All posts by Billy Watson
It’s Jessie Rogers!
Today’s Guest Blogger: Fucktard — and Where He Was on 9/11.
From time to time I have guests blog whatever it is they feel like blogging. I will not tell them what to blog; I won’t edit it; I won’t influence the Guest Blogger in any way.
However, I’m lying today, as I did edit this one…but only as far as some punctuation and paragraph structure in order to make it easier to read.
Every day I check my comments. I’m really interested in hearing what you guys have to say. I have some great readers. So I go into see what comments I have today, and I have one — just one — and I it’s good. A really good comment. Good enough to be a blog. So I made it one.
Oh, and finally, Fucktard ended his comment with the following: Well Billy, where were you? Have you been privy to any porno princess accounts of the day that you can recount?
I was teaching that terrible day, although it wouldn’t be anything on the official curriculum; instead, we just talked about what was happening, and why we thought it was happening, and what the potential repercussions might be. And as far as porno princess accounts — most I shoot weren’t adults by then. They were almost all in school (most elementary school), so they don’t have much to say…and if they do, it’s not that interesting.
Nothing as interesting as Fucktard, who writes:
I came to your blog expecting a post regarding your account of 9/11. You know everybody has one, I was here and doing this or that. From reading your blog so far, I dont think you were whore mongering yet but would like to read your account just the same. It would also be really interesting to see a prono princess account of the day. My twisted mind has the opening sentence going something like this, ”So I was being double penetrated by two large black men when someone announced on the set and that plane had flown into the World Trade Center.”
Well not to give to much about myself away, I will share this: In my younger days I sold pot. Lots of pot. Hundreds of pounds at a time. Like with anything good there is a bad side. The bad side of this was federal prison. So I was in federal prison 9/11/01, and this is my account.
I was having a cig outside the kitchen at the USP Atlanta with my good friend Billy when the cheering started. At first it was just a few cheers from D Unit, then it spread across the whole prison — a very loud boisterous celebration. You see in prison there is a huge racial divide; Atlanta was 87% African American at that time, and of those, 60% were proud members of NOI (Nation Of Islam). The only thing a NOI follower hates more than other races would be the United States government. To them, it was a great moment; they were in a frenzy of celebration as if they themselves were carrying out the attack on the USA. Most of the non-Muslim inmates had made there way to the TV Room in A Unit and were watching the horror unfold on the 19″ television, while waves of cheers “down with America” reverberated through the large airy cell blocks.
I was standing next to a older man in his late 40′s (a cocaine trafficker from the 80′s who had been incarcerated over 20 years). He was a large man who took very good care of himself and was considered by many a role model for how one should behave in order to survive. He looked around the room at the 100 or so of us standing there and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Are we going to sit back and let these animals cheer while our country is under attack?” The call went through the ranks: “arm yourselves!” There was a sense of great pride as we assembled in mass to battle with those who would celebrate the attack on our country.
In prison (at least the one I was in) they have few rules. For the most part the animals run free. As long as the CO’s (correction officers) are left alone, they let pretty much anything go. But they make it clear if for any reason the lockdown is sounded — and you do not go to your cell and lay face down in your rack with your arms across your back — they will most decidedly beat you to death. That is when lockdown is sounded the SORT (Special operation reaction team) assembles in a matter of minuets and storm the cell blocks restoring order and dealing deadly blows to anyone who dare not comply. It was the only time I had ever heard the call for lock down; it’s not something that happens often. The last time it had happened in Atlanta was 1987; to my knowledge, it has not sounded since 9/11/01.
The group I was with stood motionless as the prison went completely silent. It was the strangest thing I had ever heard. The one thing about prison is the noise. It is always loud. You never get a moment of silence in prison, never. But for the first time while I was there you could hear a pin drop — other than the call of LOCKDOWN LOCKDOWN over the public address. We waited to see what would transpire. Would people go to their cells, or would it be a full scale prison riot? What took only minuets seemed to be hours, as first a trickle of people — then large groups — started back to their respective cell blocks. I among them.
