1. Mouthwash
2. Soft Drinks
3. Lysol wipes
4. Prescription drugs
5. Fancy bottled water
6. A pack o’ smokes
7. Thirty thousand cash. Or its equivalent.
8. Bedhead After Party Hair Cream
9. Lotsa Lube
10. Ikea’s “Magiker” coffee table
11. Skin Bronzer
12. A lone ring
13. A hit TV show
14. A fire place (in which, during particularly long binges, you forget to open the damper).
15. A large suitcase chock full o’ blow (not pictured).
Remember Bill Nye The Science Guy? He was lecturing at USC last week, and in the middle of it, he passed out. I guess he’s fine now, but as he lay there, on the floor, no one helped him; instead, they were capturing the special moment with their camera phones and hustling to be the first to Twitter the news.
My banking woes have been solved; the thief’s are just beginning.
Book just finished: You Never Give Me Your Money — the depressing story of the Beatles from 1968 to present, including each and every one of their lawsuits, which put literally hundreds of lawyers’ kids through expensive private schools. Well…maybe not hundreds.
Book just started: Life — Keith Richards’ autobiography (he did get some help from a cat I’ve never heard of named James Fox) is worth reading for the first chapter alone.
Exhibit just visited: “Charles Bukowski: Poet on the Edge” at the Huntington Library — you don’t really know this, but I’m a geek-boy fan of Mr. Bukowski’s; he’s the reason I started to write…even if it’s accumulated into nothing much more than a silly porno blog.
Recent Shows Attended: We Are Plastic Ono Band (awesome), Torche (an in-store @ Vacation Vinyl), Gorillaz (wow!), Superchunk (an acoustic in-store @ Origami Vinyl) and Stone Temple Pilots (one of my guilty pleasures).
Recent show I missed and really wanted to see: Best Coast.
Iron & Wine’s cover of New Order’s “Love Vigilantes” is my favorite song of the year…so far. (Honorable mention: STP covering Zeppelin’s “Dancing Days” at their LA show.)
I’m addicted to Twitter. It’s all about the information I choose to receive, as opposed to the information I choose to share.
I only buy records with a digital download included…unless the record is out of print.
I don’t practice yoga enough.
After 13 years, South Park just keeps getting better and better. The writing team for that show are comedic geniuses. If you don’t believe me, take a few minutes and watch Creme Fraiche.
Walking Dead, Walking Dead…Walking Dead!
One of the only good things about getting older is I don’t have to nut each and every day.
I haven’t gone to a movie in a long, long time.
Favorite models I’ve shot recently: Heather Starlet, Violet Monroe, Charley Chase, Nichole Taylor, Kimberly Gates, Lexi Bloom, Lizz Tayler, Gigi Rivera, Giselle Leon, and Sarah Shevon.
I’ve been reader of your blog for nearly a year, but due to my computer illiteracy was unable to post a comment on your blog. I even signed up for wordpress, and tried to make a comment…but all for naught.
I was surfing wikipedia the other day, and looked up “O.G. Mudbone”. Although he didn’t have a page, it listed him as deceased: (1980-2009). I’m well aware of wikipedia’s frequent vandalism and inaccuracies, but am still intrigued. I was wondering if there was any truth to his death, if you have ever worked with Mr. Mudbone and that artificial penis he wields, or had any interesting stories about him.
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I have no idea who O.G. Mudbone is. I know nothing about the “artificial penis” he wields (your words). I have no idea if he’s alive — or dead. I also don’t know about the surfers who buy into this stuff, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned now that I’ve been Porno for 8 years, it’s that there’s an audience for just about everything.
I do know all of the black cocks I hire for the world famous Blacks on Blondes are real. Every single one of them. I’ve captured some enormous ones, too. In fact, most of them are quite impressive.
I often wonder, though, about the surfer who comments on the cock…even more than the pussy. What’s up with that?
Bisexuality.
I once asked Über-Whore Ava Devine what the most requested, most secretive thing her Tricks ask of her. If you don’t already know, Ava Devine might be Queen of the Whores, and she’d be the first to take that as a compliment. I bet she’s turned thousands of tricks, and when you talk to her about them, she remembers a lot.
“Oh that’s easy!” Ava exclaimed. “A lot of men want to be cock suckers!”
Note the emphasis on a lot.
Note the Ü (U-umlaut) I used for “Über-Whore”.
