Instensity: Champagne Bitches & Caviar Reams

Intensity. What can it mean? Is it a pretentious '90s fragrance? A dated young adult series about blandly telegenic kids in the big city having overwrought romances while working in gigantic coffee shops? A freestyle-oriented club out on the Jersey Shore? No, it's the latest gauzy fuck-fest courtesy of Falcon. Boy-O!

Intensity is the perfect example of what was once known as “Aspirational Porn.” This was a popular skin flick genre back in the heady 1970s when the line between hardcore and softcore was starting to blur. The '60s had been more about carefree, even goofy sex between rednecks and their frolicking nymphette gal pals, but as the decade came to a close, viewers craved more glamorous, kinky screwing with high-class trim – fashion models, international playboys, well-heeled journalists, live-in whores -- showing plenty of pink in far-flung locales. It was all so...refined, dahlings.

With an entry like Intensity, it's all about high-end, pretty laddies in a row spilling seed on each other's freshly micro-dermabrasioned faces and expertly-waxed, baby-smooth boy pussies in sumptuous splendor. Nobody's got the tough, calloused hands of a working man in this scene; these are the kind of well-kept pieces who lounge by the pool like Bond Girls and do all their work on their backs. Ambition! Enterprise! Ardor! Elegant male split beaver shots! Greed really is good!

All this takes place in one of those generically elegant villa-style pads – it has that staircase; you know the one – and it sort of reminds me of the rich-bitch-catering man-whore brothel from Emanuelle In America wherein the heroine has to bust her way out after being exposed as the world's most oversexed investigative reporter. We've all been there. Anyway, there's sadly no dialogue involved, which is a downer. I love terrible fuck flick dialogue recited by models who sound as if they're trying to read an especially unwieldy ingredient list – or better yet, if they sound like they're German but are inexplicably attempting a French accent – so I just made it all up in my head. Because that's how I get through life.

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Jack King and Darius Ferdynand (there's a fancy-boy name) start getting hot 'n heavy on that staircase, and so I just opted to believe that I was being treated to a glitzy exposé of what goes on behind the scenes of a fabulously wealthy sultan's harem of international boy beauties, everyone clearly commanded to walk around in the buff at all times. King struck me as the obvious choice for harem-keeper with the most seniority. “But sir, I have been promised to the oil sheikh,” protests doe-eyed Ferdynand. “Mama and Papa need help saving the farm from the burgomeister!” “Silence!,” counters King. “I break in all the new colts for my master, and your hole is the freshest and tightest of all!" The folks back home would certainly be proud of Ferdynand's oral prowess -- his little pixie ass perched high -- before he mounts up on King's cock while holding on for dear life like he's riding a champion Arabian steed. There's no shortage of inspired uptilt shots of his hole getting worked over from behind. Both pop off admirably, but neither give a damn about the parquet flooring! You common trash! You'll work that off in the poppy fields!

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What carnal delights await our next unsuspecting innocent boy-chattel? Why some all-too-brief but still hot pec play between butch blonds Landon Conrad and Rylan Knox in the requisite hot tub. These two seem like they're really into each other (and Conrad's balls pull upward and vanish when he's hard, which I've always found weirdly arousing). Rugged Conrad teaches wispy Knox how to take a load to the mouth – trust me, that skill's gonna come in handy – before taking him like a champ every-which-away both on the bed and off. “We must not be caught!,” warns Knox through gritted teeth as Conrad slides in and out of him. “The harem-keeper has eyes everywhere, and the punishment for such dalliances is the lash!” Who gives a fuck? There are worse gigs, and I oughta know. I worked at Denny's.

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In a nice nod to the reality that not every joy boy in this pad is a walking slab of white marble, we're happily treated to the sight of curvaceous Adrian Hart servicing Connor Maguire's upturned rod atop a pool table. Now, this is extremely upsetting to an easily excitable hypochondriac like myself, but I still have to admit that Hart's nubile, high-sitting ass did manage to alleviate my vapors. Maquire is also surprisingly physically accessible, meaning that he's attractive – particularly when lancing Hart's beautiful butt like a Knight of The Round Table – without being too Olympian. He's of this earth. The pair at least has the good taste to put a towel down – finally! – as Hart spreads like a full deck of cards and Maguire works them hips. Hart ends up basting his whole torso before Maguire spurts right into his mouth. The denouement: Connor Maguire in the billiard room with a stiff prick! The verdict: Guilty!

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How else can these heedless tramps sully such pristine, opulent property? I would've liked to have seen somebody spray their jizz all over the gift wrapping room (everyone should have at least three) but alas, shady-looking Andrew Stark and roughneck Chris Bines opt to smoke pole on that fucking staircase again. It's such a new money move. At any rate, these two hot rods are more orally fixated on each other's mouths and dicks than Kojak trying to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, especially the tatted, pectacular Bines. It's all tongues and tails from there, with Bines sitting on Stark's face before getting pogoed as he uses the stair slats for leverage. Both make a mess of the tasteful olive staircase carpeting, Bines-- filmed from beneath – going so far as to glance at the camera with a cheeky look of “Yeah. I did it – so what? Pay me, or I'll cut you!”

Consuela, get the club soda!