Did you catch my Proxy Paige piss story?

Well, here’s a po-po story.

No, I don’t mean poo-poo, but I could blog about Proxy Paige and poo-poo, cause last night we hung out and watched Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom. I bought it when Criterion re-released it recently, but I haven’t found the right time to watch it. What a perfect time to watch a movie like Salò during a Porno Princess Slumber Party!

I kinda knew what was going on in it, but I had no idea of the exact scope of its depravity, perversion, and overall foulness.

Have you seen this flick? You mighta heard about it…but damn. Like I said, I knew about it, and its notoriety, and the fact that it’s one of Sasha Gray’s favorites, but, to be honest…it’s off the chart. And the poo-poo eating was too much for me, and I was super tired when I started it so I kinda fell asleep, which is a dumb thing to do when a movie is sub-titled. You can kinda fake it if you know the language, but since I can’t speak Italian, I was out of luck.

Anyways, this is a Po-Po Story, as in the po-lice; cause, this morning, Proxy was following me to the studio in her car, cause she likes watching porno being filmed, and she had nothing to do today, so I told her to come watch me work. Anyways, on the way to the studio, I rolled a stop sign big time. I knew what I was doing as I did it, and the next thing I know it’s the Po-Po, and they’ve pulled me over.

My lawyer once told me the best way to deal with the cops when you get pulled over is it immediately admit what you did and don’t deny. In a friendly, respectful way. Which is exactly what I did.

“Boy did I fuck that one up or what Officer? I’m sorry. I can’t believe I just rolled through that stop sign.”

The cop looked at me kinda incredulously and said, “Yes you did. I need to see your license.”

I handed it over, and since it’s out of state, before it was even in his hands I said, “I live in Arizona and work here. I have to.”

There’s a reason I told him this, and I’d like to credit Wesley Pipes right now. Wesley Pipes is the most dangerous man in porn. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. He’s a very dangerous man. And he gets pulled over a lot. He’s told me this. I mean about getting pulled over. I know he’s dangerous, too, cause he’s spent some very hard time in the Pen. He told me about that as well.

“What do you do when you get pulled over, Wesley?”

“I tell them I’m porno, man. It’s just that simple, Billy. Shit man, I tell them I’m porno and then I hand them one of my DVDs.”

“You keep DVD’s your the car?”

“Fuck ya, man. I have them right on the passenger side seat. I hand them one of my DVD’s with me on the cover and show ’em it’s me and they let me go.”

“This works?

“Every motherfuckin’ time my man.”

So…I tell the cop I live in Arizona and I work in Los Angeles cause it’s legal to do what I do here, and it’s not legal in Arizona.

The cop asked, “What exactly do you do? And why did that woman pull over behind you?” He looked back and eyed Proxy and looked back at me.

“I make dirty movies for a living. She’s a porn star and we’re on our way to shoot some smut.”

The cop smiled. He looked back at Proxy.

Proxy waved and smiled at him.

The cop looked at me. “What company do you work for?” he asked.

“Well, you really wouldn’t know the name of my company, cause I made it sound normal. Totally non-porno. But you might know the name of some of the websites.”

The cop looked at me. “Name some of them, please.”

“Well, Blacks on Blondes is about the biggest one out there. I also shoot for The Dick Suckers, Manojob, and Mr. POV.” I added mine just for the shameless plug.

“Where’s your studio?”

This made me kinda nervous, but, using my best poker face, I told him.

Silence.

The cop looked back at Proxy — who smiled and waved once more — and then at my license. He looked back up at me, handed it back, and told me to have a great day. He didn’t want to see my registration — or my insurance. And even though I’ve never been in trouble in my life, I’ve never had a cop tell me have a great day.

Next time I’m going to carry a few of my DVD’s, right on the passenger side seat…just in case.

They pulled into my studio around 9pm, beat and weary. I think one of them said, “L.A.’s our fiftieth stop.”

Fiftieth.

As in fiddy.

Just the thought of spending 50 days in a van with four other dudes for 23 hours a day — just so you can jump out and spend an hour on stage — made me feel gross.

They looked kinda gross, too.

But that’s the price to pay to be in a band.

I asked them, “you guys hate each other yet?” To my surprise, they all said no.

