Well, I've done it. I've watched the Gene Simmons sex tape just so that I can discuss it for the benefit of you heathen monkeys. Do you understand the sacrifice I've made here? I expect rose petals strewn at my feet wherever I go, including to the kitchen where I will grab a steak knife and gouge out my eyes.
As for the tape itself, it features the same grainy cinematography we've come to see as the standard in our celeb sex tapes. Honestly, where would the Meg White, Paris Hilton, Screech, and Sizemore tapes have been without obscuring, impenetrable gray fuzz screening us from the horrors occurring before our eyes?
Frankly, I thank the Lord that for some reason, despite living in a time when cameras the size of a push pin can deliver stunning color and clarity, all the people taping past-their-prime celebrities having sex are apparently doing so on old Hi-8 cameras smeared with Vaseline.
There are really only two notable things about the tape. Firstly,
these clips where Simmons' gal pal, when not slamming her stunningly huge and stunningly fake breasts against one another like someone trying to start a fire, refuses his repeated attempts to kiss her. I'm guessing she was worried his massive tongue would somehow reach into her body, then find and crush her still-beating heart. KISS used to have him do it on stage to kill time while Ace Frehley went to the bathroom.
The second interesting thing is the fact that everyone seems shocked. How could Gene Simmons, second only to Wilt Chamberlain in the field of bimbology, betray his longtime girlfriend by sleeping with a blond Austrian supermodel in a hotel room far away while on tour promoting energy drinks? Answer: with his penis, his t-shirt, and absolutely no emotion whatsoever.
Honestly, it's as if the guy's just so used to banging whatever women are around that he considers it a diplomatic duty. I wouldn't be surprised if their sexual relationship began with a fifteen-minute break between public appearances and the sentence “well, I guess we should, you know...” followed by a long sigh and a tic mark in a tattered leather notebook.
All of which makes it a little disingenuous to make your sex track “I want to know what love is.” Seriously Gene, if you haven't figured it out by this point, I doubt putting your junk inside this girl's junk is going to provide the epiphany you're looking for.
You'll get there some day, though you be weary and offensive to the senses. Fight on, gentle soldier, fight on. Oh, and sorry about how (much more) fucked up your kids are about to be.
When not blogging for Cracked, Michael makes amateur sex tapes as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!
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