Category Archives: stories from porno land (some amusing, some not)

stories from behind the camera

I’ve Retired. Well…sort of.

Since I’m often a lazy writer, I’ll just go ahead and cut & paste what I just tweeted:

“It’s with great excitement — and at the same time being absolutely scared shitless — that I’m announcing my retirement from The Dogfart Network in order to spend 100% of my time & energy on the 4 websites & affiliate program I began almost 14 years ago. Thank you so much Cable! I’d also like to thank all the terrific talent — both female & male — that made my (almost) 17-year-run with The Dogfart Network enjoyable, interesting, frustrating, and downright fucking weird! I wouldn’t trade my DF time for anything. Now on to @manojob & @mrpov & @LegitClips!”

I make that statement with the utmost of sincerity. Look, almost all jobs are difficult. To me, shooting an 18-man blow bang for Dogfart (the record, about to appear on starring the incomparable India Summer) was as challenging as managing a 7th-grade classroom; in fact, there’s nothing better to qualify a person to become a director in Porn Valley than teaching middle school. The dynamics are all pretty much the same: too many hormones and strong personalities and a whole lotta drama.

Now, here’s a portrait of barely-legal Porno Princess Chanel Grey…one of the last I made on a Dogfart set. I’d write some more, but I’ve got work to do.

Barely Legal Chanel Grey
Chanel Grey

Consider the Stunt Cock.

The Stunt Cocks
The Stunt Cocks
With all the ranting and raving I do about the crazy girls in this biz, I really don’t say much about the dudes…who might be even crazier.

I don’t talk much about the Stunt Cocks — cause let’s face it — almost on one cares about them. I’m sure there’s a handful of fans who pay some attention, but no where near the amount the average Stunt Cock thinks. And with the exception of maybe 3 or 4 Stunt Cocks in the history of the biz (John Holmes, Peter North, Ron Jeremy, and now, James Deen), none of these dudes really even deserve a name.

OK. Add Manuel…and maybe Nacho. Vince Voyeur? John Leslie? PT? Lex Steele? Dingo?

Don’t get me wrong. I could never be a Stunt Cock. There’s no way I could walk on to some director’s set, meet a Porno Princess, and drill her for 30 or 40 minutes while the camera rolls (after taking pictures, too). I’d either lose my nut (in a matter of minutes), if I could even get my totally average ween up at all. So, when I say these dudes don’t deserve a name, it’s not due to to anything more than this: fans wanna see, hear, and feel the girls.

They don’t want to hear Stunt Cock, listen to Stunt Cock commentary and/or jokes, and they certainly don’t want to hear Stunt Cock blow his load. Which why I said they don’t really need a name, and why I don’t really talk about them — until now. So, as I sit here, watching a Led Zeppelin show (1970’s Royal Albert Hall from the DVD set), I thought I’d tell ya a Stunt Cock story.

Cause I have so many.

I could tell you about Paranoid Schizo Stunt Cock, who once told me I wear t-shirts to purposefully distract him to the point of failure. “Which t-shirts, exactly?” I asked. He replied, “you know which ones!” I said, “why would I want you to fail on my set when I have to turn this in to my producer? If you fail, I fail…and none of us will get paid.” He couldn’t really answer that…but it didn’t stop him from texting me the next morning at 5am to let me know he was across the street from my studio, and “didn’t know what he was about to do.”

I could tell you about Angry Stunt Cock, who showed up an hour late for a blow bang. “You’re over an hour late, bro…sorry. We started without you. Maybe next time.” He yelled, “YOU TOLD ME TO BE HERE AT 12!” I said, “no, I didn’t.” He screamed the same thing at me again…just in case I didn’t hear him the first time. “I sent out a group text to everyone. You and the other 8 guys. How did they all manage to make it on time?” He left angry, and then continued to fight with me over that one for weeks. And weeks. Via calls and text messages. Before he finally just left me alone.

I could tell you about Whispering Stunt Cock who called me one cold winter day and told me to leave LA immediately. “Why?” I asked. “Cause some serious shit is gonna go down.” I asked, “what kind of serious shit?” He replied, “mass power outages. Then riots. Then murderous rampages that will cost thousands of lives. It’ll be bloody and brutal. Please leave Billy. I’m telling you this cause I care about you.” I said, “I appreciate your care. When will this happen exactly?” He answered, “immediately after the Super Bowl.” So I said, “when this doesn’t happen, is it OK to give you shit about this phone call…and the fact you’re whispering all this information to me?” Lowering the whisper even more, I could barely hear “Yes”.

I could tell you that Whispering Stunt Cock showed up at my studio, not long after the Superbowl, begging me to put down my camera and quit porn, cause he just had a conversation with God. “You just spoke with God?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. This time without whispering. I asked, “and God told you to tell me to quit porn?” He answered, “yes. He wants Spring Thomas to quit, too.” Then he sprinted into my studio, where I was about to shoot a 10-man blowbang, and he started asking everyone to leave. Which is when I asked him to leave. Which he did. Which, to this day, I can’t believe he did…and I only had to ask him to leave once.

Which is my cheap segue into the story I really wanna tell you, cause it just happened the other day. This is the story of Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock. I’ve decided to name him that because I think he may be. How else would you explain someone showing up late — and with a civilian girl — after years and years of being told specifically not to? This isn’t an exaggeration. Since 2006, when he first did it, I said, “Why are you bringing three girls to set today?” He replied, “These are nice, sweet girls.” I said, “I didn’t ask you that. No more bringing strangers to my set. EVER.” And then, as the years raced by, there would be times when he’d only show up late. Then with girls and late. Then just late. Then late, with girls. Then just late. Over and over and over: always late, sometimes with a girl…or girls. And looking back at it all now, I’m at fault for letting it go on as long as I did…but last week I decided it was over. When he walked in late with his newest girl, I put my foot down. “Leave,” I said. Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock refused. We went back and forth another 10 minutes or so.

“Leave.” “No.” “Leave.” “No.”

It didn’t matter if I yelled LEAVE or not, he wasn’t going anywhere. It was another one of those crazy blow bangs, so I pulled the shoot. “Everyone go home,” I said. “No shoot today.”

This is when the group turned on him, which I knew would happen. I was secretly hoping someone would take a swing at him, but no such luck. But as the yelling continued, Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock finally had had enough. “I’m going out to my car and getting my gun, and when I get back here I’m shooting the place up.” Which is when Porno Princess started crying.

I didn’t take his threat seriously, but that didn’t stop me from dialing 911. What if today was The Day? What if he decided it was his turn to pull a Steve Driver? That’s something I couldn’t have on my conscience.

“I’m calling the cops, please leave.” He said, “I’m calling the cops, too!” I said, “That’s interesting. Let’s see…you’re trespassing and you just made a terroristic threat. I’ve done nothing but ask you to leave after you’ve done something I’ve asked you not to do for 6 or 7 years.”

Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock finally did leave my studio, but he didn’t go home. And when the cops showed, he did too. Which is when he shouted, “There he is, officers! There’s Billy Watson! He’s the one who’s shooting underage girls! You also might want to check for his shooting permits!”

I forgot to mention that, before the cops showed, Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock texted me: The cops are on their way! I will guide them to ur studio. U are shooting minors, u don’t have a permit and I wanna use a condom

When I got it, I didn’t think Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock would really do that…but he did. In fact, the first two squads that arrived were responding to Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock’s 911 call. How do I know that? Cause they told me. “Hello Officers. My name is Billy Watson. I was the one who called 911. That individual refused to leave my workplace and told everyone here he was going to shoot the place up.” Officer Friendly said, “We’re not responding to your call. We’re responding to his. We need to see her ID” and the officer pointed at Porno Princess. (She’s 27).

