Immanuel Kant's philosophical opinions on the ephemeral nature of reality aside, one thing's for certain: if you're driving right into a brick wall, the chances of hitting it are pretty good. The Private line is such a wall — a forbidding monster of carnal carnage that just keeps on renting and selling no matter what the content. You can't avoid it, let alone criticize it. Like the deutschemark, it's impervious.

So, banging my head on the proverbial wall, I offer the following observations: Forbidden Desires is just about as incomprehensible, plot-wise, as Clinton's medical reform package. The dialogue is a helter-skelter patois of Babelonian confusion, the videography often unsteady and murky, the cross-cutting between simultaneous sex scenes clunky, and the acting is suffer than petrified driftwood — and yet none of it makes a lick of difference! Your eyes will still be glued to scene after scene of fabulous Euro-babes sucking on more foreskin than can be found in a mohel's garbage disposal; taking double penetration like a hillbilly's greased pig and accepting more flying payloads than the Columbia shuttle. Mind-searing shit, ladies and gents.

For those who care about little incidentals such as story, try this on for size: Drajica Laurent, a nubile little dish, flies out to meet her strip club owning stepmother (April Summer, a tad older and brunette-er) for a European vacation that finds Drajica traversing not only the streets of London, but a few paths more debauched — courtesy of Eric Weiss, the chauffeur who invariably went to Catholic school. I say that because of his patent fascination with Drajica's cotton panties, though the mature charms of Lydia Chanel and April do tempt him now and again. There's sex on the plane, (no trains) automobiles, bars, bedrooms, and at the strip club where Lana Cox coaxes the entire clientele into an orgy — a veritable wall of sex. Smack into it soon! Also with Kai Nobel, Erica Piri, Samantha Shamal, Rosanna Melendez, and Stacy Morgan.