As I lay on my rack face down hands across the small of my back, I remember the quiet…then the sound of the SORT team entering my cell block. I can remember thinking how precise they sounded, how professional, as they went about their task. They removed the leaders of the NOI, and those who were most violent, as well as anyone of middle eastern decent. We remained on lockdown for the rest of the day and through the evening.
They confined us to our cells but let groups go to eat. For the next several days we were not allowed out of the cell block to the yard and ate in small groups that could be contained easily. I think it was two days before we were allowed back in the prison yard. The thing I most remember was that there were no airplanes flying. The prison is near Atlanta International airport and jets passed over countless times a day. I haven’t thought of my experience in years, but for some reason it was fresh in my mind this morning.
I am not proud of my days in prison and would rather people not know that I was once incarcerated. I don’t mind owning my past, but I would rather not advertise it…unless it’s on a porn blog. Then it should be totally acceptable.
Film: Archival footage of The Forty Deuce. Soundtrack: Egor. Song: “Street”. File Under: Best Metal You’ve Never Heard.
And now here’s more about The Three Nuns —
Mr. and Mrs. Watson rolled into town this Labor Day weekend. I’ve never really talked about my family, but that’s cause this is a porno blog, and if there’s one place your folks don’t belong…well, that’s in your porno blog. In case you’re wondering, they know what I do for a living, and while they’re not ashamed at Their Son The Pornographer, I’m sure they would have been much happier with Their Son The English Teacher. Although they were much more disappointed with Their Son The Stockbroker, that’s for sure.
When I told my mom I was getting my Series 7 and getting on the phone to peddle stocks, she scowled…and said nothing.
When I told my mom I was getting behind a camera to document people engaged in various sex acts — some of which may be deemed obscene in certain parts of our great nation — she just sorta shrugged her shoulders and said something like, “just be careful.” And then she asked me, “do you have a porno director name?”
“Billy Watson!” I said.
She asked, “Where did you dream that up?”
“Well, I just wanted to call myself something unassuming and corny. Cause there’s nothing cornier and dumber than, say, “Johnny Madness” or “Tommy Big Guns” or any variances thereof. And I certainly wouldn’t give myself a one-name name, you know? That territory is reserved for the weak and worthless.”
My mom thought about it a sec and said, “that’s strange. I never told you this, but your grandmother dated a man named Billy Watson before she married your grandfather. I think that’s the first time I’ve heard the name Billy Watson in maybe a hundred years.” She said it so nonchalantly that I dunno what surprised me more — her non-expressive reaction or the fact that I randomly chose the same (porno) name as a dude who my granny dated about the same time The Great Depression was winding down.
Weirder yet? This weekend at one of my flea markets, Dad walks up to me and says in this sort of hush-hush whisper, “the fat lady sitting in front of the van has the kind of dirty pictures you like.” I looked up and over at the lady, who was really fat and had parked herself right next to her ’89 Dodge van. Someday I think I’m gonna take portraits of flea market folks, and yes…I got my dad scouting flea markets, but he still hasn’t figured out the difference beween “cheesecake” pics and hardcore ones. But in this particular instance, that was quite alright. Cause in the folded-up envelope the fat lady kept in a small glass case on her plastic folding table was more of the Three Nuns.
Oh, while I’m talking about that post, I was pretty amazed only one reader called phony on the Nazi fags; more amazing yet was the following e-mail that landed in my in-box from Europe: I am born 1975 but my grandfather already told me that the Sturmabteilung (SA) was the known “gay-wing” of the Nazis. (He was your typical “been there, done that” former not-anymore-Nazi…) So, these Nazi gay-pics do not surprise me at all. This prompted me to dial in my Google machine, which immediately returned Ernst Röhm.
