PRIVATE THOUGHTS
Joybear Pictures
Run Time 95 minutes
CRUMPETS AND COCKS
Bojena, Tristan Seagal, Starr, Ian, Frankie, Christian, Demetri, Jay Snakes, Elle Brook
I got a totally titillating box in the mail the other day from Wicked Pictures. I tore it open, not knowing what to expect, and was confronted with six DVDs from England’s very own Joybear Pictures! Wicked, I remembered, is now doing their US distribution, and I recalled begging them a while back to send me some of their inventory. Because, well, everything is better when it’s done with a British accent. Including porn.
It’s true! I don’t know why, but it’s one of the Great Realities of Life for all American women: anything done with a British accent is automatically cooler, more intelligent, and much more panty-moistening than anything you can do with a Midwestern drawl. And so I hopped all over my new Joybear cache like the panty-moistened Yank I, in fact, am. I chose Private Thoughts, a celebration of the real sex lives and arguably much-hotter fantasies of three different women in London, to start my very hands-on research about just what it is in the English mystique that makes the idea of a scone with clotted cream sound so fucking sexy.
I watched the super-sophisticated “Becky” (played by the lovely Bojena) get into one of those adorable old-fashioned London cabs… what do they call them over there? Lorries or something? She started masturbating in the backseat while remembering a yummy kitchen-sex bout with her boyfriend (Tristan Seagal) from a few days before. And while, of course, this was all very hot, I kept wondering: why is this so much hotter than the last kitchen-sex scene I watched in an American movie? The comparison was apt: I’d seen one last week in Hollywood Whore with Kacey Jordan that left me feeling totally cold. But this one was different somehow! It wasn’t the European accents (Bojena seems to hail from further east than the UK); they barely spoke during the scene, and grunting and moaning, it turns out, sound the same everywhere. But as the scene flashed between kitchen sex and backseat of cab, I realized what made this all so much classier than any American equivalent could: Becky was moaning and breathing heavily in the backseat directly behind her driver, and he hadn’t yet screamed at her in a heavy Pakistani accent about taking 2nd Avenue instead of the FDR. Were she here in New York, her masturbation session would have ended long before she got to the pop shot.
Next, “Jess” (Starr) went in for some lazy, lovely, half-clothed morning sex with her hubby (Ian). Though neither of their shirts ever came off, the intimacy of their bed and the chemistry between the performers really made this scene sizzle. But I was still distracted by the utter classiness of it all. Was it the less-garish lighting? The very brief English-tinged dialogue they shared? The shocking whiteness of their sheets? No, I suddenly realized after the hubby’d made a mess on Jess’s stomach and I’d made a mess in my panties: it was the fact that he’d woken her up for fucking with a pot of hot tea with milk and sugar on a tray. Hot damn, I suddenly realized, I need to get some nice teacups and a tray up in here, stat, so I can get my boyfriend to seduce me with his old-world sophistication! There’s nothing sexier!
Then we moved on to “Sarah” (played by Frankie), a high-powered businesswoman in downtown London who dominates her career and her fuck-buddies with equal finesse. She bones the bejesus out of Christian, whose American tones fell on my ears like cheeseburgers falling on your plate at a French restaurant: totally unwelcome but familiar and easy. I was impressed by her performance, but I really wish that some cheeseburgers would fall into this performer’s mouth. Girl owns her sexuality and rocks a cock, but I could count her ribs and her arms looked unpleasantly like chopsticks held together with rubber bands. Maybe this scene just came across as classy because it implied that English porn performers are so insanely highbrow that they don’t need to eat and can survive on sex alone. Or something. Not sure what it was.
Anyway, after all the ladies are done with their respective lovers, they lose themselves in raunchy reveries about what they’d rather be doing: Becky, an actress, sits backstage and imagines herself having sensual, darkly mysterious shag onstage with her costar (Jay Snakes), which got me revved up like an double-decker on a back road. Then Jess rubbed one out next to her sleeping husband while imagining sex with a total stranger on the hood of a car—and very exciting it all was, but I did feel a little bad for her in-the-dark husband. He did, after all, bring her tea on a tray. Count your blessings, woman! Then it was on to Sarah’s encounter with a voluptuous woman (Elle Brooke), and I got distracted from my thoughts about what makes British porn so classy. Look, I love watching women together, and these two had some very hot sex worthy of every kind of accolade… except the mystery woman was so much more curvy and sensual that I couldn’t help bemoaning that the only one in the scene getting the royal treatment was the stick figure, Sarah. Hey, I know that some people have really high metabolisms and maybe she’s not a case of unhealthy dieting, but for serious: her countrymen invented shepherd’s pie, gigantic breakfasts, fish-n-chips, and blood sausage. Girl, you need a good old-fashioned English breakfast, lunch, and dinner in you before I can get into watching you get it on! Please, eat some bangers and mash before you get your mash banged on camera again!
In the end, I couldn’t figure out what it was exactly about the British-ness of this film that made it so ineffably reek of high culture. The camera angles were about the same, the sex looked familiar, and the acting was just as bad as it is here in the States. But I did realize that I have a huge store of sweeping generalizations about the English population that’s quite entertaining to use in the context of a porn review. I don’t know if it was as fun to read as it was to write, but then again, I don’t really care. Private Thoughts is fun as hell to watch and even more fun to get your bollocks off to. So God save the Queen and jolly good and all that: hie thee to Prviate Thoughts, mate, for a top-notch self-shagging!
—Miss Lagsalot
Love your humor!!!