Pro performer Alex Sanders calls them "orgy fuck boys". The informed viewer knows them ail-too better as the "sniffers" — the hangers-on; the anonymous dregs of fandom who cling to the periphery of the business like barnacles, feeding off scraps and willing to ball anything that moves.

So what if they look like escaped serial killers on a Budwieser diet? So what if half of them stand around nursing semi-wood? So what if the videography is rocky, the color-shift lighting is nauseating, the techno-music is overbearing? As long as there's a relatively steady stream of jism, as long as "one of the boys" are having fun, that's what counts. "To hell with the viewer; we'll release it anyway".

I say fuck 'em. Volume Three is unerotic for the reasons mentioned; Volume Four fares slightly better with the presence of Stephanie Duvall (aka Thumper, aka Menette) a performer on the prettier side, who can make the likes of Jeff Coldwater, Hank Rose and Dick Nasty look almost studly. Almost — then there's those tech problems again. But at least the boys had fun.