Back to The Three Nuns: First off, the half-dozen or so pics I scored at the Flea Market are tiny, and each single picture contains a bunch of even tinier pictures. They were small, but not so small I didn’t immediately recognize the large photo of the three nuns I scored in New York City last month. “How much?” I asked the Fat Lady.
“Fifteen,” she said, flatly.
“Give ya ten.”
“Fifteen,” she said, flatly.
I turned and walked. And then I turned and started looking for something else I could bundle into the buy. The only other thing that remotely interested me was a black americana label featuring a black kid eating watermelon, which, when I think about it now, is more offensive than the image of the 3 nuns getting banged. And which is why I used to collect that stuff. The only problem with the label was it was already stuck to a piece of cardboard.
I handed the fat lady $15 and went on my merry way, back to my studio…and my scanner. Take a closer look at these, would ya? How about the nuns getting put into pile-driver! Would woulda thought girls were getting slammed in pile driver back then? Not me! And the dudes are butt-fuckin’ bi-boys, too, which totally cracked me up.
And to think the porn getting churned out today is labeled “bad”.
The Cuckold and his Woman
On the surface, this is the true definition of “suitcase pimp”, but I know better. Cause a true suitcase pimp simply lives off his girlie; Zoey’s boyfriend is now calling himself “Chris Spooges” and is getting work in Porn Valley. In fact, in addition to getting turned on by his Sweety blowing Stunt Cock, he’s also working up a load, cause when it’s time for The Money Shot, Zoey’s gonna make a confession to my members: she’s such a cumslut one load all over her pretty, barely-legal face isn’t enough.
She’s gonna need two.
Would ya look at that happy couple! You couldn’t see, but Mr. Spooges toes were curling in delight. He was so happy watching his woman use her big natural titties, and allowing Stunt Cock to use them as if it were her vagina. And I didn’t even tell you that later on, Mister POV had his way with her, and Spooges did the same thing: stood off in the corner as Mister POV gained carnal knowledge of Zoey, and then, on cue, she summed him (again) to come empty his nut sac all over her face.
Two big ones in a single day for Mr. Spooges! (Oh, the sweet, sweet wine of youth.)
Mr. Spooges did earn his name that day…and his paycheck, too.
How’s that make you feel? Think you could do it? You know…watch your lady please another man? Would your brain melt down? Make ya wanna go mano-a-mano with the man being blown? Or banged?
All this cuckoldry talk reminds me of my undergrad years, as I sat in Chaucer class, listening to my professor lecture on The Miller’s Tale. Actually, looking back at it now, I have no Earthly idea how I sat through that fucking class, especially when our professor — in an obvious attempt to impress the girls in class — would actually lecture in Old English. I’m serious. We’d sit there and take notes on that shit, as if it was gonna ever come in handy once we passed his class. Ever hear the way English was spoken 800 years ago? It sounded something like this:
And seyde, “I am a lord at alle degrees;
For after this I hope ther cometh moore.
Lemman, thy grace, and sweete bryd, thyn oore!”
The wyndow she undoth, and that in haste.
“Have do,” quod she, “com of, and speed the faste,
Lest that oure neighebores thee espie.”
This Absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie.
Derk was the nyght as pich, or as a cole,
And at the wyndow out she putte hir hole,
And Absolon, hym fil no bet ne wers,
But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers
Ful savorly, er he were war of this.
Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys,
For wel he wiste a womman hath no berd
He felte a thyng al rough and long yherd,
And seyde, “Fy! allas! what have I do?”
“Tehee!” quod she, and clapte the wyndow to,
And Absolon gooth forth a sory pas.
“A berd! a berd!” quod hende Nicholas,
“By Goddes corpus, this goth faire and weel.”
Tell the truth — you just skipped all that shit, huh? You tried to read the first couple lines, then you scrolled down here. So you missed the dirty part in The Miller’s Tale…the part about her hole, and the (ass) kissing, and the part about how he’s confused about what the fuck just happend cause he thought he was giving her a simple kiss on the cheek, but a woman doesn’t have a beard…so what did he just get done kissing?! (No shaved pussies back then, bro).
