Written and directed by Sky Blue
Run Time 92 minutes
Starring: Marcus London, Poppy Morgan. Britney Amber, Anthony Rosano. Barrett Blade, Briana Blair. TJ Cummings, Halie James. Carlo Carrera, Diana Doll.
Just for shits and giggles, I decided it would be fun to review one of those “romantic” porno flicks the big studios come out with, and obligingly enough, Drenched in Love from Wicked Pictures arrived in my mailbox a few days ago. Amusingly enough, when I first saw it, I got extremely excited; visions of squirters gushing all over their costars and drenching the camera with their liquid passion danced in my head. But then I realized that, 1) the DVD was from Wicked, and they’re not so much into the squirting, 2) it was labeled “romance” on the front and “display in couples section on the back.” Ugh. It was one of THOSE movies. The ones that women are supposed to be able to enjoy with their man-friends to expand their sexual repertoire, which usually, in my experience, equal the same kind of cinematic yawn-fest that Oscar-winning movies often prove to be. Case in point: my mother made me watch The Blind Side with her a few weeks back. I have no problem with Sandra Bullock, but are you SHITTING me? That movie was complete sentimental bullshit starring a woman who seemed to have many more things on her mind than acting. Kind of like Drenched in Love turned out to be. There was no squirting, no realism, and actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think there was even a single real female orgasm. Porn for women? I hope not.
Ok, ok, I shouldn’t be so mean. There are plenty of women out there who have dreams of meeting their dream man and having sex with him under a waterfall or in a hunting lodge or in a majestic hotel suite with a blazing fire, just after he’s proposed or they made an intense connection at a bar, or whatever. It’s not that the scenarios director Skye Blue put together are necessarily wrong about what some women want to see, and far be it from me to say that I have the last word on what women want out of porn. We’re just as varied as… well… we are varied. And porn like this, where the goal is to get the man and the ring and then reward him with sex that’s so cleaned up and perfect it hardly resembles the real thing for most of us, can be kind of like watching a Disney movie. Pure fantasy. And again, that can be great for some people.
As a matter of fact, this is the kind of porn that would be a great learning aid for young people, if their parents or guardians were willing to share it with them before they got their dirty little fingers into the filthy gaping hole that is online porn. For as much as I want to mock the over-emphasis this movie places on love and romance, and for as forced as the connections between the performers seem to be, given the looks on their faces, this is an example of porn that does in fact show an emotional connection, even if only in spirit. I don’t think any of the stars in Drenched in Love were really transported by passion to an entirely new place, as really excellent sex and porn can sometimes do, but they did at least act with the utmost respect toward one another. And if there’s one thing that most of the smut on the interwebz does not show to teenagers sneaking a surf late at night after their parents are in bed, its mutual respect between performers. The women in Drenched in Love may not be having the best sex of their lives here, but they all, at least according to their voiceovers, desire the men they’re paired with and openly consent to having sex with them. The men and women show a great deal of care for one another, share long looks during the act, and even hold hands afterward. As far as “sex is best when it’s between two consenting adults who respect and desire one another” ideology goes, this is the kind of porn that kids should see early on, before all the gonzo fish-hooking, skull-fucking, and BDSM gets to them, as it does at earlier and earlier ages every day.
Of course, this kind of weepy sentimentality may result in a somewhat Disney-fied view of sex for young ladies, but then again, so does pretty much every other piece of romantic codswallop out there, from magazines to romance novels to Lifetime TV. At least this one is anatomically correct, if you don’t count those implants. Or the fact that the “rugged huntsman” in the third scene has bleached blond hair, earrings, and perfectly groomed pubes–as far as I’m aware, most rugged outdoorsmen aren’t so much into the grooming process. And of course, even those of us who would love to have sex under a waterfall someday would probably never want to do so in five inch stilletos, nor would those of us who decide to hook up with a hot guy we just met at a bar really want to do it on a park bench behind the bar. But these are trifling matters: what really bothers me is that in the “huntsman” scene, there’s a rifle on the coffee table. Guns and sex DO NOT MIX, kids.
So all things told, Drenched in Love has its pros and cons. I personally find the romance angle tired, the sex completely uninspiring, and the whole thing ridiculous, but I can see a place for movies like this in sex ed classes (with extremely liberal teachers) or parents’ living rooms for their kids to find and “sneak” late at night… except for one last thing. The poetry.
I’m not kidding. There’s poetry of a sort up in this bitch, and it’s BAD. It’s one thing to show people bad sex and say it’s good, because good and bad are relative terms, after all, and anyway there are lots of people who might never have good sex in their whole lives, so setting expectations relatively low might be a good idea. But bad poetry? That’s just a damn crime. I mean, seriously, how many poets are out there right now starving and just WISHING they could land a gig where their poetry would get read during a movie? How much good poetry is never seen or heard by the masses? How much would it cost to hire a real poet/writer to pen a few lines about the theme “drenched in love, but no squirting”? Not much. But instead of well-crafted lines that would make this whole movie the perfect educational tool, we get this:
“Pure liquid ecstasy. Serene, capturing an outpour of passion. The delirium of cascading affections.” Oh come ON. “Tranquilized by their thirst for lust they surrender into atrance of satisfaction, letting nothing deny their absolute pleasure. Laced together, they fully entwine, sinking below the surface of knowing. Make way for the pulses of a perfect rhythm. Bathing themselves in serenity.” Um, good sex is NOT serene. Nor does a “thirst for lust” make any sense, much less tranquilize anybody. Who WROTE this drivel?
In scene two, we’re treated to the following poor excuse for writing:
“I am a dreamer envisioning all light, a warm night, the champagne flowing, the way the fabric feels against my soft, sexy skin. The walk of enchantment toward the man of my desires. Creating memories to last a lifetime, centered around the illusions in my mind. Yes, we are all dreamers. Looking for love along the pathways of life. Dancing with devotion.” BARF.
Seriously, Wicked? You’ve got a not-so-bad thing going here and then you go and fuck it up with execrable writing like this? I’m appalled.