Category Archives: Current Events

Gone Fishin’

Gone Fishin'

Before I sign off, I wanna wish you a Happy New Year! Here’s to an awesome, profitable, sexy, drama-free, healthy, happy, safe, fun, orgasmic, funky, you-can-make-it-rain 013!

And by “sign off”, I mean I’m all done with the blogging. I really don’t have much more to say here. Sure, I can tell you some fucked up story about a Porno Princess and her antics. Or how Stunt Cock did something stupid. Or smart. Shit, I’ve got two posts 1/2 done; one about an old Porno Princess pal who’s homeless and a junkie…I helped her out for a while, including helping her drive around Porn Valley to score Roxies (as LAPD cruised by to surprise us as the transaction finally went down). I also had a Best of 2012 blog that I couldn’t finish…and being unable to finish both — in addition to not really writing anything in a while — I’ve decided to call it a day.

I’ll still update my YouTube Channel…at least til that gets boring.

And while I’m done blogging about porno, I’m not done writing about it. Or making it.

Maybe it’s time I try and write a book? In the meantime, use the blog’s search function and type in things like Barbie Cummings or Spring Thomas or poke around the right hand column under “archives” or check out my site or follow me on Twitter. There’s seven years worth of blogging, and I’m sure you’ll find something you’ll like.

Or hate.

Thanks to my readers. Thanks to my fans. Thanks to my haters. Thanks to each and every Porno Princess who either made me sad or happy, or drove me wild or nuts or to orgasm…or to get my morning coffee.

In other words, thanks for being one of the subjects I wrote about.

Your pal — Billy Watson

Today’s Guest Blogger: Fucktard — and Where He Was on 9/11.

sadie west interracial porn

From time to time I have guests blog whatever it is they feel like blogging. I will not tell them what to blog; I won’t edit it; I won’t influence the Guest Blogger in any way.

However, I’m lying today, as I did edit this one…but only as far as some punctuation and paragraph structure in order to make it easier to read.

Every day I check my comments. I’m really interested in hearing what you guys have to say. I have some great readers. So I go into see what comments I have today, and I have one — just one — and I it’s good. A really good comment. Good enough to be a blog. So I made it one.

Oh, and finally, Fucktard ended his comment with the following: Well Billy, where were you? Have you been privy to any porno princess accounts of the day that you can recount?

I was teaching that terrible day, although it wouldn’t be anything on the official curriculum; instead, we just talked about what was happening, and why we thought it was happening, and what the potential repercussions might be. And as far as porno princess accounts — most I shoot weren’t adults by then. They were almost all in school (most elementary school), so they don’t have much to say…and if they do, it’s not that interesting.

Nothing as interesting as Fucktard, who writes:

I came to your blog expecting a post regarding your account of 9/11. You know everybody has one, I was here and doing this or that. From reading your blog so far, I dont think you were whore mongering yet but would like to read your account just the same. It would also be really interesting to see a prono princess account of the day. My twisted mind has the opening sentence going something like this, ”So I was being double penetrated by two large black men when someone announced on the set and that plane had flown into the World Trade Center.”

Well not to give to much about myself away, I will share this: In my younger days I sold pot. Lots of pot. Hundreds of pounds at a time. Like with anything good there is a bad side. The bad side of this was federal prison. So I was in federal prison 9/11/01, and this is my account.

I was having a cig outside the kitchen at the USP Atlanta with my good friend Billy when the cheering started. At first it was just a few cheers from D Unit, then it spread across the whole prison — a very loud boisterous celebration. You see in prison there is a huge racial divide; Atlanta was 87% African American at that time, and of those, 60% were proud members of NOI (Nation Of Islam). The only thing a NOI follower hates more than other races would be the United States government. To them, it was a great moment; they were in a frenzy of celebration as if they themselves were carrying out the attack on the USA. Most of the non-Muslim inmates had made there way to the TV Room in A Unit and were watching the horror unfold on the 19″ television, while waves of cheers “down with America” reverberated through the large airy cell blocks.