From Wikipedia: “Letter Ü: The letter Ü occurs in the Hungarian, Karelian, Turkish, Uyghur latin Script, Estonian, Azeri, Turkmen, Crimean Tatar and Tatar Latin alphabets, where it represents a close front rounded vowel ([y]). It is a distinct letter, collated separately, and not considered a simple modification of [u] or [i]. It is distinct from “UE”.”
And, in case you didn’t know, “Über (sometimes spelled ueber, uber, the former being a correct form in German just like über) comes from the German language. It is a cognate of both Latin super and Greek ὑπέρ (hyper), as well as English over and above. It is also sometimes used as a hyphenated prefix in informal English, usually for emphasis. Both uses indicate a state or action involving increased elevation or quantity in the physical sense, or superiority or excess in the abstract.”
Ava Devine is, in fact, a whore of increased elevation or quantity in the physical sense, as well as a whore of superiority or excess in the abstract. Over and above the rest.
How ’bout them apples?
Back to your desire to suck cock.
Admit it. It’s ok. Secretly, deep in your subconscious mind, you want to drop to your knees, JMC, and open your mouth wide for O.G. Mudbone’s huge black cock…and when you heard of his passing, it made you so sad you felt the need to e-mail me and ask about any interesting stories featuring your favorite black cock. Right?
Let me reiterate: it’s OK to suck cock if you’re a dude. Really, it is. Sure, it’s a “gay” activity, but you’re only gay if you’re waking up next to the dude you call a “life partner”, right?
Did I ever tell you Barb Cummings stuck her finger up my butt?
Did I ever tell you Barb Cummings isn’t Barbie Cummings anymore cause a corporation that makes toys didn’t think it was in their best interest to allow Barb Cummings to be Barbie Cummings?
Anyway, for about a second and a half Barb and I were “close”, and one night she felt the need to invade my colon with her middle finger. To which I squealed like a little girl. And then, like a little girl, I spread my legs open so she could have her way with me. At first I felt a traumatic experience about to occur…but then, I noticed something.
Something I didn’t think I’d ever admit to admitting.
I liked it.
As Barb moved her finger around in my rectum and sucked my balls, it felt truly amazing.
No Way Am I Gay!
I blew a load quick…but looking down after I blew, I realized I didn’t even blow. It just felt like I did. Suddenly, I blew again…and again. But I didn’t really blow! And then, when I blew for real, I was Peter North!
So, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say unless you wake up next to your “partner”, you’re not really gay, even though you might do some sexy thangs that might be considered gay…like saying “thang” instead of “thing”.
No, wait. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say unless you make out with a dude, which, by my definition means french kissing a dude, you’re not really gay, even though you might do some sexy thangs that might be considered gay.
Here’s one last fun fact I’m gonna toss your way, just for fun: 90% of the dudes in Porn Valley are bisexual. Not gay. Just bi. In fact, I’d be willing to go far out on a limb and say over half the dudes walking the Earth are, at the very least, bi.
Except me.
No Way.
Anyway, we’re sitting in the parking lot of my porno studio after dinner, and it was getting kind of late. And, as you can imagine, the neighborhood wasn’t the greatest. (What porno studio is in a good neighborhood?) And he’s telling some great stories.
I mean great ones.
I dunno if they’re the kind of stories that would interest you, but they kept my attention. Some of them were about actors he had worked with…some of whom that had been in Hollywood since the 40’s and 50’s. Some stories were about the real-life characters he had played in his movies. Some were about how he had pissed off directors and other actors off…and some of his stories had nothing to do with movies at all.
That’s when I brought up the memorabilia, cause I’m a geek-boy collector at heart.
“Hey, did you ever keep any of your movie props? Or clothes? Some of that shit is worth a lot.”
He never really did.
“You saved the vest, right? I mean that vest is gonna be iconic.” It might have been a silly thing to suggest, but with the billboard for the video game based on the movie looming right over us (really, it was…they put an ad on a billboard right in front of my place for the game), it seemed to make sense at the time. That’s when he confessed he had given it to an old ex, right after the movie was released.
“Holy shit no!” I exclaimed. “It’s not like that was Geronimo’s vest or something! You were the baddest bad ass in that movie!”
“Cochise,” he mumbled. Then, after a few seconds of hard thought, “You really don’t think it’s worth that much, do you?”
“Shit bro, did you see what John Travolta’s disco jumpsuit got at auction?”
I’m terrible. Really, I am. Cause I was just bustin’ his balls. Don’t get me wrong, though; I bet you could get a decent amount for the vest…but still. I was getting him all riled up more than anything else.
