Private Teacher (Gary Graver, 1983)

On the surface, the salacious Private Teacher appears to be a satire about life in early '80s Los Angeles–opening with the same spiel that kicked off Eating Raoul, the film sports a humourous narration that speaks of a city replete with stoned losers and garish frescoes–but deep down (trauma hounds run to corrode), Gary Graver (credited here as Robert McCallum and Akdov Telmig) has created a razor-sharp indictment of the voyeuristic and slothful nature of today's youth. Sure, staying in your room all day and repeatedly masturbating to the sex-crazed antics of the ultra-horny air hostesses who live across the street is a super-terrific way to pass the time. However, this film is not about the dismantling of the wank-based infrastructure that operates inside each and every human brain. On the contrary, promoting self-assertiveness at almost every turn, the film is a celebration of civil liberties and lewd values. Encouraging penises and their female cousins to run free and do what they were designed to do, the intellectually modest, yet groundbreaking film is about the complex relationship between a horny adolescent named Jimmy (Tom Byron) and his equally sex-starved Aunt Diane (Honey Wilder).

The red pantie-wearing auntie is worried that her well-hung nephew is spending way too much time in his room (he won't even come out to watch The Jeffersons with her). In an act of desperation, she hires a teacher, a private teacher, to snap the sullen teen out of his withdrawn funk. And before you can say, "what time is the cunnilingus seminar and what kind of ChapStick should I bring?" the demure Miss Lillian Foxworth (Kay Parker) arrives at Jimmy's door with her hair in a bun and her mind full of Shakespeare.

A well-nourished cornucopia of kinky deviltry and erratic ejaculations (their aim was as capricious, as it was unpredictable), Private Teacher is a surprisingly well-acted endeavour that doesn't strain the mind too vigorously. Boasting scenes that feature talking, fucking, sucking, and everything that goes on in-between, the spry film is loopy enough to have bored stewardesses in leather bondage gear forcing their gentlemen callers to dress like robots (I can still hear the tinfoil scrapping against between their thighs), but also grounded enough to feature multiple scenes that tout conventional thrusting above all other types of thrusting. Though sometimes the two types of thrusting commingled with one another. For example, the scene with Paul Thomas in a bunny suit being whipped and molested by Laurie Smith (a sexy brunette with tremendous legs) and Joanna Storm (a gorgeous blonde with perfectly coiffed hair) dressed as trouser-free ringleaders fit this ying and yang thrusting criteria perfectly.

My highest praise, however, has to go to vivacious Honey Wilder. Giving an incredibly sensuous performance as the anxious aunt, the smoky-voiced actress lofts her legs in the air with such a jaunty flair, that she brings new meaning to the word "eager." Never have I seen a woman elicit that much eroticism from a simple look or gesture. I mean, just mere sight of her lounging on a chesterfield and eating melted ice cream was a crease ruiner. Whether she was playing with a giant vibrator, engaging in Videodrome-style coitus with the man inside her television, or longing to have her nephew's massive cock slamming in and out of sophisticated pussy, Honey was the cat's whiskers in terms of on-screen fornication.

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