About the only other thing I remember from that class was the origin of the word “cunt”. We got the whole etymology of that word, from the non-offensive “queynte” used in the Miller’s Tale, all the way to how it out-dirtys The King of All Dirty Words today. How about that for some medieval filth? And how about you stick a god damned gold star on my chest for using the word etymology in a porno blog?
I have no idea how I ever passed that class. Actually, I didn’t pass that class. I earned a “C”, which, if you’re were an English major (or studied any of the humanities) a “C” is a professor’s nice way of saying that — in addition to being a dope — you’re a failure. The only way to earn a “D” or a failing grade in any humanities class was to no show; however, I maintained an outstanding attendance record. I was punctual, too. I sat near the professor, and I’d even ask him questions! Much of the time he’d kinda roll his eyes or groan, but that’s ok…cause as one of my coaches drilled into my head: “C’s get degrees, Billy!”
Did I ever tell you I graduated college with a 2.02 cumulative GPA? Yeppers. I’m very positive I graduated at the very bottom of my class. As in last. Very last. No one behind me whatsoever.
What else would you expect from a pornographer?
More Fun with Mr. Marcus!
When I started this blog (seven years ago next month!) I made it a point not to turn it into a shit-talkin’ gossip column. Not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of thing, but it’s just not my style. And, like all the stories I tell, this one’s the truth.
The first six or eight months of Spring Thomas were shot far, far away from Porn Valley. Well, not that far, really. But far enough that we didn’t fuck with the male talent. Eventually that would change, though, and when it did, I have to admit I was kinda star struck — to a degree — when The Big Hitters started rolling in: Jack Napier, Mandingo, Shane Diesel — and Mr. Marcus.
Yea, I walked on eggshells when I was on set with all those dudes, cause I really didn’t know them, and don’t forget this: the work in Porn Valley was completely different then. These guys were working. Thirty and forty scenes a month wasn’t unheard of back then, and really the only reason a performer of any sort of caliber didn’t work, it’s because they didn’t want to. So when these dudes started saying “yes” to our offers, my boss and I were excited.
Spring was, too.
And because I was at that point in my career, when I called Mr. Marcus an hour after his call time, and asked him, “Is everything OK?” and he said, “I’m stuck in traffic,” I went with it.
I told Spring, “Traffic must be a bitch.” She just kinda nodded her head and kept texting away. She wasn’t tweeting. She wasn’t Facebooking. She wasn’t even mySpacing. She was texting, cause it was 2004, and that’s what you did then.
When Marcus was two hours past call time — and he didn’t pick up his phone when I called, I asked Spring if we should just pack up our gear and head to the airport.
“But I need to make my money! Change my flight if you have to!”
So I called Marcus again, but not after a bit of hesitation. I didn’t want to piss him off. Telling this story now, I have to laugh at myself. Last week when Rico Strong walked on to set 45 minutes late, I already had him replaced. And when Rico copped an attitude after I told him he’d been replaced, I kicked him out of the studio. But this is 2012. In 2004 I hesitated to call Marcus even after he was 2 hours late, and when he answered this time, I politely asked, “bro, we’re getting a little concerned over here. Call time was two hours ago. She’s gotta catch a flight.”
“My bad! I’m not that far. Really…traffic is murder.”
At 3 hours past call time, he was “right around the corner.”
Four hours past, the bell rang, and I opened the door to Mr. Marcus holding out a styrofoam container of a dozen BBQ wings. Almost all of them were eaten. He asked, “want a wing?”
I looked at him, and then at wings, and back up at him, and let him walk by. I was pissed, and Spring was pissed…but at least she was gonna make her money. It also closed out our 4-shoots-a-month contract with her, which was the other reason I waited four hours for Mr. Marcus. I didn’t want to go into the next month a shoot behind schedule, and I didn’t want to ask our boss to advance Spring a scene due to being impatient with Marcus.