A couple more squads pulled up, and they were responding to me, and it didn’t take too long for LAPD to figure out who was lying…and who was telling the truth. Hours later, Mentally Challenged Stunt Cock was still dealing with cops as his female friend cried. “The lady has requested we take her back to the station,” Officer Friendly told me after I asked what was up, “so a friend or family member can come get her.” A few minutes later, I peered out me door, and everyone was gone.

Some good came from all this: Permits are on the way, and I’ve just added one more person to the list of people who are permanently banned from my set. It’s a list that’s three names long, which is one less that the four I’ve just told you about.

The Cuckold and his Woman

Mae Meyers cuckold sex movies
Check out Zoey Nixon’s boyfriend watching her work Stunt Cock for The Dick Suckers. That’s her real-life dude, and there she is, making their money.

On the surface, this is the true definition of “suitcase pimp”, but I know better. Cause a true suitcase pimp simply lives off his girlie; Zoey’s boyfriend is now calling himself “Chris Spooges” and is getting work in Porn Valley. In fact, in addition to getting turned on by his Sweety blowing Stunt Cock, he’s also working up a load, cause when it’s time for The Money Shot, Zoey’s gonna make a confession to my members: she’s such a cumslut one load all over her pretty, barely-legal face isn’t enough.

She’s gonna need two.

Would ya look at that happy couple! You couldn’t see, but Mr. Spooges toes were curling in delight. He was so happy watching his woman use her big natural titties, and allowing Stunt Cock to use them as if it were her vagina. And I didn’t even tell you that later on, Mister POV had his way with her, and Spooges did the same thing: stood off in the corner as Mister POV gained carnal knowledge of Zoey, and then, on cue, she summed him (again) to come empty his nut sac all over her face.

Two big ones in a single day for Mr. Spooges! (Oh, the sweet, sweet wine of youth.)

Mr. Spooges did earn his name that day…and his paycheck, too.

How’s that make you feel? Think you could do it? You know…watch your lady please another man? Would your brain melt down? Make ya wanna go mano-a-mano with the man being blown? Or banged?

All this cuckoldry talk reminds me of my undergrad years, as I sat in Chaucer class, listening to my professor lecture on The Miller’s Tale. Actually, looking back at it now, I have no Earthly idea how I sat through that fucking class, especially when our professor — in an obvious attempt to impress the girls in class — would actually lecture in Old English. I’m serious. We’d sit there and take notes on that shit, as if it was gonna ever come in handy once we passed his class. Ever hear the way English was spoken 800 years ago? It sounded something like this:

This Absolon doun sette hym on his knees
And seyde, “I am a lord at alle degrees;
For after this I hope ther cometh moore.
Lemman, thy grace, and sweete bryd, thyn oore!”
The wyndow she undoth, and that in haste.
“Have do,” quod she, “com of, and speed the faste,
Lest that oure neighebores thee espie.”
This Absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie.
Derk was the nyght as pich, or as a cole,
And at the wyndow out she putte hir hole,
And Absolon, hym fil no bet ne wers,
But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers
Ful savorly, er he were war of this.
Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys,
For wel he wiste a womman hath no berd
He felte a thyng al rough and long yherd,
And seyde, “Fy! allas! what have I do?”
“Tehee!” quod she, and clapte the wyndow to,
And Absolon gooth forth a sory pas.
“A berd! a berd!” quod hende Nicholas,
“By Goddes corpus, this goth faire and weel.”

Tell the truth — you just skipped all that shit, huh? You tried to read the first couple lines, then you scrolled down here. So you missed the dirty part in The Miller’s Tale…the part about her hole, and the (ass) kissing, and the part about how he’s confused about what the fuck just happend cause he thought he was giving her a simple kiss on the cheek, but a woman doesn’t have a beard…so what did he just get done kissing?! (No shaved pussies back then, bro).

About the only other thing I remember from that class was the origin of the word “cunt”. We got the whole etymology of that word, from the non-offensive “queynte” used in the Miller’s Tale, all the way to how it out-dirtys The King of All Dirty Words today. How about that for some medieval filth? And how about you stick a god damned gold star on my chest for using the word etymology in a porno blog?

I have no idea how I ever passed that class. Actually, I didn’t pass that class. I earned a “C”, which, if you’re were an English major (or studied any of the humanities) a “C” is a professor’s nice way of saying that — in addition to being a dope — you’re a failure. The only way to earn a “D” or a failing grade in any humanities class was to no show; however, I maintained an outstanding attendance record. I was punctual, too. I sat near the professor, and I’d even ask him questions! Much of the time he’d kinda roll his eyes or groan, but that’s ok…cause as one of my coaches drilled into my head: “C’s get degrees, Billy!”

Did I ever tell you I graduated college with a 2.02 cumulative GPA? Yeppers. I’m very positive I graduated at the very bottom of my class. As in last. Very last. No one behind me whatsoever.

What else would you expect from a pornographer?

More Fun with Mr. Marcus!

spring thomas and mr marcus

When I started this blog (seven years ago next month!) I made it a point not to turn it into a shit-talkin’ gossip column. Not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of thing, but it’s just not my style. And, like all the stories I tell, this one’s the truth.

The first six or eight months of Spring Thomas were shot far, far away from Porn Valley. Well, not that far, really. But far enough that we didn’t fuck with the male talent. Eventually that would change, though, and when it did, I have to admit I was kinda star struck — to a degree — when The Big Hitters started rolling in: Jack Napier, Mandingo, Shane Diesel — and Mr. Marcus.

Yea, I walked on eggshells when I was on set with all those dudes, cause I really didn’t know them, and don’t forget this: the work in Porn Valley was completely different then. These guys were working. Thirty and forty scenes a month wasn’t unheard of back then, and really the only reason a performer of any sort of caliber didn’t work, it’s because they didn’t want to. So when these dudes started saying “yes” to our offers, my boss and I were excited.

Spring was, too.

And because I was at that point in my career, when I called Mr. Marcus an hour after his call time, and asked him, “Is everything OK?” and he said, “I’m stuck in traffic,” I went with it.

I told Spring, “Traffic must be a bitch.” She just kinda nodded her head and kept texting away. She wasn’t tweeting. She wasn’t Facebooking. She wasn’t even mySpacing. She was texting, cause it was 2004, and that’s what you did then.

When Marcus was two hours past call time — and he didn’t pick up his phone when I called, I asked Spring if we should just pack up our gear and head to the airport.

“But I need to make my money! Change my flight if you have to!”

So I called Marcus again, but not after a bit of hesitation. I didn’t want to piss him off. Telling this story now, I have to laugh at myself. Last week when Rico Strong walked on to set 45 minutes late, I already had him replaced. And when Rico copped an attitude after I told him he’d been replaced, I kicked him out of the studio. But this is 2012. In 2004 I hesitated to call Marcus even after he was 2 hours late, and when he answered this time, I politely asked, “bro, we’re getting a little concerned over here. Call time was two hours ago. She’s gotta catch a flight.”

“My bad! I’m not that far. Really…traffic is murder.”

At 3 hours past call time, he was “right around the corner.”

Four hours past, the bell rang, and I opened the door to Mr. Marcus holding out a styrofoam container of a dozen BBQ wings. Almost all of them were eaten. He asked, “want a wing?”

I looked at him, and then at wings, and back up at him, and let him walk by. I was pissed, and Spring was pissed…but at least she was gonna make her money. It also closed out our 4-shoots-a-month contract with her, which was the other reason I waited four hours for Mr. Marcus. I didn’t want to go into the next month a shoot behind schedule, and I didn’t want to ask our boss to advance Spring a scene due to being impatient with Marcus.

I can’t remember if I told you this, but I like to shoot all my pictures before I roll video. Stills are a perfect time for talent to get acquainted with each other, and while I take them I make sure we go over what’s expected in the scene. We also go over any rules, like, “you can call me a whore or a slut but not a cunt”. Then I’d ask the male talent if it’s ok to drop the N word. If you know about Spring, you’d know why I did that, and if you don’t know about Spring…oh well.

