Date: Sun, 29 Aug 2010 19:00:17 +0100
From: Davey R <lsgoodb@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: BlueShark-Video-1 (authoritarian, fantasy)

There are so many to choose from down here. Rows and rows in alluring hues
of candy and electric and velvet. Let's pick this bulky one, a double pack,
special introductory two-for-one you could call it, which strains at first
to come loose from its neighbours, but then slides cleanly out with the
swoosh of vinyl against vinyl.

Holding the cover up on the thin streams of golden sunlight from the
slitted windows above. Two titles, pressed together in a loose, punning
association of titles. Revenge on Roman is the name of one, embossed in
cheaply glistening gold across the sleeve. Release of Ramon is the other,
the logo a liquid, bright lipstick scrawl.

The cover image of Revenge on Roman has the heroic, vulgar composition of
an 80s action movie, from the 3D-effect lettering to the square-jawed
portrait of its leading man. He's a real alpha male in the muscular style
of those days - although let us not forget that the real events took place
so much more recently - with a small white vest,scuffed and torn in implied
scenes of action and adventure. That vest clingly tightly to a body that is
sunkissed and glistening and that bulges so manfully in all the right
places. The eye is drawn first to the roundness of the thick shoulder, then
the brutal arc of the steel bicep, its neighbouring, near-symmetrical
tricep and the bunched fist clutching a thick clump of money. It's the
1980s, money is his downfall. Still holds true.

The hero, Roman Decker, has a broad, chiselled face with a mighty jaw and a
matted, neatly cut mop of dark blonde hair. He wears shades in the image,
hiding the metallic green-blue eyes I know so well, blotting them out with
reflected lens-flare sunlight. The background is an idyllic image of
inspecifically Hawaiian-looking islands and endless, calm blue sea.

Release of Ramon promises softer and silkier pleasures, and a star it would
be tempting to describe as feminine, if that were not ridiculous and if it
were not his delicious, wonderful boyness that creates his
allure. Caramel-skinned Ramon drapes his slender body across the wet, hard
flatness of what may be a poolside. Long hair overhangs one of his dark,
heavily-lidded and richly-lashed eyes, but the other one sparkles as it
looks to camera.

His lilac lips flower obscenely.

We see the supine curve of his lustrous back, the groove of his spine, his
legs kicked in the air with a tiny pair of hot pink underpants - they are,
in fact, I remember, panties - dangling from one of his sleekly formed
toes. Unlike Revenge on Roman, there is no ambiguity here about the appeal
of the image, the nature of its invitation. The Roman video, with its
he-man vanguard and escapist backdrop, promises adventure and action. It
suggest the possibilities, most likely, of comic book violence, and, from a
smaller figure represented in the composition - that of a Baywatch-babe
blonde in a bikini - an uncomplicated heterosexual soft-porn edge for
men. Doubtless, you'd think, the heroic Roman and the babe, unnamed in the
cover blurb, will get it on. Perhaps in a series of steamy dissolves. Their
backs moving up and down in soft blue light, sheened in a modicum of sweat.
Most men's eyes would move straight from the figure of the star to that of
the love interest, wondering keenly whether a glimpse of titty might be
available, whether it will appear in the same shot as the actress's face,
proving they are hers and not those of some disappointing stand-in.

I am not, of course, most men. And neither are you, which is why you were
sent the invitation to my collection. It's why the blue key now lies
heavily in your hand.

You and I have eyes only for posterboy Roman. Your gut lurches monstrously
at the reeling possibilities of such a man, such a body. There's that other
awakening, a sensation in the core of your cock as snappy as the twang of
an elastic band.

Rent such a movie anywhere else, you'd be almost completely resigned to its
being a waste of your time and money. Oh, you'd do it anyway, just to know,
just to see. The flutter of titillation would still be there. Maybe, just
maybe, there'd be something, however fleeting, to make it worth your
while. Certainly, whatever happens, it will display enough of what you
like, on the most basic level, to spill a little cum. No matter that you
know it is not truly for you, you can sneak some pleasure out of it.