I was standing next to a older man in his late 40′s (a cocaine trafficker from the 80′s who had been incarcerated over 20 years). He was a large man who took very good care of himself and was considered by many a role model for how one should behave in order to survive. He looked around the room at the 100 or so of us standing there and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Are we going to sit back and let these animals cheer while our country is under attack?” The call went through the ranks: “arm yourselves!” There was a sense of great pride as we assembled in mass to battle with those who would celebrate the attack on our country.

In prison (at least the one I was in) they have few rules. For the most part the animals run free. As long as the CO’s (correction officers) are left alone, they let pretty much anything go. But they make it clear if for any reason the lockdown is sounded — and you do not go to your cell and lay face down in your rack with your arms across your back — they will most decidedly beat you to death. That is when lockdown is sounded the SORT (Special operation reaction team) assembles in a matter of minuets and storm the cell blocks restoring order and dealing deadly blows to anyone who dare not comply. It was the only time I had ever heard the call for lock down; it’s not something that happens often. The last time it had happened in Atlanta was 1987; to my knowledge, it has not sounded since 9/11/01.

The group I was with stood motionless as the prison went completely silent. It was the strangest thing I had ever heard. The one thing about prison is the noise. It is always loud. You never get a moment of silence in prison, never. But for the first time while I was there you could hear a pin drop — other than the call of LOCKDOWN LOCKDOWN over the public address. We waited to see what would transpire. Would people go to their cells, or would it be a full scale prison riot? What took only minuets seemed to be hours, as first a trickle of people — then large groups — started back to their respective cell blocks. I among them.

As I lay on my rack face down hands across the small of my back, I remember the quiet…then the sound of the SORT team entering my cell block. I can remember thinking how precise they sounded, how professional, as they went about their task. They removed the leaders of the NOI, and those who were most violent, as well as anyone of middle eastern decent. We remained on lockdown for the rest of the day and through the evening.

They confined us to our cells but let groups go to eat. For the next several days we were not allowed out of the cell block to the yard and ate in small groups that could be contained easily. I think it was two days before we were allowed back in the prison yard. The thing I most remember was that there were no airplanes flying. The prison is near Atlanta International airport and jets passed over countless times a day. I haven’t thought of my experience in years, but for some reason it was fresh in my mind this morning.

I am not proud of my days in prison and would rather people not know that I was once incarcerated. I don’t mind owning my past, but I would rather not advertise it…unless it’s on a porn blog. Then it should be totally acceptable.

The Flea Market in Me.

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

Oh, and the ability to shoot a load. I still cum, mind you…but the days of bouncing that wad off the back of my chick’s head whilst hittin’ it doggy came to an abrupt halt in 2004, yo. Now I’m lucky to launch one over her butt.

My latest obsession are old photos. Anything from, say, 1930 to 1970. So much so I’ll stand over a box of them at a flea market for hours, picking through the thousands of shitty ones for A Score. I’ll sift through all the stupid baby pictures, the crummy portraits, the family-standing-in-front-of-the-new car shots, the presents-under-the-Christmas tree muck, through all the birthday parties and weddings to find that one shot of say, the drag race from 1954. Or the perfectly composed shot of some street musician holding his accordion from that same time. People playing sports, kids playing with obsolete toys, the man in black face crooning the lovely young debutants at the cotillion…you get the idea.

And the weirder the better: a ventriloquist’s dummy with a baby in a carriage; the all-negro, six-man boxing battle royale, a large group of people in someone’s back yard, huddled around their deceased love one in an home-made open casket.

Or the very nice lipstick lesbian I’m showing you now, smoking in bed, reading a copy of Nancy Morgan’s lesbian pulp fiction City of Women. Published in 1952, it tells a lurid Sapphic tale: “a hundred young women came to paradise and a hundred young angels fell.” She’s smoking in a cheap room on a hot night, and the bull dyke who took that picture is about to walk over and peel that little outfit off her and perform the lesbian equivalent of bouncing a load off the back of her head.

At least that’s what I’d like to think. Which is why I like these weird old pictures so much. I catch myself trying to imagine what it’s like living in these pictures.

