The temptation to awkwardly provoke your genitals with nonsensical grabbing and hapless taunts will no doubt cross your feeble thought making machine as you savour the salacious splendour that is Café Flesh. I, on the other hand, am not you, I'm me, and had no problem neglecting my usual indecent inclinations as I took in Stephen Sayadian's gleaming lump of salivating bawdiness. You see, the story is crafted in such a way, that there are times when you can't wait for the sex to end. And while that may sound like the kind of kooky-talk that would have gotten you killed in my parents' kitchen back in the day (my mother was a staunch supporter of consensual copulation during my days as a peppy young person), it's absolutely true. The scenes that didn't feature Sex Positives invading each others personal space weren't as involving as the film's astute narrative. Sure, the scene where a guy dressed as a rat plunders the fleshy confines of his leggy wife with his tail and whiskered snout, as three bone-wielding babies look on from the relative safety of their highchairs was as perplexing as cinematic liquid exchanges get. But in terms of sci-fi pornography set in a post-apocalyptic netherworld, you can't anymore cerebral than this. Believe me, I've looked long and extremely hard.

Unfolding, like I said, in a post-apocalyptic netherworld, Café Flesh takes place in a universe where 99% of the population are considered Sex Negatives - people who are unable to engage in the physical act of love (they become sick if they even try touching another human being). The radioactive dust from a recent nuclear war has rendered them sexually inert, so in response to this inconvenience, the Sex Negatives force the Sex Positives (the 1% left unaffected by the fallout) to perform bizarre, surrealistic sex acts for their amusement.

A well-hung cornucopia of contorted cunnilingus and strident straddling, Stephen Sayadian (credited here as Rinse Dream) and his team (which include director Mark S. Esposito, writer Jerry Stahl, costume designer Polly Ester, and camera operator Fred Gonk) have made a film that the will satisfy the needs of the unwashed raincoat crowd, nihilistic weirdos with a penchant for nylons, and fiscal conservatives. Which is a difficult thing to do, that is, if you don't think about it too long.

The way it balanced that fine line between sleaziness and stylishness was like watching a tasteful ballet in crotchless panties. I mean, the guy with the giant pencil for a head may have soiled the garter belt of a shapely co-worker, but at least he practiced his technique beforehand with a strenuous flurry of dry humps and herky-jerky dance moves. I'm surprised his pelvic rhythm wasn't compromised by his naked secretary, who kept asking him if he wanted her to type a memo. Plus, it didn't hurt that the film's imaginative set design (a Sayadian signature) and smooth camera work were an absolute pleasure to revel in.

The cast is uniformly brilliant. Yeah, that's right, they're all brilliant. I'm sure a statement like that might shock some people, but I'm serious, the acting is quite excellent. Hell, even the extras brought their 'A' game (I loved the way Sayadian would periodically cut to the Negatives in the crowd, revealing a first-rate mélange of new wave faces). The loquacious Andy Nichols (Night of the Living Babes) gives a terrific performance as Max Melodramatic, the M.C. at Café Flesh. A Sex Negative with a healthy sense of fun, Andy spews out the film's warped dialogue with a nonchalant ease.

The talented Michelle Bauer (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers) is wonderfully naughty as the horny Lana. Watching her come to grips with own sex positivity was a hypnotic spectacle. Miss Bauer's masturbation/revelation scene and empowering march towards lust fulfillment have to be two of the most emotionally draining scenes I have ever seen. The self-love scene in particular is helped greatly by its use of synthesizers and strange droning sounds (the score was composed by Mitchell Froom, who also did the music for Dr. Caligari). A menacing Dennis Edwards (The Little Mermaid) gives good creepy as a determined Enforcer (they hunt Sex Positives). And Tantala Ray (Suburban Satanist) reminded me of Annie Sprinkle in the role of Moms, the bird-loving proprietor of Café Flesh.

Oh, and, call me wrongheaded if you must, but the sight of dispossessed clumps of irregular lotion languishing amidst thick, lustrous fields of jet black short and curlies made my spirit soar like an alabaster butterfly flying in-between intricate rows of barbed wire.

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