It's 1963. There's no porn industry yet, but there are those cheesy gladiator and posing strap wrestling reels that everybody back then masturbated to. A maker of them (Johnson) moves his humpy, horny troupe to a Pleasantville suburb. His assistant (Dill) urges him to film the models going all the way and having sex, but Johnson is scared. While Johnson is chatting with a neighborhood cop (Philips), Dill films himself having two physique models (Bolt and Ross) poolside while nosy neighbor Frost spies on them, wanking, until Press surprises him and bones him. There's an expert comedy script by Tugger, involving the neighborhood's riotous reaction to the strangers in their midst, and bright, sharp videography by Mike Hunt, Ed Maxx, and Drew Warner, but what warms the heart and raises the dick is seeing those monotonous he-man myths, including sailors and bikers, drop their pants and get covered with creamy load, and those uptight sitcom suburbanites suck everything between knees and navel. It's not just the gladiators that peel down. The neighborhood surfing hero, Kahuna (Benton), lifts his dick for the director and sticks it in him in a beach hut. Then he pulls out and sits his own athletic ass on Johnson's dick. Afterwards he urges him to "make the kind of art he wants," which helps Johnson decide to make a hardcore film. All the scrumptious sex scenes work right into the plot, like numbers in a musical. And speaking of music, Gian Franco has put together a lively score-sometimes period music, sometimes up-to-date-that's both funny and sexy. When Philips, the cop, walks in on the shooting of a uniform scene, he's seized and fucked by leather-daddy Press and two cohorts to the blare of bongos and trumpets, like the score for Anita's near-rape in West Side Story. It's the most satisfying rape in a movie since Rhett carried Scarlett up those stairs in Gone With the Wind, and has one of the funniest last lines since Some Like It Hot.