The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning (Gregory Dark, 1986)

A lively debate about the difference between a "hoe," a slender tool used mainly for gardening purposes, and a "ho," a derogatory term used to describe a woman who is drawn to the seminal fluid of others, is just one of the many unexpected treats to be found lurking underneath all the untoward thrusting and exhausted panting in The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning, Gregory Dark's epically bizarre interpretation of an adult classic. Fully aware that I have not seen the original Devil in Miss Jones from 1973, or, for that matter, the Henri Pachard-directed sequel, I've elected to skip forward to part three for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I was so impressed with the Dark Brother's New Wave Hookers, that I decided that I would pretty much watch anything he made during that particular era–even something with a title like, "Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout White Chicks." Secondly, the film features the exceedingly luscious presence of Lois Ayres, who, as far as I'm concerned, is the unofficial face of 1980s. The look she sports throughout this film perfectly encapsulates the stylistic temperament of the decade. Using words that are different than the ones I just typed, it is safe to say that the decision to bypass the first two chapters was a relatively easy one.

Blissfully unaware of what I was about to get myself into, it turns out the combination of Gregory Dark and Lois Ayres was so potent, that I almost had a new wave-induced body fever before the opening credits had even finished...crediting. It's true, I had readied myself beforehand like I usually do with some mild stretching exercises followed by a long, vigorous bike ride through the suburban nether regions of my mind. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Lois Ayres (also spelled "Ayers") showering to the awesome strains of "A Christian Girls Problem" by The Gleaming Spires. "I am talking serious drugs / I am talking mental health..."

The camera carefully follows Lois's cleansing motions as she washes every nook and cranny of her tantalizing frame. The sequence also gives us the viewer the chance to familiarize ourselves with her organic structure, which is important because we'll be seeing a lot of it the course of the next seventy-something minutes.

After the shower, we learn that Lois Ayres is playing Justine Jones, a woman who it turns out is the focal point of a some sort of documentary that involves former classmates, ex-boyfriends, clergymen, family members, and others being interviewed by an unseen man with a probing voice. An ex of Justine's named Bill (Tom Byron) is the first to be questioned and tells the mystery man an anecdote about an argument they had over the phone. You see, while Bill was talking, he was also lathering up the crotch of a woman in white lingerie (Jennifer Noxt). With a pink razor in one hand and a telephone in the other, Bill pathetically attempts to do both things at once. As expected, the former wins out as the activity Bill's simple mind would most like to focus on. Hairless in an instant thanks to this wanton act of pubic desecration (cunt-ruining reprobate), Bill's erect penis can be seen burrowing itself inside her many openings with the enthusiasm of an agitated mongoose.

Frustrated by Bill's insistence on fornicating with women who are not her, Justine's heads out to a local tavern. However, before she can go in, she is verbally accosted by a pimp ("crazy ass white bitch!"). Anyway, the scenes on the street and in the bar are the first where we really get a chance to appreciate the immensity of Lois's awesome hairstyle. The way her platinum blonde follicles seemed to reach out toward the sky was awe-inspiring. Complimented by a colourful dress and a saucy pair of red gloves, Justine looked like a cross between Margaret from Liquid Sky and Christina Moser from the Italian new wave group Krisma, particularly during their Clandestine Anticipation period.

Once at the bar, Justine meets a stood up groom in white (Paul Thomas). After some friendly banter, the two of them end up in bed together. Except, they don't sleep, their swollen genitals wind up hammering out an acceptable compromise with one another. I found the groom in white's gentle fondling of Justine's bright red stockings to be entirely satisfying. It was a rare tender moment in a film full of intrusive, ungentle prodding.

The slow motion shot of Justine's hindquarters undulating under the weight of the groom's thrusting bureaucracy was not included in order to crank up the titillation factor, but to accentuate the minor tragedy that was about to unfold. Crashing headfirst into her bed's purple headboard, Justine wakes up alone and naked in a very dark place. After some moments of semi-consciousness, Justine finds herself unwittingly discussing the mysterious allure of homonyms with a demented man dressed in clear plastic. It turns out Justine is in Hell, a fabricated netherworld full of fire and a smattering of brimstone, and the guy in plastic (Jack Baker) is her guide. Of course, she doesn't believe this for a second and demands that she be shown the way home.

