On The Night Shaft: Guard Patrol

Male authority figures -- gay guys will never truly get over their resentment of and sexual obsession with them.

Uniforms, badges, nightsticks, and various other forms of disciplinarian regalia trigger instant hard-ons, so it's really not a surprise that there's an entire gay porn subgenre devoted to the male power structure.  This is why male strippers and centerfolds are so much more occupationally-defined than their female counterparts.  Straight men tend to like to see women in more infantile costumes in order to make them pliant and non-threatening, but gay men want to see commanding male stereotypes made sexually accessible and overtly carnal.  They're like red wine stains on our psyches, meaning they'll never come out in the wash.

A movie like Raging Stallion's Guard Patrol can't really hope to dethrone established classics of the vocational genre, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't have its virtues.   It's undeniably well-shot, looking better than your typical Skinemax titty movie.  The fact that the whole thing is set in a seedy-looking storage unit that wouldn't look out of place on any one of A&E's fifty shows wherein human vultures descend upon the carrion that is other people's wrecked lives grants it a certain charm.  I actually worked as a security guard for a brief span of time, but I ended up assigned to the basement from Saw, and you know how erotically that movie played out.  Sigh.

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Anyway, I don't know what security company that's on the up-and-up would hire Ryan Rose and Christian Wilde to guard the hen house, but this is porn, I suppose.  They both look like the type for whom a prison cell door is like a turnstyle, plus their uniforms amount to a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt emblazoned with "SECURITY" in white block letters, which is some efficient filmic shorthand.   It's made quite clear that these two have a regular thing goin' on -- I can relate, having engaged in a torrid fantasy workplace affair with the blond, stubbly guy from Under The Dome over the past year -- and Rose is already basted in body oil even before he liplocks on Wilde's upturned prick.  The oral action is pretty damn steamy here, and I'm guessing the camera lens fogged up more than a few times.  Rose even appears to go outside of himself with the ecstasy Wilde's mouth provides.  He happily spreads as the pair mount up atop a table -- I hope that it doesn't have a lot of sentimental value for the leasee -- and then the jizz starts flying.  It's a relationship clearly based on mutual love and respect, not to mention sturdy American work ethic.

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Atypically for porn, this narrative unfolds in two acts, and boy, is the second one a doozy.  Brian Bonds -- who's got that just-off-the-corner look to him -- gets nabbed red-handed by humpy Mitch Vaughn with a backpack full of purloined dildos (again, whose storage unit is this?  Jame Gumb's?).  Bonds doesn't exactly protest too much before Vaughn bends him over and inserts a rod the size of a fire hydrant into him.  As crime deterrents go, this is probably not the most effective tactic, but who really cares?  Vaughn -- boasting a pierced perineum and the best ass in the movie -- proceeds to magnificently pump away at Bonds like one of those drinking bird tchotchkes before dusky David Benjamin and grizzled Rocco Steele show up to horn in on his action.  This is the most eventful graveyard shift ever. 

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What ensues is a helluva epic triple-teaming that never loses momentum.  Bonds gets more hose laid into him than the entire Druzhba pipeline -- at one point, Benjamin sticks a flashlight into his greedy little ass, which seems awfully presumptuous on a first date -- and by the time he's double penetrated while straddling Steele as Vaughn takes him from behind, I have to figure that he'd take even more dicks up his nose and in his ears if he could.  It's a case of too much just not being enough for this little crook.  Benjamin shows a great deal more admirable restraint than I would have with Vaughn's million dollar ass bobbing up and down just inches from his dick.  You'll lose count of the number of times these four pop off, and Bonds ravenously devours every drop like he survived a plane crash in the Himalayas and hasn't eaten in weeks. 

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It's a comfort to know that the hardscrabble men of the American workforce aren't really alone out there...

...on the night shift.