The town will never be the same. After the Tangiers, the big corporations took it all over. Today, it looks like Disneyland. And while the kids play cardboard pirates, Mommy and Daddy drop the house payments and Junior’s college money on the poker slots. In the old days, dealers knew your name, what you drank, what you played. Today, it’s like checkin’ into an airport. And if you order room service, you’re lucky if you get it by Thursday. Today, it’s all gone. You get a whale show up with four million in a suitcase, and some twenty-five-year-old hotel school kid is gonna want his Social Security Number. After the Teamsters got knocked out of the box, the corporations tore down practically every one of the old casinos…

Remember the closing moments from Casino, the Scorsese/DeNiro/Pesci film? Those lines are DeNiro’s, and he’s lamenting about what he feels is the decline of his industry. If you didn’t see Casino, it’s basically the history of Vegas from the mid-70’s to current day, and, for the most part, the film gets it right.

By “it”, I mean the Corporatization of Vice.

The LA County Department of Health is housed in a dilapidated building right off the I-5. Inside their conference room, bright yellow signs with black, bold lettering say things like CAUTION: TURTLES MAY TRANSMIT BACTERIA CAUSING DISEASE IN HUMANS and WARNING: MUSSELS FROM THESE WATERS ARE UNFIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION. There’s a framed pamphlet hanging on the wall titled Rabies and its Control. It’s like museum of health-related warning signs from the days of yesteryear…except those signs are all currently in use. Just go to one of LA’s beaches and you’ll see one.

My favorite is the one (I assume) used for LA County bathhouses: AIDS PREVENTION NOTICE — The LA County of Health has determined that high risk sexually activity can lead to AIDS. High risk sexual activity means the placing of the penis of one male into the anus or mouth of another male, whether or not a condom is used OR the placing of the mouth of one male on the anus of another male.

The Public Health Investigative Manager (herein referred to from now on as “Phim”) apologizes to me and my lawyer for her tardiness, “but we’re in the middle of an emergency.”

I say, “I’m kinda curious…in 2013 what constitutes a public health emergency?” Cause to me, public health crises either happen in 3rd World kinda places…or happened in Olde Tyme Days.

Phim didn’t really specify, other than there was an issue at an unnamed bathhouse — which kinda surprised me, too. “A bathhouse?!”

Phim said, “A bath house is a place where people, usually of the same sex, meet to have sex.”

I said, “I know what they are…I just didn’t think they actually still exist.”

Phim said not only do they exist, there’s a dozen (or so) in LA County, and they all need permits, too.

I was fascinated. “What else is going on that Average Joe wouldn’t think was going on as far as a health crisis in 2013?”

Turns out tuberculosis is still very much alive and well — mostly in places like Skid Row. Who woulda thought TB was even an issue anymore?

I asked Phim, “someone told me syphilis was almost wiped out and made a comeback in the gay male population in big cities like San Francisco and New York. True?”

Phim said, “if you mean almost wiped out like small pox, no. It was very much on the decline in the 90’s, and yes, now we’re seeing more cases.”

Phim was very nice. After she issued my health permit, she explained I’d have to take a blood-born pathogens class within 6 months, and she still didn’t know what they were going to charge for my permit, cause “this is all still new to us.”

And with that, I walked out of the Health Department with my lawyer — and some 3rd World, Olde Tyme signs, which now hang on my studio wall.

I also answered a question very similar to Johnny’s response to my “retirement” in a Reddit “AMA” (Ask Me Anything). (Yep, I’ve discovered Reddit, and I’m diggin’ it).

Honestly, I miss writing, and I miss my readers, and some of you said some awfully nice things about my blog…so I’m gonna resume. I’ll do my best and write as often as I can, and when I don’t feel up to writing, I’ll just post some of my arty-farty “erotic” pictures…and when I’m not up to do that, I’ll take another fishing trip…only this time, I’ll just post that pic of the old man fishing in the river.

And know that the fishing trip won’t take forever.

Before I sign off, I wanna wish you a Happy New Year! Here’s to an awesome, profitable, sexy, drama-free, healthy, happy, safe, fun, orgasmic, funky, you-can-make-it-rain 013!

And by “sign off”, I mean I’m all done with the blogging. I really don’t have much more to say here. Sure, I can tell you some fucked up story about a Porno Princess and her antics. Or how Stunt Cock did something stupid. Or smart. Shit, I’ve got two posts 1/2 done; one about an old Porno Princess pal who’s homeless and a junkie…I helped her out for a while, including helping her drive around Porn Valley to score Roxies (as LAPD cruised by to surprise us as the transaction finally went down). I also had a Best of 2012 blog that I couldn’t finish…and being unable to finish both — in addition to not really writing anything in a while — I’ve decided to call it a day.

I’ll still update my YouTube Channel…at least til that gets boring.

And while I’m done blogging about porno, I’m not done writing about it. Or making it.

Maybe it’s time I try and write a book? In the meantime, use the blog’s search function and type in things like Barbie Cummings or Spring Thomas or poke around the right hand column under “archives” or check out my site or follow me on Twitter. There’s seven years worth of blogging, and I’m sure you’ll find something you’ll like.

Or hate.

Thanks to my readers. Thanks to my fans. Thanks to my haters. Thanks to each and every Porno Princess who either made me sad or happy, or drove me wild or nuts or to orgasm…or to get my morning coffee.

In other words, thanks for being one of the subjects I wrote about.

Your pal — Billy Watson

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.

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.

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.