You never realize just how sleazy most Rod Stewart tunes are until they’re used as the backdrop for the seduction of a teenage boy; I know this not from personal experience, mind you, but from the fact that the filmic wet dream Private Lessons uses at least three different Rod songs for this erotic purpose.

The summer’s here and all Albuquerque rich-kid Philly (Eric Brown) and his requisite chubby bud want is to see a girl naked. That perverted wish comes true — and a whole lot more than that — when sexy maid Ms. Mallow (Sylvia Kristel) moves into his mansion, sexually teasing and sensually taunting him until, in the middle of surprisingly graphic intercourse, she dies of apparent heart failure.

By the way: In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Philly is only about 15 years old when all this is going on.

Panicked, he enlists his chauffeur, Dr. Johnny Fever Lester (Howard Hesseman), to help him get rid of that fine body; little does Philly know, however, that it is all part of an extortion plan that, sadly, takes the movie’s view off of the adolescent sexual experimentation and, instead, on a lame crime subplot that wraps up neatly with a minorly madcap chase scene.

Private Lessons has, embarrassingly, been a longtime favorite film of mine since secretly viewing cable airings of it, repeatedly, as a kid in the early ’80s. Star Eric Brown was pretty much the luckiest kid on TV at the time — besides this film, he also got it on with statuesque Sybil Danning in They’re Playing with Fire, as well as being cast as Buzz on the first season of Mama’s Family. What a resume!

Not to be outdone, French delight Kristel — high on both her marriage to Ian McShane and mounds of cocaine, possibly at the same time — is a tempestuous delight, even if for half the nude scenes she’s using a body double, for reasons I don’t understand and, honestly, don’t care to explore unless “Tonight’s the Night” is blaring in the background. —Louis Fowler

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Based on the adult comic book Butterscotch by Italian writer/artist Milo Manara, The Erotic Misadventures of the Invisible Man is exactly the Skinemax entry you think it is, but with opening credits appearing in the dreaded Comic Sans typeface.

Having just been dumped by aspiring actress Rachal (Elina Madison, Creepshow 3), aspiring actor Norman (Scott Coppola, not part of Francis Ford’s filmmaking dynasty) nurses a broken heart as he waits tables. At one such gig, his luck changes when he attracts the attention of aspiring actress Kelly (Gabriella Hall, The Exotic Time Machine), but also is rendered invisible after a jug of what looks like buffalo sauce spills on him. Although no one can see Norman, everyone can smell him; several characters detect the scent of butterscotch — sniff out the connection?

To illustrate Norman’s outta-sight shenanigans, writer/director Rolfe Kanefsky (showing none of the promise of his debut film, There’s Nothing Out There) cheaply makes a lot of objects move on their own — telephone, champagne flute, hotel bell, vacuum hose, anal beads — and tears off the occasional outfit from his movie’s interchangeable female bodies. (Exclaims an Italian woman witnessing an instance of the latter, “She’s being uh-raped-uh by a ghost-uh!”)

Much elongated softcore sex ensues, including between Kelly and an invisible Norman, challenging Hall to act petting, tugging and humping something that isn’t there. Master Thespian would be proud.

Misadventures exerts no effort beyond the simulated thrusts and gyrations of its performers. Kanefsky’s cornball dialogue seems to draw inspiration from childrens’ joke books (“Can’t wait to see the look on Kelly’s face when she doesn’t see me!”), and situations that I’m sure had them in stitches on set start flat and fall from there, such as a man in a full duck costume walking into a bar and asking for grapes.

In interest of transparency, I almost laughed once, when a partygoer (Michelle Bauer, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama) hears Kelly’s last name and inquires, “Parkinson? Like the disease?” Yes. —Ed Donovan

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A public service announcement: “Alucard” is “Dracula” spelled backward, which you likely already knew, and not because the opening credits of Dracula (the Dirty Old Man) tell you. But that they do is indicative of how low the bar of wit is set.

Played by this-and-only-this actor Vince Kelley, Alucard awakes (hardly elderly, but whatever) and, under the auspices of re-opening a mine, lures a businessman named Mike (Billy Whitton, Mission: Africa) to his cave and turns him into a werewolf right out of a K. Gordon Murray-presented Mexi-matinee. Now christened anew as Irving Jackalman, Mike runs errands for his vampire boss — or errand, singular: Abduct young women and bring them to Alcuard’s lair to be tied up, stripped down and bitten on the boob. At 69 (!) minutes, the sexploitation quickie basically depicts this scenario half a dozen times — lather, rinse, repeat — with none of the ladies having breasts large enough for the count’s liking.

