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I think all sci-fi geeks have this dream, or rather, one of two variations of a dream (if not both). In the dream, they are captured by one of two alien races. The first alien race forces the sci-fi geek to have countless hours of sex with beautiful Earth women so they can study our mating practices. In the second variation of the dream, the alien race is comprised entirely sexy space alien women who look human (though some may be green-skinned, or possibly a pale shade of blue) and who force the sci-fi geek to have countless hours of sex with them.

Personally, I have never had either of these fantasies. I'm just reporting on things I've heard, and I think they are sick and perverted wet dreams that I am glad I have never ever harbored somewhere in my mind. No, I am an upstanding citizen of the human race, and I would never, and I mean never, fantasize about screwing cute space women on a UFO. Ever.

There, with that out of the way we can continue this review, which is of a movie in which a sci-fi nerd gets to make it with tons of sexy space women. of course, this nerd is in his thirties or forties, but hey, what are you gonna do? No matter how you slice it, this is prime 1960s sci-fi sexploitation with all the great future trimmings you would want from such a film.

The movie opens with our hero, who is beefy and silver-haired and inhumanly wide (sort of like Jonathan Frakes -- there's one for you sci-fi geeks to whom I absolutely cannot relate to in your weird lust for alien sex), lying in bed with his buxom, naked wife. Once again we get quality 1960s bodies, back before silicone implants and heroin chic. Nice, round women with curves. Ahhh, yes. This is the way it always should have been. Not Carney Wilson jumbo models, but just the right amount of flesh and baby fat to not remind you of stick figure drawings.

The wife wants to get it on in all ways possible, but the guy only wants to lie around in his seersucker pants reading those "Fantastic Adventure" type pulp magazines about space and the future and alternate universes. He finally takes a break long enough to dole out some sweet lovin' to his lady, but promptly returns to his Popular Science fare amid the afterglow.

A note of courtesy here that I have never made but should: guys, don't start reading sci-fi novels while you are having sex. I know a lot of you don't get to have sex (not a jab, just a fact), but if you do have yourself a girlfriend, learn how to please her in bed. If you have to go buy yourself a copy of Kama Sutra or study up by watching some porn, then do it. You can justify your viewing of pornography by dismissing it as research. Learn the craft. Don't read the next book in the Dune series and ignore your girlfriend. If you have a good thing, realize it. Hell, I have a great thing; she even puts up with my endless lustful ramblings about sexy space women and go-go boots.

So there. Public service announcement over. I knew of this guy who had this amazingly cute girlfriend who would drive down from Atlanta to Florida to see him. He was a real greasy, nerdy guy and we all wondered how he scored such a cute, witty, charming as hell punk rock girlfriend. He should have been worshiping her combat boot-clad feet every brief moment they had together. Instead, she would come down to visit (it's a six hour drive), he would ignore her to play Magic: The Gathering or work on his Klingon outfit, and she would have to sit on the porch with me wondering why she even bothered. Don't do that shit. It makes her mad, and it makes all the good fellows out there mad, too.

Anyway, back to our movie. Our hero, if you want to call him that, drifts into a dream about being a super duper space captain, complete with space age Esquivel lounge tunes floating around him. He is captured by the requisite spaceship full of sexy alien women who all look human and wear very skimpy, boob-revealing gowns. In their culture men are slaves and women are the lesbian bosses of things, taking time out from their sapphic structure to please men only when they feel like amusing themselves. Okay, so what's so wrong with that?

In an effort to infiltrate the ranks, our hero bravely allows himself to become the sexual plaything of the female crew, selflessly sacrificing his body to their unholy depravity and lust, and of course trying to study and mimic their sexual veracity all in the name of science.

So basically this is a movie about some middle-aged dork making it with a spaceship full of beautiful women in sexy space togas. The coolest thing about this guy is that he gets to make love yet doesn't have to remove is tight, shiny gold foil pants. The women disrobe and peel off their sexy space go-go outfits every couple of minutes, but this guy never once has to drop his britches. Of course, this is not necessarily a negative aspect of the film, even for women. I don't think anyone wants to see his hairy, middle-manager-looking ass naked.

This film is enjoyable on many levels. Of course, there's the naked flesh, an element that can make even the most awful of films possible to get through. But apart from that is the tremendous kitsch value. With so many people attempting to recreate and mimic the 1960s "retro future" look pioneered by film and television makers like Gerry "UFO" Anderson, it's always nice to catch a bit of the real thing, and Space Thing is definitely a large slice of retro-future fun. Everything from the swank lounge music of the future to the sparkling interiors to the space mini-skirts and mini-togas will have you wishing we'd all ended up in that future instead of the one we got, with JNCO jeans and Tech Vests (whatever the hell those are).

But I guess in the scheme of things we have to go through that "future noir" time of Blade Runner, and then into the "wild desert" future where we all wear giant shoulder pads and live in the desert for some reason. Then we will finally be able to enter the future of little togas and go-go boots. Apocalypse is, of course, a small price to pay for a barefoot Jenny Augutter in a little mini-toga.

Space Thing is a perfect example of the sort of life space-age bachelors and interstellar playboys are forced to lead. It's much better than watching Star Trek: Voyager, anyway. But then, jamming twigs up your ass is also more enjoyable than watching Star Trek: Voyager, so if you don't mind, I will stick to 1960s space sexploitation like Space Thing. It makes me happy.

Labels: Science Fiction, Sexploitation