Anyways, I went to New York City last month, only cause it’s the greatest city on Earth, and I hit a couple fleas down near 26th and Broadway. There’s a good one in a blue parking garage, and in all that August heat and humidity I stood over piles of pictures and picked and sweated my ass off.

And here’s what I’ve learned with the dudes who have the boxes of shitty pics: whoever owns them is too lazy to do what I’m doing, but a lot of times they know old pictures, so when I pull a winner, Dude will pull it from my hand, scrutinize it for a long second, look at me and say something absurd like, “twenty bucks.”

“Are you serious?! You didn’t even know it was in there. I’ll give you three.”

Sometimes they won’t even dignify my offer a counter; other times they will. It’s part of the game.

Then there’s the dealers. No junkie pics to wade though. Tons of amazing stuff…but nothing’s cheap. They’re not piled in boxes, either; instead, pictures are categorized and some even slipped into protective sleeves. And they’ll always ask once you start in, “Whacha looking for?”

To which I respond, “Anything weird and unusual. Cheesecake stuff from the 40’s and 50’s. Bettie Page obviously. Kids in halloween costumes. Race cars and boxers. Anything sporty, really.”



“I don’t have much of the cheesecake stuff, but I do have some of the hardcore nasty stuff…if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

To which I responded, “Nope. I do that for a living, so that’s really the last thing I wanna collect.”

I’m to the point now where I tell people what I do for a living, cause I no longer give a shit what anyone thinks. I really don’t. I used to, and back then when anyone asked, I’d say “web design” or “back end coding” or “web sales” or something equally dumb. Now when they pop the question, my standard reply is, “I make dirty movies.”

Which totally piqued Dealer’s interest. “Oh yea! What kind?”

“Internet stuff,” I shrugged, making it obvious I didn’t really want to delve any deeper.

“Gay or straight?”

Before too long, I was delving deeper, mainly cause it might get me some cheaper prices. Cause this Dealer had some serious shit. Really good photos. “Sure you’re not into military? Here’s Hitler getting out of his limo, taken by his personal valet.”

Yes, no Hitler for me thanks. But he had tons of cool stuff, and I quizzed him on a bunch, and we talked about Bettie Page and Irvin Klaw and he could tell I was serious, cause all of a sudden he says, “wanna see something really rare? Something you’ll probably never see again.”

Oh boy. I’m wasn’t too sure if I was gonna like where he was about to take me, so I said, “as long as it’s legal.”

“They’re legal now, but not when the pictures were taken. And if you possessed them, or produced them, or were in them, it was a for-sure death sentence. As in they’d put you against a wall and shoot you, and probably without any sort of trial.”

Quite possibly the best closing statements I’ve ever heard in my life by any sort of salesman. I didn’t care what they were, but as long as they were legal to possess, I certainly wanted to see them…and, I’m sure, buy a few, too. But they weren’t for sale — not at any price (I tried) — and they lived up to his hype. I won’t even make you guess what they were; I’m just gonna tell you.

Gay Nazis.

Nazi homoerotic images.

Nazi fags.

I didn’t think such a thing existed, and I suppose he was 100% correct — if I was a Nazi in, say, the mid-to-late 1930’s (when these were taken) and I got caught by an officer with these in my ruck sack, I’m sure said officer woulda put a bullet in my head on the spot. Or maybe waited til he had an audience to do it.

Let me say this again, in case it didn’t sink in. Dealer had pictures of Nazi fags in full uniform (and some not) doing all sorts of queer things: two Nazis, one sitting in the others’ lap, both facing each other with their hand up their flys. How about the “injured” Nazi, laying face-down in the field, pants pulled down to his ankles, getting a bare-assed butt rub from his comrade with the ear-to-ear smile on his face? Kissing Nazis! And the best might have been the shot of 7 or 8 Nazis in a barrock’s bathroom, clad only in jock straps (with daggers tucked in straps), giving the “Hail victory!” salute.

My jaw dropped. “How much…seriously?” I pleaded.