I can’t remember what Marcus said. Mandingo wouldn’t let that fly. Shane Diesel would; in fact, it turned him on when Spring said shit like, “fuck me you nasty nigger!” It turned Charlie Mac on, too. “My grandpa owned your granpa!” she once told Charlie Mac, to which he replied, “I love your white skin!” One performer whose name I can’t recall (really) steadfastly refused (I don’t want my son to grow up and see a scene where some girl calles me a “nigger”) but then suddenly had a change of heart when we went to video. “Look Billy, if it makes the scene better, she can call me a nigger.”

Oh yea, Bishop said that. You probably don’t remember him.

Anyways, I never directed Spring’s dialogue. Ever. I never once told her what to say. What came out of her mouth was pure Spring. Just like Katie was Katie, and Ruth was Ruth, and Candy was Candy…and Barbie was Barbie. Looking back at it now, I think dropping the N word was Spring’s way of coping with what she did for a living; at the time, though, I thought she was just putting on a show.

Where was I? Oh yea — I’m taking pictures of Marcus and Spring, and we’re almost done when I notice Spring’s vag is looking a bit creamy. Not creamy as in yeast infection, and not creamy as in she’s turned on and just super wet.

Creamy as in Cream Pie Creamy. Which it was. That’s cause Marcus shot his fucking load in her at the end of stills. I wasn’t sure until I walked into the bathroom to ask Spring what’s up. She was standing over the toilet with her fingers jammed up her snatch. “What’s up? What’s up?! I tell you what’s up. That nigger just came in me. Don’t ever book him with me again.”

“You didn’t even have to tell me that. Let’s just get this shit over with so you can catch the late flight home and relax.”

Marcus’s performance was sub-par at best, and when it came time to pop, well…he squeezed hard to push out the few drops that remained in his sac.

I didn’t hear from Marcus again til I bumped into him a few months later at AVN’s. He apologized and said something like, “that wasn’t a typical Mr. Marcus performance.” I remember him specifically saying that, cause it was the first time (but not the last) I’ve heard performers refer to themselves in the third person.

But it turns out it was typical. Pure Mr. Marcus. Consistently. Through and through. Cause whenever I’d tell this story to other producers and directors, they had a similar tale of Mr. Marcus woe.

So when my lawyer called me a few days ago to tell me what was going down — and that Marcus was suspect — it didn’t surprise me. Then, I thought about it a little bit…and it did. I was surprised. Marcus may be chronically late to set. Marcus might cream pie a girl whether or not the scene calls for it. Marcus might walk on to set, check out his female talent, then tell the director he forgot something in his car…so he can haul ass to get out of fucking a girl he didn’t wanna fuck.

Marcus might be a lot of things, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy to fudge a test.

Not unless he’s got some sort of golden parachute out of this mess, which is kinda what I’m thinking right about now.

I wonder who packed it for him.

spring thomas and mr marcus

Nude Descending a Staircase

Nude Descending a Staircase

Porno Princess called Tuesday to ask me for some work. Any work. She’s a pal, and I don’t mind helping pals out when they’re in a jam. Even though I’ve shot her for every site I either own or shoot for, I had some work. There’s a staircase in LA that starts in the middle of the sky, and it leads to nowhere. And it’s smack-dab in the middle of the city. It’s intrigued me for years, and I’ve always wondered where it used to start…and what it lead to. I’ve also wanted to make some sort of arty-farty statement on one of my hero’s work, and I knew — from the first time I saw it — this particular staircase would suit me just fine. And now, with the Tuesday phone call asking for some work, I had my model.

Nude Descending a Staircase

Porno Princess called me Wednesday to confirm our Friday job, and then she told me how happy and appreciative she was for it. Then, without hesitating, she went right into her story, and it went something like this: Porno Princess read a book that inspired her so much she wrote the author a letter, and now the author was on her way to Los Angeles to document Porno Princess’s life, starting with her job Friday. “Isn’t this great, Billy! I finally can get the help I need!” I knew about Porno Princess’s demons. What I didn’t know — until this very moment — was she was going to put her life on television in order to get help, and this author was gonna make it happen.

Nude Descending a Staircase

I’m gonna call the author The Interventionist, only cause that’s what she does. And Porno Princess really feels that if she gets her story to Dr. Phil or Dr. Drew or any of those kinda folks, she’ll get the help she needs. Porno Princess has no health insurance, and even with it, we all know rehab is a big ticket item. And The Interventionist liked the letter Porno Princess wrote very much. I’m sure you’ve already figured out The Interventionist works with TV production crews, and sure enough, Porno Princess will have The Interventionist in tow for Friday’s gig…and The Interventionist will be documenting it all.

Nude Descending a Staircase

I don’t like this one bit. It’s not about having guests on set during a shoot; I’ve done that plenty of times before (my favorite being the cuckold husband who watches his Porn Wife get banged out by a slew of black dudes as he sits in a dark corner and tries to figure out how to beat it without letting it be known he’s jacking to the show). I don’t like this cause there’s no positive spin ever when it comes to my biz and the women who work in it…under any circumstance. Especially in the mainstream media. So I don’t want to be part of this in any way. Shape. Or form. But Porno Princess has just hung up the phone, and she made it very clear that my gig was the segue to her rehab. “You’re so great to do this for me, Billy! Thank you so much!!”

Nude Descending a Staircase

Let me take a break from this story and digress a bit to tell you what I’ve been listening to lately: Japandroids “Celebration Rock”, the soundtrack to Darjeeling Limited (over and over), King Tuff’s self-titled debut for SubPop, The Ramones “It’s Alive” (perhaps the greatest live record ever produced?) “Dear You” by Jawbreaker, Jack White’s “Blunderbuss”, and, almost embarrassingly (or not so, depending on who-knows-what) The Rolling Stones “Some Girls” and “Exile on Main Street”…oh, and M83, too.

Nude Descending a Staircase

So how do I back out of this one? How do I call Porno Princess and say no no no to The Interventionist on my set. From her perspective, I’ll be the one to blame (for who-knows-how-long). Besides, I want to see Porno Princess get some help, and if she’s willing to do it in front of a national audience, so be it. Or, be it so. And when Porno Princess txt’d me on Thursday, to make sure we were “still good for Friday”, I txt’d back: I’m not gonna sign a release. That was my line. As in the line I draw in the sand; I’ll let The Interventionist into My World, but there was no way my mug was gonna (legally) end up on anything — besides her raw footage. Porno Princess hit me back: “Oh! That’s fine!” So be it…or, be it so. Friday’s gig was on.

Nude Descending a Staircase

When Porno Princess and The Interventionist walked into my studio Friday afternoon, I had my Defense Shields up at full force — even after The Interventionist said the goal here was not to bash porn…but to get someone the help they needed. Of course I wasn’t going to bring up any side agendas…like selling more books. But I did tell Porno Princess, the night she broke the news she’d have The Interventionist in tow, about “The Dr. Phil” story. It goes something like this: a few years ago, another Porno Princess told me about her Dr. Phil gig, and what they wanted her to do…which was to break the news to her folks she was in porn, right there on Dr. Phil’s stage when the show began…and then they’d have a big pow-wow during the show to talk to her about alternatives to The Porno Life — a college degree. And in return for her appearance on the show, she’d get the “help” she needed to get out. Well, after the show went down, Porno Princess was led to a green room, where a lady (probably a production assistant) met her and went over filling out paperwork for grants and student loans. “I thought they were gonna pay for my college, Billy. I mean shit…I know how to fill out student loan paperwork.”

And you guys thought porn was slimy.

Nude Descending a Staircase

I showed The Interventionist around the studio, and then we jumped in my ride and went to the stairs. On the way over, I talked about my admiration for Duchamp, and the story behind “Nude Descending a Staircase“, and how I’d had my eye on this weird staircase that started in the sky and led to nowhere, and all I really wanted to was photograph a girl walking down it…without any clothes on. Simple as that. The hard part of the shoot presented itself almost immediately after we pulled into the parking lot closest to the stairs.

