Though their teeth stereotypically may not be in all that great of condition, the sturdy women of the British sex comedy Come Play With Me are people who deserve our respect and admiration, mostly due to the fact they very rarely, if ever, wear clothes. I really admire that, guv’nor!

Although these ladies don’t show up until about 30 minutes in — a charming Mary Millington among them — as soon as they appear on-screen (and their clothes, of course, disappear!), it quickly becomes the sex comedy we’ve paid good money for, as they dance and sing in the nude while two old perverts dressed like Laurel and Hardy try to hide their blood-infused members.

At legendary 10 Downing Street, the prime minister (played by Benny Hill cast member Henry McGee!) and his cohorts argue about some stolen money. Across town, in a burlesque house, some guy argues about women while one dancing spreads fluffernutter on her nether regions. And then, down at a café, two guys argue about the price of coffee and pies.

None of that really matters, because when a rock ’n’ roll band stops at a local hotel, the horny women turn the place into a health club that seems to run, primarily, on juice and nudity; honestly, though, it’s a business I can get behind — and in front of — and would like a pamphlet, and not just for the fact Millington gives a horny gentleman a wholly painful yet fully erotic colonic.

Double-breasted with cameos from performers from the best British sex comedies of the era — movies and television shows, mind you — Come Play With Me is, honestly, mostly dumb, but filled with so many titillating moments of Her Majesty’s softcore sexuality that it’s easy to see why it played in London theaters to forlorn perverts for four royally arousing years. —Louis Fowler

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I’ve never been a shogun and, sadly, probably never will. Mostly because while I may enjoy tacos and dogs and movies, if this flick truly leads me to believe one thing, it’s that shoguns only really enjoy the cruelest of tortures, primarily through inflicting it on other people’s bare bodies. There goes another dream!

One of director Teruo Ishii’s infamous flicks of sex, violence and torture, often at the same time, this Toei production is a supposed anthology of the heinous practices documented on scrolls during the height of Tokugawa shogun. It features a catalog of barbarism that deftly mixes penile titillation with painful humiliation, seemingly a specialty of Ishii.

Focusing on three stories, Shogun’s Joy of Torture begins with a young woman and an illicit romance with her recently hurt brother and the scummy lawmen who jealously take their sexual issues out on her, with, of course, violent retribution.

The same goes for the second story, featuring the unbridled passions and unheralded smacks at a Buddhist nunnery. And the final story, which honestly wouldn’t seem out of place in an otherworldly Amicus production, depicts a tattoo artist who wants to get as close to death as utterly possible and achieves it with the help of a sadistic shogun.

Each tale is, as you’d probably imagine, beautifully — but brutally! — told, with excesses of ropes, whips, chains and other instruments of haughty pain throughout, used primarily on women hanging from the ceiling. While I’m sure a trigger warning is necessary for most viewers — I know I could’ve used two or three — this depiction of sex and sadism is a well-made movie that, I’m sure, will make someone’s penis suitably hard. —Louis Fowler

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I remember the salacious VHS box for Smooth Talk that sat in the drama section of just about every video store I worked in sometime in the late ’90s, with perennial crush Laura Dern barely clothed as a lascivious Treat Williams stood behind her like the leering bastard he is, at least in this flick.

Even though I never rented it, I stared at that cover every time I passed it. Now having seen it, I’ll admit I felt a little guilt and a lot of perversion for lusting after it, especially upon learning that Dern is a sophomore in high school — even I have my boundaries, people!

Based on a short story by Joyce Carol Oates and directed by documentarian Joyce Chopra, Smooth Talk stars Dern as Connie, a precociously sexual young woman who happens to be the black sheep of her family. While Dad dotes and Mom nags, Connie spends most of her time flirting with boys at the mall and, soon enough, at the local redneck bar.

A sleazy older man by the name of Friend (Williams, at his scummiest) takes a fully erect liking to her, at one point coming to her house and literally wearing her down so she’ll go to an empty field and have sex with him, which does a good job of making the formerly loving act into an ambiguous one I’d be happy to forget about.

