Not for nothing does the tagline to this Stephen C. Apostolof sexploitation film shout, “SEXUALLY HANDICAPPED BY ORDER OF THE COURT.” His favorite sexploitation starlet, the magnificent Marsha Jordan, stars as the (ahem) titular The Divorcee. Yes, that’s Divorcee with double Es, appropriately.

Jordan’s Betty Brent has a problem with alcohol: One drink and she’s ready for a roll in the hay. (Wait, this is a thing?) It’s the only way her husband, Hank, can defrost her for some sheet-heatin’, and one reason he’s happy to be discovered with his hand in another woman’s cookie jar. Although mortified at his infidelity, Betty doesn’t want a divorce; even after he hangs up on her, she rubs the telephone all over her all-natural body, making me reconsider the value of a landline.

But as title has it, a decree of dissolution must occur. One bang of the gavel later, Betty’s on to banging every gavel passing her way, provided there’s a cocktail attached. Betty beds her lawyer, an insurance salesman new to her apartment building, a dentist in a sauna, his friend in the sauna and a door-to-door vitamin salesman. Heck, after a bartender — dressed like his shift at Shakey’s Pizza just ended — gives her three free zombies to down, each the size of a fishbowl, she’s down for a threesome.

And so she goes — and goes! — until hitting rock-bottom at a sex party: She wakes the next morning to find her latest notch MIA, except for a lipstick-scrawled “THANKS” (with sarcastic quotation marks, no less!) and $11 cash. Ashamed, Betty looks at herself and screams, “Whore! Whore!” Then she goes home, clutches her beloved creepy doll and screams “Whore! Whore!” more. Inching toward a mental breakdown, she calls to win back her ex-husband … and he hangs up on her. Oh, well! The end.

Per the formula established by Apostolof (College Girls Confidential), Jordan might spend more screen time undressed. Whether vertical or horizontal, his two-pointed star is clearly all-natural, yet never full-frontal. There’s certainly no actual hanky panky on parade, so Apostolof (under his A.C. Stephen nom de plume) relies on close-ups of hands gripping bedspreads in ecstasy and closer-ups with the jiggle of a fresh Jell-O mold. When things get really hot ’n’ heavy, he reveals a fondness for the go-go camera zoom.

The pendulous and wig-piled Jordan does her best throughout The Divorcee, which is simply to burn a scrumpdillyicious intensity. That she does near-flawlessly. I learned at her best, she resembles Barbara Eden. In interest of fairness, when she also scrunches her face to feign tears, at her worst she’s resembles Marjorie Taylor Greene.

The one thing I learned is my post-divorce life was nothing like this. I was robbed! —Rod Lott

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Giles Wingate is in a pinch. Relieved of his sizable inheritance through a revolving door of gold-digging wives — including his former maid, who cunningly moves from housework to ho’work — he strikes upon a jolly good idea to replenish the coffers: opening a School for Sex.

Written, produced and erected — er, directed — by Pete Walker (For Men Only), this British bird-watcher takes place at the estate of Giles (Walker regular Derek Aylward), where he teaches young women how to use their built-in wiles to win, win and win, hearts be damned. Each libidinous learner among his initial class of four appears to be as horny as Times Square at rush hour.

Classes cover everything from bikini calisthenics to spotting the millionaire. Regardless of the syllabus, a peering, leering cop (Bob Andrews, The Soldier) practically on loan from Keystone is ever so eager to observe, what with being married to a woman whose shape isn’t curves, but an isosceles trapezoid. While clothing for the nubile pupils is often optional — and taken — School for Sex is rather chaste, being all about the look, not the act.

Nudity aside, Walker’s script sways more toward actual female empowerment (no, really!) and away from sleaze. This is crucial, because if Aylward and/or Giles weren’t likable, School for Sex wouldn’t be approachable, and Walker all but acknowledges this with his light touch. Both its sexiest woman and most valuable player is Thunderballer Rose Alba as the middle-aged countess-cum-headmistress. (Speaking of 007, the women’s costumes are credited to “Pussy Galore.”) Always clothed, yet never a wrist’s length further from a cocktail, Alba gives a strong comedic performance in a movie that doesn’t even ask her to. —Rod Lott

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Fritz the Cat, a countercultural icon based on the work of Robert Crumb, kind of proves that the counterculture really didn’t have that extremely large of a foot to keep on truckin’ through the ’70s. Ostensibly about a liberally fraudulent cat who loves to have as much unsolicited intercourse as possible, this animated film made — I’m willing to bet — far more Republicans than Nixon ever could.

In the typical fashion of director Ralph Bakshi, an extremely hit-or-miss filmmaker, we find Fritz hanging out in an anthropomorphized variation of New York City, getting high, having group sex and, I think, dropping out of school.

