Four musclemen solo. These aren't the genteel nice-boys-at-home of Fratman, nor COLT's Mount Rushmore models in lush kept-man surroundings - ideals unattainable or unaffordable. These are, well, available-for-a-price types who'll go where the gold is, to get money to pay for their gym. Safarov has an almost unbelievably big sugar-shaker penis, which he doesn't tease out of his jockstrap until after eight minutes of writhing sex-dancing. Though solidly built and neatly crewcut, he looks a little bestial in a neat hotel room. He could be an older, body-building brother of the Woods twins from the Miami Studios movies - one who's been around and knows the score. His comic-book-size, uncut manhood is almost embarrassing. Every now and then you take your eyes off of his cock to notice that he's a hell of a hunky, hot man. He jacks himself into a state of good-natured euphoria, chewing gum all the time. Coming onto his rippling abdomen is almost an afterthought. Attila is so built that he makes Safarov look like a girl. His overlapping body masses are hairless. He's a stone statue come to life to turn you on for 30 minutes. His sitcom-cutie features almost seem painted onto his mythological mass. Until he starts jacking it, his crescent-shaped cock seems just one more fascinating detail of his beauty. Linebacker-built James in jeans and an inside-out fur jacket is clearly costumed, not dressed. He strikes a series of fluid poses in what looks like a deserted house. Masters has a body plated like armor, and a crazy gleam to his truck driver's eyes as he rolls around on a leopard-skin bedspread. RETAILING: Four solos by clean-cut musclemen, sexy teases. Robert Patrick