Nude Descending a Staircase

The stairs sit on city property, but the parking lot in front of the stairs serves a fairly popular restaurant. There’s two valet guys working the lot, and it’s starting to pick up. In other words, shooting a girl walking around nude in front of a popular restaurant at 5:30 on a Friday afternoon wasn’t the best decision. “Can we get in trouble for this?” Porno Princess asked. “I’m sure, but you’re not doing anything sexy.” Then, in a goofy voice I said, “This is art, damnit!” which didn’t get the round of laughs I was hoping for. So I called my lawyer and asked him about worst-case scenarios, which turned out to be potential jail time and life-long status as a sex offender — for both the model and photographer.

Nude Descending a Staircase

As we sat there and contemplated the consequences, The Interventionist said something like, “just tip the Valet. They work on tips, you know.” Porno Princess said, “I don’t wanna go to jail. You know how bad it is for a junkie in jail?” I said, “how about you go up to the top of the stairs, see how you feel, and we’ll go from there?” Porno Princess asked, “Do I have to?” and I could feel The Interventionist’s eyes burning the back of my head off, waiting for my reply (The Interventionist was in the back seat running the camera for all of this). “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I said.

Nude Descending a Staircase

Back at the studio, Porno Princess filled out a model release while she did some drugs. She let me take some pictures of that, too. Then I handed her a check and walked them both out. Porno Princess thanked me, and gave me a hug, and I said, “when you come back let we’ll take some more pictures.” Then I turned and said goodbye to The Interventionist. I could tell The Interventionist wanted to hate me from the moment we met, but I think the afternoon went pretty well. “I’ll see you soon, Billy!” Porno Princess said, then she turned and started to cross the street to the car. The Interventionist said, “You know you’ll never see her again. Ever.” And even though this happened only a few hours ago, I don’t remember what I said to The Interventionist. I think I just turned and walked away.

The Return of Kasey Chase

Kasey Chase Casey Chase Dez handjob movies
I was pissed.

Kasey Chase was close to two hours late, and I was pissed…mostly at myself, cause I booked her knowing she may or may not show. The reason I booked her? Cause when she shows, Kasey’s almost as good as a winning lotto ticket. Don’t get me wrong…she’s not as good as hitting the Powerball, but I’d say content starring Kasey is about as good as hitting 5 outta 6 numbers.

And when she doesn’t show…well, that’s pretty much expected.

You might know her history.

You might not.

Skip this paragraph if you do: Once upon a time there was a cam girl calling herself “Dez”, and she used to do The Nasty with various boyfriends on a site I won’t mention here. She was wildly popular, and not cause she’s super hot. Well, being super hot didn’t hurt, but what helped a whole lot was the age at which she performed said acts.

Do I really need to tell ya how old she was? Or maybe I should tell you how old she wasn’t?

And now you know The Cult of Dez.

Oh wait. There’s more.

She’s 20 now, and when she entered the Porno Game at 18, I found her over at Jim South’s agency, World Modeling. I don’t recall how I heard of The Cult of Dez, but it was after the first scene I shot with her. Maybe on a thread over at Adult DVD Talk?

Anyway, she had already changed her name before her first scene — from Jessie Brooks to Kasey Chase — and I knew she’d be big with the fans, so I booked her…even though if you booked Kasey, you had to book her with her (then) boyfriend. And if there’s one thing almost every Porno Producer in Porn Valley hates, it’s when a girl will only do her man. In fact, producers hate it so much they almost always skip booking the girl, cause almost always The Boyfriend will fail on set. Plus, how can Creepy Producer corner a girl in the bathroom and try to bang her with The Boyfriend around?

Since I don’t roll like that, I’ll always take a chance on a couple — but only if the girl is hot.

And Kasey’s hot.

And guess what?

My gamble paid off. The Boyfriend performed, and I got a scene.

So I booked them again, right away. And I got another scene.

Then, it happened, as it almost always does. Kasey Chase was bookable with anyone in the talent pool.

Couples who join the Porno Game never last. They either leave porn as a couple, or they break up. If they break up, most of the time the girl will stay in porn for a while. If they don’t break up, here’s what happens: The Boyfriend eventually starts doing scenes without his girl. Which means the girl will start doing scenes without her dude. And then they break up.

So Kasey’s starts doing scenes without her man, and he doesn’t get many bookings, so they break up. Kasey gets more scenes, and is about to blown up, when she kinda disappears.

A few months later, she’d resurface for a minute, and then she’d disappear.

Now you see her, now you don’t.

And her rep among producers was never too hot. From what I heard, she was habitually tardy to set…when she’d show up.

Now you see her, now you don’t.

Fans loved her, and they could never get enough of her…because content featuring Kasey Chase isn’t all over the place. Add The Cult of Dez, and there’s your lotto ticket.

OK, ok…I might be exaggerating a bit on the lotto ticket talk, but when I put her on the cover of The Dick Suckers #1, I got e-mails from fans telling me the only reason they bought it was my cover girl — Kasey Chase.

Which is the other reason I was pissed. In addition to being two hours late, and in addition to booking her when I knew she’d probably not show, Kasey Chase content sells. But I’ll only kiss so much ass, so I called her agent and told him, “Look, I like Kasey, and she’s a seller, but she’s two hours late, and my afternoon scene is scheduled to start in an hour, so that’s that. If Kasey shows up, I’m sending her home.”

He understood.

And that’s when the gun shots erupted.

I don’t know if it was 5 or 6 blasts, but I do know they were close. Really close. So close I thought they might be right in front of my studio. A studio, by the way, which isn’t located in Beverly Hills…if you know what I mean. And I knew there were a few gangs in the surrounding neighborhoods, and lately I’ve seen some tags I’ve never seen before in my neighborhood, and there’s been a few times in which gun fire reverberated through the night, and last Winter they smoked a kid a block or so away…but today they shot up a kid against the side of my building.

“Call 911!” I told The Minion, in the calmest voice I could muster. (I stuck an exclamation point at the end of that sentence cause I know I wasn’t calm).

I hate guns. Nothing good comes from them…ever.

Then I just kinda told anyone within earshot, “Get into the make-up room everyone!” even though there was only me, the make-up artist, Stunt Cock, and The Minion.

I called 911. The Minion called 911. And apparently everyone else in the neighborhood did, too, cause when I finally got through the 911 (always an interesting experience in Los Angeles) the operator told me a whole bunch of people were reporting the same shooting.

Then The Minion said, “I think it came from that car that just passed your door!” I went out and opened my my door a crack, and sure enough, there was a car right by the door to my studio, and it was stopped. And then it started backing up…slowly. “Is this the car?” I asked the Minion, who was now looking over my shoulder.

“That’s it Billy! I think that’s the car the shooter’s in!”

“Why is it backing up to the studio?”

We looked at each other.

And right before I was about to slam the door and head for the make-up room, I took a closer look at the car — and specifically the driver’s side rear-view mirror. I wanted to see if I could catch a quick glimpse of the driver, just in case I needed to ID anyone for the cops. I could see someone in the mirror, and that someone was Kasey Chase.

She back up a little more, and I yelled, “Kasey! GET INSIDE! NOW!”

“Oh Billy, please don’t be mad at me! I know I’m late!”

I yelled again to get in, and she said she was sorry again, and I yelled at her to get inside again, and she looked at me kinda weird, and I told her there was a shooter on the street, and to put the car in park and get the fuck in my studio.

“I didn’t hear any gunshots!” she said, running into the studio with a look on her face like she was about to start crying.

Which is about the time the ghetto birds started circling above. And cop cars screeched to a halt in front of my place.

“Oh my god you guys did someone really just get shot?” Kasey asked. I looked at The Minion. The Minion looked at me. We both looked at Kasey.