My little bro introduced me to The Lead Singer; he knew The Lead Singer from the indie music scene around my old Arizona neighborhood. We approached him a while back to write a song for No Way Am I Gay. Then he approached me to make their first music video.

“What show was best so far?” I asked The Singer.

“Brooklyn,” he said. “Cause I got drunk and laid.”

I asked, “Did you catch his name?”

We all laughed. And it might have been The Guitarist — or maybe The Drummer — who said, “tell him about The Blumkin.”

Maybe The Bass Player said it. I don’t recall. But The Singer told me he was pooping after a gig and there were people in the bathroom and The Guitarist blew him mid-turd as the crowd watched in disbelief.

I think that’s how the story went.

Of course I screamed, “No way!”

There were laughing hard. I said, “That’s a joke, right?’

I don’t think it was.

They were in LA for three or four days. “I hope you guys don’t mind sleeping on porno furniture. I mean my PA cleans it, and I generally don’t have the guys pop on the furniture. It’s always on the girls, and it’s always when they’re on their knees, over here,” and I pointed to the middle of the floor. “I guess what I’m trying to say is…if I were you, I wouldn’t sleep on the floor. There’s a whole lotta dried-up DNA on that floor.”

One of them said, “We don’t mind.”

For the next few days I went about my business — making smut.

The Band hung out and watched The Smut Show. That’s when I started thinking about how I could hire The Band, cause indie bands making the rounds are always hurting for money. They told me they played one night for $8 — after their bar tab was paid. Since there’s 4 of them and a tour manager, they pocketed a whopping $1.60 for the night.

Plus beer.

I had a way for them to pocket a little cash; they were down.

I booked Jessi Stone for Blacks on Blondes — a two-on-one. You know I’ve professed my love for Jessi Stone more than once.

While she sat in make-up I dreamnt up another cheezy porno scenario…one which would put The Band in a little more than beer money.

That’s when I do it, by the way. Dream up cheezy porno scenarios. How fucking funny is it that people write porno scripts and spend money and time and effort dreaming up shit people are going to ignore? Oh sure, there’s a few twisted fucks who will follow a porno story line…but come on.

Really?

I like to massage the Porno Princess’s shoulders when they’re in the make-up chair. It’s also when I spring my pervy, creepy, wholly inappropriate porno scenarios on them. “So here’s what I’m thinking,” I told Jessi. “You’re at a small party. It’s you and the band. Let’s have The Guitarist be your boyfriend. Act bored the whole time. And you’ve invited 2 of your new friends to join this small party — Hooks and Skeeter. You spring this on them right as the black guys walk in. Oh, and when they walk in, act like it’s Christmas Morning. After you introduce everyone, tell Hooks and Skeeter you’re bored, and this is a boring party, cause you’re with boring guys, and you want to take them a big party. Everyone stands up to go to this big party, but you tell the white boys they’re not invited to a big party…cause they’re small. Then, you go to the next room and fuck so the small party can hear what’s going on in the big party. At the end of your big party, come back to the small party and give your boyfriend a kiss for letting you go to the big party.”

And so it came to be.

Oh…and I’d like to add that the finale of Jessi’s Big Party was as big and messy as any party I’ve ever caught on camera. And while I’m talking about finales, Jessi is no longer in the Porno Game. Dr. Phil rescued her from our Evil World with a 4 year scholarship to college.

I’m fucking serious.

There’s something wrong with me.

Really, there is.

Maybe you know this already.

Example: I had Proxy Paige in the studio last week to shoot a scene for Manojob. She’s the new gal on the block. One of many. Lately, it seems, there’s a ton of heets coming to Porno Land, and Proxy’s just one. (Wait til you get a load of her real-life roomie Lilly LaBeau).

Proxy struts into my studio, and my wiener is stiff from the get-go. She’s really cute n’ bubbly. She’s all smiles n’ giggles. She’s sweet n’ sassy.

I have no idea what’s up with the “n’s” — but I have noticed them a lot lately in a ton of different marketing campaigns: Suds n’ Duds, Mike n’ Ike, Stop n’ Go.

After, say, 10 minutes I tell Proxy, “I really like you, so better watch out, cause I might get all Pervy n’ Creepy.”

“I like pervs. I used to work at a porn shop.”