Release of Ramon, on the other hand, is different and blatant in its
promise. Whereas Roman Decker is the iconic man who it is said men want to
be and women want to be with, Release of Ramon is an invitation directly to
you. The beautiful, hairless Brazilian boy - in fact, a young man of 24,
when I knew him - is a particular treat. He is a man who, satisfyingly,
exists for the enjoyment of other men. The appeal is not covert, and
there's no a hint that a woman would find anything to enjoy here. His lean,
clean body lies lazily in wait to be sodomised. His buttocks clench
together as he strikes his pose, but unlike the pectorals and shoulders of
Roman Decker, they actively invite the caresses of your hands, the
attentions of your mouth. They lie in gorgeous wait. They say, as does
every inch of him: Come get me, men. Beautiful Ramon.

Both these capsules in their individual ways so tempting, but there's no
dilemma about which to slip in first. Which memory to ignite. On any given
day, the answer will be obvious, a gut feeling.

Yes, today it must be Roman. I smile, and it widens into a grin which we
share.

The case clicks open. The cassette inside comes unstuck. At first glance,
it may seem an old-fashioned VCR tape, but it's bulkier and in a slight
L-shape to accommodate the microchip cluster. My own system, a unique
one. We step into the lounge and take a seat each as I click it into the
viewing device.

The screen lights up in the dark. First the sparse BlueShark logo, then the
production credits. The movie begins over a montage of scenes accompanied
by the power chords of some soft rock ballad. Aspirational scenes of Roman
Decker's charmed life. We see him eat, and flirt with the waitress in a
seafood cafe. We see him jogging over the hot sands of an endless beach,
torn denim shorts and nothing else. His hulking body is a wall of rippling
muscles. His sweaty pectorals are mighty, his abs angular, his striding
legs powerful and defined. This snippet is over all too quickly. In shorts
and a vest he walks across a jetty with a purpose we never discover. He
drinks with his buddies and checks out the chicks in a bar alive with
pulsing neon. He brushes off an argument with a one-night stand redhead,
smirking as he leaves a motel room in the early hours. He drives his blue
convertible sports car, which is battered and unreliable, of course, and
which, naturally, we see him repairing himself. No audience could get on
side with a man who owned a new, pristine sports car that ran like a
dream. In a friend's repair shop, he pops open the hood, all strong bare
arms streaked with grime beneath borrowed mechanics' overalls.

We see him lift weights, a close-up of one bicep followed by another. This
segues into the revelation of his occupation - manager of a modest and
successul gym. As befits the 1980s stylings, the gym is treated as
something still novel and futuristic, an inspecific first step on the
yuppie ladder. He laughs with lycra-clad women as he shows them how to use
the equipment. We see him handing out towels and answering telephone calls,
perfectly at home in his comfortable, satisfying lifestyle. As the strains
of the opening song fade away, we cut to a final shot of Roman in the gym
after hours, just a glimmer of auxillary lighting as he works out alone in
the near-moonlight. The hunk strains and grunts earnestly, solemn in the
building and toning of his body, reverent in the flexing of it. The
director's name flits by, you're too distracted to catch sight of it. The
smile on Roman's classically handsome face as the titles fade out speaks of
his contentment. His life runs like a well-oiled machine.

It is impossible to watch these scenes without developing an almighty
boner. It's just as impossible to then go ahead and watch the movie playing
out in full, after such a concentration of erotic images.

I skip ahead. After a run-of-the-mill meet cute in the tackle shop, Roman
flirts with his blonde-haired sub-Baywatch love interest in a variety of
settings - beach, bar, his own gym. I skip ahead quicker. There is nothing
to interest us here. A scene of Roman in the shower goes by too quickly to
properly enjoy, even though he does look glorious when shimmering wet.

The first hint of trouble comes when a standard-issue shady businessman
enters his gym, in an incongruous sharp suit. He's attended by two blocky
henchmen, also suited but built like brick shithouses, who cast their eyes
over Roman with a definite sense of sizing him up for future combat. The
businessman makes some small talk before coming to the nub of the matter -
his veiled hints make it clear he's running a protection racket, and that
Roman's healthy business may be less so if he doesn't pay up his one-off
sum by the end of the week.

Naturally, Roman isn't buying it, knows that the payments, if they begin,
will go on indefinitely. Moreover, he has his pride and he fights his own
battles. No one, it is clear, tells Roman Decker what to do - and certainly
not a few cheap thugs.

