I want a girlfriend that isn’t a whore. Is that really so much to ask?

Not that being a whore is a bad thing; in fact, I’ve said it more than once: if I had a pussy, it would be for sale. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a whore — I just don’t want one for a girlfriend.

Let’s face it, too: most girls in today’s society are whores, trained by their parents to be whores…only they don’t realize it. Neither do their parents.

“Marry a doctor. Marry a lawyer. Make sure your husband has a good job!”

Whore Training 101.

Do I sound angry? Cause I’m not. Really. I am not angry. I just want a girlfriend whose pussy doesn’t have a meter on it. Is that so much to ask?

Well sure it is. Cause I make dirty movies for a living. And starting out any sort of relationship based on a lie ain’t a good thing. It certainly isn’t my style, either.

When we meet people, invariably one of the very first things that comes up is, “what do you do for a living?” It usually pops up right after “what’s your name?” It’s human nature, right?

So, a few days ago, on my return trip from vacation, my seat wasn’t anywhere near my Porno Princess pal’s seat (for the simple reason that when we booked the tickets, the plane was already full). No big deal, but it became a huge deal when two super hot nurses from Santa Barbara sat down next to me. Not one, but two!! They initiate conversation! Woot woot!! And sure enough, not two minutes into the deal, one Hot Blonde Nurse says, “So what do you do for a living, Billy?”

Of course this isn’t the first time someone’s asked me what I do for a living, and depending on who you are, and the mood I’m in, here’s my reply from the pool of stock answers I draw from:

1) I design web sites.

2) I write back-end coding for internet commerce.

3) I make dirty movies.

Of course #1 and #2 and outright lies (and generally one of the answers I use when talking to, say, hot blonde nurses from Santa Barbara); I have designed a few things, but for print only, and the last time I coded anything was in my 11th grade computer class — using mostly Basic (and a little PASCAL). President Reagan just entered office, and one of my very favorite records of all-time was brand-new: London Calling. Which means if anyone presses me further on Lie #2, I have to immediately capitulate and offer up a “terrible confession”; in reality, I “manage a team of outsourced labor from the Philippines”. Some people really get pissed at me for this, which, of course, means I probably woulda been better off telling them #3.

We all know #3 is The Truth, and I’ll usually tell The Truth when talking to dudes (who immediately put me on a pedestal of some sort), or anyone I grew up with. Sometimes I’ll use #1 or #2 with an old high school buddy, but lately I don’t give a fuck anymore, so most people who have known my real name before I got into this biz (8 years this month!) get answer #3.

With Super Hot Nurses, I chose #2, cause I knew they’d wouldn’t have follow-ups. And it turns out one of the super hot nurses is from a small town in NorCal, the same small town where a Porno Princess I’m very friendly with lives. I knew they were about the same age, too, so I asked Super Hot Nurse if she knew Porno Princess…but (of course) I used the Porno Princess’s real name.

“Oh my god you know her?!”

“I do. We’re pretty good friends.”

Then Super Hot Nurse looked at me kinda strange and said, “how exactly do you know her?”

“We have mutual friends.” I was getting ready to lie (if needed) but I didn’t have to.

“We used to be best friends. Then, she…um, changed.” And Super Hot Nurse immediately changed the subject. So it’s good I didn’t tell The Truth to the Super Hot Nurses, which, in the end didn’t matter, cause thinking about having to eventually tell either one of them what I do for a living depressed me so much I kinda quit paying attention to them.

Did I tell you I have a buddy going back to 6th grade who refuses to speak to me now? He’s a big wig in Christian Circles, raising all sorts of money for All Things Christian, so it kinda makes sense he keeps his distance. Still, it kinda hurts my feelings. He could at least say “what’s up?” in an e-mail or something.

You should see me at any function in which extended family show up. I lie my ass off. My poor Grandma has some sort of vague notion that I sell something over the internet, but to this day she’s never asked for specifics; instead, she’ll ask me, “Oh Billy! It’s sooo good to see you? How’s things? How’s your business?”

Sometimes I tell her I’m great, and sometimes I’ll tell her things are slow, but I’ll never say, “well Grandma, today was interesting! A porn actress named Tori Luxx had a panic attack when Byron Long tried to stick his 10″ black cock up her shit pipe. It kinda fucked things up, but she got her head together, and she did a great DP.”

“What’s a DP Billy dear?”

“A DP, Grandma, is an acronym for double penetration.”

“Double penetration?” Grandma asked.

“Yes, my dear Granny…it’s when a man sticks his penis in a girl’s vagina while another man is sodomizing her at the very same time; hence, double penetration.”

Uh huh…right. Imagine having that conversation with your Nanna over Thanksgiving turkey.

My folks know what I do for a living. My mom hates it. My dad asks me questions from time to time, and never when my mom is with us. Kinda creepy, huh?

I’m a pretty average lookin’ dude who’s 30 pounds overweight, which means I seldom pull a chicks out of bars for one-night stands. But a few years ago I walked into a bar in Scottsdale, and I made eye contact with a hottie who made — and kept — eye contact with me. Holy shit! It was like Christmas morning! I was a bit buzzed, and feeling kinda good about things, so I marched up to her with the confidence of a small army and struck up conversation. Everything was working well, and we were through a few beers when the inevitable came up: “So Mr. Watson, what do you do to make your money?”