Turns out Proxy’s from my neck of the woods: Arizona. Specifically, Scottsdale AZ. And the store she used to work at — Zorba’s — has been in the same place since, like, 1976. When I was in high school all my jock buddies would jump into a truck and, wasted on whatever we could get our hands on, would crash the place late nights and hit the movie booths.

Drop a few tokens into the slot n’ howl.

No, it wasn’t a circle jerk. But there were always fags cruising the place.

No random hate crimes either. We’d just laugh at them and make stupid, loud comments until management tossed us out.

I dunno what we woulda done if Proxy Paige asked us to leave.

I did know what do to when Proxy (while waiting to get her make-up done) told me she loved things up her butt.

“May I stick my finger up it?” I asked.

Proxy pulled her panties down, told me to stick my finger out, and then she backed up on it. It slid right in, and her butt hole was warm n’ fuzzy and it felt as good as I’d imagine the inside of her vagina would feel. She giggled, and then she took a few steps forward.

My finger was clean as a whistle. And it smelled like Easter. Tasted even better.

After we shot her scene, Proxy said, “I gotta go pee.”

“Right here,” I replied, and pointed to my mouth.

Proxy smiled. She said something like, “are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

About this time Steve Steele and his crew march in. They’re gonna make another porno masterpiece. I make Niceties and grab Proxy by the arm and march her into the bathroom. I peel off my clothes. I lay on my back. Proxy squats over my mouth and unleashes a mighty stream of piss.

I jerk like a monkey in the zoo.

What’s wrong with me?

Wait a sec…didn’t I ask you that once already?

I mean clinically, of course. So I Google “aroused by urine” and I find Facts about why we should kills fags. On this informative site, I discover “29% of fags engage in urine sex (“golden showers”)”. I also find the term “Urophilia” which I knew about before I went there.

So I Google “Urophilia” and the first hit takes me to The Depression Guide.

The Depression Guide? WTF?

I’m not depressed. I mean I have good days and bad days — just like you. But “depressed”? Cause I’m laying on the bathroom floor, and Proxy Paige is squatting over me, and she’s laughing hysterically?

What part of that do you find depressing? Cause I can’t find a hint of anything even remotely close to it.

And, according to this “Depression Guide”, I have “a mental and behavioral problem and caused due to neurological problem or brain dysfuction.” In addition, a “yellow hanky is the indication of urophilia in gay people.” And, finally, “Pharmacological medicines and psychotherapies are effective to control urophilia.”

I’d like to add right now my urophilia isn’t out of control. Not by a long shot.

I don’t buy anything this fucking Depression Guide has to offer, so I poke around Google some more and discover, “Shirley Manson, lead singer of the popular rock band Garbage, was quoted in an interview as saying ‘I hate boys who are frightened of pee and shit and menstrual blood… I want a man who will let me pee in his belly button’. The Garbage song When I Grow Up contains the lyrics “Happy Hours/Golden Showers”.

Well. Now I feel better.

As I’m banging this out, my family are in the next room. It’s Post-Thanksgiving. I’m trying to be social with them; in addition, Slut X is chatting me up on Yahoo’s IM. Slut X asks me, “what are you bloggin?”

“About the time Proxy Paige pee’d in my mouth,” I replied.

She said, “Ew! Pee doesn’t belong there!”

“Depends on who you ask.”

Cause, after all, happy hours mean golden showers.

I’m shooting a Manojob scene with Ginger Lee. Ginger’s great. I should write a blog about her: she’s a Southern Belle, she’s blonde and petite…and she’s a total heet.

Uh huh that rhymed.

She likes being in the sex biz and she’s great to work with. She has no problem taking a load to the face. She showed up for her scene on time, and everything went well.

But that’s no fun to read about…right?

And since my blog is nothin’ but fun, I’ll change it up. Soon.

Anyways, I wrap the scene. I give Ginger the elbow-tap for job-well-done. (The elbow-tap is Porno Speak; it’s kinda equivalent to a knuckle-tap…which is kinda the equivalent to a handshake. You certainly don’t wanna shake the hand of a Porno Princess when it’s covered in lube — or the deadly combo of lube and jizz. You don’t even wanna knuckle-tap that shit; hence, the elbow-tap).