After a series of New York-based adventures, we follow him and a female dog (a bitch, get it?) to the deserts of California where, after a Nazi rabbit brutally beats a horse prostitute, Fritz hooks up with a terrorist organization to blow up a power plant, blowing himself up, with unsettling sexual results.

More a collection of art pieces than an actual linear story, Fritz the Cat seems to be made up of barely connected vignettes, done in the artistic stylings of early ’70s greeting cards. In between all of the horribly unsexual sex, the use of constant racial figures is most troublesome — for example, Black people are jive-talking crows — taking the film into Song of the South territory.

But that was the ’70s in America, I guess.

The first cartoon to be rated X, Fritz the Cat shouldn’t be banned, but it’s probably right where it deserves to be: a misfire and multicolor oddity that, honestly, could be mostly ignored and, thankfully, is. —Louis Fowler

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Before Rinse Dream turned the sex club in an atomic nightmare, director Willy Roe — with skin queen Mary Millington in her last film — turned it into a kitschy daydream, erections not included.

In London’s lily-white Blues Club — apparently the top spot for the hair-filled nudity in Mayfair — the so-called queen of the joint, literally and figuratively, is Millington, who writhes around on stage, moving her pubic mound up and down for all the patrons seemingly live there to see. In between, the rampant backstage cattiness of nude infighting truly makes Queen of the Blues a film to watch.

The main plot, if you can call it that, is about gangsters demanding protection money from the owner, although it’s probably around five minutes of actual film, as so much of this is dedicated to the sexy strippers, with a preamble by a terrible comedian who tempts me to push the fast-forward button.

A just a little over an hour — a mercifully short running time I definitely miss in film — Mary and her stripper friends soon attempt revenge on the gangsters. The sad thing is that Millington, by then the prime porn star of England, looks tired and, soon enough, would be found dead. Her publisher, however, was able to farm her buxom body into two more features, both of which are terrible.

Also, in case you’re wondering, there is no actual blues music to be heard here, but plenty of horrific dance tunes. I guess Queen of the Disco wouldn’t work, though. —Louis Fowler

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As the story surrounding Crazy Nights goes, French sex symbol/disco queen Amanda Lear thought she was shooting a documentary about herself. Instead, she was tricked into hosting a mondo movie of most prurient interests.

Why was she targeted? Her ideal last name notwithstanding, one guesses Lear represented the perfect mix of naïveté, narcissism and affordability. How strange to think a director as upstanding Joe D’Amato (Deep Blood) would engage in such chicanery when just a year before, he advanced the art of cinema by filming a woman masturbating a horse. Ethics? Neigh.

The finished product — Crazy Nights, not a wrist coated with stallion semen — is a look at either “sordid pleasures from around the world” or “the wild, wicked world of night.” Take your pick; either way, its bits are obviously staged and embarrassing enough for Lear to bring legal action — an act that earned the picture scads more attention than it deserves, then and now.

After a cape-clad Lear performs her hit song “Follow Me,” we’re supposed to do just that, and believe me when I say strap in, because the ride will be bumpy. By definition, mondo movies are supposed to be weird, but when Tokyo frickin’ Japan is the site of the most “normal” activity of all — a woman and man bite strips of newspaper from the other’s unclothed body — you know something is seriously off. Mondon’t.

Our globetrotting tour of kink, mink and stink begins at a Vegas stage show, where one lucky audience member is bamboozled into fucking a goat. Next, in an underground cavern located in a country I didn’t catch (like it matters), a couple copulates atop an altar, prompting the men watching to hike their numbered black robes up just enough to form a human millipede. Much later, a ballerina act in Stockholm proves to viewers once and for all that, by gum, blue is the warmest color.

An S&M hotel in Berlin affords an unclothed elderly man his fantasy of getting nailed. Oh, I don’t mean intercourse — I mean a woman in leather hammers a metal spike into his genitals. (To each his own, recht?)

Meanwhile, in Beirut, a witch demonstrates her ability to levitate things: first, a toupee (yes, of course the string is visible); then, penises. Move over, Peter Popoff!

Do you like magic? Wait, don’t answer yet! A magician in Marseille produces live doves, colored hankies and more — all from the vagina of his assistant. Okay, now answer.

I have neither the wherewithal nor fortitude to talk about the panther, the suspenders, the gender-switcheroo box, the necrophile or the excruciatingly explicit blowjob. I will tell you that Lear appears in between segments to show off her property. Finally, in a gold jumpsuit and on a motorcycle, she returns at the end to sing another hit, “Enigma (Give a Bit of Mmh to Me).” Then, as the credits roll, she tries on wigs. —Rod Lott

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