mitch768292
Banned
- Joined
- Feb 8, 2009
- Posts
- 474
- Reaction score
- 1
Kurt Marshall: Legs, Langour and Lederhosen
Kurt Marshall, who died in 1988 at twenty-two after a mere sticky handful of performances in four videos, was the triumph of the golden-haired aesthetic in gay smut.
Blonds have come and gone within the pantheon of porndom but Kurt Marshall set forever the standard. He was the perfect Hitler-Jugend gone insatiably raunchy and saucy.
And yes, Kurt is an obscure figure, but so what? Let others consider the departed titans now off in Porno-Valhalla (Scott O’Hara, Jon King, Joey Stefano, et al) or those minor figures reposing in unmarked pine boxes in the Potter’s Field of Pornotopia.
In a more perfect world, poets would have written sonnets to Kurt’s thrilling languor. He would have been cast for a life-sized nude gilt (as though he wasn’t golden enough) statue holding up the proscenium arch at some very private, all nude production of Parsifal.
It would be easy to imagine little (not really, I think he was over six feet tall) Kurt in lederhosen and one of those corny green felt hats with the feather, perhaps skipping out of said lederhosen to get porked on a goatskin blanket atop the Jungfrau and afterwards repairing to some cozy chalet for a hearty supper followed by litres and litres of Riesling.
Also, in spite of being so tall with a long face that (even with unearthly, ever-so-slightly slanted blue eyes — cornflower? robin’s egg? — full lips and dimpled chin) just misses being horsey or even fox-like. Kurt is one of the few smut performers so incredibly beautiful that he would have been sensational in drag, a cross between a young Joanna Lumley (our favorite blond from Ab Fab) and Carole Lombard.
Graceful, long-limbed, and possessed of a sensationally greedy butthole, Kurt was an ecstatic sexual vision. Yet when he opened his mouth it was a surprise to hear him sounding so monotonously mid-American. Still, his vocal delivery was reasonably masculine, that of a Twink all grown up, the ephebe whose balls have dropped completely.
Kurt Marshall was born James Allen Rideout, Jr. in Maine. His short resume reads like this: Letters in track and diving in high school, entered porn to finance his B.A. degree, college dropout, HIV+ but died two years after diagnosis from the debilitating effects of drugs on his internal organs, which couldn’t possibly have been as luscious as his external ones. All of these facts gathered from the obit in San Diego Gay Times on 11 November 1988.
Kurt’s best performances are in the marvelous Other Side of Aspen 2, where he provides the linking narration and is (natch) gang-banged at the end. This particular scene is a banquet of hallowed dead beauty and sexiness since Scott O’Hara, Tony Bravo, and Chris Lance also figure in it.
In Night Flight he is seen throughout the picture “waiting for Charley to come home” (in Etta James‘ immortal phrase). The absent lover is an airplane pilot or some such nonsense and we see Kurt lolling and writhing about in frantic horniness on the rug in front of the gas logs or on the bed and finally at the end, or almost, the boyfriend turns up (and it’s the awful Joe Gere).
Kurt is actually a top for a bit and not half bad at it. That sounds a bit more condescending than I actually mean to be — most of the really exciting fucking in porn is done by those more frequently on the other end. Finally Gere puts Kurt’s legs in the air and starts to eat his ass out and Kurt just explodes all over, with this curiously feline expression on his face and a minimum of ostentatious gyration.
It’s a sublime moment.
I’m tempted at some point, once impotence sets in permanently, simply pop this scene on and turn off the sound and play the Fauré Requiem and just worship instead of wanking
by Jon Newlin
Blonds have come and gone within the pantheon of porndom but Kurt Marshall set forever the standard. He was the perfect Hitler-Jugend gone insatiably raunchy and saucy.
And yes, Kurt is an obscure figure, but so what? Let others consider the departed titans now off in Porno-Valhalla (Scott O’Hara, Jon King, Joey Stefano, et al) or those minor figures reposing in unmarked pine boxes in the Potter’s Field of Pornotopia.
In a more perfect world, poets would have written sonnets to Kurt’s thrilling languor. He would have been cast for a life-sized nude gilt (as though he wasn’t golden enough) statue holding up the proscenium arch at some very private, all nude production of Parsifal.
It would be easy to imagine little (not really, I think he was over six feet tall) Kurt in lederhosen and one of those corny green felt hats with the feather, perhaps skipping out of said lederhosen to get porked on a goatskin blanket atop the Jungfrau and afterwards repairing to some cozy chalet for a hearty supper followed by litres and litres of Riesling.
Also, in spite of being so tall with a long face that (even with unearthly, ever-so-slightly slanted blue eyes — cornflower? robin’s egg? — full lips and dimpled chin) just misses being horsey or even fox-like. Kurt is one of the few smut performers so incredibly beautiful that he would have been sensational in drag, a cross between a young Joanna Lumley (our favorite blond from Ab Fab) and Carole Lombard.
Kurt Marshall was born James Allen Rideout, Jr. in Maine. His short resume reads like this: Letters in track and diving in high school, entered porn to finance his B.A. degree, college dropout, HIV+ but died two years after diagnosis from the debilitating effects of drugs on his internal organs, which couldn’t possibly have been as luscious as his external ones. All of these facts gathered from the obit in San Diego Gay Times on 11 November 1988.
In Night Flight he is seen throughout the picture “waiting for Charley to come home” (in Etta James‘ immortal phrase). The absent lover is an airplane pilot or some such nonsense and we see Kurt lolling and writhing about in frantic horniness on the rug in front of the gas logs or on the bed and finally at the end, or almost, the boyfriend turns up (and it’s the awful Joe Gere).
Kurt is actually a top for a bit and not half bad at it. That sounds a bit more condescending than I actually mean to be — most of the really exciting fucking in porn is done by those more frequently on the other end. Finally Gere puts Kurt’s legs in the air and starts to eat his ass out and Kurt just explodes all over, with this curiously feline expression on his face and a minimum of ostentatious gyration.
It’s a sublime moment.
I’m tempted at some point, once impotence sets in permanently, simply pop this scene on and turn off the sound and play the Fauré Requiem and just worship instead of wanking
