Beef — It’s What For Dinner: San Francisco Meat Packers, Part 2

Sex and food.

I've never fully grasped porn's – and hell, pop culture's – insistence on melding the two. It could be my obsessive-compulsive nature, but I find that I like to keep my fixations well-compartmentalized. I end up feeling very bemused towards gimmicky restaurants and “celebrity” chefs who want to explore how food can be “sexy,” or “erotic,” or “sensual,” or whatever other pretentious euphemisms they want to use in order to put a Zalman King-style spin on cuisine. I can honestly say that I've never had a plate of penne pasta placed in front of me that's elicited a lip-curling “Awwwwww yeeeeeaaaaah, baby!” rise out of me. 

I'll go on record saying that I like my porn kinda cute, sorta exploitative, brightly-lit, and full of humor, ironic self-awareness, and zany machismo – basically, a live-action comic book or cartoon acted out by the real-life incarnations of Steve Trevor, John Bravestarr, or both of Jonny Quest's dads. Porn tends to lose me when it eschews its goofy charms in favor of arty body-painting, hazy visual effects, extreme sex play, and yes, food theatrics. I have no burning desire for a man to spatter whip cream or strawberry sauce all over me during sex like we're reenacting 9 ½ Weeks, nor do I want to have chocolate drizzled all over me. I can definitely live without being sprayed with beer by a tongue-wagging Lothario in a chest harness, and never – not once, not ever – have I fantasized about going at it in a butcher shop. A pizzeria? Maybe (well...yes), but an actual meat market?

No.

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A title like San Francisco Meat Packers would typically be playfully wink-wink, but in this case, it's quite literal. Being both an inveterate (but quiet) vegetarian and a lifelong animal lover, I found this prospect to be more than a little creepy, but hey, these are the dark alleys my life takes me down. We open with Chris Bines hanging a big slab of meat over an iron tub, then handling a severed pig's head (!), which is a first in porn for me. Smirky Angel Rock – wearing a sinister clear latex apron would look perfectly at home on Hannibal – puts the make on him and yanks his pants down, polishing his sex stick as bloody hunks of meat suspend in the background. They do look pretty fakey, but I still found them disturbing. All I could think of is that movie Cruising where all the male murder victims start out as figurative carcasses on hooks and then literally become them at the end of a blade, the sex clubs they frequent in the meatpacking district operating right beside warehouses with chains and hooks rattling malevolently. It's not long before Bines spreads and gets some tenderizing of his own, sliding up and down Rock's pole eagerly. Both guys are attractive – Rock in particular – but I did feel like I was watching a Texas Chainsaw Massacre porn spoof. Now I've seen everything.

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Up next we have lumberjacky-looking Hans Berlin bitching about his boring-ass day, prompting bearded Tommy Defendi to whip his dick out and stick it in his mouth. Well, that's one way to shut an annoying co-worker up. At least they have the courtesy to go at in the locker room, which is slightly more tasteful than the rendering room. Anyway, neither guy really sends me, but I did enjoy watching Defendi pump away at Berlin from behind (Berlin's got some nice haunches, by the by). There's a frankly spectacular oral cumshot at the end – see, there are alternate sources of protein out there -- and Berlin clearly deserves Employee of The Month status for taking it like a pro.

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Can this get any more lurid, you ask? The answer is a resounding yes, as Jimmy Durano gives the ocular once-over to beltless wonder Angelo Marconi, who practically falls right out of his low-rise jeans. Sexual harassment is no joke, sugar tits, but if Marconi doesn't want the attention, then he might want to consider toning down the wardrobe. Marconi – looking like a cage fighter or a pro wrestler – is the pick of the cast litter for me, and he waxes Durano's knob with gusto. I love big, sexually threatening guys who are happily willing to go face-down/ass-up, and indeed he does, his USDA-approved ass taking a serious pounding before he gorges on Durano's cumming cock. These infernal tramps could give a shit about random health inspections!

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I appreciate subtlety in a man, so when our closing scene finds Boomer Banks slapping his rod down mere inches from where Billy Santoro is carving cuts of beef, I thought "Classy!".   Santoro's up for a hot beef injection of a different sort, locking his lips on that staff and going off.  Who is in charge of this fine establishment?  The fuck if I know, but, at any rate, I found that the sex from scene to scene became redundant by this point.  It's a bit like watching men's volleyball:  Bump.  Set.  Spike, all with little variation.  The strain on Santoro's face as he struggles to accommodate Banks's terrifying piece is evident.  The jizz starts flying -- right into Santoro's mouth -- and it's time to punch the clock.

The Carnivore's Dilemma.  Fuck it.