I can’t remember if I told you this, but I like to shoot all my pictures before I roll video. Stills are a perfect time for talent to get acquainted with each other, and while I take them I make sure we go over what’s expected in the scene. We also go over any rules, like, “you can call me a whore or a slut but not a cunt”. Then I’d ask the male talent if it’s ok to drop the N word. If you know about Spring, you’d know why I did that, and if you don’t know about Spring…oh well.
I can’t remember what Marcus said. Mandingo wouldn’t let that fly. Shane Diesel would; in fact, it turned him on when Spring said shit like, “fuck me you nasty nigger!” It turned Charlie Mac on, too. “My grandpa owned your granpa!” she once told Charlie Mac, to which he replied, “I love your white skin!” One performer whose name I can’t recall (really) steadfastly refused (I don’t want my son to grow up and see a scene where some girl calles me a “nigger”) but then suddenly had a change of heart when we went to video. “Look Billy, if it makes the scene better, she can call me a nigger.”
Oh yea, Bishop said that. You probably don’t remember him.
Anyways, I never directed Spring’s dialogue. Ever. I never once told her what to say. What came out of her mouth was pure Spring. Just like Katie was Katie, and Ruth was Ruth, and Candy was Candy…and Barbie was Barbie. Looking back at it now, I think dropping the N word was Spring’s way of coping with what she did for a living; at the time, though, I thought she was just putting on a show.
Where was I? Oh yea — I’m taking pictures of Marcus and Spring, and we’re almost done when I notice Spring’s vag is looking a bit creamy. Not creamy as in yeast infection, and not creamy as in she’s turned on and just super wet.
Creamy as in Cream Pie Creamy. Which it was. That’s cause Marcus shot his fucking load in her at the end of stills. I wasn’t sure until I walked into the bathroom to ask Spring what’s up. She was standing over the toilet with her fingers jammed up her snatch. “What’s up? What’s up?! I tell you what’s up. That nigger just came in me. Don’t ever book him with me again.”
“You didn’t even have to tell me that. Let’s just get this shit over with so you can catch the late flight home and relax.”
Marcus’s performance was sub-par at best, and when it came time to pop, well…he squeezed hard to push out the few drops that remained in his sac.
I didn’t hear from Marcus again til I bumped into him a few months later at AVN’s. He apologized and said something like, “that wasn’t a typical Mr. Marcus performance.” I remember him specifically saying that, cause it was the first time (but not the last) I’ve heard performers refer to themselves in the third person.
But it turns out it was typical. Pure Mr. Marcus. Consistently. Through and through. Cause whenever I’d tell this story to other producers and directors, they had a similar tale of Mr. Marcus woe.
So when my lawyer called me a few days ago to tell me what was going down — and that Marcus was suspect — it didn’t surprise me. Then, I thought about it a little bit…and it did. I was surprised. Marcus may be chronically late to set. Marcus might cream pie a girl whether or not the scene calls for it. Marcus might walk on to set, check out his female talent, then tell the director he forgot something in his car…so he can haul ass to get out of fucking a girl he didn’t wanna fuck.
Marcus might be a lot of things, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy to fudge a test.
Not unless he’s got some sort of golden parachute out of this mess, which is kinda what I’m thinking right about now.
I wonder who packed it for him.
The Flea Market in Me.
Oh, and the ability to shoot a load. I still cum, mind you…but the days of bouncing that wad off the back of my chick’s head whilst hittin’ it doggy came to an abrupt halt in 2004, yo. Now I’m lucky to launch one over her butt.
