(I’ve Got You!) Under My Skin: Tatted Out In The Tenderloin

“Slutty” is such a slutty word, but as someone who's more confounded by sex than fulfilled by it, I can innately spot someone who's had tons of it. There's just a familiar look that fucking casts upon someone who is an avid fornicator. Now, I don't have it...that look – and maybe that's my problem – but I feel that there's a certain amount of sexual projection to porn, meaning that I seek out material that I can reasonably see myself participating in.

A movie like, Under My Skin, courtesy of Raging Stallion, is problematic for me. It's rather like the beautiful garden Alice eyes through the tiny door in Alice In Wonderland; I'm just not the right fit to get access. The San Francisco/Tenderloin/Raging Stallion aesthetic – aggressive facial hair, piercings, belts, buckles, boots, bullet-sharp burr cuts, and copious tats – would make me feel like I was playing dress-up. For me, that's the downside to gay porn: just as trashy daytime talk shows leave me wondering if I'm the only man in America not having illicit dalliances 24-7, rough-and-tumble gay porn leaves me feeling callow by comparison. Even if – if – I showed up in full sex pig regalia at an orgy in a Hellraiser-style sex dungeon, I would worry that the genuine leather hogs involved would ask me if I was playing hookey and offer me a glass of Sunny Delight – all the while referring to me as “Scout” or “Kiddie Car.”

Sigh.

So anyway, you'll have to forgive me for casting a more clinical eye on Under My Skin, but I am who I am. In a weird case of symmetry, we open with Damien Crosse – who, at this point, may be the Mickey Rooney of gay fuck flicks in terms of the sheer amount of screen time this man's racked up – getting cruisy with the lolly-poppish Nick Cross (no relation) in an alley complete with crime scene tape. Both look like human traffickers to me, but perhaps that's the point. I have to say that Cross' Michelin-like lips do look nice sliding up and down Crosse's prick. Crosse also has some beef on him, and I dig it when there's some movement and softness to a guy's physique. The fucking here is strictly the hit-and-run variety – pesky verbal exchanges are eschewed entirely – and Cross ends up spurting like a nicked artery.

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The next scene takes place in a tattoo parlor (I found myself toying with maybe getting the horsie -- with Rockabilly-looking Christian Wilde getting seviced by James Ryder.  Wilde has that rednecky Old Reliable cast to him -- the type of guy who back in the day would get out of the big house and head straight to the local dive gay go-go club for a paycheck. Ryder, by contrast, is the most “innocent”-looking member of the cast -- though nobody's going to accuse any of these guys of being choir boys -- appearing freshly turned-out, his street value at its highest. The oral action here is pretty intense, and again, no nonsense, so maybe the diminutive Ryder is paying Wilde off in trade for his new hummingbird pec tat. These two mount up and plow home right in the chair, clearly in defiance of all health codes, so you just know that they're shameless degenerates. If you're like me and find tattoos terribly superfluous, you may find yourself distracted by all the body "art" on display here. Seriously, you could pen The NeverEnding Story with all this ink. I swear that Wilde even has “Mama” etched on his outer bicep (!).

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Things just get trashier from here on out. You'd think that Cross would need a break after getting his haunches tenderized by Crosse, but no, he's already locking lips with quiff-sporting Boomer Banks.  I'm appalled at such sleazy, seedy, vile, and degrading behavior. Okay, and envious too. They're going at it like alley cats in heat soon enough. There's some nice reverse cowboying here (Cross is one of those nimble spinner types) and boot fetishists will likely get a kick out of the cool treads that Banks wears. Banks mounts up and really goes to town, with Cross half-whining in ecstasy throughout. Somebody's gonna be sore tomorrow!

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Directors Tony Dimarco and Steve Cruz definitely saved the best for last as Trenton Ducati and Seven Dixon give each the ocular once-over. I found myself really digging Ducati's big, blocky head, and Dixon looks like an undercover cop infiltrating a Neo-Nazi meeting. Apparently, polishing pole is part of his deep cover, because he absolutely goes off on Ducati through a section of chain-link fencing. He spreads and presents – magnificently – and Ducati doesn't need to be asked twice  It's quite the sight to see him straddling Dixon's hips as he plugs away at his firm, high-sitting ass. I was a little disappointed that there weren't any oral cumshots to culminate this otherwise fine closer – everyone else in the movie either gives it in the mouth or takes it on the mouth like a man – but Dixon looks so splendid splayed out on his back that I can get over it.

Tats all, folks!