The Flea Market in Me.

I’m pretty sure I told you, a long time ago, that I’m a collector. I’ve even repeated myself, which is one of the most awesome things about getting older. That and losing the ability to read without glasses.

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.”



“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.

Veruca James


The phone call came Thursday night, as I was sitting at the arty-farty part of my studio, doing arty-farty things.

“Male talent’s tested positive for spyhilis,” my lawyer said, “and apparently he knew about it…and he shot for a month or so before he was caught. You should probably think about taking a break until the dust settles.”

He pretty much said it like that, but I wish he woulda said it like Hunter S. Thompson’s lawyer woulda said it in Fear and Loathing: “As your attorney, I must advise you to quit banging any and all whores; in addition, I advise you to immediately halt any and all production of smut until the filthy bastard can be identified, tried without the benefit of a jury of his peers, and then tortured to the death in a public arena — located perhaps on the corner of Ventura and Sepulveda!”

Imagine what a terrific spectacle that would be: perform it on a Saturday in late-morning, like they did in, say, 14th Century England. Charge an entry fee of a sawski (maybe even ten bucks) to help reimburse all the Porno Princesses and Stunt Cocks who had to cough up the dough for their injection of Benzylpenicillin. And maybe even allow him to draw a piece of paper from a large bowl, in which his fate would be written, in pencil, by the aforementioned Porno Princesses and Stunt Cocks: “The Catherine Wheel”, the “Gibbet”, being “Pressed” or boiled to death, decapitation by either sword or axe (make the guilty choose), or drawn and quartered.

I think that’s fair punishment for knowingly giving someone an STD.

So, from what I’m hearing, here’s how it went down: a month (or so) ago, Stunt Cock wasn’t feeling well, so he went to his personal physician for an exam, and the positive spyhilis test came back. He medicated, and then proceeded to Talent Testing Services, where he tested positive again with the nasty critter.

Check that critter out, too…lookin’ all corkscrew n’ shit. I was gonna post a pic of one of those fucked up dudes with a late case, but it’s gross, and if you really wanna see it, you can Google that shit yourself.

Anyways, Stunt Cock then proceeds to alter his test and to booking himself work.

I didn’t mention Stunt Cock is a pretty big name — one of the biggest working the game right now. And no, I’m not gonna tell you who it is, so don’t even ask. Besides, if you really wanna know, you can Google that shit yourself.

I dunno how he was caught, or who caught him.

I dunno who he fucked, or who the people he fucked fucked.

All I know is I’m shutting down production like any responsible production company would.

So I was just gonna end here, cause I want to go do more arty-farty things with my time, but since it’s been forever since I gave the few remaining readers I have something to actually read, I’ll go into the Politics of Pornography here a little bit…cause, honestly, I think this shit is goes wayyyy deeper than a desperate, piece-of-shit Stunt Cock walking around with little critters hooking themselves into his nut sac while he’s fucking for money — only cause he’s so desperate for it.

The money, that is.

Once upon a time there was a place called AIM, and it was where all the inhabitants of Porn Valley went to get their monthly check-up. And if they tested negative for gonorrhea, chlaymidia, and HIV, they were given a piece of paper that allowed them to suck and fuck and jerk and swallow and cream pie and squirt for 30 more days.

Then, the beginning of The End: AIM’s database was compromised, and another piece of shit ex-Stunt Cock (with a few more piece-of-shit helpers) decided to start a site and list all your favorite porn stars by name…both their stage name and real name.

Soon, AIM was shut down.

There’s more to the story than that, but I don’t have the time — nor the energy — to go over everything I know…except to tell you since it closed, two more clinics have sprung up to replace AIM: Talent Testing Services (henceforth referred to as TTS) and Cutting Edge Testing (henceforth referred to as CET).

Again, due to a lack of energy, I’ll cut to the chase: some folks wanna see TTS survive (and CET fail) and some folks wanna see CET survive (and TTS fail), and some folks wanna see them both work.

So, let’s go back to the Stunt Cock that got his positive test from his personal physician. He knew, once he took his meds, that he might still have the corkscrew critters clinging on to his nut sac. What he also knew — and you guys don’t know — is that TTS tests for spyhilis.

CET does not.

So, here’s what’s confusing me: if piece of shit Stunt Cock knows he might still have syphilis, but he needs money so bad he’s willing to do The Unthinkable in our business, does he go to the place that tests for his critter…or the one that doesn’t?

Does he walk around with an altered test — and the risk of being caught and subjected to The Catherine Wheel in the public square on Ventura and Sepulveda?

Or does he walk around with a clean test — and without worrying about anything more than testing at a place that doesn’t test for his disease?

Oh! Wait. I almost forgot to tell you: Manwin, AKA Brazzers, just invested a whole bunch o’ money over at CET. And from what I hear, CET just got a piece of fancy testing equipment courtesy of Manwin, and, Manwin also gave them a cash infusion when they were starting out.

I can’t confirm any of this, but still it’s interesting. I also find it kinda interesting that it’s now being reported that Stunt Cock didn’t actually alter his test…but TTS did.

What the most interesting of all? Infected Stunt Cock tweeted, on August 16 — the day the shit hit the fan: “Is there anything in this world that is not negotiable?”

And I won’t even talk about FSC, or APHSS, or the supposed role Manwin is playing there…cause that’ll just make you wanna stop reading this and head over to one of Manwin’s many tube sites. You know the ones…where “user uploaded” scenes rule, but the users never, ever upload a Brazzer scene. There’s 9 or 10 of them now, and they’re hugely popular, and they’ve put a lot of my producer pals out of business.

Control the traffic.

Control the content.

Control the information.

Rule the multi-billion dollar smut industry!

But what do I know?

Hey…wanna talk about Lee Harvey, and the layout of Dealy Plaza, and Babushka Lady, and the bolt-action rifle that could never possibly hit a moving target three times in seven seconds from a distance of 88 yards?

Cause I sure do.