Somehow, I have managed to avoid mentioning the movie’s craziest aspect until now. It is not that Dirty Old Man is almost entirely dubbed, but that Alucard is, for no detectable reason, now a painfully unfunny Catskills comedian (redundant, I know) in the nerve-grating vein of Jackie Mason. Even if your ears have been professionally vacuumed by an ENT seconds before showtime, you’ll still wonder if perhaps there is something you missed.

There is not. Unless you fail to notice the C-section scar on a brunette victim Jackalman dry-humps because you are too distracted watching the poor woman struggling to contain her laughter at the absurdity of it all — and that’s before his postcoital Green Stamps joke! I would not be surprised if the dialogue were crafted Johnny-on-the-spot in the recording studio, because ultimately, what is said is irrelevant compared to what is shown. This is the stuff of a men’s pulp magazine come to life, and writer/director William Edwards delivers on that: sooo stupid, yet sooo fun. —Rod Lott

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Unless you’re an Uschi Digard completist (and if that’s the case, I salute you), I can’t much recommend Coed Dorm, an ultra-obscure campus comedy in the throbbing vein of Animal House, the National Lampoon classic that looks positively academic by comparison.

The only other picture directed by The Severed Arm’s Thomas S. Alderman, the sexploitationer takes place on the grounds of Farouk University — oft referred to as “Farouk U,” geddit? — where “world-famous gynecologist” Dr. Maurice de Sade (Ray Dannis, The Undertaker and His Pals) teaches sexuality classes, offering to assist all the female students himself with hands-on instruction. One new student (Diane Patton) is a virgin, and she’s named Virgie — geddit?

Her house mother gets naked and gets busy with several men throughout the film, including a fat guy dressed as Kentucky Fried Chicken founder Col. Sanders. At an alumni dinner, guests are shocked — shocked, I tell you! — by the topless girls’ choir (of which Digard’s “Miss Melons” is a member) and by Dr. de Sade treating them all to his dance rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Oh, and Virgie dies when she falls from a hospital window. Now that’s comedy!

More boring than titillating, Coed Dorm is such a rarity that Something Weird Video’s print doesn’t even have credits. To make up for it, they include their usual generous helping of nudie-cutie shorts, one of which — Double Trouble, in which a guy mixes up twin sisters — has more plot than the feature. —Ed Donovan

Get it at Something Weird Video.

Nowadays, just about every blockbuster of note gets a simultaneous X-rated “parody.” Remember when your favorite ABC sitcoms of the 1970s got similar treatment? No? Well, it happened to Barney Miller, Happy Days and Welcome Back, Kotter, poor things — all three sword-skewered in one crappy softcore comedy called Hey! There’s Naked Bodies on My TV! Whether it should have happened is debatable. I think it’s obscure for good reason.

Because every good (and bad) anthology requires something to tie them all together, a janitor stops sweeping floors to watch some television. Not to spoil anything, but his presumably favorite shows all have sex on the brain. Checking out the boob tube throws the man for such a loop, he literally — and worriedly — looks to the camera and yells this movie’s title. But of course he keeps watching.

In the first show, Happy Daze, cool dude The Bonz introduces Putzie and pals to easy women who will take their virginity. In the second, Don’t Come Back Kotler, cool teacher Mr. Kotler introduces Vinnie Malatestes and pals to easy women who will take their virginity. The third and final segment, Bernie Milner, shakes things up by having the cops not be virgins, but easy women (including Flesh Gordon’s Candy Samples) are part of the formula. (Old, dirty cartoons in rickety shape play in between.)

As if you needed telling, jokes are sub-Catskills at best. That writer/director Mack Campbell (probably a pseudonym) uses the same laugh track as the actual series is a creative choice that goes from amusing to unsettling lickety-split. With the primary purpose of Hey! being to ogle female flesh, it plays like the pages of a Tijuana bible come to life, but written by kids on the playground. Those kids missed a good pun by not having the fake shows be produced by “Norman Leer,” but at least they didn’t miss the opportunity to give proper context to the Fonz’s trademark “Sit on it!” —Ed Donovan

Get it at Amazon.