The overt strangeness of The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning really starts to come through once the Hell Guide's human horses start screwing. The Hell Guide rode in on a female horse (Chanel Price) and when he's ready take Justine to the first room of Hell, he calls a male horse (Steve Powers) and instructs him to stick his phallus in her lilac-scented poop chute. At first, I thought he was speaking metaphorically, but that's exactly what he ends up doing. This scene doesn't really exploit Chanel's 6ft. 3inch frame (being a horse, she spends most of her time on her hands and knees), which is a shame, but it does emphasize her wonderfully large rear-end, boast multiple participants in fingerless gloves, and features equine-based sound effects.

Entering the first room of Hell, Justine and her guide witness a place where voyeurs are forced to watch others have intercourse until the end of time. Torn fishnets and some strenuous spooning are the highlights of this room's first encounter, one that sees Marc Wallice and Careena Collins getting all up in each other's beefy junk like nobody's business. Only problem being that Marc's upside down banana dick didn't seem to want to remain ensnared inside Jennifer's precisely tuned vagina. The second encounter sees one woman–a silver pump-wearing Amber Lynn, who tosses her fingerless glove out of the arena with a breathless panache–take on two poles at once. A reinvigorated Marc Wallice and a buff Peter North (Party Doll A Go-Go!) insert their man-things simultaneously, causing a bit of a fleshy impasse. Nevertheless, the transvestite in the wedding dress, Justine's college roommate (Kari Foxx), and the three guys in tuxedos watching seem extra excited by the coordinated poking transpiring in front of them. And, of course, I liked the way the perspiration on Amber's red-hot thighs seemed to glimmer in the murkiness of the unflattering light.

Coming face-to-deformed-face with the unsavoury realm of the Slutmen, Justine is about to enter the film's most disturbing room. Animalistic in nature, the Slutmen are the definition of cloaked debasement. Their nasty charm entices Justine to the point where she winds up allowing two of them to ejaculate sperm on her. Thankfully, her wily Hell Guide steps in before she becomes addicted to their sticky deluge. You see, unlike the room where you spend eternity watching sex, this room, where the Slutman is king, you are forced to have degrading sex with them for, you guessed it, an eternity. It also explains why Justine and her Hell Guide are wearing plastic; it's basically raining cum in there.

Having sex forever is exactly what happens to Vanessa De Rio's Mandy (a woman who was in the same aerobics class as Justine). The sequence that follows is an unpleasant enterprise involving five Slutmen taking turns violating Mandy's ample, candy-flavoured clitoris. The pig noises, the gold chains, the deformed faces, and the general moistness of this scene all combined to create something that was truly sick and twisted.

The topless aura of Lois Ayres's bare performance reminded me of a lot of that other great topless performance by Gisele Lindley as the Princess from the Forbidden Zone. Sure, others have been topless in movies before, and, sure, I have a tendency to reference Gisele's blouse-free work in the Richard Elfman directed classic a little too often, but it takes a special brand of actress to be able to not have their performance overshadowed by their perpetual toplessness. The ability to create an air of nonchalance surrounding one's unclothed upper torso is an innate skill, much like, macramé or synthesizer repair.

Having only seen Lois Ayres in photographs and the odd movie clip, I was delighted to finally hear the sound of her non-moaning voice. I was afraid Lois's appeal was going to be limited to the boldness of her killer look, but all that seemed to melt away the moment she began hurling insults at the creeps trying to grope her cookies as she made her way to the bar.

She had a snotty intelligence about her that elevated the proceedings beyond your typical girl goes to Hell, fucks a bunch of guys flick. Her un-PC give-and-take with Jack Baker was hilarious at times and everything from their exchange about poet Robert Frost to their homonym debate ("Do I look like a garden tool to you?") crackled with an unforeseen sharpness. This sharpness came as a bit of a relief, because the film ends with a cliffhanger, and you know what that means? That's right, there's a part four. Woo-hoo?

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