Someone did really get shot, right outside my place, and as he lay there bleed and shaking in shock, the Detective told me to get back inside. “This is a crime scene,” he said, putting up the yellow tape. “Get back in your place and we’ll let you know when it’s OK to come back out.”

“Can anyone come in?” I asked.

They couldn’t come in. And no one could leave. So I had one of the most elusive Porno Girls in the game standing next to me in my studio…and I couldn’t send her home if I wanted to.

What else to do but make a dirty movie?

And what a dirty movie it turned out to be. Well, a hand job scene, specifically…and a damn good one if I say so myself.

Soon after we wrapped, almost all the cops were gone, as was the yellow tape, so we decided to walk across the street to the convenience store. Kasey wanted a Slurpee. I had handed her a red cup filled with water, but she wanted a Slurpee, which was fine by me. I wanted to talk a walk with her, anyway. And I wanted to tell you what flavor she likes best right now, but honestly I don’t remember.

“It’s pretty amazing to think a dude just got shot up here, and the only way you’d know it is the bloody sidewalk,” I said to Kasey, as we made our way to 7/11.

“What?! That’s where he got shot?!? Oh Billy! Do me a favor! Take a picture of me! Take a picture of me!!”

I looked at Kasey and just kinda shook my head. “OK.”

“Better watch it, lady. That’s fresh blood,” the cop said.

I looked at the cop and said, “She’s nuts.”

Kasey smiled, thought about it a long second…and then posed.

Kasey Chase posing

Guilty as Charged, Your Honor.

Ivy Winters Blow Job movies
OK, ok. I’m out of my semi-retirement as a blogger. At least for the time being. The hiatus was simply because I just didn’t have shit to say. Or, if I had something to say, I didn’t feel like writing. See, that’s what makes me a bad writer — or, not a writer at all.

Wait a sec! Am I a writer? Or a blogger? Is there a difference?

Sure, I can write. At least a little bit. But to write and write and write every day, especially when there’s nothing to say — or when you’re blocked — is the kind of thing that sets The Big Boys apart from The Hacks.

Make no mistake about it, I’m a hack. I’d like to think I’m part of the upper-crust of hacks…but probably not.

I’m thinking of hacks throughout history now, and I’m thinking I’m not even a hack. Take, for example, Ed Wood Junior…a total hack. You mighta caught the Johnny Depp/Sara Jessica Parker bio-pic, so you know who I’m talking about. You might know about Plan 9 From Outer Space. I bet you don’t know about his writing; I do, cause I’m a book geek, and, in fact, last week when I was in Denton, TX, catching Wilco play at UNT (I’m still totally gay for Wilco), I hit a used book store and found a copy of Death of a Transvestite. I would’ve bought it, but the store wanted $70, and it’s a pulp, and I’m not spending that kinda dough on a paperback book…even if it’s collectable. Unless, of course, I scored it at a thrift store or a flea market or something.

If you followed the link I gave you to Ed Wood’s Wiki, you’d know “Wood’s novels frequently include transvestite or drag queen characters, or entire plots centering around transvestism (including his angora fetish), and tap into his love of crime fiction and the occult. Wood would often recycle plots of his films for novels, write novelizations of his own screenplays, or reuse elements from his novels in scripts. His first novel, Black Lace Drag was published in 1963 and reissued in 1965 as Killer in Drag. Among his other books are Orgy of The Dead (1965), Devil Girls (1967), Death of a Transvestite (1967), The Sexecutives (1968) and A Study of Fetishes and Fantasies (1973).”

Talk about a hack. But a loveable hack. A respectable hack. One who had a vision and actually followed through. And his movies? They mighta sucked, but he got them made. I’m fuckin’ all about Ed Wood, and I’m such a geek boy fan the only reason I love catching a film at The Vista near my sleazy porno studio is that’s where Ed Wood used to have an office — right above the theater. You can see the office windows, cause they’re still there, and every time I drive by The Vista, or catch a movie, I look at those windows and think that’s where The Man went to work.

After all this Ed Wood talk, I’m kinda amped to hack my way through a blog entry, just as Wood mighta hacked his way through something like Orgy of The Dead. Remember, all the stories I tell you are true, and since all the Porno Princess and Stunt Cocks have fake names, I don’t have to change shit in order to protect the innocent.

Besides, no one in Porn Valley is innocent, anyway.

So how about I tell you about the time I was part of a gang rape? And our victim was Ivy Winters.

I just used the oldest trick from The Hack’s Book — grabbing the reader’s attention with a ridiculous statement — in hopes you’ll stick around to the end of today’s blog. Cause it’s a long one.

Is it gonna work? And are you wondering, what the fuck, Billy? You’re kidding me, right? Gang rape!?!

Now, before you get all crazy on me, the “gang rape” was nothing more than a sleazy porno scenario. Ivy was never raped, never forced — nor coerced — into something against her will.

Last summer, when I went over A Few Things I Love, Lately, I mentioned Ivy Winters and her gang bang. I also mentioned Kuma’s Corner, the very best place in Chicago to grub a burger, Reckless Records, the very best place to buy some music after your Kuma’s grub, Ty Segall, American Pickers, and my new, old-man glasses. But out of all those awesome things, Ivy Winters is most awesome.

So here’s the rest of the Ivy Winters “gang bang” story I referred to in that post:

My Porno Pal Nicky Milo rang. He shoots chicks with dicks, mostly…but when he’s not shooting trannies, every now and then he shoots solo girl stuff — and an occasional hard-core sex scene. “Can I borrow your camera for a scene I’m shooting? The Client wants a second angle for the scene he ordered.”

Of course he could borrow my camera, and I asked him what kind of scene he was shooting. “Gang bang. Six man. Hey! You wanna be in it, too? I’m short one guy.”

Of course not. I’m not male talent. I made sure to tell Nicky that — more than once. It didn’t stop me from asking Nicky who the lucky gal was. And when I asked him “who’s the gang bang girl?” we both knew I was considering the gig.

“Ivy Winters.”

“Who?” I asked, pretending not to hear what he just said.

He repeated her beautiful name.

“I’m not really male talent, Nicky.”

Extended silence.

Then I asked, “who are the mopes?” Not that it mattered who they were; I know Nick’s budget, which is about the same as my budget, which means it’s gonna be a Mope Fest. And I knew — right after he told me Ivy Winters was The Gang Bang Girl — I was gonna be the biggest mope there…both literally and figuratively.

Why couldn’t it have been any other porn girl? I wondered…then took the job. “Bring another guy if you can. Just in case, cause if I don’t have six dudes, the scene doesn’t happen,” Nicky said, right before he hung up.

Flash forward to Nicky’s set, and all the mopes, and me and my camera.

And Ivy Winters.

Oh, Ivy Winters!
Here’s a haiku for you, cause
you know I’m in love.

There is a room with a queen-sized bed in the middle. It’s just a box springs and mattress. No frame, no bed spread or pillows, no sheets or comforter. The mattress is illuminated with some sleazy porno lighting…and that’s about it.

There’s six mopes standing around the bed, our director Nicky, a camera man, and The Light of My Life.

Nicky shouted his direction: “OK everybody! Here’s what I need!! All you guys are on the bed! You guys cannot leave the bed. You’re pinning Ivy down, and you’re shit talking her loudly, so her boyfriend who’s in the next room can hear what you’re doing to her!”

One of the mopes asked, “Ivy’s boyfriend is here?”

We all looked at the mope, who, from hereon in, shall be called The Dope Mope.

“No!” Nicky shouted. “It’s the scenario our Producer wants!! Here’s the story: Ivy’s boyfriend is being interrogated by the police, and he’s not cooperating, so the cops call in six thugs who have their way with her so he spills the beans to the cops!” The Nicky shouted, “ANY QUESTIONS?”

I had a question. It was a big one, too, but I didn’t want to fuck up Nicky’s set. So I pulled him aside after he told us we had to be ready to shoot in five minutes.

