Not The Real Ron Jeremy writes:

I hope all is well with you, I have been out of touch for some time. I feel inspiration at times to write you some questions/observations/content but right now I am a bit tired and not focused. I was pleased to see that the Billys Wild Days blog was a part 1. I look forward to future parts to come. I also think you have enough material to write a kickass book that would be interesting and very entertaining. Maybe I do have more in me than I thought. I read your latest post and have so many questions like:

Please give thought to the book Billy. You are a talented writer with a story to tell. One that fascinates. I understand that it would be a huge commitment but I think it would be well worth it. What a sense of accomplishment you would feel when sending signed copies to the fucknuts you encountered in academia citing yourself as a successful author despite never gaining tenure and producing smut.
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Dear Not The Real Ron Jeremy:

I dunno what to say…except I’m flattered.

I’d also like to hit ya back, in your order:

1) The very first time I met Dogfart was on set, in the mansion. Aimee was about to get railed by three well-endowed black men. Here’s some free interracial sex clips from that very moment in my life. I like to call Dogfart “DF”, so I’ll do that now: I flew into LAX, jumped in the limo DF had waiting for me, and we whisked up the side of the hill that overlooked the Pacific Ocean and I strolled into that beautiful mansion and into that 3 way. Up to that moment, I wasn’t even sure if a “real” person named Dogfart even existed…but he did. And we hit it off very well. It was almost like we were kindred spirits. DF was the director; The Producer bankrolled it all. He still does. The Producer introduced me to DF. The Producer found the mansion. The Producer dreams up all the interracial porn ideas, and me and DF make it come to life. DF lives far away now…but he still plays a part in all this.

2) We had no neighbors. The mansion was indeed that — a large, enclosed compound that sat on the edge of a cliff. No one near us at all.

3) There were nights I was worried for my life. Not cause of the Negroes, but of other factors I can’t really talk about here. Suffice it to say I pushed a large piece of furniture in front of my bedroom door, then opened my window every night before I went to sleep. Even when it was really cold outside, which was almost every single day. I’m serious. Male talent was paid by check — then and now.

4) There’s so many stories — some good, some bad — I’m not sure where even to start. And then I struggle with the morality of telling these stories. They’re all very real, and they involve people who are still very much alive and some of which are still around me. Some of these people don’t like it when I talk about them, and I can appreciate that. I mean is there anything to worry about if I tell the story about when Wes Pipes got so mad I thought for sure he was gonna shoot the place up? Including me? Which is to say, when he was screaming and yelling and ready to go out to his car and come back, I was planning my escape route? I don’t want to have to answer to Mr. Pipes for the details involved in telling that story, especially cause he’s out of prison again soon, which means we’ll be back together as co-workers…and what then? You know what I mean? So, for now, I’ll keep most of my stories to myself. But perhaps, one day, when I’m far, far away form this madness…well, then who knows?

Your pal — Billy.