One of the bodyguards, 'Gregory' is the name we catch, snarls a few warning
words at Roman. It's clear from his face that he would like nothing more
than to put Mr Decker in his place. He's itching to throw a few punches his
way.

His suave boss calms him with a small gesture, keeps up the elaborate air
of Old South courtesy, and with an effetely delicate final warning, leaves
Roman to his business.

A close-up on Gregory's face as the trio leave. He turns back to give Roman
a menacing stare that hints at the savagery he would like to inflict.

Does Gregory look familiar? Wasn't he on the door on the way down to the
library? It's hard to remember properly.

Roman refuses to be intimidated. He stares back, jaw set in determination.

More romantic subplot scenes before we cut back to the chase with a
nighttime bar brawl. Who should Roman encounter at his favourite hangout
than the trio of thugs. The suave ringleader offers with another bout of
exaggerated courtesy to buy Roman and his lady friend a drink. The guys'
eyes never leave Roman, not once, not even to check out his sexy
girlfriend. Just like our eyes, yours and mine. Eyes on the prize. Eyes on
the prize.

Very soon, Roman is challenged by Gregory. A scuffle begins, turning into a
full-blown fight, and, despite getting a couple of jabs in early, an
obligatory feature of the narrative to create a modicum of tension and
challenge, the struggle very soon goes Roman's way. Roman Decker knows his
way around a fight. Gregory ends up flung onto the pool table, which
breaks, and is humiliated. A nod from Mr Suave and his second hired heavy
leaps into action. The results are predictable. Roman even pays for the
damgage, with a hint of smugness, leaving with his girl just in time for
another montage, this time of softcore foreplay.

In the morning, after another cursory shower scene, Roman finds his gym
trashed - but only moderately. A warning rather than all-out destruction.

Now, Roman has an idea. He knows a bunch of guys who can help him out, a
posse of best friends now scattered around the world. After a few phone
calls, a reunion becomes inevitable. They all swing into town, his crew of
buddies, all strong, no-shit alpha males like him. Six of them in all, all
built like marines. His closest pal Maitland Storr, first to arrive, gives
him a big manly back-slapping hug as they meet in Roman's garage. Rip
Garrard arrives on his monster hog and jokes 'Hope I'm not interupting
anything, ladies!' before a shoulder-punching mock fight. Sean arrives,
then Casey and Kyle, and the gang is all here, ready for anything. They've
all been friends since high school in the midwest, where it's clearly to
any viewer they could only have been the jocks. Roman was Prom King, it's
mentioned.

Over a game of poker in Roman's kitchen that night, this A-Team of titans
bask in smoke and cameraderie. All of them just past thirty, all still in
their prime. They discuss their divorces and businesses and service in
foreign wars. Then down to business, as they plan a way to take the fight
to Mr Suave and his bully boys. A series of high fives and downed
beers. There's nothing this pack can't do. Roman's legion, they laugh. This
cheap thug is small fry.

The next day, Roman agrees to meet Mr Suave in an old abandoned
warehouse. It's not the sort of building you expect to find in Hawaii, but
these movies have a way of glossing over that kind of detail. As he speaks
to Mr Suave over the phone, he sounds cowed, repentant, ready to pay
up. But he laughs and glugs a soda as he hangs up. The camera pulls out and
we see the guys around him, a wall of muscles, denim and leather,
high-fiving. Mr Suave says he'll come alone, but Roman knows he
won't. However, Mr Suave is also expecting Roman to turn up alone. Little
does he know the kind of back-up this easy-target gym owner actually has
...

Jaunty action music as the guys head for the anomalous warehouse.

And then they enter, tentatively, to check the place out. Maitland Storr
stays back to keep watch out front. He's got a clear view pretty much all
around for any new approaching vehicles. There's only only one there so far
- Mr Suave's scorching black Mustang.

And then the heroes enter the rendezvous point, and are immediately gunned
down from gantries above. All but Roman. There's an orgy of blood and
bulletholes, similar to that of any number of films from this period -
dramatic license has been used - and Casey dies with an undignified Wilhelm
Scream. Kyle's head explodes, we linger on the prosthetic for just a beat
too long. Some of the guys carry weapons, but the suddenness of the attack
gives them no time at all to raise them. They're dead in an instant. Roman
is horrified, numb. He's made a mistake. He's misjudged these aggressors,
and how quickly they are capable of raising the stakes.