“Um…bro. I don’t wanna fuck up your gig, but is this a rape scene?”

Nicky looked at me and kinda shrugged. I had no idea what that meant. So I asked, “Um…who’s this for? Who’s paying us today?”

“A private collector who lives in Turkey,” Nicky answered.

That’s that, I thought. I’m not part of a gang bang scene for some legit porn company; I’m about to shoot a simulated rape scene for some sick, perverted, Turkish fuckin’ fuck fuck. And I’m not a happy camper.

Or — more specifically — I’m not a happy mope.

So I walk over to My Love, who’s looking out the window, smoking a cigarette, and looking very beautiful. I gave her a hug, and my heart went pitter-patter.

“Hey Ivy. Um…so you know what this scene’s all about?”

“Uh huh! Of course!” she said, smiling. “You guys are about to rape me! Isn’t that fuckin’ hot!?!”

“Super hot,” I said, and walked away.

OK. Do I back out? Cause if I back out, Nicky’s out one dude, and he told me he needed six men to make this scene go down. If I walk, Nicky’s gonna be pissed, cause he’d have to either scramble to find another mope, or, worse yet, reschedule the whole thing. And possibly have kill fess.

Have I mentioned how hot Ivy is? And how much I wanna bang her?

So…do I call my lawyer and ask him if there’s any possibility I could get in trouble for this? Cause I’m worried my Ivy Winters addiction is gonna get the best of me, and I’m gonna follow through with this shit, which means my face is all over a simulated rape scene, and I’ve already signed the model release.

And what if, years from now, Ivy finds Jesus and, like all the Porno Princesses who find Jesus, Ivy tell all sorts of lies about what she consented to and, more importantly, what she didn’t consent to, and what if she claims all this was real, and we really raped her?

Now I have visions of Billy Watson, sex offender and rapist, sitting in Cell Block Six for 10 years without possibility of parole, and my cellie is a big black dude named Cleofus…and he’s made me his wife.

I walk back over to Ivy. By this time, all the mopes are naked, and they’re playing with their dicks to get them hard, and Ivy’s naked, and she’s smiling at me, and my heart goes back to pitter-pattering, and I felt kinda woosy as I approached her again. Which is when she said, “Oh my god this is a fantasy of mine! I can’t wait!! I’m gonna cum so hard!!!”

So I do the right thing.

I pulled down my pants and started playing with my dick…but it was already hard.

I won’t go into much detail, except to say it’s pretty much what you’d expect a simulated gang-rape scene would be: pure filth, total debauchery; beat-off fodder for the sick and twisted and criminally insane. In other words, it’s something I’m gonna have to answer for as I stand near the Pearly Gates, waiting in line for my turn.

The hardest part of the whole gig was having to stay on the bed with all the other mopes and Ivy. One of us would jump off and Nicky would scream, “BACK ON THE BED! BACK ON THE BED!”

Which is about the time I started to feel the wieners poking me. A poke in the leg. A poke in the back. Another poke to the leg. A side poke. A shoulder poke. Some of us were standing on the bed; others were kneeling. I’d back away and I’d get another dick poke. And the sweat! Cause almost immediately after they started rolling cameras, the room’s temperature jumped about 20 degrees.

“More yelling! MORE YELLING!” Nicky screamed. Cause no one was really yelling. I dunno what everyone else was doing, cause all I was worried about was dodging dick.

Cause No Way Am I Gay.

“CUT!” Nicky yelled. I looked up at him. I looked around the bed. I looked at Ivy’s beautiful vagina.


I asked Nicky, “How much more time you need?” — which is about the dumbest thing you can ask a director. What we had so far seemed to me like a half hour of footage…at least.

Nicky glared at me and said, “I need forty-five minutes of tape, and we just shot a little under five. Forty more to go! Take a quick break guys, but don’t wander off too far.”

When we came back, I screamed my ass off. I was determined to finish the madness I had gotten myself into, and when one of the mopes stopped screaming, I cracked him, cause the more we screamed, the more Nicky liked it, and the more he liked it, the less he yelled “CUT”. I think I smacked The Dope Mope the most.

The sooner we ended it, the happier I was gonna be…so I yelled my fucking ass off. The mopes screamed, too. Ivy screamed in delight. And when Nicky screamed “THAT’S A WRAP!” I sighed in relief.

Ivy loved her gang rape scene. We’ve talked about it more than once since it went down, and each time we talk about it, she uses more superlatives.

The mopes loved the day, too. I’ve seen a few since, and that’s the first thing that comes up.

To this day, I’m not sure what to think; except, maybe years from now, I’ll know…when the judge asks for my plea.

Bree Olson And Her Spunkmouth Scene

Bree Olson
When I was in junior high, I had a Social Studies teacher who was a total hippy. He’d play records on one of those small turntables you’d get from the school’s A/V department, while we were working on whatever it was we were working on that day. One of his favorite records was “The Worst of Jefferson Airplane”, and I’d always wonder why anyone would name anything “The Worst of”…until now.

With all the Charlie Sheen hoopla right now, I thought I’d continue with some of my Bree Olson posts from a few years ago. Looking back at this Spunkmouth shoot, I gotta say Bree was a dirty girl back then — loaded with Tiger’s blood and Adonis DNA — and I’m sure she’s only gotten better with age…which is why she’s Charlie’s favorite.

I’ve got some more Bree blogs laying around, and since I’ve had absolutely nothing to say in a long time, I’ll just go ahead and post some “worst of’s” featuring Bree and the teeny tiny bit of time I spent with her.

This blog’s original air date: January 4, 2007.

Sure Bree’s one of my favorites for 2006 — but I never told you about the day I shot her for Spunkmouth.

I didn’t want to shoot a vanilla sex scene with Bree, cause, for some reason, I pictured her doing something hot, but without any full-blown sex going down. I knew I needed more than one (or even two) guys, and I knew I wanted something kooky to happen — kooky for lack of a better term.

That’s “kooky” with a “K”.

When it came time to choose wardrobe for the scene, I chose her nightie. I dunno why, but that struck me as kinda hot. See, you probably don’t know this, but the porno girls who make the circuit walk around with one of those suitcases-on-rollers, and, depending how long they’ve been in the game, it might be absolutely jam packed with sexy outfits. Here’s another fun fact — the porn girls who really have their shit together put each little bra-and-panty set into their own sealed zip lock baggy, so they can pull ’em out and show ’em to producers quickly. Having them in baggies means not having to hunt around, for, say, the matching panties once a producer has picked a bra for the girl to wear on set.

Anyways, I looked into Bree’s bag, went through some of her wardrobe, and her nighties caught my eye. Not cause they were hot, or sexy lingerie, or anything like that…but cause they were real. Which is to say when Bree goes to bed at night after a long day of making dirty movies, she slips into what you’re looking at in this picture.

In my book, that makes them fucking super hot.

I started thinking blow bang when I started thinking of Bree’s scene for Spunkmouth. What better way is there to give a gal a spunky mouth than having her blow a handful of dudes? Then I started thinking multi-ethnic blowbang. Call in a few brothas, a couple white dudes, as well as my main most man Rocker X.

I think I’ll talk a little about Rocker X. Not a lot, but a little. He’s this Asian cat with a 5 inch dick. He walks around with shades on all the time, even if it’s 10 at night. He’s always got his iPod in his ears, and he’s usually listening to the Ramones. See, I’d hire him just based on the facts he’s Asian, his dick is 5 inches, and he knows what “Gabba Gabba Hey!” means. Rocker X also blows one of the biggest loads I’ve ever seen. They’re not quite as big as Peter North’s, but they’re fucking big. In fact, in my world, Rocker X is a “load dumper” — and not a “scene carrier”…which, for me, is way more of a value. Anyways, Rocker doesn’t talk much on set; he doesn’t grope the girl a whole bunch, either; but he’s still super fucking creepy: he stands in the corner, Ramones blasting in his head, and he beats his meat like a monkey in the zoo…and I’ve learned from watching him that when Rocker X gets up on his tip-toes, it’s time for him to unload.

