Poppin’ Sperm with The Hammer.

Mali Meyers

Mali Meyers

In 1975, I learned to beat off by watching a kid called “The Hammer” do it in a fort made from refrigerator boxes behind an apartment complex that was under construction — but close to being finished. I was 11 years old, and I wasn’t the only one there. It was a circle jerk, and 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 room. It was directly across the street from where I lived, which was a suburb on the east side of Chicago.

We all hauled ass, because we walked home from school in a group, and everyone 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 we all knew he was held back a grade or two. He made us nervous, cause the rumor was he belonged to The Burnham Boys, and no one messed with them. Ever. We’d never met a real Burnham Boy, but no one dared asked The Hammer if he belonged to that gang. And we didn’t ask him why he wanted us all in The Great Room, but when he told us to get in there, we did.

And he wasted no time: “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. But we all nodded yes. So he pulled out his dick, and suddenly I felt an overwhelming urge to cry. But no way am I gonna cry in front of my friends — and certainly not in front of The Hammer. So we all sat there, kinda dumbstruck. “Come on you guys, do it with me!”

I watched for a few minutes more before scrambling out. I ran home as hard as I could run, and as I looked over my shoulder, I saw I was the only one. I also saw The Hammer had a whole bunch of hair between his legs, and his wiener was gigantic. What was that all about?

So that night, sitting in the tub while Aqua Man floated by, I tried to pop sperm. And the only thing that happened was the worst headache I’d ever experienced. It was obvious to me then that Jesus was punishing me for that dirty behavior, so I stopped right away and told Him I was sorry. But it sure did feel good before my head started to hurt, so it was only a few weeks later before I attempted to pop sperm again, which I managed to accomplish that day. I walked around for weeks waiting for something bad to happen to me, cause I was certain Jesus knew what I was up to.

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, and I was obsessed beer cans. The book was a pulp novel called Come Swim in my Hole, and on the cover an older, bikini-clad lady sat by a pool watching a younger dude jump off the diving board. At least that’s how I remember it, and 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, cause I don’t remember. It was just something that felt good.

Four years later, I’d see my first hardcore porno, which was projected up against a wall in my best friend’s older brother’s bedroom on a Super 8 projector. A woman named Seka fucked a dude named John C. Holmes, and his wiener was so big I thought it might be fake. We all laughed as the movie rolled. Since there was a crowd, I couldn’t pop sperm there, so I took the little poster that was folded up in the Swedish Erotica box the movie came in, slipped it into my pocket, and went to the bathroom to piss. Of course I had to announce I was simply going to piss, and no one cared or even looked up at me, cause they were all watching Seka get railed.

When I unfolded it, there were lots of pictures of women with sperm all over their faces, and 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”, and 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 that naughty…until I was maybe 25 or 30. And never a girlfriend — always a random hook up.

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

My Very Favorite Things of ’013 — which is Aught 13 to Some.

Valentina Nappi

Valentina Nappi

1) Ignoring The Blog: Let’s face it, I don’t have a whole lot left to say. The whole porn industry — from the barely-legals jumping off the bus at the Porn Valley Stop to whether or not we should be using condoms on Stunt Cock — is really a broken record. Oh sure…I could blog about my brand-new, age-inappropriate Porno Girl Friend, Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock’s feeble attempts to get back in my good graces, drug-addicted Porno Princesses, my somewhat-recent European adventure, CAL OSHA, et al…but I’m afraid that might bore you to tears. Well…Budapest was kinda cool, I don’t think I told you about the LA County’s inspection of my Smutty Studio, and, if history proves itself to be right (which you know it almost always does), my relationship status will again be “It’s Complicated” — which we all know is a fancy way of saying “I’m a Crazy Single Person”. The only way to make ISP a little bit interesting is maybe finally get around to attempting a book and posting excerpts here as I churn them out. The churning part is what’s so difficult.