My latest obsession are old photos. Anything from, say, 1930 to 1970. So much so I’ll stand over a box of them at a flea market for hours, picking through the thousands of shitty ones for A Score. I’ll sift through all the stupid baby pictures, the crummy portraits, the family-standing-in-front-of-the-new car shots, the presents-under-the-Christmas tree muck, through all the birthday parties and weddings to find that one shot of say, the drag race from 1954. Or the perfectly composed shot of some street musician holding his accordion from that same time. People playing sports, kids playing with obsolete toys, the man in black face crooning the lovely young debutants at the cotillion…you get the idea.
And the weirder the better: a ventriloquist’s dummy with a baby in a carriage; the all-negro, six-man boxing battle royale, a large group of people in someone’s back yard, huddled around their deceased love one in an home-made open casket.
Or the very nice lipstick lesbian I’m showing you now, smoking in bed, reading a copy of Nancy Morgan’s lesbian pulp fiction City of Women. Published in 1952, it tells a lurid Sapphic tale: “a hundred young women came to paradise and a hundred young angels fell.” She’s smoking in a cheap room on a hot night, and the bull dyke who took that picture is about to walk over and peel that little outfit off her and perform the lesbian equivalent of bouncing a load off the back of her head.
At least that’s what I’d like to think. Which is why I like these weird old pictures so much. I catch myself trying to imagine what it’s like living in these pictures.
Anyways, I went to New York City last month, only cause it’s the greatest city on Earth, and I hit a couple fleas down near 26th and Broadway. There’s a good one in a blue parking garage, and in all that August heat and humidity I stood over piles of pictures and picked and sweated my ass off.
And here’s what I’ve learned with the dudes who have the boxes of shitty pics: whoever owns them is too lazy to do what I’m doing, but a lot of times they know old pictures, so when I pull a winner, Dude will pull it from my hand, scrutinize it for a long second, look at me and say something absurd like, “twenty bucks.”
“Are you serious?! You didn’t even know it was in there. I’ll give you three.”
Sometimes they won’t even dignify my offer a counter; other times they will. It’s part of the game.
Then there’s the dealers. No junkie pics to wade though. Tons of amazing stuff…but nothing’s cheap. They’re not piled in boxes, either; instead, pictures are categorized and some even slipped into protective sleeves. And they’ll always ask once you start in, “Whacha looking for?”
To which I respond, “Anything weird and unusual. Cheesecake stuff from the 40’s and 50’s. Bettie Page obviously. Kids in halloween costumes. Race cars and boxers. Anything sporty, really.”
“Military?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t have much of the cheesecake stuff, but I do have some of the hardcore nasty stuff…if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”
To which I responded, “Nope. I do that for a living, so that’s really the last thing I wanna collect.”
I’m to the point now where I tell people what I do for a living, cause I no longer give a shit what anyone thinks. I really don’t. I used to, and back then when anyone asked, I’d say “web design” or “back end coding” or “web sales” or something equally dumb. Now when they pop the question, my standard reply is, “I make dirty movies.”
Which totally piqued Dealer’s interest. “Oh yea! What kind?”
“Internet stuff,” I shrugged, making it obvious I didn’t really want to delve any deeper.
“Gay or straight?”
Before too long, I was delving deeper, mainly cause it might get me some cheaper prices. Cause this Dealer had some serious shit. Really good photos. “Sure you’re not into military? Here’s Hitler getting out of his limo, taken by his personal valet.”
Yes, no Hitler for me thanks. But he had tons of cool stuff, and I quizzed him on a bunch, and we talked about Bettie Page and Irvin Klaw and he could tell I was serious, cause all of a sudden he says, “wanna see something really rare? Something you’ll probably never see again.”
Oh boy. I’m wasn’t too sure if I was gonna like where he was about to take me, so I said, “as long as it’s legal.”
“They’re legal now, but not when the pictures were taken. And if you possessed them, or produced them, or were in them, it was a for-sure death sentence. As in they’d put you against a wall and shoot you, and probably without any sort of trial.”