And unload he did.

So did everyone else. Oh Bree! How did you face become such a mess? And why doesn’t it bother you one bit?

This is when things got really interesting…cause, I lied just a sentence or two ago. Not everyone nutted. One of the brothas limped over to me before I started shooting and said, “Yo Billy Man. I just fucked myself up on the basketball court, and I’m not sure I got what it takes today to get the job done.”

“Are you OK bro? I mean you wanna sit this one out?”

“Hell no Niggah. It’s mother fuckin’ Bree Olson!”

I love it when black guys call me Niggah.

The Suck Fest went as planned, and yea, Brotha couldn’t nut. But that was OK, cause as Brotha was attempting to blow his wad, Rocker X, who had quietly been jacking it in the corner after blowing Nut 1, stepped up to the plate and busted Nut 2. And just when he was done, another dude who had been quietly jacking it in the corner, saw what Rocker just did and it set him off — yep! He busted Nut 2, too.

Two, to, and too. How hard can it be?

Not as hard as math. 4 guys hired. 1 can’t cum. 2 cum twice. So, how many nuts did Bree take that night? Keep that question in mind, cause it’s going to matter in a few.

So Bree’s covered in Man Goo, and that’s when dirty movies usually end, but not for Bree Olson. “I think I should go walk around the street covered in all this cum. Wouldn’t that be hot Billy?”

“Don’t tease me like that Breebie Honey.”

“I’m serious. Watch this.”

And with cameras rolling, I followed Bree Olson. First, she threw on her wife-beater t-shirt, then she strolled over into the next studio where they also make dirty movies. This is all real, mind you. Not one bit of it was scripted. People took a look at Bree, and then looked closer, and that’s when the reactions began. What would you do if a jizz-soaked hottie like Bree walked into your work? Bree went right into the make-up room, where Bella Donna’s brother was flirting with the female talent on that set, and his jaw just about dropped…cause he knew what was all over Bree; it hadn’t dried up yet.

I followed Bree out of that studio and right onto the street. I wasn’t sure if I should stop camera, double check to make sure shit was OK, and then continue. I mean I don’t even know what I’d check out? If there just so happened to be a cop in front of my studio? Or worse yet — a kid?

Fuck it, I rolled. And Bree strutted.

Up and down the street. Right by a nice Korean lady on her way home. Cars whizzing by. Bree walked up and down the street and then, right in front of the door, peeled the wife beater off.

How hot is it that Bree wears wife beaters?

Things got even kookier as we walked back up the stairs. I was behind Bree, my camera on her beautiful butt, when she asked, “Want to fuck my ass, Billy?”

“You’re teasing me again. Stop it please.”

“Come on, Billy,” she cooed. “Stick it in my ass.”

“But I’m not male talent.”

“Fuck my ass,” Bree pleaded. “Please.”

What’s a guy to do when a girl begs for some ass action? Answer me that, tough guy.

A few hours later, Bree’s agent rang. He wanted to know how the scene went. I told him it might be the best scene I’ve ever shot. He wanted to know how many guys were there. He wanted to know how many guys came, too. He wanted to know this cause he felt Bree wasn’t paid fairly…it was a four man blow bang, and six guys showed up.

“No, four guys showed up.”

“How many loads did she take?”

I’m bad at math. Five seemed to be the number. To me, that shouldn’t really matter, cause I’ve always paid girls based on a dick count, and not a load count. But I didn’t feel like arguing, cause there was nothing to argue about…even though it wasn’t a pre-meditated thing, Bree took more loads than were called for, and, more importantly, Bree went above and beyond what was called for, like she always does when she shows up for work. And I should have paid her more on the spot. Without her agent having to call.

Besides, I got to stick my wiener in Bree Olson’s butt…even if it was only for a few seconds. That alone has gotta be worth a couple hundred, right?

Bree Olson

My Day With Bree Olson.

Bree Olson
When I was in junior high, I had a Social Studies teacher who was a total hippy. He’d play records on one of those small turntables you’d get from the school’s A/V department, while we were working on whatever it was we were working on that day. One of his favorite records was “The Worst of Jefferson Airplane”, and I’d always wonder why anyone would name anything “The Worst of”…until now.

With all the Charlie Sheen hoopla right now, I thought I’d pull out some of my old Bree Olson posts. I dunno if you’ve seen Sheen’s twitter, but he just posted a pic of himself with “Rachel”…as apparently Bree has retired.

For now, anyway.

I’ve got some more Bree blogs laying around, and since I’ve had absolutely nothing to say in a long time, I’ll just go ahead and post some “worst of’s” featuring Bree and the teeny tiny bit of time I spent with her.

This blog’s original air date: October 4, 2006.

I had the day off today, so I decided to hang out with my old pal, Jimmy Hat. Jimmy invited me over to his studio to watch him shoot a brand new hottie named Bree Olson. So I made my way through Friday traffic on the 101, straight outta K Town and out to the middle of Porn Valley.

Fuck, Bree Olson is fuckin’ smoking hot.

What else can I say? That she got off the plane from the Midwest only hours before getting to Jimmy’s studio? That she’s still a teenager? That she’s only done a handful of scenes? That’s she’s a college frosh? Or maybe that, 1/2 way through her soft core solo stills, Bree was so excited about posing nude in front of two strangers that her pussy was dripping wet?


I shit you not. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pussy drip like Bree’s. I think the only sexual cliche more abused than penis size (oh yea baby…mine’s at least 8 and 1/2 inches) is the dripping wet pussy.

Not too many 8 and 1/2 inch dicks out there (fact dick fact: 1 in 10,000 men have a penis bigger than 7 inches); and there’s not too many dripping wet pussies out in the real world, either.

Bree’s pussy was dripping wet. And it ran down her V-Jay, right into the crack of her butt, and then…on to the sofa.

That kind of dripping wet.

Oh, but it didn’t end there. Turns out Bree likes her men to be “in charge”, which perked up my ears. “What do you mean by being in charge?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. I like to be put in my place. I’m very submissive. I even like it when I’m having sex with a guy and he chokes me out.”

Out of nowhere Bree makes that kinda statement.

Out of nowhere.

Now, I’m not too much of an A Dog. Really, I’m not. Which is to say I can be an A Dog, and I can be a B Dog in my relationships with women. So I don’t know what got into me right then and there. I love women. Really, I do. I love everything about them. I love the way they smell, and the way they look, and the way they laugh, and the way they feel…but suddenly I was standing right next to Bree – my hand around her neck, slowly applying the pressure – just cause it was Friday, and I didn’t have to work, and Bree said she liked getting choked out by an assertive, aggressive guy, and did I mention that Bree is fucking hot?

So why not be that assertive, aggressive guy? At least for today?

What do you think she did? Did Bree pull away? Did Bree hit me? Or grab my hands? Or ask me to stop?

Her legs quivered, and her voice had that nervous jitter in it…the kind most of us get when we’re so totally turned on our voice jitters in that nervous, excited way.

Honestly – look at me. I’m a middle-aged chubby dude who likes to wear flannel PJ’s way too much. Am I really the kind of guy that would actually turn on a teenage hottie like Bree? Fuck no…and I don’t even have to answer that, do I? But there’s Bree – melting in my grip – and suddenly she’s got her hand on my dick, and she’s rubbing it, and she’s whispering things like oh God and I’m such a dirty whore.

I’m such a dirty whore.

With the quivering, jittery voice.

While her barely-legal hand is rubbing my dick. The same hand that would have landed me in the joint if we were engaged in this sort of activity just a year earlier.

What’s better? This, or, say…the winning lotto ticket? Well, the lotto ticket for sure, unless it’s just the 5 out of 6 winning lotto numbers for, like, 10 grand. Then I might take the pussy-drippin’ teenage whore who’s rubbing my dick while whispering filthy, nasty things in my ear. With a nervous, jittery voice.

