whorl
(h)wôrl/Submitnoun
1. a pattern of spirals or concentric circles.
“Shelley drew larger and larger dark whorls on her notepad”
synonyms: loop, coil, hoop, ring, curl, twirl, twist, spiral, helix, arabesque
“elegant whorls of wrought iron”

2. historical
a small wheel or pulley in a spinning wheel, spinning machine, or spindle.

verb literary
1. spiral or move in a twisted and convoluted fashion.
“the dances are kinetic kaleidoscopes where steps whorl into wildness”

2. To revive a pornographic blog that had been abandoned for years.
“Billy Watson, who hasn’t had a thing to say since about, oh…2011, is gonna try to start blogging on a regular basis again; however, knowing his history with starting up whatever it is he thinks he wants to revive — only to lost interest in it almost immediately — means it’s doubtful anything more than a few posts beyond this will see the light of day.”

In 1975 I learned to beat off by watching a kid we called “The Hammer”. We were in a fort made from refrigerator boxes that we made behind an apartment complex that was still under construction.

I was 11 years old. There were 5 or 6 of us — maybe more, cause that’s part of the memory I can’t recall exactly — but it’s something I’ll never forget. Just like you’ll never forget the way you learned how to masturbate.

Looking back at it now, I wish beating off was something I just kinda stumbled upon; which, I think, is the way most girls learn how to masturbate. But I could be wrong about that.

Instead, on a nice day after school, I hauled ass to the apartment complex after dumping my school stuff in my bedroom. The complex was directly across the street from where I lived — a suburb on the Chicago’s east side.

We always walked home from school in a group. When we saw the immense pile of boxes piled high near the complex on our way home. It was a mountain of boxes, enough to make The Biggest Fort of All Time.

Within an hour, we had The Great Room, various wings that lead to smaller rooms; there were even enough boxes to create an outer wall, and we were certain that outer wall would protect us from any and all dirt clods — cause we knew it was only a matter of time before we came under attack.

Instead of dirt clods, it was The Hammer who came crashing in. He was a freshman in high school, but in those days, when you flunked, you FLUNKED. Hammer should have been a sophomore. Maybe a junior. He made us nervous, too, because the rumor was he belonged to The Burnham Boys. No one messed with The Burnham Boys. Ever.

None of us had never met a real Burnham Boy, either. Still, no one dared asked The Hammer if he belonged. We didn’t ask him why he wanted us all in The Great Room, either; but when he told us to get in there, we did.

The Hammer wasted no time. He said, “You guys wanna watch me pop sperm?”

I had no idea what he was talking about, and I don’t think my friends did, either. We all nodded yes. He pulled out his dick, and suddenly I felt an overwhelming urge to cry.

No way am I gonna cry in front of my friends — and certainly not in front of The Hammer. We all sat there, kinda dumbstruck. After he pooped, he said, “Now I wanna watch you guys do it.”

I scrambled out, stammering about not wanting to get into trouble for being out. And I ran home as fast as I could.

And yep. That night, sitting in the tub while Aqua Man floated by, I tried to pop sperm. The result? The worst headache I’d ever experienced.

It was obvious to me then that Jesus was punishing me for that dirty behavior. I stopped right away and told Him “sorry”. I also told him I’d never do it agan.

But it sure did feel good before my head started to hurt.  A few days later I broke my promise to Jesus. I attempted to pop sperm again. To my surprise, it worked! I walked around for weeks waiting for something bad to happen to me, cause you-know-who was watches everything we do.

No one ever spoke a word about what went down in the fort, and not too long after all this went down, and I was popping sperm on a regular basis.

I found a book in a dumpster. I was in the dumpster looking for beer cans, which was the first thing I ever collected.

The book was  pulp smut called Come Swim in my Hole. The cover featured a bikini-clad MILF by a pool watching a younger dude jump off the diving board.

At least that’s how I remember it. Now that I collect pulp porno novels, I always look out for it. Cause it was my first masturbation fodder. Before Come Swim in my Hole, I have no idea what went through my head while I was poppin’ sperm. It was just something that felt good.

In 1978, I watched my first hardcore porno film. It was projected up against a wall in my best friend’s older brother’s bedroom. We watched it on a Super 8 projector.

Seka fucked John C. Holmes, and his wiener was so big I thought it was fake. We all laughed. I took the little poster that was folded up in the Swedish Erotica box the movie came in and slipped it into my pocket while no one was looking. Then I went to the bathroom to “piss”. Of course I had to announce I was had to piss, and no one cared or even looked up at me. They were watching Seka get railed.

I unfolded it to discover pictures of women with sperm all over their faces. They were smiling! I couldn’t believe a woman would ever let a man pop sperm on her face — let alone smile about it afterwards. I thought — Do women like that really exist?

Up to that point in my life, I hadn’t had sex yet, but an older girl named Diana I met at a Rodeo Parade would come over to my house “to do homework”. She’d always wind up blowing me. And she’d always swallow.

It never dawned on me to ask Diana if I could blast her face, and even after I saw Seka take that her facial, I’d never work up the courage to ask any of my girlfriends to do anything like that.

Cause, up to that point in my life, that sort of shit didn’t happen in the real world — and certainly not in mine.

From Wikipedia: “In literature, an epigraph is a phrase, quotation, or poem that is set at the beginning of a document or component. The epigraph may serve as a preface, as a summary, as a counter-example, or to link the work to a wider literary canon, either to invite comparison or to enlist a conventional context.”

Part of the reason I got into the Porno Biz was to write a book. I got out of grad school in ’98, and even though I had written a screenplay (which was sold), and a novel (that didn’t get published), and some short stories (a few of which ended up in some really little lit mags you’ve never heard of), I never considered myself a “writer”.

After grad school I taught, and I did consider myself a teacher. For close to four years I worked hard for tenure. When that didn’t happen, I got into the adult business. And when I broke that news to my mom, it went something like this: “hey, um…mom, so, um, since I didn’t get that tenured-track position at the community college which would have made you really proud, I’m gonna go ahead and start shooting smut for a site called Blacks on Blondes…but don’t worry, I’ll be out of the biz in a year, and then I’ll write a book all about it, and then you’ll be proud!”

Fourteen years later, I’m still shooting smut…and not ready to quit. But maybe it’s time to attempt a book? That means work, and work means time, and the older I get the more I truly realize the Value of Time. Whether it’s my time or your time, there ain’t a lot left. We all value our free time. I like to take pictures and read and look at art and listen to music and travel and all that would be way easier than attempting a book.

I tend to think in a linear fashion, which means if I attempt A Book, my brain thinks beginning / middle / end — in that order. And while I have vague ideas about all three of those things, it means lots of time — with no guarantees about anything other than a tiny slice of hard drive space on my laptop no longer available for pictures or music.

I’ve even got an idea for my book’s epigraph! One of my heroes once said: The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There’s also a negative side. — Hunter S. Thompson

In my head, I’d have HST’s great quote, and then this, right below it: The music porno business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There’s also a negative side. — Hunter S. Thompson Billy Watson

Witty, huh?

One small problem: HST never said it. He did say, “The TV business is uglier than most things. It is normally perceived as some kind of cruel and shallow money trench through the heart of the journalism industry, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs, for no good reason.” but that doesn’t quite work as well, which throws me off, and then I get blocked, and then I can’t write, which means I seriously doubt I can whip up the 100,000 words (give or take) it’ll take to get A Book done.

Did I mention no guarantees if I do manage get through it?

So who wants to meet in Denver September 2nd to catch the original Misfits play Riot Fest?