He stood firm. Not for sale. “I’m trying to get enough to make a book. But so far I’ve only need able to secure a couple dozen. They’re so rare. I’ve got a guy in Berlin who manages to find one every four or five years. Another scout in Amsterdam who looks for them, too. So far he’s been able to find a couple.”

“Can I take a picture of this one with my cell phone,” I asked. I held up the jock strap Sig Heil picture. “Cause if I don’t get a picture of one of these, no one’s gonna believe this.”

“Can’t, sorry. I really keep these kinda tucked away, if you know what I mean.”

“But I really want something good. See, I got a blog, and it’s a blog about my business, and I guess you could call it a sex blog, too, cause, um…I try and talk about this sort of stuff, too!” He could tell I was desperate for my homoerotic Nazi fix, but his no was final.

“Hmmm. Got anything else I could show my readers as demented as a Nazi fag?” I asked.

And that’s when he handed me the picture of the three nuns.

Veruca James


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The money, that is.

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

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

Soon, AIM was shut down.

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

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

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

CET does not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Control the traffic.

Control the content.

Control the information.

Rule the multi-billion dollar smut industry!

But what do I know?

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

Cause I sure do.

The Girl in the Panda Mask (and other stories).

Penny Brooks in a Panda Mask

I’ve been making time to practice photography. There’s times I’m super gung-ho about it, and other times I think it’s just a waste of time. These days everyone’s a photographer; yet, making pictures is a great creative outlet, cause I’ve got a very short attention span, and the time it takes me to toss a mask on a Porno Princess, have her do something silly, snap it, fix it in post then print it out, takes almost all the energy I’ve got left after a day of making smut.

Goldie Loxxx smokes

I’ve tried to smoke three different times in my life, the first during the 8th grade. We discovered an empty pool in the backyard of a neighborhood house that was up for sale, and after hopping the fence and attempting to skate it, someone pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. Who’s the coolest in the pool? Not Billy Watson. A few years later, I returned to Chicago (where I grew up) to visit two of my very earliest childhood friends, Peter and Pino (say Pee-no). A reunion of sorts. Peter became my best friend in kindergarten, and we remained pals til my family picked up and moved to Arizona five years later. Peter and Pino were brothers, and their dad had figured out a way to escape the Iron Curtain to come to America and put himself through med school. He was an anesthesiologist. By now we were sophomores in high school, and since I’d seen them last, Peter and Pino got rich. Super rich. And both smoked like they were on fire. Minutes into our happy reunion, Pino was shoving a cig in my face and lighting it. Who’s the coolest at the reunion? Not Billy Watson. Then, a few years later, I drove out to Los Angeles to watch the Summer Games. Me and Biff, my very best pal in high school. Oh, the summer of 1984! Zen Arcade, The Los Angeles Olympics, Double Nickels on the Dime, no one would even imagine Michael Jackson was a gay pedophile, Meat Puppets II, and Djarum cloves. Who’s the coolest in the summer of ’84? Not me.

Alysha Rylee

I’ve never really paid attention to Nada Surf, but their new record — The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy — is kinda fun. Matthew Sweet-y (when he was good) with lots of catchy hooks and smart lyrics. You may wanna take some time out of your busy day and check it. Same with M83’s Hurry Up We’re Dreaming, Matt Pryor’s May Day, and anything on Portland, Oregon’s Mississippi Records label. Anything.

Casey Cumz and Pressley Carter

Porn Girls, by nature, are narcissists. Which isn’t to say all Porn Girls are egomaniacal, but almost every one I’ve ever met is. They love their own image, and will capture it at all costs, whenever they can. No matter how (un)flattering the image will be. And when they’re not taking pictures of themselves, they’re spewing (mostly inane) information about themselves (or what they’re thinking) on Twitter…with the sole purpose of gaining more attention (and self-worth) via the number of people following them.

Casey Cumz and Pressley Carter

The thing that drives me nuts the most as a pornographer? The Wait. Waiting for Porno Princess to show. Waiting for her to get out of the bathroom. Waiting for make-up. Waiting for the end of the cigarette. Waiting for Stunt Cock to show. Waiting til they’re done with their blunt. Waiting for Stunt Cock to get wood. Waiting for Stunt Cock to pop.

