty rhymes.

Alvarez (ever the star) is now seen presenting his ass like a mandrill and mounts a massive turn-table, servicing Gonzales, then Berlin, then Heights and finally Ortiz, and the uncut skank-ho loves every last second of it. Then again, who wouldnÂ’t? This is slightly reminiscent of that fab scene in the otherwise banal Catalina movie Hot Rods, and perchance itÂ’s homage, but they wonÂ’t be able to sue. Casey Kasem has been using a turntable for years; so has Wheel of Fortune. So youÂ’re on safe-footing guys. As the wheel turns, the action gets hotter and hotter. Like Kylie Minogue sang: "IÂ’m Spinning Around..."

As they say in those overlong Pringles® ads, "Once you pop, you can’t stop" because the collected slut-studs break out their homemade champagne and give the Best Little Whorehouse in Tenth Street a right-royal send-off, covering Alvarez (narrowly missing his mouth, I checked and checked again oral cumshot fans - close, but no cigar!) in their baby-batter that they proceed to rub into his body like moisturizer.

The closing credits give special thanks to pornomakers Joe Gage and Jerry Douglas. ItÂ’s a fitting tribute that this film has successfully brought their sleaziest moments smack bang into the new millennium. Just sit back and drown in cock. ItÂ’s my only advice.
Added2014-08-12 17:33:36
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