Quite possibly the best closing statements I’ve ever heard in my life by any sort of salesman. I didn’t care what they were, but as long as they were legal to possess, I certainly wanted to see them…and, I’m sure, buy a few, too. But they weren’t for sale — not at any price (I tried) — and they lived up to his hype. I won’t even make you guess what they were; I’m just gonna tell you.
Gay Nazis.
Nazi homoerotic images.
Nazi fags.
I didn’t think such a thing existed, and I suppose he was 100% correct — if I was a Nazi in, say, the mid-to-late 1930’s (when these were taken) and I got caught by an officer with these in my ruck sack, I’m sure said officer woulda put a bullet in my head on the spot. Or maybe waited til he had an audience to do it.
Let me say this again, in case it didn’t sink in. Dealer had pictures of Nazi fags in full uniform (and some not) doing all sorts of queer things: two Nazis, one sitting in the others’ lap, both facing each other with their hand up their flys. How about the “injured” Nazi, laying face-down in the field, pants pulled down to his ankles, getting a bare-assed butt rub from his comrade with the ear-to-ear smile on his face? Kissing Nazis! And the best might have been the shot of 7 or 8 Nazis in a barrock’s bathroom, clad only in jock straps (with daggers tucked in straps), giving the “Hail victory!” salute.
My jaw dropped. “How much…seriously?” I pleaded.
He stood firm. Not for sale. “I’m trying to get enough to make a book. But so far I’ve only need able to secure a couple dozen. They’re so rare. I’ve got a guy in Berlin who manages to find one every four or five years. Another scout in Amsterdam who looks for them, too. So far he’s been able to find a couple.”
“Can I take a picture of this one with my cell phone,” I asked. I held up the jock strap Sig Heil picture. “Cause if I don’t get a picture of one of these, no one’s gonna believe this.”
“Can’t, sorry. I really keep these kinda tucked away, if you know what I mean.”
“But I really want something good. See, I got a blog, and it’s a blog about my business, and I guess you could call it a sex blog, too, cause, um…I try and talk about this sort of stuff, too!” He could tell I was desperate for my homoerotic Nazi fix, but his no was final.
“Hmmm. Got anything else I could show my readers as demented as a Nazi fag?” I asked.
And that’s when he handed me the picture of the three nuns.
Syphilis!
“Male talent’s tested positive for spyhilis,” my lawyer said, “and apparently he knew about it…and he shot for a month or so before he was caught. You should probably think about taking a break until the dust settles.”
He pretty much said it like that, but I wish he woulda said it like Hunter S. Thompson’s lawyer woulda said it in Fear and Loathing: “As your attorney, I must advise you to quit banging any and all whores; in addition, I advise you to immediately halt any and all production of smut until the filthy bastard can be identified, tried without the benefit of a jury of his peers, and then tortured to the death in a public arena — located perhaps on the corner of Ventura and Sepulveda!”
Imagine what a terrific spectacle that would be: perform it on a Saturday in late-morning, like they did in, say, 14th Century England. Charge an entry fee of a sawski (maybe even ten bucks) to help reimburse all the Porno Princesses and Stunt Cocks who had to cough up the dough for their injection of Benzylpenicillin. And maybe even allow him to draw a piece of paper from a large bowl, in which his fate would be written, in pencil, by the aforementioned Porno Princesses and Stunt Cocks: “The Catherine Wheel”, the “Gibbet”, being “Pressed” or boiled to death, decapitation by either sword or axe (make the guilty choose), or drawn and quartered.
I think that’s fair punishment for knowingly giving someone an STD.
So, from what I’m hearing, here’s how it went down: a month (or so) ago, Stunt Cock wasn’t feeling well, so he went to his personal physician for an exam, and the positive spyhilis test came back. He medicated, and then proceeded to Talent Testing Services, where he tested positive again with the nasty critter.
Check that critter out, too…lookin’ all corkscrew n’ shit. I was gonna post a pic of one of those fucked up dudes with a late case, but it’s gross, and if you really wanna see it, you can Google that shit yourself.