“Maybe I could find her after all these years and get it back,” he said, joking. We both laughed, and that’s when I noticed the three dudes approaching us. There were three of them, and I knew we were in trouble cause as they approached us, they broke up: one stayed on the street, one a few feet closer in the sidewalk, and the third walked right up to us and told The Actor, “Hey Holmes, gimme a dollar.”
My heart sank. I felt my knees get week. I had trouble thinking, and everything seemed to suddenly turn into slow motion.
Not so for The Actor. He maintained eye contact with The Dude and said, “Sorry pal…I don’t have any money.”
“Sure about that, Holmes?”
The Actor didn’t answer right away. “Oh wait…oh yes. I do have something. Let me get it out of the trunk.” He walked over to the trunk, and he kept his glare on The Dude, who was now back peddling and looking over at his friends. His demeanor changed, too. He was done being a nice guy.
“Shit! I thought I had it in the trunk! I know where it is! Just don’t move, cause I got something for you in my glove compartment. Gimme a sec while I grab it.” Then The Actor quickly glanced at me and said under his breath, “get in the fuckin’ car, Billy.”
Now The Three Dudes were standing together out in the street, looking at us. We jumped into the car, and The Actor started the engine, threw it into reverse, and almost ran them over as we sailed by. One of The Dudes held up his hand like he had a pistol and screamed something I couldn’t make out.
We drove around the blocks a couple times. “You got a gun?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Nothing good comes of them.” We talked about what just happened, and how lucky we were, and I thanked him for getting me out of a potentially life-threatening jam, and I complimented him on acting like a bad ass, especially after I acted like a big vagina. Then I realized I had left the door to my studio open. As in wide open. Which is a really dumb thing to do in any sort of neighborhood, let alone the one I was in.
This didn’t seem to bother The Actor one bit. “Shit, we’ll just have to go back and do a walk-through!” Which we did, and the whole time I dreaded it. The Actor seemed to enjoy himself.
After declaring it safe, The Actor reminded me again which Porno Princess he’d like to meet, then took off. I stayed up the whole night…worried The Three Dudes might just pop out from one of the 7500 square feet The Actor might have missed.
God damn it I can’t believe I waited so long to jump on the Twitter Bandwagon. I’m a slow learner, though…always have been. I have a short attention span, too…so whether it’s related to books and music, Wilco or Wayne Coyne, Ivy Winters or Tara Lynn Foxx, Bill Maher or Michael Moore, I can get all the info I need without wasting a whole bunch o’ time. Plus, the nudie shots Miss Winters posts give me a boner.
We Are Plastic Ono Band was, hands down, one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. They played The Orpheum last weekend; I caught Friday’s show. I don’t care what you think about Yoko. First off, she didn’t break up The Beatles, and secondly, Julian Lennon is OK with her now…so you should be, too. Besides, when’s the last time you saw a 77 year old rock out and dance all over the stage for a couple hours? I still haven’t figured out what I liked best: Vincent Gallo’s humble crooning, Perry Ferrell’s I-wanna-be-Morrissey look, Nels Cline’s fucking awesome guitar, the crowd singing “Give Peace a Chance” with Yoko to close the show, or — of course — Iggy.
Speaking of shows, Weezer is doing some sort of gig where they’re playing their first record and Pinkerton…and that’s it. For the most part, that’s all The Weez anyone really needs. Pinkerton is my very favorite record they’ve done, so I’ll be there. I just wish Matt Sharp was still playing with them.
I’m getting called out as a fink by more than one person as I start to recollect my relationship with The Actor. “With friends like you…” one reader commented. I took an Ethics in Writing course while I was doing my grad work, so I know all the arguments, but you really start to think about it when you’re writing about real people you’ve done real things with, especially when there’s a readership. Not that I have a lot of readers, but there’s a few of you. Like I said…not a lot. Anyway, after some thought, I’m sticking with the stories about my times with The Actor — good and bad. Not like there’s gonna be lots of blogs about The Actor. Maybe one or two more. When I have time to jot them down.
And how about my death threat?! Did you guys catch that one? It’s in the comment section when I blogged about Black Cock Sluts. Someone with poop in their pants about the content I direct — specifically black dudes railing white girls — wants to “cut my throat”. I wonder…is that even a death threat? I mean I suppose I’d eventually die if I didn’t get immediate medical attention from a cut throat. But the actual act of cutting a throat does not kill someone. It’s not like Poopy Pants wants to cut my head off, which we all know would result in an immediate death. So I dunno if I could call the comment “w” left an actual “death threat”. But I suppose so. What is it with all the hate some people carry around with them? And I wonder…just how did Poopy Pants find my blog in the first place? Perhaps he belongs to Blacks on Blondes already? Like I said before, most of The Hate comes from a feedback form found in the members’ area…which, in the most ironic of ways, makes perfect sense. I guess.
