Hard-core soap opera meets soft-core porn--as five of the year's most unpleasant women gather in Greenwich Village to raise their consciousnesses, which seem to center somewhere below the Gucci belt. Santini sleazily packed nonfiction confessions of guilty, sexy women into The Secret Fire (1976), so there are no doubt real-life models for Catherine of Women's News Daily, who has ""orgasm after orgasm"" only when being strangled and reviled ("" 'Next time I'll tie your hands up,' he whispered""), and gigolo-supporting Betty from the suburbs, and pathetic Ann, whose Hell's Angel-type hubby beats her (and her kid) and organizes gang-rapes. Anyway, these plastic creepies--plus a driven actress and a Mildred-Pierce brand executivette--interrupt their compulsive couplings long enough to indulge in the standard clot of trendy thoughts and burbles: ""Did she have the right to have her own life?"" ""I've never really known what it is to be truly sexual."" ""God, we're all so damn romantic."" But mostly they're just marking time until Ann's above-mentioned sick-o mate can go bananas enough to barge into one of their talkfests with a knife--a bloody, men-are-pigs ending that could have just as well taken place on page one. Say ""abracadabra,"" and make it disappear.