Naughty Pines 2: The Timbers Are Shivering!

Sex in the great outdoors.

Let's face it -- it's a movie institution, and like all cinematic flights of fancy, it's way less simple than the movies make it seem.  It doesn't stop us all from trying, though.  There were the Pre-Code jungle films like The Blonde Captive, Trader Horn, and Tarzan & His Mate that touched on the forbidden eroticism of primitive love among the palm fronds.  From Here To Eternity had Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr going at it on the beach way back in the '50s.  The '60s and '70s graced us with the outdoor shenanigans of Russ Meyer, Marsha Jordan, David F. Friedman, Doris Wishman, and Bethel Buckalew with all their kissin' cousins, randy rednecks, lusty lumberjacks, and white trash in heat.  By the time the '80s rolled around, we were all expected to be getting randy in the tropics and under waterfalls like in The Blue Lagoon and Cocktail.  Sex became a whole lot less Love, American Style and a whole lot more National Geographic.

Since porn has colored all of our libidos in one way or another, why should flagrant public fornicatin' in God's green acreage be any more sacred than ruttin' in the movie theater or bangin' it out in the locker room?  It ain't, honeychile! 

I really have to give a fuck flick like Naughty Pines 2 credit, and not just because it could've easily been the Twin Peaks gay porn tie-in of my dreams.  It frankly looks great -- full of towering pines, dappled woodland interiors, amber autumnal hues, enough flannel and khaki to keep Abercrombie & Fitch from selling off its corporate jet, and one of the intrepid performers casually doffing his clothes during the credits sequence.  If you're bored to death with all those prefab rented "porn house" sets that have overtaken the medium, this makes for a pleasant little vacay away from the suburban sprawl.

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It all begins with strapping Jeremy Walker -- looking like he traipsed in from one of those '60s peplum epics -- leaving his tent to drain the lizard.  Along come the ubiquitous Chris Bines to promptly lock lips on his piece with nary a word.  That's economy, people.  Bines doesn't exactly require much in the way of encouragement in working Walker's shaft as mohawked Owen Michaels happens by and gets an eyeful, and soon enough Walker is returning the favor, working Bines over from the front and the back.  By then Bines is ready to spread, Walker's bouncing pecs looking sublime and filmed in multiple angles.

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Shift to our next bucolic encounter as expertly-coiffed Topher DiMaggio strips and wades into a hot tub, a hovering hawk portending marmoreal Sean Zevran's arrival.  Again, who needs pesky dialogue or even rudimentary introductions when you've got DiMaggio's Peter Gallagher eyebrows and Zevran's hypnotic chest hair pattern?  The pair just opt to go all in, Zevran submerging himself and using DiMaggio's rod as an impromptu snorkel.  DiMaggio's no slouch himself, withstanding Zevran jackhammering into his mouth without complaint, which is no mere feat.  Zevran's clearly enjoying himself by the time DiMaggio buries his face in his bionic butt.  The pair move to dry land -- you're only supposed to stay in those glorified cauldrons for so long -- and Zevran's hole gets mined by DiMaggio's dick like it's a gold rush.  Zevran delivers the golden load all right before opening his mouth wide for the flick's best pop shot.

We're treated next to Walker watching the rest of the cast frolic telegenically in the river (Does he have some horrible childhood trauma that's left him aquaphobic?, asks my inner movie geek) as come-hither Brian Bonds leads him off into the bush for what amounts to a backwoods quickie.  Haven't any of these people ever seen a Friday The 13th movie?  Bonds is sort of boyish and manly at all once, so he does most of the heavy lifting here as Walker enjoys himself braced up against a tree before cranking off onto his forest friend's face.  I couldn't help but picture this exchange as a live-action Lil' Abner comic strip, just minus the veiled innuendo.

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Our nudist credits flirt Johnny V finally decides to get in on some of this action, enticing embattled porn bad bay Ryan Rose into the shower.  With his pneumatic bod, burr-cut hair and lantern jaw, Mr. V reminds me of Flash Gordon crossbred with Dudley Do-Right.  Nobody's exactly what you'd call a verbal wordsmith here -- Frank Booth utters fewer "fucks" in Blue Velvet -- but the dicks are upright and the lighting is perfect.  Rose really goes to town on V's vanilla-smooth muscle ass, and the sound of pelvis smacking against haunches does somewhat compensate for the uninspired sex-speak.

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Colt Rivers stumbles across our pair and is himself set upon by the lurky Michaels -- seriously, these woods get more foot traffic than Central Park -- as the two decide that they can out-fuck the competition.   Michaels has a seedy, fratty quality that will no doubt delight viewers, while Rivers has an innocent cast to his face that marks him as easy pickings in this woodland food chain.  The oral and rimming action are arguably a tad redundant at this point, but Rivers gives his all as Michaels takes him from behind against a tree trunk.  Rivers then mounts up for some very satisfying reverse cowboy before popping off and getting a nicely lensed up-tilt facial.

Naughty Pines 2 -- never has the call of the wild been so monosyllabic.