2) NOBUNNY’s November 2 Gig: It was billed as “Night of the Living Dead Fest“: “an all-ages event showcasing artistic talent from all over United States. There will be national and local bands, live art, interactive coolness, unique wares and local vendors, a hand-crafted miniature golf course, rides, and much more..”. It was staged at Old Tucson, an old-tyme ghost town in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, and while a whole lot of interesting bands played, you know who I was there for. I’ll be the first to admit there’s something terribly wrong with me, and his name is NOBUNNY. Here’s the funny thing — the show sucked. His backing band was barely-ok, and I’m pretty sure the Love of My Life was sick — cause he hocked up some pretty gross loogies…the kind you can only spit when you’re under the spell of an extremely nasty chest infection. But the show must go on! And in the olde-tyme “Gamblin’ Saloon” I made a very important decision in my life — as NOBUNNY jumped on stage around 9 pm, the Meat Puppets were a song or two into their set on the Main Stage. OK…I just lied. There was no decision to be made. I sent a few text messages to my old buddies who were front-row center for The Pups, but how many more times do I really need to hear “Lake of Fire” or “Lost”? Don’ get me wrong — 25 years ago those tunes brought tears to my eyes. Anyway, my texts went unanswered, so I was all by myself when NOBUNNY pulled off his tighty-whiteys to reveal a shiny gold G-String…just as he ripped into “Chuck Berry Holiday”. It was then I knew I was in truly in love. But No Way Am I Gay.

3) Dallas Buyer’s Club: Hands down the film of the year. But who was better? McConaughey’s faggot-hatin’, dope-shootin’, rodeo hustler…or Leto’s cross dressin’, T-Rex lovin’ faggot? Oh yea…just once more: no way am I gay.

4) Disclosure’s Settle: From their Wiki page: “Disclosure are an English electronic music duo, consisting of brothers Guy and Howard Lawrence. The siblings grew up in Reigate, Surrey.” That sums up Disclosure. Now I’m gonna sum up my latest dilemma: my lovely, beautiful Porno Princess Girl Friend wants me to accompany her while we both do some Molly. My only experience with anything remotely similar took place in 1986, when, after a night of tossing drunks out of the uber-hip night club where I worked, my bartender buddy handed me a pill, told me to swallow it, and then drive to a near-by house party. In what might have been the dumbest moment of my life, I swallowed the pill after asking just one question: “What’s this?” “MDMA,” he said. “It’s brand-new. Legal in Texas! And it rocks!!” I had no idea what MDMA was, but I took it anyway (cause it was legal in Texas), left work, and failed to find any house party. I drove for hours. This depressed me more than anything ever had up to that moment in my life, and somehow I wound up at my parent’s house…silently weeping to late-night reruns. I was very worried they were going to wake up. And I cried hard when Otis the Drunk got tossed into jail. No lie. Anyway, if I make another dumb mistake, I’m just gonna make sure this record is on instead of TV.

5) Budapest, Hungary: The only reason Budapest makes my list is it’s the Porn Valley of Europe. That’s it. Nothing more. Cause if you’re not worried about a goddamned gypsy using their Shape-Shifter Majik to get your wallet, better keep your eye on the cabbie’s meter! And then once you jump out of your cab, watch your back cause the neo-nazi skinheads wearing English football jerseys will probably stomp you. Especially when chillin’ with a couple of my Blacks on Blondes co-workers. My ex-pat friend who lives there blames the country’s history on all the rude people. I’ll blame the amount of red meat in their diet. That and the weather.

6) The N Word: I get a lot of shit from some the dudes at the discussion board over at IR-Tube. They love to complain about my camera work and my cheezy porno story lines, but the thing that really drives them nuts is when the Porno Princesses drop the N Bomb on my set. I can’t blame the IR.Net dudes for that one. It’s an ugly word that needs to go away. But, like other terrible things — the national deficit or a Wendy’s Triple with cheese and bacon, for example — it’ll always be with us. Especially when all the hip, cool black dudes use it. The members at Black on Blondes go crazy for it, so much so that a girl who would normally score an “8″ (out of 10) rating might get another point and a half if she calls her co-star that magical word. How in the world can I use “magical” to describe that terrible word? Well, cause the ONLY OTHER group of folks who love the N Word more than the racist bigots I refer to as “members” are the black guys my boss employs. Works better than Viagra, I’m tellin’ ya.

7) Valentina Nappi: Valentina Nappi is one of the few European Porn Stars who make their way to Porn Valley for work. She’s Italian, and when I tell you she out-fucks her male co-stars, she really does. In fact, she’s the only Porno Princess I’ve seen in the 11+ years I’ve been doing this who’s made Stunt Cocks tap out. No joke. After you watch the DP scene I shot with her, you’ll know Valentina’s The Real Deal.