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Bike Porn 3, an unexpected counter-culture pleasure
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Bike Porn 3, an unexpected counter-culture pleasure

by Scott Rice - SGN Contributing Writer

Bike Porn 3: Cycle Bound
August 8
Magnuson Park


I didn't know what to expect. Bike porn? I'm familiar with biker porn with pork chop sideburns, black leather chaps, and a cool Norton Commando to serve as a fulcrum. But I'd never heard of bike porn. Still, I bowed once again to my predilection for counter-culture absurdity and I'm glad I did.

Bike Porn 3: Cycle Bound is the love child of Reverend Phil Sano and the amorphous counter-culture bicycling community. Bike Porn 3 was the culmination of a bike-lover's weekend in Seattle that started with the 13th annual Dead Baby Bikes Downhill and Messenger Challenge on Friday night, August 7, and continued all day Saturday with the North American Hardcourt Bicycle Polo Championships held in Magnuson Park. Screenings of Bike Porn 3 were held Saturday evening at 9 and 11 p.m.

I found myself in the lobby of the theater surrounded by a bunch of sweaty people (mostly dudes) waiting to see some bike porn. I'm not one who minds being in a room with a bunch of sweaty dudes, but this wasn't the good kind of sweat. This was at-least-since-10-that-morning-and-probably-a-little-older sweat mixed with the smell of scraped skin and chain lube. Not so pleasant.

But I couldn't leave. First, I was curious. Second, I had dragged Steven along with me so I couldn't leave. Steven is not so adventurous as I (though infinitely more patient). He appreciates his comfort zone in spite of the fact that I've forced him out of it so many times over the past 17 years. I had told him how cool this would be, the bike porn, and worked hard to sell the evening, so leaving would have been acknowledging that my journey into the local counter-culture bicycle zeitgeist was not living up to expectations. We stayed.

Reverend Phil opened the show with an opening number that was, shall we say, wanting. The Reverend seemed a bit like Hugh Jackman at the Academy Awards; he's cute and you love him and you can't wait for him to take his clothes off, but you also feel a tiny bit sorry for him.

The real show kicked off with anonymous Lesbian sex. Two girls meet while riding their bikes (hello, bike porn!). The young man behind me and to my left growled provocatively to his buddy, "yeah, Lesbian sex." Poor bastards, they didn't realize this was going to be real Lesbian sex with real Lesbians who were little concerned that a straight guy might someday be watching. These ladies had real tits and nary a lock of bleached blonde hair in sight. They didn't once look at the camera with dewy eyes to please the young man behind me. They only had eyes for each other.

After the real Lesbian sex, we were treated to some standard pretty girls with little boobs and nasty girls with big boobs and everybody sucking on bicycle seats (by the way, sucking on a bicycle seat is never sexy ... ever). These films were tinged with some innocent BDSM, nothing that strayed too far beyond naughty. Fun stuff, but hardly earthshaking.

All this time, the crowd was pleasantly rowdy without being extreme. There was a little talking back to screen and some judiciously uttered exclamatory one-liners. Nothing but good clean fun within the bounds of the expected exuberance in light of the whole porn thing and the sweaty dudes.

Then, the earth shook. Tour de Pants is the short film that quieted the room. It took the viewers a few seconds to understand what they were seeing. You see, our good Reverend Phil had a little surprise in store for the anarchic cadre of two-wheeled enthusiasts: Trans people having sex.

It was perfect: Boy meets girl. Boy falls for girl. Boy straps on dildo. The rest is history. From his hard chest to his hairy legs to his cute angel face, the boy was every girl's dream. I'm not sure everybody in the theater really understood until a little later in the film that what they figured for a dude had once been a chick and just might consider themselves neither at this point. Talk about a teaching moment.

Next up, same film (Tour de Pants). A strapping dude in Lycra peels off his bike shorts and masturbates a bit until he sits on his handlebars to finish up. At this point, one guy who had been tossing out suggestions and pithy one-liners at the screen gets up and marches across the aisle to check in with Reverend Phil. I don't know what he asked, but I figure it might have gone something like, "Reverend Phil, that dude is putting his handlebars up his butt." And I imagine Reverend might have replied, "Why, he certainly is, Governor."

Only one other guy felt compelled to leave. The rest of the audience stayed put.

After this we were treated to a troop of goth Lesbians called Spit-n-Glitter gang-frigging a rough-edged brunette and then to another scene of hot Trans sex and then the whole thing was over and we all sat there breathless, panting, and sweaty - and not the good kind of sweaty.

So why am I glad I went? Because it was nice to see these well-intentioned culture-mocking, traffic-clogging, thrill-seeking, iconoclastic bike riders see some real commitment to screwing with the status quo. The Trans folks in the film are not weekend warriors who ride their double-decker fur covered bicycle down rush hour streets wearing dirty Chucks and smoking cloves. These Trans folks went the extra mile and I hope every person in that theater took a quick moment to consider the commitment it takes to match a flawed body to one's psychic gender. It's not something you do on a lark.

To the crowd's credit, they cheered enthusiastically as the screen went black. For me, it was a moment when radical Queerness in a number of guises made a mad leap into the consciousness of the straight community - albeit a small subculture within the straight community but an inroad nonetheless.

Reverend Phil ended the show with another production number. This time he performed a duet with a plucky young woman with perky tits. They both ended up fairly naked, the Reverend having stripped to his birthday suit and the plucky young woman to her skivvies. The last number went better than the first, but they still have some fine-tuning to do. That said, I wish I was comfortable enough with my body to jump up on stage and let my junk air out, too. I'm not, and I didn't.

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