Anyways, Stunt Cock then proceeds to alter his test and to booking himself work.
I didn’t mention Stunt Cock is a pretty big name — one of the biggest working the game right now. And no, I’m not gonna tell you who it is, so don’t even ask. Besides, if you really wanna know, you can Google that shit yourself.
I dunno how he was caught, or who caught him.
I dunno who he fucked, or who the people he fucked fucked.
All I know is I’m shutting down production like any responsible production company would.
So I was just gonna end here, cause I want to go do more arty-farty things with my time, but since it’s been forever since I gave the few remaining readers I have something to actually read, I’ll go into the Politics of Pornography here a little bit…cause, honestly, I think this shit is goes wayyyy deeper than a desperate, piece-of-shit Stunt Cock walking around with little critters hooking themselves into his nut sac while he’s fucking for money — only cause he’s so desperate for it.
The money, that is.
Once upon a time there was a place called AIM, and it was where all the inhabitants of Porn Valley went to get their monthly check-up. And if they tested negative for gonorrhea, chlaymidia, and HIV, they were given a piece of paper that allowed them to suck and fuck and jerk and swallow and cream pie and squirt for 30 more days.
Then, the beginning of The End: AIM’s database was compromised, and another piece of shit ex-Stunt Cock (with a few more piece-of-shit helpers) decided to start a site and list all your favorite porn stars by name…both their stage name and real name.
Soon, AIM was shut down.
There’s more to the story than that, but I don’t have the time — nor the energy — to go over everything I know…except to tell you since it closed, two more clinics have sprung up to replace AIM: Talent Testing Services (henceforth referred to as TTS) and Cutting Edge Testing (henceforth referred to as CET).
Again, due to a lack of energy, I’ll cut to the chase: some folks wanna see TTS survive (and CET fail) and some folks wanna see CET survive (and TTS fail), and some folks wanna see them both work.
So, let’s go back to the Stunt Cock that got his positive test from his personal physician. He knew, once he took his meds, that he might still have the corkscrew critters clinging on to his nut sac. What he also knew — and you guys don’t know — is that TTS tests for spyhilis.
CET does not.
So, here’s what’s confusing me: if piece of shit Stunt Cock knows he might still have syphilis, but he needs money so bad he’s willing to do The Unthinkable in our business, does he go to the place that tests for his critter…or the one that doesn’t?
Does he walk around with an altered test — and the risk of being caught and subjected to The Catherine Wheel in the public square on Ventura and Sepulveda?
Or does he walk around with a clean test — and without worrying about anything more than testing at a place that doesn’t test for his disease?
Oh! Wait. I almost forgot to tell you: Manwin, AKA Brazzers, just invested a whole bunch o’ money over at CET. And from what I hear, CET just got a piece of fancy testing equipment courtesy of Manwin, and, Manwin also gave them a cash infusion when they were starting out.
I can’t confirm any of this, but still it’s interesting. I also find it kinda interesting that it’s now being reported that Stunt Cock didn’t actually alter his test…but TTS did.
What the most interesting of all? Infected Stunt Cock tweeted, on August 16 — the day the shit hit the fan: “Is there anything in this world that is not negotiable?”
And I won’t even talk about FSC, or APHSS, or the supposed role Manwin is playing there…cause that’ll just make you wanna stop reading this and head over to one of Manwin’s many tube sites. You know the ones…where “user uploaded” scenes rule, but the users never, ever upload a Brazzer scene. There’s 9 or 10 of them now, and they’re hugely popular, and they’ve put a lot of my producer pals out of business.
Control the traffic.
Control the content.
Control the information.
Rule the multi-billion dollar smut industry!
But what do I know?
Hey…wanna talk about Lee Harvey, and the layout of Dealy Plaza, and Babushka Lady, and the bolt-action rifle that could never possibly hit a moving target three times in seven seconds from a distance of 88 yards?
Cause I sure do.
Nine Pictures
