By New Times
By Connor Radnovich
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Ray Stern
By Keegan Hamilton
By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
Other members of GM's freeform family include a handful of young videographers who, in return for travel expenses and a shared motel roof over their heads, are given photographic carte blanche to plumb the depths of the lake's lustiest lasses. Kenny, a brawny fellow of Asian descent sporting cherry-red hair and a goatee, was an agent for lower-tier porn performers before joining the GM enclave. Moonlighting from a regular job he's not eager to talk about, soft-spoken Scott has flown in from Fort Lauderdale, where he's worked on several spring break videos.
"He's a little pervert, one of my best shooters," says Martin. "Give him a camera, and he'll get everything that happens."
And to ensure that something does happen, Martin has recruited the voluntary services of several free-spirited young women, just to get the ball rolling. Although Martin openly admits that several shills are dancers and strippers, one bikini-clad lovely with green and blue dreadlocks blows off the notion that she's any sort of porn-industry fringie.
"Oh, I was in George's Southern California Sluts, Vol. I," she concedes. "But the rest of the time, I'm just a mom."
George Martin's unofficial credo?
"If you film it, they will cum."
Barring that, they will fake it--a fact that immediately becomes apparent to anyone who sits through even a fraction of Martin's massive oeuvre.
Other impressions include the sneaking suspicions that some of these alleged amateurs are not nearly as inexperienced as they might like you to believe. With their mammoth basketball-like breasts, elaborately coiffed and bleached pubic zones and well-developed oral skills, many of these sex-toy friendly vixens are simply not in the same league as the nude co-ed whose drunken writhing prompts a friend's horrified off-camera shriek, "Kerri, what the fuck are you doing?!"
Titillating, revolting, fascinating and, ultimately, numbingly repetitive, Martin's Lake Havasu porn documentaries could serve double duty as research tools for scholars delving into male sex fantasies, female exhibitionism and mass psychology. (Tellingly, practically none of the marine sexcapades involves men--a situation one insider attributes to "beer dick.")
With some judicious editing and digital fogging, several sequences might even have a shot at network television exposure. In one sequence worthy of an unexpurgated edition of America's Funniest Home Videos, an especially energetic couple experiences coitus interruptus when their boat capsizes in mid-sex act. Later, while attempting to relieve herself over the side of a boat, a well-lubricated damsel does a back flip and plunges into her own waste.
Yet not all of the interludes are hilarious. In one nail-biting vignette straight out of Rescue 911, partying strangers band together to subdue a drunken woman wobbling around on the roof of a boat, finally lowering her to safety in a life jacket.
Exhibiting admirable restraint, however, Martin's crew refrained from photographing the most dramatic event ever to occur on a GM shoot: Several years ago, while Martin was taping a lakeside "unbikini" contest, the body of a drowning victim bobbed to the surface just offshore.
In spite of the less-than-sensational results of the first day's shooting (the highlight of the scant 15 minutes of usable tape includes a staged sequence in which Rose performs a "Lewinsky" on the camcorder lens), George Martin is anything but dead in the water.
"Friday is always slow," he assures his troops. "Just wait 'til tomorrow when everyone gets here. Saturday's gonna be crazy, just nuts!"
As it turns out, nuts doesn't begin to describe the gonad-and-pudenda-engorged atmosphere the next day at the Sandbar, a three-foot deep channel of water some 10 miles up the river from Lake Havasu. By noon Saturday, the shallow waterway is packed with an armada of boats floating amidst a sea of pierced, tattooed and inebriated humanity. The pungent scent of beer, weed and sun block hangs over the area like a thick smog as thousands wade through the waist deep water that's also serving as a communal toilet.
By the time the three-day weekend's over, Martin's crew will have shot more than 35 hours of tape, including a drunken brawl between a man who stripped a woman of her bikini bottom, and a $1,000 contest (presumably rigged--the promoter's girlfriend won) in which 25 nude contestants vied to demonstrate their mastery of what can tactfully be described as "vegetable consumption."
A trio of topless co-eds guzzles from a gigantic beer bong. Meanwhile, a two-man team roams the water with a portable bar, offering "a shot for a shot" to any woman who'll bare her nether regions. And hundreds of tanned horn dogs swarm around GM's "Hunter Hooter" as Martin's girls prepare to strut their stuff.
It's safe to say that not since the 1988 Republican convention have so many people gathered to chant "Bush! Bush! Bush!" in unison.
Contact Dewey Webb at his online address: firstname.lastname@example.org