The Wait.

David C. Nolan: The World’s Greatest Pervert?

David C. Nolan vintage smut
I love the history of my business, and that’s a big part of why I collect vintage smut. But I’ve always been a collector, even when I was a kid. I think I’ve talked about this a little, but the very first thing I collected was comic books. Then beer cans. Then records. Then books. Then vintage smut. Now art…and books…and records…and vintage smut. So, before I blab blab blab about the mysterious pervert David C. Nolan and his immense collection o’ porn, I wanna talk about PiL’s Metal Box.

I’m finally paying attention to Metal Box, even though I’ve known about it for almost 30 years. When I was in high school, I walked into one of my favorite record stores, and on the new-arrivals wall sat something that looked like a film canister. It turned out to be a new record by Public Image Limited. I only knew about PiL because I knew about the Sex Pistols.

Metal Box caught my eye because I’m a collector at heart, and after picking it up and taking a closer look, I knew the thing would be worth something, some day. Since it was an import, and the records were really was housed in a metal container, it was expensive — way beyond the means of a typical, 17-year-old collector. And while I loved Never Mind The Bullocks, I wasn’t so sure about anything PiL recorded…so I passed. Until 4 Men With Beards reissued Metal Box a few years ago. I immediately snatched it up, but never broke Metal Box out of its metal box…until now.

Isn’t it great to “discover” something wonderful…even though you’ve kinda known about it a long time?

I like to fire up my record player while I write, and I finally pulled Metal Box for a listen. I’m no music critic, but I think I have pretty good taste, so I’ll just tell you Metal Box is timeless. Which is to say it sounds as fresh and exciting as it did when it was made over 30 years ago…in the same way Never Mind The Bullocks stands the test of time.

I didn’t start collecting smut until I started peddling it. I didn’t care about porn’s history until I was directing it, and when I started directing, I started collecting vintage smut — the Robert Harrison publications (especially with Driben covers: Titter, Beauty Parade, Flirt, Wink; loose vintage photos too, especially Bettie Page (who doesn’t love Bettie?).

So one day I’m arm-deep in a box full of loose photos in a favorite San Francisco Honey Hole (a good scout never divulges spots to score), and I pull a few pictures I liked. Then, I check the back to see how they’re priced. Which is when I discover the very best vintage photos I’ve ever found, and not cause they’re Bettie…or they’re priced too cheap. After I spent hours picking, and I wound up pulling maybe 50 pictures.

(Take a quick look at the bottom of today’s blog entry, then scroll back up.)

Each picture (herein referred to as “Nolans”) was numbered and date-stamped in black ink (the 1.50 was the store’s price). Then, in red ink, we get owner information (maybe too much for a porno collection? As if Mr. Nolan actually thought someone would return his pictures if lost/stolen?!) Below that, in pencil and in almost perfect penmanship, either an odd sort of description for the girl/post/photo or some dialogue formated like a movie script: you can read the one I showed you. Then, below that, denoted with a small red circle (in pen) a sort-of categorical note. And, below that, the very most important information of all: the model’s name.

Don’t you wonder if “Joyce” — the model in our photo — had the same daddy issues…the same addiction issues…the same over-bearing, religious, right-wing whacky parents…the same abandonment issues…the exact same kind of issues todays’ models have?

The best part of this story comes when I’m paying for my stack of pictures: “What do you know about this guy David C. Nolan?” I asked. The store clerk didn’t know much. “You don’t have any more of these laying around, do you?”


I was out of luck.

“Did you guys have a lot of these?”


“How many?”

The clerk looked up at me and said, “there’s a whole lot of Nolans floating around. We got them from the flea market down in Pasadena a while back, and the person we bought them from said he’d been selling them for years. Apparently, when Mr. Nolan passed, his wife went down to the basement for the first time to see what was down there. The basement was strictly off-limits to her, so he dies, she goes down there, and to her horror she discovers files and files of these.”

“Files and files?” I repeated.

The clerk looked up at me and said cooly, “Three hundred thousand. Give or take.”