“I make dirty movies for a living.” Like I said, I was buzzed (drunk by now) and I figured fuck it. She’s digging on me. I’ve got this one in the bag.

“Excuse me?” she asked. Her tone of voice completely different.

“I make dirty movies for a living.” (With not so much confidence.)

“Oh Billy! You’re soooo funny! Seriously…what do you do for a living?”

I told her again, with a little bit more explanation. “Ever see Boogie Nights?” (She had). “I’m like the character Burt Reynolds plays in that movie.”

“Um…ok. So what movies do you make?”

“Well, the business is really internet based now.” I wanted to change the subject, but I didn’t know how to segue out of porn and into, say, music.

“Do you like Wilco?” I asked.

She said, “what internet sites do you work for.”

I knew where this was going, so fuck it — “I shoot for a site called Blacks on Blondes. I also shoot something crazy where we take girls out to a public bathroom to perform anonymous sex acts with whatever stranger shows up…it’s called Glory….”

I didn’t even get “hole” out of my mouth before she turned and walked away. I mean she fucking hauled ass. She even left her beer. I kinda felt like the Elephant Man, just after pulling the hood of his head. It was great.

So now what do I do?

I kinda want a girlfriend who isn’t a whore.

I love whores.

I just don’t wanna date one.

Match.com?

Plenty of Fish?

Drop 30 and start writing the ad?

That would make for some interesting blog fodder, which, at this point in time, wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Blog my dates with girls who aren’t in the sex biz.

But do I include what I do for a living in the ad…or wait for the first date — and the fallout?

I sharted yesterday — really bad.

It’s not like I haven’t sharted before, and let’s face it — you have, too. There’s been a handful of times over my past, say, 30 years (give or take), I’ve gone to fart, only to discover — to my utter dismay — solid matter flying out of my butthole with the bad air.

I really shouldn’t say the solid matter was “flying” out of my arse, cause every time I’ve sharted in the past, it’s been nothing more than an embarrassing little shit stain in my undies.

Yesterday’s incident was entirely different.

I’m such a creature of habit that if someone wanted me dead, I’d be the easiest target on the planet. I go to the movies at the same place, buy my music at the same place, order the same dishes at the same restaurants, food shop at the same grocery store, jog around the same reservoir, etc etc. So after I had my morning coffee at the same coffee shop I do each and every day, I walked in to jump on my lap top to do the same thing I do every day — Smut Work.

Today’s top priority was to address my members at Manojob. They’ve been super pissed at my lately, and frankly, I don’t blame them. A few months ago, I switched to shooting my content in HD, and I was totally unprepared for the mess that was about to ensue. And instead of just shooting SD and working over to HD, I stopped SD completely, and it caused about a month’s worth of back-ups and problems.

Then, last week, all of a sudden my post-production machine stopped doing what it’s been doing since I got the HD issue fixed. Complicate that with my recent jaunt to Hawaii, and I was fucked for updates.

(So I never told you guys the last time I went to Hawaii with a Porno Princess, and it was, hands down, the worst vacation I’ve endured. My advice to you is when taking a pill-popper on vacation, let them embrace their drug addiction wholly, or else you’ll get to experience the mad-capped hi-jinx that is being stuck on an Island with a pill junkie in the midst of withdrawals.)

Where was I?

Oh — I go to sit in front of my lap top to ask my members to forgive me yet another time when all of a sudden I sharted. And it was a tremendous shart. My brain was still cloudy from The Morning, and my coffee hadn’t kicked in yet. Well, it didn’t kick in and jump start my brain; my bowels were a different story, cause the next thing you know I’ve got poopy-poop running down the inside of my leg.

Just that fast.

I just stood there thinking — what the fuck? Is this something that comes with being in my mid-40’s? Would I have sharted like this 20 years ago?

Obviously not, cause this was — hands down — the worst shart of my life. By a long shot. Second place Shart isn’t anything remotely close…and now that I really think about it, I can’t even recall the last time I sharted…even a little bit.

Maybe 1983?

As I’m walking to the bathroom I realize my make-up artist, my talent, and my PA are 10 minutes out. And I smell like a Third World Country.

No, my entire studio smells like one.

Then I’m thinking maybe I ate one of those salmonella eggs you’ve been reading about, but no — no eggs. My last meal was last night’s dinner, which, of course, is almost always the same — french toast and a side of bacon at Fred 62’s.

I love breakfast for dinner.

I love Fred’s.

I didn’t love my poopy shorts, though, which I had to peel off ever so carefully. That’s when The Second Wave hit, so I squatted over the toilet, cause I didn’t want to have to clean that up, too. But my aim wasn’t so good; I ended up having to clean the entire tank, which was way worse than if I would have just sat my big, white, stinky-dirty butt down on the seat.

Do I really need to tell you there was poo all over the place?

Or that my crew was now due in less than 5 minutes?

Um…yea. I got everything cleaned up, and no one mentioned anything at all about the place smelling like India, and in the end I just sort of chuckled and thought, well, at least I have something new to blog about.