I walk into my office…and I walk into a crowd of people. This never happens, and, for a second, I’m taken back. I look at The Minion, who looks at me, and he’s as uncertain about this as I am. My immediate reaction is to yell: first at The Minion, for letting this crew into my space without asking me…and then at the crew…just cause.

I refrained, cause you remember what happened last time, right? If not, the last time I yelled at The Minion he walked, and I don’t blame him. No one really deserves to be yelled at. I’ve started checking myself before I blow my top. It’s working.

So I ask The Minion in my very-best effort of a calm voice, “Dude, what’s up here?”

He answered equally as calming: “It’s your talent for the next scene.”

I take a second look. Two women are setting up a table and prepping food; there’s also an LMT working a and naked woman on her table; yet another is working on wigs. She’s got like 6 Styrofoam heads on another table and she’s combing wigs. The boss is this dude dressed kinda like one of Malcom X’s crew — circa ’66.

I take this all in.

I look at The Minion.

The Minion looks at me.

I started to laugh. So did The Minion. I told The Minion, under my breath, “dude. Grab the camera. This is fucking classic.”

You gotta understand this: Porno Princess is here to do a $400 scene. It’s a BJ scene with a quickie. She’s almost an unknown. No, wait. She is an unknown. A total no-namer. This ain’t no Vivid contract girl. This ain’t even A Name Girl. And here she is with a crew that Jenna Jameson wouldn’t even travel with.

The Man In Charge walked up to me and introduced himself. He’s Porno Princess’s manager. “Greetings and blessings. I’m her personal manager, and we are here to make sure everything goes as planned.” He smiles a lot, and he says “greetings and blessings” a lot, or just “blessings”. He nods his head, and he puts his hands together as in prayer as he speaks.

I get the feeling he’s one of the biggest frauds I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering in my entire life.

Oh, I didn’t even mention this: in addition, the chef has a PA, and The Man in Charge has a PA, too. Porno Princess is the one on the table, getting a rub down before her scene. The chef is dressed like a chef, with a floppy white chef hat, and she has a small portable burner.

The Chef diced up tomatoes and fruit.

The LMT rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.

The Wig Lady combed a whole bunch.

And sure I’m laughing with The Minion, but all this has me worried, too. Big time. If they’re treating this no-name Porno Princess like this, I know she’s gonna be a handful when I get her on to the glory hole.

Sure enough, she’s a colossal bitch. Her feet hurt. She needs to sit down. Her back hurts. She needs to stand up. Her legs hurt. She needs to bend her legs. Her knees hurt. She needs to stand up and shake them out. She can’t kneel. She can’t fuck through the hole. She won’t swallow. She doesn’t like cum on her face. She can’t have cum shot into or anywhere near her mother fuckin’ wig.

But I’m a new man, remember? I’m the New Billy Watson. I keep my cool. I don’t blow. I don’t yell. I just call The Man In Charge from my cell. “Um, bro, we got a problem.”

I go through the problems.

He replies, “no problem, Billy. Just assert some control over her. Do not allow her to talk back. If she needs to be put in her place, do it. It’s your scene. You’re in charge. She’ll listen to you…just be (long pause) assertive. You know what I mean?”

I smile. I’m dealing with a pimp, and he just confirmed it. I wanted to ask him where all his greetings and blessing went, but I didn’t. I walked back to set and just rolled camera. Cool as a fuckin’ cucumber…just cause you can always count on a pornographer for clichès.

When the load came through the hole, I thought she was gonna hurl. This, of course, makes for great porn.

We left the bathroom and jumped into the van and headed back to the studio.

All I can think of as I’m driving back is another day, another dollar…and another story for my blog.

A $400 scene.

7 people.

If my math is right, they made $57.15 a piece — if they split it all.

My hunch, though, is The Pimp took his $400, plus his $50 agent fee — and he’ll buy all his whores dinner at Sizzler.

After he fills up his gas tank.

No, wait…Shakey’s. Not The Siz’. The all you can eat buffet at Shakey’s.

Cause it’s way more cost effective.

Cause that’s how Pimps roll, yo.