Yes, I think it’s safe to say that at this particular junction of my life I would take that to a 10 thousand dollar pay day.

But it gets better. Just let me know when I should stop…cause I’m afraid today’s entry is going to turn into more of a bullshit egotistical act of bravado than a simple story, and no one likes a cocky piece of shit, do they?

I dragged Bree around that apartment by her hair. I made her perform oral delights. I choked her till her eyes rolled into the back of her head. I bent her over the sink and stuck my wee-wee in her, then I pulled it out and dropped her back to her knees, just so she could taste her own delightful juices off it.

Then, I’d make her beg for another round.

And beg she did, while loving every minute of it.

Jimmy H. did not. He was trying to work, and of course I didn’t act like this from the time of her startling admission till the end of the day. I’d be all sneaky about it. Jimmy would finish a set, and send her into the dressing room to change, and I’d follow her in – all creepy and weird – and she’d giggle and then I’d wipe that giggle off her face with a choke session and that’s when she’d moan and her legs would quiver.

Really loud moans. Really shaky quivers.


She’d whisper in my ear, “he’s mad,” and I’d whisper back things like “so what”, which made her quiver some more.



I’m done. Really, I am. Enough of all this silly bullshit. I’m embarrassing myself now. Anyway, after we wrapped I took Bree out to dinner, and on the way I apologized for my behavior, and said things like “that’s not really me” and she’d laugh and say “but I liked it, I really did,” and right then and there she told me she’s even had guys go pee right in her mouth.

That’s right — in her cute, barely-legal mouth.

I forget to ask if she drank it, or if it simply just ran down her cheeks. And suddenly, at that point – right after she’d admitted to being a human toilet – I didn’t feel bad for dragging Bree around by her hair and making her say and do naughty things.

At dinner she told me about her boyfriend. She found him on mySpace, and she searched specifically for dudes in her area that made more that 250K a year. I had no idea mySpace offered such a wonderful service as allowing a user to find their ideal mate by an income tax bracket, but apparently they do. Bree found one man in her small, Midwestern town that fit the bill, and sure enough they’re dating, and sure enough he’s fallen in love, and sure enough she’s ready for more, and sure enough when she’s done with school she’ll divorce him, and take 1/2 of his stuff, cause that’s her plan.

She didn’t mince words, either.

“Why would you do that to him, Bree?”

“Cause I want nice things while I’m in school. Like a Mercedes.”

“What kind of Mercedes?”

“Oh, any kind. I don’t care.”

“How about you live in a dorm room and have a roomie and eat Top Ramen and be poor and enjoy your time being a young starving student so you’ll enjoy things even more when you earn them, later in life, yourself?”

“You’re a pornographer. You’re no better than me.”

“But I don’t deceive people. I mean you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into when you come spend a day with me. What if this guy walks off a bridge after you divorce him cause he loved you so much? What then? I mean how would you feel?”

“He won’t do that. And if he did I’d go to his funeral with some flowers. Besides, it’s not like it hasn’t happened to him before. He’s already been divorced once.”

“Well, just be honest with him. Tell him you want a Sugar Daddy. If he dumps you, trust me, you’ll find a guy that’ll be happy to be your Sugar Daddy. You know? And then you can live with yourself cause it’s the right thing to do.”

Bree looked at me for a long second, and then down at her food. Like most of the porno chicks I’ve had dinner with, she really didn’t eat a thing. “Hey, what are these little green thingys in my food?”

“Those are called capers.”

“Well, I don’t like them. Capers ruined my meal.”

William T. Vollmann once wrote that prostitution is the most honest form of love. I used to think Bill was a hateful dude who holed himself into fleabag hotels and wrote endless novels cause that’s about all he could ever do: hate and write. And as I walked Bree out to my car, the only thing I kinda wished I woulda done earlier that day is make a Number 1 in her mouth, too.

To The Fuck-Fucks Who Ripped Me Off: You Shall Be Caught. (For Lack of a Better Title).

Free Dianna Prince blow job movies
Every morning I check my e-mails, and it’s pretty much the same old shit. Kinda like your e-mails: I get the SPAM I opt in for, the SPAM I never asked for, e-mails about work, e-mails from my family, e-mails reminding me to pay my bills, and daily e-mails from my bank letting me know how much money I don’t have.

I look at my bank e-mails closely to make sure there’s no funny business going on, and for the last 8 years I’ve committed sex acts to film for the world to enjoy, everything’s always been kosher. This has been a worry of mine, too, cause I’ve heard horror stories from other producers when it comes to check fraud, and I’ve always counted myself as lucky…until just the other day.

Two checks cleared my production account; one was $3675, and the other was $3550…neither of which I wrote. That didn’t stop the bank from making good on them, so all of a sudden I’m down $7225. The production account is nearly zeroed out, and the worst part of it all is this: of the $7225 stolen, almost none of it is really mine. In fact, the day before I just sent out a dozen or so checks in the mail — all to the talent I shot over the last 5 days.

The first thing I did was scream…almost as loud as I did a few months ago when I sharted all over myself.

Then I logged into my bank’s web site, doubled checked to see if what I saw was really true, and when my heart dropped all the way out of my chest like yours does when something really shitty happens, I screamed again.

Then, I looked at the pictures of the fraudulent checks. Both made out to the same person, who, I’m sure, didn’t actually cash them. I Googled her name, and guess what? She’s a model in Los Angeles, and the first link Google lists is her Model Mayhem account.

She’s not even a Porno Princess — not even close: Maxim, reality TV shows…Big Time shit. And her e-mail is listed in the Model Mayhem profile.

So I e-mailed her: My name is Billy Watson. I live in Los Angeles. I am a photographer.

Two days ago someone using your name cashed two checks totaling a little over $7000 from my checking account!

Now, either you’re the dumbest thief in the world (highly unlikely) or someone has either stolen your ID’s and did this, or stolen your whole identity to pull this off, and you may know your identity’s been stolen, or you may not.

Fun, huh?

Imagine my shock. When I saw the two checks were made out to you, the first thing I did was call my banker and let him know what was going on…and then I Googled your name. First link is your Model Mayhem page…with your e-mail address on it.

Just so you know, I’m not accusing you of this at all. I’m just trying to figure out what happened, and to let you know you might have had your ID’s stolen, or perhaps your identity…which we both know is NOT a fun thing to endure. And, like I said, you might not even know yet.

If you wanna get a hold of me, I can be reached at [no, you don’t get to see my phone number]. Or you can just e-mail me back.

Sorry I had to drop this bomb on you…but my feeling is it might end up helping you, especially if you’re unaware of this, which, I believe, is the case.

Less than 120 seconds later my phone rang. It was The Model. She was super friendly, and thankful I e-mailed her, cause — sure enough — she just had her driver’s license and her bank card stolen at a Hollywood Club.

The Model sounded hot as shit, too. Even hotter than the pics in her Model Mayhem profile. After about 10 minutes, she asked me who I shot for, and I straight up told her I’m a pornographer. She laughed about it, and we agreed to keep each others’ phone numbers and e-mails…just in case.

I went to the bank the Thursday to fill out all sorts of papers and have the bank interview me. I still have to go to the police station with copies of the checks, my credit report, and the bank statement showing the checks clearing. Then file a police report.

If I’m lucky, I’ll see the money back in 10 business days, although the lady at the bank said it could take up to 90 days.

I gave her a long stare and asked, “How am I gonna pay out the people I owe money? And make my payroll? So I can make my car payment?”

She shrugged her shoulders and said, “you could take out a personal loan.”

I didn’t say a word. I wanted to yell a whole bunch, but that’s the Old Billy. The New & Improved Billy Watson doesn’t fly off the handle so quickly.

I’m just hoping I’ll need to call to The Model again…just to make sure everything’s OK with her.