I still haven’t gotten any further with my profile on OK Cupid, and I read the comment a reader left saying I should ditch OK Cupid and try Match.com. A friend of mine echoed that, saying something along the lines of OK Cupid is free, and it costs some dinero to join Match.com, and if you’re shelling out money to join a dating site, you’re probably looking for something beyond poking your dick in some yummy poon tang. She should know, as she’s on Match, and she used to be on OK Cupid, and she’s doing OK on Match, and all she ever met were “weirdos” on OK Cupid. So now I’m thinking Match. Not that I’d let anyone sway any decisions I make. Uh huh.
I have 4,452 songs on my iPod, and Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” just ended with AC/DC’s “Back in Black” following immediately thereafter. I bet have have less than a dozen songs in the same genre as the two I just mentioned. Could someone who’s really good at math could please figure the odds of two so-bad-they’re-awesome metal songs playing back-to-back in a randomized, 4,452 song rotation? First one that does shall be issued a 30 day password to the world’s greatest hand job site — Manojob.com
That should get the right side of your brain all hot n’ bothered.
Or do I Twitter?
What’s the past tense of Twitter? Is it Tweeted?
And is what I do on a daily basis merit your attention? Who knows…I avoided the Twitter thing for so long; now I feel kinda dumb. Like The Dork who joined the party way too late.
So why even join?
I guess if there’s some traffic to be had, that’s cool, cause in the end I’m a traffic whore. And a dork.
I guess I’ll do the same thing everyone in the porno game does with their Tweets: pics of nude chicks, drama, and more pics of nude chicks.
Cause, in the end, that’s all you care about anyway, right?
You haven’t blogged lately. It’s like when 3000 years ago and the Egyptian Gods were silent, warning us of an impending invasion of locusts….
The sun is setting in the West (Death) and we mortals sit, huddled along the Nile. The reeds are growing limp.
What’s going on? We implore an explanation. Is there anything we can do to help the Sun rise in the morning, Billy-Ho-tep?
Snap your whip against the impending disaster, we pray!
Either that, or just tell us how you’re doing.
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I’m just dandy, Truman, although my blogging skills haven’t been lately. I know I’ve said this before, but I’m always worried about sounding like a broken record, even for the few readers I have left. It’s pretty amazing how fast people flee when they sense a blog is dead, and I don’t blame them.
It’s tough to blog, too, when nobody gives a shit, and really, that’s how I can sum up the online biz since about 2008 or so: no one gives a shit.
Well, maybe that’s not true. People do care, but not enough to pay for it anymore.
There was a day when people coveted their porn. Smut was something that wasn’t really easy to come by, and when you got it, you treasured it. Sounds creepy, I know, but it’s true. We all had some sort of hidden stash o’ smut somewhere. For me it was a fort out in the middle of the Arizona desert (until I was 15) and then it was under the corner of the carpet in my closet throughout high school. When porno came to VHS I’d just rent and return.
We all know it’s not anything close to pirate’s treasure; in fact, it’s totally disposable. Totally available. Totally for free. Totally grown limp, on the bank of the river Nile, ready to die.
This is the part I was talking about…sounding like a broken record.
What next?
Is there a next?
For me, anyway. I mean it’s not like I can just jump back into a classroom; I’m tarnished goods. It’s not like I can find a job outside of what I was trained for, cause we all know what the current State of the Union as it pertains to Employment. But I gotta think of the future, right? And until The Powers That Be sit down with Apple and Microsoft and concoct some sort of way to make it difficult to play media files the end user hasn’t paid for…well, I just don’t see it getting better anytime soon.
I’m not just talkin’ smut, either; mainstream movies and the music business are dying on the vine, too.
All this kinda depresses me, and when I’m depressed, I don’t wanna blog. I just kinda wanna boo-hoo in my morning coffee and then start my day.
One thing that cheered me up was Melanie Rios, who’s showing off her tremendous camel toe today for you guys. I also like taking arty-farty pics of naked girls in a Panda mask. And did I tell you I just found a copy of a really rare Wilco record I didn’t even know existed? Or how I got to listen to Julian Schnabel introduce the Dennis Hopper show at MOCA?
Think anyone’s ever gonna pay for porn anymore, or has the sun already set? And does anyone even care about a filthy, perverted smut peddler and how he pays his bills? Or will it take a complete cease and desist of porno production before anyone notices?
