Forgive me, Father, for I am sin. Such is Jill Kelly's predicament as the emotionally tormented Atlasa, a woman who believes she's in control of her life. The fact is, Atlasa/Jill isn't even in control of her own inner monologue, which contradicts her musings about control and power at every turn with cutting remarks about how truly helpless she really is.

The fact is also that this vid makes about as much sense as Charles Manson did during his last three parole hearings, and that's not such a bad thing. The ongoing narration functions as a prose poem, and does more to establish the mood than a mundane and prosaic story would; symbolism-choked visuals complete the circle beautifully. Like the opening sequence of a collared and naked-but-for-the-tattoo-of-a-crucifix-over-her-cooch Jill running through a  field, holding a Bible and crying semen. Or the shot of Jill as Atlas, with the world on her shoulders. Or the sequence featuring one girl writhing around with eyes painted on her breasts, while others with scary masks and a tiger painted on their pelvises are intercut with shots of real tigers and snakes and lizards. Not to mention a segment featuring Jill in a sheer white gown with a splotch of blood at crotch level. And just in case we missed the point, here she is miming crucifixion, complete with visible stigmata.

The striking sex is no less symbolic. In one scene Jill licks a melon before blowing Eric Price; he spews into a forest of black latex-gloved fingers that intertwine and writhe like skates. Oh the forbidden-fruit/serpent-in-the-Garden-of-Eden-ness of it all...In another, after she nourishes Price with her rectum, she surrenders her youth and transforms into a sobbing old crone.

Then there's Jill howling in pain - or is it pleasure? - as she's about to give birth, while obstetrician Mr. Marcus has anal-inclusive sex with Alexandra Silk and Johnni Black on top of her. Everyone climaxes, and Jill gives birth to herself. Yep. An arm reaches out of her pussy, and soon shes breast-feeding herself.

Plus there are no less than two full-scale orgies. One features fiercely war-painted Indians, uh, Native Americans, whooping around a couple and spearing the woman with a dildo; the other is a latex-garbed extravaganza in and around a huge cage.

Is it pretentious? Sure it is. It's Art, baby; something your average, sweaty-palmed rain-coateranother will flee from faster than a speeding rhinoceros anus- which just happens to be yet another of the awesomely edited is-that-what-I-think-it-is? visuals.

Where to start with the pre-noms? Well, Best Editing, for one. Best Art Direction, for another. And we can't forget Best Videography, Best Box Cover, and Best All-Sex Video