My draw dropped. “You mean like…a quarter million Nolans?”

The clerk nodded his head. “She was so embarrassed she didn’t even sell them. She just gave them to the first person who agreed to haul the whole lot out of her basement.”

I didn’t know whether to gasp — or laugh. I think I did both. “And each one of them had the same kind of information on the back?”

The clerk nodded his head.

“But it must have taken at least 5 or 10 minutes a picture to number and stamp them, and then come up with these whacky sayings, and then label them as to whether or not the girl shows beaver…and then finally add the model’s name. And do it all really neatly.”

The clerk nodded his head.

I left and headed next door for some of the finest fish and chips San Francisco has to offer.

When I sat down to listen to Metal Box and write this, it didn’t even occur to me to Google “David C. Nolan” and see what else I could find on one of The World’s Greatest Perverts until right now. So if you Google just his name, nothing but lawyers and LinkedIn shit. If you add his name and “porn collection” or “vintage smut” or “porn” — still nothing. Take out all that and plop in his address on Webster Street…and BINGO!

A Tale of Obsession: David C. Nolan and Marilyn Monroe“.

Here’s the equally-cool second blog entry.

So, in addition to the girls you could only buy from the back of Titter and Wink and Beauty Parade and Flirt, Mr. Nolan really, really, really liked Marilyn.

But that’s about it, really. Nothing more that I can find about the mysterious pervert David C. Nolan. If my San Francisco sales clerk is correct — and they’re experts in the vintage smut arena — I can’t believe there aren’t more people writing about Mr. Nolan’s oddly-fascinating inscriptions on the back of vintage girly pics.

Or, maybe I’m the only one as whacky as him who gives a shit.

The blogger who found the Nolan’s Marilyn collection first speculates Nolan himself shot the photos, and after dismissing that says “….others are convinced David C. Nolan was a publicist, as the backs of the images contain quotes and vital information, although, these are not typical statements and remain unattributed.” She also thinks, “I can only assume David C. Nolan was a lonely man whose obsessive behavior became evident while labeling his Marilyn Monroe collection. There is sadness in this activity that isn’t dissimilar from the life of the actress portrayed in these photographs.”

If only she knew about the quarter-million other pictures in Mr. Nolan’s collection.

So here’s my take: David C. Nolan was a white collar pervert (doctor, lawyer, CPA, ad man) who was stuck in a miserable marriage and spent way too much time sitting in his basement working on his picture collection: work that included labeling and cataloging and filing…and finishing it off with something very special.

Additional masturbation fodder.

I’ll go ahead and add impeccable masturbation fodder (both in penmanship and with wit and humorous double-entendres) which pushed his buttons in ways only David C. Nolan knew how to push; cause, after all, that’s what masturbation is all about.

Pushing your own buttons.

And no, he wasn’t addicted to porn…cause that’s impossible; however, being addicted to Avoiding-Your-Wife-At-All-Costs is a whole other matter.

David C. Nolan vintage smut

Woody Guthrie’s New Year Resolutions (Found in one of his journals dated January 31st, 1942)

Woody Guthrie's New Year Resolutions 1942

— — —
New Years Rulin’s
— — —
1. Work more and better.
2. Work by a schedule.
3. Wash teeth if any.
4. Shave.
5. Take bath.
6. Eat good. Fruits – vegetables – milk.
7. Drink very scant if any.
8. Write a song a day.
9. Wear clean clothes. Look good.
10. Shine Shoes.
11. Change socks.
12. Change bed clothes often.
13. Read lots good books [sic].
14. Listen to radio a lot.
15. Learn people better.
16. Keep Rancho clean.
17. Don’t get lonesome.
18. Stay glad.
19. Keep hoping machine running.
20. Dream good.
21. Bank all extra money.
22. Save dough.
23. Have company but don’t waste time.
24. Send Mary and kids money.
25. Play and sing good.
26. Dance better.
27. Help win war – beat fascism.
28. Love mama.
29. Love papa.
30. Love Pete.
31. Love everybody.
32. Make up your mind.
33. Wake up and fight.