Suburban Dykes Review

Reviewed by Mrz. Neptune Violet  on  3/2/2020

The year is 1990. The place is San Francisco. At this point, for two decades, the city's most profound pop-cultural calling card was as an incubator for hippies, freaks, and sexual exhibitionists. The porn industry -- as a gift from San Francisco to the world -- had exploded in popularity, allowing a place for women to make films about female desire an exciting notion worthy of pursuit. Nan Kinney's "Suburban Dykes" has a run time of just 29 minutes and 33 seconds. However, in just under a half-hour, you're left physically and emotionally spent in the best way possible. Moreover, you have all of the inspiration to seek and destroy your similar adventures.

The film is split into three scenes aimed at normalizing what would be, for 1990, rather salacious behavior. Foremost, Pepper (a fit, thin Latina actress whose current whereabouts are sadly unknown) with a shaggy mullet-style do, and Nina Hartley partakes in hot solo masturbation. The cause? Remembering some hot butch sex Nina spied on in their garage during a party, plus a call to a phone sex operator.

The garage rendezvous is one of two highly notable scenes in the film. There's a rough, slightly cruel edge to the encounter, that when Nina Hartley tells Pepper that as she spied it, she "felt it in her clit," that's quite the apt description. The black jean-clad top finger-fucks her paramour's hairy vagina with force and vigor. There are only 90 seconds shown of the encounter. Still, the raw intensity of both the actresses and the stereotypical brutalism of "dirty sex in a garage" is, if you're into that sort of thing, very titillating.

The real highlight of the film is the threesome between dominatrix Sharon Mitchell, Nina Hartley, and Pepper. There's something so understated, frank and informal about it all. Yes, Pepper -- dressed as the butch-femme here in the oh so great costuming choice of baggy white men's dress shirt, riding trouser-style pants and boots -- and Nina's intrigue about what is to happen is almost campily acted. But here it works, given the notion that this is an experimental independent film that promises explosive sexual release.

Sharon Mitchell, though steals the show. "Short-haired leather-clad sex goddess" would only scratch the surface of describing her, here. She's ultimately the real star of the show. As the dominant of the tarted-up Hartley and the as mentioned above, perfectly butched-out Pepper, she's exquisite in her control and dealing pure enjoyment. When Mitchell straps on the latex gloves while Pepper fills her lover's mouth with her tongue, watching if not acting upon the impulses you ideally feel is a torture of the most exquisite variety.

Also, Hartley being fucked by strap-on wielding Mitchell while Hartley has her face in Pepper's moist pussy? It's a femme on femme on femme London Bridge worth crossing over...and over...and over again. The movie finishing up with a confident-looking Sharon Mitchell shedding her gray Fruit of the Looms to get it on with the now-strapping Pepper while Hartley delivers her ass to Mitchell's lips and tongue? It's a finale that, man, woman, animal, whatever, is absurdly explosive, for sure.

The timeless classics reach that status because the performances feel like they supersede even current ideations of how great, inspiring, and ultimately liberating sex and sexuality should be. In setting an archetype that has remained vital for three decades, "Suburban Dykes" demands to be viewed.