The henchmen swing down from their hiding places. Gregory looks especially
pleased with himself, shotgun trained on Roman.

"Endgame, faggot," he smirks.

Mr Suave makes his entrance. Still immaculate, still perfectly
gentlemanly. He doesn't look or talk a great deal like me, but as I say, a
lot of dramatic license has been used. He strolls innocently over one of
the blood-saturated corpses of Roman's old gang, tutting as a minute drop
of blood touches his suede shoes.

"You have until midnight to consider this matter, Mr Decker," he points
out. "Obviously, there is now a great deal of compound interest to
consider, but we can work out an instalment plan. Alert the police and
there will be ... consequences. I'll see you at your home, at midnight."

Decker walks out, dazed. Maitland Storr is gone. Is he also dead? He's
nowhere to be seen. On autopilot, Roman drives off, leaving clouds of dust
behind. He retreats to his home and tries to gather his wits. He has caused
the death of his very best friends. He is disconsolate.

As he sits alone at his kitchen table, his bearing has changed entirely. He
has the look of a frightened animal. His certainties have been shattered.

Now, the chip in the cassette kicks in. We have a choice of alternate
scenes here, but the end result is the same. Roman may resolve to fight on,
but be felled unexpectedly by a poison dart in his garden, and captured by
the gang. He may be so tortured by remorse and find himself so simply and
plainly out of his depth that he snaps, accedes to Mr Suave and his
heavies, and agrees to their solution to working off the debt to them he
has rapidly accumulated.

Either way, what happens next is the same. All roads lead to Rome, as they
say. And well away from Hollywood logic where the final triumph will be
his.

Maitland Storr is revealed as Mr Suave's partner in crime. It was he, in
fact, who arranged for the latter to turn his attentions to Roman's gym in
the first place. Storr has always nurtured a deep and seething hatred of
Roman, ever since high school. There's not a day he has posed as Roman's
friend that he has not wanted to take him down a notch or two. More than
two, in fact, oh so much more. He has suffered a long and tortured lust for
Roman Decker ever since one sunny afternoon when he saw him as a shirtless
teen, mowing a lawn, over a picket fence. It would be true to say that from
that moment to this, he has longed to own Roman, totally.

And either way, it is on this night that Roman becomes the slave of his
former best friend and the handy facilitator Mr Suave. This is confirmed at
their midnight meeting, as Roman, slightly dizzied by the drugs he's given,
follows their instructions to strip down to his underwear - small tighty
whities cleaving to a bulging package and pertly meaty buttocks. And then
he kneels. Let's watch this in slow motion. He sinks to his knees before
the triumphant men, his massive shoulders slouched as much as it is
possible for them to do. His yellow-haired head bows forward in gorgeous
defeat. It is an erotic pose of submission, and Maitland savours it,
walking all around the mighty hunk to drink in this sight of his
defeat. The henchman Gregory makes obvious his delight with a
contemptuously snarling grin, delivering a light slap to Roman's face that
would in any other circumstance be considered affectionate. Roman Decker,
this slab of prime beef, is ready to tenderise.

The group walk out to the van in which Suave, Storr and the heavies
arrived. A cowed Roman is led by Gregory, arms pinioned behind his back,
into the back of the van. Gregory stays in there with him, and as Maitland
drives, with the nameless Suave and his other henchman in the passenger
seats, we hear some intermittent muffled thuds and deep "Uuuuunghhh" sounds
from back there. They smile as Gregory has his fun.

Understand: this is our revenge on Roman. For his cocky arrogance, his
belief that big pecs and a 5 o clock shadow can save him from anything.
More than that, though, it's an indulgence in the tyranny of our wills.
Maitland has wanted Roman for himself for years now, and Roman must now be
punished for withholding that pleasure. It is true, because Maitland feels
it deep inside, that he is the rightful master of Roman Decker. And yet
Roman blasphemes against this truth every moment of his existence by not
surrendering himself. Well, now he must be taught a lesson.

Roman's going to get it alright.

-The movie pauses briefly-