Master Tom called. He has a studio a few blocks from mine. Master Tom shoots all sorts of debauchery: straight porno to gay porno to chicks with dicks. I’ve known Master Tom for years now; the first time I met him I had Spring Thomas in tow. We had to shoot a Spring Thomas cuckold movie, and not only did we use his studio to shoot it, but Master Tom was nice enough to offer up one of his slaves to play The Cuckold.

After we caught up a bit, Master Tom said, “I’ve got a problem. I really need to ask a huge favor. I’m shooting a bi movie, and my guy can’t get his dick hard. I’m gonna have to jump in to the scene. Can you shoot it for me?”

“What’s the name of the movie?” I asked. I asked cause I knew it would crack me up.

“Before You Fuck My Wife You Have To Fuck Me.”

I cracked up. “How much of a jam are you in? Cause I don’t shoot for anyone.”

“Dude, I know, but if I don’t get this in the can, I’ve got all sorts of problems.”

Then I asked the question that would make my decision: “Who’s the girl?”

Master Tom said The Magic Words: “Jessi Stone.”

“Jessi Stone?” I asked.

“Jessi Stone,” he said.

“Jessi Stone?” I asked again.

“Jessi Stone,” he said again.

I had to say it one more time: “Jessi Stone!”

“Dude, are you a retard?”

Jessi Stone. Jessi Stone. Jessi Stone!

I hauled ass to Master Tom’s. I knew what I was getting myself into, too…I was gonna shoot a dude banging another dude. This really doesn’t bother me. And no…No Way Am I Gay. I’m just desensitized to sex. Which doesn’t mean I don’t love sex — cause I do. It doesn’t mean I can’t get off — cause I do.

It does mean I’m way more twisted than I was before I got into this gig. For example, I’ll enjoy a nice golden shower from time to time. It’s OK if a girl sticks a finger up my butt, too. I kinda like that, actually.

No Way Am I Gay.

When I walked in to Master Tom’s, there was Jessi — wrapped in a fluffy white Terri-cloth robe and looking as sweet as the last time I shot her, which was for The Dick Suckers.com. I gave her a big hug and said something stupid like, “let’s go to Vegas and get married!”

Master Tom works a boom mic, but other than that everything else is pretty much the same as my set up. I don’t even know what I’m bringing this up, other than I don’t like to shoot with other peoples’ equipment, and I had to wear these silly headphones, and there’s a lot of times I want to beef up my blogs and give them a bit of substance, so I’ll just ramble on about something that doesn’t mean much at all. I’m sure you’ve done that sort of thing, too; for example, in your English class you probably wrote a bunch of shit that didn’t really mean a whole lot of anything just to make sure you hit whatever page limit your teacher assigned.

Which is another way of saying the world is filled with 5 page essays that really should have been 3 page essays.

Jessi liked watching two men fuck and suck. I liked Jessi watching the men have sex. She liked it so much there were times I tried to get her attention without interrupting the scene by waving in the air in order to get her do to something — like spreading her hubby’s ass wide while Master Tom banged him — but Jessi was way too focused on the Man Sex to notice me doing anything at all.

There were two great parts to the scene: first, when Master Tom rolled his condom off after fucking the dude, he tossed it on the floor…but, in an afterthought, he picked it up and popped it into the dude’s mouth and told him to chew it like it was his favorite bubble gum.

I shall steal that line next time I shoot Cuckold Sessions.

And for the pop shot, Jessi strapped on a big dildo and made her hubby ride it like a bitch…while Master Tom jerked all over his face. Master Tom blew a big load, too, and Jessi looked up at Jizz-Faced Hubby and said, “welcome to my world!”

What could I possibly do after such a performance but ask Jessi to an LA Kings game?

She accepted.

I was excited.

Two days later she was at my studio shooting for the world famous Manojob. Before the shoot I asked her if she brought something warm to wear, cause it’s cold cold cold at hockey games.

“Oh…um, I don’t think I can go. I’m going to a haunted house tonight with Vanessa Naughty and I don’t want to stand her up!”

I wanted to say something like, “wait a sec! I asked you out first!” — but I knew that would get me nowhere…besides, I think it’s time I stopped asking teenage girls out on dates.

Or, as Adrianna Nicole once told me, time to start dating age-appropriately.

I would, too…it’s just that anyone my age isn’t too much fun anymore.

Including me.