I guess there are many things I’m missing about this girl’s budding sexuality, but they’re hard to see every time Williams is onscreen, his diseased sexuality dripping off every frame. I guess it’s mostly surprising this was broadcast on the PBS anthology series American Playhouse, but I’ve been surprised before. —Louis Fowler

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Serge Gainsbourg is held up, by me, as the undisputed master of Parisian perversity, audibly in his music and visually in his films. With titles like the exhibitionist Stan the Flasher or the incestuous Charlotte for Ever, he’s one of the few directors who continually lived up to the devious promises of his first flick, Je T’aime Moi Non Plus.

Warhol himbo Joe Dallesandro is the über-trashy Krassky, a homosexual garbage man who dumps refuse with his clingy boyfriend, the homicidally jealous Padovan. When they stop for lunch at a run-down diner, he meets Johnny (Gainsbourg’s then-wife, Jane Birkin), a noticeably androgynous waitress desperate for some sort of human connection.

In many beautifully filmed scenes of raw attraction put to a gorgeously lush soundtrack, the two fall in inseparable love, but when it comes time for hetero-intercourse, Krassky can only perform one way, and I’m sure you know what that is: wholly stereotyped searing anal, of course, causing absolute pain for Johnny, whose dry screaming gets them thrown out of every motel in town.

They eventually find sexual solace in the back of his garbage truck.

While some have called Je T’aime misogynistic — the brutal finale makes it an absolutely hard accusation to fight — this un-love story shared its title with the notorious Gainsbourg/Birkin tune of the same name, a lust-filled romp that, though not as sweet, is a cynical view of diseased love like many of his songs. With a pedigree like that, it’s strange his films aren’t held up as the sleaze-filled treasures they should be. —Louis Fowler

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Breed The Lawnmower Man in a three-way with Ghost in the Machine and, oh, Animal Instincts 3, and you still haven’t come close to the direct-to-analog-tape atrocity that is Virtual Girl. The softcore stinker wallows in a league almost to itself: erotic thrillers dependent on immediately dated bleep-blop-bloop internet technology of the late ’90s. All it’s missing is an upon-climax cry of “You’ve got mail!”

From Richard Gabai, the multihyphenate behind 1989’s Assault of the Party Nerds, this li’l flick of tits, bits and bytes begins as a computer-generated sex doll named Virtuality (played with arched, harshly penciled eyebrows by Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo eye candy Charlie Curtis) destroys her program’s creator because what he saw in his lascivious invention wasn’t hearts, but dollar signs.

Enter John Lewis, the studly, happily married man played by a debuting Max Dixon (who not only failed to appear in the 2001 sequel, but every screen project since). As the ace glitch-catcher at the software company where Virtual Girl is under development, John takes the program for a test drive and gets all hot and sweaty — heck, who wouldn’t? — yet is able to resist temptation and Virtuality’s rather comely come-ons. In a movie like this, however, it’s only a matter of time before they’re boning on the regular.

Virtual Girl puts the “seedy” in “CD-ROM” by offering skin, skin and skin in scene after scene. Wanting to pleasure John’s every desire during a roll in the virtual hay, Virtuality full-body morphs into a number of different-looking vixens, each with progressively manmade, awkwardly nippled breasts. He digs it, because he’s not getting any from his wife (Meatballs 4’s Miche Straube). Soon, Virtuality wants him all for herself, so she messes with his home security system, personal computer and bank account, just to show she’s got him by the balls. Fantasy though she may be, this lingerie-clad lady has a murderous streak in her hot bod: One corporate schmo gets his hands melted onto his keyboard; another programmer engaging in cybersex has his head blown off.

Full of cheesy, instantly obsolete computer animations of giant skeletons and spaceships, Gabai’s Girl is one of those movies where a crew member’s last name is listed as “Hughpenis” in the credits, because you just know he’d thought it’d be a real gas. It’s also one of those movies — and this has gotta be a first — where said credits end with a mailing address to which viewers can write and ask questions about the picture. Two decades later, my letter remains unanswered. Damn you, Virtual Girl! —Ed Donovan

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