Think I can pull my head out of my ass enough to blog, say, every three or four days this month?
Think I can be gay for Wilco through 2012?
Will we even be here after 2012?
Only time will tell.
Your pal,
Billy-Ho-tep Watson
I like Tori. A lot. She’s totally alt, kinda shy, a little bit country…and a little bit rock ‘n roll. I have no idea if she eats bacon or not, but if she does, I’d imagine she likes it kinda well done and crispy. Like her toast. Wheat only, and light on the butter, please.
The first time I shot her, she played a domineering cuckoldress for the world-famous Cuckold Sessions. You guys know what a cuckold is, and hers was especially creepy that day, even going as far as softly sucking her toes as we waiting for an over-heated Sean Michaels to regain his wood.
The Cuckold softly suckled her toes as a baby does its pacifier, while Sean Michaels — usually a most solid stunt cock — ran into a brick wall right before he popped. After a cooling-off a bit, we finished quite a nice scene.
Tori was dick sucker #228, too. My members enjoyed her sweet, talented mouth.
We took a trip to the glory hole, too.
But it was Tori’s update at Blacks on Blondes that I wanna talk about, and I’m gonna talk about it in a good way, too; so, if you’re thinking this is about trash talkin’ Tori, or being bitchy and gossipy about her, that’s not my intention.
Not at all.
Tori’s dude dropped her off, which always makes my pervy mind kick into action. He’s not the suitcase pimp type; he’s actually in the biz, but to what degree I’m not sure. I think he shoots hand job scenes. Anyways, for some reason I came up with a cheezy porno scenario that involved Tori watching the newest DVD from Blacks on Blondes — the one in which two well-hung African-American gentlemen takes turns violating a willing white girl.
The name of this series is 2 Big, Two Black for Her White Crack. I kinda wish I came up with that name.
Anyway, Tori watches the DVD, breaks into a masturbation session, cums hard, then falls asleep. Add some dreamy-dream editing and we’re taken into Tori’s dream, in which she’s DP’d by aforementioned Negroes.
Ain’t it funny how it was totally OK to refer to a black dude as a Negro in, say, 1968.
How come no one ever called Jimi Hendrix a Negro?
Of course all the action goes down in her dream, which turned out pretty good…except Tori’s anxiety attack, which wasn’t captured on film (duh), so why not blabber about it now?
Poor Tori had a mental meltdown. It was bad enough to call 911 or anything, but she freaked out pretty good.
“You’re having an anxiety attack,” I told her, after I set down my camera and talked to her a bit. (I know a little about how they work).
“I know. Can I take a minute or two?”
We did. And I’ll tell you right now my male talent — Byron Long — set it off. See, in my perverted version of Tori’s dream, Byron would violate her sweet vagina, while The World’s Most Dangerous Porn Star — Wes Pipes — would invade her colon. (Of course I use the moniker “World’s Most Dangerous Porn Star” as a term of respect.) Then, as Byron was doing his thang in her vagina, and Wes was doing his thang in her poop chute, I’d capture that magical moment for prosperity’s sake.
And of the few of those who don’t know what it’s called, that very perverse sex act is lovingly referred to as “double penetration”…the DP.
Problem is, once we started rolling camera, Byron decided to go straight to the A.
In other words, he had no interest in banging Tori’s vagina. Which threw Tori off, cause during the stills (which I always shoot before the movie…partly as “practice” for the talent) Byron had no problem with Tori’s pussy.
I have no idea what happened in the time it took for Tori to fix her make-up between stills and the video, but whatever it was, Byron was All About The Ass on video. And Tori kinda looked at me as Byron begged her to “back that ass up” on his XXXXXL sized dong.
And I can safely say it was that tremendous dong shoved into her shit pipe that set her off. Not at first, mind you…and, in fact, we got probably 3 or 4 minutes of Bryon banging Tori’s booty before she asked to cut.
Then, the anxiety.
We rode out that attack for an hour…or an hour and a half.
Give or take.
I used to have anxiety attacks all the time. They suck. I remember my first one like it was yesterday. Had to pull the car over or I thought I was gonna crash. Ugh…so I empathized with Tori, and I tried my best not to be a dick, and Byron and Wes were patient, and sure enough I got my scene, and we all made our money.
When her boyfriend came to pick her up, I had him wake Tori up from her “dream”.
“Wow honey! You sure were moaning hard! What were you dreaming about?”
“Oh honey!” Tori cooed. “I was dreaming about having sex…with you!”
FADE OUT.
Now how about that for some cheezy porno shit?